Pamela Stead Jones

“They say that time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.”

— Andy Warhol

Time is an elusive thing.  When the alarm clock sounded this morning, I could hardly believe it was set for the right time.  The night seemed at least an hour shorter than usual, and I struggled to resist hitting the snooze button.  Even though I didn’t, I managed to lie in bed for an extra fifteen minutes before my feet hit the floor.  Those fifteen minutes are significant ones since I’ve once again begun my routine of walking for exercise before my family comes downstairs for breakfast.  Now I was running late.  I hurried through dressing and tying my shoes, grabbed my coat and hit the ground running.  Well, I hit the ground walking at a nice, brisk pace that is as close to running as my old knees will allow.  I chugged along my mile and a half loop through town, concerned that I was going to arrive too late to send the family off to school and work.  I huffed and puffed up to the front door and entered the still-dark house, only to discover that I was now eight minutes ahead of my usual schedule.  Time does strange things some mornings.  What began as a late start now had me walking in place, with time to spare.  By the time the gang appeared, I had put away the dishes from last night’s dinner and read the new headlines.  I suppose you could say that time changed things for me this morning, because I accomplished more in fewer minutes that I do on an ordinary day; and I would have to credit the capricious flexing of time with providing the opportunity.

We say that time changes things, but I think the truth is that we change over time.  We discover new things each minute about ourselves and about our world; and as we change, we make changes to the ways we see life, the opinions we form about living, and the ideas we contribute to our ever-changing world.  I suppose you could say that time changes us, we change the way we interact with our world, the different world affects our attitudes, and we change the way we spend our time.  It is not time that changes, but how we spend our time.  If we sit and wait for time to change us, we probably will find that waiting makes time move at a very slow pace.  If we seize the moments we are given and make the changes we want to see, we probably will wonder where the time has gone.  Don’t wait for time to change you.  Be your own change.

Metamorphosis

ω

My many feet

Aching, trudge,

Taking care to

Hold on tight

To the world

That is my

Sustenance.

ω

My tired jaw

Never rests,

Knowing that it

Must consume

This leaf

That is my

World.

ω

My belly full,

I pause, I sigh,

Pondering the

Purpose of

This day

That is my

End.

ω

With my last bit

Of energy, I

Spin and weave a

Final dream,

This tomb

That is my

Destiny.

ω

Inside, with nothing

But my soul

Sleeping, stretching

Restlessly

These things

That cry,

“Rebirth.”

ω

Too warm to stay

I shed my covers

Look full-face

Into this drop

Of dew

That is my

Revelation.

ω

My long, thin legs

Gracefully

Stretch tall

My colors fly

Into the blue

That is my

Truth

ω

– Pamela Stead Jones 2012

I have loved sycamore trees since I was a child.  The love affair began when I was two years old and my family had just moved to a newly-built home outside of town.   Our lot had been cleared from a field of weeds, and one of the jobs that awaited my parents was planting a lawn.  They did, and soon the grass had sprouted.  Next came the trees.  The folks chose sycamores because they would provide a lot of shade and because they would grow quickly.  My brother and I helped plant the trees.  Now that I’ve raised children of my own, I have to wonder whether the help we provided came anywhere near to my memory of digging and watering and holding the trees straight; but I must say that I left that day with a true feeling of ownership of the tree that was designated as mine.

My sycamore and I grew up together.  I watched it branch out and grow taller.  I watched the birds fly to its upper limbs and find their perches for singing.  Before long, it offered me shade on hot summer days, shelter from the rain, and even a perch of my own where I could sit hidden in its branches and play my guitar.  I loved its multi-colored bark, and I remember peeling pieces from its trunk to build houses for bugs at its base.  Sycamore bark comes in many shades of camo, and it made nicely unobtrusive dwellings that kept the ants safe from all sorts of dangers.  Bark is like that.  It protects and hides and covers the trees from the harsh outside world.

This winter I have been drawn again and again to the sycamores that grow near my house.  Instead of their usual subtle exterior, all of my sycamores have turned stark white.  October brought a fierce storm our way that tore branches from even the sturdiest trees and threw them to the ground.  It seemed that not a single tree was spared.  Even the ones that kept their limbs lost the deadwood that needed pruning.  The sycamores, it seems, were robbed of their bark.

Instead of blending in, they stand in stark, white contrast to their surroundings, and when the sun hits them at just the right angle, they positively glow.

For all the years that I have loved the sycamores, the most I ever saw of what lay beneath their bark was a glimpse here and there of the white wood that lay under their ordinary exterior.  Now that their outsides are gone and their insides exposed, they have no choice but to stand in their beauty for all to see.

How similar we are, the sycamores and I.  We spend most of our days, whether sunny or a bit overcast, comfortably nestled inside our bark.  We blend in easily with our surroundings and quietly go about the business of living and growing and being, using our camouflage to assure that we don’t look too different from our neighbors.  It takes something earth-shaking, like a storm, to strip away our hiding places and call to the surface the beauty that lies within.

As the morning sun touched the white sycamore this morning, I thought of the times in my own life when storms had stripped me of my security and left me standing naked and exposed for all to see.  I thought of the way these experiences taught me to trust that what lay beneath the surface of my days was something beautiful and resilient and strong.  I thought of the times when the sun would hit me at just the right angle and let that beauty shine so that others might be moved to shed a little bark themselves.

I think of the sycamore, standing silver-white in the early morning sun.  I hold its stark, white beauty in my heart and unzip my camouflage jacket.  I face the East with my arms spread wide and let the sun touch my heart.  My branches reach toward the heavens and the breeze of a new day stirs my fingers, tickles my nose, and awakens my soul.  I stand, stark and white and unencumbered, and as the sun warms my face, I know that I sparkle in its Light.

My calendar insists that the first day of Spring is still a month away.  We have barely passed the middle of February, but signs of Spring are everywhere.  I have felt the restlessness for several weeks now, lured outside for early morning walks by the returning light as sunrise moves earlier and earlier each day.  Where I live, we celebrate the first day of Spring at the vernal equinox, which will fall this year on the 20th of March.  Where my ancestors came from, in the land of the Celtic tradition, Spring was celebrated on Imbolc or St. Brighid’s Day — February second.  What I like about that ancient tradition is that my predecessors celebrated the potential of Spring long before any of its outward signs appeared on the earth.  Maybe it is that awareness of what lies beneath that has been tingling in my soul for nearly a month.  Winter is always such a special time for me.  During the rest of the year, my senses are bombarded by the colors, the smells, and the sounds of Spring, Summer, and Autumn.  In wintertime, when the world turns gray, brown, and white, my own senses turn inward and search for the dimension of my being that often is drowned out by all the noise of the earth’s abundance.  It is only when the Earth sleeps, in the silence of winter, that I am truly free to carry my candle through the darkness and into the caverns of my soul.

Then February arrives, and the sun slants at just the right angle to send its glints of light into my cave and entice me to step outside once again.  Today was the first day that the light’s magic called me back from my winter reverie.  With enough layers of shirts and jackets to warm me on a sub-freezing morning, I stepped onto the frozen ground and took up a brisk pace that would keep me warm as I walked.  The sun was just beginning to hit the grass; and each place my foot fell, I left a spot where the frost was turned to water.  Above, in the treetops, I could hear the familiar songs of the birds — not the crows of winter, but the birds whose winter dwellings had been deep within the brush and branches.  Today they could feel it, too.  They sang the song of melting frost accompanied by the rushing stream as it danced over rocks and turned the muddy banks deep brown.  A woodpecker tapped out his breakfast on the old walnut tree, adding his percussion to the music of an awakening world.  We all sang together, the birds, the stream and me, as each of us added our own part to the siren song of Spring.  I stopped for a moment as the sun climbed higher through the branches of the hickory tree.  Turning my head toward the direction I had come, I saw the sunlight sparkle on the frost-dew of morning.  In each footprint I had left behind, I saw the first glimpse of Spring.  My steps grew lighter as I left a trail of Springtime all the way back home.  It will be another month before it is official, but Spring is here — in the song of the birds, in the music of the stream, and in my own footsteps.  Today the heart of Spring beat inside us all and sang out the potential that lies beneath the winter earth.

“If there’s a book you really want to read but it hasn’t been written yet, thenyou must write it.”

— Toni Morrison

Is there a person among us who doesn’t like to read the stories of the lives of great people?  I have a particular fascination with stories of men and women who have faced adversity and managed to prevail.  It is encouraging to read about the ways they have met seemingly impossible situations and persevered until they turn the tide and ride the waves to shore rather than drowning in the unfriendly sea.  Sometimes it is hard to remember that actual people lived the events in their biographies.  When we stop to think about the reality of living such lives, we might shake our heads in disbelief; but still, there is a quickening in our hearts as we realize that ordinary people just like us can become heroic simply by living the life that is set before them.

I didn’t always like reading biographies.  In my younger years, I found it terribly dry to spend my time reading about the lives of other people when I could be using that time to go out and live my own life.  I preferred fiction to fact; and more than that, I preferred stories where the good guys won, truth and justice prevailed, and the sun was always shining.  As I think back to those days now, I start to laugh.  I suppose there is a reason why such tales are shelved in the fiction section of the library.  In spite of their appeal to the inexperienced or weary soul, tales of all goodness, light, and sunshine are rare in the real world.  In my experience, such accounts are usually short stories that last for only a chapter or two before the reality of life’s ups and downs returns to balance the scales.

All great biographies began as real-world people living ordinary lives.  All great people began as ordinary human beings, just like you and me.  What makes them stand out in our minds is the way that they lived the lives that were given to them, wholeheartedly and with determination to see it through until the end.  I just love a happy ending, and the life stories I love best are the ones that move away all the debris and all the obstacles and all the sadness until the goodness and light are exposed.  I love the stories that show me the truth that lies beneath all that is false.  There may never be a great biography written about you or me, but we can write the story we would like to read simply by living our own lives in the way that is heroic and true and seeks to bring to light all that is good.  Every day we add chapters to our books.  What will be written there is up to each of us to decide.  What story do you want to write today?  Get out there and live it!

“Each of us in our own way can try to spread compassion into people’s hearts.  Western civilizations these days place great importance on filling the human brain with knowledge, but no one seems to care about filling the human heart with compassion.”

— Dalai Lama

Today is a school holiday.  Our children spend nearly half of their days in school.  It is a place where their minds are trained, a place where they learn to conform, compete, and coexist.  We value the opportunity for all children to attend school, and we encourage each of our kids to make the most of these learning years so that they can move on from school to the workplace and be successful in their chosen work.  We measure academic success by testing and reporting on what our students have learned; and we predict success based on these scores.  How do we measure success at being human?

School holidays are great times for sleeping late, spending time with friends, and leaving the schedule behind.  They are also great times for parents and kids to spend time together and catch up on the events of their busy lives.  They are great days for talking about not only what happens but how we feel about the occasions that make up our lives.  School holidays are the perfect times for filling the heart instead of only filling the brain.

We become so busy simply living our own lives that it sometimes takes a break from the routine to step back and see that we are not the only people in our world.  When we slow down and listen to one another — to the challenges and successes, to the sorrows and the joys that make us not only successful but human as well — then we can begin to understand the feelings of others, and our own feelings, too.  When we exercise compassion, we open our ears and our minds to the experiences of others.  Then we open our hearts and allow the feelings of another person to touch our own experience and remind us that we are very much alike.  Then we open our mouths and speak the healing words, “you are not alone.”

Our knowledge can make us learned and successful, but it is the sharing of our common experiences and feelings that makes us human.

A school holiday is a perfect time to open our hearts to the people we love and show them how compassion is shared.  Maybe when it is time to return to the books and the bricks of the school building, compassion will go along and teach the things that can’t be contained in books.

“Childhood is the world of miracle and wonder; is if creation rose, bathed in the light, out of the darkness, utterly new and fresh and astonishing.  The end of childhood is when things cease to astonish us.”

— Eugene Ionesco

If you want to insult an adult, just accuse him of being childish.  We like to see ourselves as grown, mature, and self-contained; and any accusations that would imply that we behave as children strike us as offensive.  If you want to compliment an adult, just accuse him of being childlike.  That conjures up a whole different picture.  When we are childlike, we are free to view the world with fresh eyes.  It means that we maintain the ability to breathe deeply as we watch the clouds roll by and fall into the sky, joining them in their flight.  It means that we can stop and listen to the song of the bird who hides deep within the branches of a tree and sings his song, unseen.  It means that we can stop long enough to stoop and touch a colorful wildflower or inspect the sparkling crystals that make a rock gleam in the sunlight.  It means that we can kick off our shoes and walk in a stream barefoot, listening to the sound of the current as it tickles our toes.  It means that we can hop and skip through a hopscotch rather than walking around it and savor the soothing motion of a swing ride on a summer day.

Childhood allows us to be astonished at the simple pleasures and beauties of our world.  We need not leave this part of childhood behind.  When we see the sweet look of newness in a child’s eyes, we are reminded of the exhilaration of that swing ride or the joy of skipping and jumping through a child’s game.  The stream that washes over our feet reminds them to dance in its crystalline beauty toward unknown lands.  The color of the flower and the sparkle of the stone reminds us to paint our world with beauty as well.  The song of the hidden bird calls out to us to let our own inner voice sing the song of our soul; and it is when we fall into the sky that we remember, for certain, that we can fly.

“I’ve loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”

— Galileo Galilei

Are you afraid of the dark?  There is something about darkness that makes everything mysterious.  Sounds that emanate from places we cannot see startle us, and they can send our minds wandering to imagine frightening images of what might have caused them.  Faceless outlines of people in the dark could be friend or foe — we have no way of knowing until we see a familiar face or hear a friendly voice.  On stormy nights, when the moon and the stars are obscured by clouds, we can only feel our way one step at a time if we dare to move at all.  There may be things to fear hiding in the darkness; but without darkness, how could we fully appreciate the light?

I love the stars.  I love the way they shine through their tiny holes in the darkness and remind me that I live in a vast and expansive universe.  I especially love the stars because no matter how huge the darkness might seem, it only takes one star to draw my attention toward the light.  I love that it only takes one little star to shrink the dark night to its true size.  By the light of the stars I can walk with confidence.  By the light of the stars, I can see the face of my friend.  By the light of the stars, I can trace the source of the things that go bump in the night.  By the light of the stars, I know that all will be well.

Most of my life is spent in the light.  I see it everywhere — in the kindness and compassion and love that we share with our world.  I love the light.  I love the way it reassures me that my world is created in Love and Harmony.  I love the way it encourages me to find the point of light that dwells inside of me and add its glow where I walk.  I love the way that Truth shines when the light touches it and reminds me that even when I don’t see clearly, it still shines on.

From time to time, each of us will experience the darkness.  It is part of being human to deal with the duality and contrasts that make up our world.  When darkness comes, we sometimes forget the truth about our world.  Sorrow, grief, injury, and pain can close our eyes to the beauty of our lives just as surely as the clouds of night can leave us without a star to guide us.  It is for these very reasons that I love the darkness as much as I love the light.  Every time that it has descended, every time that I reach the point where hope seems distant and futile and even non-existent, someone will come along and shine a tiny spot of light in the midst of my darkness.  Just as that one small star in a vast night sky can draw my eye to the truth that lies beyond the clouds, one tiny speck of humanity — of kindness, compassion, and love — can rekindle the light I have dimmed within myself and return me to who I am.

Perhaps we love the stars because they shine tiny spots of light in the darkest night.  Perhaps we love the stars because we, too, are stars.  When the darkness descends, we must look for the points of light who enter our shrouded world.  We must trust their light, because it is the same light that dwells within us.  We must tend our own fires and shine them in the darkness, for it may be our light that guides a weary traveler back to the truth.

Sometimes I am afraid of the dark.  Sometimes I am startled by the sounds and worried by the unknown things that live beyond my view; but when the darkness comes, I will embrace it, because I know that it takes only one tiny star to put it in its place.

“Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.”

— James Arthur Baldwin

Happy Valentine’s Day!  Candy, hearts, and flowers are the order of the day as people all over the world observe a day set aside for the expression of love.  Its origins may be in a pagan festival, and its evolution may have designated a day when shy suitors had the support of tradition in expressing their feelings toward their beloved, but the widespread distribution of hearts and flowers to everyone we know bears little resemblance to either.  Indeed, our Valentines’ Day expressions often have more to do with loot than with love.  I will wish my sweetheart a Happy Valentine’s Day, but I will not confine my expression of love to one date on the calendar.  Love is simply too enormous to fit in that one little box.  It needs to spill over into all 365 days of the year.

How do we bring our love to the world?  Do we truly shed the masks that hide our true selves from the people we meet, or do we hide around corners and leave anonymous notes from “your secret admirer?”  Is it being loved that takes off the mask that confines us in a less-than-authentic place, or is it the act of loving that liberates us as we reveal wholeheartedly all that we have to offer to the world?

Perhaps Valentine’s Day serves as a good reminder, with all its heart-shaped images, to be whole-hearted in our embrace of the world.  In the end, when we strip away the masks and the coverings, all that remains is the love we long to bring to all of creation.  Let’s trust that the heartfelt love we bring is enough to make our existence worthwhile.  Let’s allow the love in our hearts to drive away the fear that keeps us imprisoned behind the uncomfortable masks that hide us from a waiting world.  Happy Valentine’s Day!  May your heart be stirred to embrace the world.

“I am convinced that there are universal currents of Divine Thought vibrating the ether everywhere and that any who can feel these vibrations is inspired.”

— Richard Wagner

When Wagner felt the vibrations of the Universe, the result was magnificent and musical.  As I began to write, I was listening to his “Death of Isolde.”  Wagner wrote the sort of music that not only is played but also plays the listener as the vibrations rise and fall and move us to connect with its beauty.  It makes me wonder, when I read his words, whether Wagner saw himself as a composer or as an instrument called to life by the vibrations of Divine Thought.

Last night was a wonderful night for sleeping.  After battling a head cold for the past ten days, I finally fell into bed last night able to breathe freely.  I slept the deep sleep that recently had eluded me, floating through peaceful dreams and feeling my body come back to life.  Another phenomenon occurred last night which also  had been put on hold by the nights of interrupted sleep patterns.  From time to time, as I drifted and dreamed, I would find myself in a twilight state where my mind could connect with bits of inspiration about projects I have been working on.  I would catalog these thoughts and fall back into my dreams until the next wakeful moment sent me another message.

I am no Richard Wagner, but at times like these I do feel like the string of a violin being played by a breeze that blows inspiration my way and sounds a message from the mind of the divine.  What if life really is that easy?  What if all we need to do is make our strings available and let the breezes blow?  What if all we need to do is be willing to sing out the notes of the music we hear when the Universe plays us?

Can you imagine what a beautiful world we would live in if each of us simply became willing to be played by the Divine Mind that orchestrates the symphony of life?  Let the wind blow.  Stretch out your strings.  Feel the vibration of inspiration, and let your voice sing the song you are given.