Taking Simple Steps

Sharing the process of transitioning to a more sustainable lifestyle


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Top Soil

In 1924, a gathering of bereft Polish farmers listened attentively to a sincere, dark haired man. Failed rye starts and weak barley plants had bred anxiety. Promises of newly introduced chemical fertilizers and pesticides had proven empty. Concerned, farmers beseeched mystic Rudolph Steiner for help. He told them to consider celestial forces.

Macro cosmic influences, not microscopic analyses, need tending.

Steiner told farmers plants thrive in soil enlivened by forces of the sun, moon and stars. And that heavenly bodies lead earth’s elements through creative processes in ways adding isolated nutrients to soil does not. To support this, he instructed farmers to make and apply homeopathic remedies to soil and plants.

Earth is part of a cosmic dance.

As farmers embraced Steiner’s indications and crops flourished. Word spread, as did what is known as Biodynamic Agriculture. When I ate my first kale and collards grown by its methods, my belly radiated with life. Sensing a vitality not found in other foods, I came to believe,

Living forces are far more important for the plant than mere substances. **

A few weeks back, friends and I sat grappling with the outgrowth of problems these farmers first faced. Raised on artificiality, we listen attentively to Steiner’s words, which we read and discuss. We note scientists now agree soil conditions determine plant health, but analytic probes into matter don’t address supersensible realities Steiner deems essential. We are eager to learn of them.

To perceive the physical, we must penetrate what lies beyond it.

A young woman, Suzy, says, “Sarasota has more farm to school gardens than any county in Florida. I lead the program and am amazed at how many students think food comes from stores. I used to worry about the world’s woes; I’m now glad to be doing my small part to connect youngsters with nature.

“In my program, students prepare soil, grow and harvest vegetables, and make and sell food. They experience the whole process. Young kids are raring to put their fingers in the earth and get dirty. It’s infuriating to see how adults get in their way. A young boy, wide eyed, ready to bite into his treasure, froze and threw it down when his mom made a face and said, “Joey, you don’t eat broccoli!”

“It’s easy to get discouraged,” I agree. “Don Hall started Transition Sarasota about 7 years ago with dreams of building sustainability in Sarasota. His efforts towards creating local currency, community housing, and tempered county growth didn’t come to fruition as quickly as he’d hoped. The culture couldn’t cultivate them. So, he nourished barren ground with a film series on climate change and alternative transportation, workshops on food preservation and cottage industries and a gleaning project to get locally grown vegetables to low income families. Don’s work helped foster the school farm program you now lead. I’m inspired to hear of the fruit of his efforts.”

By our nourishing life’s soil through cycles of time, seed dreams grow

“Yes, “she nods. “I’m a nutritionist,” she adds. I used to watch every micro nutrient, buying ‘superfoods’ made from combinations of valued elements. Over time, I’ve changed my view of food. I’ve come to see my body as a plant and what I eat, the soil. The more something is processed the less life force it has. So, I now look to eat food picked fresh from the garden.”

“Me too,” I reply, “and I, also, try to connect students with natural life.” I tell of working with sixth grader, Zach, preparing for Florida’s State Writing Assessment. He must be able to read three passages and find support for his position on a topic. After reading two during our practice, he’s underlined little evidence. We go back and reread. I quickly see Zach doesn’t understand the title or introduction of the second passage. So, we decipher meaning of words through prefixes, suffixes and roots. We name the doer and action of each sentence to find the main point. We link descriptive words to what they modify.

After several minutes, Zach sighs and looks at me, “We aren’t going very fast.”

“Yes, but we are going deep,” I explain. “There’s always somewhere to go. Sometimes it’s forward and sometimes it’s deep. You went fast before, but did you understand anything?”

“Not much, “he says.

“It seems like we’re not getting anywhere, but we’re collecting what’s happening so we can understand and go forward.”

He sits up and listens.

“It’s like the tree out the window,” I say.

He leans forward and looks.

“It has no leaves or fruit, but it’s not dead. What’s it doing? It’s going deep to gather strength to go forward in spring.”

He nods.

“Same with building a house. Do you think a house would stand if we don’t do the inside work first.”

“No, it would fall apart,” Zach says.

“But once the foundational stuff is done, you can build on it.” I add. “It’s also like eating” I continue. “Some things we have to really chew on food before swallowing.”

“Yeah, like steak,” he agrees.

“Yes, and others we can just swallow.”

“Like spaghetti,” he adds.

“Well, maybe you have to chew a little bit on spaghetti.”

“No, I just swallow it,” he states.

“Well, maybe soup or a smoothie you can just swallow,” I suggest.

As we continue our work with the third line, he comments. “We’re going deep, deep.”

“Yes,” I nod.

When we start reading the last short line, he says, “We’re not going down any more, we’re going up.”

“Yes,” I smile.

We must go deep to go far.

Friends in my study group circle smile. They know the value of inner work. They understand soil is made of decomposed matter whose elements can be reformed.

I’ve been thinking of how truncated our views are. We get most information second hand through television and the internet. Busy keeping up with what’s given, we rarely penetrate life’s surface. Like artificially fed plants, we grow depleted. But by taking in Heaven’s intuitions, meaning infuses matters.

We enliven thinking by connecting with the cosmos.

A few months back, we had a cold stretch in SW Florida. I didn’t have enough sheets to cover all plants sensitive to frost. Several days after, all the banana leaves browned, Malabar spinach vines were dark red with tawny leaves, purple leaves of the red hibiscus shriveled and dried. My yard looked dead, yet I sensed a sweet energy emanating from it.

Busied with tending to a tiling project indoors, I wasn’t able to cut off the dead branches and leaves as I had hoped, clearing and prettying things up. Weeks later when I had time to work in the yard, I noticed green banana leaves flanked the sky amidst brown ones, lively Malabar spinach shoots overtook dried leaves, small purple leaves dotted the hibiscus. Nature renewed itself.

In soil, unseen forces generate life.

As I cut the dead matter off, it occurred to me letting the garden be for a month allowed plants to draw nourishment for new growth from dying leaves.

My garden is a teacher. Each time I step from my house, I’m met by its dynamics. While beyond my understanding, they enhance my being.

Nature’s not to be controlled, but danced with in rhythm.

 

 

** Agriculture Course (Classic Edition) by Rudolph Steiner p 90

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Changing the Current

News often reports problems: floods in Houston, wildfires in northern California, an earthquake in Mexico City.

 

I, too, tend to chase concerns. Like a mad hatter, I deal with to critters eating my blueberries, water pooling in my yard and my gutter filling with pine needles. Once a problem’s gone, another pops up like a duck at a rifle range and I face it.

 

When I moved into my house in Florida, I was concerned with high energy use during sizzling summers. I decided to buy fans knowing they cool air up to 4 degrees and save fuel and money. After weeks of internet searches, scores of trips to stores and varied phone calls, I bought four tower fans then quickly checked them off my list and started looking for a high efficiency washing machine. The fans soon became part of the furniture, used but off my mind.

 

What’s doing well generally goes unnoticed.

 

Sitting at my desk one quiet evening, I relax my neck muscles and adjust my focus. I feel a soft breeze caressing my back; I admire subtle shades of rust and amber on a vase my friend made me; I appreciate that texting is helping friends and I arrange plans for a visit to the Warm Mineral Springs. I tune to the present, wondering, why is it?

 

Trouble typically captures our attention.

 

I decide to shift. Rather than primarily addressing problems, I’ll nurture dreams. Gandhi taught noncooperation: neither fighting nor fleeing wrong, but planting truth, goodness and beauty, among it.

 

While tending to what needs amending, we can cultivate what longs to exist.

 

As a kid, I loved making whirlpools with friends in my classmate Christina’s above ground swimming pool. All five of us would walk the circumference in one direction forming a great current. Soon, the water pulled us gleefully riding its circle. We couldn’t stand still if we wanted. This took swimming out of the current, holding the pool’s rim and bracing limbs with all our strength. When we chose to change course, with great effort we’d slowly turn the opposite way and take tiny, shaky steps against the pull. In time, our tread grew steady and turned the tide.

 

We are each born with seed dreams to uplift life. The mainstream draws us in its customary course if we’re unaware or unable to do otherwise. Cultivating new currents takes resolve and attentiveness.

 

The established way vociferously presses forth. New streams silently invite our creation.

 

As a young woman, I dove into a whirlpool unaware of muscles needed to hold my own nor change its course.  Fresh out of college in my first teaching job at Susan B. Anthony Middle School, I was disturbed by the bleakness of this NYC ghetto school’s barred windows, metal detector and security guard. I aspired to bring light.

 

Early on the new principal, Mr. Anise, sent me and 4 other newbies to a workshop on the “Being Healthy” curriculum which taught positive communication, conflict resolution and healthy eating.  Its greatest enthusiast, I was chosen to promote the program to staff. At the podium, singing “Bridge Over Troubled Water” as my opening, I spied slouched teachers dispersed in the shadowy auditorium murmuring, “Oh, brother.” From then on as we passed in the halls pairs of seasoned teachers snickered, “What does she know about teaching these kids?”  After all, Ms. Bougournia from Jamaica warned students the first day of school she knew Voodoo so don’t mess with her. Mr. Jensen escaped with a class each Wednesday on a field trip. Ms. Stein did who knows what behind closed doors, kept impeccable order and taught math. The “Being Healthy” curriculum whimpered and perished, but skills I gleaned thrived. As I pulled contentious students from cafeteria to the hall directing them to make “I” statements, tensions melted and peace emerged with a hand shake.

 

My second year, Mr. Anise rewarded me with further training and a coveted pull out Reading Program. I led small group discussions on Great Books winning me more enemies among peers stuck managing throngs of troubled teenagers. I imbued communication skills in my class exchanges, pressing against the school’s current in small ripples, not altering its course. My light fluttered amid the teacher next door cursing under his breath, students swarming around fights in the halls and the graffiti concrete yard stripped of new basketball nets. One day, as I trudged through dank halls during planning period drowning in desolation, a voice thundered in my head, “Stop trying to change the tide alone. Join others going in your direction.”

 

Before being overcome, I lifted my limp spirit and applied elsewhere. New Principal, Mr. De Metri, swept me to the brighter shores of Marie Curie Middle School hiring then fighting for me as my old principal threatened I’d lose my certification should I pull out of the torrent. He felt it unfair having invested so much in me, but I couldn’t alter its course.

 

A year later, resuscitated, I realized my good fortune at now teaching in the best district in the city. “You died and went to district 26,” Miss Grace assured me in the teacher’s lounge. She was right. Here, I led the Peer Mediation Program, taught conflict resolution and infused art, music and drama into history and language arts lessons. I coalesced with colleagues in a gurgling flow. This showed me,

 

If we press in the direction of our calling, while adverse circumstances may persist, a new course will open.

 

Bringing to life what longs to emerge involves diverting from the mainstream. We must pull from its current to still ourselves and listen deeply. True literacy is learning to read the scripts of our lives. While teaching, I fasted and meditated weekends to calm anxieties, recognize and release misconceptions and realign myself. These personal quests benefit the world.

 

Contemplation is a political act.

 

As free individuals we can find and establish our place in the dance of creation. With like-minded souls, then join forces to redirect culture’s course.

 

Civilization needs our life streams to regenerate its ways.

 

When I think about the destruction of hurricane’s Harvey, Irma and Maria, my heart aches for lost lives, communities, wildlife and human made structures. Much needs tending.

 

If we continue business as usual, all our attention, resources and energy may very well be spent on cleaning up messes.

 

Now more than ever we need to press our dreams into life.


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Word’s Worth

 

 

The Bible says the Creator called forth existence with the words, “Let there be light.” And, “In the beginning was the Word,” through which all things came into being and continue to arise.

 

Regardless of how we think life started and unfolds, we may consider, words create.

 

Some may claim, “Words are nothing. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm me.” I, too, once thought so. Wrestling in my youth with a passion for writing, I anguished over the value of such a pursuit. After all, words don’t grow food or build houses; they’re insubstantial.

 

But I’ve come to learn while words are ‘no thing’ they’re the maker and slayer of all ‘things’. Chosen parcels of impassioned thoughts, from “please pass the pepper” to “I love you’ convey information and prompt action.

 

Words matter.

 

Often, with only someone’s words, we weave pictures of the world and act. I’ve heard talk show hosts stir up animosity in listeners asserting immigrants are “leeches’ sucking resources from government programs. It’s easy to serve up generalities. Instead, comedian Christela Alonzo tells tales of Latino friends and family. She jokes her undocumented mom hid from Brownies selling Girl Scout cookies, scared they were border control officers in training. Many immigrants are afraid to use government programs, even after becoming citizens, like her mom who refused Medicaid and died young without needed care. Once words are shared, who knows what they’ll arouse. So,

 

I’m watchful of words.

 

I recently heard my friend, June, is a Trump supporter. This baffles me, a Bernie fan. June listens to ‘conservative’ news while I, ‘progressive’. She says she’s excited about Trump bringing jobs back to America by cutting excessive taxes on corporations. I’d never heard this voiced by liberal reports. I shared I fear Trump’s corporate ties will hurt common folks.  June isn’t worried. She thinks he’ll do right by us. I believe the political divide across which our country battles is fed by partially pointing words beyond which caring folks don’t see common ground.

 

Words are powerful instigators.

 

Disturbed by my long time ‘false comfort of group think’, given the one-sidedness of my sources, I’ve started tuning into news more broadly, alternating between various media on given days to piece together my own story. I take days off between to let things settle and sort.

 

Ideas, like food, need to be digested to extract what’s useful.

 

Consuming diverse reports forces me to chew on words rather than swallowing them whole. Applying a dose of reasoning, I hope to extract a glimpse of life beyond my experience.

 

One bit of advice I keep in mind is that when an opposing party wins an election, it’ll promote an opposing agenda. But, opposing need not mean ‘oppositional’ but ‘opposite’. My work is to discern when diverse views are complementary and when they’re harmful.

 

I recently watched a YouTube link sent by progressive Citizen’s Climate Lobby introducing a conservative plan for climate action. I was delighted to hear former Republican cabinet members express real concern or measured precaution about risks of global warming. As thoughtful elders of the Climate Leadership Council stepped across the aisle to share their Conservative Case for Carbon Dividends, I realized I’ve been ignoring business needs in favor of environmental ones. Both require attention. While I’m wary about eliminating all environmental regulations the plan proposes,

 

I’ll taste a new dish to see if I like it.

 

After all, arguing my case without considering another’s, I miss mistakes and learning. At times when there’s no right or wrong, simply different perspectives, my friend, Catherine, and her husband seek a third point with which they can both align. When she wants to go on vacation and he, save money, a staycation of day trips around the area satisfies both. Reaching from opposite points on a line toward a pinnacle, they form a triangle containing each side. Mathematician Michael Schneider says the world of opposites arises from one point. Interplays of duality find resolution through synthesis of a triad. While it’s easy to hold fast to our point of view forgetting we’re a piece of the pie,

 

When we listen and speak for common good we build democracy.

 

Words like “We’re number one!”, “We won!”, and “They’re creamed” may inspire feats in sports, but lay waste real needs of living beings. They’re battle cries, not community builders. I’m concerned when my fourth grade student, Zach, is anxious to be ‘the best’ which is different than being ‘his best’. He’s ingested our culture’s banter and cultivated an oppositional stance.

 

Words define worlds.

 

I cringe when folks cry, “Dump Trump!” Insults deter communication; attacks fuel fights. Pleas like “Diversity Matters” and “Love Thy Neighbor” draw us closer. The stab “Republicans couldn’t get a health care bill together” is a lost opportunity for spreading understanding. Acknowledging Republicans are abstaining until a more appetizing entrée is prepared settles the civic stomach.

 

Words build barriers or bridges.

 

Sugars coated sayings, like cotton candy, are empty and can be sickening. “Globalization lifts all boats” is enticing but can deliver greed and suffering. Phrases fettered from reality need be passed up lest they clog thinking. But measured words bursting with life are hard to let go. Bitter tasting, “What comes around goes around” burrows in disturbing deception’s enchantment, breaking illusion’s bubble, pestering me to swallow truth.

 

Real words stick.

 

Gandhi said Westerners read too much. He sat in silence to garner reality. Some of the wisest souls to walk the earth are illiterate. In Waldorf Schools, children aren’t taught to read until 4th grade to allow imaginative forces to develop. Once formed, children have grounding against which to weigh words. California Governor Jerry Brown says while science cooks up a banquet of data it lacks wisdom to serve the good.  Letting words settle helps me discover their value.

 

Reading broadens our world. Silence deepens it.

 

We may fear losing touch if we drop out of the stream of current events. But by constantly consuming each glimmering or gruesome detail, we miss the big picture.

 

A glut of information causes indigestion.

 

With excess accounts available, I can conceive of knowing what’s happening everywhere. But see from my difficulty deciphering differing stories of student fights in my classroom, I can at most comprehend bits of the world around.

 

There’s much we don’t know; little we control.

 

Confucius says social order starts with individuals and spreads outward. Souls sincerely sifting reality develop character which nurtures order in families, good governance in states and peace in the world.

 

Everybody’s words flavor the cultural cuisine.

 

William Wordsworth sat silently in nature sipping inspiration. Imagination brimming, he prepared poems and passed them ‘cross our table:

 

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!

… from my first dawn

Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me

The passions that build up our human soul;

… with enduring things,

… purifying thus

…feeling and … thought,

… until we recognize

A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.

Words are stars we follow to tomorrow.

 

May ours nourish common good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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Health of Nations

While I’m mulching my fall garden, a Sarasota County Utility van pulls to the curb. “What’s up?” I call springing towards a young man now lifting a concrete lid from the ground.

Crouched amidst scattered tools and tussled grass, he looks up enthusiastically, “We’re putting in new water meters whose signals can be read from our cars.”

 

Though his sincerity and diligence warm me, I’m agitated, thinking, I’m sure this will save money, and lifting heavy slabs in the heat can be a drag, but sitting in a car watching a screen doesn’t sound fun. Anyway, did anyone ask if I want this? And, what will these signals do to my nervous system?

 

Not knowing what to say, I wish him well and wander back to the soil.

 

I notice my tomato plant, eagerly stretching towards the sun. Yesterday, it was drooping in the heat, so I watered it. I feel its limbs, now firm. Great! I think, but wonder, do we want to become like this plant, needing everything brought to us?

 

Bending down, I continue laying chipped oak around heart-shaped squash leaves to buffer their roots from wind and heat. I think on generations of farmers digging soil to sow seeds, swinging scythes to cut hay, lifting bales to feed horses. Folks toiled and got tired as sweat cleansed their systems, muscles grew taut and minds were shaped by natural rhythms and boundaries.

 

Now machines can do our work and we can sit and watch. But tasks once completed in the course of our labor now need our will power to be accomplished. We must carry out and endure a fast to cleanse our insides, work out at the gym lifting weights to build our muscle and manage myriad conceivable activities to organize our time, lest we suffer disease, obesity and chaos.

 

But, I remember my friend Joe’s words last night at our book study. Sitting across his handmade coffee table, he says, “We aren’t helping young people develop their wills. By doing art and handwork, kids put themselves out into the world. But we cut out these activities thinking they’re frivolous.”

 

“Handwork and art develop critical thinking skills,” his wife Ann, sitting beside him on their couch, adds “without which, we can’t form our own initiatives. “ I nod, admiring her spinning wheel and baskets of spun and dyed yarn set behind her.

 

“And how can we be free?” Pete asks, stilling his swaying rocker, “if we can’t respond creatively to the world? My fiancée, Tanya, and I took her nephew, Carl, to the Kennedy Space Center last week. The kid kept his eyes locked on his pokeman game. He didn’t listen to the astronaut’s tales of explorations or look at the pictures of earth from outer space, only watched imaginary images on his phone screen.”

 

“What’s scary,” Debbie adds, “is that these activities shape neuropathways that form ideas and build our abilities and habits.

 

I cringe as the concrete lid clangs closed on the new meter. Sweat drips from my brow while one more societal wheel is set on the rail of automaticity. As neighbors toil at their desks unaware, I kneel on the soil wondering what to do.

 

An ant traipses across my elbow. I twitch and push it to the ground. Fireflies swirl by my cheek; white puffs float overhead. I look up to admire the procession, inhaling warm air, then wiping brown crumbs of earth from my knees, stand, walk to the hose and wash.

 

Munching purple hibiscus leaves I’ve picked, I slide open and closed the glass door and lift my crank radio from the kitchen table. I turn the handle a few rounds and listen to the broadcast while cutting dandelion leaves to steam.

 

Madhya Pradesh became the first state in India to create a Department of Happiness. Its Chief Minister who borrowed the idea from neighboring Bhutan says the department will work to “ensure happiness of the common people.”

 

Bhutan measures gross national happiness instead of gross domestic product as we do. The country preserves its natural resources by outlawing killing animals and importing chemical fertilizers. Forests aren’t cut down and people live amidst rich wildlife supplying their food and clothing needs.

 

What a different culture! I think. Here we are racing to maximize stock returns, minimize labor and cram pack productivity, thoughtless of our impact on plants and animals. We mechanize our work, thinking we’re lightening our load, but quicken the pace, leaving many of us stressed and depressed. What would a US Department of Happiness say about this?

 

Dishes washed, I walk to my desk, sit, reach for my pen and write my quarterly check to WSLR. While I have my health insurance premium automatically deposited monthly, I want to consciously send in this donation. I like that Amish people choose which machines to use and when. I’m trying to be as thoughtful. While I use a washing machine, I love to stand in the sun and breeze, hanging clothes on the line so run a dryer only occasionally during rainy season. I bought a car without a screen to show me what’s behind, preferring to turn my head. While this wouldn’t be the best choice for my mom, who can’t easily do so, it fits for me; I want to see and hear what’s behind my car using my neck muscle. So often we automatically think automatic is best, not considering there’s a tradeoff.

 

I wonder if our real energy crisis is our lack of will to get up and move.

 

“People seem to forget we’re here to develop ourselves spiritually,” David says that evening at the monthly salon in my living room. “We’re here to become better people, not sit back and be entertained. We’re wasting our opportunity.”

 

“My brother, Joe, took his dog for a walk at 2 am in the park across from his house last Tuesday.” Iris adds, putting down her glass of water. “The park’s usually vacant but he sees a light and then two people looking into the glare of their phone. He watches warily. Two more folks totter by in a trance. He slowly approaches and asks if everything’s okay.

 

“’Oh, yes,’” a young college student says eagerly, “’we’re looking for pokeman.’

 

“’Excuse me,’” my brother inquires and is directed to look at the young man’s phone screen. Puzzled, he asks, “’Don’t you fellers have anything more important in your life that requires you rest rather than walk around at 2 a.m. looking for an imaginary figure?’” Puzzled, the young man replies, “’I thought this would be a good thing to do. I’m not out drinking or taking drugs.’”

 

“Stumped, my brother returns to his house, but later thinks. ‘It looks innocuous, but they’re addicts, dragged around by someone else’s beckoning.’

 

“The guy who invented Pokeman was trying to get people out of their houses interacting with each other. And he has, which is a good thing” Iris adds, sitting upright on the couch. “But I’m concerned folks substitute this search through their cell phone for self-initiated connection with each other and nature.”

 

“We’re always trying to get out of exerting ourselves, “David adds, “not realizing we’re weakening our faculties and morale. There are lots of fun things to do,” he says, picking up his harmonica, wafting a melody through the air. “Like playing this harmonica with friends,” he says, putting it on his lap, “playing board games, baking cookies, planting a garden.”

 

“Muuuch more enlivening than watching image after image on a screen, one thought streaming into to another,” Iris adds.

 

“And more peaceful,” I say. “I can only take in so many words and images a day and then need to digest them. Doing things with my hands, like crocheting and needlework, helps me think through and make sense of things. And it doesn’t cost much.”

 

“Plus, you have something you made to give someone,” David adds, smiling.

 

I share of the Department of Happiness and we agree better to foster the health of nations than the wealth of nations.

 

 

 

 


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Call To Action

After hanging damp sheets on the line

Writing a check due the IRS

And baking russet potatoes

 

After calling elder friends to say “hi”

Texting my West Coast niece Ella

Watering broccoli rabe and tomatoes

 

After dodging traffic downtown

To teach Amanda how

To plan and outline an essay

 

Pumping cheap unleaded gas

Buying bulk black beans and jarred molasses

Hearing Chris Hedges on Alternative Radio

 

Through unloading my stuffed car

Unpacking my cloth bags

Washing bowls now grown crusty

 

Skimming high piles of mail

Recycling unwanted ads

Jotting my to dos for tomorrow

 

I stretch by beeswax candlelight

On a warm cotton blanket

By the cool terrazzo floor

 

And sit on the futon’s edge

Reviewing my day passed

I pray for students and family and friends

Then turn on the lamp

To read Steiner’s Philosophy of Freedom

 

When words begin to jumble

Meaninglessly

In circles

My mind drifting

Toward night’s sky

 

I close the cover

Switch off the light

Turn down the sheets

And lie to sleep

 

After myriad in and out breaths

Way past midnight

Beyond din of traffic

And glow of lamp light

 

Deep in stillness

Stars shining

Moon beaming

Planets whirling

My body lying

In slumber

 

I soar through night’s sky

Amongst others

Remembering

Regaining

Restoring

 

With heavenly bodies

I review my purpose

Rekindle aspiration

Realign my intent

 

Then with the sun’s first glimmer

My body revived

Through rest

From my spirit-soul’s absence

 

Now returned to bed

I awake

To hear, Call to action!

Sounding through my dormant mind

 

Turn off the radio

Turn down the lights

Close that book

Silence your smart phone

 

Put down your pen

And pad

And date book

 

Let go the million scattered pieces

Of things to do

Oh you, great organizer

 

Sit

 

Look within

And watch the thoughts

That run your day

 

Before digging one more hole

Planting another seed

Pulling out that weed

Tend to your mind’s garden

 

Take stock of its residents

Pests, parasites and predators

Half-truths, malicious lies and empty facts

You picked up off the streets

Absorbed from the paper

Ingested through the internet

 

Stop giving Despair a seat on your sofa

Feeding Anxiety your attention

Entertaining Contention with your mind

Imposters!

 

They devour your dreams’ buds

Suck your life’s forces

Consume your vision’s clarity

Clear them out!

 

Free ground for

Insight’s Stream

Inspiration’s Light

Intuition’s Soil

To settle

 

Let truth take root

Bringing meaning to matter

Order to your occupation

Purpose to your path

 

Then your soul can

Tend to its task

To bring to life

Your Spirit’s dream

 

And guided from within

Return to the outer world

To do

What needs doing


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A Winter’s Reflection

Mountain Climbing

 

I’ve tended to plot straight lines of perpetual ascent

Through sky, toward sun, to pinnacles.

 

But find myself plodding

Through unforeseen terrain,

Of vertical cliffs, sudden turns

Daunting drops,

Hoping I’d find my way.

 

From time to time

I’d reach a height

And stand aglow

Victorious

In bright of day.

 

But my stance would be shaken.

Life’s curves come unexpectedly.

I’d twist and twirl to depths

To dark crevices

To sit in shame.

 

In time

I’d settle my soul

Glance up through floating clouds

And reconsider a climb.

 

But like Sisyphus’s trial

My course had no end

The golden summit is not to be possessed.

 

 

Receiving the Present

 

Each morning, I awake.

 

Ideas flit through the curves of my brain:

“Can I build my body to bike to the beach?

Could folk dancing in my living room cultivate community?

Where would a solar shower sit in my yard?”

 

A train of thought rambles.

Temptation sweetly whistles

Ready to take me on a ride

To a perfect world.

 

But first

I step from the box of my house

And plant my curved feet on arching earth.

 

Oak leaves crackle

Bahia grass bows

Damp soil soothes

As I pace supple, solid ground,

left, right

left, right

to my growing garden.

 

On the edge

Between plant and sky

Conical okras twirl

Spiraling lima bean tendrils dance

In an ever-changing array.

 

I inhale sun’s rays and sky’s waves

Visitor that I am from the framed world

Of rectangular phones

Flat screens and

Linear text.

 

I stretch stiff straits from my back

And bend to touch musky earth.

 

I try to grasp Nature’s ways

On these brief, enlivening sojourns

But her welcoming smile spreads miles past my gaze

In expanses of mysterious, quiet passages

Of majestic pines, parading palms,

Fanciful ferns and nesting needles

From eons of her embroidered dance.

 

I find, though, I follow patterned paths

Fumbling on familiar steps

As when I started sowing seeds years back

Cherishing each broccoli rabe and tomato seedling sprouted

Running circles in search of spots to plant each life.

 

No matter I was running out of space

No thought of how I’d consume the fruit

No care for what I could tend to.

 

I felt the need to grasp each possibility

And bring it to fruition

In my foolish

Frenzied fight

Against loss

And letting go

Though I carried too much.

 

But Nature tarried on

As warm-hearted parent smiling at a child

Trying to mimic cherished ways.

 

Through seasons, I have watched.

Not all lettuce seeds sprout.

A portion of pumpkin seedlings thrive.

Zucchini arrives from nowhere and extends.

Thoughtful neighbors bring sweet potato starts.

 

Something’s always going.

Something’s always growing

Beyond my doing.

 

No need to grasp.

More’s on its way.

 

 

Consenting to Circles

 

Having inhaled natural day

I stroll back to my house.

 

Inside

Through open windows

Sun lightens walls

Breeze billows curtains

And brushes my cheek

Singing

Life is here

Life is here.

 

Reflecting on the present

I collect strands of thought

Still in my mind

And jot them down

To consider later

 

Then settle into the day’s doing.

 

It’s Monday

So I’ll wash cotton bedding

Sweep terrazzo floors

Shake and lay out woven carpets.

 

I’m trying to mimic life’s cycle

Tomorrow I’ll pay the water bill and record receipts

Wednesday, I’ll can split pea soup and make oat crackers

Everything in its time

By my design.

 

I used to do the fun stuff

Scribble down a song in my head

Call Jess to chat

Crochet cotton towels

Or what called in the moment

Read a text that came through

Or the book by my bed

Or walk in the rain.

 

I’d cram in dusting end tables

Pruning a bush overreaching the walkway

And mending torn spaghetti straps

When the need could no longer be ignored

Then rush back to the real stuff.

 

I’m learning

To tend to each task

In its time

As part of a circle –

Creation and dissolution.

 

I’m leaning into the picking up

And putting away

Reflecting on what’s past

Readying for what’s to come

Partaking in the process

Relaxed in the ordering.

 

Though I struggle still not to take on

More than fits

As waves of endeavors arise

I’m becoming aware of

Distinct strands of motion

And separating out what needs attending

What’s mine to do

And leaving the rest.

 

No longer seeking heights

But following as the path weaves

Its magnificent fabric

In mysterious folds.

 

Not focusing on gaining

Status nor goods

But garnering lessons

Of the Way.

 

Understanding

And good will

Are pinnacles

I walk toward

Through every hill and valley

Of my earthly path.

 

As the wheel of life turns

Compressing me as it churns

Breaking walls

Making my soul part

Of its masterpiece

Of which I choose to be a part

The work done

In my being

Unseen by outer world

Shines through all

I say and do.

 

As we enter quiet of winter

I’ll not turn to electric bulbs

Once dusk falls with fading sun

But settle into darkness

Putting aside fright

And the need to act.

 

I’ll fan the flame of inner light

Take stock with inner sight

Look upon barren landscapes

Ponder what’s beneath

 

Reflect on what’s passed

Consider what’s coming

And pause

Before moving on.

 

Sometimes, the way forward is back and around.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


6 Comments

Conserving Our Humanity

As a child, I was scolded by my mother for not walking the most direct route from living room to kitchen to refill a glass of seltzer. To her, a product of the 50’s, efficiency was the rule. Mom had to be conferred during dinner clean up to approve Tupperware choices for leftover ravioli or linguini; she’d screen for precise dimensions of best fits. Her dishwasher lessons were laden; cereal bowls and juice glasses my siblings and I had loaded that morning were extracted from trays and realigned in taut rows clearing space for dirty dinner plates and glasses.

 

Echoes of my mother’s voice still chide me from crevices of my mind, “Move faster!”, “Don’t waste time!”, “Be exact!”

 

So, when leaving for a party or a hike with my former boyfriend, if I was ready and he still searching for songbooks or a water bottle, I made good with time. I’d empty the dish rack or pull clothes off the line. This invariably left him waiting, which infuriated him. My practiced productivity proved disrespectful. And, after months of heated discussion and inner wrestling, I managed to forgo doing one more thing and just sit and wait for him.

 

I benefit in many ways from fruits of good labor, thanks to my mom, yet it‘s dawning on me that good living is made from more than efficiency. Being regimented, walking lock step in form erodes human sensibilities.

 

So yesterday, I cringed, when sitting in the library I overheard a tutor report to a mom that her son is up to 100 words per minute, but must be reading 120 to be on grade level.

 

My heart shivered. Are we aspiring to be machines inputting data? What about the boy’s picturing the pine-covered paths and towering canopies? His savoring the stillness, reminiscent of a walk with his grandpa last summer? Being transported to the wooded wonderland?

    

Such soul succulence is forsaken with speed.

 

Many life-giving connections are severed in the pursuit of productivity. Time-saving gadgets of the 50’s have evolved into devices that interface with reality, substitute for companionship and do our rightful work. Families forego conversing across dinner tables to text absent coworkers and friends, adults rely on smart phone notifications to prompt them to send a birthday card or call a parent, students type unintelligible words on keyboards leaving computer chips to adjust letters and create meaning. Machines have become our atmosphere, allies and appendages.

  

So, do we now feel compelled to perform as precisely and rapidly as they?

 

Last week, a high school student of mine was asked in a reasoning exercise to state the similarities and differences between “brain” and “computer”. He replied, “They’re both used to think, but computers are smarter.”

 

Aghast, I retorted, “Brains are living! Computers are lifeless!”

 

He was unmoved.

 

Machines are generally reliable. They do a specific task a fixed way. Set the coffee maker for 4 cups of dark coffee, go read the paper and await the green light signaling our drink is ready.

 

Have we come to expect such regularity and automaticity from ourselves and others?

 

Last week, I was pained to hear my friend, Jan, berate herself for not answering floods of business e-mails in a timely manner. She works 60 hour weeks, hasn’t taken a vacation in years and can’t find a way to slow down the tidal wave of her work much less take a break.

 

We forget we take as long as folks ever have to respond to each other’s requests, get to know someone, grieve a loved one. Machines give us the illusion we can live quicker. In many ways we strain ourselves, while the sun still takes a day and the moon, a month.

I told Jan about a poet who spoke to folks in corporations about the phases of the moon. Counter to corporate culture of continual growth, he evoked images of this waxing and waning orb, rising and falling in the rhythm of life.

 

We hold the illusory ideal of constant productivity, I told her. Before machines, folks stopped work when the sun set, rain fell or river froze. This inherent break gave pause to step back, refresh and reimagine. We’ve side-stepped such boundaries and now need to establish our own ebbs and flows to function.

      

Yeah, tell that to my boss who wants to see money coming in! she replied.

 

Someday I’ll just crack, she added.

 

I was disturbed, too, a few weeks back, to hear radio interviewer Terry Gross talk with Anil Ananthaswamy about deeply depressed folks who claim they are not alivedo not exist. July 28, 2015 http://www.npr.org/podcasts/381444908/fresh-air

Caring and befuddled doctors reason, ‘Clearly you’re breathing and moving, I can touch you, you’re here.’

 

But the poor people protest. Perhaps they know they’re a shell, void of spirit and soul, just some body going through motions.

 

Don’t we all feel this way at times?

 

My garden reminds me we are more like plants than machines. We’re birthed from seeds, deep in the womb of life. Not manmade inventions programmed to produce but heavenly creations with purpose. Through ‘in struct ion’ (the state of building structure within) we gain worldly skills and understandings. But these are simply tools for our work of unfolding divine dreams to uplift humanity. (For this, we need ‘e duc ation’, the state of leading out.)

 

We do not live on bread alone, but by every breath of inspiration and aspiration.

 

But, we’re too busy to sip nectar from the essence of life, too hurried to dine on deeper truths and chew for meaning. Instead, we swallow whole what comes our way. A pretty face on TV bemoaning white hair, a pressured teacher directing us to use an unexplained formula, an esteemed athlete chanting Crush the opponent! are commands we input and follow.

 

Yet, unexamined, automatic thinking is deadening. And a message imprinted in childhood can run repeatedly, never questioned in the light of day.

 

A gentleman suffered with terrible headaches for years. After seeking many cures, he spoke to an Indian medicine man. The healer alerted him, You listen to news, read a magazine article, watch a movie. You have millions of strands of unrelated thoughts you’re straining to try to tie together. You are giving yourself a headache.

 

My Quaker friend, Joe, told me he stopped his cable subscription, monitors radio and TV input and watches only DVDs he finds enriching. So often we are careful to screen food intake, but ingest any message or image streaming from speakers and computer screens. And we don’t stop when we’re full.

 

What we uncritically and uncontrollably devour congests our souls.

 

I believe the root crisis of our time is our disconnection from our Spirits. When we disregard our insight and inspiration and thoughtlessly follow outside orders and inner programs, we become cogs in a machine which disenfranchises ourselves and others and destroys our planet.

 

The system is daunting, but it runs on our energy.

 

If we do not cooperate, it cannot function.

 

When I feel pressured and overstimulated, simply stopping – running errands, writing e-mails, listening to messages – settles me. Thoughts become clear. My spirit breathes, like a flower emerging through a cracked sidewalk.

 

Learning to sit and wait for my past boyfriend is one victory in many battles of my revolution to repossess my mind.

 

I am screening for thoughts that are hospitable to the Spirit.