Life – Page 3 – Jane Tawel

I Wonder If He Chose Fishermen Because….

I Wonder if He Chose Fishermen Because…

By Jane Tawel

March 26, 2025

I wonder if he chose fishermen because they knew how to be dependent on what and on Whom they could not control. Fishermen know in each bone and fiber of their being, how like the Ocean, God truly is. They didn’t so much believe in the Ocean as try to understand it so that they could live; so that they could make a Living. Fishermen already knew that we are but waves tossed sometimes, and resting peacefully sometimes, but always just a wave in The Ocean. Fishermen know the Ocean is both Shadow and Light, Depth and Height, Uncontrollable, Unknowable, but Bountiful and Giving. “And this is how you should pray, ‘Our Parent-Creator, Give us our daily bread and don’t lead us into bad waters’.”

I wonder if he chose fishermen because they knew how to suffer. It was not an easy life being a fisherman. Strong and steadfast fishermen would be the Rocks on which He would build. Hard to break, but the World would do its best. “In this world you will have suffering and tribulations”. “Take up your own crosses”. But he would teach them what they already knew a bit about — that by going through suffering, they would be stronger; that strength comes not from going around but going into the heart of suffering and in that way, “just like I have overcome the world, you will too.” Fishermen know a lot about storms, and they know enough to be afraid and cautious of them. But one day, these very fishermen would be in the worst, most dangerous kind of storm there is, and He would calm both the storm and their anxious, fearful hearts. One day he would show them that even when we are in the worst of Life’s Storms, if we keep our eyes above the crashing waves, going through, but not sinking under, we can rise above — we can walk on water. Now that was something even fishermen couldn’t anticipate.

I wonder if he chose fishermen because they knew how to keep moving. They weren’t connected to one place so much as connected to the Ebb and Flow. He needed people who didn’t mind having to follow a trail wherever it might lead; people who could trust that if they left everything behind, something better would be up ahead; people who knew that Faith is really just Trust in what you cannot see, cannot know, cannot control, but that with a bit, just a little tiny bit of Trust, there is going to be Enough; and not only Enough but sometimes, there will be a Great Harvest. “And look up from your downcast eyes on your empty nets — Look at the birds of the air. If the Father takes care of these little beings, how much more will He take care of you?”

I wonder if he chose fishermen because they knew the depths and they knew the heights. One day a good catch; the next day, nothing. Fishermen know you can be really, really great at what you do for a living and have lots of knowledge, but ultimately, having fish on your table, and money in your pocket comes down to a bit of luck and a lot of Grace. The wind can change direction just like the winds of Time. The fish just may not feel like biting that day — God knows why? Your line can break after years of useful loyalty. You might get sick or someone at home might and you can’t go out today. Life is like fishing, and you don’t have to tell a fisherman that. “And he couldn’t do many miracles there…” “This kind of healing takes a lot of prayer and faith, so tough luck on this one…” That’s the way it would go sometimes. Other times, “If you have the faith of an itty-bitty, little mustard seed, you can move a mountain.” Oh what a Guy for hyperbole! but then he lived within the Loving Hyperbole of His Hyperbolic Father.

I wonder if he chose fishermen because they had already learned the practice of contemplation. When you are out on a boat with just your brother, there is a lot of time to think. If you choose to think about stuff, that is. But you can also just sit and meditate and pray. And real prayer is best maybe when you aren’t exactly thinking. And you don’t need fancy words to pray when you are out at Sea. “Thank you”, will do. “Help!”, will also do. “Your faith has healed you.” “My God, My God, why have you deserted me?” Dealing with real emotions can lead one to contemplation on the Real.

I wonder if he chose fishermen because they knew how to listen. Oh, they didn’t know how to listen as well as He did, and He had to school them just like the school of wondering, wandering fish they all were. But fishermen better develop patience or they will starve and patience can lead to a wonderful ability to listen — to others, to the Ocean, to the Winds, and to the beating of one’s own heart and sound of one’s own breath. “Let them who have ears to hear, hear”. And they did.

I wonder if he chose fishermen because fishermen like a tall tale and a good joke. What a sense of humor He had. If you were in the right mood and had the stomach for a good joke, He sure could tell them. In fact for a couple of these fishermen, when He called them, he started out with a joke: “Leave your nets and stop catching fish with no legs, and I will make you fishers of two-legged ones.” How they wondered then and later must have remembered that first humorous invitation with a hearty guffaw. And talk about tall tales! Yowza! That Guy could tell some whoppers! One day, He acted out a whole improv joke much appreciated by the fishermen in the group, when he turned two small fish into baskets full of fish to feed thousands. That was a tall tale of “How Big the Fish Was” that has never been topped! And on this note of telling tall tales? Well, His whole life was one tall tale of Mythic proportions. “Anyone who follows my Way will know IAM as Truth, Life, and The Way.” “This is my body and my blood. Take both, eat and drink. I have given my life in Love for you.”

Yes, He had followers of all kinds, but I think in those first days, He realized that it might be good to Seed the Lake of His disciples with some fishermen.

Oh, that I might be reformed with the soul of a Fisherman.

And that’s just about enough said.

Selah.

I Hope to Start Living, so as Not to Be a Ghost

by Jane Tawel

I Hope to Start Living, so as Not to Be a Ghost

By Jane Tawel

I am not in denial,

I just want to live.

And yet I choose death daily –

Not the good kind of death,

Not like the monks or saints —

Not like Jesus’ advise to take up my cross —

Not the kind of death that leads to Eternal Life.

No, I choose the kind of daily death,

that keeps me from being aware

of Where I am

What I am

Who I am

Why I am

When I am — because when I am

can only be Now,

and yet — Alas!

I prefer

the pains of the past

and the fears of the future

just of course,

in order to give my ego

something to think about.

If I didn’t prefer not to live in the Beautiful Now,

why would I keep choosing not to?

Without true understanding,

of Who I AM —

I daily choose death,

because I choose not to be alive.

I am living as if I am already a ghost –

Haunting life —

when I am called to be Soul,

Hallowing this world.

If I blame or feel guilt about the past –

I am not living.

If I worry or obsessively try to plan for the future —

I am not living.

The only time I can live in is —

Now.

Ghosts live in the past

and they haunt those present living

because they have no substance any more.

I am so often ghost-like,

haunting my life and the living,

insubstantial in the moment,

even though my body is still here.

When my body is no more –

will only a ghost remain?

Are we not told

by those Ones Who truly lived while they were here,

that the choice of what we shall be hereafter

is the choice we make of

what we are today?

Ghosts fear the future

because there is no-thing of them in it,

there are no solid actions for them to take

in a time that will never come,

for Time never comes,

but always, only is Here. Now.

The hungry, anxious apparitions that

manifest within me,

the phantoms of my psyche

whose endlessly hungry, disembodied maws,

which I continually feed today

will disappear before tomorrow.

All their sound and fury,

signifying nothing —

will Evaporate —

Poof! —

No Thing will remain.

Ghosts leave no trace.

Only meaninglessness remains behind.

The only meaning we ever have

is found only when we awake to

this precious, divine moment.

Ah, Breath of Life! How Good it is to taste and see!

I woke up –

and realized that when we are told,

“The Kingdom of God is within you”,

It means we choose now –

What we are and

What we forever shall be.

And there is instruction in that.

And there is also a tiny seed of Hope.

Shall I live as a ghost or as Spirit?

In Spirit as in Truth?

In Spirit, IS in Truth.

And the only True Truth,

the only Truth that I can know,

is this hallowed Present, Precious Moment.

What I shall be is what I am.

Forever begins Now.

Shall I be a Holy Spirit?

Or continue as I am

and be a ghost?

The choice is mine.

While I yet live,

the choice is mine and Thine.

“Awake, my soul!

Make music!

Sing!

Awake, my glory!

I will awaken the dawn.

I will live a life of praise,

for steadfast Love

and faithfulness,

is great upon the Earth,

and reaches to the Heavens.”*

“Every morning,

when we wake up,

we have twenty-four brand-new hours to live.

What a precious gift!

We have the capacity to live in a way that these twenty-four hours

will bring peace, joy, and happiness

to ourselves and others.

I vow to live fully in each moment,

and look at all beings with

eyes of compassion.” **

“Stand by the roads,

and look,

and ask for the ancient paths,

where the good way is;

and walk in it,

and find rest for your souls.”***

*Psalm 57:8

** Thich Nhat Hanh, “Peace in Every Step”

***Jeremiah 6:16

Will I Stand Up?

by Jane Tawel

Will I Stand Up?

By Jane Tawel

February 2, 2025

Will I stand up,

if courage fails?

If lies prevail

and all seems lost?

Will I stand up

when others scoff?

When I’m cast off

as weak and frail?

Today I stand

upon The Rock

and weep to see

a House once strong,

now willful, prideful

tearing down

its firm foundations

its Cornerstone,

erecting bent beliefs

on shifting sands.

Will I stand up

when hope is torn

from bleeding Heart

from bleeding Hands?

No —

I shall fall…

But I will raise

No flag,

No creed,

No weapon but,

The Banner of

God’s Love for All,

Yes! — “All!” I’ll cry,

with my last breath,

and though I can not stand —

I’ll crawl.

This Perfect Gift

by Jane Tawel

This Perfect Gift

By Jane Tawel

December 19, 2024

When I was born,

Someone gave me a beautiful container.

It was perfect, just as it was.

People marveled over it –

“How lovely”, they said.

Right from the beginning,

I knew, without knowing,

that this container was a marvel,

an endless delight, to explore,

to caress, to wonder at.

And everyone agreed.

I enjoyed endless hours

playing with my container,

just hanging out and being

with my container.

Even so young, I knew

that to care for this container —

this vessel of perfect form and function,

this earthy, natural, but divine mystery —

was a responsibility and a gift.

Perfectly formed but oh, so fragile,

the container got its first ding

at two years old,

when it fell against a coffee table.

“Just a little scratch,” they said,

“no need to worry”.

But everyone did begin to worry then.

And suddenly it was very important

to protect my container from any more hurts.

And the container

began to be kept a bit apart from me.

The distance between myself

and my container would keep it safe.

When I started school

was the first time I realized

that not everyone knew

how beautiful my container was.

Not everyone treasured it as I did,

So, I began to hide my container,

wrapping it up tightly

concealing its gorgeous curves,

masking its earthy smells,

painting over my container’s natural colors.

I wanted my container to look like everyone else —

No, better than everyone else.

Because I was told that all containers

were in some sort of contest,

and that the only thing one’s container

was good for,

was being more beautiful, or stronger,

or thinner or sexier or faster

than everyone else’s container.

When I got a job

and became an adult,

I often lost track of what I did with my container,

I was so busy.

The container was used

when it had a purpose.

And the life of the mind

which became all of me…

Well,

that is so important, isn’t it?

One day I had a child,

and Someone gave her

a beautiful container.

And I wish I could say

that it changed how I felt

about my own lost love of

my container, but…

It didn’t.

And though I marveled

at the perfection of my child’s

own beautiful, perfect container,

and though I tried all her life,

to explain how perfect her container was,

how she could be proud of it,

and how she should love it with all her heart

as the perfect divinely inspired gift that it was —

Instead…

she saw how I felt about my own container.

She saw and heard and took into herself,

all my fears and insecurities and ignorance

about our containers.

I am still so sad about that.

I am trying to forgive myself.

I wish my ignorance could be our bliss,

But I am just sad,

Because we really did have,

Do have,

Still have,

these perfect, beautiful containers –

these gifts.

Now I am old,

And I look at this old container —

so beaten up and beaten down

so marred and scratched and worn —

And yet — I see,

it is still so perfect —

a treasure.

And every day I am more and more aware

of what a gift we are given when

we are born and given our containers.

We come to life

with a perfect vessel,

formed in the forges of unseen Gods.

We are given all we need

as we carry our containers for a short time;

Carrying on caring for ourselves,

Carrying on caring for others,

Carrying on caring for our Mother Earth,

Carrying on and carried in a perfect container.

And now that I am old,

I am once again struck by the

Mystery of my container.

And then one day,

Sooner, but hopefully later,

I will no longer have this container.

It will be gone, returned to dust

as all temporal things must do.

And when my vessel is gone,

Alas!

Forgive!

Acceptance!

Love!

Oh, what will I do,

when this container is no more?

What will I do?

Ah –

That is the is greatest mystery of all.

A Word in a Stroke of Luck

A Word in a Stroke of Luck

By Jane Tawel

December 7, 2024

I shall call You, “Good”.

You are My Good.

You mean ALL for The Good.

I shall call upon You in the night,

“Oh, My Good!”

“Help us, Dear Good”.

I will meditate

on the World’s Beauty of Good.

I will stand in awe

in the World’s Mystery of Good.

I will put my trust in the power of Good.

For You, are a Good, Good, Good-ness.

I will love You, Oh, my Good;

and have faith that Good-ness

will not only follow me and mine

All the days of this lifetime,

but that I shall dwell in the House of Good

Forever and ever.

Amen.

Words are funny, shallow, flitting things.

Poor words, they try so hard.

And though they fail again and again,

we pick them back up, dust them off, and try once more

to use them to explain,

to use words to understand,

to take words and try to

put an outer shell to what is inside of us –

What is Inside of All.

Poor Words! How exhausted they must be!

They beg us to give them a rest.

But instead, we invent algorithms

to create more and more words

again and again and again

done by computers so words

have less meaning than even the

words of a worm might have.

We think in constant gales of words

Ghosts of words of past and future

Words with no meaning at all.

So, we never have to be still.

And the Silence will never touch us

surrounded by,

hunkered down,

lost and alone

in our fortresses of words.

Oh, Poor Words!

Words swim upstream —

light, floating inconsequentially

in the Ocean of True Truth,

in the Ocean of Unspoken Meaning beyond Meaning.

And there they go again!

Lost. Irretrievable. Unspoken. Too late. Too soon.

We only shut up when we’re dead.

What a Stroke of Luck for me!

For this morning,

as I grumbled over Past and Future,

A mind consumed in a mire of useless wording,

I happened to be writing something on a page,

And carelessly my mind glitched

on spelling, “God”.

And accidentally adding another “o” —

A Stroke of Luck in One Small Stroke!

And Oh, my Soul!

Oh, Joy!

I happened to have slipped upon

a banana peel of misspelling

and landed in a Heaven of New Insight!

With my one small stroke of pen,

with one tiny letter,

with one mistake (I thought) —

I have thrown out a buoy into the

Raging Tides of Time and Space.

And now I think I may make it

to The Shore.

Yes, you may laugh

Or shake your head at me

Or frown at my naivety or lack of theory,

And you may still cling to what you need to believe

about a God you want to call your own,

whose name has been taken in vain so many times

that it has lost all meaning.

But for me –

that one change, that “O”,

has quite suddenly!

made all the difference to me.

Oh, My Good!

I praise You for the Word,

for one small word to

change my angers and my fears into

a fledgling, hoping love of You.

Thank you for all my broken words,

that like a child with chalk in hand

search for You with fleeting strokes

on the sidewalks of this Life.

Thank you for one small circle

to begin to shape

the circle of this Life

of one small soul,

for All.

Today may I Be.

Still.

And Know.

That You.

Are.

GOOD.

All is Love. All is Now.

by Jane Tawel

All is Love. All is Now

By Jane Tawel

November 7, 2024

I wanted to write about woe and grief

but decided to sit here and breathe.

I wanted to share how angry I am,

to know this is how the end begins,

rotting by choice from within.

But I looked to the words

and the life of The Man

to Whom, as a child I had taken a vow,

and I realized His message was all about Love

and all about loving The Now.

I feared the destruction, so long underway

of the feminine Sacred of All.

And the Past and the Future

merged bleakly in me —

a trajectory strong since The Fall.

But I looked at my hands,

writing words on this page,

and I heard that Still Voice

Whispering, Age after Age:

“Just be present and Breathe.

Beingness.

Just Be Still.

Know The Moment —

that’s all that you need.

Be Just You.

Be True You.

Just right Now —

you’ll know how.

Find The Why.

To self, die.

You are Buddha.

You are Christ.

You’re The Way and The Life.

You’re the Voice.

You are Love.

Only you.

Only Be.

Only now.

Only choice is to Love.

Only Love.

Only Now.

Love is All.

Now is All.

All is Love.

All is Now.”

Morning Promises

Morning Promises

By Jane Tawel, July 28, 2024

****

Gorgeous delight,

this Morning, fresh and new.

I put up a good fight against Your hopeful face,

But why did I ever doubt You?

You have come, not on soft, pitter-patter feet

as once you did when youth was cleanly cleaved

along the lines of good and bad

along the fenceposts of win or fail

when all the dreams we ever had were moored

along the shores of youth’s grim holy grails.

No, your arrival seems to come without my choosing.

And I fight your crashing cymbals waking me from

restless, aching sleep.

The morning light begins to seep like opening wounds

and stirs the ancient fears that all must keep

as close as terminal denial could ever be.

And yet — perhaps to dream — ah, there’s the rub! —

to sleep is but to die a small, white-noise-ed death.

But — Ah, Good Grief! Dear Morning!

With Your quickening breath,

I wake, perhaps to dream,

perhaps to simply welcome one more cup

of coffee, tea, or toasted bread with honey.

Oh, Gorgeous Delight!

Another day is welcome, I’ll admit

And as I sit, I sip anew this life,

this breath,

this dawn lovely.

I wake to dreams that circle round

The Past, The Present, Perhaps… Infinity…

Ah, Dearest Daybreak, Welcome here!

My soul awakes to deeply drink

and dream with open eyes

the peace, the hope, the joy of

All.

With Love embracing,

I face this glorious day,

And forward-backward, onward facing

I open heart and mind

to Be

at One

with You and me

and just, perhaps, a little bit

to glimpse this Morning’s hinting promises

of Genesis Eternity.

Sea Shell Sagacity

Unsplash Vafa Karamzadegan

On our last trip in June, I bought some sea shells from the Sea Shell shop in Morro Bay. I gave a shell to friends and family, to remind us of the important things in life (besides work J) that sea shells symbolize.

Shed anything from the past that won’t serve your best interests today. Just like a mollusk sheds it shell to grow into something better and bigger, we, too, must shed the limiting shells of our past, whether negative patterns, outdated beliefs, or painful experiences.
Don’t let imperfections distract you from seeing beauty in things. Be as resilient as a shell has to be in the big, often harsh environment of the ocean. You have already weathered a lot of storms. Let the shell inspire you to find healing and wholeness even amidst life’s greatest challenges.
A sea shell protects the fragile, delicate being that lives inside it. Create your own protective spaces, carve out time for self-care, and set healthy boundaries.
In all cultures and religions, shells represent life. Remind yourself often that Life is good.
Shells remind me of all my favorite places in all the world; places I have explored, visited once, lived at, and have wonderful memories from. Make sure you find time for special places, and if you can’t get to a special place, go to your memories of those places and be rejuvenated and renewed.

May this sea shell remind you of how special you are –unique in all the world – there is only one you! May it remind you that there are people who treasure you as a family member or friend – as I do.

Let Me Take Your Sorrow

Let Me Take Your Sorrow

By Jane Tawel

June 6, 2024

Let me take your sorrow,

if only for an hour

For I am old, not like you;

no longer armored with pangs of youth.

Let me take the tears you ache too much to shed.

And I will let grief flow through me

as your fast stream flows free,

flows free through my slow-moving sea.

Let me take your anger

until you need it again.

Let me take its energy

and keep it safe from misspent deeds.

And when you’ve rested and had some play,

I’ll give it back again.

Then you may lead the charge

to change the world once more.

Then you may slam the doors

on past and future visions of hate.

And in the house of my own self,

I’ll shut the gate on letting loose

the rage on life’s injustices.

Your anger’s safe with me

until you know its rightful cause,

until you know your strength.

Let me take your fears.

For I am old (though not an elder).

(Elders are wise and I am only willing.)

And though I’m still afraid to fall;

I’m more afraid to see you tumble down too far.

I’m not afraid to stay down there.

It’s often peaceful in the depths.

I’ve loaded up a life with care

and carefully, I throw old baggage out.

And piece by piece, what’s left of me,

must t’wards the end, walk fearlessly.

The greatest fear of all draws near.

And nearer, nearer does Death come.

I have nothing here worth fearing,

Except the nearing end of all the life!

Of All The Life and All The Love!

So let me hold each of your fears.

I’ll hold them close, while we sing lullabies.

I’ll wipe your fears away like baby’s tears,

cradling your fears within my ample heart.

Go! –live your life!- not fearless- No!

For fears protect and fears can guide,

but I will gently rock them,

so you may pick them up again,

when they’ve become at least more stilled.

And when your fears grow quieter,

then you will find their shadow strength.

Yes, you will find the strength in fear.

Yes, you will find dark’s might.

And even Life-Death’s greatest fear,

the fear of endless night,

will be the greatest strength of all,

the strength of how to live each moment, right.

Oh, let me take your sorrow,

your anger and your fears.

I’ll take them all for hours,

for days, and months, and years.

Oh, let me take your tears and grief,

and let me take your rages.

And like a tree with many leaves,

and like a book with endless pages,

you’ll shed the dead;

write more beginnings;

and I’ll keep listening,

keep being willing

to take your pain for just awhile

that your soul can recover.

And even when this life of mine,

has passed away and seems all over,

I’ll still be there beside you.

I trust somewhere,

somehow,

some days,

my spirit will reach out to yours.

For Love will always find a way.

And I will take your sorrow,

and I will take your anger,

and I will take your fears;

and fly them far away with me.

And fly them far away.

And you, oh, little, precious bird,

will live to fly –

will climb as high as you want to climb.

And you will know that suffering,

is yet a strength along The Way.

And you will rise, and fall and rise again,

to live this precious moment,

to love this precious day.

The First Could Be The Last

Thomas Park, Unsplash

The First Could Be The Last

By Jane Tawel

May 19, 2024

The first cup of coffee

The last drops of tea,

The argument you always win

The look the mirror gives back to me

And birds in full cacophony

And trees that hold their secrets

And flowers that always, always die

And smiles, so rare, from strangers

But thoughts of you and them and us

But memories of such and thus

But dreams like intersection lights

But sleeping days and wakeful nights.

Ah, Life! Too short, too short to grasp.

Oh, love too small and love too vast.

Oh, seize the day, seize just this moment.

Awake and breathe. Drink deeply. Love.

This too shall pass.

This morning’s cup may be my last.

And what will be, no soul can see.

This moment is all I’ll ever know

A rare small glory is bestowed

in bird, and tree, and this warm, lovely cup of tea.

Hold all things lightly.

Keep holding fast.

Time passes quickly.

Next moment is the Past.

Yet what I am

that seeps the soul

is what I drink from,

what’s in my cup.

And looking up, to sky and rain

I can not help but hope

that birds and trees and these small hands

that hold your face; hold cups of tea

shall somehow live this moment well

to wake into a world of harmony;

to wake to live again eternally.

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