He brings me dried flowers asks me to notice or see the death as something more But I deep down conjure Mother Earth hear he wants me to bring them back to life And make them into What? Ash Dust Give the dead flowers to the Wind Mother Earth tells Wind to take the ash and notice the minerals the grains of sand the same ones on the beach in the sea Some alchemy at night when Wind churns a soupy mix into stars So the next time he brings me dried flowers I say, Look up! Notice. They're already there! Those were your dead flowers Now they are the brightest stars lighting your path when lost at sea As you, alone, find your way home
He said Get small, stay small stay pretty say nothing They said Heels, tight dresses matter over mind They said No one will believe you say nothing slink away She said Not me not this time get big, get loud stay real say something They said I believe you say it again They said I too believe Some might have said I don't believe you She did not care She did not slink or cower or cry or apologize Okay, she did cry a little apologize a little too She laughed then although that was not in the script All she wanted was to contribute get big stay real say something get loud do good be a part of something bigger They said are we truly one? She said one big family in one big world He they she said thank you
"You can become bitter or you can see the broken seed as a way for growth."
The quote appeared in my journal.
A reminder: refrain from bitterness.
Sure, taste the lemon, but do not suck on it.
Dine on it or
Seek nurture from it.
It is good to season with a zest of lemon
but not make a meal of it.
As I like to say,
"It takes a lot of work to be this happy-go-lucky."
How surprising that taste of lemon as a kid -- the first time I try it,
Wow. Pucker up.
This is nothing like the lemon sour candy
coated in the finest powdered sugar.
Bitter, better, batter.
February comes, a month of hygge,
squirrels burrow in the knots of trees,
stalks huddle in the too-cold shade,
waiting for the glimmer of a warming sun.
February kills my high,
bums me out.
with its soft slow snow, feathery fistfuls.
February, the heart-smacking,
wait for longer days.
For the spring of birthdays,
of another hula hoop,
scoop around the sun,
for stronger days,
when the shoots doesn’t break in the brittle cold,
and the loon calls from the lake.
And even the Met opens her front doors, wide,
like a seamstress, ready to unfurl her crazy quilts.
inspired by Bill Christophersen’s February.
Refuse to dull.
Refuse to cower in the shade.
This morning as I biked through Central Park, hitting the bridal path. (Are those two not the two most beautiful words in the English language, say it with me — bridal path — conjuring up images of weddings and horses and journey), I bathed in the quiet. The loud morning sun shone through the quiet trees. Were they the American Elm trees? Ready to tap out, to hunker down for winter, spread their leaves like a blanket across the path. Like a gentleman in an old movie, laying his coat across the puddle.
See, I have to arrive to school by 7:50 in time to thermal scan (those two words — thermal scan — are not my favorites — conjuring up images of technology and disembodied temperatures). Biking is the fastest route. My heart gets pumping. Earlier, about 6:50 today, the cool in the air, I took a walk with Charlie (Charley? Does it even matter how you spell a dog’s name as they can’t read any way?) And the walk turned into a run, he and I along the Riverside Park sidewalk — this middling age woman and her frisky newfound dog.
What was the point I was trying to make?
Oh, I recall, once I heard at a 12 step meeting, “I don’t believe in God, but I believe in the sun’s rays. And every time I see them, I’m reminded of a Higher Power.”
You may not believe in God,
but you may believe in the sun’s rays
and the way the leaves drift down the bridal path.
Believe in the shine, the luminescence
the ineffableness of the sun’s sparkle through the bowing of the great Central Park trees.
The sunlight, the trees, they ask for nothing,
Not even you for you to notice.
Scan. Shine. Sparkle.
I’ve been attending meditation at least once a week with the JCC community in Manhattan. This is such a lovely respite. The other day, I had a small victory when, during my meditation, I heard the kids talking loudly in the kitchen. I wanted to find out what was going on: were they fighting? Laughing? I stayed in my meditative state.
When I am on one of these JCC zoom sessions, I can see that everyone else is sitting comfortably, yet I am enjoying meditation in a sivasana pose. So be it.
When this whole covid thing started, one of my first inclinations was: “Great, I’ll use my free time to become a certified life coach.” I’ve always wanted to do this. After all, I love encouraging people and helping them find their authentic purpose in life. But as the days, weeks, and now months, have worn on, I’ve begun to lose my life-long learning mojo.
This morning I perked up again, as I read about workshops in MBSR, mindfulness-based stress reduction, founded by Jon Kabat-Zinn, offered at medical centers and hospitals everywhere. The eight-week course begins with mindfulness — sitting, breathing, becoming aware, letting go of judgment. The outcome is that as you develop skills consciously, so these coping strategies seep into your unconscious life and improve your knee jerk response to life’s daily challenges.
I like this because I am constantly choosing to be less defensive and reactive. I allow myself to have human feelings without judging myself harshly. It’s so simple and yet, it can be so hard. In getting myself help in my daily mindfulness practice, I can then help others. And they can help others. And so on.
The morning light
hit the daffodils at the dining room table.
Flowers that my mother-in-law planted
Years before her grandchildren – my now adult children – were born.
What do you plant?
What is the gift of beauty
or daughters-in-law whom you have yet to meet?
Look for signs of spring.
Some say the world was shook like a timepiece on its side
What’s that called again?
drifting, falling sand in a time thingy?
It doesn’t matter. Words don’t matter.
In the mornings, I’ve watched the birds
I hear their screeches calls pitches as if nothing’s changed.
It is not forever in a moment
It is only shifting sand. I lose words.
Words take their own meandering path.
Words, at a loss.
Picked up by birds
I will watch
Shifting, falling sand in an hourglass.
Oh, Thank God! That’s the word – hourglass.
I thought I’d lost it.
Shifted, shook untimed time in an hourglass beyond the sun when the dawn or dusk swoops like sand
timeless time in a moment. Now.
About ten days ago, I got my hair highlighted at Jean Louis David. As I was leaving, I saw a friend, an older neurologist, getting his haircut and he said that his spouse was coming up to Westport the next day. A voice inside me cried, ‘Can she take me with her?’
But then I remembered my three kids and the dog we were planning to dogsit. My connections. One of my daughters was returning the next day from college and the other was uncertain if her college was going to reopen as planned.
That night I helped at the church soup kitchen. Then the kids met me and we walked to my son’s climbing wall. That was the last time we were in a group of more than our core family unit. My one daughter and I climbed very briefly, then we shopped.
And now we’ve landed here.
I think that there is something about this place in the Adirondacks. It is where we came after 9/11. It is where I was when Hurricane Sandy hit.
And when my friend Mary suggested the escape from NYC and connected with me one week ago today, I jumped. We moved up to Westport, NY on Saturday night.
Because, like with 9/11 or Hurricane Sandy, once again, the world changed over night, didn’t it?
Our indoor rock climbing jaunt was not even two weeks ago. But it was a lifetime ago. It was another world. One we knew would change. Change for good? We wait.
The climbing wall is definitely a great metaphor for this moment. ‘We grab a hold, not that one, this one. stretch this way. scamper up. use every bit of strength you have. use every possible move. like chess but with your body. find your toe hold. hang on. if you fall, land gently.’
Tough times can spark depression. It’s possible that if you’re not depressed right now, you’re not paying attention. Yes, there’s depression and there’s planning and gratitude. Of course, immensely grateful for the medical workers, grocery clerks, sanitation workers. My beautiful, crazy kids, this crazy dog.
Let me add: grateful for car rental companies and gas station attendants. I bought milk on the four or five hour trip north on Saturday night. Overflowingly grateful for my sister-in-law who’s been caring for Chris while he shelters in place in Florida with her.
Having a spouse with physical challenges is hard enough. Disability is hard enough in good times. Extra hard in tough times. Still he and I talk by phone every day. We say, I love you; It’s going to be okay.
I find comfort in the beauty and the softness of nature as the world came / comes crashing down.
I write these thoughts by setting my timer for ten minutes. Creativity and nature and community and friends will save us. They already have.
A week ago I jotted down this list:
1) write thank you notes and birthday cards 2) journal 3) make a schedule 4) eat well 5) slow down 6) take the news in small doses 7) notice nature 8) check in with the olds 9) read 10) foster an animal 11) make art.
“You can’t do what I do,
but I can’t do what you do either.
That’s why we are both important to the plan of God.”
This quote from Mother Teresa, heard by my friend Fr. John Cusick and shared this morning on his Lenten reflections Facebook post, reminds me, firstly, that there are so many things that I cannot do. I cannot sing, speak Arabic or Spanish, wire electricity, move mountains, provide hospice care, trade bonds, nurse a baby, or climb a high ladder.
But there are also real gifts that I do have. There are many things that I do really well — write, edit, teach, laugh, encourage, walk, dance, paint, and advocate for justice.
When I was a kid, we had a poster in the kitchen, something like: ‘You are beautifully made. God doesn’t make junk.’ I believe it was a contemporary version of the Psalms: ‘You are beautifully and powerfully made.” This poster always made me feel good. Because, you know, sometimes we all feel worthless. But if we’re made in the image of God, we can’t be all bad. And I do believe God was so happy when God made us. God said, ‘wow, this is good,’ not just when the great saints, like Mother Teresa, were made, but when you and I, ordinary saints, were made. That warms my soul.
See, every day is a chance to start anew, to take ordinary actions in this extraordinary moment in history. Write the new story. Find the new way. Seek higher ground. Unite rather than divide.
And in telling your story, choose to emphasize your gifts and the talents of those around you. Do not belittle yourself. Or bully those whom you perceive as weaker. The other day when the boys I teach were gossiping a bit cruelly, I reminded them, “Do not be like vultures, eating at the tragedy of others.” I know it’s a graphic image but mean-spirited gossip is like that — a bit of a foul feast. And the boys paused when I gave them this image and I hope that they asked themselves whether they were dining on roadkill or stopping like a Good Samaritan to help some fellow animal in need.
For we are only human animals. In our shared humanity, we can find and celebrate our own gifts and the gifts of others.
After seeing A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood the other day, I was inspired by Fred Rogers and told a third grader C. who was struggling with a grammar problem, “You’ve got this. You’re special.”
“I hope so,” C. replied, a bit indignantly, as if it was so obvious how special he was. It made me smile. I hope today finds you smiling at the wisdom and gifts of those around you, too, including yourself.