The Woman

There was a time, a long time ago that a woman, a busy mother sat on a cushion and meditated.  This woman woke early each morning and from the perch of her yoga mat, she breathed, she stretched and smiled.  With this practice of prayer, meditation and yoga she felt balanced, strong and vigorous.  She took care of her husband, her kids (too many to count) and her mother-in-law.  This life was filled with responsibility, but she was able to find peace and contentment.

The house this woman lives in now has two dogs, four cats and a teenager.  Everyone else has grown up and moved out of the house to seek themselves.  The mother-in-law passed away, Alzheimer's robbing her of a life long before her body gave out.  And sadly, the woman's husband who was the love of her life died quite suddenly and unexpectedly leaving her mostly alone in the big house.  Wanting to take care of herself and ease the grip of grief, the woman remembered how peaceful and balanced she felt on her mat moving and then sitting and emptying her mind.  The woman felt good paying attention to her breath and reciting prayers of healing and light.  She remembers.

For a long time the woman was able to just think about doing yoga.  Weeks and months passed.  She thought and thought, but that is all she could do.  One day she bought yoga pants and a shirt.  The woman dragged her yoga mat from the closet.  Standing in the mountain pose, feeling tall and strong the woman breathed deeply, she stretched, she twisted and for a short time felt her body.  The woman's mind was occupied with her breath, her strength and all the possibilities that her daily practice brought her.

Sitting in a crowd of seventy people young and old who have lost loved ones, the woman was told by Rosie Dalton, a once grieving mother turned life coach, "Your only job is to take care of yourself-that is all you can do."  The woman took this advise seriously.

bit by bit

i used to create
to entertain others,
but now i do it
in an attempt
to piece
my broken self
together,
bit by bit.

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.

This Time

Every time I do it, I start with the notion that this time will be different.  

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I was about eight sitting in the back yard in shorts.  I grabbed the inside of my thigh. Fat I thought.

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Where did my convoluted self perception originate? And most importantly, why has it been perpetuated into middle age?

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I loved climbing trees and found the perfect set of branches to nail a few boards across.  Perched high above the world, I would stand and gaze in all directions; imagining that I could see all the way to the White Mountains.  With books piled high, I would sit and read.

Not all the neighborhood boys bullied me, but a pair of brothers did.  A large shed stood at the corner of their property. They liked to climb up on the flat roof.  They wouldn’t let me up because, “The roof will cave in.  Too fat,” they said laughing and snickering. I walked away and retreated to my own high place and dreamed.

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Over the years, I have lost a few hundred pounds.  Losing weight has been easy.  I never starve myself, but begin determined to make lasting changes.  It just never sticks.

Now it will be different. I am working on accepting my imperfections and loving myself bits at a time.

 

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.

Promises

The wipers squeak intermittently shoving the snow and freezing rain to the side. Visibility is not bad, but the roads are considering the calendar will soon promise May flowers. By afternoon, the sun hangs in the cloudless blue sky. It remains cold.

On the ride home I think of tea.  Afternoon tea with soy and somedays a touch of honey. Comfort.

An empty house gives time to write.  The door opens to a set of wagging tails and kitties coming in and going out.  Rap music blares. Undaunted, I sit in my bedroom.  The sun streams in.   The wind gusts. I type words-whatever comes to mind.    I am not sure I like it.  Discipline is a requirement of this practice-as is letting go of control.  Yet, I continue to do it, with the hope that it is doing something, anything.   Everyday promises to include something worthy of our attention.  Today it is the act of delicately stringing words while I sip my tea.

A Thief in the Night

You came like a thief in the night,

Robbing me.

For so long I mocked you,

As you struck others around me.

Thinking I was forgotten.

I will fight you.

Be ready,

Invading my body

Was surely a mistake.

This is a battle that I will win.

(While I was writing this I began to think of those with serious illness. I am a lucky one. My illness will pass relatively quickly without any long term effects. This poem is a tribute to the brave ones that must face life with ongoing health issues.)

My dog Rex...morning comfort while I'm sick.

Hanging on Tight

Some days I struggle.  Honestly, maybe it is most days.  Growing up Catholic in an Irish Catholic parish surrounded  by nuns, priests and a grandmother who anointed her sore knees with holy water each day, living was easy.  Each Sunday morning was spent in mass standing, kneeling and reciting a string of unknown Latin words in chorus.  The moves and lyrics a predetermine orchestration of mindless habit at least for some.  Often a trio of men in charge of the church,  there would be one appointed to stand at the pulpit booming  inspiration to sustain the congregation for the entire week.  Those who stumbled and failed to live by the standards of the church were absolved of sin through confession with a quick sign of the cross and a string of Hail Marys and Our Fathers.   I wonder who I would be without this identity.  The innocence of childhood made it easy to exist under these conditions for this is all I knew.

As an adult, I am responsible. Often times, I do not think that I should be.  Life can be confusing.  Life can be hard.  I struggle to be the person I want to be.  Each day I wake up, I think it will be different, but it isn’t.  This is the day that I make good healthy choices.  No junk. Water.  Maybe a walk and I will sit quietly.  I will pray and meditate.  This may sound self-centered and maybe even short-sighted.  It is not enough for me to conduct myself in a manner that is considered to be kind and loving toward others.  Everything just feels a bit hollow. Do I hang onto the fear of failure and rejection? I need not always be a victim.

As we approach the advent of spring, a symbol of renewal, I pray that I will come to a new place of acceptance and patience for myself and others.  I want to let go of this struggle and write a new story filled with hope for myself, my family and all humankind.  Somehow I think there is a spiritual solution to all this.  I just hope I latch onto something soon and hang on tight.

Freely

Squeezed dry

Sadness remains

Where hope

Once was,

This heart

Has no

Regrets.

It has given

Freely.

Through the Brambles

                                                                       

Lately, I have been thinking about how I handle stress, disappointment and life's surprises-of which I have had many.  Grit?  It is always a question as to how much I have.  It seems that I have more when I have accessed my resources and supports than when my reserves for "curve balls" has been depleted by lack of self-attention.  It has long been my contention that not only do the daily habits of a spiritual being like praying, meditating and engaging in kindnesses support each soul, but for me, creative pursuits contribute greatly to my well-being.  That is why I write.  It sounds corny, but it feeds my soul.

Writing for the purpose of posting to my blog has become a habit.  The hard part is working on other writing projects that require long term effort, persistence and facing the fact that I don't always know what I am doing as I tread on new territory.  My motivation for my current project is to honor a strong woman who became my dear friend, an unlikely pairing. Part of what thwarts me is the fear that my words will not do her justice.  Part of my fear is that my memory of her remains unclear, foggy. When I think of this project there is a mix of excitement, apprehension and pure fear.  It is easier to think plenty about this project than to plunge ahead and give it a go.  I am hopeful that with all my supports at the ready and by creating a plan for persistent effort, I will find my way through the brambles.

The Light Within

The thin curve of my upper lip,
The nose that looks like the milk man's.
Bit by bit,
Learning to love it all
Through the Light within.

Loving Through Images

Thumbing through stacks of photos while visiting my childhood home recently, reminded me just how important it is to preserve and treasure family history through images.  I found images of my father as a pudgy five year old in knickers with a pageboy haircut. In another photo my mother at about the same age, smiles in the direction of the camera the blue of her eyes lost in the black and white processing.  There were decks of newer photos too.  My mother was the photographer,  that is when she remembered the camera. She captured mostly holidays or special occasions.  The composition of all her her photos were problematic, the subjects rested on the bottom eighth of the photo showing the tops of heads, while most of the square print was wall and ceiling.  Standing in the middle of my old bedroom, holding the image of Auntie and Gene with their smiles running off the edge of the photo made me smile. Suddenly, I recalled that despite protests (my mother painstakingly took forever to snap a "bad" photo) she continued to be the family photographer.  When I was old enough, I  wrangled the camera from her. From then on I was absent from family photos.

I have a friend that takes self-portraits almost daily.  I stare her image. How does she do that? I couldn't. I thought. She holds all that she has become until that moment in the image. All the joys, the lessons and the pain.  I realize for the most part, I remain absent from photographs.  Although said to be photogenic, I do not like to like to have my photo taken.  Hyper-critical, whenever I am forced to be in front of a lens I hide behind the torso of another and peek. Just little bits of me show.

What would happen if I began the practice of a self portrait a day?  Would I come to discover the light within and learn to accept myself as I am?  Does how I look really have much to do with all the "inside" work?  I could learn to love.

One day my daughters may discover the series of self-portraits and hold them tightly and view them as gifts to be treasured.

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.  

Beginnings

It was about this time of year when my husband and I learned that I was expecting our first child.  Often, I felt a  spine tingling sensation  the same I felt when rising up the crest of a hill and careening into the air of nothingness, an abyss.  Parenting certainly was an unknown.  I had never been one before and I had a mere nine months to prepare.  I wanted my child to have every advantage.  My body was supporting another life.  An appointment was made with a nutritionist, I did not ingest anything that might harm and I walked each day.

My pregnancy was unremarkably remarkable.  It was in the warmth of a late spring day that I began feeling a tightness. I was in labor- a slow labor.  My husband and I arrived early, my in-laws going about their morning routine. They lived nearest the hospital.  My father-in-law had been working for hours already hauling wealthy and common folk's trash to the dump.  He had come home to take care of some billing and was sitting in his plaid rust colored chair, peering over his spectacles as we trudged through the door.  My mother-in-law, drying her hands on a dishtowel cleared the couch and fluffed up some pillows.

The T.V. was forever droning in the background-white noise for living that did not seem to require attention.  That day I was in labor and I felt I needed attention!  Raquel Welch as a cave woman did not amuse me. "Turn that thing off, " I insisted, "I'm having a baby now. Here!"

Normally argumentative in a traditional controlled way, my father-in-law turned off the T.V. and all was quiet for the longest time.

care

Most of the time, I am absent from the moment-thinking ahead to the next hour, the next day, the next month.  A flurry of should's and a long list of do's. I know what I need to do.  I must force myself to write a contract and and stick to a few basic goals for health and balance:  Pray and meditate.  Drink water.  Walk.  Eat in moderation and think long and hard before a morsel passes my lips.  Pretty simple, huh?  Then why do I find it so blasted difficult to do?  The great procrastinator is at work.  More than half-way to one-hundred in years, time is apt to run out for me.  You'd think I'd have this self-care stuff figured out.

When I was five years old, it didn't take but a gold star stuck between my eyes to alert the whole neighborhood that my day in school was worthy of rejoicing.  It still takes so little to motivate me even in my mature years.

Herein lies the problem.  Like every other mother from here to Kalamazoo, I busy myself taking care of others.  Now, I know how to do that!

One Day Fearless

Fear was my father's constant companion and its' dark shadow casts a chilling message that I hear to this day, "Be careful you might get hurt," or "Get off that ladder, you'll fall."  I take few risks physically and I think of myself as a klutz.  As a mother, I did not want my children to lug this message-a heavy burden with them into adulthood. Watching my children carry a confidence and an understanding of their physical strength and capabilities helps me to keep my mouth shut, most of the time.

One day, I do remember playing football with the neighborhood boys.  We hadn't begun to play yet, when two brothers started hurling insults about my weight.  I think I was about eight years old, in that chubby state that I never seemed to grow out of for long.  They always seemed to be picking on me and reminded me how inferior I was to them, since I was a girl and a fat one at that.  My backyard afforded just a big enough flat surface at the bottom of a slight slope of grass to play football.  I remember the heckling and frustration I felt as a result.  Normally, we played touch football, but we had collectively decided that we would allow tackling.  Determined and fearless, I  had a plan to tackle hard.  The youngest brother who really was a bit of a wimpish bully was carrying the ball.  My focus was to wrap my arms around his legs and trip him up.  That will send him and his brother a message to not mess with me, I thought.   The next thing I knew we both hit the ground with a thud, my nose taking the brunt of the impact.  In like motion and timing, we quickly got to our feet,  leaning forward while cupping our hands to catch the stream of red.  He ran home wailing.  I quietly stepped inside my house as I glanced out the window both teams had quickly dispersed and the back yard was empty.

Telling my father about the tackle, he applied a dry compress under my upper lip to stop the bleeding. I was prone on the couch my head propped up by pillows.  My father was patiently explaining what he was doing and why.  I was mesmerized.

"This is how they do it in the locker room," he shared, his voice seemed to be filled with pride.   That day, I felt a special connection with my father.  During those hours, he cared for me we never spoke of fear because we had it all under control. We were both fearless.

The Last of Coziness (For a Bit)

I am buoyed by family, friends and my sweet dog Rex.  We spent quality time together this weekend doing all things important: praying, walking, eating, swimming and laughing.  As the rain was pelting the roof of the camper, I lay in bed with Rex this morning undeniably cozy.  You know those mornings when you really do not want to get out of bed and spoil the coziness of the moment? It was one of those mornings.  The tempo of our mornings will change from the easy rhythm of summer to the comforting structure of school and fall schedules.  Onto a fight for the bathroom each morning, decisions about wardrobe and the excitement of starting a new year of learning and discovery.  Bring it on.

"A Woman's Place"

We live in a culture of unspoken rules.  There is a set of expectations that define a woman and  a mother.  Cultural standards may contribute to order and the wellbeing of society, but the rules are often confusing and limiting.  I was talking to a friend who admitted to struggling emotionally, physically, spiritually and financially.  Ordinarily, a very private person, earlier in the day she opened up to a mutual friend who from our perspective is “well put together” and executes life with ease.  Outward appearances do not tell the inner truth.  Why do women seem so hesitant to unite and support each other in common struggles?   The rules are clear, but do not ultimately serve a purpose.  For instance, women are to think of others at all times and take care of themselves last. Driven by guilt, for years I put myself last.  It didn't work and resulted in extra stress, extra weight and a few more medical bills.  Taking care of myself does not come naturally, I have to work at it, yet it gives me the positive energy to ultimately fulfill my responsibilities of caring for others in my roles as mother and teacher. One day self care will be legitimized and society will celebrate the efforts of ordinary women. It will become the expectation of womanhood, as natural as the pull of the tides.