The Three Treasures: A Story About Chi

Long, long, long ago there was a Chi master named Master Yu. One day a student came to Master Yu and asked, " How can I bless the universe by my presence?" The Master closed his eyes and appeared to be sleeping. Then he said, "There are Three Treasures. The body merges Heaven and Earth into One." The pupil waited, thinking that certainly there was more. An explanation, perhaps? Or a direction in which to think? The master remained silent.

The student left the master, puzzled about what she might do next. "I will practice dancing for one hundred days and see if I can discover the Three Treasures," she thought. " So for one hundred days, the student danced. She danced at dawn and at dusk. She danced when the sun was high in the sky and when it was hidden by the darkness of night. She danced as the moon rose, and as its shape shifted from full to hidden.

As she danced, she looked up and saw Heaven, the home of stars, moon, sun and infinite space. Surely Heaven was a Treasure. She felt Earth beneath her feet, solid, dense, home to the plants, rocks, animals and water, and knew that Earth was also a Treasure. "Heaven and Earth are two treasures, but what is the third?" True to her practice, she continued dancing. And by the one hundredth day, she knew. She knew the Third Treasure. The Third Treasure was the dance of Heaven and Earth that creates life - all Life." And so it is.


adapted from: Jahnke, Roger. The Healing Promise of Qi: Creating Extraordinary Wellness Through Qigong and Tai Chi. New York, NY: McGraw-Hill, 2002.

My Jobs in the House ReHab

While Doug scrapes, sands and paints ceilings and walls, my jobs are to design the house, sell the stuff that we don't want and work on the outdoor areas. I've tidied up (as my mother-in-law would say) the Meditation Garden, as all it really needed was for the leaves to be picked up, plants repotted, fertilized and rearranged, and other general maintenance. It's now back to where it's just the normal gardening chores, which are, of course, ongoing.




Now my big project is my Outdoor Studio Area.

My studio consists of two connected spaces: a 20' x 20' indoor area, filled with looms, yarns, beads, and other treasures and an outdoor area of about the same square footage. The outdoor area is divided into a work space with tables and stoves, a storage shed, a sidewalk and a flower bed that doubles as the space for the washout sink and yarn drying. The current layout is good and doesn't really need altering. It's just that in the last few years, it's become home to some things that should be living elsewhere, and the flowerbed has, well, let's just say, become a tad overgrown and cluttered. So, I've decided to start with the flowerbed and reclaim my sinks and yarn drying area.

I've pulled out the spider plants and am working on the clearing the rest:


Just above this area, attached to the eaves, are rods where I hang my rinsed yarns to dry. I'll keep that set up, and the sinks, but I think that I'll pull out the other plants, such as they are, and lay pavers over to just past the sink. Then, maybe a little curved wall filled with some nice low maintenance rock garden sort of plants and a focal point of a hydrangea. Elsie the cow, Barney the pig, the Goddess, the ocotillo and Kokopelli will then have a very nice place to dance about in. Currently they are hidden in The Nasturtium Forest:


Of course, I also need to tend to my other house-rehab duties, particularly selling some things. Unfortunately, this house will just not hold everything that we have. Studio stuff first: who wants to buy a loom? (Don't worry, I have plenty of others to do my own weaving on.)

J-Made Loom
weaving width
8 shafts, 10 treadles
2 reeds
let me know if you're interested by leaving a comment

With Orange County as Home Base

It's no secret to anyone that I've tried to leave Orange County. I'm ill at ease with the congestion, the pace of life here, and the fact that the developers always seem to win. It's also no secret that I, or we, since Doug is very much a part of this quest, have not found the house, the place, that says, "Here I am. I'm it. I've been waiting for you. What took you so long?" And, so, we listened, hoping for that voice, but hearing instead, "Make Orange County your home base." And with the acceptance of that, came a partnered sigh of relief and life changed. We began to work on our house, creating what we have always imagined it to be, a process that means we are right now living in a construction zone. But it is a construction zone filled with imagination, hope, and anticipation. And in this re-building, we began to see this house, this little plot of land, with fresh eyes. There are wonders everywhere.

I am delighting these days in sitting in one place and taking photographs. The other day, I sat on the sidewalk, just where it leaves my Outdoor Studio Space and transitions into the Backyard Junkyard. Here's what I saw:

An Opening for the Wee Folk

Fairytales and myths tell us quite plainly of the comings and goings of those wee ones in the night, how they dance in the moonlight and have secret passages into their hidden lairs. I think I may have found just such a spot. Maybe I should leave some cookies? An offering and ask their blessings?

Kokopelli Dancing

Kokopelli, the humpbacked flute player, the trickster, plays to the shadowy realms. Even in the bright light of late afternoon, shadows follow him and all is not always as it seems.

Unseen Cactus

Underneath a mat of creeping weeds, life flourished. In spite of neglect, or maybe because of it, these cactus grew. Like this house, neglected for many years while its people grew careers, other life has continued.

There is a life independent of us in this house and little plot of land and that Life is a blessing.

Practice, Practice, Practice

My heart is full this morning, just as my head is swirling. I have spent the last few days in retreat at under the guidance of very able teachers. The only way I can describe it is with a story:

Once upon a time, and a long, long time ago it was, there was a young woman. Her hair touched her waist, danced across handwoven blouses and played hide and seek with turquoise earrings. Her pockets held treasures: a small rock, a bit of metal, threads, and the occasional currency. Her feet wore sandals, although she kicked those off whenever possible to feel the dirt or sand between her toes. She laughed a lot and was very, very curious.

This young woman's mother taught her to build a loom. First, four pieces of wood were gathered and fitted together into a rectangle. Next, a row of nails was hammered into the top and bottom of the rectangle. Then, a linen thread was tied to the lower left nail and wrapped up, around the first top nail, down, around the next bottom nail, up and down and up and down, until all of the nails were wrapped. Then the weaving began with the weft threads passing back and forth and over and under these threads.

Everything necessary for weaving was available in this loom and the young woman wove many things: wall hangings, purses, bags, mats, pillows. Big fluffy yarns and skinny threads, yarns that she spun, and yarns spun in faraway places, all found their way into her weavings. Yes, all of weaving was available in that small, simple loom.

Then one day the mother brought another type of loom into the weaving room. When the young woman saw it, she was curious. That evening, using what she knew from the first loom, she saw how to put the linen thread on the new loom and ready it for weaving. There were no nails to wrap. Instead there were heddles to thread and reeds to sley and a big beam at the back of the loom to wind the linen warp on. When she began to weave, the young woman had to use her whole body, not just her hands and fingers. Her feet tromped the treadles, and her hands threw the shuttle all the while pulling the beater forward. There was a way to sit on the bench, and a way to use her arms and shoulders. There was a deeper rhythm and in this rhythm, the young woman wove in beauty. Outside this rhythm, the young woman wove raggedy selvages, bumpy cloth and sleazy fabric. It took practice, and through the years, as the young woman practiced, the weaving improved and the rhythm became more natural. Slowly, the young woman became a weaver. And, yet, no matter how much she practiced, the weaver knew that she was always a beginner because each step simply revealed another step. And that is why, to this very day, the weaver continues to practice weaving.

Thank you, Mother, for practice, and next steps, whether in weaving, Tai Chi Chih or other parts of my life.

Sock Madness and Ravelympics

Aaaack!!!!! The season is upon us. What? Spring? No, that's still a few weeks away. Football? Baseball? Basketball? I wouldn't know those seasons if they happened in my backyard. No, I'm talking the IMPORTANT seasons - Sock Madness and Ravelympics.

Some of you may remember Sock Madness from last year. This is a time when ordinarily peaceful sock knitting becomes a competitive event. It takes place on Ravelry, here. 160 sock maniacs, er, knitters, are divided into four teams. At a specified time, the sock pattern is released and the knitting begins. The competition continues through several rounds with the first certain number of knitters who complete the socks advancing to the next round. Finally, it is down to one person from each team. Those knitters compete, the semi-finalists compete, and then, the winner! One sleep deprived sock knitter with cramped hands, sore back and tush, is crowned The Maddest Sock Knitter of all. I cannot even begin to describe how much fun this is. Yes, even with all of the very real pain, it is so much fun. It won't begin for another couple of weeks, although the sign ups and panic have already begun. In the meanwhile, this year, I have another event to knit for, just to keep me going while waiting for SM.

That other event is Ravelympics, also on Ravelry, here. Again, how to describe this? Basically, it is patterned after the Olympics. There are teams and individual events. It begins with the Opening Ceremonies and ends with the extinguishing of the Olympic Flame. I've chosen to enter the WIPs Dancing Event. WIPs = Works in Progress. You know, all of those projects started, but not yet finished. I have several to choose from.

There is Ms. Purple Sweater:




There is the beginnings of a small mitered project bag:



There is a triangular shawl:



There's a few spinning WIPs:




Plus, I would also really, really like to knit some socks in the Sock Hockey Event, which means that I would cast those on during the Opening Ceremonies. Don't you think that sounds like a great thing to do during the Opening?

Problem is, as always, time. The Olympics/Ravelympics begin Feb 12, and the Closing Ceremony is Feb 28. 16 days. That's only a bit more than 2 weeks. And, for 6 of those days, I'll be out of town, 4 of them at a Tai Chi Chih retreat. I'm thinking that I may not get as much knitting done at a retreat as I usually do. Something about relaxing rather than obsessing.

Clearly, I'm going to have to think this through a bit. I'll keep you posted.

Walking, Watching, Waiting

This week, while walking at the Seal Beach Pier, I encountered a pelican.



It (I have no idea if it's male or female) was right there at the end of the pier, just walking, watching and waiting. Now, my suspicion is that it was waiting while watching the fishermen, and walking to wherever the possibility of some nice juicy tidbit of fish was most likely to appear. But still, how often does one get this close to a pelican?

The ocean and its creatures have been nearby all of my life and yet, never have I been this close to a pelican. The first thing I noticed was that pelicans are very, very big birds. The top of its head came just about to my waist, its charcoal webbed feet were almost the size of my hands and its beak was easily elbow to fingertip on me. I also didn't realize that they have the most beautiful yellow stripe along the top of their heads accentuated by a black stripe down their neck. And, I thought that the Brown Pelican, which is what this is, was, well, brown. But in reality, their coloring is so much more complex: a heathering of browns, off white and cream.

A dear friend of mine, who is also a Catholic priest, once told me that the Pelican is a perfect symbol of Love and Compassion because a mother pelican will pluck the flesh from her own breast to feed her young. This is depicted in the stained glass window of the First Congregational Church in Amherst, Massachusetts:



Scientists insist that pelicans do not engage in this behavior, yet the story remains.

It seems particularly apt to me that the Pelican appeared on my walks this last week, the week of Imolc. Imolc is a cross quarter marking of the time between winter solstice and spring equinox. It's a passage from the dark to the light and some Gaelic stories say that on this day the hag Cailleach gathers firewood for the rest of winter. And, some of those stories say that she takes the form of a giant bird and carries the wood in her beak.

Now, I'm not sure how well a pelican could carry wood in her beak, but she is certainly a giant bird and I've learned to pay attention when such things appear on my path, especially during times of transition, like Imolc. And while scientists don't believe the Christian pelican stories and others might not believe the story of Cailleach, I have learned that stories are often more important than facts, because facts are always limited, whereas stories are not.

And so I look at this giant bird and ask, "What have you brought me, Mother? What might I learn from you?"



She looks long at me, not moving, and then walks past me, seemingly tempting me to follow. No hurry. Just walk. Watching and waiting. I follow. Walking behind her, I watch and wait. We continue in a sort of walking duet punctuated by the cries of gulls and the occasional sprinkling of water from the waves hitting the pier. Walk. Watch. Wait. And I realize that in this movement, a movement of not only body, but also of opening, is my answer: Walk. Watch. Wait. It is a prayer. It is a way of being in the world. It is about learning to move through my life, observe, and open to receive the Good.

Thank you, Mother Pelican, for this gift at Imolc.




ruth - just goes to prove that stories are better than facts.

The Sweater That Fits

It's raining. All day. Rain. And that is significant because my plan was to photograph The Sweater this morning, outside, in natural light, and post it bright and early. That was then. Instead, I have been waiting for it to stop raining and it is pretty clear that, just like the weatherman said, it is going to rain today. Finally, admitting that it is, in fact, actually raining, I waited until it was just barely raining, and took the picture. Not quite the best picture, but I am way too excited about The Sweater to be delayed by wet stuff, so here it is.

The Sweater That Fits

A simple, charcoal, handspun, handknit raglan cardigan that has sleeves that end at my wrists, rather than my knuckles. It fits around both bust and butt, buttons close, and yet is not HUGE on me. I am ecstatic. I am grinning like an idiot. I am so encouraged. Here's a close up with me thanking the gods:



I'm ready for the next one. Maybe stop the raglan seam a little sooner. Maybe a pullover this time. Who knows? I've unleashed my designer genie and the ideas are aflyin'. Plus, there's that gansey that's been calling. Some of you know what I mean; the rest of you will find out soon.

And the possums? If you look closely in the first photo, you might catch a glimpse of one back of the tree. That's where they sleep. And where, while I was gone for a week or so, they carried off six skeins of handspun. They came in through the cat door, helped themselves to the yarn that would become The Sweater That Fits, and built a snuggly warm bed. Luckily, I was able to retrieve it, wash it and make it into a snuggly warm sweater.

Woohoo! It fits.


ruth - yup, gansey is next. I've got one sample done, working on a couple of others. Think I'll break more rules and do it top down, like the raglan cardi.