We Practice. Reality Wins.
The birds are back.
The birds.
They are a huge gift
To my winterized,
My icy and muddied heart.
Red-winged blackbirds
Crowd our feeder.
I am in bliss.
If birds are here,
If the ice is melting,
It’s going to okay,
Right?
Then I
Read
This
Stunning
Poem
Which grabs
My breath:
Instructions in Not Giving Up
By Ada Limon
More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.
~~~
I’ll take it all,
Ada reminds us,
A reminder I need.
I know I’m practicing.
I know I’m equipped,
I’m able.
Yet, some mornings,
About 2:30 a.m.,
Fear fills me.
It’s too much,
My mind
Whispers.
Maybe like the newborn leaf,
I can be “patient, plodding”
In my practice.
Winter
Will
Not
Win.
~~~
I wake up to an ancient memory, probably 66 years old, if a moment.
I am a new student in Hebrew School. It terrifies me. I despise it.
My stuttering, debilitating enough in English, becomes even more traumatizing with Hebrew.
We are reading the vocabulary words aloud, going up and down the rows.
It is death to my heart, this death of waiting.
Miss Tischman, our teacher, has the tattoo on her wrist.
That number, her number, forever imprinted.
Her number of death.
I know it—my forever monogamous friend G.’s parents share that tattoo.
I know I—should be kinder to Miss Tischman—feel sorry for her—not be rude to her.
I’m not an acter-outer at all—I’m a don’t-notice-me-I’m-not-here kid.
But misbehaving is the only chance I have to get above this fray.
I push the kid’s desk in front of me.
I stomp my feet on the floor,
My ten-year-old attempt at escaping the situation.
It’s almost my time to speak aloud,
As we go up and down the rows.
I am truly terrified now.
As my terror escalates, my attempts at escape intensify.
Finally Miss Tischman, rightfully and ultimately frustrated with me,
Yanks me from my seat by the sleeve of my beloved maroon bow-neck sweater,
Pushes me into the hallway,
And throws my
Red rubber boots
After me.
The door slams.
I escape the moment.
Phew.
Yet the silent moment
I have created,
Standing in the hallway,
Boots empty in front of me,
Is so much worse.
Instead of terror
There
Is
Shame.
~~~
I have no memory of before or after this event.
It is my last day in Hebrew school.
But it is not my last day running from moments.
I run and run.
I create worse ones for myself
For a very,
Very long time.
I imperfectly practice now
Staying where I am,
In this moment,
No matter what
It holds for me.
Relaxing into what’s happening
Works.
It’s easier.
But I can’t always do it.
I still try to escape.
Over and over again.
And then I practice.
I practice
Coming
Back.
Reality always wins.
~~~
Odetta.
Odetta Holmes is considered the queen of American folk music. Classically trained in opera, her musical repertoire evolved into American folk music, blues, jazz, and spirituals.
This song brings comfort to my heart.
For more information on Odetta, here is a fascinating article about her.
~~~
Dear Folks,
Give us the courage
To practice
Imperfectly.
Give us the willingness
To bring kindness
To our imperfections.
Give us full permission,
Fully granted,
Fully accepted,
To relax
Into
Our
Humanity.
May all beings benefit from our shared words.
Stay blessed,
Aruni