There are four, colorful boxes of incense tucked away in the kitchen on a high shelf in the cabinet where I keep the coffee and the spring-green, leaf-shaped plates.
I can just barely reach the basket where I keep them if I go up on tippy-toes and extend my arm so my shoulder rolls forward—grabbing it with the tops of my fingers.
The rectangular containers are labeled with the attributes each particular aroma is meant to invoke—strength, power, balance, devotion.
I’ve been carrying around the basket that contains them for going on twenty years—it has found a purpose in three or four apartments and now—for nine years—in our home in Maine.
I have no recollection how I came upon it—neither time nor place—yet, I know it has been with me forever. It’s remarkable the way the hay-colored fibers have remained tightly wound almost like they are newly woven.
I am most drawn to the lavender box of incense within the basket—still in the old design—and its call for balance.
Yesterday’s moderation in all things is today’s aspiration for living a life weighted equally all around—a balancing scale—one side mostly-effort, the other mostly-ease.
I select the devotion incense most—drawing out a single, thin strand of the biotic material from the powder-blue box, placing it upright in the crimson, ceramic container on the counter’s ledge and connecting a flame with the tip.
I allow the fire to burn for a moment and look-on as it dies out on its own—transforming into a smoky balm—washing over me as I engage in the subtle, inner-practice of acknowledging the unseen.
Choosing devotion, I call to mind—and into my heart—a sense of what it means to co-create a life with a driving force I cannot quantify.
I call to that still space within a loving—a nourishing—energy that at the end-of-the-day I can turn to and whisper, you saw all that, right?
I don’t know how they decide which scent—which herbs and oils—are attributed to these various ways of being—strong or powerful, balanced or devoted.
I do notice that the single act of calling-to-mind these qualities—of pausing to notice their residence no matter the depth at which they have been buried—is an invitation to embody aspects of the human-spirit—that I, that we all—might otherwise reject or deny.
I hadn’t planned to spend the late-morning and the early-part of the afternoon unraveling a tangled web of yarn.
Jonah and Adrian learned to finger-knit in nursery school and later they each created their own knitting needles as a part of their 1stgrade, handwork class.
They took pride in constructing and sanding the wooden needles, but neither of them love knitting with them—it’s hard for their small hands and especially for their quick-thinking minds.
Adrian likes to keep me abreast of where everyone in his class is on the rows of knitting they have undertaken for their tea cozy or the flute case.
This friend is already on their red! Another student has just begun the green row!
They do adore yarn and have asked me to buy another skein every time we have visited a craft store for several years.
I have exhibited anything but balance in my response.
I have been downright indulgent in the amount of yarn I have purchased for our household given my own low-level, knitting capability.
I am drawn to the meditative stance of creating stiches, however, my technical skills are limited.
My creative path has always relied heavily on intuition and been light on technique—although I do truly value both.
In our bountiful collection of yarn, we have orange and black yarn purchased around Halloween for hanging decorations. There was blue and white yarn added to the pumpkin-color when we ventured to create NY Mets bracelets. We have yarn that is more like the weight of string and changes back and forth between a few colors that look like candy. And there is some really fluffy, higher-quality yarn in the mix that was chosen for its soft texture and the vision that it would make for a lovely scarf that has yet to come to life.
To my surprise, Adrian once requested purple yarn for a rainbow creation he was making—just after he refused to wear this same-colored, soccer shirt because he thought it was too girly.
We have been keeping the yarn in two shopping bags hung in the cabinets in the mudroom beside the yellow, rain overalls.
I pulled them out today with the intention of organizing the contents so that Jonah and Adrian could more readily access the yarn for use this summer in their various creations.
I invited Adrian to join me.
Like most children, his love-language is time-spent-together and I hoped to both fill up his little body with togetherness and also to make some sense of the tangled mess.
Jonah remained curled up—reading on the couch—while Adrian eagerly agreed to join me.
We spread the chromatic chaos across the living room floor and wondered how the yarn had become so-very-tangled.
It appeared as if someone had placed a cake-mixer into the bag and spun the yarn all around like batter.
Adrian worked with me for an hour or more. We developed a system in which he would begin rolling a single strand of yarn—starting with an end we’d found in the jumbled pile.
He would roll the ball for as long as he could until he ran into a tangle.
Then he would hand the tangled part to me and I would shake out the various strands—haphazardly—until everything loosened up and we could find a pathway for his winding line to come loose and continue.
We celebrated the little-wins of completing a single ball—even the really small ones made from scrap yarn.
There were times when the yarn was so knotted or trapped within the many channels that I decided to cut it free with scissors—sacrificing, for our sanity, the potentially larger ball we could have constructed.
Adrian drifted-off to play with Jonah and I continued working even though I had not planned to spend so much of my day engaged with fiber.
I found one grouping of lines that were attached in such a way that they reminded me of a cat’s cradle string game.
I held up the pattern and looked through the geometric openings at Jonah and Adrian playing cards at the table outlined in various shades of blue from the multi-toned arrangement.
They didn’t notice.
Suddenly, my body became chilled.
Houses in Maine have a way of staying cool in the summer despite the higher temperatures and the fervent sun heating up tomato plants in gardens across the state.
It’s as if a sliver of winter hides out—nestled inside behind the wood stoves—occasionally spreading her coolness as a reminder of her status as most prominent season.
Gathering a particularly difficult entanglement, I went out to the front porch where it felt a good 10 degrees warmer.
Sitting on the front steps, my long-sleeves quickly seemed redundant under the sun’s glare as I attempted to find a way out of the mayhem in my grasp.
After a while, my efforts began to feel futile and my back started to hurt.
I knew this wasn’t a project I was going to finish in a single day and finally decided to give myself a break.
I went back inside and separated the balls we had completed and piled everything else back into the two bags, leaving them on the side of the room to be dealt with later.
I thought about how much this process of sorting out the yarn—and especially the many, colorful, tangled pathways—reminded me of the complexity of the inner journey, of doing the work of living.
It reminded me of what it means to follow the threads of our lives both backward and forward noticing how and where things began and the places where we run into hang-ups.
At times we grow with the help of others—often solitude is needed.
Celebrating any breakthroughs—no matter the breadth—fuels our ability to thrive.
Cutting our losses is sometimes necessary—releasing things and ways-of-life and people, even, that are keeping us stuck—freeing us up for continuing onward.
Sometimes working through a knot is warranted.
More than anything, I noticed how important it is to be gentle about the need to get somewhere—to finish.
Neither life nor the unraveling of knots are destination events.
Any beauty I have found in living has all been about dropping into the very moment before me—right there where the tangles and the pathways live—and finding a way to breathe, to breathe through it all.
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