... and the wisdom to know the difference

I have always loved the Serenity Prayer. It is simple, to the point, and from the deepest places of the heart:
   
     God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
     Courage to change the things I can,
     And the wisdom to know the difference.

I pull from this prayer whenever I am up against a situation that challenges me to change the way I perceive it and find a better way to deal with it. A case in point is my long awaited chance to garden again. Twenty-three years ago, I found gardening, or, I should say, gardening found me, and it became my greatest teacher. When I had to leave it in order to be closer to where the jobs were, I grieved as if I had lost a best friend. For fifteen years I found ways to stay connected to the earth and the lessons that gardening taught me by learning to container garden. Even if all I had was a window sill, as long as I could put my hands in dirt and watch life unfolding before me, I continued to grow. Yet I never stopped yearning for my old garden. I remembered being out there in the early morning when the grass was still wet and the weeding went easier. I remembered listen to the good-morning music of the birds and the signal to the bees that it was time to get to work. In my mind, everything about it stayed the same. Alas, it may have been that way in my dreams, but in reality there was one thing that had changed greatly ... me, or, I should say, my body.

I have always been proud of the fact that I kept in relatively good shape for my age. I abused my body terribly in my youth but made great progress towards changing that as I hit my 50's. I dropped 62 pounds. I took up yoga. I leaned to meditate. I went to a gym. I make walking my basic mode of transportation. I started to eat healthier. I lived in a third-floor walk-up apartment and got more exercise carrying groceries and laundry up and down those stairs than I got on a treadmill at the gym. All that came in handy last summer when I sustained a fall on a cracked piece of street and fractured my upper leg/hip area, requiring three pins, and my shoulder as well. All that I had done to keep myself healthy helped me to recover my mobility much more quickly than I would have without it. Even the doctor and the physical therapists marveled that I was mobile so quickly. Mobile, yes. Able to do everything I did before, not really. In fact, some things are still too painful even after a year, One of those things is large-scale gardening.

So imagine finally getting your dream of the last 15 years fulfilled when a place opens up that has a garden you can play in, and finding out that one hour of weeding and planting knocks you off your game for days afterwards. This garden in sloped which puts more strain on the joints, and you realize that it's not just the area affected by the fall, but that while you've been praying for 15 years for a garden, and even though you hiked up and down those stairs all that time, you still got older, and arthritis found you anyway. So now you have to pull out that Serenity Prayer, and look those words in the face, and find the courage to change what you can while accepting what is. There is wisdom in accepting what you cannot change, because once you accept it, other possibilities have the room to grow... like all that wisdom you gained container gardening all of those years. Yes, you can grow lettuce and tomatoes in pots ... and I am. Yes, the herbs will like the outside shelving that holds all of the pots of basil, and lavender, and parsley, and mint ... and love. Yes, you can still go out early in the morning to pull the weeds you can reach without straining, and listen to the birds sing the day awake, and watch the bees go to work. It was never really about the garden. It was about me.

Another saying, probably my all-time favorite, and one I have used here on more than one occasion, is this one: Bloom where you're planted. So I have. That's something I have the courage, and the wisdom, to change

And so it is.

Go Deep

This morning I finally won the battle against procrastination and went outside in the early morning dew to weed. I don't know why I've been putting it off. I usually don't mind weeding, especially in the early morning when the day is new, the birds and the insects are just waking up and the breeze holds the promise of the day. However, we've had a really rainy summer and the weeds have taken on a whole new life as if someone has injected the rain with super vitamins. I only wish my poor tomatoes, still green in this first week of August, had so much energy. I also knew that my having put the job off had resulted in some very deep rooted weeds. My last go around with just such a weed taught me a very valuable lesson: sometimes you have to go a lot deeper than you want to go if you want to clear out what's growing there.

The weed in question was growing in the garden bed that is the home of some beautiful day lilies, iris, wild strawberries, and a host of other things. At first I thought it was some kind of late growing bush because it was almost three feet tall and looked like it was going to be a tree when it grew up. In fact, it was already the size of a small bush. At the time it was early spring and I was just beginning to discover what was growing in each bed of my new garden that had already been established years and years ago. My landlords assured me that no one had planted that particular specimen and, in fact, it was choking out everything around it. Not to worry, here comes Flower Bear, aka Barb, to the rescue. My philosophy in gardening, much like my philosophy in life, is that if you can't co-exist nicely together side by side, somebody has to go. So I got out my tools and got to work. First I cut it down to where it was just a bunch of stems sticking out of the ground, and then I started to dig around the roots ... and dig ... and dig ... and, oh my goodness! This thing had to have been growing those roots all winter long under the three feet of snow on top of it. I couldn't be sure, but for a moment there I could swear I heard Chinese music when I finally pulled it out and looked down into the mammoth hole! You will be happy to know that in that spot a pretty, stripped hosta has found a new home.

Shortly after the Great Weed Extraction, I was listening to a guided meditation by Denise Linn on Hay House Radio (my favorite place to hang out online) where we were supposed to "go deep" to find those well-hidden limiting beliefs that kept us from living our lives to the fullest. As her soothing voice lead us along, I went deep, really deep, deeper than I think I've ever gone in any meditation I've ever done, and suddenly I began to cry as the words, "No one protected me" surfaced from way below. I don't think I've ever said those words, either out loud or even just to myself. I knew in an instant what it meant: that no one protected me from my first husband who had been an abusive man, both verbally as well as mentally, and on a few occasions, with threats of physical abuse to keep me in line. I blamed everyone, especially my parents and his parents, who grew up in a world where a woman in those days kept their mouths shut and were lucky to have a man who would take care of them. I wept for a long time. I don't believe I even heard the rest of the radio show. All I knew is that I had just freed myself from the idea that I needed protecting when the truth was I was an intelligent, caring, creative woman, and that I was safe. I didn't constantly need to be saving the world one cause or one person at a time. All that I needed to do was love, forgive, and move on.

I didn't meant for this post to go on for so long, but my experience was so profound that I knew I had to share it, especially with women my age who may be carrying around a limiting belief that is so deep that they need an emotional backhoe to get to it and root it out. Like the Great Weed Extraction, sometimes you just have to keep digging until you hear the music, but it is so worth it.

And so it is.

The Gift of Presence

Look who showed up at my birthday party this weekend:

Yes! It is Flower Bear herself, or, rather, Flower Bear immortalized as a chocolate birthday cake! My oldest granddaughter, Courtney, is so talented and creative. I was almost sad to have to cut into her but since I knew there was chocolate hidden under her hat and dress, I relented. Anyway, the real one graces my home and teaches me about love (and gardening) each and every day:

I asked Courtney how she managed to create this wonderful gift and she produced pictures she took along the way during the baking, construction and decorating. It took so much patience, focus and creativity to do this. I remember watching her when she was little and she would rummage through the "junk drawer" (we all have one), looking for a piece of this, a bit of that, some string, yarn, paper, glue, crayons, what have you, and sit with the presence and focus of Michelangelo. When she was finished, there would be a horse made out of a step-stool, or flowers made out of straws and string, or a hundred other wonderful presents that she made me over the years. She made my "presents" by using her gift of "presence."

We are so busy these days that multi-tasking has become a religion all its own. Technology was supposed to make our lives easier, but instead it has just given us another way to try and accomplish a dozens things at once, and not one of them would give us the same sense of wholeness that giving all of ourselves to one task, and completing it to the best of our abilities, would give. This is even truer if we apply it to our relationships. How present are we with our children? Our partners? Our friends? After a long day at work, how present are we while we're trying to get dinner on the table, catch up on messages, checking our calendars for which commitments we made for the weekend, while our kids are in their rooms with their heads glued to iPhones or laptops? The greatest gift we can give to ourselves and each other is the gift of our being completely present in each and every thing we do. You would be amazed to discover how much you've missed by rushing just to get something done and not taking the time to truly see what was in front of you and all around you. You can just weed a garden, or you can experience a garden. It's a whole different ball game.

As for Flower Bear, we all took pictures to share with family and friends who could not be there, and then we took off her lace collar and sliced into her chocolate goodness. As always, she had another lesson in love and relationships to teach us that day, as she does every day, and I, for one, am forever grateful for her presence in my life.

And so it is. 

Sometimes You Just Have to Build a New Nest

If you've followed my blog posts over the years, you know that I am a long-time fan of the Decorah Eagles on UStream and Facebook. I have watched this dedicated pair of bald eagles bring 23 babies into the world, parent them as only they can, and launch them into the world as youngsters beginning new lives of their own. There have been successes and tragedies. Some of the young ones were killed by high tension wires and poles not properly insulated or protected. One youngster fitted with a transmitter has taken us on a 700 mile round trip over the last few years. Being able to watch them hatch and grow, taking one step and one flap at a time just like any other child, has been a privilege, as has the lessons in parenting their Mom and Dad have taught all of us.

The other day we were informed that a strong storm cell had passed through Decorah, Iowa, and literally snapped the tree with the eagles' nest in half, sending the nest, as well as all of the camera and recording equipment, crashing to the ground. Thankfully, none of the eagles were harmed. Mom, Dad and the three youngsters, who have all "fledged" and taken wing on their own, were elsewhere riding out the storm. However, our birds-eye view (pardon the pun) will be put on hold for quite some time until we know which tree the parents will chose to build a new nest in.

This is the second time in the history of this pair that a storm has taken down their nest. They waited until nesting season was upon them and simply built a new nest in a different tree. There was no wailing and moaning, no "woe is me" sentiments. They adjusted to the situation and did what needed to be done. Sometimes you just have to build another nest.

How many times in our lives have we felt like we were starting all over from square one? Just when we thought we were finally done with all the problems and responsibilities, and ready to really live our lives ... boom! Another storm, another tree down, another nest (dream/goal) smashed to bits. What can we do? We can cry and wail, and blame God, our partners, our kids, the economy, our parents, and anyone else who fits the bill. Or, we can just build a new nest. When we do, when we simply asses the situation, and really look at what needs fixing, the new version is often a better version than the one we had. If we don't become so attached to what we have, thinking that "stuff" is what makes us happy, then having to start over again isn't so much a tragedy as it is an adventure. More often than not, the new nest is better than we could have imagined, the new life better than the one we had planned.

I will miss being able to turn on my laptop and visit with the eagles high up in the tree, viewing the countryside as they see it and watching them live and grow. It will probably be some time before the folks that set up the cameras will know where the new nest will be so they can get us ready for a new season of eagle-watching. In that time, we will all have to be patient and do what we can, with what we have, to build something newer and, hopefully, stronger. Until then, I'll just have to consider the next few months to be an adventure into the unknown and take it on with all the excitement and anticipation of a young eaglet about to take her maiden flight. Sometimes the nest leaves you, but more often than not, it's you who have to leave the nest and take that first step.

And so it is.

What Lies Beneath

Nothing has brought home the significance of my move back to country life more   than the weather. Between the record-breaking cold and the endless snowfall of this past winter, followed by so much spring and summer rain that we are constantly on flood watch, it has been quite a homecoming. Couple that with finally having a real garden again only to have my hands tied every few days by all this rain, and it is no wonder that when I have a moisture-free day, I waste no time in pulling on the gloves and going out to pull the weeds that are the only things enjoying this weather!

Outside where the blacktop of the driveway meets the cement of the entrance to my place, a wide crack has opened up due to the intense cold we had this winter and the massive amounts of snow and ice that kept dripping off the overhang above the doorway. While we wait for suitable weather for that to be repaired, a mass of green sprang up in that crack until it took on a life of its own. From beneath the concrete, blacktop and stone came clover, dandelions, grass, and a vast array of wild-growing things I didn’t even recognize. I have to admit that I admired the tenacity of Mother Earth and her plant children to plug away under that concrete patiently waiting for the opening they needed to push through. Alas, they eventually grew big enough that I was stepping over them carrying the groceries in, which meant that they would have to go before I or someone else got a sandal caught in them and took a tumble. So I waited for a dry morning and went out to perform the sad deed. What I found when I pulled up the plants by their roots was a whole other world. Worms, beetles, bugs of all shapes, sizes and colors started to scatter, some moving up and out in search of greener pastures and some digging deeper into the sodden soil. You just never know what lies beneath until you pull the weeds out of the way to get a better look.

The same is true of our lives. Sometimes the storms of simply living leave a lasting impression, and around and in that impression it’s easy to let limiting beliefs and untruths take root. If we’re not careful, they will grow so big that they trip us up and make our path difficult to travel. However, if we take the time to clear out those limiting beliefs and look at what lies beneath, we will be amazed at what we find: new ideas, new perceptions, new experiences, and a whole new appreciation for life. Even if we have experienced what feels like an endless winter of pain and heartache, if we dig deep enough, there is always a new life waiting for us to come out of the hole and set out on a new path.

I have to admit that I will almost miss that crack in the pavement when it is finally filled in. Every day when I go outside I look down to see which of my little crawling neighbors is at home and bid them good morning. I know, though, that even when I can no longer see them, they will still be there, patiently waiting for their next opportunity to burst through and thrive.

And so it is. 

A Lesson In Being-ness

I sat down to write this week’s post only to find that the Internet was down. It’s not even raining or storming for a change. So rather than get myself all worked up, I did what I usually do to reign in my tendency to blow things out of proportion … I went outside. I find that a little time spent just standing outside with my fellow beings, be they plant or animal, will almost always bring me back to center.

This morning I stood and watched a bunch of tiny bees doing their thing in the garden. Have you ever taken the time to really watch bees at work? It is a humbling experience. Methodically, with a focus and an instinct passed down for thousands of generations, they move from flower to flower taking what they need and pollinating as they leave before moving on to the next bloom. In all the years I’ve been gardening, I’ve never seen bees fighting for position, or for the best flower, or for any other reason. Why? Because they’re bees, and they do what bees do. They are comfortable in their bee-ing-ness.

Birds spend their lives being birds and doing bird things like building nests, flying and finding food. Bees collect nectar, leave pollen behind, and make honey. A bluebird isn’t jealous of an eagle. A bee doesn’t obsess over being born a bee instead of a dragon fly. They are perfectly okay being who they are and doing what they do. It’s only we humans that aren’t content to just be. We obsess over how we look, what we have and what we want. We’re jealous of anyone who has something we don’t. In pondering this difference between humans and other living things it occurs to me that the reason non-human beings don’t behave the way we do is because they don’t know they can be anything else but what they are, and herein lies the answer for us. We do know that we can be something else.  What remains to be seen is whether we can choose to be our most authentic selves or copies of someone else. There is a great treasure in just “being” if we would only sit still long enough to connect to it.

As for me, I have been informed that our Internet will be down for several days while they make repairs to the wires outside. So I am writing this out long hand in anticipation of the day when I can post it, because I am a writer and that’s what writers do – they write. I am “being” me. Who are you being today?

And so it is. 

What's In Your Package?

All of the rain we've been having has set my gardening schedule back a bit. I guess I've forgotten how frustrating it is when you are gardening in an actual garden and Mother Nature determines what goes on out there, not me. When I was container gardening on my porch, I took the role of Mother Nature and made all of the decisions about what went where, how much water each thing got, and what was in each and every pot. Which brings me to my latest dilemma .. an unmarked packet of seeds. I found them in the bottom of a little gardening bag that I keep seed packets in. They must have fallen to the bottom. All that is there is a little white packet that was obviously inside a larger packet with the name of the plant on the outside. There is nothing remarkable about those seeds that would help me to know what they are so that I know what to do with them. If I don't know what they are, I won't know the best place to plant them so that they can grow into all that they can be.

I came across a quote from Parker Palmer this morning that struck me as being an example of this very phenomena in humans: "Before you can tell your life what you want to do with it, you must listen to your life telling you who you are." I think women have a harder time with this then men do. We go through our lives fulfilling a number of roles - daughter, sister, girlfriend, wife, mother, grandmother - as if we were a progressive garden planted so that when one season is done, the next one takes over. When do we actually get to sit down and ask ourselves who we are so that we can determine what we want to do with our lives?

For years, I struggled with the idea of wanting to become a writer. It wasn't until I read something by a fine young writer names Jeff Goins that I realized I would never "become" a writer until I started saying, to myself and everyone else, "I Am A Writer." Once I finally listened to my life telling me who I was, I was finally able to decide what to do with it. Now, almost three years into my blog and two published e-books later, when life (or anyone else) asks me who I am, I tell them, "I Am A Writer." Writers write. That's what I'm doing with my life.

The same holds true for gardeners. Gardeners garden. So this gardener will put a few of those seeds in a little pot and experiment with them in different lights until they can hear their own inner voices telling the who they are. Then they will do what they were meant to do: grow up tall and reach for the sky.

And so it is.