Here in this lovely mid-winter now, in this earth-breath where the stream flows open beneath the rusty spent leaves of young oaks, where white sycamores reach to the sky and the snow lies in rounded mounds above the singing waters, is reason enough to keep on.
Here, in this vast lonely landscape, with my boots kicking up powdered diamonds and wee birds chirping in the trees, I watch the play of light and shadow and need nothing more.
The slow melodious rhythm of it all wraps me in its wisdom; the clarity of its light heals my heart. Here in this lovely singing now, in this perfect moment, peace dances glorious and free, even though it is winter.
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.
You would think, given the number of birds that share our world, that finding a feather would be a common thing. But it’s not. It’s really quite special to come across one. It marks the day. The moment seems to hold some unspoken message about the connections between things.
When you find a feather, it feels as if you have been given a gift, as if it was put exactly there, where you would find it. It whispers to you of your ability to fly above the day’s cares, to reach for the skies, to be free. It whispers to you that you are loved,
That’s why I keep them and prize them as rare jewels.
You know how it is. When you find a place that suits your fancy and serves the best grub in town, you tell your buds. They try it out and spread the word, and pretty soon the place is filled to the rafters. Even when there really aren’t any rafters or, for that matter, walls.
But there is a sign on a tree, hung way down low, where everybody can see it, that says, “No mask, no shirt, no shoes . . . C’mon in!” (I think it’s a key part of the charm.)
Today a happy little pink-toed possum ambled in. He nearly cleaned out the buffet.
Hot on heels was a sleek black squirrel, and he munched away to his heart’s content.
It’s a good thing the birds all got there early, ate their fill at breakfast. I put in a call for a double order of fixin’s for tomorrow.
From High on Happiness, January 30, 2013, When the Moon was New
With the birds gone from their nests and the leaves gone from their boughs, the sycamores were finally alone.
For a long time, they stood together simply enjoying the silence. They watched as winter settled in, quieting the stream, blanketing the hills with her snow. They napped beneath her deep clouds and dreamed beneath her glittery stars.
But now they were well rested and wide awake.
They chatted about the subtly lengthening days and delighted in seeing the first V of geese flying northward. Deep beneath the frozen soil, they felt the delicate stirring of their roots.
“Tonight is a new moon, my love,” one whispered to the other. They knew, from their ancient memories that only one more would come before springtime arrived. “The stars will hang bright and low.”
“Ah, yes,” the other smiled. “What do you say? Shall we dance?”
“Aw, c’mon,” my camera said as I picked it up. “Can’t we do something besides snow and birds?” (Of course my camera doesn’t really talk. But we’ve been together a long time and we definitely understand each other.) I had to admit that I was ready for a change, too. Besides, I had already put on all that winter gear once and climbed the slope to deliver the day’s vittles to the Little Pine Cafe. I left plenty to get my feathered friends through the day, and I really didn’t want to go outside again.
“Okay,” I said to the camera. “Let’s find something fun in here.” Just then, my eye fell on one of my paper weights. It had been a while since I gave it any attention. So I grabbed it and one of its cousins and few pieces of cut glass and took them to my studio. The light was good and varied in there.
As I glanced out the studio’s window, the snow on the roof below caught my eye. It would be the perfect background for the pieces. I opened the window, set one of the paper weights in the snow and turned on my camera. It giggled.
We played, losing ourselves in alternative worlds. It felt as if we had stepped into an entirely different dimension. I can’t tell you how long we were there. Time simply disappeared. But here are some of the treasures we brought back . . .
After the ice storm, the sunflower seeds just slid right off the rocks where I’d been putting them for the birds. I had to find a new location.
I had noticed that the cardinals and several of the smaller birds liked to hang out in the branches of the young pine at the curve of the retaining wall at the back of the yard. They would grab seeds from the rocks and take them there to eat beneath its protective branches. So it seemed a fine spot for opening a new diner for my little friends,
“Here you go!” I sang to them as I scattered seeds beneath the tree’s boughs. “Little Pine Cafe is open for business!”
The grand opening was a success. The juncos and chickadees rushed right in. Then the cardinals came, followed by the doves, the woodpecker, and, at last, the jays.
This morning a second pair of cardinals came, newcomers to the yard. The place was full and reminded me of the donut shop in town where the old men gathered to gossip over donuts and coffee in the morning.
Then, to my surprise, a final guest arrived, a fellow rarely seen in these parts. The jays scattered at his appearance, but the cardinals and the little birds paid him no mind at all. He was quite splendid I thought, in his gray snowsuit with his whiskered face and bushy tail. He ate his fill, then scampered away.
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.
