Screw Perfection

Yesterday's non-essay comforted me. 


Writing it, I relaxed. My scrunched shoulders drop. 


That old LET GO, LET GOD thing really works.


yes. yes. yes, I thought.


simple practice 
simple practice
simple practice


LOVE.


That is really good stuff. I stand by it.


But there's one more thing. You already know this.


It (you, your life, relationships) will still feel messy.


Occasionally tangled, utterly unclear.


There is no magic pill.


Last night I got the big tap on the shoulder -


Pssst, Betsy. You'll never do it perfectly. 


So, give yourself a break if ~ 


you're not the steady-practicing-non-judgemental-trusting-your-path-unflinching-love-in-your-heart person you aspire to be. Or you ate the chips, or stayed up too late, or don't quite know how to build the bridge back to a friend. Or can't get over missing your mother and know you will never have linen closets that touch the sheer order and perfection of hers. Fuggedaboutit.


Screw perfection. It's a distraction to living.
Do your work anyway.
Relax anyway.
Let go into ease anyway.
Trust anyway.
Enjoy the mess anyway.
Practice anyway.


LOVE anyway.


I'll never do it perfectly.


I'm doing it anyway.

The Soft Place

practice contentment was my word card for the day.

This felt spot on seeing that I'd woken in the dark next to Michael, chest humming with nervous energy, mind at the starting gate. Buzzy, buzzy, buzzy bee mind.

practice contentment

Practice holding myself, this life, in the soft place, allowing things to be just as they are, rather than what I wish them to be. Letting it be enough.

Earlier, before the bus stop and dog walking, I'd said to Michael, "I'm happy in so many ways. Our family. You. Me. We're good. We're for each other. But..."

There was the but.

But... money, uncertainty about work, the future, all the unknowns. 

Drop the but.

practice contentment. 

While Growing

I don't know what to write about today. The wind is crazy cold, temps dropping...

How about that feeling of walking around restless, circling like a dog in search of her spot? What to do? Where to turn?

Towards the light?

Some days it's hard to hang out in the not knowing.

Note to self: Practice growing while not knowing.

A Comforting Hand

Like roads and rivers and paths, I have always loved a good porch. It’s like the house, or place behind me, has my back, so I can sit in full openness to what’s in front of me. When I lean back, I lean in. Eyes open. Porches help me to expand and relax at the same time. Porches are places to sit and watch the world. 


A place to practice gathering yourself? 

Perhaps this is the message, the agenda-less agenda, of meditation. And this writing. The practice itself, whatever it may be, has my back. I can let my guard down when I feel this hand on my back. I can be gentle with myself. I can relax.


It's like my husband's hand, cupping my head; a comforting hand.

Make An Offering

Offerings, Susan said.

Begin your practice with an offering. 

It could be your honesty, your tenderness, your tears, your sadness, your worry, your vulnerability, your courage. 

Offer something up each time you sit.

Offer something up each time I write.

What is it that I am offering when I write, speak, stand on stage?

My honest take on the world. Not my nice take, or lovely take, or mean take, or sad take. Simply my take on the world. This is my offering. And, not in a small, sniveling, ego mind way do I offer it up. Not like a “I’m so great way and let me show you the way” take. It feels more like putting a few things on a good piece of china, or maybe an old wood cutting board, or even a napkin, or my bare hand, and saying, here. This is what I have to give today. This is what I’ve noticed about being alive today, And then maybe, you’ll tell me what you’ve noticed. Or we can just sit and listen to the rain on the roof, or the kettle whistle, or Dad’s feet shuffling in his bedroom upstairs.

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