BEGINNINGS

The soul heard a rhythm, a swishing that held an echo of a universal sound.  It sensed it was inside another soul.  Delicate and new, it twitched and stretched in its form and felt the body it was in adjust itself to her movements.

In darkness and warmth time passed

Among all the sounds that became familiar, one constant voice held the deepest feeling of presence. A familiarity more true than time.  She understood her laughter and felt soft joy, she heard her cry and felt an ache, when anxiety awakened, the soul felt its own pulse pick up speed.  Sometimes the mother would hum and the soul would feel her own heartbeat slow as she drifted off in a deep rest. The soul listened daily through sleep and wake, for an eternity of its own, until one day the comfortable space she had become so familiar with had become too small.  

Pressure upon pressure caused her little body to shrink, squeezing bone to bone and soft flesh towards some sort of finish.  Sounds arrived of her mother’s pain and fear and guilt coursed through them both. Rapid heartbeats ever sensing each other.

Soon, another death or life was near, this little new being knew not which.  The moving constriction came to an end and she felt a strange coolness and space arrive. Moments later the icy feeling hit her fully and she saw bright lights and beings in a blur.  Sounds became so loud!  In a gasp she pulled in air, her insides feeling like fire and ice, a surprise as its power fueled her for the first time.  A scratchy sound escaped her throat and she heard her own wild but somehow tiny voice.  The sound startled her,

 as did all sounds but one.

“Hello beautiful Fay”, she heard her mother whisper.

What was said she had no idea.

Yet she knew that tone. Softness.

Her body was pressed against the outside of the woman she was just inside.

It was not the same, but she was home.

A HISTORY BOX OF JEWELS

I am trying to keep pace with Liz as she strides in the sand.
It takes a moment to realize I would prefer to crouch down and photograph her.

My friend. She is sometimes in front of me, other times beside me, I adore her.

As a child I kept my position behind her, she was my babysitter and teacher of girlhood into young womanhood. A force that made life look creative and ever funny. A laugh followed almost any story or event. I was less frightened of growing beside her.

I am trying to remember when we parted ways, it was many years ago before I knew how it felt to be grown. Before life had thrown me into me, the bigger stories for one to act and react in.

Yet here I am, walking on a path behind her, invited to spend some days on her island after the loss of my father. She is just as strong and beautiful. Her laugh has etched only the smallest of lines on her tan face of kindness. My life’s laughing, (part of her legacy) has now added lines to mine as well. I enjoy them more, knowing who helped plant the seeds of my humor.

She is no longer my baby sitter, and I am no longer a child. Our age separation somehow disappeared, like two clouds becoming one. We look at each other and marvel as we share stories that parallel our lives from our islands across the world. Each nod of the head holds deep understanding of the other’s choices that hold pure love and admiration.

In times of loss, re- introductions are made. Asking you to open your history box and marvel at its jewels.

Our parents must be loving this!




©Lucy Hamel

CENTERED

                                                      

                                                        

                                                                    Imagine yourself on a tight rope.

If you sense only the ground below you,

energy moves down and you may fall.

If you think only above you,

you will not remember the rope supporting you.

Yet

 if you listen with your be-ing

to the space under, the space over

and the space left to right of your vision

you become a piece of a whole.

and

float in balance.

Being centered is not a spot, like the sun or the moon.

It is every spot that exists

of which you are.

You are a spot of light among light itself.

Centered is being aware.

A listening in time

That holds a true observer's understanding.

As well as right to space.

Calmness lives here.

In life.

You experience imbalance

yet

somehow feel balance with your place in it.

Centered

All is right and possible.

Manipulation becomes a silent memory.

Movement exists where you assumed there was none.

Stillness breathes freely

  inside of chaos.

Being centered will hold it all

And comfortably create miracles.

Being centered is not a spot, like the sun or the moon.

It is every spot that exists of which you are.

You are a spot of light among light itself.

Lucy

I URGE YOU TO MOVE

Move.

Do not become stagnant.

Let change happen

Let movement lead you to inspiration.

As fluidity loosens up your rigid thoughts

As a song becomes liquid emotion through melody

and tale.

I urge you to move.

When you feel lost.

For even grief loosens it's grip

When your arms are held high in offering to existence.

It reminds the heart of the joy still within.

Movements are the magic of Change

I urge you to move

To reach out to all you can

Dance under stars

Crawl if you must

Let your toes sink in earth

or wiggle in a bath tub

blink your eyes

squeeze a hand.

Be totally real

Invite those who are envious of your free soul to see you move forward

or backward.

I urge you to move

Swing your arms

swing your legs

or find a swing

watch the thoughts

begin to flow.

Throw a ball in the air

feel it's return smack in your palm

Jump in a cold sea and let yourself gasp

Rise like the sun

To write in your shadow

Walk only for the joy of walking

Bow only for the joy of folding

I urge you to move

Movements are the magic of change

that let your stillness become as serene

as the moon.

Lucy

ASANA LOVE LETTERS

Ella's thigh was trembling. She stood on her left foot, heal of the right foot raised. Her right arm wrapped under the right thigh, while her left hand twisted itself around her curved back to grasp the fingers of the right. Her left hand felt as if it were grasping for dear life onto a body dangling over the edge of a building.

Sweat rolled down her hair line to the ridge of her nose, a human mini river of effort.

Her exhale became long and hard until she heard the teacher's voice as if from another space and time.

“Inhale..go into you. Center and calm through the breath.”

She looked up slightly, off to the distant sky. A bird glided past both teasing and inspiring her with it's freedom. She smiled as if she had just heard an ironic story.

Pressing deeply into the earth with her left foot, she lifted her chest upward and the right leg that she carried seem to move higher with her. Her body wobbled for a moment and her feet and heart recalled learning to walk. Hold on, hold on. Yet she was up, awkward but up. Happiness tilted her cheekbones towards her eyes.

Beside her a tanned woman seemed to pass her in height, hold her leg higher so the brown toes just entered her field of vision. Ella's breathing paused and time froze for a moment of jealousy.

Her body called her back as she began to loose balance. “Shhhh. Stay with me. Stay here. Lets play” Ella felt her heart beat, the sweat, her shoulders being pulled back trying to expose her heart and lifted for just one more breath.

Shaking yet holding on, she lowered her leg and unwound the arms and folded her body down onto her mat. Her body in fetal, her forehead on the mat. A sigh of satisfaction slipped out of her mouth. Ella felt like Ella.

CHILDREN KNOW

Children know. Remember?

There is this feeling when you are running as a child. This feeling of super powers and greatness.
The moon talks to you, as does any insect. It seems odd that an adult cannot understand this.

When you look at the dirt, creativity seems natural. Why would anyone want to move away from the magical muddy growing space? A blade of grass holds a whole new universe, lie down for a while and look at it for as long as you choose. It will sit with you.

When music comes on, move just the way it sounds to your ears. The only style that exists is your style.
I once watched a girl in the grass. She was talking to something in the earth. Her voice like a fairy moving up and down. Boredom didn't happen for her. She was one of the extra lucky ones who knew
how to see beyond. Her imagination let her live in a world freer than ours.
I saw a boy leaping on the beach. His arms waved wildly over his head and he was laughing at his own silliness. He was he. The maker of fun.

I remember lying in bed, looking out my window. I saw Jesus float down and say hello. I was just at that age where you are no longer sure you can share what you see. Yet I still remember smiling at him and saying “hi”.

Children know.

How I wish for each of you to know again. To know how fun it is to just be you. You knew you were the incredible, you knew you were powerful and you knew how to play with “nothing”.

©Lucy Hamel

THERE IS ALWAYS MORE TO THE STORY

My son Alex calls me Lucy. He changed from Mom to Lucy when he was about three. It's interesting to me how people react to this. Some say: “Does it bother you? Isn't it disrespectful?” Honestly? No, not at all. 

In my way of thinking there was a time I was not even Lucy let alone Mom. Yet since Alex has come along a mother I am. And still a daughter. 

I am visiting my Mom and she no longer knows my name. My Mom has alzheimer's, many may say “she has no idea who you are”. My Mom may not know my name or that I am her daughter, yet who she is and who I am hold an energy that is totally unique. We hold our love story. When I talk to her, feed her or hold her there is a response I see in her eyes or sigh that holds a deeper knowledge maybe unknown to the body she is in.

She recognizes true love. A life force is there. Just consider the way a baby may not know a word or have control of its limbs but recognizes who it wants to be held by.

We are still very limited in knowing what goes on at a deeper level before or after words.

These days when I meditate I feel my Mom. I feel her hand on my shoulder. Today she was small, about seven years old with her little hands in mine. She is more powerful than the ever changing body she is somewhat residing in and she knows that. She always knew that. 

Am I saying my heart is not mourning? Oh, it is, I miss my Mom's vitality just as I miss my face at twenty. I miss her laughing at me in a way that let me feel soft and funny. I miss her seriously bad singing and I miss her fast walk. Yet somehow all that has existed still does.

For me, when I say the word “Mom” my whole being reacts. I suppose for Alex, it happens with “Lucy”.

I can just hear my Mom now saying, “Yes, Lucy. Oh yes!” I know the exact tone she would use.