Finding Grace in Surrender

I am not someone who gives up easily, especially if the cause is something near and dear to my heart, like gardening. However, I have lived enough years on this earth to know when I am beaten. I bow to a very powerful tag team: men and construction.

Since mid-April the house where I rent a ground floor/basement combo apartment has been under construction. The owners are turning the one-family upstairs into two apartments. The work is being done in phases as time allows and people are available. It reminds me of that delightful book that was later made into an equally delightful mini series on PBS called: "A Year In Provence," by Peter Mayle. It tells the story of an English couple who decide to chuck it all and move to the beautiful region of Provence, in France, where they will renovate an old farmhouse and live in peace and simplicity. However, the local tradespeople have a different work ethic than the industrious Brits, and when they say they will be back on Tuesday, it does not necessarily mean next Tuesday. It could mean a Tuesday three months from then. The book documents the couple's hilarious education into simple, rural living and how they managed to survive it all and keep their sanity intact. I feel like I am living in Provence.

When it came time to clean up the garden in the spring and prepare the beds, I was surrounded by trucks, dumpsters and piles of ripped out walls, cement, nails and other debris. The tulips were smashed under piles of broken concrete. At every turn there were construction trucks, plumbers, electricians, piles of lumber, and pieces of wall board blowing in the wind. There was nowhere to set up my containers and my mini green house. Then they kept turning off my Internet, my water and my power. I finally managed to get a few containers out there only through the hard work of my 9 year old granddaughter who may look skinny but who had no problem carrying hugs sacks of soil down the driveway where we assumed it would be safe to put the containers. The lettuce and basil have roused to the occasion, although Rosemary seems to be afraid to poke her head through more than an inch and the spinach is anemic. They were planted late and not in the optimal spot for the best growth. Alas, the biggest casualty has been the tomatoes. After painstakingly hauling water from the house to water them - they kept shutting off the hose - they succumbed to several days of torrential downpours that backed up a river in their pots which plugged the drainage holes and would not let the water out fast enough. The entire bottom of the plants are gone, and only about 6 grape tomatoes remain to turn red, if ever. As for the weeding, only a machete and a strong back could get through what should have been tackled ages ago with only minimum upkeep needed afterward. It was when I walked out and saw my drowned tomatoes that I threw up my hands, waved the white flag and told the Universe, "I Surrender! I Give up! It's all yours!"

Sometimes we just have to accept the idea that not every plan is going to work out the way we'd like, and we cannot control every event in our lives. Last year I came to accept the fact that, as excited as I was to finally be able to live somewhere that had an actual garden to play in, some physical setbacks were not going to permit me to go back to the way I used to garden before the injury to my hip. That was okay. I found ways to still enjoy gardening, still have a hand in creation, and still take pride in the harvest. This year, no way. So what do you do with those lemons you've been handed? You make lemonade and use the seeds to plant something new, like patience, gratitude and acceptance. It won't be the last time I'll ever get to garden, and it also won't be the last time that I won't be in control of how something works out. Let go and let God, as they say in the recovery movement.

So where is the grace in surrendering? It was there when I looked out among the weeds one day to see wild roses growing where I'd never seen them growing before. It was there when I saw wild morning glories wrapping themselves around the lambs ear and boasting beautiful white flowers at sunrise. It was there when the wild strawberries, unimpeded by anything I might have planted there, took over, much to the delight of my grandkids who went out to pick them and came back laughing with red fingers and mouths. It was there when the local critters came out early in the morning to eat the clover and dandelions. Grace. Grace in what Mother Nature has planned and executed, beauty in the randomness and gratitude in the bounty. Grace.

And so it is.

May The Force Be With You, Or, How I Almost Let Darth Vader Ruin A Good Time

Sitting here on a beautiful Sunday morning, looking at crisp blue skies and fluffy white clouds, while a cool breeze waves the corn in the fields, I cannot think of a better place to be where the energy and spirit of nature is more present. It reminds me of Star Wars when Obi Wan tells Luke Skywalker that “The Force is strong here.” The longer I live here, the stronger The Force, also known as spirit, Mother Nature, God, etc.,  takes root within me and I feel the connection to All That Is … which is why I hate it when my inner Darth Vader comes out, and come out he does.

 I don’t know if it’s because I’m older and at an age where I no longer tolerate stuff I always just took for granted as “well, that’s just the way it is,” but when you plop me down in the middle of crowds, rudeness and inconsiderate behavior, old Darth comes out loud and clear.  Take the other night, for example.

For my birthday recently, my sister got tickets to take me to see Rick Springfield in concert. You may remember him as Dr. Noah Drake on General Hospital, and also as a singer, musician, songwriter and actor. I had a huge crush on him back in the ‘80’s and when I found out he was coming to perform at our annual Spidie Fest and Balloon Rally, I was thrilled. (Side Note: for those of you who are wondering what the heck a Spidie is, it is chunks of either chicken or pork that are marinated and grilled, and served either on a bun, on top of rice, even in a salad. It is our local claim to fame around here and people come for miles around to taste it. I am sworn to secrecy as to the recipe for the marinade). Anyway, Friday night found my sister and I making our way to the area where they had set up the soundstage, carrying our chairs for the on-the-grass seating. However, when we got there, the people seated in chairs were out-flanked by the people standing around the stage, blocking everyone’s view. Many of them were waving huge signs and making it even more difficult to see. Now I am said to be of average height but that night I felt like a dwarf among giants. Every time I said, “Excuse me, could you move your sign so I can see,” people turned around and stared at me like I was insulting them or. One young girl, who probably wasn’t even born when this man was on TV, was waving her hands all over like she was trying to dry her nails, and the huge satchel she had on her arm was whacking me in the head. When I asked her to please move over or put her purse down, she said something rude that I won’t repeat here but the mother in me was wishing she had a bar of soap on hand. It was at that very moment that I heard old Darth calling me over to the Dark Side: “These rebels need to be dealt with, “and I was more than willing to go. All around me people who were old enough to know better were pushing and shoving each other out of the way to get closer. I was wishing I had a light saber handy! I just wanted to enjoy the concert, take a walk down my personal rock and roll memory lane, and gaze adoringly at the hottest 67 year old man – just my age, thank you - that you will ever see, and they were turning it into a contact sport.

At some point my sister tapped me on the shoulder and informed me that she was moving to the back of the crowd to sit down since the speakers were hurting her ears (“If it’s too loud, you’re too old,” as Rick reminded us from the stage) and she wasn’t the fan, I was. As I looked behind me, I saw rows and rows of people sitting on lawn chairs, clapping to the music and laughing, and I realized that I was making my old nemesis, and Darth Vader’s right hand girl, Miss “I’m Right and You’re Wrong,” ruin the whole evening for me. So I went within and called on my inner Yoda to guide me out of the Dark Side. I was there to hear this guy sing, listen to his amazing guitar playing, let the music make my feet feel 30 years younger, and have a good time … NOT to look for reasons to be offended. I was not going to let the behavior of others ruin my night. So I stepped back, found a place with some space around me, and just started to sing along. Once I finally let the music in, it lit up my soul and my spiritual light saber chased old Darth back to the other side of the galaxy.

Now it is Sunday morning and I am again surrounded by The Force. There are no unruly crowds here, not even the herd of cows from up the hill. My landlord is cutting the grass and the smell is wafting in on the breeze. I’m getting ready to go out and cut some lettuce from the garden for my luncheon salad and afterwards I’ll take my afternoon stroll. Today the only music I want to hear are the crows flying over the corn fields and the clinking of the neighbor’s wind chimes.

May The Force be with you.

And so it is.

Weathering Life's Storms

I’m too old for this crap. I’m too old for all the heartbreak, the death and destruction. I’m tired of witnessing pain, and fear, and I’m not just talking about the world stage. I’m also talking about the stage that goes on right outside my window in the natural world.

One of my landlady’s cats got out. She has two housecats and a dog, and during all of this construction going on in the house, with workmen coming and going, and doors being left open, each and every one of them has gotten out. The dog, the one I dog-sit for when they go away, is easy to lure back with food and baby talk. Ebony, the very large male cat, seems to be able to fend for himself in the big, bad world and eventually comes back on his own terms. However, Abbey, the female, never goes outside. She is big, like her brother, but a bit of a sissy. She is terrified of the dog and masks her fears by hissing at people and things she dislikes. She has never been one of my fans, always hissing when I attempted to befriend her, and I suspect it is the smell of my own two female cats that prompts that (as opposed to Ebony who treats me like I’m the nicest human he ever met). In any case, Abbey got out the other day and we could not find her. She is not worldly like her brother and we were fearful that she would either wander out into the road or become a victim to the gang of barn cats that use our yard like it was their own.

Finally, on Friday, I found her in the small garage next to my front door which had been left open by the workmen. She cowered and hissed, but at least we knew she was okay and out of the rain that had moved in. I went in and brought out food and water, and kept an eye on her, talking and cooing. She stayed out there all day Friday and Saturday. It was impossible to go in after her because there were piles of lumber and power tools and too many nooks she could crawl into. Finally, this morning, after a storm that knocked out power and poured down rain, I saw her laying right outside my writing window as if she were waiting for me. When I went out, she was all loving and rubbing her face on my shoe. Speaking softly to her all the time I scooped her up before she knew what hit her and took her inside to her pet parents. She is in dire need of a bath and was pretty spooked by the whole ordeal, but otherwise she has survived.

When I went back out to clean up the dishes I’d left there for her with food and water, not wanting the barn cats to think this was their second home, I spied something dark and fuzzy in the food dish. My heart just broke. It was Vincent, the little grey vole who lived in my garden and to whom I said hello every morning as he scurried from one side of the yard to the other after breakfast, and then back again at dinner time just like a guy going to work and then coming home after a long day of doing whatever it is that voles do. I could not believe that Abbey, an indoor cat all of her life, would even know what to do with such an animal, let alone to kill it and then put it in her food dish! I picked up the dish and went out into the garden, in the rain, and dug out a little place underneath one of the huge hosta plants that I had seen him come out of and go into each day.

So I saved one animal friend but lost another one. Like the day I found a robin’s nest laying on the ground with five little eggs crushed, and the tiny baby birds still inside who had never had a chance, I raged at the Universe. No, it’s not Dallas, or Orlando, or Newtown. It’s not Nice, or Syria. It’s just part of country life. Well, I hope I never get so thick skinned that I treat life and death cheaply and without feeling, shrugging it off as if that's just the way life is. I hope I will always get angry, because when I get angry, I get going.  I speak out on issues that are important to me and for those that have no voice to speak for themselves. I sign petitions, give what I can, do what I can, from where I am and with what I have. I hope I never get so hardened by despair that I turn my back on it and hide inside with the doors locked when the storms of life lash out. I hope I will always go out in the rain and give my friends, even the smallest and seemingly insignificant among us, the love and respect they deserve as living, breathing, sentient beings on this planet.

Upstairs I know that Abbey is now safe and I celebrate her life. Outside my window, under the umbrellas of the hosta plant in the rain, I celebrate little Vincent’s life, too, and all the animals and children of the world that need a champion. May I always be up to the challenge.

And so it is.

Just A Few Reflections

     Today is my birthday. I am 67 years old. Surprised? So was I when I got up this morning. I used to be reluctant to admit my true age, especially after I hit 60. Over the past few years, however, I've turned a corner, metaphorically. I've headed down a new path that takes me in a new direction, away from the old cultural beliefs about aging and into a new and exciting adventure in this amazing Third Age that I am currently experiencing. No one before the Baby Boomer Generation has ever been on this adventure before and I am both honored and privileged to be along for the ride.

     I started this post while sitting at my writing table in front of the big window that looks out over the fields of new growing corn and the valley below, where the blueberry farm has just opened for the season and is doing a brisk business. With coffee in hand I was watching the morning antics of the birds and the smaller critters who have come to live with me in this piece of heaven on earth and, as I always do, I also kept a eye to the skies, keeping a lookout for the hawk that lives down by the pond and pays us a daily visit. Every morning he makes a low, slow circle over the area, riding the air currents and keeping his sharp eyes open for his morning meal. I hold my breath as he passes over head and find myself calling out of the window to the chipmunks, the voles, the mice, old rabbit who lives out back and chubby woodchuck who lives down the hill but comes up for his breakfast: "Take cover!" Thankfully so far he eventually widens his search parameters and moves on. This morning, however, he did not come. He did not get up early enough. A dark and ominous looking bank of clouds moved in swiftly right after sunrise followed by rolling thunder that sounded like a dozen kettle drums and, finally, a downpour of Biblical proportions. I prayed that the little ones had found cover before the deluge hit.

     As much as I don't want to see the hawk swoop down and capture one of my little friends, I felt sorry for him this morning because he was going to have to wait even longer for his meal. I realized that I had been making the hawk the bad guy, the criminal, for only doing what all hawks do and, for that matter, what all of us do - trying to life his life as who he truly was. Just like us he has a job to do, and a family to feed. Just like us he wants to live his life soaring on the currents and knowing the exhileration of being alive. I could not expect him to behave in any way other than who he was, and I was certainly well acquainted with what it felt like when people expected that of me or other folks my age. If anything, I had to let go of the limiting belief that I had of him as someone to be despised, destroyed and feared. I had to accept a new idea of him that said even birds of prey deserve to live a long and happy life in freedom and happiness.

     We all deserve to live a long and happy life being who we truly are and not allowing ourselves to be pushed into some tight, uncomfortable box that others have built to keep us in check. The whole idea about conscious aging and breaking down culturally built walls around getting older is to allow us to be who we are. and know that it is ok to continue to try out our own wings and soar to new heights and new experiences.

     So this is the gift I am giving to myself today, and to each and every woman who may be looking at 60 from one side or the other: spread your wings and ride the currents! The view is spectacular from up here!

     Happy Birthday, Flower Bear!

     And so it is.

What Does Happiness Sound Like?

For the past 11 weeks I have been working through the new book by Julia Cameron, "It's Never Too Late to Begin Again: Discovering Creativity and Meaning at Midlife and Beyond." Many of you may remember her phenomenal best seller of 25 years ago, The Artist's Way, which helped millions of us find our creativity and give it a voice. Now she is focusing on folks who may have put off birthing their creativity until the kids were grown and gone, and their work life became their retired life, or for those who never believed they were creative to begin with.

As she did before in The Artist's Way, Cameron arms us with the tools we need to find our way on this journey, namely her ever famous Morning Pages and Artist Dates to which she had added walks and, now, Memoir. In Memoir, she asks us to break our lives down into smaller spans of years and to write about them. Just so we do not become overwhelmed at the prospect, she guides us with a series of questions that we are to write the answers to, and then feel free to elaborate on them and see where they take us. The questions ask us things like: Where did you live at this time? Who were the significant relationships during this time? What major changes occurred at this time?" However, being the brilliant teacher that she is, she asks us to use all of our senses: "What is one smell you remember from this time? One Taste?" For me, those were easy. Growing up in an Italian family, smell and taste had to do with food, and the feelings and memories I associated with them. In our home, food was a symbol of love. I can remember the smell and taste of my Mother's spaghetti sauce bubbling on the stove on Sundays, or the aroma of chicken soup on a cold, rainy day. Then Cameron threw a new ingredient into the recipe ... what is one sound you remember from this period!

Sound? I grew up in New York City. We didn't have "a" sound, we had a cacophony of sounds, a symphony of cars, buses, horns, sirens, people. trains, and the bells of the Good Humor Man. So I found it difficult to single out one sound that reminded me of what I had thought of as home, or even happiness. It wasn't until I got to that part of the Memoir where I moved away from the city and out into rural America that I had no problem answering the question. In fact, two answers sprang immediately to mind: the sound of crows, and the sound of silence.

Crows. There is no problem identifying the sounds of crows. They make their presence known. My sister once studied with a Native American Medicine woman who told us, whenever a crow came into our presence, to ask it: "Brother Crow, what do you know?" The first morning that I awoke to the sounds of cawing over the corn fields surrounding my home, I was filled with a feeling of warmth, of belonging, of happiness. I felt like I was truly home. I felt it in the roots of my being and the song my heart was playing. I felt connected to the crows, the corn fields, and, yes, even the smell of the cows on the hillside. I felt connected to it all. It sounded like happiness.

Now, you may well ask, what exactly is the sound of silence? Well, Simon and Garfunkel had it right all those years ago. Silence is our old friend. Silence calls to our very core to come out and play. Silence opens the doors of perception. It is where inspiration and creativity live. There are moments here in the country when the birds have finished their morning travels, the little critters have gone under cover until dusk, and the farm equipment has stopped for the day, and there is a silence so profound that it wraps itself around the heart and introduces itself to us: "Hello, there you are!" Perhaps that is why I love meditation so much. If prayer is talking to God, meditation is listening for the answer, and that can only be found in the stillness and silence within. I take my hat off to the folks still living in the Big Apple who have found a way to meditate amidst the sounds of the city. Here among the crows, the cows and the critters, the trees and I have found that place of stillness inside that anchors us.

The corn is just starting to show itself in the field across from my writing window. Soon the crows, who have been busy raiding everyone's gardens, will be paying me daily visits. I will listen, as I was instructed to do by the medicine woman, to see what the crows have to tell me. It will, undoubtedly have to do with coming home. While I wait for their arrival, I will tune in to the silence and listen for the guidance I need for the day. It never fails to lead me where I need to go.

And so it is.

Choosing Joy

Look at that face! If that's not the picture of joy, I don't know what is. This face says, "I have a full belly, a dry bottom, and my Mommy is singing a happy song to me. Life is good."

When we're babies, joy is our natural starting place. We don't look for joy outside of ourselves. We know joy to be a state in which we feel happy, safe, and cared for. We look at the world, not as something to seek approval from, but as a marvelous adventure, a land of magic and exploration, and with each new discovery, we become even more joyful. In this context, it's all about us.

Then we grow up. and we make our joy dependent on people and things outside of ourselves. We seek approval and when we don't get it, we blame others because they have taken our joy away. I am reminded of a story that the late Dr. Wayne Dyer always used to tell. He said that when we were in our mom's tummy, we trusted in our nature to come out with all of our fingers and all of our toes. Then we came forth into the world and society said, "Great job, God, perfect, couldn't be better ... we'll take over from here." Therein lies the end of our trusting in our own nature which is love and joy. Our culture bombards us with messages that tell us if we want to be happy, we have to seek it outside of ourselves. In baby language, we're hungry, we're wet, and nobody is singing us a happy song!

We need to move back to that place of self direction where we choose joy for ourselves, not because someone else says we deserved it, but because we deserve it regardless of anyone or anything outside of ourselves. Joy is our fallback position. Joy is our birthright. Joy is our choice. Even if it means treating ourselves with the same radical self-care that we would shower on a baby. After all, as one very smart man once said, "Who loves you, baby?"

And so it is.  

Keeping It Simple

My 9 year old granddaughter came to spend the weekend with me on Friday. On Saturday she helped me with some garden work and for all that she is skinny as a toothpick, she can haul huge bags of potting soil with the best of the boys. On Sunday she helped me in the kitchen to prepare some salads and desserts for Monday when her Mom and the rest of the family would be coming up for a July 4th cookout.

I have to say she is becoming quite the little cook and even knows how to marinate and bake Grandma's tofu. As I was chopping up celery and onions for the macaroni salad, she asked why I just didn't use the slicer on the food processor instead of doing it by hand. I told her that even though using the food processor would be faster, I actually enjoyed chopping up the vegetables by hand. Sometimes there is a sweet nobility in keeping things simple.

Every time I chop up garlic for my spaghetti sauce, I feel my mother standing at the kitchen counter chopping and talking to me. I can remember coming home from school and doing my homework at the kitchen table while she chopped and stirred, and got dinner started. That's how I learned to cook, from watching her work while I sat there with my spelling words and my multiplication tables. The first time I got to do the chopping myself, under her very watchful eyes, I felt as if I had been inaugurated into a very special sorority that went back to all of my female ancestors. The simple act of cutting, chopping, slicing and stirring went back to the beginning of time. It connected me with all the women who came before me.

I feel that same way about gardening. Sure, I could spend a fortune on power trimmers and all kinds of gardening contraptions, but there is something so noble about my hands into the dirt and working up a good, honest sweat. Not only does it connect me to generations of folks who worked the land and grew their food (and still do), but it beats the cost of a membership to a gym and you don't need special workout clothes ... a pair of old pants, a t-shirt and some good muddy boots will do! Sometimes when digging out a new hole to plant something, I wonder how far down I would have to go to touch the soil of  the first settlers in these parts, and I hope their spirits know that there are those of us who still keep the traditions alive.

After we were done with our gardening the other day, my granddaughter watched me as I sat with my mending pile and took care of a few rips and open seams. "Why don't you just buy new pants or a new shirt instead of trying to fix the old ones?" she asked. I think about this child, and all children, growing up in such a throw-away society, of people as well as clothes, and I am glad I am still here to answer that question. I tell her that these pants are my favorite yoga pants and that even though they have some tears in them, a little thread and patience will make them usable again. I can still do a Downward Dog in mended pants. As for the shirt, well, they have a picture of wolves on the front and she knows how much Grandma loves wolves. She asks me if I will teach her how to do this miraculous thing with a needle and thread so she can sew her dolls' clothes. I make a mental note to pick up a smaller thimble at the store.

Keeping it simple for me is keeping the lessons and traditions going from one generation to another. I don't need all the bells and whistles. I just need a good chopping knife, some needles and thread, and the memory of my Mom sitting in her favorite chair with her darning egg mending yet another pair of my Dad's socks and wondering how he managed to put so many holes in them. Simple is good. Simple works. Simple is home.

And so it is.