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“By God when you see your beauty, you’ll be the idol of yourself.” —Rumi

I am propped up on a cozy, orange bench, a fire is going. My layers can’t seem to warm my too-cold hands. My fingers are dry against the smooth keys of my keyboard and there is a layer of polymer gloss that remains on a couple of my fingernails—remnants from a current project, one that is living in me like a child waiting for delivery.  I’ve come to this place once again where I may anchor my soul back into myself, back onto this beautiful and complicated planet. My tendency is to drift in my mind and with my body into the realm of daydreams and desires, like a balloon caught up in a dance with the breeze.  The fluttering around of all that I am imagining and even all that I must do sheds off of me like a skin as I sink back down into the more weighted place of present moment awareness. Typing with eyes closed now, the neurotransmission of my mind become both softer and more rhythmic. My breathing slows and my shoulders uncurl. I am safe. There is time. When I sit down to write, I never quite know what will come to the page but I know that it will draw roots out of me and intertwine me back within the earth.

I recently was the recipient of deep-listening, a process in which I shared a burden and those around me graciously took in my story and then eventually mirrored my words back to me. It is quite simple and yet, not something we can count on in the current pace of our society today. I love to take in and examine faces. My brain does not always work perfectly when it comes to remembering names, but I make a practice of memorizing your eyes, the way your brow is shaped, how you breathe. And when you speak, my attention is one part on the words you share and another part is experiencing you, your energy, your existence as a miracle of creation. I recently read that the probability of our being born—each of us, exactly as we are—is just one in 400 trillion. When I look at you, I remember this about you. It is not hard to see all that is unique about you even as you describe to me your seemingly common concerns, your challenging weekend with the children, your desire to start exercising again, your wish for a greater sense of community and safety. The gifts of the spirit are sometimes spoken to us in the very softest, faintest sounds of a whisper, and we must listen intently in order to decipher the direction to go. And yet, as I look at you, I am left breathless with the realization of how many magnificent creatures there are to love.

The water itself is like a mirror this morning— a house across the way reflected precisely in the bay it sits beside. I just keep sitting and being here with this new moment, and the next and the next, experiencing my breath and sensing what it means to accept oneself, to access compassion for our very own, deeply recognized challenges and flaws and come to a place of noticing, as well, of the many, many ways in which our essence—that which we all inherently are made of—is good. As I breathe in, I come to a place of wonder, as I breathe out I release judgment. No matter our age, this day, this life is still young.

 

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“To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders.” —Lao Tzu

This morning seems very still at first glance—like a neatly hung landscape painting in a tidy museum. The air is crisp and cool, a thin layer of the night’s frost remains, glistening. Upon closer observation, I begin to notice that there is movement all around. There is a seagull along the rocky shoreline of a tiny island in the distance with its white feathers against the mustard-yellow seaweed backdrop. I take in the contrast of colors and notice the way she is raising straight up into the air like an in-breath gaining height with each flap of her wings and then lowering back down again as as an exhale going about the work of cracking open her shellfish breakfast. Further to the right—across the water—are a few houses with a road leading up to them. A red truck with a wooden bed is moving along slowly—coming in and out of view in the branchy landscape. Just weeks ago, it would have been hidden by the crimson and gold of fall’s vibrant mural. The green pine needles of the towering Pine centered in our yard flutter almost imperceptibly. With deep focus, I can align myself with their slight and gentle rhythm of movement. And now the whole scene just becomes fully alive with six loud ducks, quacking their way across the sky—attuned to winter’s imminent arrival. There is so much to see in this world.

Sometimes when I am thinking of my Mom, she will suddenly call. When my sisters and I were growing up, she didn’t really like to go shopping like some other mothers did. She wasn’t someone who felt compelled to have the best name brand of clothing or collect a lot of things—although she always looked beautiful to me. I remember being at the mall with her from time-to-time and she would say, “let’s just sit down for a while and people-watch.” She loved to take in the way people can be. She liked to do that in airports, too, where we spent a lot of time. I was with her recently. Together we stole a moment and went out for a walk. It felt like such a luxury to be alone with her treading about. The grey day transformed and became sun-drenched. As we were walking along, my Mom just suddenly stopped and looked up at the sky. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back and just took in the sun’s warming rays onto her face. I remember her having done that many times before. I love that about my Mom.

I use little Asian tea cups to bring food to my boys at breakfast—they eat more readily from smaller containers. Sometimes the cups are filled with vitamins, other times with a handful of berries. There are two types of cups of different sizes and not meant to go one within another. One set is painted in pastels—pinks and blues—and belonged to my Grandmother. The other set is more modern with deep, rich colors—a recent gift. This morning I was clearing the table after my boys had gone to school and discovered that one of the smaller, older tea cups was caught inside one of the bigger ones. At the sink now, I had the two cups under the water, trying to gently separate them without breaking them—especially the littler one. Then there was a moment in which they somehow just separated. I hadn’t pulled them but was just sort of holding them and under the stream of water they just parted ways. I am taken with the ease with which they became untangled.

 

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“This too shall pass.” – Ancient Proverb

Yesterday it was a hurricane morning here in Coastal Southern Maine. The water was moving faster than usual and a strong wind was creating a shower of yellow leaves along the coastline. Out front it seemed almost balmy with a light fog peeking through the branches of our towering pines. Knowing we were not likely to be in for a direct hit made our preparations casual. Friends in harms way were on our minds.  Little Adrian was tucked in for a morning nap and young Jonah had gone to nursery school in his yellow rain pants. Before leaving, my two boys embraced in a goodbye hug. It was unprompted and so new for them. “Ug Oda,” said Adrian. (translation: “Hug, Jonah”) They put their little arms around each other in the sweetest embrace, Jonah with his crinkling rain gear, hood already in place. Adrian with his navy, mock turtleneck fully soiled from breakfast.

As Adrian slept, I remembered when Jonah had first discovered his voice. He was around 18 months old. I’m not fond of the term, but when he reached this age I remember thinking, “oh, the Terrible 2’s begin early in this house!” It wasn’t so bad, really. My biggest challenge was that Jonah didn’t like to get into his car seat. Oh, how we struggled. He arching his back like a yogi mastering backbend pose, me near tears not wanting to hurt him but needing to leave the house every now and then. I remember wondering if this was how things were going to proceed. It’s hard to know as a new mother. I sort of knew about the phrase “this to shall pass,” but I didn’t count on it like I do now. Adrian is in a similar time in his life now, grinning coyly as he tests out his ability to affirm the negative, “no!” in as many scenarios as possible. He too puts up a noble fight when it comes to being strapped into his car seat. We are a free spirited lot. I have never wondered, though, with Adrian if this is how things were going to be in that oh-so-final way.

Last weekend our family meandered down a wooded path together picking up pebbles and nibbling cookies. We were making our way to a beach, one rich with seaweed and salty air. Every now and then, as we strolled, the wind would gust a shower of leaves into the air. Having recently been told about catching leaves and making wishes, we decided to give it a try. And so our walk became injected with a series of leaps – my husband especially intent on capturing the falling foliage. On my leaf – a muted orange one – I wished for the feelings of these precious moments together to continue on forever. I wished that I could capture the contentment I felt inside in that very moment and bottle it for future use. I knew that they wouldn’t and I knew that I couldn’t. I knew there would be scuffles later on about dinner needing to be different, more tasty, about another weekend gone by with chores not completed – as if this were a bad thing! And that was ok.

I remember visiting a Zen Monk who made his home in a cozy, wooded spot in rural Virginia. He is the father of a first love of mine and I believe he offered me in our visits an introductory course in mindfulness. Upon entering his home an air of reverence always came over me. With his pace, he slowed mine. Often it was dinnertime when we would arrive and our first interactions would take place over a quiet, nourishing meal, prepared and presented with great care. I remember eating so slowly, so mindfully, that I truly tasted my food – maybe for the first time in my life. On one visit my then-boyfriend and I were complaining about the weather or some other minor inconvenience. Upon hearing us, our host clapped his hands together loudly and with great force. “Things change.” he said. I have thought of this moment so many times in my life throughout the various storms that I have weathered – always a little voice quietly whispering in my ear, “things change.” I don’t always live out my belief in this aphorism but I know that it is true. Both the good and the seemingly not so good moments in our lives are always fleeting.

Today is the day after a hurricane touched our lives. We are among the fortunate ones who only experienced high winds, heavy rain. There is a carpet of leaves blanketing our lawn so beautifully. This is so today.