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.

Balancing

These days we are all seeking comfort.  Early this morning as I crept down the hall, I noticed nestled in the crook of the tree just outside the window, a squirrel.  His torso hugged low to the tree, his front legs outstretched with his chin resting.  Peaceful, that is until moments after I noticed him; he sensed potential danger.  From the slumbering perch, he was ready to leap, ears twitching and it appeared he was trembling.  I watched him leap to a nearby tree trunk, pause and leap again.  The leaves quaked under his weight.  I turned and went about my day wondering if he was really ever fully at ease or in a state of comfort.  

Soon after the squirrel incident, I made my way through the house and outside to be near the birds and foliage.  The sun still in that in-between state of warmth and heat filled the backyard with light.  In this place, I find comfort.  Closing my eyes I say a prayer, notice my breath and then begin to draw.

Next door, I hear someone yelling commands in Spanish.  The John Deer is zipping through the small patch of green. Someone else revs up the grass trimmer, then a leaf blower.  The succession of noise assaults the quiet.  My comfort is disturbed.  Like the squirrel I must be ready for disturbances that may prick my state of calm.  Isn’t it all about strategizing a balance of inner peace and inner strength?  In this day, both are important.

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.

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.

Adjusting

Is it just me, or is everyone going about a thousand times a minute? Everything is bustling in town after a long sleepy winter. It seems to happen overnight.   Most people are adjusting to the fast pace of a summer in Bar Harbor.  I won’t see my children on a regular basis. Everyone will be working. They will come and go while Jerry and I adjust to eating alone.

Some days I long for stretches of time alone with my husband.  Yet, the reality is I will miss the phone calls, “Can you come pick me up?” The plans, “I have a track meet on Thursday and practice all week.” The athletic antics, “I’m gonna dunk.” I may not miss the dirty dishes piled up in the sink or the long, long showers of teenagers, but I will miss everything else.

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.

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.

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.

Almost

Inside we were safe and warm.  The waffle iron steamed and hissed, maybe in objection to the howling wind and drifting snow outside. Our plates were filled to the edges with homemade waffles.  The butter melting into the maple syrup made a sweet, buttery mix.  I stirred the topping gently with my fork and carefully put a piece in my mouth.  The buttery liquid dripped down my chin and onto my favorite gray wool sweater.  Wetting the corner of a towel and absorbing the sweet oily trail that lined my front, I inched near my husband who was sitting on a stool at the counter and had two odd shapes of waffle stuck to his fork.  I imagined leaning in close  whispering, “Maybe I won’t go.”  and then I would seal that wish with a gentle kiss on his ear.

Hesitating, I said nothing and walked away.  He’d be mad, I thought. It is so cold.  I don’t want to go.

Family traditions are so important.  Sunday waffles lure my adult children home.  We tell stories.  We laugh.  And we eat.  This particular Sunday, we had made plans to walk, but the snow and ice came.  We would try to snowshoe.

The wind was biting.  Elizabeth and I were wrapped in scarves in a futile attempt to cover skin. Jerry pulled the soft fleece neck warmer, above his chin.   Aaron had no gloves and tucked his hands in his sleeves.  The field had areas that were drifted while exposing patches of crusty icy snow.  We trudged one by one through the open field in the expected snowshoe kind of waddle.   Chins down against the wind.  For a time I moved with my eyes closed.  My nose ran, it was so cold.   Finally we reached the woods-protected from the wind.   The trees were heavy weighed down with snow-the trail  swallowed by bending trees  a natural arbor overhead.  Along the trail laden trees touched us as we passed dropping puffs of powdery snow.  It was truly a winter wonderland.  I stopped. I listened.  I watched my family ahead and realized that I almost missed this.  

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.

In and Out

A light breeze, a frigid light breeze pushes the outdoor chimes into deep throaty tunes.  I remain in bed, I listen for the cardinal who returned in recent weeks, but all I can hear are loud squawky crows driven mad by jays.  Perhaps they have met their match.

In stillness I observe. The house creaks a disconcerting yet familiar sound. Beyond the rivalry of my dogs and cats who vie for attention- I am drawn to the outside.  I observe the wild yard from within.  The sun is high casting a shadow like a network of webs from nearby trees.  Normally on bright winter days, the late morning hours encourage snowmelt, but not today.  Typically, I can hear the incessant melting roll down the roof and off the eaves.   Today the eaves are dry and silent. This is one of those days that belies the frigid reality. Winter is far from over, yet many prepare for renewal.

It was about this time of year that my mother would fling each window open letting the cold, fresh air flow through each room allowing all germs an escape. In with the new, out with the old  was the thinking.  I roll over on my side, fluff my pillow under my right ear, pulling the covers with me. I have been here in bed for more than sixteen hours. I slowly breathe in….out….in...out.  Tomorrow my body and mind will feel renewed.  

Solo

The longest stretches of time that I spend alone on a regular basis happen to be in the car driving to and from work.  The trip extends  fifteen minutes tops.  When I really think about it the  allure of solitary silence does not last long.  I am uncertain that I could do it.  Having raised eight children, currently I am surrounded by teenagers.  Mostly teenage boys and their friends who have  suddenly sprouted chin growth.  Those same boys gaggle loudly much like girls do, but they would never admit it.  The youngest in the house, a girl is in perpetual motion,planning  and compartmentalizing our lives into tidy little drawers and cabinets.  There is always a house full. Right now, that is how I like it. Soon activity will shift and my husband and I will have to adjust.  It is best to prepare, to try on silence for short periods of time, pulling and prodding until there is comfort- much like wearing that first training bra.  It took some getting use to.  Regardless, going solo for more than minutes at a time agitates, unearthing a certain degree of discontent.

I know that this silence and contentment with myself is key to my well being.  Is it really the silence or is it that fact that I don't know what to do with myself after so many years of mothering and caring for others?  I must be prepared.

Up, Out and Move

I need to forget where I take shelter being a little too comfortable in my reclining chair day after day upon returning home from work.  Here I read, socialize and most sadly this is where I eat.  Thinking about how to improve my health are first steps, written plans and action being the next phase.

There is a restlessness I feel. Uncertain whether it is the change of season or the fact that this time of year always seems to unearth projects like knitting, freshening up the interior of the house or tackling stacks of books or writing that novel.  I become a tad anxious and overwhelmed, but immersion in nature, I believe will stimulate self-truth, upright the ship for a voyage to face whatever lies ahead in this journey.

Innately, I feel like running out into the wilderness of my backyard,  touching every living surface  particularly noting the sights, smells and feeling of nature.  I wish to see the light of the sun through the paper thin bark of a white birch, the loose end unwrapped and flapping softly to mark a passing breeze.  I wish to feel the cold under my bare feet as I race on a whim to the garden where the towering sunflower skeletons, hollowed and lifeless stand ready to catch the snow with petals shriveled and the color of creamy coffee.  This is not the way one writer should experience life-sedentary from the arm of a chair, living life vicariously.   I need to get up, out and move.

Trusting the Silence

This poem is in response to my inability in remembering detail.  I have forgotten the sound of my mother's voice, moments when my dying friend admitted to fear and the number of steps to my grandmother's apartment.   I want to so desperately to remember everything, and as I  frantically try to recall, I remember nothing.   I must trust the silence.



Hues of color bleed through the darkness,
When not long ago,
Pricks of light shone,
Through black, nothingness.

Fresh memories empty into
Silence.
Silence reveals the
Extra-ordinary
Existence of
Wind
And
Bird song.

Discipline and Moderation

At one point in my life, I prayed, meditated and did yoga everyday. Recently, I have given renewed attention to my spirituality and I honestly crave meditation. yoga and long walks in the woods which I find to be meditative.  When I review how I have spent my time each day, I am embarrassed. 

I must  evaluate the quality and need for the activities that eat up my time.  Prayer, work, eating (all necessary), writing, reading and photography (also necessary) and then there's social networking.  Do I have the discipline it takes to moderate this activity?  I have made those promises to myself before, only to be sucked into the vortex emerging hours later with little accomplished.  We got rid of cable TV because it did not contribute to my well-being or the well-being of my family.  For the most part, I have  replaced the nearly mindless chatter of the tube for the highly dysfunctional world of Facebook where dirty laundry is aired, people bash one another with no remorse and proper grammar is entirely ignored.  Why, oh why do I not have better regard for how I spend my time? It is all about discipline, isn't it? Moderation in all things.

Be Like a Fern

Every clock displays a different time.  On days when there is no work, no appointments does it matter?  Responsibilities with time constraints  ruin this plan for me.  I am conditioned to wake up just before the alarm no matter the day, eat on schedule despite my lack of hunger and go to bed before a certain hour.  

Does not the old time farmer adjust his or her internal clock to the cycle of nature?  Generally, I find that during this time of year I long for the comfort of soups, stews and good long books while wrapped under the weight of blankets. Generally,  adjust to the natural seasonal cycles quite easily.  It is during the minute to minute attempts to empty my mind and connect with the Spirit when my mind wildly winds around the constraints of time and doing.  "The mop. The floor Wish I could find that book.  Where is it?  Supper.  I've gotta use up carrots? Chickens.  Bring the scraps. Moldy bread.  Over fridge. When was the last time we...." Rather than the present, I think about the tasks of the future.  It is all about time and my tendency to multi-task.  Touted as a super human feat among woman everywhere, multitasking is the demise to my mindfulness.  Out of necessity, I have been doing it for decades now.  I must retrain myself.  To be.  Quiet, hushed connections.  With this my spirit will grow  in beauty and show up in the most unlikely places, just like those ferns.  

Island Dweller

,

An island dweller am I,
The crashing waves lull me to sleep,
But by day
They infuse a rhythm,
On this little spit of land,
Hands weathered by the harsh winds
Pulling the day's catch.
Salty air,
Like strong coffee,
Senses awakened,
And filled with gratitude.

Through the Eyes of a Child

While the neighborhood boys poked frogs with sticks, I preferred to sit back and observe.  Hours were spent on the edge of the asphalt on Dearborn Avenue where little piles of sand would build up in mounds.  Streams of ants would march in single file intent on task completion.  Lugging a grain of sand from place to place was hard work and I marveled at the sophistication of a community working together.

Perhaps I have only seen three praying mantis in my life because of their incredible nature to act like the stems of a leaf and blend or because of the uncanny ability of children to be observers. Throughout my adulthood, I have been graced with the privilege to be with children and learn great lessons through their display of  wonderment and excitement.  If we are quiet, patient and observant, we can view the world through the eyes of a child.

Each Moment

This is a portion of a letter to my brother:

The gardens are preparing for sleep.  We ate breakfast on the porch watching the leaves of the nearest tree tumble to the ground.  Gold finches visit the sunflowers heavy with seed.

We push through another season.  Time a blur akin to racing for the next connection, rushing on the airline's mechanical walk-way.  Everything a blur in our frantic pace.

Slowed down the joy of contentment and gratitude seep into every atom.  Each moment deserves attention.

The Journey

As a kid, I talked to God all the time.   Now, I just can't seem to do it.  I pray, mostly when someone asks for help. I seldom pray for myself.  It is clear that I need to work on my relationship with God.  It receded as the tide when my parents died within three months of each other.  Interestingly, I cannot talk to my parents either.  I have lost my anchor and my rudders.  With determination, I will find my way to port.

Through the kindness of a dear friend, I am on holy ground where all souls are seeking the truth for themselves.  I have spent so many, many days here in transformation along with my family.  Alone, this is my journey-one that I must work and sort out by myself.  Presently, I feel empty. Dead.  Perhaps I need to feel the emptiness to appreciate the full bounties of God's love for me, while discovering my spiritual potentiality.

 Where do I begin?  How do I find my way?  I pray that I do.