Dear Friends,

I hope this finds you well and safe, listening to your inner world as you renavigate your relationship to the outer world.

And good day to all.  

Suspecting that the glorious flowering trees that frame Kripalu’s front terrace might be blooming, Niki the Dog and I took an amble across the campus yesterday.

OH!  

My friends, the trees are so stunning.  In all their glory, they open and open themselves to the universe.

With empty parking lots and silent hallways, nevertheless, the blossoms explode with life, so comforting, so assuring of the harmony that exists, deeper than us.

I walked with you there.  
I thought of you there.
I imagined you there.
And you will be there—
Soon.

We all will.

We had a great walk.

And here are a few of my pictures of my favorite Kripalu trees, sprinkled through this blog.  

I ponder the wisdom, the brilliance, the ancient knowing of trees.  

My thoughts go to Mary Oliver, who says it best.

Here is Mary Oliver’s, When I am Among the Trees:

LISTEN HERE

~~~

Tiny Podcast—Prayer, Practice & Possibility

My spiritual practice, my prayer practice, ebbs and flows.

Richer connected times are followed inevitably by drier days, in which more will, more effort is needed for my internal connection.

These days, as spring warms and the trees open to life, I find prayer easier, more accessible—as if prayer were finding me, rather than me having to jumpstart finding prayer.

All phases are practice; all are sacred and inevitable, filled with richness.  

Join me in this meditative investigation into prayer, practice, and the possibilities of all its stages.

LISTEN HERE

~~~

Dear Friends,

Whatever the form of your practice, what do you notice?
The comings,
The goings,
The shifts?

What do you practice?
What do you notice?
What are the gifts?

With gratitude for all of it,
Dear friends,
Be safe,
Be well,
Stay blessed,

Aruni

~~~
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You Can’t See How Wonderful It Was

Me and Mom

 

I loved it more than anything.

More than anything I ever wore, before or after.

It wins First Prize for the most self-coveted article of clothing I have ever owned, during my 72 years on Planet Earth wearing clothing.

As a child, I was committed to all things Cowboy.  

I knew that life on the plains would make everything okay.  

Eating beans around a fire, riding a horse, playing a guitar, wearing my cowboy jacket, along with cowboy hat, chaps, holster and pistols—I knew I would fit in there.

Clearly, I didn’t fit in so well in John James Audubon School #42, Scranton, Pa. 

The cowboy jacket!  OH, it assured me membership in a subgroup so desired by my heart.

Here I am, me and my mom; I seem to be growing out of the Blessed Jacket.  Oh, the heartbreak of impermanence!  

The visual of the jacket absolutely does not capture the brilliant perfection it held for me. 

You can’t see how wonderful it was.

I remember that jacket, so deeply.

I remember:

• The touch of its fringe
• The texture of the pseudo-suede 
• The fancy shinny fake-silk lining
• The feel of the inside pockets
• I wore it everywhere.
• I wore it always.
• I loved it.

I can’t imagine how my mother ever got it away from me, when its time had come.

Absolutely, as a kid, I needed accouterments.  My fantasies deepened with props.  My parents, Tillie and Sidney, bless them—they did accommodate.  Below is a partial listing, in no particular order, of my favs:

• High-top black Keds, a big deal for a little girl in the 1950’s
• My first rental guitar, with a stenciled cowboy riding a bucking bronco 
• A sea captain’s hat
• The accompanying spyglass
• All things Cowboy!
• Football shoulder pads
• Football Helmet
• Fake golf clubs (kind of a bust)
• Zorro mask, cape and sword (not a bust, filled with life and reality)
• Daisy air rifle, a Girl-Model, with a gold barrel and white handle.  I’m sure my parents got me the girl-model to strengthen my lean toward the feminine
• An Eskimo fake gold fur parka, which I begged my mother to get me from the fancy Kiddie Shope, which I knew was expensive, too expensive—nevertheless, with smothering guilt, I begged for what I needed.

I played alone, but in the summers at Camp.  Girl Scout Camp, which prob saved my life!

I played in our attic, a game I called (only to myself!) Heidi.  It was quite femme for me, but I had a little waxed paper bathroom cup with milk in it and slices of Swiss singles cheese to deepen the experiential touch of that fantasy.

I rode my bike every day after school, around and around Nay Aug Park, across from our house on Arthur Avenue.  I pretended I was a Canadian Royal Mountie, on my horse, off to save the damsel, the women in distress, my sleeping bag behind me, my heart filled with courage and attraction for that particular damsel.  

I loved that fantasy!

I played my guitar, door closed, quietly, in-a-whisper quietly 

(NOTE: MY CLASSICAL GUITAR TEACHER, JEM, DECADES LATER, KEEPS TELLING ME TO PLAY LOUDER.  HOW INTERESTING THAT I LEARNED TO KEEP MY JOY SO PRIVATE, MY ESCAPE SO SECRET, MY WORLD SO SOLITARY, MY MUSIC SO UNHEARD).

I played my guitar, in my room, door closed, and pretended I was Dion and the Belmonts, well, just Dion, and I would pretend I was singing Runaround Sue.

And the girls loved me.  In this, my fantasy world.  

The things I loved:

• Watching sports, any sports, next to my daddy on the couch.  Any couch, any sports, any team throughout our lives together
• Going to the Scranton Miners, semi-pro basketball games with my daddy in the Catholic Youth Center gym.  Always and always.
• SUMMERS.  CAMP.  COUNSELORS TO FALL IN LOVE WITH FROM AFAR.  WAYS TO BELONG, WAYS TO EXCELL.
• Being on the Audubon Grade School Girls’ volleyball team.  But I wet the pants of my uniform in sheer excitement during a game and was too embarrassed to tell my mom.  I put it on my window ledge overnight and hoped it would purify of the smells of my little girl fluids.
• Lying in bed at night, “writing stories”, in which I was the hero, a boy, who was always loved, always admired, and always got the girl.  Ah, that fantasy.  (don’t tell anyone, don’t ever tell…..)

I could write books (OH!!  Wait, I did!) about the trauma, the loss, the heartbreak of being so alone, of being a stutterer, of being a tiny lesbian without any context or understanding at all, of being the daughter of a dad who was going to die at any moment (he lived to be 86)…….  

The aloneness and trauma and grief and profound disappointment of my childhood, they are sacred.

And yet, also, there were rocking times.  

Maybe, not times.

Maybe moments.

There were rocking moments.

We can’t see how wonderful it was, the slivers, the moments, the slices of memory…….

There were positive childhood memories, indeed!

And……there are plenty of things to celebrate!
~~~
So much to celebrate:

 

Teach Your Children…

 

Dear Friends,

I hope this finds you well.  Ah!  What a topic struggle I have waged with myself these past days.  It feels as if I said it all in last week’s blog!  

Meh!

Standing in the hallway…
One door closing,
The other,
Slightly cracked…?

Now that it’s time
To reach out 
To others,
I feel
The impact
Of not having
Reached out
To others.

Now that it’s time
To connect,
I feel
How deeply
Lonely
I have been.

And time goes on.  
And we go on.  
And I go on, watching and feeling
And doing my best.  
To be me.

The rising sun?  
The beauty around me?  
The power of children’s hearts?

Surely
To teach our children well
Must also mean
To listen
Inside
To the
Voice 
Of ourselves
As children.

I was a 
Lonely
Little girl.

My inner child’s voice?
What does she want?
Today?

Little Nan/Little Me
Absolutely wants:

• My doggie.
• Comfort.
• Fun.

That’s the voice I hear.

Dear Friends,
Let’s listen inside.
Let’s lean toward
Those voices
Of such
Wisdom.

Today?

As best as I can,
I commit to
My doggie.
My comfort.
My fun.

Sounds like a plan.

~~~
Here is Tiny Podcast (Probably) #4.  
It’s a ramble,
From my heart
To yours,
With love.

Join me as I consider the difference between pain and suffering, and how, by watching without judgment, everything becomes possible.

Listen Here

~~~
This lands for me as timeless inspiration.  Please do enjoy.

I don’t feel bad.
And I don’t feel great.

I feel—tired.

I don’t feel depressed.
And I don’t feel engaged.

I feel—sidelined.  

I don’t feel passionate.
And I don’t feel numb.

I feel—empty.

Does anybody identify?

Everything is a little grey, sparked by random beauty bursts by forsythia and flowering tree sightings.
The intensity of their beauty slices through the soft-almost-permeable-fog that surrounds me, but it doesn’t last.  The clouds settle in again.  

I take to the couch.

It’s not a bad time for me.  It’s just a tired and grey time.  

Thoughts of “reentry” confuse me.

I nap.

I’m ambivalent about seeing people.

I nap.

The highlight of my days (please do hold with confidence my following confession) truly is going upstairs to my bedroom, turning on my little camping lantern, (I have a complex and conflicted relationship with bedroom lamps), and getting in bed with my dog.  This ritual has crept earlier and earlier in the evening during this past year.  My average going-upstairs time these days is about 7:10 p.m.

As it gets lighter at night, I consider staying downstairs longer.

I don’t do it.

I freaked myself out when I heard myself say aloud to Niki the Dog, about 10:30 one morning, “Honey, I can’t wait to get into bed with you.”  (Please do not report me to the ASPCA.)

Things are better!  Like, 100×100 times better.  Joe and Kamala, the Minneapolis verdict, a quieter and further away abusive national politician.  The vaccine.  Occasionally, the weather.

Things are 100×100 times better-squared.

And still I nap.

I languish.

I read an article in the NY Times this week and it was helped; it identified the mid-state I find myself in.  The writer, Adam Grant, an organizational psychologist calls this 2021 state as languishing.

The title of the article—There is a Name for the Blah You are Feeling—It’s Called Languishing.

Check out the article.  The dude is onto something.

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/04/19/well/mind/covid-mental-health-languishing.html

~~~
The opposite of languishing is the flow-state, that place of absorption one gets while fully engaging, that place where the mind quiets and the body/mind works together, dropping us into that timeless zone.

For me, teaching is the easiest access to the flow state.  But/and, the thought of creating more teaching experiences for myself is—exhausting, just in concept.

Mowing the lawn opens my soul.  But oh!  Have I had the energy to call my neighbor, Horace, to ask him tune up the lawn mower?  No, I have not.

What helps you achieve flow?

Yoga?  Meditation?  Once I’m there, I’m good.  These days, the getting-there is edgy.

Walking?  Praying?  Yes, of course.  Yet—these days…….

~~~

We know how.  We know.  If we got through 2020, with its never-ending Trauma and Terror, we can do the 2021 Blahs.  

We know how.

Notice what you are feeling.

Breathe and relax.

Let it be.

Bless it and accept it.

Lean into the opposite direction.

Without right/wrong, good/bad.

We know how.

We do.

This is what it looks like

To practice

Knowing how.

~~~

This week, here are a few springboards for inspiration.  First, a glorious visual trip: