Archive for October, 2013
Sabbath #149
This morning I’m late to my desk after arriving late at the field because I slept until seven. For the first time in a very long time. With adequate sleep, one’s relationship to the world shifts. Rest. I teach Yoga Nidra which is divine rest based on ancient yoga teachings. And this morning I’m thinking that most of my life I’ve suffered from weariness, bone tired weariness sometimes from lack of actual sleep but sometimes a tiredness that derives from my own struggles and challenges and the pain and suffering of others. Most days I can leave my office after six or seven therapy sessions and quickly move on to my own life; my dear husband waiting, phone calls from my daughter on the other coast, FaceTime with grandchildren, a call from my brother Gary during his long commute. There is a house to clean, laundry, food to prepare. And of course exercise: walking the dog, yoga, spin class. And reading and writing. Poems, new and revised. Collected and uncollected. Yesterday I had news that a poem was selected for publication. Does that mean I’m back in the flow? On the bed in my study there are six stacks of poems. I’m searching for the best ones. When I submit poems , I always include one that is completely random. One that I don’t give much thought to, unusually one least revised. Yesterday, that one was chosen… and it wasn’t the first time. Often I don’t realize the weight of worry that I carry. I don’t factor in the depth of suffering I witness day to day. I review titles of poetry books: Stay, Illusion: Picnic, Rain; Come, Thief; The Great Fires; my own, Hunger for Salt, Double Solitude. So I teach Divine Rest, iRest, Yoga Nidra. I always include poetry in my class as bookends, announcing rest and awakening. Solace and salve. Ointment for healing: poems and meditation. Listening to a calm voice, spoken or written. And once again, I’m reminded: I give what I most need.
Morning Before Work
This morning, a double rainbow at the field and then the dog disappears. He has taken to running wild and not coming when I call, only at the field. He finally comes up from the creek but for about 15 minutes my friend Dick and I search for him. This moment he’s asleep on the bed and I tried to have a conversation with him. I do think he understands. My friend says we should try a shock collar with our dogs. He is concerned because his dog always follows mine. Not sure about that idea, but I agree to research the subject. So instead of going to yoga, instead of writing a poem, I’m writing about the dog and field again. I only have a few minutes before showering and going to my day job which runs into the night on Thursdays. Messages are coming in on my cell phone as I write, texts, email and the house phone rings once. I ignore all to write these few sentences that no one will read. Practice. Commitment to the page. Devotion to language. Reminding myself that I am a writer. I write. And today I see clients. And tomorrow I lead a class in yoga nidra. I’ll begin with a poem. Mary Oliver. Everyday I begin with a poem. It’s part of my practice.
October Morning: Note to Myself
Today I’m gifted with time. So I stayed longer at the field with my dog, exercised, attended a yoga class at the Y, helped my husband pick photographs for a juried show and now I’m at my desk. I’m wearing my yoga clothes, my hair is pulled back and I haven’t switched the button so that my phone will make sound. The floor in my study still has the books stacked next to my desk. I consulted theses books yesterday when I worked on a new poem. My morning tea, cold. The dog, napping from his morning run. The rain, steady and remnants from the storm yesterday are evident: fallen leaves, pine needles, a branch here and there. I’m resisting housework and laundry to write this note to myself.
Be determined. Be unbridled. Be compassionate and loving to yourself, as well as others. Stand strong with your heart’s desire. Imagine receiving all that you wish for. Do the hard work. Write from that place of knowing. Listen to the sound of the word, heart-balm. Feel the salve working from the inside out. Continue to read what you love. Watch how good sentences are made. Study line breaks. Donnee, caesura, surrender. Salt marsh, east coast, west coast. The Beloved. Loved ones. Do what is necessary to finish projects:Three Ridges, Hunger for Salt. Look closely from the Third Eye. Find that laugh, that moment when laughter overtakes all else. Remind yourself about the meaning of ease. Continue the quest of writing one good poem.
Sabbath #147
Last Sunday I drove from the Eastern Shore to Dulles Airport and back. It was a long trip. A beautiful day returning my daughter back for her flight to the West Coast. We teased that I might as well fly back with her since I was driving all that way. We laughed. We say we are tired of airport goodbyes. We say our airport days are numbered. We say we are sick of living on opposite coasts. Upon my return, people say I looked so happy when my daughter was visiting. And it is true. A lightness. A lifting. Laughter. I don’t believe I will ever take the company of my children for granted. I live in a small rural town where entire families live in separate houses on one farm, where grandmother’s routinely take their grandchildren out for lunch or keep them over night. The teenagers travel easily back and forth between a number of houses. Today when I attend church there will be many families of three and four generations sitting together. I take my shower and dress early so perhaps I can get in a visit per the computer, as my grandchildren are waking on the West Coast, before their morning show, before breakfast. Most days we miss each other. I’m tempted to sit and wait. Our attempts to arrange a specific time usually fail for one reason or another. I rely on still pictures taken throughout a random Saturday or Sunday: street fairs, parks, hikes, siting on porches, farmer’s markets, bicycle rides, scooter rides, dress up, lego building. I always feel better when I purchase a ticket, trip planned and paid for. I imagine the arrival, the greetings, the quiet and noisy moments. I think about the departure only in relation to the next time I will see everyone again. My days begin early and are full. Today is no different. Time spent at the field with the dog, time spent reading, time spent preparing and having meals at the table, time spent on the creek. I heard that skates entered the creek last week. Today I am hoping to see them. Indian summer. Last Saturday I paddled with my daughter on the creek. Today she is absent. Last Sunday I drove to the airport four hours away. When we stopped for lunch, we made sure we embraced each other before we buckled our seat belts to reentered the beltway. We knew the parting would be short at the terminal, our goodbyes rushed. Even then we lingered to the last possible moment. And I drove away, looking back several times, catching a last glimpse, her backpack and her father’s old Navy duffle, checking in to catch her flight. My on my solitary return home.