You Know The Kind

Team Sister (Jesse & Claire) did it again, running their second YMCA 5K. The morning was chilly and clear; perfect running weather. This is a post-race shot with Chewy squeezing in...


It was Chewy's first race, a major socialization experience, hanging on Main Street in a crowd of strangers on a Sunday morning. I'm happy to report he passed with flying colors, calmly sniffing shoes and butts and the occasional friendly hand as we walked him through the crowd. People murmured and smiled over his big ears, but Chewy didn't notice. He was way too busy sticking his nose into a number of dog crotches, tail a-wag-wag-wagging. 


When the church bells rang, precisely at nine, I felt washed in happiness. Something about standing on the curb of Main Street as the runners took off. The crowd cheering, cameras clicking, bells ringing. Shouting to my daughters as they ran by. GO! You can do it! The morning sun on my face, Chewy leaning into my leg. 


It was one of those pure moments. 


You know the kind.

Falling Back

I woke at 6:30 to a wash of yellow light. It's really 7:30, I whispered. 


I can't help myself. It's a game I've played for years. For the next week, unless I soak it for a whole month, every time I see a clock, I'll mentally spring ahead an hour, especially when it gets dark at 4:30 in the afternoon.


It's 4:30, I'll note.
No, it's really 5:30.


I do this with time, and a few other things. This negotiating thing. Maybe I'm just drawn to a constant state of grief, or longing, especially when it comes to light. What are the five phases again? 


Denial, anger, bargaining, sadness, acceptance.


I'm often in one (or more?) of these phases during the course of a day. The opening and letting in, surrendering and letting go, more opening and letting in is a beating heart.


I know this sounds dramatica. It's just daylight and clocks. And in spite of falling back last night, not a bone in my body is sad. 



Attachment is the root of all suffering. 


As I write this @3:24. Nope, 4:24 I'm channeling Stephen, the tow-headed second grader who wrote this simple journal entry, many moons ago. It's possible I've already shared this, but the kid had a way with words so here it is again: 


Today I feel happy. I don't know why.

A Turn Of The Key

I've been thinking about practice and happiness and what a nice couple they make, most days. They're dependable, yet surprising. Practice doesn't mean you already know. Nope. That's why it's called practice. Doing the practice invites happiness to show up.

My daily practice is writing. It starts with a notebook, pen(s), and a quiet pocket of time. I don't have a plan. I do watch turkeys and people. I stare out the window frequently. I listen.

Some days my writing leaps right into whiny, fearful worries. But, usually, in the midst of the scribble, or the rubble, a glint of light seeps in. Then comes the shift in my solar plexus; a click, a turn of the key. I step out of the cage. I am released.

Inevitably, small mind hooks and reels me back in. I turn, retreating into my cramped, but familiar cell where the scurrying mind-mice keep busy, gnawing on small bones, infinite worries.

Next day, I begin again; pull out notebook, pen, find quiet pocket of time, write. Even the briefest time brings freedom and opening; it restores me, loosens me, releases me. It’s always the same, never the same.

Write, whittle, whistle, make wine. Pick a practice. Invite happiness. Then share yourself with others. The world needs you.

ps. today is my 201st daily post of This Being Alive. I am grinning from ear to ear. So this is a a grin-out, to you and the turkeys, who just this moment meandered by, no kidding. I love those damn birds. And you! Thanks for letting me share...

xo b

Share Yourself

"Find happiness within yourself.

Then share yourself with others."

- Yogi Blues Away tea bag

I'll Always Have Paris

I have gloves and a kicky pair of red garden clogs but do I use them? No.

I think it goes back to my mudpie days when Mom would set me up with two cake tins and I'd go to town with water, a measuring cup, a wooden stirring spoon, and dirt.

Years later, she often remarked at how content I was, out near the sandbox with my baking utensils gathered around me.

"Bets, you'd sit all afternoon making cakes! I never saw a kid happier!"

So, when I looked down and saw my dirty pedicured toes (which I sparingly treat myself to once or twice a year), I felt washed with happiness. And sweat. And then I remembered the name of the nail polish; I'll Always Have Paris.

C'est manifique, n'est pas?