Spring Gratitudes

Doors were flung open and people tumbled outside to feast on a sky unmarred by clouds and alight with a blazing sun. Sixty degrees and a soft caressing wind invited us to come out of hibernation and celebrate the end of a brutal winter. Bikes, trikes, scooters, skates and strollers rolled happily along. You could feel the solar panels sucking up the sun. Pairs of osprey wheeled overhead, calling faintly to each other. Two bald eagles flew low down the inlet, a sight so unexpected and surprising that I cannot be sure I actually saw them.

But my first gratitude blossomed yesterday, at the annual return of a pair of mallards swimming in a nearby roadside ditch flowing with the winter melt. They pique my curiosity… why the ditch, when there is a lake, a creek, and a pond within a half-mile radius? Spotting the ducks feels like a homecoming. Something in me loosens when I know they have come back, and some piece of the world swings into place. Here is the ditch where they hang out.

The second gratitude is simply relief. Warmth, unmarred by the piercing of a bitter wind.

Third – a lightness of being – no coat, or scarf, or mittens, or hat or any of the other paraphernalia required to master the winter.

Fourth… with any luck (and I won’t count on this, although I will hope) I will not have to scrape frost off my windshield until November.

So, the animals and birds are returning to their summer home and we are emerging from our winter homes into the light of day. Hallelujah.

In the Presence of the Other

Nothing is more important to me than being heard. Reflecting on what enhances communication and what hinders it, I have recently become aware of the presence of the "Other", that uncomfortable and unseen thing that sometimes creeps into conversations. This shows up in many ways, and I suspect that each of us has a slightly different perspective. Let me offer you some examples to give you an idea of what I'm talking about. Many years ago I approached a friend and shared with her that my grandmother had just died. She said "oh, I'm so sorry", and promptly changed the subject. The Other is often a taboo subject of some sort that causes someone to shut down and turn away. There is a much more subtle example on the other end of the spectrum.On occasion I have shared an opinion or belief, and heard in response something like this: "I wonder if this isn't a better word to describe what you're feeling (offering a word that changes the intent of what I said)... I totally understand what you're saying, we're so much alike." In this instance the response to the perceived sense of otherness is to adjust it to better reflect the listener's experience so there can be a bonding experience.

I have my own powerful and  personal reactions to the presence of the Other. Growing up in a reserved household, I experience great shock and dismay when confronted with a dramatic emotional blast. I may be similarly stunned when someone says or does something that confronts me with the reality of how unlike me they are. In both these instances I am simply struck dumb, in such a state of shock that I can barely move, let alone speak.

Given these everyday conversational hits and misses, and our likely very normal reactions when we experience the Other, it is perhaps not surprising that we find churches banning interracial couples from membership, states creating restrictive laws about immigration, and a Congress that is so polarized they can't be civil to one another, let alone get any work done.

As we move into the holiday season, I wonder what might happen if each of us sat in the presence of the Other, with all of our differences and disagreements, armed only with a sense of curiosity and a desire to understand? Earlier today I found myself humming "Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me". Perhaps if we could all endure the unknown, the differences, just a moment longer, a bit more light could, and would, come into the world.

A Rain of Leaves

The falling leaves of autumn teach me about letting go and passing away. I like to stand in the deep woods and watch the leaves rain down. Some seem to fall gladly and willingly, while others need to be shaken free by the wind. What I especially notice as I watch the leaves is just how easy it seems. One second the leaf is attached to the branch… the next second it is falling. The letting go seems effortless, and the descent is often slow and gentle. Watching this fills me with a sense of peace. I am quite sure that this is how I want to die. So I watch, and pay attention, every year. Trying to absorb the ease with which this happens and trying to take in just how easy letting go can be.

A friend recently asked “what do you do when things are hopeless?” (As a life coach people imagine I have the answer to questions like this). After some hemming and hawing I asked “what advice does your higher self have?” The response: Let go. Immediately followed by the question… but how do I do that? This is why I watch the rain of leaves every year.

While people typically connect the return of the light to the winter solstice, for me the light returns when the leaves fall. Living surrounded by woods, I see the light streaming through the branches as the canopy empties. The sun, sky, clouds and stars become visible in places they were hidden all summer. If you are contemplating letting go, look around to see where the light is streaming in. What is being illuminated? What is revealed that was once hidden?

My feet are crunching the leaves now when I walk through the woods. A thick layer of leaves is being laid down, providing a blanket of protection against the cold of winter and nourishment for next spring’s growth. This is the cycle of living and of dying. I imagine the leaves falling with a sense of relief and excitement… relieved that this part of their journey has come to an end and now they can rest. Excited about the transformation that will allow them to support the growth of the forest in a new and different way. In what ways do your experiences fertilize the ground for your next project or job, or just for tomorrow?

Lighting the Way

This is the season when adults who attended summer camp long ago begin to hum silly and soulful songs, reach out to old camp friends, and imagine packing our bags to head out for just one more summer lived out-of-doors. The foundation that camp provided still sustains me, forty years later. It gave me an understanding of the cycle of learning and forged my deeply rooted connection to the earth.

Those of us who grew up in the Camp Fire Girl tradition progressed through three ranks: Wood Gatherer, Fire Maker, and Torch Bearer. As Wood Gatherers we acquired basic skills and information, and established a context for our future endeavors. For instance, we learned how to be safe around fire, what types of fuel a fire needed, and how to organize the woodpile so that it would be easy to grab wood of the appropriate size when building and feeding the fire. The art of fire-building was practiced by the Fire Makers. We refined our skill at camp craft cookery, perfecting our one-pot meals and baking cobblers in reflector ovens. At night we warmed ourselves body and soul as we sang around our evening campfires, told stories, and listened to the trees whisper in the wind.

Torch Bearers played an important role in the ceremonial and spiritual aspects of camp. Having gained the mastery of fire, we planned and prepared the council fire at the end of each camp session. Paper sacks were stuffed with sand and candles, and then set to line the procession route. Torches were created by winding mouse mattresses (shhh! sanitary napkins) around poles and dipping them in paraffin. Oh, how we used to chuckle at this! On some level we delighted in the idea of our feminine products being used for such a sacred purpose... and we clearly took joy in the burning of these contrivances that were the source of so much discomfort and dismay.

As night descended, we lit our torches and led the campers to the sacred ground of the council fire ring. We come, we come to our council fire, with measured tread and slow, to light the fire of our desire…We stood at the four sides of our log cabin fire, invoked the four directions, and set the torches to the tinder. We reflected on our experiences and accomplishments, we expressed our gratitude, we laughed and we cried as our personal cycle of adventure, fun and learning for the camp season came to an end.

 

What is the tie that binds us together, friends of the long trail? Just this – we have shared the weather, we have slumbered side by side, and friends who have camped together shall never again divide.

How strong is your foundation?
What sustains you?
How do you honor the sacred?

How can you take your light out into the world and share it with others?

As a life coach in Ithaca, I provide a safe place for people to explore their deeper self and experiment with new ways of being in the world. If you want to feel more positive about what you are doing, and move forward with greater confidence, contact me. I offer visualization techniques and creativity tools to help you tap into your intuition and inner knowing so you can see the way more clearly.

Photo courtesy of Susan Neal. Check out her video/article on campfire cooking
This will have folks scurrying for onions, oranges, eggs, and gingerbread mix!

My Mother's Pink Kitchen

My eyes seek out, no, they hunger for, the eye-popping pinks and soft dusty rose, the creamy mauve, magenta, and rich cranberry of Ithaca's blooming trees: the magnolias, cherry and crab-apple trees, and our clusters of redbuds. These islands of color reach out and extend me a velvety caress, which I gratefully accept. Watching the petals spill from the magnolias and the squirrels chasing each other through the flowering trees, my body heaves a sigh and settles into a place of stillness and contentment.
 
While the jumbled colors of autumn send me scurrying to the grocery store to buy a box of Trix cereal, the clouds of pink hanging against a backdrop of blue and green startle up memories of my mother's pink kitchen. There was nothing muted or subtle about the pink kitchen in my childhood home. It was a simple, obvious, and unadulterated pink, as were all the appliances. My mother did not choose this color, mind you... it came with the house, and I'm sure she took a great deal of satisfaction when, a dozen years later, she was able to give it a complete makeover in blues and greens. However, she ruled supreme in the kitchen, preparing tasty and balanced nutritious meals that were dependably served at the same hour every day.

Today I wonder why I didn't run screaming from any shade of pink after living with the pink of my mother's kitchen. Instead, I cannot help but notice that my mother and I share a love of the more subtle shades of pink and coral. The understated elegance of her dusky mauve suits always gave me pleasure. And while it is certain that I shall never be appreciated for understated elegance, my own closet is filled with flannel shirts in cranberry and pink, bright pink linen pants, coral sports shirts, and peach colored sweatshirts.A half dozen baseball caps cover this color spectrum. Pieces of rose quartz litter the flat surfaces of my home.

Perhaps, after all, pink is a suitable color for the heart of a family home. And maybe, just maybe, I wrap myself in pink as a reminder of the love I continue to discover long after my mother is gone.