Tag Archives: pay attention

Colours of my meditation

When I walk along the river, I make up names of the colours of the sky and of the river. I often recite the colours aloud to my husband: River city steel-grey blue; Freshly laid cement grey; Cottage on the Lake vintage shutter white; Sparking turquoise gemstone blue; Old driveway past its day, pot-holed grey. Today, my love, is a River city steel-grey blue kind of day, I would announce.

My husband is never very impressed; to date he has not contacted Sherwin-Williams.

What I didn’t confess to him was that I have assigned new colours to things since I was a kid. I can’t help myself.

So you can imagine how I feel (like I have come home) ever since I took up watercolour painting. My morning and evening rituals of watching the dawn skies (and later the sun sets) have me running for the paint palette – all new colours to me. (I swear: If heaven mirrors our thoughts – I am looking forward to skies of alizarin crimsons, cadmium yellows, and ultramarine blues when I die. And note to God: Please throw in a little yellow ochre and raw sienna, for no other reason than…I love those colours!)

Even my meditation and mindfulness practices have deepened – in living technicolour palettes. My mind wanders during meditation: I hear a bird trill and instead of labelling it – sparrow, junco, robin, cardinal – I assign it a colour. The lowly house sparrow is labelled in shades of raw sienna (oh, come on, my favourite colour), a mix of alizarin crimson and ultramarine blue, with just a touch of yellow. Umber, that is. Not too much, or my brown mixture will be the colour of mud.

Once I recognize that I am painting  the bird sounds that are interrupting my meditation, I re-focus on my breath.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Expansion. Release.

It’s so obvious that I am thinking about paint colours and mixtures again. (Blame the birds. They are a chirpin’.)

Breathe in. Breathe out. Expansion. Release.

Because watercolours give me such pleasure (even pronouncing the colours in my head delights me), I find that instead of chastising myself for the numerous round trips that my mind has taken during my meditations, I find myself smiling. Colours just make me happy. And so does meditation. Meditation allows me to access my inner spirit – and my inner spirit is turning cartwheels (I’m fairly certain of this).

I will chalk up my mind’s wanderings to beginner’s mind – one of curiosity and attention. Thankfully, I think my beginner’s mind (thanks to learning a new art) is the opposite of my usual state. That is, I’ve become acutely aware that my mind’s tendency is to label things: Those bare branches look like tangles and plaques of a mind affected by Alzheimer’s disease; that tree mirrors Quan Yin (the statue of compassion); that person resembles Hercule Poirot (the famous Belgium detective of Agatha Christie books); the dog who lives next door is barking madly again – he must have seen a falling leaf. (Ah, judgment of the dog. He barks at everything.)

Oh, the state of beginner’s mind – an open, curiosity to life’s present moments – hasn’t cured me of the habitual 24/7 narration of attaching colours to everything, nor has it cured me of labelling my perceptions. Rather, beginner’s mind has allowed me acceptance of my thoughts, my narrations, my desire to see life in a technicolour, dream coat palette.

And acceptance, I have learned, is key. It is key to a healthy self-awareness, and a healthy self-awareness helps us navigate this journey.

Beginner’s mind (like a child’s mind) reminds me to pay attention to this moment – attention to the breath during meditation (as a touchstone) and attention to our sensations, feelings, and emotions. We miss the point of meditation or mindfulness if we do not realize its’ greatest gifts: attention, awareness, and acceptance (the three A’s).

And by acceptance, I mean that we embrace our mind’s wanderings, judgments, labelling, and stories. During meditation, we note our mind’s wanderings, and then gently bring our attention back to the breath.

Instead of chastising ourselves and becoming frustrated with the meditation session, attaching blame to the session or becoming frustrated with ourselves, we smile (Thich Nhat Hanh) and return to the breath.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Umbra yellow. Ultramarine blue. If I mix the two colours, will I create a vibrant green? Or turquoise?

Colours again.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I smile.

 

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Daily walk – old churches, road work, and fake tulips

From the moment we leave our house for our daily walk along the river, I am assaulted by the songs of cardinals. Within a couple of blocks, the robins and the sparrows join the chorus, and I am thankful for the naked trees so that I can stop occasionally and spot them. The trees’ spring attire is not quite ready to wear, so the bare branches allow me easy viewing.

The cardinal throws his head back when he sings, as do the sparrows. I am reminded of yoga’s lion pose which relieves tension in the face, and is considered a quick beauty treatment. Is the cardinal vain? Or just happy? The colour of raw sienna – a gorgeous red-brown would make me vain and happy, too.

A cardinal family (there are four of them) endure all four seasons in my backyard; like squirrels, they are territorial. Once squirrels have set up house, they’re in for a long-term lease. It took me many summers of chasing squirrels from my flower beds; the pesky rodents constantly digging up the spring bulbs, and messing with my equilibrium before I conceded that they owned the garden, not me. I waved the white flag many years ago. (I wanted my equilibrium back.) Cardinals give me joy, not loss of equilibrium.

A few blocks into our walk and we pass a rather beautiful old church that after many years of neglect and emptiness was sold to some lucky homeowner. Slowly over the past two or three years, we have noticed new windows on one side of the church and on the manse’s side walls. Other than some shiny new eave troughs, and maybe new soffits, the house still looks neglected and empty.

Last week when I walked by the church I mentioned to my husband that I would like to see inside the church – I’m curious and would like a sneak peek. My husband laughed since we never see anyone around the building after all these years (and daily walks).

Strangely enough, my intention came true the very next morning: the double side doors (a second entrance or exit) were wide open. The stone wall that surrounded the doors had been knocked out to allow for a new set of bigger, black steel doors.

But since we were staring into a huge gape in the wall we were privy to the interior. With curiosity (or nosiness) both of us gawk into the hall which was once either the nave or sanctuary, and it is now empty, except for two beat-up old trucks. Yes, you read that correctly – trucks are now sitting in the church’s sanctuary.

I’m disappointed. Serendipity or not, trucks were not my intention.

Our walk takes a meander today as our usual route is disturbed – the perennial road work has begun. Some people think of spring bulbs in April; we think of road work. Our end of the city has been in the midst of a bigger plan for many years now.

After we navigate the dug up, sand-covered road, we reminisce of the past summer when our road was torn up for six long months, and the dust that settled in our house (in spite of closed windows) was thick. On Fridays at six (when the road crew ceased work for the weekend) I would run around dusting and cleaning my window sills and table surfaces and I would fling open all the windows. Breathe. Just breathe.

We spent the summer talking to the men and women who worked on the road, and watched as other neighbours spent their days yelling at them. We shook our heads at the futility of anger. Road work is like cement – it settles in for the long haul.

Road work is cyclical – every thirty some years the work that is completed (today) will need to be replicated. Apparently there is no guarantee for sewer pipes.

I remember when they did our roads over thirty years ago because my sons were toddlers, fascinated by the heavy machines. Each day I dressed them in their warm jackets and hats, and put them in the twin buggy that my parents bought us when we learned we were having twins. My parents ordered that double pram from England; they were so proud of that pram and used to argue over who would push our sons – Nanny or Papa? Our sons didn’t care; road work and heavy machinery beat grandparents any day!

We would approach the empty holes in the road and park the buggy in a safe, out-of-the-way spot, and hunker down for the morning – our sons would lean over the side of the pram as if they wanted to join in the dirt, waving to the men (sorry, no women working the machines back then). The men waved back, shouting at the boys which only made my sons try harder to escape the confines of the seat.

Afterwards, we would walk to the library where we would carefully choose books on diggers, excavators, bulldozers, and backhoes. The bulldozers were a favourite. Richard Scarry’s Book of Cars, Trucks and Things and Busy, Busy World were borrowed so many times that the librarians just handed them over to me when I arrived.

So to this day I smile when I see the bulldozers arrive and wonder if young moms and dads and children in tow still wander over to the huge pits in the road to watch the great machines in action.

After we have detoured because of road blocks, we walk by a house with stained-glassed windows, one designed with an inlaid cross in its’ centre. It’s quite beautiful, and I am surprised that I have never noticed the cross before today.

Yellow forsythia, in full bloom, surrounds the home, and carefully planned yellow daffodils are planted in the foreground. I marvel at the perfect match as I am acutely aware of how difficult it is to plan colour schemes in our gardens – our gardens have a mind of their own and colour palettes are not of their design.

Some of the daffodil blooms are unopened, and their little heads bow as if in prayer. The religious symbol that shines above them is inspiring the plant life, I notice.

Soon we walk past the long-term care home where my father lived his last three months. We have passed this home for over thirty years, every day, so it seemed right that my father would live there in his final days when he became palliative. I no longer avoid the building (like I used to).

We pass residents from the home most days: we smile, we stop and chat, we help someone return to the lobby. In the past we have joined staff searching for residents who went on a walkabout; we yell the resident’s name over and over, running up and down the street. Eventually everyone is found; perhaps for a brief time those residents are happy. Sometimes lost is a good state.

Over the years, the residents disappear, and new ones take their places – that’s a lesson we all learn when we volunteer at a long-term care home. Life is transient and fleeting, so I counter that with mindfulness and awareness. It’s how I find equilibrium in my life. And acceptance.

Soon we pass a dilapidated, old wreck of a house where a peculiar-looking woman works in her garden most days.  I can hear my mother’s voice in my head, It doesn’t cost a penny to spruce up the house. Sweep or rake, either will fix things up. From the rundown state of the house, the owner cannot hear my mother’s voice.

I call the owner eccentric because she is often dressed out of season, and rather bizarrely: shorts and boots in the winter; long, sloppy pants in the summer, that drag in the soil. And always a huge, rather ugly hat. Like the house, her hat is in decline. Her face is weather-beaten and she is very thin, so my husband thinks she should spend some of her money on food, and not on her garden, because she is always planting little green things (which seem to never sprout or grow).

And she often plants fake, dollar store tulips in her garden, too, among the real green things. I am rather fascinated by her garden techniques – freshly-dug garden beds every week, where the only things that seem to survive are the whirly-gigs that she plants among the green things (that do not).

And each spring her dollar store tulips that she planted in the fall (I know, fake tulips do not act like spring bulbs) become sodden messes of blanched yellows and reds in the winter. The snow and wind are brutal – fake or not, tulips cannot survive Canadian winters.

See, even the tulips are fleeting. Whatever creative urge possessed her to plant fake tulips has now died. Creative urges do that; die, that is.

I’ve returned home and now the narratives that existed in my head when I walked are gone – only vestiges of them remain when I type up this post.

Thoughts are fleeting.

Road work is not.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I seek refuge in mindfulness

This morning, as other mornings, I turn to the skies to align my day. The dawn’s sky is navy blue and red – streaks that look as if a mad painter has swished his brush to and fro with a flourish. And peeking through a pocket or two, sits the robin’s egg blue sky.

It’s beautiful. I close my eyes.

I need to be silent for awhile, worlds are forming in my heart.  Meister Eckhart

I have turned to the dawn’s sky as refuge from the news. I did not stay up late to watch the election results. Instead, I awoke at five as usual and my husband has leaned over and whispered to me, “You are not going to be happy with the election results.”

His words caused me to leap out of bed. Stunned, I watched the CBC news.

I’ve spent my last ten years trying to live a life of simplicity, wholeness, and lovingkindness. I’ve surrounded myself with people who share similar beliefs, values and intentions. We strive to live fully, creatively, in love and compassion. Some of us meditate and live mindfully; some of us pray; and some of us share with John Muir, that Nature is my Church.

And although most of us are not Buddhists, we strive to embody its’ philosophies or tenets: Do no harm; Lovingkindness and generosity; Right resolve, right action, right speech, right concentration, etc.  All philosophies shared with Christianity and other world religions.

So this morning I feel the earth has shifted. I feel that worlds are colliding (in the immortal words of Seinfeld’s beloved character, George).

Everything has changed. Nothing has changed.

We carry on. We continue to be aware – to be mindful of the moments that make up our days, our lives. We continue to laugh, to cry, to support one another, to pray, and to meditate.

But for me, I vow to see more, to see clearly – to remove the rose-coloured glasses that prevented me from seeing and acknowledging the truth – that many suffer. And they suffer deeply.

When I wrote my free ebook on caring for parents with dementia, I offered to the reader that all of us, including those who suffer with Alzheimer’s and other dementia s, want to know that we matter – we all want to be seen, to be heard, and most of all, we want to know that we matter.

For me, this is the lesson that we have been profoundly offered.

My grandma would say when things go wrong it’s a Buddhist gift.  The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted, Bridget Asher

Let us carry on today with eyes wide open. In awareness, may we really see each other. And let us touch base with the stillness within each of us, that continually guides and steers us to a life of acceptance, love, kindness, compassion and generosity.

I intend to let go of the discord and toxic energy that I felt this morning when I first turned on the television.

Instead, I turn to my strengths: honesty, trust, compassion, curiosity, service, creativity and connections.

All gifts.

The more we accept and expand our own unique gifts, the more we can share and connect with others. And all of this begins with awareness.

When we live in awareness (that is, we begin to pay attention to each moment) we change our perceptions. In mindfulness, we perceive the many acts of grace that surround us.

Acts of grace. Those are the gifts that will transform us.

 

A new dawn; a new sunset – book-ends

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sun rise on the way to London

When I arose just after six this morning, my living room was pink. The white sheer window shades allowed the sky’s dawn to enter in all its glory. The pink had saturated the walls and ceiling and when I scrunched my eyes, I am almost certain that even the air was pink.

But the rosy glow didn’t last long, and by the time I turned away from the screen door as I watched the sky’s pink palette, the magic had disappeared in my living room.

I never get tired of the show. It’s the reason I am an early riser.

The sunrise and the sunset of each day are gifts – gifts that bookend each of my days. The simple ritual of breathing in the dawn’s glory, and hours later, breathing out the dusk allows me to make a mental realignment.

A realignment that grounds me. I become centered, focused on living mindfully. My bookends allow me to be present, in awareness: to stop and listen to the sparrows and wrens that live within the branches of the viburnum (that should be pruned, but I don’t want to disturb their homes); to pause when the Harbor Bay bell that hangs from the shed that my father built us twenty years ago, gongs – a gong that resonates so beautifully that no matter who is in the yard, they stop and savour the sound; to kneel beside a resident in the long-term care home where I volunteer, to listen deeply, and witness her story.

The shed that Dad built

The shed that Dad built

harbour-bay-bell

harbor bay bell

My mind is cluttered with thoughts throughout the hours – mindfulness does not eliminate them. But the practice allows me to align them – to at least put some order to them.

I’m aware of the big questions in life: Who am I? What do I want? What is my purpose?

And mindfulness allows me compassion for myself and those thoughts that consume me – never-ending thoughts, like books stuffed in a bookcase – piled high, teetering on chaos.

Mindfulness allows me to peruse the titles: Nature, Family, Aging and Disease, Death, Creativity, Art, Writing, and more. The shelves are crammed.

Mindfulness allows me to be the observer – detached, yet alert. I notice the thoughts that often consume me when I am walking. I write in my head, stories that I discard later or save to paper. I draw in my head. Water and the elements of nature are a never-ending, repetitive meme. What colour is that blue? I must learn how to use watercolours. OMG, is that sky not the most beautiful thing ever? The pink of that canna lily reminds me of the shawl that we bought my mother one Christmas – the same shawl that my sister now wraps around her shoulders during meditation.

The observer within me embraces all of the subtitles: envy, judgment, inadequacy. (I own the series of all of those subtitles.)

But here’s the thing: mindfulness allows me to recognize the two prevailing themes that underline all of my thoughts. Love and fear. Thankfully, this life-transforming strategy opens my heart to self-care and compassion – self-care and compassion lead to gratitude, joy, love and acceptance.

Acceptance means that I recognize the thoughts that I have – of envy, judgment, inadequacy – I recognize the titles, I thumb through a few pages, and then I discard them. Enough. Life is too short to read the book. Instead, I recognize the fear and I just sit with it. I have learned to trust that soon those thoughts will disappear.

Thoughts are transitory; impermanent; illusions.

The joy that I experienced this morning while in the pink glow will return tonight when I experience the sky as the sun disappears.

Tonight. Tomorrow morning. Tomorrow evening.

The jumble of thoughts and all its disorder and chaos will realign itself. I will re-set.

And it is this re-set that reassures me that all is well.  I am. Cluttered mind and all.

Whether I need to re-set multiple times throughout the hours (and that is inevitable), or I simply observe the thoughts, I learn to accept the moment. Whether the books are jumbled or the tomes are straight and orderly – I am content to be in my skin (and in my mind).

I have learned that if I am not content…I wait. My thoughts will dissipate and new ones will replace them.

The library in my mind is ever-changing.

Sunrise, sunset. Bookends. Gifts.

sunset at Canatara

sunset at Canatara

 

Sketching, mindfulness, and meaning

Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.   Thomas Merton

This past year I have been learning to draw. It started out as a way of exercising my brain – learning something new and challenging – and has morphed into a daily ritual that balances me.

I had no inkling that a dollar store sketch book and a box of pencils would open and expand my creativity, and in the process open and expand my spiritual awareness. My brain gets a work out (after a few perspective lessons, I am exhausted), my mind lets go of disparate thoughts and rests, and my whole body relaxes. Time stands still until I stop drawing and I re-enter the exterior world.

Sometimes I flick through my filled sketch books just to understand where I am going and where I have been. My sketches tell a story.

In the beginning my go-to book was a dog-eared, how-to-draw book that I found in my deceased father’s library (box of old books). Along with all of the volumes of Winston Churchill’s tomes and books about health and ABC’s of nutrition, I found a solitary art book.

I remember my Dad’s “art” period. I was young, married with children, and kinda in awe of my father’s zest for learning. In his late sixties he took up painting, learning to ice skate, learning to build an ice rink for my active boys, and learning to play the accordion (which he within a few lessons promptly pawned off as a birthday gift to my mother which only added fuel to my mother’s long-time assertion: Your father gives the worst gifts).  Too busy with raising young children, I have no recollection of when he began or ended his art phase. But at family gatherings we noticed new artwork springing up – one day a large landscape (forests and mountains) over the living room couch; another day a large rural scene (with farm animals) in the hallway. Neither was particularly engaging (to our limited eye), but I remember the lesson that came to me: even when our creative efforts are not perfect or do not conform to others’ tastes, display it anyways and own it.  (Sad (and ashamed) to reveal that when we had to disperse of my parents’ worldly goods, no one wanted the large landscape paintings.)

Following in my father’s footsteps, I am teaching myself to draw and discovering that the more that I draw, the more my sense of awareness of all things is heightened. One day I am drawing a leaf on a twig and the next I am discovering the interconnectedness of all things. The twig, the leaf and me – we breathe the same air; rain and sunlight nourish us.

My completed sketch books (much like my collection of writing journals) reveal many lessons: some of them reflect the things I do well – because apparently we all have leanings to what we draw and like to draw (birds, nature, outdoors, streetscapes, people, flowers and leaves) – and some of them are graphic reminders of what I need more help with (perspective, birds, nature, outdoors, streetscapes, people, flowers, and leaves). I enjoy drawing birds, but I do not like drawing animals or cartoons. Although strangely, I once drew the cover of Marley and Me (I was reading the book to my peeps at the long-term care facility) and the completed sketch of Marley looked pretty good. I left that drawing out for days, I was so impressed with myself. (Dad, I owned it!)

sketch of the day

Drawing blue herons is a favourite.

With urging from the You Tube teachers and art books that I devour, I draw objects that I find around my house, and I often draw the views from the window in the back room where I sit each morning, drinking coffee and green smoothies. I draw the same view over and over; I draw the window frames and the shutters. Sometimes the shutters are closed and sometimes they are open. Same view, different frame outlining the view.

In Henning Mankell’s Wallander series, the protagonist’s father is a renowned painter who we learn has Alzheimer’s disease. A prolific painter, his father paints only the Swedish landscape; but in a heartbreaking, evocative scene, Wallander finds numerous paintings and realizes that each of the paintings depicts the same landscape – one view, painted over and over again.

Now that I have taken up drawing, I had this bizarre moment where I thought that I, too, was drawing the same view from my window, over and over again.

Perhaps, like Wallander’s father, I am attempting to perfect the scene and get it right. Or, perhaps, like me, Wallander’s father paints that particular landscape because it is just there.  (Most likely, the Alzheimer’s disease has prevented his father from remembering that he has already painted this view.)

I have learned that to draw, one needs to let go or surrender to the process. Just let go of the fear of messing up; let go of the need to be perfect; let go of the need to control (because believe me, the end result is not often as planned). I once drew the porch that I was sitting on while looking down and sideways (confused? me, too) – I was attempting a perspective and proportion lesson. Needless to say, you will have noticed that particular sketch is not included in my post. Even my kind and supportive husband looked at it with horror, what the hell is that?

My peeps (or the residents) at the long-term care home where I volunteer inspire me: They draw well; exceptionally well. So I begin to wonder if dementia allows them to let go of the rigid thinking and presumptions that are barriers to drawing perceptively? Does our right-brain thinking expand and, therefore, free us when we have a dementia? Do we surrender to the process of drawing because the left-brain thinking that restricts us is now diminished?

Because of their dementia, do they just surrender to the it is what it is of the moment. The ism of the moment or the is-ness, or whatever. Because to draw, I have learned just to be present. Just be. Allow my mind’s assumptions and presumptions to take a rest. And, like my father, to be happy and accept my progress, or lack.

Because to draw or sketch with ease one needs to be mindful. To pay attention to the details – the micro and the macro. To pay attention to the lines and the white space on the page and not worry about the finished picture. To pay attention to the simplicity of the object or scene – to allow the mundane to expand and become profound.

If the doors of perception were cleansed, every thing would appear to man as it is – infinite.  William Blake

And I have learned that the greatest lesson (or gift) when drawing, is that I can see more deeply and completely. I can see the inherent beauty in the simple and in the ordinary.  And when I sit in mindfulness, I begin to realize the interconnectedness in all things and in all of us. I feel the Sacred.

I can find joy and delight in just staring at my climbing hydrangeas; in the many tones of bronze and browns of the Diablo Ninebark’s leaf (chartreuse in the sunlight); in the various dark and light shades of rocks, stones and pebbles; at the American Goldfinches who visit my cobalt blue bird bath every day. The yellow and the blue. Bliss. And I confess that it is in those moments, I do not draw. I just sit.

Song Sparrow Nuthatch

While staring up and wondering how one would capture the blue sky behind the cloud formations, my senses are heightened: I can smell the viburnum, the earthiness of the soil and the mulch; I can hear the rustling of the frequent winged visitors in their new home within the euonymus that grows on our fence. I notice tiny, white feathers drifting down from the clouds – not feathers, but white seed fluffs from the trees that grow in the north part of the city then fill our skies here in another part of the city each early summer. I tell myself that when I learn to paint with watercolours, I will paint white feathers, not fluff pods. Although fluff balls or seed pods are intricately beautiful, too.

I take pleasure in everything:  A stained and broken jug that sits in the garden shed – new life as a still-life. When closed, the outdoor umbrella is a lesson in “folds.” I like drawing folds and drape-y fabrics. I like drawing shawls draped over a couch, pillows, and blankets.

I drew my foot once. And my hands. When I completed the sketch, I was struck how old my hands looked. But beautiful. Worn, but worthy. (I had never noticed that before.)

Suddenly I have realized that I have spheres throughout my house – not rectangles or squares. My preference or leaning for soft, rounded edges is clear. I think that explains why I find angles and perspectives more difficult. Now I inform my husband that I am not a straight angled kinda gal. What does that mean? he asks. I meander, I reply.

Since I am a beginner, I sometimes find myself in the middle of a drawing and feel overwhelmed – too many uneven objects (and my shading and tones are too naive), too crammed (and I have run out of page space), too many angles…ah! perspectives.

I am recognizing that a busy streetscape might be too ambitious for a beginner. So I am learning another important lesson: discernment and patience. So my eye has become a telescope – scrutinizing the macro, adjusting my lens to capture the micro: an ornate doorway, arches supported by columns, moldings, cornices, and decorative motifs. I must sacrifice drawing the building (or streetscape) and focus my attention to the smaller details.

Discernment – how to judge well. That’s a lesson worth learning, along with draw with looser movements (don’t be so uptight), visualize your completed creation (before you begin); be carefree, not careful; do-overs are a good thing (and so are erasers); and do not tear out pages of spoiled or disappointing sketches. Own them.

When I close my sketch book for another day, I feel expansive, creative, and fulfilled. I feel restful.

The little things. The little moments. They are not so little…Jon Kabat-Zinn

It is the little things that matter and enrich our lives. A simple Diablo Ninebark leaf. It’s not so little. Learning how to draw. It’s not so little.

 

 

 

 

You are amazing!

You are amazing!

When I open the card, it reads You are amazing!

My husband and I just celebrated another anniversary and we exchanged cards. And even though it’s been a few days since I received his card, I am still enjoying the afterglow. Ha!

Because a funny thing has happened since he gave me the card – I feel really amazing!

When he enjoyed the simple tomato sauce on his pasta that I had made last evening, I tell him well, I am amazing!

When I screwed something up during the day, and then fix it later, he says well, you are amazing. We laugh over the screw-up.

When I discover a box of half-eaten ice cream in the freezer, we both exclaim hey, I am amazing!

So while I am walking along the river this morning, trying not to leave rivers of sweat on the sidewalk (because it is so humid today), I remind myself well, sweat or not, I am amazing!

Hmmm. Apparently compliments – in writing – have a lasting effect. But only if we pay attention and give the words awareness. Because it is in the reflection of the words, I realize that we are all amazing beings.

I think I am onto something here. I think we should begin to tell other people how amazing they are. Maybe we could distribute little cards – business cards – that just say, “You are amazing!”

We all know amazing people – my hairdresser who juggles a job and four children (whenever I see her she is smiling) – she is amazing! She has the funniest stories to tell about her children; I sit in her chair and belly laugh throughout the whole visit.

The woman who owns the tailor shop where I take my pants to be hemmed – we always have a nice chat. She is from Scotland and has interesting stories. We share a love of birds and birdsong – she reminds me to Google warblers and nightingales. I think she is amazing!

My neighbours on either side of our house – one is blind in one eye, and always tells me interesting facts about the weather, birds, squirrels and raccoons. He grew up on a farm where he watched the changing sky and birds come and go;  his weather predictions are so spot on – I have no need to turn to the weather forecast on television.  So is the family on the other side of our house – they are raising two children; their daughter has special needs. They are all amazing!

When I watch the personal support workers at the residence where I volunteer, I know they are amazing…their acts of kindness go above and beyond their daily routines. I once sat in a room with a resident and heard a personal support worker singing You Are My Sunshine to a resident who has Alzheimer’s. When I went into the hallway to see who was singing (and who the lucky resident was) I found them walking arm in arm. She is amazing (as is the resident)!

And I think my husband is pretty amazing – after all, he gave me the card. Ha.

No kidding…it takes attention and awareness to see the beauty within each of us. We have to begin to look beneath the superficial, to listen to the words and intonations, to become more insightful and understanding of others. In short, we have to stop and spend some time with people, instead of rushing by them without a glance. When we begin to spend our time enjoying people and their stories, that’s when we begin to live in the moment. And we’ll surely begin to see how each of us matters, how we are all interconnected, and that we are all  awesome.

In Neale Donald Walsch’s Communion With God he writes:

“Which snowflake is the most magnificent? Is it possible that they are all magnificent – and that, celebrating their magnificence together they create an awesome display?  They melt into each other, and in the Oneness. Yet they never go away. They never disappear. They never cease to be. Simply they change form. And not just once, but several times: from solid to liquid, from liquid to vapour, from the seen to the unseen, to rise again, and then again to return in new displays of breathtaking beauty and wonder. This is Life, nourishing Life.”

Let’s begin to appreciate one another for the simple pleasures and the simple gifts that we all hold. Whether we are loving parents or grandparents, creative artists, kind neighbours, inspiring teachers, helpful volunteers, cheerful postal workers, supportive counsellors… oh, the list is just endless…we all are unique, beautiful and amazing in what we do and who we are.

Let’s shout it out: You are amazing!

 

 

 

 

Kale and in the Now

IMG_20151128_081451305While washing and drying two large kale plants that were as big as mini-umbrellas, I found myself hurrying through the task. This is going to take forever. What was I thinking when I asked my husband to pick up a couple of kale plants at the local market this morning?

That’s when it hit me. In my haste to finish this job I was not in the moment. I was wishing for this to be over so that I could go for my morning walk.

I have been practicing staying in the Now or mindfulness for some time now…and I also encourage my friends to practice, and I blog about acceptance…well, to the extreme! (My husband’s eyes hurt from all the rolling! Ha!)

But it was in this moment that I realized that in my rushing to finish my task, I was clearly not accepting my Now. I was not accepting the kale!

So I became still and allowed my mind to let go of the thoughts and I began to pay attention to what my body and my emotions were doing. I was tense; my back ached from standing in front of the kitchen sink; my neck and shoulders were tight; and I could feel that my forehead and brow were creased. I’m tense over kale? Really?

I was feeling… what was I feeling? Anxious?  Not really. But I could tell that I did not feel relaxed and content. I was hurrying and that always makes me feel stressed.

So I began to accept that I did not really want to be in the kitchen and that I had a deep wish to just throw out the kale and run for my coat and shoes. I just accepted that I did not accept my task.

That thought made me laugh. My poor kale. All those farmers who grow our produce and sell it at the local market – how fortunate are we here in Canada? The kale deserves better.

I could feel all my tension leave my body and I began to pay attention to the task at hand. I began to focus on the green, curly leaves of the kale; the thick stalks; its’ health benefits; the vitamins that it adds to our morning smoothies; the clear water in the stainless steel bowl; how easily the water flows from the tap; how little my husband paid for the kale ($2.00 a bunch) in spite of the amount of work that the farmer invested to grow this produce.

And I began to feel gratitude for kale, and for my health, and for my life.

As I placed the bags filled with kale into the freezer, I was grateful that I remembered to be in the Now. And that I had accepted the kale.

I have learned over the past few years that when I pay attention to the moment, I am more balanced and content. Mindfulness opens me up and allows me to see love and beauty in all that surrounds me; mindfulness opens me up and in my self-awareness, I see the love and beauty within me.

When we become still and recognize the changes in our body – changes that have arisen in our body because of emotions – we can begin to accept ourselves, no matter what we are feeling. But this practice always begins with the intent or the awareness.

When we need mindfulness the most, that is, when we are hurting or suffering, we usually cut off our feelings. Instead, we allow our thoughts of suffering and pain to take over. If we could just become still or pause just for a few moments, we would allow ourselves to consciously become aware of what is happening within our bodies. Many call this the sacred pause.

This practice enables us to firstly, become aware of our bodies and our emotions; secondly, to accept these emotions. When we accept our emotions – all of them – we allow a space within to feel compassion.

Boredom, anger, sadness, or fear are not “yours,” not personal. They are conditions of the human mind. They come and go. Nothing that comes and goes is you… Eckhart Tolle

Of course, this takes practice. But the more I practice mindfulness (and paying attention to my emotions and how my body is reacting to those emotions), the more I am releasing old thoughts. And I am finding that I am slowly learning how to let go of judgment of myself (and others).

Eckhart Tolle in The New Earth  writes that we can live mindfully when we treat each moment as if this moment …was our purpose in life.

I love that thought. Think about it. When we stop and embrace each moment as if the person we were with was our true purpose in life; well, just think how much our attention on them grows. We have the capacity in that moment to really connect with that person – to ensure we treat her with kindness, thoughtfulness, and generosity. We would deeply listen to her words and give her our full attention. We would look her in the eyes and allow understanding to enter into our moment. And compassion would follow. I have learned that compassion always enters the encounter when I listen deeply.

If we treated each moment as if it was our true purpose in life, we would give our full attention (and energy) to our career, our volunteer work, our families, our friends, our health; well, to everything, each day. Our daily walks, talking to our children, having a coffee with friends, walking into the bosses’ office…each moment could be transformed from the mundane to the profound.

At the very least, our co-workers or family members might raise an eyebrow and wonder aloud, “What the heck is she on? Whatever it is…I want some of it, too!”

Mother Teresa said it more eloquently than I…

God does not ask that we do great things. But that we can do small things with great love.

I confess that I have been trying this suggestion of Tolle’s for some time now, and I am convinced that it increases my mindfulness and awareness. And, yes, it increases my connections and relationships, too. But the practice also has dramatically decreased…my desire to hurry through this moment so that I can be in another moment that is better. And that’s a huge awareness for me, my friends! So you might say that I have slowed down.

Slow down, you move too fast. You got to make the morning last…Simon and Garfunkel’s lyrics from Feelin’ Groovy

So, when I find myself wishing that I wasn’t washing kale, that instead, I was outside walking, I pause.

I remind myself (as Tolle suggested) that in this very moment washing the kale is my purpose in life. And that gives me great insight. And joy.

Another gift.