I spent the first hour of my morning listening to a conversation between two physicians about the latest reports on vax injuries and on the content of the shot itself. In the comments section of the video someone listed the statistics on the increases in various medical conditions reported by the US Department of Defense: 300% 500%, 600% 1500% in 2021 versus the past five year averages. It’s an extensive list. And now we’re giving this potion to our babies!
Meanwhile, in Ottawa, the police are going to arrest anyone who supplies fuel to the truckers who are standing against the tyranny of the mandates.
I finish my cup of coffee and remember that the birds are out there in the cold waiting for breakfast. The temperature has risen to 30 now, and as I step outside I am struck by the sight of the treetops, gleaming with ice and quite stunning against the blue sky. The powdery snow sparkles in the sunlight. The birds call from the branches of the spruce.
“Ah,” I say to myself with a sigh of welcome relief. “There’s still this. There’s still this.”
I like to grab a book at random from my shelves now and then and leave it somewhere that I can spontaneously pick it up and read a paragraph or two. It was a piece of good fortune that the one I’d set out on my kitchen countertop a week or so ago was Jon Kabat-Zinn’s Arriving at Your Own Door. It’s subtitle is “105 Lessons in Mindfulness” and it’s simply a wonderful little book. It’s about 5 inches square and each page is one little lesson printed atop a gentle green design that looks like a veined leaf.
In Lesson One, mindfulness is described as “a way of befriending ourselves and our experience.” Then it goes on to say, “Of course, our experience is vast, and includes our own body, our mind, our heart, and the entire world.”
The remainder of the book simply guides you past the obstacles that stand between you and that friendly relationship with yourself and all that you experience.
I opened to Lesson 24 one day this week, It’s titled “Autopilot.” Oh yeah, I thought. Been there done that. Like over and over and over. Here’s the whole lesson:
“Paying attention is something we do so selectively and haphazardly that we often don’t see what is right in front of our eyes or even hear sounds that are being carried to us through the air and are clearly entering our ears. The same can be said for our other senses as well. Perhaps you’ve noticed.”
Noticed! Ha ha! Now that you mention it, I haven’t really noticed, I thought. But now that you did mention it, let me turn on my scanner and see what’s going on. So I did. And it was quite wonderful.
Of course it’s not possible to stay there, paying attention to all the experiences that your senses and thoughts and emotions are providing to you. And if you decided that staying aware is some goal, that being mindful is a measure of achievement of some kind, you can get grumpy with yourself for forgetting to pay attention for the huge swaths of time that you forget.
But if you read on, you’ll come to Lesson 59, “Acceptance and Compassion,” where you’ll be reminded to be kind to yourself. “Gentleness,” says the page facing this lesson, “is not a luxury, but a critical requirement for coming to our senses.” In other words, you can’t be open to the gifts of your senses while you are beating yourself up or ranting about how things should be different than they are.
To learn to let go when you’re all riled up is no easy task. But catching yourself being riled up is a fine first step. Sometimes, when you notice that being riled up is what’s going on, you might find that you can even laugh at yourself. And the very act of noticing changes everything. That’s what it’s all about.
As I went through the week, the lessons unfolded, and I remembered to practice paying attention more and more. I’m so glad. Otherwise, I might have missed seeing the way the freshly fallen snow glistened in the sunshine, or hearing the adorable chirpings of the chickadees.
Wishing you a week where a little voice sometimes whispers to you, “Pssst. Pay attention!” Listen to it. You’ll be glad.
In the afternoon I tried to nap but couldn’t sleep. The kid in me is too full of anticipation over the coming storm. We’ve had freezing rain all day. The spruce boughs are heavy with its crystals. It taps against the window panes as if someone is hurling thousands of needles at them. But I am waiting for the snow. Once it starts, they say, we could get an inch an hour.
I wasn’t even a teen yet when I adopted the Girl Scout motto: “Be Prepared.” I’m ready, as best I can be, for whatever the storm may bring. My highest hope is that I’ll wake in the morning to a warm house and electricity. I pray for all those who won’t, and for those who will brave the ice and snow to restore life-saving power where the storm takes it down.
I am moved by the courage and compassion that people show in emergencies and when they must rise to defend and protect the things they hold dear. From all over the world, stories come in now of people taking to the streets to reclaim their freedom from would-be tyrants. It stirs me to my core.
Whatever storms may come, we will rise to the occasion. Whatever power is lost will be restored.
At 2:30 in the afternoon the sun was behind the south hill, but the day was unusually warm and bright. I went out to bring in the rest of my firewood. Starting tomorrow night, they say, we’ll get between three to six inches of a “wintry mix” of sleet and snow, topped with a glaze of ice. It’s the kind of weather that brings down power lines and trees. It’s best to be prepared.
Before I turn to take the last log into the house, I ask Mother Maple and the Hawk Tree to protect me and all their children, as if they had such powers, and send them wishes to fare well through the storm. Both of them have seen many storms before. This is nothing new either for them or for me. And truth be told, it will impact other regions of the country far more than the one where we stand. I say these things to the trees only because we have spent many years together and they hold a special place in my heart.
The good news is that tomorrow is Ground Hog’s Day, and the coming storm’s approach means the sky will be blanketed with clouds. According to the legend, when the ground hog doesn’t see his shadow on the second day of February, it portends an early spring. In my book a little storm seems a small price to pay for such luxury. Bring it on.
In the light of the afternoon sun you can see that deer have passed by, that the little juncos were out pecking through the snow for seeds. The long shadows of the trees follow the curves of the hill down its slopes. And the snow itself glitters as if a choir of angels had spent the night sprinkling diamond dust from the heavens.
“This is your reward,” I think to myself as I climb the hill. The snow rises in glistening little clouds around my boots. I stop for a moment and listen to the silence of the woods. The birds have had their breakfasts and are resting now, conserving their energy. I’m as grateful on their behalf as I am for my own sake that the sun has reappeared with its gentle winter warmth. We needed this.
I notice that my face is wearing a smile as I continue my climb, adding my tracks to those the animals made. They seem to link us together somehow, these signs that we were here, on this hill, in the shimmering snow at this moment in time. “Every now and then,” I sometimes say, “a moment comes along that makes all the rest of them worth it.” This, surely, is one of those.
The temperatures here this week have been in the teens and single digits, keeping me mainly inside. My only certain excursions are my trip to retrieve the mail from the box at the far end of my driveway—an adventure in itself—and a few trips to the big, flat rocks atop the retaining wall where I put the sunflower seeds for the birds.
The birds have become a source of fascination. Not only do they entertain me and teach me, but they touch me with their seeming vulnerability. It amazes me that they can endure such cold, and survive when every source of water is frozen and their main sources of food are buried beneath what, to them, must seem to be mountains of snow.
They kindle my sense of wonder and awe at the way the world works, at how things are woven together in complex and beautiful ways meant to benefit every living creature. Even us. Even when we have a hard time seeing how everything we encounter sustains and grows us. Even when life seems anything but beautiful.
I don’t think the birds digging in the snow for hidden seeds think how amazing it is that their feet don’t freeze, or that mere feathers are enough to keep their little bodies warm. They take such things for granted. We take for granted the things that keep us going, too. Our hearts beat, our lungs breathe, our wounds heal without our giving them a thought or thinking that we ought to be in charge. We laugh and love without asking how it can be that we do such things. And yet, aren’t they miraculous?
In some ways, I’ve noticed, the birds seem smarter than us. I don’t think they grumble about the cold, or about the work involved in digging with tiny feet through deep snow to find a little morsel of food. They don’t waste time in worry or complaining or fear. They just go about their business and get things done. They spread the word to others when they discover a decent eatery and share their table with birds of every shape and color and size. They don’t pick fights. They learn who the bullies are and simply keep their distance. And most of the time, they just seem so downright happy to be birds being birds. It’s kind of wonderful really.
If the weather hadn’t driven me to spend my days inside, peering out my window for signs of life, I would have missed all these little lessons and observations. It’s just one more example of the way that life weaves things together in such beneficial ways. As my neighbor often says as he points his finger skyward, “It kind of makes you think Someone’s watching out for us, doesn’t it?”
