Christmas at the Shambhala was white and fluffy this year. After a week of cold weather the real snow came and socked us in. Although writing will have to wait some more until Laura's house is complete this was a fantastic time to be still and focus on that golden thread of love that connects us to those we cherish. In addition to baking bread and banana loaf I also found myself reading old letters and assimilating more information about the book. The idea ferry has suggested that I write a companion book to chronicle details or expand on subjects that if included in the main story would make it substantially too arduous. That way if someone is interested in a more detailed look at the subject at hand they can read the companion book along side.
I have also been struggling with finding the balance between keeping things as they are at the cottage and changing them. My inclination has been to preserve everything as it was when Oma was with me. The sentimental fool that I am cherishes the notion that certain things on her altar were placed there by her own hand for her chosen purpose and so they feel almost sacred.
Life is like a painting and every action is like a brush stroke one on top of the other. When we start we have a more or less clear canvas and as we mature we fill that canvas with color. Then as we go through life we keep paining over previous strokes and so over time our painting changes. Oh there are often still glimpses of the original strokes and if you scratch just a little below the surface there it is again, that familiar old color but little by little life's events paint over just about everything.
It turns out that life is not only active, its also passive. The dust that collects on Oma's alter is like a brush stroke that I have no control over. Do I move her sacred possessions to clean or do I let the dust accumulate. An impromptu brunch of bread and peanut butter at my friend Rob's house This morning brought me the answer. "Caring for the items and cleaning them is after all honoring their worth," he said. "If Oma had left you a dog you would not neglect to feed it or pet it because the last time it was cared for it was by Oma's hand, would you?"
And so another step forward has been achieved, another lesson learned. Love is indeed a verb, meant to be manifest in our world each day that we are on this earth. No exceptions. Time to wash curtains and angels, to dust books and scrub floors, with the new perspective that I am indeed honoring Oma's memory.
On a beam of light
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