This weekend, I was catching up on reading some of my favorite blogs...not an easy thing to do when I'm busy writing my own! But they inspire me, so it is a must. One of the blogs I read regularly, Carrots 'n' Cake, brought me a great reminder...that what we want -- read: what our mind wants -- isn't always what's best for our body.
Not brain surgery, I know. How many times do we continue eating after we're full? Who hasn't had more than their share to drink because it sounds like such a good idea at the time? And what about ignoring our physical limitations?
While we are not our body, our continual trip around the sun is made possible by it. We are in partnership with it whether we realize it or not, and as such, we'd best mind it to a degree, or pay the consequences.
So how can we listen more carefully to our bodies, to what they are trying to communicate to us? How do we realize that while mind-over-matter can be a remarkable thing to behold, there may be some things that are in our body's best interest not to do...regardless of our mind's commitment to the contrary?
Tina from Carrots 'n' Cake was blogging about her recent New York Marathon adventure and what she learned about herself from the experience: "I love running more than my body does." You have no idea how relieved I was to see someone admit this.
Because in a very small way it gives me permission to admit it, too. And not just about running.
My body and my mind have come to blows many times in my life regarding who has seniority. Illnesses and injuries -- in many cases debilitating -- all because my mind eagerly picked up the gauntlet, time and time again, pushing my body farther than it could handle. I have never been one to back down from a challenge, physical or otherwise, and am one of those wild types who will sometimes invite a challenge simply for the opportunity to remind myself I can do anything I set my mind to.
I like to say this is the Sisu in me...but I still wonder if it's not just some level of pig-headed egoism instead. When "Bring it On!" becomes your war-cry, perhaps the Universe simply decides it's time for some different lessons instead...ones that require a bit less reckless abandon and more, how shall I put this, fine-footed-finesse?
As a firm believer that experience is the greatest teacher, what I've learned is that no matter what wild adventure I'm in the middle of, the experience of how I'm listening to -- or rather not listening to -- my body trumps everything as the most important. Perhaps it's because I've spent so much of my life idolizing the god of the mind that the lessons these days are less about a pure exploration of what I'm capable of and more about asking the hard question: how on earth can I get my mind and body to work together?
My mind believes it's invincible. My body knows otherwise. While it's priceless to know of your toughness, to trust without a doubt that you have the mental stamina to make it through any possible challenge that presents itself, it's also a beautiful and precious thing to learn to honor the body and what it can handle.
This is a perfect reminder for me going into Thanksgiving week at the bakery -- one of the busiest holidays of the year for us, all crammed into three exceptionally fast-pace, yet very long days. Thanksgiving 2009 is my most recent example of how I can let the signals from my body get hijacked by my desire to do it all.
Gratefully, I'm learning -- ever so slowly -- to mind the body. Staying connected with my body through eating well and yoga asana is crucial. Meditation helps. And presence is key.
What is your experience striking a workable balance between mind and body?//
What's For Dinner Tonight?
Our impromptu Friends and Family Week continues tonight as we go out for a belated birthday dinner with friends for the three of us with October birthdays. Even though it's a busy week, we are taking advantage of an open night for all to make this happen...since last year time got away from us (and real life happened) causing us not to celebrate until January!
Now, I'm all for extending my birthday celebration and everything, but that's ridiculous!
Last January's dinner was at Carmelo's Italian Restaurant in St. Paul and we had such a wonderful experience, we thought we'd try it again. I LOVE this place! And I love what they stand for (quoted from their website):
we do not believe in “ready-made” we believe in homemade that is why everything we serve, from the bread to the pasta to all of our sauces, they are made from scratch & all from generational recipes, just the way grandpa carmelo intended it to be
Sniff, sniff...so beautiful, I could cry!
Buon appetito!
Showing posts with label humility. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humility. Show all posts
Monday, November 21, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Engaging
"You've given me the best of you, now I need the rest of you." ~Billy Joel, from the song These Are The Times To Remember
Last night, I took Trooper for a late evening stroll through the neighborhood on what we believe will be the last hot summer night of 2011. As we wandered, I looked up to find bright and full before us, the enormous Harvest Moon low in the eastern sky. It was idyllicly framed at the end of the long stretch of road we were on. My breath caught in my chest and I spontaneously laughed at the majesty of it. At the precious surprise of it. I was frozen in place watching, witnessing its presence for what seemed like hours -- which didn't bother Trooper at all, since she would rather go for a "sniff" than a walk these days anyway.
It made me wonder what it was about the moon -- Harvest or not -- that always gives me pause. All I could come up with is that it engages me. Somehow with its presence, just by its showing up, I feel drawn in, nourished and grateful. It is the moon's being that fills me. The moon simply is and in that, is complete and offers a feeling of wholeness in me. As ineffable as this relationship between us is, it's pure and unconditional.
How often do we feel we need to do something or provide something for someone in order to be in relationship with them?
I've noticed this past week that I have a tendency not to get too personal with the people I work with. In order to keep the relationships professional and to feel free to leave work at work, I've kept my work-life and my home-life mostly separate. This isn't to say I'm not friendly with my co-workers, but I've kept a certain reserve that I've believed is respectful, not only of others and the work environment, but of myself as well.
Perhaps it began during my years in the corporate world, which was essentially high school in an office setting -- complete with cliques and heirarchies, where I spent most days feeling like a square peg in a round hole. In that world, doing work that I didn't especially enjoy, with rules of importance and status that I didn't buy into, it seemed easier to keep things separate. Cleaner. Safer. More predictable.
Today, I find myself ten years strong in a small business that I've enjoyed immensely, still hanging onto these old habits that I've come to learn, no longer serve me. This became clear to me last week as a co-worker and I were having a frank, personal discussion. This woman, who is young enough that I could easily be her mother (Egads! Could I be old enough for this??) remarked that she was essentially afraid of me because of my said reserve.
Scared of me? Really? Hmm.... How clean and predictable is that?
Perhaps in my effort to keep things tidy and separate, they had actually become convoluted and messy. This young woman was simply asking for engagement, not just from me as a co-worker, but from me as a woman she saw who could possibly serve as a mentor and friend, or -- GULP -- a role model. And what she saw in return was someone closed off and unapproachable, which, as someone intending to live from the heart, is the complete opposite of what I really want.
All at once I realized that perhaps I had something of value to offer the people I work with beyond my skills, my talents and what my position as general manager requires of me. Maybe just playing a role isn't enough and I have been invited to bring the rest of me to the table as well. It occured to me that what began as an innocent lack of engagement was actually coming across as a closed door more than the simple reserve I intended it to be.
Boundaries are certainly important, but we must continue to challenge the beliefs that serve as their foundation. Beneath mine I found an old, worn belief that my heart, my "is-ness", had no place at work and I've been protecting myself ever since. And now I have someone just wishing I would show up, heart and all. What an incredible gift it is.
The Harvest Moon I happened upon last night reminds me of this -- that we don't need to do anything or be anything more to those around us than to be who we are. What we have to offer is ourselves, our perspective, our spirit, our being. No special skills or degrees or training are needed. All that is required is that we show up with a willingness to engage, to be surprised and to receive as well as to share.
The moon and I simply showed up last night and found each other, sharing a beautiful engagement in the process. I don't imagine it's all too different with people...when we let it.//
Last night, I took Trooper for a late evening stroll through the neighborhood on what we believe will be the last hot summer night of 2011. As we wandered, I looked up to find bright and full before us, the enormous Harvest Moon low in the eastern sky. It was idyllicly framed at the end of the long stretch of road we were on. My breath caught in my chest and I spontaneously laughed at the majesty of it. At the precious surprise of it. I was frozen in place watching, witnessing its presence for what seemed like hours -- which didn't bother Trooper at all, since she would rather go for a "sniff" than a walk these days anyway.
It made me wonder what it was about the moon -- Harvest or not -- that always gives me pause. All I could come up with is that it engages me. Somehow with its presence, just by its showing up, I feel drawn in, nourished and grateful. It is the moon's being that fills me. The moon simply is and in that, is complete and offers a feeling of wholeness in me. As ineffable as this relationship between us is, it's pure and unconditional.
How often do we feel we need to do something or provide something for someone in order to be in relationship with them?
I've noticed this past week that I have a tendency not to get too personal with the people I work with. In order to keep the relationships professional and to feel free to leave work at work, I've kept my work-life and my home-life mostly separate. This isn't to say I'm not friendly with my co-workers, but I've kept a certain reserve that I've believed is respectful, not only of others and the work environment, but of myself as well.
Perhaps it began during my years in the corporate world, which was essentially high school in an office setting -- complete with cliques and heirarchies, where I spent most days feeling like a square peg in a round hole. In that world, doing work that I didn't especially enjoy, with rules of importance and status that I didn't buy into, it seemed easier to keep things separate. Cleaner. Safer. More predictable.
Today, I find myself ten years strong in a small business that I've enjoyed immensely, still hanging onto these old habits that I've come to learn, no longer serve me. This became clear to me last week as a co-worker and I were having a frank, personal discussion. This woman, who is young enough that I could easily be her mother (Egads! Could I be old enough for this??) remarked that she was essentially afraid of me because of my said reserve.
Scared of me? Really? Hmm.... How clean and predictable is that?
Perhaps in my effort to keep things tidy and separate, they had actually become convoluted and messy. This young woman was simply asking for engagement, not just from me as a co-worker, but from me as a woman she saw who could possibly serve as a mentor and friend, or -- GULP -- a role model. And what she saw in return was someone closed off and unapproachable, which, as someone intending to live from the heart, is the complete opposite of what I really want.
All at once I realized that perhaps I had something of value to offer the people I work with beyond my skills, my talents and what my position as general manager requires of me. Maybe just playing a role isn't enough and I have been invited to bring the rest of me to the table as well. It occured to me that what began as an innocent lack of engagement was actually coming across as a closed door more than the simple reserve I intended it to be.
Boundaries are certainly important, but we must continue to challenge the beliefs that serve as their foundation. Beneath mine I found an old, worn belief that my heart, my "is-ness", had no place at work and I've been protecting myself ever since. And now I have someone just wishing I would show up, heart and all. What an incredible gift it is.
The Harvest Moon I happened upon last night reminds me of this -- that we don't need to do anything or be anything more to those around us than to be who we are. What we have to offer is ourselves, our perspective, our spirit, our being. No special skills or degrees or training are needed. All that is required is that we show up with a willingness to engage, to be surprised and to receive as well as to share.
The moon and I simply showed up last night and found each other, sharing a beautiful engagement in the process. I don't imagine it's all too different with people...when we let it.//
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Weeks 39 & 40 and beyond - A Little Help
"We can do no great things, only small things with great love." ~Mother Theresa
One morning last week as Terry, Trooper and I were sitting next to the rain garden, I saw a small, pale green creature struggling to make its way across the grass by our feet. Upon closer examination, I noticed it was a freshly hatched cicada -- its wings weren't even fully unfurled, and seemed to be efforting greatly to find a place to rest. The blades of grass were unyielding until the cicada had climbed up to the very tip, at which point the blade would fold and extend to the next unyielding blades.
"Look how hard he's working," I remarked to Terry. "He looks like he's climbing mountains." I crouched down next to the cicada and extended a tiny stick, which he grasped immediately. The stick provided a bit of a bridge through the grass, aiding its way to where it finally reached its destination -- the leg of Terry's chair.
"You know, they've been doing this for hundreds, possibly thousands of years without our help," Terry said. "It'll be fine."
Indeed it would, and they have, and yet I couldn't help lending a hand -- or more accurately, a stick -- anyway.
In the month or so that has passed since my meditation project officially ended on July 5th, I've been contemplating what the experience has meant for me. Forty weeks of daily meditation. Has my life been transformed, as I had wondered when I began my journey nine months ago?
Perhaps not transformed, but certainly altered. "Transformed" seems so big a word, so full of expectation, so grandiose. Having used that word when I began these forty weeks, I realize I moved into this project with much more expectation than I had originally realized. Maybe it was more a hope I had than an expectation, but it put demands on the outcome just the same. I certainly felt the resistance of those unspoken expectations as I went along. It seems what I'm left with after nine months of daily meditation isn't earth-shattering by any means. And to my surprise, I'm finding this is more than OK. In fact, it's a relief.
I admit to having lived the better part of my forty years putting an extensive amount of pressure on myself for how I should live my life and what I should be when I grow up. Is what I'm doing with my life enough? Big enough, important enough? I'm not a mother or a veterinarian or a business owner or a published novelist or a teacher -- these all feel like appropriately Big Things and I've done none of them. Whatever I'm here to do with my life, shouldn't it be big? Shouldn't everything I do be above and beyond? What am I waiting for?
If my journey with meditation thus far has granted me anything, it is humility. And trust. Suddenly, where I am and who I am is enough. However I choose to live my life, whatever I am moved to do is perfect as it is. After years of feeling I needed to be more or do more, I'm relieved to trust that everything in my life is right on time. Being in the present moment and seeking to savor every little experience isn't necessarily easy, but it's satisfying. I'm content now knowing that a life well-lived doesn't have to be about doing or having everything grand -- small matters. Watching the hummingbirds and chickadees go about their daily tasks outside my window while I write on this endlessly sunny afternoon has me full to brimming. Embracing this moment, I trust that a life well-lived is about loving the life we live and living a life we love.
Assisting a cicada on its journey to someplace dry and stable enough to complete its metamorphosis is a small gesture. As is a pat on the back, a smile or a kind word to a friend in need or the man or woman on the street. It's an acknowledgement of our common source, of what is essential and real, when what is changeable and impermanent falls away. We're all here together as manifestations of this common source on this earthly journey doing the best we can. And sometimes we all could use a little help.
Perhaps meditation is the little stick that has aided me to a safe haven to continue my metamorphosis. It's another tool in my toolbox -- a way to center, to ground, to unwind and certainly to connect. I have come to love how it bookmarks my day as I continue to sit every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to bed. Over the months, my practice has simply evolved into a morning and evening touch point, sitting for 15 minutes or more depending on how I feel and it works for me.
I imagine my practice will continue to grow and change just as I will, little by little, bit by bit, depending on what's required in the moment. It is what it is, as am I, and it appears to be just the help I need.//
One morning last week as Terry, Trooper and I were sitting next to the rain garden, I saw a small, pale green creature struggling to make its way across the grass by our feet. Upon closer examination, I noticed it was a freshly hatched cicada -- its wings weren't even fully unfurled, and seemed to be efforting greatly to find a place to rest. The blades of grass were unyielding until the cicada had climbed up to the very tip, at which point the blade would fold and extend to the next unyielding blades.
"Look how hard he's working," I remarked to Terry. "He looks like he's climbing mountains." I crouched down next to the cicada and extended a tiny stick, which he grasped immediately. The stick provided a bit of a bridge through the grass, aiding its way to where it finally reached its destination -- the leg of Terry's chair.
"You know, they've been doing this for hundreds, possibly thousands of years without our help," Terry said. "It'll be fine."
Indeed it would, and they have, and yet I couldn't help lending a hand -- or more accurately, a stick -- anyway.
In the month or so that has passed since my meditation project officially ended on July 5th, I've been contemplating what the experience has meant for me. Forty weeks of daily meditation. Has my life been transformed, as I had wondered when I began my journey nine months ago?
Perhaps not transformed, but certainly altered. "Transformed" seems so big a word, so full of expectation, so grandiose. Having used that word when I began these forty weeks, I realize I moved into this project with much more expectation than I had originally realized. Maybe it was more a hope I had than an expectation, but it put demands on the outcome just the same. I certainly felt the resistance of those unspoken expectations as I went along. It seems what I'm left with after nine months of daily meditation isn't earth-shattering by any means. And to my surprise, I'm finding this is more than OK. In fact, it's a relief.
I admit to having lived the better part of my forty years putting an extensive amount of pressure on myself for how I should live my life and what I should be when I grow up. Is what I'm doing with my life enough? Big enough, important enough? I'm not a mother or a veterinarian or a business owner or a published novelist or a teacher -- these all feel like appropriately Big Things and I've done none of them. Whatever I'm here to do with my life, shouldn't it be big? Shouldn't everything I do be above and beyond? What am I waiting for?
If my journey with meditation thus far has granted me anything, it is humility. And trust. Suddenly, where I am and who I am is enough. However I choose to live my life, whatever I am moved to do is perfect as it is. After years of feeling I needed to be more or do more, I'm relieved to trust that everything in my life is right on time. Being in the present moment and seeking to savor every little experience isn't necessarily easy, but it's satisfying. I'm content now knowing that a life well-lived doesn't have to be about doing or having everything grand -- small matters. Watching the hummingbirds and chickadees go about their daily tasks outside my window while I write on this endlessly sunny afternoon has me full to brimming. Embracing this moment, I trust that a life well-lived is about loving the life we live and living a life we love.
Assisting a cicada on its journey to someplace dry and stable enough to complete its metamorphosis is a small gesture. As is a pat on the back, a smile or a kind word to a friend in need or the man or woman on the street. It's an acknowledgement of our common source, of what is essential and real, when what is changeable and impermanent falls away. We're all here together as manifestations of this common source on this earthly journey doing the best we can. And sometimes we all could use a little help.
Perhaps meditation is the little stick that has aided me to a safe haven to continue my metamorphosis. It's another tool in my toolbox -- a way to center, to ground, to unwind and certainly to connect. I have come to love how it bookmarks my day as I continue to sit every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to bed. Over the months, my practice has simply evolved into a morning and evening touch point, sitting for 15 minutes or more depending on how I feel and it works for me.
I imagine my practice will continue to grow and change just as I will, little by little, bit by bit, depending on what's required in the moment. It is what it is, as am I, and it appears to be just the help I need.//
Monday, June 27, 2011
Weeks 34-38 - Trusting Presence
"Who can predict the wind?" ~Nicolas Cage as David Spritz in the movie The Weather Man
This past month has been a frustrating one, mainly because I have been resisting what is right in front of me -- the weather. It has been an unusually cool, wet, and very long spring to go along with our recent cold, snowy, and very long winter. I've had it in my head ever since March that soon the warmth and the sun will come and then -- and apparently only then -- I will happily get out for walks, get out in the garden, and lounge outside in the afternoons and evenings with a good book as I love to do. I've been watching the weather way too often, taking the forecasts way too seriously, and waiting...and waiting...and waiting for some picture perfect nirvana to appear so I can get on with my life.
Wow. When had I stopped living because of the weather? There's a testament to my own stubbornness if ever there was one. What hubris is it that when the weather differs from what the forecasters say, I feel as if I've been lied to? Betrayed even? Who am I to stop living my life simply because the weather doesn't suit me or isn't what I've been "led" to expect? Am I really taking on Mother Nature here? Holding out until she bends to my will?
My husband and I have been working on a rain garden which, given the amount of actual rain we've had lately, has gone in fits and starts. As I prepared to work on the dry-creek-bed-portion-of-the-program this weekend, the weather was "supposed" to be beautiful. Saturday's "promised" sunshine never appeared and instead was endless clouds and rain. I went to the landscape store for river rock, despite the rain. I figured I'd at least get that done. When I got home, the rain turned light and the area for the creek bed, which runs under a tree, was still relatively dry so I started digging and shaping and building.
As I began my work, I heard the voice in my head cursing the stupid weather-people who can never get it right. "Never! They lie to us again and again. How do they get paid for that?!?" I heard it say how impressive it was that I was out working anyway and shouldn't I get some sort of kudos for my tenacity and my willingness to work under these conditions.
Really? My willingness?!? Oh, what an ego rears its heads at such moments and can carry us away on a litany of self-importance. I tuned in to my thoughts -- really heard them this time -- and I laughed. How could I not? It was this kind of self-talk that I recognized as the source of my discomfort these past weeks as I waited endlessly for the perfect moment, the perfect conditions, the perfect situation to let go of my resistance and start living my life again.
There's a humility that comes in surrendering to the present moment that even after 38 weeks of this meditation project I'm still astounded by. I've been reminding myself that in presence there's no place for forecasters and predicting the future -- the conditions we are living in are whatever they are right now, in this moment. What is, is. If it's raining, the rain will fall. That's all. Until it doesn't...then it won't. It is what it is. Period. Any energy expended expecting it were otherwise is an exercise in crazy-making. Something we humans are so good at.
As I've written so many times in the past eight months, we can continue to wish for things to be different, question "why me?", feel betrayed when things don't go the way we expect, but this only brings suffering and it's completely self-induced. The only thing that matters is what is, right now, in this moment and how we respond to it. How we respond is within our power -- and little else. Hubris, and the chattering of the mind, is a reaction we have when we let the ego take over. But to see the folly of the ego for what it is, to find the laughter in it, we create space that allows us to be present with what we encounter in this moment, no matter what it is. There are no victims here. If we trust presence, rather than trusting ego, our conditions may not be ideal, but we can get out of our heads and accept the freedom -- and responsibility -- of living a life of our own intent.
As I continued work on the rain garden, I recognized the ego and in doing so, moved happily out of my head and into my experience. I was able to take in the singing of the birds, the beauty of the wind rustling the leaves of the tree that sheltered me beneath its branches. The light rain came and it went and still I stayed, hour after hour, crafting and getting lost in my task, lost in the present moment. I was like a kid playing in the sand, creating a fortress with my own two hands and entirely one with what was going on around me, entirely at peace. I belonged, only, it seems, because I was able to let go and simply be with what was...rain and all.
I am humbly reminded that the conditions don't matter -- only the creating, the playing, and the living do. Thank you -- once again -- for the reminder.//
This past month has been a frustrating one, mainly because I have been resisting what is right in front of me -- the weather. It has been an unusually cool, wet, and very long spring to go along with our recent cold, snowy, and very long winter. I've had it in my head ever since March that soon the warmth and the sun will come and then -- and apparently only then -- I will happily get out for walks, get out in the garden, and lounge outside in the afternoons and evenings with a good book as I love to do. I've been watching the weather way too often, taking the forecasts way too seriously, and waiting...and waiting...and waiting for some picture perfect nirvana to appear so I can get on with my life.
Wow. When had I stopped living because of the weather? There's a testament to my own stubbornness if ever there was one. What hubris is it that when the weather differs from what the forecasters say, I feel as if I've been lied to? Betrayed even? Who am I to stop living my life simply because the weather doesn't suit me or isn't what I've been "led" to expect? Am I really taking on Mother Nature here? Holding out until she bends to my will?
My husband and I have been working on a rain garden which, given the amount of actual rain we've had lately, has gone in fits and starts. As I prepared to work on the dry-creek-bed-portion-of-the-program this weekend, the weather was "supposed" to be beautiful. Saturday's "promised" sunshine never appeared and instead was endless clouds and rain. I went to the landscape store for river rock, despite the rain. I figured I'd at least get that done. When I got home, the rain turned light and the area for the creek bed, which runs under a tree, was still relatively dry so I started digging and shaping and building.
As I began my work, I heard the voice in my head cursing the stupid weather-people who can never get it right. "Never! They lie to us again and again. How do they get paid for that?!?" I heard it say how impressive it was that I was out working anyway and shouldn't I get some sort of kudos for my tenacity and my willingness to work under these conditions.
Really? My willingness?!? Oh, what an ego rears its heads at such moments and can carry us away on a litany of self-importance. I tuned in to my thoughts -- really heard them this time -- and I laughed. How could I not? It was this kind of self-talk that I recognized as the source of my discomfort these past weeks as I waited endlessly for the perfect moment, the perfect conditions, the perfect situation to let go of my resistance and start living my life again.
There's a humility that comes in surrendering to the present moment that even after 38 weeks of this meditation project I'm still astounded by. I've been reminding myself that in presence there's no place for forecasters and predicting the future -- the conditions we are living in are whatever they are right now, in this moment. What is, is. If it's raining, the rain will fall. That's all. Until it doesn't...then it won't. It is what it is. Period. Any energy expended expecting it were otherwise is an exercise in crazy-making. Something we humans are so good at.
As I've written so many times in the past eight months, we can continue to wish for things to be different, question "why me?", feel betrayed when things don't go the way we expect, but this only brings suffering and it's completely self-induced. The only thing that matters is what is, right now, in this moment and how we respond to it. How we respond is within our power -- and little else. Hubris, and the chattering of the mind, is a reaction we have when we let the ego take over. But to see the folly of the ego for what it is, to find the laughter in it, we create space that allows us to be present with what we encounter in this moment, no matter what it is. There are no victims here. If we trust presence, rather than trusting ego, our conditions may not be ideal, but we can get out of our heads and accept the freedom -- and responsibility -- of living a life of our own intent.
As I continued work on the rain garden, I recognized the ego and in doing so, moved happily out of my head and into my experience. I was able to take in the singing of the birds, the beauty of the wind rustling the leaves of the tree that sheltered me beneath its branches. The light rain came and it went and still I stayed, hour after hour, crafting and getting lost in my task, lost in the present moment. I was like a kid playing in the sand, creating a fortress with my own two hands and entirely one with what was going on around me, entirely at peace. I belonged, only, it seems, because I was able to let go and simply be with what was...rain and all.
I am humbly reminded that the conditions don't matter -- only the creating, the playing, and the living do. Thank you -- once again -- for the reminder.//
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Weeks 32 & 33 - Honoring Auntihood
This past weekend, I took on the awesome task of caring for my nephew and two nieces, ages 6, 4 and 2, while my brother and sister-in-law took a small trip for their 10th anniversary. Awesome because the kids are amazing and I'm most fortunate to be a part of their lives. And also awesome because in all of my 40 years, I have never truly appreciated the amount of constant attention and energy and selfless giving that is required in the thoughtful rearing of children...until now.
Let me say, and I hope this will in no way sound trite: Motherhood is, by far, the most important and essential role on Earth. And, it is not for me.
Instead, perhaps for the first time since we found out we couldn't have kids seven years ago, I find I am endlessly grateful (and relieved) to play Her second most important supporting role (second to Daddyhood, of course): that of Auntie.
I left my brother's house last night in a stupored awe of the toll that a mere weekend of caregiving took on me. I felt as though the kids ate constantly and I hardly ate at all. I never showered because, dear god, what would happen if someone needed me while I stole a moment to take care of a need of my own? I peed when they peed...and seemingly only when they peed. I watched the clock constantly to be sure everyone was where they were supposed to be when they were supposed to be there and was never more aware of every second of every day -- especially, how long it would take to get, not from point A to point B, but just packed in the van before commencing from point A to point B. It was exhausting on every level: physically, mentally and emotionally. Did I do the right thing when my two year old niece had a nuclear meltdown at t-ball when her bandaid fell off and I didn't have another one in my purse to replace it? Did I scar anyone for life when we were all spent and impatient and tensions ran high (all ten minutes of it)? Would they ever forgive me for not being their mommy when they woke up wanting her and I was only me instead?
Don't get me wrong -- we had a fantastic weekend. They were, for the most part, fabulous, as I can only hope they could say about me (if kids said such things...). Nothing went terribly wrong, no one killed anyone, no one lost a limb. We laughed, we played, we created, we got lots of fresh air. We had adventures. And at the end of each day, everyone (other than me, as it seems to go with mothers) was comfortably fed and clean, present and accounted for.
And yet, when I heard the garage door open at precisely 11:18pm last night, when I was formally off-duty, I nearly cried. And not because I was sorry it was over...
I was never happier than I was last night to be home, to have a quiet, solitary meal at midnight by the dim light of the microwave, to take a long, hot shower and to sleep like the dead in my own room with no worry that someone would cry out and need me in the middle of the night. Even going to work this morning, I have never been more grateful to be smack dab in the middle of my very own life.
I don't say any of this asking for sympathy, nor to be dramatic. Actual mothers get exclusive rights to this kind of storytelling. This was two days, not six years. No mother would ever be shocked or amazed at my tale of hyper-alertness, drained energy and self-sacrifice. I write this merely to share my sheer disbelief of the all-consuming nature of child-rearing. And I fully and humbly trust that I don't even know -- nor do I want to know -- the half of it.
My friends who are mothers have been telling me for years (and even twice today) how much easier it is when it's your own child. Thank you all for giving me an easy out. It may be true but I have to say, I'm not buying it. It feels like these kids couldn't be more mine if I had carried them myself -- I love them with a fierce passion I have never experienced and I am constantly blown away by the magnitude of it. Of all the kids I've been fortunate enough to share bits and pieces of my life with, I have never known a love like this before. I believe it is this kind of maternal (and paternal) love that enables us to want to throw ourselves in front of a barreling-down locomotive to save them at the same time that we want to sell them off to the neighbors and never see them again. It is the kind of love that keeps them safe and alive and well in our care throughout their childhood and beyond.
And maybe this is the true gift of auntihood -- being able to love like this while simultaneously conserving our own energy to jump in and offer the break when required, to play that supporting role. To be able to step in and love these kids and care for them as if they are our own, to keep them safe and turn them over to their parents at the end of the day. To be another adult who can witness them and offer them a fresh, non-entrenched perspective -- offering them different liberties and freedoms because we have the energy and desire to allow it.
I found my role as "mom" this weekend much more cumbersome than I ever have with my role as auntie. As auntie, the kids can bury themselves in the sand and stomp through puddles or make malts for dessert or read an extra five books at bedtime or otherwise push the edges of what is generally allowed because auntie doesn't mind the inconvenience of giving another bath or additional clean up in the kitchen or the like. But as "mom" this weekend, I found myself becoming more controlling and much more concerned with bedtimes and bathtimes and other fine details because my peace-of-mind, and the running of the well-oiled machine I was entrusted with, was at stake...there was little room, on any level, for extra work.
In the beginning of my forty week meditation adventure, I wrote about the desire to become a better mother to myself in the absence of physically being a mother to anyone else. I wondered if that was my calling -- to learn to better care for myself. Regardless of the what or the how, my intent for this project has been to become more authentic and more true to myself by listening more fully within and accepting myself more. And above all, become more willing to and adept at trusting my heart.
Somehow, this past weekend has given me this gift. Or perhaps this gift has been offered many times over and now, through my meditations, I find myself suddenly open and able to receive it. For the better part of my 30's I was either feverishly preparing for the possibility of a motherhood I couldn't quite reconcile wanting or lamenting the fact that the choice of whether or not to have my own children was taken away. Over the years I have made my peace the best way I know how and yet have never quite let myself off the hook -- still somehow expecting I should either be a mother (through adoption or insemination or being like one to my brother's kids) or I at least should desperately want it anyway. Which I don't -- at least not very often. The world has enough mothers than to make one of me. And god knows the kids already have the best mother they could ever hope for in my sister-in-law.
The truth is, I've known since I began babysitting as an 11-year-old that I was not cut out whatsoever for taking care of children. Somewhere inside of me, hindsight being 20/20, I've always known that it wasn't for me. But I've never trusted this knowing -- I never knew how to reconcile it. I kept trying to force myself into a role that was never mine to take on. I continued to babysit, I nannied for a family when I was in college...I was a girl, after all. This nurturing and patience stuff was just supposed to come naturally. Wasn't it? This desire to give all and be all? Or is this just the bill-of-goods we're sold?
Just as we are all our own unique mix of personality traits and temperments that make us more attuned to some jobs more than others, I believe parenthood is the same. Not all women are meant to be mothers (nor are all men meant to be fathers). Not that we can't do it -- the world is full of reluctant or ambivalent parents who simply do the best with what they've got. The question, it seems for all of us before embarking on such an undertaking is, should we?
I can safely say now, in the spirit of self-acceptance and authenticity -- and even in being a better mother to myself -- in my case, the answer is no. Even toying with that answer in past years would drive me to desperate tears. What does it mean that I feel I shouldn't be a mother? What it means, I have finally realized, is that I'm that much better at, and much happier, being an auntie. The trouble I've had is that I never knew an acceptable alternative was available. I always thought there was only one job I could be qualified for and no matter how hard I tried, I never quite fit the bill.
What a relief to finally forgive myself for all those years of wishing I was something, and someone, I'm not, and to embrace what the divine order of the Universe must have already known -- that my unique mix of personality traits and temperments suits me best as an aunt. Who knew that my calling has been here all along?
So here is my nod to aunties everywhere who support and love their nieces and nephews as if they were your own. What a gift it is to accept, with humility and enthusiasm, the role we are meant to play...whatever that role may be. Thank you to all the aunties who have come before and for the many more who will surely come after.//
Let me say, and I hope this will in no way sound trite: Motherhood is, by far, the most important and essential role on Earth. And, it is not for me.
Instead, perhaps for the first time since we found out we couldn't have kids seven years ago, I find I am endlessly grateful (and relieved) to play Her second most important supporting role (second to Daddyhood, of course): that of Auntie.
I left my brother's house last night in a stupored awe of the toll that a mere weekend of caregiving took on me. I felt as though the kids ate constantly and I hardly ate at all. I never showered because, dear god, what would happen if someone needed me while I stole a moment to take care of a need of my own? I peed when they peed...and seemingly only when they peed. I watched the clock constantly to be sure everyone was where they were supposed to be when they were supposed to be there and was never more aware of every second of every day -- especially, how long it would take to get, not from point A to point B, but just packed in the van before commencing from point A to point B. It was exhausting on every level: physically, mentally and emotionally. Did I do the right thing when my two year old niece had a nuclear meltdown at t-ball when her bandaid fell off and I didn't have another one in my purse to replace it? Did I scar anyone for life when we were all spent and impatient and tensions ran high (all ten minutes of it)? Would they ever forgive me for not being their mommy when they woke up wanting her and I was only me instead?
Don't get me wrong -- we had a fantastic weekend. They were, for the most part, fabulous, as I can only hope they could say about me (if kids said such things...). Nothing went terribly wrong, no one killed anyone, no one lost a limb. We laughed, we played, we created, we got lots of fresh air. We had adventures. And at the end of each day, everyone (other than me, as it seems to go with mothers) was comfortably fed and clean, present and accounted for.
And yet, when I heard the garage door open at precisely 11:18pm last night, when I was formally off-duty, I nearly cried. And not because I was sorry it was over...
I was never happier than I was last night to be home, to have a quiet, solitary meal at midnight by the dim light of the microwave, to take a long, hot shower and to sleep like the dead in my own room with no worry that someone would cry out and need me in the middle of the night. Even going to work this morning, I have never been more grateful to be smack dab in the middle of my very own life.
I don't say any of this asking for sympathy, nor to be dramatic. Actual mothers get exclusive rights to this kind of storytelling. This was two days, not six years. No mother would ever be shocked or amazed at my tale of hyper-alertness, drained energy and self-sacrifice. I write this merely to share my sheer disbelief of the all-consuming nature of child-rearing. And I fully and humbly trust that I don't even know -- nor do I want to know -- the half of it.
My friends who are mothers have been telling me for years (and even twice today) how much easier it is when it's your own child. Thank you all for giving me an easy out. It may be true but I have to say, I'm not buying it. It feels like these kids couldn't be more mine if I had carried them myself -- I love them with a fierce passion I have never experienced and I am constantly blown away by the magnitude of it. Of all the kids I've been fortunate enough to share bits and pieces of my life with, I have never known a love like this before. I believe it is this kind of maternal (and paternal) love that enables us to want to throw ourselves in front of a barreling-down locomotive to save them at the same time that we want to sell them off to the neighbors and never see them again. It is the kind of love that keeps them safe and alive and well in our care throughout their childhood and beyond.
And maybe this is the true gift of auntihood -- being able to love like this while simultaneously conserving our own energy to jump in and offer the break when required, to play that supporting role. To be able to step in and love these kids and care for them as if they are our own, to keep them safe and turn them over to their parents at the end of the day. To be another adult who can witness them and offer them a fresh, non-entrenched perspective -- offering them different liberties and freedoms because we have the energy and desire to allow it.
I found my role as "mom" this weekend much more cumbersome than I ever have with my role as auntie. As auntie, the kids can bury themselves in the sand and stomp through puddles or make malts for dessert or read an extra five books at bedtime or otherwise push the edges of what is generally allowed because auntie doesn't mind the inconvenience of giving another bath or additional clean up in the kitchen or the like. But as "mom" this weekend, I found myself becoming more controlling and much more concerned with bedtimes and bathtimes and other fine details because my peace-of-mind, and the running of the well-oiled machine I was entrusted with, was at stake...there was little room, on any level, for extra work.
In the beginning of my forty week meditation adventure, I wrote about the desire to become a better mother to myself in the absence of physically being a mother to anyone else. I wondered if that was my calling -- to learn to better care for myself. Regardless of the what or the how, my intent for this project has been to become more authentic and more true to myself by listening more fully within and accepting myself more. And above all, become more willing to and adept at trusting my heart.
Somehow, this past weekend has given me this gift. Or perhaps this gift has been offered many times over and now, through my meditations, I find myself suddenly open and able to receive it. For the better part of my 30's I was either feverishly preparing for the possibility of a motherhood I couldn't quite reconcile wanting or lamenting the fact that the choice of whether or not to have my own children was taken away. Over the years I have made my peace the best way I know how and yet have never quite let myself off the hook -- still somehow expecting I should either be a mother (through adoption or insemination or being like one to my brother's kids) or I at least should desperately want it anyway. Which I don't -- at least not very often. The world has enough mothers than to make one of me. And god knows the kids already have the best mother they could ever hope for in my sister-in-law.
The truth is, I've known since I began babysitting as an 11-year-old that I was not cut out whatsoever for taking care of children. Somewhere inside of me, hindsight being 20/20, I've always known that it wasn't for me. But I've never trusted this knowing -- I never knew how to reconcile it. I kept trying to force myself into a role that was never mine to take on. I continued to babysit, I nannied for a family when I was in college...I was a girl, after all. This nurturing and patience stuff was just supposed to come naturally. Wasn't it? This desire to give all and be all? Or is this just the bill-of-goods we're sold?
Just as we are all our own unique mix of personality traits and temperments that make us more attuned to some jobs more than others, I believe parenthood is the same. Not all women are meant to be mothers (nor are all men meant to be fathers). Not that we can't do it -- the world is full of reluctant or ambivalent parents who simply do the best with what they've got. The question, it seems for all of us before embarking on such an undertaking is, should we?
I can safely say now, in the spirit of self-acceptance and authenticity -- and even in being a better mother to myself -- in my case, the answer is no. Even toying with that answer in past years would drive me to desperate tears. What does it mean that I feel I shouldn't be a mother? What it means, I have finally realized, is that I'm that much better at, and much happier, being an auntie. The trouble I've had is that I never knew an acceptable alternative was available. I always thought there was only one job I could be qualified for and no matter how hard I tried, I never quite fit the bill.
What a relief to finally forgive myself for all those years of wishing I was something, and someone, I'm not, and to embrace what the divine order of the Universe must have already known -- that my unique mix of personality traits and temperments suits me best as an aunt. Who knew that my calling has been here all along?
So here is my nod to aunties everywhere who support and love their nieces and nephews as if they were your own. What a gift it is to accept, with humility and enthusiasm, the role we are meant to play...whatever that role may be. Thank you to all the aunties who have come before and for the many more who will surely come after.//
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Week 23 - Getting Over Myself
How nice to be inconsequential. How pleasant to know that there is nothing to be done. ~from the novel Little Bee by Chris Cleave
After our walk the other evening, as we prepared for dinner, I looked out and saw the ducks had returned to the feeder after five long months away. "They're back! They're back!" I called to my husband and ran to get my camera to document their arrival. "It means Spring is here!"
There was plenty of food for them, for which I was grateful, but I regretted there was no fresh water -- in fact, the water tray was still buried under a foot of crusty old snow. I wanted things to be perfect for them, to be exceedingly hospitable to ensure they stayed. As it turned out, the moment I took the first picture, they flew off.
Later that evening as I sat in the soul cave meditating, there was a familiar noise I hadn't heard since the previous Spring. Whoo-hoo-hoo. The owls were back, too? I could hardly contain myself -- we had had owls in the woods behind our house the whole previous winter yet they had left last Spring. I hadn't heard them for a year and I missed their hooting and being able to watch them dart through the trees. The instant the timer went off signaling the end of my meditation, I ran downstairs and into the backyard to listen, just to be sure I hadn't been hearing things. They were still there, by the light of the moon, calling off into the night.
The arrival of both the ducks and owls brought me such joy, omens of Spring...finally! And all in one evening, no less! Yet I began to realize I was taking their returns personally, as if they had come back just for me. Was it really the same ducks? The same owls? Not likely. But the story in my head told me they were -- that I had fed them so well and had created such a nice atmosphere that they rewarded me by coming back after their own long, arduous winter travels.
Really? Am I the center of the Universe?
Ah, but perhaps we get attached to these encounters because we, too, are animals. We're fascinated because we've lost touch with our wildness, our instinct. We've forgotten that as animals, we, too, need the earth. We no longer recognize how we move to the energetic rhythms of nature and her cycles. Perhaps to witness the authentic being of other animals we are humbled. Perhaps to attract them into our circle helps us to feel more connected to them, to who we are and to the land we've all but left behind.
Personally, I love these humblings...to be reminded that in the scheme of things, I'm inconsequential. To connect with nature in such a way that I know in my heart I'm not in control and there is nothing to be done but be in the experience and be moved. The ducks come, the owls go -- my only job is to witness and allow myself to remember who I really am.
The trouble seems to be that our mind, who thinks it's in charge, needs to concoct stories that keep us removed from the wonder of this humbling in order to feel important. Inconsequential? Never! It couldn't be that the ducks and owls were simply passing through -- that wasn't enough. They were back because of me. Ho, ho!
But what happens if we remember that we're "just" animals?
Maybe we wouldn't need to keep ourselves so busy, full of made-up stories and judgments and demands, to keep us from remembering our roots. This isn't a bad thing to remember. Yes, our industriousness has created civilizations and all our busyness keeps our societies -- and our families -- humming. This is important work...we have the capacities and abilities we have for a reason.
But isn't it exhausting to have to do so much to prove our importance to ourselves all the time? When in the end, what a relief it is to remember our animal nature -- that sometimes, all that's required is a good, nourishing meal and a soak in a sunbeam. Even animals know when it's time to rest. We would learn much from remembering how to trust our animal instincts.
I often think that the purpose of meditation is nothing more than to invite us to get over ourselves. The ducks and owls passed through the other night, not because of me, as the all-important part of me would love to believe, but because Nature and their instincts told them it was the right time to return. We get so caught up in our own perceived importance that we forget we are the same and have the same cues to guide our choices as they do.
Meditation reveals to me time and time again that in order to do, we need only rely on our mind. But in order to truly be -- to flourish in our authenticity as human beings -- we need to rely on our heart as well. This is where our intuition resides, the still small voice that is connected to the animal we still are. I may not be the center of the Universe, but with awareness and attention and a little humility, I can remember that I am a part of it. I can remember, as my fowl friends, to listen to my instincts, to trust them and live from there.//
After our walk the other evening, as we prepared for dinner, I looked out and saw the ducks had returned to the feeder after five long months away. "They're back! They're back!" I called to my husband and ran to get my camera to document their arrival. "It means Spring is here!"
There was plenty of food for them, for which I was grateful, but I regretted there was no fresh water -- in fact, the water tray was still buried under a foot of crusty old snow. I wanted things to be perfect for them, to be exceedingly hospitable to ensure they stayed. As it turned out, the moment I took the first picture, they flew off.
Later that evening as I sat in the soul cave meditating, there was a familiar noise I hadn't heard since the previous Spring. Whoo-hoo-hoo. The owls were back, too? I could hardly contain myself -- we had had owls in the woods behind our house the whole previous winter yet they had left last Spring. I hadn't heard them for a year and I missed their hooting and being able to watch them dart through the trees. The instant the timer went off signaling the end of my meditation, I ran downstairs and into the backyard to listen, just to be sure I hadn't been hearing things. They were still there, by the light of the moon, calling off into the night.
The arrival of both the ducks and owls brought me such joy, omens of Spring...finally! And all in one evening, no less! Yet I began to realize I was taking their returns personally, as if they had come back just for me. Was it really the same ducks? The same owls? Not likely. But the story in my head told me they were -- that I had fed them so well and had created such a nice atmosphere that they rewarded me by coming back after their own long, arduous winter travels.
Really? Am I the center of the Universe?
Ah, but perhaps we get attached to these encounters because we, too, are animals. We're fascinated because we've lost touch with our wildness, our instinct. We've forgotten that as animals, we, too, need the earth. We no longer recognize how we move to the energetic rhythms of nature and her cycles. Perhaps to witness the authentic being of other animals we are humbled. Perhaps to attract them into our circle helps us to feel more connected to them, to who we are and to the land we've all but left behind.
Personally, I love these humblings...to be reminded that in the scheme of things, I'm inconsequential. To connect with nature in such a way that I know in my heart I'm not in control and there is nothing to be done but be in the experience and be moved. The ducks come, the owls go -- my only job is to witness and allow myself to remember who I really am.
The trouble seems to be that our mind, who thinks it's in charge, needs to concoct stories that keep us removed from the wonder of this humbling in order to feel important. Inconsequential? Never! It couldn't be that the ducks and owls were simply passing through -- that wasn't enough. They were back because of me. Ho, ho!
But what happens if we remember that we're "just" animals?
Maybe we wouldn't need to keep ourselves so busy, full of made-up stories and judgments and demands, to keep us from remembering our roots. This isn't a bad thing to remember. Yes, our industriousness has created civilizations and all our busyness keeps our societies -- and our families -- humming. This is important work...we have the capacities and abilities we have for a reason.
But isn't it exhausting to have to do so much to prove our importance to ourselves all the time? When in the end, what a relief it is to remember our animal nature -- that sometimes, all that's required is a good, nourishing meal and a soak in a sunbeam. Even animals know when it's time to rest. We would learn much from remembering how to trust our animal instincts.
I often think that the purpose of meditation is nothing more than to invite us to get over ourselves. The ducks and owls passed through the other night, not because of me, as the all-important part of me would love to believe, but because Nature and their instincts told them it was the right time to return. We get so caught up in our own perceived importance that we forget we are the same and have the same cues to guide our choices as they do.
Meditation reveals to me time and time again that in order to do, we need only rely on our mind. But in order to truly be -- to flourish in our authenticity as human beings -- we need to rely on our heart as well. This is where our intuition resides, the still small voice that is connected to the animal we still are. I may not be the center of the Universe, but with awareness and attention and a little humility, I can remember that I am a part of it. I can remember, as my fowl friends, to listen to my instincts, to trust them and live from there.//
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Week 7 - Gratitude
The Universe is naturally abundant. The things you truly need or want are here for the asking. ~Shakti Gawain
Preceding the season of giving is the season of giving thanks. Given that it's two days before Thanksgiving, this seems as good a time as any to shout out to my supporters, my guides, my mentors and friends and express my gratitude for your presence in my life. Anyone who takes the time to read these words, I thank you. It is such a gift to be able to muster the courage to write, to do this thing I love, and to put myself out there. And to think that someone might read the thoughts, feelings and musings I thread together -- much less get something out of it -- well, it's almost too much to ask for. I guess that takes some courage, too. Most of all, though, I'm just grateful. Wholly, humbly and profoundly grateful.
As I was meditating tonight it occurred to me that I'm still only halfway through my first "trimester". If I were really pregnant, what would it be like to be a mere seven weeks in? Man, wouldn't I just be getting used to the idea of being pregnant? The myriad ways my life was bound to change just a glimmer on the horizon?
I think about the changes I've encountered so far, and I'm amazed. The peacefulness that permeates most of what I experience in a day. Creativity that beckons me in all aspects of my life. The patience to deal with the needs of those most important to me. And gratitude -- I find myself thankful for everything...even in challenge there is some gem of a lesson to unearth to be grateful for.
Now, I like to think that I've always been a person who was quick with a thank you. To co-workers for a job well-done. To friends for their thoughtfulness. To the Universe for the sheer beauty that surrounds me daily. In fact, it was bred into me -- my mom had me and my brother writing thank you's as soon as we could write. Even Santa was in on it -- we always got thank you notes in our stockings on Christmas morning...how did he know?
Maybe now it is simply about a deepening. Maybe this daily meditation just helps me to focus more on what is good in my world, to not get caught up in what is or might go terribly wrong. And when it does, to be thankful for the inevitable blessings that come with it. Being more present surely allows us to see the beauty of what's right in front of us. To reconnect with the joyful souls we were born to be.
We don't exist here in a vacuum -- we're connected whether we realize it or not. With our fellow human beings, with Nature, with the creative Source. In partnership, by asking for what we feel would satisfy and inspire us in our lives, we give the Universe the opportunity to collaborate with us...to shower us with the abundance it has to share. But it's a team effort. We need to show interest. We need to learn how to ask. And we need to be willing to say thanks.
What amazes me more than witnessing how I've grown thus far, is to imagine what thirty-three more weeks of this may have to offer. And to know that the act of meditation itself is the asking, both for what I want and need. I am grateful to learn firsthand that nothing is as simple as that.
Happy Thanksgiving!//
Preceding the season of giving is the season of giving thanks. Given that it's two days before Thanksgiving, this seems as good a time as any to shout out to my supporters, my guides, my mentors and friends and express my gratitude for your presence in my life. Anyone who takes the time to read these words, I thank you. It is such a gift to be able to muster the courage to write, to do this thing I love, and to put myself out there. And to think that someone might read the thoughts, feelings and musings I thread together -- much less get something out of it -- well, it's almost too much to ask for. I guess that takes some courage, too. Most of all, though, I'm just grateful. Wholly, humbly and profoundly grateful.
As I was meditating tonight it occurred to me that I'm still only halfway through my first "trimester". If I were really pregnant, what would it be like to be a mere seven weeks in? Man, wouldn't I just be getting used to the idea of being pregnant? The myriad ways my life was bound to change just a glimmer on the horizon?
I think about the changes I've encountered so far, and I'm amazed. The peacefulness that permeates most of what I experience in a day. Creativity that beckons me in all aspects of my life. The patience to deal with the needs of those most important to me. And gratitude -- I find myself thankful for everything...even in challenge there is some gem of a lesson to unearth to be grateful for.
Now, I like to think that I've always been a person who was quick with a thank you. To co-workers for a job well-done. To friends for their thoughtfulness. To the Universe for the sheer beauty that surrounds me daily. In fact, it was bred into me -- my mom had me and my brother writing thank you's as soon as we could write. Even Santa was in on it -- we always got thank you notes in our stockings on Christmas morning...how did he know?
Maybe now it is simply about a deepening. Maybe this daily meditation just helps me to focus more on what is good in my world, to not get caught up in what is or might go terribly wrong. And when it does, to be thankful for the inevitable blessings that come with it. Being more present surely allows us to see the beauty of what's right in front of us. To reconnect with the joyful souls we were born to be.
We don't exist here in a vacuum -- we're connected whether we realize it or not. With our fellow human beings, with Nature, with the creative Source. In partnership, by asking for what we feel would satisfy and inspire us in our lives, we give the Universe the opportunity to collaborate with us...to shower us with the abundance it has to share. But it's a team effort. We need to show interest. We need to learn how to ask. And we need to be willing to say thanks.
What amazes me more than witnessing how I've grown thus far, is to imagine what thirty-three more weeks of this may have to offer. And to know that the act of meditation itself is the asking, both for what I want and need. I am grateful to learn firsthand that nothing is as simple as that.
Happy Thanksgiving!//
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Week 4 - Surrender
"At some point, to go beyond the mind, the power of intention has to be turned to a deep abiding surrender....Pure surrender has to be living with what is, as it is, as God." ~Swami Abhayananda from The Supreme Self
What is, at the moment, is that we're dancing on the cusp of winter. Disguised in glorious sunshine and temperatures in the 50's, I see how easy it could be to be lulled into believing the next four months won't be as dark and as bone-chilling as they will.
In all honesty, I secretly enjoy when the weather takes this turn towards winter. I love when she rages inhospitably with no apology, with the sub-zero reminder that if we don't take the utmost care of ourselves while in her clutches out in the world, all could be lost. I feel the urgency of this most simple act of survival. It clarifies things for me to know beyond a doubt that our judgments and expectations of what Mother Nature offers in her most unforgiving moments mean nothing. We are reduced to our most powerless state, just like our ancestors before us. Surrender. Nature teaches us -- be humble or perish.
In our day and age the lesson of "be humble or perish" isn't as much a matter of life and death of the body as it is of our soul. We spend so much of our lives feeling cut off from Nature, from others and consequently ourselves that our souls are literally starving to death. Until we find that way to connect with the mystery from which we all came, until we learn to surrender, we will continue to feel separate and alone.
In both cases, the lesson is the same -- communing is the key to survival.
If the past four weeks have taught me anything, it's that meditation -- or any practice for that matter -- requires this same humility. A willingness to let go and let the universal energy, the creative process, engage with us and move us to new heights, to a place not only beyond expectation, but beyond imagination. This lives in the poet who comes upon the ideal turn of phrase to best encapsulate a profound experience, the musician who hears and transcribes a song that embodies the pain of a recent loss, or the child who dances with abandon to no music whatsoever, unashamed and unafraid. This is surrender in its purest form -- an admission that we understand that our lives are an invitation to participate with Source rather than independent of it. An acknowledgement that we are not here alone to live this life, but we are one with the creative force that inspires -- literally brings breath to -- all of us.
One meditation this past week yielded the following phrase: Wise and compassionate Universe, I surrender myself here to connect with Source.
I didn't know what I was asking for when this intention came -- and stuck -- but it works for me. When I utter these words as I begin my meditation, I connect to a place of humility within myself. A place where I don't have to try. A place where I'm not looking for answers or anything in return, but simply to show up to Source and hang out a while -- to keep each other company, if you will. It helps me to see that meditation isn't about becoming disciplined or even enlightened, but is about freeing myself from my own sense of pride, my own sense of isolation, feeling like I have to live this life by my own wits and effort alone. And by doing so, it allows me to connect with all of the beauty and wonder that surrounds me and recognize myself in it.
It seems ironic that by showing up and doing nothing and expecting nothing, I receive the greatest gift of all -- connection. Yes, it's harder than it looks. But if that's all it takes, count me in.//
What is, at the moment, is that we're dancing on the cusp of winter. Disguised in glorious sunshine and temperatures in the 50's, I see how easy it could be to be lulled into believing the next four months won't be as dark and as bone-chilling as they will.
In all honesty, I secretly enjoy when the weather takes this turn towards winter. I love when she rages inhospitably with no apology, with the sub-zero reminder that if we don't take the utmost care of ourselves while in her clutches out in the world, all could be lost. I feel the urgency of this most simple act of survival. It clarifies things for me to know beyond a doubt that our judgments and expectations of what Mother Nature offers in her most unforgiving moments mean nothing. We are reduced to our most powerless state, just like our ancestors before us. Surrender. Nature teaches us -- be humble or perish.
In our day and age the lesson of "be humble or perish" isn't as much a matter of life and death of the body as it is of our soul. We spend so much of our lives feeling cut off from Nature, from others and consequently ourselves that our souls are literally starving to death. Until we find that way to connect with the mystery from which we all came, until we learn to surrender, we will continue to feel separate and alone.
In both cases, the lesson is the same -- communing is the key to survival.
If the past four weeks have taught me anything, it's that meditation -- or any practice for that matter -- requires this same humility. A willingness to let go and let the universal energy, the creative process, engage with us and move us to new heights, to a place not only beyond expectation, but beyond imagination. This lives in the poet who comes upon the ideal turn of phrase to best encapsulate a profound experience, the musician who hears and transcribes a song that embodies the pain of a recent loss, or the child who dances with abandon to no music whatsoever, unashamed and unafraid. This is surrender in its purest form -- an admission that we understand that our lives are an invitation to participate with Source rather than independent of it. An acknowledgement that we are not here alone to live this life, but we are one with the creative force that inspires -- literally brings breath to -- all of us.
One meditation this past week yielded the following phrase: Wise and compassionate Universe, I surrender myself here to connect with Source.
I didn't know what I was asking for when this intention came -- and stuck -- but it works for me. When I utter these words as I begin my meditation, I connect to a place of humility within myself. A place where I don't have to try. A place where I'm not looking for answers or anything in return, but simply to show up to Source and hang out a while -- to keep each other company, if you will. It helps me to see that meditation isn't about becoming disciplined or even enlightened, but is about freeing myself from my own sense of pride, my own sense of isolation, feeling like I have to live this life by my own wits and effort alone. And by doing so, it allows me to connect with all of the beauty and wonder that surrounds me and recognize myself in it.
It seems ironic that by showing up and doing nothing and expecting nothing, I receive the greatest gift of all -- connection. Yes, it's harder than it looks. But if that's all it takes, count me in.//
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