You are loved.
Meditation Milestone
Late last January, I made a resolution to meditate every day
for a year and yesterday I hit my 300th consecutive day milestone. I
use an excellent meditation app called Insight Timer. There are thousands of
free guided meditations and also a cool timer. (At the moment I prefer the ambient sound “Winter
fire” with Ombu interval bells.)
Occasionally I browse through comments on the 365 Days
Together group page and I’m amazed by what people write. They claim that meditation
has completely changed their lives for the better. In contrast, my discoveries have been more
subtle. The most helpful thing that I’ve observed is how painful it can be to
think. I don’t mean mental/emotional pain either. I mean that there is physical
discomfort associated with mental movie-making. Numerous times during
meditation, I have caught myself feeling an unpleasant pressure or tightness in my neck and head. As soon as I notice it, I’m able to slow down the images in my mind. I
kind of breathe through the thoughts and there’s immediate relief. Picture your
hand clenching something and then easing up on it—allowing your fingers
and hand to relax. It’s possible to do this with the brain as well. I’m averse
to the phrase “let it go,” but I once heard a meditation teacher describe it as temporarily putting down something that you’ve picked up (like a stone), which sounds kinder and makes more sense
to me.
“How Are You?”
The question “How are you?” seems probing
to me lately because it’s not one that I feel I can answer simply or truthfully.
My mother died less than two months ago. I miss her. I want to hear her voice.
There are things I want to tell her. While it was an honour and a privilege to
be there for mom in the last week of her life, I was painfully aware that I was
witnessing all her “lasts.” The last time she walked, talked, and fed herself, for
example. In many ways, when I was caring for her, I felt like a mother with a
newborn. I slept less than 20 hours that week. I spent countless hours by mom’s
side—holding her hand and quietly encouraging her. “You’re
so brave.” “You’re almost there!” “Everyone loves you!” For the most part, I
felt calm and purposeful. One of the last things my mom said to me was, “I’m
sorry you have to see this.” I assured her that there was no place I would
rather be. I told her I loved her and she told me she loved me. Although it was
intense and sad, there was a certain grace in her transition.
In less than two weeks, my daughter
Hope will be having her second heart surgery. We learned about its
inevitability just over two years ago. We’ve had time to wrap our heads around
it and accept it, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying. Occasionally at
night, it will weigh heavy on Hope’s mind and she will tearfully ask me
existential questions like, “Why are we here [on earth]?” and “Did we choose to
be here or are we forced to be here?” Of course I don’t have any answers
because these are profound and fundamental questions. Questions that sensitive humans
have probably been asking for as long as we have roamed this planet. It’s
heartbreaking to me that she is asking them at the tender age of 11. In a way
though, I am delighted and proud because I know from Hope’s ruminations that
she is deep, intelligent, and spiritual. Is there anything more important than
pondering the reason for existence?
How am I? When I think
about the uncertain future, I get light-headed and nauseous. So I try to refrain
from mental time travel and remain in the present. It’s not at all easy, but mindfulness
brings my attention back to the simple things that I’m grateful for. Like the
changing seasons, crunching maple leaves underfoot, a latte
sweetened with maple syrup, fresh linens, snuggles, a compelling memoir, and the magic of
watching monarch butterflies migrate. For now, my enjoyment of these things is
my gauge for wellness. When caring family or friends ask how I am doing, I guess I’m
not being dishonest when I reservedly reply, “I’m alright.”
I’ll Be Seeing You
On July 31 at 1:46 a.m. I heard my dear mother take her last breath. She was at home in bed lying next to my dad—her life partner and soulmate. I was in the next room.
Because he is so heartbroken, I have been staying with dad for the last two nights as he sleeps. For comfort, my dad falls asleep listening to talk radio and last night, around the time of mom’s death, the song “I’ll Be Seeing You” came on. A sign to me that mom is at peace and still very much with us.
I dedicate this song to my mother and father. May you be reunited again soon. I love you with all my heart. Always.
Because he is so heartbroken, I have been staying with dad for the last two nights as he sleeps. For comfort, my dad falls asleep listening to talk radio and last night, around the time of mom’s death, the song “I’ll Be Seeing You” came on. A sign to me that mom is at peace and still very much with us.
I dedicate this song to my mother and father. May you be reunited again soon. I love you with all my heart. Always.
Robins
The 4:30 p.m. lesson has ended. Now the juvenile robin sits
quietly in the sunlit lower branches of the catalpa tree waiting for its next
instruction. Every so often it sharpens its beak on the limb beneath it.
Earlier, on the grass outside my bedroom window, the young
robin stood observing its father. The older robin cocked its head to the side
listening and then jabbed at the damp grass to pull out a fat worm. The younger
robin squawked expectantly, until its father broke the worm up into smaller
pieces that it could place in its offspring’s gaping mouth.
 |
| A quick snap. I didn't want to disturb her. |
Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here in the suburbs. But then I remember that like the robin who built her fine nest beneath the eaves, I also chose this house. Where the yard is green and peaceful, the leaves on the tall trees tremble, and the peonies and lilacs smell sweet in the spring. This house made of brick where I felt at home and safe enough to bring my own child into this world.
Letters for Siba
Troy Dean from Red Light Radio created this beautiful and poignant mix for his partner Siba who passed away recently. A reminder to
cherish the ones we love because we never know how long we will
have with them. Everything is constantly changing and nothing lasts forever.
I witnessed the death of a grackle last week. It was being
chased by a robin when they collided with the glass railing of my neighbour’s
deck (a truly senseless design, if you ask me). They both crashed to the ground
and rolled painfully on their backs. Their beaks opening and closing silently. The
grackle died relatively swiftly, but the robin lived. We put it into a box with
air holes punched in it and a tea towel on top. It rested quietly in my
daughter’s room for the night. Early
the next morning, it flew out of the box so we opened the back door and let it
leave on its own. I hope it’s OK. This incident has left me shaken. What frightens
me about death (loss) is how swiftly it can happen and how the world keeps turning, as though nothing tragic has occurred. Sensitive people are left to navigate
through dark waters on their own.
I don’t know who Troy Dean is personally, nevertheless I feel an affinity
to his song selections. I’m sorry for his painful loss, but I’m grateful that he shared this
deeply personal and romantic mix with his listeners.
Close Calls
A black bear and her cubs dart in front of our car as we
travel 80 kilometres per hour down the road. Mama and one cub make it to the woods on the other side. Frightened by our
fast approach, two other cubs turn back hurriedly from the road. Will they
later make a safe crossing and be reunited? I warn oncoming cars by flashing my high beams. I keep going.
At the cottage I take wood from the woodpile and return to the fire pit. Then, there is a thundering crash as though the woodpile has toppled, Jenga style. “What was that?!” you rush over and say. Heading back, we discover a 100 pound tree limb that has fallen directly over the spot where I had—only a moment before—been innocently gathering wood.
We’re driving home and my headlights do a poor job of lighting the darkened road. We’re listening to “Carmina Burana: Introduction” from The Doors soundtrack. There’s something on the road. I swerve to avoid a large raccoon “sleeping” in my lane. I’m grateful that my last words on earth won’t be, “Oh crap!” (This story will be re-enacted with growing enthusiasm well past bedtime and remembered again first thing in the morning. No doubt to be relayed animatedly during sharing time at school.)
You should know that at yoga last Thursday I selected an angel card from a crystal bowl that said, “Angel Michael blesses you with safety.” With all of these close calls yesterday I seriously have to wonder.
Oh, and I found this impressive mushroom that I think might be the psychoactive Amanita muscaria. Which is funny because while I was photographing it I was thinking of that caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland atop a giant mushroom puffing on a hookah encouraging Alice to eat it...
Forgive Me
A few years ago I shredded the majority of personal letters
that I have received over the years (along with burning all the diaries that I
have kept since I was a child). I did this mainly because it makes me sad
to reminisce. Also, I don’t want to leave my personal belongings for anyone
else to sort through when I’m gone.
There were some things that I was unable to part with
though. One, a touching letter of apology from my mother. As my mother’s
dementia has progressed, I am no longer able to communicate adequately with her.
She is mostly silent now. When I call, I can hear her breathing on the
telephone line. After a moment or two, she will say, “I’m sorry. I don’t know
what to say.” Like the stars in the night sky at dawn, she is fading. I miss her terribly. This card from years ago reminds me of all that
is brave and good about my mother.
Mom once confessed to me that she wished she were more creative. That she
could knit, for example, and make something beautiful to be remembered by. To encourage her, I sent a letter
reminding her of the eight, healthy children that she has successfully raised.
How we have all turned out to be thoughtful and loving people. Like so many of
us though, she felt she had to do
something to be worthwhile. It saddens me that she doubted herself. I remember
all the ways that she showed me she cared—she wrote/telephoned often, sent
along helpful and useful gifts, and showed interest in the minutiae of my life.
Most notably, she was not too proud or fearful to admit when she was wrong.
She was sorry when she felt that she had harmed me. She wrote a letter to ask
for my forgiveness, (which was a given!). I love and admire her deeply for
that.
Love & Appreciation
“Somehow everything I’d learned about life pointed to an
idea that to receive something you had to earn it. I’d never thought of myself
as a tree, a graceful being visited by songbird, starlight, and rain, and which
people love for itself, not for what it does or how smart it is, or how
indispensable.”
Little Gifts
When I held
her close, I could feel her heartbeat.
Her hair smelled of wildflowers
and moss.
Sunset at the Café
A boisterous wind roughly
played with the new leaves on the trees today. I heard that it might snow. I’m
sitting by the glowing embers of the faux logs in the fireplace at the café.
The sun is setting—a magenta sky with a few
highlighted orange cumulus clouds. I haven’t seen such a colourful sky in a
long while.
I brought a
novel to read, but I can’t get into it. What makes a book good? It’s hard to
put your finger on it. Voice, vocabulary, style. It’s magical when it all comes
together. Earlier in the week, I read ’70s singer Rita Coolidge’s memoir and I
found it disappointing. Her recollections meander, creating a choppy writing
style that is grating. And although I’m sure it was not her intention, the
numerous racial references she makes are often stereotypical and insulting. The
reviews for Delta Lady have been
positive though, which I find puzzling.
Thanks to Marina at A Beautiful Hue, I had the pleasure of
reading The Signature of All Things. Set in the 1800s, this impressive
novel was written by Eat, Pray, Love
author Elizabeth Gilbert. The novel’s memorable heroine is a passionate and
brilliant botanist named Alma Whittaker. Of course, the natural world features
prominently in this story, which mainly takes place on a wooded estate in Philadelphia. But like
all good epic sagas, there’s adventure and romance, too. Travelling under the
guise of a botaniste voyageuse, Alma journeys by ship to lush Tahiti
where she hopes to find answers about the sensitive and spiritual man that she
loves. Gilbert’s obviously an imaginative and clever writer. Regrettably, not
all of her books are worth reading, though. Committed, for instance, was
terribly tedious. 
Another book
I enjoyed recently was Gloria Steinem’s My
Life on the Road. In the first chapter, Steinem ponders the human desire to
move and explore as opposed to remaining in one place. “I wonder if seasonal
signals might be programmed into the human brain,” she writes. “After all,
we’ve been a migratory species for nearly all our time on earth, and the idea
of a settled life is very new. If birds will abandon their young rather than
miss the moment to begin a flight of thousands of miles, what migratory signals
might our own cells still hold?” Because I’ve always had what my friend Lorae
refers to as “itchy feet,” Steinem’s words jumped off the page for me. What if
my urge for heading west, say, is in my DNA? If so, why should I feel guilty
for having this innate desire? (Writing this, I came across an interesting online article about a dopamine-related gene (DRD4-7R). According to this article,
approximately 20 per cent of the population have a variation of this gene, which
has been linked with restlessness and curiosity. Because of this correlation,
this gene is being dubbed the “wanderlust gene.”)
Well, it’s twilight now. My matcha green tea latte has been reduced to
foam. I wonder if anyone else has taken note of the vibrant sunset. As I pack
up my things, I contemplate a line from a review that I read on The Signature of
All Things: “whether a life lived in the shadows, comprising of a
million, small, unnoticed actions, is worth any less than a life of big
gestures and public recognition.” Before I get in my car and head home, I
look up at the now darkened sky. I notice that the clouds—whether they were appreciated or not—have dissipated in the troposphere gracefully and without a sound.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)