Category: spiritual

Alchemy

Old Soul Medicine Crow4 Comments

Alchemy: a power or process that changes or transforms something in a mysterious or impressive way.

I went to dinner in Lexington with some women. Friends, and friends of friends. Three of them had birthdays in the same month so not only was there reason to celebrate, after dinner we were attending a reading by another friend who was celebrating the release of her latest book. A night out for the ladies.

Since we had gathered primarily for the literary arts, the dinner conversation began with literature. Who recently read what, which books are must reads, what we’re currently writing, and morphed into general story telling since most of us were writers of one form or another. One person’s story reminds someone else of a similar story, reminds another, and so it goes. In this instance, we traveled the world going from Chicago to Milan to New York and all the way back to Kentucky, where we all currently live. One theme that emerged was housing. From tiny squeeze-ins to expansive high-rise sublets to starter homes, the ladies spoke of lucky breaks, exigent circumstances and turning bad situations into good. I saw a theme emerging.

“Alchemy,” I said.

“What’s alchemy?” my friend asked. I explained poorly that it was a term referring to the medieval attempt to turn base metals into gold. But that today it also meant just what she had been saying, how she’d turned a bad situation into a good one.”

Then, “Martha’s” Kentucky story of purchasing a farmhouse without prior knowledge of the den of snakes who had taken up residence beneath the front stoop drew gasps from everyone.

            “I’d have to back out of the sale,” one said.

            “Or put it right back on the market,” another chimed in. “You didn’t stay there, did you? Is that where you live now?”

The fear of snakes always sparks eeks and cringes followed by other close encounter stories. I’d venture to guess we all have snake stories. These ladies all did. The fear of the serpent is likely the most common phobia. We love to hate these creatures.  

I, too, am no fan and prefer not to get personal with a snake.  I thought about reminding us all that snake symbolism was originally that of the divine feminine and that maybe we had been conditioned to fear snakes based on the patriarchal need to control the innate power of women. According to Ted Andrews’ book Animal Speak, seeing a snake denotes resurrection, renewal, rebirth (shedding of one’s skin to become anew). In dreams, simply encountering the snake is thought to be the subconscious awareness of a pending new cycle of life. Being overly afraid of the snake symbolizes fear of the changes necessary for internal growth. Getting bit might symbolize the level of resistance or blocks you’re throwing into your own path. I’ve had plenty of these dreams throughout my spiritual awakening journey as well as in person sightings. An explanation like this might be interesting, but it rarely does much to allay a well-honed fear of snakes. Thinking of the power of transformation, I juxtaposed one of my own snake stories instead.  

I am the third generation of my family to inhabit the family farm, in a house that was built in 1901. Dad refurbished the house, mid-seventies. Insulation, Drywall, paneling, popcorn painted ceilings and area rugs turned the place around, even before electricity or plumbing was added. Instead, fireplaces, a Warm Morning stove, outdoor toilet and a rain barrel became our every summer adventure, heading back to a small abode with a thermostat and a real bathtub during the school year. We merrily frolicked at the river’s edge, raised cattle, pigs and chickens, the occasional mule, helped Dad with tobacco, hay, planting and harvesting vegetables, hunted arrowheads, shot BBguns, picked blackberries and maintained a healthy awareness of snakes like we lived in the 19th century. In his head, my father sort of did. I was having the time of my life. Today, I am grateful for this character-building years-long sojourn into the past. My parents installed plumbing and a few other upgrades and moved into the farmhouse after all of us children were grown, around 1991. 

In 2012, due to Mom’s cancer and other circumstances, my father bought a house closer to town and nearer to doctors and the hospital. The farm is isolated with sometimes inaccessible country roads. Since I was freshly divorced, he convinced me to take up residency on the farm so that the empty house would not get vandalized or become a drug den.

In the seventies, Dad didn’t believe in the future of electricity or otherwise could not envision the number of useless appliances the next generation would find not only convenient but necessary. He felt ahead of his time including two whole outlets per room. Re-learning how to live in an old house whose electricity has not been modernized to meet today’s standards and whose prior inhabitants had learned how to “make things work” without actually having them repaired, included several “combinations” of actions I needed to learn to keep the house running smoothly. Namely, deciphering the tangled web of which outlets in how many rooms, both upstairs and down, whose wiring led to the same 15-amp fuse. I should have bought stock in Buse fuses for the number of boxes I purchased and went through in those early months, grateful they still existed.

Another thing he made sure to tell me was about the relationship he had formed with a huge black rat snake that lived in the shed out back. As I’ve indicated, snakes aren’t even my favorite subject, but out of reverence to my father, I listened to his tutorial.

            “You know I store feed in that building, for the cattle. Mice get in it and make a big mess. That big snake keeps the mice and rat population down so I like him being in there. He’s not poisonous and he never bothers me. When I go into the shed to retrieve the lawn mower I talk to him, warn him I’m coming in. He may be hanging from a rafter or laying on the ground someplace. I pull the riding mower out and start it up. When he hears the engine, he comes out and makes his way down toward the pond. I guess he’s getting a drink. I don’t see him again until after I’ve finished cutting grass. Later in the evening, when it’s quiet, I can sometimes see him returning to the building. We’ve been doing this for years. We made a deal.”

            “Okay,” I tell him, “I can live with that.” Even though secretly I thought, okay then, I’m not going in that shed, which turned out to be impossible. So, I did indeed follow in my father’s footsteps and tried my hand at snake whispering, which might or might not sound more like clanging and banging and yelling warnings rather than actual whispers. I named the snake, Earl.

Dad cut more grass than the immediate area around the house. He had cleared and tamed almost an acre of land, to keep the snakes at bay, he’d said, even though he made exception for Earl. He thought it wise to claim territory separate from the wilder fields and fence rows that bordered the woodland’s edge to provide a clear view of encroaching wildlife. He advised me to do the same. But since he took his riding mower with him to the new house and I still only had a push mower, I hired a neighbor to keep my lawn tidy. I told him the snake story and asked if he could please respect my father’s wishes and look out for Earl. “It’s been there for years,” I tell him. “It doesn’t want to harm anyone.”

Vernon was on the lookout for Earl, no doubt. His first encounter with Dad’s rat snake shocked them both. He entered the shed looking for a weed eater. The lanky sentry hung from a rafter at eye level as he entered, probably wondering who the hell this guy thinks he is entering Herbert Crow’s field mouse buffet. After that, unbeknownst to me, Vernon began strapping on a sidearm before arriving to mow the grass.

After a month or two of cutting the grass with no further incidents I thought all was well. However, one day, Vernon gave in to his own fears and ignored my sentiment about the friendly cohabitant of my abode. He knocked on my door, and using a hoe to extend his reach and not actually touch the old guy, held out his conquered prey to me the way my dogs string out a dead rabbit on my doorstep…as a gift.

            “That’s Earl,” I say, confused.

            “Don’t worry, I got him,” Vernon said. “I hate me a snake. That’s why I carry this.” He proudly pointed to his waist band where he’d holstered the offending weapon. The story he told was just as my father had described, the snake heard the mower and came out of the building to head down to the pond, minding his own business. Only Vernon didn’t care where he was going. Seeing the snake, he chased it down with his lawn tractor, close enough to get a good shot with his pistol because he sure as hell wasn’t going to get off that mower and possibly get bit. He also wasn’t going to let it out of his sight for fear of where it might go…and…he didn’t want to miss. Poor Earl had made it all the way to the fence row, about to cross the threshold to safety before he felt the blow. Vernon was proud.

My father had warned me about the snake we’d named Earl. But we both failed to warn Earl about the viper named Vernon.

            “Oh, that’s so sad,” said the lady who would have instantly sold Martha’s den-of-snakes’ house.

“I can’t believe he did that!” said another. “Did you let him keep mowing your lawn after that?”

“Do you hear how you have all changed your attitudes from loathing to compassion and concern for a snake?” I ask, “Now, that’s alchemy.”         

Grow Where I’m Planted

Old Soul Medicine Crow6 Comments

I can be hard on myself, especially in winter when I’m not as productive. In any case, I knew better than to set myself up to fail with a new year’s resolution. But I do like to think of each new year as a fresh start, unscathed by failure, and filled with possibility. My adult daughter told me she was choosing one word to set a theme for the year. I liked that notion.  After a day or so of discernment, the word that came to me was, “open”. 

“Open”. Open to new ideas. Open to new opportunities. Open to new ways of seeing myself and others. Open to change or at least to be a tiny bit more flexible in my perceptions. Maybe even travel more.

I was invited to a friend’s annual birthday party which always occurs mid-January and can be quite a pick-me-up from the doldrums. On her sixtieth birthday, and every year since (more than 10), she has thrown herself a party. It is traditionally an all-women-all-day-sometimes all weekend affair. Fascinating female friends, new and old, from all walks of life come and go. There is food, drink, games, and lots of chatter. A full-grown slumber party, women of all ages schlepping around in pajamas, drinking wine. If you give in to it, it can be a time of empowerment and support. This year the party was limited to one all day affair so no pajamas but good food and plenty of wine.

I have never been the kind of person who could throw themselves a party although women should probably learn to celebrate themselves more. On my 60th birthday (I’ll be 62 this summer), while the earth didn’t move like it did when I hit 42—and spent a decade trying to right wrongs and get my feet on solid ground—I did feel a slight shift in perception. Another course correction in my navigation system. I stated out loud to myself and to my closest people that I am in the fourth quarter, looking at my parents’ health and longevity. This gives me another 20, if I’m lucky. Possibly only 10 of those in reasonably good health and energy. I declared that if there was something I wanted to do, I would do it. Here I am, two years later, still trying to remind myself. It takes a long time to unlearn a way of being.  

This party was my first social outing in weeks as I had been sick with Covid compounded by a sinus infection that refused to release my brain from its foggy prison. My work office closes down through the winter holidays so I guess it was a good time to be sick if I had to be. Still, I felt like I should have been reading and/or writing. Instead, I sat in a stupor for days. Unable to form a simple thought, I merely observed myself be sick. If I’d been trying to meditate—remove rampant thoughts from my head—I would have had monkey mind. In this case, it felt like my brain had been wiped clean. On the plus side, I’ve never slept so well or for so long at a time. I hoped, whether I intended it or not, having no thoughts for a suspended number of days worked as a clearinghouse to make room for a brighter year full of ideas and execution. I wasn’t really feeling social, but I went to support my friend and to be “open.”

The party was to begin around 10 AM. and last until 10 PM. I moved reluctantly through my house, readying myself for a long day of interaction. Stretchy, comfortable clothes. Black tourmaline beads on my right wrist to protect from taking on others’ negative energy. Rose quartz beads on my left to receive a positive flow of love. Blue lapis lazuli earrings for overall protection and positive energy. It couldn’t hurt. We are all made of matter. All matter vibrates at a specific frequency. The higher the vibration, the more positive the experience, like thoughts. Whether you believe in the vibrational energetic properties of gemstones or not, I believe setting intentions raises my vibrational experience. Rituals are powerful. It’s like an active meditation. Plus, I believe we find what we’re looking for. Raising our thoughts, raises our experiences. Since recently being sick of body and mind, I was feeling vulnerable and needed a little spiritual pick-me-up. Finally, properly attired, I started out the door shortly after noon reminding myself to be open.

Even if I was successful in raising my vibration, my starting point must have been pretty low. It was soon evident I was still in observation mode, hardly up to the challenge of real conversation.

As in years past, at some point during every party a circle is formed. Women take turns introducing themselves to the group. It used to be a game of telling three things, two truths and one lie. The other women in the circle tried to discern the lie. This year, the circle took a more organic conversational turn which included mysticism and spiritual journeys. From ketamine clinics to holitropic and effigy breathwork to shamanic drumming it was clear many of these women had begun the inner work of midlife, curious and open to spiritual growth and all the trending modalities. This was my wheelhouse. I started this deeper work two decades ago but even since the age of nine, I have been a spiritual seeker. When I was a beginner on my spiritual journey, I couldn’t wait to share my experiences and epiphanies but more and more since I turned 60, I have grown quieter. Maybe I’ve gained just enough wisdom to realize nobody wants to hear it. They have their own life to deal with. The circle was large. It seemed each woman spent at least 15-30 minutes sharing pieces of their best life. Places lived, jobs, interesting experiences, meeting famous people. This lasted all afternoon…hours it seemed. It was exhausting, really. While a few women opted out of the circle to graze the food table, I had grown roots on the couch, unable to free myself.

I know it was mostly because of my illness, but listening to the experiences of these women, their ability to move through life with a sense of autonomy, independence and direction, the jobs they’d had, the places they’d lived, temporarily thwarted my confidence.

My early path was traditional. Compared to the stories told, the choices I’d made felt small, unremarkable, cliche. For a writer, cliché is such a disappointment. Get married young, support husband’s career, raise children. And I might add here that I raised a stepson for many years before bearing my own child so that my child rearing years were prolonged, having raised not one, but two only children. It is worthy work and I don’t regret the dedication I gave to my family but like too many women of my generation and older, raising a family was my only purpose. I became a “we” before I became a “me”. And let me tell you, once entangled in a “we” situation, especially if one member of the “we” was not already a “me”, it is difficult to extract even a part of oneself without disassembling the whole.

**Sidebar: In my opinion, patriarchy has done a fine job selling the notion of marriage where “two become one” as a romantic notion rather than one of control.  To me, it means one of the people (usually the woman) must disappear into the shadows of the other.

I can proudly say I added two responsible contributing members to society which is no small feat (even if they did need counseling, lol), but I kept nothing for myself during those years. No matter how much I’ve grown, how far I’ve come, or what I have overcome, for almost three decades, I had no personal ambition. I never even let myself dream of choices outside of what my family members needed or wanted. I don’t think I meant to be a martyr. I was more like someone who had been brainwashed (or brainwashed herself) to believe she was not worthy.

When it came my turn to speak, I was dumbfounded. Not only was my actual voice weakened and shaky, my thoughts were still foggy. Even the most worldly of women in attendance seemed inviting, kind, yet, I fell victim to the soul deadening act of comparison. At that moment, I did not measure up. I rambled a bit. I got emotional. I passed the torch. Then, I spent two days analyzing my reaction…like any neurotic memoirist would.

I meditated on those circle conversations, discerning what it was exactly that had set me off.  No matter their life’s journeys, many of these women were just beginning the spiritual inner work that I had embarked on years ago. I wasn’t behind here. As a matter of fact, I was ahead of the curve in some respects. I’ve had years of counseling/self-awareness/memoir work. But I did start a career just as many same aged women were retiring, making me a late-bloomer with regard to choosing a personal life direction.

The thing that stuck out for me about the stories those women told was the number of oddball opportunities that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere and the fact that many of these women had seized the moment. They’d been in the right place at the right time and recognized it. They’d followed their own path, refraining from child rearing and even marriage until their own careers were off the ground or maybe doing both at the same time. How did they come about the confidence to follow their own path so young, being reared in the same era as me? Different cultures, maybe? Different role models? Certainly, different birth family expectations. Also, most of these women were not Appalachian, which may have a bearing. Nobody in all the generations of my family would have considered moving to another country straight out of college. Hell, my brother and I were the first to ever go to college.

What struck me that day, I would recognize later, was grief. There are whole parts of me that I ignored for years. Choices that I made that were clearly not in my own best interest. They may have been choices out of my control…or choices that were beyond my mental capacity at the time, but they were still my choices. I had already spent years of therapy restructuring my life, so it wasn’t new information. I knew this. I had grieved before. But that’s how grief works. It finds an opening and uses it to heal deeper wounds than you knew you had.

There was clearly something else for me to learn at this juncture. Listening to those ladies made me revisit my younger self, remember how insecure I had felt. But the gist of what they had all been saying was that they had been presented with an opportunity, sometimes not of their own making, recognized it, and seized upon it. With hindsight, I can see a number of opportunities that had presented themselves to me while I was doing laundry, making the twice daily commute to the school pickup/drop line, thinking, “no, my purpose is already being fulfilled.”  These were things I could have done while raising children—jobs, trips, experiences–but wouldn’t assert myself. More than that, I felt unworthy, like my life belonged to someone else. In the end, there was no room left for me in the life I’d accepted…or made.

I believe in synchronicity. Some say ask and ye shall receive. Others speak of the law of attraction. Prayer, setting intentions, asking the universe for help, talking to God and my own personal angels, etc. It works. I know. Miracles are everywhere, if you look. And, I’m incredibly grateful for this, my favorite part of my life. So, hear me when I say, be careful what you ask for and be detailed and sincere when you ask.

I had chosen the word “open” for my year’s theme and as soon as I was able to get out of the house, I was offered a variety of women whose stories modeled being open and were a testament to what a blessing it had been in their lives.

If my count is right, I’ve visited 39 states, at least 4 provinces in Canada and several islands in the Caribbean. But I have always lived within two hours of my childhood home and today, I am the third generation to occupy my family’s farm on the Kentucky River. (I have friends who won’t drive themselves to the next county so I know that all things are relative.) I am reminded daily of the ways of my ancestors. I walk their paths, see my reflection in the same mud puddles. I am grateful for them. Their tools are still in the barn for me to use. Are there more opportunities in other places? Absolutely. Sometimes I wonder how I might expand my horizons by living elsewhere, but is that what I want? Not really. I love my place. I’m sure I could learn to love other land, but this land loves me.

No, I think the lesson of the day was to remain open and aware of opportunities as they present themselves. I had, in fact, turned down opportunities through the years. Surely there are more to come. Especially, when I finally see myself and my time as a worthy endeavor and ask the Universe for help.

Speaking of help…almost no sooner than I came to this clarity, my phone rang. It was a government holiday and a snow day to boot so I was not in the office but when I looked at the caller ID, I recognized the number as belonging to a woman who had been trying to reach me at work. I halfway suspected it was a sales call but there was something in her voice message that made me return her call and even leave her my cellphone number.  

She lived in Florida. She had ties to Kentucky and she had taken a philanthropic interest in a subject that had led her to my nonprofit’s webpage. She was not a sales person. She’d already made an online donation to our cause and had called to see if she could be of further service to me! It was clear she is a young lady who thinks large, has a world of philanthropic foundations at her fingertips and wants to help me grow and expand my services! She opened my eyes and my mind to larger possibilities for a work project I’ve been contemplating. Just like that, my sorrowful attitude was turned around. Thank you Angels! And I didn’t even have to leave my farm! Even snowed in on an impassible road, opportunities can still present themselves. God is great! The Universe has my back. I am native to this land and I will grow where I’m planted.

Intuition: It’s Elemental June 2023

Old Soul Medicine CrowLeave a comment

It stormed last night. This morning I worked the softened soil around the garden plants to remove weeds, built a fire in the back yard pit to burn broken limbs from heavy winds. As the fire crackles, I sit on my back porch with Willow, our German Shepherd, enjoying a slight breeze, barely enough to intone a single, deep meditative OM sound on the windchime.

Willow’s ears perk up, perfect triangle receivers, alert to some far-off presence only she can detect. This is stillness, peaceful and quiet in the way only nature can be. Yet, there is a choir of birdsong so concordant that even the app on my phone can’t keep up with who’s saying what. All creatures of earth and sky are moving, changing, chanting, feeding, creating, evolving. They are making space for me. I am listening, learning, wondering, appreciating, allowing, accepting, making space for them. All elements are present. This is prayer. This is church.

I know that I have to stop the chatter in my own head (my ego), in order to open the door to the other side. What’s on the other side? Imagination, creativity, answers, ideas, words, spirit, connection, intuition, love, faith. In another word, GOD.

Once the door is open, I am aware that it will close all too soon. These “gasps of joy” are fleeting because of my own human frailty, but joyous. They can be a moment of calm or peace that overcomes my well-placed obstacles to connect me mind, body and spirit. It can be an idea or word or a turn of phrase that inspires me to get lost in my writing. Sometimes the words that come inside my head, are in a different voice, I think to remind me that they are a gift and not of my own doing. I muse that maybe that’s what Willow is hearing when she perks up her ears. Maybe she talks to angels. She is certainly in touch with all the nature spirits, my sentinel. I wish it was that easy. Just perk up my ears and hear Spirit talking to me. Oh yeah, it is! It’s called intuition. It takes practice though, and patience and desire and confidence and trust. I’m still working on it. It’s been my lifelong journey.

The spiritual connections that are most prevalent for me come at night, when I’m dreaming. My dreams are often vivid metaphors that enlighten me to truths I have denied. A “knowing” that is buried. A message from the other side. Whether we are aware of our surroundings or not, our brains and our physical bodies are constantly absorbing pieces of information. Body language of the people we speak to, sounds of nature alerting us to weather changes, the dynamics of close relationships, unspoken facts, the things our loved ones won’t admit. If you are empathic, like me, you also feel in your body the energies that surround you, good and bad. What lives in the subconscious gets processed while sleeping, like placing files in a file cabinet in case you need it later. I know there are a lot of people who believe they don’t dream. Scientifically, it has been proven that everybody dreams.  

Whether you remember your dreams or not, your body and brain are still processing your experiences and helping them make sense to you. All that knowing lives inside you whether you ever expose it or not. This is part of your intuition. What a deal! Everybody has access to it. Those who call themselves intuitives are only those people who have become still enough, often enough to hone their skills of listening and they’ve learned to trust their hunches and they’ve been right enough times to build confidence. But we’re all intuitive if we choose to pay attention.  For me, enjoying this kind of awareness is being in conversation with God. The guidance is there if we get out of our own way. Whether you call it God, Goddess, Holy Spirit, a close personal relationship with Jesus, support from the Universe, Intuition, Synchronicity, talking to Angels, knowing… it’s all part of the same energy. I believe my dog Willow knows this already, that all things are connected. Sitting on my porch, I am one with my surroundings.

There is a quote I like to repeat often, by French Jesuit Priest Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, “You are not a human being having a spiritual experience. You are a spiritual being having a human experience.” This puts everything in my life into perspective. It is a very human trait to want to name everything according to our own comfort levels and judge others for not agreeing with us. That is ego, the most human experience there is. If we are in our authentic truth, connected to that which is spiritual, we have less time for pointing fingers, condemning and judging others. We will see plenty within ourselves that could use lifting up to a higher vibration of being. We have lots of work to do. I know I do.

I heard someone say that prayer is talking to God and meditation is listening. I like that explanation. Talking less and listening more, in any situation, is how we learn. I believe God uses any and all means to help us stay connected. Source wants to be in communication with us. It brings joy. Sometimes, the answer to a prayer comes in the form of words spoken by a happenchance interaction with a friend or stranger. How cool is that? Sometimes our connection to Spirit comes when dreaming. If we’re still enough, and in our bodies fully enough, we can know God’s presence by what we feel, hear or see. Intuition is nothing more than that. It doesn’t come from us. We are not “the power” because when given the chance, our ego will always guide us in the wrong direction. But God lines up the truth all around us and we have access to it through intentional awareness. I believe intuition is communication with God’s power living within us but we have to set aside the ego to hear it. Not an easy task.

Instead of convincing others to come to “our church” to listen to “our way of being” we could teach people how to be still and listen to what God says to them, whether it be in church or on the back porch listening to birdsong and the crackling of wood in the firepit, the wind in the leaves of trees or the gong of a windchime. Earth, Fire, Water, Air. The elements of God are all around us. I am grateful for the Holy Mystery.