Outdated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  It is not a good protector from the elements and, as the Dali Lama so aptly put it, "it is outdated."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)