Taking Simple Steps

Sharing the process of transitioning to a more sustainable lifestyle


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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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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Coming Together

Whenever I push down a pedal on my bike and glide freely, I smile. I salute the breeze brushing my cheek, bounce over pebbled dirt, swirl around lines of ants and soak in sun and sky. No barrier lies between me and the world.

I prefer to walk barefoot. Strolling through my neighborhood, I step on edges of lawns, discreetly, to saturate my soles with the pulse and ply of the earth rather than the inert block of concrete.

When I drive down rural roads, long tracts of undisturbed pines and saw grass lighten my breath. My back muscles relax. If houses or stores line the way, I scan for untrimmed bushes and trees to admire their free patterns of growth. I drink in life around me.

When I drive my car down busy, developed streets, however, I’m distracted. My mind meanders through what I need to do next. I revisit a conversation with a friend, probe through a radio show with Terry Gross or Ralph Nader. Finding no provisions on the road, I divert and ramble. I am rarely present.

Today, however, I stay on the street. Sitting behind my windshield, vibrating with the hum of the engine, I meditate on the metal frame separating me from folks driving by. I’m fidgety framed in mechanization, longing for life. As my car idles and sits at a light, I turn my head to the right to glance through the closed double pane of glass insulating a fellow traveler in the next car and me. Who is she? I wonder. What’s she thinking?

I gaze at the side of her head and shoulder bobbing in beat to music, I suppose and laugh. Her eyes dart towards me, sensing my grin. We smile. A horn honks from behind. Our eyes jerk ahead. We pull from the intersection. She drives away first.

I continue observing who is riding down this six lane road with me, until I break a mental-barrier, becoming more aware of people around me than the dashboard and wheel of my sedan. Connected with what’s alive, I’m engaged.

A few weeks back, I sit isolated in my office air tight in four walls. I wrestle with a to-do list bigger than my day: e-mail parents about tuition, order workbooks, write lesson plans and organize finances. I’m trying to access my online bank account to determine my balance. My shoulders tense as I type and retype answers to security questions. Who did I put as my favorite pet — the miniature schnauzer, Arnie, who hid under the couch when thunder struck or the black lab, Josey, I wore gloves to pet because I was allergic? How did I spell the name of my first grade teacher? Was it White with an “i” or “y”? Red lettered text repeatedly reports my answers are wrong. I grimace and turn to my cell phone to press numbers on the screen, listen to recorded voices and leave words in empty space. I have no time for this, I gasp. Then search online for an e-mail address to which I type my plea on the keyboard. I receive an e-mail directing me to a website. Exasperated, I give up.

The next day, frustrated, I walk into my bank to speak to a receptionist. I am taken aback by my realization that people work at my bank. I had forgotten. The pinkness of the woman’s cheek and wrinkles on her hand stir me. Her twinkling eyes and tale of her grandson’s wedding soften my heart. Light reflects from her pearl necklace, as she eagerly turns her computer screen to face me. Her ivory, oval-shaped fingernail points to the screen, as she talks me through steps to reset my security questions. Gratitude streams through my limbs. I am rescued from a deserted island.

With a lilt in my step, I hold the bank door for a young man entering. Our eyes meet. I breathe in his dutiful demeanor and exhale my relief. I am connected to humanity and long to stay situated in its midst.

The next morning, I sit around a wooden table on the porch of the Quaker Meetinghouse in Sarasota. Live Oak and pines rustle behind Friends sitting across from me. We are musing about how to rally members of our meeting to live more sustainably. After an hour and a half dialogue, the chairperson of our committee asks us to send him an email about our thoughts on a statement about climate change. My neck tightens at the idea of booting up my computer and typing an e-mail. I want to blurt out my thoughts now, but our meeting has gone on too long. The chairperson wants to go home. I sigh and realize I crave a technology-free diet. I need to cut out the excess distancing me from others.

I text my friend Jessie to make plans to walk at Celery Fields and talk. I call Joel to set up a time to sit at his patio table and chat about community housing. When I need to type a question on my laptop to Casey in California or press the screen on my phone to speak to Hannah across town, I picture waves and wires delivering my text and voice to folks over miles I can’t tread. I keep in mind the people with whom I can relate because technology links us. And I’m grateful.

I’ve started writing letters to my two nephews and niece. They reside in Berkeley, CA, New Paltz, NY and Berlin, Germany. I have never lived close to them and want to nurture a bond. I treasure reading the swirly loops of my nephew Cali’s letter “a’s” and slanted crosses of his “t’s”, sensing his enthusiasm pressed into paper.

My niece, Elsa, who lived in a Buddhist monastery several years only communicating by letter, welcomes the exchange. She says when she first reentered mainstream life she immediately got sucked back into social media. She has since weaned herself off Facebook and Twitter. We share about how we both monitor our intake of information through cell phone and e-mail, checking messages only once or twice daily, stopping the crazy back and forth compulsion of moment to moment replies. Having felt like a cog in a machine, pushed and pulled by its rapid pace, we now set our own rhythms.

This afternoon, I sit next to seven-year old Steven. I am helping him prepare for the Florida Standards Assessment in Reading. This is his first standardized test. He hasn’t been initiated. He is unaccustomed to its demands. He sits beside me relaxed, breathing deep. I suggest he read the questions first and underline key words. I point to the first question and read, Which sentence from the passage contains a simile? What words are most important here? I ask. He rereads the question, sounding out a few words, syllable by syllable, pauses then lifts his pencil and underlines the whole sentence. I direct him to the next two questions and he does the same. We then look at the passage. He reads in a pondering pace, stopping after words to consider their meaning, relating them to his world. I am anxious for him, knowing we have much to cover, concerned he will move too slowly and fail the test. I admire his presence, though, grounded and unhurried. Is this something I want to change?

The next hour, Shirley, a high school junior, shows up texting, face down to her phone as she plops her College Board Official SATI Study Guide on the table, wraps up her reply and clicks off her phone. She stuffs it in her oversized purse and turns to me with an agitated grin. She angles herself onto the chair and flips open her book, ready for business. I really had problems with this section, she reports, glaring at a reading passage.

How have you been, I ask?

Five tests and a term paper this week, she reports. Not much time for our homework, but squeezed it in during lunch.

I point to the first question and ask her to underline key words.

Her eyes jump to the first paragraph and she explains, It says here the woman didn’t pay for her ride. I don’t get why the answer’s not “C”.

I trace my finger along the question and ask, Did you read all the words in the question?

Her hand races to another question, And this type of question really gets to me.

I nod and think to myself, Years of schooling have taught her to cut to the chase, making it hard to settle down and take stock. How do I help her find grounding? Is this what the goal is, I wonder, to subdue natural sensibilities and responsiveness and rewire students to pass multiple choice tests?

That evening, I lie in bed. Starlight streams through my window soothing and inspiring me. Relaxed, I close my eyelids. I picture neighbors, lying in their beds too, in solace. I drop the walls of our homes and see us dotting the landscape. We retreat from our laden bodies leaving behind the frenzy and mazes we’ve set and drift in a dream state, mingling with the heavens.

Dare we awaken in the morning, renewed with resolve, and returned to our separate bodies, homes and cars to build bridges that link us?

 


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Mission

I walk to my car after a presentation by Peace Corps volunteers. Tales told of rehabilitating lives, landscapes and structures in far off, impoverished countries get me thinking, What is my calling?

I recollect a story of Mother Teresa hearing of a Hindu family who had not eaten for a long time. She brings them rice and finds children with eyes shining with hunger. Their mom takes the rice and goes out. When she returns, Mother Teresa asks, “Where did you go? What did you do?”

The woman answers, “They are hungry also.”

And who are they? — A Muslim family.

Mother Teresa beams as the children and mom radiate with joy and peace on account of the mom’s love. Mother Teresa doesn’t bring more rice that evening because she wants them, Hindus and Muslims, to enjoy sharing, knowing this will feed a greater hunger.

I probe my pockets for keys, awestruck by this family’s love, pondering the essence of being poor.

Mother Teresa observed, “The spiritual poverty of the West is much greater than the physical poverty of India. In the West millions suffer terrible loneliness and emptiness, feel unloved and unwanted. People are not hungry in the physical sense, but in another way, knowing they need something more than money, yet not knowing what it is.”

I unlock my door acknowledging there are deeper wells to draw from than physical founts; poor folks are the blessed ones.

I bend into my car pondering the loneliness and emptiness in the West to which Mother Teresa points. I struggle to keep connected with others amidst independent living arrangements and time-consuming schedules. I grapple to keep afloat in a flood of belongings and groundswell of tasks. Mother Teresa speaks my mind, What do I do about my spiritual poverty amidst physical excess?

My work is right here.

I sit behind the wheel, mindful of my solitude. I’ve worked hard to create a natural space, just right for me, full of organic cotton, heirloom tomatoes and farmer writer Wendell Berry tales. Yet, I remain preoccupied with e-mails, paperwork and organizing. Writing unending lists of chores to do, struggling to squeeze in time to talk – much less sit – with friends and family.

I fasten my safety belt thinking, the American dream promises if I buy and own more, I make progress. And I do in a sense, when I don’t have enough. But past a point of sufficiency, I bloat my house with a closet clogged with shoes for any occasion, a pantry packed with enough pasta to feed the neighborhood and a table top buried beneath piles of magazines I never look through. At this point, for me, having less is moving forward.

I start my car’s engine and hear Jackson Browne swoon:

These times are famine for the soul while for the senses it’s a feast…

And there’s a God-sized hunger underneath the laughing and the rage (Looking East)

 

I drive home determined to better feed my soul and cut down on physical preoccupation. As cars race past on the expressway, I wonder what’s essential and what’s unnecessary, best to let pass by. The thought of hungry folks, scantily clad in tin shacks helps me trim the fat. A bowl of rice and beans, a hat and coat, walls and a roof are basically what I require.

I drive past another newly constructed mall thinking, I need to pare down.

As I prepare to change lanes, I glance in my rear view mirror remembering as a teen feeling overwhelmed and saddened in stores. Sprawling selections of milk ­- one percent, no fat, low fat and whole – beside aisles of shampoo, laundry detergent and toilet paper elicit endless decisions about trivial pursuits. Over time, though, I grow concerned about choosing just the right item for me and quiver between buying green leaf lettuce and romaine. Now I see that getting tied up in meaningless decisions eats up my energy and deprives my soul of simply being satisfied and grateful for food.

As I signal and look to the right, I remember living in Asheville, North Carolina. In this mecca of natural and cultural beauty, my greatest joy is visiting nursing homes to sit and sing with the elderly. Amid empty halls and vacant rooms dotted with card tables, pale, languid faces stare into space. My guitar strings shimmer. Heads and voices lift together in song: “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…” Eyes connect in bare stillness, souls unite. I am fed beyond the sustenance of Jackson Browne’s lyrics and Mother Teresa’s tales.

Real connections feed me.

I turn off the AC, roll down the window and sense the heat of the day sting my cheek. Sweat strolls down my rib. A flock of ibis glide by in formation. Hip hop pulsates from a Corvette speeding by. Less buffered, I am in touch.

I exit and U-turn, forgoing thrift store shopping to drive to a hospice care facility and be with my 58 year old friend Richard, spending his last days alone. Gaunt and listless, plodding behind his walker, he beckons me to a garden. We shuffle between palms, love grass and hibiscus and sit on a wooden bench. I slow my breath to settle stirring thoughts and be with him. He soaks in his surroundings and utters labored syllables spelling out his surrender and acceptance. Serenity fills the air. We inhale and exhale the lightness of being. And embrace our goodbyes.

Awakened to the pulse of life, I stroll to my car.

I’ve been isolated and absorbed, caught in a web of material comfort and ease. Casting it away and reaching out to others, I come alive and nourished.

I sit behind the wheel and leave the door ajar. Sun illumines my face. I reach for my calendar and pore over tasks of the week weighing their importance. I make a list of names of folks in need.

Budding branches reach to the sun. When laden with fruit, they bow to the ground. I have more than I need. I must bend down and offer my fill. When I am emptied, I will receive more.

Beside my parked car a red jacaranda sways in the wind. I am reminded of Carol, once vibrant, glowing with life. Now 76, she is trapped in an Alzheimer’s care facility. She got lost driving, couldn’t find her way home. Her son flew down from Philadelphia for the weekend, sold her red hybrid Honda, ruby love seat and crimson-doored house — without her consent. He then placed her in a facility for safe keeping because her memory is weakening. I call her to make plans to visit.

I drive home and clear the cooler, umbrella and beach chair from my back seat to make room for Carol’s wheel chair.

Days later I travel across town. As I wheel Carol through the facility, we watch two dazed women gazing at a flittering TV screen and a man wandering, giggling into space. I notice Carol’s bold demeanor is dulled after a few weeks’ immersion in this muted world. I pull open my passenger door. She struggles to lift her troubled body up holding onto the window frame then shuffles onto the seat. Looking forward she pronounces, I want my car back.

I nod in silence, sit in the driver’s seat and maneuver our way out of the parking lot. Slowly, grasping for words, Carol composes the landscape of delusional characters with whom she dwells, from whom she seeks relief. My heart sinks, knowing she does not belong here, yet aware there is little I can do but take her out for brief respites and listen.

Over the ensuing months, I carve space in my schedule to be with Carol and help carry her load. Her forbearance, persistence and composure are gifts to me.

Perhaps life is not an upward climb, but a spiral trajectory, looping between loss and gain, need and plenty, weakness and strength – both essential to growth and well-being.

One year later, through determination and will, Carol persuades her doctors and son to place her in a more suitable assisted living facility. Our world is set aright. My heart resounds, Hallelujah!

I am driving to Salvation Army with a backseat of boxes containing the tofu maker I’ve never used, old Yes magazines and dusty snow boots. I think of my friend Joe, on disability, unable to work. His trust fund ran out and he can no longer pay rent. He’s terrified he’ll be homeless as New York’s frigid winter approaches. Ashamed, I squirm, I’m here in Florida, grappling to shed frivolity, while Joe is scuffling to find a friend’s couch to sleep on to keep him off the icy streets.

What can I do to help him get what he needs? How can I free myself from excess, which leaves others without enough? How can we come from our separateness to share?

 

Excerpt of Mother Theresa’s address at the United Nations’ “International Conference on Population and Development”, held in Cairo on Sept 5 -13, 1994


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Seasonal Fare

I have decided to discover and try to live aligned with natural cycles.

I had lost track of nature’s tempo, living mostly in well-lit, air-conditioned rooms, removed from ebbs and flows of light and dark, heat and cold. I had felt compelled to think in myriad directions at once, receiving cell phone calls at any time of day, sending me flitting from one activity to another. I had lost my sense of meter. So, I am looking now to the earth and sky to help me restore my rhythm.

But, it is hard to detect seasons in Florida. There are mostly mild, sunny days here, interrupted by sweltering, stormy summers and a few frigid frosts.  Used to the clear cycles of the Northeast, I find what rhythms there are here reversed, with vegetable gardens flourishing fall through spring and little growing in summer.

So, I have taken to gardening to live with this flow and learn of its passages. No longer buying plastic wrapped broccoli on a cellophane plate, I now touch the earth, place a seed, watch leaves and buds and follow the unfolding of life’s growth in phases. Not a product here and gone, with wrappers left to dispose of, but a relationship with a source of giving that is never ending, of which I am a part.

I have returned, too, to a more grounded route as a teacher, now tutoring for my profession. No longer trying to teach at-risk students, whose minds are distracted by hunger and fear, mandatory curricula of factoring trinomials and using the quadratic formula, I now meet with individual students on our own terms. We tell stories of sharing pieces of pizza, while moving colorful cut-up felt circles, and converse about wholes and parts. Through reason, in beauty, we discover patterns and processes of life with which we engage.

To live in the natural course of things, I refer to the traditional northern farming year as a framework, yet I invert it. Now, summer is the time to gaze over fallow fields, plan crops, repair tools and rest.  Fall is to sow seeds; winter and spring, to tend plants and to harvest.

And so, I plant crops and care for my garden, September through May, watering, weeding, and warding off critters. As the earth bears fruit, I gather what is yielded. From this and what local growers offer at the farmer’s market, I eat and prepare pickled brussel sprouts, Swiss chard pesto and dried zucchini to keep for the mostly barren summer. At times, I struggle with the utility of my actions, aware that I walk within seemingly artificial constraints. While friends freely buy California grapes and Maine apples, I confine myself to what is locally available: baby bananas, one week, star fruit, another. Yet, I feel excitement in discovering what treasures my surrounding area produces in its season and in living within these borders.

During the busy school year, I work with students, many of whom struggle with handwriting and sensory integration issues. Tomara finds it uncomfortable to write letters and numbers. Paul can’t focus on listening and learning, easily distracted by incidental sounds and his own thoughts. I grapple with ways to help them and other students’ overcome obstacles to the very foundations of learning. I look forward to summer to relax and reflect on how better to help them to learn.

Late spring, when temperatures rise too high for comfort as daylight lingers, I put my garden to rest, planting cover crops of lab lab and buckwheat to replenish the soil, as well as yard long beans and cherry tomatoes which can thrive in the scorching sun and incessant rain of Florida’s summer, without my care. I turn, now, for sustenance to my collection of canned vegetable soups, pickled mushrooms and dried bananas, along with the okra and Malabar spinach that still grow.

As the school year winds down and I look to summer, to rest and prepare for the next round, a bounty of opportunities to learn about sensory processing and handwriting spring up, like seedlings born of my inner questionings. Gratefully, I attend several local conferences and travel to Gainesville and New York for coursework. While my garden lies fallow, my teaching career feels as if in the height of the growing season. As when the earth yields more zucchini than one knows what to do with and one scrambles to preserve what’s given for another season, books, materials and teaching tips flourish and I gather what I can to take for use in the next school year. Though too hot for most vegetables to grow, this is clearly a time of expansion.

As September’s heat breaks with the shortening of days and temperatures again grow hospitable to vegetal life, I sow seeds for my fall garden and begin again working with students, rested and eager from a summer of frolic and freedom. Though eager to work with my new insights and tools, I am baffled at how I missed the rest I had hoped summer would afford me, as it did my garden and students. But, as autumn’s activity augments, I move in step, resolved to get rest next time ‘round. While cantaloupes and collards sprout and flourish in the cooling sun, I give more engaging handwriting lessons and introduce movements which develop focus to my students, enriching them with my summer’s yield. I notice, now, that the produce from my garden is more nutritious than last year’s and the fruit from the soil of my teaching has progressed.

Come January, with its darkened days and dull chill, viruses afflict folks around me and I frequently feel on the verge of illness. My boyfriend, Andrew, is weakened by the flu for weeks, staying home from work and sleeping a lot. Realizing he had overdone it over the holidays, he resolves to take off the week after Christmas next year, to regenerate. My neighbor, Jessica, notices she that has gotten sick at this time over the past years and decides to simply do less and retreat at this point. I, too, come to see that this is my resting season and that Florida, as part of the northern hemisphere, is in contraction. Though warm enough for plants to flourish, leaves have left the trees and it is a time of going within.

As mustard, lima beans and arugula are bursting with life in my garden, I feel tired most of the time.  Against an almost addictive pull, I stop myself from unnecessary study and canning, afraid of getting sick and not fulfilling my teaching commitments. When not at work, I lie around, napping and reading, spending a lot of time alone. The silence and absence of activity feels empty and lifeless at times, while sleep was fraught with dreams, enmeshed with jumbled thoughts and feelings. I journal to unearth distorted beliefs and am surprised to see tendencies revealed of my diminishing myself as a female and looking outside for authority, rather than trusting what I know. Day by day, I watch as underlying thoughts surface.  Within the stillness, old beliefs uproot and new ideas emerge. I have heard it said that the void is the source of creation. I now understand how in still spaces we find new life.

As Jacarandas bud and sweet potatoes flower, spring emerges. With the increasing daylight of a warming sun, I wonder what will emerge. What I know for sure, is that my course is more grounded and less chaotic, as it is bound to the rhythms of growth and gathering, rest and renewal.

 


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Turning

It is so easy, especially during the holidays, to get caught up in buying things and entertaining ourselves. The weight of advertisements, social and familial expectations and habit draw us to do so. But, do these truly nourish us or simply distract us from what is most essential? I recently watched a DVD which reminded me of practices I feel we would do well to engage in, particularly during this time of year.

The DVD “Healing” was about the work of a humble Brazilian tailor, with a second grade education, who channels the spirits of deceased healers and saints. Its testimonies tell of healings through this man, named John of God, who takes neither fees nor credit for his work.

Images of folks waiting in line for healing deeply touched me. Individuals sought cures for cancer, heart disease and depression as they stood alone or held one another. Some walked with clubbed foot, crutches, or were pushed in wheel chairs. People were candidly present with their difficulties, pensive and anxious for release. These folks were facing themselves and the world straight on, without pretense. Watching them, I felt as if I had risen out of a rabbit hole, witness to a world turned around, where people sought and found redemption.

What impressed me most was that their healings involved hard work.  Folks were assisted in remembering choices they had made that took them off course, away from the paths knew they were here to follow, ones grounded in love and peace. By rethinking their decisions and changing direction, they became whole. A woman with breast cancer talked about releasing layers of grieving over the death of her mother, enabling her to start moving forward. A gentleman with HIV gave up negative beliefs and patterns, diminishing his ego, and not only got rid of AIDS, but the reasons for it. Phoebe from Australia said she travelled the world to find out what it means to be alive. She now knows to sit, close her eyes and go inside to find out. One of John of God’s helpers pointed out that we unknowingly pollute our minds, souls and bodies with negative thoughts and actions and need to make conscious choices to be more loving, kind and understanding if we wish to become whole.

Listening, I was shed of distractions. These people were truly engaged in meaningful activities.  I couldn’t help but wonder what the world would be like if we all faced our pain, self-centeredness and confusion, and transformed our negative thoughts and actions. How much of what we struggle with most would simply disappear?

During this time when we come together to celebrate the overcoming of darkness with light, what better preparation is there than to face our inner darkness with the light of love? What better activity than coming to terms with our personal histories, to rethink priorities, attitudes, and practices. And when better to do so, than during holiday vacation when we have the time to sit by ourselves or with one another, in nature and with God?

We have so much these days that it seems that the real goal is not to get and do more, but to have and do less, to create space in which to sort through things and find what is already here. Once our basic needs are met, we have higher tasks to pursue — those of caring for and sharing with one another. In so doing, we become fully alive and allow others to do the same. In contrast to the commotion we stir up with our concerns and affairs, the thought of this simple practice calms me.

The folks in the DVD are a community turned around — no longer striving outwardly for material gain and stature to find meaning, but looking within for realization of truth and cultivation of wholesome living.  These are steps accessible and of benefit to all of us.

To me, this is a turning we all can make to put things in place.

 

‘Tis the gift to be simple

‘Tis the gift to be free

‘Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be

And when we find ourselves in the place just right

“Twill be in the valley of love and delight

 

 When true simplicity is gained

To bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed

To turn, turn will be our delight

‘Til by turning, turning we come ‘round right

 

from Simple Gifts, written by Shaker Elder Joseph Brackett, Jr. in 1848