We have unseasonably warm and dry weather in California. Tree dahlia blossoms hang in lavender profusion from stalks that reach above the roofline. Honeybees dig into the yellow suns of pollen in the centers of these huge petaled flowers, their back legs heavy with orange-yellow treasure. The visual delight of green-yellow-lavender against a blue-sky backdrop in late November brings me to sit outside every day. The aural experience fills my cells, as the vibrations of bee hum and the chattering of Bewick's wren surround and embrace my body.

There is always an underside to beauty and the joy of the moment. On the global level, it is warming trends that are keeping us from having our usual rains and are shifting ocean currents, impacting the whole food chain so the whales begin to starve. On the personal level, it is the death of my 87-year old father. He had been in decline, so it was not unexpected; and death is always a challenge and a surprise, a strange entry into the void of change and loss, grief and remembering, emptiness and the prospect of being the elder generation.

In responding to my Dad's passing, I try to keep returning to sweet memories. Ours was not an easy relationship, so when the old resentments surface, I think about how he tried to do the best he could. When tears come, I let them flow. No judgment, of me or him, just awareness.

Many of you I do not know personally. Yet it feels important to speak of the personal, for we all have our challenges, and shifting consciousness has to do with weathering the sorrows as well as experiencing the bliss.

When my daughter was having a very difficult time (and us with her) a few years ago, I began to learn, through my many tears, that grief can be an opening, a portal. My broken heart seemed to lead me to embrace sorrow; embracing sorrow, I understood in a new way the ancient Buddhist teaching that we all suffer. I got it: she was suffering, her Dad and I were suffering, her teachers and therapists and friends were suffering with us. Yet, as the Buddhists also say, everything changes. We all began to learn and grow, heal and find a different balance in our relationships. Moving through the portal of grief into awareness helped me feel and act with more compassion and less judgment of everyone I know and meet.

Part of my personal path involves learning to step back and forth between worlds, feelings, and states of mind. We humans do this pretty naturally, in some ways: that is why, at wakes, there is laughing and crying, happy recollection and resentment. We also get stuck in our "stories" of what happened, forgetting the possibility of other points of view, other realities.

This is when others--our teachers, friends, and helping spirits--can help us shift our attention just enough to see differently. Whether through message or metaphor, image or story, their guidance can be a powerful tool for helping our hearts to sing instead of cry, see more broadly instead of despairing.

A teacher reminds me to breathe through my heart (Try it: your energy and focus will shift instantly!)

Another tells me to be fluid like the redwood tree in a winter storm. I protest, "But if I lost my home in the hurricane, could I really do this?" He reminds me that I know the answer already. "If it is your own personal disaster, open your heart. Experience the grief. Then open even more to enter the void, that empty but full place of all possibility. Remember, tears combined with light make rainbows."

An animal I journey with shows me severe destruction in the rainforest: even he, the king, has little power over bulldozers. The machines eating up his forest are relentless. This animal shows me how he must enter new territory, learn new terrain, and figure out how to survive in interconnection with all the other creatures, just as Katrina survivors are doing in cities and towns all over the country.

Of course, my particular guidance may not be yours: each of us has our own destiny, our own answers.