filled up *

I was walking Moose dog this morning when I realized, it had been 48 hours since I had last left the house.

And even that excursion (into town for Chinese class with Cowgirl) was the only trip in a week ... I've had a cold which has left me more irritated by the pure exhaustion and not-so-covert message from my body "You think you know what slowing down feels like? Well, let me show you ..." 

I then started thinking about  the fact that tomorrow will mark the 10th anniversary of my father's passing. All this reflection upon cycles of time lead me to thinking about what the past ten years has held for me.

In the past decade, I became a mother and said goodbye to both of my parents. I also lost my favorite aunt (namesake for my Cowgirl), several dear friends and spiritual sisters, and my first (and only) cat of 18 1/2 years and my first dog boy of 14 1/2 years.

The past ten years we moved to our current home, the one we dreamed and designed (and still pay for!)  I rekindled my passion for creating art, studied under some amazing teachers (creative and spiritual) and have crafted a daily practice that reflects, nurtures and holds all of my passions. I have entered menopause and am embracing the wisdom it offers, a creative and spiritual freedom of self-sovereignty. 

I have traveled to new places - China, New Zealand, Bali - and I have returned to favorite soul-home spaces - Cape Cod, Squam Art Workshops, Pacific Northwest, Italy (!) I have made incredible new friends and reconnected with cherished childhood sisters. My circle extends around the globe, a truly mind-blowing thing to consider.

image by Em Falconbridge

I trip myself up by fixating upon productivity -- what have I accomplished? -- and it is the gift of a bird's eye view that helps me shift my understanding. Rather than thinking about  what I've done (although in fairness, I can give myself credit for the many yeses  - and the many goodbyes - that have brought to this place in my life) the reframe that lights me up is this ...

How FULL is my life? 

image by my fantastically talented niece, Alyssa Reiner

How full is THIS life?   

Way full ... and my sacred task is to simply open myself up to it all. 

mind the gap ...

This may well be my new mantra.  Mind the gap ...  Originally it was a bit of a laugh between my mother and myself. Our first trip to London -- yikes! -- 37 years ago? We were standing on the subway (er, Tube) platform waiting for a train to pull up when over the loud speaker the very proper and polite voice informed us to Mind the Gap. It was humorous both for the tone (we who were used to the garbled and grating voices of New York City's subway announcers) and for the phrasing.  

Mind the Gap.

It took us a moment to realize what was being referenced was the yawning hole of metal, dirt, grease and rocks. The reality behind this well-mannered warning was: Beware the iron crevasse which will snap your ankle like a twig should you absentmindedly stumble into it.

Now I hear this phrase echoing through my mind as we prepare to pick Cowgirl up from her week away at camp.  I am all kinds of excited and curious to hear about the adventures from her week (target sports, horseback riding, paddle boats, camp-outs - I think I deserve a week of camp!) yet the wise and knowing part of me is well aware of a new reality:  conversation and preteens do not naturally mix.

It seems to me like a cosmic switch has been flipped and my loquacious girl-child has become rather tight-lipped. It feels to me much like seeking the elusive snow leopard: one must be ever vigilant for traces, tracks, a rare gift of sharing words, moments together and/or physical affection.  Connection is not absent; it just has taken on a rarefied and subtle form. Unfortunately, subtly is not my norm.

But I have to learn. There is no choice with a preteen girl. I am discovering my work with horses is preparing me for this new phase of being with my child. If I am too forceful, too direct well ... she will head for the pasture and certainly she is wayyy faster than this menopausal mama.

No, I must become practiced in the art of distracted presence. Turning my attention elsewhere, being engaged with other aspects of my life while leaving open space for her to wander over. As a proverbial dog with a bone, I have to relax my grip on things and learn how to shift quickly when opportunity (by which I mean a determined girl-child) presents itself. 

Mind the gap. Transitions do not come naturally to me. I am a creature of habit, of focused practice and plodding forward, to hell with gaps or walls or twisting paths. But precisely because of this deficiency, life presents me an opportunity to hone this skill.  Being spacious, present, alert but relaxed. Not pushing, not forcing and leaning into trust. Trust in myself, in the foundations we have already put down for our Cowgirl, and trust in her.

Looking to create a cheat sheet for myself, I turned to the Tarot.  The cards, the images help stir things up to give me a new perspective, a fresh way of thinking about things. 

What is the current situation? Six of Swords. Setting sail, a new journey, a new phase in our relationship. Carrying the swords, the beliefs, the ideas we have amassed thus far in our relationship and taking them into new territory.  We are not on solid ground right now, but rocking waters of emotions. Both her preteen self and me in the depths of menopause. Emotions can be connection but they can also bring about turmoil. I need to draw upon all my practice to help me guide us to the other shore.

What is the issue? Six of Pentacles. Funny, I think of sixes as offering a moment of pause, a kind of comma in the flow of life. This image asks me to consider how my actions may appear to my child? Do I stand on high magnanimously offering gifts to her? Does our relationship feel like an imbalance in power? I remember my tween and teen years and certainly I felt frustrated by my sense of powerlessness over my life. If this is how my girl feels? Or conversely, am I putting myself in a position of begging for her attention, her acknowledgement or her gratitude? A powerful image for me to keep in mind.

What is the solution?  Yikes, the dreaded Threes of Swords!  Yet I remember from other decks that this card shows a heart pierced by the swords but not bleeding. Here the offering of roses lies rejected on the ground. The young woman walks reluctantly away from the man, yet pinned to her cloak is a single red rose.  Now is a time when my efforts, my offerings probably will go rejected but I know she is moving through a journey of self-discovery and individuation. It can be a cold and mournful process but it is a necessary stage. She may head off but I can wait. I will wait. I know she carries with her all my love and I know deep down she knows this to be true.

And just to be sure, I drew one more card for clarification: The High Priestess. Well, okay and thank you! Access the source of deeper knowing, trust and strength.  And look at those moon cycles? Just like a mother-daughter relationship moving in and out of fullness.

Before leaving for camp, I slipped into my pocket the note my girl handed to me one night when she was supposed to be in bed. Carrying a tangible reminder of The Truth lest a grumpy and eye-rolling girl is waiting for me. (And isn't she always lurking somewhere?) No matter what we say, no matter how we react to each other, there is a solid foundation of Love which we can return to again and again. We just have to remember. I also drew one final card ...

Of course. Here's how I choose to think of The Gap and a way to face it: arms outstretched, a confident smile on my face echoing the smile in my heart. Mothering is the ultimate of adventures, beckoning me onward and inviting me to travel light.

Have you seen the snow leopard?

No! Isn't that wonderful?

- Peter Matthiessen, "The Snow Leopard"   

with gratitude

I find it curious that as I deepen new practices, others seem by necessity to languish. Writing being one of them!  I have been feeling deep shifts - tectonic plates within my heart and soul - but lack the language to describe it all. Or perhaps I should say I do not feel the need to explain myself. And that is a little huge for me!

I have been spiraling back to long-lost practices - meditation, yoga, journaling.  I recently realized my meditation practice dropped off just as my creative practice took root. Now I am returning and while my initial reaction is to bemoan the gap of 8 (!) years and all that might have been if I had stayed true, the new and wise me recognizes that I return ready to sink down some deep and tenacious roots. 

I doubt it comes as much of a surprise, but I can be a bit of a curmudgeon. Cantankerous in the sense of needing to go against the flow. Yes, I resisted for many many years the Harry Potter series because, well, I was annoyed by everyone pestering me to read them. (I also worked at a bookstore at the time and resisted ALL books that arrived in bulk. It just offended my sensibilities to pile waist-high stack after stack of one book when there are sooo many good books seeking readers.) 

Another trend I resisted on principle was the gratitude journal. (If it came from Oprah's lips, I turned a deaf ear ... yet I love Oprah? So I own, I am a tortured soul.) It's not the concept of gratitude or the beauty and impact of a regular practice in acknowledging the daily gifts offered by life and living that raises my hackles, but rather a scrapbookish notion of prettifying and pasting gratitude down in a kind of memento mori manner. 

Truth be told, I didn't give it a whole-hearted effort.  Oh yes, I did for one month keep a gratitude journal. I completely forgot I had done so until this past week when I half heartedly decided to answer a journal prompt from a course I am taking. The prompt was to write down 111 gratitudes. 


Let me say, that when writing down so many gratitudes, the heart shifts from half to full. 

What I loved about this exercise was how much deeper the gratitude flows when I pushed myself beyond the usual items of health, family, nature, and friends. I started to see the relationship between gratitude and creativity. For the more I wrote, the more expansive my understanding and the vision of my heart.

So I decided - decades past Oprah's proclamations - to start a gratitude journal.

Which is how I found the journal (that one month experiment) I had forgotten I had started eight year ago. Looking through the entries, I was blown away by the beauty and love within those pages. I was also stunned to realize that at that time, I could not fully perceive the depths of the love and gratitude.

I found these entries which spread wide my heart:

- reading out loud to Cowgirl; feeling her head upon my shoulder
- warm & spicy chai to begin a new week
- seeing the pride on Cowgirl's face as she puts her boots on "all by myself" 
- the drive through French bread bakery and warm rolls to eat in the car   
- the smell of Cowgirl's hair 
- my girl telling me "good job mommy" as she holds my leg
- meditating in the early morning; finding my girl sleeping behind me on the couch
- baby orangutan looking us in the eyes and goofing
- singing together in the car
- my mantra for when things get tough
- Cowgirl singing to her stuffed animals in the dark   

 

 I marvel that I relinquished this practice so quickly, but I probably hadn't even looked at what I wrote down. I was too immersed in it all to perceive the tiny treasures each entry was. 

Now, with the distance of time and perspective, I see how unique and precious each moment can be ... and truly is.  So each night I reach for my lovely gratitude journal (a beautiful book of handmade paper given to me at Cowgirl's baby shower) and I write with my Lamy fountain pen five items for that day.  It helps to be doing so as the sun sets over my garden, the birds singing and the fragrance of new blooms combining with a citronella candle or incense by my feet. 

Gratitude, mindfulness and celebration ... life in these past 8 years has prepared the soil and I am ready to receive it all.

piecing my self together ...

The challenge in slowing down, is having life tailgating me as I putter along.

I'm in the slow land for goodness sakes!  Ease up will you?!  

Okay, so it is only me tailgating myself with internal dialogue ... why is this taking so long? When are you going to get around to x,y, or z? What are you doing?!

Ah, but I am learning the art of Sacred Listening (or sacred self listening to caught-in-traffic-of-life self) and winching as I hear myself talking smack about about myself which involves a gentle and loving self corrections.

I'm taking the time needed ... 

it's worth and I'm worth the investment ... 

And my new favorite: I'm creating my own life here and I'll do it my way. (Sounds a bit like toddler talk but then again, I may be in a toddler stage of autonomy and self understanding.)

Which reminds me of Cowgirl as a small girl insisting "I do myself" quickly followed by "Help me." And that is pretty wise now that I think about it. 

I'm finding my way. Grief is an interesting terrain. In the beginning it feels impossible to survive the journey: the weight too heavy, the path indiscernible, the body and spirit depleted, uncertain, and rudderless. But day-by-day I pick my way through, I make my way forward.

Or inward? I'm not sure I really care about getting anywhere so much as being at peace with where I am.  In my case, I believe utter exhaustion was needed for total surrender.  I can't say how, but I have handed the reins over to Sorrow and let it go where it needs to go. So far, I am nothing short of amazed by the process. Specifically, how gentle and nourishing it can be.  

In opening fully to my sadness, it seems a host of other guests have slipped in. Gratitude. Celebration. Appreciation. Wonderment. And the most surprising: myself.

My toddler self to be exact. Discovering and delighted by things I did not know I was capable of doing. There are the inner miracles - the sense of my mother within me, knowing and acknowledging what I've longed to share with her. As memory of her physical presence fades, an intimate togetherness seeps in. There are external manifestations that make me shake my head is this me? Baking, sewing, more homey moments amid an already homey life. 

And then the horses. Their solid, earthy presence helping me find my roots. There is nothing quite like a few hours steeped in the smells of manure, leather, and horse to bring me back to the girl I wanted to be, back to life ... back to me. 

I recognize how much my mother informed who I am, but I am allowing myself to see how I contributed to her. Understanding how Cowgirl has made me a better person, I grasp a similar dynamic between myself and my mother. It is no small piece of comfort.

So I assume my place at the head of my own table. I'm tending to her loose ends, the projects left incomplete: a needlepoint stocking, crewel sampler 

And now this crazy quilt. Crazy indeed!  When I was 11 my mother cut out yards and yards of squares for a quilt.  She painstakingly basted and then hand-stitched many squares into triangles, a design I don't believe she truly knew how she would cobble it all together. So she didn't. But she held on to the box of fabric and carted it from home to home until it came to rest in my home.  Now I sort through that box, mixing those pieces with scraps harvested from Cowgirl's first dresses and fabric I've collected over the years. 

I'm not a sewer, but I am taking comfort in this process of piecing the two quilts together, making whole what had been abandoned and outgrown. I'm in no rush. I'm taking the time I need. I'm allowing myself opportunity to enjoy the process, to watch it build into something I have yet to envision.  Something that will comfort and keep my girl warm while she dreams her new world while covered by our collective past.

"Small things such as this have saved me: how much I love my mother—even after all these years. How powerfully I carry her within me. My grief is tremendous but my love is bigger. So is yours. You are not grieving your son’s death because his death was ugly and unfair. You’re grieving it because you loved him truly. The beauty in that is greater than the bitterness of his death." 

- Cheryl Strayed (Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar) 

HeartFull Living an online conversation on living a life devoted to loving begins February 16. This is not a course, it is a gathering where all are invite to share, question and discuss what it means to lean into love.  Is your heart asking to be heard?  

happiness is ...

The return of a healthy urge ...

Rekindling my love affair with my cameras.  Flipping through stacks of books (Mary and Linda McCartney), looking about, camera in hand, itching to go exploring.  I blame it on the sunshine. I'll bundle up and brave the cold ...

i've got your back

On Thanksgiving day Cowgirl received a bead kit from her uncle (he needed some beads for his fly fishing lures and passed on the remainders to us.)  There is a back story to bead kits in my family: years ago I sent one of my nieces what I thought was the deluxe-delight kit of multicolored beads.  Possibilities abounded in that box, but what I hadn't factored in was the probability of an equally massive bead mess.  My curmudgeonly brother called me up just days after that holiday with a "Thanks for the bead set ... may a pox fall upon you and your house."  Or something to that effect.

I actually was unaware Cowgirl had received the kit and had been too distracted to consider the reason she was staying confined to her room.  Any long weekend when she isn't begging to spend "just a little time" on the computer should have me seeking out the thermometer.

It wasn't until late Sunday afternoon that I learned she had the kit and had been absorbed by sorting all the beads by color and size. (The Husband calls it the Montessori Effect.)  Pleased by my child's commitment to such focused attention and detail, I was merrily engaged with a project of my own.

And then the wailing began.

It shouldn't be too surprising to reveal that shortly after sorting all the beads, Cowgirl bumped the tray and yes ... all the beads pooled together in a multicolor pile in the tray and on her floor (which is covered by a shaggy carpet that swallows any and everything short of dirty laundry that falls upon it.) 

I confess, I heard the cries and I sat frozen at the kitchen island.  I suppose I hoped The Husband was tending to this disaster (hope springs eternal) but if I am honest, I just wasn't sure I was up for the task of talking her off that ledge.  

She of course, came down to find me.  She flumped herself into the chair ( I know of no other way to describe the gesture of flouncing, bumping, dumping oneself into a pile of anger and irritation rolled in a crusty covering of frustration and despair), crossing her arms and dropping her chin she issued a sort of growling whining cry.  "I worked ALL DAY and now I've wasted my time!"  (Oh, little sister ... how well I know this lament!)

My usual tactic would be to rush in to comfort, but I've learned (slowly and painfully) to let her unspool her feelings.  I issued the appropriate "I can imagine!" and "Of course you would feel that way!"  until her fury was spent.  Then I suggested she bring the kit downstairs ("But it is too late now!") and together we could sort the beads.

What started out as a disaster turned into girls' time.  Soon we were laughing over those sneaky beads that bounce away, coming up with new strategies for separating small beads and more stable methods for holding sorted piles.  When she slipped out of her chair and came over to hug and thank me, I knew I had earned a parenting merit badge.

Just a few weeks ago there was an incident at school with a classmate and Cowgirl and I discussed how she wanted to handle it.  I listened to her ideas and I gave her my opinion on what I thought needed to happen.  In all of this I wanted her to understand that she is supported and that she has the right and the means to take action and find a solution.  I was bullied as a child, so I am super sensitive to this issue.  I never said anything to my parents and I was unaware until years later that my mother knew what had happened and had talked with my school principal.  My experience was one of feeling alone, frightened and powerless to do anything - except hide.  (I went out of my way to walk a circuitous route to and from school, avoiding as best I could my tormentors.)  I did not want this to be Cowgirl's experience.

I have been learning for myself that there is so much support out there, it's just a matter of asking for it and then believing I am capable of joining my resources with that assistance to find solutions. Sometimes it requires me being clear with myself and others as to my needs.  I know it is a sign of strength, not weakness, to truthfully acknowledge when I am overwhelmed and in need of guidance.  It is also an act of great trust to share my vulnerabilities with another and even more so, to be so honest with myself. 

I keep hearing the Rolling Stones song "Well we all need someone we can lean on ..."

I've been subbing at Cowgirl's school in the preschool class and I want to wrap up this verbal wandering with a story about the Zipper club.  In an effort to encourage the kids to put on and zip up their coats, the teacher implemented a Zipper Club.  I was there the first day of the club and the kids were buzzing with excitement.  Of course, there were the few who still needed help and the other aides were so loving and gentle in explaining to the kids that some of us just need a little more practice.  

The following week I was in and it was time for recess when one boy came over to me to ask for my help.  He still hadn't mastered his zipper yet, so I tried to encourage him to give it a go first.  The lining of his jacket zipped into the coat, so there was a confusion over which zipper where ... I got the zippers sorted and then dropped my hands.  "Okay, you try" I told him.  He got the zipper set and I tell you, it was like Edmund Hilary on the cusp of summiting Everest.  The other kids were leaving for recess and this boy started to become anxious, looking over his shoulder and whining.  

I morphed into football coach mode and began barking at him "Where is your brain?  Get you brain in the game!  Zipper!  Look at your zipper!  Pay attention!"  He turned back to me and the zipper, fumbling to pull it up, attention drifting back to the doorway and his departing classmates.  I almost lost him, he was teetering on the edge of meltdown, but I think I shocked him when I barked "Focus on your zipper!" and up the zipper went.

He looked at me stunned and uncertain.  What had happened?  I said to him "Look at what you just did!"  Saucer big eyes blinked, looked down, then back up at me as he hurled himself into my arms.

Yeah we all need someone we can lean on ... someone to remind us to believe ... someone who knows what we need to know ... that yes, we can ... we can do IT, whatever IT might be.  We just need to know when to seek support and guidance and when to listen to the voices cheering us on.  
 

 In gratitude for all who have so lovingly supported and encouraged me ... just so you know, I've always got your back and am thankful you are watching out for mine. ♥    

 

the moments in between ...

Years ago a friend said to me: I jump from this and that when what I really want to know are the moments in between.

Indeed. I know all too well the sensation of being a frog, leaping from one lily pad to another.  I am aware of skipping those liminal moments ... I am becoming aware of what it is I am avoiding by my compulsive busyness.

I am avoiding the discomfort of this moment of stillness and quiet.  While I have craved such, to be in it is hugely disorienting.  I am aware of the sound of the clothes tumbling in the dryer, the hum of the refrigerator, the steady rhythm of my dog breathing as he sleeps by my feet.  I am aware of the glow of the kitchen light, harsh in contrast to the darkness outside.  The false brightness emphasizing the gloominess of the weather and the dimness within me.  

I am aware of the compulsion to be doing something.  The other inhabitants of my home are out in the world and engaged in their tasks while I sit here ... doing what?  Abiding?  Waiting?  

Paying attention.  Trying to grab hold of what constantly slides through my fingers, aware of a shadow at the edges of my consciousness.  I envy my dog his lack of anxiety over what he does or doesn't do.  He simply is.  

I am aware of my defensiveness regarding my day.  The Husband comes home and in a spirit of genuine interest and curiosity asks me, "What did you do today?"  I snidely reply "I sat around eating bon-bons."  I am aware of feeling guilty if I cannot account for myself, my actions, my productivity. But I know too well that busyness and doing does not equal living nor does it make for a satisfying life.

I have joined with the participants in The Gift of Practice in experimenting with a new practice.  I took the advice of David Whyte and am taking the step that scares me, the one I've resisted for much of my life.  I am sitting every day and spending a minimum of 5  minutes watching my breath.  I am not doing, striving, perfecting ... I am attempting to simply be.  Sit. Breathe. Be.

In the process, I am watching the cloaks and hats and labels I've dressed myself in, peeling away one by one.  The longer I sit, the more layers I discover.  Perhaps one day I will come to the end and discover what I've been seeking my whole life: to truly know myself. Just me. Simple, plain, perfect in my imperfections.  Sitting snugly, comfortably within myself. 

If Life is a gift ... and truly, I believe it is such ... then each of us is a parcel of wonder, a treasure to be shared and enjoyed.  I want to sit in that space in between the scattered wrapping paper, torn off bows, savoring the moment of receiving. 

Time to turn off, stop typing and start being ...