Category: mindfulness

Gratitude

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The kids and I say this to each other, especially when times are tough:

“Is this heaven?”
“Yup.”
“Sweet.”

I learned it from Carlos Anderson’s sermon at Unity.
I love Unity Church, my New Age church. Lately, I feel more spiritual than religious. I am among the 20 percent in the U.S., according to Pew Research, to call myself spiritual, above religious.

My theme today is gratitude.

I am grateful for
– the wonderful grocery stores in my neighborhood
How can cucumbers and blueberries be so delicious and so good for you? Crazy, right?

– Today’s my daughters’ birthday. How lucky we are with these two darlings. Yes, those first years were a handful. And yes, in some ways, they still are. 😉

catherinechar 2

I was at the theater the other day. It was an okay play, Cut Throat, at the Abingdon with my friend Sandy. Her daughter is expecting twins in a couple of weeks. And she doesn’t know their gender — but if they were both girls, “We’d win the lottery.”
Yes, we won the lottery with our twin girls. Not because of their accomplishments, but because of their temperaments, who they are – kind and funny.

Also grateful for

– this apartment
While I am not a home-centric person, I love our space. Enough room to eat together, play cards, watch TV, burrow down in a couch or bed and read the paper.

– my parents
Both still engaged in life, very creative, smart.

– my siblings and their spouses
They are all hard-working. And we love each other so much — if we needed anything, we’d be there for each other.

– my work
I love my colleagues, love the mission, feel a sense of challenge, mastery, meaning.

– my optimism
I have worked with complainers. I have occasionally complained about my situation too; it’s true. But, in general, I love my optimistic disposition. I believe tomorrow will be better than today. And today’s pretty good. (Especially because of the above-mentioned — my girls’ 16th birthday.)

What are you grateful for today?

The Sunday Paper

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I used to love going to get the Sunday Times on Saturday night. Sometimes the papers were not yet delivered. So I’d hang out at the newsstand and take one fresh off the truck. Well, after the guy put it together. And still, as I turned and walked away, I’d check to see that I had all the sections. Checking for all the sections was part of the ritual.

Not that I read all the sections. It’s like baseball. I love it in theory. Love that the Cubs and Mets – my favorite teams — are in the playoffs. But I get bored, watching a whole baseball game, reading the whole paper.

The waiting for the paper, securing the paper, checking the paper, reading the paper – this was my sacred Saturday night ritual. Now half of the paper gets delivered on Sunday morning; the other half delivered on Saturday morning, including the magazine, which I love so much.

This week, the profile piece on Nicki Manaj, the self-proclaimed ‘boss bitch,’ was awesome. The writer Vanessa Grigordiadis, shares her vulnerability and her own stupidity at the end, describing how she asked Nicki if she thrived on “drama,” a question she immediately regretted. Manaj calls her out on it, saying you wouldn’t ask that question to a man. So right. But good for Grigordiadis for sharing her foible, her regret.

In the front section, I like to read the long cover article, and debrief with coworkers or friends about the story – the wages of nail salon workers or the greed of landlords for the homeless. The NYTimes still runs great long investigative pieces. But not everyone reads the paper. I don’t read like I used to.

I might even discontinue delivery service, just so I can resume the ritual of hanging out at the newsstand again on a Saturday night, waiting for the truck.

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Saturday Morning

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I went for a run. I tried to keep up with a stranger. Even though she was taking selfies as she ran,  I still couldn’t keep up.

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I was more at this guy’s pace.
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Mercifully, I bumped into my friend Ellen and her husband so could stop running and have coffee with them at the Pier1 cafe. (It’ll shutter for winter next week). We talked about Nokomis, Florida and Weston, Vermont. And more. It’s always heaven when you bump into friend (after trying to keep pace with a stranger).

I am writing this on my phone on the train to Princeton. My family is all gone this weekend – so I am getting away too! Maybe I will see some beautiful fall colors.
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Yup. Fall colors at the train station.

Lots of memories of wintering in Princeton when Chris played Scrooge at the McCarter Theatre. I love using seasons as verbs – it’s tres hoi polloi – ‘summering, wintering, springing, falling!’

The Hole in Your Soul

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I sat on a bench today and tried another 10 minutes of nothingness.

Again the crunching of footsteps, I flipped my eyes open. Tourists stopping to snap pictures of Morning Glories along the fence.

Closed my eyes. Thought about this documentary, Griefwalker, I saw last night. (I couldn’t get the cable box to work — without Chris and the kids to show me. At least, Netflix worked.)

In the film, Stephen Jenkinson sits by people who are dying. One older woman didn’t really want to face it. Sure, we’re all going to die. But we want to like to live like we’re not going to. Our culture is death-phobic. We must embrace death as part of our journey. It is a part of our humanity. There was a metaphor in the film about setting off the canoe, a metaphor for the body. When useful, the canoe springs leaks, and we patch it. But eventually it sets off from this shore.

There was another metaphor for how we talk to and prepare our families for our certain deaths. We set the table for them. We must acknowledge the journey, like indigenous people; we must bring our family home. Not let them die in hospitals. But so many of us are cut off from our homes. It is a hole.

We may refuse to acknowledge this hole in our soul. We fill it with narcissism or eating or drinking.

I am pathologically happy-go-lucky. Is that my denial?

Living with someone who is chronically ill, how do I talk about the inevitable, the illness, the feelings? I don’t really know anyone who is going through what I’m going through. Am I handling Chris’s Parkinson’s Disease well? Especially for my children? Is my optimism a bit of a veneer? The film reminded me to let people have their space. Don’t rush in and fill the void. Let there be sadness and joy; life and death are both a part of the journey. Let me have space too. It is all part of the loop.

I was alone last night, beached out on the couch in front of the TV last night. One of my daughters is at a service project in Alabama; another goes away tonite for weekend-long party. Chris is directing a play in Florida. And, of course, H. is in college. I was tired — have not had a day off from writing and teaching in more than 11 days. (Workaholism is, at times, how I fill the void in my life.)
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For my mindfulness project, I was going to walk the labyrinth in Battery Park today, but the gate was locked. So I sat on a bench, folded my hands in my lap, tried to clear my mind. Slowed down.
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The Statue of Liberty was nearby, and so was the big sculpture that used to be in the center of the World Trade Center. I used to sit by that sculpture when I worked at the front desk of the Vista Hotel in the World Trade Center before work or during my lunch hour.

The sculpture now rests in the park. Some people rush by. The sculpture is a metaphor for the hole in my soul, the sadness. It is okay to be sad. It is okay that the sculpture is there. Grief is not bad. It is part of our humanity. And so is this — a woman sat on the bench beside me, nursing her baby.

10 Minutes of Nothing

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I sat outside for 10 minutes at lunch time. I did nothing. I closed my eyes.

This video inspired me. Taking a 10-minute break connected me to my senses. I felt the sun on the back of my neck. I heard hip hop music from a car stopped at a traffic light nearby. I opened my eyes and saw a sparrow, a few feet away, tilt its head.

I thought about the mastercard bill I have to pay. I strategized about meeting my daughter before one play practice today and after another. I wondered if it would be good enough if she had only a slice of pizza for dinner.

I felt some things. I thought some things. But I did not get bogged down in my thoughts or feelings. I hopped from thing to thing like the sparrow.

There may have been a few moments when I entered a state beyond thinking or feeling. I drifted into the sky. I saw a gold frame against the sky. What happens when you frame infinity? I thought, How funny – that there are stars in the sky during the daytime too. I don’t see the stars, but I know they’re there.

I thought, I have to work on my Magical Realism curriculum for the 10th grade World Lit class tomorrow. I added that to the part of my mind that contains the long To Do list.

I slowed my breathing. I glanced at my phone 9 minutes had gone by. One more minute to sit. One more minute to think about nothing. Closed my eyes. Heard a strange tapping. Then, I heard footsteps crunching. I opened my eyes. A mother and her teenage son walked in front of me, serious, going somewhere.

Meditation is watching a movie in my mind. Being a bystander. Not hopping on stage. I am not the star of the film; I am a witness.

Focus. Calm. Clarity.

***

I learned about this video and 12 others that inspire at Let Why Lead. We are part of the 31 days of writing campaign.

Leave Your Door Open

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Sometimes bad stuff happens so you close the door to your neighbors. But after Robert Green lost his mother and granddaughter in Hurricane Katrina (they slipped from him from a rooftop), the whole tragic experience made him open his front door wider. He spoke tonite at Riverdale, a few months after the 10-year anniversary of the national and personal tragedy of Katrina.

“The more I told the story, the less painful it was.”

In a short film shown about him, the message was: Tell your story, accept your pain, then enjoy the life you have.

He said that Brad Pitt’s Make It Right foundation helped. “Everyone knows Brad Pitt. Everyone loves Brad Pitt.” But it’s you all, he said – only he said it like ‘y’all’ – the young people who came to volunteer, who made the difference.

He really praised the young people. “The world’s not going to hell in a hand basket. This is going to be a great world because of y’all.”

He misses his mother. Yes, he misses his granddaughter, but he sees her in the spirit of children who come to volunteer. And the kids from Riverdale who, like so many, have done so much.

“I’m only as strong as the people who’ve helped me.”

He’s moved to permanent housing from a FEMA trailer. “And even when it’s cold and rainy, I still leave the door open.” Neighbors return to the Lower Ninth Ward. And he considers all of us his neighbors.

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Mr. Robert Green, center, greets families to talk about New Orleans 10 years after Katrina.
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Mr. Green believes that young people make it right.

Photography as a Practice

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Hold Your Breath
When I used to take pictures with a real camera – not my camera phone – I would hold my breath for one moment to be sure that the image was not shaky. Or if the light was low, I’d hold for a little longer. I still try to stop time when I snap a pic.

Hang on to the Moment
My children think I take too many pictures. I can’t help it – I don’t want to forget the moment. But my son tells me that because I take a picture, I no longer remember the event. I, in effect, outsource my memory to my camera. I can’t help it; I want to hang on to the moment of transition, like my son’s high school graduation or college drop off. Life is so fleeting.

Hold the People Close
Sometimes I take a picture because I know I am not going to see the person for a while. And I want to hold them close to me by holding on to their image. Like the way people used to have portraits painted or wore lockets around their necks.

Yesterday my cousin Abby Nierman, who just started college in NYC, came over for Sunday dinner. She snapped a few pictures of me and Charlotte. (Chris was grocery shopping and Cate was in the throes of homework.) It took all of 20 minutes. She did such an awesome job. We felt relaxed and close. We love the pictures she took. We never had to hold our breath. We hung on to the moment and each other.

Visit Abby’s Facebook page. She’s majoring in entrepreneurship and is starting a small biz in portrait photography.

Char Abby me abby me and char abby

Start With Art

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Make art because it feels good. Art is as therapeutic as a glass of wine or a good work out.

5 reasons to make art:

  1. Your imperfections are beautiful
  2. You are in the moment
  3. You see things differently
  4. You connect to your child-like self
  5. You co-create with God
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This is from a page in my art journal.

Just about every Sunday night, I sit at the dining room table and move around some gesso, paint, gel, old magazine pieces, ink, pastels, stamps.

I make crazy art collage books — a bunch of randomness. Searching for serendipity, synchronicity. I try to piece it all together. I really don’t care if people like or understand my stuff. I live so much of my life trying to get people to understand – as a writer, I want to be clear; as a teacher, I want my students to get the assignment.

So I appreciate the time with my art; time connected, not to my head, but to my body or spirit or flow. I know I am good with words, but sometimes words fail. Or words exhaust.

Then images remain, replenish.

I doubt I am much of a fine artist. One brother is a professional artist. Another is a graphic artist. And my father is pretty good with a paintbrush. My whole family is artsy. So I might have a knack.

I am okay that my work is messy. Making art is about letting go of intentions. I start one project only to move on to another. Briefly, I was obsessed with painting small boxes. I have more than a dozen. I tried to give them away at Christmas a couple of years ago but one of my sister-in-laws refused the gift! LOL – An indication of how useful these little boxes are? Honestly, I think she was trying to honor her minimalism rather than denying my craftsmanship. And I can honor that and want to downsize too.

There is no reason to make art. But my dad once told me (don’t you love when politicians are always quoting their fathers?) “You should always do the thing for which there is no reason.”

I realize by making art that I have a unique way of seeing the world. I realize that making art is simply playing. Tinkering. I have to believe that the act of creation is something the creator wants us to do. And something that benefits us all. As actors, composers, singers, dancers, artists, we move the human race forward. And we receive therapy. It just feels good.

What are you making today?

my little treasure boxes
my little treasure boxes

My Irish Relations

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I don’t know why I love the Irish. Maybe it’s because I halfway belong to them on my mother’s side.

I snapped this pic from the train to Belfast from Dublin this summer. The countryside is so delicious.
I snapped this pic from the train to Belfast from Dublin this summer. The Irish countryside is so delicious.

But I also belong, halfway, to my father’s Scandinavian side. And the two sides of me are occasionally in conflict. But there is one thing they agree upon. Traveling expands you. My people are a traveling people. My ancestors set sail and did not look back.

In the U.S. most of us are halfway something. And even if we came from this soil, this fertile soil of America, we too, are nomads. Travelers.

So, too, are our relations – the gazelles leaping across the Serengeti or the Monarch butterflies flitting towards Mexico. All of us belong to a branch of the biological family that is on the move.

And we do not necessarily travel fast. Consider the sloth. They are part of our family too. And I don’t want to stretch this metaphor until it snaps back on me, but my husband who has Parkinson’s is a bit on the sloth spectrum. Yet he hangs on to the family tree. And still, he travels. (Heading to Florida for a month and a half to direct a play.)

Still on the go.

The difference between us and our biological family is that when we return from our distant adventures – down the branch of the tree or across the vast plain or swamp or ocean – when we return from our journeys — we tell the tale. We huddle around the campfire, the Sunday dinner, the AA meeting, the bar, the water cooler, the back of the bus. And we regale our friends and family with stories of our successes and failures. We make something out of an ineffable nothing — that place that only resides in our memories — our distant homeland, our Ireland, our watering hole, our home.

And that is why I love to travel. And I believe it comes from both the Irish and the Scandinavian. It is not that I love the journey — the uncertainty of where I’m going. But it is that I love to return and tell the tale.

So today, look up from your computer, glance into the eyes of your officemate, your lover, your daughter, your spouse. Ask:

Where have you been? Where are you going? When you return, will you tell me all about it? And then that place — your place, your story — will live in my memory, as a story, too.

Her Near Death Experience

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http://www.theworkofthepeople.com/tickle-on-her-death-bed

How do you feel about dying? I get tired of my person-ness at times too. I get sick of being me. I might like to be someone else. Or a bird. Or a deer. Or a rock. And I don’t think I’ll mind — in 40 years or so, I’m in no rush — when I have to get off the bus.

I heard Phyllis Tickle speak, like 22 years ago, at United Methodist Women. She was teaching at Union Seminary and she came over to the God Box (475 Riverside Drive) to speak to the Women’s Division Board of Directors. I was impressed.

I remember Phyllis saying that people asked her – because she was such an intellectual – why was she a Christian? And she said it was because when she was a child, there was something that rang true to her about Christianity. She could not argue with her child self’s cerititude. This seemed to me to be as good a reason as any to be a Christian. I may have misremembered her words. It was a long time ago.

Knowing you’re going to die someday — I’m going to, we’re all going to — does this knowledge make us a little more mindful? A little more aware of the beauty around us? Of the transient nature of our existence?

How do we stay present in every single precious day? Phyllis Tickle died on September 22nd. I wonder if the journey went as she remembered?