Pure Pause

June 5. 2013

note to myself: 

I have been curling in on myself, like a snail splattered with salt, over fears of a recently discovered scary health issue facing a loved one  + the closing out of my current work at the local university which I've loved for almost two years 

[God bless grant-funded projects, they come they go]...

but the work thing, 
which always seems to be such a big deal to me, 
where can I do my work, where do I fit
blah blah blah has faded to the periphery.
One door closes, another opens. it's true.

Health trumps money.

I could fill in the details, not today.

I want to write about the other.

The other being

roses splitting open
Elizabeth daughter of my daughter 
running through the sprinkler
painting the small wood bed frame, heron white
small black bear ambling into our neighbor's yard 

The other being

the humming bird, 
spotted on my morning walk

above me on the telephone wire

I happened to look up 

+ saw

the tiny bird with fluttering heart 

in a moment of pure pause 

slowing down to take a breath 

and view the world from up there.

A Veil To Pull Over Your Eyes

                                                    

               

memory

     I am seven, smack in the middle of my brothers and all the boys on our street. My brother Rob and Bruce come with me when I go door to door to ask the women of the neighborhood if they have any clothes in their closets that they can part with. We need clothes to play dress up. They smile and say, let me take a look, returning a short while later with a flowered dress, darts in the bust, draped over their arm, or with a navy hat with a veil to pull over your eyes.

                                                                   *

     

     We are playing Army, crawling on our bellies across the yard, over pale pink petals of the crabapple. Rob is wearing an army helmet. It is smooth and round. He looks like a real soldier, with the dirt streaks across his cheeks. Out of the corner of my eye is my mother, knees in the dirt of her garden; snapdragons, roses. She is wearing pale yellow garden gloves, her head bent as she pats the soil. 

                                                                     *

     

     Near the garden gate, in the driveway, my father is hosing down his brand new car; a deep blue convertible Volkswagen bug. After he has rinsed it clean, he’ll roll the black roof down and let us sit on the top of the backseat. I sit tall and wave, stiff-handed, like the Queen of England, or Miss America, while he drives slowly through our neighborhood, tall spotted sycamores standing like the crowd at a parade.

Take Another Look

Johnie Collins is 87 years old. [young.]

She is my mother-in-law
friend
traveler on the spiritual path

+

Michael's mom 

(and Dad, since her husband died too young, at 37, when he was five.)

She raised five kids solo. 

She is a warrior of the highest order.

Last night over the phone, she said, 

Elizabeth! I don't know whence it came, but I am so happy these days, even with my crooked hands and wobbly legs. I don't think I've been happier.

She said,

Elizabeth, sometimes I tell myself, 

take another look. 

Maybe if I try seeing whatever is coming at me or whatever I'm moving into, maybe there's another way to see it.

I don't know whence she started speaking like a Quaker woman but it was all so fresh and alive, her happiness, so beyond the limits of the flesh, crooked fingers. Hearing her southern twang, after all these years in Southern California, receiving those small, potent gems from her was a great Mother's Day gift. 

I feel so needy for 
some kind of sign 
words of encouragement 
calmness
a mother's touch.

I was flooded by her. 

And still this morning, 
holding it close, 
a tiny bird in my hands.

take another look.

Just A Reminder

Sometimes I'm so stuck inside my crowded brain, 

story ideas

photographs

the memory of my mother's voice 

a barking dog

shopping lists,  cat food  humus lemons                                                                                                                        

worries

I lose my way.

It's a gift to be reminded of how you move through the world, especially if the vision you hold for yourself is sometimes skewed, it's a gift to remember how deeply connected we all are, even if we only meet briefly: a yoga class, standing in line at the market, a smile across a crowded traffic jam.

I needed a reminder. 

On this May Day I offer you a reminder, via a letter from S, which I'm now sending out as a letter to you. capiche? Especially the last part, her message to me...is for you too. I'm so grateful S took the time to write me. 

She wasn't sure I even remembered her! I do. 

But even if I didn't, She wrote anyway.

note to self: reach out

Betsy,

You probably don't remember me, I've been coming to Deerfield for 3 years now, and I've always been grateful for your yoga classes. The first year I took a yoga class from you I was struggling with some marital and parental "stuff" and really questioning everything about my role as a person, mother, and wife. That year my little message card from you read "COURAGE". How appropriate it was! The next year I received "I am filled with light" and "follow your path". This year it was "awareness" and "practice contentment". I carry these cards with me because I believe they were meant for me and sometimes I re-read them. They give me clarification and comfort. I am blessed to have met you, practice yoga with you and accept your encouraging messages! You have such a sweet soul and uplifting peaceful spirit.

So today, my message to you is.....

Have courage,

be filled with light,

follow your path,

practice awareness

and contentment.

You are loved.

- S 

We need reminding that we are 

filled with light 

yup, you are.


















...and that we're all in this together. 

namaste,
xo b

To Go Easy

                     - from the Strand Bookstore in NYC

I've been thinking too much lately, 

about the state of the world and how is it that we are still here with so much crazy flailing rage and fear and loss swirling around.

I've been bursting into small and big weeps in a variety of places: 

the grocery store 

the library

at work

in my kitchen

shoveling mulch into my garden

driving 

face buried in my big-ear dog's soft head

My friend, Mary, says I'm lucky that I cry. She says most people keep it all stuffed inside and well, that's just crazy-making, she says. And it is. Trying to keep all the world's woes contained inside one body is a health-care issue.  A self-care issue. 

But I do try. 

To keep it stuffed inside. 

It never works. 

Eventually I burst.

bursting is a really good thing

I'm finding much of this being alive, messy and complicated and often really unclear about where I'm headed or what my next step should be. And I'm a little tired, with myself, for trying to force a serenity that can't rise up inside me as long as I'm trying to beat back my shadow(s).

My shadow(s) have an honest take on the world just as much as my soft, soothing yoga mama self does. 

Mantras are good.

Breathing is good. 

So is weeping 

So is gnashing your teeth if it helps you crack open.

I'm back to what I've known all along.

Life is a messy trip. not always, but often.

There is no map, the road appears as you go.

Relationships = people.

People = complicated 

Dad used to say, I'm an ass, you're an ass. 

this is true and very freeing.

Nobody has this nailed down. And that's okay.

Friends help.

Dogs help.

Family helps.

Walking helps.

Writing helps.

Trees help.

- to let you go easy into the world.

Add to the list. ___________ helps...

Thanks to my soul-sister in the Green Mt. State for this beautiful poem by Mary Oliver. Her writing is always a healing balm.

There's another one: poetry helps.

When I am among the trees, 

When I am among the trees,

especially the willows and the honey locust, 

equally the beech, the oaks and the pines, 

they give off such hints of gladness, 

I would almost say that they save me, and daily. 

I am so distant from the hope of myself, 

in which I have goodness, and discernment, 

and never hurry through the world 

but walk slowly, and bow often. 

Around me the trees stir in their leaves 

and call out, “Stay awhile.” 

The light flows from their branches. 

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say, 

“and you too have come 

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled 

with light, and to shine.” 

-Mary Oliver

peace be with you.

xo b

Stripped Clean

bulletin board stripped clean ~

Writing is a way of laying your armor down. It's a surrendering to the truth of your mind, the physical sensations of the body, to the present moment. All which will change in the next instant.

Writing shows you all the memories from the past that get carted along from place to place, like the box of old albums that may be worth something but really, they are dust gatherers. Either take the time to discern their worth, or give them away. Toss even. You won't die from this. Instead, a small space of breath opens up.


Beyond the past is the clutter of future visions, stacked neatly in the corner, the adventurous travels, the refreshed romance of a marriage, published books, wads of money in the bank account, the sweet sensation of security. Ah, yes, now I am safe. Now I am secure. When this happens, and that happens. When all the big and little boxes are stacked just so, peace will wash over you.













In the quiet of the upstairs bedroom, cat on lap, cup of morning tea, the chips fall onto the page, past future all calling for my attention pick me pick me while the warm body of my snoring cat is felt through the blanket, a bird squawks, the sky looks like rain, then sun sweeps through the room.


In this moment, 
thanks to black Flair pen 
and small notebook, full up with words,  

I'm remembering how really great it felt to strip the bulletin board near my laundry room. A storm blew through me on a Saturday morning, tossing old business cards, the long written to-do list for the house, postcards from places I love but may never get back to. 

I stripped it clean and got on with my day.

xo b

The Egg of the Phoenix

Change is the constant
the signal for rebirth,
the egg of the phoenix.

- Christina Baldwin



photo by Rob Jackson/ NYC Easter Parade 2013