Author: Susan Minarik

Holding the Calm

Although seas roar and winds howl,
in this space Mother Nature preserves the calm.
Here, she provides a nook where peace reigns
and the seasons bow to life’s demands
for security and shelter.  We are holding
the calm for you, sing the reeds and and waters and trees,
for you who are in the midst of great storms.  We are holding
beauty for you who are beset with chaos and destruction. 
We send you the warmth of the early spring sun, and hope,
and the promise that, always, after the storms,
calm awaits, serenity returns. 

Spring

When I went out to feed the birds this morning
I heard myself breathing the word, “spring!”
Undeniably, and all at once, it was here,
with its perfume and its light, its pastel hues
and puddles and song, and in my heart
the welling joy.

This afternoon the first crocuses opened,
a pretty little pair, a royal confirmation
right here outside my door.

Swings in Snow

It didn’t snow much here this winter. But today I ran across this piece I wrote in 2015 when the snow fell long and deep.

So then I came to the playground.
Well, it’s not a playground exactly.
It’s just a set of swings. Fine, sturdy
wooden ones hung from hooked rods
on a high metal frame, well-built,
and sitting there in the woods
by one of the few shelters,
half way between the parking lot
and the forest-edged ponds.

Just looking at them, you could tell
they wanted to be in motion.
It was all I could do not give them a push.
But something held me back. Maybe
it was the silence. Maybe it was the snow.
So I just stood there, listening, and I swear
I heard joyful shrieks and the laughter
of children, and that whining sound
that swings sing.

Places hold their songs and sing them
long after the singers have disappeared.
And here were these swings, full of motion,
even in their stillness, playing memories
through their long winter wait.

The Power of Creative Anticipation

I continued reading the “Sunday Letters” that I wrote back in 2015 and once again felt compelled to share with you the one that followed the letter I shared last week. Here it is:

First of all, let me share that my friend who broke his hip in the slip-on-the-ice fall last week is making great progress with his recovery and expects to return home this week. Thanks to all who sent him caring thoughts.

Because he’s had his bouts with clinical depression and often says, “Everything always goes wrong for me,” I’ve been grateful and relieved and very happy to hear the optimism in his voice and his anticipation of things he’ll be able to do for himself once he’s home.

There’s a creative power is positive expectation—especially when you learn to expect the best from yourself. I read a quote this week from an anonymous source that said, “When you become convinced that you can make a comeback from any adversity, then all of your creative forces will come to your aid.”

That’s more than a glib statement of positive philosophy. Our brains work hard to materialize proof of our beliefs for us, to find evidence for them. Wayne Dyer wrote a whole book about it called When You Believe It, You’ll See It.

From all the billions of bits of data that come to us from our sensory organs, our brains actively select out for our attention the ones that match what we hold to be true or that open doors or give clues about opportunities that we’re seeking.

It happens automatically, but you can speed the process along by asking Positive Affirmative Questions of your brain. Popularized as “afformations” by Noah St. John, PAQ’s generally begin with the word “Why” and then go on to state what you’re hoping to materialize in your experience. “Why am I feeling so confident today?” “Why am I healing so quickly?” “Why am I so creative today?” “Why am I so patient?”

The “why” part of the question sends your brain on a search to find answers for you. It can’t resist the challenge. Unlike ordinary affirmations, such as “I am so creative,” why-questions don’t give your brain a chance to argue with you or to dispute you. Instead, it begins to scour both its knowledge banks and incoming sensory data to bring you the proof you requested.

If your request is urgent, your brain will even go into a kind of hyperdrive to find answers. I’ll give you a personal example. I happened to drop a 20-pound log on my big toe last night. Hurt like the blazes. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” I yelled. But because I’d been thinking about this letter, I said to myself, “Why is my toe recovering so fast?” And even before I pulled off my sock to examine the damage, my brain said, “Because you put an ice pack on it right away.” And I did. Good thing, too; poor toe got smashed pretty well. But I do expect it to heal quickly, and I expect my brain to continue to giving me hints to help it along.

Creative anticipation is a powerful tool. It’s what’s behind the adage, “You get what you look for.” Look for the good, and give the process a boost with some Positive-Affirmative-Questions.

Now, why are you having such a fabulous week this week?

Warmly,
Susan

Image by Image by Anja from Pixabay

Now Comes the Rain

The world this morning was drenched
in fog and a rain gently fell.
Suspended from the spruce
a thousand tiny globes of glistening light
made me feel as if I’d awakened
in some mystical world where joy rose
in a whispering mist and hidden geese
flew like secrets, their wings pearled,
their muffled calls signaling a message
that only hearts could know.

The Balance Point

Snow melting on the mossy log
tells the tale:
Spring and winter’s dance
is at its balance point.
Neither holds sway.
Things can tip either way
and will, for days.
Spring’s advance
makes fools of us all.

Riding the Song

It is enough just to be,
to be awareness, noticing,
to feel the temperature and flow
of the air, to note the rustling of the leaves
and the colors of the sky, to feel your body
balancing, to hear the sounds, to note
the scents, to be still and in motion
all at once, riding the song.

When the Bough Breaks

Every Saturday as go through my day, I notice my mind casting about in search of the focal point for the letter I’ll write to you in the evening. I call this mostly subconscious process, the working of “the boys in the back room.” They’re the guys that put all this together, point me where to go, slide messages under the door and into my awareness.

I’m often quite surprised at what it turns out that I say. But I trust the process.

Today, I was inspired to go through a stack of my “Sunday Letters” from way back in 2015. That’s nine years ago. I opened it to March and pulled out a letter dated the 8th of that year.

The parallels to events currently unfolding in my personal world were, to say the least, an amazing synchronicity. But beyond that, it put into words what I’ve been wanting to say for a while now.

I immediately felt compelled to share it with you. It’s meant for somebody special. Who knows? Maybe that somebody is you.

Here it is:

When the Bough Breaks

It was a week of sad news and an unexpected challenge.

The challenge wasn’t all that bad, relatively speaking. The drain for my kitchen sink froze, breaking a seam between two pipes, and before the squishy sound of the carpet under my feet told me there was a problem, my entire sink floor was flooded and water had seeped under the old tile beneath the carpet. I’m not happy with the situation, of course. But it’s nothing that can’t be repaired.

Besides, I’ve learned to bolster myself in the face of life’s normal challenges by flexing my bicep Rosie-the-Riveter style and defiantly snarling, “Bring it on!” Works like magic.

Sad news is a little more difficult to handle. On Tuesday, an old friend of mine called to tell me he was in the hospital. He had slipped on a patch of ice, fallen, and broke his hip. His general life situation wasn’t all that great to begin with, and this is going to be a serious setback for him.

I have two other friends who are enduring difficult medical situations, too. It’s hard to watch those you care about suffer. It’s hard even to watch the suffering of strangers half a world away.

But pain and problems are a part of life, a part of all of our lives. It’s almost as if they’re a necessary part of being fully human. They test our courage and our ingenuity and resolve. They keep us humble. They give us a chance to think about what really matters in our lives. They break our patterns and shift our view of things. They remind us that we’re mortal.

Confronted with my friends’ difficulties, I remembered Tara Brach’s helpful words: “This is suffering. Everyone suffers. May I be kind.”

When you’re the one who is suffering, it helps to remember that you’re not alone. Pain is universal; it visits us all. Be kind to yourself.

When you’re a witness to pain, let kindness be your unfailing flag. Be there, with a loving heart, for family and friends who are enduring pain. Bring them your patience and your cheer, your encouragement and your faith in their strength. Be there to listen. Be there authentically, with your whole heart.

That goes for emotional and mental suffering as well as physical ailments and injuries. Hurt happens on a lot of levels.

And so does healing. And the very best medicine is love.

Wishing you a week of kindness – given and received.

Warmly,
Susan

Image from https://pixabay.com/users/publicdomainpictures-14/

Trees Singing Sky

Oh sky, who drenched us in sunlight
for nearly a week of days, whose stars
glittered at night in your velvet deep,
we thank you. And we watch in thanks
as you pull in soft clouds and release
your sweet moisture on all the dear flowers
asleep now beneath Earth’s soil, dreaming,
as do we, of the coming spring.

Meeting the Queen

I walked the trail around the wetlands
hoping, on this spring-like day, to see
that migrating ducks had come, or perhaps
an early blackbird or two. Even the sound
of a peeper would have been grand.
But the pond held no feathered visitors
and not even the calls of crows etched
the pearly sky. It is, I reminded myself,
still February, and was content to find
not ice, but puddles, dotting my path.
Then, as I followed deer trails through
the woods, a patch of black and white
caught my eye and I turned to see a cat
stretched atop a fallen log as if she owned it.
Here, in the wildness! I stopped and stooped
and spoke to her. She was, she said,
quite fine and not frightened or lost
at all. “People live,” I told her, pointing,
“up there on the hill, about a third
of a mile away, if you need them.”
She nodded, ever so slightly, then
returned to the pleasure of her fine perch
and the gift of sun-warmed air. So
I walked on, golden eyes following me
until I disappeared.