Care

Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it matters.  As if the nourishment of your body in such a simple direct way matters...and it does.  All other wisdom about gathering happiness after loss rests in our ability to bring toward ourselves that which sustains us. Before we can thread together a life that rises in the presence of sorrow we must include loving ourselves through acts of care. When we do we can begin to experience the world as if love and hope and goodness do exist.- Maria Sirois from A Short Course in Happiness After Loss

After a weekend of staring grief in the face, my body is in revolt.  I stayed home from work, fearing that pieces of myself might break off in big hunks as I raced down the hall.  (Use your imagination, otherwise TMI!)  This morning, after some extra rest I  sipped warm water and lemon, drew a hot bath and then anointed my body with oil.  Slowing down moves me inward. This is what I need: Sit with my feelings of sadness and loss to move beyond it.  Sip miso broth and coconut water and seek help with my inner work-pray and meditate throughout the day.

Sirois says that happiness rests in our ability to bring to ourselves what sustains us.  This has continually been a question throughout my life. Nourishing myself spiritually and physically have been key. Specific answers come when I am quiet, open and mindful-trusting that intuitively what resonates is what I need.  This is my role in taking care of myself through my journey with grief and knowing that really despite all the love and kindness offered to me by others,  I must, in kind extend gentle love to myself.  I am enough.

Living

"Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough."

—Emily Dickinson

This morning my niece and I sat quietly in her backyard.  A warm breeze brushing against us, birds perched awaiting their turn to feed and our ears opened to their joyous song. After breakfast we meditated.  The focus of our meditation was finding inspiration.

This routine has helped ground me and reconnect with joy.  There is little responsibility here while visiting.  I am at peace.  How can I find inspiration and joy when I return bombarded by stress and responsibility? It is the inspiration that feeds my connection with Spirit.  It is indeed my lifeblood.  

I have been reading some essays by Andre Dubus.  He speaks of Sacrament. He writes of his little kitchen. He  is making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for his daughters from the confines of his wheelchair. He has mastered maneuvering this tiny space. Clearly, he struggles with the fact that he can no longer walk, but throughout the book he discovers all that he can do to prove that he is living.    This is Sacrament.  Could it be called Grace?  

Life is a gift; nonetheless I must remind myself of this everyday.  I find joy in the inspiration that comes from creating.  I must remember that I too am a Divine creation.

Urgings

As a child my daily routine included long walks along the brook that led me deep into the woods near my house.  There was a constancy in the forest.  While the level of the brook changed with the rains, a fat log, smoothed through years bridged Shaw’s hill where we sledded in the winter with the path that led to Indian Cliff.  Once on the opposite bank, I held my arms up and shimmied through a thorny stand of bushes thinking that maybe this time I would emerge unscathed. This opened into a field with a defined path that may have once been a gravel road.  Likely it served purpose to the one lone farm house within my vision; an intrusion that seemed to loom over me, as I turned my face toward the woods. Indian Cliff afforded an exhilarating rush of water, a near waterfall, more woods that if you walked far enough led to encroaching housing developments. Most time was spent near the water or exploring woods nearby.

As a child I listened.  I listened to the birds, to the crickets and to the rush of water.  But most importantly, I listened to myself. I listened to the nudges.  I listened to the urgings.  Go to the woods. Feed yourself with the earth. Inhale the intoxicating powers that surround you. I need to find that freedom to listen again. To go.  Be.

shifting

                                           Photo by travelinma

 The doctor announces, "He was near death when he came in."  A sobering fact.  I sat in the emergency room trying to grasp this message. Thinking shifts.  I almost lost my son.  Anaphylactic shock.  Unknown cause. "We may never know," a health practitioner added.  How do we all live with this possibility?  Without realizing, fear of death may restrict the joy of living.  Until we have more answers, living is cautious.  Carefully measured text messages: How you doing?  I love you.  Do you have your EPI pen on you?   I have awakened from a slumber.  Each moment is precious.

Repeat

Writing a blog everyday is an act of faith.  While I was clicking button after button to get to this blank page, my mind was spinning wildly hoping to land on a topic substantial enough that I could write for an extended period.  After a long week preparing my three week departure from school (I am part of a team who is testing in all of our schools in the district) my mind appears to be empty. After school I walked the shore path with Rex, shopped for fruit and veggies and prepared a simple dinner of chicken, salad and broccoli. As I age, I yearn for simplicity in all things.

Most days have become simpler since the kids are getting older.  We gained a driver in the family who is more than willing to make some pick-ups and drop offs happen. After school today, I walked with Rex long before the sun set.  Everyone was busy doing their own thing which allowed me to do my own thing; to walk and empty my head.

I could get used to this simple life. Eat, drink, walk, write and read.  Repeat.

noticing

The gravel shifted under my weight as I kicked a few pebbles and heard them scatter.  The road ahead seemed long and uphill.  I only had fifteen short minutes to walk during my lunch break. Inhaling I smelled the evergreens that lined the drive.  Infused with calm, I began to notice the woods, the different shades of green and the ferns once tight now unfurled.  Then. This.  I stopped. Wild strawberry blossoms. Soon the petals will give way to sweet little berries that stain my fingers with fragrance that lingers. My step lightened as I was transported to the empty lot next door to my childhood home where I discovered the tiny blossoms hidden under the brambles, impatiently waiting for fruit.

Contemplation of a Habit

At this point of the early evening, there ain’t much left.  Like every other working woman; I’ve worked all day rushed to two medical appointments, went to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription, dropped a kid off, picked another up, wrote 750 words, made a gourmet meal and I now look forward to a walk in a bit to clear my head.  

Once I start the habit of walking, I wonder why I ever stopped.  The routine soothes as does the normal route of travel-along the shore path and through town.  For a stretch of two years, I walked everyday.  Nothing stopped me.  A little grouchy, there were days that my husband would offer to cook supper if I just went for a walk.  My hope in life is always renewed after a walk.

For weeks now, I have been thinking about going to the gym. The reality is that I am just content to walk outside.  I tend to walk the same route, starting in the same location, but taking an opposite direction each day.  The view remains the same, but from a different perspective.  The tide changes and the light varies with the weather. Boredom is never a threat.

Tonight as I walk the path that winds along the craggy shore, I will contemplate all the good that comes and proceed through the evening content and at peace.

mother earth

Come to think of it, when I was a child I spent much of my time close to the ground or in the trees. Alone. The draw for me in my neighborhood was an expanse of land referred to as Shaw's Hill.  At the edge  was a big estate lined with a thick stand of lilacs that created a natural boundary between the two properties; one manicured and the other wild, overgrown fields and hills leading to the creek and forest.  I spent days on the wild side attempting to fly kites, picking wild berries or sliding down the hill on waxed cardboard or toboggans. Summer days my mother would send me out to pick huckleberries or wild strawberries.  Once my cup was filled, I would lie on my back and watch the cloud formation; lost in the promise that the clouds would move and change. Other times I would just walk randomly through the field and when it felt right, lie on my back. With time I would shift to my side and open my eyes to ants and other creatures as I peered through the tall grass.

The sandy beaches near my home provided another place to connect.  Here the weight of my body was supported by the tiny grains. Comfort was gained from the soft breeze and constant shift of the sea. I was always at peace near the sea with sand between my toes.  It seems that when I was young, instinctually knew what I needed; drifting off to Shaw's Hill or the beach when I needed quiet renewal.

Now, I walk through fields and into the woods and crouch low under the tree branches.  Here I find a soft bed of pine needles and I rest looking up into the blackness of bare branches that nearly obstruct the sky.  I share this space with deer and other creatures. I am surrounded by sea here on this beloved island and I seek refuge taking long walks as the sea collides with the land or is calm and still. Clearly, I am drawn to the earth, the sea and the sky. Mother Earth provides.

Gone

The Shore Path crawls with strangers and their dogs.  Rex breaks the ice as he wags and sniffs.  We strangers laugh and smile. What would we do without dogs and their non snobby ways?  The Shore Path would crawl with strangers minus the dogs.  With hands in pockets, the strangers would brush pass each other looking at their feet. The potential for connection is gone.

Facing the Changes

Lowering my head into the gusts of wind and driving rain, I cradle the stack of books in front of me; tightly pulling my jacket around them to protect from the elements.  Instinctively, I looked at my feet as prepare for the stairs. My protruding front is all I can see. Not quite trusting my footing because I can’t see my feet I gingerly make my way down the granite steps.   Suddenly, I remember times that I waddled here and there not being able to tie my shoes nor see my feet. Now instead of carrying the weight of a baby, I swaddle books; huge stacks of books from the library, from bookstores and borrowed from friends.  They are all through the house.  Books.  My children are mostly 

grown now, while the others are finding their way in the world through athletics and friends.  Meanwhile, I sit and contemplate how quickly all this change seems to have transpired.  The house is quiet.   There is a big chicken roasting and turkey soup simmering. This rain makes a perfect day for slowing down and savoring the quiet.  My books are stacked beside me, ready for devouring during the quiet serene; that is now often my life.

Coming Back

It has been a long long winter.  Too much time spent in my head.  Thinking.  My brain has been stretched and manipulated to a degree that it is worn out. Tired like an old rubber band fraying around the edges.  

The woods beckon me to venture into the dark where the moss come alive, emerald green. A path leads to high ground where  the blueberry barrens begin to buzz.  Life comes back slowly.  A pace all its’ own.  This is where I begin to unfurl. Life comes back slowly. Of this I am certain.

One Thing At a Time

                                                                                Photo by Travelinma

“It is genetic,” I joke as I check the pockets of my jeans, jacket,  the crooks and crannies of the large oversized bag holding books and journals and finally my purse-my just cleaned out purse.  Had I already put the keys in the ignition? Nope.  Through the rain and wind, I race in the house.  Scan the table, countertop.  Bedroom.  Night table.  Bed.  Keys on the bed.  Of course.  I left them there.  Don’t you remember when I was looking for something...now what was I looking for anyway?

As a young mother multi-tasking through babies, toddlers, twins and teenagers made me feel empowered. I was doing it all. I was teaching full time, running a business, taking care of children, and  the house. You get the idea.  Holding a baby while doing dishes. Vacuuming while cradling.  Sure.  Multi-tasking got me through. Eating in the car on the way to work.  Reading while talking on the phone.  Executed masterfully, or so I thought.

I was floored when I read a study about the dangers of multitasking.  After all it is not the best thing to be doing. (Oh, my plate is empty?  I forgot that I had finished. Did I really eat that?)  Now the emphasis is on giving full attention to one task at a time.  Multi-tasking is a bad habit to break.  Each day I take moments, close my eyes and breathe.  I pray. Yet I have allowed my brain to be snatched by technology.  The iphone has become another appendage. Awareness is but a start.

Writing each day helps to sort through the clutter of my life to unearth what is important.  It sounds like a bit of a cliche, but living each moment fully means that the mind is trained to focus on the now.  Rewiring the “motherboard” requires  persistent effort. Living mindfully is the key to living the life that I am intended to lead.   I don’t want to miss a thing.

Blessings of the Earth

Thick clouds cast a gray shadow over the daylight hours.

Nonetheless, I am drawn to sipping my coffee outside on the deck. Expecting to sit in quiet, I am witness to frenzy. Birds fly overhead this way and that and a chorus from every direction competes for sound space. I stand; my eyes scan the ink black tree tops. Everything is a shadow.  The squawky jays do not escape my ear. The smaller birds perhaps sparrows flit from tree to tree.  My untrained ear is of no use.   I lean against the side of the house in wait.  Uncertain of what I am waiting for I close my eyes and just listen.  I am drawn to the outside and realize just how blessed I am on this Earth Day.

the quest

The winter layers finally shed, we walk in the woods dressed like spring,  REAL spring.  Tails in wag, nose in sniff, hyper-vigilant puppies in a quest to not miss a thing. Each step  slows to the present.  Birds welcome in song.  Trees dormant all winter wear buds tightly wrapped, just in case it snows in May.  Uncertain times.  We press forward along the path of mottled light, trees cast shadows, but the sun warms.  My eyes and ears open to this moment. The only one that matters.  Now.  This day. And all is perfectly as it meant to be.

Ode to the Egg

Unlikely place to find comfort
In the sink while water runs
Between white and membrane
With gentle hand the shell releases
Presenting a perfect protein,
Gifts from our hens.

we all have stories to tell

"How do we know about those around us?...Sit close to someone you love and implore that person to tell and tell and tell their story. " -Thanhha Lai

We’d sit close on the sofa, but not before my grandmother smoothed  the scratchy coverlet, the one with white gray roses as big as cabbages that seemed to match the wallpaper in Papa’s room. She’d tell me stories.  I only remember a few.  As a young impressionable boy, my father aimed for piety.  He would pretend that he was a priest.  His religious collar-a Kotex pad. Each time Gram told me that story she would laugh holding her belly, but she told it in a way that expressed her love for my father and his resourceful ways.  He did not become a priest. I think that thought was short lived.

My grandmother threw up just once in her life.  The  cross country trip from Washington, DC to San Francisco was hot. She unloaded in a gas station rest room that did not meet my grandmother’s strict standards of cleanliness. Two stories. One  kotex and a whole life time of experiencing the wretchedness of “tossing your cookies” just once.  I remember that story because it seemed like I had become adept at holding a bowl under my chin. Oh how I long to remember something really really important.  Something really really meaningful.   Decades of stories lost on a girl who didn’t know better.

Do I know better now?  I am not sure.  At one point in my life, actually several points in my life I toyed with the idea of becoming a Social Worker.  Psychology fascinated me.  Mostly, I thought I was a good listener. Is it because life has become complex?  Everyone is moving about so fast.  Is it that I have a tendency to be anxious and  to jump to conclusions?  I stopped listening. I stopped listening well.

Listen.  Invite the stories to come.

An Unexpected Journey

The sleet pings against the window. The ground is white again. The wind howls. It is the last day of March.  The calendar tricked us all into thinking it was spring more than ten days ago.   There are some things you just can’t change.  So why complain? Yet, I sit here on my hands trying to stay warm and control myself.  This yucky weather is getting to me.

A few years ago when I began reading, Ann Voskamp’s A Thousand Gifts: Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are, I had no idea how it would begin to shape me.  In short, Ann was going through a difficult passage in her life.  At the time, she was a young mother, wife and the daughter of a minister.  She felt unhappy and unfulfilled.   Ann began the practice of documenting images, sounds and events in her life that filled her with gratitude.  Her goal was to accumulate 1,000 life-bites of gratitude.

Three years ago, I began the same practice.  When my heart stirs with discontent or sadness, I reach for my Gratitude Journal.  I may simply begin to connect with gratitude by reading my posts. I slow down, heighten my senses and begin to write.  Here are a few excerpts from my journal:

#1:  The pungent flavor, texture and smell of freshly ground pepper scattered across the surface of my omelet.

#4:  The perfect roll of cuff on my favorite wool sweater.

#183:  A forest path mottled with light.

#449: Scraping the windshield produces ribbons of frost.

#731:  Hugs from former students who are now taller than me.

#759:  Warm floorboards.

#831:  Husband’s whistling as he comes through the door.

Consciously for me, there are no guidelines or rules associated with this journal.  I don’t write in it everyday. As a matter of fact, I have misplaced the journal for days, weeks and  months. When I find it-I begin the practice again.

This has allowed me to focus on the good in my life. Gratitude opens my heart to love and the possibilities available to me.

Gifts

It was a little over a year ago, when my husband brought home from the post office a tiny box.  “I can’t believe all those chicks fit in that box,” I said,”it’s so little.” My husband’s hand seemed to swallow each one as he moved them from the box to an area we had prepared in the cellar. They all stood together under the warmth of the heat lamp, each pressing against the other, steadying.  

Each Sunday morning, I rise early to make homemade waffles.  It requires eggs and lots of them since I quadruple the recipe and then double the recipe most Sundays.  I never know how many teenage boys will emerge from the bedrooms once the smell wafts through the house.  This past Sunday as I cracked the eggs into a smaller bowl, it occurred to me what a  miraculous year-long production it has been as the tiny chicks have grown to produce food for my family. The yolks, a vibrant yellow orange, plump-a work of art smiled up at me. Truly, a gift.

Slowing Down

A light, but steady snow has created a powdery coating over everything outside.  Maybe it is my aging practicality or that I must make an appointment for myself to remedy anxiety, but I am already thinking about the trek to work.  I go slowly, but everyone else is in high gear.

The first alarm goes off at 5 and I grope in the dark to turn it off.  It is an annoying sound choice, no trill of a harp for me.  The chances of slumbering through an angelic musical ladder of notes is quite high.  I must take my medicine 30 minutes before eating. (This is something new for me-out of the ordinary to have to take anything on a regular basis.) The second alarm goes off at 5:30.  For a half hour I am drifting between sleep and wakefulness.  There is only one cat at my feet and I snuggle deeper into the bed pulling the comforter just under my chin.  I am not too cold nor too hot, but just right, cozy and comfy.  I smile in recognition of this condition of near perfection.

Turning off the alarm and leaving my husband to rest, I pad out to the kitchen.  It has been only three mornings-a routine already.  Oatmeal, a half a bagel, fruit, tea and water.  This is the fare that will sustain us until sunset.  During this nine-teen day period (The Baha'i Fast) I am always surprised by how frequently food and drink become part of my day.  My lunch-time is now spent in prayer.  Often I walk along the woods near my work.  This too helps to create mindfulness and give thanks. Perhaps it all sounds a bit contrived, but The Baha'i Fast is always well timed.  I am able to breathe, slow down and trust all the while creating a sense of gratitude for all.

It's Not Working

I’m guilty.  Not long ago, I was able to care for three babies younger than two years old and chase after their active big brother who was seven.  Crazy times meant that I learned to multi-task.  The simplest outing required some pre-planning using imagery techniques to help prepare  the sequence of events necessary to pull off a trip to the lake, a visit to the doctor or a dash into the grocery store.   I  worked full time out of the house.  ran a bed and breakfast with my husband, and cooked, cleaned and chased kids.  My feat rivaled super-human possibilities. Multi-tasking became a required survival strategy.  

As the children grew older and more independent, multi-tasking allowed me to still do more in less time.  I often misplaced my keys, non-food items ended up in the deep freeze and  frantic, desperate phone calls were regularly made to my mother.  Fortunately, she was well trained in soothing stress. anxiety and cooed gently, “Some days are like that.”  This implied that she too had her moments, but I was never really sure her life was ever as crazy as mine was at the time.

Now that I am older and maybe a little wiser, I fall victim to multi-tasking. At times, I forget that I have finished eating and look for the last few forkfuls on my plate.  My keys still regularly disappear and are often found in a pocket that I have checked numerous times. I am a well-practiced multi-tasker who finds it hard to break out of it.  You see I catch myself racing, thinking about dinner when I am reading a book or remembering I have to pick up one of my kids for an appointment while I am at Hannaford shopping for dinner.  I race here and I race there.  Luckily,   I never forget to use polite words, although I don’t always take the time to make eye contact and smile.  Fumbling with the receipt and credit card  as I fight for a order in my overflowing purse, I am out the sliding doors ready for the next few moments.  I’m already in the car and racing to my next event.

Anyone else forget to breathe?  Yes, I am embarrassed and yes I am guilty.  Practicing mindfulness and moving about in this world with intention is what may save us all.  It takes only a minute to connect with another human through eye contact and a genuine smile.  Our urgency for getting it all in is doing all of us a disservice. The benefits of multi-tasking are over-rated.