You Never Know

Black-eyed Susan is my favorite flower. It captured my heart long ago, when I saw masses of its blooms in the wild. Once I chose to garden, I knew what I wanted: a huge patch of black-eyed Susans. I began with transplants from a friend--the bunnies mowed them down. Then I tried native wildflower seeds. For one summer, they blossomed, yet were soon crowded out by the daisies. Last year, I planted more, but they didn't withstand the drought.

As part of my equanimity practice, I decided my yard wasn't long for these expressive flowers. And that's okay. I'd appreciate what I have and admire the black-eyed Susans in other people's yards.

And then, just days ago, I noticed a rogue flower stem among my ground cover. Yes, it was an intrepid black-eyed Susan. Probably around for this summer only, but a wonder nonetheless. Each time I look at it, I'm filled with joy and gratitude. You just never know what might happen.

Being Seen

Some days I want to boldly be me--share my words, feelings, photos, and truths. Other days I want to quietly be me--hide my tender spots and avoid possible judgment. Mark Nepo (The Book of Awakening) describes this tension beautifully: "In effect, the cost of being who you are is that you can't possibly meet everyone's expectations, and so, there will, inevitably, be external conflict to deal with--the friction of being visible. Still, the cost of not being who you are is that while you are busy pleasing everyone around you, a precious part of you is dying inside; in this case, there will be internal conflict to deal with--the friction of being invisible."

In the last few years, I've comfortably grown into being who I am--as is. But there are times when I care too much about pleasing others (or receiving external validation). The latter is exhausting and moves me away from authentic motivation. So I balance being visible and being invisible, erring on the side of visibility. Each day I'm more vulnerable (and more courageous); more exposed (and more truly me).

Out of Focus

My last few weeks have been fuzzy. I'm ready to start new adventures, yet had to finish previous commitments. I have many ideas, yet no focus. I drew a mind-map, yet haven't followed any path. I want this freedom, yet feel naked without old identities. This is exactly the place in which I wanted to sit--to not know. But it's not a place I want to nest. 

I long for a routine--writing sessions all morning, with short breaks for meditation or yoga. Yet my day skitters away from me. Not in a purposeful lolling way, but in a boldly doing (nothing) way--doing without heart. Too much time online; too many to-dos driven by ego, not my authentic voice; too much pressing, not enough openness.

Yet none of this surprises me. My ego is strong and can jab me from multiple directions. It keeps me on the attention-grabbing doing path and keeps me away from the soul-filling path. And ego can't wait for me to fail at writing, so it can steer me back to safer waters. (Or if I'm going to succeed at writing, ego wants me to do it really, really fast.)

Sigh. 

I'm out of focus, but I noticed; that's always the first step. And the illusion of a perfect morning routine is quite off-putting. I just need to dive in. Flail or hover or flop or soar, I just need to start something and stay with it (even when it's hard). I need to find a path with heart. As I write this, I know I'm not far from that path. I'm connected with people, often connected with myself, and I'm engaged in creative endeavors. It's really a change in habit around work (and what "work" is). 

The focus is there, if only I turn the lens a few notches. Then the white blobs might turn into an actual daisy:

Saying Goodbye

For months I've purged the innards of my Lawrence office. Each time the recycling bin is emptied, I throw in more paper. It's a cleansing process (with occasional nostalgia). But outwardly my office didn't change--until last week. In just 20 short minutes, Mark and I dismantled the feng shui I had carefully cultivated. The lamps, throws, photographs, water fountain, rugs--all purposeful choices to create a relaxed, living-room feel--were packed in mere minutes. And I felt verklempt. I took a moment to process the change and grieve the space. This space that made students feel safe; this space that witnessed much learning--about statistics and life. It was an unexpected wave of emotion. And then it passed. (Of course, spaces can be cultivated throughout our lives in many different environments.) 

Initially my sadness about leaving Lawrence focused on students. I care deeply about the students--not just as learners, but as people. Then the sadness extended to my amazing colleagues. Yet I've had closure in these areas--end-of-year parties filled with both emotion and celebration. I thought I'd processed it all. But when I left my office for good, Keith and Mike--the custodians in my building--expressed sadness. They told me how much they'd miss me ("miss seeing my smiling face"). Indeed, I'll  miss not only my students and my colleagues. I'll miss the custodians, administrative assistants, admissions counselors, career advisors, and on down the line. Lawrence is a special community. I feel blessed to have touched many different lives and to have them touch me back. Saying goodbye was a great lesson in saying hello. It made me realize the importance of everyday interactions--a smile, a patient ear, an act of kindness. These simple, yet intentional actions build community. And I'll carry that with me wherever I go. Whether for a friend, coworker, stranger, or myself, a genuine smile goes a long way; it has a ripple effect.

A Letter To Myself

Joy,

People don't love you because of your garden, photographs, cooking, blog, cards, home, or workouts. They love you because of who you are inside. They appreciate your kindness, compassion, presence, and vulnerability. They love your heart, when it's full and when it's broken.

So it's okay to have weeds, receive no flickr comments, ruin a recipe, quiet your blog, send belated wishes, have dirt on your floors, or skip a workout. It's okay to take care of you as warmly as you take care of others. It's okay to ask for help. It's okay to not always be happy. Just be you, as is. Lead with your heart. People love the real you. More importantly, I love the real you. Trust in that.

We Can't Jump Over Ourselves

I often hear Pema Chodron's words in my head: "We can't just jump over ourselves as if we were not there. It's better to take a straight look at all our hopes and fears." There are times when I really want to step around myself; I want to avoid my feelings of shame, fear, helplessness, and grief. When I'm in avoidance mode I search for external validation and distract myself in varied ways. Eventually I awaken from this trance. And that's when I hear Pema's words in my head. I can't jump over myself; I must sit compassionately with myself, as I would with a good friend. 

I sit with the fear and doubt of having made such a bold professional decision. I let it wash over me and realize I'm strong enough to deal with fear (to listen but not follow). Wave after wave of fear and I'm still here; I'm okay. This process is actually easier--takes less energy--than jumping over myself. But I need consistent reminders.

I sit with the raw helplessness I feel about my mom's emotional and physical state. Helplessness is a difficult place to sit. I want to soothe and save; I want to feel like I have some control. Yet I remind myself that helplessness and compassion can coexist. I deeply love my mom and also know I am helpless. This is new territory for me--a particularly tender place. All the more reason to sit gently and explore.

I sit with my creative excitement. I watch my mind ping between multiple creative projects. I notice what's authentic and what's ego. I sit until my mind calms enough to take intentional action. 

Interestingly, when I desperately want to leap over myself--to avoid at all costs--that's exactly when I must sit. It needn't be formal meditation. I only need sit down, calm my movement, notice my breath. And ask myself, what's going on right now? In order to understand the answer, I quiet my mind and listen to my heart. Yet, I regularly forget this lesson. That's just part of being human. We want to jump over ourselves, but gradually we learn that staying with difficult emotions takes less overall energy. Through the process we become more whole; more in touch with our true nature.

Why I Choose to Garden

I resisted gardening. As a teen, I wanted to play sports and hang with my friends, not pick strawberries or dig up weeds. (Sorry, Dad. In hindsight, that garden was really great.) As an adult, while my closest friends found contentment in their gardens, I held back. I told myself the story that gardening wasn't for me. My main points of contention: I would start from scratch and make mistakes (perhaps look like an idiot); my yard is huge and the project too big; I'd get hot, sweaty, and dirty (and yet not get a workout--or so was my thinking at the time). Basically, I was stuck in a cycle of perfectionism; I didn't want to try something if I might fail. (Actually, I didn't want to try something unless I knew I'd excel. That was a very constricted place to live.)

But I gained more life tools and experiences, and in that process I gained more wisdom and confidence. Then I didn't mind making mistakes--in fact, that's where I learn the most. Five years ago I began my garden experiment, which continues today. Now I receive great fulfillment and restoration while digging in the dirt. All I needed to do was try.

The Top Ten Reasons Why I Garden:

10. I get to play in the dirt. This brings out my inner-child--the younger one, not the teen that didn't like pulling weeds.

9. I'm surrounded by beauty. Oh, how I love flowers: love the plants, love the buds, love the blooms, love the colors.

8. I get practice with a long-term project. My ego tells me everything must be done at once, but gardening begs for small yearly changes that create big change over the long haul. It's a remarkable lesson.

7. I feel empowered. Digging a bed, moving piles of dirt, dealing with tree roots--these all make me feel strong and alive.

6. I eat freshly-picked tomatoes. The taste of a ripe, just-picked tomato is mind blowing.

5. I'm in nature. No need to travel to a breath-taking state park; I only need enter the backyard and I'm in tune with the natural world.

4. I'm filled with wonder. The plants can grow inches in a single day--how cool is that? And it's only the beginning.

3. I learn. Each year I learn something new just by trying something new--sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn't. And it's all okay.

2. I'm in the moment. When I dig in the dirt, I simply dig; my monkey mind is momentarily quieted.

1. I better understand impermanence. Change is hard, yet life is full of change and uncertainty. The world is in flux. The less I resist this notion, the less I suffer. In gardening I clearly see my attachment to plants: when the weather or rabbits destroy something I've planted, I'm really sad. But lingering in that upset--or trying to control the uncontrollable--adds suffering. Bunnies will eat the plants I just put in the ground. (Dammit.) That's life. It's hard, but it's life. So I try to work with impermanence--some days are better than others.