Sunday Letters – Page 15 – Notes from the Woods

February Happens

I was browsing through my quotations files this week in search of some inspiration. In this part of the country, winter can seem to be hanging around way too long by the time we get to the middle of February. On the whole, we’re done with it. We suffer from miserable cases of cabin fever, where all we want is to go out and play without having to deal with snow and slush and ice and cold.

That ground hog came along and said we still had six more weeks of this to slog through. And even if Valentine’s Day brings some of us hugs and flowers and trinkets of joy, it’s still winter when it’s done.

Besides, these days the whole world seems to be upside down and getting messier and more confusing every day.

The bottom line is many of us are downright grumpy. And we plan to stay that way until the crocuses pop up waving their glorious petals. Or at least until we hear a robin sing.

So I was going through these quotations and I happened on a folder labeled “Compassion Quotes.” Its title grabbed me immediately and I opened it to find some lines by Sharon Salzberg, one of my favorite teachers of loving-kindness practices.

She was offering a meditation for caregivers who were feeling frustration over having their ministrations met by unexpected anger, accusations or tears. As I read through it, I felt my own frustration easing, then melting away. I thought I’d share the last few phrases of the meditation with you, in case you need a bit of soothing, too. Here’s what Sharon said:

May I offer love, knowing that I cannot control the course of life, suffering, or death.
May I remain in peace, and let go of expectations.
May I see my limits compassionately, just as I view the suffering of others.

I especially found comfort in that last line, although all three hold true wisdom.

Sometimes you just have to view yourself as you’d view a tired, miserable little child and give yourself a hug. Accept that you can’t have all you want or be all you want, and that those constraints make us sad and mad. And that’s okay. It’s part of the human package. We all want to see our personal visions of perfection unfold in our lives. We all want to live free of suffering in a world that’s full of comfort, and peace, and happiness for all.

But that’s not how things work here. February happens. And sometimes it seems to stretch on and on and on, until we think we can’t bear it for another single day. That’s when we need to turn to ourselves in compassion, to recognize that our patience and endurance have their limits and that we have arrived at them. We’re in pain. This is anguish. And it’s something that is common to us all. As Tara Brach says, “This is suffering. Everybody suffers. May I be kind.”

Indeed. May we be kind. First of all, may we be kind to ourselves, wrapping ourselves in the same healing tenderness we would offer a wounded child. Then may we offer our kindnesses to our fellow beings, for they suffer, too.

In the end, Springtime will come. The darkest of nights is met by sunrise. And the crocuses will burst up through the soil and unfurl their glad petals.

Hold on.

Warmly,
Susan

Paying Attention

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.

Warmly,
Susan

For the Birds

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?”

“Yes,” I tell him, smiling. “It certainly does.”

Wishing you a week of beautiful moments.

Warmly,
Susan

A Picture’s Worth

I passed the quarter way mark yesterday on my 100-day challenge. And I must say that I’m loving it. It’s got my creative juices flowing. As I go through my day, some part of me sits over there in the corner watching for the perfect thing to send out to the universe today.

If you missed it, the challenge I set for myself was to post something here on Notes from the Woods every day for 100 days. I envisioned it as a series of love notes that I would tuck in an imaginary bottle to release into the thought-stream of the internet, letting it land wherever destiny would take it. I could send anything, share anything, as long as I sent it with love.

On Friday, the second day after a big snow, the sun appeared and lured me outside. I ended up at a local park, a big field actually, some of which serves as ball fields for the area’s kids. I posted photos of the snow under blue skies. And yesterday I posted a photos of a big boulder I discovered at the edge of the park’s still undeveloped field. That inspired me to share photos of rocks I have in various corners of my home.

And that led to a friend sending me a note telling me how the pictures brought back wonderful memories of summer days when she and her sister and mom would sit at the edge of the Saginaw Bay collecting the prettiest rocks they could find and dropping them in a bag to take home.

Another viewer said the pictures I’d posted of birds surprised him. He hadn’t realized the doves stayed in the area all winter long. He told me how he loved the soulful cooing of mourning doves and how he would listen for them on spring mornings when he worked in his fields.

I liked how the photos stirred happy memories for my friends. I like how they preserve memories for me, too. The ones of frost on the windows reminded me of rides in the school bus on cold winter mornings when I was a little kid and how I loved the designs and way the colors of the sunrise painted them.

If you find that you’re bored on these house-bound winter days, dig out some old photos of your own. Find those old albums and boxes you have of photos from years ago that you have tucked in a closet or drawer somewhere. See what stories they’re keeping for you.

Or if that’s not your cup of tea, try dreaming up a 100-day challenge of your own. What do you think you might love doing every day for the next hundred days? Resurrect an old hobby, or adopt a new one. See where it takes you, what skills you can polish, what new things you might discover or learn.

Meanwhile, drop by my blog. See what love note is waiting there for you. Maybe it holds a cherished memory or two.

Warmly,
Susan

The Nature of Your Path

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.

Warmly,
Susan

Escape from Ludicrous World

A friend told me about some high-performance electric car that had various running modes and one of them was named Ludicrous. I think that’s the mode we’re all stuck in right now. How many do you know, after all, whose views really makes any sense, given what you know and can see with your own eyes? Keen discernment is required to sort out the truth these days, my friend. Such a complex, noisy web surrounds it.

So he’s telling me about this car and how it will be updated via software downloads periodically, adding new features and capabilities. I think how that is like what the nano particles do–build the intraweb, enhance the circuitry, expand what you can do, what you can send and receive. And they fit how many in the needle of a syringe? Billions? Is that something like the number of angels that can dance on the head of a pin?

See? What a ludicrous world it is in which we find ourselves–a surreal ever-changing sci-fi movie. Except it’s real. And we’re alive and smack-dab in the middle of it, hoping we tucked a flashlight of some kind in our back pocket. The more you think about it, the less you understand. It can be confusing. Disorienting. Painful.

Don’t let it get you down. These are trying times for us all. When things hurt, I repeat Tara Brach’s wise words: “This is suffering. Everybody suffers. May I be kind.”

That’s one the things I love the most about us human beings. Our capacity for kindness. What a loss it would be if that was reduced to a program, to a set of prescribed social rules and nothing more.

But to change the subject entirely (a routine practice in Ludicrous World), I wanted to share that I’m moving right along with my “Hundred Bottles of Hours” practice, where I take an hour every day to compose a love note, tuck it into today’s bottle, and send it, via my blog, downstream to wherever.

Yesterday was Day 12 and I posted views from my studio window over a two-day span. I enjoy doing series of things. I like the old rippled glass in the upper window’s center panes. It reminds me of the glass in my grandmother’s house. I like the way the snow plow looks like a Tonka toy way down there. I like the warmth and softness of the drapes at night, as the sun sets.

It’s letting yourself do what you really love doing that keeps you sane. Immerse yourself in it on some kind of regular basis. You deserve it. You need it. Follow your bliss, as the hippies used to say. That’s good advice. Get in touch with the pools of goodness inside you and let them remind you that, however ludicrous the world may seem, in the center of your being Truth resides. And its beautiful, and good.

It’s freeing to step out of the world’s craziness for a while. It’s always there, the jangling of a phone, a flicker of a screen away, waiting to pull you back. The trick is always to go back to it with an easy smile, seeing it for what it is, letting your heart guide you through its twisted maze. And don’t worry. If you weren’t needed, you wouldn’t still be here. At least they tell me that’s the way that it works. There’s always something more for you to learn and to do, to give and to receive.

That’s worth a smile.
Look somebody in the eye and pass it on.

Warmly,
Susan

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

How I Started the New Year

Well! Here we are, safely arrived on the other side of the holidays. How fine is that! Congratulations to us all!

I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a nice chunk of the ordinary now. You know, days where all you gotta think about is doing the job before you. Maybe even throw in a slice of routine, just to smooth things out. It sounds comforting somehow, doesn’t it?

Maybe it’s the season. Here we stand, seriously staring into a brand new year, wondering what it could possibly bring. Am I prepared? (Are we ever?)

It never unfolds the way you imagined it would. Especially these days. The best you can do is the best you can do. And it’s always good enough. And there’s always room for better.

I started a new project. I’d been asking for it, and when it finally got here, I had to jump on it. I’m calling it “100 Bottles of Hours on the Wall.” It’s a 100-Day Challenge that simply appeared in my awareness one day, spotlights shining on it, confetti floating in the air. What it boils down to is my commitment to compose a daily note here for the next 100 days. Just for the fun of it To see where it takes me.

I couldn’t wait for the New Year. I started it a week ago. Check it out. Let me know what you think.

But that isn’t what I really wanted to tell you about today. I wanted to share my personal New Year ritual.

A few minutes before midnight on New Year’s Eve, I pull on my winter boots and jacket and go outdoors. This year the sky is overcast, a faint glow appearing on the northern horizon. To the east I see fog illuminated by the headlights of a car climbing the hill around the curve over there. Its purr is all I hear.

I send good wishes to my local community, and outward from there, and farther out ‘til my wishes circle the globe. I thank the spruces towering over my head for their constant companionship and wish them well. I send a wordless song from the center of my heart to the Great Yes, waiting.

Suddenly, the bangs and pops and claps of shotguns, pistols, and rifles wash down the hills from every direction. Wow! Was that a canon? Dogs vacationing at the kennel down the road yip and howl. Car horns bleat from somewhere across the creek by the old school.

It’s here. 2022.

We can’t help ourselves. However we mark it, all over the world, we all breathe in its hope.

Isn’t that something?

Take a big chunk of that hope and tuck it in your pocket, hey?

Happy New Year.

Warmly,
Susan

Throwing Better Parties

Sometimes, life picks you up, hurls you around, and plunks you into a whole new world. I’ve mentioned this phenomenon before. I refer to it as “the revolving door syndrome.” Well, the last weekend in November, I got swept onto a dark and heavy patch of road that started with a sudden malaise that laid me low for the next ten days. Then, when I emerged from my stupor, it was to the news that one of my dearest friends had passed away, unexpectedly, in her sleep. Her memorial service wasn’t until the weekend after that, and I slogged through the days in shock, with a broken heart.

That’s why you didn’t hear from me for three weeks. I thought of you. I saw that many of you were into the holiday spirit and happily preparing for the days ahead. That was a comfort to me somehow. Life goes on. Some of you were, like me, in pain. The weekend I lost my friend, for instance, hundreds of people lost every material thing they owned in a horrendous tornado. Many lost their lives, and their friends and families were grieving and in shock, just as I was, our sorrow flowing together into one shared lake of pain.

One day, as the crushing sadness lifted and I was beginning to breathe again, I ran across a great little meme on the net. “Misery loves company,” it said. Then it continued, “But so does Joy. And Joy gives better parties.” I laughed at the way the Yes sends you little love notes when you need ‘em. Yeah. Joy gives better parties.

You know what happens when your heart breaks because someone you love dies? A thousand memories pour out of it, showing you moments that you and your loved one shared, all wrapped in love.

I wanted to sit with those, to let myself cry over my loss, over the loss of my dreams of the ordinary tomorrows I’d share with my friend. I wanted to feel the wonder of knowing that true friendship exists in this world. I wanted to sink into gratitude for the privilege of knowing genuine friendships. When emotions are deep and raw, that’s about all you can do: sit with them, drink them in; know them for all that they are. They come, you know, as gifts of healing and grace.

So now we enter what I think of as the Week of the Letting Go. We usher out the passing year, wrapping every moment of it in a layer of acceptance, if we’re wise, as if each one of them—even the ones we didn’t really notice or enjoy—had been custom-designed for us, exactly what we needed. It’s a time to take stock of your assets and values and strengths, to commit to giving the coming year your best, whatever it may bring.

Let go of the old with thanks. Welcome the new with joy and hold a party.

Seen from a far-enough distance, it’s all beautiful.

Happy New Year, my friend.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by nck_gsl from Pixabay}

Then the Magic Seeps In

I had just cleared the rise from the edge of the lake when twin flickers of red caught my eye in the distance.. At first I thought it was pair of cardinals, but it couldn’t be. The proportions were all wrong, I lifted my camera to my eye and zoomed in as much as I could as I slowly moved forward.

When I finally recognized the figures I was seeing, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Never, ever, in all the decades I’ve been tramping through the woods have I seen such a sight. But there they were, the King and Queen of the Elves. For real. Right there in a clearing, surrounded by pines, looking for all the world as if they were preparing a picnic.

I was drawn magnetically to them, as unreal as the scene felt. I had no idea what to say to them. They were royalty, after all, to the elves. And you know how I adore the elves. But before I had much of a chance to think about it, words were blurting from my mouth.

“So this is where you go when you need a break from the elves and all those toys!” I was saying to a smiling, bespectacled face. He looked up at me in amusement as I stared at the scene before me. He was sitting in a wooden rocker beside a little table. On it sat a jug wearing the label ”Santa’s milk” and a plate full of perfectly baked chocolate chip cookies.

I felt as if I had stumbled across a private secret of some kind and I didn’t want to intrude. But a little bit of friendly chat seemed in order. “What brings you to the forest today?” I asked.

“Oh, we’re just going to take pictures with some families,” the being called Santa said.

I wished them a wonderful day and walked down the path entranced and feeling extraordinarily lucky.

Every year something like this happens, something out of the ordinary and wonderful. It can be a big thing or something little. But sooner or later, some piece of magic floats in and dissolves the humbug I wrap around myself in multiple layers as winter approaches. I am not a fan of the cold. But every year it happens–some little miracle–and I awaken to a world where every sight and sound and thought and circumstance and amazing human being touches me to my core. How poignant it all is! And how beautiful! How deserving of our compassion and appreciation, our gratitude and joy.

It stays with me, this trance of wonder, right into the new year. Then I’m caught up in the events of the world again and wonder steps back to smile at me from behind my shoulder, winking at me now and then when it catches my eye.

But right now, I stand enshrouded by wonder, stunned and moved by the world’s beauty, by the magnificent benevolence and perfection inherent in its movements and design. And we are here to see it. And the universe will go to such extremes to awaken us that it will even send Santa Claus and his wife to picnic in the woods on a late November day at the very hour when you followed its nudge to go there. What are the odds of that!

The elves told me once that if you see Santa in person, you get to carry the warmth and merriment of his smile with you to pass out to others as you go. So here! Have some!

It’s full of magic, you know. The kind that flows out from the center of everything and tastes and feels of love.

Warmly,
Susan

The Good Old Same Old Same Old

What was, isn’t. What is, won’t be. But always, there’s the now. Right in front of our noses. Full of everything and always a different shape than it was before or soon will be. And most of the time we don’t even notice, being all caught up in our stories and calculations and all.

This time of year, I’m spending a lot of time in my living room, working on my laptop. I don’t own a TV. I usually sit in the same place. I like the view and it’s comfortable. Every time I look up from my laptop’s screen, the walls and furniture, the plants and lamps and paintings are exactly where they were before. The only thing that seems to have changed is me. And it wasn’t, I can tell you, much of a change. Maybe I wasn’t wiggling my toes before. My thoughts were different. There’s a little gnat exploring the laptop’s screen now. The furnace’s fan has kicked on. Other than that, same old same old.

It could seem like a pretty boring place, I suppose. But that’s only the case if you forget that the walls have another side. One of them even has an outside, and that’s a doggone huge place. You can’t even get to the end of it, it goes so far. And just down the road a piece, there’s mountains and deserts and forests and oceans, and all of them with their own inhabitants, every one of them as real as you and alive in this very same now. And some of them are humans.

And for all you know, a particular human you’re thinking about right now might be thinking of you, too. Maybe because they felt your thoughts in some subliminal electromagnetic way. Or you felt them. And once you start thinking about another human being, you can drift off into all kinds of imaginings and memories and dreams.

So what difference does it make if the walls don’t seem to change? A patch of relative sameness is a good thing. It can give you a sense of stability, something to hang on to in when the winds are fierce.

Be grateful for the slow-to-change, for the ordinary and familiar. Someday you could be amazed that you ever took it for granted.

Rest in that. And from there, watch and let go.

Remember that what was, isn’t. And what is, won’t be.
But there is always now, dancing, and it goes on and on and on.

May its dance bring you moments that glow with peace and shimmer with joy.

Warmly,
Susan