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)

Begin Again

 "At the beginning, there was nothing but love and stardust. My heart yearns to begin again" Atticus

We resurrected the decrepit miniature artificial tree on the picnic table in the classroom. Taped it down with masking tape and placed a bucket of random ornaments and beaded garlands next to it. Every year this becomes an exploration center in our Kindergarten classroom and I eagerly anticipate the reactions of the students when they enter the class. There is a gravitational pull towards the mangy tree, and generally the first four students to come in, plunk themselves on the bench next to it. The other's disappointment in not getting a turn is appeased by the promise of tomorrow and the other equally enticing choices. There is usually the obvious question of what to do at this center while others know right away and start adorning the branches or unfurling the garland that has seen better days.  This center speaks to the experiences of the children.  There are always those who say they have never been allowed to decorate the tree, others who want reassurance about where the ornaments would go best, and those who just drink in their good fortune of being able to do whatever they want with the appearance of the tree. There is nothing breakable and after it falls over a few times, they understand a bit more about gravity and the balancing out of the weight of the tree. At the end of the time, I ask them to undecorate  so that others can have a chance. This will take place until all students have had a turn to do the decorating and the last group will leave the decorations and the tree in the class until the holiday break.  Many students decorate it a second and third time while others have no interest but no one questions undoing the tree and all seem very willing to begin again tomorrow.

Out for a morning run like many previous mornings, I was engrossed in a podcast and looking down at my feet as they splashed through the morning puddles. The flyer delivery van was making its usual route of darting in and out of driveways, so I stepped off the curve of the road and back onto the sidewalk. With milder mornings I had not been thinking of slippery surfaces. As I rounded the corner, I could feel my feet gliding too far back and in a split second, I found myself skidding on my knees to a full face plant. My teeth were only saved by the length of my nose, which in that instant, I was very grateful for. The first thing I felt was the sting of my lip and tip of my nose.  I levitated off the sidewalk at lightning speed, glanced over my shoulder, and continued on my run.  In that dazed moment, there had been no time for resistance and I had given in  to the calamity that unfolded. This is why I was not injured beyond scraped knees, ripped tights, and a bruised ego. In the pitch black of the morning, I realized I was the only witness.  The rest of the run home, I marveled at how lucky I was and tried to make sense of what brought me to my knees. Beginning my run again, I appreciated the opportunity to do so.

I was reminded of what a gift it is to be able to begin again this week and how this is such a theme that runs through everything this time of year.  Very soon we will have the longest night of the year which will give way to the daylight beginning to lengthen again.  At the same time, Winter will begin again in the Northern Hemisphere and our celebrations of the season will whisper these same opportunities.  

Channukah came about because the Jewish community created a new menorah after the original one was stolen. It was fueled with only enough oil to burn for one day and instead, it stayed lit for eight consecutive days. This was the beginning of the eight holy days celebrated. The celebration of Kwanzaa is based on recommitting to their seven principles of  unity, work, responsibility, cooperative economy, purpose, creativity, and faith.  The African American community recognizes their ability to start again with their intentions and purpose and the importance of doing so. Even Christmas began with a story of a family looking to begin again despite hardship and adversity. To find shelter, acceptance, and peace.  Beginning again was steeped in hope for a better tomorrow based on the mercy of others. The new year is always celebrated as an opportunity for a new start in both the Chinese and Western Calendars.  It is as though each year we need these reminders,  that to begin again is the gift of being human.  It is an understanding that can alleviate so much of our suffering. Knowing we have permission to not hold tightly to our mistakes, our burdens, failures, or missteps. We can come back to good intentions, start over, and start fresh. It is like the Universe is telling us that all we have to do is set it down and in doing so we are free to begin again. So much of our lives go through learning this lesson. Every time we try something new and fail, every disastrous parenting moment we stumble through, every work-related mishap, or  miscommunication. We are always offered a clean slate if we choose to take it, knowing we can honour  ourselves this way. All of the stories we stay imprisoned in when all we need to do is put them down, dust them off, or reimagine them.  On our healing journeys, in our most important relationships, with our simplest truths, commitments, cares, and concerns. Every day we decide to wake up and leave yesterday where it belongs and take only what will allow a fresh start. Most  have traveled down many roads of regret with "what ifs" and "too lates" sitting heavy on their shoulders before they realize that they only need to stop resisting.  It is not always easy. If it were we would step back from ongoing wars, recognize that we can make sacrifices, and change patterns of behavior that are not in harmony with our planet. The person who has traded their integrity for wealth could start over or the person who tells themselves the story of worthlessness could choose another voice to hear.  If it were easy we could offer space to others to reimagine their path, choices, and intentions.  We could keep hope alive for someone else. The hope that tomorrow or even today with this breath, this present  moment, they could begin again.

And then maybe it is not so hard after all. Maybe beginning again is only lost on the masses because of it's simplicity. Maybe it is our resistance that is the suffering. When we only need to understand that our resistance to starting over/fresh is nothing more than an attachment to the known because no matter what has transpired in the moments until now, the next is always unwritten.  Perhaps it is foiled only by our fear of what we might be obligated to do or be as we envision a new beginning.  I wonder if it could be as simple as a gentle nudge of remembering from ourselves or someone else. Could our obstacles be surmounted if we just released ourselves from the old story or patterns of behavior and thinking? Every day offers us another chance to be kind to one another, to drop the burden of past hurt, and to carve a new path that allows us to walk more gently through each other's heads and hearts as well as our own. 

Whatever celebrations we are engaging in in the coming weeks, may we remember the gift to begin again somewhere in our own lives and, just like my beautiful tree decorators, have an opportunity to undecorate the clutter of the stories in our minds. May we also see the simplicity of placing it all back in the bucket and rest easefully in the eternal opportunity  we have ,in all aspects of our lives, to begin yet again with compassion, forgiveness and grace.

The Stories We Bring

 "There are three sides to every story, yours, mine, and the truth". Robert Evans

We had our first blanket of snow recently which has disappeared already but in its wake, it left the little people in my life anticipating its return.  As we stepped out on the playground to snow falling softly and the flakes beginning to speckle the ground, there were five to seven-year-olds squealing with delight. The momentum of the squeals caused their own flurry of excitement in the air and the energy was contagious. A gradual white sheet formed while some students proclaimed, "I love snow!" and others chimed, "It's snowing!", to anyone near.  Snow was magical and celebrated in their exuberance. 

When I stepped outside with the snow flurries whirling about and covering my hatless head, I silently cursed the flakes and myself for not being prepared.  My mind went to the absence of snow tires on my car as I had not been able to get an appointment until later in the month.  Shaking out my hair and pulling up my hood, I thought of the people living rough who had just experienced twenty-two-degree weather a few short days ago and thought of what a shock it must be for the weather to change so drastically. The magic of snow was lost on me in that brief instance because of the stories I was bringing to this moment.

Both of these realities were two sides to the same story and then there was the truth of snow.  Snow is just frozen water. Snowflakes are just ice crystals that fall to the earth from the sky. There are no two ice crystals alike as their shapes and designs change as they fall from the clouds with fluctuating temperatures. No two snow crystals or flakes will have the same history of development either, due to the conditions changing for each and creating a new and original design or form, much like us.

Thinking about the stories we bring along with us that seem to shape the reality we see or the truths we believe in, becoming a teacher was at the forefront of my mind. With a student intern doing her teaching in my classroom now, I have been remembering my own experience more vividly.   I felt like I was so unprepared for the practicum component. Walking into an alternate universe was how I could describe stepping into the school culture.  There was a lot of feeling overwhelmed by the expectations of a busy classroom.  Most days I wasn't sure I could navigate my own fluctuations of emotions and behavior so was feeling quite intimidated by the idea of doing so for the twenty young bodies before me.  I remember one of the teachers I spent time with. She had young children of her own and was eager for help in the class. I remember her telling me how poorly it all goes at times even with years of experience. She was a kind and caring woman and even her critiques of me were done with such care and respect that I knew I would be harder on myself through this experience than she ever would.  Her story she brought to this mentoring experience was that I was doing my best, I was her equal even as a beginner, and that because we will always find ourselves in places as beginners, we should never forget what that looks and feels like.  I am thinking she has a similar mentor in her life.  I thought I would never become an effective teacher or do what she made look so effortless because of my story of lack in skill and knowledge.  She was overly generous with me in her perspective, and I  was beyond critical of myself.  The real story in this was that teaching is a gift affecting lives, helping others grow and realize their potential, so rewarding and the idea of managing or controlling twenty human beings successfully all day every day is an unnatural and unattainable expectation or aspiration but thirty years later I am still teaching and continuing to learn and recognize the stories I am bringing to each interaction I encounter. It is less about managing and more about creating a space for all the stories the students bring to their individual experience which can often look like chaos and it is loud and messy more times than not, as all growth and real learning are.  

The dear friend I had the pleasure of sitting down with for tea, who sees me as someone who holds space without judgment even though she has also witnessed all of my shadows and the scope of my humanity, is a gift.  Because she has done and is committed to doing the work to recognize her own shadows and the stories she brings. She believes in the evolution and growth of herself and therefore is able to see it in me.  There also remains the person who carries the story, because of experiencing a conflict with me, who sees me only from the shadows when indeed the truth is I am both my friend and my adversaries' story. I am all of it and own it as all the colors of me.  It took me a long time to embrace my shadows and my light that exist in one physical form. Many of us need to be reminded that we are all of these things and what we abhor or become resistant to in others at times. 

I have mentored many teachers over the years and I am sure I thought I knew the truth of their experience until I realized I didn't and that none of us truly do.  Whether it is in a career, politics, religion, language, gender, or any of the other divisive places we find ourselves in, it is good to remember that we don't ever check ourselves or our stories at the door. We don't leave our personal lives at home, and maybe we don't have to.  Maybe we need to bring all of ourselves with our stories of what is truth, with the awareness of our unhealed places, our triggers, shadows, and experiences so we can remember all the parts of who we are and like my sweet friend doing the work, we can recognize ourselves in some aspect of our coworker, the dysregulated child in meltdown mode or the student intern figuring out the complexities of doing a job that feels humanly impossible right now, and understand with humility the stories we are bringing, and where the divide is happening. We can turn our attention inward and ask what is creating the strong feeling or why am I acting with resistance here? 

 Like the more than a septillion snowflakes that fall across Canada every winter, we bring our own unique design from the conditions that have created and shaped us, the stories, and maybe, only relative truths.  Because the truth is, well the truth is.. just the quality or state of being true to facts and then of course to our own realities with the discretion that it is of our own design and maybe we will be able to see the truth of someone else's experience, bringing peace to ourselves and another and we will remember there are always three sides to every story.

"Bird by Bird"

 "Driving a car at night, you can only see as far as your headlights  but you can make the whole trip that way." E.L. Doctorow

Thinking back to our family's drive home from Florida a few years ago. We had made it without incident most of the way and then we hit a snowstorm.  The worst of the storm was the last hour to our home and the visibility was so poor we were unsure if we should continue.   After gassing up, we headed back on the highway and to our good fortune, we landed behind a snow plow. He was going thirty kilometers an hour and blocking all sight of what was ahead on the road, but with a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel my husband, Mark decided to continue to follow. The distance between us and the plow was a car's length, illuminated by the lights on the vehicle. In this space, crawling along, we made the increments of the final leg of our journey home. Not knowing what was ahead but trusting in what we could see in the small illuminated space in front of us. 

The world population has rolled over to eight billion. Mother Earth is also driving with her headlights on and is only seeing this small space in the here and now and she is figuring out how to navigate it. She too is doing what only makes sense in this light from that high beam. She is sitting with all of us under the weight of excess and still being that presence of calm. Still providing us with this moment of peace in the view she provides.  

I had the pleasure of hearing the author Anne Lamott share the origin of the title of her book, Bird by Bird,  lessons on writing and life.  She talked about her ten-year-old brother who had been struggling to write a report on birds which he had known about for three months and it was now due tomorrow. He was seated at the kitchen table, close to tears, and surrounded by unopened books on birds, paper, and notebooks,  and his father came and sat down,  put his arm around him, and said, "Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird". 

These stories, memories, and facts landed in my lap this week and I realized that, without the words or the analogy, we too have been helping our daughter, Maya, with her transition to life in much the same way. We have savagely cajoled every last ounce of connection and purpose we could out of what was right here in front of us, the present circumstance with the intention to create a meaningful life and future for our autistic daughter.  We began with minuscule steps.  Post an ad, interview a person, inquire about a job placement, follow up, and follow through. Stumble across opportunities and programs, break down days, and hours. If not that then this. If this then maybe them. If them then also her.  Search, inquire, say no to that, try another, try again.  It has always really been bird by bird for Maya and most of us really. There was never a map or even a social structure for a person with a disability in our community or any other we know of.  It was looking at what was in front of us. What are the people who care doing? What map have others followed or created? Where did they arrive? Can we expect more,  or better? Can we try for something else? Is there something that someone else hasn't thought of? None of us can question, push or advocate all over ourselves all the time, or know what the future will look like but we can break it apart bird by bird, just like we do thought by thought in a meditation or moment of stillness. 

I think we can all appreciate what a meaningful piece of wisdom Anne has offered here in her beautiful story of her brother.  We all understand that none of us know what lies ahead by design and that we can only try our best with our own illuminated space before us and not chase the idea of the future. With our own range of sight, we decide to pick up the paintbrush instead of wondering if we will paint like Picasso. We put our fingers on the strings of a guitar before planning to perform a concert one day, pick up a pencil before we can write that memoir, and strap on the skis, before seeing the win of our first race. We play just this note, write only the line that matters, or paint the first stroke on the canvas. We are designing only the moment we can see and letting go of what comes next but knowing it leads somewhere.

"Bird by bird" in this way for Maya now looks like working in a school preparing and delivering a breakfast program, helping sort items for a hot lunch program, assisted by my husband or me on one day and a wonderful young woman on two others. It looks like attending a cooking class supported by another amazing young woman while socializing with others whose experiences are similar. It is a youth group with old high school friends and outings for independence. Its singing group, yoga class and drama group, L'arche Fredericton gatherings, and therapeutic riding. It's extra time to slow down or sleep in or cancel when it's not going to work today. It's slowly and intentionally looking like a life she can thrive in with continued areas for growth, improvement, supports, and change. It is becoming Maya's life as she adds color by color, "bird by bird".  Of course, we are always drawn back into the questions about the future. Sometimes the task can seem so daunting or overwhelming that we land in that state of freeze like Anne's brother.  We are led away from the headlights and into the darker unknown spaces where we may want to know how it will turn out if we will meet the deadline, and what the current situation will look like next year or in five years.  We want to know if the systems or circumstances will improve. Wondering too if we will find the time or the resources as we project into the future and to where our attention is stranded in the present.  We may all find ourselves here in search of insight, long-term solutions, and reassurances about the future at times. But we can come back to our own remaining voice of reason or the comforting words of another, " It's alright, we are taking this situation,  circumstance by circumstance, love by love, or step by step, and for most of us we will live an entire life, a beautiful life in this very way, "bird by bird".

How It Feels

 "It doesn't matter how it looks. It only matters how it feels." Lauren Sapala

I saw my first full moon/lunar eclipse this week.  With a front-row seat, early Tuesday morning, I felt a child-like giddiness as I caught just the toenail of this full moon illuminated before it all went to shade. It wasn't how the dark of the moon with the eclipse looked. It was how it felt to witness the timing of this when it only occurs once a year at a particular moment. The earth, moon, and sun aligning so closely to create this shadow show.

This wasn't my only first this week. Participating in an ongoing writing workshop, we were asked to follow a new poem form, the Panoume.   I had never done this before and she guided us to think of something that makes us smile for the first line, our thought or reaction to it in the second, what happened because of it, and a line to wrap up the four-line stanza.  The rest of the poem is numbered and many of the first four lines repeat throughout and new ones are added to make this spoken word poem.  I surprised myself with how much I enjoyed this poetry form. A lot of my writing is not done from a feeling of bliss even though it feels good to write in any form and release it, I do spend time rereading and thinking about how it looks as a finished piece before I put it in this space.  Trying something new and leaving it as it was the first time I did it felt like flow.

Thinking of how firsts feel, it occurred to me that most come about from intentionality,  unlike the firsts that multiply in earlier periods of our lives or the incidental ones like the eclipse. There is a feeling to firsts that make us feel alive and stir our creativity. To others, they may look like ordinary experiences. To us, they can feel exhilarating and life-giving.

This summer I wanted to remember turning fifty-three with a photo. Of course, I was concerned with how this would look since getting my picture taken feels vulnerable to me somehow. So I asked my daughter to take a few and scrutinized each that she showed me until we settled on one for keeping and I used it for my social media platforms.  During the moments trying for a photo, my dog Shanti made an appearance and proceeded to lick my entire face.  My daughter continued to take pictures. When I look at this photo now, it is the one that feels good and feels right.  It feels like bliss, easy and mask-free.

 We have been so conditioned with messages that tell us that it only matters how it looks and not how it feels that we carry this into our lives like the very heavy weight it can be at times.  We begin to believe that what we show the world is more important than what our own experiences of the world really feel like for us. Showing strength when we feel weak stops others from being able to support us. Saying yes when we feel a hard no can cross boundaries and force us to use the energy we need to feel rested and whole.  

Right now I am writing to you in real-time.  I haven't critiqued,  edited, or changed anything. In fact, I had a completely different piece of writing ready to share but this jumble of thoughts and sharing my Panoume was what felt right.   I hope you are inspired to feel into the moments of your own life regardless of what they look like because as emphatically as I can, I want to be your reminder as was Lauren for me, it ONLY matters how it feels.   The poem below comes from a space of bliss and I loved every minute of the moments it describes and the moments of making it a poem. 

Seeing Shanti sprawled out on the bottom of my bed when waking.

As though he owns the space of rest for himself

I feel comforted by his ease as we lock eyes and he extends his body towards me

So much love where the sleeping dog lies

As though he owns the space of rest for himself

His eyes plead for that first-morning belly rub

So much love where the sleeping dog lies

When he hears the footsteps coming to retrieve him for his walk

His eyes plead for that first-morning belly rub

I lean into his sweet gaze and he leans into my touch

When he hears the footsteps coming to retrieve him for his walk

We cuddle here hoping not to be noticed for a few short moments of rest longer

I lean into his sweet gaze and he leans into my touch

I feel comforted by his ease as we lock eyes and he extends his body towards me

We cuddle here hoping to not be noticed for a few short moments of rest longer

Seeing my dog Shanti sprawled out on the bottom of my bed when waking. 

Impermanence

"Sunsets and Sunrises will paint stories across the sky. Day and Night will flip the switch again and again. The Sun and Moon will change places, repeating this sequence over and over, until it is over." Ameera Essabar

 November usually brings with it darker days, winds, and rains. Conditions  less favorable for most living things that have been flourishing in the past months. Any that remain hanging on take a tremendous hit with the first frost. It is always still a surprise when we see the mums on the step instantly brown or the last perennial wither away and become dormant.   Death in nature can be so predictable, so surprising, such a dichotomy. Natural and absurd, easeful and difficult. I think watching the process of the earth's vibrant beauty be released, we fear our own light and vibrancy will become dimmed in the darkness that ensues. The weather recently has been extraordinary and rare for the area where I live. Each day seems borrowed.  I find myself checking on the roses that remain on the bush in my garden in the morning to see if they have made it another night.  Knowing that their impermanence is real makes their extended life such a gift.    

My phone notification was waiting for me but I put it off until morning, having a gut feeling that it may not be good news.  I had inquired with my colleague and friend about another teacher's health and hoped she would have heard something different. Instead, she confirmed that her prognosis was not good.  By morning, her words were that she had passed away. I only knew of this sweet teacher, partner, mother, and friend but shared a kinship from afar as she was a stepmom to an autistic adult daughter.   Many of my Facebook friends worked with her and there wasn't one who didn't also have a close connection with her. The heavy grief they were all feeling was palpable and with all their words of loss and grief shared on social media, I could feel the darkness of November creep in. But when I made my way into my day it manifested in a different way and the words and feelings below flowed. 

" Today felt different somehow. My feet attached to the floor beneath as though it were the first time they did so.  I looked around my space and thought, I get to be here today.  With each task or movement, I had done a million times before, I felt these words, this feeling, this thought.  It felt like putting on that well-worn cardigan and greeting it as a best friend.   I get to feel the comfort and loss of being alive today. I get to witness the uncertainties with curiosity and without burdening myself with control. Today I get to see, hear and feel my loved ones, brush shoulders with strangers, hear the hum of the washing machine, the clank of the dryer, and my dog scratching at the door.  I get to feel frustrated and take for granted that there will be another moment when it will be obsolete.   I get to see my reflection and witness my physical presence in the mirror staring back at me. I get to make a plethora of choices about my present reality. Whatever feels nourishing, I get to experience the sensations from all of my senses that only come with having a physical form. "I get", rolls easily off my tongue today and leaves my heart bursting in my chest. I get to feel the absurdity of joy existing simultaneously with the loss of another. Today I honor my aliveness. I want to remember this feeling, bottle these fleeting moments of gratitude.  I want it to seep into my conscience and velcro to my brain that I have been given the gift of another day.  I want to promise or pledge that I will not forget this when I am deep in worry or searching for the light when it feels dark. But I know the emptiness of this promise when the veil or cloak of humanness takes its place comfortably over my form again in its own time. Probably in the wake and urgency of ordinary living. But for today or maybe only for this brief moment, my aliveness is honored with the gift of understanding that "I get to" and I will be walking through my day carrying a heavy heart for those who do not have this same privilege  and a lightness of spirit for the honoring of being able to wrap my arms around life for yet another day with a fragile and tender awareness."

This moment had me wishing we could carry the impermanence of life with us like a recipe for living. Maybe invest ourselves in the reality, as we do the needs of a newborn. Instead of putting down this awareness and walking away from its proven reality over and over again.  If we could find ourselves visiting its possibility, our own mortality, and the impermanence of all we love, I wonder if it might change the way we live even just for this moment.