My stress brain tells me I have to do it all now. (I don’t.)
My stress brain tells me it’s impossible. (It isn’t.)
My stress brain tells me I can’t. (I can.)
My stress brain reminds me of past failures. (I’m looking forward.)
My stress brain says, “You probably shouldn’t.” (I will.)
My stress brain tells me I don’t have enough time. (I have plenty.)
My stress brain tells me I’m not enough. (I say, “I most certainly am!”)
My stress brain tells me it’s hope-less. (I am hope-full.)
It’s an -if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em – kind of day here in northern New England.
Rainy. Cold. Gray. Breezy.
It is Spring, after all. And every year I forget just how this season dilly dallies its way into becoming. Yes, I see daffodils. A tulip or two. And the lilacs are on their way. It’s my own impatience I struggle with. We need the rain and clearly, spring knows just what to do without any input from me.
Anticipation is nothing if not hope.
There’s beef stew in the crockpot. A soft blanket nearby to burrow in. Candlelight on the counter. An extra sweater. And a hot bath before bedtime is in the forecast.
Today may not be the day I hoped for, but it’s the day I have. I’ll enjoy the day and count blessings like raindrops.
And if the pansies on the porch can be patient, so can I.
I’m exploring a day in which it’s hard to feel hopeful. In which the unexpected arrives. A day when what-ifs gather like dust bunnies under the bed. When what-do-I-do-nows show up, and their endless chatter about maybes and might-bes and possible scenarios make it hard to hear myself think. Forgive me, I say, I’m knee-deep in disbelief just now. I’m not ready for options. For optimism. For hope. On the other hand, I’m no wallower either. At least not for long. If not hope, then at least and at last faith enters the room. Pushing both sleeves up past my elbows, faith readies me for work. Even stronger than hope, faith will guide. Faith lights my dark thoughts, pushes me past disbelief, and strengthens me enough to overcome emotional inertia. Both authoritative and compassionate, faith kindly leads. More powerful, more passionate even than irony, faith can save any day – even one where hope feels a little lost. Faith finds my way. And hope follows along behind.
lots of mornings lately
find me in the porch rocker
sipping warmth
predawn
bundled up
rocking
bird-listening
star-marveling
witness to light overcoming darkness
hopeful and humbled
unassuming
anything at all about the day to come
(perhaps already missing the night
just a little)’
gentling myself into morning
breathing deeply
the chilled air
sharing in
the awakening of birds and dogs and chickens
somewhere beyond, a woodpecker
knocking out a hallelujah – it’s a new day
and me
cherishing all the shades of blues or grays or pinks in one morning sky
just today
the world around me suddenly
clouded or misted or fogged
like some morning mystery
and softly, silently,
poetically
it began to snow
In a winter garden, I plan next season’s plantings. Reflecting carefully, of course, on last year’s harvest.
Now is the time for imagining the ideal. The time for optimistic enthusiasm before the rolling up of sleeves and the dirt of hard work and effort and hope collects under my fingernails. A season of dormancy. A renewal of strength, purpose, and spirit.
In this season of life and living, I’ll determine what’s important to plant. Which fields in my life to let lie fallow in rest. There’s preparation to be done. Research. Trust. Faith in the future. A belief in the cycles and pace of my own nature. Knowing the truth that all is as it should be: living in the cold, wind, and darkness of winter as necessary precursors to light, warmth, and germination.
I winnow through expectations, weeding out what I’ve got to let go. Sow starter seeds, watchful for what takes root. Which seeds prosper? Which seeds – promising as they may be – were never really meant for my own little patch of soil? Some seeds, I know, only sprout after repose.
How will I nourish myself? Gather strength? Coax growth?
In a winter garden, I reap what’s happiest in today, hopeful tomorrow’s garden will grow in it’s time.
make time . . . look for the light . . . appreciate shadows . . . find beauty in the ordinary . . . take one thing away . . . experiment and learn . . . change the lens . . . try again . . . focus on what’s right in front of me . . . move for a new point of view . . . think through problems . . . simplify . . . make adjustments . . . trust my eye . . . work is pleasure . . . it’s okay to make a mess . . . to create is to hope
Oh, when finally I feel better, the promises I’ll keep. The good will I’ll spread and gratitude I’ll share.
I’ll remember how I feel about most things. I’ll know how to string several words together to express a coherent thought. I’ll read fluently, keeping track of plot or ingredients or news. I’ll remember decisions I made when I was was well, when I was able to think clearly, when what was on my mind and in my heart was more dominant in conversations than my symptoms.
When finally I feel well, I’ll buy balloons for no other reason than balloons make it a party. l’ll revel in good health and confetti the floor, toot-tooting the New Year – no matter how many days late I am for the celebration. Big, red balloons. Full. Luscious. Bright. Happy. Healthy. Whole.
When finally I feel fine, the big, beautiful breaths I’ll breathe … fully and with utter appreciation. I’ll fold up my fatigue like a quilt at the end of my bed, ready – as it should be – for the very end of my day, not throughout it. I’ll taste. Smell. Smile.
Oh, the walks I’ll take, the hope I’ll feel, the life I’ll live.
When – finally – I feel better.
Here is my day.
What will I do with it? What attitudes and expectations will I bring to it? What goals, dreams, or ambitions do I have for it?
Or, shall I simply live it?
Come what may.
Life’s complexities are often of my own making – or perhaps my own participation. It’s likely, life’s simplicities can be mine as well.
Here in this day, may I be mindful of simple living. The choice of simple living.
What does this simple living look like? How will I know when I’m living it?
Maybe it’s in the noticing and then the appreciation.
Appreciating the burst of black crows against a blue sky. The prayer of a pair of leaves roadside. The ability to hoist my own socks after a debilitating few weeks of back pain. The first few flakes of snow adrift on a breezy afternoon.
A year’s worth of accumulated hope.
So is simple living walking one step at a time on the day’s path? Expecting nothing but noting everything? Delighting in each minute’s arrival and feeling grateful as it departs? In the moment, of the moment, and most especially . . . author of the moment.
How grand to watch the sun travel across the sky, taking great pleasure in the simplicity of being here to see it.
How glorious to greet the first star as night falls, grateful for living today and wishing on that star for a simple tomorrow.
Yesterday I let myself feel all the day long.
If it sounds easy, it was not. Grief. Worry. Loss. Some sort of nondescript longing which comes and goes as an aspect of aging. I felt wistful. Wary. Proud. Driving in my car, windows wide open and I too open wide, singing along with the radio, wind in my hair. Up one side of emotion, down the other. I felt it all.
Some days, it’s easier to pretend I don’t feel what I feel. To push feelings away or replace them altogether. Shopping as panacea. Scrolling as anesthesia. But I’m learning I can care for myself in these times of strong feeling. I can allow myself the good grace to be exactly who I am. And feel.
Sit here, right here, I speak to myself.
Go ahead, cry. You need no reason or because.
Feel free to feel. You are a living, breathing, feeling human. So honor you. Care for you. Tend to you.
And feel.
It’s a vulnerability I simply must allow myself.
Today, I am refreshed and ready. Hopeful and happy.
Take good care.
circle in peace
compassion
and remembrance
circle in unity, in solidarity
hands and hearts
and hopes
circle in times of challenge
in sorrow, in grief
circle in faith, in belief
in the frailty of being human
circle in meditation, in prayer, in promise
in fear
and courage
circle in the divinity of morning’s soft light
or the deepening grace of evening
circle n celebration of summer
and sun and warmth and flowers
circle in peace
one hopeful year 