summer

quote from “My Star” by Robert Browning

deep summer means going down to the pond in the early evening to wait for the meteor shower. we all roast marshmallows over a sleepy fire. dragonflies flit past. conversation drifts soft and sparse. on my blanket i stare straight up as night creeps in, an occasional hiss from the fire. we breathe into the night sky. minutes pass. “there’s one,” someone says, and i know they’re pointing in the dark. soon, we are transfixed, watching as the stars streak, brilliant in their heavenly falls. the hopeful quiet moments of waiting are always answered with the promise of a wish.

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Many thanks to Eugie’s Causerie for this week’s prompt, “brilliance.”

the power of positive feedback

My new ukulele now sports two bright-colored ribbons. Every time I look at it, I cannot help but feel a little burst of inner smile.

Yup, I showed up for the music shop’s beginner ukulele club this week. I had no idea just how marvelous this experience would be.

There were eight of us in the group that evening. It was a mixed bunch of folks ranging from teenagers to oldsters.

I was the only new person in the group. The instructor brought over an electronic tuner and walked me through a proper tuning of my ukulele.

As everyone else in the group swiftly launched into strumming, I was handed a piece of paper with three chords shown on it, and their use in the tune, “Happy Birthday.” After some pointers on hand position, the instructor walked me through the song, and then bid me to practice it a bit. Then, he was off to listen to the other strummers.

The whole room hummed and swayed with all the strumming. No one was playing the same tune at the same time, and yet there was nothing displeasing or chaotic about it. In fact, quite the reverse.

I kept strumming away at “Happy Birthday” until the instructor eventually wandered back and asked me how I was doing. He leaned in and listened and watched closely as I gave him a run-through. Much to my amazement, he told me what a great job I did. He gestured toward two gongs, one big and one little, and invited me to choose one to strike.

What a funny moment that was. I almost declined the invitation, but, in truth, I was delighted. So, I went up to the big gong and gave it a gentle whack with the mallet. As I turned back, I found the instructor happily approaching me with a bright yellow ribbon which he tied onto the headstock of my ukulele.

I was pretty stunned that I managed to acquire a second ribbon later in the evening after successfully managing to play “Let It Be.” The instructor got me started on my third piece, Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah,” by the end of the evening.

I floated on air as I headed homeward into the snowy dark. A little bit of encouragement goes such a long way!

It reminded me of the first time I went running on a track with a local group. I was the slowest one in the bunch, daunted and beleaguered, but, damn, if I didn’t hear a bunch of folks call out “Great job!” as I panted my way over the finish. Several reached out for a high five. I looked into a group of folks genuinely smiling at me without a hint of condescension.

That’s one of the things I really love about runners. There is always so much mutual encouragement. Even out on a trail alone, there’s nothing strange about coming along another runner you’ve never met before, and hearing “Good job!” as you pass.

The power of positive feedback – you gotta love it. Seems like the older you get, the less you hear it, and yet, the power of an encouraging word is undiminished.

Definitely feeling empowered on my ukulele path, I am happy to practice and really enjoying my “homework.” I’m also looking forward to earning some more ribbons. 🙂

practice

We know the absolute value of it for our children. Practice, practice, practice. Math or music or handwriting. Memorizing, anything. Sports. Languages.

As adults, it seems harder to practice. Things move more along the lines of instant gratification, impatience for results, and, ultimately, abandonment of objectives. Hey, we’re busy people.

The thing is, though, practice makes some pretty damned amazing things possible, even for us grown-ups. There are things we think we can’t do that, in reality, just take practice.

I spent most of my life never having run a mile. Or a quarter mile. Never even really thought about running, or would have thought it was possible.

Until the day I wanted it enough that I started to practice.

Writing is like that, too. Writing – certainly good writing – does not just happen. It takes practice.

Meditation? When you finally, really practice, that’s when you begin to realize the effects.

There are about a zillion things to do on this amazing earth. Why settle for ‘same old, same old’ when we are capable of so much more if we just put in the effort? Practice.

Self talk is a practice, too. Either we’re telling ourselves every damned day that we can, that we’re capable, that we’re deserving, that we will, or we’re telling ourselves we’re not good enough, we can’t, and it’s impossible. That’s neuroplasticity at work. It’s learning. What would you rather teach yourself?

I am reminded of the power of practice in a drawing class I’ve been taking. It’s pretty basic stuff. We started off with the blind contour drawing, and we’re progressing with more detail and layers. Each time I am faced with the blank sheet of paper and the assigned exercise, I panic inside. I resist. “I can’t!”

But I can. It’s just a matter of practice. And it is so empowering to be reminded of that.

I have long believed it true: anything is possible. Commitment first. Then, practice.

What is it you are waiting to learn?

 

setback and opportunity

It took me awhile to finally accept it, but my sewing machine was abandoning me. There was no getting the tension right, stitches were loose or tangled or skipped. I fussed with the tension, changed needles, cleaned the machine. Nothing I did changed anything, in fact, it was getting worse. It got bad enough that I finally realized that the stitches, or the lack of them, simply were completely unacceptable.

This machine is like my right arm. I think in sync with it. We have stitched miles together for years and years. I can’t bear to let it go.

A few years ago, I found one on eBay and bought it as a backup for precisely such a moment. I broke that baby out.

All was well for a little while. Just a little while. Soon, however, it became clear there would be no zig zag stitches. Then, there came an odd noise. Finally, there was a growl and the needle just snapped during straight-and-level stitching. The replacement needle simply slammed into the bobbin. It was done.

It would appear that these machines are just getting old enough, and well-used enough, that they’re ready to retire.

This is a pretty troubling development for me. I need to sew. My old machine knows how I think. I knew what to expect from it, how to work with it. It’s got little pencil marks on it that only the two of us understand.

I thought about taking the machine in for repair, but I have serious doubts that any repair would last long, as old as my machine is.

It would appear that now I am going to have to learn a new machine.

I am trying to digest this. It’s uncomfortable. I also realize that I can’t stew too long, because one day – and I’m sure it won’t be long – I will have need of my machine.

Change. It’s just hard.

Nevertheless, after all these years, I suppose a new machine could be an opportunity. I will have to learn all about my new friend. After a tentative, unbearable glance at new machines, online, it appears likely that it will have tons more stitches than my old machine – so much to explore, right? It might even thread itself. Huh. And, of course, if I take the plunge and invest in a new machine, I will certainly want to justify it by putting it to plenty of use, right?

Change, after all, is a given in life. Sometimes we invite it, and other times, it is foisted upon us. Either way, best to buck up, practice smiling, be curious, and wade in.

I believe it was Einstein who said,

“In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.”

Still, I’m not quite past my grief just yet. I’m going to open up my backup machine and have a look at the innards. Maybe, just maybe, there’s something fixable in there.

flight path

Absolutely spectacular day here yesterday. The temperature soared up to near 50 degrees, with blue, blue skies lavishing the scenery. Too good not to be out in it.

I ventured out this time to a town with which I am not familiar. I just wanted to explore a little.

Along the way, I travelled country roads, and that wonderful phenomenon took me by surprise: the way things just fall away from you as you leave the city behind and you begin to absorb the calm of the country. It feels almost physical. Worries, concerns, the general buzz of background stress just begin to drop away.

Once I arrived, I discovered that the town had a riverwalk. So, of course, I started walking.

As I set out, I heard the loud honking of geese just overhead. I quickly realized that I was surrounded by them – on the water, in the air, in the field. Apparently the migrating geese liked this location, and I just happened to be there at the right time.

They were wary, but neither did they flee. It was such a treat to see them all, and so close, and at this particular moment – a moment of change.

I wended my way along the path, also noticing that there were quite a few ducks, carrying on a rather lively discussion, too.

When I had walked a ways along, I looked back across the field where so many geese were resting. Just then, two people walked out. Instead of walking the path, they walked straight into the field. And, naturally, this inspired the entire assembly of geese in the vicinity to take to the air. It was a lovely sight to behold, though I was chagrined that their stop-over was interrupted.

I just stood and watched the rising layers of geese, easily forming their orderly flight arrangements. Up, up, up, and sailing off into the blue all together.

I wonder how far their travels will take them, when I’ll see them returning. Why now is the right time.

So much that I don’t know. So much beautiful mystery in life.

the binder

Somewhere along the line, I started to keep a slim binder with a select few items in it. On the front of the binder, it says, “you are entirely up to you.”

I look at this binder fairly frequently. Sometimes, if I am feeling down or lacking focus, just leafing through it somehow centers me. It gives me a little positive push.

On the first page on the inside, there is a bunch of scribbling on some somewhat wrinkled paper. Buried in all that are the words, “If you feel like something’s missing, it’s probably you.” I believe the quote is attributable to Robert Holden. At some point in time, my scribbled page mattered enough to me that it became the anchoring of my binder.

Indeed, that is what the binder is about – reminding me who I am.

Following that are a few pages holding small pieces of creative work that I made, and the occasional doodled remark, like, “MAKE. Make anything.” These pages are very important to me. When I need to remind myself who I am, they help me in a calm, happy way.

The binder also holds the personal mission statement I carefully crafted some years ago.

Last, but not least, I have just a few pages with quotes or text that serve to remind me who I am and inspire me to be all that.

Periodically, things get taken out of this binder, when they are no longer really useful. Occasionally, things get added.

Utsav Raj shared his poem, “Travel Bird,” yesterday on his site, My Spirals. I knew when I read it that I just wanted it around.

Reading it reminded me of how to be alive: to soak life in, to be awake for it, to see it, to feel it, to be it.

It’s so easy for me to be focused on the minutiae, distracted by this or that thread of meaningless occupation, obligation, routine, troubles – stuff that literally just takes up time. I’d rather be alive for my life.

Feeling, doing, seeing, breathing not just to exist, I want to be the pulse in the universe that in my heart of hearts I know I am. I want to explore the edges, stretch them further out, find out what’s out there and in there, and feel it all. I think we all do.

Anyway, rather than me just rambling on, perhaps read “Travel Bird,” which says it better than I can.

And now that it’s in my special binder, I’ll read it from time to time, and be reminded. Thank you, Utsav.

beloved books

I read a lot, but in recent years I’ve noticed I don’t read a lot of fiction. Lately, however, I happily stumbled across the Blue Mood Café blog, and it somehow opened my eyes to what I’ve been missing.

As I perused her comments in the Best of 2018 post, something clicked. I decided right then to make reading for enjoyment a bigger part of my 2019 picture.

Happily, her top two 2018 picks were right there on the shelf at the local library:  Love and Other Words by Christina Lauren (the author is actually two people), and Unravelling Oliver by Liz Nugent.

I blasted right through those two books before 2019 even started. The first was probably not exactly my cup of tea, but the second hit the sweet spot.

This was just ridiculously self-indulgent reading, particularly with Unravelling Oliver, a mystery which was pretty much impossible to put down. What fun!

Whew! I felt kind of guilty about suspending time like that, but not enough that it prevented me from dipping into yet another book.

This time, I revisited a book that has long been on my shelves. It’s a very much beloved book that I read with my children. I love children’s literature in general, but The Wind in the Willows is one of the special ones. I wanted to read it again, but somehow never could quite allow myself to indulge. Until now.

I shamelessly plucked it off the shelf, and dove in.

Right off the bat, I was in that dreamy place by the river, steeped in Kenneth Grahame’s delicious language.

How can one not just absolutely love the characters? I want a Rat in my life, desperately.

At any rate, it was an awesome trip down memory lane and, really, into another world.

I love that I have now been able to give myself permission to just read with abandon – wherever my whim takes me. It’s kind of funny to realize the subconscious constraints I placed on myself in this area.

It also made me realize that I put a whole heck of a lot of similar constraints on myself generally. I’m all about what I’ve got to do, what I should do, what I’m not doing, what makes sense for me to do, but not a whole lot of what I just want to do, what I’d really like to do.

That’s actually a pretty big realization with some broad implications. I think there is more to come on this topic.

By the way, Blue Mood also mentions several challenges one can participate in, and I admit I am tempted. If I set a goal to read a certain number of books, it might encourage me to really let myself go wild with this recreational reading. Living on the edge, heh?

How about you? Got any beloved books of your own?

revelry and resolutions

New Year’s Eve. Revelry accompanied by hopeful resolutions.

When I was a kid, we always put a cabbage on the table overnight, with silver coins. This apparently ensured that we would have both food and money for the coming year. At midnight, we all went out in the street in our pajamas with every pot and pan from the kitchen and made as much noise as we could.

Although my routine now might actually still include the cabbage, more important to me is the clarifying of intentions. These are broad intentions, not the oft-recommended specific goal-setting resolutions.

They boil down to just a few areas.

Take care of my physical self: Eat well, run/walk, rest.

Allow my creative self: Write. Sew. Ink. Draw. Wherever it goes.

Be my loving self:  Nurture relationships. Nurture community. Stand by my compassion for others and the earth.

Enjoy life: Be with loved ones. Hike. Read more books just for fun. Kayak. Explore. Watch the stars and the birds. Unrushed coffee actually sitting down at the local cafe. Like that.

I usually pick a word for the year, too. This year, I’ve picked three:

Wonder. Love. Joy.

How about you?

tracks made

Christmas happened, and now the focus shifts to the new year. The news media helpfully supplies us with recaps ad infinitum of what went down in 2018. It isn’t pretty, either. Nevertheless, they will rush us along toward Times Square and the sparkling globe countdown to 2019.

Seems like a reasonable time to look back over one’s own year, the highs, the lows… the lessons. Always lessons, you know, always.

This was a pretty huge year for me, and it was not an easy one. I made some big changes in my life, and faced some harsh difficulties. Looking back, I can see that the effort was worth it.

Letting go:  The changes I made somehow allowed me to finally, finally let go of some things to which I had been desperately clutching. Letting go was a huge, difficult years-long lesson; or, perhaps, the lesson was that refusing to let go is unbearably painful and one owes it to oneself and others to find a way to let go.

“There is something in the pang of change, more than the heart can bear. Unhappiness remembering happiness.” Yep, Euripedes said that.

Courage: The changes I made took courage. Change does, in fact, take courage. And I found that I have lots of it. Good to know.

Perseverance: Yes, thankfully there are those angels that meet you on the path here and there, but ultimately you are alone on the journey. No one can take your steps for you – you’ve got to do the work. That said, the angels are critical to shine a light for you, make you see a bit of the path just ahead and help you see it’s possible. I hope I can do the same for others.

Discipline: I faced some health hiccups which served to remind me to take care of my physical self better. This basically translates to establishing better discipline to run or walk, and to make the effort to feed myself well. Discipline is a challenge in other areas as well, like, for example, creativity. Discipline is a hugely important area of exploration for me across the board.

Boundaries – a lesson I thought I had already learned – once again became a subject for which I am apparently doing a thesis or something. The adventure continues.

Failures: Failure happens. Mistakes really are made. Pick up. Dust off. Learn. Regroup. Smile. Charge on.

Compassion: I felt burdened all year long to find the ways that I could bring active compassion where it matters. This applied to myself, to others, and to the world.  The events in the news media I mentioned earlier – they matter in this respect, too. Rather than be daunted by the foreboding material presented, the challenge is to remain in compassion and to work for positive change.

As I reflect back, there’s lots more. This was a rather epic year for me. I guess, though, I’m still sort of getting it all into focus.

And there is the path ahead.  Hence, 2019.

finding serenity

Once again, CalmKate has gone and made me very thoughtful about things. Her Friday Foto Fun prompt topic is “Serenity.”  She asks us to seek out a photo that represents what serenity means to us. Her own photo shows a warm, inviting beach with “surf, sand, sky, and scrubs.”  Beautiful!

Serenity to me is peacefulness. The feeling of safety is key to my serenity. I went for many years never feeling safe – and it’s a hard habit to break. Nevertheless, I am able to feel safe now in certain places if conditions are right.

For example, the early morning hours, still dark, are a special time to me. At that time, usually around 5 a.m., I am awake, alert, calm, centered – usually, anyway. I’ll go get a cup of coffee, and head back to bed, where I sit quietly in the dark, just being. My friend, the cat, knows this routine and shares it with me. He curls up and nestles in to keep me warm, exuding a feeling of peace and safety as he softly purrs his joy. That’s serenity.

Serenity often also comes to me while walking in natural spaces. The silence of a forest is like breathing. The trees themselves are entities, wise angels along the way, friends. Mountain paths, too, are places of serenity. The sky, the birds, squirrels, wind – it all speaks peace to me.

A small pond also sets the stage for serenity. The evidence that it is home in the truest sense for any number of inhabitants – fish, frogs, insects, birds, turtles, beaver, muskrats, snakes – makes it an intimate visit with friends. It is a quiet pause in my own activities, while I sit at their table, so to speak, and quietly watch them doing their thing in the water, among the trees, the grasses, and reeds. That, that is serenity. I used to have a pond I loved, and it was a truly special place for such a feeling.

Another moment of serenity is when I am hand sewing without distraction. The methodical rhythm of blanket-stitching my penny rugs is serenity. I love the tactile experience, feeling the fabric, using my hands. I love seeing the colors of the fabrics. I love the focus, the intention of the piece. I can’t do it just anywhere, but the places where I can, I find serenity.

Oddly enough, small, general aviation airports are also often places of serenity for me if I can experience them undisturbed and alone. I like to just watch the runways, the windsock, the comings and goings of the small planes. I always feel a tremendous sense of possibility during these periods of quiet observation. I used to be a regular at one airport where I often retreated during a stressful time. I frequently just sat in my car and watched, but they also thoughtfully provided a few nice benches where folks like me could perch.

Art galleries, too, are usually places of serenity. Surrounded by all that quiet creativity, just soaking it in, is usually a peaceful, calming experience – although, not always. Some artists bring an energy to their work that disturbs a space, and I am sure it is meant to be that way.

A garden is a place of peace and joy, too. Walk into the garden, and everything else falls away. Like the pond, a garden has a life of its own. There, I become a quiet witness to life unfolding in the most beautiful, astonishing ways.

Once again, I am grateful for this prompt. It has brought to mind so many ideas, so many possibilities for what works. It’s so easy to feel distracted, unsettled, as we go with the flow of doing what we must. But this little reverie of mine shows me how easy it is to escape all that, too. There are many opportunities to find a moment of serenity.