Author: Susan Minarik

I’ve been following the collapse of a mountain peak and glacier in Switzerland. It swallowed up a beautiful village and threatens several more farther down the valley. Roads are gone. A river, blocked by the debris, floods the surrounding area. Downstream, the river is cut off from its source.

To clear everything that’s fallen so far would require 540,000 industrial dump trucks. If you lined them all up, nose to tail, they would make a line from Switzerland to Beijing.

 It’s an unfolding catastrophe, reshaping an entire mountain valley, a breathtaking reminder of nature’s raw power.

Catastrophes happen. Sometimes when you look around you, life can feel like that’s all there is, a constant sliding from one miserable disaster to another, with little rest between them. It can get scary. The tomorrows ahead can look frightening and bleak, the road pitted with pools of despair, or hopelessly blocked.

But amazingly, life goes on. More than that, if rises with unrelenting determination to make the most of things, however barren the landscape appears, however daunting the challenge.

It sends helpers. It sends glimmers of hope, and signposts, and ideas. It clears out patches of relief and rest.

We’re a part of it, after all, this expression of life on Earth. And wherever it comes from, life comes with a power mysteriously transcending nature, reaching beyond its grasp.

I have a little project going.

I’ve been taking photos through my studio window every few days to record the changes and see what I could see. I started last autumn.

I watched the leaves in the woods that surround me change color and fall. For endless weeks, the bare trees stood exposed to the winter’s cold winds, to icy rain, to snow. Beneath them, the fallen leaves dissolved into a carpet of muddy brown atop the frozen ground. Above them, the sky was blanketed by gray more often than it was clear and blue.

But today, I gaze at a world reborn, singing with broad, green leaves, with billowing ferns and wild flowers dancing in the dappled sunlight on the hillside. Once again, life has come, with its bounty of beauty and power.

In Switzerland, and all around our disaster-ridden globe, people are moving heaven and earth to rescue one another, to mend each other, to protect and nourish and comfort, to work together, to plan.

I think of Winston Churchill’s words to his people in the midst of the terrors of World War II: “When you’re going through hell, keep going.”

And we do. Life marches on, inside us and out, with all its mysteries and beauty and transcendental power.

Experience it I say. I believe that’s why we’re here. While we’re alive, let’s be alive and experience it all, every morsel of it, every flavor. And may we be moved enough by wisdom to sing our thanks as we go.

Wishing you rich experiences and a smooth stretch of road.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image: Screenshot from YouTube Video describing the mountain collapse in Switzerland}

I went for a country drive last week and, on impulse, I took a Pema Chodron CD with me from her True Happiness set. I hadn’t listened to it for a long while, and thought it would be good to hear her gentle wisdom as I drove. She didn’t disappoint.

“If you want to get past something that’s upsetting you,” she said, “stop talking to yourself about it.”

“Amen, Pema!” I said out loud. That is one piece of priceless advice.

Once I saw a man walking down the sidewalk angrily shaking his fists, his face full of rage, shouting at someone who wasn’t even there.

I’ve played versions of that scene myself, although not out in public. I remember a day, decades ago, when my mind was playing a movie about an unfinished argument I had with a friend. I was in the kitchen pouring myself a cup of coffee, all the while spouting out my side of the argument, and I poured one for him, too. Only when I walked into the living room with a coffee in each hand did I realize he wasn’t even there. The whole scene was a product of my imagination!

We all fall into that trap from time to time, playing out unresolved issues in our imaginations. It’s as if we think if we tell the story long enough, we’ll get up the nerve to do something about it, or maybe we’ll come up with the perfect way to get even, or to get the sympathy we want for being so unjustly treated. At least we’ll justify our anger and confirm our opinion that the other guy is a big, stupid jerk.

But the fact is the longer we tell the story, the more energy we give it to rule us. Our hurt and anger don’t dissipate; they build. And we stay stuck in a morass of fiery pain.

It’s not only hurt and anger that fuels our negative story-telling, though. Sometimes what’s upsetting us is guilt, or shame, or fear, or worry. And our story-telling locks us into unsettled past events, or into a frightening “what if” future that’s nothing but make believe.

We can even get locked into story-telling when someone expresses an opinion that’s at odds from our own beliefs. How could she possibly think that! How ignorant!

Whatever the trigger, the story-telling blinds us. It locks us away from the gifts of the present moment and all of its possibilities. It prevents us from viewing the event—whether past or future—from a different angle, from a fresh and open perspective. It keeps us from questioning whether our story is even accurate, or complete, or true.

“Stop talking to yourself about it” is, I know, easier said than done. The trick is to hear yourself doing it, and then to realize that you’re only keeping yourself stuck. The story holds no solutions. It offers no answers. It only perpetuates your misery and keeps you from getting on with your life.

But here’s the good news: there’s always something else you can do instead. Wash the dishes. Go for a walk. Clean the garage. Get in motion. Get to work. Make a decision. Move on. Move into the glistening Now.

Remember: Time is passing. Be awake and alive in it. Because it has so much to offer, and you have so much to give.

Wishing you a week of freedom.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by 愚木混株 Cdd20 from Pixabay}
 

I saw cows hip deep in grass today. Black Angus. Huge creatures it seemed, when the largest I usually see are squirrels, now and then wild turkeys, maybe deer. Well, and Dozer, my friend’s dog. But even he, for all his fine, large muscles, would be smaller than one of these cows’ baby calves.

I saw a field of newly shorn sheep munching on fresh grass, too, I imagined how they must love feeling the soft air and sunlight falling on their skin now that their woolly coats were gone, their tongues tasting the green juice of spring’s grasses and clovers as they grazed,

It started like this. I was driving through rural Ohio on a fine two-lane highway, painted and paved, with no other car in sight, windows open a bit, good music on the radio.

I rounded a curve to see a small Amish wagon, a single horse pulling it as it clomped rhythmically down the highway. I felt like I was driving through the opening scene of a movie about vanishing time. Picture rolling hills, freshly plowed, here and there a farm house, a barn. In the distance, bathed in the warm, moist air, wooded hills in layers all the way to the sky. And then the wagon, the sheep, the cows.

My mind captured the unfolding scene, labeled it, tucked it away. It was important to keep, a souvenir, a treasure. Soon it will all be a dream. But I will remember. I will always remember that one day in mid-spring . . .

Here in the States, today is Mother’s Day. May all of you who are mothers feel special and honored!

Did you know that 46 different nations around the globe set aside a day to honor mothers? Their dates may differ from ours, but the sentiment is rich and deep worldwide. Moms matter.

If you were blessed to have a mom who nurtured, comforted, taught and cared for you, who helped shape your values, and led you to discover the pleasures and fun of life, do take time today to remember her, whether she’s with you still or not.

Really remember. Let yourself think back to your childhood, to your earliest memories of her, and then let one memory flow into another, right up to the present day.

If you find yourself moved by some of your memories, or if some of them make you laugh right out loud, wrap those memories in gratitude. Do it for yourself; it will enrich you and let you savor some of the things that helped make you who you are today.

If your mom is still alive, share one or two of those stories with her and thank her. Let her know that you appreciate the way her gifts of time and energy, her words, her touch, her creativity and imagination brought you joy. If your mom is gone, wrap her in your loving thoughts and, in your heart, know that she will feel them.

Some of you who are reading this may not have had a loving mom. If not, think about the person or people who helped to fill her place. Maybe it was a dad, a stepmom, an aunt, a grandmother, a teacher, a neighbor. Remember who nurtured you and made you feel seen and heard, who helped you find your place in the world and gave you a sense of belonging.

A sense of belonging—to a family, to a society—is one of the most important gifts our mothers give us. They help us discover our identities, our talents and strengths. They encourage us to develop our potentials and to have the courage to express them in the world.

But perhaps more than anything else, what our mothers give us is the experience of knowing unconditioned love—a love that overlooks all our foibles and missteps, that forgives, without a second thought, all the ways we hurt her heart, all our wrongs and errors. Moms teach us that we are valuable, and forgivable, and that we matter, no matter what, and always will.

Today is a beautiful day to give some of that back—and to pass it on.

Wishing you a day of special memories and love.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by shanghaistoneman from Pixabay}

While I was surfing through YouTube this week, I was struck with a sense of fascination over the range of things that you can learn online. There’s no problem you can’t solve. The perfect body, home, car, career, and relationships are all at your fingertips. How amazing!  

We didn’t have the Internet when I was growing up. I’m turning 79 today, and the world in which I grew up was an entirely different world than the one we share now. (By the way, I’m tickled that now I can tell people, “I’m pushing 80,” and watch their surprise —thanks in part to what I’ve learned online about eating well and staying active.)

I got to thinking about the countless changes I’ve seen in my lifetime.

We didn’t have the Internet when I was a kid. There were no computers or smart phones. Most homes didn’t even have TV when I started school. And we had big, heavy black telephones with rotary dials and “party lines,” which meant you and several of your neighbors shared the same line and you had to take turns making calls and be courteous and not listen to other people’s conversations.

It’s kind of fun being this old and looking back at all the changes I’ve seen in my lifetime. 

Change is life’s one constant. In fact, I have a little rock with the word “Change” engraved in it sitting on my kitchen windowsill to remind me that it’s the only thing in life that can be carved in stone.  

I like that life is constant change.  It’s like being inside a multi-dimensional kaleidoscope that turns with every breath and paints your stories as it flows. 

Speaking of phones, in the mid-60’s I worked for the telephone company right across the Bay from the Haight-Ashbury district in San Francisco during the original “Summer of Love.” Hundreds of kids and young adults from all over the world came together there to get high on LSD and pot and the music of the Beatles and Jefferson Airplane, and try to find the meaning of life and to figure out how they could use love to change the world. It was a magical time.

One of the local radio stations had a weekly program I adored that featured long discussions with philosophers and mystics and poets, like Alan Watts and Allen Ginsberg and Carlos Castaneda. The show’s name was “The Ever-Changing Transcendental Multilingual Two-Ton Mustard Seed,” and its slogan was “”The program of better living through the chemistry of love.”  

I liked the name immensely. I still do.  Because “ever-changing” and “transcendental” describe the kaleidoscopic and multi-dimensional aspects of life. And the “two-ton mustard seed” alludes to the kind of faith you need to get from one end of your journey to the other with your heart and mind and soul intact.

That’s what it takes: great faith. In what? In the purposefulness of it all, and in its essential beneficence, by whatever name you choose to call it. No matter what befalls you, if you can trust that you are a part of some purposeful, all-embracing love, you can get through anything. In fact, if you hold on to that mustard seed, you can learn to love the changes, and the way they flow, and even learn how to direct your course as you sail through life’s changing tides.

Then, one day, when you reach a certain age, you’ll get to look back at it all and say, with a heart full of gratitude and gladness, “What a ride!  What a ride!”

Wishing you a week of kaleidoscopic delights!

Warmly,
Susan

Several years ago, I lived down the street from a little boy who lived in poverty in a broken home. He was withdrawn, insecure, and painfully shy.

Then, when he was seven years old, his mother enrolled him in a small, one room school in the neighborhood. It was the practice in this school, his mother told me, to begin every morning with a routine that gradually changed her son’s life.

The children would form a circle, she said, place their hands over their hearts and shout out the affirmation, “I am Awake! Alert! Alive! Enthusiastic! The mark of success is upon me! I am a winner! I cannot fail!” Then they would cheer and clap their hands and begin their day.

The little boy thought this was great fun, and to encourage him, his mom and he started practicing the routine together at home before breakfast. As the days passed, both of them grew happier, healthier, and more confident in their abilities. The mom gave great credit to the chant.

Her story reminded me of a popular self-improvement method that emerged in the beginning of the 20^th century. A French psychotherapist, Émile Coué, taught his patients to repeat the phrase, “Every day, in every way, I am getting better and better.” They were to repeat it at least 20 times throughout the day, especially when waking and going to sleep.

Today we credit the success and popularity of the method to a formation in our brains called the Reticular Activating System (RAS). It works as a dynamic, living filter that determines what data—out of the billions of bits of incoming sensory data—to send to our awareness. It makes its choices based on what it determines is important to us.

It learns what’s important to us by listening to our dominant thoughts, both positive and negative. If we’re repeatedly telling it that we’re losers, that nothing ever goes right for us, it will show us all the proof we need to convince us our opinion is true. But if we feed it the thought that we’re constantly improving, that will become our reality.

In her video about the RAS, popular author and podcaster Mel Robbins shares an exercise that will let you experience for yourself how your RAS works. For the next five days, she says, tell yourself that you want to find an image of a heart in your environment.

It could appear as a rock or a leaf or a stain on someone’s shirt, a piece of food, anything. When you spot it, take a moment to recognize how satisfied you feel, and maybe take the object (or a picture of it) home with you as a souvenir.

You’ll be surprised how you keep finding hearts, Mel says. And you’ll have a taste of how your RAS works. Check out Mel’s YouTube video about the RAS for a more in-depth description of the way it shapes your life and how you can put It to work for you.

If the find-a-heart exercise doesn’t appeal to you, invite yourself to practice Dr. Coué’s famous phrase throughout your day: “Every day, in every way, I’m getting better and better.”

Say it to yourself as you wake and go about your morning routine. Say it before sleep. Let it be the recurring song in your day.

Pay attention to the thoughts and images that come to you as you imagine what “better” might be.

Notice the interventions that happen in your life, the new choices and ideas that appear, the way you feel.

It’s an interesting game with cool rewards. Give it a whirl.

Be well and prosper.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by TheUjulala from Pixabay}

Rain. Sun. Warmth. Snow.
It’s not easy giving birth to a new season.
You get fevers; you get chills.
All that life relentlessly pushing its way
into the world, unfolding its forms.
Oh, the winds here! Oh, the sky!
Oh, the song!