Peaks and valleys, with an occasional magnificent view. That's life, isn't it?
This trail was more magnificent view than anything. Starting at Todd Lake by Mt. Bachelor, in Bend, Oregon, it climbed into the Three Sisters wilderness area. Meadows, woods, and a ridgetop stroll that revealed cracked and snowpatched volcanic peaks in most directions. Butterflies, wildflowers, and scattered pumice stones of red, lavender, gray.
A place like this can really restore perspective. A walk in nature for me is like a chiropractic adjustment of the mind and soul. My head may still be racing during the first mile, and my emotions might still be fuddled up with a grudge or a confusion or an unpleasant encounter. But if I keep walking, the trees and the fragrances and the vistas and the hard-soft earth trail just seem to suck out the bad energy as my feet thud along, and then crack-click-sigh-shrug everything comes back into place and I remember that none of those little things actually matter. In fact, they'll take the life out of me if they can, if I let them. Life is too big, and Love too important, to give power to minor irritations. Let them be, forgive, extract your energy from them and keep going at a steady pace.
That's the better way. The peaks and dips are just peaks and dips. The walking, the Bigness--that's what lasts.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Lily bloom
The particular beauty of my balcony garden exists in its variety. I find endless joy in watering and nurturing the blooms there, watching pots and baskets spill over with color and exuberant growth. It's a little wild, and certainly the most decorated porch in the apartment complex. But it's also now a sanctuary, a private space, a habitat for visitors like hummingbirds and fuzzy bees. It has vibrance and color and magic and purpose, a far cry from the skeletal blank space it was before. It has life.
But I find I have the same "problem" with my little gardens as I do in my life beyond the balcony: lack of focus. In late winter, in early spring, even as I begin potting and planting, I tell myself that I will design the garden--carefully choose the color palette and textures; provide for some calming green foliage to complement the flowers and break up busyness; grow primarily those plants that I've always had a particular love for. And then I go to the nursery, and I see flower after flower that inspires me, and I see beautiful plants that do not go well together but that I can't resist, and I am impulsively overcome with a desire for a brightly colorful and uncontrolled spill of a flower garden gone wild, and that's what I get. Which is not bad; it just means I've yet again lost both sight of my goal and patience, and just given in to whatever caught my fancy in the moment. The result is a bunch of flowers that I love, but a space that has no grounding.
There is something to be said for impulsiveness and imagination, and allowing for spontaneous creativity and passion. But I believe a signature quality of a successful life is being able to "weed out" some of those options that look appealing, but which will ultimately be short-lived. If our energy is moving out to everything we might possibly like all at once, there's precious little left to pool toward a single, more powerful direction.
This will remain my goal, on my own behalf. In the meantime, I will enjoy my flowers, and their endearingly bright chaos.
But I find I have the same "problem" with my little gardens as I do in my life beyond the balcony: lack of focus. In late winter, in early spring, even as I begin potting and planting, I tell myself that I will design the garden--carefully choose the color palette and textures; provide for some calming green foliage to complement the flowers and break up busyness; grow primarily those plants that I've always had a particular love for. And then I go to the nursery, and I see flower after flower that inspires me, and I see beautiful plants that do not go well together but that I can't resist, and I am impulsively overcome with a desire for a brightly colorful and uncontrolled spill of a flower garden gone wild, and that's what I get. Which is not bad; it just means I've yet again lost both sight of my goal and patience, and just given in to whatever caught my fancy in the moment. The result is a bunch of flowers that I love, but a space that has no grounding.
There is something to be said for impulsiveness and imagination, and allowing for spontaneous creativity and passion. But I believe a signature quality of a successful life is being able to "weed out" some of those options that look appealing, but which will ultimately be short-lived. If our energy is moving out to everything we might possibly like all at once, there's precious little left to pool toward a single, more powerful direction.
This will remain my goal, on my own behalf. In the meantime, I will enjoy my flowers, and their endearingly bright chaos.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Big Fisher ridge trail
Paths are among my favorite images. I love seeing them, inviting the urge to explore, to discover, to find out. I love walking them, especially if they are in nature and someplace as beautiful as this. I find that walking a path helps put me back on mine--it's practice, in a way, for putting one foot in front of the other and remembering there's an adventure ahead, and choices about which way I go, and that I have some power over that. When I stop being distracted, and keep my eyes on the path I want, any number of good things can happen. I might actually get where I'd like to be.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Evening wetland at Dover, Idaho
A perfect moment, and well suited to this blog's name.
Of all the myriad endeavors available to us, finding stillness may be the most rewarding. A moment enjoyed in stillness frees the mind from its endless searching, its continuous thinking and creating and judging and planning and opinionating and lurching forward and...you get the idea. You have a mind, too, and whether you realize it or not, it likely gets the better of you sometimes.
The magic of stillness is that it allows us a window in which we can experience ourselves in a greater context. By simply being, pausing, we are able to extend our feeling perception to include far more than we are accustomed to letting in. In that momentary vacuum, we can set aside the collecton of thoughts and attitudes that we generally identify with as who we are, and, if we are willing, realize that we are much more.
In stillness, we become aware of what's around us. The fragrance of summer grasses; the quiet lapping of water at lake's edge; a distinctive bird call somewhere nearby. The longer we are still, the more we notice. The shapes of the stones on the beach, their colors, the sound they make under a footstep. The ripple on the water that turns out to be a beaver's wake. The textures and variations of the clouds, the particular color of blue in the sky, and how it changes like a watercolor a few moments later.
And if you wait long enough in that stillness, you begin to notice things on the inside, too. You'll suddenly think of the argument you had earlier in the day, and see it in a new perspective--quite possibly seeing the other person's point of view, now that the heat of emotion has passed. You'll notice the kinds of things you think about--the thoughts you allow to inhabit your mind. You'll begin to notice what expectations you have, how much time you spend worrying, and how you really feel about yourself. You'll be able to let things go that you've been carrying around without realizing it, and feel more peaceful as a result. This is the place that matters, the place where beauty and truth merge, where honesty, upliftment, and change happen. Many people are afraid to go there.
My suggestion: do it anyway. Somehow, sooner or later, you'll find that making this little journey into stillness, into really discovering who you are and how you work, may be the most important thing you've ever done.
Namaste
Of all the myriad endeavors available to us, finding stillness may be the most rewarding. A moment enjoyed in stillness frees the mind from its endless searching, its continuous thinking and creating and judging and planning and opinionating and lurching forward and...you get the idea. You have a mind, too, and whether you realize it or not, it likely gets the better of you sometimes.
The magic of stillness is that it allows us a window in which we can experience ourselves in a greater context. By simply being, pausing, we are able to extend our feeling perception to include far more than we are accustomed to letting in. In that momentary vacuum, we can set aside the collecton of thoughts and attitudes that we generally identify with as who we are, and, if we are willing, realize that we are much more.
In stillness, we become aware of what's around us. The fragrance of summer grasses; the quiet lapping of water at lake's edge; a distinctive bird call somewhere nearby. The longer we are still, the more we notice. The shapes of the stones on the beach, their colors, the sound they make under a footstep. The ripple on the water that turns out to be a beaver's wake. The textures and variations of the clouds, the particular color of blue in the sky, and how it changes like a watercolor a few moments later.
And if you wait long enough in that stillness, you begin to notice things on the inside, too. You'll suddenly think of the argument you had earlier in the day, and see it in a new perspective--quite possibly seeing the other person's point of view, now that the heat of emotion has passed. You'll notice the kinds of things you think about--the thoughts you allow to inhabit your mind. You'll begin to notice what expectations you have, how much time you spend worrying, and how you really feel about yourself. You'll be able to let things go that you've been carrying around without realizing it, and feel more peaceful as a result. This is the place that matters, the place where beauty and truth merge, where honesty, upliftment, and change happen. Many people are afraid to go there.
My suggestion: do it anyway. Somehow, sooner or later, you'll find that making this little journey into stillness, into really discovering who you are and how you work, may be the most important thing you've ever done.
Namaste
Larkspur in north Idaho
My greatest joy on this bike ride, and most other times, was the fresh array of flowers and plants. I read a short article the other day about a study that was done, in which women were given different types of gifts, and about which ones made them smile. (Apparently there's a lot of money out there for conducting studies. Note to self.)
Anyway, the only gift that made EVERY woman smile was--flowers. (Note to boyfriend.)
You just can't mess with the power and beauty of something that already has its own artistry, its own life, its own character and message. As a student of flower essence and plant spirit therapies, I already know that each plant has its own gift and message for us. Most healing practices, through eons, stem from the plant world--plants are the natural apothecary provided for our well being.
And of course, there is the more immediate, obvious gift of plants. Beauty.
Anyway, the only gift that made EVERY woman smile was--flowers. (Note to boyfriend.)
You just can't mess with the power and beauty of something that already has its own artistry, its own life, its own character and message. As a student of flower essence and plant spirit therapies, I already know that each plant has its own gift and message for us. Most healing practices, through eons, stem from the plant world--plants are the natural apothecary provided for our well being.
And of course, there is the more immediate, obvious gift of plants. Beauty.
Bridge at Dover Bay
Ahh, bridges. So important, however you look at them. This one is steel and concrete, but remarkably at home in a tranquil, natural setting.
You'll notice my horizon is slightly crooked. It usually is. Personally, I think that's because I usually can only keep one foot on the ground.
I took this photo, and some of the others, during an evening bike ride at the end of May. The Canada geese were using this wetland as a nursery, swimming or resting in family groups.
You'll notice my horizon is slightly crooked. It usually is. Personally, I think that's because I usually can only keep one foot on the ground.
I took this photo, and some of the others, during an evening bike ride at the end of May. The Canada geese were using this wetland as a nursery, swimming or resting in family groups.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
World Peace and the Lost Art of Turn Signaling
As children, we learn some basic rules of behavior. Be nice to your classmates. Raise your hand if you have something to say. Don’t pull other people’s hair. Eat your vegetables; go to bed early; play fair.
Some of us accepted these rules, some of us tested them, some of us flat out rebelled in the face of perceived tyranny—and probably spent a lot more time in our rooms as a result. But the rules themselves were not out to get us. Most of them were designed to help us learn how to be good humans: take care of yourself, respect others. Pretty simple stuff.
But then we grew up. And all hell broke loose.
For instance: I was driving to a doctor appointment the other day. Because the driver across the intersection from me made his left turn rather than yield to my right turn (all on green), I was stuck in a lane that runs out after the next light. No problem, that’s why there are two lanes.
I stopped at the next intersection’s red light. When the light changed, traffic started moving, and I saw a fair amount of space to my left. I turned on my signal, began to merge—and the driver behind me stepped on the gas, roared up beside me, and pushed me back into the lane that had now run out.
Hmm. Now that’s not very nice.
I was not after his firstborn, or his retirement fund, or the last slice of pie. I didn’t try to “cut in”, or fail to use my signal. I don’t even have a smelly car.
The truth is, we all have our moments. We’re preoccupied. Running late. No coffee. Have to beat the traffic. We’re chatting on our cell phones and don’t actually notice what’s going on around us. Or we’re just fed up with everyone else and stop caring. Ouch.
We may begin stumbling out the door in the morning thinking we’re the only ones out there that have anyplace to go, or any reason to go there. And that’s a convenient illusion that lets us off the hook.
But think about this. There’s a whole world of trouble out there. There’s war—more than one. There are family members in harm’s way, and families who know nothing but fear. There are AIDS epidemics and countries without clean drinking water. I don’t have to make a bigger list; it’s all plain to see as soon as we read the news.
My point is this: there are ways in which small lapses in caring can add up to big problems. The large problems have to be dealt with on a large scale. The small ones—well, maybe we can head those off. It all starts in the same place—a willingness to care, to cooperate, to be a little bit less selfish. To be courteous (do you use your turn signal?), however grudgingly at first. We might start to like it. That one ounce of goodwill we can pry from our overworked, caffeine-starved hearts could be the start of something good. It might even lower our blood pressure.
Consider it. Those rules we learned as children are not so bad. Because everything starts, and everything changes, by what we choose to do right here, right now, every day.
Some of us accepted these rules, some of us tested them, some of us flat out rebelled in the face of perceived tyranny—and probably spent a lot more time in our rooms as a result. But the rules themselves were not out to get us. Most of them were designed to help us learn how to be good humans: take care of yourself, respect others. Pretty simple stuff.
But then we grew up. And all hell broke loose.
For instance: I was driving to a doctor appointment the other day. Because the driver across the intersection from me made his left turn rather than yield to my right turn (all on green), I was stuck in a lane that runs out after the next light. No problem, that’s why there are two lanes.
I stopped at the next intersection’s red light. When the light changed, traffic started moving, and I saw a fair amount of space to my left. I turned on my signal, began to merge—and the driver behind me stepped on the gas, roared up beside me, and pushed me back into the lane that had now run out.
Hmm. Now that’s not very nice.
I was not after his firstborn, or his retirement fund, or the last slice of pie. I didn’t try to “cut in”, or fail to use my signal. I don’t even have a smelly car.
The truth is, we all have our moments. We’re preoccupied. Running late. No coffee. Have to beat the traffic. We’re chatting on our cell phones and don’t actually notice what’s going on around us. Or we’re just fed up with everyone else and stop caring. Ouch.
We may begin stumbling out the door in the morning thinking we’re the only ones out there that have anyplace to go, or any reason to go there. And that’s a convenient illusion that lets us off the hook.
But think about this. There’s a whole world of trouble out there. There’s war—more than one. There are family members in harm’s way, and families who know nothing but fear. There are AIDS epidemics and countries without clean drinking water. I don’t have to make a bigger list; it’s all plain to see as soon as we read the news.
My point is this: there are ways in which small lapses in caring can add up to big problems. The large problems have to be dealt with on a large scale. The small ones—well, maybe we can head those off. It all starts in the same place—a willingness to care, to cooperate, to be a little bit less selfish. To be courteous (do you use your turn signal?), however grudgingly at first. We might start to like it. That one ounce of goodwill we can pry from our overworked, caffeine-starved hearts could be the start of something good. It might even lower our blood pressure.
Consider it. Those rules we learned as children are not so bad. Because everything starts, and everything changes, by what we choose to do right here, right now, every day.
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