Heart Lines
P. peers through her magnifying glass to see the lines across my palms and the patterns floating on my fingertips.
"I look for unique lines," she says to me. "And you have some here."
P. comes from a long line of women interested in and practicing palmistry. Having accrued many Time Trade hours in my community barter exchange Time bank, I've searched the offers for interesting experiences. I recently bought two trial massages with my hours, as well as a haircut. Today, I am having my palms read.
P. rolls water soluble black ink over my hand's palms and fingers, and I place them face down on white paper. She presses her hands over mine to give pressure to the ink blot and then has me gently lift my hands off the paper before heading to the sink to wash the ink off.
Once the ink on paper dries, she translates my fingertip patterns and makes notes on the pages next to each finger's ink blot. I have nine loops and one arch.
"Really unusual," she says.
She explains to me how the lines and patterns form in utero, and are directly connected to our nervous systems. She tells me many things about myself that are unique to me, and her interpretation resonates.
The lines hold it all—my creativity, my gift as teacher, my deep emotions, my intuitive knowing. The lines show my wisdom as an old soul, my desire for connection and my inner struggles with the peaks and valleys of emotional balance.
We speak of how to understand this information and how to maintain the balance. Meditation is in the mix, as well as alone time out in nature—no wonder I hear those mountains call out to me.
P. peers through her magnifying glass to see the lines across my palms and the patterns floating on my fingertips.
"I look for unique lines," she says to me. "And you have some here."
P. comes from a long line of women interested in and practicing palmistry. Having accrued many Time Trade hours in my community barter exchange Time bank, I've searched the offers for interesting experiences. I recently bought two trial massages with my hours, as well as a haircut. Today, I am having my palms read.
P. rolls water soluble black ink over my hand's palms and fingers, and I place them face down on white paper. She presses her hands over mine to give pressure to the ink blot and then has me gently lift my hands off the paper before heading to the sink to wash the ink off.
Once the ink on paper dries, she translates my fingertip patterns and makes notes on the pages next to each finger's ink blot. I have nine loops and one arch.
"Really unusual," she says.
She explains to me how the lines and patterns form in utero, and are directly connected to our nervous systems. She tells me many things about myself that are unique to me, and her interpretation resonates.
The lines hold it all—my creativity, my gift as teacher, my deep emotions, my intuitive knowing. The lines show my wisdom as an old soul, my desire for connection and my inner struggles with the peaks and valleys of emotional balance.
We speak of how to understand this information and how to maintain the balance. Meditation is in the mix, as well as alone time out in nature—no wonder I hear those mountains call out to me.
Mt Cube
....from my NH 52 with a View list. I drive north in the fog as I listen to the Eye on the Sky weather forecast on Vermont Public Radio. "Sunny today," the weather forecaster reports. Hmmm. I hope the fog burns off......
yet, once some elevation is gained, I rise above the sea of low hanging cloud cover and float in perspective. Wind whips wisps of my hair around my face as I step around small patches of ice. With the low hanging clouds hugging summits out in the midst of the "sea", there is no view of civilization below.
....from my NH 52 with a View list. I drive north in the fog as I listen to the Eye on the Sky weather forecast on Vermont Public Radio. "Sunny today," the weather forecaster reports. Hmmm. I hope the fog burns off......
yet, once some elevation is gained, I rise above the sea of low hanging cloud cover and float in perspective. Wind whips wisps of my hair around my face as I step around small patches of ice. With the low hanging clouds hugging summits out in the midst of the "sea", there is no view of civilization below.
The Call of the Wild
When I've said, "The mountains are calling me", I know that the voice I hear is the intuitive words that remind me of the need to step away from the edge and re-ground myself. It is a dance I've learned to do with myself over time. I lead often, but I also need to follow.
Like in Argentine Tango, I don't often stop my outward energies enough to listen carefully to what is leading me. I don't pretend to think that all people are like this. We all have individual dances that are uniquely our own. My challenge is to "allow" myself to slow down and stop enough to hear the words. To see what is around me. To feel the deeper emotions and find expression for them.
"Allow the depth of emotion to be expressed," says P. "People need to see how beautiful your emotions are."
"Is that hidden in the palms as well?" I ask.
"Yes, there is a line in your palm that asks you to hold the pivotal point of balance between vulnerability and strength," she continues.
The peaks and valleys. The highs and lows. The extroverted and introverted. Balance.
One gift from the year long journey: the width of my openness which makes room for the honed line of courage. Upon my return, I immediately recognized how easy it is to contract.
"How does one stay open?" I ask myself over and over. "Is it a choice?"
In this moment, I feel that it is. I get to choose. I get to choose those deep, raw places. I get to choose fearlessness. I get to choose to exist in the wild places.
Paving the Path
A friend and I speak of the energetic flow that paves the path when we can just "allow" and "pay attention".
"Just speak and be yourself," I hear, and see the Raven's image in my thoughts. This is from the road as well. I practice turning my ear close in to hear the whispers and celebrate my intuitive feelings.
I step onto the slightly worn path and place my boot forward onto a granite rock. Water flows nearby and I hear the rushing around stone and root, gently sliding over stuck leaves. I wonder if the water actually knows, each swirl and eddy, where it will end up. It just continues its flow. It trusts.
My friend and I sigh.
"Why has this taken so much time to be clear?" she asks.
"It's our journey," I respond. "It takes the time it needs."
Clarity starts to appear now, a few months back home. Time uncontrolled. Agenda released.
"Stay present. It's a choice," says the Raven.