Standing with a Heron

I took off my shoes when I set out on the trail trail this morning. My transient thoughts were easily replaced by the simple pleasures of wet earth beneath my feet, changing seasons in the air, and glimpses of butterflies. While the river on the horizon and vast field in front of me suggested a far-away place, the hum of the freeway and the horn of a passing train reminded me that I was just outside of town. I was just stopping by for a quick walk between two obligations.

Rounding the bend that turned me back towards the parking lot, I found myself staring at a heron. He was standing just a few yards off the path in a muddy patch of the field. He was not hunting; there wasn’t any water nearby and his gaze was loose, not fixed.  He was just standing, the way herons do — strong, silent, still. Motionless, he beckoned me to join him.

Grateful for the invitation, I knew I would stay as long as he would have my company.

I reached for my phone, hoping to capture our shared time, thinking I could save the experience to appreciate again another day or share with someone else. I took a video of his graceful and sturdy presence until my phone ran out of storage space. When it did, I put my phone away quickly, knowing it could not possibly capture this moment and a little embarrassed that I had held my little screen between us.

With relief, I gave myself fully to the heron, to my standing, and to our shared stillness. Meeting his quiet presence with my body, mind and heart, we stood in stillness together until we were no longer two creatures standing in a field. We were, clearly, one with each other and with the field. We stood, in this oneness, for several minutes (or maybe it was several hours).

Finally, the heron turned to walk away. He took a few deliberate and patient long-legged steps toward the river before pausing again for just a slight moment longer. Maybe he moved because the sun was in his eyes or maybe it was lunchtime … or maybe he had heron business to attend to elsewhere. Whatever the reason, his movement brought me back to my human body, standing in a moist field on a mid-September morning. I needed to be moving along also. After all, I figured I had human business to attend to. The day had promised to include dozens of the concerns, questions, and conversations that a human life carries in this time and place. I had not planned for it to include long moments (or was it hours?) with a heron.

As I turned to continue along the path, a pale purple butterfly flew off my left foot. Apparently, she had joined our meditation too. Her delicate levity offered perfect balance to the heron’s gravity.

Walking away, I was grateful for the invitation to pause and join the heron in stillness so fully that the mirage of our separateness dissolved completely for a moment. I was grateful for the presence of creatures who remind me that we are one. And I was grateful that these moments, though always with me and within me, come to find me when I need them most.

As I stepped off the trail and into my next commitment, I held gently to the heron’s stillness, the butterfly’s levity, the wet earth at my feet, and the gentle breeze. May I carry their clarity and presence into my work and relationships. May I invite others into that peace that connects us all. May the embrace of stillness forever delight.

When Grief and Hope Dance Together

In the most recent Yes! Magazine, climate scientist, Peter Kalmus, wrote about the grief that accompanies his work. As a scientist whose work it is to quantify the decline in our planet’s health and resiliency, Kalmus looks closely at the consequences that our choices impose on our planet. He describes being periodically overwhelmed by waves of climate grief.

In a millisecond, without warning, I’ll feel my throat clench, my eyes sting, and my stomach drop as though the earth below me is falling away. During these moments, I feel with excruciating clarity everything that we are losing — but also connection and love for those things.

While he has front row seats to observing climate change and the extraordinary responsibility of communicating what he knows to the rest of us, Kalmus is not alone in his deep awareness and grief. His article describes a rising “latent” climate anxiety and dread. In this time of instant transmission of news and information, we all learn of atrocities around the globe as they are happening. But climate disasters are not just headlines, they are eroding earth, engulfing fire and choking water. Likewise, humanitarian crises are not just policies, they are injured, separated or murdered children, parents, brothers, sisters, and friends.

There is cause for grief.

When it visits me, I give myself permission to sink into it. In that grief, I notice my despair, rage, and sorrow. I also notice my commitment to planetary health, safety, and love. I fall into cleansing tears, releasing the dismay, sorrow, and frustration that seem to simmer restlessly at the back of my mind. When they rise to the surface, they are demanding to be noticed and appreciated. Once I have held my grief close (for hours, days or weeks), I can begin to see its other side. A little glimmer of light emerges at the edges.

That light is hope — revitalized and ready for action. The hope that is born of grief is not distant or idle. It is not a far off image or a distant fantasy, it is a distinct possibility. Not only that, it is a possibility that I have the responsibility and privilege of bringing it into reality.

In Animal Dreams, Barbara Kingsolver offers gentle encouragement for our hard work and our hope:

You’re thinking of revolution as a great all-or-nothing. I think of it as one more morning in a muggy cotton field, checking the undersides of leaves to see what’s been there, figuring out what to do that won’t clear a path for worse problems next week. Right now that’s what I do. You ask why I am not afraid of loving and losing and that’s my answer. Wars and elections are both too big and too small to matter in the long run. The daily work — that goes on, it adds up. It goes into the ground, into children’s bellies and their bright eyes. Good things don’t get lost. I’ve decided: the very least you can do in your life is to figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope. Not admire it from a distance but live right in it, under its roof.

August 1, 2018 was Earth Overshoot Day, the date when we (all of humanity) have used more from nature than our planet can renew in the entire year. That means that from now until December 31, we are on borrowed time.  We (each one of us) have contributed to this overdraft. (Ok, not all of us. Find an analysis of countries with Biocapacity reserve or Biocapacity deficit here.) From whom or what are we borrowing?

We are borrowing and stealing resources, health, and safety from ourselves, each other, next generations, and other species…As potentially overwhelming as that sounds, the emphasis of Earth Overshoot Day is on our capacity to incrementally begin to move the date. Changing all of humanity sounds like a big job, but changing myself feels quite possible. If I focus on my personal contribution to “each one of us”, I remain hopeful that we will eventually shift “all of humanity” toward life in balance with one another and the planet.

The Global Footprint Network suggests that we focus our sustainability efforts in 4 major areas: food, cities, population and energy. With a little thought, I quickly identified three things I can do today to begin to reduce the impact of food and energy consumption in our home. The clothes will dry outside on the clothesline. Vegetables will crowd meat off the plate at dinner. When I go grocery shopping, I will pay attention to purchasing more food from my foodshed and less food that has been wrapped in plastic and shipped by planes, trains and automobiles. Later this week, I will ride my bike to the farm down the road to stock up on veggies. Lifestyle changes begin one day at a time. One engaged life at a time, we can move Earth Overshoot Day. I will live inside that hope.

I recently followed (in a distant, facebook sort of way) the travels of Kali Bird Isis. Kali was with the Grannies Respond caravan that travelled to TX to offer witness, love, and support to the refugees who arrive at our borders seeking safety and instead find themselves at risk once again. In videos and stories, Kali showed over and over how her grief and hope cataylzed change and motivated her positive action. Her actions inspire me and affirm that one engaged life leads to another engaged life and another and another…

The injustices that we inflict on the planet are mirrored by injustices we inflict on other human beings. The dangerous -isms and -phobias of our time are tied together: consumerism, capitalism, racism, sexism, xenophobia, homophobia… Start pulling at one of the strings and we find them all tied together. While that can make the knot look unsolvable, it may be just the opposite. When we begin to unravel one strand, they will all begin to unravel.

If there is a strand that enlivens or enrages you, begin there. Notice the grief or hope that gets fired up when you trade stories with neighbors, read the news, or encounter strangers on the street. Then, create space for your hope and grief to dance together. That is when you will be moved to compassionate action too. That is when, together, we will be creating positive change for our planet and all beings. And that is hope we can all live inside.

If You Need a Reminder

The field seemed to be steaming as the night’s rain evaporated and mixed with the humidity hanging heavily in the air. Adding to the density in the air, the birds were busy in both flight and song. Mesmerized, I walked toward the pond, startling a gaggle of chatty geese into the air. It was beautiful and lush, but the fecundity was almost overwhelming. My pace, typically slow and thoughtful, began to feel plodding and heavy — almost tentative. And that’s when I noticed. I was a full participant in the intricate web of life in the field. There had been a mosquito hatch and the hungry young insects had found me!

I recalled advice that a friend had offered many years ago when we were paddling in the Boundary Waters Canoe and Wilderness area. She reminded me of how much we (humans) take from the earth and how little of tangible positive benefit we offer back to her. In that context, feeding a few mosquitos is really not too much to ask. She suggested that we honor each bug by treating each bite as an offering rather than as a violation. I’d like to say that her advice helped me to assume some equilibrium or a Buddha-mind while I enjoyed a long walk through the field while serving a feast to some of the tiny insects that provide a critical foundation to the food chain. But the truth is, I turned around and hustled back up the trail. I even killed a few mosquitos as I approached my car.

That evening, without cause or a point of origin, I was overwhelmed by sadness about the hurt in the world. The weight of my grief was relieved by a good, long cry. Sometimes it is simply too much to hold gratitude for my safety, health and loved ones, while also bearing witness to the suffering that we are inflicting on one another and on the earth. A good cry helps. A long walk in the field usually does too.

Was my grief overload triggered by my hasty retreat and the mosquitos I had mindlessly killed or was it just time to let off some steam? I don’t know. But I do know that I feel better. And I know that the mosquitoes are hungry and we are food. There is a lesson in there somewhere. While I wait to find out what it is, I will continue to work on gently expanding my compassionate heart.


If You Need a Reminder

If you need a reminder that

Your blood, sweat, and tears matter

And that your compassion will be tested…

If you need a reminder that

You are the only you the world will ever know…

If you need a reminder

That you are significant…

Take a walk

In a steamy summer field after the rains have stopped.

The flowers will be lifting their heads to the sun,

while the birds dry their wings and

Thousands of newly hatched mosquitoes wait for their first meal.

Each one offers a powerful reminder.

Tears and Laughter

I paddled slowly to the middle of the lake, loosely following the path of the three herons who had passed overhead moments earlier. At the water’s surface, turtle heads emerged and disappeared without rhythm or sound. Periodic percussive slaps interrupted the silence as fish leapt for insects. Standing on the paddle board, surrounded by the company of the morning lake, I drifted in and out of thoughts and thoughtlessness, at one with the other beings of the lake. My paddling became a prayer of thanks as I fell into gratitude for my place in this world. Turning to head towards home, my prayer anchored itself to both past and future.

My husband, Thomas, sat on the pier, settled in his own version of solitary morning prayer. But, to my sight, he did not seem to be alone. My great-grandmother, who died years before I was born, was with him on the pier. My dad, grandfather, and uncle, more recently gone from this life, were there too. Dozens of others who I did not recognize were there. Certainly there were more people than would fit on the pier if they were in physical form. On the bank behind them, my grandmother (who died 9 years ago) sat on a bench surrounded by flowers. She was overcome with emotion, reveling in love of nature and family, exclaiming the wonder of it all with her generous tears and laughter. She always marveled at the miracle of our lives. Now I understand her awe. With past, present and future blending together, we are left speechless, without the words to explain the knowing and the not-knowing that accompany our experience of reality. Tears and laughter sum up the rich fullness of it all but I can’t resist the urge to try to understand in words.

Last week, I had the opportunity to begin to share Without a Map: A Caregiver’s Journey through the Wilderness of Heart and Mind at presentations and book events. On Thursday, I offered the audience at Inn Along the Way a glimpse of what I had learned from accompanying Dad during his decline with dementia. I shared a vision of a world in which we all step in close with one another in reciprocal connection and compassion. I invited them to envision the generations of people who had come before us, both giving and receiving care, and encouraged them to lean in to the generous teaching of those generations. As each one of us steps in to the symbiotic relationships in our own lives, we can see ourselves as part of a single interconnected whole.

On Saturday, I met Bob Atkinson, author of A Story for Our Time: From Duality to Interconnectedness to Oneness. In his book, Atkinson describes these personal actions of connectivity as examples of the evolution of human consciousness, an evolution that is both inevitable and supported by our intentional actions. Atkinson asks, “wouldn’t our greatest act in this world be to express love, compassion, caring, and charity in all things we do? Understanding the path to our own evolution means awakening to our own humanity, to the specialness that is ours only.”

In that light, the call to connection that I offered on Thursday was also a call to participate actively in a personal and collective turn toward fulfilling our potential. Paddling back to the pier where my husband, my ancestors and my descendants are waiting, I am reminded that forever is here now. It is also yesterday and yesterday’s yesterday — and tomorrow and tomorrow’s tomorrow. In gratitude and connection, I glide across the water, brimming with love and wonder. I am the shy turtle, boisterous fish and graceful herons all at once. I am speechless, but my heart is light and I am laughing through my tears.

Perspective

During this afternoon’s rain squall, a vibrant rainbow arced over the back field and ended right in our drainage. I resisted the urge to run out and look for a literal pot of gold. All day, I had been reveling in the treasure that is our life. The rainbow now offered a visual pointer, a reminder to celebrate what is right in front of us and to notice each moment’s gift.

We have just returned home from a west coast vacation, driving from San Francisco to Puget Sound, Washington. We wandered down trails and beaches all along the way. We were nourished, humbled and inspired by tall trees, vast beaches, whales, otters, birds of all sizes, and ever-shifting skies. Our travels offered perspective and clarity to bring back home, lessons that I have learned before but need the earth to refresh within me from time to time.

In forests with dense understory and towering trees, vegetation limited our view to the trail corridor and we noticed delicate millipedes, mosses, lichen and wildflowers at our feet. When a high forest trail with a dense canopy and a needle-laden forest floor opened into a large vista, we savored the open expanse, looking north to Canada. When whales spouted just off-shore from the beachside cliff where we were eating lunch, we lingered for over an hour, relishing our good fortune at finding such noble company.

When we got home, three boxes of my first book, Without a Map: A Caregiver’s Journey through the Wilderness of Heart and Mind, were waiting. They had arrived the day after we left and I had been stewing on how best to get it into people’s hands. The memoir weaves together my experiences providing care for my Dad during his decline with dementia and lessons learned while traveling in the wilderness and parenting. I am hopeful that Without a Map, like vacation and today’s rainbow, will offer perspective and hope to other families.

Meeting each day as an opportunity during vacation, it became clear that the book would be shared in the same way, one individual and one event at a time. Opportunities are all around us and the pot of gold is at our feet! If you have an organization or independent bookstore that might be interested in hosting a reading or simply having a few books on hand, let me know. I am grateful for the opportunity to share this book and look forward to hearing how it resonates with readers.

 

Blossoms

Early this week, I was watching blossoms unfurl on the plum tree. I checked the tight green buds eagerly each day, anticipating the grand display of flowers to come. Slowly, they began to open. But instead of a grand display, it has been a slow unveiling. Each blossom is an individual with a timeframe of its own, a potential that will unfold at the right time, no sooner or later.

I notice how, like the blossoms, I am unfolding very slowly to this season, only risking exposure in bits. Perhaps the plum tree’s rhythm protects the harvest from early frost that could damage the earliest bloomers. I wonder what my slow caution is protecting me from? After quietly nurturing projects and inspirations through the winter, spring would be the right time for them to explode onto the scene with color and vibrancy. The symbolism is inviting, but the reality is much more complicated. Opening too much heart or imagination too quickly feels risky. There is so much potential in front of me and each opportunity promises (or threatens) to open more doors. How much can I take on and how far out can I step?

This is not really a question I need to answer intellectually. My body offers all of the answers. At times it offers energy and inspiration; that’s when I work and play. At other times, I am completely depleted, unable to act against the lethargy in my body or mind; that is when I slow down, take stock and sleep longer. Paying attention to these natural inclinations to work, play and rest, I can see that my cycle of opening into this new season is disciplined and steady, like that of the plum tree. That observation and kinship sparks new patience for my pace. It kindles a compassionate reminder to let go of my waiting and urgency and to simply pay attention to what is real and present in each moment, both within and around me.

Today, the plum tree is in full bloom. Each individual blossom has opened and their collective beauty is jaw-dropping. Dozens of bees are collecting and sharing pollen from flower to flower, branch to branch, and tree to tree. There will be fruit this year — and it will come in due time.