These Darkening Days

As Autumn descends, and chaos swirls in the world around me, I hunger for the dark.  As much as I love the sun, my lake swims, and warm air on bare skin, I need a good long rest, a retreat from the story.  Perhaps we all do.  Whether it be from unfathomable loss, hurricanes and earthquakes, wildfires, our EMF-laden trajectory, relationship struggles, health challenges, the threat of nuclear war– sometimes we all need a break from the story.

photo by Leigh Hilbert

Stress, adrenaline, impaired sleep, anxiety, depression, immune dysfunction, emotional reactivity, disease – which came first, our inner imbalance or the outer mess?  When we find ourselves attempting to solve the world’s problems with our minds and coming up empty, it is time to connect with essence.

photo by Leigh Hilbert

Wood fire. Starlit skies.  Owls’ song.  A cozy comforter.  Rest, my friend, and may you be enfolded in the peace that is ever present.  When we give ourselves permission to stop, unplug, and restore, we are able to move into the realm where truly all is well.  Here we may access tools that in a rested, balanced state, we can seamlessly integrate into our lives.

photo by Leigh Hilbert

As we consciously journey into these darkening days, in divine time we will surface from the depths like Persephone with the forbidden fruit, only to discover that we are the light that will return on winter solstice.  We are the light of truth and all we long for.  We are the redemptive, potent, unstoppable light of Love. 

photo by Leigh Hilbert

Choosing the Empty Cup

© 2011 Oona McOuat

Sometimes choosing emptiness is the fullest of experiences.

  

I ended the summer camping alone on a dolphin-studded beach in Hawaii.  Was I fortunate?  Yes.  Was I hoping the dolphins would want to play and interact? Yes.  But primarily I was there for what the beach didn’t have.   No electricity, wireless, or cell phone service.  No twitter, texting, or TV.  No “to do” lists, no deadlines, and no one who knew me or expected me to talk.  After a busy and stressful year, I was worn so thin, burnout was just one small blown fuse away.  And so, the beach became a beacon, beckoning me to stop fanning the flame and pushing the river, and start diving into the vastness of open, unplanned space.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

I arrived on a Monday.   Too tired to think about cooking, I ate my leftover lunch for dinner and fell into bed while it was still light out, sometime around 7:00pm.  The next morning I awoke with no agenda other than doing yoga on the beach.  By 10:30am it seemed like midnight, and I wondered how I was going to survive a week of slow-moving open time - life without agenda, obligation, or distraction.  I felt like a dolphin out of water, and then I looked up and saw the dolphins cruising into the bay. 

As I swam out, I was greeted by a mother and her brand new baby.  The wee one was so young it still had its umbilical cord! It was barely over two feet long – the tiniest dolphin I have ever seen, a squirmy, excited bundle of delight.  I coined it “Squiggly” and as it wiggled across and into my heart, I fell into a wordless place.  I was enfolded by the deep spaciousness of ocean communion where clarity comes in swirls and sensations, where peace and timelessness enfold my body, where I am everything and nothing – an answer that forgets the question, a haven that no longer seeks home.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

The days felt into an easy, natural rhythm – do yoga, swim, walk, eat, sleep.  The only rule I had was that I could not drive my car or leave the beach.  The only book I had was a much-loved text “Anam Cara – A Book of Celtic Wisdom” by Irish poet, philosopher and priest, John O’Donohue.  As I merged with the deep joy and breath-filled beauty of the dolphins, I revisited the home of my ancestors. 

How could it be 10 years since the day I first held this book, sitting in my solitary thatched cottage in County Donegal, Ireland, taking breaks from the novel I was writing as I wandered the countryside in search of blackberries and faeries?

Here, in a very different sort of retreat, I let O’Donohue take me to the Circle of Belonging, the power and presence that foster true connection between two people.  I let him remind me once again to “whisper awake the deep well of love within”.  When we allow this nourishing stream of belonging, of ease, peace and delight to move through us, the ground that has hardened within us grows soft again. “Solitude is luminous,” he says, and to grow is to change.   Death is with us always, and teaches us, eternally, about letting go.  As we let go, “a greater generosity, openness and breath comes into our lives.” Where there is no space, the eternal cannot waken.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

Being here, in a body, with a whole world within and around us to explore is an immense privilege, and it is incredible how often I get numb and shortsighted and forget the miracle of living.  Today, here is Salt Spring, a small island in the Pacific Northwest with the sweet earthy smell of baking squash filling my cottage, and apple-laden branches and turning leaves outside my window.  Social reality (and social networking reality) can deaden and numb us so that the mysterious wonder of our lives goes unnoticed.  Daily I remind myself to fully touch and be touched, to taste, look, listen, commune; to love largely and unabashedly, to celebrate the beauty of this body and this Earth.  

Photo by Kmax

We are alive. We are wildly and deliciously free. Let’s live as if we have eternity in our cups, and an hourglass that it is held in divine hands inside our hearts. We do not know when this particular earth walk will be over. We only know that we are here.

Some nights stay up til dawn as the moon sometimes does

for the sun.

Be a full bucket, pulled up the dark way of a well then

lifted out into the light.

Something opens up our wings, something makes boredom

and hurt disappear

Someone fills the cup in front of us, we taste only

sweetness.

   -Rumi

Blessed Be

Oona

Balanced Between the Dark and the Light

© 2009 Oona McOuat

Photo by Jeff Ardron

Each night the stag comes.  There is only a window separating my nocturnal habit of tapping my fingers on a glowing box, his of munching on fallen apples.  As his eyes meet mine through the glass, a primal jolt awakens a longing to abandon my endless emails and fill my nostrils with the night scents of turning leaves and early autumn.  

Autumn, autumnus - the word is most likely derived from the Etruscan autu, and is related to avil (or year) and menos meaning loss.  The year is dying. And as we harvest the bounty of the fecund growing season we also prepare for its death. 

Today, all over the planet we sit poised in perfect balance between light and dark. Tomorrow, those in the south move towards the light while those of us in the north prepare for the season of darkness. 

I move from desk to door to outdoors, my computer-bleary mind racing with all that needs to be done.  There's a nagging worry that I might not get the harvest in before the winter comes.

Deep inhale of musky blackberry bushes and yellowing maples, and a falling star, a dying star, streaks across the sky in one last awe-awakening dance. The stag stirs and eats another apple out of necessity and pleasure, and the words of poet Mary Oliver run through my head:

"Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"

I think of growing deeper and wilder, leaping hungrily, instinctually, over the moss-covered stones, waning sun on my face, berry-stained hands ripping bark from trees to find honey flowing from dripping combs. Finger to comb to mouth, everything sticky with the pollen of a hundred flowers now faded. Feasting as if the sweetness will never end. Living as if I am dying, balanced between the darkness and the light.

Blessings,
Oona

Surrender

© 2008 Oona McOuat

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

The first leaves fall, letting go of their branches, surrendering to darkness and decay. Today there is a muted quality to the light - pearly grey, autumnal, retreating.

Photo by Wilda

Out come the wool sweaters, in comes the wood, and on goes the wood-stove. There's soup in the pot - carrots, peppers, the last of the basil, the first of the red kuri squash. All day I feel sleepy, like I want to curl up and dream…

But there is so much to do. My album is the first priority. But there's a kids choir to pull together for an environmental fundraiser next month. I have been asked to prepare this same yet nonexistent children's choir to sing on the soundtrack of a documentary on Jade Bell being produced by Nettwerk Records' Ash Sood. I will be performing with Victoria based Puente Theater as a a part of their multicultural storytelling troupe in October. I am the guest artist for Salt Spring based Stagecoach Theater's 2008-2009 season. There is talk of creating an original play from my lyrics.....

Last night the stag returned, ambling rather ungracefully - for a deer - through my rock garden, not at all perturbed by my presence. (He had after all stood munching apples two feet from my window for hours last fall, wondering what strange music my fingers were typing and why I was so mesmerized by a small, illuminated box.)

"Welcome back," I call, "I see this year you have bigger antlers." His haunches are powerful, his air ambivalent; he smells of musk and turning leaves.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

The first part of September was golden, and in response to the warmth the lemon balm and nettles have put out new shoots. Each morning, dressed in my nightgown, I gather them for tea, stuffing juicy blackberries in my mouth as I go.

Now, as I pull a second sweater on over the first, it's hard to believe that after a long session in the studio I jumped in the lake last night. The water was warmer than the air, soft and smooth as silk.

Yes, I am birthing a new CD, at long last. It was finally time, or I finally decided - this is the time - and everything fell into place. It takes energy, this process of creating - energy and trust, focus and a willingness to grow. Laying down the harp tracks is arduous and amusing as I watch an aspect of self that is rigid yet expects catastrophe try to take over the show.

Performing with Iridescence Dance Theater: Photo by Leigh Hilbert

"Watch out for those finger buzzes!" she hollers. "Don't play too dynamically or the notes will jump out!" "Keep it even, stick to that click track." "Remember the 12 measure instrumental and don't forget to go back to the bridge." "What ever you do, don't make a mistake or we'll have to go through this whole ordeal all over again…"

At some point, I let go, drop in, allow my fingers to do what they know, what they will, without the interference of fear and worry. I surrender.

As I bring this project to life and sink into the womb, the cave (the ground floor studio I'm working in is like a hobbit house from Middle Earth), I feel removed from the world around me and yet simultaneously deeply connected to the place I am meant to fill, highly tuned to the currents and energies that want to move through me, that want to be born. 

As I think about beats and intonation, cellos and drums, part of me sinks into the universal flow of pure essence, while another part sits watching, waiting, profoundly aware of the critical place we humans dwell in on this planet at this time.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

Once again, the US election falls near my birthday, and I wonder how the cards will fall, what will unfold as a result of the choices made on November 4th. A wise yet worldly presence inside me doubts that those who would practice electoral sleight of hand will let a heartfelt leader win the day. 

And if not, then what? We can't just roll back the tape, take it from the bridge and fade to finish. Any way I feel it, sense it, big things are coming. We need to think about gardens and goodness, about living from love and learning from the children. We need to release our sense of how things should be, our fear of how they could be, and trust our hands will find the right notes.

 

Each of our individual, authentic songs matter more now than ever before. We need to do our dream, live our purpose as fully and courageously as possible, allowing our rivers to flow and feed, renewing and revitalizing the collective stream and dream.

Performing with Iridescence Dance Theater: Photo by Leigh Hilbert

As our individual songs weave in and out of one another, their dissonance and harmony, playfulness, and power will lead us skipping, swirling, and hip hopping all the way home. Home to our hearts; to the collective heart which holds us, and yet allows us to free-fall and to land, unscathed, in a place of perfect, peaceful surrender.

Of Dolphin, Deer, and Harvest Moons

© 2007 Oona McOuat

A harvest moon!
And on the mats -
Shadows of pine boughs.
Kikaku

As we sit poised between the Autumn Equinox and the Harvest Moon, a time that sings of bounty and balance, beauty and decay, I, like all good Northerners, prepare for the descent of the great Canadian winter - harvesting and conserving food, replenishing the woodpile, pulling sweaters and warm blankets out of the cupboard where they were stuffed last June… In all honestly, I do so half-heartedly, disbelieving that the cycle has come full circle again, that already the days are growing cold and dark.

Photo by Kmax

Perhaps it was more than a coincidence then, that on the first day of Fall, I took a fall as I picked pears on a rickety aluminum ladder. I had an inkling it was going to happen from the get-go, but my rational mind told me I had once picked fruit for a living, clambering up and down ladders with effortless ease. Why the trepidation? But as I got near the top, I felt strangely lightheaded, a sense of being off balance.

In the end, it was the ladder that toppled, not me. I managed to spring off the metal rungs, holding my bucket of pears in one hand, pushing off with the other, landing on the ground on my hands and knees as the ladder crashed like a just-cut tree beside me.   I wasn't hurt but I was shaken as I wondered, did I fall because I feared I would? Or did I blatantly disregard the inner voice that was warning me this was going to happen in the first place?

The truth is, I am a little scared of the dark days ahead. Summer was too fleeting. The air and the lake have gotten so cold so fast. I need a more gradual transition. I need to feel like I have a choice. But the seasons will change, regardless of my will or desires, and so I am doing my best to make the best of what's happening around me.

Photo: Leigh Hilbert

Today, I picked the accident-inducing pears as well as apples, the last of the plums and blackberries, harvested some rosehips and planted a winter garden. I put kale, bok choi, gai lan, arugula, gem marigolds and winter lettuce seeds in the ground, not quite believing they will sprout and grow at this point in the year. It would have been better to have done this a few weeks ago, but today was the day and the sun will encourage upward growth until November 10th I hear. After that it's really only a hop, skip and a jump to winter Solstice…. 

Then it might be time for a winter vacation….

Photo by Kmax

Why all this bargaining? Why am I valuing the light and the warmth more than the coming time of rest and stillness? Is it all those winters spent in Hawaii? Am I dreading the cold or am I frightened of the inwardness it breeds - the soft, anchored-in-self focus that could lead me to the next place on my path? Are my dreams of prolonging summer - the lake swims, the picnics, the bare arms and feet - simply an exercise in avoidance?

Despite my doubts, my less than open (and covered) arms, the magic of autumn unfolds around me. Every night a stag comes and munches apples that have fallen from the tree beside my window. I marvel at his appetite and the way he rolls the whole fruit around in his mouth as if savouring its juice before devouring it.

Photo by Leigh Hilbert

Photo: Leigh Hilbert

One night, he ate from 9:00 pm 'til 2:00 in the morning as I sat at my desk typing on my laptop, just two feet away from his feasting, listening to him crunch and munch and fart - yes - deer fart. Every now and then he would cast me a meaningful glance through the window as if to say "I'm okay with this if you're okay. Can't believe you let all these apples fall to the ground and that you're not out here eating them too. That little box you're sitting in front of must be really delicious..."

I begin to feel with this deer the kind of quiet kinship that happens with well-married couples. We are engaged in our own worlds yet offer each other steady companionship. We are separate, yet deeply connected.

Photo: Leigh Hilbert

I flashback to swimming with Pearl in Kapoho Bay, Hawaii, a few weeks ago… Pearl - the jewel-backed Great Grandma of all sea turtles. She is moving gracefully, slowly below me, flapping her fins like baby angel wings. I move my arms in unison with her flippers and pretend that I am flying. Pearl - a gentle, steady presence; no chatter, no discord, just waves of deep peace. It is so easy to find my sense of inner balance as I swim with her.

Photo: Leigh Hilbert

Dolphins are a different story. It is our first morning at Ho'okena and we stumble out of our tents to a bay full of them. As I swim out, I am bathed in a cacophony of squeaks and whistles. I am immediately flanked by two of the male scouts or elders - Cookie, who has cookie cutter shark bites on his dorsal fin and tail, and Rumplestiltsken, who has a rumpled-looking scar on his left side. I send them love and they stick with me for a long time, keeping about 5 or 6 feet between us.

Suddenly, they vanish and I am surrounded by the mothers and baby dolphins, enveloped by them. They are so close, I cannot move my arms, or choose my own direction; I can only swim in synchronicity with them, a part of the pod. One of the adults rolls over and shows me her silvery white belly and genital slit.

Spinner Dolphins
Photo: Leigh Hilbert

I begin to feel crowded by the dolphin on my left. For the first time ever, I want them to spread out, give me some room, but they seem oblivious to my need. My mind jumps to the sign my headlamp flashed on the night before, the one posted by my campsite with the picture of the dolphin with an open mouth and very sharp teeth that warned "Marine Mammals can be dangerous."

"What if it's true?" I think, a part of me not believing that I could even entertain such a notion, "What if the dolphin beside me snaps and tries to bite my hand off?" I know my fear is sad and ridiculous. I've been having peaceful, beautiful, life-transforming swims with dolphins for years, but on a primal, unconscious level, it persists.

Earlier, before the fear surfaced, I had been thinking it would be fun to see some dolphin bubbles. As if she had heard my thought and now hoped to appease me, a dolphin begins to blow clouds of little, cheerful bubbles under my fear-filled belly. At last, the group of dolphins moves away and Rumplestiltsken and Cookie reappear.

"What was that all about?" I ask them abashedly.

"This is your work now," they answer, "to notice when you are responding with fear to things that could nourish or bless, heal, or delight you; to notice how this fear limits your joy and the depth of joy you allow into your life and reap from your experiences. We just wanted to point this out to you… By the way, your need to be in control of things stems from this deep-rooted fear of the unknown. The way to heal it is to focus on the joy and beauty in your relationships and in your experiences. Be with them in the moment instead of trying to second-guess the future or hash out the past."

Photo: Leigh Hilbert

Do dolphins talk? In my world they do, and they have. And so, I sit and watch a deer munching apples under a near-full harvest moon thinking about fear and balance, about welcoming the gifts of the descending darkness as I navigate my own internal world of shadow and light. I think about the stag. Does he trust me, or is his desire to devour my sweet, fallen fruit so strong, that it overrides or perhaps transforms his instinctual fear?

I think about Pearl and the dolphins, the blessed wild creatures that have welcomed me into their world and taught me Great Love. I think about being underwater, immersed in an interplay of dark and light, the sun's rays illuminating me from above as I swim into the depths of the unknown. Perhaps autumn is a transition time, a time to gently prepare ourselves to move beneath the surface to discover our true selves.

Photo: Leigh Hilbert

May your journey be bountiful, gentle and good.

Photo: Leigh Hilbert