Did you know the world is awesome?

This was the question posed to me on our walk to school today.  Our final walk of the year down the sidewalks and dirt paths and past the tennis courts and dogs.  Lots of dogs.  In this simple walk in which Francesca could find a world of fascination and discovery.  Flowers, leaves, birds, squirrels.  Everything new.  Everything brilliant in some way.  And my poor heart some days.  Feeling the rush to get to school on time.  Walking ahead so that she would catch up.  Prompting.  Prodding.  And, yes, noticing.   That is, when my heart could relax.  Or, I suppose, it was my heart telling my brain to relax.

But, I have to say, this morning it was just the perfect walk.  And I am so grateful that I allowed it to be.  When we stepped out into the cool air - a palpable relief from days of high humidity - and Francesca noticed that there were new day lilies blooming in a planter atop our steps, well...it was a good start.  And I had this epiphany (are epiphanies always simple?): this doesn't have to be sad.  This final walk.  This ending.  In fact, it can be the opposite!  I tell you, the freedom I felt in my heart with this realization matched the freshness of the cool morning air.  So I went about all of my steps with a certain lightness as this thought built inside of me: this moment can be happy! 

And so it was.  And our walk was relaxed as we chatted and sang our best going-to-school song from Double H camp ("When you wake up each morning, just look out your window and see there before you a bright new day...").  Lilian ruffed with delight at all of the dogs and Francesca noticed this and that on the path that we have traveled every day for 180 days- still open to something new.  And then she said this: "Mommy?  Did you know that the world is awesome?"  My heart continued to sing as I responded, "and do you know what else?  You make the world even more awesome!"

Perhaps during this times of closure and transition for us adults there is an expectation for sadness.  We anticipate the loss or, perhaps we suddenly feel the weight of the pile of moments where our poor hearts weren't present because of our tireless (albeit helpful) brains.  Jonathan Foust once said that when he looks back on his life, the times that he feels sad about are the times that he "wasn't there."  This morning I felt this lesson in my bones and I am forever grateful.

And I also can't guarantee that by the weekends end that I won't be weeping on our front steps next to the day lilies.

Thank You

Yesterday I took Lilian for a mid-day walk.  Every now and again, I will just take her out sans any modern carrier, stroller or other such contraption.  I just sweep her up in my arms and carry her out.  I love doing this.  The simplicity of it; the toughness of it; the sweet closeness of it - the fact that there is nothing except a couple of thin layers of cloth between us.  I feel like a real mom when I do this and I instantly feel connected to women throughout the ages.

But don't get me wrong.  It is hard work.  It is easy to be romantic about babyhood.  The tiny clothes and sweet, soft skin, even the smell of diapers (Mom.)  But it is hard and rarely if ever glamorous work.  Well, this little angel swept along the path yesterday.  She broke her power walk stride to say this to me just as I was swinging Lilian off of my hip and onto the ground so she could do some practice walking (the polar opposite of power walking), "Well, you don't have a free moment in the day . . . thank you for the work that you are doing."  And she kept on; head held high, slight smile across her glistening face.

I allowed the hot breeze to rush over me in that moment and again I felt connected.  She was thanking me for raising a child; for doing my best everyday to encourage and teach and be there and let go. She reminded me that this short mid-day walk with nothing but my keys and Lilian mattered and was, in fact, enough.  

Good Hard Work

Well, despite my last post, here it is: a picture of the fairy garden (this in its second rendition.)  Oh, the joy that Francesca emits while working on these tiny doors and windows made out popsicle sticks and straws.  It is utterly palpable.  It is as if she is going to jump out of her skin from excitement.  And oh how she listens to her  dad as he explains why and how things are being put together.  During the first making of this fairy home (the first go around was sadly destroyed the night after it was made by a rain and wind storm; talk about a lesson in not grasping!) Francesca exclaimed with the same utter joy, "this is hard work."  Matt replied, "yes, hard work is fun sometimes."

When I was in graduate school we would talk about this concept of flow - you know, when the kid is both challenged and successful.  And we talk about it in terms of athletics and yoga and perhaps even meditation.  To me, Francesca making this fairy garden was a textbook example of this notion of flow . . .this happiness that comes from good hard work.

Concurrently, I was reading My Life in France by Julia Child (read it!) and was so taken with this exact experience that Julia had when she discovered cooking.  The delight that she felt from finding something that she loved so much - good hard work - flew off the page at every turn.

I think about work a lot these days of "not working" (although the work of parenting is often good hard work) and this is all that I could want for myself, my children, all the people of the world: that they are absorbed by whatever it is that they are doing and are more often than not able to feel that flow.  And if not, well, go make a fairy garden.

Photograsp

I have had this idea mulling around for some time: that taking pictures takes me away from the moment itself.  Even just the knowledge that I can take a picture at any time and send it off in a blink separates me from the experience.  And so this is what I wonder: is my 24 hour access to picture taking and picture sharing a slippery slope to grasping - in each picture am I holding on to something?  Trying to preserve it for another time or another place or, more frequently, trying to transport my experience to someone else?  I don't know the answer to this question.  But this is what I am trying: I am not taking pictures at all this week.  Under no circumstances will I flip my camera up on my iphone or even take out my dusty cannon sure shot.  One week.

I made this decision last night as Matt and Francesca were making the most adorable fairy door and window I have ever laid my eyes on.  It almost felt like instinct (like the same instinct that I feel to drink water or go to the bathroom) to grab my phone and shoot.  I had a list of people I would share it with.  But I stuck to my rule and once I embraced it, I have to say, I felt this freedom inside of me.  I took Lilian outside when the fairy door team was securing the door onto the tree and I had nothing but her and my keys.  We walked around the block to the coveted cherry blossom tree on Newport Street.  I looked into her eyes as she looked up into the blossoms.  I looked up into the blossoms myself and I saw them with eyes that felt clear and full.  We walked slowly and intentionally and noticed the purple flowers and listened to the robins sing.  I am sure I would have done all of this if I also had my phone in my back pocket, but what I am not sure about is the clarity of my presence.  I felt like I was there.  Just with Lilian.  Just with the flowers and birds.  I saw Francesca wave to me from down the street and felt joy in my step as I moved towards her.

I know I will return to taking pictures as their value in capturing moments and spreading joy is amazing; I just don't want the camera/phone to become the master of my experience.

Leaning Forward

One of my wise sister-in-laws said this, "if we lean forward too much, the rug of gratitude comes out from under us."  Speak it, Sister.

The truth of this has hit me over the head multiple times in the past few weeks as I "lean forward" into what is next - job, home, family, travel, passion, work, path.  Fortunately, with this thought in my head, I can actually feel the rug slipping out from under me when I am leaning just a little bit too far.  And I stop.  I sit down.  In the mess.  In the moment.  And I scoot back into the present.

Thankfully, besides these wise words, I have two little buddhas running (or scooting) around my home demanding presence amidst their almost constant activity.  My three year old asks me to sit on the couch with her when she wakes up in the morning, "come sit with me," she beckons.  I follow her directions these days rather than making up excuses about lunch-making, coffee drinking, showering.  My one year old tugs on my pants in the kitchen, asking me to pick her up.  To look at her face.  To teach her something or to just be together in this moment, whatever it is: cooking bacon; cleaning the floor; folding the laundry.  I head her directions as well and gaze.  And gratitude naturally fills my body from my eyes to my toes.

So, here are some of the things that I am grateful for these days:
* soft breathing in my ear.  Anytime of day.
*  holding your hand in the middle of the night; knowing that I am not alone.
*  sitting on the couch.  Reading a book.  Or not.  Your body snuzzled into mine.
*  the girls running (scooting) when the door opens and you appear.
*  laughter.
*  all of the time that I get to spend in the bathroom.
*  walking to school and saying hi to the robins.
*  how you ruff and rub your belly (not at the same time.)
*  quiet dinner with Matt.
*  how excited you get about almost anything.
*  dancing.
*  the spaces in between....

And what is it that you are grateful for?  Today?  Right now?

Outdated

Oh, dear blog.  How I have missed you.  I am not one for excuses, but life has felt a little messy lately.  Literally.  The floor is messy and mushy.  Our sleep is messy and unpredictable.  My writing - messy and inconsistent.  And oh, the laundry!  Messy.  And so, amidst this messiness, I have not found room for you.  And part of me  - an old part of me - wants to feel guilty.  It beckons, "come on!  Let's feel guilty!  We know what guilt looks like and feels like."  This guilt is like an old, ratty sweater.  I used to keep old, ratty sweaters.  Now I throw them away.  And this too I will do with my guilt.  It is not a good protector from the elements and, as the Dali Lama so aptly put it, "it is outdated."

Lilian Hope

Pilgrim strength

Echoes in the walls of your mother

As she steps forward

Into the wind

With freedom and hope

At her feet

 

The sweetness

That flows forward

Is as unutterable

As love itself

 

One can

Only breathe you in,

Your fragrance

Lingering for centuries

To come

Stop. Look. Go.

Stop. 
Sit.
Stand.
Kneel.
Bow.
Rest.
Lay down. 
Stop. 


Look.
Inward.
Outward.
At what is directly in front of you.
At what is directly in you. 
At the child.
At the breath.
At the snow.
At the mind.
At the food.
At the body.
Look.


Go.
Move forward.
Move inward.
Into the next moment.
It is a gift too.
How will you use it? 
Go.


This reflection was inspired by NPR: TED Radio Hour Podcast - Simply Happy (check it out at: http://www.npr.org/programs/ted-radio-hour/267185371/simply-happy.)  The final guest, David Steindl-Rast, taught the simplest gratitude practice: Stop.  Look.  Go (he connects it to children learning to cross the street.)  I have been practicing it the past couple of days and it has helped me notice certain things that I might have otherwise flown by in the time crunch trance that being the parent of young children seems to often put me in (another blog post all together):


*  In the narrow window of opportunity that I had to prepare the girls' room for bed, I came across six or seven dolls and stuffed animals neatly tucked into burp clothes at the foot of Francesca's bed.  Please, come into my mind knowing that these thoughts occurred in the slices of seconds that Olympic skiiers win races by: "oh, so this is what she was doing when she was supposed to be napping" (note agitation).  Stop.  Look.  Enter again, "the sweetness and care and thoughtfulness that Francesca took to neatly tuck all of these animals into their imaginary beds.  And I get to bear witness to this world?!  I do hope that Francesca feels as cared for as these little animals."  Don't get me wrong, I still moved fast to get the bed ready, but my negative thoughts where arrested by stopping and looking.  And then I was able to go, to move forward, with more lightness and perhaps even an inch more of joy. 


*  Last night, Lilian was having a hard time going to sleep which is unusual (I am noticing a pattern that many of the stories of early parenthood involve bedtime.)  She was crying that sad, pitiful cry that says something like, "please, dear God, can I just go back in the womb for a few minutes?"  I wont go into the minutia of how the bedtime routine goes, but it is important to note that Lilian goes down first and then Francesca is tiptoed in and whispered a song.  Well, this wasn't going so well.  I tried a variety of things and somehow I ended up on the floor by Francesca's feet that were hanging off of the couch.  I stopped.  I looked up.  I could hear Lilian's cries that were slowing and looked at Francesca's face from a different vantage point.  She was "reading" a beloved book; quietly looking at the pictures and turning the pages.  She looked so little and sweet and the moment was so calm despite the thrownoffness of it all.  And in this stopping and this looking I fell in love with my daughter again in a new way.  And this is what happened next: Lilian's cries stopped and Francesca nestled into my lap for another story.


*  And finally, just this morning I had made a grand plan for myself that included checking my email, cleaning up, and working on various and sundry things (in that order.)  So I did sit down and check my email (and, guiltily, facebook...not part of the plan.)  And then I moved to get up to clean and there, right beside me, was this beautiful window through which I could see huge flakes of falling snow.  I stopped.  And I felt the miracle of snow...we get to witness this?  What a gift.  And then I came here to my desk to share. 


Stop.
Look.
Go. 

Tag Fiddler

Oh, my little Tag Fiddler has outgrown fiddling with tags.  I just noticed this today while watching her try to undo the wrapper on a juice bottle.  The action was almost the same - pointer finger going back and forth repetitively; eyes, no, whole body, rapt in attention - but the intention was clearly different.  There was a purpose to this fiddling - to undo.  What she has moved on from is fiddling for fiddling's sake. 


And I am reminded of a book that I read called Paris in Love.  I don't remember too much from this memoir but I do remember the point that the author aptly made about being a parent and how we often don't know when the "last" thing happens: the last bath; the last night in the crib; the last story read before bed; the last time we hold hands crossing the street.  Thinking about this notion could go one of two ways: it could make me desperate to hold onto every moment, grasp it as if it were the last, or it could allow me to open up to the passing of time and the growing that is happening so tangibly right in front of my eyes.


The latter sounds much more delightful.  But I wonder, to do this well must we recognize the passing of something - pay it honor with a smile and a nod?  Does bowing to the Tag Fiddler while she is fiddling tags AND when I notice that she no longer does so help?  I don't know.  But I am going to give it a try. 

Taste the Flowers

Almost every day that my mom was in town I cherished a sneak off to a Starbucks to write and read and drink tea.  One such afternoon I placed my usual (yet unusual) order: grande green tea/soy misto (I never thought that I would have "an order" from Starbucks; another lesson in "never say never.")  Anyway, I had refined this order when a barrista recently asked me, "jasmine green or china green?"  I responded, "which is better?" of which she quickly replied, "with the soy misto, you would definitely want the China."  Such confidence.  Since then, that is all that I have ordered.


Except on this sunny, cold afternoon.  I nestled into a corner table (score!  I love corners!), noticing the regulars at this particular Starbucks.  I happily draped my coat over the back of my chair and unloaded my "travelling refuge" (Matt recently deemed my backpack this) . . . heart bag of pens; notebook (well, 2 notebooks); a book.  All set.  And I took a sip. 


Oh no!  I forgot to mention "China" in my order!  This is Jasmine!  What have I done! 


I took a breath.  And another sip.  And there it was: the subtle yet beautiful taste of flowers. 


And to think - I almost missed it.  I almost missed the sweet, earthy taste of flowers because of a preference that I had developed in my mind without even realizing it.  And then all of the preferences of my brief excursion into the world came into light: this corner seat; these pens; this travelling refuge and, yes, even this Starbucks.


Thankfully, I had been pondering this idea lately repeated by one of my teachers, Jonathan Foust (check out his podcast!)  The idea that preferences lead to suffering.  Or, how I make sense of it, that the more preferences we have the more suffering we expose ourselves to.  And there it was, right in front of me.  The simplest of examples in my Starbucks tea.  And, by the skin of my teeth, rather than feeling angry at myself for forgetting (or, even further, for the barrista for just not knowing that China is better with a soy misto!), I gratefully sipped my cup of flowers. 


*  Check out Jonathan at http://jonathanfoust.com/wordpress/

Star

I opened
the shade and
there you were,
star,
waiting
for me to wish
on you but instead
I just took you in -
your brightness
in a dark sea
of sky


my eyes
wrapped around
your essence -
which is all
that you are -
and just this,
just the sight of
you made me
a day stronger,
a day closer to all
of my wishes
being born.

"Just Fix Your Aim and Begin"

Oh, how to begin?


This is what I have been asking myself for the past few days (or has it been weeks?)
I have felt blocked.
My mind chaotic.
My routines disrupted.
My beloved discipline lax.
The trusty old mind trend of, "not good enough" creeping in.
But I must.


I must, "fix my aim and begin."


So.
Here I am. 
Thoughts a little scattered.
Desk a little messy.
Mind a little cluttered.
But I am here anyway. 
Showing up for myself. 
And for you.


I had this thought this morning that we must do not just what feels good or right, but we must do what saves us.  What saves us from ourselves and thus, makes us strong and vital for the world.  You see, for me, every time I put a pen in my hand and have my notebook there in front of me and that pen hits that paper I feel like I wild goose landing after the long journey home.  My body relaxes as the pen skims the paper.  And I begin to let go.  Let go of myself and my fears and my dreams...all of it.  Bit by bit; word by word.  So I will continue.  I will not wait for my mind to clear or to get enough sleep; I will not wait until I get my desk organized or until I write a comprehensive list of all that I must get done; and I will not allow a change in my routine to stop me from that which saves me.  I will rework my day and I will, "fix my aim and begin."


(The quote "fix your aim and begin" comes from: http://kripalu.org/blog/thrive/2014/01/23/the-second-pillar/?utm_source=Thrive&utm_medium=post&utm_campaign=012314CopeBook)