Almost five years ago I was asked to define my gentle metrics of success. This was novel to me and an impetus for the personal growth I’ve experienced since then.
This metrics was not to include numbers; no salary, 401k, 529 accounts or any of the normal western world stamps of success like home ownership or leaving a little something behind for the kids, but rather was to approach success from an end-of-life sort of view.
What makes my life successful? How do I know I’ve “made it”?
As I created this metrics, clarity poked her head up out of the depths of fog, pointing me in the direction of my North Star. Most of the items on my list were sensual. None required a fat bank account or proving my worthiness:
A body that is capable of moving, touching and loving, soft clothing, a warm home, beautiful spaces and textures, natural and nourishing food from the earth, deep conversation, social connections and community, presence in nature with her feels, sights and sounds, music that moves, scents that invoke and inspire, the ability to travel and participate in lens-expanding experiences, time to reflect and integrate, the energy to create.
I noticed that a lot of these items on the gentle metrics had to do with pleasure. Growing up with the hard-work ethic of the midwest, smack in the middle of a country settled by puritans, pleasure wasn’t something that was brought up much, nor was the body. In fact, all these “luxuries” that made up my gentle metrics were ideals I held as superfluous, extra, or special treats, as opposed to a way to live.
Work, strive, suffer and save was the unconscious operating model I was using, something I had picked up without noticing along the way. I was living a life of numbers. Slave to the to-do list, clock and mile marker and prone to adding one more class to my schedule or dropping one more penny into the piggy bank.
I can pinpoint this request as a serious pivot-point in my life, leading me to ask such questions as:
Why do I work? What am I working for? How do I spend my time? Who do I want to spend my time with? Where do I spend my time and how do I leave the spaces I inhabit?
I am so grateful to the wisdom teacher who offered this life-enriching question. I am grateful for recognizing my values and transforming my pace and way of being in the world.
I write this blog to remind myself of both my values and my success, as I still occasionally slip into “am I doing enough, earning enough, offering enough” mentality.
I share this blog to pay it forward. What is your gentle metrics of success?
This Sunday my aching body is begging for rest, so I’m snuggled in with the books of two wise women. When looking for a photo of Ms. Maya Angelou’s family to help me better envision a poetic scene she was painting with her words, I stumbled upon the above 1983 gem of her and the other author-activist I’m soaking up today, Ms. Gloria Steinem. Of course these two kindred-spirit warrior goddesses knew each other. In their unique voices they champion the same cause: truth and freedom.
In this specific moment in time I’m in one of the stages between being set free and being pissed off. I am feeling overwhelmed. I am anxious about what the next 365 days will hold as we prepare to choose our leader next November 3rd. Part of me wants to hunker under this blanket where it’s safe and not initiate any ripple-causing or feather-ruffling conversations. Another part of me wants to pick up a megaphone and ask tough question after tough question about patriarchy and colonialism and how and where we see these structures in our homes, schools, businesses and government. This part of me knows the discomfort required in looking at the truth of how I participate in and benefit from structures that aren’t designed for the greatest good and the most complete freedom.
In times when I flounder in aches and pains and confusion and apathy, I call to these women to show me the way to sit in discomfort, use voice to ring truth and find strength to walk the talk.
The end of October is almost here, and I haven’t written a thing to share. Not because nothing is noteworthy, but rather because what I’ve been wanting to write seems a tad too intimate and vulnerable and a tad too woo-woo. But the truth is, this is my favorite October on record. Anxiety still rears its head, and the threat of depression looms like it often does in this tenth month of the year, but this particular October the leaves are extra vibrant and the light more sparkly than I remember. Part of the October magic is due to the perfect climate conditions for color, but part I credit to the playful work I’ve been doing. Three times this week I saw some iteration of
what you did yesterday created today; what you do today creates tomorrow.
I’d like to think that my actions and self-care rituals over the last few months are playing out now, one of which is setting intentions with the moon.
Super witchy, no?
With the new moon I set intentions for habits I want to cultivate and parts of my personality I want to grow as the moon grows big and fat into fullness.
With the full moon I set intentions for habits I want to drop and thinking patterns and grudges I want to release as the moon shrinks to invisible.
Each day I return to these intentions, and standing in front of the altar I build each fortnight, I light a candle and some incense and read the intentions aloud. Every. Single. Day.
How’s that for some magic?
Being so in tune with my intentions, I can’t help but be more aware of my behaviors and how I create my own reality with the words I choose, the company I keep and the actions I take. Decisions become easier and relationships cleaner.
Being so in tune to the moon, I can’t help but be more aware of my cycle and how my moods and energy levels change with the changing shape of this celestial tracker. Checking in with her on the pre-dawn and pitch black drive to middle school, I feel connection to (and participation with) Mother Nature like I never have before.
Being so in tune with Mother Nature, I can’t help but feel supported as the seasons change. The days are shortening furiously fast, and this year, instead of feeling the dread of winter so solidly, I am finding twinges of excitement in the cracks. I am grateful for the way the sun shifts and the light shimmers through the quivering leaves onto different spots in the house and yard like twinkle lights.
Being so in tune with the light, I can’t help but be drawn closer to the sun-based celebrations. We began celebrating the Winter Solstice at home years ago, as a call for more meaning and connection with the Earth, but this year Samhain (Sa-wen) is on my radar too, the half-way mark between the Fall Equinox and Winter Solstice. Like its cousins Halloween, All Saints’ Day and Day of the Dead, Samhain is marked by thinning veils between the land of the living and of those passed, between this reality and those unseen. It’s the season of imagination, divination and magic, the season of celebrating light and dark and the season of co-creating the reality in which we live.
All of this in-tune-ment, intentional attention and Mother Earth support is providing a sense peace that I didn’t know could co-exist with a racing heart, sweaty palms or a deep longing to spend the day in bed. I think the play with the moon and my intentions is helping me to understand the cyclical nature of all things a bit more tangibly. The light grows bright, it goes dim. Feelings arise, (and if I don’t mess with them too much) there they go. And if I focus my intention on my desires often enough, I just may create the playful world I want to inhabit.
You won’t remember this vision when you wake. You’ll only feel the echo of my message, but please trust this echo, and revisit it often as you grow.
I want you to know that you are god. Holiness lives and breathes through you. There is nothing you can do to stop god from being you. You can only dim or brighten her light. You’ll know the vibrancy of this light by the signs your body gives you, so it is of upmost importance that you learn all you can about this body— about the parts you can see and the parts you can’t.
Let the body be your compass.
Make friends with the breath, the heartbeat and the pulses that respond to your surroundings. Discover the ways your body prefers to move. Know your belly and what it desires as fuel for your play.
Play with your body.
Give great care to each and every one of the body’s portals to the outside world. Pay close attention to where your body gives and receives energy; observe how it excites and how it recoils. Learn what depletes the body too. Know which environments, situations and conversations stoke the body’s fires and which dim the light.
Take exquisite care.
Know also, sweet child, that God is nature. Be in nature. Observe carefully, learn from the patterns of her plants and animals. Listen to the water and to the stones. Know in your bones that you too are nature. Study your seasons and cycles well. See your patterns. Feel your feelings.
Feel your nature.
Finally, sweet baby of mine, know that just as you are god, all other creatures on the planet are too, in various shades of dimness and brightness. Pay most attention to your light, protecting it and caring for it while letting others tend to theirs. Do not confuse your light with the light of others. Do not give permission to others to control your light.
You are the keeper of your light. You are the keeper of your light. You are the keeper of your light.
My bare feet are quite happy on the cold stone of the shady back patio. Birds and crickets are chirping, and I’ve a warm drink to sip. The sunshine is casting intricate shadows across the yard, rorschach shapes formed by the leaves, which are toying with changing color as the summer toys with becoming fall.
Light and dark.
For many, the autumnal equinox is not as big a deal as the sudden and drastic time change that comes here in a few weeks. For others this gradual shift from more daylight to less has been on our radars for weeks, and these days surrounding the Autumnal Equinox, equal light and dark, are quite powerful. The days of balance are a gentle beckoning to examine what’s to come.
Light and more dark.
We still hear the laughter of children playing outdoors and appreciate the the goldenrod’s blooms, while also aware of the shrinking cicada symphony and the extra effort required to navigate the pitch-black of early morning.
We still feel the warm sunlight on our face, while also aware that the serotonin boost provided by the fire-in-the-sky won’t be this available for much longer.
We still rest gratefully in the hammock, while also aware that backyard comfort and recharge will be challenged in the near future.
Less light and more dark.
We realize we’re soon to be asked to hibernate. To slow, to feel and to reflect in a way that’s different than that of the active and fiery summer. As we move into Autumn, we are invited to witness nature’s transformation around us. Asked to contemplate the leaves changing and releasing to the ground as nutrients for the earth. We are invited to ponder our own aging and compostability.
Dark and light.
In the Fall we celebrate our harvest and good fortune, while at the same time preparing for the call to still.
Today is Mexican Independence Day. I find it interesting that Mexico, like most of Latin America, shares a story similar to that of the United States, of having to fight a European colonizer for the ability to be a sovereign nation. A big difference between the US and Latin America, however, is that unlike in the Northern part of the Western Hemisphere where the indigenous populations were all but disappeared, in the Southern part of the globe mestizo cultures were born. These cultures, a blending of indigenous and European ways, live on in varying degrees of vibrancy depending on the region.
I also find it interesting that finally, in 2019, we in the US are acknowledging out loud that our nation was built on the back of the slave trade. Finally, our presidential candidates are bringing reparations to the conversation, and some of the populous is listening. I’d like to add to this dialogue the idea that we may owe reparations to others as well. I don’t say this to diminish the plight of African-Americans at home, but rather to shine light up on the responsibility we have for the woes of our neighbors too, especially in light of the recent Supreme Court decision to bar asylum seekers at our southern border.
I suggest we pause for a moment to reflect upon our involvement in the dire situations experienced by so many from Central America, El Salvador specifically. That we flash back to the 1970s and 1980s when the native and mestizo people were fighting for their right to land ownership, land that was taken both by the Spanish colonizers and later by US corporations. Maybe we examine the US Latin American policy, which almost exclusively backs military dictators. Maybe we acknowledge that the havoc reaped upon El Salvador —kidnappings, rapes, 75,000 deaths— was primarily the work of government forces trained by the United States. Maybe we acknowledge that the current situation in Central America was largely created by us.
Maybe we educate ourselves on the backstory of all those seeking refugee status in Mexico and the United States from Central America, and instead of building a wall to keep them out, dumping the problem on our brother to the South, we focus for a moment on how we contributed to creating the Central American chaos, on how we can retrace our steps to the origin and start to create health from there. Maybe we also acknowledge that MS-13, the terribly violent Central American gang-turned-mafia, started in Los Angeles, CA as a way for Salvadoran refugees to protect themselves from the Bloods and the Crips. Maybe we acknowledge that our policy of sending non-citizen troublemakers back to their country of origin as opposed to rehabilitating them in our own system (the system that created the problem) spread the deadly MS-13 virus from LA to San Salvador, from where like a cancer it has reached into every nook and cranny of the Americas.
I am not saying I have the answer, but I do believe that looking at how our actions have caused and contributed to the current situation could change the way we choose to move forward. We must not play ostrich and stick our heads in the sand, but examine our mistakes and learn and grow from them as a nation.
Okay, that’s it. Back to tequila, mariachis and el grito.
I haven’t written about me and Middle in awhile. If I’m going to flip my lid, he’s usually the one to witness the outburst. A former me may have said he’s usually the one to cause the outburst, but poco a poco this old dog is learning new tricks. I pile brag upon brag sharing that earlier this week, after receiving news that left me deflated, defeated and a little mad, I was driving to the designated pick up spot after school and could tell from 100 yards away that Mr. Middle was in a state. I glanced at my phone, accidentally left in do-not-disturb mode and saw that I’d missed a number of calls and a couple of texts asking where I was. Whoopsie, communication failure in the I’ll be 20 minutes late department. I’m not sure how the message wires got crossed, but boy was he bent out of shape. And so was I.
However…
Instead of pretending like I wasn’t, or pretending like I couldn’t tell that he was and going on with my normal “how was your day?” routine, instead of silently scolding myself for not communicating well or scolding him out loud for not listening, I simply let us both be mad. We drove a few miles in complete silence.
And it was fine.
We made our way without a word until a big purple jeep pulled out in front of us. A big purple jeep with a giant peace sign and plates that read NAMASTE. The sighting was enough to pull Mr. Middle out of his funk. He came to life urging me to speed up, wanting to see who was driving the vehicle, which of course I did because who doesn’t want to take a peek at the person driving a lovefest-mobile?
Without a word, our quarrel was over. Our partnership re-established.
I have a feeling that for this “pays to be quiet” lesson to really take hold, I may have to practice it a time or twenty.
Earlier this summer a girlfriend sent me an invitation to join an on-line writing experience called Finding Your Voice with author Robin Rice. Every other day we were sent a photo prompt to use as inspiration to write the first few paragraphs of a story, with opening lines provided, or to practice writing a concise paragraph or haiku poem. I created an instagram account to share with those who happened upon it, but I have decided to also post the whole collection here on my blog too, for what is voice if it’s not shared? Please enjoy. I hope one or two of the 28 little pieces speaks to you.
Thanks for hearing my voice,
Katie
“I never said I wouldn’t jump,” she whispered aloud to herself. “So I can’t be called a liar. Then again, if I do jump…”
I never said I wouldn’t jump, she whispered aloud to herself. So I can’t be called a liar. Then again, if I do jump, what do I care what I’m called. I could be called every single word I’ve ever feared —bitch, bad mother, selfish woman, and I wouldn’t be around to know. I could be called unstable, a pity, a life wasted. What constitutes a wasted life? One that doesn’t last enough years? Doesn’t have enough laughs, produce enough offspring or please enough people?
She knew the truth was that she’d been wasting her life for decades, since the age she traded in pink for colors she deemed more sophisticated.
But the view from halfway up the lighthouse wall was crystal clear. She could make the most impactful choice of her life from there. Working with her allies, Rock and Sea, she could right the incongruity urgently ripping her apart.
Or, she could climb down, into the truck and and hit the open road, leaving behind the life passively created along the path of least resistance. She could start over, this time on purpose. Leaping seemed nobler, but running away gave her a second chance.
And then it struck her, like the waves crashing on the boulders below. There was a third option too. One that would require much more of her. She could start living on purpose from right where she was.
…
I can feel this tiny being’s heart beat in my gut, and below too. I can feel this little bird’s heartbeat in the place I am only now learning to tune into. I thought this place was for sex, or perhaps a punishment. I realize now this place is for life. This place lets me know when I need to pay attention. She lets me know when I am in the presence of a message worth heeding. She lets me know I am connected, I am part of the web.
What is this message?
I see Bird, full of raw and unconditioned anxiety, I feel her heart beating as fast as her little wings want to fly, yet her body is still. She wastes no effort fighting. Is she trusting? I can’t imagine she’s run through all possible future scenarios and chosen stillness as the most appropriate action. How does she know she doesn’t stand a chance against this much bigger hand? How does she know to be still, to allow and to trust?
Maybe she has her own place of wisdom.
…
I am taken to the all but disappeared Nebraska village where my parents met, courted and married. A place I visited my grandparents and cousins as a child, the playground rusted with abandonment. A place I felt the stuck-ness and stifled-ness of the worn-down people, as well as the beckoning of the surrounding land. The tree-lined lane led the curious ones past the Church and out of town— a portal to the vast horizon whispering of untapped magic and opportunity. My parents, like most, escaped the town, but not the deeply embedded and oxidized restraints. I wrestle now to untangle the multilayered chain-link directing my beliefs and those of my grandmothers too. I hold hope in the hollow diamonds of space permitting the light.
…
The Incas call the earth-time intersection Pachamama, and they worship her as Earth, Sun and Moon. I wonder what our world could be if no matter how else we differed in belief, we all honored time and place as sacred— if we worshiped by consciously choosing how we passed our time and made holy the places we inhabited.
…
I twist into you As you circle around me Nowhere do we go.
…
I cringed upon opening this photo prompt. The dime a dozen-ness churned my stomach in disgust, and my heart deflated in disappointment. The leprechauns don’t appear to be made by hand or for conscious consideration.
Who thought making them was a good idea? Who chose to stock them on the shelves? Who will buy them and for whom?
I envision them landing in a secondhand store on the way to a landfill, and my blood begins to boil. The judgement initially turned outward changes course like a mutant cancer cell and points itself back at me, growing rapidly. This is the type of judgement that eats away me, wearing me down. The type that emerges with single-use plastic, buy-in-bulk shopping chains and overflowing storage bins. The type that makes living in my culture a daily struggle. I realize my judgment hurts me and may even color my luck. I further wonder about a possible relationship between my reaction to this dratted little leprechaun line-up and my missed flight this morning.
…
Like Pavlov’s dogs I sense the fomo wafting into my field before I even recognize the photo for what it is: travelers awaiting their journey. The irony in the longing is that I awoke today in an unknown land partaking in my own journey. I take pause to register this subtle, yet faster than a knee jerk reaction. What is it about travel that makes me covet so acutely? Certainly not the planning, packing or logistics. Not the delays, discomforts or disrupted sleep cycles. These are a small price to pay for the opportunity to see through the lens of a different land, to break the sluggishness of routine and to find connection and light where ignorance once lived. Journey is the metaphor for knowing the unknown, and I seek insatiably to water the flames of fear with discovery, making acquaintance and sharing tea. My wish is to learn to journey more profoundly without the pull to leave right where I am.
…
I know this look, it’s the satisfied one between contentedness and borderline-scary, exhilarating joy. This is the look of connection. The one that asks to be burnt into memory because the heart is sensing its tendrils reaching out to this specific intersection in time and space and it feels so right and sacred it doesn’t want to be forgotten. The one calling for selfie documentation and perhaps a bold share. This is both rootedness and expansion. All is right in the world, even if only for this moment, which for now is forever.
…
“I almost didn’t come today,” she said. “I am glad you did”, he replied, “because otherwise …
I almost didn’t come today she said. I am glad you did he replied, because otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to tell you that I’m starting to understand. Before, I thought I did, but I was shielded from truly hearing your words by the disdain I felt from coming you. I realize now that what I took to be disdain was really a defensive shield protecting a sore heart trying its damndest to soften. When you told me how you interpret my actions it took a bit for me to really fathom how badly that interpretation must pierce, and how it must color your handling of me. Imagining you holding these beliefs about about me, about us, about your perceived ugliness and worthiness is extremely difficult. I see you so strong, so beautiful, so powerful. I want you to hear that I am seeing the constraints of your binding beliefs and the pain they cause, but I am also seeing you, glorious you, through the prison bars of your own making. Though I’m beginning to understand, I’m not saying that I can gracefully handle the ice freeze of your protective mode, or that I know how to convince you that I’m all the way in and I’m not going anywhere. I can’t help you untangle the mess of constraints in your head, but I can offer you my human and messy love.
This is how she would interpret whatever came out of his mouth as he appeared boldly in the threshold, pinned her against the wall and began consuming her body with his hungry need and adoration.
…
If I want to open to the world, if I want to feel, really feel, the opening is going to come with water droplets. There is no other way. My work is to learn to sit through the salty (and sometimes snotty) outpouring, to not resist, try to be stoic or wait for precipitation to pass before engaging in the prickly conversation, entertaining the difficult emotion or examining the dark underside of reality. Just like amorous opening requires wetness, so does opening of heart space. I will use my wetness as an ally, letting me know we are getting to the good stuff.
…
One day I’ll be a little old lady with bed head. People will giggle as they see me humming to myself at the market and hear me singing as I tend to my garden. They will see my wardrobe choice – comfort and beautiful splendor- and wonder if the cheese has fallen off my cracker. I will welcome into my abode and magical world those curious and unhurried souls who want to hear stories about the old days, about tyrannical feudal lords and the rise of the rainbow people.
…
I thrive in the heat of summer. Under the big hot sun my shoulders fall away from my ears, my muscles soften and my heart expands. My legs bronze and strengthen, kicking in the pool and skipping on the walk. The cicadas, fireflies and sensuous lilies beckon me to mimic.
To sound, to light, to open.
The mighty shade trees call for me to sit below their branches, and in the hammock I enjoy the breeze. I may appear lazy, but I’m soaking it all in, storing up vibrancy for the days at the other end of the spectrum.
Cold and short, they make me call upon reserves, digging down deep for the motivation to rouse, bundle and survive.
A different type of thrive.
…
My ears perk, alerting me morning is here. The quiet is disconcerting. I lift my nose to the sky. The air smells a bit like metal. It’s dryer. Something big has changed. Outside pulls on my insides. I stand and attempt to shake it off, but I only draw in more of this charged air. Must go out. I set my chin on his pillow—eyes focused, head still, but my bum can’t be contained. How on earth can they sleep through this pull? My body, wiggly, wants to jump so badly. Is it worth their being angry with me? Too late, I’m already in the bed, my tongue uncontrollable. Laboriously he comes to life, in slow motion fumbling into robe and slippers, he shuffles clumsily to the stairs. Knocking into the back of his calves, I pass him, skid on the hardwood and slide into wall. The door opens, and I remember what all this magic hoopla is about — SNOW!
…
Fourth of July greetings.
May you celebrate all light and love that this bright holiday shines through you: freedom, youth and opportunity. Vast plains, high peaks and deep valleys. Two oceans connected by many rivers and roads.
May you also pause to reflect on the the darkness that inevitably roughs the edges: breakneck speed of growth, rape, theft. Disregard for people, land and water. As a young nation, we are all of this, and as we approach adolescence we must ask ourselves what kind of nation we want to become.
May the gods bless the USA with a slower pace and a more connecting way of viewing time and the space. May they bless us with wisdom to process our past and move forward with intention for well-being and liberty for all.
…
Oh, to be a grandparent!
I look forward to it. Not too soon though, I mentally wink at my 15-year-old. I imagine that to parent from this grand perspective is to know how fleeting the innocence and wonder is, and to be able to open to it more fully—without the cautious weight of responsibility or the protective fear born from knowing that if you truly sat in the splendor of the littles your heart could explode, keeping you from completing all the tasks and checking all the boxes. I imagine grand-parenting to be without the the incessant questioning about how many times you’ve already glitched their systems with little hurts, rushes and betrayals that they will have to work out later.
I imagine grand-parenting to be akin to parenting the third or fourth, but supersized, with a toolkit bursting of trust, experience and wisdom. And beyond the magical skill set, is the practical. Enjoying a babe in spurts of visits and outings with plenty of rest and recuperation in between makes for a ready and nourished leader. One who is more equipped to listen deeply and pause before responding.
Again I’m reminded that child-rearing takes a tribe, if not a whole community of aunties and uncles willing and able to lead and hold. Thank you to my blood brothers, sisters and parents, my reciprocals in-law, and all those teachers, neighbors and friends both near and far who show my children love and lend them their time and attention.
….
To watch my parent Dote lovingly on my babe Is a love sandwich
I am the middle Snuggled between soft slices Of protective bread
…
I wonder if smoking a cigarette while arguing helps keep those involved calm and collected. Maybe all those deep breaths tell the nervous system “you’ve got this” while the tobacco smoke, reminiscent of that from peace pipe, conjures a little supportive connection from the native guides it summons. Maybe having a burning object in hand keeps both arms from crossing, thus relaying to the other that you’re at least half open to what they are saying. Maybe a pause to cup a hand and light up another provides just the time needed to check in with the body or think before speaking. Maybe the nicotine provides the rush to say the words that are stuck. Maybe the mere act of taking a smoke break provides the time and space for an argument to unfold which otherwise could be buried in silent resentment.
Maybe I stop reading self-help and pick up a pack of Marlboros.
…
Love is a very large and accommodating concept to capture.
Fish tacos, a cold beer and the smell of the sea over sunkissed skin
A charming new beau with electrifying words glances and touches.
Chatting with my sis while walking through the park on a crisp fall morning.
My comfiest sweats, snuggled into my hubby with the fire crackling.
Our newborn baby tugging sweetly on my heart strings with his god smell.
A steaming cup of joe on the patio as the birds chirp good morning.
Parents eagerly giving me and my children their time and stories
All of this is love, But so is the stuff between The perfect moments.
…
I didn’t expect my call to the man I took to be an arborist to take an existential turn. Or maybe I did. Maybe that is exactly why I waited to dial until I was feeling extra confused about my earthly role. I thought I was calling to ask for a tree trim, but maybe I was really in search of someone who could ask me provoking questions, who would invite me to deeply consider my values. Maybe I needed to be asked why I believed my tree should look different than it does, or if having a yard overtaken by wild strawberries was really a fear of being judged. (Did I know that the birds enjoyed the red berries and the bees the yellow flowers?) Maybe I needed to be reminded that treating a symptom, even if I do so organically, isn’t the same as seeking and addressing the root cause. Maybe I needed to hear the words “working with nature rather than against her” spoken aloud by a man a man who is not, in fact, an arborist, but rather a naturalist, an arboricultural consultant. Maybe I needed a gentle earth advocate believing in the power of connection to steer me back toward my path when I began to doubt and stray, worrying about how the life I’m creating for myself doesn’t look like the ones I see around me. Maybe I needed to be reminded that I much prefer low-maintenance and sustainable, that I am uplifted by beauty and kept safe by diversity, that I contribute to the web of connection when I nurture an environment that invites others. Thank you for reminding me that I favor all this a thousand times over striving to be just like the Joneses next door.
…
When was the last time my eyes felt this clear? My smile this honest? My mind this free from judgement?
I can see my younger self in this little girl. I can feel myself in the child imprisoned at the border. I can imagine myself as the brave parent who risks everything for increased security and opportunity in the North. But can I see myself in the border patrol agents? And where are the parts of me in our fearful president?
…
I held the plastic tray of pre-made hamburger patties in my hands, my thumbs grazing the smooth expanse of cellophane. So much easier for the lake, I thought. And then a current of consciousness forced the matter. A jolt. I set the tray down and picked up the ground beef wrapped in only a single layer of plastic, the option that would require my hands to be more involved in the preparation of my meal, the option that would ask me to acknowledge the life given up for my family’s barbecue, the option that ecologically and spiritually aligned with my values and required me to slow down and ponder my connection.
So many cities, my own included, have contemplated limiting single use plastics. Councils question how much difference eliminating plastic bags will really make for the environment. They contemplate the inconvenience for consumers having to remember baskets, boxes and bags from home.
Maybe a bit of an annoyance, but every time we choose to do the little uncomfortable thing that honors our space and each other, we slightly shift our consciousness toward the action of connection, we deepen the mental groove of responsibility. And these itty bitty shifts can lead to big change.
I read just this morning, “more than 100 people are dead and almost 6 million are under threat from rising flood waters in South Asia”.
Both the news blurb and the photo prompt ask me to examine how my actions ripple out to my brothers and sisters sharing the same sky and the same waters, all across the globe.
I choose to keep doing better.
…
Coins spin in outer space, the backdrop image to bedtime Hail Marys,
Our Fathers, Glory Bes. Followed by fantasies of Michael Jackson
spotting my roller skate crash from his airplane up above. He swoops down
to scoop me up to safety and adoring love. All this while I keep
at bay the fear that Jesus will appear to ask that I give up my
worldly existence and follow him, living a simple, toy-less life.
In later years the prayers change to more fervent pleas. Help me be good.
To succeed. Achieve. Bartering begins. I run. Count. Control the urge.
A rosary to stave away teen pregnancy. Forgive me Father.
Where is the mother? I do not know I crave her. Or that she exists.
In the fat Buddha, and rocks, plants, animals, trees. In quiet she comes.
Action is not a requirement, but rather an impediment. Instead
the spirit asks that I still. And allow her to be known. As she is.
To participate with a whisper to the moon, clear intention set.
To be aware of this body. Be curious of all sensation.
…
She looks at this photo one day and sees brown.
She looks the next, and sees rust, caramel and the color of the sun. She enjoys the smoothness of the yellow layer beneath and the sharp, crisp edges of the rolling peels above. She hears crunch as her fist squeezes and then crackling as the fire consumes.
The difference between day one and day two?
Time, presence, and the willingness to observe and allow.
…
I have heard it said that serious dancers dance because they can’t not dance. Does that make dancing an addiction? An addiction to being in the body and transcending it too? To strength, flexibility and rhythm? To synchronizing with a group or communicating wordlessly with a partner? To getting inside the other worldliness of the music? To form? To discipline? To excellence?
I have also heard it said that dancers can easily fall into the all-so-common pit of disordered eating, another addiction of sorts. Perhaps it makes sense that the ease in which they can be lifted or the effort it takes to defy gravity be a concern. But what about the rest of us?
What is the difference between passion and destruction? Between beauty and death? Between precision and obsession? Is the line between order and disorder a fine one? What is the relationship between chaos and control? And the cost?
And anyway, what is addiction but a break from reality, a way to numb from the now, an attempt to connect less painfully? What makes an addiction culture friendly or shunned by society? When does an addiction make us shun ourselves?
…
“I used to have problems. Now, I just get tired. Dying will do that to you. Show you what a problem really is. It also shows you… “
I used to have problems. Now, I just get tired. Dying will do that to you. Show you what a problem really is. It also shows you what really matters. Not a whole lot. Or everything. It makes your mind feel foggy and clear at the same time. I can focus on so little, I only notice what’s biggest, and right in front of my nose. So it could be a dust bunny floatin’ in the air, or the feel of the wind on my skin or the hum of this train rumblin’ from its guts and through my elbow, down my arm and hand and into my head. I swear, sometimes I feel like I have noticin’ superpowers. I ain’t never noticed stuff like this before I knew the dyin’ was comin’. There was always somethin’ else to think about, some plan to make or chat to be had. Now, I’m alone in a way I didn’t even feel in seventh grade. I wonder what the rest will be like. Will the tiredness turn to pain that I won’t be able to handle? Will I take the morphine and will it dull this super power or magnify it? I thought I’d feel sad about not seein’ my grandkids grow and my kids turn old like me, but I don’t. They’re going to do what they’re going to do and I’m going to do this dyin’ thing. And then who knows. Maybe I will see it all, just from a different place, but it doesn’t seem to matter, I’m just so damn tired. I let my sleep come when it wants now, on the train, in the waiting room, at family dinner. I surrender. I wonder if my kid self would call this quittin’. It feels wise to me. It’s comin’ whether I fight it or not. So for now, I’ll keep nappin’ and noticin’. The textures, the rhythms and the dust bunnies. They seem like enough right now. And a nice long stare into my wife’s eyes. She’s got this carin’ for the dyin’ thing down. She’s strong and she’s so busy makin’ the plans now that I have be stern just to get her to sit and look at me hard. But when she does it’s as good as makin’ sweet love to her in the back of my daddy’s truck. It’s different now. Everything is different. No problems. Just the tiredness and knowin’ it could get pretty bad. I think I’ll take the morphine. I’ll surrender to it like I do to the sweet sleep. Maybe this is what bein’ a baby was like, dust bunnies, voices, rhythms, textures and sleep. Wasn’t so bad then, I guess. Ain’t so bad now.
…
Time is a funny concept, concrete in minutes, hours and days, yet relative in interpretation and value. Time allows for the accumulation of experience, permitting a broad and vast vantage point from which to see. Time beckons the emergence of natural rhythms to be felt, for patterns to be discerned and wisdom to be gleaned.
But time does not require it.
Time speaks in cycles, seasons and deepening lines in the human face. Each one less of an offense as it joins the others in the map of physical age. Each one becoming a gift. A sign of perseverance, luck and perhaps something valuable to be shared.
…
We unfold naturally from the tight, dark womb space as we take our first startling breath. We stretch our limbs and slowly our attention, testing limits and boundaries as toddling humans. From there, so much of the result of this incessant life-force pushing and pulling us to blossom depends upon the soil into which our roots reach and extend. Is the earth rich with minerals and organic matter? Do we receive plenty of rain or alternative care? Is there enough opening above for the sun to reach us? For us to spread? Are there creatures nearby, both limbless and winged, for us to work with in symbiotic communion?
I often wonder if our blossoming matters in the grand scheme of things. Either way our time will eventually be done. But the shameless unfurling of our petals sure does make the landscape more beautiful.
…
He/she/they conjures childhood fear of the different and unknown, the things that don’t fall within my narrow and inexperienced scope of how people behave. In small town Nebraska I learned women wear dresses. Men wear pants. People like me (like me = that I can trust) don’t get tattoos. Smoking is bad (but maybe not unforgivable because my dad does it secretly). Small is good and right. Thin is what is on TV telling me what to buy and what to do.
He/she/they is confusing, I’d like to look away or pretend I don’t see.
I am transported to Tijuana, my first experience with the very different, with poverty and dirt, with begging and my father’s tangible fear, my mother’s desire to explore. I don’t remember exactly how Mexico beat out Sea World, but we crossed the boarder and looked for cheap trinkets to memorialize our day-trip adventure. We returned to our San Diego motel and I spent 30 minutes in the bathroom. With steam and scalding water I scrubbed my nine-year-old skin pink. I scrubbed my clothes and the turquoise ring I bought from the street vendor. I tried my damndest to scrub off all the filth and fear I felt that day. I got the surface clean but deep down I must have known the only way to eradicate the fear of difference was to go back in. To understand differences and why they happen. To spend time with difference and to engage with difference. To accept and connect. Trip by little trip to Central America my fear of poverty and living close to the earth disappears. As those fears disappear, they take with them other fears of difference, like sexual orientation, dress and behavior.
Now the time is approaching to start chipping away at fear of self.
…
The light and shadows don’t make sense to me at all. Why is there brightness
where there should be black? Why does shadow appear where there ought to be light?
Is it me who can’t see? Or only me who can? What’s it like for you?
This isn’t the first summer in which grief has tried to wrap her arms around me. Sometimes she shows up just after the solstice. Other times she waits until the Fourth. She generally lets me be on family vacation, but no doubt has her claws out come time to buy school supplies. She visits in response to the shifting sun, the abridging days and the upcoming autumnal new year— kids each a grade higher, me a year closer to elder hood. Grief reminds me of the poignancy of life, digging up regrets and I-wish-I-would-haves that go dormant in other seasons. This is the anxious anticipation of returning my people to society, duty and academic formation. I feel an ancient sacrificial ache.
This August I’m grieving a bit differently. I’m crying openly at the pool, while chauffeuring the kids and as I lie curled up on the couch on a beautiful day. I’m admitting to people who ask how it’s going that I’m sad. This summer I’m not shrugging grief off. I’m letting her have her way with me. I’m saving my fighting energy for something more productive. I’m succumbing to the sweetness and the requisite flip-side of being in love.
My family and I recently returned from Colorado, where we hiked, horsebacked and lolly-gagged our way through the mountains. On one of our adventures we came upon a field of these lovely beings, named with the Latin word for dove, Columba.
Neither this image nor the nearly universal symbol of peace comes to mind when I hear “Columbine”. Like most Americans of my generation, instead of a mountain flower, I think of a mass school shooting. Over twenty years ago, on April 20, 1999, our nation was rocked with the first bloody outcry of it’s kind, of a young white population begging for connection and belonging, begging to be truly seen. Two decades later the isolation and separation felt by those two Columbine youth is as rampant as ever, as are mass shootings.
Absolutely we need to address gun control, divisive language and the roots of white supremacy. We need to dialogue, call our representatives and march in the streets. But just as importantly, we also need to sit quietly and examine our personal responsibility in creating and participating in the current culture of our nation.
How are we, as individuals in the greater web, creating spaces of inclusion?
How are we using language of connection?
Where may we unwittingly be using language of separation and difference?
How are we inviting others to eat at our table?
How are we unconsciously telling others to keep out?
How are we cajoling our sons and daughters to speak to what hurts and desires to be seen?
How are we cajoling ourselves?
How are we supporting ourselves, both alone and in community ?
Where and how are we creating feelings of belonging?
Are our feelings of connection created with acts of inclusion or exclusion?
What are the rippling effects?
My dream is that sooner than later the Columbine flower be a national symbol of peace, belonging and the coming together of our nation to address the undercurrent of desperation felt by so many.
