Category: Sunday Letters

I was reminded again, after watching the events the past week brought us, of one of the most valuable teachings I ever learned. I’ve shared it with you before, but this seems like a good time to remind you about it, too. It’s this counsel from Tara Brach about what to do when you find that you’re in distress. Say this to yourself, she says:

This is suffering.
Everybody suffers.
May I be kind.

I’m always comforted by it. It lets me put a name to what I’m feeling: suffering. Then it reminds me that I’m not alone, that suffering is something every human being everywhere experiences. That’s kind of a deep thing to realize. None of us escapes pain—physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Life here isn’t for sissies. It puts all of us to the test.

Knowing that, the only worthwhile response is to be kind. Accept that at one time or another, life is painful. Reality here has a brutal streak. And in the face of it, kindness is a healing balm. It washes over the scene with a gentle warmth. It ever so subtly brings a soft light to things, allowing us to feel a spaciousness wide enough to see beyond our pain, to sense the love around us, too. Let yourself remember a moment of kindness you experienced and notice how it lifts you just to think of it.

The first place to focus your kindness when you’re in distress is on yourself. Imagine giving yourself a gentle, compassionate hug, one that conveys that it deeply understands what you’re feeling. You’re human. Pain comes with the territory. Let it be what it is; it will pass.

Then, once you open yourself to being accepting and kind towards yourself, however slightly, let it flow out to everybody. You never know what’s going on inside somebody else’s skin. It could be that the person right next to you needs a friendly smile as much as you do. Let your kindness touch the entire situation you’re in—everything and everyone involved.

A friend of mine sometimes says, “Love isn’t a feeling; it’s an action.” I think of that when I think about what kindness is. Just because you aren’t feeling especially generous toward someone doesn’t mean you can’t treat them with respect and consideration. Kindness means you look past your own troubles to try to help lift the load for somebody else.

And the beautiful thing is that kindness generates a kind sort of feedback loop. It’s like instant karma, returning to you the love that you give, multiplied.

I know I often encourage you to “tuck this one in your pocket,” that I hope you’ll adopt a quote or an exercise as part of your own tool chest. But I especially hope you’ll gift yourself with this one. You have your own way to store things in your mind. Maybe you make a written note of it, Maybe you just practice chanting it until you feel it embedding itself in your memory. Whatever means you use, use it with this one: “This is suffering. Everybody suffers. May I be kind.” Its benefits are real, and healing, and strong.

Wishing you a week of peace and ease.

Warmly,
Susan

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

I’ve noticed that we all seem to be a bit tense these days. That’s a shame. We miss a lot when we’re all tight, and life is such a big and fascinating show. So I thought I’d share with you two of my favorite ways to release stress, and one for getting more out of whatever is going on. Their effects are temporary, meant to give you a little break and a broadened perspective.

The first one is good for emergency use as well as providing a quick mental refresh any ol’ time. The second one is an easy little exercise that’s almost as good as a nap.

1. Renewed Composure

Take a deep breath. A deep one!
When your lungs are full, close your eyes.
Breath out gently, slowly, as you whisper to yourself

Relax . . .
Let my muscles relax; let them soften.
Let me feel the flow of my breath. (Breathe in whenever you want to.)
Let me straighten my posture and open my eyes.

Note the increase in your composure, and carry on.

Once the part about relaxing your muscles, feeling your breath, and straightening up becomes automatic, you can just say “Relax, 1, 2, 3” if you like.

Repeat as needed/desired.

2. The Ragdoll

Bend forward from the waist (just as far as is comfy) dangling your arms and head toward the floor. Imagine you’re a soft, worn rag doll and let your arms gently swing. When you want, s-l-o-w-l-y stand up, visualizing or feeling how you’re stacking your vertebrae one atop the other until you’re standing straight and tall.
(Sometimes I like to do #1 right after this one.)

Enjoying the Show

This is a trick I discovered a few years back when co-workers often strolled into my office to dump their momentary frustrations and complaints. One of them particularly irritated me. She was nice enough and I liked her, but she was one heck of a chatterer with a thin, high-pitched voice, going on breathlessly while her hands flew through the air, her long, glossy fingernails flashing in the fluorescent light. But she needed a listener, and I got the role.

One day, while she was jabbering away, I asked myself how else I could see her so I could pay attention better. All of a sudden she transformed into a cartoon, like from “The Simpsons” maybe. The room itself looked like a cartoon in my mind. It was all I could do not to laugh. But it brightened my attitude and I found I could listen to her as if I were watching a movie,

I still use that technique to this day. I pretend I’m watching a sit-com or a movie, captivated by what everyone (including me) is saying and doing. I study the other characters’ faces and expressions and empathize with their stories, whether of suffering or joy. I let myself appreciate the drama of the situation, its tragedy, its comedy, its ordinariness, its beauty. Seeing it that way, I’m a step removed from it and get a wider view.

I don’t know if that will work for you. You’ll have to try it. Imagine you’re watching life on a really big screen, with the finest sound and lighting. See what happens. It’s all an experiment you know.

Make yourself a bag of popcorn. Then relax, and enjoy the show.

Wishing you serenity, all the week through. 

Warmly,
Susan

Image by Pablo Jimeno from Pixabay

[First, some notes from my Joy Warrior’s Journal, as background.

What To Do In The Middle Of A Treacherous War That Surprisingly Few Realize Is Even Going On: An Inner Conversation

Voice: Is it at your doorstep?
Me: It’s deeper in my pocketbook at every turn. So I’d say its inching its way up with what seems to be quickly increasing speed.

Voice: Are you in imminent danger?
Me: Only if I don’t pay attention to my driving. And here’s my corner. Oh! Look! It’s Gorgeous!

Voice: Well, of course.]

I pulled in to the curb right across from the school. Its campus borders one edge of the park, an oasis of joy tucked between the “projects” and the small private college up the street. I end up here in the middle of May every year . (You can read the story about that here. Pics there, too.) It’s an aged, clean, working class neighborhood that tells a lot of history as you drive down its streets. I like the area’s giant sycamores and maples, and the way the yards are neat and host flowering trees and beds of blooms, now that it’s finally spring.

Despite my excitement over finding myself at this delightful park once again, I was in a slightly sober mood. I spend my mornings, as I’ve mentioned, watching news you usually don’t get from the main stream media. And I can only conclude that we’re heading into some extraordinary times. Events truly seem to be heading quickly toward a decisive moment. But my resolution as a somewhat errant joy warrior is to be present with the moment’s goodness, and beauty, and truth. So I am here, at the park, and as I exit my car, I look at the scene before me and, breathing it in, find a little smile edging onto my face.

Then I see it. The whole sidewalk is covered with chalk drawings. I approach them a bit warily, hoping they won’t mar the beauty of the scene. But no! Look! They’re love notes! See the pink and blue heart?

I walk down the edge of the sidewalk taking photos of them, feeling as if I’ve stepped into an enchanted little world of some sort. A grinning blue face looks up at me, wearing the word “Happiness” in big letters beneath his chin. And look at this fish! See? Above the surface of the water, storm clouds drop rain. But straight ahead the sun shines through the water, and the little fish has his eye set on that. Must be a joy fish. See what he says? “Look to the bright side.”

I glance up at the colors the park’s trees are wearing, and they call me. But I am stopped in my tracks by the sidewalk’s next square. It’s a quote from a sonnet by Shakespeare, no less! “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou are more lovely and more temperate.” It could have been written to this very day itself. And then comes a simple blue smile, and its message, “You matter.”

I am astonished by the whole experience, and truly moved. As I leave the sidewalk to take in the park, I tuck one of the sidewalk’s messages into my heart-pocket, a reminder: “Don’t worry. Be happy.” That’s always good advice.

Go into this week knowing that you are loved.

Warmly,
Susan

The hardest part is deciding what to prepare. Once I’ve got that, the whole game plan appears. I wash my hands and assemble the ingredients, bowls, cutting board, knives, various utensils. Then I begin.

I take the skinless, boneless chicken thigh in my hand and place it on the cutting board. With my sharp, thin knife, I remove the bits of excess fat and cut the meat into cubes. I think about Holly’s wonderful chickens, roaming free in their big, fenced yard. The thigh I’m cutting probably came from some poor critter raised in a crowded cage, never feeling the slightest touch of human love, Silently, I thank it for its life and for feeding me. It sizzles and I turn the pieces to sear them on all sides to hold in their juices.

For a moment, the news about the proliferating bird flu and about the rash of fires at food processing plants flashes through my mind. But I catch myself and turn my attention back to the meat happily cooking in my pan and to my gratitude that it has arrived in my kitchen and will make a fine contribution to my meal. That’s what a joy warrior does when thoughts of the world’s darkness threaten to eclipse the light of a heart full of thanksgiving.

I think about all the people involved in getting this little chicken thigh to me–the producers, the packers, the makers of the packaging, the truckers who transported it, the buyers and sellers and handlers along the way, the machines involved and all those who designed, built and operated them–the list could go on and on. I send a little wave of thanks to all who made it possible, a cast, no doubt, of millions if you trace it all out. “Every door leads to an infinite world,” I say to myself, laughing. Everything’s connected and intermingled.

The shrimp come next, small, cleaned, tailless ones. I like the slightly salty smell of them as I stir them into the chicken. It brings images of the ocean and fishing boats and fishermen. And for a moment, I am sailing in Boston Harbor, feeling the rush of the wind as it pushes us through the water. Maybe, far below me, shrimp crawl. I remember eating lobster once fresh from the boat that docked at the restaurant’s lower door, somewhere on the coast of Maine. The shrimp in my present dinner probably came from a farm. Almost everything’s a step removed from nature these days. But at least it wasn’t made in a lab. Thank you, little pink shrimp, for being real and for the gift of your energy.

I open the bag of frozen stir-fry veggies—broccoli, mushrooms, strips of sweet red pepper and carrots, sweet pea pods, cauliflower, water chestnuts, corn—and add a couple handfuls to the pan. The colors brighten the whole dish as I gently toss them. I imagine vast fields of vegetables from a half dozen states and maybe beyond the nation’s boundaries–and again, I thank all who labored to bring them to me.

I sprinkle in a pinch of pink Himalayan salt—What a wonder!—and a twist or two of freshly ground mixed peppercorns and just a dash of ground coriander. Then I let it simmer a bit, aware that days are coming soon when such bounty as this will be available no more. I pray for those who go hungry right now, and I am more grateful for this beautiful meal than words could ever say.

I ladle big spoonfuls of it onto a clear glass plate, breathing in its fragrance, and sit to savor its flavors. When I finish, I am satisfied, and filled, body and soul.

Wishing you a week of beautifully mindful meals.

Warmly,
Susan

I was at the park this week on one of the month’s rare sunny days and happened across two little girls playing at the edge of the creek. They were putting little pieces of driftwood on the water to watch it float downstream and giggling as they sang “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream . . . “

I hadn’t heard that little ditty in years and soon I was humming it as I walked along. “Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily; Life is but a dream.”

It got me thinking about one of the phrases I keep in my back pocket to get me through stressful times or to reassure myself when I’m taking on a challenge. I’ve shared it with you before. Maybe you remember: “How easy can I let this be?”

Now and then I repeat it to a friend of mine who unfailingly repeats it as “How easy can I make this?” I tell him it’s not “make this,” but “let this.” There’s a difference.

Maybe my friend, an engineer, thinks that making things easy means finding an efficient way to go about whatever needs to be done. But to me, that interpretation puts the onus on you to invent an efficient way. It becomes an added thing that you have to do. I’m all for efficiency. And I suppose if I were the engineering type, “making things easy” might sound like an engaging task. I might find it lifts my spirits to look at things that way, If that’s how it sounds to you, great!

But the point of asking yourself to let the challenge before you be easy means that you’re giving yourself permission to relax into it. You’re asking yourself how much you’re willing to allow yourself to be at ease. Things are only difficult or trying for us because we frame them that way, after all. Almost anything can be done with ease if we take it one small step at a time. What’s the old saying? “Inch by inch, anything’s a cinch.”

Giving yourself permission to step into a task gently and with ease is especially helpful when what you’re facing seems unpleasant, or even repulsive or painful. Allowing yourself to let go of the tension of resistance tunes you in to your capabilities. Asking “How easy can I let this be?” turns “I don’t want to” into “I can do this.”

What’s more, it lets you glide into action with a grace that can build momentum for you, and even make the task feel rewarding and satisfying, or if you’re really lucky, fun. There you are, just rowing your boat, one stroke of the oars after another. And sooner or later, you arrive where you wanted to be. The challenge that loomed so large is behind you, now nothing more than a memory, a dream.

Let me invite you to tuck the phrase in your pocket—“How easy can I let this be?”— and to pull it out the next time you find yourself resisting a challenge. Maybe attach the tune to “Row Your Boat” to it just to give it a bit of flavor. Give it a try. You never know.

Wishing you a week of merrily bubbling streams.

Warmly,
Susan

My neighbor and I were watching the cardinals and jays enjoying breakfast at The Flat Rock Cafe. That’s what I call the corner of the retaining wall where I sprinkle a thick layer of sunflower seeds for my bird pals every morning. I take out the seeds and sing, “Good Morning, little friends. Here’s your breakfast!” I repeat it three times. They know the song now and as soon as I’m half way back to the house, they come zooming in from all directions.

Now that spring has finally sprung, my chipmunk buddies have begun to return to the cafe, too. And today was one of those days. They stuffed their little cheeks for a while, and then, when more jays came, they raced away, chasing each other in circles in the yard. My old neighbor friend laughed at the sight of them. I told him they were celebrating the arrival of spring. “Aren’t we all!” he said, holding up his coffee cup to make a toast.

Winters here seem to take up half the year, so the arrival of spring is indeed a cause for celebration. Personally, I’ve vowed to treasure every single day of it, even the dreary, rainy ones.

I looked up the word “celebrate” in my thesaurus to see what it had to say. It’s a word that holds a lot of connotations in my mind and I wondered if the thesaurus would reflect some of them. Among the first tier of words that were similar, it listed “honor,” “observe,” “praise,” and “revere.”

I liked them; they captured it well. They highlighted the different aspects of celebration–not only the jubilation of it, but the quieter, deeper parts of it, too. For me, celebration is an act of joy, the act of taking time to observe and honor the richness a moment holds, to feel the meaning of it. Sometimes, when you do that, your heart fills with a joy so brilliant that it could only find voice in praise. Sometimes, if the moment is a somber one, you find yourself feeling a profound respect for all the vagaries of life, for the mystery of it, and your heart quiets and is wrapped in reverence.

Isn’t it interesting that a single word can capture such a range of emotion? And isn’t it something that we can feel that whole range as something special, to be noticed and experienced in its fullness?

I mean, there I was, sipping coffee with Bob, watching the critters, and all of a sudden the antics of the chipmunks, and Bob’s laughter, and the observation of springtime, and the honoring of it with a toast all mixed altogether with a recognition that this was a moment of true celebration.

It was just an ordinary moment. Looked at from just the right angle, ordinary moments are the best causes for celebration. They capture us just as we are, being our true selves, living our true lives. And whatever we’re being or doing is beautiful and sacred somehow.

Seeing the cause for celebration in an ordinary moment isn’t something that happens all the time. That’s probably a good thing. We’d get little done if we walked around astonished by the wonder of life all the time. But you can cultivate such moments. You can teach yourself to stop and ask if the present moment deserves your celebration. We get what we look for, after all. And moments of celebration are so plush that it’s worth the effort to see if you’re in the midst of one this very minute. Could be. You never know.

Wishing you bushels of heartfelt celebrations.

Warmly,
Susan

For some reason, I see the old guy down the road as someone Norman Rockwell would have painted, sitting there with his dog, talking to him.

You’re probably not old enough to remember finding a new issue of The Saturday Evening Post in your mailbox every week with a Rockwell illustration on its cover. But if you are, I bet you’re smiling right now as you think about it. Maybe you even have a Rockwell favorite or two. I do. But that’s a different story.

This story is how every now and then I’m lucky enough to see things through Norman Rockwell’s eyes. He saw things true. He didn’t try to pretty things up. He stayed away from the worst sides of things. For the most part, he just saw plain, ordinary people doing ordinary things. Some were touching, some funny, some heroic. And you could relate with them. And because Rockwell saw people through eyes of humor and love, you liked the part of you that related with his characters, you accepted your humanity with a little more lightness and grace.

What a gift, hey? To be able to draw people so truly that looking at them made you like yourself more?

What if we could do that for ourselves? What if we could look at the reflection in our bathroom mirrors with eyes of welcome and happiness and, oh, such deep appreciation—despite the flaws and faults and traces of sin. Appreciation means you see all that and it doesn’t matter or detract from the truth of you in any way. It means you’re seen and forgiven. I think that’s how Rockwell looked at people. His love and appreciation was so tender and deep that he found even the flaws endearing.

I suppose it’s asking a lot to be able to see all of that in the mirror. I don’t think that I could try it without laughing. But maybe laughter is exactly what I’d need. Maybe it would let me see that character in the mirror as somebody I knew, and forgave, and appreciated, and loved. I’ll try it. Only me and the face in the mirror will know.

Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to imagine that Norman Rockwell is standing behind me, smiling at me with his artist’s eyes. Maybe you could imagine that, too. Might be fun to try, hey? Maybe you’ll catch him winking at you. You never know.

Wishing you a week of brim-full appreciation, starting with that face in the mirror.

Warmly,
Susan

My Dear Friend,

I can’t, of course, put the whole experience into today’s one bottle. The temperature and moisture of the air alone would take up probably a third of it and there’s still the lake and pines and sky. The best I can do is tuck in a couple glimpses. So that’s what I do. It takes more than the hour I thought I’d spend when the whole thing began. But every minute of it is rich, given that it’s a gift of love.

I leave it in the hands of the universe to get it to its final destination, to those who need exactly what it brings. My only job is to make sure I send something, that I choose what to enclose in the love note each day. To be honest, I’m not even sure I’m really the one who does the choosing. It feels more like listening for a hunch sometimes and going with that.

I like hunches. I like their spontaneity. They’re like a small bell ringing, right over there in the clearing, or like a kid tugging at your shirt tail. It’s easy to disregard them, to brush them off. It took me years to learn that hunches almost always take me to the exactly right place. Now I turn where they direct with a kind of eager anticipation to see how things will turn out.

Sometimes you have to make a leap of faith in order to follow a hunch. It can feel scary to do something you’ve never done before, to take a turn down an unfamiliar road. But if you have no faith, you miss out on a lot of life’s fun and adventure, to say the least.

Besides, the same agency that sends out the hunches sends out alarms if the risk is something you need to weigh with a measure of care. Over time you learn what level of risk you’re willing and confident enough to take. It’s a kind of skill you develop with experience.

When I’m out taking photos, for instance, I get a hunch that if I stood over that way about ten feet, the angle would be fabulous. But then an alarm goes off and cautions me to note the slippery mud on the rocks and to test their stability as I make my way along.

From a certain point of view, all of life is a risk/reward proposition. You take the risk of drawing your first breath, letting out your first scream, and you’re on your way. Everything from there on is a reward, even if it takes you a few lifetimes to see how that can be. It’s all a gift. It’s all benevolent in the long run. Even the parts that hurt.

Next Saturday, good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise, I’ll complete my 100 day challenge. It’s been interesting to see how it’s evolved. It’s an established habit for me now, finding something to send out, in love, every day. I think I’m just getting started.

And next Sunday, you’ll have another letter from me, sharing whatever observations my hunches lead me to find.

I’m so glad that you’re along for the journey.

Warmly,
Susan

I posted a photo earlier that I took of a sky filled with dark storm-tossed clouds and light. I wrote about how the sky tries to wake us from our dreams with such drama, to remind us that we’re in a real world, that we’re alive.

Isn’t it something that we have to be reminded! We live in a world of stories and dreams that flow past so fast we can hardly keep up with them, let alone remember that they’re stories and dreams. That’s why nature creates drama from time to time. A thunderclap here, a bolt of lightning there, a color-drenched sunrise, a little bird’s song. Anything, just to get our attention, just to give us a chance to remember that we are alive and real and right here.

Sometimes, when I wake suddenly from my own daydreams and imaginings, I feel a little disoriented. But I have a wonderful little practice that immediately centers me. Want to know what it is? I call it “The Three Questions.” And it’s just that. I ask myself : Where am I? Who am I? What was I doing?

Say those over and over to yourself a few times. (Where am I? Who am I? What was I doing?) Then tuck them in your pocket for when you need ‘em. They’re especially good for multi-taskers and dreamers. And if you’re both, God bless you. Anyway, memorize them. Try them out for fun. You’ll get hooked. They work that well.

The reason I wanted to share them is that being present is such a powerful, exquisite experience. I collect ways to remind myself to be awake, aware, and appreciative. It’s kind of a hobby, one of the tools of the Joy Warrior’s trade. I’m taking the liberty of assuming that you, too, find value in being aware of being in the present. It’s where everything is happening, after all. For each of us, it’s the very center of the matterium as we experience it. It’s the place and time that we think of as real, the only place and time when we can choose and think and act.

“Where am I?” I ask as I snap awake from a dream. “Oh. Here. Writing my Sunday Letter to my dear friends.” That answers who I am and what I was doing, too, without my even having to ask. I remember that I wanted to tell you that I’m only two weeks away from the finish-line in my 100-day challenge to add daily to these pages. When I started it, I thought of it as rolling up a love letter, sealing it in a bottle, and sending it into the world to land wherever it was meant to land. I still think of it that way, as the act of creating a love letter to send out into the world. Every day it teaches me something new. I hope you’ll drop by from time to time to take a peek.

Try those “Three Questions,” hey? They’re kind of fun. You’ll see.

Wishing you a most glorious week.

Warmly,
Susan