Forgiveness: Three Sentences—July 28, 2011

Hands that continue to be held for years and years must have offered forgiveness countless times. How would my life look if I offer my hands in forgiveness countless times? I open my hands and heart to forgiveness today.

Forgiveness: Two Sentences — July 27, 2011

Judgment is an activity for which I need no additional practice. Forgiveness, however, merits my attention and practice until I embrace it with comfort, joy, ease, and grace.

Forgiveness: One Sentence -- July 26, 2011

I wish I were as quick to forgive as I am to judge.

Tired? You Are Not Alone

Tired? I'm Tired. She's Tired. He's Tired. We Are All Tired.

Put It on the To-Do List: Time for Rest and Renewal

Tired to the bone. Weary. Beat. Exhausted. Worn out. I’m tired. She’s tired. He’s tired. We’re all tired. The clock ticks within each of us. I wake at 6—or earlier—and often feel like I’m shot through a cannon as soon as I hop out of bed. The to-do list begins. Today’s is already so long, I know I will not do most things on it. I stopped after item 8 because because everything on the list must happen after I achieve my daily commitments. It’s Monday, 7:09 a.m. and I don’t even want to look at the list, much less tackle it. I’m tired because I think about everything I have to do and no end is in sight for the entire day, much less the entire week, which looms long for the next six days.

The list and the week loom long because I know the list will get longer as each day passes and I imagine myself tired; I get more tired thinking about being tired. But what if I knew the list would end? What if I knew the endless activities would stop? What if I knew I could rest, that I would rest? Would I feel so tired? I think not.

A day of rest is tempting. By rest, I don’t mean a day off. I mean rest, real rest. I don’t know much about other cultures, but in most of America, a day off simply means a day when someone does not attend to their job, whether that job’s location is an office, a classroom, a construction site, a retail business, a restaurant, a mine, a field… A day “off” means doing everything else that isn’t done on workdays. That day “off” means shopping, cleaning, cooking, home repairs, landscaping, bill-paying…. Like me, most Americans have an endless to-do list, and that list gets tackled during the hours away from paid employment.

Leisure time: What’s that? It, too, is going the way of the dinosaur, because what many Americans call play is just another version of work. That play might be fun, social, physically stimulating, health-enhancing, certainly, but too often our play is strikingly similar to work, and even has work in its name: working out, working at our “golf game,” working toward a goal of running a marathon, artwork, needlework, working in the garden. Sailing, skiing, tennis, beach volleyball, a pick-up soccer game, all are worthy physical activities in themselves and provide social contact and stimulation, but they don’t provide rest.

What would a day of rest look like? My day of rest looks like the following: I wake leisurely, without a glance at the clock. A day of rest means I step away from my “work”-day world. On that restful day, I do not work. I attend to my spiritual needs. I stop. I nap. I eat well. I look at the flowers, but don’t trim or weed them. I read a book. I turn off the computer. I reflect. I stop.

Yesterday, I was bone-tired, weary, sleepy. My hands ached from gardening earlier in the week, so I knew if I trimmed one flower or pulled one weed, I would push my hands past overwork and into injury. Other than being physically tired, I was spent emotionally and spiritually. When I told my daughter I was going to church, she said I was “good.” I corrected her: “No. I’m selfish,” I said. “I‘m going because I want to be filled spiritually.”

Sabbath was the sermon topic. It is not exclusive to believers or followers of a faith to observe a Sabbath. Sabbath is religious in connotation, but Sabbath, the word, means “a day of rest.” I was exhausted, so I decided to take a Sabbath. I left soon after the service’s end, came home, put on comfy clothes, and climbed into bed with a book. I napped. I read. I ate. I talked with family. I didn’t avoid the computer completely, but I turned away from the television when I felt anxious and afraid as I watched a few snippets of the movie others were viewing in the living room.

Did taking a day off make any difference? Honestly, it didn’t yesterday because I was too tired to do anything else.

What does make a difference today as my to-do list plays in the background of my mind is that I know this week will end. I have decided I will take a Sabbath next week. Knowing that the list will stop, work will stop, shopping will stop, cleaning and gardening will stop, gives me the energy I need to begin my week. Knowing there is an end in sight makes me less tired. My to-do list for this week has a new, important item: Stop, rest, and renew on Sunday.

What would a day off look like to you? Does your week loom long and burdensome when you view it from a perspective of no end in sight? How would your week look if you knew you would rest, truly rest, on one of the next seven days?

To Yoga or Not to Yoga

Yoga or Not?

Will I Still Have Stories?

Sink sprayers are tricky beasts. The sprayer in this house has some quirks, like not turning off and routing the water so it flows through the faucet. Woe to the person who forgets that proclivity and turns on the water. Instant shower—in the face, on the clothing, all over the kitchen counters, and on the floor. My saturated t-shirt is testament to my forgetfulness earlier today. It’s a warm summer morning, so wearing a damp shirt for an hour or so is not a problem. Had it been a winter New England day, I would have changed an hour ago lest my chattering teeth shake my head into a migraine.

I dried my glasses, my face, my arms, the counters, the sink, and the floor. I then reflected on last week’s klutziness—a notebook washed with the dark load, a climb through the bathroom window because I locked myself out, walking like Quasimodo because my hip is sore—and I know I’m not as mindful in my physical (or mental) actions as I would prefer. I also reflected on some past klutz actions, like walking into a glass wall at Crabtree and Evelyn’s Quincy Market store. I smacked my head so hard my friend almost dialed 911. I forget to put in my front tooth and start conversations with people, and then realize they must think I’m a yokel.

Climbing ladders and moving heavy items are only a few things I never do when alone. I know it’s time to stop what I’m doing when I imagine headlines: Woman Drops TV and Breaks Leg (while troubleshooting over the phone with Comcast Cable); Woman Falls behind Bookcase while Dusting; Bookcase Falls on Woman; Woman Electrocutes Self while Cleaning Carpet with Frayed Cord; Woman Gets into Fight at Laundry after Putting Clothes in Wrong Dryer… My “headlines” have saved me from certain broken bones and worse.

I have an almost-endless supply of stories about casualties of not paying attention. But as I reflect, I worry. I haven’t done yoga in weeks, nor have I exercised. I’m unsettled physically. I know emotional and psychological unease will soon follow if I don’t start moving and stretching and, conversely, settling down. I also worry that if I become too centered, I might have fewer klutz stories to tell. Of course, I have other stories, an endless supply, so a journey toward more mindfulness via yoga might center me enough to sit my butt down at the keyboard and write those stories.

Yoga practice also can generate stories, though. I recall one time when I put my legs one way, my arms another way, and faced forward. My yoga teacher gave me a rather puzzled look. I looked to my left and looked to my right. I don’t know what I did, but it differed from what everyone else in the class was doing. My teacher shook her head, I laughed, everyone else in the studio laughed. I put myself in simple seated position and waited for the next pose. There’s a story in that.

To yoga or not to yoga? I have answered my question. Yes… even if my middle name of Grace is not always quite appropriate, I will sit, I will focus, I will become mindful. Maybe next week I’ll use keys to enter houses, write on notebooks rather than wash them, and insert my tooth when I feel an intellectual moment coming my way. And I’ll have the necessary focus to sit and write, and share my stories, mindful or not.

Mindfulness, Gratitude, Beauty

Reflections on a New England Summer Morning
Benefits of Paying Attention

Day lilies always remind me of the Sermon on the Mount
when Jesus tells us not to worry about what we will wear and
says, "See the lilies of the field..."

Mindfulness, gratitude, and beauty… when I pay attention, I reap the benefits of all three. Beauty exists in abundance in my New England garden. This morning, I took a few minutes to pay attention, to stop and listen to the hummingbirds buzz as they approached the feeder. I traipsed through the dew-saturated grass and took photos of some favorite flowers. I am blessed with such beauty and abundance. Life is good. God is good. Flowers, bugs, and birds make me smile. I am grateful.

For years and years, I drove down Clematis Street in
West Palm Beach, Florida, not knowing,
not ever having seen--the spectacular Clematis flower.

Sweet indeed, sweet peas...

Gloriosa daisies--and glorious they are!

Yellow coneflower gets almost six feet tall.
Bright yellow spiders often perch on its petals.

Bellflowers and sweet peas

Alyssum self-sows and sprouts among the bricks on the walkway to the door.

What will you see on your journey into the world today?
Carry mindfulness, beauty, and gratitude, and life will surprise you with the bounty available to each of us, if we simply notice.

Locked Out! More Casualties of Not Paying Attention

She (That Would Be Me)

Came in Through the Bathroom Window

Breaking into a house could be crossed off my bucket list if I had one. Does it count if it’s your own house? I say yes, when it’s 6 a.m. and you are locked out—locked out with only one person inside in a deep sleep.

It was worse than a deep sleep. I’m in Massachusetts and the summer heat upstairs reached the unbearable point yesterday afternoon. When my iMac had to be put to sleep every 30 minutes to prevent spontaneous combustion, I knew it was time to install the window air conditioners. Tarah’s guy schlepped the unit two floors up from the basement and put it in the window. Blessed relief. Not only was the iMac cool, the rivulets of sweat stopped flowing down my face. He also put the other unit in his and Tarah’s room, so we were assured of cool, refreshing sleep.

Cool, refreshing sleep it was, too, and I woke sweat-free at 6 a.m. Five is my usual time, so I was a bit late and have a deadline to meet early today, so I went into quick mode. I needed a reference book from the car, so I stepped outside and retrieved it, anticipating my first cup of Keurig-style coffee in just moments.

Locked out! Cannot be true! No way! Trying the doorknob fifteen times does nothing when locked out, but nonetheless, I kept turning it, in dumb hope that maybe it would magically unlock itself. I tried the deck doors and, of course, they were locked. No problem, I thought. I rang the doorbell, but the battery must be dead because it was silent. I banged on the door about 45 times to no avail. Window air-conditioners are noisy. Combining the hum of the unit with the closed door to Tarah’s room upstairs, and knowing she didn’t get in until late, I knew banging on the door was futile, futile! Nonetheless, I kept banging until I realized I was going to cut my fingers on the glass or bruise myself.

Neighbors (except for the duplex inhabitants, who aren’t “neighbors”) are few in bucolic Groton, and anyway, it was 6 a.m. and, worse, I didn’t have my front tooth in. It’s bad enough to seek assistance from a neighbor who is likely sleeping without wearing my idiot look, which, come to think of it, was rather apt at that point.

Rock tossing at windows always works in the movies, but those must be special rocks. I tossed a few small ones at Tarah’s window, but was afraid I would break something and still be locked outside.

I walked through the damp yard and tried to go in through the bulkhead, but it was locked. I again tried the door: Yep. Still locked.

I am height-challenged, only 5’2”, so reaching most of the windows was out of the question. However, the bulkhead leans away nicely from the bathroom window, which was open. I again schlepped around the back of the house and walked up to the screened window, which was open. It was easy to get the screen out; I didn’t even wreck it. The opening was only about a foot and a half, but I figured I could squeeze through. Headline flash: Woman Breaks Neck Breaking and Entering. No, I can do this, I determined. I climbed up the sill, swung my leg over and into the bathroom, put it down on the toilet seat, swung my other leg in, and I officially joined the ranks of burglar!

Whew! Other than sore hands, and dirty feet, and waste of a precious hour of work time, I was fine. I walked to the door, unlocked it, and then I made my coffee.

Sheesh! I hope this was not a sign of how the balance of the day will unfold. Then again, I was successful, so maybe that’s a good sign.

And those casualties of not paying attention: I will be certain the door is unlocked the next time I venture outside and I might even hide a key—just in case.