2012 and beyond...

Today held an alarming number of stories about natural disasters across the United States and in other countries. Wildfires in Florida, a sinkhole in Washington, D.C., tornadoes in Missouri and Oklahoma, an earthquake in China, volcano activity, and - of course - the cyclone in Myanmar.

I'm not sure where you sit on the whole greenhouse/2012/sea level rise thing. Andy and I tend to be a little worried about it and spend a lot of time debating whether or not we wish to make safety from natural disasters, potential pole shifts, and/or a crash in the economy a priority when plotting our next steps.

Although I don't fully buy into the prophecies of Nostradamus, Edgar Cayce, and the like... it is somewhat higher than coincidental those two men and the Mayan calendar all put the world falling apart around the same time. I suppose I buy into it enough to be vaguely concerned and to begin to think about things like paring down on my possessions, living a more sustainable lifestyle, and wanting to build or buy a green home of some kind in a relatively safe area.

Be it driven by external concerns or an internal call to a more peaceful and simple life, Andy and I both have noticed a pull and shift toward a new type of living. I see it as a blend of spiritual needs and practical considerations... something seeking to balance the ascetic qualities of monasticism, the theories of detachment so prevalent in Buddhist philosophy, the social action and humanist commitment of Unitarian Universalism, and the social interest of Adler.

It all seems to coalesce and make sense on some days. I would love to know where the end is, which I think is one of the greatest lessons I've yet to learn: process before content, means rather than end, the journey above the destination.

And so, it is not so important to know where I will end up as it is to know how I want to get there. To ensure authenticity and compassion en route. To follow dreams and strive toward improvement and seek out positive change in the best way I know how.

Some days, the fear and sadness feels a bit more prevelant, but most of the time I simply wish I could do more to help those affected by these many disasters... and I pray the whisperings of darkness to come are simply the anxious worries of mistaken sayers seeking to make sense of the complexity and confusion that may inevitably arise as we move through life.

My own bit of prognostication:

We happened upon a show about Edgar Cayce, the psychic, on the History channel tonight. I knew a bit about him already because my father and husband are both fans of his. But the special is very interesting and as I realized I had not yet written my blog for the night (I was working very late on a paper due next week), my husband suggested I write about a play I created and performed back in 2003 in Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind. The play was later turned into a beautiful peice of art by my friend Noelle Krimm, who comissioned John Randall (a board member and resident set designer who had been an art teacher earlier in his life). She gave it to me at my baby shower.

My husband did not see the connection between the TV show we were watching and the suggestion he had made, but I thought it interesting enough to merit an entry, along with finding it oddly syncronistic.

The play (which reads better as a poem) kind of speaks for itself, but it's based on an event that took place while I was studying abroad in London back in 1994. Essentially, I was sitting in the living room of our flat, smoking a cigarette and drinking tea... and I spoke the name "Ariana" - immediately aware that this was my daughter-to-be. I sort of felt a ripple threw the room and got some goosebumps, along with a sharp, powerful sense of who she was, which led to this:

You are blond.
You have blue-green eyes, like your mother.
You are tiny and fast... my little elf-child.
A little Buddha with ancient knowing.
You get dirty when you play outside, your hands and face covered with

smudges of the outside world when you come home for dinner.
You don’t like peas, or cooked carrots.
Or maybe you love peas and cooked carrots and hate corn.
You eat Cheerios from the box when you watch tv.
You love fresh fruit and orange soda and being sung little songs.
You ask questions and point to the sky.
You make friends quickly.
You don’t understand why you can’t talk to strangers.
You adore your father.
You dance around the house to music only you can hear.
You give little bunny kisses before bed.
You assert your independence.
You demand to be heard.
You pet the dog gently, and ask if you can feed him.
You tell me you love me, and my heart feels

too small to contain the joy of loving you back.

(In case you are wondering about my accuracy - those of you who have never met Ari - she likes peas, cooked carrots, and corn; she tends to eat Cheerios in a bowl - even when watching TV; she's never had orange soda, so I have no idea about that; she doesn't yet ask why she can't talk to strangers, but that may yet come; and she has a tendency to be less than gentle with our dog, Simon, who we got in 2004. Otherwise, the rest of it is pretty darn accurate.)