I had lunch with Hannah at the Dragonfly Cafe yesterday. Hannah is my friend and next-door neighbor, but for the past two months, life and its to-do lists have conspired to keep our friend-time at bay. So over scones and chamomile tea, we caught up with each other's lives. When I got to my self-made Pumpkin Harvest Ritual, enacted just before Halloween, Hannah turned to me and said, "Can you write that down?" So Hannah, this is for you...

I have always loved pumpkins. Can't even tell you why, though their shape and color have a lot to do with it.  Pumpkin-people decorate my desk and studio year-round. I have a photograph I keep above my desk of a little girl laughing in a pumpkin patch. I also have a pair of pumpkin pj's. They're my favorite. I don't think I can explain it, except to say that pumpkins seem like a joyful vegetable, and when you see them sitting next to asparagus or potato, onion or beet, it just seems obvious that the pumpkin is the party vegetable and should be celebrated for its orange-y, round abundance.

So this Halloween I treated myself to a whole pile of pumpkins and played with them, stacking them around the house in pleasing constellations. Then Julia, a soul-writing companion of mine, visited me for a week in late October. One afternoon, while sitting on the patio watching the late afternoon light shift and shimmer at the neck and shoulders of Taos Mountain, sharing a bottle of Smoking Loon pinot noir, I turned to Julia and said, "Want to join me in the Harvest Ritual?" Julia blinked a few times, wondering if she's heard me correctly, so I explained the concept.

A few moments later, each of us had our hands deep in pumpkin-belly. "You start by removing the innards, and then separate the guts from the seeds," I explained, putting the strings in one bowl and the seeds in another. "Let your hands sink into the stuff of life, the stuff of your life, the stuff deep down inside that is no longer useful to you--that which you want to shed--and also the seeds of potential--that which you want to grow." I reached for my glass of pinot noir, smudging it with pumpkin-ness, took a long pull from the grape, and then sunk both hands back inside the pumpkin's pithy belly. When both of our pumpkins were hollowed out, the seeds and sheddings in separate bowls, I ducked into the house to wash my hands and forage for creative supplies.

"And now for the fun part," I announced, returning to the patio with a bright orange basket filled with tubes of paint, brushes, crayons, markers, X-acto knives, glitter, glue and modeling clay (you never know).

"Fun? This is already fun," Julia said holding up her hands smeared with orange. "I haven't had this much fun since third grade."

"Well, get ready to go back to kindergarten, then. 'Cuz the finger painting starts now."

"And will we be having juice and cookies and a nap later?" she asked, slyly.

I giggled and ducked back inside, returning with a box of ginger snaps and a second bottle of Smoking Loon. "Cookies!" I grabbed the wine bottle. "Juice." I fished inside my pocket for the cork screw. "And I am sure after a second bottle of wine, a nap is sure to follow."

"The idea is to see the pumpkin as the physical manifestation of the seed of potential," I said, laying out the tools of the pumpkin- artist trade. Where once there was this tiny little teardrop of white seed, now there is a glorious, voluptuous, bowl of orange gorgeousness. So the idea is to paint, carve or otherwise mark your pumpkin with your intentions of harvest. That which you have harvested in your life and for which you are grateful, and that which you intend to harvest in your life, for which you are hopeful."

"So..." Julia began in her British-turned-Indian-turned-Wisconson accent. "Design your own harvest kind of a thing?"

"Exactly. Claim the harvest you've reaped and the one you intend to reap."

We spent the next hour in veggie-carving, paint-smearing, intention-wielding bliss.  With our handiwork complete, we set both pumpkins side-by-side on the patio of the adobe, and spent sunset finishing the bottle of Smoking Loon, admiring our artistry. That night, as dark settled over the mesa, we each lit a three-day candle for our pumpkin, knowing the fire would burn through the essence of our hopes and carry their incense to the nostrils of god. We then gathered our bowls of seeding and shedding. Starting in opposite directions, we walked around the perimeter of my adobe and out into the sage, seeding our wishes into the ground and shedding our fears and limitations.

So, you ask, what did I shed and what did I seed?

As I dropped the sticky, stringy innards of the pumpkin onto the dusty ground, I shed shame and unworthiness. I spent my life, until very recently, afraid that I would not be enough. Not good enough, talented enough, unique enough, powerful enough to earn the love, respect and sense of inclusion I desire. I feared that if I did not DO for myself and for others, that I would not be found worthy. So I scrambled, always, to keep family, friends and business happy, healthy. I stretched far past my comfort zone and often far past my own abilities to MAKE things happen, to make other peoples' dreams come true, to MAKE a living for myself and family, to MAKE exciting things happen for the artists I work with, to MAKE Duirwaigh a delightful place to work, to MAKE inspiration happen for the world. And when I stretched too far and stumbled, or fell, instead of feeling like a human being, I felt like a failure. When I would tire, often stopping only when exhaustion insisted, I felt shame. If I was not pleasing to others, I felt small and unworthy. And in that tiny little ball of vulnerability, instead of treating myself with gentleness and caring, I forced myself onward. "Be brave!" I urged myself. "Muscle on! Forge ahead! Make it happen!"

Enough is Enough. I call an end to that (in)sensibility. I shed it, letting the fear and shame and sense of unworthiness fall to the ground. Enough is enough. And so am I.

And seeding. Ah, the seeding. With delight I sprinkled the tear-drop seeds of enough-ness, empowerment, abundance and homecoming. I've long yearned for home, a sense of True Home. Not just a house that delights me, but a landscape and community, both without and within, that truly feels welcoming, wonderful and inspiring. The seeds scattered into the sage and at the edges of cottonwood trees, symbolized my Coming Home, into myself, into alignment with my own unique voice, authenticity and power. Instead of seeking worth somewhere out there...in an event or relationship or object, I seeded the home inside of me, the  true home of Belonging, that no one and nothing can take away.

Which leads me to harvest.

This is my pumpkin and it says
I AM
READY
TO BE MET
BY
alignment
abundance
applause
community
my tribe
true seeing
mutuality...and My True Home

I think the most important theme here is declarative Enough-ness. "I Am." Already the best sentence there ever was. Try it. Repeat it after me "I Am." Now notice what comes up. For me, it was "I am ready." That's essential. But "I am ready to be met" is even moreso, for me. Finally, oh marvelous moment, I am ready to be met right where I am. No reaching, no stretching, no striving, no bending 'til I break. I am incredibly endowed and beautifully flawed and stunningly enough. Right. Where. I. Am.

If we are to meet, we'll meet there. Right where my toes end and yours begin. I won't have to sing or tap dance to impress you. I won't have to make myself smaller to make you comfortable or dilute my intensity to keep you at ease. I won't have to swing from a star and capture the moon in order to share radiance. I'll simply stand here, beaming. And if you like the rays and the warmth, you'll draw near.

And never was a space
so charming and so lovely
and so true,
as the space shared between
me being me
and you being you.

About a year ago,I began a video journey-journal of sorts. I've been documenting the strange but rich experience of being called out of one way of living life, into something...Other. I was called from my home in Kennesaw, Georgia, to the mountainous desert of Taos, but that was only the outer reflection of a deeper Calling. You could call it rebirth, transformation or a shift in consciousness. I'm sure there's a myriad of terms, but none of them suffice to truly describe the experience. The words are just pointers, really, signifying meaning, but the truth of the experience is difficult at best to describe. Ineffable. That's becoming one of my favorite words. Leave it to us humans to have a word for the very thing that defies words.

As to the every day particulars of my life, I've never skated on such thin ice and felt more safe. Leaving the metaphoric world for a moment, I'll say the circumstances of my life right now( my health, security, home/house, business) have rarely been so tenuous. If you haven't noticed, we're in the middle of recession, and the business I have spent eight years building relies on discretionary income. Our country is at war internally and externally, strife on many street corners.  My health overall is better than ever, yet I suffer severe pains in my neck and shoulders. The health insurance is gone. The savings account is gone. My family, business-child and husband are in the verdant dampness of lowland Georgia while I am in the raw, dustiness of high mesa New Mexico.

But I sing every day. Or almost every day. I wake up to study the colors around me and feel them press their vibrant warmth to the cheek of my soul. I feel safe and confident and happy. Content. Merry, even. I know I'll soon be living in a new house with my mate, and that Duirwaigh will relocate its physical office so everyone involved in the business will be together. I know that my book will find an agent and a publisher and be a tremendous success, thanks to the support of thousands of like-minded souls who seek inspiration in a society that's grown mundane. I know that my health will continue to harmonize more and more with the smile on my face, learning new melodies and rhythms as I stretch across the dance floor of consciousness.

I feel fine. More than fine. And although there are details to my everyday reality that seemingly pose a threat to my health and stability, I find myself unruffled most of the time. Not all the time. It's not like that. But it's becoming more. And more. People stopped buying art about two years ago, and my income took a big hit. I had a modest, healthy savings account and a thriving business yet felt the fear more solidly then than I do now. I could not stop thinking "What If?" and with that thought would come the paralyzing fear that if I did not do enough, make enough, solve enough, strive enough, resolve enough, that I would fail. Myself. My family. My associates. My business-child. My community.

And if I failed, how could I possibly make my dreams come true? And how could I be involved in fulfilling my long-cherished wish of helping other people realize their dreams? It's no wonder I used to go to bed every night panicked and wake up each morning panicked. When fortune was mine, I feared losing it. When fortune began to leave me, I feared the absence of its return, for it meant I'd also lose the very thing I'd earned with it: the ability to make my dreams and the dreams of others a reality. Maybe that also meant that people wouldn't like or accept me. If I was a failure, maybe it meant I was not a muse, not a helper, not a hero or dream-doer. Maybe it meant I was unworthy of attention and appreciation, of success and adulation. Maybe it meant I was unworthy. Period.

Yet living as I now do in the desert, surrounded by proof that rich life simmers beneath the surface of apparently barren things, I cannot help but feel fertile. Alive. Rich with promise, as well-being simmers beneath seemingly barren circumstances.

The fear seems to have left me. Not all of it and not all of the time, but certainly some of it. Enough to create the mental/emotional space to notice long periods of freedom and then to notice my entanglement when I decide to entertain fear again. But the periods of entanglement grow shorter. I feel calm. Present. Wide awake in the eye of the storm.

It's funny, that storm-thing. When I was a little girl I loved Wizard of Oz. The tornado was scary but thrilling and to this day I am drawn, child-like, to storm images with funnel clouds. They make me feel an altered state of Dorothy-consciousness is near, or perhaps a grand adventure's invitation. I may fall asleep in my bed in Kansas and wake up somewhere entirely...other. Several years ago, a boyfriend at the time deemed me Hurricane Angi. Not because of my fascination with storms, but because wherever I went, intensity and wild unpredictability seemed to follow, as quirky and spontaneous as weather patterns in Kansas in late summer. He always said it kindly, and with a twinkle in his eye, but I sensed the terror beneath the skin of his words. I would always be wild and big and intense, and he would always wish I could turn it down a notch, or at least hand him a remote control so he could push the PAUSE button when I became Too Much. Silas laughs when he hears that story. A raucous, shaking, full- belly laugh. "You can't blame the man. A sailor in a skiff on the ocean is going to have a completely different reaction to high winds than a captain on board a three-masted galleon."

Maybe I've just upgraded boats. But quite frankly, I feel more like Peter out on the water with Jesus. Peter, who, as terrified as his companions in the gales that tossed their ship around the ocean's waves as if it were nothing but a toy, was summoned from the boat in the midst of the tumult. There stood Jesus.  Right there, beside the boat. No ladder. No flotation device. No David Copperfield smoke-and-mirrors up the sleeves of his robe. Just Jesus. Just there. Not in, but ON the water. No wonder Peter and his companions thought he was a ghost. Still, Peter did as he was told and stepped from the boat, his eyes on his beloved Master.

And he stood. Not in but ON the water. Until he took his eyes from the source. And then it's all seaweed up the nostrils. The coughing, the spluttering, the burning salt in eyes and throat and pride. Eyes on the source: miracles. Eyes off the source: drowning. Perhaps this change, this state of peace that verges toward the precipice of excitement, is aroused by Source. And a certain kind of Seeing.

And for the cynics, maybe it's all in my head. And maybe that's the point.

(to be continued...)

Our journey begins with a Looking Glass on All Hallows Eve. Well, actually, it was supposed to. I did this long writing piece about this new blog, how it's gonna be filled with wild abandon, how it's not geared toward anything but a string-of-consciousness, how, like Wonderland itself, it'll be outrageously spontaneous and unpredictable. And to kick it all off, I wrote this long, involved storytelling about my Halloween experience. But then I walked away from the computer, got caught in the swirls and eddies of life, and returned to a crashed program, all writing lost.

So here's the long and the short.

Three days before Samhain Silas calls and says, "You are never gonna believe this. The Tiger Lillies are going to be performing a concert for Halloween in Santa Fe." The Tiger Lillies. Images of Prague's dusty cobblestone streets waltz across my mind, holding hands with London late-night stage coaches and turn-of-the-century-absinthe soaked Parisian brothels. The Tiger Lillies. Singers of shadows and maladies,  a cabaret-style sideshow where a ticket buys you a spot at the back of the sawdust covered tent, where an accordian, a ukelele and a double bass will be the only music to accompany the vaudevillian, tragedian carnival.  The Tiger Lillies. Edward Gorey meets Edgar Allen Poe at a backstreet speak-easy in Berlin 1926. The Tiger Lilllies. Go see for yourself.

Silas and I had loved the Tiger Lillies ever since hearing them in a crowded vinyl record shop just off the Saint Charles Bridge in Prague. We'd followed their tour schedule but had never managed to find them performing anywhere closer than Bordeaux, France or Colonge, Germany. Needless to say, we had to make it happen. So the point is, with no money in the bank account, but by the mighty hand of Delta Airline Angelis SkyMileness, we flew Silas to Albuquerque, drove north, back toward Santa Fe, dressed up in costume--he as a Renaissance pirate captain and me as a devil-styled Queen of Hearts--and scurried to our seats at the James A. Little  Performing Arts Theater at Santa Fe's School for the Deaf. The irony didn't slip past me. Santa Fe. It's not exactly a sprawling urban mecca with a hip, edgy nightlife. No. Santa Fe's art and cultural scene mixes Native American handmade treasures, authentic, organic culinary delights and offbeat independent film with nosebleed art galleries, five star spas (complete with gleaming green golf courses) and a rambling landscape still reeking of outlaw promise and great train robberies. With over one third of Santa Fe's population resting in retirement age, I scanned the theater, hoping the residents who'd accidentally ended up at the festivities thinking they were joining in on an innocent trick-or-treat party had forgotten their hearing aides.

Seems an appropriate Baptism for this blog's first entry. The evening was a trip through the Looking Glass, the view of an offbeat, left-of-center European cabaret smack dab in the middle of squeaky clean Santa Fe. I tell you. It's nothing short of Wonderland.

Welcome to the Adventure.