The Years That Answer

"There are years that ask the question, and there are years that answer."

Zora Neale Hurston

If any of you have been following my blogs and books over the last four years, you know the story of how I came to be living in this place up on the hill in the country. For those of you who haven't, I'll give you the short version.

In March of 1992 I piled my most important possessions into my old car and moved myself up north from the city where I had been living and raising my children for many years. The last chick had left the nest, and the second marriage was ending as well. My father had died in December right before Christmas. I hated my job and yearned for a life of simplicity, authenticity and space to pursue my passion: writing. So I left it all behind and moved near to my sister in a little town on the banks of a lazy little river and lived a Mayberry-like existence for 8 years. I worked at my writing part-time, while also providing PR and marketing support for non-profits and working in offices to keep a roof over my head. It was wonderful and I loved it all. I did have a "dark night of the soul" after I had been there for a while which stemmed from finally having no one and nothing to distract me from facing my demons head on and putting them to rest once and for all. I also discovered gardening and this city girl fell in love with it.

My time in paradise came to an end when two things happened. First, computers and software made it possible for non-profits to do their own newsletters and advertising copy, thus no longer needing my services. Second, the local economy took a hit with plants and businesses closing all over the place. This meant that I had to commute farther for jobs. As I was situated in what is referred to up here as the Syracuse Snow Belt, that commute could sometimes last hours in the winter for a drive that usually took 30 minutes. So, sadly, I packed up and moved closer to where the jobs were, but vowing to return. I even planted a prayer tie, a Native American tradition, on the banks of the river opposite my house so that it would lead me back.

For the next 15 years I worked at various jobs and my writing took a back seat. I never, ever, did not believe that I would not someday return to that little town and, in October of 2014, I did just that. A fall and a fractured hip that required 3 pins to put it back together made my 3rd floor walk-up apartment more than challenging. On a whim my daughter called my old landlords and, low and behold, they had a house 2 miles outside of the town where I had lived before that had a ground floor apartment. I was home. And that is where I dug in and declared that I was never going to leave again. Or so I thought.

The quote at the top of the post reminded me that nothing is forever except love. It also reminded me that sometimes the answers we seek have been there all along, but we had to spend some time living the questions before we could be open to receive the answers. So it was that two things came to me recently. One is an opportunity to take my work in other directions I had not considered, but which would require me to move, and the other is that solitude can be a wonderful thing, but isolation is a punishment, not a gift. I knew coming out of this past summer and into the fall that I needed to be closer to the resources and people that would allow my work to evolve to it's next level, and I needed to be closer to my family. I also received the epiphany that I had needed to come up here to learn: home is an inside job, just like happiness. For years I advised everyone to "bloom where you're planted," but when it came to me, I insisted that it had to be in the soil of my choosing rather than what the Universe had in mind for me. When we are more attached to the outcome than to the journey, we are likely to be disillusioned when we finally reach our destination.

So, my dear readers, next weekend the kitties and I are moving to a sweet little apartment in a sweet location with a view of trees, real sidewalks, birds and squirrels galore from my windows, and close enough that the grandkids can come more often. I will be closer to resources that I need, and people who can help my work to grow. This time, however, the move will be by choice, coming from a place of truth, authenticity and wisdom. Sometimes you just don't know, until you know. Just like Dorothy, I always had the power to go home because I carried it with me in my heart. I just didn't know the way until now

And so it is.

It's The Practice That Sustains Us

The other day I wrote a blog post on my website, "Writing A Life," about the 30th anniversary of Natalie Goldberg's book on writing, Writing Down The Bones. She introduced the world to writing practice and all these years later, in her 60's, she says that she still grabs her spiral notebook, and a fast moving pen, and sits down to do her practice.

Another book on writing also celebrated an anniversary recently. Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way, the book that gave millions of us permission to discover and birth the artist within us, turned 25. Not long ago, I found this quote on Cameron's Facebook page and it touched me on more than one level: "When the passion goes away, it is the practice that sustains us."  I wondered if she was only talking about writing? Perhaps she was also talking about living.

Life is a practice, from the day we are born until the day we make our transition. Everything we have learned to do in our lives has come out of constant practice until we mastered the task. Whether it was walking, talking, reading, tying our own shoes or coloring inside the lines, it took practice to master each and every aspect of our outer lives. However, we are never given lessons to practice on how to master our inner lives. So we have to come up with them ourselves.

No one comes into this world with all the answers encoded in our DNA. We have to learn about things like love, compassion, anger, jealousy, hatred and all the other emotions through experience. We have to learn to be in relationship with ourselves before we can be in relationship with others and with the world. Where is the practice for that? I would suggest that there are two things we can do as a practice that can help us learn to be in right relationship with ourselves. The first is meditation. The second is writing.

Meditation brings us directly in touch with our authentic selves. We are able to touch our core and listen to it. We learn that this moment, exactly as it is, is perfect, and pure, and whole ... and so are we. From this place comes our power to understand and embrace all of our emotions and learn how to live with them all without letting them run our lives.

Writing practice gives us a safe place to get it all out. We can do it through journaling our fears, hopes and dreams. We can do it through dialogue between two entities or characters acting out our feelings and finding a common ground. We can do it through memoir as a cathartic road to wholeness. When we're done we can put it away, or tear it up, or burn it and let it go. Writing teaches us that we have choices.

I recently watched a YouTube video of Natalie Goldberg giving a talk about 30 years of Bones at the same time that a new book, The Great Spring was also being published. She said that the first book taught everyone "how to do it." This last one showed everyone how she has "done it" for 45 years and what that has meant in her life. Goldberg is also a long time Zen practitioner. She said that her meditation practice and her writing practice went hand in hand. One would not exist without the other.

Practice may not always make perfect, but it sure makes it a whole lot better.

And so it is.

When Less Is More

I have undertaken my second round of downsizing, the first being two years ago when I went from a roomy two bedroom apartment in a large town to a smaller one bedroom apartment out in in the boonies. Now, after two years, I have come to the realization that along with downsizing my outer "stuff," I also downsized my "inner stuff."

One morning recently I went into my closet to pull out something to throw on so that I could get my day in gear. My hand immediately went to a comfy pair of yoga pants, a t-shirt, a pair of ankle socks and my sneakers. There was no thought involved other than what was clean, what matched (in case a discerning crow or barn cat happened by to judge my fashion sense) and what was comfortable for the tasks on my to-do list. Something made me step back and take a good look at the contents of my closet. I realized that I had not worn half of the clothes I had taken with me when I moved. Intrigued by this epiphany, I started going through drawers and closets and found the evidence to be more of the same thing. Then I got my coffee and went into my office area. Not wanting to, but knowing I had to, I pulled open the file drawers, looked into the bookcases, and knew beyond a doubt that a second round of downsizing was definitely in order. The other thought that came to mind was that of all the stuff I had gotten rid of two years ago, the only thing I had missed was one book that I had given away which I could easily repurchase, most likely in digital format which didn't take up any physical space. I had, it seemed, gotten along very well with a third of what I used to own, and rather than feel a sense of loss, what I had gained was more free time to pursue other things besides caring and finding places for all that unnecessary stuff.

So often we are so attached to our stuff because we think it defines us, or because we think we can't live without it. Who we are has nothing to do with what is "out there" and everything to do with what is "in there." I meditate more. I take more walks. I write more (that's a big one). I read more. I spend more time cuddling my cats. I spend less time dusting, washing, and rearranging. I reuse and re purpose more which helps me to leave a smaller footprint on the earth. Most of all, I feel freer.

This week the Internet went out again. Sometimes I think that Third World countries have better communications that I do here on this hill. At first I went into my usual tantrum of all the things that wouldn't get done. Then I slowed down, took a few deep breaths, and asked myself if I wanted to be stressed out or if I wanted to be happy. I chose happy. Then I asked myself what I could do that would be of benefit to myself and others while I waited for this latest electronic fiasco to pass (as it usually does if you wait long enough). The result was three bags of books cleaned out to go to the library for their monthly book sale and a  bag of clothes for the thrift shop. I am also slowly filling up a box with a variety of old vases, baskets and other stuff that has been decorating the inside of my cupboards instead of my apartment - after all, how many vases does one person need? The point is that I didn't die without the internet for a day, and I won't die from the loss of my books or clothes. I not only lived, but I found myself actually sitting down to read a book instead of Facebook and I remembered how good that felt.

What can you let go of? How much do you really need to be happy? And when is enough, enough? Food for thought. Enjoy the meal.

And so it is.

Laying Down and Lifting Up

The time has come. My garden tools are ready. There is no use putting it off any more. It's time to put the garden to bed for the winter.

I didn't have much of a garden this year as I wrote in a previous blog. Between construction trucks, piles of debris all over the place, and a summer with very little rain but plenty of bugs, my haul this year was a drop in the bucket compared to last year. Last night we had frost. This morning everything was covered in a shiny, silver, lacy shawl. It's time.

Sometimes we just have to come to terms with situations or ideas that need to be put to bed. Either they have outlived their usefulness, or they never bore fruit - or at least the kind of fruit that would nourish you. Sometimes instead of holding on to it with a death grip because you are sure it has at least one more blossom left in it, you just have to lay it down and pick up something else.

Last week I was reading a book about Buddhism and, specifically, meditation. The author said that when he was done sitting, he would get up, bow to his meditation cushion, and say, "I lay down all of my burdens, and lift up enlightenment." The thought of doing that inspired me. I started implementing that phrase at the end of my yoga practice in the morning. I thought that since I was laying down tight muscles along with the strangle-hold my thoughts often have as I am unrolling my mat, I might as well surrender all of my burdens there as well and, when I got up from my practice, I would lift up a more enlightened spirit. It has proved to be a wonderful way to set the tone for the day. It allows me to go forward with a strong, healthy body and a strong, healthy mindset.

So today I am laying down my gardening tools and gloves for another year. The plants that can come into the house will do so, and the rest will be turned under. Any remnants of lettuce, basil or anything else that is edible will be cut and scattered under the bushes and trees where I know the neighborhood critters live. They will be happy to have it, and I will have a lighter spirit.

Today I lay down my burdens, and lift up enlightenment.

And so it is.

In Passing

In Passing

How swiftly the strained honey of afternoon light flows into darkness,

and the closed bud shrugs off its special mystery in order to break into blossom,

as if what exists, exists so that it can be lost

and become precious.

~ Lisel Mueller

I came across this poem while listening to a Dharma talk by the gifted writer and teacher, Natalie Goldberg, at the Upaya Dharma Center. I can think of no other season of the year when this poem is more true than in autumn.

How precious all of nature becomes when the light begins to change, the garden begins to fold into itself in preparation for winter, and the leaves start their magnificent transformation before gliding to the ground. It seems like only yesterday that it was summer with everything in full bloom. Now, each morning reveals another subtle change in our surroundings. How true this is as well when we take a look at our lives and realize how swiftly the things we consider most precious flow away like the afternoon light.

I think about my children as I look at my favorite picture of them on the wall, two little girls, one with a big smile on her face posing in her first-day-of-kindergarten outfit, and her younger sister by only 14 months, a mischievous sparkle in her eye that is still there some 40 years later. How swiftly they grew up, and how precious the time I had with them when they were little and make believe seemed more real than reality

I think about my parents, both long passed now, and my own childhood. Why is it that we often only realize how precious something is when it is lost to us? Maybe what we should be teaching our children is not how to keep up with this fast paced world, but how to slow down and appreciate the preciousness of every moment. Perhaps we all need to slow down and capture as many precious moments as we can before they are gone. I think that's what draws me to autumn so much. It is because it is a stark and beautiful reminder of how swiftly things change and how we only have this moment to appreciate them.

Take a moment today to go outside and just experience a moment in nature. Capture the sights, sounds, smells and feelings. Hug your kids and grand kids. Cuddle your pets. Let it all become precious now, not after it has passed from us.

And so it is.

What I Wish I Didn’t Know

It was probably not a good idea to put my writing table in front of the big window in the new front room. At the time I told myself that looking out over the valley would be a source of inspiration for me. Now I wonder if I am doing more “mental writing,” (also known as just gazing out the window), than actual writing, although I have been assured by famous writers like Elizabeth Gilbert that time spent gazing is a form of creativity. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

This morning there is a lady pushing her little one in a stroller down the dirt road that boarders the corn field directly opposite my window. The baby is pointing upwards to the crows that are swooping up and down over the corn, cawing for all they are worth. Beyond the field the hills are just barely starting to show a bit of color on the tips of the leaves. It is an idyllic picture, that is, until … until I see the cow carrier hauling cows from the farm up the hill to wherever, perhaps to slaughter, perhaps to be sold as breeding cows. I wish I didn’t know that. I wish I didn’t know the indignities, pain and fear that cows, or any farm factory animal for that matter, goes through just so we can eat ice cream and burgers. I wish I didn’t know that, but I do.

I turn my attention to my computer and pull up Facebook so I can post my weekday “Flower Bear’s Thought For The Day.” (see link below). Someone has shared a video with me of a new country music video called, “Forever Country.” It is an awesome video. I love country music and every one of my favorite singers and groups are in this video. I listen to it, watch the faces of the people singing, and wish that I had grown up in the country, in a small town, knowing everybody’s name, and everybody’s kid, and having them all know me; where you can sing about “Hunting, and Fishing, And Loving Every Day” … except that I don’t believe in hunting and fishing anymore. I believe that every sentient, feeling creature has as much right to live as I do. I wish I didn’t know that, but I do.

Deciding to become a vegan wasn’t an easy choice, but once I started knowing things that I wish I didn’t know, I had to follow my heart. When I actually moved to the country and took up gardening, and spent so much time in communion with all of the life that moved around me, I couldn’t go back to my old way of thinking and living. That’s something I did know, but that doesn’t make it any easier to be a huge square peg in a round hole so huge that there is no bottom, no end in sight. It doesn’t make it any easier to be where the life of an animal is judged by its usefulness. If it ain’t useful here, it has no worth as a living, feeling thing created by God just like we are.

Here’s what else I do know: I know that you can love a corn field and the sound of crows and still call yourself a country girl. I know that you can watch in awe as hundreds of geese take flight overhead, and gratefully watch bunnies munch on the lettuce in your garden because you have enough to share, and not want to have said bunny for dinner, and still be a country girl. I know that you can share your broken up pieces of bread and seeds with the birds and chipmunks, and delight in the arrival of a new blue jay to the neighborhood without wanting to trap, kill or drive them off, and still be a country girl. I know that you can send love to the woodchuck down the hill and pray he doesn’t get run over, and still be a country girl. I know that you can still love the country without destroying the lives that live there with you.

So maybe it’s a good idea that my writing table is in front of the window, and that along with seeing the things I like to see, I am reminded as well of the things I wish I didn’t know because it reinforces what I do know for sure, that being a country girl is less about the hunting and fishing, and more about loving every day.

And so it is.

(Here is the link for Flower Bear’s Thought For The Day: www.facebook.com/FlowerBearsGarden).

A Walk In The Clouds

Along with crisp mornings, kids outside waiting for the school bus to come and the first signs of the leaves changing comes another signal that fall is almost here in these parts ... fog. Dense, thick, can't-see-more-than-two-feet-in-front-of-you fog. Living up here on the hill as I do, I can see it roll up the valley as it makes its way to me. These mornings become more and more prevalent the deeper into September we go. My morning walks now either have to wait until some of it burns off or require that I dress in a hoodie to keep from getting soaked. Still, there is something magical about walking in the fog.

I can remember my mother walking my sister and I to school on foggy mornings. Everything looked different. When you can't see the usual landmarks and signs, you have to rely on your experience and memory to take you in the right direction. Even sounds are muffled and distorted. What you think you know becomes something quite different when the sun comes out. To me, it felt like walking in the clouds. I used to wonder if this was where the angels lived.

My mother used to tell me that I needed to get my head out of the clouds. She meant that I spent too much time in the land of make-believe and what if? All these years later, at the tender young age of 67, I still spend a lot of my time with my head in the clouds. That's the place where miracles are born and magic happens. This is not to say that I spend all of my time there. I spend plenty of time with my feet plated firmly on the ground and rooted in what is before me in the present moment. It's just that I know I will wake up one morning surrounded by brain fog so dense that everything I thought was real has melted into the clouds. Then I am free to create something new, something magical.

It's important that we build a firm foundation for ourselves. We need something that we can count on to be there when life pulls the rug out from under us. Often that foundation is faith, or a spiritual practice that keeps us grounded. But there is something to be found in the fertile ground of our imagination that cannot be found by keeping our heads down and pushing forward. The most magical moments in our lives come when we look up and take a walk in the clouds. Who knows? You might even bump into an angel while you're there.

And so it is.