the trees are so beautiful I can hardly stand it

This is exactly the sentence that came to me as I drove home today, early afternoon, after chant practice.

Scott, Kabir, and I were at the Siddha Yoga Meditation Center practicing our live chant for Mahashivaratri. “Om Nama Shivaya” of course, the four part one that is so especially lovely. After singing and playing along with the cd, Scott had us do it acappello, coming in one by one and really blending with one another. Wow!

Then we sang with harmonium and mrdanga. We had the meditation hall to ourselves–well, us, the shakti, and the gurus. We shared and laughed and had a full hour and a half practice. Feeling excited about Thursday’s satsang.

It was somewhere before Mt. Healthy that I saw them. A line of trees stood magically with their snow covered branches, right there along Cross County Highway. That’s when the sentence came to me. I thought: how bhakti. How perfect this day was. How beautiful my drive home. I quit listening to the music playing in my car. I should write about this, my mind told me. Yeah. As if I could explain. Really. But close enough is good enough.

Many of us have had blissful moments when we are no longer part of nature, not even in it but of it. Oneness. Time stands still. This is what makes life worth living. A cosmic reminder.

Thank you, Tree Goddesses. When I got home I put out some more bird seed for my neighborhood birds. On a special stone under the leaning tree just outside my writing window. I feel as if I gave back, not that I needed to. But still.

hungry

I’m hungry, yes, for the quick pasta dinner I’ll be creating soon. But that’s not what I meant. I’m hungry to write, to share my memoir, my spiritual story from the 1970s until now.

Today I discovered a space. I won’t tell you where because I’m territorial. It’s a library branch way out. You’d have to want to get there. This morning was a good one: yoga class, latte, then this special space the librarian told me about when I walked in with my laptop looking for a perfect place. In the two hours I was there, I saw two people, only one of whom said hello (I knew him). It was obvious I’d made a writing appointment or date or whatever you prefer to call it so he kept it short.

I wrote out some fears. That helped. My writing was very Morning Pages although it was early afternoon. The sun was shining through a great window across from me and allowed me to enjoy the snow dripping off the trees. I didn’t write many pages but the act of writing — just for myself, just to see — freed something up. I‘ve got to write this thing for me.

bye to Betsy

Yesterday was my final session with Betsy. Yep, I can call her that. Even though she’s my therapist, we’ve had a casual, friendly style. I’d know her before–she’s a musician and singer in the community–but not on a personal basis. It was more that we knew who each other was.

She told me she’d miss me and that, if something came up, I could call. Betsy checked my file and told me I’d been seeing her since November 2004. I first went to see her when I was dating T. and I was cast in a net of angst about relationships. Mine was a Woody Allen kind of neurosis. Eventually things settled down and I used my inner social worker to deal with things.

Early 2007, I remember pulling to the side of a road and calling her. My words were something like: “I think I need to see you again to deal with issues of loss and grief.” I was driving home from seeing my mother, at home under hospice care. She was dying of lung cancer. At the same time, my girlfriend A. (who I dreamed I could marry) started withdrawing. Either one of these losses could have done me in but both at the same time seemed too much to handle.

By May of that year, I discovered the joy that had been hidden inside (but that’s another story). I owe much of my recovery to Siddha Yoga practices. The fact that I was divine revealed Herself. Iris and daffodils bloomed wildly around me. The first puppy I ever had sat next to me on the garden bench. Birds were chirping. The creek flowed, teaching me about change. I was retired, had a home in a lovely setting, and life was good, after all. Sometimes I even found bliss.

Betsy said I’d grown from “What’s wrong with me?” to a greater acceptance of myself. I told her if I were President of the United States, I’d include a once-a-month counseling session for everyone in the new health bill. How gratifying it was to have someone to hear me out each month and be my advocate (when I couldn’t be one for myself). I have my friends and my writing and meditation: all these are ways to keep in touch with myself. Meanwhile, I’ll see Betsy next month: she’s doing a concert at College Hill Coffee Company. I’ll be there in the audience cheering her on.

winter

Although it’s not Winter Solstice for a few days, you could fool me. I was as excited as a kid to wake up and see the snow. Where I live there are lots of trees. There is a woods behind me and several trees on two sides. Only from the front window do I see a road and a neighbor’s house. The branches on these trees look glorious. That’s a word I don’t use too often. An online dictionary tells me glorious means “characterized by great beauty and splendor.” Yes.

I am not quite a monk but almost. The writing class I was taking and the one I was teaching are over now. All week I have gone out only twice — once to deliver meals and once to get dog bones and wrapping paper. Most of my days consisted of reading, writing, meditation, and keeping up with the outside world through my laptop. It’s hard to be in silence when you live with three dogs. They are spoiled Western dogs but you’d think they were starving on the street the way they act sometimes. Still, they calm down eventually and sometimes I do, too, enough to chant OOOOOOOMMMMMMMM. I like it especially when I awake before it’s light outside. Granted, sometimes I carry my first cup of coffee into my Meditation Room.

I have come to the conclusion lately that I’ve been too hard on myself. If I don’t leap out of bed, eager for an early morning meditation, I’ve failed. I set near impossible standards for myself. I also realize how much I worry about . . . well, lots: money, the future. I find it hard to stay in the present although being retired, I “have” more time to try. I worry about Mr. G with his bladder cancer; he has moved to Pennsylvania in a retirement village close to his son. At 88, he will have to decide whether to risk bladder surgery or “just” do the radiation and chemotherapy. I call him every Friday when I deliver meals and he’s not there. I am a codependent bodhisattva — yet isn’t codependence part of the personality trait of someone who vows to save the world?

I’ve become excruciatingly aware of my Witness and my ego/self. Guess it’s a natural evolution of my life right now. I’ll just keep watching and listening and occasionally I’ll share some of my life here.

between Hafiz & the Troubadours, I’m covered

“Remember for just one minute of the day, it would be best to try looking upon yourself more as God does, for She knows your true royal nature.”

This quote from Hafiz is one that could be permanently taped on my forehead; but then I’d have to rely on the mirror of other people to tell me this. Tonight I experienced the Troubadours of Divine Bliss in a more ‘real’ way. I took my laptop to College Hill Coffee Company since I had to finish the lesson plan for the online class first thing tomorrow. I heard several new songs from the Troubadours and got hugs during the break.

It was afterwards, though, that it got real. I got to talk to Renee Ananda more than usual. Guessed her for an air sign, discovered she’s a Gemini. Asked if I could help them pack up the cables and the instruments. “No,” she replied, “You can just talk to me.” It was relaxing and fun. I got to know Randy the mandolin player, too. He shares a love of kirtan and is one of the mellowest Leos I’ve ever met. Aim Me asked how I was doing and heard my concern about the 87 year old in my life with bladder cancer (Mr. G). It wasn’t the conversations so much, the literal words, but the listening and the love.

So when they sang a song inspired by Rumi, one thing led to another and, with the internet at my lap, I turned to the lesser known Hafiz who I’ve come to admire. I hadn’t run across this quote, though. One of those bliss moments that arrive when you least expect it.

Yeah, I needed that reminder.

Being Awake to Changes

Last week, the New Media Circle of Women Writing for (a) Change recorded our own podcast! We shared pieces we had written to the topic “Being Awake to Changes — in our life, at Women Writing for (a) Change, or the world.”

To hear this podcast, visit www.http://podcast.womenwriting.org/

These sort of assignments with deadlines force me to face the laptop screen. I began with an urge to look out the window where I witnessed a squirrel savoring the sweetness of a walnut. S/he had paused from gathering food for the winter to enjoy a taste, take a moment to savor. From the Old French savour, from Latin, saporem “taste, flavor,” savor is a word that transcends literal eating. As examples, I savor my time with this podcasting group and I savor the writing classes I take or teach with this organization that is “so much more than a writing school.”

Something about Fall makes me more reflective than usual. I look at how active my retired life is and have only myself to blame (or credit). Lately I have felt I must take a firm look at all my commitments and set some boundaries. An example: a new friend asking me to go see the film about Amelia Earhart. I didn’t have a time all week that would work. There is something wrong here! (And you might well remark that, if this is my biggest problem late October, my life is good! And you’d be right!)

So I swear I will take the lesson from the squirrel and make time to savor fall, my animal companions, friends, and life in the upcoming months. Perhaps there’s a lesson here for all my readers. Remember the squirrel!

The Geography of Bliss

I recently finished reading Eric Weiner’s book The Geography of Bliss. The subtitle explains more: “One Grump’s Search for the Happiest Places in the World.” Of course, the word ‘bliss’ caught my attention right away. His idea of traveling the world to discern what differences culture, religion, and expectations make intrigued me. After all, this NPR Correspondent would pay the plane fare and do the traveling for us!

He discovered geography does make a difference. Moldova and Qatar I couldn’t wait to get out of (those chapters, that is). Moldovans were, according to the World Database of Happiness, the unhappiest on the planet [yes, there really is such a database: Ruut Veenhoven in The Netherlands]. The people Weiner talked to in this former Soviet Republic claimed it was lack of money that made them unhappy. I couldn’t wait to get through reading that chapter, it brought me down so much. Money wasn’t the main factor at all: the Persian Gulf’s Qatar, where most are rich because their country sits on the world’s third largest reserve of natural gas, disproved that myth about money. Qataris, the author maintains, “possess a strange mix of arrogance and insecurity. What they crave, most of all, is validation.” Their position within the tribe matters more than money or education. Although tribes can be nurturing, it seemed in this “gilded sandbox” that in spite of all their money, Qataris were not happy.

Although I enjoyed being transported back to India (“where happiness and misery live side-by-side”), my favorite learnings were from Bhutan and Thailand. Weiner’s lesson from Thailand was mai pen lai which translates to “never mind.” This lighthearted “don’t worry be happy” encourages one to just let go rather than go insane holding on to an impossible situation. Bhutan’s culture of crazy wisdom, he says, made him lose his bearings “and when that happens a crack forms in your armor. A crack large enough, if you’re lucky, to let in a few shafts of light.” The author meets with a Buddhist Rinpoche who tells him we must be ready for the moment we “cease to exist.” Compassion is what really matters. After all, as the Rinpoche tells him, “You see, everything is a dream. Nothing is real. You will realize that one day.” Then the Rinpoche laughed and returned to his chanting. Weiner’s summary on Bhutan? “In America, few people are happy, but everyone talks about happiness constantly. In Bhutan, most people are happy, but no one talks about it.”

Back in 1973, Bhutan’s King Wangchuk created for his nation the concept of Gross National Happiness. A Bhutanese hotel owner described it this way: GNH means “knowing your limitations; knowing how much is enough.” With Gross National Happiness the official policy of the government of Bhutan, “every decision . . . is viewed through this prism. Will this action we’re about to take increase or decrease the overall happiness of the people?” The U.S. has its Gross Domestic Product, the sum of all goods and services a nation produces. Weiner wisely perceives that our GDP measures oil spills, prison population, the sale of assault rifles and prescription drugs — all these contribute to The Count regardless of merit. He quotes Robert Kennedy as acknowledging that the GDP doesn’t take into account “the beauty of our poetry . . . ,” measuring everything “except that which makes life worthwhile.”

This book makes you think — deeply. Weeks later, I apply it to my life:

* Paying a mortgage by myself makes me unhappy. But when T lived here and shared the bills (this woman I supposedly loved), I wasn’t happy.
* I tire of driving a half hour each way to the east side of town. Lately, I fantasize about moving. But would my small scale change of geography make me happy?
* “Making” is not a part of happiness. It has to do with allowing, letting in, openness. No matter where I live.
* My delivering Meals on Wheels gives me perspective and a chance to practice compassion. Applied compassion. Although some mornings I grumble about leaving my house to deliver those meals, “my people” always give back more. Something less tangible than a bag of food. Appreciation, sincerity, love.
* Sporadically, I suffer from exhaustion. I literally wear myself out. What a sad phrase that is! Do I forget that “doing” never trumps “being”? One of the main lessons of Landmark Education’s intensive workshop, The Landmark Forum, I learn this over and over again. I am still learning.

It seems that bliss can capture you anywhere: you only need to be awake enough to notice, still enough to be aware, and wise enough to follow it.

overwhelmed no more

Of course, I’m fooling myself if I think I’ll never feel overwhelmed again. But this morning when my old reliable Pocket PC bit the dust, I felt a moment of panic: I won’t know what I’m doing! I won’t know what I’ve promised! I’m lost regarding anything having to do with schedules!

And then, peace. The sort of Emptiness that Zen Masters speak of. Wide open space. Wow, I needed that.

I have a clean slate. A new beginning; well, fall always felt like a new year to me, fall equinox, school starting. In fact, most pre-Christian cultures — those going by lunar cycles — have celebrations coming up.

Context: I’d been feeling overwhelmed lately. Even when I had an afternoon or evening free, I’d find myself worrying about what I’d committed to — taking Mr. G to the doctor, when would I work out, what seva was I doing at the Meditation Center, etc. Who’s in charge of my life, after all? Now that I’m doing a/v and communications at the annual Intensive next month, I told the other leaders that overwhelm was my fear. Veena called me from work the other day and asked “Are you feeling overwhelmed today?” Great zen koan.

I know class #3 of the Mastery Class is this Tuesday so I’m taking myself on an artist date to a coffeehouse to write my heart out. It’s not only rainy today but there’s a lovely mist lingering over the creek and woods outside my house. Very dreamlike and inspiring.

On my way home from the coffeehouse, I’m stopping at Staples to pick up an old-fashioned paper scheduler!

“Women Writing, Lives Changing” — with a social justice twist

Next month I’ll once again be teaching an online class with Catherine of Siena Virtual College. This time I have proposed a class for activists. Here is the description:

I see this course as a respite as well as a place of empowerment for those who work in areas of social justice. Too often we feel alone or isolated. In this online course, participants will have safe space to write about their hopes and dreams, share their frustrations, and feel supported by other people working to make this world a better place for all.
Whether you are a community organizer, a volunteer in a group that fights for equality, access for marginalized populations, or envision a better way, you will find a home here. The class will allow each time and space to pause, look, share, and return to her chosen work with renewed vision and energy to continue.

If these words speak to you, consider joining me for a series of Saturday morning sharing through our writing online with women from around the world. For more information, go to: http://www.catherinecollege.net/moodle/mod/resource/view.php?id=428

a plan is born for my croning next spring

If it seems I write about the Troubadours of Divine Bliss every time I hear them in concert, it’s true. Of course, I’ve only heard them three times and tonight was the third. My friendly ex Janice and I went to York Street Cafe to hear Aim Me, Renee Ananda and ‘Mando’ Rando play a few sets to a sparse crowd.

You don’t know what you’re missing or you’d have been there.

I love them! They spread joy and make you feel good about life. They’ve got great harmonies — and did I mention there’s wonderful mandolin playing by Randy who just had a birthday?

During one of their songs, it hit me. I figured out the missing piece that would make my croning complete — the Troubadours themselves. I will hire them to play their music and spread bliss as my gift to my friends. I figured this would be way too much information to discuss after the show so I wrote a note to Aim Me. Meanwhile, I hadn’t even gotten to talk or get a hug from Renee Ananda all evening so I followed her and started blurting it all out. I said “I hope you don’t think I’m stalking you!” and she replied something to the effect, “Oh, stalk us; we love being stalked.”

They can’t believe I’m 60 and, well, neither can I. Actually, I’m still a mere 59. But I figure 60 is a great age for a Croning: I will be honored as a wise elder in a circle of loved ones. Although my birthday is in February, that’s a crappy month to be outside (I’m not a skier) but, by May, flowers are blooming and everything has come alive. And, if everything works out according to the plan born during their concert tonight, it will be a great celebration!