The End of the Great Pause: Establishing Rituals to Renew and Reset

I sense in my bones that the long pause of spring and summer is over. The pace of our lives is quickening. Months of binge-watching Tiger King (a show which ultimately hurt my heart, I wish I had never seen it) and rereading the Harry Potter books are coming to an end. Maybe it’s because school is starting, the election is ramping up, tickets went on sale for the festival where I work, a festival that plans (perhaps foolishly, but no one asked my opinion) to open October 3, as is tradition. The light is changing, and with it, my own inner metronome is recalibrating to a steadier, quicker tempo.

I have never really been a morning person. I don’t hit the ground running. I sort of slog into my day, shuffling around in a haze of clouded, fuzzy thoughts. Coronavirus quarantine has exacerbated this tendency, for months I slept in until mid-morning, waking up just early enough to make a phone conference meeting at 10:00 twice a week. I didn’t start working until afternoon, I have been fortunate enough to be allowed to work from home, and working on my own schedule has meant later hours, albeit always in yoga pants, rarely in anything with snaps, buttons, or a zipper.

But a couple of weeks ago, I began to desire an earlier start to my day.

The fog is lifting.

The cobwebs are blowing away.

The dust is shaking off.

I’m taking real, measurable steps to reset my days, for while I no longer want to be driven by compulsive productivity, I do want to create and make work that is valuable and moves the needle toward positive change and the realization of my deeply held, lofty dreams.

I am getting out of bed earlier and then making it.

I am riding my bicycle in the early morning hour, before 9:00, when the south Texas heat is still just a glimmer.

I am journaling in the form of my morning pages, according to the method of Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, a practice that helps me set my intention and connect with my innermost motivations early in the day.

Of course, it’s yellow…

I am reciting my “litany of blessings and thanks.” I keep a recipe card file, a vintage one from the early 1970s I found on Etsy, within it are index cards where I have written the names of people who I know are struggling or have a need. I read their names, and then simply say, “Be Blessed.” I speak it at my window, where I can see all the treetops and I send their names into the sky and the trees. Praying this way has become such a balm to my spirit, it has lifted the burden of the wordy prayer where I struggle to articulate my thoughts, thinking I need to somehow find the right, perfect, mellifluous words that will translate my thoughts in a pretty enough way to get the Divine One’s attention. Also, I don’t fall asleep. And, to be rigorously honest, this way of praying is efficient. My home is not a place where lengthy prayer sessions are even possible. Spending just a few minutes in a prescribed ritual has given my spirit structure, as sense of safety and well-being. I understand the Catholic rosary tradition in a whole new way, it’s the contact with God that matters. She can hear the communication of our souls in the simple, repetitive phrases, “Be Blessed,” or “Thank you.” It is enough, for what is prayerful communication but the opportunity to commune?

And then, a small protein-rich breakfast. Now, I am ready to face my day. To tap into my dreams for my career, to write, to create, and yes, to do the mundane tasks that accompany any job: emails, deliverables, meetings, schedules, and timetables.

These routine actions are signaling to my spirit that the challenges of the life I am meant to live on this day are ready to be met.

Dear reader, do you have routines, whether early or late, that help you stay on track? I’d love to know them, I believe we can all learn from each other! And if you’d like your name on one of my prayer cards, say the word. Have a blessed day!

Short and Sweet: So Late, So Soon

“How did it get so late so soon?”
― Dr. Seuss

Not too long ago, I found myself sitting on the sofa, my hand going numb from the weight of my toddler granddaughter who was sleeping in my lap, settling down from the pain of an ear infection.

I was frustrated; I had plans for tasks I had intended to accomplish that morning, though I can’t for the life of me remember what they were. But I knew the clock was ticking, and I felt it like pressing on my spirit like a leaden weight; I wasn’t getting anything done.

But then… I stopped. I listened to Hazel’s sweet inhalation and exhalation, then expanded my awareness beyond just the two of us to hear the birdsong outside my window. I had a sudden realization:

I am simply going to stop counting the years.

It’s not worth it. The angst of aging, the fret of schedules, the tyranny of the clock. I’m weary of agonizing over it. It’s a waste of, well, time, which is too big, too expansive, and too weighty to be carried like a stone shackled to the ankle.

Marcus Aurelius said that time is like a river, it’s become a cliche’ that works: Time is a river everflowing. I choose to stand in that river, letting the cool water lap my calves and its burble tickle my ears. But it’s more.

It’s laughter gurgling. It’s a helium balloon floating. It’s a baseball game played without a  clock counting down the seconds of a quarter. It’s the bent clocks of Dali and the poetry of the Psalm where a day is, to the Divine, like a thousand years.

A life without fear of time? Oh, yes.

Certainly, I will keep appointments at their intended times, that’s courtesy and professionalism. It indicates I respect others, and I am all for that. And I’ll be sure to note movie times when we finally get to go back to the theaters.

But quarantine has taught me that time as we have constructed and conformed to it is a cage. Who hasn’t looked at the person sitting next to them on the couch and asked, “What day is it?” at some point since the world paused? We’ve seen what life looks like when not lived with a metaphorical clock hovering overhead like Big Ben in London, clanging to move people along, heads down and destination-bent. I am learning to prefer to meander. To look up. To revel in the time which The Divine One has given me.

Rob Bell, on a recent episode of his podcast, says, “Previously [to Covid], it was, ‘How much can I fit in?’ It was about productivity. But in the future, time will start to mean other things. Like, what can we experience together? The experiences we love most in life are those when we lose track of time. I think in the future we’re going to see people move toward fewer activities, but fuller days.” Days that are less busy, but are richer.

That speaks a truth that resonates with me. It sounds amazing. May your days be blessed with time with those you love, doing what you love, making memories and living a rich tapestry of experiences.

https://robbell.podbean.com/e/a-bit-about-time/

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I Hugged My Husband On Wednesday…

I hugged my husband on Wednesday. In a moment of crisis, I hugged him because I had to. It was hug him or hurt myself; desperately upset and out of practice, my head knocked sharply on his shoulder as I thrust myself toward him, and I discovered there had been nothing to be afraid of, after all. Oh, joy of joys! His strong hands stroked my back, his broad shoulder absorbed my tears, and I broke open just enough to look around. The world is full of beauty:

books dog-eared with affectionate reading, sunshine sparkling through jewel-colored crystals, juicy peaches, baby toes, the hum of summer locusts in the woods. A Chopin nocturne.

Fresh starts. Worn paths.

Dandelions. Doodlebugs.

Apologies accepted. Grace granted.

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Who knew that resilience, that trauma recovery, that learning to love who you are, would turn out to be a lifelong journey? That ugly voices once thought vanquished could worm their way back in? But beauty and power lay in reconnecting with the deepest part of our spirit. The part that, merged with the Divine, beseeches us, “Don’t listen to the Darkness! Behold the Light! The birds! Sparkling water and leafy trees! Those who love you, not because you’ve earned their love, but simply because YOU ARE.”

I hugged my husband on Wednesday. I accepted his love for me. Though still reluctant to be touched, I am aware of it; I’m still working on shaping my own love for me. But I know where to look to find it, for the Divine Creator is an infinite and persistent source of love.

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Short and Sweet: Love Me Tender

“Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts.” Charles Dickens

I cry so, so easily. In yoga class, I may cry in the final moments of savasana. Once, an instructor came through the studio anointing our wrists with essential oil;  at her touch, my spirit was compelled to tears; I felt silly. It is not uncommon for me to weep when rocking my grandchildren. I cannot listen to worship music without crying as my soul reaches toward the Divine One. Trees may bring me to a state of gentle lament.

A tender heart is both the blessing and burden of the empathic person and this week my empathy bucket has been drawn off mightily: my infant grandson hospitalized with RSV, disappointing election results, a day spent with local high school theatre students, some of whom went home disappointed and trophy-less. And my first weekend at a new job managing the vendors at a festival that sees a 17-day attendance of over 100,000. There are needs nearly beyond my ample list-making capabilities and the depth of my emotional wellspring when confronted with worried or angry artisans and crafters bearing their own burdens of creative, financial, and logistical stress.

In moments such as those, those moments when we are tired, depleted, and lonely, the Universe, in its Divine Knowing, places who we need in our paths.

At the end of a day of apprehension and problem-solving, I walked myself to a quiet garden, festooned with fairies and flowers, and sat on a wrought iron bench. And there, I met a new friend, a kindred spirit who sensed my fatigue and worry and listened with such compassion that I christened our first meeting with tears.

Too often in our American Can-Do sensibility, we perceive tears as a sign of weakness, sensitivity as a character flaw. We admonish our children not to cry, we lock ourselves in our bedrooms to weep privately into our pillows, ashamed of our vulnerability. And so I say: cry it on out. Cry in private. Cry amongst friends. Let your children see you cry so that they may learn the healing power of it. Own your gentleness and your wounded heart. And let those who love you, whether long-time spouse or brand new friend found by accident in a fairy glen, share your tears to create connections. For connection, relationship, those are the sweet, tender threads that bind us all together and give us the courage to keep walking.

Namaste’.

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Short and Sweet: To Love God in all Her Glory

What is it, to be a feminine soul in search of a God who is ever painted as male? Who is strong, bearded, muscular? Who, if He had a body, would never know a monthly moon cycle, the sensation of a suckling child, the fear of the tall stranger?

What is it, to be a girl in a church where your gender is silenced? Where you are instructed to “keep still,” to “get to the kitchen,” to “tend to the nursery,” when what you really ache to do is speak truth as you comprehend it? Sometimes trivial, other times profound. But words yet to be spoken that must be muffled? The silent dictate may be circumvented with an anonymous pen, or perhaps by credited words read aloud by an accommodating man.

What is it to be a woman who discovers that she most often meets the Divine One not within brick-and-mortar walls constructed by men, but among the trees of the forest, the sands near the ocean, the waters of the lake? Who knows God intimately in music?

What is it to know deeply in the turbulent center of a woman’s body that the Divine One is feminine as much as masculine? That God is Goddess. Father and Mother. Sun and Moon. Birth. Death. And yet to know no safe place to speak it. Not as a child. Not as an adolescent. Not as a young mother, nor as a fresh grandmother. No, instead to understand that there are and have ever been men who hold the keys to the kingdom, women who must allow it, and generation upon generation of girls tucked into the shadows underneath the wings of their oppressors.

For that is what it is. Oppression. Perhaps stemming from a place of genuine belief that God’s will is understood. Perhaps not. The oppression may be violent, greedy, loud. But more often, it is masked in the smiles and benign pats on the back of church elders, pastors, deacons, Sunday School teachers. The oppression may even be gentle, cloaked in the deep and true love of husband, father.

Unless… unless a woman breaks free. She must speak the truth she knows, the verity. The revelation. She may be reprimanded, shunned, put back in her place; destined to feel incomplete and imbalanced in her relationship to the people of The Way and the God they allow.

But if she is blessed, Oh the Joy!  Those around her, including the men, will welcome the truth and discover within it a freedom. The chance to understand a Divine One who is incredibly complex and yet miraculously simple.

Inexplicable.

Wondrous.

Father. Brother

Mother. Sister.

Heaven.

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Here’s a more informative approach to the concept of God as feminine:

Biblical Maternal Images for God

 

Live Small. Love Big: A Meditation

After an entire adulthood spent being told to dream big, to live loud, I am done. I simply am. We are not all of us meant to “live loud.”

I am, rather, inclined now to live small: smaller house, smaller wardrobe, smaller carbon footprint. Fewer possessions. Less noise. Limited spending. Streamlined living. Lean…

Not mean, though. The only place I want to live large these days is in all the multitudinous ways that we humans can share love. I yearn for more time spent in nature, more hugs. More forgiveness. More conversations that move beyond the surface.

I want to ask, “How are you?” and be answered with authenticity, though it requires I invest more time to attend the replies, to hear the stories that the people I meet are aching to tell.

I desire engagement.

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And I crave that the Divine One, the wonderful Spirit who created me, will wiggle Her way into each tiny crevice of who I am. I don’t need Her to make me big. I want Her to take the smallness of me and connect it to the stars, to the seas, to the trees. To my grandchildren. To my children. To my husband. My family.

 

And to the unknown strangers at the border. In the Middle East. In the political party which is opposite mine. With relationship to all these, I become vast, my soul expanding beyond what is conceivable should I remain alone. My quiet spirit can then hear all the voices of the universe, my presence is both honored and honorable among Creation.

To live small does not mean timidity, nor a sense of inferiority. It is not self-castigation or minimalization. No, it is, instead, to walk in healthy humility. It is to comprehend that I am a wee part of a greater whole, she who lives among billions: billions of folk, stars, trees, animals. No more important, no. But nor less.

A path both wide and narrow. May it be so.

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Short and Sweet: To Be Heard at Christmas

I have spent much of my life feeling invisible. Earlier this week, I felt profoundly unseen and unheard. It’s not a new dynamic for me, those of us who are introverts can find ourselves caught in a quandary: we wish to be quietly alone, but we also yearn to know that we are known to exist. A dilemma, to be sure. And at the holidays, with all the hubbub, the parties and karaoke and Yankee gift exchanges, we are even more troubled.

Unless….we have someone who loves us without requiring we clang bells and whistles to earn it. I have that someone.

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When I met my husband almost 35 years ago, he saw me. More importantly, he heard me; not only when I, a vocal major, was singing, but when I was speaking. When we met, we were able, for the first time in our entire lives, to be completely vulnerable with another person, knowing that our hearts were being held in trust.

Our first Christmas, he gave me a teddy bear that still sits on a shelf in my bedroom, we attended three Christmas parties for my social club in college: 1986: engaged. 1987: married. 1988: expecting our first child. Since those early days we have struggled and prospered in turn. But one truth remains: we are each other’s most treasured Christmas gift.

I am reminded of a treasured Christmas carol:

“Said the night wind to the little lamb
Do you see what I see
Way up in the sky little lamb
Do you see what I see
A star, a star
Dancing in the night”

To be seen, to be heard, is a gift. I think I am the star that dances in my husband’s night.

My wish for each person who finds themselves lonely this holiday is for you to find love. Romantic, familial, platonic. Any love. Friends, I pray that you and I become soft of heart and open of spirit to recognize those who need cherishing.

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“You Take It.”

Up until just recently, my life has been one governed by a pervasive, persistent anxiety. When one’s formative years are unstable and occasionally frightening, one can spend many years worrying. It’s just a default setting.

It’s been a crazy year on the employment front, lots of folks getting fired amid scandals. With all that swirling around me, I found myself digging deep, endeavoring to identify my own priorities and heart’s desires. Oh, did I fret.

And then, miracle of miracles, Rob Bell, in his podcast, spoke magical words that set me free. His mantra, his prayer has been: “You take it.”

Fearful about money? “You take it.”

Concerned about kids? “You take it.”

Doubting employment options? “You take it.”

Alarmed about knee surgery? “You take it.”

Panicked about the state of our nation’s politics? “You take it.”

It’s not an abdication. I am not dumping my responsibilities so that I may frolic in flowers while drinking sauvignon blanc. But what I have been doing is allowing the Divine One to order my life and make clear my steps, and She has done so generously and with abundant love. The job is dreamed of with all my heart was denied me, but the jobs I needed to allow me the freedom to pursue my passions while helping my daughter with her babies opened as though by magic. I am reminded of the saint, Joan of Arc, who, when faced with terror, prayed and then surrendered with magnificent courage and compelling humility.

A new decade begins in just a few days. Rather than being governed by fear, I plan to keep saying, as often as required, “You take it.” I trust God to do what is needed.

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Short and Sweet: A Dragonfly Day

This morning, I found myself walking with my granddaughter, feeling a bit blue. Disappointed that plans that didn’t pan out. Stuck. Ordinary. Small. With such a sweet companion, it seems impossible that I might have felt so, but there it is.

 

 

But then, as I pushed the stroller into a sunny patch on our walking path, a dragonfly hovered mere inches from my face just as Nancy Wilson sang, “The Best is Yet to Come.” It seemed that maybe the Universe was sending me a message, telling me that I am okay where I am. That good things are coming. That pleasure and purpose can be found in the insignificant and mundane moments.

Sometimes I wish I was living a big life, the kind in which I have influence and connections, a substantial platform from which to speak, tangible evidence that I am leaving a legacy; a life without limits. My spirit’s wings are itching explore the skies far beyond the one I have been living under for so long. But that doesn’t seem to be where the Divine One is sending me. Instead, She sets me at home, keeping me humble and grounded as I endeavor to make small ripples in a tiny pond.

A beautiful life is not made by enduring the ordinary moments, but by being fully present in them. By imbuing them with love and joy and gratitude. And that, dear friends and readers, is a choice.

Diapers. Music. Hugs. Dirty dishes. Walks. Invoices. Glasses of cool, clean water. The changing of seasons. It’s all magic. Ordinary magic. And that may be the most powerful magic of all.

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If you have never heard this delicious song by Nancy Wilson, give it a listen!

Resilience: Body and Spirit

Today, I went for a walk. I do this all the time, my Fitbit data reveals that I make my 10,000 step goal nearly every day. When I don’t, it’s usually because I spent an hour doing yoga instead.

I haven’t been hitting those goals this last week though. I’ve injured a knee, a knee that has been in steady decline for years. I’ve visited the doctor off and on about this knee since 1998, it may have finally reached its tipping point. It’s swollen, it’s limited, and it hurts.

Laid up on the couch with ice packs around the poor, beleaguered joint, I didn’t feel especially resilient, nor strong. What changed this morning? What enabled me to head out on the trails and manage a full hour of brisk walking? Tools. I equipped myself for the task. In physical therapy yesterday, I let the therapist assess my Nikes and she vetoed them immediately: not enough support, not enough cushion, sole worn down. She recommended shoes and a brace, described what I needed, then sent me on my way to do my work: I had to follow through. I had to buy the shoes. I had to purchase the brace. And then this morning, I had to actually put them on. My tools couldn’t help me if they sat in their boxes.

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I had to admit to my doctor, to my physical therapist, to the woman who helped fit me for new Asics, and above all, to myself, that I needed help. That I am in pain. Our bodies can’t recover, they can’t be resilient, if we don’t recognize their need for rest, support, boundaries, and equipment.

Like the worn soles of my old Nikes, our spiritual souls can become threadbare, too. It’s important to learn what is needed for resilience: Boundaries. Meditation. Creative expression. Meaningful relationships. Sleep. Faith. Time with nature.

I’ve bounced back over and over and over: abused as a child, codependent with an addict, lost jobs, damaged voice… every setback made me stronger. How? I drew on the love that surrounded me and nourished my spirit with the joyful memories and experiences I had created and stored in my heart.

Brene Brown says that “Joy, collected over time, fuels resilience- ensuring we’ll have reservoirs of emotional strength when hard things do happen.” And they do: injuries and illnesses, divorces and deaths, betrayals and bruises. I am about collecting joy. I hope you can be, too. Let’s help each other to do that. Blessings, friends.

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