Category: meditations

I'm walking again, walking distances over a few feet here and there, and it feels good to be out in the morning stretching my legs and just walking. I need to walk.  A few weeks of abbreviated walks have only proven that stretching alone is not enough.  Movement is the key.

These first two days of walking have not been auspicious, weather-wise.  Or have they?  This morning there was a constant light mist.  I wore a raincoat, in case the mist turned to something wetter, but it did not.  Only my glasses became smudged with layers of dampness, but the walk itself was nice, and ended with a cuddle as I wrapped Tikka up in a big towel for a bit of drying and fluffing time.

Yesterday at dawn the sky was heavy with fog.  Though we left slightly before sunrise, the presence of the sun could only be discerned through a subtle variation in the light.  And then, if you are lucky, you are out in the fog at that perfect moment when the light and the fog begin to shift, and there is a brief liminal moment when the world is neither dark nor light, almost as if the world is neither here nor there. For a fleeting moment the concreteness of everything you know seems called into question.  Even the leaves of the holly bush appear soft and caressing.  Then, poof!  The moment is gone, and the world returns to normal.

 The sky has been amazingly beautiful this September.  Every day it seems I just want to pause and hope that its breathtaking perfection will seep into my every pore like the air I breathe. This sense of perfection is present much of the time, not just at the sunrises and sunsets, which have been profoundly lovely, not necessarily spectacular, but often with a hauntingly quiet play of color and light. I cannot pinpoint the difference; it is more than the lack of humidity, more than the flatter angle of the Autumnal light, more than the clouds themselves. 

Perhaps it is just something in me that has changed.  Perhaps the sky is as it has always been, perfect in its own right, but I have only recently slowed enough to really notice it, really absorb its beauty.  Perhaps this is the natural progression of my attempts to slow down, to be present in my walks, to see the small things that surround me every day. Perhaps I am only now taking time to say "This, this alone is enough".  Perhaps I am only now giving myself permission to be a person who is content to occasionally step off the treadmill of constant striving and to celebrate simply having and being enough.

I don't really know the answers.  I don't really need to know the answers.

I've tried to take pictures, but my cellphone does not capture what my eyes see.  Or perhaps it does, and the camera does not capture what my brain interprets my eyes as seeing.  It doesn't matter.  One morning I hypothesized about bringing my big camera out, setting up a tripod, and trying to capture the light.  But I realized that the process of trying to record what I saw would only mean that I would lose the experience of seeing.  It does not seem worth the price. Far better to accept and remember than to lose the moment altogether.

The photo at the top of this post, a quick snap while Tikka was occupied with some scent or another, is the closest I have come, and I have since stopped trying.  The light near the sunrise is too bright, but the reflection of the light in the clouds seems to almost capture that almost painterly beauty, that sense of something so perfect that it cannot be real….. except that it is.

(Warning. This is a post about process, my process of working out my own process, and as such is pretty rough around the edges. I am pretty uncertain about tossing it out into the world of the internets, but I also know it is the kind of post that can never be finished, just as process is never really finished, until I toss it out to the world. Part of the purpose of this blog is just that, the tossing out, the letting go, my ongoing journal of the various projects and processes of life. I am not looking for help or sympathy or anything else.  Also, as tends to be the case, the process of writing serves both as a means to understanding my own thoughts, and a jumping off point in the evolution of that same thought.) 

Energetic. 

The past few weeks have been very busy, busy in a good way.  I needed to be very organized and focused and I was and the whole process fed that part of me that is happier with a fairly high level of busy-ness, that likes to be challenged, to be pushed, and yes, even to be a little bit unsettled.  That sense of purpose, that sense of doing feeds me, feeds my energy level and drives me onward.  Even last Sunday, after spending two days at the event, after spending 6 hours on my feet, in my element, inspired by everything going on, I felt simultaneously tired and full of energy, ready to move on and tackle the world.  As I drove home I was making mental lists of all the things I wanted to do next.

Exhausted.

Until I got home of course.  I walked in the door and all energy drained away.  My foot started throbbing, crying for elevation and ice.  As soon as I settled down with my icepack, a small dog took a flying leap into my arms and a lonely cat snuggled by my hip. Contentment enveloped me and by 5 PM I was down for the count. 

It didn't help that I had broken my toe on Wednesday, nothing serious mind you, a hairline fracture at the terminal joint of the second toe of my left foot.  Not my driving foot, thank goodness.  Not a fracture that anything much can be done about:  tape it, wear a firm shoe that doesn't bend, stay off it.  Oops, well I didn't stay off it on Sunday (but I had spent a good deal of time icing and elevating my foot the previous Thursday and Friday in anticipation even though I know healing doesn't work that way.) But its a toe, a minor fracture of a toe, and I am perhaps a little too conscientious at times, and perhaps not always attentive enough to self-care. 

But I would have been exhausted regardless of my toe.  The weeks of focus take a toll, the weeks of pushing at personal boundaries take a toll,  The hours in a crowd, much as I revel in it all, simultaneously exhilarated me and drained me, and I needed to withdraw into myself to take it all in.

Inspiration.

But the ideas in my head were spinning away, and I couldn't stay down long. Down time was good for organizing my thoughts following the dyeing class I took with Liana two weeks ago, and for thinking about creating a small dyeing space in the upstairs bathroom.  But going upstairs prior to further healing was not a wise option. 

I still needed to do something however, not just dream of doing something. I had a bag of fruit that needed to be used, fruit that had been offered up by my church community and needed, as I saw it, to go back to the community, perhaps the wider community.  I imagined pies.  I probably could have brought the bag of fruit to church for people to pick up and eat.  But there was an overabundance and, having been offered, I did not want it to go to waste.  I was still tired on Monday, tired enough that I realized that there could not be pies and crusts, at least not homemade, so crusts were procured.  Thank goodness for modern grocery stores. Tuesday became baking day and 5 apple pies and 3 loaves of banana bread went out into the world. They were not the best pies I have ever made; in fact store bought may have been better, but they were a gift, a gift from one community to another, channeled through me,  into the homes of people who needed a small gift. The intent of that offering was hopefully realized: gifts of the earth, gifts of our labor, gifts of intention.

But the gift I almost forgot was the gift of time, the gift of rest.

Overwhelmed.

At the end of the week I felt overwhelmed.  I felt like my brain was scattered and my thoughts had short-circuited.  I also felt frustrated with myself. I felt like I had done nothing all week. Exhaustion dominated my thoughts and erased all else from memory:  I remembered feeling drained, coming home and collapsing into mindlessness, the naps, the hours spent with a book. I remembered the things I felt I should be doing but wasn't. Fatigue ruled.  Weariness opened the door to the demons of obligation and inadequacy and those things I had done, the normal weekly responsibilities and activities, the extras like baking pies, all of that slipped into the mists. I felt like I had wasted a week and I was still exhausted, and I couldn't explain it. 

I couldn't explain it until I actually started to rest, until I gave my thoughts permission to be still.  Friday rolled around and I took a day to rest, a day without obligation or responsibility to the wider world.  I try to take such a day each week, and I often turn off internet distractions as well, taking a personal Sabbath of sorts.  Sometimes I garden, or walk, or do something fun, just for me.  Sometimes, like this past week, I just let myself be still.  

As I rested, and later, as I wrote this post, I realized that this sense of failure and laziness was not at all true. It was true that my efforts had been more scattered, but that does not mean they were any less meaningful.  Even when I am at or close to my limit, purpose and meaning will push me further.  Especially when  that sense of purpose is fulfilled by doing something for someone else, even a small thing, the sense of revitalization and peace cannot be duplicated.  I realized that I needed that period of transition between being totally focused on some big thing and being able to shut down and be completely at rest. Between the grand and the small, between the world and the soul, there needs to be a liminal space, a place of transition. I needed to bake pies, I needed to work, I needed to transition to restfulness, to let my motors slow at their own pace.   

 Perhaps the winding down is as necessary as the rest…. not quite a full stop, but a slowing, a scattering, a laying of the groundwork before settling in for a full recharge.  Mind, body, soul, all need time.  We are not machines that can be switched on and off at will.  The recharge will come if given time and space and respect.  Release the demons and honor the process.

Did you know the world is actually louder the hour before sunrise than it is at dawn?

I walk out early in the still darkness.  Only that stillness is an illusion; that silence is an illusion.  There is a steady drum of insect sounds, steady, silent only if you aren't listening, almost a roar if you pay attention.  I do not hear my footsteps on the pavement, only the hum of the night-time world.  I do not hear the plane passing overhead.

Dawn is different, a liminal space.  It is not silent exactly but yet the quality of the sound is different.  The chirping of insects fades. The soft singing of the birds begins so quietly that you could almost miss it, wondering where in the gradual crescendo you first registered its presence.  You hear the subtle rustling of the leaves.  It seems you can almost hear the grass.

At dawn my footsteps on the pavement seem thunderous, as if I am an intruder in a brief time-capsule of space.  It doesn't last. Now, if a plane flies overhead, I hear its roar.  The sounds of civilization slowly arise and the sound of the earth itself, the sound of its other inhabitants, the ones we tend to ignore in our own self-interested activities fade into the background. 

I hear traffic on the main road below.  A garage door opens.  Laughter.  A car engine.  Work, school, the human world beckons.  It has begun.

My mom has returned home to Garland, TX, and I am catching up and settling back into my life in its normal mode.

A part of that process of settling has involved just sitting back and appreciating life, what I've been given, and where I am now.  As Tikka and I return home from our walk, I am continually filled with joy at the sight of something as simple as the green lawn, and the flower beds in front of my house. The last two mornings I have also reflected on those morning hours spent outside while mom was here, how pleasant it was to be out digging and planting, mom sitting nearby with Tikka on her lap, and those pleasant conversations.

There is nothing particularly special about my gardens:  the original plants that came with the house have been rearranged, a few new plants were brought in by the landscapers, and I've filled in with pretty generic annuals mostly sourced from Lowe's. It is a young garden; plants need to grow into their space and much filling in is still required.  But it is in many ways a far cry from my previous garden, partly due to the more formal nature of these front beds but also simply because of its generic mass-market roots.  In Hyde Park I sought out the esoteric and the unusual. Here not so much, at least not in front, in the public face of my garden. 

But its not really about what is in the garden.  My joy stems from the fact that it is green and growing, instead of an ugly flat expanse of clay and patchy grass.  No, that is not quiet true.  My joy stems from the fact that it is green and beautiful and growing, and that I have spent time in that wet grass playing with Tikka and digging holes in the dirt, and some of those green things I have planted have thrived and become beautiful, even though others have not.

When mom visited the first time, this was a sad place. The original landscaping of the yard had been terrible and it was the worst yard on the street, but I hadn't had the time or energy to address it. Inside was no better.  The furniture was still pretty much as it had been arranged the first days we moved in, with only a few very minor changes.  The house was still in many ways the house we had moved to so that George could die in peace.  We moved here because our grandson was here, we moved here to be near Owen and his family, so that George could spend time with his grandson, and so that Owen could get to know his grandpa.  Our first year and a half here was shaped by the ever-changing landscape of decline and impending death.

When mom visited me in Knoxville the first time, this was still a house of loss and grief. I was not particularly comfortable here, the house had been purchased to meet a need that was no longer present. Six months after George's death, there were still moments when I wanted to sell everything and walk away. But of course that wasn't the answer.  We cannot walk away from loss; we cannot walk away from our problems; we must embrace them, and nurture them and allow them to flower at their own pace.

When I asked mom to come visit this spring, I told her she should see the house, that it was my house now, and I was happy here.  A simple rearrangement of furniture had moved the place from something cold and uncomfortable, the sleekly modern at war with quirky family heirlooms and antiques, from something that accented the fault lines of transitional space into something more harmonious,  a place where the old and the new met more comfortably. A place that honored the rounding off of sharp edges both in the house and in myself. And she came.  She came for a month and this sense of  harmony held.  Not a single one of those sharp edges poked out to jab at us unexpectedly.

By now you can probably surmise that I am not actually writing about the house or the yard, or even in a way, about Mom's visit.  I am writing about all of those things and none of those things. Because what I have been given in this life, and where I am now really have nothing to do with things but with attitude and grace.  Like that house in Hyde Park where I wanted unusual plants, we tend to think of our worth, of who we are, as defined by our careers, what we amass, what we think, who we associate with, and so many things that really have only partial relevance to who we really are.  That doesn't mean we can ignore the world, or even should ignore the world.  Nor does it mean we should throw everything away and live in a cave.  I suspect that living in a cave has nothing to do with who most of us really are.  But that we need to learn to relax and accept, we need to learn to rely on that internal sense of self, and learn to love that self and honor it, rather than the stuff of life. The stuff of life is nice.  But it is not who we are.  It is not what is important.

While mom was visiting I let a lot of things slide.  Not everything.  I did what I needed to do, did what I what I was asked to do, what was required, but didn't really go the extra-mile in terms of my obligations outside of being here with my mom and enjoying her visit. I am behind on many things, and although they are not unimportant, at the time of my Mom's visit, they were less important and could wait.  I realized that extended time with my mom, extended time, when other obligations could be carried lightly, is a gift.  Whether I accept and enjoy that gift or rail against it is my own choice. 

It seems to me I wasted a lot of time and energy when I was younger fighting against the perceived weight of obligation.  I struggled with my mom's extended visits, simultaneously resenting the compounded pressures of work, mom, spouse, family and community.  I let all of those outside pressures define me to myself, rather than letting my inner self guide and define me, and regulate the role they would play in my life.  I realize it wasn't really my life I was worried about, it was expectation.  I worried and fretted about living the life I felt I was expected to live, the things I was expected to accomplish and accumulate and do, and yes my Mom's expectations weighed as heavily as the expectations of my career, and the expectations of every other role I played in my community.

And so I am grateful.  It seems I needed this time, we needed this time.  I am also sure I have neglected something, that something that should have been done remains undone.  But increasingly I see that life will always remain undone, that nothing is finished, and all I can do is listen and hope and take each moment as it is offered to me. Hopefully, I mostly  manage to do what I need to do. Hopefully, when I fail the slack is taken up elsewhere. Most of all however, I hope that I can manage, at least occasionally, to  enjoy the gifts that are given to me in and of themselves, without expectation, without guilt, simply as the gifts they are.

As I stood in the front yard yesterday evening, admittedly a little frazzled, I looked up and saw the gorgeous sky.  Almost immediately I calmed.

All those lists running through my head:  the things I still needed to do that day, the things that I was neglecting, even, the things I had failed to do, slipped away into the quiet.

I realized that everything will happen in its own good time.  That doesn't mean I should abandon everything; some organization and planning and energy are always necessary.  But it does mean that there is time for rest, time for sunsets and sunrises, for busy-ness and repose. 

There have been days I look at the mail piling up on my desk and chastise myself.  But then I remind myself that I do something every day.  I meet the immediate needs.  Then of course my mind moves on to the other things I am not doing:   the blog post I want to write about a book that has helped me to coalesce so many random thoughts, the blog post that doesn't want to be written — yet.  I look at my distracted mind and tell myself to focus.

But why?  A little lack of clarity is beneficial. And time with my mom is precious.  Truly would I rather be sitting at my desk muddling over words when I can sit with my mom, chatting, knitting, just enjoying her company?  How many times do I get to spend 3 weeks with my mother anymore?  Not often. Admittedly I don't visit for long stretches of time, And this is only her second visit here in 3 years, Actually probably only her second visit in over a decade.  How much time is lost doing things that hold no value in our hearts, sacrificing attention to those we love for things that truly do not matter? Far too much I fear. And how do we know what matters if we do not take time to rest, to listen, to know our own hearts?

To everything there is a season.  To every day there is a dawn and a sunset, a time for doing and a time for resting.  And increasingly I have come to accept that part of myself that will cast things and projects aside for people: for what is the measure of our lives beyond our touch on the lives of others?

It is morning again.  I have another day with mom, the first day in this last week of Mom's visit, and once again my priorities are shifting, thoughts left unfinished.  But then nothing is truly finished as long as there is life to be lived.

It was the sky that captured my attention first this morning while Tikka were taking our walk.

It was that very clarity that calmed me, its very painterly aspect, and the broad generous strokes of light and cloud. It was as if the sky was beckoning me to welcome in a new day.

The last few mornings, last few days actually, I have been distracted and unfocused.  I have been unable to still my wandering and raging thoughts, to accept the quiet, to just be in solitude with the world.  Perhaps I was just more rested this morning, and so more willing to ease into calmness, ease into being.

When I reached the top of the hill, I notice that hint of gray along the horizon was fog wrapping itself around the peaks of the hills and ridges, and as the sun rose, it gradually thinned and lifted, like ghosts, or wisps of thoughts and dreams, not lost forever, but like memories, resting along the fringes of thought.

And we walked.  Quietly in the early morning air.  Birds singing, admiring the flowers, the drops of dew on the morning grass, the combined scent of honeysuckle, and magnolia punctuated by grassy greenness.