The theme for my workshops in 2019 is Quintessence: The Fifth Element.

We've all heard of the ancient Greek's four elements: Earth, Air, Fire and Water. But how many of us know that there was also an indispensable fifth element, without which those four could have no ability to combine into the infinite variety of forms we see around us?  the The Greeks called the fifth element aether. The medieval alchemists had a different name: quintessence.

Makers are ignited by the "fifth element", the intangible something else that works through us. The Greeks provide a brilliant background for the origin of aether. Erebus, which means darkness, was the monarch of the realm of the dead. Erebus united with Nyx, the goddess of the night, and gave birth to Aether. Aether is translated as radiance: "to burn, to shine". In Homeric Greece ether meant "pure, fresh air" or "clear sky". It was "the pure essence that the gods breathed". 

The Goddess of the Night is also The Mother of Light. What an image for where inspiration and imagination comes from: emptiness, darkness, the night, mystery. Out of dark necessity Nyx gives birth to light, radiance, Ether. 

It has been a quiet new year thus far, with winter storms and flu. The ground outside my window is pure white, with shadow marks from the footprints of deer, wild turkey, juncos, cardinals and Carolina wrens.

In this wintry introspection, I am only just realizing that for years I have resisted my work being called spiritual- a word used frequently in our culture, and sometimes in abstract or empty ways. I am often confused, and don't wish to be mistaken for someone who has things sorted out.

And yet, which word would I choose in its place? What do I call the longing to be called? To know what it is you are here for? For it isn't your work, your ability, your IQ, or your talent that sets you on course. It is the willingness to listen inwardly, and point yourself in a particular direction. You are called to action, and it is this movement that fosters faith. I am not talking about faith in any particular object or creed, but simply in the felt experience that you are part of something much larger than your "self" or your work, your family or your identity.

It is the new year, again. Much has been said about the one just passed, and some ideas about the one to come– but this morning I woke up to the new year with Mary Oliver's poem, Today. I just want to listen on this day, and see what happens.

“There’s no use trying,” said Alice, “One can’t believe impossible things.” 

“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age I always did it for half an hour a day. Why sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

– Lewis Carroll

The combination of winter, holidays and the state of the world can be more than enough to overwhelm. There is a pervading sense of the impossibility of doing anything that will make a difference. And then, out of nowhere it seems, there arises an unexpected turn... in world events, in the painting you are struggling with, in a sister that is healed. It is as if spontaneity and effort are partners after all.  

A childlike curiosity is my ally in imagining impossible things, so I return to Alice, and her lesson from the Queen in acting as if... For winter is the time to plant seeds that will grow, as if they will bloom. All seeds: plants, trees, children, ideas, dreams and wishes– require this time of waiting–being hidden in darkness, in the womb, in the earth. In this way too, all losses can be planted and cared for as seeds or songs or prayers. This is the season of the darkest night, and we may as well inhabit it with our deepest longing.

This week my friend led a meditation on time... She began: "Close your eyes for a few minutes and contemplate time. (Pause) What do you feel when you hear the word time?  What energy does that word have for you? Where in the body do you feel it?"

How you experience time can be the difference between feeling stressed or relaxed. Another friend told a story this week of being stranded at a McDonald's in a poor neighborhood, where his sister had car trouble. He waited at the restaurant for four hours for help to come. There was a security man at the entrance to Mc Donald's. My friend became fully engaged in watching this man greet with friendliness each and every person who walked through the door . This attitude of openness was contagious, and my friend, who forgot about checking the time, was changed by the experience.

What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.

Burnt Norton I   – T S Eliot