Why mow the lawn? The deer come by several times per day and eat to their heart’s content. Mother and her little Bambi like babies munch everything fit for deer to eat. They are amazing creatures who have a brilliance we have yet to understand.
There is a person in my area who feeds them daily with corn. The deer have become so accustomed to being fed by them that they would walk right up to them to eat from their hand. I was there one day to witness it. The deer didn’t know me, but she knew the house, and walked over to me expecting that I should have had corn in my hand waiting to feed her.
It was absolutely amazing. So now, I put corn out as often as I can in hopes of engendering trust in the deer who frequent my lawn. They clearly know someone is putting the corn there. Each time I catch them eating the corn, they move in slowly, suspicious that someone might not have good intentions. And they watch the door. That’s right! The door, waiting to see if someone will open it obviously. They do not move with the same assured steps toward other plants outside. With the corn, they are careful and watching…almost seeming to wonder, who put that corn there and why are they trying to trap me? But they eventually sneak up and eat it.
In time maybe they will trust me as much as my neighbors’ deer trust them.
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In December 2006 I shared a dream I had about a bear with a long time friend, writer and dream intepreter who has been a great mentor to me over the years. This was the essence of my dream:
I dreamt there was a bear in a house, maybe my house, don’t know. But there were a lot of us in the house; it felt like family. The bear was going from room to room, looking around, sniffing and such. Although we were frightened, the bear didn’t seem to be doing any harm.
I locked myself in a room with either my sister or my daughters, can’t figure which, and it turns out the bear wanted to come into that room. It visited all the other rooms except the room we were in. It was like it needed to be present in every room or it wouldn’t be satisfied. It clawed under the door as I pushed and held it shut. Even though there was plenty of house for the bear to walk around, it insisted on coming into the one room it didn’t walk into yet.
After reading the details of my dream above, this is what my friend shared:
You think, “I am Pittershawn. I have a name full of texture and richness. I am this and I am that. I know what I am.”
The dream says, “You are the Bear Princess. You are of our clan. You have an ancient lineage. You have American Indian blood in your veins. You come down a long line of women who know how to heal, who work with herbs, who have power. The bear is your nature. The bear is large, powerful, strong, fearsome. You yourself are afraid of your own nature. That nature needs to enter into all… Continue reading
Sharing a piece someone sent me a few months ago. It is from a book which I hope to purchase soon. I often meditate on this one.
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love
for your dream for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon…
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s
betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers
and toes without cautioning us to be careful be
realistic remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure yours and mine
and still stand at the… Continue reading
We stepped from our vehicle in front of the weather worn metal stairs. The ground was wet from the rain that had fallen only a few minutes before. Tiny droplets fell from the trees. It felt like it was still drizzling. I paused to look down and realized there was little necessity for the orange and red rusted entrance beyond nostalgia. The tiny walk up, which leads to the life of those who had been forgotten for decades, is more of a formal preamble to what is unknown family history, history that only meticulous research would later uncover, just as time has uncovered this once beautiful entranceway. Even still, the resting place could easily have been entered with a simple concrete path.
I was first introduced to Marie Tillman, wife of Herbert Rhodes, who was born on August 6th, 1882, died December 15, 1904 and Mr. Rhodes, born June 6th, 1883, died May 27, 1904. I imagine they loved each other so deeply that for Marie to live another year without her mate was too much to endure. Seven months later she followed her husband into the afterlife. Not far from her stood another, more than a century old, engraved marble tombstone with the brief statistics of John Tillman, born April 4, 1885, died August 6th, 1899 and a Mrs. Charlie Gaulden Tillman, born April 7th, 1847, died March 2nd, 1925. I observed at least three generations of Tillmans situated near the entrance of the Westend Cemetery, which housed more than 200 years of life and history in the small town of Quitman, Georgia, a mere 80 miles on the outskirts of Tallahassee, Florida.
The graves were all simple, yet dilapidated. It sometimes took pains to make out what was carved on some of the tombstones. In many places the… Continue reading