- Foreward
- Introduction
- My Journey
- Adversity
- Anger
- Body Wisdom
- Love Knocks
- Money Tree
- HealthLoveWealth
- Simplicity
- Generosity
- Shock! Treatment
- Responsibility
- Grateful
- Growth Notes
Notice raindrops
When I start on a path of self-development, I may lose sight of small things in life and get caught up in great new changes I undertake. I want to run along the path before I walk. Today I realize that steps I take must be slow and steady, that it helps to pay attention. I notice a flower, a bird, a raindrop, a snowflake, the sound of my footsteps. This is the first step . . . and the second.
Replace blame
When things go wrong or I make mistakes, I look for someone to blame. Scapegoats are easy to find. But blaming accomplishes nothing; it causes irreparable damage to sensitive people. Today I replace my impulses to assign blame with attempts to remedy my mistakes.
Find Light in Dark Times
Chapter 1:
My Beckoning Toward Light
(sample excerpt)
Author James Dunn gathers fruit
Find Light in Dark Times gives you philosophical and spiritual tools to help you recover from
losses of all kinds, then emerge into the light. These are sample sections from Chapter 1.
Soul links us to spirituality in whatever sense we experience the universal energy that binds us together as one. Some people call this spirit or god. My journey into soulfulness began when I was a youngster. My mother, a delicate yet strong woman, had great influence on my spiritual development. A kind person with a nurturing heart, she canned purple plums from the trees on our tiny farm in California, made pies from our plentiful blackberries, and baked fresh loaves of bread every week. As a youngster I often flopped on the linoleum in the kitchen, reading or writing as she cooked. My hobby was magic, and mother was my first audience, where I tried most of my tricks. Pick a card, any card. How did that half-dollar coin disappear then reappear at her elbow? How did that magenta silk scarf vanish, poof?
If I said something she found amusing, she would throw her head back and laugh hard, her eyes sometimes welling up. Like her, I cry as readily in happiness as sadness, and tears come easily.
As a 4H club leader my mother spent endless hours helping my three sisters, brother and me with our animals and other projects. She drove a green Oldsmobile station wagon to the feed store and filled the back with oats, alfalfa hay and cans of blackstrap molasses that smelled darkly sweet. Sometimes she transported lambs in the back of the station wagon.
Mother taught us to love and care for animals. We had a menagerie: some 40 sheep, a couple of dairy cows, bunnies, a turkey and a few hens, a collie, a Pomeranian named Muffie, a pair of German shepherds and various populations of cats numbering as many as 18. All these life forms required constant nurturing. My heart soared high on love and abundance before I had any glimmering about spiritual matters. Because our fruit trees flourished every summer, I believed that the world flowed with abundance, that there would be a plump blackberry for every wanting mouth.
During the holidays every year my mother gathered sacks of groceries donated by the fortunate for those who would otherwise go hungry. Sometimes I would go with her in the car when she dropped off food to needy families. She moved through life with a kindness that enveloped those around her. From my childhood until her death in 1991, she taught me about spirit.
One day when I was about eight years old, I stood outside in spring sunshine. A chubby robin flew to a spot some 20 feet away and began nosing around in the soil looking for worms. Thinking I would scare him as a prank, I leaned down and picked up a small rock then hurled it toward the bird. The rock flew from my fingers to its head. The bird squawked once and keeled over, dead. Never did I imagine my aim impeccable.
Stunned, I rushed to the bird, knelt in the dirt and cupped my hands around its feathers. The body was warm, its life gone in an instant. Tears rolled up inside me then down my cheeks in a heaving fountain. I had not intended to take this life, any life. This was not kindness. I had killed a bird. I had caused and touched death at an early age. That bird gave me respect for life that otherwise could have taken years to find.
. . . (Rock climbing section)
One of the guys took me rock climbing with a friend of his who was an accomplished climber. We drove in evening to the Garden of the Gods near Colorado Springs. Mammoth spires of red sandstone jutted skyward some 200 feet. After hauling ropes, equipment and harnesses to the base of one of these towering formations, the leader worked his way up a crack in the rock, moving deliberately like a graceful spider up and up until he reached a ledge. The climbing rope snaked below him. My turn. I tied my harness to the other end of the rope and began to climb.
Soon I discovered that the nearly vertical sandstone offered few hand holds or footholds. How had he managed to ascend? My hands scoured the stone for rugosities. I pulled myself up an inch at a time, panting from the exertion, marveling at how effortlessly the leader had passed this way. Twice my toes and fingers slipped abruptly off their holds and I fell, dangling on the end of the rope, arms aching. Exhausted, I nearly quit.
But some new energy rose inside me. My lungs heaving, I pushed upward as the day’s light waned. Nearly an hour after starting, I hauled myself onto the ledge and slumped next to my climbing partner. He patted me on the shoulder and grinned. As he prepared the rope for our rappelling descent, I gazed from our perch out across the Garden of the Gods. Twilight turned the red rock into gold. My heart winged out and floated as eagle spirit over the sandstone garden. My body and mind stilled, completely at peace in nature.
