Frailty (Part 2: Illness and Identity)

Sometimes it’s hard to look back and pinpoint exactly when things started to fall apart. My guess is, it was a slow progression… but I remember sitting on the bed talking to my husband and crying because I knew something was wrong with my health. It was a gut instinct.

Things started in earnest in 2011. Before my feet stopped functioning, I had a full-body systemic allergic reaction that left me with hives and urticaria from head to toe. Several rounds of steroids solved it, but I was left with no answer as to why it had happened. Then my feet go so painful it was difficult to walk. Then I got migraines every day. Every. Single. Day. And chronic pain set in. I felt like I had arthritis… everywhere.

I saw oodles (literally oodles) of specialists, had a gazillion tests run, and continued to get worse. No one could find anything wrong. Many people offered prescriptions I refused to take. I stopped working full time. I put the idea of going back to school on hold. This was 2012. And I would sit on the bed and cry because I knew in my heart I was sick and no one could tell me why.

Turns out it was Lyme. Or at least, that’s the best guess because the tests they run in the Midwest consistently turn up negative for me. But I am a textbook case - including a bull’s eye rash from 2007 that no one took seriously (we were told it was tick fever and that my flu-like symptoms would pass). 

There have been a lot of weird health issues between 2012 and now. It seems like something new pops up every year - some new kind of bodily hiccup that requires a change in routine or medication or diet or treatment. It’s been a lesson in flexibility. Adaptation. Patience. And a lot of letting go.

Because the hardest part has actually not been the day-to-day experience of being ill. That comes and goes… and I liken it to being in a dark room blindfolded while things fly at your body… or riding a roller coaster with no sight so that you don’t know what’s coming next. It’s not constant. It ebbs and flows… and each change becomes something you eventually recognize and normalize. I seem to be good at that. What has not gotten easy is making peace with the new identity these changes have wrought.

My concept of self has shifted immensely over the past 6 years. I am no longer a dancer. No longer someone who can remember anything - who never has to write things down. I am no longer 100% sure I will be able to figure out anything thrown at me quickly and flawlessly. Nor that I will be able to handle highly stressful situations - or even situations that contain lots of people and unpredictable variables - without my system going haywire.

I move through life more carefully and more cautiously. This is not necessarily bad. But it’s new and not yet something I consider it naturally be synonymous with my concept of who I am. I still push very hard. My will is intact and it’s enabled me to remain positive (mostly), to see this as a learning experience, and to stay present despite the sometimes scary or uncomfortable surprises that surface.

But I am different. The way I know myself is different. And it’s still hard to fully accept that the “old me” is likely never coming back - that even were I to regain a sense of wellness, I still won’t be able to go back to where I was before all this started. That’s a weird, hard, stupid thing to contend with - but one that every single person with chronic illness must wrestle.

May you value your abilities and blessings in the present moment. May you find acceptance along the unexpected pathways life springs at you.

Frailty (Part 1: The Body)

"It's hell getting old."

My grandmother used to utter this phrase throughout my early adolescence... all the way through my twenties and up until the time when her dementia had taken such hold as to make personal observations on the world more disjointed and fearful.

I understood what she meant; and I instinctively knew (even before my counseling training years later) that it communicated a very important component of her worldview and cognition/perspective on her aging. She was tortured by getting older. She found the journey rife with disappointment, fear, pain, grief – and ultimately approached it as something to fight against with an incredibly stubborn yet sad sort of acceptance. She believed she had no control, but rather had been consigned to a process of slow and steady devolution against which she was trapped and inert.

So I got it—as an outside observer and loved one who tried to stay as patient and present as possible, all the way up until the end. But I didn't really understand the true weight of that statement until this past year. 2012 was the year of bodily revolt; a year that began a deep questioning as to my livelihood, my sense of self and identity, my ability to care for my family, and a fear of the future.

I had always considered myself healthy. I had a early adulthood filled with physical performance, dance, an active lifestyle, and the complete absence of worry that I might ever be physically impeded. I had a relatively successful pregnancy, and our daughter was born healthy.

And then it all shifted. Not necessarily suddenly, but in the distorted-over-the-shoulder view of hindsight, it felt like falling down a hole. A deep, dark hole with no discernible bottom.

It began with my feet. The anchors of stability I always took for granted. With increasing pain, they stopped working for me... became so tender I could not walk for more than 500 feet or so, let alone dance or teach others to dance. I had to buy all new shoes; got fitted for orthodics; rearranged my schedule and routines to account for limited mobility; went to PT twice a week for months on end, still waking up each morning to gingerly hobble out of my room and attempt to begin my day on feet that did not feel like my own.

This was the lesson: An opportunity to relearn the concept of "my," of permanence, of fixed identity and self-description as truth. What's remarkable is that I began this post in 2012, and I'm finishing it in 2017. The lesson continues. The journey has morphed and twisted and gone places I could not have anticipated... but the lesson continues to be one of making peace with frailty and accepting impermanence. Particularly when it comes to an aging (and it turns out, ill) body.

May your frailties bring you revelations. May you make peace with groundlessness.

Confidence

I have been thinking a lot lately about confidence. Not only throughout the process of my training, but also within the context of my counseling, teaching, and volunteering work, I've seen so much how self-esteem, self-efficacy, and self-worth are immeasurably linked to our perception of self, others, life, happiness, value, accomplishment, etc.

So often I think most of our day-to-day conflicts and misunderstandings stem from an internal sense of frailty - a personal haziness that leads to interpersonal confusion and disconnect. My goal, lately, has been to be more mindful of my insecurities - which is linked to being mindful of my ego - because they are two halves of the same coin.

And so, I've been embracing my smallness while also acknowledging (or rather, learning to acknowledge) my greatness as well. Sort of a strange balance to strike, really. An odd little dance with lots of critical, self-chatter that has to be either ignored or redirected... whilst trying to give my sense of self-worth an ongoing pep talk like some sort of best friend or protective older sister.

This came up, in large part, due to the death of my cousin (more like an aunt) last fall. She was someone who made no apologies. She was a very genuine, honest, and strong female - her directness in striking contrast to her southern upbringing. I always had such admiration for the way in which she was true to herself - even if it meant bucking tradition or common perception. She was generous in the way she wanted to be. Loving and kind on her own terms. And patient with her own faults.

For whatever reason, poetry often helps me navigate my grief. And so this poem is for her:

Don't Call Me a Lady
For Pru

Girl, stop hunching your shoulders
as if you have to apologize for your existence.
Stand up tall, look them square in the face,
and if you want another cookie
damn well go ahead and take one.
Just remember to say please and
thank you (and smile only if you mean it).

Young lady, don't waste your time on
someone who can't treat you with kindness.
He may not fawn all over you, but he sure as hell
better know what he's got when he looks at you.
Hot shots are like dandelions: vexing yet plentiful.
A good man is more important than a pretty face,
and well worth the wait of a few broken hearts.

Little mama, I can tell you haven't slept.
Sit down and rest; you don't have to hover every second.
Your child won't know when to stop unless
you show her; won't understand limits
if you place none on yourself.
Wipe those tears, quit your whining, and remember:
Life moves at the pace you set.

World, don't call me a lady.
I have no interest in being pretty or refined...
in making nice and staying quiet.
I will kick up a fuss when it serves me to do so;
I will not bow my head to anyone.
Speak my name; throw back your shoulders.
I have no cause for regret.

Action Monday #2 - Commitment to Greening

Practice, or intention, seems so much to be about making a choice. Committing to a particular course of action and then mindfully carrying out whatever it is you've decided to make the object of your focus.

I suck a little bit at commitment. Not in the traditional sense. I am faithful to my husband; we've been married nearly 8 years. We've owned two homes and poured sweat equity into each space. I pay my taxes. I clean my house every week. I am a dedicated mommy. I finished a graduate degree. We have a happy and healthy family dog.

But in each of those examples (and many others not listed), there is a gap between the full scope of my intention and the reality of my actions. I fail. I falter. I don't live up to my expectations, and I don't always give every force of my effort in every moment.

Maybe that's normal. I don't know. But for me, it provides the foundation for always wanting to do better. For feeling like there is something lacking in my commitment because there is inevitably some way in which I hold myself back from full participation in the world.

In a very mundane way, this can be applied to my inability to fulfill my intention to live greener. To be fair to our current efforts: we compost, we recycle, we reuse and pass things on. But it's yet another area wherein my actions fall short of my goals. I could be doing so much more.

I've been talking about green cleaning for years now—keep saying I'm going to do it. Research, and read up, and make plans... but I've yet to actually commit to making my own cleaning products or reducing our use of paper goods (napkins, paper towels, tissues, etc.).

So! Two action items I will commit to this week: 1) buy cloth napkins; 2) make an all-purpose cleaner for the kitchen and bathrooms and try out the baking soda method on the tub.

The inspiration and little push I needed came in the form of a post by a friend, Rachael Nevins @ The Variegated Life, and a link from her site that said "I'm Taking Baby Steps."

I am committing to putting these actions into being no later than Sunday, June 17. As of next week, I'll not only be doing yoga 3-5 times per week and blogging at least twice per week, I'll also be cleaning my house with vinegar, water, and baking soda.

To action!!

May you relish your commitments to positive elements of your life. May you commit to actions that inspire you and fill you with happiness.

Transgression

I don't remember when I first learned The Lord's Prayer. My family did not attend church, was not in any way religious... but was very much in support of my learning about various religions and faiths. So I would attend services with my friends—outings which invariably exposed me to new language, new rituals, and new ideas.

It was always interesting to experience an entire mass of people speaking in unison or singing traditional songs. I would marvel at how they all knew these things by heart. Songs and prayers and chants and responses. They just knew what to do.

And The Lord's Prayer was one of those things. I think I learned it, in part, so that I could participate. Not feel so left out. So silent and alone and lost in the hum and buzz of united voices.

My favorite part of the prayer, the one that has stuck with me through what has continued to be a predominantly non-church-oriented spiritual journey, is this:

And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive those who trespass against us.

I prefer the "trespass" version to the "sin" version for a variety of reasons. It took me a long time to figure out what this part of the prayer even meant. (When I was younger, I had a pretty literal interpretation, which was - ultimately - confusing. I could only think of lawns.)

My understanding of the concept of trespass, or transgression - both with regard to oneself and others - has evolved quite a bit over time. The trespasses of elementary-aged school children, no matter how bullied or bullying they may be - are very different than those of adults. Particularly once you get married and start to have children.

My capacity to fail has increased as I've gotten older; or rather, those failures have the potential to be much greater and have much wider ramifications than those of my 8 year-old self.

And so I am keenly aware of my trespasses. And increasingly aware of what that capacity to fail means to me in relation to understanding my humanness and my somewhat bumpy journey toward enlightenment, or divinity, or whatever you want to call it. That journey which is so solidly anchored in this process and act of forgiveness. Forgiveness of self and others.

Recently, I have joked with friends about how parenting is really this grand opportunity to keep learning about and addressing one's flaws. It's the ultimate lesson in personal evolution and awareness of failure. You can't help but fail as a parent - and in that truth is an inherent and inescapable lesson... one linked to humility (the good kind), resilience, and compassion.

Being aware of my capacity to trespass - being open and awake to my failures, as difficult as it has been - has stretched the boundaries and pliancy of my capacity to forgive. To be patient. To be flexible. To be more trusting. To be more loving and ready to love.

And it's still a journey. I continue to fail. I continue to strive to do better. But forgiveness seems to be the key, and in that balance seems to be the most valuable lesson.

May you notice and forgive your trespasses against others. May you respond with love through all transgressions.

Action Monday #1 - Commitment to Action

It has been a long time since I last posted. Nearly a full two years (my husband had to point out my initial math error - I originally calculated it as one... it doesn't feel that long, which is nice and also strange). There are many reasons for the long absence, none of which benefit from time or focus in this post.

But I have made a decision! Lately I'm keenly aware of the self-induced nature of my suffering. And I mean that in the karmic/Buddha sort of sense. Suffering. My doing. My creating. My responsibility.

The antithesis, I've decided, is action. At least for today. At least for me.

Not only have I committed to renewing my yoga practice (slowly at home on my bright pink mat with the flower pattern that captures and delights my daughter), but I've also committed to walking every day at lunch when the weather is welcoming. (The honeysuckle in the photo was a lunchtime reminder of happy childhood moments in Midwestern fields and woods.)

This commitment to action has inspired yet another commitment: to begin blogging regularly again.

I miss it. I miss you reading it. I miss my writing it. I miss having to take what is so often a non-verbal, fleeting, vague sense of something flirting with truth... and shape it into a narrative ready to share with others. One that hopefully resonates productively - positively - like a gentle nudge... bordering on a polite shove.

Today I shove myself: Get going, you. Stop being stuck. Commit to action.

May you feel called to purpose. May you feel empowered to act.

Consumption

I grew up in a family of shoppers. My grandmother's home was filled with items large and small: gemstone rings, TV-offer-only Cuisinarts, Coca-Cola collectibles, random flea market tchotchkes, fake flower arrangements, trinkety Walgreens finds, candies and family heirlooms and little kleenex packages and all the items sold on 2am infomercials.

Her favorite quote from my childhood: "Paw-Paw makes the money and Ma-Maw spends it!"

I think she found shopping relaxing, or perhaps elating. My guess was it grew out of her childhood of poverty and her experience of the depression. She was a cupboards-jammed-full kind of woman... finding a sense of stability and assuaging her many anxieties in the process of possession.

What is interesting, however, is the way her behavior then passed to my mother - another shopper at heart. Like my grandmother, my mother (I think) has integrated shopping into her modes of communication and introspection.

We were a greeting card family - a care-package bunch; my mother, I suspect, sometimes uses trips to the store as a form of meditation or solitude... and she communicates her love, in part, through things that resonate, for her, with the frequency of the intended recipient.

I find that much of my understanding and meaning-making when it comes to family, parenting, home-life is linked to a lifetime of shopping. I enjoy window shopping, gift-shopping, grocery-shopping, card-shopping, bath-and-body/decor/artwork/furniture/music, books, and more-shopping. I spend hours on errands that should only take minutes, and I find myself fighting the urge to buy my daughter something on every trip. So that she will know I am thinking of her. That I love her. That she is important to me.

Even though my relationship to consumption of goods has changed in the last few years, I still find myself drawn to the act of buying... of selecting and owning and carrying things... as an emotional touchstone. I go to the store when I'm sad. I sometimes equate my sense of self with the things I possess. I wish to believe (if I am honest with myself) my love can be communicated with a thing - because I so often fail to adequately communicate my heart through my words and deeds.

Consumption is a funny thing when you begin to really notice it... a sort of integrated and inescapable thread that runs through infinite aspects of our daily lives. It's so ingrained in our culture - in our senses of self.

Food, clothing, cars, homes, media, technology, electricity, gas - necessities and luxuries and everything in between. It is such a wide spectrum along which we tread, sometimes it's hard to know whether we are filling a need that is real or one that is an illusion.

As I seek to become more aware of my relationship to consumption and to consider the legacy I will pass on to my daughter, I have started to seek out what might best be described as a sense of insatiable hunger. It is the empty aching longing of the hungry ghost... and when I am awake to it, I notice it showing up in many areas of my life. Today I realized that every time I am a hungry ghost, I begin to consume.

This translates to eating cookies when I am not hungry, plodding mindlessly through Facebook when I am lonely, buying Starbucks when I am directionless, searching real estate listings when I am restless, driving my car when I am emotionally stuck, watching TV when I am resisting, and looking for clothes my daughter does not need when I am missing her.

It is no mistake, I think, the definition of consumption includes both the act of consuming and the state of being consumed. It may be impossible to consume without, on some level, being consumed by the thing you are consuming. The hungry ghost is suffering personified. It is the self of attachment and longing and mindless consumption driven by illusory goals.

The Hindu Prince Gautama Siddharta (founder of Buddhism) said:

Peace comes from within.
Do not seek it without.

Of course, sometimes the simplest of notions is the hardest to put into action. But I am trying. Striving to consume mindfully and consider my legacy and confront the ghost within so I may replace her with a sense of peace.

May you be alert to your needs and your desires - and strive to discern the difference between the two.

Repetition

Back in May, I heard a story on NPR about a monk who had completed 1,000 days of walking meditation in order to reach the next level of enlightenment. This practice is called Sennichi Kaihogyo and takes place around Mount Hiei. It is unclear from poking around if the monks who undertake this practice primarily walk, run, or both... but the end result is the participant has essentially transversed a distance equal to the circumference of the Earth at the end of the 1000_th day.

At the time I caught the broadcast, I had been thinking a lot about art, Buddhism, commitment, and forms of dedication... or rather, the ways in which we imbue meaning or purpose to action via consistent commitment/dedicated focus.

There is something powerful about renewed intention toward some aim or purpose. I'm not sure it even matters what it is we turn our attention toward (so long as it is not harmful or maleficent)... so long as we choose - again and again - to put our energy toward some form of expression.

Pressfield, I think would support this theory, as do the sometimes surprising pop culture or social phenoms sometimes thrust into success or rewarded with support, such as Matt Harding or Marina Abramović. And, of course, you find this sort of repetition of focus or activity via many world religions and spiritual philosophies.

I think, perhaps, we transcend the day-to-day when we shift something from the realm of mundane routine and elevate it into something extraordinary... simply by committing to repetition.

To dance in a silly way once or twice is one thing... to do it an infinite number of times in an infinite number of places suddenly transforms its meaning and purpose. Same with sitting in a chair, or taking a photo each day (think Smoke or check out this blog), or writing a daily blog entry, or asking the same question to hundreds of people.

I have been thinking about it a lot - this magic and miracle of repetition - and I think it may come down to this. These long-form processes of dedication (be they artistic, personal, spiritual, or whathaveyou) place us along two simultaneous paths of understanding.

1. Everything is special. Distilling experience to the level of recognizing it moment to moment often enables a perspective cognizant of how miraculous life is. All the time. Nothing is ever the same... and there is deep and magnificent, awe-inspiring grandeur in the singularity of experience we enjoy each second. I think this becomes more noticeable when we seek to capture it in some form... pin it down so we can record it and look at it and hold it up to the light.

Meanwhile...

2. Nothing is special. There is something profoundly simple in everything we might choose to do. All action carries as little and as much import as any other. Walking around a mountain is simply walking around a mountain - whether one chooses to do that one time or a thousand times. And once we move something from a space of unique to a space of routine, it offers the opportunity to better understand how our attachments define our perception of our actions. Particularly in the context of ego and the all-too-common pitfall of comparing our lives to the lives of others... or deciding we can't do something because it is too hard/too much/too big/etc.

There is beauty in seeing something again and again - and through repetition we are aware both of how singularly special everything is, and also how it is all one thing. How the lines of distinction we attach to name, form, substance... the ways in which we categorize or differentiate the things of our lives... how really it's all illusion.

There is no separation. No beginning. No end. It just is. And in that paradox, that circle of never-ending-never-beginning-always-ending-always-beginning, there is a kind of freedom and knowing one might glimpse. A moment of being defined as always/never/divine/mundane in which all things are... well, they just are.

That's my guess, at least. I'll let you know if my perspective changes should I ever walk across a mountain for a thousand days.

May you find renewal in repetition of all kinds. May your dedication (in whatever form it takes) bring you peace.

Practice

One of the lovely things about Buddhism – and really just about any major faith – lies in the challenge of bringing the foundation of your faith or spiritual philosophy into your living on a daily basis.

Though a measure of forgiveness or patience is not built into all spiritual roads, Buddhism definitely seems to encourage the practice of letting go of one's shortcomings... even as you attempt to expose each and every one of them so you may know yourself better.

I like this idea of practice. I am in love with the notion of concentrated and nearly continuous effort toward the betterment of oneself. To be courageous in the response to one's darknesses and failures. To be persistent in honestly assessing where you might be at any given moment. To hold a mirror up during times of tension or pain... and know you are still responsible for your piece of the human equation.

I am not always mindful... but in my spaces of mindfulness, I am forever surprised by the infinite number of opportunities I receive to practice the ideals I wish to embody. Compassion. Patience. Honesty. Trust. Peace. And in a full circle sort of way, how many chances I get to remember them when I fall short of my goals.

Today I received a parking ticket. My daughter had been pokey, and I knew we were running late. I had relaxed a bit on our departure time, imagining no one would come down our little side street. I had refused to carry her when she said she was too tired to walk (despite running around just minutes prior in the theatre), and she had thrown a fit—flopping down and lying prone in the middle of the sidewalk, refusing to move.

We turned the corner to see a woman nearing our car, and we both started running. My daughter's little legs suddenly recharged with energy after her insistence she could walk no further. (I had alerted her to the danger of tickets if we did not return on time, and instinctively she seemed to understand how important it was to get to our vehicle quickly.)

"We're here! We're here!" I called frantically as we ran up. We were less than 30 feet away and rapidly closed in, just as the woman stuck the ticket in a bright orange envelope and handed it to me.

I told my daughter to stand on the sidewalk as I took the ticket and attempted to look the woman in the eyes as honestly and openly as I could. "You're late," she said. "This expired at 1:21." She handed me the ticket.

"I have a four-year old," I said trying very hard to make it a statement of fact and not an emotional backlash.

And then she walked away. An older gentleman who had been standing about 15 feet away from us approached as she left and asked if we had still gotten the ticket. I told him yes. "I can't believe that," he said, shaking his head. "One minute earlier and you'd have been fine."

I got in the car and tried very hard not to be angry. My daughter immediately blamed herself and started getting upset as I tried not to cry. I didn't want her to feel guilty or responsible; life is such a complex tangle of factors it's ridiculous to isolate any one person or event as being solely responsible for anything. I told her everything was ok... assured her it was not her fault... and we rode home together feeling upset and sad and worrying after each other.

Although there were flickers here and there, I was able to keep my reactive hatred and retributive hostility in check until I got home and opened the envelope. $50.00. We were less than 10 min late.

That's when the real anger kicked in. Remembered slights and all the unhappy baggage of my childhood years exploded open the emotional doors... and for about half an hour, I struggled to keep those feelings in check. To remember my promises to myself as to what kind of person I wish to be... what kinds of feelings/thoughts/actions I wish to put into the world.

I stopped myself from wishing comeuppance or even karmic payback. I resisted the urge to post something on Facebook wherein I could pour some venom or release some spite back into the ether in the hopes it would somehow make me feel better. And finally, I even stopped crying. Stopped thinking of it as something done to me or the universe treating me unfairly and instead decided to write this.

Which hopefully aligns with those values I mentioned earlier. Compassion. Patience. Honesty. Trust. Peace.

It is easy to love my daughter for being so empathic and caring so much about me. Easy to love the random stranger who came up and tried to make me feel better by commiserating about Mayor Daley's parking meter decisions. Easy to love my husband who listened to me sob on the phone and tried to calm me down.

What takes practice, today at least, is loving the woman who gave me the ticket. The upstairs neighbor who walks heavily through her apartment in high-heeled boots. The grocery store patron who looked at my daughter with disdain. The landlord who has not fixed the lock on the front door. The driver who nearly sideswiped us.

But if I am to remain true to my goals, to my spiritual focus, and ultimately to my self, then I must love them all. Love myself when I fail. And then try again.

May you remain open to your opportunities. May you remain patient in your practice - especially with yourself.

Awakening

I don't know about you, but sometimes I self-destruct a little bit. Make bad choices, go into a downward emotional spiral, bury my head or body or heart or all of the above in some metaphorical sand and stand - not in a state of stuckness but more in an act of undoing - eyes shut, ears covered, head down.

Thankfully, there is always a point at which I reemerge into the world. Sync up a bit more with the authentic present and begin to interact/breathe/live in a way that is more genuine and less clouded with gunk.

Gunk, I think, is the unnecessary stuff we carry with us that has nothing to do with the present and everything to do with an attachment to some emotion, some pattern, some expectation, some script with which we are determined not to part. It's the illusion we allow to overtake reality... the shadow that engulfs and distorts things as they are. We become hungry ghosts: eating ourselves up in a flurry of mistaken and misdirected believing, thinking, saying, doing.

My last post was April 7. And it was about tension. Which is pretty funny. And I could say I stopped writing because I was in Too Much Light... or because we were all getting sick or because school and job searching and whatnot got too busy. But none of that would be true.

I stopped writing. I stopped meditating. I stopped hanging out with people. I stopped connecting to my family. I stopped reading. I stopped being patient. I stopped having faith. I stopped liking myself. I stopped trusting others.

And from an outside perspective (certainly to anyone attuned to such things), it sounds like textbook depression. But this felt different somehow. Not just the chemical roller-coaster of hormones or the genetic squish of generational institutionalization. This was more active than the slack-fingered cling of hopelessness; darker than the shadowed stagnancy of sadness.

It was a form of running away. And I am grateful for all the little "ah ha" moments that led to enough clarity to stop.

So. I am awake now. This week has been a process of blinking in the sun and remembering to be still. To be silent (sometimes literally enforced by my body in an act of gentle determination). To be present. To be honest, and patient, and calm, and compassionate, and - perhaps more than anything else - tenacious.

Someday this Japanese proverb will be tattooed on my skin:

Fall seven times.
Stand up eight.

It's the greatest act of courage we can muster, I think. To push past failure, and weakness, and cruelty, and stupidity, and error, and thoughtlessness, and pride, and envy, and all those myriad and inescapable puddles of human-ness... to rise again and persevere.

Wake up. Forgive. Find peace. Move again.

May you awaken in ways that make you feel more alive and more present. May you display tenacious courage and unshakable peace, even in moments of seeming failure.

Tension

Driving in the car today, my daughter piped up from the back, "It's a beautiful day today, isn't it?" And I wasn't quite sure if she was serious. She hasn't yet mastered the art or subtlety of sarcasm, hyperbole, or facetiousness; thus, she tends to be a pretty sincere communicator. So I sort of already knew the answer but still asked, "You really think it's pretty today?"

"Yes," she said emphatically. "There are so many colors and trees. I like the houses and all the flowers. They look so pretty." And, for the umpteenth time since her birth my very own little Buddha offered a new nugget of wisdom in her usual disarming way.

All I had seen was the rain; all I had felt was the rush of squeezing in yet another chore before naptime and worrying about the lack of water or juice for the longish ride home. My worldview consisted of the cold, the grey, the damp, the rush, the stressed out, the mud and wet and messysplatteredsplashyhurrying.

It was not until she described her view that I saw the bright yellow buds lining the road and the multicolored tulips standing at attention to eagerly drink up the day's light spring shower. I noticed how all the grass had turned bright green and how beautiful the stately red brick of neighborhood historic homes looked when contrasted against the slate blue sky.

Sometimes it is easy to forget how much control I have over my experience. How one small adjustment in my thinking or perception can significantly alter my entire worldview... rippling through emotions, physical sensations, and all manner of head-locked living to create a new space from which to see the world.

Unfortunately, as soon as I put her down for her nap, I went right back into my stressed-out, travel-readying, pre-worrying mindset. And just as I began typing this entry, I noted a choking weight of tension across my shoulders and neck... and a nasty little twinge in the center of my back.

Lost as easily as it was gained. There's a lesson right there.

Thich Nhat Hanh, one of my favorite Buddhists, said: "People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don't even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child—our own two eyes. All is a miracle."

Tension is the result of ignoring those miracles. It's akin to burying our heads in the dirt and letting elements of beauty, hope, comfort, or inspiration - abundant and ever-present in multiple areas of our lives - remain consciously unnoticed. And it is a miracle to remember to be present and open to such amazement and awe... to see the yellow buds of trees instead of the oppressive cold of rain.

Possessing that sort of mindset - the one that finds happiness and refuses to cultivate worry - is a form of enlightenment. When we see it in young children, I think we are more apt to call it innocence. But it's no less miraculous stamped with a different label; it's still Buddha-nature just the same.

May you notice something beautiful today. May your tension leave as easily as it entered.

Parenting

There's nothing like becoming a parent to smack you out of your status quo mindset bordering on reverie and force a state of attention as everything you knew becomes something else and your worldview must, of necessity, shift.

Or at least, that's how it has felt to me. Some days, it's a great thing to be reckoned with in this manner. It's wonderful and humbling and challenging to peel away layers I thought set in stone and find I am capable of becoming a new person. Capable of initiating and mastering intense levels of adaptation and reinvention.

Of course, some days it feels raw and naked and painful too. Like undergoing interrogation with a halogen bulb millimeters from your skin, searching every inch of your inner and outer being for telltale spots of decay.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the balance between self as individual and self as parent. Of course, in the process of separating and naming them, I am displaying my attachments and therein lies part of the difficulty. But that's where I am...

I find the things I want to do or don't want to do as an individual sometimes conflict with the things I feel I ought to do or ought not to do as a parent. What is best for my daughter sometimes requires a certain level of transformation or letting go in terms of who I am or what I choose to do.

And I have realized lately this is the conundrum of all parents. It's one of the core cruxes of choosing to build a family and enter a lifestyle different from whatever was prior. Everyone hits this wall (perhaps repeatedly), and everyone makes some form of decision somewhere along the spectrum of change nothing to change everything.

Change nothing and you create as situation wherein your child becomes the parent, or has to raise-love-nuture him/herself, or misses out on the shaky but formidable lessons inherent in "responsibility," "obligation," "duty," and "sacrifice."

Change everything and you create a situation wherein the parent is a martyr... refusing moments of joy or self-focus in lieu of a mountain of shoulds. The child senses regret, remorse, or - perhaps worst - resentment and lives with a sense of guilt in the wake of their caregiver's inner and outer dissonance.

Oddly enough, all of this musing comes in the wake of noticing my recent reluctance to "be better" about making friends with other parents so my daughter can have playdates and get-togethers with kids her age. It also comes on the heels of a decision about this year's birthday and whether or not to throw any kind of party, who to invite, what to do, and when to do it. And, at the forefront this week, what kind of treat to bring in to preschool. Cookies? Cupcakes? Ice Cream Cone Cupcakes?

I am an introvert by nature, and this new level of engagement with a world that is both my own and not my own feels foreign and overwhelming at times. I struggle to find an anchor of authenticity in the role of mother I am forever in the process of defining. Meanwhile, I step forward and try on new aspects of self in an effort to engage in right action connected to the life of myself, my daughter, and my family.

What is truthful? What is compassionate? What is comfortable? What is acceptable? What is needed? What is loving? What is good parenting? What is enough, good enough, or not enough?

It's stupid and important at the same time - this sense of seeking in the unfamiliar territory of mommyhood - simultaneously frivolous and ripe with opportunity. Not just for my own evolution, but also for the work that becomes the backbone of my daughter's life... the choices that help to shape her childhood, young adulthood, and potential eventual mothering.

Buddha said, "He is able who thinks he is able." Buddha didn't talk about mothers very often, but maybe he should have. This quote could just as easily speak to a mountain of mothers poised on the edge of expectation and guilt and all manner of striving:

She is able who thinks she is able.

And then, Buddha might have added something about patience and forgiveness and throw in a reminder about compassion and how it starts with oneself. Maybe something about how cultivation of compassion is anchored in the core of the self... and then spreads outward like dancing seeds of milkweed onto an open ocean of waiting earth.

Maybe. Hard to say and thankfully there are some modern female Buddhists who fill in that area quite wonderfully and help the rough or lost or naked days feel much, much better.

So... I'm off to make cupcakes. I think they'll have sprinkles. And chocolate frosting. That's something my daughter and I wholeheartedly agree on.

May you find balance within the many roles of your life. May you always remember you are able.

Intimacy

I figured out the source of the intense cravings of the last few weeks relatively quickly. Shortly after writing about it, I had a little ah ha moment, sat with it for several days, and then conceded the truth of it, clear and unavoidable because it carried with it a familiar feeling of inescapable pressure in my chest. Truth sometimes sits on me - very heavily - until I acknowledge it.

My hesitance in writing about it stemmed from a sense of shame, or maybe embarrassment (which, let's face it, is shame with a different tilt of the head)... so then I sat with that for several more days. Why the fear? Why the assignation of negative names/thoughts/feelings? What exists between thinking and saying (in this case writing) to generate such distress?

I'm still not sure of the why, but I'm tired of carrying the what around like an elephant - because my guess is, for those who really know me, it's not like any grand sort of epiphany. More like, "Yeah... I kind of already knew that about you."

Intimacy. The craving is intimacy. More specifically... my willingness to be vulnerable, to be open and completely present in an undefended way with those around me. Because, as I came to see in my chewing and mulling and waiting, I hold myself back from everyone. I stay separate on a fundamental level - more observer than participant in the shared human interactions of my life.

This is especially true of my relationships with those closest to me: my husband, my daughter, my family, my friends. I am there but not there. Present but not available. With them but apart. Loving but not risking. Not really.

I am a brave person in a lot of ways. There are areas of my life within which I am fearless, empowered, and willful. But when it comes to letting people in, I fail - over and over.

I act like a wallflower and then blame everyone else for leaving me isolated and alone... and in the grandest moments of my self-deception, I scan my life for escape hatches and new routes of promise - knowingly pinning my discontent upon external sources to avoid looking at the only one who really has control over my experience: me.

Today I sat in the park and watched my beautiful little girl play with a boy she had just met in the sandbox. She of princess pink and tomboy strength - of shy charm and trumpeting love. She clearly liked him, and kept glancing at me to be sure I saw her courage and friendliness and open, whole-hearted being.

I felt such love for her. She is my hero and my teacher and a constant reminder of how to choose joy. Her humor surprises me, her tenderness delights me, and her tenacious bravery inspires me. She and my husband are the two most important people in my world, and neither of them knows how much I love them because I fail to make it clear - and I choose to pull away when I should move toward.

This is a big one - this act of hiding. It shows up in career, motherhood, marriage, family, friendship, creative freedom... all manner of places. My experience of life, I have come to notice this week, can be defined largely by processes of retreat and avoidance. This is not a legacy I wish to pass along to my daughter, nor has it been a particularly positive fact in a space of mindful attention and intentional practice.

Buddha said, "Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment." Which is sort of a nice way of saying, "Stop your whining and do something about it." Either way, the message is the same.

May you love and be loved without fear. May you embrace the opportunity of the present moment.

Enlightenment

I had always thought of enlightenment as some sort of terminal goal... something you worked toward all your life and finally reached in later years. Mine was a glowy, far-off, romanticized notion viewed in soft focus with cherry blossoms and soft music and a gentle breeze smelling slightly of spring.

My notion of enlightenment was much like my early notions of love - untested and based largely on assumption and inference... more fluff than substance and more driven by attachments and wants than a penchant for reality or an acceptance of the non-easy.

Today I had a sort of ah ha moment... which was to realize enlightenment is just that: the myriad epiphanies we come to in the often rough-and-tumble experience of our daily living.

From this viewpoint, enlightenment is less of an endpoint or destination, and more of a process or journey. More slow build than fast bang, and typically characterized by fits and starts. We move forward on a wave of understanding... then move backward in the wake of habits, attachments, or emotions masquerading as fear.

What struck me today was how I cannot tell I was lacking in understanding in some area until I get into a new mindspace and suddenly see a much larger picture. I suppose it's a bit like the old adage about knowing you're in love when you get there. I spent years thinking my "in-love" meter was broken - then actually found the sort of love that includes loving someone beyond being "in love"... and finally had that ah ha moment everyone had been talking about.

As my spiritual and personal growth continues to evolve, I keep wondering how much more my understanding will expand in another year of living - another month, another week, another hour, another moment. It's sort of stunning sometimes how much change we can pack into even one second of our existence.

The other thing I realized today was nearly all of my sparks of enlightenment - that sense of being in a new place and knowing things in a new way - are directly linked to a person who (either intentionally or no) served as my teacher.

The young soldier who spoke of his decision to return to duty despite his misgivings about the war. The friend whose hand I held one day in class, who responded to my pained ignorance with incredible gentleness and grace. The monk whose book changed the path of my life 20 years prior to my decision to consciously embark.

My husband, my daughter, my friends, my family, my community, and all the people categorized as stranger who are separate only because I name them as so. I have been stunned lately by how many opportunities we are given - all the time - to evolve. To grow. To change and become better. Better versions of our selves.

I share all of this because I think maybe a lot of people make some of the same assumptions or have some of the same habits I do. Namely, we beat ourselves up for not being "good enough," or not moving "fast enough." Meanwhile, we look far ahead at our notion of where we need to get to, and feel it is so distant, there's no point in even trying to reach it.

Guatama Siddharta, the founder of Buddhism, said: “There are two mistakes one can make along the road to truth...not going all the way, and not starting.”

I would add a third: not realizing you are already on it.

May you notice teachers all around you. May you celebrate each moment of enlightenment and trust - even in the darkest moments - you are on the road to truth.

Cravings

I have been craving something for several weeks now. It buzzes around me like an insistent gnat... bumping against me often enough to ensure I remain attuned to its presence. I have no idea how to sate it. And... because I am somewhat lost, I find I am turning to my habitual form of response for such unidentified longings: food.

So unfolds several weeks of craving-induced picking - a spectrum of nibbling to over-eating most often geared toward the categories of junk and sugar.

Trader Joe's sweet and salty mix; graham crackers with whip cream spray-can blasted in lovely swirl patterns; banana-oatmeal-coconut-chocolate chip bars with a nod toward health in my experiment to reduce the butter and sugar by substituting apple sauce and maple syrup; dark chocolate candy bars with caramel and sea salt; mounding bowls of popcorn prepared stove-top in a pool of salt-infused extra-virgin olive oil; snap pea crisps; corn chips and homemade guacamole; a handful of my daughter's "all-colors" goldfish snacks; and finally... chocolate chip cookies - in all their buttery, sugary, risque glory.

It was the cookies that finally did it. I opened the mason jar full of chocolate chips and caught a whiff of what smelled like a strange and unnatural (e.g., non-food) scent. Can chocolate chips go bad? I wondered. Shrugging, I dumped them in, cooked all the batter, and sampled my efforts.

They tasted funny. They didn't make me feel any more satisfied. I wondered if I had done something wrong or missed a step or used something funky and past-its-prime.

My husband came home and made a beeline for the container full of goodies. "Oooo! What's this? Are these for us?" "Yup," I answered. He excitedly ate one and grinned and maybe even wiggled a little bit. "They don't taste funny to you?" I asked. "Nooooooooo. They taste really good."

When we moved downstate and re-fashioned our lives into a wholly new state, one of the things my husband and I agreed to do was eat out less often, choose healthier foods, and change our eating patterns so they might include less "fake" food.

With concerted effort, we've actually done a pretty good job. We went from eating out nearly every night of the week to once a week on average (twice if we're being really naughty). We buy whole foods and organic as often as possible; I cook three meals a day most days; and we try not to buy junk food or super fatty/sugary dessert items to reduce temptation and help Ari set food habits heavier on fruit and vegetables than chips and soda.

And while we do indulge in the occasional gelato or sticky rice with mango, for the most part, we are careful in our "treat" consumption. So it's been incredibly fascinating to become more alert to my cravings for unnatural foods - and to wander through some musings on what it all really means.

What am I really craving? I thought it was sugar, salt, and fat (and all manner of man-made concoctions based on processes of refinement and chemical tomfoolery) - but lately I've noticed, just as I had years ago with smoking, that whenever I do indulge the seeming ache for such foods, I wind up feeling worse. The aftermath of such eating is more yuck than yum... and the craving persists, unsatisfied and unmet.

So I have decided to meditate upon my actions and try to pinpoint the message I am sending myself. Clearly, some form of misinterpretation is present. Something is lost in translation... and so I must move toward a clearer form of communication - seek out a process of understanding untied to my habits and long-time associations.

In the meantime, I still feel a strong urge to stuff a cookie into my mouth whenever I walk past them in the kitchen. But so far, remembering how it feels to eat said cookie has enabled me to maintain mountain mind and stand fast. Wandering mind is always close behind though... waiting for the chance to dart through and race after the sugary illusion of comfort.

May you separate your habits from your true desires. May you find satisfaction in all you do.

Pace

I sprained my foot over the weekend and finally got to the doctor today. She wants me to get an x-ray and follow up with a specialist; and there is a part of me that feels very impatient about that.

The foot, the ankle, and the calf have begun to hurt more today, which has led me to think about rest, and relaxation, and the push of my usual quick quick hurry hurry get more done now now now sort of mindset.

American society feeds on alacrity and expedience. There is cache in zoom and zip... thrill in speed and danger... and a bankable credibility in pushing slightly beyond one's limits. Or perhaps the nagging of time is more linked to my personality (Type A struggling to land more Type B) and an internal pressure I exert based on expectations and attachment to what might be most accurately qualified as shoulds.

My shoulds are like a prodding finger, jabbing me roughly in the back and wagging furiously at any sign of repose or cessation. They creep into my neck and shoulder muscles, strain my vocal chords as my heartbeat increases, and sometimes even result in clenched teeth and exasperated brow-furrowing - typically directed toward someone else who has chosen to no longer move at the breakneck pace my shoulds so ardently wish to demand.

The ankle injury (and its resultant hurtiness) has reminded me to slow down. It's my body's not-so-gentle way of taking charge and insisting upon a reduced pace... one that might actually allow for breathing, contemplation, or inescapably being in the present.

Each little twinge approximates the corrective rap of a Zen master - carrying a sharp reminder to practice patience and embrace a more realistic and mindful tempo.

Slow down. Sit still. Be.

May you hear your body's subtle and insistent messages. May you move through your day with patience and purpose.

Gifts (Part II)

So as I was thinking about gifts, gift-giving, and an awareness of abundance last week, my husband made a comment one night about gifts we, as individuals, bring with us or cultivate during our lives.

It's a concept I had encountered many times before, but had never thought about in quite the way he put it. He said he was thinking about people who are born into money... specifically, the ones who seem to squander it or do nothing of meaning or purpose with it. The folks born with a silver spoon who never give anything of meaning back and therefore just move through life like bloated and entitled blemishes upon the body of humanity.

We loathe those people, generally. We see in them a selfishness and lack of compassion both startling and disheartening... and they tend to carry after them legacies of infamy, ill-repute, or at least deep sighs and shaking heads.

The point he made is that we are all born with gifts: things we do really well or seem to excel at in a way that sets us apart from those around us. Everyone has something like this. Maybe it's artistic, maybe it's organizational, or interpersonal, or physical... whatever. You've got some prowess and ability that is unique to you and undeniably special.

(Pressfield touches on this in The War of Art; he links it to God and the divine... but I think it's less important where it comes from and more important that you notice your strengths/blessings with honesty and gratitude.)

My husband (who has been navigating his own path of self-identity, career, and life-purpose) said he realized refusing to make use of one's gift, or find ways to share it with others in some fashion, was akin to being a myopic, avaricious rich kid who was blessed with unasked-for rewards and consumed them all without ever looking up to see who else might benefit from such wealth.

And when he told me this, I chewed on it for days... all weekend, in fact. I thought about seeing Ani DiFranco in concert and being blown away by her talent and hit with this indelible sense of "this woman is doing what she was put on this earth to do." And then I thought about the people I've met - teachers, counselors, artists, doctors, psychics, engineers, ministers - who called forth in me that same recognition... and awe... and envy.

It was not until very recently the envy started fading. An unflinching awareness of the ways in which I hold myself back has served to erase those displaced emotions. My joy remains my responsibility. My willingness to embrace the talents I possess - to see them as a compassionate response and fortunate opportunity - directly impacts my experience within the world and my level of happiness, peace, and personal fulfillment.

I have been better, lately, about sharing my gifts and utilizing my strengths in a mindful and compassionate manner. And - bit by bit - I am creating cracks in the self-imposed barriers I see between myself and the realization of various inner callings. I notice a greater sense of connection to those around me, and I feel more comfortable in my day-to-day being.

I think Buddha probably summed it up best: "Meditate. Live purely. Be quiet. Do your work with mastery. Like the moon, come out from behind the clouds! Shine."

May you discover and celebrate your singular talents. May your gifts bring you - and those around you - closer to something wonderful.

*Special thanks to Melinda Evans for taking this photo - from the booth! - during Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind. You rock, girl!

Gifts (Part I)

I was driving home from my daughter's daycare today with the windows down and the cool air blowing from our vents, marveling at the glory of sunshine and birdsong and peeking green everywhere.

Such gifts! Sunshine and driving and daughter singing songs and neighborhood I love and warmth on my arms and breezy heads of hair and the intoxicating scent of spring all around. Powerful stuff.

I had been in a conversation earlier with another mother and one of the room teachers about houses and possessions and the habit of wanting more. It was nice to realize I don't want more house, more space, or more things. I don't covet bigger/better... I have noticed I don't take care of stuff so well and it makes more sense given my focus, priorities, inclinations, and level of patience to keep things on the smaller side. Less is more.

This is not to say I don't covet other things... I certainly do. I am future-focused and slow to let go and crave control in areas of my life best left easily adrift. My wanting has become less materially-aimed... but it is still there: The aching of emptiness blind to abundance.

Which was the lesson staring me in the face today, patiently waiting to be acknowledged as I reveled in the happy of spring and consciously made an effort not to allow my buzzing gratitude to be undone by thoughts of coming snow.

I am surrounded by abundance. At times miraculous, sometimes unexpected and unbidden, maybe even so simple as to be nearly unnoticed without mindful awareness... the process of living provides infinite opportunities to practice gratitude and choose joy.

This remains a difficult lesson to remember and embrace in times of depression, fear, anxiety, loneliness, crisis, etc. But today I realized it's all a matter of perspective in terms of how I weave the narrative of my experience, how I make meaning of the things I cannot control, of how I reconcile the things I do control... how I own my mistakes, accept misfortunes, and keep letting go so that I am less and less burdened in each moment.

Doing this with books, photos, papers, movies, clothing, furniture, etc., etc. etc. has been a trying yet rewarding process. Doing so with the less tangible aspects of my life is an ongoing experiment... to which I must continually recommit and doggedly reengage.

Here's my suspicion: The more tangibly and intangibly unencumbered I can become, the more aware I will become of the multitudinous gifts available to me in every moment - ready and waiting to be noticed.

Such a path of gratitude and awareness of plenty seems a more joyful type of existence. More loving. More awake. More conscious and intentional.

It is an aspiration upon which I gratefully cast my gaze.

May you notice the simplest of gifts today. May you find joy and fullness in your living.

Impermanence

My daughter began her day with her favorite blocks and two Boston Terrier stuffed dogs. She created an elaborate two-story house for the dogs - complete with staircase and turret - and proudly showed her efforts to me and my husband as soon as we arose.

She told me she wanted to leave it up, and I complied... warily watching her colt-like movements as she danced, kicked, and flitted around the building (already leaning precariously to one side).

And then the not-so-inevitable occurred. Around 1pm, she unintentionally smacked into the structure... and down it toppled. At which point she began sobbing, in earnest, with very large tears rolling down her pain-contorted cheeks.

I held her and rocked her and kissed her tears... and after a while she calmed down - and then let go and moved on to something else, leaving behind her woeful protestations and her fervent wish to have it all back the way it was before.

Mirror. Mirror. Mirror.

It's been startling to me lately how many things in life provide opportunity for reflection if I am aware enough to notice something is very politely staring me in the face and patiently waiting for the epiphany of recognition.

Impermanence had already been in my thoughts. A possible post for yesterday, the unfinished page sat waiting in queue when I logged in, and so the event of the blocks, the crash, and the aching sadness seemed all too apropos to ignore.

While my little bunny struggles with the unpredictability of toys and the loss of things we love, I have been watching her race ahead into developmental territory so much more aptly described as "little girl" than "toddler." She gallops into greater physical, mental, and emotional dexterity... and then crashes back past her theoretically current state to stand startled and upset within the supposedly abandoned land of "baby."

This wave-like motion behind and beyond her present age has been a great reminder of the cyclical and ceaseless process of growth and personal evolution. Even more surprising is to step back a bit and realize the tidal flow of identity, maturity, and stability hardly remains confined to children and adolescents.

My career process has been a rolling ebb and wane of decision-making, hesitation, redirection, self-efficacy, values clarification, trust, and all manner of psychosocial minutia... as has my growth in the areas of intimacy, self-concept, spirituality, and intellect.

And while the impermanence of life skips across our path infinitely (seasons, emotions, friendships, finances, beliefs, bodies, feelings...), we sometimes have the tendency to forget (or perhaps deny) a few very important things:

• Life does not stand still; change unfolds before us in nearly all moments.
  
• There is no forever. Sometimes this is wonderful. Sometimes this is painful.
• We move back and forth across the spot we think we should be; every place we inhabit is.

I make the mistake of holding on too tightly sometimes, I think, to what I want instead of what is. And I get especially tense and clamped up when what is refuses to be still long enough for me to decide I want it.

Not so different, really, from sitting in the middle of the floor lamenting my disappeared building... insistent in my pain because my love feels greater than my loss - and neither were supposed to move without my approval.

I take a lesson from my daughter, who dives into her sadness with full-throated commitment and later emerges without looking back... pouncing on a new moment with present-focused gusto and a willingness to let go of the illusion of always.

May the ceaseless flow of your life bring you comfort and provide numerous opportunities to practice acceptance and release. May the folly of forever be met with humor and patience.

Rebirth

The achingly-awaited arrival of spring in our area has been an interesting lesson in patience and letting go. The warm weather has inched forward into March with a creeping steadiness, and today's undeniable warmth and sunniness actually made my heart quicken like a teenager attending her first unchaperoned co-ed party. Weird.

The tulips in front of our friends' building have begun to poke up through the ground, and the twitterpated activities of squirrels, birds, and college students reminds me why we get so giddy around this season: rebirth.

We get to slough off the old and emerge into a brighter and sweeter-smelling world with less clothing, greater promise, and the limitless possibility of longer daylight hours and the thrumming pulse of "now, now, now" surging through every living thing around us.

And why shouldn't we awaken from the quiet, cold resting of winter to pounce with readiness onto the earth unfolding and flowering before us? There's something inherently natural in our lust to rush forward and crash upon the world.

Yet, the irony of spring also lies in our attachment to its fairytale-like magic. The thrill of rejuvenation and rebirth feels palpable and intoxicating... and so it is somewhat humbling to remember it is less connected to the sun or the season than to our willingness to embrace such feelings of awake and alive.

I noticed in myself today an incredible sense of yes. Of now and possibility and I will. And then I realized I could have accessed those feelings - that sense of promise and power - at any time. Why not awaken to such an alert sense in February? Why not imagine myself capable of all changes I might wish to make in a landscape of snow and ice and barren branches?

Prince Gautama Siddharta (the founder of Buddhism) said:

"In the sky; there is no distinction between east and west; people create distinctions out of their own minds and then believe them to be true."

So it is with Winter. Spring. Autumn. Summer. We attach meaning and myth to the rhythms of our world... and while we are impacted by the natural living of the planet we inhabit, we are also capable of so much more.

May you spring forward with a sense of energy and renewal. May you remember to do so (again and again) at any time.