I was tagged by jenni a couple of days ago, just got around to it so here are my Friday Monday Five:

1) What gift(s) would you like to give the world?

The gift of sight, so people can peer into their heart of hearts and see that they are already enough; that within themselves they embody the trinity of love, lover, loved; and that they are the ones they've been waiting for.

2) What is the most unusual gift you have received?

A turtle, the only pet I ever had. It was gifted by a 7-year-old boy in my grade 2 class. He was a friend friend and I hated that our classmates teased us about being boyfriend and girlfriend.

3) What do you like best about gift giving?

Giving to someone who isn't expecting anything, seeing their eyes shine.

4) What gift(s) do you want for the holidays?

A house.

5) When has a gift made you feel warm and fuzzy inside?

When it came straight from the heart of the giver.
 

Remembering to feel blessed that it chose to grace us with its presence for a time, even if later it chooses to leave.

Remembering that it is both the strongest force in the world, and the most fragile. Its healing powers are well mooted, but they are seductive. It is hard not to want to hold onto something that makes us feel so right and good, that is so beautiful. And yet to hold onto love too tightly is to kill it, perhaps to break our hearts in the process.

I’m talking about love at the human level, of course. At the deeper level of soul, aren’t we all one, a harmony composed of similar and yet diverse parts? To be in harmony is to be in love. To be love. In a world where we are all one in love, is heartbreak even possible? I expect not. If I feel brokenhearted at your leaving, isn’t it because I think love is somehow separate from who I am, something outside of me? The object of my affection may leave my immediate vicinity, but love cannot leave that which is love.

Which leads me to the greatest challenge of all:

Remembering that I AM LOVE.

I think I’ll let my prayer plant answer for me.

—It’s not what you’d expect.

She looked over at the prayer plant, leaves coming to attention atop stiffening stems. The prayer plant’s members always assumed this stance at a certain time of evening. She glanced at her computer clock. Roughly 9 pm. Summer, winter, fall, spring. It didn’t matter that the hours of daylight differed widely between the seasons, that right now, a week away from winter solstice, the sun set at 4:20. Waning daylight was obviously not their clue, they did not take their call to prayer from visual signs. Must be something internal, circadian rhythms, she supposed, wasn’t that what was supposed to govern such things? In any case, she had given up trying to figure out how the plant knew it was time to pray. Perhaps it existed in a timeless state, like one that she herself aspired to. Or aspired to aspiring to.

It was always the stalks in the centre of the ceramic pot that started the process, leading the outlying stalks gently prayerward. Some of the outliers took their time, some never really quite attained to the prayer posture. She thought she herself would likely be an outlier if she were a member of a plant that prayed. After all, didn’t all groups have their leaders, their avid followers, and their stragglers? Strugglers?

Earlier, she had just sat down to write, wondering what would appear on the page, worrying that no words might appear at all, when out of the corner of her eye she had seen movement, the tallest stalk, smack in the middle, had jerked suddenly upright. Call to prayer! Boy, that was one dude that lived in the now. That’s when she thought she had heard those words: It’s not what you think.

—It’s not what you’d expect, the tall one corrected her now. —Those were my exact words.

—What isn’t what I’d expect? she asked, round-eyed.

—This prayer thing. It’s not what you’d expect. It’s not as if some god-presence is calling me, telling me it’s time to pray. My whole life is about prayer. Bowing, reaching leaves out to the light, stretching upright at night, it’s all prayer. Drinking (assuming you remember to water me) is praying. Not drinking, too. Breathing is praying. New shoots and leaves unfurling is praying. So is old ones shrivelling up and falling to the earth.

—Prayer is such a misleading word, really. You humans go to church, you kneel or stand up, fold your hands in a certain way, bow your heads or lift them up, raise your eyes or close them, sit cross-legged on a mat watching your breath, all depending on how you were taught or what you think you need to do to be heard by some mystic or mythical deity. It’s not like that. Praying is eating, it’s moving, growing, drinking, eliminating, having an orgasm. Prayer is not something (a particular activity) you do so much as it is everything you do, and more, it’s something you are.

Not much I can add to that, except perhaps: Amen. But if you're looking for a more traditional sort of prayer, here’s one I like a lot, words and music:

Hmm, I have run from anger most of my life. I have feared it in others, I have feared and fought against it in myself. But here’s the thing: Anger points me to places where little conflagrations of war still exist, in myself. Maybe in others too, but that’s really not my business.

Anger shows me that what I thought I had put behind me, I haven’t.

Anger shows me that what I thought I had accepted, I haven’t.

Anger shows me where I haven't taken responsibility for me.

Anger shows me how I really feel about what’s happening.

Anger shows me my deepest, most hidden fears.

So I say this:

Hurray for anger, because it shows me where I’m really at (as opposed to where I think I’m at, wish I were at, think I should be at, etc).

Hurray for anger, because it gives me a point of comparison so that I can map my progress on that blessed day when a particular trigger that used to ignite me every time, rouses only minimal reaction in me, or maybe none at all.

It’s four questions, actually. Byron Katie’s four:

1. Is it true?                          

2. Can you absolutely know that it’s true?

3. How do you react, what happens, when you believe that thought?

4. Who would you be without the thought?

Really, these questions have a way of getting right to the heart of conflict – inner conflict, which is where it all starts. All the coulda, woulda, and shoulda’s up in smoke. Poof!

Snow. I grew up on the prairies and snow is a given there in winter, not like in Victoria, where I now live. This year we got lucky. Looks like we might even have snow on the big day. That would be only the second or third time since I moved here 15 years ago.

Christmas lights. Lovely in the holiday season, but In Victoria some home owners leave their lights up (and on) well into January and even February. I like it because winters tend to be a bit dull and rainy here, and the lights add considerable cheer to an evening’s walk or drive.

Celebration. Connecting with friends and family, even if only by phone.

Memories of Christmases and winters past. Toboganning and skiing. Extended family get togethers. Christmas carols and concerts. Here's a carol from my childhood I've found myself singing quite a lot in these days of snow softly falling.

To me winter also speaks of dormancy and gestation, a turning inward, a time to reflect on what is past and clear space for what is to come.

Nostalgia, along with a feeling of something ending, but what’s left to end?

And a sense of floating in the mystery of not knowing.