Hidden Gems

 

“Inclusion is not bringing people into what already exists; it is making a new space, a better space for everyone.” - George Dei

Do you know what constitutes a weed? “It is defined as a valueless plant growing wild, especially one that grows on cultivated ground to the exclusion or injury of the desired crop.” In other words, it is a native plant to a space that grows in areas controlled by humans in crops, orchards, or gardens, and its presence there is deemed undesirable. Some may say that the creation of the term, weed, about plant life in need of removal, is a social construct perpetuated by our ideas or beliefs about what preferential landscapes include. In other words, there are things we want in our gardens and those we don’t. There are few instances where weeds harm native plant populations and surrounding ecosystems. In most instances, these plants we are labeling, removing, and creating struggle with, have as much right to be there as the others. We want something beautiful or bountiful, creating monoculture or safe visuals that make sense to our experience of them. As Stewards of the earth, these spaces we create often serve no purpose to other living things. They do not support any other species in the ecosystem. Our manicured lawns, woodchipped shrubbery, or ornamental foliage only invite our discerning eyes and those who seek the same comfort from the sea of conformity. It feels like the time to adjust our eyes gaze. To see the beauty and value of ecosystems built to support and sustain all human life. Plants know how to thrive and can be planted with various other species in environments they continue to create and recreate for themselves.

I have spent a ridiculous amount of time and energy removing goutweed from amongst my echinacea and brown-eyed susans. Its light green leafy ground covering intertwines around the base of these plants’ new leaf shoots, creating a snow-covered mountain look to the garden bed as it covers the mulch placed there years before. Every spring I attempt to remove the plant. With each attempt, its resiliency becomes more palpable. There isn’t a time I don’t question my unbridled efforts, knowing how futile they are. I have begun resigning to the fact that this plant flourishes here and is not hurting the other plants, in fact as I removed the last sprig I would wrestle with this year, I realized it was creating the perfect protective covering for the delicate sweetness of wild strawberries. It seemed to be an offering or gift for getting curious and up close to see things, that do nothing more than share our space, differently. This small nugget of sweetness led me to question goutweed’s classification as a weed. I discovered that the young leaves of this plant are edible and that even though there is no good scientific evidence to support these uses, many claim it helps with rheumatoid arthritis, gout, hemorrhoids, and kidney stones. Added to soups and salads, goutweed is a good source of vitamins A and C, iron, manganese, copper, calcium, magnesium, potassium, and trace minerals such as boron. It also contains antioxidants. Once it is not good for eating, it produces inflorescences resembling Queen Anne’s lace blossoms, perfect for cut-flower bouquets.

Maya’s inclusive dance class will showcase their talents this weekend with a small performance for friends and family. She has been part of an eight-week class with students from 5 to 74. The class is instructed by Raoul who has found a home in Grand Bay after moving from Spain a couple of years ago. He invites them to explore movement and feeling that is accessible to all of the members. At first glance, it may seem that not all students are learning dance in the traditional forms. One may even go as far as to say it is not beneficial to some. I know when I go to watch their showcase it won’t be guaranteed that my adult autistic daughter will even move a muscle but she will appear rooted amongst the others, smiling her way into belonging. As my husband did, when he attended a class, someone may move with and adjust her body into connection with one or more other dancers, in a way that the three become two and the assistance will not register as they intertwine in their beauty and value. This small ecosystem of inclusive dance provides a glimmer of an inclusive society I continue to dream of. The actors, poets, dancers, mothers, sisters, and friends that diversify this space demonstrate the necessity for coming together, belonging, and thriving not as a cultivated monolithic garden but as an orchard of wild abandon where getting up close to discover the hidden gems of sweetness is essential and a gift. In this space, no one decides what a dancer should or shouldn’t be. They are not saying who is or isn’t allowed in the space, all are welcome. There is room for everyone to move and be moved. Not the space of token prom dates that see themselves dancing among the weeds but a committed group of individuals attempting to cultivate a different landscape as they grow a community where no one decides who or what is worthy of love, belonging, and taking up space. Together they are learning to get up close, to make space for different identities, and abilities. In this new landscape without social construct for exclusion, they find new ways to thrive, grow, change, and mature together. We have so much to learn but I am hopeful that we can appreciate people and plants in a way that we don’t run interference for them but rather continue to uncover the hidden gems just below the surface of our wild and capable landscapes.

New Location

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And....

"The greater the contrast, the greater the potential. Great energy only comes from the correspondingly great tension of opposites." Carl Jung

Stepping outside in the summer mornings becomes a ritual for me.  I realize I belong here as much as the morning dew, the slugs on my raspberry canes, or the red squirrel scurrying about gathering seeds off of my miniature sunflowers.  I can join this community just as I am, bedraggled or serene from whatever transpired in a fitful or restful night's sleep.  I am welcomed here by the backyard choir of chirps and songs. Today we all recognize the effects of another morning without the backdrop of the sun illuminating our way.  As I move around the yard to gather a few berries for my morning oatmeal, water, and grass smoosh and swoosh between my toes. The simplicity of another day in this space registers delight in me.  Stepping outside for only a moment is a step from all the tension of that or this. The decisions, choices, or inevitable realities of how our days unfold,  are just a door opening away. Only on the other side of that door can our head create the hard.  Finding the way to hold the hard and the simplicity, my heart reminds me each day to just step outside.

I was gifted a new copy of Charlotte's Web recently to celebrate a special moment in my life.  This childhood favorite was the perfect reminder of the beauty in opposing forces. A story of opposites; grief, and joy, loss and connection, friendship and loneliness.  I could never help identifying with sweet Wilbur when Charlotte wrote "Some Pig" in her web above his pen at the county fair. Although the point of this was to gain the adoration of the fairgoers, the truest feeling for Wilbur was in what the efforts of his dear friend meant to him.  There was someone who would do the hard for him and he meant something to not everyone but to the someone that mattered most.  Maybe we have all felt this gratitude that Wilbur feels and at the same time we can also relate to the imposter syndrome he felt with not being what his good friend saw in him.  He held the tension of this extraordinary act and the ordinary of still being just who he was, a pig not wanting to become supper.  

The forward in this new copy of Charlotte's Web is written by Kate DiCamillo who was a mainstay in my primary classroom for many years and on my own bookshelves of stories read to and by my own grown children.  Kate mentions that she didn't end up reading this book as a young girl but read it for the first time at thirty-one years old and only then at the persuasion of her writing teacher who wanted her to experience the brilliance of E.B. White as an author.  She says that she had avoided the story because of what she had believed it to be about from the cover of the book.   A story that could not possibly end well.  A story about loss and grief.   Kate recognizes that her initial thoughts about the story are true but that it was also a story of joy and friendship. The tension of opposites was what made the story brilliant.  Joy and Grief, loss and friendship.  These opposites gave us feelings of devastating sadness and uplifting joyfulness simultaneously, much like most real living does.   Kate tells us that she would encourage that young girl who was avoiding the hard-to-read Charlotte's Web to pick up the book and read because in the end it turns out alright even though and in spite of the fact that it absolutely doesn't. 

There was a synchronicity to hearing Morgan Harper Nichols talk about holding the tension of opposites this week.  It had me contemplating the permission that the word "and", gives for us to do this difficult act.   Peace and noise, absent and present, abundant and scarce, backward and forward. Even as simple as good and bad, right and wrong. "And" is the permission to hold both without looking for a complete resolution.  After all, isn't this the way we move through grief while still being present in the wonder of life? Are there not moments of peace even in the noise? Do we not often feel like we are moving backward before we propel forward? Certainly, we have all experienced something both good and bad simultaneously? The term, bittersweet exemplifies this well. E.B. White acknowledges this well in the death of Charlotte and the birth of all of her sweet children.  Most of us continue to work on getting to a place where we are able to recognize the extraordinary in the ordinary or the good intention of wrongdoers, as well as the duality of right and wrong.   For every problem or conflict in which we are asked to take a side, make a decision between two things, debate or argue a point, or embrace something beautiful happening in the horrific,  we are also given permission with "and" to choose the third way that arises, as Morgan brought to light in her mention of Marion Woodman's theory.  Holding the tension of these opposites or opposing forces in the current realities and conflicts in our lives comes with the permission to allow for a breath, a pause, a moment to step away consciously,  to step outside of the polarities to reflect. It loosens the grip on our rigid or entrenched beliefs and holds us in our grief with hope.  "And" gives us room to find creative steps, ideas,  understanding, and compassion.  "And" feels like a relief to me even if it isn't the situation that changes but our thoughts about it, now or in time. When remembering "and", there can be a softening. 

 Carl Jung believed that our greatest problems were insoluble and could never be solved only outgrown. Maybe our earnestness to continue to solve them and make sense of where we land between the bittersweet brings personal growth which is the real change, one of perspective. As Brianna Wiest reflects, the moment changes only by how we meet it.  Perhaps "and" is the way we can join all of our polarities into this third way which is really about us as individuals noticing the contrasts, the shadows and light, and not trying for one or the other but making room within and around ourselves for both.  This compassion we offer, like my stepping outside, is not to avoid but to allow space, for a clearer view that includes the tension.  Then the urgency of knowing, choosing, or defining wanes. We can feel two things, we can witness opposing realities, two truths can coexist, life can be both kind and unkind, and books and people can be both happy and sad at the same time. 

In a world where problems will always exist, and hard will too, it is good to know that  "and"  can bring peace from the understanding that even without solutions, resolutions, grand acts of realization, or  exonerations from life's challenges, we can make a difference by actually being able to see and hold the realities. This clarity from acknowledging this in relationships with others allows us to embrace the difficult with more ease. Maybe Charlotte knew that  she didn't have the answers and all she could offer was doing the hard for and with Wilbur. Sitting with him and believing in him.   She knew we can only experience loss when we know love, and freedom when we feel restricted, and we can only own the title of some pig when we indeed know what it means to be our beloved ordinary selves.  

Life as Art

" If the world is a stage, let our presence be living art". cmh 

There is so much artistic beauty created by Nature's paintbrush in the colors of the fall leaves, the beauty of the flowers, the sunsets, and the sunrises. The music of the birds, the dances of the ocean waves,  the artistic performances of nature.  Even the drama of the dear peony as it expands and falls over to attract all eyes to their presence, as a friend recently pointed out.  The subtle messages from nature's artistic flare are waiting to be heard.  The art of nature reminds us of the fragility of life, the need to pay attention, to walk gently through the masterpiece that is earth, and to be clear that the vastness of the difference in all of her creations needs no judgment only respect, awe, admiration, and wonder.

It was the last class of my daughter's education program.  A music class with a final assignment to share with fellow classmates on this day.  The students were to create their own song with or without a partner.  As they walked into class that morning, the professor announced that he had listened to all of their pieces the night before when they had been submitted so as to keep his emotions in check. Despite his valiant attempt, he was in tears for the entire class. Most students created music and lyrics to express their experience in the program throughout the last year.  There was a student who had considered himself a musician back in his high school days. He used parts of a song that he had started with his best friend and included some of the voice of this friend who had died a short time after they had begun the song years before. The young man thanked the professor for the assignment as he eluded to the fact that he would not have finished the song otherwise which he sent the family of his dear friend when it was complete.   Another student that had concealed his musical talents wrote and recorded a children's song about inclusion which was as professional as those recorded in the studio, his classmates had remarked.  There was also a pair of students who wrote a song about queer history with rap, including all of the remarkable folk who have done some amazing things throughout the years in our province. They were encouraged to share their song with CBC because of the current climate we are in with policy change and human rights being challenged.  There were hilarious songs and emotional ones and through art, they all conveyed a message for the listener. The students were given the gift of living life as art for this assignment and were moved by each other's artistic creations which were the experiences of their lives.

While this program was ending for one daughter, my other daughter was traveling out of the province to perform at a film festival.  She had been a participant in a year-long group called, The Spirit Project, which was a theatre group for individuals with and without intellectual and physical disabilities.  My daughter was one of the core members, as a neurodivergent young woman.  Each weekly meeting was an opportunity for living art.  There were musicians, directors, lighting technicians, and filming experts involved in extracting the artistic expression of the core members throughout their activities of meditation practice, question and response answers, tableaus, songs, creating relationships, and getting to know the masterpiece of each of the individuals who wore their hearts on their sleeves and elevated the hearts of those fortunate enough to be facilitating and supporting the members of this group.  The end piece of Art was appropriately named, Hearts Above Us. This was an artwork with a clear message of inclusion in theatre, song, and dance.  Living this art, my daughter was prompted to share that this experience made her a better person.  I believe this feeling was provoked by her being able to have an embodied experience where she was able to express herself authentically in the safety of the group. To be herself was her art and indeed being oneself does make us feel better.    The message the show conveyed as they performed their three shows, culminating at the Stages Festival, was that we are indeed better together. 

As moving and emotional as these stories were for me,  I realize that I am moved by art every day.  Nature is my teacher and the beauty all around in the physical world.  Every moment, the natural world is creating a masterpiece, and this idea of art in progress at all times around us, had me asking the question, what if we lived our lives as art?  What if we could celebrate the performance of all self-expression in those creating their own artworks every day through their language, gender presentation, how they adorn their physical bodies, how they danced, loved, and walked through life?  Art is a catalyst for bridging what is a known fact and the feelings or emotional breadth we need to motivate someone into action.  It can be powerful and present on all world stages. As it was at COPS 26 with the Indigenous presence in the form of a massive wall hanging and in the novel, Our Missing Hearts, when the character that Celest NG created, writes such powerful poetry that the political climate in this fictional story is so threatened by the power of words that it is banned from libraries and schools. Where the masses begin to use these words in silent protest with creative art displays around their communities.  Colorful murals, sidewalks, and artful flags, songs evoking emotions and empathy, gifted storytellers,  the witnessing of dancers fully embodied and free in their expression are just a few of the many places where art can be the place where beliefs and attitudes are formed and changed, That is the power of Art by its very own definition.  

As you step onto the stage of your own life today, maybe you will carry this possibility of living life as Art as well. Perhaps your actions and words will carry the right amount of drama, soulful song, power, and insight, to create a bridge between fact and feeling,  humanizing, and othering.  With movement that is embodied and showcases freedom. And just maybe, as you dance among the other individuals that inhabit the masterpiece of mother earth,  you will allow them the honor and artistic expression to do the same.      

Satisfied

I know…I am blessed
I know…all I ever wanted was this
I know…I don’t need more
I’ve got… what I came for ( Copper Wimmin)

There is something so satisfying about the first shoots of crocuses, daffodils, or tulips in your yard, the robin's return, the intensity of the sun on your shoulders, or anything with color that pops in your view like a bird to backyard tree or the green moss uncovered on your stroll through the woods.   Recently there has been one particular bird that has returned and they have the most enviable sound.  It is calm, reassuring, consistent, and dripping with satisfaction for the listener. Maybe too, enviable because the bird doesn't try to make a new sound, or a better one. They too seem to have satisfied their own thirst for a song with this repetitive tune.

The only thing better than sharing words strung together as poetry that lights you up and makes you feel question, or wonder is someone else sending or sharing a poem that they connect to or that does all those things for them.   For the month of April, I had been sharing a poem or two a day from various poets that I have previously enjoyed and new ones recently discovered.   I am always on the hunt for the biggest punch in the smallest of phrases. Poetry to me has the power, intentionally but most times unintentionally to inspire, offer grace, and soft landings within our realizations.  So when I come across a poem that someone else has shouted out or shared or has sent to me directly, it is deeply satisfying.  They have offered me a little window into their perspective and tastes.   While hunting for poems to share,  I came across one that someone I follow shared and right away it resonated with me.   Another poem was sent to me in a text I really enjoyed and I spent time later perusing other poems by the poet who I had thought was exclusively a  novelist.  Words are so powerful for evoking emotion and it is amazing how they navigate through landscapes within us that we may not have visited yet just by the way they are strung together, so this month of sharing had satisfied creatively for me.

One of the poems that I stumbled upon was talking about plants needing to get thirsty to bloom and my wonder about the idea of being satisfied was born.  When we water our houseplants to eliminate this thirst and allow for growth, we notice that they only drink to be satisfied and the rest becomes the excess they don't need to flourish.  The plant knows when it is thirsty and just how much water will quench that thirst.  Without trying to personify the plant world, I use this more as a metaphor for thinking about how satisfaction works for us.  

Satisfied isn't a word that we seem to aspire for in our lives. No one tells us to strive to be content people even if we think this may be a byproduct of aspiring to greatness.  In fact, there are copious quotes and inspirational writings to the contrary. One that comes to mind says if we are satisfied we won't tend to the well for others and another is, we can be grateful but never satisfied if we want to make a change.  Your employer wants to be wowed by your performance. Your teacher expects you to strive for your full potential.  If you are merely satisfied we often think that someone is complacent or settling. Possibly giving up on a bigger goal.  This reminds me of the old report card that used to have a checklist for satisfactory, good,  and I have selectively forgotten what else but I know I was never striving for the checkmark beside satisfactory.   I guess I  didn't want someone to just be satisfied with my academic or social performance and it was an odd feeling to me to just be satisfactory at anything, which as an aside I generally always was.  But now as I reflect back, I can see the merit or value in satisfied and  I am wondering if we may have been underrating the idea of feeling so or someone else feeling that way about us. Maybe satisfaction should be the overriding wish or goal for our living and greatness could be the byproduct instead. 

Satisfied to me now looks or feels like a plant unfurling its leaves while the excess water seeps into the dish below.  My dog as he plops himself on the couch after his morning run.  The ocean retreating from the sandy or rocky shores. A child flopping into bed after a day of play outside with no resistance. The feeling of warmth in our bodies after sipping a cup of tea or drying off after our morning shower.  There is an endless list of ways that we are satisfying ourselves in the moments of our lives and I am thinking that most, if not all are the things we witness or create not the things we acquire.  So many of the truly satisfying experiences come from a place first of this thirst. I use the example of this time of year when we have been deprived of color for so long, our thirst is satisfied when we witness the first colors of Spring in an otherwise brown landscape.  The longing for the open water after being bathed in ice and frozen rivers.  Seeing the aliveness of buds sprouting from the soil when we have been surrounded by dormancy for so long.  Being satisfied with the natural world around us is the greatest gift we can offer the earth and ourselves and maybe being unsatisfied or continuing to thirst for what we don't understand or haven't made peace with is exactly how we have landed on a planet with overused resources and people struggling for purpose, connection, and perspective. Without respecting that there can be limits, boundaries, and the concept of enough for all of us, we feel lost in the imbalance this creates. What if we practiced trying on satisfied in our lives? Would the space we create for rest, imagination, relationships, fun, and experiences quiet the voice that pushes us to strive for more, and would this satisfaction lead to more respectful actions towards ourselves and our planet? You see why I need to write this here as my circle isn't always ready for these kinds of dinner conversations.

It makes so much sense that we are not satisfied most of the time with just being satisfied because we get messages from childhood into our adult lives to always strive for better or best.  For greatness.  We are fed ideas of more in all the messages around and within us. We believe that the resources of the world are ours to not only satisfy but to elevate our experience, our living conditions, and value without reverence for how that idea impacts all of those living this same received message.   We are all on a journey unique to ourselves and I could probably say with confidence that what often instigates the healing path is a need to feel satisfied.  Satisfied with our lives, our people, our purpose,  our service, and ourselves.  I truly believe that one of the most rebellious acts of our time is to be satisfied.  Satisfied means we don't have to strive, we don't have to crave, we don't need to compare, we don't need to fit in,  we don't need to feel small or feel great or more than anyone else on this path.  Michelle Obama talks about her parents being the most content people she knew and she attributes it to the fact that they were always satisfied with the life they were living and the love they were surrounding themselves with.  They were rich in all the ways that satisfied the thirsts that mattered.  We all know those people or are those people that others are drawn to for this very reason.  We think they must possess some understanding of the mysteries and miseries of life that we don't.  Whether we see it as an understanding or a mystery, I think what it is is a knowing of when they are actually thirsty and what they are truly thirsty for. Thirsty for love can look like buying the next new thing to feel temporarily satisfied.  Overworking can be the thirst for recognition and worthiness. Being overly involved in the world of technology can be a need for connection that could be better satisfied by immersing ourselves in nature. Never feeling like we have enough and operating from scarcity can be our thirst for our own self-love and acceptance.    My striving as a child for more than the satisfactory check mark was part of that thirst journey for worthiness.   I love the example of my own dear Shanti who every night, can be found slurping back the entire water bowl that he has neglected throughout the day, just before he jumps up on my bed to sleep through the night. He recognizes his thirst, regardless of how others may be replenishing their supply differently, and he drinks what he needs to be satisfied and sleep well.   

I hope throughout life, in this ever-changing landscape,  we can continue to find ways to really feel satisfied.  I hope like Shanti we are able to make more opportunities to drink only when we are thirsty and that we all know, sometimes at least, what we are thirsty for and in doing this maybe understand that enough satisfies, that everyone can quench their thirst and share the resources for a more evolved version of a flourishing life, for us and the earth and maybe that more, better, and best were just the stories that distracted us from doing the real work and being the real authentic versions of ourselves. 

Dormancy

" I love the first tingling of Spring when the sunlight lingers just a little longer and you can almost feel the whole world soften as the birds chirp nearby. Puddles take slowly to the sky and you gently wake up to what's growing inside". M.L Cole.

With the official season of Spring beginning late tomorrow afternoon, I walk past the mounds of snow looking settled and comfortable in front of my home and around our neighborhood and still I  sense the change in the sun's intensity and feel a different energy all around me. I wonder if you have noticed Spring even with the blanket of white still outside your door or whatever other conditions tell you that winter is still in full swing. When I maneuver through the tree stands in the park, I recognize the strength of each even as they remain dormant, producing nothing yet, that we can see from our outside view. Still, they have remained intact throughout the past few months regardless of the storms or unfavorable conditions. They have endured this time with grace, beauty, calm, and stillness. They show up for no one but themselves. Remaining steadfast in their dormancy with much activity below the ground's surface preparing them for bloom.   It can be challenging to think that below this protective surface, there are plants being protected from the temperatures. They have been conserving their energy while they wait for warmer days to return. These same warmer temperatures will bring the seeds to form new plants and growth in existing ones. The snow is insulating the soil that protects these seeds and plants and even holds the heat that helps to insulate some animals from the harsher temperatures we have experienced. The animals have followed this process by slowing down their bodily functions for a while but will soon resurface. Now we will slowly notice the activity begin again with the plants that were tucked under the snow beginning to show, and new growth on houseplants that we may have thought were dying in the past few months. These are just a couple of signs of the beautiful promise of the changes to come.   

Sitting at the table having our morning snack together, one of my students was watching me very intently. She wanted to know what I was eating which I believe was a few cut-up strawberries with sun butter for dipping.   I think it was the sun butter that piqued her interest but maybe it was just a segway into a conversation. Either way, she giggled about how she didn't know anyone dipped strawberries like this and I explained some other things she was wondering about in my lunch.   Next, she noticed the bracelet on my arm and told me how much she liked it. Another student at the table chimed in and asked if I could buy her one like it for next Valentine's day.   I smiled and said, "We'll see".   My own daughters know this as my polite answer for probably not. Mostly because next Valentine's day this student wouldn't be sharing a class with me and would have long forgotten about this conversation and it was much more polite at the time than just a flat-out no.  As I talked with this student, the lunch inquisitor seemed to continue to keep her focus on me, listening and watching both my words, and mannerisms as I spoke. Perhaps she was asking herself unconsciously or consciously if I was safe for our next interaction. A smile came over her face and she said," Ms. Higgins, why do fish swim in salt water?"  I turned to her and returned her smile, and declared I had no idea.  The giggle reemerged with, "because pepper makes them sneeze".  When she was done laughing with a sense of self-admiration for executing this hilarious joke, she offered, "I found it on google".  Next, she asked me to pull her finger and I told her I knew where this was heading. I packed up my snack to get the students ready to go outside and she shouted over my shoulder, "I got that from google too".   Sometimes students surprise us. Who am I kidding most of the time, students surprise us.  We can think a student is not engaged, living in their own head or experience, or unaware of what is happening around them. We can make assumptions that they wouldn't understand certain humor, wit, or even be inquisitive enough to want to know new information.  It can be easy to miss the process of growth when most of the time it remains dormant, waiting for the safe circumstance to bloom or peak through the present underbrush, in this case,  of childhood. 

The concept of dormancy has been churning around in the crevices of my scattered and intentional thoughts this week.  Like the reason for dormancy with plants and animals where they prepare to conserve energy in conditions that emerge that can be stressful, there is a certain appeal to do the same for all living things.  Maybe you felt the pull of the winter months to lie dormant in some form of expression, creativity, relationship, or work.  Perhaps all of your energy has been in rest, comfort, dreaming, percolating new ideas, being embodied, or healing old wounds.  Whatever the case, I wonder how you were feeling about this stoplight in a part of your life as you too, unconsciously or consciously waited for the feelings of safety, the right circumstance, or time to bloom again.

I have been thinking of how affirming it would be to have someone witness our dormancy in rest, disconnecting, stepping away from creating, or productivity, or whatever way it usually shows up in our lives. If that was also acknowledged and valued by the observer that we were engaged in something sacred, worthy, and needed, especially if this observer was indeed ourselves.  What if we could conjure the same feeling of love and adoration we feel while watching a sleeping baby, towards ourselves? When we look so longingly at the peace, surrender, and the way they give in to what their fragile bodies need.  Perhaps we are wishing we could offer this to ourselves as well with compassion and ease.  How they trust unabashedly the natural process of being dormant and we trust that this is crucial to their health, growth, and ability to thrive, confirms the obvious for all humans.  If we extended this trust to our own instincts to do this, maybe we could remember what a gift this is to everyone in our circle and beyond.

What if we also looked with these same loving eyes and thought to ourselves about how much is happening below the surface. Beyond the outward appearance of inactivity, withdrawal, stillness, retreat, or whatever way we have respectfully become dormant and were able to see it as the cocooning of the butterfly and so necessary. Maybe we could cultivate a curiosity or excitement about what might be birthed from this or how much healing will take place as a result of this conserving of energy for now and for the blooming to come. 

Instead of the search in ourselves for our predictable, constant output or connection, if we honored this need in all of us to sometimes step away or become inactive in some aspect of our lives so that we could do the work below the surface that may only be realized through rest and honoring the magic of this. 

Perhaps we could spend more time taking nature's lead and that would help us to separate from the expectations of increasing our output to match the man-made world of machines. Not becoming alarmed like we do when the networks we rely on stumble on a glitch for an hour, a day, or more. Knowing that everything needs to turn off at some point to work again including ourselves.  Also remembering that seasons and cycles live within us and need to be honored in our lives. 

In whatever way we are resurfacing in the coming days, weeks, or months, may we hold close the lingering memory of dormancy with acceptance and the appreciation it deserves for offering us the space of the winter season to be and belong to something larger than ourselves with the strength and resolve of all that lies below the ground's surface and our own. And may this nurturance we have witnessed for ourselves prepare us to bloom anew.  

 

'Tis The Season

"The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear." Buddy the Elf

 I carefully lined the students across the stage to practice the Reindeer Pokey. With antlers secured and their familiarity with the lyrics and actions, they were ready. The rehearsal went off without a hitch. Concert day arrived and the gymnasium was full of anticipatory parents and families this time.  When it was our classes’ turn, Mark planted himself in the small chair out front, ready to prompt anyone who forgot which part of the reindeer needed to be “put in”  and shook. His guidance would not be needed for the turning around each time as students did their own version of what they thought the hokey pokey looked like. As the song began to play, tears erupted closest to the stage exit. One little one stood like a true reindeer in the headlights.  It was clear that they were overwhelmed by the crowd before them and the huge expectation that they would now sing and dance.  Our student intern tried to help comfort them but when it was clear it wasn’t helping and the class was well into, “You put your antlers in”, the little person was helped off the stage.  When I later heard this story, I thought how brave and uninhibited it was to stand before a crowd of people, including her very own family, and communicate with her tears, that this was not for her.  She also created a  Christmas story for her family, me, and maybe those watching that would touch our hearts and find its way into a special memory.

My husband tells us the story every year of how in his home in Saint John as a small boy, he climbed up high on a shelf in the basement where a box of Christmas bulbs was stored for safekeeping. He found a way to open the box and remove one of the said bulbs and drop it to the floor below. He loved the pop sound so much that he continued to make his way through the box until his mother, hearing the sound, came to discover him.  I also have heard his mom’s laughter as she remembered this moment as well.

Together, Mark and I reminisce, each year about the time Maya, at four years old was playing one of the three kings in the children’s Christmas Eve service. Having to adjust the very large crown she was wearing several times, to keep it on her small head, she was more than a few steps behind the other Kings, so picking up her pace as she entered from the back of the church, she said in her loudest voice, “Wait for me! I’m coming with Jesus’ gift”. The sweetest part of this story is that she really believed she was as she carried the carefully wrapped empty box.

Inevitably, someone in our house mentions the year we came home to the fallen tree adorned only with the heads of gingerbread babies, pierced with a hook to adorn the tree.  The bodies all missing while our golden retriever, Zoe, lay close by shining her big brown eyes at us. The story is also retold of when we were students finishing our education degree and waiting for the trees on the corner to go on sale on Christmas eve and after finding the perfect one, to us, walking home three blocks while dragging it behind us as it snowed.

These are the memories we all have of how Christmas unfolds in its own way and time. They remind us that they are the real stories of Christmas. The memories of those unplanned moments, unexpected happenings, and the veering off of the perfect plans, that make their way into our hearts and are shared with others again and again.   It is not the perfectly set tables and elaborate gifts, the smoothly executed travel plans, or the ticking of boxes while preparing for traditions that often drain us or don’t serve us anymore. They all unfold without the heavy burdens often self-imposed to hustle and bustle, overspend, and over-prepare.  They are the simple moments of real living and loving that can be messy, unexpected, and full of joy and meaning. 

In the season when nature is blanketing itself in white and slowing to its own magical pace and society is asking the opposite,  may we allow our own meaningful experiences to unfold as they will while letting the season come to us. Instead of chasing unrealistic expectations, may we feel into our own stories and the memories that emerge there to remind us of what brings true meaning to the season.   And if we find ourselves succumbing to the outside pressures, cradled in exhaustion and disconnect, to live out some perfectly designed holiday, may we be our own kind of brave, and exit stage left.

(photo courtesy of Maya and her Kindergarten concert fifteen years ago)