or something like that.

if i had more community. if it were easier to make friends. if it were easier for my son to make friends. if i lived on the other side of town. or somewhere else. if i didn't have as much lawn to mow. if i were different. if i ate (or didn't eat) certain things. if i had more time to read. if i made time to read. if i had time. if the weather were different. if i got more sleep. {or something like that.}

and really, it's not that any of these things is wrong. {or that there is a wrong.} to want.

(of course not.) it's just that- right now- without them {or with them} is living, too.

and honestly, it's the balance between the two. the list at the top- and- what is. {and anything else in between.}

Symmetry

symmetry- the quality of being made up of exactly similar parts facing each other.

There is a certain symmetry in a day's events, an effortless flow {if you will} that I notice sometimes when I am allowing myself to go with the flow. Things seem to line up just so, in a way that makes me pause and notice how easy things can be sometimes. During these times, for whatever reason, I've stopped pushing at myself to do what I should do or what would be better. I'm not rushing (unless, of course, that *is* the flow). And I'm paying attention to the voice that says, for instance, don't put in that last load of laundry just yet {even though that is clearly what should be done. after all, if i did that last load now, I would be that much closer to finishing the laundry. again.}

This happened today and I thought the series of events I went through (participated in) illustrates so well this type of ordinary/extraordinary flow I am thinking of-

Eva is sick. She was on the couch resting and I went into the laundry room to put the load of sheets that had just finished being washed into the dryer. I paused, thinking wistfully of being able to hang the sheets out to dry because of the recent warm weather and sunshine and then bit the bullet and put them in the dryer because I don't currently have a working clothesline large enough for the sheets and because I didn't want the sheets to mildew while they waited for me to figure one up. (Mildew being something that can happen in a very short time in Oregon. Even in the summer.)

I left the last load that was in the dryer- a mixed load of towels and dish cloths- on the floor next to the dryer and opted to not fold them just yet. Then I looked at the next load of clothes that was ready to be put into the washer, and for some reason, decided I wasn't going to wash them just yet {either}. I told myself to just finish up what was started right now and to not add to what was already going on with another load of laundry. This is something I might dismiss normally, what with the allure of being done with the laundry {again} hovering over the room. But I went with it and left the washer empty without adding another load.

And then, about an hour later, Eva started throwing up. She threw up several times, all over the carpet in the hallway. After she had finished and I had gotten her settled, I went back to clean things up and it was like it was all set up for the occasion. There were the towels, still on the floor near the dryer, just right for cleaning up (no need to have been folded...) and an empty washer just waiting for me to throw the towels into. And it was so easy. There was no extra load of laundry to deal with in the washer and there was no fishing about in drawers in the other room for towels that were folded and put away. It was symmetry, pure and simple.

Make of it what you will. I don't have the answers about why this happens except perhaps that we are meant to (without the deterministic flavor, please, but in the same sense that all beings take care of themselves in the best way they are able) take care of ourselves, which means listening to ourselves, which means that sometimes, the very best thing is to leave the last load of laundry for a different day. And sometimes it isn't.

winter expansion

When I took the compost out to the compost bin this afternoon, I noticed the buds beginning to form on the maple tree. Buds that will become flowers and bloom sometime at the end of January or into February, if I am remembering correctly. Maybe a little later? I don't think it's all the way into March but right now I can't be completely sure and I don't want to take the time to look it up. (OK- I looked it up. Looks like our maple is one of the first maples to bloom, which could mean as early as mid-February {or early March} here, what with our mild climate...)

I was reminded again of how much growth actually occurs- is often prepared for- during times of rest. Think of it. Our maple has just barely lost all of her leaves and is already replacing them with small buds. Readying for expansion even in the midst of winter (well, autumn. but nearly winter. that whole transition thing, and all.). This came as an even more poignant thought to me today {than it otherwise might have, although let's be honest here, i am fairly prone to poignancy most of the time.} because I am currently sick- sick enough to need quite a bit more rest than I had initially planned for this week. And I was surprised by it. The illness surprised me. I didn't think I was getting sick until I was already sick. No amount of hat-wearing and kombucha drinking were able to ward off this illness. Not this time.

But that's OK. For the most part. That's what I'm trying to say. And- that- while being sick is certainly not my preference, there is a particular quality of epiphany and understanding that can come from this state, that seems to be born from it. That I am privy to *only* when I am this sick. If I allow it.

And I'm not saying I want to stay ill. Or that we can't understand things {other things} when we feel healthier. I wouldn't want to quantify it in that way. Or compare. Just that this morning I recognized this certain bit of illness wisdom and was happy for it. And decided again- always again- to not push against the virus or my body, but to do what they both asked for. To take care. To rest. To be sick. And to listen to the wisdom that can only be found therein.

leap of faith

Caught myself falling back down into the {to be dramatic but truthful} abyss recently and was shocked {again} at how quickly it can happen. *It* being one of those slowly then all at once processes, much like the seasons turning or meringue whipping. Or birth. Or death. Two of the transition biggies in life. Some might say Life. I'm not sure if I would. Sometimes. Maybe. But not now. If there is a Life then there is a life and that has a grass-is-greener effect whereby you {or You?} waffle back and forth between the particular sorts of wisdom {or Wisdom? Hey, now that's going too far, don't you think?} and love to be found in each. When really it's just life. {Italics.}

I saw this morning that it is still too soon to read inspiring articles with titles like Ten Ways to Find Contentment in Your Life. I push it away with my hands, swatting at it. No. Because that, to be honest, is one of the problems. My mind gets busy with that sort of list and will certainly, at some point during the day, after having had fun trying out each of the ways, point out to me that I don't know how to be content enough. Or that I'm being content wrong. And I'll actually believe it {nine times out of ten. Seven on a good day.}. Such is the abyss.

But I did start doing some reading. Ummmmm. Existentialism. Absurdism. Postmodernism. You get the idea. And that has been good. I have actually found it to be reassuring. All of those thinkers, thinking these same thoughts, wondering these same ideas. The meaning of life and all that. I went so far as to read through several quick synopses of different philosophies {about life} and was relieved {again} to see there really is no consensus. Just thoughts. Some I agree with, some I don't. There are quite a few common themes out there among them. Some common conclusions. Still, as far as we know, we don't {really} know. And that's the truth of it. The biggest truth of it. And it comes down to this, as far as I am concerned- Which leap of faith are you willing to take? It was Soren Kierkegaard who coined the term leap of faith and while good old Soren and I have come to a few different conclusions, I thank him for his leap of faith concept. And I thank Albert Camus too, for looking so closely at the world and putting down his thoughts for others to relate to, so many years later.

And on that note, on that not-knowing note, here's a slice of our today-



Eva's ring collection. Ten rings, two for every finger.

slowly, then all at once

Sitting outside ready to meditate, I noticed the sun had shifted ever-so-slightly in the direction that signals the coming of autumn. The pagan holiday for this time of year is Lughnasadh (Lammas). It is a pre-harvest celebration, midway between the autumnal equinox and the summer solstice's longest day of the year. For me, it is signaled by this subtle change in light, particularly in the morning. There are peaches, blackberries, tomatoes (finally!) the beginning of melons, the end of my blueberries. The heat of summer can still be found some days even as the sun's intensity is diminished overhead.

I love holding these two seeming dichotomous states- the {sudden} shift of light and the knowledge that this process has been in effect each day. Every day. An imperceptible change in sunrise, sunset, until one day a noticeable difference. It reminds me of Hemingway's quote on how people go bankrupt, "Slowly, then all at once." And so much of life. Our children's transformations, learning new skills, new developments. How did I learn to knit? Slowly, slowly, over the course of many years. Then all at once. And suddenly I had a project I couldn't believe I had made.

Of course, the movement of the seasons hardly stays all-at-once {for long} and is by it's very definition, a continuation of slowly. The process constantly changing, shifting, moving in the direction of the circle. We notice the all-at-once on a particular day, label it fall, and watch as it shifts again toward winter, the uneasy nebulous nature of change given a static label. We switch our shoes. Coats. Activities. As the movement becomes imperceptible again. Until the next subtle shift of light becomes noticeable to our eyes. Our minds. Slowly. Then all at once {we notice}. Again.



Very hungry caterpillars. I don't know why I thought the slugs were eating these petunias. (A hazard when growing petunias to be sure. Everyone seems to want to eat them. They must taste as good to them as they smell to me.) Eva and I have been studying the three, four, then five! caterpillars living on this one petunia plant for a few days, noticing their different colors and how they sometimes stand up or lay down, depending. Somehow one of them (or a family member) ended up on the patio near the peaches and we duly placed him back on the petunia with the others. Perhaps later in fall when these guys have all turned into cocoons would be a safer time to grow petunias. The two I planted out by the sweetpeas have {so far} remained untouched. It is flower central out there with plenty to choose from, which probably has a lot to do with it. Or maybe purple petunias are particularly tasty.



The sweetpeas and chamomile are having a long season this year. I have been drying the chamomile as I remember and am thoroughly enjoying the strong fragrance of these particular plants. I love these multi-colored sweetpeas with the different shades of purple.



I let several of these plants stick around this year to see what they were. I love them with the sweetpeas and calendula. Their clusters of tiny flowers are a lovely shade of pink. Any ideas on what type of plant they are?

i'm that mom (and another)

You can easily see where my mind is at these days, what with the blueberries and peaches and picking and summer time love. Eva eating fruit, running around behind me as I pick and process and taste and bake. Moving around the blueberry bushes outside one day, filling up one pint and then another, I took a break to go inside for water and a quick snack. On my way back to the bushes, I reached out to grab another berry basket for picking, distracted by my ipod, searching for a different song, sure that the berry baskets were on the hood of the car, right where I had left them. And yet, no. No baskets. I looked up. The hood of the car was empty. I looked over to where I had left the already filled baskets. No empty ones there either. Hmmm.

I walked toward the blueberry bushes, looking around and checking for where I might have left the berry baskets {on my way inside}. That's when I saw them lying on the ground in the middle of the driveway. I hadn't left them there. It was slightly curious but I dismissed it as I bent down to pick them up so that I could get back to my picking.

I was suddenly struck by the pattern on the ground. There was a large rock. A pine cone. The berry baskets. An image of Eva on her scooter, zipping around the driveway, around the rock, the berry baskets, the pine cone... Ah yes. An obstacle course. Of course. My berry baskets had been incorporated into Eva's obstacle course. I smiled. And then I bent down to pick them up anyway.

And I stopped myself. Surely I could find other berry baskets. Other containers, even, to put the blueberries in. There was really no reason to disrupt the obstacle course (and with it the pleasant equilibrium we had all reached while spending time together in the front yard). Sure enough, I checked in the car and found half a dozen more berry baskets. (I'm sure there were more inside, in addition to several dozen different styles of bowls and buckets in assorted shapes and sizes. At least.) No shortage of those around here. (No shortage of anything, really, when I thought about like that.) I grabbed the new stack of empty baskets, smiled again at the obstacle course, and headed back over to continue picking blueberries, happy to be that mom who could be creative enough to allow for many different uses for berry baskets. At least.

i'm that mom

In keeping with a meme that has been floating around facebook for the last couple of weeks, I'm that Mom is an homage to the choices we make as parents (in this case, as mothers) in the spirit of allowing our children to be who they are and fostering that original nature within. It's in the spirit of learning. In living life fully. In letting go of- throwing out, even- the stories and rules that no longer work for us. That we no longer wish to have govern us. It's in that spirit that I approach these stories- stories of me and my children, my responses to them, how things flow within our lives {at least some of the time}. It is about my intention. Where I am headed. What I am thinking about {often}. I'm that mom- who I am, who I choose to be in each day-to-day-moment. And my children. The ones who inspire me to be so. Do so. In so many ways.

So here's how it goes- today, Eva brought me a peach (from the boxes of peaches ripening on the patio outside) and she said to me, "Momma, will you cut up this orange for me?" and I said, "Of course (or some such-like in the affirmative...) and I nodded {probably} and took the peach from her...

I'm that mom who didn't correct her. Didn't say something like- "You mean the peach?" or "What orange? It looks like a peach to me." or even just "Peach." because I know that Eva knows she is holding a peach, not an orange. That we picked these peaches together. That she has eaten them, dripping peach juice down her chin, while I stood by smiling and noticing my fear of peach juice dripping on her white (who on earth wears white to a peach orchard...) shirt and comforting myself with thoughts like- I will be able to get out any stain that lands on that shirt and also, if not, well surely there are other white blouses. And I am that mom who didn't harp on her {this time} about peach stains and enjoyed her peachy enthusiasm. I was there.

And- I am that mom who knows that even if- outlandish as it may seem to me now- she doesn't know it is a peach that she is holding, she will. Someday. Most people do. And if she doesn't? Well, that isn't the end of the world either. (The more likely scenario is, after all, that she will find out the name of the peach if only to make sure she can have so many more of them in her life.)

Still, I'm pretty sure she knew it was a peach all along. And that peaches and oranges and tangerines and nectarines are all so deliciously interwoven in her life with their tasty bites of goodness that Eva's first priority was having that bit of goodness fixed up for her to eat, after all {not talk about}. And with that in mind, I was happy to oblige and honor her priorities therein.

Spiders and squash and such like

I spent the day unpacking and doing a general pick up around the house, focusing a good bit of my energy on the patio. I am reminded of how very alive it is out there when I attempt to sweep the floors, particularly during this time of year. The broom uncovers one baby spider after another, running for cover. I quick! rush to sweep up the dirt and clutter before they find their way to safety within the newly swept piles. (I don't want to throw them away. I help them to safety. Find a new spot. Spin a new web. ) Ants, spiders, dried flowers, piles of Eva's drawings, knitting projects in mid-stitch, squirt guns.

The liveliness- the very aliveness- is tangible when I walk out to the compost pile with the last of the squash. (Man it was a good year for squash. Is it just me or was there enough squash to feed everyone and their dog this year. {Of course, I mean those dogs who will actually eat squash. Of course. Which leaves out my dog. Of course. Which may be why I had so much squash left over? Perhaps.} I had my fill, of course, back in November or December and simply bided my time over the next couple of months until I could carry the last of them out to the compost pile in good conscience. {That's not entirely true. I must have eaten more squash than I remember because I usually do. The large quantities of squash were most probably extra-punctuated by the complete lack of cabbage. That's all. That, and the fact that once the greens start flowing in earnest, I tend to forget about other vegetables like winter squash. And green beans.})

I walk through a part of the backyard near the compost pile that has been slightly flooded from all of the rain. The ground is saturated and there are several large puddles of standing water in one area in particular. Large worms lay on the open ground, half submerged in thick mud. I see others making their way across a few of the round stepping stones. I smile at this, glad the stones can help. I can't resist and stop to help one of the worms who immediately scrunches himself in that way worms do that prevents any but the smallest fingers from taking hold. It's the worm's equivalent of going limp, making it impossible to pick him up. Don't eat me. Don't eat me. This squished up worm hides as best he can among the stone crevices.

I move on. A good bit of mud squishes between my toes as I walk barefoot to the higher ground where the compost pile actually stands and I comment in my head how once again the woman-who-lived-here-before-us was so incredibly thoughtful about each thing, right down to making sure to put the compost pile on slightly higher ground so that it was less likely to flood when even the area with the elijah blue has flooded. Even there, though, the worms have congregated in heaps just under the lid. The ground is too thick with moisture and they must find higher ground. Safety. Inside the bin, slugs crawl along the debris, spiders spin what are possibly the most productive webs I have ever seen. Copious amounts of fruit flies make their home in this compost pile and while I am aware that this signifies an imbalance {technically} in the composition of the pile, I know I am not going to do anything to remedy it. I am fine with the fruit flies inside the bin. Fine with the spiders and the slugs. Fine with the worms gathering in heaps. Fine with the mud between my toes. Fine as I stand and look around at the yard, for once blocking out any directives my mind produces to take care of the lawn or weed the iris bed or listen to any one of a long list of things to do, things that need to be done. Always things that need to be done. I am free of it all for this moment, appreciating the roses and irises in bloom. The piles of buttercups overflowing now that the gardener has cut back the roses. The mud squishing further between my toes. It's lush. It's glorious. It's this amazing aliveness that I am able to notice and appreciate in this moment. And then it's gone. And I am walking back up to the patio, lingering as I smell the thyme. Picking a little lemon balm.

Back up on the patio, I toss out the last of the debris and move the garlic up to the shelf with last year's Chamomile and Calendula left overs. And that's when I notice my pogo stick. Right there. Where it's been for the last, oh I dunno know, four months? Five months? Gosh, it's been such a long time since I made time to pogo. Such a funny verb to use. I play with it in my mind for a split second. Bounce. Pounce. Pogo. And I grab the stick and head out to the open area just outside the patio. A perfect place for pogoing.

I bounce and it feels free. I notice the flowers in the neighbors' yards. The ones I rarely see because they are blocked by the fences surrounding us. We have our privacy, our own space. I bounce above it. I think of bouncing when I was a kid. Of jumping rope. Of flowers. Of smiling uncontrollably. Of counting. After about 50 bounces on the pogo stick my dog comes out to join me. As usual, he play bows and bounces in his own doggie way. I stop my own bouncing for fear of pouncing on one of his paws as he jumps forward and backward, up and down with the pogo stick, barking at me, at the action, at the fun.

He can feel it. He is it. He grounds me in this moment of noticing this life around me, this life in me. All of it. The pogo stick. The flowers. The rain starting to sprinkle down on us as we make our way into the relative dryness of the patio and finally into the house where I am able to see, at least for this moment, the aliveness inside. My kids. The guinea pigs. Spiders in the corners. An extra dog. And me.

heat wave

Well it certainly seems to be easier to be-with-what-is when I like-what-is. I suppose that is self-explanatory, part of either our cultural conditioning or the human condition, depending on which camp you stand in, maybe both for some? It was hot hot hot today in Portland and I found it hard to-be with that and hard to-be with it being hard. Double whammy. Around about the time it dipped to 98ish I started watering the plants and went out front and saw that the chickadees were declaring the blueberries superb. Time to pick the berries. Now? Wow, even with the sun setting it was hot- hot like stepping-into-a-hot-garage hot- but outside. My body felt hydrated and actually willing to take it on. I knew I would want the berries and if I let them slip away I would feel sad and extra-especially irritated with the heat.

So I put some ABBA on my ipod and picked five pints of blueberries. It was a lovely mindful picking session- feeling the hot air, enjoying the berries, amazing myself once again with what can happen when I become present with what-is, no matter what that may be, no matter how irritating and annoying I have declared it, no matter if it is my preference, or in this case, not. The heat suddenly just was. I was hot. Yes. But without the pushing away, it was not nearly as intolerable as it could have been.

I am glad I gave myself the time today to adjust to this heat wave, soaking in the AC, taking time out from running around. It is going to be hotter tomorrow and the next day (104 degrees? did I read that right?) and I know if I take it easy, slow things down, I can be-with-the-heat. I can even be with the heat going away once I get used to it. Remember that? It always cools off eventually.



Heart magnets.