7:30 BELLS: Traffic Jam Bells

Stuck in a traffic jam on the freeway, I inched through the winter night. I didn’t want to be there. I was tired after a long day and just wanted to get home. Where are the bells now? I wondered. Was there any way to feel vibrantly alive in this situation?

A red river of brake lights stretched ahead as far as I could see. Across the freeway, a white river of headlights rushed toward me. All those lights glistened on the wet road and danced in the rain, as luminous and atmospheric as a Turner painting. All these people in all these cars were coming and going like the endless river of life.

None of them wanted to be stuck in this traffic jam. They all wanted to be somewhere else. Or did they? Maybe in one of these cars, two people soon to part were blessed with an extra hour together. Maybe a man listening to music would think of some wonderful new idea. Or a woman listening to an audio book had an insight that would change her life.

The traffic jam turned beautiful. And suddenly, I didn’t want to be anywhere else but in that shining red and white river of life.

7:30 BELLS: Hurtling Toward the Darkest Day

With the world hurtling toward the darkest day of the year, and the growing political crisis hurtling toward authoritarianism and oligarchy, I find comfort in reflecting on the positive potential of darkness.

Consider these quotes:

"Darkness within darkness. The gateway to all understanding." --Lao Tzu

"Darkness gives birth to light." --C.G. Jung

 "And we must extinguish the candle, put out the light and relight it;
Forever must quench, forever relight the flame." --T.S. Eliot

 In fairy tales, the dark figure or event is often the catalyst for pushing the hero/ine to develop the fullness of his/her powers and gifts.  I recommend Marie Louise von Franz's book, Shadow and Evil in Fairy Tales, revised edition.

May we all bring light from the darkness.

Gloria.

7:30 BELLS: The Blur of Morning Becomes Meaning.

The blur of morning is ground fog steaming from the fields—the night time dreamworld transitioning into the waking world. With my first cup of coffee or my first step outside, the sun bursts like a bloom through the mist into the rising of the day. And there in my front yard is my path before me. My own path, with all its shadows and its gleaming, to be reckoned with.

The outside world usually becomes a metaphor for my inner world, and vice a versa. When I make such connections of meaning in moments like these, I feel alive. Meaning is everywhere. You just have to take the time to see it.

So I do. Because what's more important than feeling alive? Feeling alive is having an experience of meaning, whether emotional, spiritual, physical, or intellectual. I can have that feeling of being alive if I watch for it. And the more I do, like any practice, the more my life becomes a series of such moments of feeling alive.

This is similar to the practice of mindfulness, of being aware of the moment. But for me, it’s more like finding a way to experience aliveness in any moment by watching for meaning. If I do—all the moments of my life—whether waiting in line at Costco, or walking the river trail—all moments of my life have value. Because all of them make me ring, resonate, and feel alive.

7:30 BELLS: Nightingale in the Mosque

" . . . unless the nightingale sings in the mosque, prayer is of no use." --Marie Louise von Franz

I love this comment von Franz made in her commentary on the fairy tale The Nightingale Gisar. You can find that on page 179 of her book Individuation in Fairy Tales. And, I might add after mosque, the temple, the church, the heart, the Self...

As I sit nursing my bronchitis, staring out at the green wood, I'll muse on that line like a melody.

I hope to be back with more 7:30 BELLS next week.

Meanwhile, may you be well--and listen for the nightingale!

7:30 BELLS: Then and Now, and Still The Same

For twenty years, this was the tiny view I had from the writing window of my house on Tacoma. On December 12, 2012 I posted this poem about it:

A Room With No View

If you see only rooftops—
christen each shingle.

If you see only crows—
tickle their feathers.

If you see only wires—
join their crackling gossip.

If you see only clouds—
ask where they’ve been.

If you see only cages—
slide down the light on the bars,
and you will be free.


Dia Calhoun 12/2012

Where we live now on the Nisqually, we just had these windows and doors (trim covering!) installed. Now I have a room with a big view. This is my backyard. The light through the trees is where the river runs. And I love it.

But I'm still cultivating the same attitude expressed in the poem. Because I believe that if your inner view is large enough, even a room with no window will look out upon immensity.

7:30 BELLS: Trailing in the River

An alder tree, bare now of leaves, leans out over the river--swift and deep in November. But only one branch trails in the current. It reminds me of a swimmer dipping in a toe to test the water.

This makes me think of myself. I’m leaning toward the river, too. Each night I enter it when I dream. Each morning, awake, I trail one finger, trying to remember the dreams. Like the branch on the tree, my reach is shallow compared to the depth of the river.

Now the trailing branch catches a leaf. Sometimes I catch one luminous symbol rising toward the surface and turn it in my grateful, wondering hands.

7:30 BELLS: When You Love Enough to Change Your Skin

Have you ever heard of a corn frog? I haven’t. But we found this frog in our corn patch. There aren’t any other corn patches nearby. So either this frog took an incredible journey, or he’s a chameleon, able to adapt the color of his skin to his surroundings. Looks quite at home, doesn’t he?

The chameleon gift is supposed to be a survival mechanism. Maybe so. But I think this frog loved the corn patch so much, he became as much a part of it as he could. Like me in my green shoes. I love the woods so much, I’m becoming part of it.

For more on the story of the green shoes--how a dream in the night turned into a real pair of shoes--and for ideas on working with your dreams, read the Creative Conversations interview I had with author Janet Lee Carey on her blog.

Meanwhile, consider this: what do you love so much you’d change your skin to be part of it?

7:30 BELLS: Rain: Embodied in the World

Record rain fell here in October. When I embrace the rain as an element, I can find its magic. I did today when I walked down the river trail. The rain softened the woods—the grey Douglas Fir trunks, the branches gloved in lichen green, the rushing water. And the rain brightened the woods, too. Wet golden maple leaves shone on the ground. Black rocks shone in the river.

The rain became embodied in the world. I want to live like that. I’ve begun to think about and practice being fully embodied in the world. That means living less from my head. It means being more aware of everything around me, and how my senses, my skin, and my moving body experience it. Like the softness and shine of rain.

The more I walk through the world fully embodied, the more  of it I can hold. And the steadier the bells ring.

7:30 BELLS: Turning Windows into Doors

So much of our view of life depends on our windows. If our windows are in the wrong place, or too small, we miss so much. All of us are born into a house with the windows already in place. A house constructed by our family background, our culture, our education, and our religion. This "prefabrication" makes it hard to move the windows because we may not even realize a different view is possible.

We may feel pinched and uneasy, or sense that something is missing or wrong. The first sign may be that we can’t hear any bells ring through these windows. We don't feel fully alive.

So ask, "what am I missing?" Am I looking at the world squeezed through someone else’s determination of what I should see? Sometimes, to move the window, you start by tearing down the old walls.

When we move the windows or make them bigger, new light pours in. Windows can even turn into doors.

And we can hear the bells ring out.

7:30 BELLS: After the Wind, a Presence

This morning I had a resonating experience on the river trail. I was surveying our damage from the typhoon remnant that blasted the Pacific Northwest this weekend. The Nisqually River Valley funnels big winds. During the storm, I held my breath several times, hoping the trees stayed in the air. They did—except one across the river. The apocalyptic forecast didn’t materialize—here.

As I dragged fallen branches off the trail, I heard a flock of birds crying. Most of the birds had already left for the winter. I looked up. Hundreds of sparrows fluttered and flapped in a big Douglas Fir. 

And then I saw why.

An owl perched on a branch, same gray-brown as the tree. Only white spots gave it away. And the owl was looking straight down at me. 

What a face! What an enormous face. He was a winged head. I’ve heard owls hoot here at night but have never seen one. Had the storm brought him out? Or had it brought me out to meet him?

We considered each other soberly, steadily—me looking up, the owl looking down. I was being measured in ways I couldn’t fathom. Would never fathom. That quality of fixed attention —for the first time I understood why owls are associated with wisdom. I understood this not from a book, or picture, or video, but from vivid experience.

This elemental way of experience the world so often eludes us. Listen for the unusual—like the gathering of sparrows after a storm—often a signal that something is different. And then take the time to stop and look up. Maybe you’ll meet a presence you’ve never met before.

7:30 BELLS: Venturing Forth Alive into the Fullness of the Day

In the middle of the night, I woke to a plaintive, bugling cry. I sat up and looked toward out the open window toward the woods. The cry stopped. Seconds later it came again. Loud, and yet distant. Across the river? An animal to be sure. But what animal? An elk perhaps, but perhaps not.

We watched. Shone the flashlight. Listened as the cry repeated. After ten minutes, it stopped. I snuggled back under the blankets, feeling oddly alive from the night’s mystery.

The next morning was a brilliance of sun and wind. A perfect day for a walk. I strode across the field and woods. Leaves did their final dance from the cottonwoods to the ground. Clouds rushed, full of places been, places yet to come.

I felt alive and full of ringing bells. This moment became life penultimate. How extraordinary it was just to venture forth, to venture forth alive into the fullness of the day after mystery in the night.

7:30 BELLS: Bullet Train or Buggy? Let the Vehicle Determine the Goal

Our goals and road we take to reach them are inextricably mixed. We envision the destination—the treasure, the shining city—then plan what road we need to take to get there. But do we ever consider the vehicle needed to travel down that particular road to our chosen destination? There are bikes. SUVs. Gilded carriages. Electric Cars. The vehicle we travel in determines our experience of the journey.

So what’s the relationship between the destination, the road, and the vehicle?

Consider the bullet train. If you choose a bullet train, you’ll speed to your destination on an undeviating track laid down by others, with a machine pilot. The landscape will be a passing blur. The bullet train can’t go down a winding country road. Can’t stop for scenic surprises. But it can get to the city fast.

Some destinations you can only reach in particular vehicles that travel on particular roads. Your chosen vehicle and your chosen road determine the types of destinations (goals) you can reach. A bullet train usually goes to cities. A horse drawn buggy would take years to roll into the shining city. But it can navigate narrow lanes and secret byways. Stop and start where your interest calls. A bullet train can’t.

How I journey down the road has become more important to me than the destination. Because the journey is all the hours of my life. It’s my experience of life. So I’ve decided to stop planning my life around a destination. Instead, I first choose the vehicle I want to travel in and the kind of road that suits it. Then, I choose my destination based on the way I prefer to travel.

And all other choices flow from that.

7:30 BELLS: The Return of the Bells

Dear Reader,

After a summer hiatus, weekly 7:30 BELLS posts will return next Tuesday. I've missed writing them. I hope you spent a summer of glory hearing your own bells--hearing what makes your ring, resonate, and feel alive.

The changes of fall are in the air. Until next week . . .

7:30 BELLS: Numinous Bells

The vibrant feeling of being alive rushes in when elements blend into a numinous image. Like this water from our sprinkler dancing with the sun and wind, bejeweling the garden trellis.

The spray looks like some mystical being becoming suddenly, momentarily visible.

I stand, watching the water sweep in circles. No two moments are the same. They come and they go and they are gone--even though the sprinkler, like the day, like the year, like life and death, comes round again.

Don't miss a moment of it.

7:30 BELLS: The Best of the Bells: Sunlight and Moonlight

Occasionally I run past favorite 7:30 BELLS posts, like this one, from last June.

In the field southeast of our house, daisies grow wild. Last night as I walked through them in the moonlight they shone—luminous, white-skirted, acres of them kicking up a can-can in the windy moonlight.

Enchanting, yes. Bells, bells, and more bells.

Then, the next morning, I walked through the field in the sunlight. Dazzling, bright, the daisies still kicked up their skirts in the wind, but now I saw their golden hearts revealed.

There’s a time to be luminous and mysterious. A time to be bright, bold, and flash your heart at the world. Sunlight and moonlight together, two things we never see at the same time, create the whole story. Look and keep looking, at every hour, in every light, for parts of yourself you can’t see all at once. Then knit them together in the wind to see your whole rich story.

7:30 BELLS Posts run every Tuesday.

7:30 BELLS: Mystery Startles Us Awake

Tonight, when I walked the meadow at dusk, clouds played a dark melody on the sky. It was beautiful enough. 

Then . . .a train whistle blew. The brass coming in. I stopped, listened. Then listened to the echo. And again the whistle blew and echoed. And I stood transfixed.

I'm not the first to be transfixed by that plaintive sound. But I wondered, why did it make me feel so alive? And the answer was simple. Because it was laden with mystery. 

Mystery, wonder--the things we feel but can't quite name--can't pin to any rational explanation, startles us awake and makes us feel alive.

Think about the mystery of that: What we don't understand makes us feel most alive.

7:30 BELLS: Let the Weeds Ring Out!

What made me feel alive this week? Weeds. Yes, weeds.

In spring they come forth—from everywhere. Between cracks in the pavement. Between gaps in the rockery. Among seedlings in the garden. In corners of pots. From everywhere comes the wonderful, verdant, riotous uplifting of life unrestrained.

I have three acres here in the country and lots of gardens. When I first moved here from the city, I looked at the weeds as soldiers in an invading army. I wanted manicured gardens. All that changed. Why? I changed.

I love that everything is alive and wants, fights, to live. I love the wild energy of weeds. And the bees love them, too. They make honey from their flowers.

I can’t think of a better way to live than to glean sweetness from what you once considered an enemy. Now the weeds and I do more than co-exist. Together, we flourish.

7:30 BELLS Posts run every Tuesday.

7:30 BELLS:When Two Worlds Meet

A spring storm blew the cherry blossoms, those sky dwellers, onto our pond. Pink islands for the gold fish looking up. Or pink clouds.

The surface of the water is like the skin of our own small consciousness. Something falls on us from above. Something flashes from the unknown depths below. For one moment all floats, tranquil. Lovely.



7:30 BELLS Posts run every Tuesday.

7:30 BELLS Guest Posts run on the second and fourth Tuesdays of every month. Join me on May 10 for a guest post with author Mitali Perkins.

7:30 BELLS: When Mountains Become Breadcrumbs

On a day clear and glorious, I began the long drive home from the Teen Lit Festival in Bend, Oregon. Three Sisters Mountains graced the southwest. I saw Mount Washington, and Mount Jefferson soared in the northwest. All of them are strangers to me. I live between the Cascades and Olympic mountains in Washington state.

I drove west over Santiam Pass. More mountains rose and more, until I emerged some sixty miles south of Portland. Mount Hood, more familiar, rose to the northeast. Glancing back, I could still see the white peaks marking the way I’d come.

Crossing into Washington, old friends Mount Saint Helens and Mount Adams appeared, and soon after, my own Mount Rainier. And bells rang as it struck me: The mountains, the white bread crumbs of giants, had led me home.

We should always let mountains lead us home. Always follow what is immense, great, splendid, and utterly beyond us. Follow the wild beauty that rings the bells of our hearts. These are worthy standards to determine our way.

May the mountains always be my breadcrumbs.

7:30 BELLS Posts run every Tuesday.

7:30 BELLS Guest Posts run on the second and fourth Tuesdays of every month. Join me on May 10 for a guest post with author Mitali Perkins.

7:30 BELLS: Old Moon Bells

From the first appearance of the waxing crescent, I count down the days until the full moon rises in all her shining glory. I hope for a windy evening so the clouds make flashing ruffles –dark and light—around her, while stars peek in and out. 

Then the days pass, and the full moon wanes, rising later and later each night.

During one of those nights last week, I couldn’t sleep. Outside the window the old moon shone, keeping me company through the dark hours. And bells inside of me rang as I realized the old moon has her glory, too. But it isn’t celebrated, it isn’t seen. We sleep, dreaming.

The old moon is the true queen of the night. She needs no adulation. I had the feeling of being held in the arms of something old, wise, and watchful. Something that could hold every part of me, whether deviled or winged, adventurer or mystic, lion or mouse.

What a comfort. What a liberation.

7:30 BELLS Posts run every Tuesday.

Join us on April 12 when author Kevan J. Atteberry shares what makes him ring, resonate, and feel alive.