Category: In This Moment

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Words to Live By

An every day is earth day reminder from Living the Good Life by Helen and Scott Nearing, 1954

Do the best you can, whatever arises

Be at peace with yourself

Find a job you enjoy

Live in simple conditions; housing, food, clothing, get rid of clutter

Contact nature everyday; feel the earth under your feet

Take physical exercise through hard work; through gardening or walking

Don’t worry; live one day at a time

Share something every day with someone else; if you live alone, write someone; give something away; help someone else

Take time to wonder at life and the world; see some humor in life when you can

Observe the one life in all things

Be kind to the creatures

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My Time

For most of my life, I have felt that I was born a few centuries too late. The pace and complexities of the world we live in have always seemed like a bad fit. Surely I was better suited to a quieter, gentler and slower world than this! As a child, I believed I really belonged in a little house on the prairie, tuned into seasons, weather and daily family rhythms. As a young adult, no longer able to daydream my way into other eras, I sought a place in the world that would be a better fit. I traveled west until it wasn’t possible to go any further on this continent. Stepping off the grid for a few years, I found a pace and rhythm that matched my inner cadence.

When we moved to a neighborhood in a city, I again felt that familiar feeling. This was not the right time or place for me. That feeling stayed with me for over 10 years. It gave me solace when I felt overwhelmed, but it also allowed me to excuse myself from attending to social concerns that were too big, ugly and worrisome to wrap my arms around. I nested, creating a kinder, gentler, slower micro-world within the safe space of my household and community. My sense that I didn’t belong to this time or place removed me from the urgent responsibility to contribute solutions to the problems that are persistent and pervasive in the wider world.

Today, that feeling of being in the wrong place and time has disappeared. I don’t know exactly when it left, but I suspect it has been fading for a few years. And now, it’s absence is palpable. In its place, I know that I am here for a reason. I am quite certain that I belong to this time and this place. I get to sink deeply into this one precious life, loving its singularity and its universality, and living each of its moments fully. I get to trust that I have a contribution to make and that I have arrived just in time to offer it. I hear the wild geese announcing my place in the family of things. (Thank you, Mary Oliver)

My time is now. When is yours?

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It All Matters

 

 Standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon, it was easy to feel small. As my 15 year-old son remarked, “This is awesome — in the true sense of the word.” Millions of years of history stretched out below and in front of us. The blue sky unfolded above in a pure streak of blue, interrupted only occasionally by a wistful cloud or darting bird. Standing at the canyon’s edge, my 45 years of life seemed barely perceptible amidst the backdrop of geologic time. The scale was hard to reconcile as I attempted to appreciate and honor both the canyon’s immensity and my diminutiveness.

After glimpsing the Colorado River at the bottom of the canyon, I began to regain balance — and my relevance. The river, visible as a blue-green serpentine gem, carved this grand canyon as it traveled through rock that had formed over the last 2 billion years. To view it from a distance, the river is a placid and serene bit of water slowly and persistently rubbing against the edges of the canyon walls. Even the rapids, though frothy and white, look calm from miles away. Over time, the earth along the river’s path weakened and collapsed, periodically calving like a glacier to create the canyon walls that we see today. The majesty of the Grand Canyon exists because of the consistent pressure of flowing life that slowly carved a path through the ancient rock layers. Here, perched at the rim of the canyon, I am another speck of lifeforce in that long history. Not insignificant, but simply another bit of dust and ray of light amidst the other manifestations of mineral, plant and animal in this amazing place.

When we descended the canyon, I re-oriented myself in time and space once again. The trail that we descended hugged the canyon wall down long, steep switchbacks. On the way down, I was kept busy struggling to keep my balance in the gusty wind and trying to take in this new perspective of the steep canyon walls. On the way back up the trail, I had a chance to appreciate its construction. The trail is a masterpiece of engineering, built by engineers, miners, and CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) crews in the 1920s and 1930s. The trail was sturdy, well-defined and comfortable both descending and ascending. I have built trails with rock before, tasked with balancing protection of the natural resource with protection of human hikers in Kenai Fjords National Park and Tongass National Forest. Building with rock is both satisfying and endlessly deceiving. It hints at permanence but is no less malleable and fallible than any other element at our disposal. It is very hard to get it right and, even well placed, rocks will dislodge, break, wiggle and erode when water, temperature and gravity exert their influence. In this case, the trail was still in great condition and it welcomed us to terrain that would have otherwise been inaccessible without wings or sticky lizard pads on our hands and feet.

Knowing how much hard work had gone into making the route down the canyon accessible to humans, I reflected again on the forces that have been at work in the corner of the earth that we call the Grand Canyon. Undoubtedly, the crew was glad to have the paid employment in the midst of a recession, but they must have also felt that their work was futile at times. As they dangled on belay in the hot sun and hammered at unrelenting rock, I imagine they wondered who would ever come to walk their trail. I wonder if they ever paused to notice that, with their slow and patient work, they were leaving their mark on the walls of history. Their marks are now carved into the canyon as clearly as those of the water, wind and plants. If the trail crews were still here, I would offer my hearty thanks for their labor. They made it possible for me (and thousands of other people) to literally hike a mile towards the center of the earth one morning last week.

And they helped me recognize that, while I am small against the backdrop of the canyon, I am not insignificant. None of us are. We all have a role to play in the process of carving the path for human evolution. Our work matters. Like the river flowing towards the ocean, it is inevitable that we will move towards peace. As we do, we will be advocates for the earth and for humanity. We will persistently pursue compassion and justice. When we falter, we can look to Colorado River, the Grand Canyon and the CCC as evidence that it does matter. It all matters. Keep rubbing against the stubborn canyon walls. Speak out against injustice. Grow vegetables. Volunteer. Offer a kind word or a smile. It all matters. We may be small, but we are not insignificant. We have a vital place within the unfolding history of humanity and our beloved planet earth.

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Salve of Hope and Healing

Fog closes in as the warm air mingles atop the rapidly melting snow. This is spring, or a step towards it anyhow. There will still be steps back into winter. This is how seasonal change comes. Two steps forward and one step backwards. Indeed, perhaps this is how most change comes — in fits and starts, the result of slow plodding steps in one particular direction. Periodically, we try to step backward for reassurance that the past has not dissolved before we have found a solid future to stand on. An occasional detour takes us around obstacles, but motion continues. This is how we age, reliably and subtly. This is how friendships develop or dissolve, slowly and steadily. This is how war planes have come to drop bombs on neighborhood hospitals. That which was once unfathomable has become reality.

Detours, aging and friendships seem like inevitable progression of the human experience. I do not accept the war plane reality as inevitable, yet here we are. Greed, fear and resentments arose slowly and surely to a time and place where wars of all sizes smolder in homes, villages and cities across this beautiful planet. People are hurting each other, killing each other. Surely human conflict has existed for as long as there have been humans, but the tools we currently have for hurting each other are diverse and devastating. I can not settle in this reality.

I find myself wanting to walk quickly through this stage of human existence, into a different reality. Actually, walking is not enough; I want to run, get to the other side as fast as possible. But really, running feels more like running away rather than running through. And I can’t turn away from it. The hurt of the human heart did not grow in a day; it will not resolve in a day. This hurt calls me to hold it tenderly and fiercely, wrapped in the arms of hope. The suffering and the solution are within me and in everything that I put out into the world.

So I will hold and honor the suffering as a necessary part of the healing. I will continue to walk towards a different future, surely and confidently. I will offer words and actions that reflect the Love and Light underlying the human spirit, the universal spirit. I will transmute the greed and fear that grip me by leaning into forgiveness, love and compassion. I will live it in my daily life, and work with others to cultivate it in our educational, political and corporate structures. I am sure we can develop a social mindset that welcomes and embraces the the human spirit. Beneath the greatest acts of heroism and the worst acts of terror, resides the same potential for love and goodness. When we embrace the humanity, indeed, the divinity, that resides with each of us, it feels possible that we will begin to unlock the potential to heal human relationships with one another and with the planet.

Rising with the sun,

I too offer light and heat.

Gifts of love,

salve of hope and healing,

nourishment for our hurting planet.

There is a kind of change that comes so fast you don’t see it coming – and sometimes hardly remember what it replaced. This is the change of snowstorms that cover the field overnight. This is the change of an empty house crumbling and the corner store closing. This is the change held in the crocus that pops up from the ground in the warmth of a morning. This is the change of people rising everywhere to recognize the humanity in each other person with whom they share their time on earth. This is the rapid change that will come when enough people realize that we are the ones we’ve been waiting for.

 

 

 

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Holding On, Letting Go

Approaching the woods, a gentle wind stirred the air. Snowballs, crystals, fairy dust, and wonder rose from the tree branches before falling to the ground lightly and playfully. The field was covered in a full, fresh layer of snow. It looked like winter but the temperature of the air and the depth of blue in the sky hinted towards spring. This snow was not destined to last long. It is late winter and the season is more fickle than ever.

The pines and maples surrounding the field at the edge of the forest held piles of heavy snow. Some of the trees held the fresh snow as if in a gentle hug, happy for the temporary companionship. Others seemed burdened by the uninvited guest, holding the unwelcome weight as a burden. The oak trees, which also still held many of their leaves from the previous fall, seemed especially laden. With each gust though, each tree released a little more snow. As the wind whispered through the branches, I heard an audible sigh of relief as the trees let go of the snow.

I sat for a while with the little oak at the top of the drainage. I felt some kinship with this tree and its long, reaching branches. It will hold onto the leaves of the last growing season until emerging buds push them off in the spring. This oak, nestled out of the wind, will also hold the day’s snow longer than most of its neighbors. There does not appear to be any burden in this holding. This little tree seems designed to hold on. Its trunk is straight and solid. The branches grow low and wide. The fibers of each branch are dense. It clings to last season, embraces the snow of this season, and prepares for the growth of spring and summer ahead. This little tree declares that it is possible to have and hold it all.

Like the oak, I too attempt to hold — or at least juggle — it all. There is joy in this rich fullness. It can also be stifling and inhibiting. Dwelling on the regrets, mistakes and successes of the past does not leave space for recognizing the gifts of today. Attending to the longing, anticipation or worry for the future does not allow for living into the potential of each moment. When I am holding too much or too tightly, the present passes without notice and intent.

Holding on can also be can be comforting, serving us well from time to time. I remember helping Dad pack up his condo when he was moving to Maine. I picked up a candy dish that I had never seen before and asked him if he wanted to take it with him. He looked at it for a long time while I watched him drift far into his thoughts. Finally, he returned and said, “Yes, let’s take that. It reminds me of my grandmother.” We packed it up and it stayed by his bedside for the next three years. Dad had lost so much to dementia and would lose so much more. Holding on to that dish and any memories that it carried was a small and tender grace.

Now when I see that dish in my house, it reminds me of Dad. Specifically, it reminds me of holding him close and offering care during the years of his decline. And it reminds me of the paradox that was so strong at his death. After days by his bedside, I finally felt myself letting go of his barely living body. As I did, I remembered that I had felt the power of his spirit releasing into the world several days before he died. Noticing that I had been clinging to physical life and being intentional about letting it go, allowed my awareness of his persistent and expanding essence to return.

I see similar expansion in my boys as they explore the world and create their space within it. As they have become teenagers, they are taking longer, more independent steps into the world. Much of it now happens out of my sight, but the growing strength and freedom feels very similar to those days when they were mastering the monkey bars. It was important to stay close at first but, as strength and confidence grew, it was important to step further and further away. They needed to know that they were capable and that I trusted in their power and ability. They also needed to know that I was nearby if they wanted or needed me. Letting go is not the same as walking away. Letting go is an opening of hugging arms. Letting go honors both past and potential.

By now, the little oak in the drainage was beginning to release her snow. As the sun rose higher, the snow melted away one slow drip at a time. As I walked away from the tree, I began to walk a spiral in the middle of the field. The lithe trees at the edge of the field and the stiff, stoic oak at the top of the drainage had both offered a rich teaching. There are times for holding on and times for letting go.

As I wrapped into the spiral, I felt how closely connected the two actions are. Sometimes we are walking into the center, contracting, focusing and holding. At other times, we are walking towards the edges, expanding, stretching, and letting go. Holding on and letting go are expressions of love on the same continuum. The dance between them becomes the way that we nurture ourselves, our relationships, and the way that we live our life.

Today, I am letting go. The struggles and sorrows of our human family and ailing planet often hang heavily on my heart and I hold them tenderly. But today, the snow and sun are calling for company and I will stay out to play.

What about you? How will you embrace or release your day?

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Winter Compost

I have always thought that we compost year-round at our house. We use 2 closed bins to avoid attracting critters to our backyard and chickens. The bins work on an annual rotation — we add our compost to one bin at a time, while the other “rests”.

This resting bin is really a fertile cavern of activity. The microbes, worms, and fungi in the resting compost bin change the apple cores, egg shells and other food waste into dark nutrient rich soil. By the end of the summer, our discards are ready to become the foundation for the next season’s garden. Every fall, we put one of our garden beds to bed with the fully cooked compost from the resting bin.

Once empty, the bin is ready for contributions. This winter, I am watching the empty bin fill as the compost pile inside grow taller and taller; I realize that we are freezing rather than composting. The last few times that I have brought out the compost, I have wondered how much more I will be able to fit into the bin. We have never run out of space before. I don’t ever recall having a frozen pile of banana peels, carrot tops and withered greens rising to meet me when I take off the lid. What have we done differently this year to create a food scrap stalagmite rather than a decaying pile of organic matter?

In previous years, maybe there was enough organic matter left in the bin to begin and maintain a modest rate of decomposition throughout the winter. Or maybe the deep freeze of early January killed or stunned the microscopic critters that are responsible for sustaining the transformation from scrap to soil. Or maybe we are eating a greater volume of fruits and vegetables that have skins, cores, seeds and stalks that are bound for the compost. Whatever the reason, we are freezing rather than composting this winter. The growing pile of perfectly intact food scraps is a little absurd, but I continue to take my food waste out to the growing pile.

Every bucket added to the pile feels like an act of affirmation that the cycle will continue. I have observed the interplay and cycling between decomposition, creation, and decomposition hundreds of times in the garden and forest. This year, in the frozen pile of food scraps, the cycle has slowed, perhaps even suspended for the winter season. The compost’s long pause is a good reminder to find time, space and safety to pause among the activities of our days and years.

In our journey from birth to death, we have thousands, maybe millions of opportunities to create, break down, cycle and recycle. Between each opportunity, there is also a potential for pause. In these pauses, we can take note of the process that brought us to this moment and in wonderment of the one that will follow. Sometimes glaringly obvious and sometimes barely perceptible, the pause is an integral part of the cycle too. It exists in the subtle time and space between inhale and exhale, between dawn and day, between speaking and silence. It exists in a time and space that is both hollow and full beyond measure. The pause is fleeting and slippery, but I know it when I have moved through it. In this year of All Time and No Time, the pause visits often and we are learning to harvest its gifts.

No matter how long or short, every pause eventually yields to motion. At the compost pile, spring will come. With the warmth and movement, the compost pile and garden will “spring to life” in a flurry of decay and decomposition, beauty and growth. I will be looking for the subtle pauses that co-exist within the cycles. They are there too.

While I tend the garden, I will also be settling more deeply into the pauses of my daily life by regularly practicing stillness and reflection. I will create longer pauses by stepping out of routines that restrict time and energy. I will value the solitary space and time that slows my pace and hones my intentions.  I will live deeply into the sacred pauses that pepper my days… And I will turn the compost and weed the carrots, taking my place in the cycles of dissolution and creation that will always surround the sacred pause.