Live Each Season

Live each season as it passes;
Breathe the air,
Drink the drink,
Taste the fruit,
And resign yourself to the influences of each.
~ Henry David Thoreau

Spring has arrived a little early this year. The long silence of winter has been replaced by the lilting sound of bird songs. The new, fresh smell that comes with warmer weather- and by warm I mean a startling seventy degrees- is in the air. The other day we had our first good rain and early-rising plants are now lifting their heads up above the blanket of the earth’s bed. Trees and bushes have heard that same alarm clock and are getting their little buds ready for the new school year.

This season is a profusion of new beginnings. Many of my friends have commented on the promise they feel at the start of this new decade of opportunity. One who had been diligently searching for work recently found a position she both needed and wanted (hooray!). Another with her finger on the pulse of job postings is seeing more positions being advertised. Taking a cue from tulips, the world feels like it's beginning to open up a little.

Work in my corner of the world continues to be like a good reduction sauce: it’s concentrated and we’re savoring every bite. Relationships with long-standing clients are in flux and new projects are a gift. I have had meetings where things clicked, the connection was there but then something later changed- lord only knows what or why- and the work went elsewhere. When that happens I tend then to think over the meeting (and over and over) to find the reason for the change… did I say something wrong, did I not pick up on cues? They're my clients so why aren't they staying with me? These ruminating sessions take a great deal of energy and, in the end, don’t offer real benefit.

The economy in these last couple years has offered numerous and repeated opportunities to learn to let go and trust that the right thing is happening. But oh, can that be a challenge! I often don’t see how the right thing is happening but the point is not how I see things- as startling as that is to think- the point is that it is what is happening. Like it or lump it, it is what’s happening. I can sit and stew in fear and doubt or choose to accept the situation and release myself from the anxiety.

The letting go part can be a challenge for me sometimes (um, like now) and I guess the trusting part, too. I’m doing my best to shake off the fear and focus on the positive. At times my trust wanes to the littlest sliver of a moon: I want proof that there will be another full moon and but soon. The darkness feels too dark, I can’t see the other side and that fills me with doubt. I believe OSHA would back me up here in that a good hand rail and appropriate lighting would feel a whole lot safer. I want proof that everything’s going to work out like I’d like!

But proof can be elusive. The early rising plants of spring don’t have proof; they use their instinct and cue off the warmth of the sun. Arriving so early on the scene has its risks. Sometimes there's a missed cue and another cold snap brings the curtain down early in Act One but plants don't let that deter them. They take it from the top and run the scene again.

Early sailors didn't have proof. They had to trust in the sea-worthiness of their vessel (and believe me OSHA was nowhere to be found on those cruising ships). In the dark nights of their journey they checked their course against the stars, remained true to their plan and continued to move forward. The risk was high: they could run out of fresh water or food or be taken down to a watery grave by a giant wave and/or sea monster. But they didn’t let that stop them because the reward was greater than the risk. (I mean, some of them probably changed their minds when they heard about the sea monsters but numerous others went on undeterred.)

I am like an early (ooh, I’m not going to say riser because we all know even with an alarm clock that’s not true) but I am an early explorer in my own life. I’m equipped with skills, instincts and knowledge and do my best to use them each day. There is risk, yes, but I am setting out on my journey trusting that everything I need will be there for me when I need it. If that mantra was enough to carry me through cancer treatment it should be enough for regular life, shouldn’t it?

The fear of loosing something (something I believe to be mine and irreplaceable) can keep me frozen and immobile. By dropping anchor and claiming things as mine--- like the belief that my clients are mine or that my red hair made me unique and that without it I would not be me (chemotherapy cleared up that misconception)--- I am ignoring the powerful tides of life.

Life ebbs and flows, it has ups and downs. By loosening my grip on things I open myself up to new experiences and find myself alive in this season. I am present. And really, that's all there is: this present moment, this breath, this life. Right now.

So I breathe in this spring air. As I breathe it in deeply, deeply, deeply I feel the grip of fear loosen inside me. I drink the cool, clear drink of this season and find my thirst is quenched. I taste the fruit of this season and savor the delicious flavors that will only be here for the briefest of moments. This season offers a plethora of opportunities and I've resigned myself to each of them: the hope, the new, the green, and the change. I'm going to keep my heart open and trust that I'll be in a warm, sunny spot where I can continue to bloom.

Trusting the sunshine will be there for you too,
Karen

High Anxiety

Last year I took a T’ai Chi class that was really amazing. Each week I had an hour set aside for moving meditation. No matter how anxious or frenetic I felt going in to class, I left feeling calm and centered. Some days that feeling came early in the class and other days it would take the better part of the hour to achieve. Either way, I would reconnect with that quiet that resides within me. At the end of the summer the instructor moved to a state where blowing sand trumps blowing snow and left a void that I didn’t get around to filling.

At first, the absence of weekly practice wasn’t pronounced. I could tell I was missing the regular structure of movement and meditation but wasn’t doing it on my own at home. There was plenty of busyness to keep me running and the rising anxiety was familiar to me. I had lived with it before; I could live with it again.

But now after not quieting down for lo, these many months, I feel like there’s a caged animal inside me pacing back and forth and back and forth. I’ve tried to avoid it--- to ignore it--- but it won’t quiet on its own. Much as I’d rather not claim it, anxiousness is a part of me. It is a part of me. Oddly enough, it is when I accept it- accepted the pacing, the roaring and gnashing of teeth- that I find that I can work with it.

What goes on outside of me is not nearly as powerful as what goes on inside of me. There are days when exterior life is smooth sailing but inside me there’s a hurricane brewing so the smallest perceived ripple capsizes my boat. Other days where the world seems stormy, I'm able to ride out the squalls by relaxing into the waves. Keeping calm and being grounded is what makes the ups and downs of life manageable.

It’s up to me (really, does it have to be?!) to make sure that my inner energy is calm and focused. Doing things for me because they’re what I need isn’t quite yet my default setting. On my own tend not to be as focused as I’d like to be. There are often more appealing things like watching the Olympics, checking friends’ facebook updates or organizing my sock drawer that keep me occupied.

I find I do best with outside deadlines and commitments to others. Being at a class with other people is more energizing than stumbling through the movements on my own. Indeed it’s one of the things our T’ai Chi instructor pointed out to us: when we moved together in a synchronized manner the energy was palpable and focused.

This past month a new instructor has come forward to lead our class of novices so I’m back on track with T'ai Chi practice. Though our new teacher's style is very different than what we learned before it’s wonderful to have a guide reminding us to be gentle with ourselves (we’re all students in this life) and to look at the world with soft eyes (seeing in all directions but focusing on none of them). So, in doing just that, I'm reconnecting to the calm within.

Peace to you,
Karen

Valentine's Day

Mister Roger’s Neighborhood is a show I love. His kind and gentle demeanor (which unfortunately rubs some the wrong way) along with the music that’s ever-present in the program have always been appealing to me. One of the songs that I think really says what today is all about is “There Are Many Ways to Say I Love You”. When I was younger I didn’t quite understand how cleaning a room could say I love you but indeed it does...

There Are Many Ways to Say I Love You
By Fred M. Rogers
© 1970

There are many ways to say I love you.
There are many ways to say I care about you.
Many ways, many ways,
Many ways to say I love you.

There's the singing way to say I love you.
There's the singing something someone really likes to hear.
The singing way, the singing way,
The singing way to say I love you.

Cleaning up a room can say I love you.
Hanging up a coat before you're asked to.
Drawing special pictures for the holidays
And making plays.

You'll find many ways to say I love you.
You'll find many ways to understand what love is.
Many ways, many ways,
Many ways to say I love you.

Singing, cleaning, drawing, being understanding,
Love you.


So on this day, the one day of the year set aside specifically to celebrate love, I hope you’re spending time with people dear to you and, for those good people who live far away, that they are especially in your thoughts.

Here’s to a lifetime of love in all its many ways,
Karen

Back Again

The New Year is here! And it’s not only a new year, it’s a new decade. That’s reason enough to begin by cleaning out the cobwebs and getting a fresh start on things--- best foot forward and all that! I’ve set out some intentions for the year which include the usual line up of better eating, exercise, and doing the dishes before it becomes an official Olympic event. These few days into the year I’m one for three. It’s a start. As a dear friend says, “Good things are going to happen!” and I believe that to be true.

One of the delights about a new year is a new calendar. They’re all about art and design and, ooh, do I love good graphic design. The combination of words and images on a page, the use of font and layout to best present the idea, these things make my heart sing a glad song for graphic design! So it is with much pleasure that I peruse the plethora of paper offerings each year.

The search for new calendars starts in late September which sounds early but it does take some time to find them. For each type of calendar - the weekly calendar for me and for work, the desk calendar for both home and work, and an additional monthly one for home – there are particular requirements, the most important of which is that rare combination of function and aesthetics. For the upcoming journey I’ve some delightful art to accompany me. For my desk at work there’s the little letter pressed calendar; for my desk at home it’s a beautiful silk-screen with wonderful graphics of my sister’s sports team. And then there’s the one featuring British rail travel posters that reminds me of my friends in London. So much art; so much beauty! What better way to mark the months of the year?!

The one calendar I buy that’s neither artful nor beautiful is the Franklin Covey weekly work calendar. (I know, I know. It’s like a cult.) My first job to require such a detailed calendar was with a company that drank that particular Kool-Aid. Without delay after being hired, lest I figure out how to organize my own thoughts, I was sent to class to learn the intricacies of how to use The Program. The class was called something dramatic like MasterPlan Goal-Focused Life Management. I don’t remember much about the doctrine except that there’s a language of arrows and check marks that help track of what goals are accomplished (checks) and what still needs doing (arrows). Though I don’t make full use of The System I’ve just stayed with it. I mean, I’ve already got the binder; I just need the new calendar pages…

Just as I’ve stayed with Franklin Covey there’s something that’s staying with me (no matter how often I think I'm rid of it) and that’s the single, wiry hair on my back. Yes, that’s right; I have back hair. Welcome to my world! Technically, it’s more of a shoulder hair but really that’s no more appealing than referring to it as a back hair. What ever name is bestowed upon it, it has returned with the New Year. On a body covered with thin, nearly invisible hairs (at least that’s what I tell myself in the summer when I haven’t shaved my legs…) this hair is thick and dark. Because of its ability to appear overnight and to immediately be about a half inch long I’m constantly on the look out for it. Rest assured, as soon as it is spotted it’s tweezed.

I didn’t used to have unwanted back hair. (Well, there’s the start to an infomercial if I’ve ever heard one!) It showed up quite unannounced not long after I became abruptly post-menopausal. And now two years into this new way of life there are three neck hairs (two thin, one thick), a chin hair (just the one) and lengthening moustache hairs (which, again, I tell myself are almost invisible…) that I also keep look out for. There’s a whole list of things that come with being post-menopausal and asking for a quick once-over of my jaw line with the electric razor at the end of a hair cut is now one of them.

It’s a lot for a body once flush with estrogen to suddenly have to acclimate to having none. I went to see a menopause specialist who said she would expect someone my age that is suddenly post-menopausal to experience severe hot flashes. Like all the great duos- Burns and Allen, Rogers and Hart, Salt n Pepa- menopause and hot flashes just seem to go together. I myself don’t experience really hot hot flashes, they’re more like warms. As it turns out, the medication I take to alleviate the nerve damage from the chemotherapy has a side effect of diminishing hot flashes: well there’s an unexpected benefit!

This year, aside from keeping my intentions for good self care, I want to be open to those unexpected benefits that are strewn across our path in life. The old adage ‘when life gives you lemons, make lemonade’ is an invitation to peace and acceptance. There is so much in life that is beyond my control. The only thing I do control is my reaction to situations; I do my best to focus on the positive. And, lovely as it would be to make that decision once and never have to make it again, it’s a choice that I must make time and time again. Each time I have to choose. Each time I get to choose.

It may be a while before I choose to make that appointment at a laser hair removal clinic (I’ve got a lot of dishes to do, you know). So I ask that if the light catches one of those wiry bandits and you see that unmistakable glint in the sun to please let me know discretely so that I may remove it. In this New Year with its new opportunities I pledge to do the same for you.

Choosing opportunities of peace,
Karen

Starry, starry night

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

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

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

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

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

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