Mary Reynolds Thompson's Blog, page 13

Turning the Compost

It’s all there––the tough ends of the broccoli,

cores and cobs of cabbages and corn

shared now with birds and slugs and worms.

A bright red millipede writhes away.

The resident scorpion, compost-hued,

digs himself deeper in the pile.

Millions of yet smaller beings live

in the dark, citrus-scented mold.

It sparkles with their presence.

What feeds on our winter leavings will enrich

the lettuces and leavings even now in the garden.

Sometimes I think there is no death, only change,

only our lives’ tough ends becoming something new.

(c) Barbara Meyn

* What are you composting in your life right now? What news beginnings will it make way for?

* Write a poem beginning with the words, “It’s all there…” describing your garden or your natural surroundings in winter. What do you notice about this particular time of year?

Please share your writings and reflections here.

The Earth Speaks in Many Tongues

When my brother died, suddenly, in December of 2013, one of my writing groups wrote to comfort me–not as themselves, but in the voices of the landscapes that I love and cherish.

The Earth’s voice, flowing through my beloved clients’ words, began the healing process. Just as I had spent years trying to honor these landscapes in my book––to share their voices in some small way––so these landscapes were also there for me in my hour of need.

Here are some of the words that landed so deeply.

From the Deserts:

Your name is in the wind that rushes up desert canyon walls and down valleys blushing green in spring and gold in fall. We thank you, we honor you, we bless you, we hold you. After all, you help dream us into being.

From the Forests:

Redwoods of old nod as you pass.

Falcons churn the air for your delight.

Ferns fan the path as you wander.

Mushrooms sprout so you will touch them.

Foxes hope for a glimpse of you.

You who loves the Wildness of Nature

Can see She interweaves beginnings and endings.

Thus at every moment

All is not lost nor is everything alright.



From the Oceans and Rivers:

The sunset colors of orange volcano fire in the southwest sky were met by the silvery luminosity of Grandmother Moon’s rising fullness, a lover’s embrace for all to cherish.

As the colors merged into oneness: the you, the we, the whole was healed.

From the Mountains:

My mountainous trails and pathways await you, where your feet, your lungs, your soul, can find relief, where fallen pinecones, like a priestess’s runes, spell out answers to some of the questions you may have.

I felt comforted, held, part of something vast and stirring. My grief, somehow less acute, because it was integral to the whole.

And I wonder how the Earth speaks to you. And what, in those deep moments of listening, you hear?

Advaita

You say “non-dual”,

Not that,

Which describes this and that.

Or even “not this, not that”,

Which implies a third thing.

Let us see instead

The pink blossom of the lotus

Hanging in our chests

And the golden window there

Leading to our hearts.

Let us hear the sound of the universe

In our own voice,

And feel everything here

That God cannot.

Let us know

Our one soul

By looking in each other’s eyes.

– (c) Sue B. Walker

* What comes to mind when you think of hearing the sound of the universe in your own voice?

* Write about an experience in nature where you felt yourself merging with everything around you. As you reflect back on what you’ve written, what do you notice? What surprises you?

* Begin a poem with the words, “Let us see instead…”

Sweet Darkness

When your eyes are tired

the world is tired also.

When your vision has gone

no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the dark

where the night has eyes

to recognize its own.

There you can be sure

you are not beyond love.

The dark will be your womb

tonight.

The night will give you a horizon

further than you can see.

You must learn one thing.

The world was made to be free in.

Give up all the other worlds

except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet

confinement of your aloneness

to learn

anything or anyone

that does not bring you alive

is too small for you.

— David Whyte

from The House of Belonging

©1996 Many Rivers Press

* What would be different about your life if you gave up all worlds, except the one to which you belong?

* What is calling to you from the darkness?

* What or who brings you alive? Write a list. What do you notice? What are you now committed to?

* Begin a poem or prose piece with the words, “When my eyes are tired…”

Between the Darkness and the Light

August 2014- Bruce and I pitched camp under the apple tree. Bears had raided the fruit and puddles of scat surrounded our site. Large paw prints marked the dusty, dry river bed as a favorite bear crossing. We were officially in the wilds, camping at a remote environmental site in Humboldt Redwood State park.

Our site, in a small meadow beside a redwood forest, had the advantage of more light and life. Deer––a mother and her fawn–– Steller’s jays, thrushes, and towhees, gorged on the blackberry bushes surrounding our tent. At night we awoke to the whu, whu, whu-whoo of the barred owl. As I laid there I thought, when I return home I will hold Reclaiming the Wild Soul in my hands. I was about to turn 58 and I had worked on this particular book for almost a decade.

On my birthday, we hiked a nine mile loop that meandered through the largest contiguous stretch of old growth redwoods that remain–only 3.7 miles in length. As we followed the pine-soft trail, I thought about my brother, David, who died last December just months after his 60th birthday. I felt the loss of him, of so many trees, of all the creatures that are extinct, like a pain in my belly. As I walked, I cried…silently, gently.

A brother dies, a vast river of redwoods that once flowed the length of the Oregon and California coast is reduced to the length of an afternoon stroll. It is hard to fathom all the losses.

But as dawn crept in the next morning, the cicadas nocturnal song was silenced by the urgent squawks of the Steller’s jays––loud, shrill, hungry for the light.

Dormouse on the Birdfeeder

Small enough to slip like a shadow

through the dense fence, cradling

ink-filled eyes in the tiniest of skulls,

she was a moment of wonder held firm

in air’s invisible hands and kind light

of sun, wind furrowing her tawny fur

and then was gone, borne away

on the exhalation of my brief breath.

(C) Victoria Field

From “The Lost Boys”

Joy to the World

News of climate change, species extinction, another fracking operation–– not exactly my idea of a Santa Wish List.

So how do we find joy when there’s so much bad news, well, in the news?

Last week, Bruce and I attended an award ceremony organized by Catriona MacGregor to honor local environmental leaders in Marin County. Listening to the amazing work people are doing in our communities, and the profound impact their work is having, has kept me buoyed up ever since.

Case in point, the gold medal award winner, Megan Isadore, for her work with the River Otter Ecology Project. Absent for decades, river otters, a charismatic apex predator in our local watersheds, are coming back. To date, the ROEP has documented nearly 900 river otter sightings throughout the Bay Area. And we know this because of the volunteer work of Megan and her team. Our watershed restoration and conservation policies are working. That’s joyful news.

And what about the SolEd Benefit Corporation, honored with a Silver Medal, for its work developing low-cost solar energy solutions for schools, universities, municipalities, and large non-profits. After the finances are paid off, the fuel is free. SolEd isn’t in business to raise their stock prices, but to serve the community. That’s joyful news.

Jennie Lynn Pardi, a teacher, was also awarded a silver medal for her work in reducing–with an aim to eliminating–waste. According to her husband, whom I talked with before the award ceremony, Jennie has been passionate about reducing, reusing, and, as she puts it, “refusing,” since she was a young girl in high school. Thanks to her passion, some schools have eliminated 80% of their waste, more organic gardens are being planted, and big local events, like the Marin County Fair, are almost waste free. That’s joyful news.

So what’s happening in your community that brings joy to your world? Please share your thoughts here, and let’s make this a season worth celebrating!

Kate Thompson

Kate Thompson, MA, CJT, a BACP (British Association of Counseling and Psychotherapy) senior accredited Supervisor and Counselor, describes a “moment of being” in her vivid story of watching the sunrise all alone when camping on a wild beach in Scotland at age twelve. You can find out more about Kate, her books on therapeutic writing, and her work as a journal therapist with an existential approach on her website and her blog.

Is There an Andy Goldsworthy in All of Us?

A bright, cold November day in Central Park.



Jean Davis, an associate adjunct professor in Pratt Institute’s graduate creative arts therapy department, is leading us in “Environmental Art Therapy.” Having already given my workshop for the Expressive Therapies Summit the day before, on Earth Archetypes, I’m eager to relax as someone else leads the way.

Jean divides us into teams and we set off to create art in the park, using nature and the art supplies at hand.

My group finds a spot between two trees and the magic takes hold. With very little discussion, we begin to weave string, leaves, shells and rocks into a beautiful art work that hangs golden leaves, like prayer flags, between two trees. On the ground, a spiral made of leaves.

We work together seamlessly, each drawn to our own particular part of the scheme. One woman is intent on winding the string around the tree trunks, another on collecting leaves, or creating the spiral, and I seem to want to string the leaves so that the light catches them.

As the design develops, strangers stop to stare, or hand us leaves to hang. Children look up in wonder.

I’m reminded of the artist Andrew Goldsworthy, whose organic creations, built using natural elements native to the places in which he works, explore the shifts of space and time. He covers trees with tapestries, builds wooden sculptures to be swept away by rivers and tides, pours his energy into ephemera that is somehow eternal.

I feel a little like Goldsworthy myself, as I see the wind snatching leaves from our composition, eroding our artwork. Later, we will take it down, piece by leaf. And yet, in working with nature’s gift, something indelible remains.

Call it joy.

Learning from Goslings in Kensington Gardens

A whirlwind: workshops, travel, book signing, talks. In the aftermath of Reclaiming the Wild Soul launching, I am riding high…but I am also hurting. I am in London, the city of my birth; the city of my brother’s death.

David died almost a year ago, also while visiting my mother in London as I am now doing. While I celebrate the launch of my book––and the good things that have come my way because of it––I also feel tremendous sadness. My mother is noticeably more frail. I look ahead to the time when she will no longer be here. I will be the only original member of my family still alive. It a breathtakingly lonely thought.

I contemplate this as I circumambulate the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens.The late afternoon light burnishes the autumn leaves. I stand for long minutes watching the fluffy brown Egyptian goslings, just weeks old, huddling together in the cold. They take turns, sometimes braving the winds on the outside of the circle, then moving to the inner circle to warm up. I think of how life is like this–sometimes so exposed, so vulnerable, then safe and cocooned again.

When I think of those I love dying, I feel myself cold, thrust to the edges of life. But there is so much that warms me. I am blessed with a husband who holds me close. I have work I care about. Friends I love. Places that stir my soul.

Like these tiny goslings, I am constantly seeking that safe, warm center within.

And you?