It’s a rare occurrence to see static electricity. I don’t mean to see its affects… hair floating up and away when winter caps are removed like a science experiment gone awry or scarf fringe reaching out like tentacles desperately trying to keep from being trapped inside a coat… those signs are all abundant in the cold, dry months of winter. I mean to see the actual sparks- the visible energy- of static electricity.
That’s what happened tonight in the dark of my front entryway as I removed my long down coat. There on the lining was a galaxy of little stars twinkling secret messages to each other. A starry, starry night inside my coat: who knew?! I stood transfixed as the tiny sparks glimmered and then faded away to black. What a wonderful little world I had just witnessed! The electrical light show continued as the metal hanger connected with the hook that would be its companion for the night. I could see the static transferring from one to the other! Briefly, ever so briefly, do those delicate sparks live.
And I’m doing everything in my power to extinguish them. I’m not a cold-blooded killer (though I am cold) it’s just too, too dry! The humidifier is running twenty-four hours a day; baths are being drawn; lotion is being slathered and reapplied. Even with all that extra moisture my skin is itchy and flaking and my hands are chaffed. It’s only December: there are at least three more months of winter! (I don’t think I’m emotionally ready to accept there will be more than that.)
It would be interesting to find out what Jergen’s and Dove account executives know about our lotion consumption in these dry months of winter. What percentage of their sales comes from cold climates? It’s got to be a fair portion of their annual revenue because even if it’s not a particularly cold winter the air is still dry. It’s dry outside; it’s dry inside. Dry, dry, dry! If the Nile River had run a little farther north the Egyptians would have found this climate as amenable as the desert for their wrapping.
I am applying lotion so frequently that I now think before I squeeze: is opening a door handle or jar in my near future? If the answer is yes, the lotion application must wait lest I be trapped in a room with a round door handle (ADA compliance where are you when I need you?!) or stuck trying to wrangle a jar of peanut butter open with a dish towel (an exercise in futility). All this to keep from turning into a giant raisin.
So while I am doing my best to keep hydrated I’m also keeping my eye peeled for those little galaxies of stars. You never know when or where they’re going to show up. Next time your scarf fringe reaches out to grab you, hit the lights and look for the stars.
Staying warm (and dry),
Karen
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The Falling Leaves
Yes, indeed. It’s that time of year. The vista along the Mississippi River is at its peak of color. I take in the full view and daily assess the changes as I cross the river on my way to work. What a treat to be viewing this fine art show: bright greens reside alongside fading yellows, burnt oranges cohabitate with flame reds (how shocking!) and all of them rest against a backdrop of browns and beiges. It’s a vision of color and texture. Copied by artists for ages, this beautiful palate of colors was created long before there were human eyes to attempt its reproduction.
This autumn there’s been little wind so as each tree divests itself of its leaves they fall straight down and remain there under the canopy of half-empty braches. The trees look a bit discombobulated for the moment but when the remaining leaves finally do scatter the classic frame of articulated joints and limbs will stand out regally against the winter skies. For now, I imagine myself laying down under one of those gracious statues taking a moment to enjoy the beauty of the day. This is where I find peace- in the space where connection resides- and I revel in it when it occurs.
Life for the leaves was almost weightless before, tethered to a branch high in the canopy floating in currents of wind. Compared to the lilting life they experienced only yesterday they must be confused at the heaviness of life on earth. It’s a weighty thing being here. Now their only flight comes from being tumbled around like so much sand and shells at the edge of a beach; the safety of being moored to a tree to weather out any storm is gone. Yet for those leaves who always longed to grab their boogie board and catch a big wave, this is their time to experience the thrill of the ride! (Look, Ma! No hands!)
Their inevitable fall to earth makes for one of the best treats of the season: the wade through them. It’s very satisfying to hear the swish-swash swish-swash as I shuffle through the dried leaves. It’s one of my favorite fall sounds of all time and something I make a special point to do each year. The stockpiles can usually be found gathered up along a curb or nestled beside a wall. If it’s a good deep pile there will undoubtedly be a stowaway leaf that get tucked up in a pant leg or whose stem gets somehow wheedled into a sock. Come along for the ride, I say!
Speaking of rides, this week marks the second anniversary of the surgery to remove the cancer cells from my left breast and accompanying underarm lymph nodes. It looks rather daunting written out on the page like that; sometimes it feels that way, too. In some ways it seems as if it has been both six months and twelve years simultaneously since that surgery. How that’s possible I can’t clearly explain but that’s how it feels.
I have been tearing up at the thought of how much my life has changed in these past two years. In spite of all I built up around me to prove to my questioning mind that I’m in charge here, the truth is that life is unknowable. It’s a gamble. We shake the dice- their feint clacking in our clenched hand sounding a call to the ages- and hope for the best. It’s only after the dice are thrown free from their cage of bones and flesh that the lesson is visible: life happens when we let go.
So let go and trust. Know that in letting go- in flinging my hands wide open- a space is being created for something new. In the face of uncertainty and fear, trust all will be well. It’s quite the doozy of a lesson and yet in these past two years it has been an almost constant companion reminding me again and again (and again) to get comfortable with not knowing. I'm doing my best to breathe and be open to the possibilities.
Life happens in a blink- keep your eyes closed and you’ll miss the beauty. Autumn, really, is here for just a day. For as many vibrant leaves as there are now in the trees there are more are on the ground. The trees let the leaves go because it is time to let go. That’s a wonderful thing about nature: it always knows its cue and exits as written. And then, this year, before all the leaves have had a chance to take their leave, act four begins with an entrance of heavy, wet snow…
Peace,
Karen
This autumn there’s been little wind so as each tree divests itself of its leaves they fall straight down and remain there under the canopy of half-empty braches. The trees look a bit discombobulated for the moment but when the remaining leaves finally do scatter the classic frame of articulated joints and limbs will stand out regally against the winter skies. For now, I imagine myself laying down under one of those gracious statues taking a moment to enjoy the beauty of the day. This is where I find peace- in the space where connection resides- and I revel in it when it occurs.
Life for the leaves was almost weightless before, tethered to a branch high in the canopy floating in currents of wind. Compared to the lilting life they experienced only yesterday they must be confused at the heaviness of life on earth. It’s a weighty thing being here. Now their only flight comes from being tumbled around like so much sand and shells at the edge of a beach; the safety of being moored to a tree to weather out any storm is gone. Yet for those leaves who always longed to grab their boogie board and catch a big wave, this is their time to experience the thrill of the ride! (Look, Ma! No hands!)
Their inevitable fall to earth makes for one of the best treats of the season: the wade through them. It’s very satisfying to hear the swish-swash swish-swash as I shuffle through the dried leaves. It’s one of my favorite fall sounds of all time and something I make a special point to do each year. The stockpiles can usually be found gathered up along a curb or nestled beside a wall. If it’s a good deep pile there will undoubtedly be a stowaway leaf that get tucked up in a pant leg or whose stem gets somehow wheedled into a sock. Come along for the ride, I say!
Speaking of rides, this week marks the second anniversary of the surgery to remove the cancer cells from my left breast and accompanying underarm lymph nodes. It looks rather daunting written out on the page like that; sometimes it feels that way, too. In some ways it seems as if it has been both six months and twelve years simultaneously since that surgery. How that’s possible I can’t clearly explain but that’s how it feels.
I have been tearing up at the thought of how much my life has changed in these past two years. In spite of all I built up around me to prove to my questioning mind that I’m in charge here, the truth is that life is unknowable. It’s a gamble. We shake the dice- their feint clacking in our clenched hand sounding a call to the ages- and hope for the best. It’s only after the dice are thrown free from their cage of bones and flesh that the lesson is visible: life happens when we let go.
So let go and trust. Know that in letting go- in flinging my hands wide open- a space is being created for something new. In the face of uncertainty and fear, trust all will be well. It’s quite the doozy of a lesson and yet in these past two years it has been an almost constant companion reminding me again and again (and again) to get comfortable with not knowing. I'm doing my best to breathe and be open to the possibilities.
Life happens in a blink- keep your eyes closed and you’ll miss the beauty. Autumn, really, is here for just a day. For as many vibrant leaves as there are now in the trees there are more are on the ground. The trees let the leaves go because it is time to let go. That’s a wonderful thing about nature: it always knows its cue and exits as written. And then, this year, before all the leaves have had a chance to take their leave, act four begins with an entrance of heavy, wet snow…
Peace,
Karen
Friday, September 18, 2009
On your right
I spent a wonderful Labor Day weekend with dear friends in Wisconsin. It’s a rare treat to enjoy a long weekend away and an even rarer treat to see these friends. Their son is my godchild. He’s almost four now and refers to me as his grandmother, a title I feel quite privileged to wear. When I pulled up to their house there he was waiting for me out on the front stoop. It’s not very often that someone is so excited to see you that they wait for you all day but when it does happen it’s lovely.
He’s just learned how to ride a two-wheel bike. No kidding: not even four and he’s off tooling down the block on his own! I was in the second grade when my parents told me the training wheels on my bike were coming off and I was going to learn to ride my bike like a big girl, and who didn’t want to be a big girl? (Um, me?) I'm fairly certain there were no other seven year olds still riding their bikes to school with training wheels on. They were looking out for my best interests, wanting me to fit in.
Well, to my practical mind, four wheels were more sensible and much safer than two. I saw no need to remove the training wheels: they were the critical safety gear to keep me from tipping over. Nonetheless, the smaller wheels were removed and I did learn how to ride a bike like a big girl but not before I fell and gashed my right elbow wide open on the curb. It remained the biggest scar on my body until recently.
Bikes offer independence at a speed that cannot be found any other way until you’re old enough to drive. It must be such a sense of freedom he feels as he races his way to each end of the block. With the wind in his hair and a great big grin on his face he is exuberance personified. He loves to slam on his brakes and skid to a quick stop as is evidenced by the numerous tire marks on the sidewalk. As the family dog is well aware of, the finer points of control aren’t quite there yet so if you see him coming at you, step off into the grass, just incase.
I watched him for quite a bit and noticed that the balance he maintained was really an art of knowing where the tipping point was and then avoiding going beyond it. Most of the time spent balancing is spent maintaining balance; it’s not a static event. When balance was lost and he did fall, he’d get right up and shout ‘I’m okay!’ and hop back on his bike to ride some more. He seems unafraid of falling or getting hurt. Maybe he’s so focused on the joy of the activity that he’s unaware of the pain. Maybe it’s a price he’s glad to pay for the opportunity to explore the wider world.
Sometimes it’s the simple lessons that are the strongest. When you fall off, get up and shout ‘I’m okay!’ and get right back on. There’s a great big world out there to explore and investigate. Listen for my bell; you’ll know I’m coming up on your right.
Peace,
Karen
He’s just learned how to ride a two-wheel bike. No kidding: not even four and he’s off tooling down the block on his own! I was in the second grade when my parents told me the training wheels on my bike were coming off and I was going to learn to ride my bike like a big girl, and who didn’t want to be a big girl? (Um, me?) I'm fairly certain there were no other seven year olds still riding their bikes to school with training wheels on. They were looking out for my best interests, wanting me to fit in.
Well, to my practical mind, four wheels were more sensible and much safer than two. I saw no need to remove the training wheels: they were the critical safety gear to keep me from tipping over. Nonetheless, the smaller wheels were removed and I did learn how to ride a bike like a big girl but not before I fell and gashed my right elbow wide open on the curb. It remained the biggest scar on my body until recently.
Bikes offer independence at a speed that cannot be found any other way until you’re old enough to drive. It must be such a sense of freedom he feels as he races his way to each end of the block. With the wind in his hair and a great big grin on his face he is exuberance personified. He loves to slam on his brakes and skid to a quick stop as is evidenced by the numerous tire marks on the sidewalk. As the family dog is well aware of, the finer points of control aren’t quite there yet so if you see him coming at you, step off into the grass, just incase.
I watched him for quite a bit and noticed that the balance he maintained was really an art of knowing where the tipping point was and then avoiding going beyond it. Most of the time spent balancing is spent maintaining balance; it’s not a static event. When balance was lost and he did fall, he’d get right up and shout ‘I’m okay!’ and hop back on his bike to ride some more. He seems unafraid of falling or getting hurt. Maybe he’s so focused on the joy of the activity that he’s unaware of the pain. Maybe it’s a price he’s glad to pay for the opportunity to explore the wider world.
Sometimes it’s the simple lessons that are the strongest. When you fall off, get up and shout ‘I’m okay!’ and get right back on. There’s a great big world out there to explore and investigate. Listen for my bell; you’ll know I’m coming up on your right.
Peace,
Karen
A visible sign of my own
“Every little thing… is gonna be alright” crooned the reggae singer as I drove away from the meeting. My head was swirling with thoughts as turbulent and destructive as a tsunami. When the wave finally broke on the beach and the mental chatter subsided again I heard “Every little thing’s… gonna be alright” on the radio. I could almost see the sandy Jamaican beach, palm trees swaying softly in the breeze. I felt the wave of calm lap up over my toes and encircle my feet with a gentle but firm tug encouraging me to ‘Let go; let it go.’ I smiled. I love it when the universe’s presents are so visible. Sometimes a sign is just what’s needed to bring things back into focus.
“Turbulence is a life force. It is opportunity. Let’s love turbulence and use it for change.” ~ Ramsey Clark
The meeting didn’t go as we’d hoped: the very big project- the biggest project a key client has done in almost a decade- had been awarded to another company. We knew going in that we were not given the same material costs, guessed the price was higher by a substantial margin and it was true. Later my boss said I looked like I was going to cry when we were told we weren’t going to be doing the work. It’s true; that’s how I felt.
In the seven years that I’ve been working with this client their budget for even the most basic of maintenance and upkeep has been nonexistent. How are they now, all-of-a-sudden, able to do a project of this magnitude? Part of me is frustrated and angry that they are doing such a major project now without us. Why in the world couldn’t this work have been spread out over a number of years?
Then there’s another part- a smaller, quieter part- that wants to focus on the positive, wants to appreciate all the business we have done with them over the years. Oh, but the mental wrestling- WWF ‘Friday Night Smack Down’ style- is fierce! I do my best to remain focused on appreciation but the negative keeps breaking through. “And she’s down on the mat! Will she get up? Folks, it’s quite a struggle happening here. The ref is counting and no, she’s lost the fight!” Well, lost for that moment.
Now, weeks later and after much discussion with friends, my bosses and especially with my sister’s guidance, I understand that it’s not our work they don’t like; it’s not anything we have or haven’t done. It’s business. It’s not personal. And while that’s easy enough to say, it feels personal because it’s my work, my client.
There’s a beautifully apropos song called “Everything Must Change” that I’ve come to know through a local vocal treasure named Debbie Duncan. It’s a favorite of mine both because she is such a talented artist and because its message is so true it almost hurts. There’s no clip of her singing- at least that I could find on-line- so here it is by Mister Quincy Jones:
everything must change quincy jones - Google Search
(OMG. I can hardly believe I finally figured out how to get that clip in the body of this post! One giant step that most of mankind made years ago; one small leap for me!)
Years ago I watched a program about a young woman who was taking a ferry between two foreign lands. The boat started to take on water and quickly began to sink (talk about your harsh ferries…). As the passengers clamored to keep a hold of what remained of the boat, fights broke out. The strong fought to keep their place on top as others less agile or weak were forced away. The young woman knew if she was going to survive she’d have to go out on her own.
She swam away from the boat and floated alone in the wide open water for days. Sun burnt, exhausted, dehydrated and hungry she thought she couldn’t go on. Then, out there in the middle of that ocean with no land in sight, an apple floated toward her: a perfect red apple which she plucked from the water and ate. It was a sign of good things to come as not long after that she was rescued by a passing ship.
In the interview I remember her speaking of abundance and goodness. After almost sinking on a ship, after being beaten away from the only refuge by her fellow passengers, after floating alone in the open sea not knowing if she’d ever be found, after all that she spoke with compassion of the other passengers and the tragic situation in which they all found themselves and of her determination to survive.
Throughout my unexpected journey I have visualized myself floating in a wide expanse of water and reaching out for that apple. It’s what I see when I say ‘I live in an abundant world. Everything I need will be there for me when I need it.’ Much as the young woman experienced, there were times where I felt I’d reached my limit and couldn’t go on and then, frequently, there it would be waiting for me: a visible sign of my own.
There continue to be many gifts that reaffirm that I am not alone, I am loved, and I am connected to a well-spring of abundant beauty. So in this current economic climate of change I choose to trust that there will be enough work. I choose to believe that new connections will be forged. Life is an ongoing opportunity to see what you believe. If you believe there is enough, there is. Keep your eye peeled for that apple: it’s yours when you need it…
I know every little thing’s gonna be alright,
Karen
“Turbulence is a life force. It is opportunity. Let’s love turbulence and use it for change.” ~ Ramsey Clark
The meeting didn’t go as we’d hoped: the very big project- the biggest project a key client has done in almost a decade- had been awarded to another company. We knew going in that we were not given the same material costs, guessed the price was higher by a substantial margin and it was true. Later my boss said I looked like I was going to cry when we were told we weren’t going to be doing the work. It’s true; that’s how I felt.
In the seven years that I’ve been working with this client their budget for even the most basic of maintenance and upkeep has been nonexistent. How are they now, all-of-a-sudden, able to do a project of this magnitude? Part of me is frustrated and angry that they are doing such a major project now without us. Why in the world couldn’t this work have been spread out over a number of years?
Then there’s another part- a smaller, quieter part- that wants to focus on the positive, wants to appreciate all the business we have done with them over the years. Oh, but the mental wrestling- WWF ‘Friday Night Smack Down’ style- is fierce! I do my best to remain focused on appreciation but the negative keeps breaking through. “And she’s down on the mat! Will she get up? Folks, it’s quite a struggle happening here. The ref is counting and no, she’s lost the fight!” Well, lost for that moment.
Now, weeks later and after much discussion with friends, my bosses and especially with my sister’s guidance, I understand that it’s not our work they don’t like; it’s not anything we have or haven’t done. It’s business. It’s not personal. And while that’s easy enough to say, it feels personal because it’s my work, my client.
There’s a beautifully apropos song called “Everything Must Change” that I’ve come to know through a local vocal treasure named Debbie Duncan. It’s a favorite of mine both because she is such a talented artist and because its message is so true it almost hurts. There’s no clip of her singing- at least that I could find on-line- so here it is by Mister Quincy Jones:
everything must change quincy jones - Google Search
(OMG. I can hardly believe I finally figured out how to get that clip in the body of this post! One giant step that most of mankind made years ago; one small leap for me!)
Years ago I watched a program about a young woman who was taking a ferry between two foreign lands. The boat started to take on water and quickly began to sink (talk about your harsh ferries…). As the passengers clamored to keep a hold of what remained of the boat, fights broke out. The strong fought to keep their place on top as others less agile or weak were forced away. The young woman knew if she was going to survive she’d have to go out on her own.
She swam away from the boat and floated alone in the wide open water for days. Sun burnt, exhausted, dehydrated and hungry she thought she couldn’t go on. Then, out there in the middle of that ocean with no land in sight, an apple floated toward her: a perfect red apple which she plucked from the water and ate. It was a sign of good things to come as not long after that she was rescued by a passing ship.
In the interview I remember her speaking of abundance and goodness. After almost sinking on a ship, after being beaten away from the only refuge by her fellow passengers, after floating alone in the open sea not knowing if she’d ever be found, after all that she spoke with compassion of the other passengers and the tragic situation in which they all found themselves and of her determination to survive.
Throughout my unexpected journey I have visualized myself floating in a wide expanse of water and reaching out for that apple. It’s what I see when I say ‘I live in an abundant world. Everything I need will be there for me when I need it.’ Much as the young woman experienced, there were times where I felt I’d reached my limit and couldn’t go on and then, frequently, there it would be waiting for me: a visible sign of my own.
There continue to be many gifts that reaffirm that I am not alone, I am loved, and I am connected to a well-spring of abundant beauty. So in this current economic climate of change I choose to trust that there will be enough work. I choose to believe that new connections will be forged. Life is an ongoing opportunity to see what you believe. If you believe there is enough, there is. Keep your eye peeled for that apple: it’s yours when you need it…
I know every little thing’s gonna be alright,
Karen
Friday, September 11, 2009
The long light of autumn
After a summer of unabated movie viewing we now return to our regularly scheduled programming…
So here we are at the change of seasons. The sun, who has spent the summer shining brightly overhead, has become a little more relaxed and now reclines gently back in these shorter days of autumn. It’s tiring being on your feet day (and night) so now you’ll find it leaning back under a big oak tree propped up on an elbow restfully surveying the scene of leaves just beginning their change from the bright greens of summer to the mottled yellows and vivid red flame of fall.
With this relaxed posture comes a change in the color of the sunlight itself. It’s a very specific look in autumn- more golden and hazy in comparison to the high, bright light of summer. Now, even at midday, the sun’s rays hang lower in the sky and each evening its painterly palette of pinks and purples get laid out on the canvas earlier and earlier.
I myself thought autumn came around rather quickly this year. It seems like such a long trip to get to the summer equinox (are we there yet?!). From the depths of winter's darkness we inch our way with much excitement to longer days and more warmth. In reality, it’s just a single day of the year that gets the distinction of being the longest day and then, before Mister Sandman has even punched out from his shift, the earth begins its tilt back and we’re headed toward the shortest day of the year. That’s not unlike many trips: it seems to take forEVer to get there and then, before you’ve even had a chance to see all the sights, it’s time to go home.
This time of year conjures up thoughts of school and, though it has been decades since I’ve been there myself (OMG, it is decades! When did that happen?), the smell of fresh construction paper and Elmer’s Glue mixed with the fragrance of tater tots wafting from the cafeteria are just as present now as they were when I was eight. When it comes to school, autumn is all about new beginnings. There are new pencils and folders, new classes and teachers: a whole new routine.
For Nature the new routine includes preparations for the long sleep of winter. Animals are either packing up and heading south to Boca or filling their larder and hunkering down for the impending cold and ice here. For most plants it’s the time to shed what is no longer useful and to turn their energy inward.
While death is as much a part of this world as birth it’s not often seen as a beginning. And yet, this part of the cycle is as much a beginning as are the buds of spring and the blooms of summer; it’s just a different part that makes up the whole. The moon waxes and wanes in its cycles. Tides come in and go out with the moon’s influence. Each end is the beginning of something new.
“The world is round and the place which may seem like the end may also be the beginning.” ~ Ivy Baker Priest
So here we are together at the beginning of something new. Let's get out our construction paper and safety scissors and see what we can create together.
Wishing you the start of a wonderful autumn,
Karen
So here we are at the change of seasons. The sun, who has spent the summer shining brightly overhead, has become a little more relaxed and now reclines gently back in these shorter days of autumn. It’s tiring being on your feet day (and night) so now you’ll find it leaning back under a big oak tree propped up on an elbow restfully surveying the scene of leaves just beginning their change from the bright greens of summer to the mottled yellows and vivid red flame of fall.
With this relaxed posture comes a change in the color of the sunlight itself. It’s a very specific look in autumn- more golden and hazy in comparison to the high, bright light of summer. Now, even at midday, the sun’s rays hang lower in the sky and each evening its painterly palette of pinks and purples get laid out on the canvas earlier and earlier.
I myself thought autumn came around rather quickly this year. It seems like such a long trip to get to the summer equinox (are we there yet?!). From the depths of winter's darkness we inch our way with much excitement to longer days and more warmth. In reality, it’s just a single day of the year that gets the distinction of being the longest day and then, before Mister Sandman has even punched out from his shift, the earth begins its tilt back and we’re headed toward the shortest day of the year. That’s not unlike many trips: it seems to take forEVer to get there and then, before you’ve even had a chance to see all the sights, it’s time to go home.
This time of year conjures up thoughts of school and, though it has been decades since I’ve been there myself (OMG, it is decades! When did that happen?), the smell of fresh construction paper and Elmer’s Glue mixed with the fragrance of tater tots wafting from the cafeteria are just as present now as they were when I was eight. When it comes to school, autumn is all about new beginnings. There are new pencils and folders, new classes and teachers: a whole new routine.
For Nature the new routine includes preparations for the long sleep of winter. Animals are either packing up and heading south to Boca or filling their larder and hunkering down for the impending cold and ice here. For most plants it’s the time to shed what is no longer useful and to turn their energy inward.
While death is as much a part of this world as birth it’s not often seen as a beginning. And yet, this part of the cycle is as much a beginning as are the buds of spring and the blooms of summer; it’s just a different part that makes up the whole. The moon waxes and wanes in its cycles. Tides come in and go out with the moon’s influence. Each end is the beginning of something new.
“The world is round and the place which may seem like the end may also be the beginning.” ~ Ivy Baker Priest
So here we are together at the beginning of something new. Let's get out our construction paper and safety scissors and see what we can create together.
Wishing you the start of a wonderful autumn,
Karen
Monday, May 25, 2009
Floral fragrance in abundance
I’m rich! I tell you I’m rich! I have just brought in a fistful of Lily of the Valley. It’s the biggest bundle I’ve collected in a number of years. What a treat!! (And you know I don’t just throw around the double exclamation points.)
Lily of the Valley is one of my very favorite flowers. It yearly wrestles Lilacs for first place in The Spring Flower Show and usually wins. The flowers are ever so delightful. I find the delicate, powdery scent that emanates from those little bells intoxicating and, now, with five or more buds per stem multiplied by the fistful of stems here in my hand, that equals a heady amount of fragrance perfuming the air! What a splendid, ephemeral gift!
The lily plants grow unattended as all the plants around the aparment building do. It's survival of the fittest around here. I keep my eye on a couple of patches and do some tending about once a year to make sure they’re not completely overrun by the vines (see note on unattened growth). Thankfully they seem to do okay without much attention and every few years they bloom in profusion.
Much to my surprise and delight, this year I found a new patch of them! How is it possible, having lived here for so many years, to have not found every cache by now?! Well, they’re in a spot I’d just never thought of looking: between this building and the next one.
I suppose, if you're going to get technical, they are on the neighbor’s side of the property line but between the buildings that line is a little fuzzy so I’m erring on the ‘it’s-on-this-side' side of the argument. If you see 'Horicultural Police Department' on your caller-ID it'll be me asking for bail money and then you’ll know my assumption was incorrect...
Yesterday I took the most delicious nap that I can recall in recent history. Mind you, my memory isn't what it used to be but, oh, it was a treat! One of the many gifts of a three day weekend is time for rest. The breeze was cool enough that I was able to tuck in under the covers; there was music from a cardinal nearby who was very busy advertising his territory. The backdrop for my slumber was so idyllic that when my head jumped in with the list of things to do I was able to let it go and drift off without a care.
A Nap. A Rest.
These words often have a negative connotations in our culture. Naps are for children and the elderly. Rest is for the ill. Healthy working people don't do either except for the one week (or two if you’re lucky) of vacation allotted each year. Anything more than that and a person’s work ethic is called into question. I think that’s unfortunate. Rest is something that I need and naps are something I wholeheartedly support in all their various shapes and sizes. Ooh, think what an amazing world it would be if we all had regular naptime again!
‘Make hay while the sun shines’ was certainly a good motto for a life lived on the farm but it's been carried into our modern lives with much less success. What's been lost in translation is that while an agrarian life did mean a great deal of work in the warm months it also allowed for a quieter time in the winter when the land was asleep. Winter was a time to mend and repair, a time for planning and preparing for the coming spring.
That is what is missing in our electrically charged, Energizer-bunny lives: we just keep going and going and going. There is no time when our modern city landscape sleeps because people work around the clock, stores are open all the time, and the television and computer run 24/7. We’re busy keeping up and staying up. We're doing. We've forgotten the being part of being a human being.
As you know, I am creating space for quiet in my life. It’s sometimes easier said than done but when I do make that space I find I am calmer and more content. By paying attention to my breathing and listening to my heart (in both of its definitions) I literally feel the difference it makes. Equally, I’m able to feel when I haven’t quieted down and it’s a less comfortable feeling than it used to be.
It’s easy to get pulled into ‘making the most of time’. I’m doing my best to remind myself that I cannot be at my best until I have taken care of myself through connecting with nature and taking time to rest. Watch a little ' Hercule Poirot' as I've been doing lately and you'll see that he's got his priorities set: he does his work without fail but also without fail takes time for tea. The Chief Inspector would prefer him to work through the night on pressingly important cases but Poirot retires to bed confident that with a good night's sleep he'll crack the case in the morning.
So in these long days of Summer, that wonderful drink of warmth and sunshine that visits us ever so briefly here, I'm setting aside time for rest. I'm taking time for tea with a good friend: myself (the best part of which is knowing I'll get the last cucumber sandwich)! And I'm making space for unstructured time including naps. I hope you, too, find yourself dozing off to the sound of birds singing and wind swirling through the trees...
Sweet dreams-
Karen
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Early Spring greetings
I haven’t written in a while. Not that I haven’t thought about it; I have. But that’s about as far as it went. So greetings to you, Keyboard! And salutations to you, Microsoft Word! Hello again to the idea of writing. How nice of you to stop by! Please make yourself comfortable as we head out on our journey together this year…
It now almost seems a distant memory but it was in the clear, cold winter days that I marked the first anniversary of the completion of treatment. Tuesday January 14th marked the conclusion of radiation treatments last year. It was the final blast to any remaining cancer cells were there any bold enough to stick around through the onslaught of chemo and surgery and, frankly, they’d have to be pretty cheeky to stick around through all that. It was the culmination of what I termed the ‘active portion’ of the treatments and a major milestone.
I thought it would be joyful passing the year mark without recurrence. And, while there was some joy, there was also a great release of grief. I hadn’t anticipated the anniversary being such an emotional time. I wept for almost a week leading up to it and I wept just about everywhere: at work, in the car, at home, with friends and with coworkers. I wept publicly and more than that I wept alone which, for a Leo with a Theater Arts degree, almost never happens.
While I was unaccustomed to all the weeping I didn’t hide it. I said to those around me and to myself in turn ‘This is just how I’m feeling now’ and I let the tears of exhaustion and change, mourning and joy come out. It was just where I was for the time. I didn’t know how long that time would be and it didn’t matter. It was temporary.
Much like snow drifts in gullies carved and shaped by the winter winds my life has been and continues to be changed by the elements. While that can be very positive it can also be, as it was at that time, very overwhelming. In literature about life after cancer treatment it says that this kind of grief is common and that anniversary dates can be a trigger for this wave of emotions. It was comforting to find out that what I was feeling is common.
During that week of weeping leading up to the anniversary a dear friend said to me ‘Why not let it out? You’ve had quite a year.’ And that was true. I had had quite a year, indeed. A year. One year. More. One more year.
Oh and now Spring, that great harbinger of hope, is teasing with glimpses of the warmth and green to come! The spring rains have arrived with some areas here receiving an abundance of precipitation. There’s a smell with softer rains that is fresh and inviting. I’ve always thought this was Nature’s way of cleaning things up after winter, getting ready for the bright blooms and fragrant friends that make those first brave moves into an unknown world.
Now I’m not a horticulturist (though I’ve often thought I could play on one TV) but I have noticed that those first few flowers up out of the ground are really quite tender. Hyacinth, daffodil, tulips and crocuses all have soft green stems. It’s interesting to me that these first-out-of-the-gate flowers should be so delicate.
They appear in this world with confidence and grace. And they expend all that energy to bloom without knowing what to really expect: it’s been warm enough for them to start growing underground but what life on the surface will hold for them is uncertain. It could be warm and sunny or just as easily it could be so cold and snowy that they would’ve preferred their travel agent to book their arrival in Boca. They have no control over what the weather will be and yet they come with hope in the great goodness of the earth to provide what they need.
I am learning to live with uncertainty myself and for this gal who likes to plan that offers some challenges. It's about letting go and trusting, which is easier said than done sometimes. And yet I find that when I accept and embrace the uncertainty of life there is a calm that comes with it. It will be sunny and warm or it will be cold and snowy; either way I know I will be well. So just as the spring flowers do, I’m heading into this world of unknowns on my own journey of trust and of hope.
Speaking of hope, I hope you’ll join me in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure on Sunday May 10th at the Mall of America. It’s quite an event and the number of participants is stunning. There are a plethora of choices for participation: the run, the walk or the slumber. Darn but that last one is appealing to me... but I will be there for the walk.
For you early birds who want to miss the crowds the 5K run begins on Sunday May 10th at 7:30am (seriously, who picks these times?!). The 5K outside walk begins at 9am and the 1K inside walk begins at 9:30am. The Sleep In for the Cure begins and ends at your leisure and will go on, as the other races do, rain or shine.
If you are interested in being there, let me know and we’ll make a plan for the day. You can sign up for the event on their website www.komenminnesota.org.
With peace and hope,
Karen
It now almost seems a distant memory but it was in the clear, cold winter days that I marked the first anniversary of the completion of treatment. Tuesday January 14th marked the conclusion of radiation treatments last year. It was the final blast to any remaining cancer cells were there any bold enough to stick around through the onslaught of chemo and surgery and, frankly, they’d have to be pretty cheeky to stick around through all that. It was the culmination of what I termed the ‘active portion’ of the treatments and a major milestone.
I thought it would be joyful passing the year mark without recurrence. And, while there was some joy, there was also a great release of grief. I hadn’t anticipated the anniversary being such an emotional time. I wept for almost a week leading up to it and I wept just about everywhere: at work, in the car, at home, with friends and with coworkers. I wept publicly and more than that I wept alone which, for a Leo with a Theater Arts degree, almost never happens.
While I was unaccustomed to all the weeping I didn’t hide it. I said to those around me and to myself in turn ‘This is just how I’m feeling now’ and I let the tears of exhaustion and change, mourning and joy come out. It was just where I was for the time. I didn’t know how long that time would be and it didn’t matter. It was temporary.
Much like snow drifts in gullies carved and shaped by the winter winds my life has been and continues to be changed by the elements. While that can be very positive it can also be, as it was at that time, very overwhelming. In literature about life after cancer treatment it says that this kind of grief is common and that anniversary dates can be a trigger for this wave of emotions. It was comforting to find out that what I was feeling is common.
During that week of weeping leading up to the anniversary a dear friend said to me ‘Why not let it out? You’ve had quite a year.’ And that was true. I had had quite a year, indeed. A year. One year. More. One more year.
Oh and now Spring, that great harbinger of hope, is teasing with glimpses of the warmth and green to come! The spring rains have arrived with some areas here receiving an abundance of precipitation. There’s a smell with softer rains that is fresh and inviting. I’ve always thought this was Nature’s way of cleaning things up after winter, getting ready for the bright blooms and fragrant friends that make those first brave moves into an unknown world.
Now I’m not a horticulturist (though I’ve often thought I could play on one TV) but I have noticed that those first few flowers up out of the ground are really quite tender. Hyacinth, daffodil, tulips and crocuses all have soft green stems. It’s interesting to me that these first-out-of-the-gate flowers should be so delicate.
They appear in this world with confidence and grace. And they expend all that energy to bloom without knowing what to really expect: it’s been warm enough for them to start growing underground but what life on the surface will hold for them is uncertain. It could be warm and sunny or just as easily it could be so cold and snowy that they would’ve preferred their travel agent to book their arrival in Boca. They have no control over what the weather will be and yet they come with hope in the great goodness of the earth to provide what they need.
I am learning to live with uncertainty myself and for this gal who likes to plan that offers some challenges. It's about letting go and trusting, which is easier said than done sometimes. And yet I find that when I accept and embrace the uncertainty of life there is a calm that comes with it. It will be sunny and warm or it will be cold and snowy; either way I know I will be well. So just as the spring flowers do, I’m heading into this world of unknowns on my own journey of trust and of hope.
Speaking of hope, I hope you’ll join me in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure on Sunday May 10th at the Mall of America. It’s quite an event and the number of participants is stunning. There are a plethora of choices for participation: the run, the walk or the slumber. Darn but that last one is appealing to me... but I will be there for the walk.
For you early birds who want to miss the crowds the 5K run begins on Sunday May 10th at 7:30am (seriously, who picks these times?!). The 5K outside walk begins at 9am and the 1K inside walk begins at 9:30am. The Sleep In for the Cure begins and ends at your leisure and will go on, as the other races do, rain or shine.
If you are interested in being there, let me know and we’ll make a plan for the day. You can sign up for the event on their website www.komenminnesota.org.
With peace and hope,
Karen
Monday, December 15, 2008
Season's change
We are in the midst of the first big storm of the season! I’ve just driven home in a snow as thick as fog with visibility being at best about a block. Outside the city limits that low visibility might be a more common occurrence but it is quite a rarity here in town. The light, fluffy flakes are coming down in a constant stream. The wind is strong and steady. If this keeps up we’re in for a snow day tomorrow! A snow day! Ah, those words delight at any age.
The path I took home was through an historic district that has gaslight-styled streetlights. They have a more diminutive height than their newer runway-model cousins and give off a pinkish light which made the storm feel kind of friendly. The trees lining the street were hard to see but when they did finally come into view it was both stunning and startling to see their dark form stand in complete contrast to the swirling world of white around them.
Walking in from the car there wasn’t a sound to hear. Earlier in the evening it was so cold that the snow creaked and groaned under each footstep. I did not take it as a personal commentary- that below zero snow has a certain sound no matter your weight. Now it’s warmer, relatively, so the crunch has gone.
In Winter the world comes as close to complete silence as it ever will. The quiet found in a hibernating world is exclusive to months of snow. Here the hubbub of activity available during Summer’s long days is a distant memory. The planning and preparation time that is Fall has past and the promise of the new and soft green that is Spring is a still a dream. Winter asks us to set that all that was and all that will be aside and just be.
It is enough to have quiet and calm, to be quiet and calm. Again and again in a world cocooned in white Winter shows us the peace it has to offer. It’s easy enough to get caught up in the frenetic pace of the holidays. It’s tempting to keep up the speed of going and doing but Winter asks us to let go and slow down, even if it has to produce freezing rain to get us do that.
When scraping my car of said freezing rain and/or clearing it of snow it is then that I become re-familiarized with all the car's quirky and unusual crevasses. Design choices that might never be an issue in, say, Texas become common adversaries here in the wintertime. If anyone at Pontiac is interested (and they may just be ready to listen now), I’ve got some opinions about the windshield wiper and wheel well designs that I’d like to share…
On Thursday I drove back down to the Mayo with Mom and Dad for my fourth tri-monthly check up. It’s been a little more than a year since my surgery which is hard to believe. In fact, in transferring dates to the 2009 calendar I found myself stymied at the thought that it has been a year and a half since I first found the lump. A year and a half. Really? I feel like I’ve been in a time machine and now find myself here at the close of 2008 wondering what has happened.
The answer is, of course, a lot. In these months since the completion of treatment integrating what it means to live life post-cancer has left me feeling like a Maple tree in the spring: tapped out. I’m in recovery from a year and a half of life lived outside the lines. Not that I had any idea how it would be in the first place, but it is really different than anything I’ve ever experienced and it’s taking some getting used to.
In these past months I’ve been doing my best to find small ways to restore myself. As much as I and probably the rest of the world dream of winning the lottery in order to take time off the chances of that actually occurring are quite slim, especially when you don’t buy a ticket. Instead, I have built small bits of meditation into my workdays to keep me calm and weekly T’ai Chi classes help keep me centered.
So this Winter I will be turning inward to renew and refuel. I will do less and be more. And as we move further into this season of rest I continue to say thank you, thank you, thank you for just about everything you can imagine. It is by no small miracle that we are all here in this world of quiet together.
Wishing you the peace of the season,
Karen
The path I took home was through an historic district that has gaslight-styled streetlights. They have a more diminutive height than their newer runway-model cousins and give off a pinkish light which made the storm feel kind of friendly. The trees lining the street were hard to see but when they did finally come into view it was both stunning and startling to see their dark form stand in complete contrast to the swirling world of white around them.
Walking in from the car there wasn’t a sound to hear. Earlier in the evening it was so cold that the snow creaked and groaned under each footstep. I did not take it as a personal commentary- that below zero snow has a certain sound no matter your weight. Now it’s warmer, relatively, so the crunch has gone.
In Winter the world comes as close to complete silence as it ever will. The quiet found in a hibernating world is exclusive to months of snow. Here the hubbub of activity available during Summer’s long days is a distant memory. The planning and preparation time that is Fall has past and the promise of the new and soft green that is Spring is a still a dream. Winter asks us to set that all that was and all that will be aside and just be.
It is enough to have quiet and calm, to be quiet and calm. Again and again in a world cocooned in white Winter shows us the peace it has to offer. It’s easy enough to get caught up in the frenetic pace of the holidays. It’s tempting to keep up the speed of going and doing but Winter asks us to let go and slow down, even if it has to produce freezing rain to get us do that.
When scraping my car of said freezing rain and/or clearing it of snow it is then that I become re-familiarized with all the car's quirky and unusual crevasses. Design choices that might never be an issue in, say, Texas become common adversaries here in the wintertime. If anyone at Pontiac is interested (and they may just be ready to listen now), I’ve got some opinions about the windshield wiper and wheel well designs that I’d like to share…
On Thursday I drove back down to the Mayo with Mom and Dad for my fourth tri-monthly check up. It’s been a little more than a year since my surgery which is hard to believe. In fact, in transferring dates to the 2009 calendar I found myself stymied at the thought that it has been a year and a half since I first found the lump. A year and a half. Really? I feel like I’ve been in a time machine and now find myself here at the close of 2008 wondering what has happened.
The answer is, of course, a lot. In these months since the completion of treatment integrating what it means to live life post-cancer has left me feeling like a Maple tree in the spring: tapped out. I’m in recovery from a year and a half of life lived outside the lines. Not that I had any idea how it would be in the first place, but it is really different than anything I’ve ever experienced and it’s taking some getting used to.
In these past months I’ve been doing my best to find small ways to restore myself. As much as I and probably the rest of the world dream of winning the lottery in order to take time off the chances of that actually occurring are quite slim, especially when you don’t buy a ticket. Instead, I have built small bits of meditation into my workdays to keep me calm and weekly T’ai Chi classes help keep me centered.
So this Winter I will be turning inward to renew and refuel. I will do less and be more. And as we move further into this season of rest I continue to say thank you, thank you, thank you for just about everything you can imagine. It is by no small miracle that we are all here in this world of quiet together.
Wishing you the peace of the season,
Karen
Thursday, September 18, 2008
An Addendum
Yesterday when sharing with my t’ai chi instructor about the previous day’s delightful encounter with the grasshopper I used a new word in the story: intention. “When the grasshopper centered himself and leapt with intention to my coat and to the blade of grass he was graceful and precise.” My instructor pointed out that the grasshopper had never been either place- not to my coat nor to the blade of grass- and yet he was able to make both of those leaps precisely and gracefully. Being centered and moving with intention focused his actions.
When the grasshopper was fleeing down the sidewalk his movements were frenetic and frantic. I had interrupted his early evening stroll with the possibility of, well, frankly, death and who wouldn’t be a little frenetic and frantic when faced with death? One clomp of my sturdy shoe and he wouldn’t have to wonder where he could get his lovely tweed suit pressed, it would be permanently pressed for him. His need for the moment was to propel himself out of harm’s way and indeed he did that but it distracted him from his original intent which may have been, like most of us, to find a little meal and a quiet place to rest for the evening.
While the flight or fight response is critical in emergencies- like a giant coming after you- it isn’t really required on a daily basis. For the most part we don’t have literal giants here in our world but, certainly, there are figurative ones that we encounter in our daily lives: work, commitments, time constraints, financial constraints, bills, health crisis, healthcare crisis, the economy, the housing collapse, the banking collapse, the elections, polar bears, the future of our country and of our world. There’s a lot to be frenetic about if you want to be.
I know for a fact that I have often moved in frenetic and frantic ways in my day-to-day life. When I’m busy I think “Hey, I’m important. My job is important. I am needed.” And while those things are true in and of themselves, they don’t define me as a person- many people can say those very same things- and they don’t express who I am as an individual. I’m discovering that by being driven only by external forces I’m not paying attention to my internal goals. I’m being sidetracked by a giant’s shoe.
In this past year I have had encounters with a real giant’s shoe, a really giant shoe: breast cancer that migrated into the lymph nodes. It’s not the kind of shoe you ever plan to take home with you but there it is. What I have learned is that with many things in life including an illness you may not get to choose the shoe but you certainly do get to choose the outfit to go with it. As Tim Gunn from ‘Project Runway’ says weekly “Make it work, people! Make it work!”
And so I am. In living with a diagnosis of cancer, rather than allowing it to move me in a frantic and frenetic way, it has given me the opportunity to center myself and move with intention. This is taking some focus, well actually re-focus, and practice. And just as with other things I’ve learned in my lifetime I’m getting guidance and support from a number of good teachers. When the student is ready the teachers will appear. And I am ready to live consciously and with intention.
So the grasshopper, that dear, dapper fellow, was much more than just a heralder of autumn. He was really a reminder and example to me to center myself and move with intention. The same opportunity is there for you, too. If it’s not something you’re already doing why not give it a try? You might just end up in a place you’ve never known but always knew you were meant to be…
With peace,
Karen
When the grasshopper was fleeing down the sidewalk his movements were frenetic and frantic. I had interrupted his early evening stroll with the possibility of, well, frankly, death and who wouldn’t be a little frenetic and frantic when faced with death? One clomp of my sturdy shoe and he wouldn’t have to wonder where he could get his lovely tweed suit pressed, it would be permanently pressed for him. His need for the moment was to propel himself out of harm’s way and indeed he did that but it distracted him from his original intent which may have been, like most of us, to find a little meal and a quiet place to rest for the evening.
While the flight or fight response is critical in emergencies- like a giant coming after you- it isn’t really required on a daily basis. For the most part we don’t have literal giants here in our world but, certainly, there are figurative ones that we encounter in our daily lives: work, commitments, time constraints, financial constraints, bills, health crisis, healthcare crisis, the economy, the housing collapse, the banking collapse, the elections, polar bears, the future of our country and of our world. There’s a lot to be frenetic about if you want to be.
I know for a fact that I have often moved in frenetic and frantic ways in my day-to-day life. When I’m busy I think “Hey, I’m important. My job is important. I am needed.” And while those things are true in and of themselves, they don’t define me as a person- many people can say those very same things- and they don’t express who I am as an individual. I’m discovering that by being driven only by external forces I’m not paying attention to my internal goals. I’m being sidetracked by a giant’s shoe.
In this past year I have had encounters with a real giant’s shoe, a really giant shoe: breast cancer that migrated into the lymph nodes. It’s not the kind of shoe you ever plan to take home with you but there it is. What I have learned is that with many things in life including an illness you may not get to choose the shoe but you certainly do get to choose the outfit to go with it. As Tim Gunn from ‘Project Runway’ says weekly “Make it work, people! Make it work!”
And so I am. In living with a diagnosis of cancer, rather than allowing it to move me in a frantic and frenetic way, it has given me the opportunity to center myself and move with intention. This is taking some focus, well actually re-focus, and practice. And just as with other things I’ve learned in my lifetime I’m getting guidance and support from a number of good teachers. When the student is ready the teachers will appear. And I am ready to live consciously and with intention.
So the grasshopper, that dear, dapper fellow, was much more than just a heralder of autumn. He was really a reminder and example to me to center myself and move with intention. The same opportunity is there for you, too. If it’s not something you’re already doing why not give it a try? You might just end up in a place you’ve never known but always knew you were meant to be…
With peace,
Karen
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Autumn
I’ve just had a lovely chat with a grasshopper. He didn’t have much time to talk, what with his busy traveling schedule and all, but the few minutes we did share were quite delightful. He was wearing his best green tweed vest and pants with a beautiful iridescent shirt: very dapper and yet sensible. Tweed is just the thing for the changing weather in these early, beguiling days of autumn.
He had caught my eye as he hurriedly hopped down the sidewalk trying to flee me, the giant seemingly coming after him! Had I only had a chance to tell him not to worry. My intent was much more mundane than to stamp on a fellow traveler; I was just on my way to get the mail.
We headed down the walk a little further and he attempted to jump a small brick retaining wall which held back green grass offering the safety of camouflage. He tried twice then three times to propel himself up and over with those thin, powerful legs but with no success. It was the gold ring on the merry-go-round: enticingly close but just out of reach. So, there he sat on the cement awaiting his doom.
I squatted down beside him to get a better look at this heralder of fall and he took the moment to catch his breath. After a minute of rest where I got to see the finery of his suit up close, his breathing slowed. I wondered what I, and really, the rest of the world looked like to him through those multi-faceted dark eyes.
“In all the things of nature there is something of the marvelous.” – Aristotle
At this point a small black ant wandered unknowingly into our scene and marched toward the hind end of the grasshopper. I couldn’t see the particulars of the encounter but knew when the ant had found its way up to him because with one quick flick of a leg the ant was propelled in a new trajectory.
I thought I was the observer in this story until the grasshopper turned his head and looked up at me. Then, keeping his eyes fixed on me, he gently rocked to the left and then to the right. He repeated this process three more times… left then right, left then right. His meditative movements reminded me of t’ai chi, which I have just begun to learn, but what was he really doing? Ah ha! He was judging the distance to his next landing which, as it turns out, was the coat that I had draped over my arm!
Where his sidewalk performance was less than artful (really fringe) and very tumultuous (he hit his head no less than twice on the brick retaining wall seemingly without consequence!?), in the blink of an eye he alighted to my blue-green tweed coat. He paused for just a moment and then quietly and easily moved up my arm as if to say ‘Oh yes, I take this walk daily. It’s very nice- you’ll like it.’
When he got to the edge of the coat he surveyed the new horizon which included my sweater with its zigzag of blue stripes. Yeowza! Talk about your busy intersection! But he was unflappable: he’d been in the big city before and was used to the noise.
For a brief moment we rested there together, he and I. Then, as if he heard the conductor calling out his train’s departure, he fixed his eyes on the green horizon, gently rocked left then right to get his bearings and made a long, swift jump to a tall blade of grass. It was a perfect landing.
I bid my new friend a fond farewell, thanked him for his time and wished him safe journey wherever he was going. Then I left the long, low shadows of the late day and went in to get my mail.
Wishing you the beauty and abundance of the season,
Karen
He had caught my eye as he hurriedly hopped down the sidewalk trying to flee me, the giant seemingly coming after him! Had I only had a chance to tell him not to worry. My intent was much more mundane than to stamp on a fellow traveler; I was just on my way to get the mail.
We headed down the walk a little further and he attempted to jump a small brick retaining wall which held back green grass offering the safety of camouflage. He tried twice then three times to propel himself up and over with those thin, powerful legs but with no success. It was the gold ring on the merry-go-round: enticingly close but just out of reach. So, there he sat on the cement awaiting his doom.
I squatted down beside him to get a better look at this heralder of fall and he took the moment to catch his breath. After a minute of rest where I got to see the finery of his suit up close, his breathing slowed. I wondered what I, and really, the rest of the world looked like to him through those multi-faceted dark eyes.
“In all the things of nature there is something of the marvelous.” – Aristotle
At this point a small black ant wandered unknowingly into our scene and marched toward the hind end of the grasshopper. I couldn’t see the particulars of the encounter but knew when the ant had found its way up to him because with one quick flick of a leg the ant was propelled in a new trajectory.
I thought I was the observer in this story until the grasshopper turned his head and looked up at me. Then, keeping his eyes fixed on me, he gently rocked to the left and then to the right. He repeated this process three more times… left then right, left then right. His meditative movements reminded me of t’ai chi, which I have just begun to learn, but what was he really doing? Ah ha! He was judging the distance to his next landing which, as it turns out, was the coat that I had draped over my arm!
Where his sidewalk performance was less than artful (really fringe) and very tumultuous (he hit his head no less than twice on the brick retaining wall seemingly without consequence!?), in the blink of an eye he alighted to my blue-green tweed coat. He paused for just a moment and then quietly and easily moved up my arm as if to say ‘Oh yes, I take this walk daily. It’s very nice- you’ll like it.’
When he got to the edge of the coat he surveyed the new horizon which included my sweater with its zigzag of blue stripes. Yeowza! Talk about your busy intersection! But he was unflappable: he’d been in the big city before and was used to the noise.
For a brief moment we rested there together, he and I. Then, as if he heard the conductor calling out his train’s departure, he fixed his eyes on the green horizon, gently rocked left then right to get his bearings and made a long, swift jump to a tall blade of grass. It was a perfect landing.
I bid my new friend a fond farewell, thanked him for his time and wished him safe journey wherever he was going. Then I left the long, low shadows of the late day and went in to get my mail.
Wishing you the beauty and abundance of the season,
Karen
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