D is for Dedicating Merit

Somewhere along the way I learned to Dedicate the Merit. Dedicating Merit is a practice of generosity, connection, and blessing. Buddhist in origin, it's about making effort for the good, and offering the benefits of that effort to others.

I used to be part of a sound healing collective, where we'd take turns doing improvised ceremonial healings for each other, using shamanic voice and all kinds of instruments. Wonderful compositions were created uniquely for each person. We each received the benefit of this vibrational restoration. And at the closing circle we always named those to whom we wanted to send the benefit of these healings. Some people would direct this extra goodness to loved ones or the earth or people they were struggling with.

Dedicating merit can be an everyday act. All the effort of my climbing hills and stairways in my neighborhood this morning generated the merit of a healthier body, more energy, clearer mind. I receive that for myself AND dedicate the merit to those who are not able to take such walks, like my friend recovering from ankle surgery. I dedicate the merit and give it out to her and those unable to enjoy the yellow monarch butterfly, the beautiful unknown plants, the friendly dogs and their people, the heatwave. And the way the ground rises to meet me tired feet.

What merit would you like to dedicate today? And to whom?

C is for Commitment

I wear two simple silver rings. On my left hand is a ring with a medicine wheel on it, to remind me to return to the sacred center even while traveling through the cycles of life. It reminds me of my wedding ceremony with all the celebrants in a sacred circle. In each cardinal direction sat representatives of the distinct life phases on the medicine wheel. I remember the red, round altar of candles on the floor, with our tobacco prayer ties spiraling out from the center, lit by our wedding participants' candles.

On my right hand is a spoon ring, with one end a spiral for water. Traveling along the ring, there's a sunburst for fire, smooth space for air, and finally markings that feel like seeds, plants, and earth. I remember nature and the vital forces within and outside of me.

Both rings remind me of commitment. It is a challenge to balance commitment to my sacred marriage and commitment to my sacred work. And really they are the same, to stay connected to what is truly important - the sacred and how it manifests in all I set sacred intention to. When I forget to wear them, my hands feel naked and vulnerable.

What reminds you of your commitments?

B is for Being With What Is

The core of many spiritual practices is learning to BE WITH WHAT IS. Some call it acceptance or surrender or letting go of our attachment to how we want things to be. When life's big challenges loom large, it takes courage to show up and stay present with whatever vexes us.

As a big fan of Focusing, I am learning to sit with It. Stepping into Presence allows me to be with anything that comes up and wants my attention. By maintaining the compassionate, open, and curious stance of my most loving and wise Self, I can really hear Its concerns and extend empathy. Often just being heard allows this something to relax or shift.


The story goes that Tibetan saint Milarepa invited the demons of anger, greed, fear to come into his meditation cave and have tea. The point is to make space for what's here anyway, to invite it to be here in a more compassionate space. By being with what is, we get to stop fighting ourselves. And that is one way to see and bring beauty into the world.


For more info, see www.FocusingResources.com

A is for Absorption

Jumping back on the runaway horse of my blog, I want to write about absorption.

I recently had the chance to play with my one-year old friend Kaia. She's just finding her legs, enjoying her rootedness in standing and walking/falling with first steps. The moments of being with her while she crawled, sat, climbed, clambered, and stood in a little rocking chair totally absorbed me. It took my full awareness and responsiveness to prevent her from taking a dive, and yet I gave her lots of room to explore.

In describing this to other friends, they reflected back that I am that way with clients and with friends in deep discussion. I'm a 'spotter,' one said. It's like a dance. I move with, providing contact and/or supportive space for what wants to happen next.

In this absorption I can easily lose track of time and sense of separation. Being in that creative, responsive flow, being in the zone, is being one with another. In those moments I'm fully alive and bring that aliveness and trust in the process to another.

How do you experience absorption?

Next entry starts with a 'B'

Pregnant Pause

This spring has left me exhausted and preoccupied by the generational shift. My parents are going into assisted living, and we siblings need to take care of them now. My routine, such as it is, has fallen apart. This is a good thing, an opportunity to get current with how I want to be as a grown up and master of my fate.

The pregnant pause, I've been calling it. This falling out of rhythm to fall back in. Athletes course correct and it happens minutely every time you turn the steering wheel of your life. It's usually asking me to show up for my life and giving me an opening to do so. In journaling, Focusing, and other deep inquiry, I'm making a loose net bag to gather and carry the jumble of my life.


PS: On my street the Ruby Slippers I wrote about in the spring have run off, but same-sex weddings are here to stay. Not that marriage is for everyone, but civil rights certainly are.

A Valentine for Orange Man

We were riveted by you as we rode home on BART on Valentine's Day. You gave us color therapy and laughing yoga, made the whole train car laugh. You were way better than a box of chocolates, although perhaps equally nutty.

We couldn't overlook you, a tall muscled man in bright ORANGE nylon piped shorts and matching hoodie, orange translucent knee socks, and your bright orange backpack. The tennis racket's handle stuck out with faded pink tape. You came bopping into the center of our train car, your hood barely containing your oversize earphones and permed poodle hair.

Who wouldn't love you, a tall, athletic secret Asian man. With your zebra skateboard and unbounding energy. You were kung fu-ing, boxing, and jiving all by yourself in the open space by the train doors. The tall talmudic Berkeley cyclist next to you lowered his head to get out of your way or not be laughing in your face. The dressed to the nines daters across the aisle ducked their heads and guffawed into their hands. We all wondered if you were part of the Jamie Kennedy experience or some other hidden camera deal.

My love & I watched you openly, artists appreciating your bravado, brio, and brawn. You did pull ups on the hang-on-don't-fall-over bar, and push ups with your orange butt and too much information in the air. The man in the seat ahead of us held his phone out to capture your solo, but I haven't found you on YouTube yet.

Orange Man, you lit up our night. At West Oakland, my love asked the spirits to watch over you as you picked up your board and exited. You didn't hear when I started the big round of applause as the train sped on. Some might have been laughing at you in judgment. But we felt the relief of being human, together. Appreciating that still, some people know how to let their freak flag fly. Go Orange!

Ruby Slipper Stories

I live in the Castro in the heart of San Francisco, a neighborhood rooted in gay liberation. My heart soars every time I see the pair of small ruby slippers that sparkle in mid air, dangling from the telephone wire crossing my street. No stinky old sneakers for us! Some kind person with good aim rocketed them there last year.

The ruby slippers remind us in the age of increasing gentrification: honor the soul of this place. Remember refuge and belonging. Never give up the freedom to live out loud. Make room for others’ authenticity. Enjoy the humble magic in being who you truly are. Those we lost to AIDS, our too young Ancestors, say there’s no time to waste.

We need stories like water, like air. The Wizard of Oz and The Red Shoes both tell the tale of the soul’s longing for an authentic life. You’ve never seen the Wizard of Oz until you’ve seen it in the grand Castro Theater, among costumed audience members who shout out their favorite lines. Who doesn’t identify with Dorothy’s desperate search for home? In The Red Shoes the poor little girl ‘rescued’ by the rich old lady desires only her tattered handmade slippers. She becomes obsessed trying to recapture what came from her own heart and soul.

There’s no place like home. I’ve found it here among my Tales of the City diversified family. I’ve also found my heart, my mind, and my courage. I even work in the neighborhood, where director Gus Van Sant and team are filming Harvey Milk’s story. He was the first openly gay city supervisor, who was later assassinated along with Mayor George Moscone in 1978. A new generation of people, for whom sexual identity is not a big deal, need to know that this current openness came from a continuing long struggle to transcend fear. We need Harvey’s story and his guiding wisdom as an Ancestor, to keep inviting people to be who they are.