worries

I notice the shadow falling over the afternoon. I pause, wondering. Then, a long, rolling rumble of thunder confirms it.

I feel both a tension and a peace, and I’m not quite sure how that works together. 

The weather moves in, and the rain begins to pelt.

The sudden coolness and wateriness of the world surrounds me. The energy sweeping this maelstrom to my doorstep buzzes in the air. The pressure of the next thunderous boom builds inexorably.

And yet, I am at utter peace. There is somehow safety in this sequestered moment, resting in the arms of nature even when there may be trouble there. There is a necessary letting go; there is nothing to which to hold on. This minute just is. 

I look down, and there is my best friend cat stretched out lazily about as far as he can go, wholly content.

It is just a breath of a moment where all the worry, all the unknowns of life in the Time of Covid recede: a rainy respite from what might be normal, or should be, or could be, or God help us. 

Coming away from it all too quickly, I feel the forgotten sense of potential, and right on its heels, fatigue. There’s a lot of work in all the routines of uncertainty and concern, and I’m tired as the mantle of subconscious worry slips back over me. We’re all tired, I think.

But for just that moment, I let go and now I remember what that feels like, that it’s possible inside this epoch of abnormalities. I picture the narrative we’ve lately been living just drifting out the window, like a mist sucked away with the now retreating weather, and I can’t help but notice what’s left.

Possibilities. Everywhere.

Best friend cat renews his stretch, rolling over, abandoned to it.

getting lost

I would be lost
in that place
where we meet
where all of possibility shows itself,
trembles with anticipated joy,
rests untroubled by anxious dreams.

I am lost
in that place
under the star-strewn embrace,
floating on the wind,
snaking like a vine wrapped around 
the branches of a singing tree.

Waiting,
knowing that one could just trip and tumble
into that abyss
of sublime lostness.
Contemplating the circular path
and the seemingly empty space inside.

practice

veru1_16_19bWe 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?