It's a tricky thing, sometimes, to know how closely to look at something. Objects, views, thoughts, experiences, people--anything. If I don't look closely enough, really become aware of what it is made of, I may live too superficially without any real understanding, or miss an opportunity or an insight. But if I look too closely, or for too long, I can get lost in an infinite number of details and forget the context or lose perspective.
In fact, sometimes I think I don't even have a perspective, because I am in a constant flux of different levels of focus, and never know exactly which one to stop at. From the hyper-broad to the absolutely minutial, I can do it all. But I think, in the end, the most appealing, and productive, goal is simply to be able to see everything just for what it is, and let it be.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
pink tulip
If it is possible to be solitary in a world full of people, things, noise, events, distractions; in a world where, in truth, everything and everyone is connected; then I have been. Aloneness has been a defining quality of my life, perhaps the dominant experience of it. With people or without, at work or at home, traveling or resting, in relationship or single--always I am alone inside. And in the end, at our core, we all are. When the chaos or stimulation abates and the ceaseless attempts to fill the void become still, I am ultimately alone with my choices, my feelings, the consequences of my actions, my future, myself.
I have fought it, but in the end I think the fighting made the experience stronger. I even believed, for most of my adult years, that I wanted to be alone. But I know now that I don't--I was just protecting myself. But trying to fill an empty space in one's heart with activity, distraction, or even with other people is not the path to communion. Embracing the aloneness that seems so frightening leads, in the end, to the ability to love genuinely, to share oneself without selling oneself, to give without attachment, and to trust in the goodness that may come, wherever it may come from.
I have fought it, but in the end I think the fighting made the experience stronger. I even believed, for most of my adult years, that I wanted to be alone. But I know now that I don't--I was just protecting myself. But trying to fill an empty space in one's heart with activity, distraction, or even with other people is not the path to communion. Embracing the aloneness that seems so frightening leads, in the end, to the ability to love genuinely, to share oneself without selling oneself, to give without attachment, and to trust in the goodness that may come, wherever it may come from.
Friday, April 25, 2008
The art of letting go
Oak leaves, it seems, adhere steadfastly to their branches until the new growth forces them off in the spring. Hmmm, that sounds familiar. I've been forced to budge more than a few times myself, clinging to the "safe" well beyond the time for new budding.
Of course, trees don't have fears or emotional vulnerabilities or skills at self-sabotage. They don't complain or procrastinate, or create myriad reasons in their thick-barked minds as to why they're better off staying where they are. The beauty of trees is that they simply are, and they do what comes naturally and what makes sense for them, and what will support their future health.
Humans, on the other hand, are much more complicated. Not only do we have thoughts to tangle ourselves up in at will, the moment we stop being conscious of them; we have insecurities, false beliefs, and many, many choices we're responsible for making. We have the terrifying option of free will. We have mobility, intelligence, the internet, and the need for an income. We can have pets, have children, have neither. We can go to school or go to work--or not. We can change our hair color or our fashion. We can be religious or agnostic, kind or cruel, irresponsible or conscientious, Democrat or Republican. So many choices...
Of course, most of us don't think about all these choices. We just stumble on into life and let things happen, or assume what we do next must be what we want. Sometimes it is, sometimes it turns out it isn't. By the way, we also have the power to make new choices--but we must bear the consequences of the ones we've already made.
In the end, it is probably only the thinkers, or over-thinkers like myself, who notice and become somewhat immobilized in the face of all this freedom. More than once, I have actually wanted to be a tree--to have a simpler life on the side of a quiet mountain, listening to the soft music of wind, watching the seasonal life cycles of squirrels and deer around me, hosting a bird family or two, and just being at peace.
But my job here, my responsibility, is to find peace in my own life. To not be afraid of my freedom, or overwhelmed by it, or lulled into having or being less than I want by the false seduction of unworthiness. My job is to let go of, to surrender, the clutter of false feelings and doubts and thoughts that exist presumably to keep me safe, but that in reality keep me captive. My job is to live.
So, by God, let's do it.
Of course, trees don't have fears or emotional vulnerabilities or skills at self-sabotage. They don't complain or procrastinate, or create myriad reasons in their thick-barked minds as to why they're better off staying where they are. The beauty of trees is that they simply are, and they do what comes naturally and what makes sense for them, and what will support their future health.
Humans, on the other hand, are much more complicated. Not only do we have thoughts to tangle ourselves up in at will, the moment we stop being conscious of them; we have insecurities, false beliefs, and many, many choices we're responsible for making. We have the terrifying option of free will. We have mobility, intelligence, the internet, and the need for an income. We can have pets, have children, have neither. We can go to school or go to work--or not. We can change our hair color or our fashion. We can be religious or agnostic, kind or cruel, irresponsible or conscientious, Democrat or Republican. So many choices...
Of course, most of us don't think about all these choices. We just stumble on into life and let things happen, or assume what we do next must be what we want. Sometimes it is, sometimes it turns out it isn't. By the way, we also have the power to make new choices--but we must bear the consequences of the ones we've already made.
In the end, it is probably only the thinkers, or over-thinkers like myself, who notice and become somewhat immobilized in the face of all this freedom. More than once, I have actually wanted to be a tree--to have a simpler life on the side of a quiet mountain, listening to the soft music of wind, watching the seasonal life cycles of squirrels and deer around me, hosting a bird family or two, and just being at peace.
But my job here, my responsibility, is to find peace in my own life. To not be afraid of my freedom, or overwhelmed by it, or lulled into having or being less than I want by the false seduction of unworthiness. My job is to let go of, to surrender, the clutter of false feelings and doubts and thoughts that exist presumably to keep me safe, but that in reality keep me captive. My job is to live.
So, by God, let's do it.
Monday, March 3, 2008
winter serenity
An Easter sky over a January landscape--hope from the midst of the freeze.
Winter's accents offer something new to savor: the opportunity to see one's breath made tangible, frozen in the air; a palette of white with subtle earth tones of almond, moss, dove grey, and glints of glacial blue; the stark artistry of bare branches against early twilight skies; the soft comfort of fleece and wool, contrasted by chilly noses and cheeks.
But most of us tire of the cold and the short days, the slushy roads and bulky layers of clothes. As with anything, though, winter ends. Entertain a bit of patience, awareness of the natural rhythm of things, and even common sense, and we know that the turning of the seasons will come. Contrary to appearances, the Earth has not stopped its revolution around the sun, its rotation on its axis, its perpetual movement that eventually brings us around again to the next phase.
In darker times, we are as Earth's seeds, who know to wait patiently until the sun's warm signal calls us upward again.
Winter's accents offer something new to savor: the opportunity to see one's breath made tangible, frozen in the air; a palette of white with subtle earth tones of almond, moss, dove grey, and glints of glacial blue; the stark artistry of bare branches against early twilight skies; the soft comfort of fleece and wool, contrasted by chilly noses and cheeks.
But most of us tire of the cold and the short days, the slushy roads and bulky layers of clothes. As with anything, though, winter ends. Entertain a bit of patience, awareness of the natural rhythm of things, and even common sense, and we know that the turning of the seasons will come. Contrary to appearances, the Earth has not stopped its revolution around the sun, its rotation on its axis, its perpetual movement that eventually brings us around again to the next phase.
In darker times, we are as Earth's seeds, who know to wait patiently until the sun's warm signal calls us upward again.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
shapes and colors
We grow, sometimes in ways and directions that are unexpected. And if we are truly listening to our hearts, we may have no control over the shapes our lives take, or the colors used in their palettes. Usually, I think, letting go of that control is the most difficult part.
Who could have told me I'd be photographing blooming flowers in December? Who can tell me what I may be doing five months from now, that I cannot see from here? Who can anticipate whether a tree will grow straight and tall, whether it will bend and twist and wind its way only crookedly toward heaven, or whether it will become the casualty of some especially fierce season? How many branches will it have, what shape will its leaves be, and will they turn in the fall? Will bees and birds pollinate its flowers, will it live for decades or be cut down for development?
I have always had more questions than answers. But I believe that for every question, an answer already exists. The passion of our lives--however poignant, joyful, tender, bereft, triumphant or lonely--lies in undertaking that answer's discovery.
Who could have told me I'd be photographing blooming flowers in December? Who can tell me what I may be doing five months from now, that I cannot see from here? Who can anticipate whether a tree will grow straight and tall, whether it will bend and twist and wind its way only crookedly toward heaven, or whether it will become the casualty of some especially fierce season? How many branches will it have, what shape will its leaves be, and will they turn in the fall? Will bees and birds pollinate its flowers, will it live for decades or be cut down for development?
I have always had more questions than answers. But I believe that for every question, an answer already exists. The passion of our lives--however poignant, joyful, tender, bereft, triumphant or lonely--lies in undertaking that answer's discovery.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
snow on rocks
It's January, and another layer of snow is falling. We've had more this winter so far than we have in many years. Always another layer...
I've enjoyed snowshoeing, and have discovered some of those wintermagic moments in the woods, the ones that make me feel a little sorry for people who live in Florida. The seasons each have their own character, their own purpose and gift, and their own beauty. Hushed under intimate coverings of white snow, every tree, every branch, every twig, every puckered red rosehip and dried snowberry becomes equal, and equally significant in the new landscape. Accumulating snowflakes define every detail with graceful precision, and cover the chaos of underbrush with quiet assertion. And we experience something utterly, fascinatingly different from what the world was a few months ago.
On the other hand, layer after layer of snow reminds me of other inundations, the onslaught of stimuli and demands each day brings. It's easy to become buried with mental lists, tasks and errands, election updates, and satellite tv. An influx of information and images waits its chance to pour into us everywhere we turn our heads. If we allow this on a continuous basis, we soon lose touch with our own still, calm sense of who we are and where we want to go, of presence with the activities we perform and of what really matters to us.
I for one wish to live mindfully--being steered by my own sense of authenticity and intuition, remembering what I came here for, and finding meaning in my life each day. When the crowding of the world's dreams and dramas presses on me like the avalanche it sometimes becomes, it's time for me to turn off all the channels, and allow the clear flowing stream of stillness to reorient me to myself. Whether in the midst of beauty or chaos, I would rather choose for myself than have the world choose for me.
I've enjoyed snowshoeing, and have discovered some of those wintermagic moments in the woods, the ones that make me feel a little sorry for people who live in Florida. The seasons each have their own character, their own purpose and gift, and their own beauty. Hushed under intimate coverings of white snow, every tree, every branch, every twig, every puckered red rosehip and dried snowberry becomes equal, and equally significant in the new landscape. Accumulating snowflakes define every detail with graceful precision, and cover the chaos of underbrush with quiet assertion. And we experience something utterly, fascinatingly different from what the world was a few months ago.
On the other hand, layer after layer of snow reminds me of other inundations, the onslaught of stimuli and demands each day brings. It's easy to become buried with mental lists, tasks and errands, election updates, and satellite tv. An influx of information and images waits its chance to pour into us everywhere we turn our heads. If we allow this on a continuous basis, we soon lose touch with our own still, calm sense of who we are and where we want to go, of presence with the activities we perform and of what really matters to us.
I for one wish to live mindfully--being steered by my own sense of authenticity and intuition, remembering what I came here for, and finding meaning in my life each day. When the crowding of the world's dreams and dramas presses on me like the avalanche it sometimes becomes, it's time for me to turn off all the channels, and allow the clear flowing stream of stillness to reorient me to myself. Whether in the midst of beauty or chaos, I would rather choose for myself than have the world choose for me.
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