The Persistent Ones live up to their titles, floating in and out of my awareness, sometimes bursting in, to receive my wishes, to send me their own.
Then the chickadees catch my attention, their conversations making smiles in the center of my heart.
I see the faces and forms of them— the ones who arrive as recurring dreams. I hear their voices, feel the essence that makes each unique,. watch their moods wrap around them, imagine their thoughts.
Listening to an overview of current world events, I am convinced anew that we have slid into hell and are hurtling ever faster toward its core.
But the ladder-back woodpecker comes to point my eyes to blue openings in the clouds. For a moment I am present again, here, where brown leaves cover the hill and wee birds play in the bare branches of the lilac tree.
I turn inside to see the central Persistent One radiating loving, indescribable power. All is well. It doesn’t matter that I know nothing, that all this is less than a speck in the whole. I know the only thing I need to know. Yes. All is well.
One time, about half a century ago, my best friend read me a poem that her secret lover, a strong, sensitive man, had penned for her. They had walked together, she said, in the autumn woods earlier in the day. I remember being astonished at the poignant beauty of the words. The closing line, “Aren’t oak leaves beautiful?” stuck with me long after I’d forgotten the rest, except for a mention of the Taj Mahal at its beginning. Years later, I asked my friend if she, by any chance, still had a copy of the piece. She didn’t. But it doesn’t matter. The feel of it returns to me every year when oak leaves cover the ground.
Yesterday I thought of my friend with affection as I walked through heaps of newly fallen leaves, and I smiled at one red oak leaf, the sun shining through it as if it were a stained glass window. She was like that, too, glowing, letting the light pour through her deep rich colors. She passed away, I learned when I returned from my walk. So tonight I wrote this poem for her. I’ll think of you often, my friend, especially in autumn, when the beautiful oak leaves fall.
Late in the afternoon, I walked by the creek, its waters clogged by fallen leaves. I made cheesy beans for supper and ate a bowl with a slice of freshly baked Italian bread. I’m in my bedroom studio now and just turned on the the heater. The sun’s gone and the air has taken on a chill.
Tomorrow will bring rain and trail cold behind it that will last for days. It’s good weather for holing up, pulling on a fleece sweater and warm socks, listening to podcasts, maybe watching a tear well up over the mess of it all, hugging my pillows, snuggling with the gaudy afghan that Evelyn crocheted.
Barely noticeable lyrics sing from behind a velvet curtain on the back stage of my mind: “Just keep going; keep on going. Jesus closer than my breath. Just keep going. Keep on going.”
Sometimes that’s the best you can do. And that’s okay.
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.
It’s Saturday night as I write this and I keep hearing an inner voice say, “Tomorrow, snow. Big Snow. Big Snow. Big Snow.”
It only happens a couple of times a year here and it’s magical. The kid in you can hardly sleep the night before. And the big waxing moon doesn’t help either. A full moon AND a big snow. Wowzers!
You can feel it coming somewhere deep in your bones. It’s the big unknown of it that gets you. It could be really scary or it could be wondrous and fun. It could almost bury you or make a sharp turn a couple miles down the road and almost miss you altogether
Whatever it brings, you’re as ready as you can be. Bring it on.
But in the meantime, a part of you that resides in a larger dimension retreats in prayer and contemplation. No matter how it affects you personally, storms this big always bring tragedies and suffering. You wrap the world in compassion and ask only to serve.
I used to think that serving others in times of great challenge meant you should get out there with your chain saw or bullhorn or something. My own contributions seemed so insubstantial compared with what the heroes do. But then I figured out that I am who I am and the best I can do is the best I can do. And that is all I’m responsible for.
I heard a man put it into words that sum up what I’m trying to say: He was explaining to someone why he’s comfortable with his view of things and the way he interacts with the world. ”I trust in the nature of my path,” he said, “and I trust that I’m being guided to go where I need to go.” That seemed such a sane and mature thing to say.
When I walk through the woods or fields here, or along the creek, I am often struck by the amazing variety that surrounds me. And how everything has its place and plays its part. And somehow it all works together like some perfectly choreographed dance. Why would our own paths through life be any different?
So, a Big Snow is coming. And I can hardly wait for the adventure.
In the meantime, you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to savor the ambience of the room, its soft colors and gentle light, its warmth and mildly fragrant air. It’s peaceful. I am grateful. I am blessed.
May you be blessed, too, and at peace with the nature of your path. May the storms pass swiftly and leave you unharmed.
I woke remembering my intention to exchange my complaints for appreciation.. That in itself made me happy and I began the day with an easy smile.
The sun was out, a somewhat rare occurrence of late, and the temperature had risen above freezing. It was a perfect day for grabbing some photos. But I’d better go now. The forecast said clouds would be moving in by afternoon.
That’s when I discovered what, precisely, it is that I don’t like about winter. Everybody who knows me at all well has heard my annual statements about the season. I tell them, year after year, that we are part bear and should be hibernating now until the berries are ripe in the spring.
I don’t like being cold, I tell them. But today I realize that it’s not the sharpness of cold against my skin. As long as my body feels warm, I am okay with cold air. Sure, there are extremes to avoid, But you can be exposed to surprisingly cold air without sustaining damage. So it wasn’t the cold that I didn’t like.
I complained (as I am wont to do) about the season’s lack of color. But this year I am reminded how much I appreciate its hues. So I couldn’t blame that either.
I was thinking about this as I pulled on my boots and laced them and tied a double bow so the laces wouldn’t come undone and trip me. I put on the fuzzy hat with the wonderful ear flaps and tied it under my chin. I slid into the puffy winter jacket and zipped it up and snapped the snaps, and then I pulled on my gloves.
“Good grief,” some little voice inside me sighed, sounding impatient. “Can we go now?”
I could only laugh. That was why I didn’t like winter! You had to go through this huge, long ritual before you could go out and play. In summer, you could just run out the door.
I felt like the voice belonged to the five-year-old inside me who was chafing at the bit to get outside. I imagined taking her hand and walking with her to the creek, and showing her how to notice the feel of the air on her face and how the sun slightly warmed it. We listened to the winter birds and to the trees’ bare branches clicking in the gentle wind. Then there was the creek and we carefully climbed down the steep bank to its edges and wondered at its colors and dance and song.
As I peeled off my hat and gloves and jacket and boots when I got back home, I smiled at what I had experienced. That’s what its like when you trade your complaints for appreciation. The joy-beams get through.
“I am too full of complaints,” I say to myself, complaining about my complaining.
Admitting that allows me to see it as another learning opportunity. Complaints block the the joy-beams’ glow, after all. I need to call up the janitors to sweep them away.
I laugh as I hear the words “Your next assignment, should you choose to accept it” echo from some hallway of my mind.
I accept the challenge and begin by asking myself what attitude I would like to install in place of complaining. (Once you decide to do something, you may as well begin.) How about appreciation? Yeah. That would be cool. I make up a game. (Call if an exercise or a practice if you will.) Here it is:
Every time I notice myself complaining, I will choose to identify three things in my immediate vicinity that I appreciate.
First, I will say “Thank you,” to the part of me that called the complaint to my notice.
Then I will say “I’m sorry; please forgive me” because I fell into the trap of complaining.
Then I will say “I love you” because the world is stuffed with things that offer joy.
After that I’ll identify the three things, just for the delight of it.
At the bottom of the valley across the field from my woods runs a creek. I imagined that I took an hour every day to roll a love note scroll-like and gently slide it into one of the glass bottles waiting on the rack on the wall.
Some days I might send a story. Some days maybe a photo or secret might go. I would carefully seal it, and wrapping it in wishes for good fortune, carry it to the stream and let it go where ever it was destined to go.
I liked that picture.
I often think in images. Seems efficient. Images can capture so much in one flash.
So this is my second love-note. And here you are, reading it.
