Mean girls

Some time back, my daughter and I were talking about school buses, since she will take the school bus next year. I was telling her how crowded our school bus in India would be and how, when we were younger, we’d run to catch a seat (especially at the back so we could make funny faces at folks driving behind our bus (I know I know – not the right role model huh?)) But how we’d just stand when we were older – for we were then too cool to run to catch a seat.

That was when I remembered that I usually had a seat waiting for me. I was probably in grade nine or ten, and one little girl probably in grade four or five was very fond of me. She would hold a seat for me everyday. I remembered her head sticking out of the window, shouting out telling me she had a seat for me. I laughed when I remembered how she initially would hold a three-seater seat. But soon realized that my friend would sit next to me and my friend and I would chat the whole time. That was when she started holding a two-seater seat so I would chat only with her - my little friend.

“Did you chat with only her?” questioned my daughter. “From time to time,” I said “my friend would stand next to me, plonk her satchel on my lap and we would chat too”. And we went on to talk about the school bus she will take next year.

Some days later, as she got into the car, she said to me, “You could have treated that bus girl nicer, you know. You could have given her a little more attention.” My face drew a blank – then I remembered the story. My eyes grew wide. My daughter still remembered the story. I felt like I had to defend myself. I don’t know about you parents, but I sometimes sense disapproval coming from my daughter and I feel as if I have to defend myself and win approval in her eight-year-old eyes. Sigh… only our generation of parents, I believe.

“Well, I wasn’t mean to her or anything,” I said sticking up for myself. “I did chat with her. But my friend and I had more things to talk about, I suppose” I continued somewhat sheepishly by now.

Yes, I was in a spot. My eight-year old strongly disapproved of the treatment I had doled out to someone years ago.  And sheepish as I was, I felt oddly proud of her. For her little heart went out to the little girl holding the seat for me every day and was looking for justice in that story.  And truly, I wasn’t a mean girl in school. This is just great. Now I’m defending myself to you guys too. But really, I wasn’t mean and I avoided drama. Sigh… who will believe me now…

“Were you like very popular?” she questioned somewhat menacingly now. “No, I wasn’t” I replied quickly. “I would be involved in a lot of things, and people knew who I was, but I wasn’t very popular or anything like that – I was just normal,” still trying hard to wipe off any mean girl images of me from her head.  

“When you’re a teenager, you kind of live in your own world. You don’t always notice things and people around, you see. But you’re right, I could have chatted with her more than I did.” And in that moment I really wished I had.

The Spanish inquisition had ended. I had emerged with uncertain approval ratings and I knew I had to live with it. I couldn’t help wondering how many people we hurt in our lives by not reciprocating their level of attention and affection. And teenager or not, we continue to be wrapped up in our own worlds.

I suppose my daughter, in her lifetime, will meet (or has already met) her share of mean girls (or should we simply call them self-absorbed – mean seems tad harsh). I hope she will navigate through them better than I have been able to. And I feel reassured in knowing that she will probably not be one of them.

Who cares?

Who cares? Who cares? Who cares!!

There are things I really don’t care about – in the sense that I don’t perceive them important, worthy of my time or thought or energy. There are probably things I care about that nobody else in the world would ever care about (probably rightly so). Yes. Each of us cares about certain things and gives a hoot about other things. Other things that somebody else, somewhere else, really really cares about.

But our life is a web of connections. Connections that also connect cares. Slowly, we begin to care about things that we really don’t care about… We care about them because someone else in our life cares about them. We care about them because our not caring about them can make people we care about unhappy. Or perhaps, we care about them because we have been forced or conditioned to do so. Or perhaps we care about them because it is the right thing to do, or the correct social norm, or we don’t want to feel insecure by not caring about something – something that everybody seems to care about… whew… that list would be never-ending and exhausting.

Yes. I believe there are things we care about; and then there are things we make ourselves care about… and whew…that’s a lot of caring about.

If you’re not completely lost in my muddle of words by now, and still have some patience to continue with my muddled thought, let me tell you why I’m writing this. I do not have a lot of energy. And I seem to waste a lot of my energy caring about things I really don’t care about. And in doing so, I lose sight of the things I really care about…

What are the things you really care about? Are there things you really don’t care about – but make yourself care about?

Or perhaps you just don’t care about any of the above. If so, please go about your business (attending to things you truly care about) and don’t waste any more time and energy thinking this is something you need to care about, or make yourself care about it…

Of camels... and perspectives…

I may not be the best storyteller, but my daughter makes me repeat this story over and over. Yes. Most of her friends have already heard it and for those who haven’t, it’s only a question of time. For some reason she never gets tired of listening to it. So despite having repeated it what seems like a few hundred times, I shall probably repeat it a few thousand more.
Really it is just a silly silly story. But it’s probably made you curious. So here it is…

Long long ago, when I was in college, a friend and I went to the desert part of Kutch where my father was posted. He asked us if we were interested in a camel ride. Of course we were. And the next day, when we were in the desert, a camel was brought specially for us.

Now I had been on a camel before. You sat on it, the camel owner led it, you swayed front and back, you said a little prayer when it stood up and sat down, and at the end felt glad to touch terra firma. So I assumed this was going to be no different. Boy, were we in for a surprise!

The two of us sat on the camel. While I was probably still focused on the creature standing up and the strange sensations that creates, the owner had handed me the reins, given me instruction in a language I did not completely understand. “Pull something to go fast, something else to slow down, together to stop (??), something to turn right, something to turn left… did I mention – in a language I did not completely understand?? And before I could protest, explain confusion, incomprehension, he gave fat pats to the camel on his neck with some loud “hurrrr burrrr” more endearing somethings in camel language – somethings the camel understood perfectly and started moving rapidly - away from the humans we knew and felt safe with.

I looked at the reins in confusion, turned to look/ call out to the camel owner… but now many many feet above the ground, in the midst of swaying motions that human bodies are not accustomed to, with uncertain instructions, we noticed the camel was moving way faster than we liked.  

“This camel is going TOO fast. Get it to slow down!!” my friend screamed from behind. “I don’t know how!! Did you understand anything the guy said?” I screamed back. “Of course not! He was talking to you!!” And we swayed and swerved amidst screams and confusion, much of our conversation interspersed with:

My friend: This camel is CRAZY!! Get it to stop. (more screams)
Me: I KNOW! Any ideas how??? (more screams)

By now, I had pulled right, pulled left, both together… and confused the camel completely! And I realized we were now at the other end of the field. “Call out for help!” I shouted. So my friend waved – frantically with both hands. And the folks waiting for us at the other end smiled and waved back.

Yes. They waved back with big benevolent smiles – they didn’t notice our plight, our terror, our confusion, my friend’s desire to jump off the camel… No from where they stood, their perspective offered a view of a brightly bedecked animal in a scorched desert and two youthful, energetic teenagers. Their perspective clearly involved a fun and beautiful adventure for two young girls and no signs of turmoil. 

Given any situation or story, it is always interesting how different people remember entirely different aspects.

My mom remembers how they had specially decorated the camel and decked the (poor) thing out in all its colorful and embroidered and mirror-worked finery.

My friend remembers the camel’s face and mostly his evil evil smile, “Oh…I will never forget how wicked that camel was! Don’t you remember his smile??!!” she exclaimed when I told her how often I repeat the story. “That evil animal turned back, stared at us, and SMILED. He showed ALL his teeth and smiled in SUCH an evil manner!!! Oh that wicked camel - I will never forget him!!” was her reaction elicited at the memory of the story.   

As for me, I remember the general chaos and madness and efforts to figure out what to do and of course, my friend screaming at the back and talking about jumping off the creature! I really don’t remember how decked out the camel was or his evil evil smile.

And now when I tell my daughter the story, I always add the bit from grandma and my friend – for I love the idea of giving her the story with more than just my perspective.

As for the camel owner, I wouldn’t even dare to try and imagine his perspective on the matter – of the two crazy girls, reins in hand, screaming and torturing his poor camel. Yes. It’s great to know different perspectives. And then there are those that are best left unknown.   

So how much help do we need? And where are we getting it?

When life gets challenging, we start to search for solutions, inspiration, the meaning of it all… (okay, okay, maybe only the crazy ones do the last). We want to know how to beat the darn thing and get back to living our life. Or we need help to wade through life – challenge or not. I suspect as a society, we are increasingly on that quest – and the shelves and shelves of self help book seem to be a testament.

I suppose I have tried to do similarly. Not very convincingly, not very disciplinedly (and yes that is now a word), but by jove, I’ve tried. I’ve tried books on diet and nutrition, I’ve tried meditation (which I recommend – whether or not I do it myself), I’ve leafed through several self help books – ranging from spirituality (which I do find interesting), “positive thinking” (gosh I think I detest that expression – so obviously it has not worked for me, right?), to lifestyle (awe-filled eyes at healthy disciplined folks – and I have a fairly healthy lifestyle even), to parenting books (sigh…I will not even tread on those waters)

Most such books make me feel pretty awful. Most such books – I read only a few pages. Most such books I borrow from the library. I don’t dare purchase them, for I don’t want most such books to be staring at me from bookshelves – taunting me, reminding me of the unfinished pages, of the unfollowed (yes, that is now a word too) advice.

Not to doubt the intention and sound advice of the self-help gurus. The intentions and advice are probably perfect. But I just want to turn the other way when I hear a list of 10 things to do to achieve Nirvana (and yes if that list did exist, I would beat you all to get it. I would end up not following it and then wonder why I was the only one not Nirvanified (and yes, that too is now a word)).

Yeah yeah, I know I sound pissed. I probably am. But I wonder if I’m pissed that I feel the need to search for so much wisdom – wisdom so outside of myself, wisdom that I am unable to follow, wisdom that leaves me feeling defeated – for its inability to work in my case and situation.

Now I love books and I have nothing against them. Books make me feel, think, inspire, open up my imagination and my world and all that good stuff. Nor am I trying to diss the self-help gurus out there and their brilliant advice. I just want to question if there is a sense of overwhelm that accompanies such books, the same sense of overwhelm that prevents me from getting past only a few pages. Can these make us deem ourselves less competent, less able to face the situation, less able to look for answers within ourselves?

Maybe it’s just a case of sour grapes. And even if it is, I want to be able to hold on to my energy and confidence and perhaps some such books will help me to do so; but I certainly don’t want the overwhelm from mounds of such  books (despite their best intentions) to take that away from me.


p.s. everybody has a right to be pissed some days... hmm... I need to pick a book on "positive thinking" (sic) you say??

 

Being part of the energy… enjoying being part of the energy… and finally letting go of being part of the energy…

As a family, we enjoy music and as a family, we often grow to like each other’s music. Take for instance our little girl’s playlist when she was younger – an eclectic mix of Broadway musicals, Disney hits, Rock, Pop, classical scores, Italian opera singers to (ahem...) raunchy Bollywood numbers. She would simply choose from the music we listened to and ask for it to be put on her playlist (and she still does to some extent).

When she was about five, the two of us would sing and perform (ahem...) the Phantom of the Opera duet. I would play the phantom (of course), with a sweeping black shawl cloaked around my shoulders and she would be Christine. And we would sing and act away with huge drama and little talent – with sweeping gestures, shaky pitches and a few giggles thrown in… Just glad Andrew Lloyd Weber never saw us – for he would never compose again.

Then there was the time we took our six-year-old to the Broadway performance of Les Miserables. She knew all the songs and really wanted to go. Thankfully, the adult content went over her head and all was well till the next day at breakfast. Program guide in hand, she excitedly said, “Mom, did you know whore 1 (pronounced vahore) was in Sound of Music too? And what’s a whore (vahore) anyways?” My eyes were wide. I made NO attempt to correct any pronunciation, and with as much nonchalance that I could muster, simply said, “Oh, just one of those ladies in ‘lovely ladies’”. Please child, don’t share this information with kids at school…whew…

And I smile to think of her at the opera snoring gently and not-so-quietly to Mozart’s arias in Marriage of Figaro. I know, I know – the first and last time I tried to take her (and my husband) to the opera. Yes, we have sweet memories of her sharing our music.

But the music tables have now turned and we find ourselves humming to Everything is awesome and Happy and of course, all the songs from Frozen. Katy Perry and One Direction are now permanent family members and my playlist now has Lady Gaga and Katy Perry. Each time Call me maybe starts, I scramble to hit next – but fact remains that it is (on my daughter’s insistence) on my playlist. Sigh…

We lead connected lives and we take in each other’s energies as we go about our lives. Playful, energetic kids can make us feel young and lively; watching an old couple walk, holding hands allows us to enjoy togetherness and continuity; watching a baby giggle makes us smile.  

I imagine most people feed into the energy of others and we probably do so unconsciously. And I imagine that is what we do with our kids. Just as our daughter took in our energy in the form of music; we now take in her energy and music… but slowly we will let go of being part of each other’s energies. And I hope we can do so gracefully and seamlessly. Hopefully energies will cross over and connect from time to time and I hope we will take joy in that and simply let go of the rest…

Sweetness

A while back I read something somewhere (so much for a journalist providing good sources… sigh…) that came back to me today for some reason. It was a discussion on domestic violence and they mentioned an interesting aspect about gentleness, or even “sweetness”. For instance they spoke about a father, who was in a bad place after the loss of his wife and faith, and started beating his kids. They spoke of how his place of pain and anger was so disparate from the gentleness his children represented, that he simply couldn’t tolerate it and transferred his rage towards them in helplessness.

Dark as this discussion seems, I am not trying to get into any discussion on domestic violence or soften my stance against it; nor am I am equipped or understand enough to do so. I do however want to look at the idea of ‘sweetness’ and ‘gentleness’ and question if we learn to hide it in a bid to shield ourselves from the time we are little. For if the world sees it, does it leave us feeling vulnerable or unsafe even? And in leaving ourselves gentle, do we fear being taken advantage of, of not being treated with reciprocating kindness? Is that why we learn to close up, to not be as ‘nice’ or ‘kind’ or ‘gentle’?  Do we learn from childhood to toughen up in the face of harshness or adversity? To shield ourselves, protect and hide away the sweetness and gentleness. Are we scared to live with it openly in fear of getting hurt?

Ironically enough, I do believe that it takes enormous amounts of courage and bravery to allow ourselves to remain sweet and gentle. And yes. It does exist. I have seen evidence of it – in people I have admired. Yes. I have seen it together – and it is a powerful combination.

Do we then need to teach ourselves that it is safe for us to be nice, or kind, or gentle, or sweet? Find pockets of courage within that will allow us to be so? Agreed it may somewhat be an innate quality – but how much do we hide it? shield it? protect it? protect against it?  

Just like the tall, strong stem that holds a cluster of fragile petals that form a flower, we need that stem of bravery and courage to allow us to open up and to reveal our cluster of sweetness and gentleness and kindness. And just as the flower relies on the stem and knows it is safe to bloom; can we stay secure in our belief of our courage and know it is safe for us to be sweet and gentle?

Can we be free to be sweet and gentle again?

Choppy waters

This past weekend, camping stories came up with a group of friends and my husband and I shared one. My friend thought it was really funny and insisted that it needed to go on the blog. And so, here it is.  

When I started the blog, my husband was happy to see me write again, but asked me to keep him out of it. I suppose I have somewhat respected that. But again, we’ve been married long enough for him to know that I don’t always listen (yeah yeah… it’s all work in progress). But till I get there, I might as well recount this story - and he figures in it.

Many years ago, a group of us set off on a camping trip in the Everglades. We had rented an island for the night. Yes, you read right – our own island for the night. And while I could continue sounding very grand, I will go ahead and burst the bubble – these islands are really just small patches of land to camp on. And very rustic in that. And the only way to get there is by canoe. And you have to carry everything – including water. (As I recounted the story, a friend asked what happened if you needed to get back to shore in the middle of the night - get in the canoe and start rowing? I realized then that I had not even considered this thought till that moment – nor had the dozen odd people who hopped into canoes. Sigh…20-somethings just roll with a different energy and spirit I suppose.)

So we set off in our canoes – people, tents, camping gear, food, drinking water – with eyes on our own ‘water map’ that showed directions to ‘our island’. But nature had other plans. As had the choppy waters and the Gulf of Mexico. Our feeble aluminum canoes seem to bob about helplessly on the big waves of a growling ocean.

The folks renting the canoes warned us that it was going to be difficult – but we had spirit and an island waiting. So we heaved and rowed and rowed and rowed. Wait, did we only move 50 feet - in what seemed like half an hour? And were the canoes actually moving backwards each time we stopping rowing?? (!!)

Now my husband has done rowing and skulling in college and is fairly athletic. I on the other hand…sigh… But given that we were now rowing mates, we battled valiantly against the surging sea (as did our friends – except one couple who were quickly becoming a dot on the horizon and who the coastguards went in and rescued - thankfully.)

My husband’s energy was relentless – his optimism and rowing skills made him believe we could actually reach the island. Or maybe medals won for rowing and skulling were taunting him. In any case, he was not going to admit defeat yet. And he didn’t want his wife to do so either.

His wife, on the other hand was ready to jump off the canoe and swim to shore if she heard one more instruction. Instructions his coaches had once doled out: “that’s not a spoon – it’s an oar”. So not funny in that moment. And other teachings and techniques that fell on deaf ears. But given that his wife’s swimming skills were not far better than her rowing skills, she stayed put.

Now all this happened way before Life of Pi. Else both, my husband and I would have recounted our own versions of Life of Pi and how it is to be stuck with a tiger in a canoe… sigh…

Yes, waters have been plenty choppy in our life since - and it has often seemed like that day long ago in the Everglades when we tried to brave a feisty ocean in a feeble canoe.  

And we have done so, as we did in the canoe many years ago – grumbling (mostly me), encouraging (mostly him), putting in all his energy and optimism (him), wondering if there is any sense in the whole thing (me), glaring, threatening to toss the oar in the water (yeah yeah, no prizes for guessing which one of us)… Yes, we’ve gone through life in our rickety canoe as differently as two very different people would. We’ve glared and grimaced, we have failed to recognize differing energies at different times, we’ve failed to understand one another, we’ve bickered and encouraged, we’ve laughed and lightened up situations… we’ve continued to paddle on together… and we know the other one will always be there to stick the oar in (grumbling or not), and paddle away together…

(Not so sure my husband reads these blogs; but if he complains, this one may have to come down… so read it quickly!)

 

Do you know your inner sounds?

At times, my writing scares me. For deep within the psyche (as I imagine with most of us) lay areas that we don’t know exist – that seem unfamiliar, uncharacteristic to who we imagine we are. Things/emotions that we brush off, that we tuck away, that we don’t quite know how to deal with. For they make us feel, they pinch, they tingle, they tickle, they leave us feeling vulnerable, exposed, astounded or even amused. And yet they exist. And sometimes, my writing dives deep into some of those pockets and brings things to the surface that I don’t quite know of, that I don’t quite know how to react to. These somethings gurgle to the surface and float there. And I gaze at them – in wonder, amazement, pride, amusement, indifference, disapproval…

Some I leave unfinished (for I don’t know what they are, I don’t want to get to know them better, I’m afraid to do so (?)), some I simply put away, some remain a sweet secret, some I feel I need to tackle… These floaties may never make it to the blog or a public domain – for I don’t always understand then and I rarely revisit them.

But is it right to put them all away – for they bubble to the surface for a reason. They have a voice – a whimper, a song, a deep hum, or an excited whisper… Do you know what your inner sounds are?

And while it may be clamorous to listen to them all… I suspect there are some little sounds that need some rescuing… Do you know those sounds?

(funny how I wrote this in just three minutes or so - after wrestling with and shelving another thought – uncomfortable, unfinished, to remain un-revisited, I’m sure)

Here… take this test…

No, it will not tell you what kind of inner animal you are, or which city you should live in or the two words that describe you. Okay okay, don’t judge - I’ve occasionally wasted my time on some of those. This one is fun, but it may require you to take a step back, open your imagination, bend your mind, stretch your senses into unfamiliar spaces, and yes, have fun.

It’s a writing exercise I created for kids in my daughter’s class. I watched them squirm and smile; stare in confusion, jumble the five senses, tie them to emotions, and delight in the product of their elastic imagination…

Yes, we started with quizzical looks, giggles and grins, “this is weird”s, creased brows of introspection… but went on to share imaginative ideas as: ‘basking in lemony sunshine’, and ‘strawberry sunsets’ and ‘being brave like a big oak tree’ and ‘the drink of lemonade – that tasted like the sun’. Yes we giggled, we watched the five senses get muddled, we watched imagination open. We had fun.

A mom laughed and said that she ought to try it too.  I realized then that it requires some amount of courage and letting go to allow our mind to venture into the not-so-typical, to give permission to our brain to muddle the senses, to not know where our imagination is headed, to allow ourselves to feel with more than the usual sense.

It seemed like a lot to ask – but the kids had fun. But now I’m curious to know what adults think of it - how easy or hard it seems, how fun or weird it feels, it is simply spontaneous or is it a challenge...a dare?

So here…take this test…

As I suggested to the kids: try closing your eyes when you think of answers (hmm…mostly to discourage them from peeping into their neighbor’s work), but shut eyes allows me to let go of all else; allow your senses to take over; keep it true and have fun!!

1.       What does laughter taste like?                 

2.       What does anger sound like?                    

3.       What color is joy?                                           

4.       What does defeat smell like?                     

5.       What size is bravery? Describe it.             

6.       What color is fury?                                         

7.       What shape and movement is a giggle?               

8.       If you could touch fear, how would it feel?

9.       What flavor is sunshine?                             

10.   What temperature is sadness? What moisture level? If it were a location, what/where would it be?

11.   If you could touch shyness, how would it feel?  

12.   What does happiness smell like?              

Mary, Mary, quite contrary… how does your garden grow?

Whoa! When did my thumb turn green? This morning's harvest - radish, lettuce, chard, kale and strawberries! Slugs, ants et al - I so beat you this time!

I posted this picture on facebook today with the very same caption. Now I have very kind friends (the same who are probably reading this). So it drew words of admiration; generous comments about my green thumb (??); some asked how I managed this, others asked for tips; another said I should write a blog sharing gardening tips.  

And so, I set off to do exactly that. Now if you’re looking for ways to ward off slugs, or gardening timetables and such, I will happily direct you to gardening blogs that I have bookmarked somewhere and that I barely dare to look at, for they overwhelm me with their military exactitude and disciple.

So here’s my messy, undisciplined, ‘good-enough’, ‘only till it’s fun’, small-chunks-of-time, small-chunks-of-energy, small-chunks-of-expectations and other unconventional, but therapeutic gardening methods.

Now, I am a rather clueless and unlikely gardener. I have enthusiasm that is not always backed by energy or organization. And I will confess that for the past few months, I had been rather unhappy about the way my yard has looked – the mulch is tired and gray-looking and a fresh coat is desperately needed, the gangly lavender plant wants to take over the garden, but only if the weeds don’t take over the yard first, the apple tree needs pruning - which is supposed to be done in a different season, the herbs in the herb patch are blooming away – which is not supposed to be good, and as for those garden plans shelved away for years… yes the list is endless.

And that was the sinking, dissatisfied feeling I started with this spring. The gardener who was supposed to help with all this (not my husband) has, of course, bailed on me a few times already. And I’ve been too tired to badger him. And oddly enough, low energy makes things seem more out of your control than they are.

Watching things grow is among the most joyful things in the world. And eating things that you grow is an unadulterated joy. And watching things respond to your nurturing is an indescribably joy. And being out in the sun, with my hands in the earth is yet another…and I decided I did not want to miss out on any of those.

But I somehow I knew that this would be fun only if I went small – if I bit off tiny chunks of manageable tasks and focused only on those tiny baby steps without getting engulfed by the enormity of everything that needed to be done, of everything that seemed lacking or inadequate.

I started with puppy eyes and pleas and recruited my husband’s help to move the sacks of compost and to prep two small vegetable beds (Admit it, which gardening blog is going to give you strategies as these!!). In about an hour, we decided we were done. The rest of the not-so-muscle-oriented stuff I whittled away in small, seemingly inconsequential steps. Some days I worked for ten minutes, other days I worked for half an hour. I didn’t have any grand plan or agenda; I saw no results; I saw no completeness. I did what little I had energy and enthusiasm to do and let go of the rest.

I sowed seeds in two vegetable beds and then lost interest or energy in getting the other beds ready. When I did decide to prep the other beds, I realized the young saplings needed care. So I decided to let go of the bigger plan of getting the beds ready and focused only on the little that I had going.

 

And in the fight against slugs et al vs human, the human won. Yes. Through crushed egg shells, diatomaceous earth, concoctions and teas made with neem powder and oil, dish soap, vinegar, garlic, cayenne pepper – yikes! No beer baits this time – for I really do believe I saw a slug or two perched gingerly on the edge sipping the beer. No complicated methods that needed follow up and had the potential of turning stressful. Only projects that could be defined and completed in the half hour or so that I had the energy and enthusiasm for.

Oddly enough, the yard still looks fairly ungainly. The gardener is still MIA. But I feel so differently about it. For the luscious strawberries, tiny blueberries, miniscule pears, the waving fenugreek, cilantro, kale and chard, the stocky looking bok choy, and the tomatoes, squashes and peppers that hold promise have turned my yard into one happy place. It’s funny how I am able to focus on the good, the positive and let go of the rest… oh well, at least till the gardener shows up.  

 

 

 

Here’s an example of biting off small tiny chunks. Even if the second bed stared at me with it’s yawning emptiness, I focused only on the one I had energy to work on and let go of the rest. I will get to it as I can, when I can, and till it’s fun.

 

This picture says it all. I’ve tackled only a few feet of this bed for which I removed weed, amended soil. I planted some, then energy dwindled, and I lost some plants (wait did I forget to water?)… sigh… I will plant something in the remaining prepped soil. Then tackle the next few feet.
By the time, I reach the end of this bed, summer may probably be over – but that’s okay.
For I hope I will focus on the bounty from the first few feet than the barren of the last few.

 

 

 

The answers are all right there… how do we notice them and remain receptive to them?

It’s funny how our mind will just soak up scraps of information relevant to us at certain times. How the radio or television or a book or a passer-by will discuss the very thing going on in our mind. How our ears perk up to thoughts or ideas, how our eyes catch even fleeting things… things that were travelling in our own heads moments earlier.  Yes, it’s funny how that happens and how often that happens.  

We could argue that the thoughts or ideas were there all along and our mind chooses to notice them only at certain times – given our life situation.  

That may be the case, but isn’t that a reassuring thought? For it makes me want to believe that all the answers are all right there – in front of our eyes. Always. Our job then is to simply notice them and take them in. It makes me want to believe that the universe is constantly trying to help us, and to heal us by sending help if you will, in the form of information, ideas and people. It makes me want to believe that we humans are beautifully programmed for self-healing.

Is this some sort of silly, simplistic and optimistic rambling of a wishful heart? It probably is. It may also be part of of some greater symbiotic, synergistic force of cosmic connectivity. Who knows.  

Just for a moment, let’s go with the optimistic assumption. By that token, our lives should be a breeze, right? They would have to be – for all the answers are always there, and the universe is always helping us. So why then does it not always seem so? Do we go and make things harder for ourselves? Do we not know how to remain receptive and open? Do we close ourselves off to possibilities? Is it all right there and we just don’t know how to receive it?

I admit there is nothing scientific about this discussion. This is just a rambling thought, really. But I have sometimes wondered if I come in the way of my own healing and happiness. That I make things harder for myself. That the answers are all there, that the wisdom I need is right before me, within me even, that I’m surrounded by it. But do I know how to tap into it, how to receive it, how to notice it even.  

I digressed completely from what I set out to write… I had set off to share something I read recently. Perhaps I shall keep that for tomorrow. For I want to stop here – at this very thought. In the hope that that I will be able to let go enough – enough to always notice the answers that may be in front of me.

That I will be able to let go in the belief that everything is going to be fine and that all the answers that I need and all the wisdom that I need will be right there – within me, around me, surrounding me. And hopefully that may prompt me to remain open enough to receive it and simply let go of the rest…