and a total catastrophe.”

Definitely at Home

I don’t know how I got here.  

Here.  This picture, Richmond Pond, is just down the road.  

How did that happen?

Here.  In this moment, sitting in my quiet house, morning birds all a’flutter and awakening.  

How did that happen?

In the past, my best attempt at being at home was lounging in my NYC apartment, reclining and pillowed on its uneven wooden floor surrounded, no doubt, by Chinese food take-out containers (I mean, it was NY—what else does one eat?), the television on mute as I watched with drugged enthusiasm a National Geographic show about birds, surely aided by the boost of much marijuana.

I don’t know how I got here where the birds are real.  

I am in awe of the beauty that surrounds me.  

Sometimes I see it; sometimes I am too busy organizing the universe, its people and events, to see anything.

I well remember my first sober springtime.  I was living in NYC then, and walked the few blocks from my apartment to St. Marks’ Place, where I attended meetings.  To my amazement, the entire block was lined with remarkable flowering trees, exploding with startling, blossomed beauty.  I stopped short in my tracks. Where had these trees come from? Were they just brought in? As I approached our meeting spot, I saw Jose, a guy from my home group, sitting on the stoop.  Sober now for nine months, I was embarking upon, with my sponsor’s urging, the talking-to-other-people-thing, and using words to do it, an uncharted territory for me.  I approached Jose.

“Jose, hi, hey, when did these trees get here?” I asked, not yet big on chit-chat.

His lean, long face gazed into me for an expanded moment, with wise eyes that still see me today.

“They been here a long, long time, girl,” were the words he said, words which I have never forgotten.

I had walked down that street hundreds and hundreds of times, having lived in the neighborhood for a decade-and-a-half, walking that block to get to the train, to get mostly everywhere.  I had never seen the trees!

I had been too busy.

I don’t know how I got here, here where I sometimes can see.  Here where I am mostly aware when I am not seeing.

How did this happen?

I don’t know how I am blessed to live in a place that is so alive with critters, with fuzzy and furry and fishy beings who share the earth with us, with such nobility, such silent and total presence.  Beings beyond politics, beyond news cycles, beings of presence.

Guardians of being.  

I don’t know how, with each springtime, I am able to see just a little more of the grace that infuses each moment.

Let me share with you 47 seconds from one of my favorite spots, the wetlands behind our house.  Please join me on this excursion.

 

There truly isn’t room in our house for one more sock or one more spoon.  We are full-up, twenty-some years later. Drawers and cabinets tend toward clutter, making consideration of their opening a hazardous, risk-filled adventure.  I live with a perpetual and yet weak willingness to attend. But this weekend, the perfect storm emerged—conditions for declutter manifested!

Since my spouse was traveling, I found myself in an interesting dance between full-bodied reclining relaxation and energetic hyper-focused projects.  As one super-engaging project would complete itself, I would be effortlessly led to serious porch resting; the cycle then would repeat itself. Fun was had, and some tidiness did materialize.  

Deep in the belly of a bedroom dresser drawer, snuggled inside a squared and stained, pink-bordered pocket handkerchief of my dad, I found this note.  This is me, blogging from a younger moment. My mother’s script in pencil beneath says, Written when Nan was about 6 or 7.  Let me translate the note for you.

Dear Mother and Dad
  This note I am writing
  To you is to remind you
  That I am thankful for
  A lot of things.  I am
  Thankful for my gairt  (guitar, I was a cowboy-wanna-be, obsessed with guitar playing)
  and for my ampfier (amplifier, I was also a rock-star-wanna-be)
  Aspiasle for your love. (especially)

Who is this child?  

I adore her. How did she/I know, at that age, to sink into gratitude?  How come, a thousand years later, as a default, I habitually lapse into what isn’t happening, constricting and tightening down on the moment, literally stopping the flow of breath and life through my body?  How did this little girl, at whatever age, know that gratitude softens, opens, invites our connection with the flow state?

In the past, when I would attend a 12 Step meeting whose topic was announced as gratitude, I would feel an initial, slightly condescending disappointment, like, I am too spiritually evolved to hear about gratitude. Inevitably, despite myself, the meeting would become a powerful, heart-opening realignment.  Inevitably I would leave feeling lighter, happier, more in the solution than before.

We know today that gratitude has a direct impact on lessening depression.  We know that it changes the chemistry of the brain by directly activating brain regions associated with the neurotransmitter, dopamine, which helps control the brain’s reward and pleasure centers.

Gratitude feels good!  It feels better than negativity, entitlement, guilt, or whatever else its opposite might be in your world.

Let’s consider gratitude as a practice, rather than a random occurrence. Perhaps we have more responsibility to create the circumstances in which gratitude can emerge than we think. Perhaps we can partner with gratitude to literally, with skill and intentionality, change our brain and our moment.  This sounds like fantastic opportunity today, as I sit with a brain that seems to be creating some mischievous friction with the moment.

I remember, early on in my sober journey in NYC, sitting on a rickety folding chair in yet another church basement—for a Jew, I’ve been in more than my share and every single one has blessed me!  I remember listening to a woman share about gratitude. She talked about how she began the day with a prayer of thanks, for all she would be given in that day, no matter what it was. I sat bold upright!

Shouldn’t you wait and see what it is, before being grateful.  I thought.  What if something bad happens?

Surely, I heard her wrong.

Garnering up an emerging willingness to look at another person and speak actual words, I asked her after the meeting about her sharing.  I remember her face. I can see her eyes. She affirmed what I heard—yes, she said, gratitude for the day before it begins.

This was a life-shifting moment for me.  I practice this prayer of pre-determined gratitude.

How might we create the circumstances in which gratitude emerges?

• Starting the day with a prayer of thankfulness for all that we might be given in that day, no matter what it might be
• Journaling three things that worked well in the day and why they did
• A consistent gratitude list written or shared at night

What do you think?  What about you? For what are you grateful?  What worked well today, and why? Can you open the day with a prayer of gratitude for however that day might unfold, no matter what you are given? Folks out there in the peanut gallery of blogosphere (redundant?), keep me posted. I am aruni@rnetworx.com

Let’s end our time together with a moment’s breath, a moment’s remembrance of all we have in our lives.

In gratitude,
In possibility,
In hope—

 

These light, long days fill me up.  Sitting on the porch, mowing, walking—all seem infused with soft, easy pleasure, as the light in the day elongates.  The morning’s soft glow seeping into the day so much earlier, the evenings expanded with darkness deferred, as we flow toward solstice, what a glorious time it is.

Springtime awakens the child in me.

Girl Scout camp probably saved that child.  Summer after summer I lived on the earth, close to the rhythm of the rain tapping on the canvas tent, celebrating the cacophony of bird call, the wet dew soaking my sneakers as I dashed toward the dining hall for breakfast of thick oatmeal and thin, sugary hot chocolate, alive with the thrill of the new day.  For so many reasons the culture of Girl Scout camp rescued me; living within nature, knowing the rhythms of the day intimately in my body, memorizing the twist of each trail, savoring the silky lake water on my young body was the most profound and impactful of gifts.

Springtime reunites me with that child.

Today was crystal blue, cool and warm at the same time, the interplay of sun and wind perfectly choreographed as if for my very own pleasure.  I don’t remember a spring quite this green, quite this alive with lush life. Perhaps I just forget.

Sitting on the porch this stunning evening, however, I felt a tingle of anticipatory anxiety, as I remember, come solstice, the light will begin her journey away from us.  It clutched at my heart, this fear, as if I were a little kid again, doomed to return home from camp, facing school and sidewalks and stuttering and a counselor-free world.         

I respect my own anxiety.

I breathe into my own longing.  

I acknowledge my own fear of loss and change.

I choose to slow down, to savor the beauty around me.

I choose to stand outside and be there for the standing, allowing myself to rejoice in the touch of gentle air on my body.

I choose to relax and move, to rest and play, to look inside as I look out.

I choose to honor the little girl in me who adores the promise of spring and summer’s freedom.

Ahhhh.  All good, right?

Yet if I were coaching this Aruni, Aruni—the–Client, I would say to her, hopefully with light and loving encouragement:

“Well, Aruni, your intentions sound powerful and well-directed.  Great inspiration. Yet, here’s my question–what is it going to look like?  Can you be just a tad more specific? We know that inspiration is not enough to change your brain, your body, and your behavior.  So, what do you think? What practices can you create, to live into these intentions?”

Okay, Coach Aruni, I hear you.  Here is my more grounded plan for savoring the light, for celebrating spring, for living into summer with open-hearted delight, without being dimmed with the fear of its ending.  Here is my plan for being alive like that little girl who woke up in the tent and listened, with awe-filled fascination, to the celebration of life around here:

• I will participate, as I am able, in the sunrise and the sunset of each day.  I will watch and feel, as I can, these profound transitions.
• I will look with open heart for the animals; and when I encounter them, I will greet them with purposeful intent.
• I will relax more into the day, rather than pushing and exercising my way through; permission for age-appropriate rest is granted, as my body redefines moving and playing.
• I will feel my fear of losing the light, acknowledge its presence, and lean back into the celebration of what is.

Dear friends, that’s my plan.  Those are the spacious riverbanks through which I choose to swim these next few months.

What about you?  Do you have any hopes and intentions for yourself as the light intensifies, as the solstice peaks, as the summer prepares to wrap her sweaty arms around us?  What are your bigger picture hopes for yourself and, so importantly, how will you create the circumstances in which those intentions can unfold? Please do keep me posted.  I am Aruni@rnetworx.com.  All voices welcomed, all experiences sacred.

Here’s to the savoring of the light—
     In coming,
     In going,
     In sunrise,
     In sunset.

Here’s to the sanctity of the moment—
     No matter what is happening.

All blessings,
Aruni