Category: The Good Life

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Generosity and Surrender

The peony blooms opened just days ago,

Soft round balls of warm pink

Sitting atop tall dark green stems.

The bulbs are clustered

but they open one at a time,

Each offering its fullness in turn.

 

Today, the large blossoms rest on the grass,

heavy with their own weight

and the added weight of the rain that fell last night.

I wonder what twine or fencing I might have in the barn.

I imagine I could create some support,

Alleviate the weight of their burden.

 

I watch an ant walk from a blade of grass

into the heart of one of the blooms,

Disappearing into the soft sweet folds.

The ant is served by the weighted blossoms.

What else might benefit?

Maybe the drooping is part of the peony’s offering,

A generous bowing to the earthbound insects

when it is done serving the airborne.

 

There is so much I do not know.

I am no longer wondering about twine and fencing.

I contemplate life and fullness,

Weight and burden, generosity and surrender,

Witnessing and honoring, beauty and decay.

The mysteries are infinite and close at hand.

Soft pink peony

Explosion of vibrant life

Rest your heavy head

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Dance of the Hummingbirds

The hummingbirds are dancing in the backyard.

It doesn’t look as graceful as it sounds. From a distance, their movements are fast and jerky. They seem erratic as they move this way and that but, they pause often, seeming to take stock in the situation and surroundings before darting off again.

Each time one comes to the feeder by the window, I get a chance to appreciate the delicate creature up close. My desk is just on the other side of the window. When one dashes in, my eyes slowly follow him to the feeder. I am careful not to turn my head too quickly and catch myself holding my breath. That’s probably not necessary, but I really don’t want to scare him away. After all, I just observed how much energy is expended in the process of deciding to come over for a drink. Up close, suspended for a long drink of sugar water, the petite bird suddenly seems at rest despite the fact that his wings still beat rapidly. I imagine a stillness at his heart center while movement continues to ripple from every muscle.

At the age of 98, my neighbor, Mrs. Allen, told me that hummingbirds are so territorial that they will not share a feeder. She and I decided that the male who frequented her feeder and the female who came to mine were a mating pair. We wondered where the baby would feed when they hatched. I don’t remember which of us had a bonus visitor that year. I suspect that by the time there was a fledgling, the flowers had bloomed and all of the neighborhood birds were feeding in the flowers of the forest and the gardens instead of at the feeders.  

This year, we have three hummingbirds in our backyard. They are the ones dancing right now as they take turns at the feeder. I am imagining that their cooperation is inspired by the wet, late spring. This season has unfolded so slowly that, for a few weeks, I was reminded of Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring. However, rather than a spring without birdsong, here was a spring without leaf-out, a silhouette spring. That apocalyptic thought sent shivers down my spine every time I noticed that the birds were here but the foliage was not. The hummingbirds have been here for weeks and their natural food sources are lagging behind. The early blooms on the fruit trees are usually almost spent by the end of May. Today, they are just barely beginning to open. To my relief, the winter silhouettes of the trees have finally begun to fill in with bright yellows and greens. Spring is coming. She is just opening herself slowly.

I find myself wondering if the hummingbird’s cooperation at the feeder is a response to the scarcity of resources this season. Watching their dance, it is clear that they are aware of one another and of the shared resource of the feeder. I wonder if humans can learn to respond to scarcity by sharing as well. It makes me smile to imagine the humans with plenty bowing out and dancing to the outer edge, making room for others to acquire life-sustaining resources. Rather than continually striving for more, we can pause and make space before dancing away with the joy of sharing.

What might our world feel like if we learn to pause when we have enough?

What might it feel like if our need was always met by the generosity of others?

I imagine it would feel safe, welcoming, and beautiful. I imagine it is possible.

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Easter Peepers

The Peepers are here! Some people get excited about the appearance of Peeps, the brightly colored sugar-coated marshmallows confections that also appear at this time. I am delighted by the Spring Peepers.

In the patch of field and forest where we live, the high pitched call of these petite woodland frogs fills the air at dusk in the early spring. The chorus can be so loud that it feels like there must be thousands of them, each trying to call the loudest to attract a mate and establish territory. After a long winter and a tentative early spring, their boisterous presence assures me that we have really entered the season of growth, fecundity, and abundance. The peepers are singing before the crocuses have even poked out of the ground!

Each year when the peepers begin calling, I am reminded of a fatal mistake that we made a number of years ago. The boys were very young and endlessly curious about the critters that lived in our forest. We had been maintaining a rotating aquarium of sorts for a few months. We would collect bugs, frogs or salamanders from our creek and bring them inside to observe for a few days. We always took them back a few days later, hoping to let them go before captivity had caused too much stress. We thanked them for allowing us to study them for a few days, and released them where we had found them. We were trying to be careful, reverent, amateur naturalists. Our collection, maintenance, and release were guided by the principle that we would do no harm.

One summer day, we found a big blob of frog eggs in a water-filled depression in the field. For several days, we eagerly went back to check on them, hoping to observe metamorphosis. We didn’t see any changes in the eggs, but we did notice that their habitat was drying up. We worried that maybe the frog had chosen her nursery poorly. We worried that maybe there wasn’t enough water to sustain the eggs long enough for transformation to tadpole and frog. Just before the puddle went dry, we decided to help.

We put fresh water from the creek and the egg mass into our aquarium. Over the course of a few days, rather than observing frog metamorphosis, we watched the mass of eggs dissolve into a blob of gelatinous goop. We hadn’t helped at all. Maybe we had even harmed. Maybe the eggs of this species would not begin to transform until they began to dry. With regret, we took the goop and water outside and gave them back to the earth. The boys seemed to absorb the loss ok but, I was distressed by our “help” gone wrong. It still rattles me. We had the best intentions but, we had catastrophically interrupted the natural life cycles of a critter with whom we share this land.

Every spring, I wait anxiously for the peepers to begin their chorus. For a few years, they seemed substantially quieter. I attributed the muffled sound to population loss, a loss likely caused by human intrusion, including ours. I know it is irrational to think that we wiped out a whole region of the species with our egg collection that year, but reason doesn’t have a lot of influence when there’s guilt involved. Recently, I have learned that Spring Peepers lay their eggs singly, rather than in masses, and they hatch in a few days. The mass we collected (and killed) belonged to a different species. I do not know its name, its habits, or its call. I can only hope that it is flourishing today.

This wet spring seems to be good for the Peepers. They are really loud this year. Their strong presence is good for me. My heart seems to join them in song each evening. In the morning, I watch the puddles, depressions, and ponds for egg masses. If I find any, I will watch them and wish them well but, I will not interfere.

I can best serve the earth as a witness and participant in the enduring cycle of life. And I can best serve this cycle as an advocate for human systems (both large and small) that will recognize, honor, and protect it too. I will honor birth, death, and transformation in my life and in all life, fully embracing the eternal cycles of creation. What more could an amateur naturalist hope for?

Photo credit: Thomas Steele-Maley

 

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I Am Here for You

Look out for number one so you don’t step in number two.

Speak up for yourself.

If mama’s not happy, no one is happy.

These are just a few of the messages that pervade our culture. Self-advocacy and self-determination are important, but they have been perverted. Even the most well-intended “take care of yourself,” conveys the message that we are in this alone. If we are to survive, much less thrive, we must attend to our own needs first and foremost. Further, these messages suggest that the people around us are a potential threat to our well-being. Our health, safety and happiness must be singularly promoted, protected, and guarded.

By prioritizing personal gain over community health in this way, we have fostered a whole culture of isolation. Not only that, our self-absorption has fueled a separation, fear, and anxiety that is perpetuated at the societal level. The by-products of our self-absorption are ubiquitous. Addiction, loneliness, poverty, mental illness, and physical illness are just the most obvious outcomes. Played out at a national and international level, we have created enormous humanitarian and climate crises. This worldview is not serving anyone. It doesn’t have to be this way.

We are all in this together.

There is no doubt that self-love and self-compassion are foundational. Self-care is absolutely important for each one of us. Community-care is essential for all of us too. Being held in the concern of others and caring for one another enriches and expands our sense of belonging to the human family. I choose to stretch beyond myself and beyond my nuclear family to include the wider community in my sphere of attention and care. I am stepping in with intention to ensure that I am sharing the responsibilities, challenges, and privileges of my life journey with others – and inviting them to share their journeys with me. It is an intention that requires daily attention and diligence. To the extent that community-care is counter-cultural, it also requires opportunities to be overtly public, inviting others to step out of their stories of separation to meet me in connection, collaboration, and community.

My support can be as practical as sharing a meal or as subtle as changing my language. The next time I am tempted to respond to a friend who is facing hardship by encouraging “take care of yourself,” I’ll try one of these instead.

I’ll be thinking of you.

How can I be of help?

Can I check in with you tomorrow to see how things are going?

Would you like to tell me more?

I am here for you.

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Both Me and Not Me

I have often felt challenged by inhabiting a culture in which agency is presumed as paramount. In this worldview, achievements and failings, struggles and joys, are born singly with pride or shame. They have the potential to sink into our psyches and our bodies as talents or as character flaws. I experience myself differently. I do feel a sense of agency, but I also feel that life is an expression of a sacred collective. As Kahlil Gibran describes it, we are “the sons and the the daughters of life’s longing for itself.” The part of me that recognizes and lives for my purpose knows that it comes from outside of me: both the inclination and manifestation emerge from something far more vast and infinite than my lived experience. The part of me that retains agency has responsibility to live that purpose. It has taken my whole life to recognize that my greatest offering to this world will be both me and not at all me.

This hit home last week when I found out that Without a Map: A Caregiver’s Journey through the Wilderness of Heart and Mind has received two Reviewer’s Choice Literary Awards from Reader Views and is a finalist in the Foreword INDIES Book of the Year Award. The news was exciting, unexpected, and yet another curve in the unfolding of this whole “book experience”.

When people have told me how much the book has meant to them, I have a really hard time accepting the commendation. I am also challenged to accept congratulations for these exciting awards. You see, the book hardly feels mine. From the very first inclination to turn my words into something to be shared with others, the book has felt compelled by its own momentum. I needed to embrace the challenges of self-disclosure, self-doubt, and hard work along the way, but the hardest part of my job was to keep showing up for it. Each day, I only needed to sit at the computer and make myself available to the work of excavating, honoring and, ultimately, recording the raw experiences and emotions that had marked my way. Along the way, I was nudged, nurtured and sometimes shoved by the invisible energy that invites creative expression. I felt a tremendous sense of responsibility to manifest the message I felt drawn to share with the world.

My relationship with my Dad unfolded in a similar way as his dementia progressed. My family members often expressed gratitude “for all you are doing for Dad.” I almost always demurred, unable to truly take their complements and kindness into my heart. I know they meant it and wanted me to receive their gratitude but, somehow, it didn’t quite feel appropriate. Yes, the situations and decisions were challenging, confusing, and heart breaking, but it also felt like I was only doing what I was meant to do. Ultimately, my time with Dad during those years was enriching beyond belief. In the openness, acceptance and love of each moment we shared, there was space for a sacred trust and presence to emerge. I recognized that space is always available and have continued to nourish and appreciate the beauty and mystery that arises there.

Remaining open to the learning and self-discovery that experience initiated, I have found myself on a new journey. Writing, editing and publishing the book were only the first steps. Now, sharing the book and my experiences with individuals or audiences, I am invited to listen to others share their stories. Being present and holding space for that which needs to be expressed, I am again simply doing the work that I was meant to do. I feel pulled into kinship with the human community in new and unexpected ways. My sense of connection with my own history and with others is growing stronger. My sense of purpose is becoming more and more clear. I will continue to show up to the work that is mine to do, my sense of self getting both sharper and more vague, both me and not me.

The internet can feel remote, but your presence and readership turns each of these posts into the beginning of a conversation that you can continue with me, with a friend, or in your own thoughts. I am grateful to each one of you. Without a Map: A Caregiver’s Journey through the Wilderness of Heart and Mind also initiates meaningful conversations that bring people together. You can participate by sharing the book with individuals and communities by: suggesting it to a friend, proposing a book event in your community, writing a review at Goodreads or Amazon, or forwarding this post. Thank you!

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Sky at Dawn

The morning stars are burning brightly

while the surrounding sky lightens and obscures.

A waning moon is 

setting while the sun rises,

the light building as the darkness gives way.

In witness to this graceful celestial shift,

My heart is expanding, warmed with fullness.

Waking to this wholeness,

Possibility is palpable,

Gratitude overwhelming.

Under a dawn sky, when I witness night and day converging, I feel hope and expanded capacity. My breath grows deeper. I suspect I am drawn to an awakening sense of wholeness and balance, the not so subtle reminder that everything ebbs and flows.

Anything I experience as a static moment is actually a constant flow of time, element, action, and imagination. I am still learning not to grasp at any one aspect. It takes practice and regular remembering to simply remain present to their unfolding. There, in the fluidity, is unlimited possibility and opportunity. There, in the spaciousness, is common ground – ample space for light and dark, right and wrong, self and other. There is no pride, no pretense of winning or losing. The balance is simply shifting. Night gives way to light and, in turn, light will fade into night. The sky at dawn shows the way. There is room for it all.

Prophets and poets show the way too. With their arms stretched wide and carefully chosen words, they point to the common ground in the world’s disparities. Today, I am especially remembering Mary Oliver and Martin Luther King Jr. With gifts of insight and generosity, they showed us how to love the earth, love ourselves and love one another, in full awareness and appreciation of both the dark and the light. It is our human birthright to each continue this work daily, striving always to love more fully.

We are on the right track when the heavy stench of decay meets the light fragrance of new buds. We are on the right track when we are rising to greet the dawn sky and the night stars are still gleaming in the morning sky. We are on the right track when our own awe and gratitude and love rise with the sun.

… And I have become the child of the clouds, and of hope.

I have become the friend of the enemy, whoever that is.

I have become older and, cherishing what I have learned,

I have become younger.

And what do I risk to tell you this, which is all I know?

Love yourself. Then forget it. Then, love the world.

From To Begin With, The Sweetgrass by Mary Oliver