"The heart of autumn must have broken here, and poured its treasures out upon the leaves." - Charlote Flake Bates
Friday, September 30, 2011
It's that time of year
"The heart of autumn must have broken here, and poured its treasures out upon the leaves." - Charlote Flake Bates
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Sping snow
Last week spring arrived. After what seemed like the longest winter on record, our little patch of frozen tundra began to thaw. The snow that had been our constant companion since late last year disappeared in just a matter of days. Earth was visible. The streets and sidewalks were clean. Birds were singing their delight of sunshine and warmer spring winds. Tra-la! Tra-la! We did it! We’d made it through winter!
But Old Man Winter had other plans for us. With one grand gesture yesterday he delivered six inches of wet, heavy snow. Boots, hats and scarves that were almost packed away were pulled on again as we began to dig out. This morning brought bright sunshine so it was hard to be too crabby about this last hurrah of winter.
It's with a Victorian manner of restrained moderation that I usually enjoy being outdoors. On sunny days I love looking at the streams of light coming in the window but don't often venture out into them directly. If it's winter and I am outside, I'm either on my way to or from the car. If it's summer you might find me on a screen porch or, if it's not too hot or bug-y, under a big shade tree but more often than not I'm indoors until dusk.
Today, in unusual move, I headed out in this fresh landscape of white to see what there was to see. With all that sunshine bouncing off the new snow it was quite bright. In my excitement to get out the door, I hadn't thought to bring sunglasses but they would've been good gear for the walk.
It had warmed enough that, where people had done a good job of shoveling, there were patches of bare sidewalk. Old Man Winter was loosing this battle! I heard robins singing, melt-water trickling down rain pipes and drains and the slosh of my boots as I walked through slush in the streets. It was delightful to be out in the day!
Here are some of the things there were to see:
Tracks in the snow made by some little something. (It was so bright out I couldn't see the photo on the camera when I took this picture!)
The contrast of texture and color of a hedge against the snow.
An iron fence and its shadow.
By this time I remembered why I don’t usually walk outside in the wintertime: it’s slippery and slow-going. I had it in my mind that I would turn back at the next corner and head home and right then I felt a gentle tug to go forward one more block. No reason why, just go one more block.
Wanting to remain in charge, my rational head started in with all the reasons why I should turn back at the next corner as we had planned. It was quick to point out that ‘there’s nothing to see up there that I hadn’t already seen on all the walks I'd taken over the years’. It reminded me that ‘my neck was getting sore from looking down for ice patches’ and that 'it was so awfully bright out' and all sorts of practical reasons to ‘stick to the plan’.
The rational part of my brain almost won out but then I decided to listen to that gentle feeling and here was my reward:
Isn’t that a treat?! Being so petite in stature I didn’t see it until I was on top of it but there it was in all its spring snow glory! It's clear that the creator had fun making it and intended to share that joy with passers-by. What a charming reminder to embrace what life brings! This was the reward for having followed my gut.
Feelings are easy to ignore; I do it much of the time. My rational head has so many reasons why I shouldn’t listen to my intuition, so many lists of LISTS of lists to keep me from paying attention. And in case that isn't enough to distract me it will start in with ‘oh and did I tell you’ and ‘blah blah blah’. If I don’t keep it in check it would go on like that all day. It can be exhausting.
In the past months I've been doing my best to pay attention to what I'm feeling. Right now I find I’m in the noticing stage where I may be aware of but not follow through with what my spirit is asking. But like today when I do take that next step and act on those gentle feelings, there is always--- and I do mean always--- a reward. Though my brain may not logically understand it, my intuition has never let me down.
When I first took a T’ai Chi class a few years ago our instructor would say ‘listen on the inside’ or 'listening on the inside'. I didn't have a clue about what he was describing but over time and with the intent to understand him I began to notice what I was feeling. He was right: when I quieted my head and paid attention, I could hear myself on the inside. It wasn’t the busy chatter that my brain creates all day but a quiet, centered calm.
It’s lovely to be connected!
Listening on the inside,
Karen
But Old Man Winter had other plans for us. With one grand gesture yesterday he delivered six inches of wet, heavy snow. Boots, hats and scarves that were almost packed away were pulled on again as we began to dig out. This morning brought bright sunshine so it was hard to be too crabby about this last hurrah of winter.
It's with a Victorian manner of restrained moderation that I usually enjoy being outdoors. On sunny days I love looking at the streams of light coming in the window but don't often venture out into them directly. If it's winter and I am outside, I'm either on my way to or from the car. If it's summer you might find me on a screen porch or, if it's not too hot or bug-y, under a big shade tree but more often than not I'm indoors until dusk.
Today, in unusual move, I headed out in this fresh landscape of white to see what there was to see. With all that sunshine bouncing off the new snow it was quite bright. In my excitement to get out the door, I hadn't thought to bring sunglasses but they would've been good gear for the walk.
It had warmed enough that, where people had done a good job of shoveling, there were patches of bare sidewalk. Old Man Winter was loosing this battle! I heard robins singing, melt-water trickling down rain pipes and drains and the slosh of my boots as I walked through slush in the streets. It was delightful to be out in the day!
Here are some of the things there were to see:
Tracks in the snow made by some little something. (It was so bright out I couldn't see the photo on the camera when I took this picture!)
The contrast of texture and color of a hedge against the snow.
An iron fence and its shadow.
By this time I remembered why I don’t usually walk outside in the wintertime: it’s slippery and slow-going. I had it in my mind that I would turn back at the next corner and head home and right then I felt a gentle tug to go forward one more block. No reason why, just go one more block.
Wanting to remain in charge, my rational head started in with all the reasons why I should turn back at the next corner as we had planned. It was quick to point out that ‘there’s nothing to see up there that I hadn’t already seen on all the walks I'd taken over the years’. It reminded me that ‘my neck was getting sore from looking down for ice patches’ and that 'it was so awfully bright out' and all sorts of practical reasons to ‘stick to the plan’.
The rational part of my brain almost won out but then I decided to listen to that gentle feeling and here was my reward:
Isn’t that a treat?! Being so petite in stature I didn’t see it until I was on top of it but there it was in all its spring snow glory! It's clear that the creator had fun making it and intended to share that joy with passers-by. What a charming reminder to embrace what life brings! This was the reward for having followed my gut.
Feelings are easy to ignore; I do it much of the time. My rational head has so many reasons why I shouldn’t listen to my intuition, so many lists of LISTS of lists to keep me from paying attention. And in case that isn't enough to distract me it will start in with ‘oh and did I tell you’ and ‘blah blah blah’. If I don’t keep it in check it would go on like that all day. It can be exhausting.
In the past months I've been doing my best to pay attention to what I'm feeling. Right now I find I’m in the noticing stage where I may be aware of but not follow through with what my spirit is asking. But like today when I do take that next step and act on those gentle feelings, there is always--- and I do mean always--- a reward. Though my brain may not logically understand it, my intuition has never let me down.
When I first took a T’ai Chi class a few years ago our instructor would say ‘listen on the inside’ or 'listening on the inside'. I didn't have a clue about what he was describing but over time and with the intent to understand him I began to notice what I was feeling. He was right: when I quieted my head and paid attention, I could hear myself on the inside. It wasn’t the busy chatter that my brain creates all day but a quiet, centered calm.
It’s lovely to be connected!
Listening on the inside,
Karen
Monday, February 21, 2011
Hiatus...
It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything. Not just here, but for myself. Sitting down to write is harder than I remember and it's taken quite a while just to get this bit down on paper, as it were.
I feel I’ve let myself go. An interesting saying that is, isn’t it? Like I had myself and then I lost me. But for a time last year I did feel like I'd lost me. Since late spring, work and home were in a state of great flux and there was a time in the summer where I was unsure that either would survive.
In late June I found out, quite by accident, that my apartment building had been sold and that the sale was going through in five days: what?! There was hardly enough time to react. My immediate concern was that the new owner would increase the very reasonable rent and get rid of the month-to-month lease. I have lived here longer than anywhere else- even my childhood home- and didn't want to move out of the place I loved.
I know what you're thinking. 'You've been living in the same place for over eighteen years on a month-to-month lease?! You couldn't just commit to signing a one-year lease?' And you're right, you're right, I know you're right. It shouldn't be such a big deal to sign a lease but I'm someone who doesn't like change and I have issues with commitment. (I know- it's an interesting combo to work with!)
When I took the apartment in my early twenties I was a working actor and needed flexibility. This apartment fit the bill. The lease was a six month lease that then transferred to a month-to-month: I could pack up and hit the road with that touring show at the drop of a hat!
A few years in, though, I realized I liked to know I could pay my bills. I gave up the financial uncertainty of theater for a steady paying day job with benefits. It seemed like the grown-up thing to do. I reasoned that I could always go back to theater- maybe when I retired.
I'd also found that doing theater until 11PM was incompatible with a day job that began at 6:30AM. I'm a night owl who needs an ample dose of sleep but I gave up the creativity and aliveness of theater to get up at the crack of dawn. When I look back at this decision it's surprising to me that I chose the day job. (What was I thinking?!) In any case, I remained in the apartment.
As an adult in the Midwest it's not the norm to live in a studio apartment. In New York City people would stand in line for the separate kitchen and dining room, the walk-in closet and the windows with a view. But to Minnesotans who have a yard, a basement and off-street, covered parking (also known as a garage) it doesn't elicit quite the same response. Uncommon though it may be I love my little home and had no intention of going anywhere, at least I hadn't planned to.
At almost the same time as the building was sold my work changed enormously. Well, that's a bit of an understatement because the place actually closed. The owner decided with profits not being what they used to be and the decline in the amount of work available, he was done. That's all fine and good for him and his early retirement but I needed a job!
No home. No work. No money. What was I going to do?
Anxious thoughts ran amok and general panic ensued. Job instability meant financial uncertainty which meant I may not be able to cover my rent which meant packing all my stuff into a storage locker and getting by with a little help from my friends and their sofas. (Breathe. Remember to breathe.)
Tension headaches were an almost daily companion. I wasn't sleeping and that never helps anything. I did my best to breathe- that's always a good place to start- and to stay present. I wanted to be calm and trust that no matter what happened outside me that all would be well within me though at times that seemed a bit of a stretch.
When I was hired eight years ago, the owner planned to retire and turn the business over to his daughter. That never happened. There was no impetus for him to leave. His daughter and I did the lioness' share of the work- which for a couple of years was an insane amount of work for two people- while he was mostly in retirement. Nice work, if you can get it.
A year ago when it seemed clear he was not going to retire the daughter opened her own business alongside her father's. Since the close of his business in July she carries on work with some of his clients. She asked me to continue working with her on a part-time, contract, commission-only basis which isn't in my comfort zone. (If this is how I'm going to get paid I might as well work in the theater, yeah?) In the short-term it has meant sporadic income and in the long-term it’s not certain there will be enough work.
As I look back over the events of the summer there were two very clear opportunities for me to have left with good reason. (I felt somehow that I had to have 'a good reason' to leave. Feeling uncomfortable or unsatisfied was not enough reason to go. Trusting my gut wasn't in the equation.) So with not one but two situations that very clearly screamed 'This place is nuts! Their behavior is crazy!! Get out now!!!' I stayed.
I did not foresee the relationship between the dad and the daughter breaking down completely but over the years I did watch it decay. Though I couldn't imagine how it would end well, I stayed. I felt unclear about what I should do next. I didn't know where else to go, so I stayed. Why, oh why did I stay?! The short answer is inertia. The long answer is iiiiinnnnerrrrrrtiiiiiaaaaaaaa!
But, if I'm honest with myself, and with you, the other answer is fear. It's neither easy nor comfortable to admit this. I've been living with fear and in fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of not finding another job. Fear of finding another job less desirable than this one. Fear of finding one better than this.
After surviving cancer I thought I was done living in fear. (I mean, c'mon, how much scarier does it get than a diagnosis of cancer?) Through that unexpected journey I'd found a place of peace inside me that could not be shaken. I'd found a new freedom and ease in letting go and trusting that all would be well. My mantra was "I live in an abundant world. Everything I need will be there for me when I need it." and no kidding it was. And it is, when I connect with that peace.
But I wasn't in the same frame of mind this past year as when I was diagnosed. I was wracked with anxiety: my job and home were critical to my survival! How could I live without them? I needed these things!!
I needed things? That’s where I got tripped up and I know that--- I knew that!--- but without a clear idea of what to do next I felt I needed to hold on to what I had. I don’t need things; things aren’t what make me. With or without them I’m still me but that’s what fear connects to: I was afraid I'd loose everything- I’d loose me- so I held on very tightly to what I had.
In need of more steady income I turned to work I did in my post-college days as a pastry chef (yes, this was the 6:30AM day job). When I left there in my late twenties, exhausted and with tendonitis in both arms, I said it was 'work for young people'. How I thought I could return there now in my early forties in the worst shape of my life and still do the work is something I didn't put much thought into. I needed to pay the bills and this work would pay more than minimum wage. That was enough for me.
Getting hired was one of those fortuitous connections: the manager was a delightful woman whom I had trained in before I left- no kidding! Within her department she had an upcoming maternity leave, a departure and the holidays to cover. She needed someone who could quickly step into the work and was delighted to hear from me. She also remembered what beautiful cakes I made. And I did make beautiful cakes. I really did. So with just three retraining-in sessions I was back.
It’s been interesting and surprising how muscles remember what to do. My brain may have forgotten what physical work it was but my body quickly recalled the required movements. At first I was a bit rusty but as my actions became more fluid my speed improved. This is my 'you're going to get back into shape whether you like it or not' job and I must say I don't always like it but I am getting stronger.
Like many people you may be thinking: 'Being a pastry chef would be a lot of fun! I make cakes at home and it's not that hard.' And that's true: making one cake isn't that hard. But making thirty, sixty or, if you're really in the groove, eighty cakes in a shift is quite another thing. This is production bakery work and it is a world far removed from pleasure baking. It's all about getting the product out quickly and that is exhausting.
The shift is spent standing and lifting. Lifting cakes on trays. Lifting industrial-sized bowls of frosting (think super-SUPER-sized Kitchen Aid mixers). The fudge or whipped cream frosting (I know I just said whipped cream but trust me, a gallon or more of whipped cream in a large metal bowl is not light...) gets applied to multiple cakes. Wrists, forearms, biceps, shoulders, back and legs often remain in one position doing the same motion for hours. It's very physically demanding. I now take two Aleve before every shift and one the next day.
The return to manual labor and the crush of the holiday season cake-making was physically exhausting. The drama and anxiety surrounding the summer's events was emotionally exhausting. It's no wonder I've been wiped out and hanging by a thread! Restoration was required, but how?
That's a good question: how do you find your way back to yourself? Well, I've done my best to be gentle and kind with myself. I needed time alone to recharge my batteries so I made room for quiet and rest. Then I started inching toward other things I liked to do: writing, reading and watching period dramas on PBS. It's been these things, along with that gentle friend Time, which have helped me settle back into myself.
And just in the past few weeks I've felt my energy returning. That's been a lovely feeling. 'Oh hello again', I say to myself. 'It's so good to see you!' And it's good to see you, too.
With peace,
Karen
I feel I’ve let myself go. An interesting saying that is, isn’t it? Like I had myself and then I lost me. But for a time last year I did feel like I'd lost me. Since late spring, work and home were in a state of great flux and there was a time in the summer where I was unsure that either would survive.
In late June I found out, quite by accident, that my apartment building had been sold and that the sale was going through in five days: what?! There was hardly enough time to react. My immediate concern was that the new owner would increase the very reasonable rent and get rid of the month-to-month lease. I have lived here longer than anywhere else- even my childhood home- and didn't want to move out of the place I loved.
I know what you're thinking. 'You've been living in the same place for over eighteen years on a month-to-month lease?! You couldn't just commit to signing a one-year lease?' And you're right, you're right, I know you're right. It shouldn't be such a big deal to sign a lease but I'm someone who doesn't like change and I have issues with commitment. (I know- it's an interesting combo to work with!)
When I took the apartment in my early twenties I was a working actor and needed flexibility. This apartment fit the bill. The lease was a six month lease that then transferred to a month-to-month: I could pack up and hit the road with that touring show at the drop of a hat!
A few years in, though, I realized I liked to know I could pay my bills. I gave up the financial uncertainty of theater for a steady paying day job with benefits. It seemed like the grown-up thing to do. I reasoned that I could always go back to theater- maybe when I retired.
I'd also found that doing theater until 11PM was incompatible with a day job that began at 6:30AM. I'm a night owl who needs an ample dose of sleep but I gave up the creativity and aliveness of theater to get up at the crack of dawn. When I look back at this decision it's surprising to me that I chose the day job. (What was I thinking?!) In any case, I remained in the apartment.
As an adult in the Midwest it's not the norm to live in a studio apartment. In New York City people would stand in line for the separate kitchen and dining room, the walk-in closet and the windows with a view. But to Minnesotans who have a yard, a basement and off-street, covered parking (also known as a garage) it doesn't elicit quite the same response. Uncommon though it may be I love my little home and had no intention of going anywhere, at least I hadn't planned to.
At almost the same time as the building was sold my work changed enormously. Well, that's a bit of an understatement because the place actually closed. The owner decided with profits not being what they used to be and the decline in the amount of work available, he was done. That's all fine and good for him and his early retirement but I needed a job!
No home. No work. No money. What was I going to do?
Anxious thoughts ran amok and general panic ensued. Job instability meant financial uncertainty which meant I may not be able to cover my rent which meant packing all my stuff into a storage locker and getting by with a little help from my friends and their sofas. (Breathe. Remember to breathe.)
Tension headaches were an almost daily companion. I wasn't sleeping and that never helps anything. I did my best to breathe- that's always a good place to start- and to stay present. I wanted to be calm and trust that no matter what happened outside me that all would be well within me though at times that seemed a bit of a stretch.
When I was hired eight years ago, the owner planned to retire and turn the business over to his daughter. That never happened. There was no impetus for him to leave. His daughter and I did the lioness' share of the work- which for a couple of years was an insane amount of work for two people- while he was mostly in retirement. Nice work, if you can get it.
A year ago when it seemed clear he was not going to retire the daughter opened her own business alongside her father's. Since the close of his business in July she carries on work with some of his clients. She asked me to continue working with her on a part-time, contract, commission-only basis which isn't in my comfort zone. (If this is how I'm going to get paid I might as well work in the theater, yeah?) In the short-term it has meant sporadic income and in the long-term it’s not certain there will be enough work.
As I look back over the events of the summer there were two very clear opportunities for me to have left with good reason. (I felt somehow that I had to have 'a good reason' to leave. Feeling uncomfortable or unsatisfied was not enough reason to go. Trusting my gut wasn't in the equation.) So with not one but two situations that very clearly screamed 'This place is nuts! Their behavior is crazy!! Get out now!!!' I stayed.
I did not foresee the relationship between the dad and the daughter breaking down completely but over the years I did watch it decay. Though I couldn't imagine how it would end well, I stayed. I felt unclear about what I should do next. I didn't know where else to go, so I stayed. Why, oh why did I stay?! The short answer is inertia. The long answer is iiiiinnnnerrrrrrtiiiiiaaaaaaaa!
But, if I'm honest with myself, and with you, the other answer is fear. It's neither easy nor comfortable to admit this. I've been living with fear and in fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of not finding another job. Fear of finding another job less desirable than this one. Fear of finding one better than this.
After surviving cancer I thought I was done living in fear. (I mean, c'mon, how much scarier does it get than a diagnosis of cancer?) Through that unexpected journey I'd found a place of peace inside me that could not be shaken. I'd found a new freedom and ease in letting go and trusting that all would be well. My mantra was "I live in an abundant world. Everything I need will be there for me when I need it." and no kidding it was. And it is, when I connect with that peace.
But I wasn't in the same frame of mind this past year as when I was diagnosed. I was wracked with anxiety: my job and home were critical to my survival! How could I live without them? I needed these things!!
I needed things? That’s where I got tripped up and I know that--- I knew that!--- but without a clear idea of what to do next I felt I needed to hold on to what I had. I don’t need things; things aren’t what make me. With or without them I’m still me but that’s what fear connects to: I was afraid I'd loose everything- I’d loose me- so I held on very tightly to what I had.
In need of more steady income I turned to work I did in my post-college days as a pastry chef (yes, this was the 6:30AM day job). When I left there in my late twenties, exhausted and with tendonitis in both arms, I said it was 'work for young people'. How I thought I could return there now in my early forties in the worst shape of my life and still do the work is something I didn't put much thought into. I needed to pay the bills and this work would pay more than minimum wage. That was enough for me.
Getting hired was one of those fortuitous connections: the manager was a delightful woman whom I had trained in before I left- no kidding! Within her department she had an upcoming maternity leave, a departure and the holidays to cover. She needed someone who could quickly step into the work and was delighted to hear from me. She also remembered what beautiful cakes I made. And I did make beautiful cakes. I really did. So with just three retraining-in sessions I was back.
It’s been interesting and surprising how muscles remember what to do. My brain may have forgotten what physical work it was but my body quickly recalled the required movements. At first I was a bit rusty but as my actions became more fluid my speed improved. This is my 'you're going to get back into shape whether you like it or not' job and I must say I don't always like it but I am getting stronger.
Like many people you may be thinking: 'Being a pastry chef would be a lot of fun! I make cakes at home and it's not that hard.' And that's true: making one cake isn't that hard. But making thirty, sixty or, if you're really in the groove, eighty cakes in a shift is quite another thing. This is production bakery work and it is a world far removed from pleasure baking. It's all about getting the product out quickly and that is exhausting.
The shift is spent standing and lifting. Lifting cakes on trays. Lifting industrial-sized bowls of frosting (think super-SUPER-sized Kitchen Aid mixers). The fudge or whipped cream frosting (I know I just said whipped cream but trust me, a gallon or more of whipped cream in a large metal bowl is not light...) gets applied to multiple cakes. Wrists, forearms, biceps, shoulders, back and legs often remain in one position doing the same motion for hours. It's very physically demanding. I now take two Aleve before every shift and one the next day.
The return to manual labor and the crush of the holiday season cake-making was physically exhausting. The drama and anxiety surrounding the summer's events was emotionally exhausting. It's no wonder I've been wiped out and hanging by a thread! Restoration was required, but how?
That's a good question: how do you find your way back to yourself? Well, I've done my best to be gentle and kind with myself. I needed time alone to recharge my batteries so I made room for quiet and rest. Then I started inching toward other things I liked to do: writing, reading and watching period dramas on PBS. It's been these things, along with that gentle friend Time, which have helped me settle back into myself.
And just in the past few weeks I've felt my energy returning. That's been a lovely feeling. 'Oh hello again', I say to myself. 'It's so good to see you!' And it's good to see you, too.
With peace,
Karen
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Walks
The weather's been so inviting of late that I've been out enjoying walks in my neighborhood. I've begun to bring my camera with me on these excursions to capture the little vistas of spring that I see. Here are a few I'd like to share...
The painterly way the clouds hang in the sky captured my attention here. It seems that the greens on the hillside have been waiting for a day just like this!
This reminded me of a poster from a 1950's barbershop featuring the many different types of haircuts from which to choose... (Photoshop your side profile here) "I'd like the apple blossom pompadour with just a little off the back."
I used to listen to music on walks but now I enjoy listening to the sounds of the day. When I'm attuned to the world around me a space opens up inside. I feel the air coming in and out of my lungs and the tension in my shoulders ease. The rhythm of my feet on the ground shakes loose the weight of the day. As I connect to the moment and find the calm it's then that I can see the delights of the world around me. And, oh, are there delights to be seen!
Here's some of the very freshest spring grass against a backdrop of moss.
This little vista is in the crook of a root of a big tree. I love the little bits of stick and leaves that cover this valley floor. Moss is something that always catches my attention: I love the range of greens from dark to bright, the velvety texture and the way it cascades over the rolling hills of the roots.
Wishing you the delights the day,
Karen
The painterly way the clouds hang in the sky captured my attention here. It seems that the greens on the hillside have been waiting for a day just like this!
This reminded me of a poster from a 1950's barbershop featuring the many different types of haircuts from which to choose... (Photoshop your side profile here) "I'd like the apple blossom pompadour with just a little off the back."
I used to listen to music on walks but now I enjoy listening to the sounds of the day. When I'm attuned to the world around me a space opens up inside. I feel the air coming in and out of my lungs and the tension in my shoulders ease. The rhythm of my feet on the ground shakes loose the weight of the day. As I connect to the moment and find the calm it's then that I can see the delights of the world around me. And, oh, are there delights to be seen!
Here's some of the very freshest spring grass against a backdrop of moss.
This little vista is in the crook of a root of a big tree. I love the little bits of stick and leaves that cover this valley floor. Moss is something that always catches my attention: I love the range of greens from dark to bright, the velvety texture and the way it cascades over the rolling hills of the roots.
Wishing you the delights the day,
Karen
Saturday, April 3, 2010
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
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
Sunday, March 7, 2010
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
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
Sunday, February 14, 2010
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
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
Sunday, January 10, 2010
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
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
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
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
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
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
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