To Sing with the Ravens….

“Forget about trying to compete with someone else. Create your own pathway. Create your own new vision.”
~ Herbie Hancock

As those of you who follow my Facebook page(s) may already know, I am beginning a new adventure in the mountains of northern New Mexico, where I’ve decided to stay for a while to sing with the ravens and dance with the coyotes. How long? Who knows? Maybe a month, maybe a year, maybe a lifetime. I’ve lived alone for most of the last 30 years and have always had a good sense of self, but these last three on the road solidified my determination for self-knowledge and thirst for continued discovery. I’d been aware of this resolve intrinsically for quite some time, but as I’d received dozens of invitations and agreed to do another Ride, I felt obligated to follow through. As time went on, however, I came to realize that this part of my long (so far, 3 years) trek is over – and I am to enjoy a new kind of journey … exploring where it will take me emotionally, physically, spiritually.

I truly believe that our Lives have many paths and trails, many roads and voyages we endeavour upon until our last heartbeat – and that final passage to whatever lies ahead. For most of us, our purpose changes over the course of time. No one part – or a previous direction – is “wrong”, but rather it is simply that we have an infinite number of gateways in our journey … and we enter these at different times of our lives. Some do have a singular path, an exclusive and unique purpose they are born into … no doubt true for many artists, scientists, priests and monks … but for me, I find the continual evolution both exciting and liberating. I have many passions and objectives that I’m looking forward to enjoying and fulfilling in the years ahead.

So, “here’s to” a new day and a new journey. Thank you all, once again, for having come along with me on the most amazing and wonderful “Ride” I could have ever imagined.  Be well, be happy, and as always … I’ll see you somewhere down the road.

With love,
Ravensong ❤

Addendum to a Suicide…

“Death is my redemption,” she whispered…
~ Dianna Hardy

Today, celebrity chef and traveler Anthony Bourdain was found dead … suicide. Three days ago, designer Kate Spade. Robin Williams. Ernest Hemingway. Diane Arbus. Dana Plato. George Reeves. Junior Seau. Jeanne-Paule Deckers (The Singing Nun). Many others. We sometimes forget that these stars and superstars were more than celebrities, more than a face on a television set or a competitor on an athletic field, or a reclusive artist, designer,  singer … they were people. People who played as children, laughed when tickled, wept when their first lover broke their heart, and learned to drive at the hands of a nervous teacher. They got good grades and they failed some courses, too. They teased their friends, they talked back to their parents. They danced to their favorite music, probably ate dozens of ice cream cones and skinned their knees. They grew up to love others and to find a way to express their soul. But did we pay any attention to that? Or did we only see the facade, the mask of celebrity-dom?

Today many on social media are expressing sadness at the self-inflected death of Mr. Bourdain … someone who seemed to “have it all”. What I find more tragic – not only about his death, but about all of the other thousands of people who choose to end their life every year – is that we often fail to find the time, or make the effort, to see behind the mask, the smiles, or the laughs. Do we know the meaning of the tattoos they proudly wear, or why they wandered into the world of drugs or alcohol? Do we know why they chose the profession they did, or why they moved across the country, or the world? Do we know of the darkness or the tears; the fear, the pain? Do we care for anything beyond the persona we see on a 52″ screen or a concert stage … or past the idle “hey, howareya” we unthinkingly ask as we pass a friend on the street?

Many are posting the National Suicide Hotline number (1-800-273-8255), and while it may help some, few will reach out and call in that moment of desperation and blackness. I have walked that tightrope twice in my life, and it is a space – a blackhole – like no other. It is not a place of rationality.

The truth of the matter is that it is up to us, individually and as a collective, to help … to connect more, and more often. To connect deeper and with real meaning. To take the time. To make the the time. Just because someone seems to be widely admired or “loved”, “have it all” or supposedly has thousands of “friends”, it does not make them any less human; it does not mean they are not hurting inside, or worried, frightened, or lonely. We need to look past ourselves, to look past our own tiny little world, and into the hearts of others … before it is too late. Before they get to that moment in time from where they can never return.

Reach out … every day … to someone. To your friends, to your family. Talk … and listen. Listen to their stories, their heartbreaks, their loves and losses. Listen and learn about their moments of joy, their accomplishments, their proudest hour. Ask questions, learn about them. Connect. Stuff is just stuff, and it can all disappear in a heartbeat, or with a match. Things can be rebuilt, re-bought, re-made. A living soul cannot. Reach out. Now. Please….

An addendum to the “Addendum”: I realize this may seem to have nothing to do with “The Ride”, but I recently wrote to the question of why I do what I do. And this connection is exactly why … it is the point of why I ride.

 

A Mother’s Day Missive

“We are born of love;
Love is our mother.”
~ Rumi

Something a little different today; something not necessarily pertaining to “The Ride,” but rather, a story of love from me to you, on this Mother’s Day.

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This is my mother. It is my only photo of her; it’s not the best, as it’s from a newspaper article written around 1989. But it’s all I have. She was an artist, a singer, a writer, and wrestled all of her life with many demons: Bi-polar disorder, schizophrenia, and alcoholism, among others. We had a rather brief and very challenging relationship – she never wanted children and I was seen as nonessential … and moreover, as the wretched roadblock between my father and her. She left us immediately after I was born, only to reappear in our lives a decade – and several husbands – later when I was 10. The following six years were incredibly difficult, and I could easily fill this blog with many stories of her abuse and hatred toward me. Our last stormy encounter was in 1973, and she passed away in 2003, having never spoken another word between us in those 30 years.

So, why do I write this now, on Mother’s Day? Seems odd, right? But, you see, there is much more to this story … especially for those who understand and believe that lifespirit, and love and forgiveness, are never-ending. Keep reading….

In the summer of 2012, I was sitting in my apartment reading, late one afternoon. I felt an ‘odd’ sensation, and looking up from my book … I saw her standing there. Or rather, her lifespirit. She was young and beautiful and healthy; and had a peaceful, loving expression on her face … an expression that I’d never seen on her before. I was stunned and silent – I’d not given my mother a thought in decades – but at that moment, and without a single word exchanged between us, I knew that beneath all of the disease and broken chromosomes and chemical imbalances she waded through all her life … she, her Spirit – the true essence of her life beyond what we know and understand in this world – did indeed love and care for me. In the passage of a nano-second, forgiveness and joy reigned. I understood completely and fully that none of the abuse was “her” fault, but rather were the manifestations of the delicate balance of our physical nature … a broken or missing gene/chromosome here and there, the learned patterns of generations prior, the on-again off-again nature of the drugs meant to “control” what we deem as mental illness. It was not she who did not love or care for me … not the Spirit or Soul of this woman who was my mother … but rather her humanness, her mortal-ness, and it was beyond her control. When that is fully realized, forgiveness comes oh-so very easily. And it did. I smiled … deeply, completely. Compassionately. She smiled in return, as she slowly faded from view.

Yes, it would have been nice to have had a different, “better,” mother … my life certainly would have been easier, and my standing joke is “Next time around, I’d like to know what a normal life is!” …. but, this lovely, emotionally challenged woman also gave me gifts I never would have had, had I not known her: Strength, resilience, intelligence, an artistic bend, a love of words, theater, art, education; and a desire to live Life fully to its last beautiful breath.

Happy Mother’s Day, one and all.

Where the End is Another Beginning

“I will find new meaning in every joy and sorrow,
in that silence, I will hear the voice of spirit, and
freed from this world, I will see another world
where the end is another beginning.”
Rumi

I don’t recall exactly when the feeling started – a malaise, almost. A feeling of discontent, disquiet, awkwardness, boredom. I don’t know when it started, as insidious as it was, but I do know it came to a head on that late April day … as I trudged out to the car on yet another cold, gray day, snow swirling, wind battering the naked trees, branches swaying in the reflection on my windows. I hurriedly tried to button my winter coat, fumbling in gloved hands and shivering as I got in the car – quickly shutting the door against the bitter wind … I was tired of it. On October 1st, or thereabouts, of the previous year, the sun had abandoned us – running away to some other galaxy, never to return. Or so it seemed. It was gone, done, over and out. And so was I.

But it was more than just the weather. A year ago, after my two-year, 26,000 mile journey meandering across this country, I’d returned to New York … to the place many generations of my ancestors had called home. To the lands they’d farmed and fished after their own adventure crossing the Atlantic on the Mayflower, as well as the dozens of others who came on the ships and planes that followed for 200 years. To the place I, myself, had called home for 15 years. But something happened somewhere along those 26,000 miles I drove … I was no longer the same person I was when I left. I’d been raised in a very artistic, open-minded and liberal environment – and grew to be the same as an adult – yet the myriad of cultures, vistas and people had broadened and expanded my horizons even further … far more than I ever anticipated. Two years of complete freedom to be who I was, without constraint of career or regional expectations, allowed me to grow in surprising ways. I was quite a different woman than I was on that day in June 2015 when I pulled out of my driveway … leaving friends, work and a home behind in the rural lands of Upstate NY. Yes, it was more than just the weather. I was coming to realize that I no longer “fit” in the place where I once thought I would stay forever … where I’d surmised was to be my final stop on ‘The Ride’.

It was a disconcerting revelation. Heartbreaking, in many ways. Dozens of generations had lived and died here; and fifteen years prior, I’d moved from the cities of Pennsylvania just to be among the ghosts of those ancestors. It – these lakes and farms – was in my blood. And indeed it was, but all these generations later, I guess you could say the blood was thin, and all was not – I was not – as once was, so long ago.

That evening, I stopped by the cemetery where my Grandmother lays. As I knelt at her gravestone, I quietly whispered to her of my unhappiness and how I felt guilty; after all, I’d come home just a year ago. I’d come back for the simple way. For the Amish and Mennonites, for the farmers and homemakers and teachers, for the hunters and mechanics. For the apple orchards and vineyards. I had come back to the place where I long ago promised I would return to stay. And now I wanted to leave. As I stood there, I closed my eyes and felt her warm gentle presence surround me, much as I did when she would hold me on her lap as a child.

“It was never your home,” she said. “It was mine. I loved it, and it was perfect for me. But it never was yours.”

I felt her smile. Where the end is yet another beginning. And at that moment I knew that I, too – like my ancestors who crossed the sea and began a life in an unknown and strange new continent – was about to set out to explore faraway places and discover a new land to call home. My home.

 

 

 

 

The Siren’s Song…

“Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.”
~ Wallace Stevens

So very delighted to have had the article, below, was published in the March/April issue of “Life in the Finger Lakes” magazine … in full color, with additional photos. It speaks to why I decided to return to Upstate NY after the long meander of The Ride. What was it that called me back, in spite of having seen some of the most incredible areas of this country? Read on, to find out…

“As I crossed the invisible border between Pennsylvania and New York, beginning the final leg of an almost-26,000 mile journey begun two years ago, tears stung my eyes and blurred my vision. I eased onto the shoulder of the road, rolled down the window and smiled. Two years since I’d seen this land … these lakes, these waterfalls, these trees. This lush greenest of green! The scent of a thousand flowers filled my nostrils, and the damp air clung to my skin. I’d been meandering this incredibly beautiful country for two years; I’d photographed and stayed in some of the most amazing places from the Atlantic to the Gulf to the Pacific – and yet I chose to return to the Finger Lakes. Why? Why leave the towering red rocks and other-worldly arches of Utah, the white powder of saline deserts, the colorful striations of ancient earth upheavals, or the massive 800-foot-high gorge of the Rio Grande? Why turn around at the great redwoods of the northwest and head for the fat oaks and maples and dancing willows of the northeast? Why say not now to the craggy snow-capped Rockies … and yes again to the gently rolling hills and flat farmlands of this region?

Let me start by telling you that I am not originally from the Finger Lakes, or even New York State. I was born in Philadelphia and lived most of my life on both sides of Pennsylvania. My father’s family, however, was from the Geneva area, and after visiting once when I was ten, I told myself I would live there one day … and it only took another 37 years to reach that goal!

It’s funny, though, how life can take us on some surprising journeys, and just 13 years after I arrived here, a friend’s sudden death along with a looming 60th birthday catapulted me into the adventure of a lifetime. Within just a few weeks of her passing, I’d decided to sell everything I owned, toss a few remaining clothes in the car and set out to meander the country. Little did I know I would wander for two years and 26,000 miles, and even further removed from my mind was returning to New York.

Yet there is a siren-song that beckoned me back … a song Seneca Lake sings silently to many of us who lived here. A magical melody reaches out from her denim depths, singing to those who listen. Her cobalt-blue waters, topped with frothy, bobbing white hats on windy days, her deep musty perfume; her endless shoreline painted with vineyards, crisscrossed with farms, dotted by thick woods. Her friendly, simple and happy people … a mix of races, religions and occupations. To drive the loop from Geneva to Watkins Glen – perhaps stopping for a sip of wine and a breathtaking sunset – is a perfect way to spend a long, lazy Sunday afternoon.

But there is something deeper. Though all long-past now, many generations of my family were from this area, and I truly believe that it’s a part of my DNA. Studies have been done recently on DNA memory – specifically regarding early trauma suffered by our Indigenous people – and they found that there is indeed a change, a memory, imbedded in the subsequent generations’ genetic makeup. If this is true, could it not be so for those of us with familial history tied to an area? Could, in essence, the waters of these lovely lakes have become a part of our chromosomes? I truly believe so.

So many I know who choose to leave – for any number of “logical” reasons – always seem to come back. A year, two, maybe a decade … but they come back, even if just for a little while. Perhaps there is indeed a magic, a bewitching spell, cast on those who take the time to walk along the shores of these captivating sirens. A magic that cannot be denied, and a magic that lasts a lifetime.”

Seneca Lake, NY

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Once again, I have to say that it truly is a pleasure and an honor to be freelancing for such a fabulous magazine. If you enjoyed this one, I hope you’ll take a moment to read my previous articles,”The Simple Things” and “Where We Love Is Home” … and perhaps take a few more to enjoy some of their other offerings. It’s a beautifully done publication filled with information, history, and photos of this incredibly lovely region of the country. 

Soul of the Ancestors…

“We forget that the soul has its own ancestors.”
~ James Hillman

I recently entertained my long-held curiosity and sent away for one of those DNA kits – and admit I was a bit surprised at the results. It seems much of the helixal threads that make up this woman found their way here from the Emerald Isles that lie in the cold seas of the north. And ay, I do believe it may be so.

It is said that our DNA has memory … the memory of our ancestors and of the lands they walked. I think perhaps it is true. When I was little girl living at home, I remember being thoroughly fascinated – and quite in love – with a ring my Father wore. I had no clue as to why … I only knew that I thought it was the most wonderful of rings. Magical in so many ways, it seemed. Small and gold, with a carved brown stone in the middle … nothing fancy to my eyes … but for some reason I was thoroughly enamoured with it. The only time I recall not seeing it snuggly holding on to his little finger was when he was sleeping or doing some dirty work around the house, and it was at those times I’d slip into his bedroom, open the wooden valet that sat atop his dresser … gaze into that stone, and then quietly slip the ring onto my own finger. There was something in that ring that drew me, that called to me.

My Father and I did not have a good relationship – matter-of-fact, it was quite difficult and harsh – and we parted ways in 1971 when I was put into foster care. We didn’t see or speak to each other until thirty-two years later, when in July of 2003, we decided it was time to reunite … and I nervously made the three hour trek to his home in central Pennsylvania. My knock on the door was answered by an elderly white-haired man who stood stoop-shouldered in front of me. So much smaller than I’d remembered, and a man I barely recognized until my eyes traced down the length of his arm … and there, yet still, it was as it had always been: That glimmering bit of brown and gold wrapped around his little finger. It was, quite literally, seconds between the meeting of our eyes and my seeking the ring. Instinctive, immediate, unthought.

My Father died a bit over two years later, but just a few weeks before his sudden passing, he sat on a footstool next to the chair I occupied and said: “Here, I want you to have this…” as he pulled the ring from his hand. He’d had no idea of my love for that little piece of gold … we’d never discussed it, and I know he never saw me trying it on when I was young. He didn’t know the magic that ring held for me, or that it had whispered my name for over 45 years. And then he went on to tell me a story: That ring, he said, wasn’t his. No, it was his oldest brother, Lowell’s. A brother who was a decorated soldier killed in Africa in WWII. But that ring wasn’t really his, either. No, rather it belonged to his fiancé’s family ….… in Scotland.

I did a bit research in the years that followed my Father’s passing, and learned that it’s a signet … an old ring designed for sealing envelopes with wax … and bearing the MacKinnon family crest, or badge. Handmade of gold, there is no jeweler’s mark – making it difficult, if not impossible to trace to where it was crafted – but into the sardonyx stone is carved a boar’s head with deer shankbone in it’s mouth, and beneath it the words, “Audentes Fortuna Juvat” … Fortune Favors the Brave. It most likely came from the Isle of Skye.

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Long before I had my DNA done, and learned of the extensive and ancient Celtic background in my family, I fell in love with a ring from Scotland. For no logical reason. And looking back now to when I decided to come home to NY State … leaving behind stunningly beautiful western landscapes of red rock and wide open spaces … all I could say to my friends there was that I wanted to go home to the hills and the water, and to the mosses and grasses and ferns and forests … to the green. To the green. It was the green I missed most of all. Do our chromosomes carry memory from ancient lands and ancestors? I think so. Yes, I truly think so. And perhaps one day my journeys will take me over the seas to the most green of all Isles…..