Nuggets

       Here are some stray thoughts that came my way this week.

       The mind is a beautiful instrument.  Unfortunately, I use it all too often to torment myself.

       Every moment, life brings us just what we need to deepen and grow.  See the gift.

       I believe both of the following statements are true:  We are alone.  We are never alone.  It's in our power to open to both realities and to think/behave in ways that make one truth more real for us than the other.

       "It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages."  Friedrich Nietzsche.

       "Gratitude's the Attitude!"  Ethel Lombardi.

Gardening Love

       Been thinking lately about idealism and realism in romance.  A lifelong romantic, I started doodling hearts at age 4.  I know all too well the yearning for love's intoxication. 

       The knight questing for Holy Grail, the lone seafarer searching for Tropical Paradise, the romantic looking for The One: these stories emphasize the element of search.  That's where the challenge is.  Implied is the notion that once you find the one, your work is pretty much done.  There's plenty to eat in paradise.  The trick is to find the island.

       Another model of relationship is peeking its way into my consciousness:  the gardener.  I remember, as a kid, I didn't like gardening.  I especially disliked weeding.  I wasn't fond of hoeing either.  Perhaps it’s the new house.  Perhaps it's having a partner who can't wait to garden next spring.  Anyway, I'm warming to the idea.

       Gardeners find a good plot of land, cultivate it, nourish it, plant seeds, water, weed, cultivate and nourish some more.  They harvest and enjoy their crops - grateful for what they have, accepting that some years are leaner than others.  Some gardeners freeze or can for enjoyment and nourishment during the winter. 

       During winter, gardeners often think about and prepare for the next spring, when the cycle begins anew.  They are famous for trying new things, learning new techniques, paying attention to what works and what doesn't.  Master gardeners remain students.  They study the art of gardening and the unique nature of their particular garden.  Year after year, they tend and attend.  Year after year, their gardens grow even more unique, more beautiful, and more abundant.

       I know of no stories out there about gardeners searching and searching for the perfect plot to plant.  For gardeners, it's not the search that's important.  It's what you do after you pick a piece of ground that counts.

       Be merry.  Hoe, hoe, hoe.

Bushwhacking Brain

       On our last day in the Boundary Waters, my good friend Doug and I decided to fish a small lake that had no trail leading to it.  Since the lake was almost certainly seldom visited, we imagined it teeming with hungry Bass and Northern Pike. 

       Heading west from a nearby campsite, we pushed and weaved our way over, under, around and through dense underbrush, branches, downed trees, boulders and crevices till we got to a marshy swamp that signaled our proximity to the lake.  After another quarter-mile of slogging, we arrived at relatively firm ground on lakeshore, then proceeded to bushwhack for another couple hours, as we fished up the shoreline (there was no sandy beach on this lake). 

       All that effort for one eight-inch perch Doug snagged on his first cast and released.  It was totally worth it.

       Our adventure reminds me of a challenge I face in relationship.  Through years of repetition, I've etched in my brain well worn paths that do not serve me – old stories of loss and disappointment, gloomy predictions, well-worn protection strategies – familiar trails, leading to familiar places. 

       I need to bushwhack in my brain – head into wilderness, blaze new trails, risk the unknown.  It's damn hard work, way harder than it looks on a map.  But the going gets easier with each trip into new territory.  New paths form.  Old trails diminish from disuse.

       Brain pathways are more malleable than we once believed. While paths are made by walking, they're begun by bushwhacking.

Rhythms

       It's been almost a month since last I've written.  I'm impressed with how quickly I can lose the rhythms of life, the regularity of practices that nourish the spirit – writing, running, working out, meditating, connecting with friends and family, loving a partner.  I notice the chaos, inside and out, that comes with being out of synch with those important rhythms.

       I've been thinking lately about the rhythms and practices of love.  Next week, as I spend time in the wilderness with five fabulous friends – an annual and cherished rhythm in our lives – I hope some of these thoughts crystallize into writing I can share with you upon returning. 

       I've missed being with you.

Two Fawns

       Last night, after nearly an hour of unsuccessful search for a bed sheet, Joanie and I spent our first night together in our first home.  We are surrounded by a chaos of boxes and furniture and stuff – two households of stuff, a mountain of stuff.  I, for one, am overwhelmed. 

       This morning, I went for a run from this new place.  Our neighborhood adjoins a protected forest area, called The Great Woods.  Through these woods, there are lots of paths.  I'm not sure where they all go, but I keep heading in a general direction, not worrying too much about which fork to take.  I figure I'll explore for a few runs and eventually find a route I like.

       As I jogged in this forest, a pair of fawns jogged by me from the other direction, just off to my right. They were jogging much faster than I, of course, and they looked to me like they were having fun. 

       Two fawns - new to life, finding their way in a forest, having fun.  Nice model for Joanie and me.

Touched by a Turtle

       I've been thinking about the turtle we encountered in Quetico last week.  Kirk sent a picture, today, of me bending down and touching her shell.  In the picture, which I couldn't download for you, she's not as big as she seemed in real life – and nowhere near as intimidating as she was at first sight.

       What's most impressive to me is her focus on mission.  She found her spot and proceeded to dig, undeterred by our gawking, undeterred by my touch.  I expected a snap of annoyance, or at least a little hiss.  Nope.  She quietly went about her business, as if we weren't there.

       After nearly a half hour of digging, mostly in one spot, a spot without nearly enough dirt to support her mission, she moved on – not giving up too soon, not hanging on too long.

       What lovely lessons in showing up and letting go.

       It may look like I touched her.  Really, however, she touched me.

Quetico Reminders

       Central to my cosmology is the belief that we live in an intelligent, alive, loving universe, from which we are inseparable.  It's a universe that continually converses with us, communicating in many ways and listening – a responsive universe that invites connection.  It is neither capricious nor indifferent.  Nor is it a servant for us to command.  It's a friend and a partner.  In this relationship, influence is mutual.

       I teach this belief.  I hold it deeply.  I forget it frequently.

       I spent most of last week with three delightful traveling companions in the Quetico, a Canadian wilderness area where the primary modes of transportation are paddling and portaging – an ideal place for remembering and reconnecting.

      An unusual stillness, very little breeze, characterized our first two days - gorgeous days – mild temperatures, azure sky with puffy white clouds - great days for canoeing.  We found a spectacular campsite on Emerald Lake, whose crystal-green water reflected its name.

       For most of the third day, it rained – a good day for extra sleep and quiet time in the tent.  That morning, I made several attempts to meditate.  A restlessness, bordering on unease, dominated my inner landscape, preventing anything that felt remotely like meditation.  Hoping to re-orient with myself, I put pen to paper, journaling about mission and purpose. 

       Shortly into that exercise, I had one of those wonderful gift experiences where everything goes quiet, where the universe seems to say "hello" without making a sound.  As I write now, I imagine the quiet center of my being and the quiet center of all being coming together in a way that slips through ordinary separation consciousness.  The experience felt natural and familiar, something I can invite and make room for, but never control.

       After a while, I emerged from my tent (which, thanks to the graciousness of my companions, was pitched high above the site on what we called the penthouse pad) and moved slowly down to the campfire area, which itself was a good ten feet above the water on a sloping rock face.  My meditative state was startled by the sight of a huge snapping turtle, which had somehow made its way up the rock.  I called immediately for others to witness this awesome scene. 

       The turtle (a mom, we suspect, intending to lay eggs) began digging in a little patch of dirt on the rock, seemingly oblivious to our presence, our clicking cameras, our gentle touching of her shell.  Eventually, after nearly half an hour, she gave up the dig.  Dirt was shallow in the spot she'd selected, and we, I suspect, were becoming a bit of a nuisance.  She ambled down the rock, tumbled the last few feet into Emerald Lake, and swam away.  

       Later, after mid-afternoon naps, Kirk and I decided to go fishing in the rain.  So far, brief attempts at angling had been a bust.  Our Canadian license allowed us to keep only one bass apiece, and it could be no bigger than 13.8 inches.  Within an hour or so, we'd each caught one, just within the maximum size.  Since our meal for the night turned out mostly inedible, having fish to supplement was, indeed, a blessing. 

       Earlier in the trip, the group had decided to spend a third night at our Emerald site and to paddle the entire way back to the car (some 18 miles) on the next day – an ambitious feat, which would require favorable conditions.  Around bedtime that last night, wind (absent most of the trip) started blowing, strong from the west – the direction we'd be heading into in the morning.

       I woke a couple times during the night, aware each time of the wind still blowing strong.  In the north country, west winds like that can go on for days without letup.  Waking once more shortly after sunrise, with no change in conditions, I chatted with the universe, asking its help.  I wasn't fearful or hopeful or insistent in the least, not expecting anything.  I just asked and let go - total time, 5 seconds.  

       Twenty minutes later, the wind calmed and stayed that way until late afternoon, when we turned southwest for the last 7 or 8 miles of paddling.  Just then, a big wind picked up again.  This time it was from the northeast - a tail wind.  It pushed a tired crew the rest of the way home.

       Sunday afternoon, back in St. Cloud, as we were unpacking, my good friend and traveling companion on the trip, a very spiritual man and a self-described agnostic, marveled over the behavior of the wind on our return.  He called it a miracle.

        Hearing that word from him caught my attention and brought the whole trip into new perspective.  It was one final, touching reminder of all the reminders Quetico had offered. 

       We are so interconnected with life – so loved.  What we call miracles happen all the time – natural, ordinary, everyday occurrences – some, perhaps, more dramatic than others.

       Awe-right.

Meandering Toward True Size

       Last Monday, instead of writing a Weekly Wisdom, I spent the day in workshop with Bill O'Hanlon, who's been mentoring and inspiring therapists and writers for some 30 years and who's published some 30 books.  He's a model of fearlessness for me – a man who decides to do something, then does it – apparently without a lot of the angst I typically experience between thinking and doing.

       I jumped at the chance to drive him back to the airport. The trip offered a lovely time to catch up with Bill - and was itself a meander.  I quickly missed a turn, and we wandered a bit before reorienting.  After a quick hug goodbye, I was back in the car headed home when I discovered a gold star sitting on the passenger seat where he'd been seated.  I assumed he left it there for me, as an encouragement.  (He had given a couple people stars during the workshop.)  Or it could have fallen out of his pocket, left there by a loving universe.  Either way, it was a blessing.

       The next morning dawned gorgeously.  After my usual run on the trail by the river, I decided to do some QiGong on the river-stone beach by water's edge, where I sometimes do ceremony with the Thursday night group.  The stones and I were soaking in the sunshine, as I moved my hands in an exercise called "The Movement of Yin and Yang".  For several minutes during that movement, I felt a phantom watch on my left wrist, where I no longer wear a watch.

       "What's this?" I wondered. 

       "It's time," came an answer.  Time, I realized, to let go of old containment, of living small – much smaller than I am.

       A couple days ago, Joanie and I closed on a new house – one more spacious than my "bachelor" home (now grounded, by the way), which we'd been sharing since she sold her place a couple-three months ago.  I've had a jitter or two about the move, which somehow is eased by today's soreness after our first marathon day of emptying one house into another.

       All this makes me think of lobsters. 

       It must be very frightening for lobsters to shed their old shells, when they've outgrown them.  There's that nakedness between shells, when they're totally vulnerable.  And yet, when it's time, the discomfort of living in a shell too small outweighs the danger of growing into the unknown.

       It's time.

Nice Mirror

     The energy system in my house is out of balance.  If I turn on a hair dryer in the upstairs bathroom, the lights in the room surge brighter.  When I switch on a hair dryer in the downstairs bathroom, lights dim. 

       This out of balance condition affects the electrical flow throughout the house.  The microwave groans at half speed, the toaster (now a "warmer") barely heats up, the washing machine balks completely.  Fortunately, the computer still works.  Thus, this message.

       Three visits from the power company and a local electrician leave the mystery unresolved.  I am, however, getting an education.  Apparently, there are two, 120-volt hot wires coming into the house (each energizing half the house) and one neutral wire that grounds the circuits and balances energy flow.  The best guess: a problem with grounding.

        Without proper grounding, there's no flow of energy, no balance.  Nothing works right.  I think my house is trying to tell me something.

        Nice mirror.

Discovery

If I look inside you

Hoping to find me

I look in vain.

AND YET

Encountering you true

Opens new doors

New pathways to me.

Discovering you

Discovering us

Discovers me.