Presently

Be present. Be here.

I've been thinking about this idea a lot over the past few months. My life is fairly uncomplicated right now, at least as lives go, and so I have the luxury to ponder things. As often happens, when an idea takes root in your mind, you find the universe sets it before you in many different ways.  This notion of paying attention - it pops up on my social media pages in cute sayings on Facebook or quoted passages on Twitter. Bloggers write about it. My favorite authors explore it in books that I carry around like talismans. Even the young up-and-comers, the 30-somethings who have been hell bent in their pursuit of future achievements, are beginning to rein themselves in and start focusing with renewed appreciation on what is happening right now.

In the present.

Now I'm a little bit obsessed with this idea of being present. I begin to look at everything I do during the day a little differently, so that each activity is unique and not just as something to be finished before I move on to the next item on my list. The very first thing I do in the morning  - filling the coffee pot with water, measuring the beans, grinding them to a fine texture, setting our cups on top of the coffeemaker to warm them, pouring the coffee into the cups, setting them on a cloth covered tray, and carrying them upstairs to our bedroom - takes on an element of sacredness.

Does it sound ridiculous to think of making coffee as a sacred ritual?  Part of me scoffs. Coffee is coffee, the practical, earth-centered me chides this new introspective character. But yet, I've been making coffee first thing in the morning for the past 37 years. Cumulatively, all the time I've spent making pots of coffee in the morning - not to mention all the hours spent drinking it! - represents a significant portion of my life. And the same could be said for the hours spent driving from place to place, walking the dogs, preparing meals, shopping, gardening...yet I have spent most of my life rushing through these things thinking only of getting to the next step in the process.

Thinking only of getting finished with them so I can move on to something else, something ostensibly bigger, better, more important, more interesting.

"A favorite yoga teacher often has us being in child's pose," writes Dani Shapiro (Still Writing). "As we lie there with our foreheads pressed into the mat, she'll tell us to drop down. Drop in."   Shapiro refers to the writer's need to be aware of everything, to immerse oneself in every detail of the moment, to emerge from the "cotton wool" that clouds our perspective. "Feel your feet on the ground. Your butt in the chair. Your elbows on the desk. Feel the breath moving in and out of your belly. The weight of your head on your neck. Your jaw: is it clenched?"

Try it. It's scary, isn't it? This hyper-awareness, this dropping down into the moment feels like a free-fall even as it slows me down. I wonder if this is what sky-diving is like - a sudden drop into the ether, and then a gentle pulling back as the parachute opens and you gracefully, easily float through an open expanse of blue sky.

It's a new sensation, one I can only handle in small doses right now. I experiment, play with it, like a child with a new toy.

And I try not to wonder where it will lead. I try only to fully notice this moment, in this day, in this year.

To be present. Be here.

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning. I pour three scoops of coffee into the filter, fill the reservoir, and press start. As it burbles through the machine, I open the living room blinds, smile good morning to the little finches and juncos munching away at the bird feeder. They glance up at me, but quickly return to their breakfast. They know I'm no threat to them.

Today I notice the Japanese maple leaves are literally aflame as they catch the first rays of sun from the east. I can hear the ducks squawking noisily on the pond, and I wonder what's got them stirred up, hoping last winter's coyote hasn't returned from wherever he spent the summer.

When the coffee's done, I  pour two mugs full, place them on a small wicker tray, and go back upstairs.  Jim gets one cup, I take the other to the reading nook on the south side of our bedroom. Wrapping a soft sweater across my shoulders, I settle into my chair, and happily lose myself in the pages of a book.

After reading there is breakfast, and a long walk with the dogs. We're excited because the golf course is closed now, so we can  travel the cart paths that wind in and around the various ponds and hills. Cool air on my skin, azure blue sky overhead, the silence unbroken except for the call of birds and the rustle of dry leaves under our feet. It's soothing and invigorating at the same time.

By the time we get back, it's almost lunch time. Another Sunday morning, come and gone.

For a number of years, our Sunday mornings were taken up with church services. In the early 1990's we joined a church - the first time in our married lives we attended church together. We found a cadre of friends and a niche in the handbell choirs and singing choirs. We were faithful goers and doers.

But over the past few years, we began to fall away from church. Our musical experience wasn't so fulfilling anymore, our senior pastor retired and a series of interim ministers took his place.  We still had our friends, but saw them often enough outside of church that we didn't miss them too much. Getting up and dressed and out the door on Sunday morning became a hassle. We often felt annoyed and agitated before we even arrived, and the worship service itself usually did nothing to relieve that sensation.

So we stopped going.

Growing up, my family didn't go to church regularly,  and though I've attended off and on at different points in my lifetime it's easy enough for me to set it aside. The habit isn't deeply ingrained, the need to go in order to salve my conscience was never instilled.

Simply put,  I don't believe that regular attendance or involvement in church is mandatory in order to live a Christian life.  Nor do I subscribe to the notion that church is "irrelevant" in the modern world. I think organized religion is valuable, I think it's important that the world see a community of believers dedicated to living the principles of their religion.   And for many individuals, participation in worship and church activities is the way they live their faith. A minister once said that the worship service was the "intersection between faith and life." I liked that analogy, and obviously it stuck with me. I can see how gathering with like-minded individuals once a week is a way to connect spirituality and practicality, a way to inform daily living with a weekly dose of inspirational practice and ritual.

So if you don't go to church, how do you live your faith? How does your religion and your beliefs about that religion inform the way you go about your daily living?

Although I believe there is power in this connection,  this sense of church as the intersection of faith and living, I also don't believe it's the end of the story. I think faith and life intersect in a lot of ways - in quiet contemplation, in listening to inspiring music, in caring for the people you love, in helping strangers, in being empathetic towards people of all cultures, in being good stewards of animals and the earth.  Whenever you do something with love, whenever you touch someone with tenderness, whenever you treat someone as you would wish to be treated yourself, even when - especially when! - it's so hard to do, that's also where faith and life intersect.

A friend who has also recently stopped going to church, put it this way: "I haven't given up on God, I've just given up churchgoing." That statement feels right to me too, at least for now. During the ebb and flow of this life in general, there may be a point when going to church becomes important to my journey of faith.

For now, I'm trying to be mindful of the many other intersections along the way.

The Mommy Track

It's sort of like riding a bicycle - once you've done it, you never forget how. I'm talking about being a mom - more specifically, being the mom of a baby, or young child. I've just spent a few days visiting my son, daughter in law, and grandson, and it didn't take more than a minute for me to recall the myriad of feelings associated with full time motherhood.

The satisfying feel of a tiny hand tucked in yours, the comforting aroma of milky sweet baby breath.

The musical sound of those first words and squeals of delighted laughter.

The heart-grabbing sight of tottering footsteps and arms outstretched to be lifted up.

Of course, for every one of those wonderful sensations, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Hands grab what they shouldn't, and milk gets spilled just as often as drunk. Words of love turn into the toddler mantra (No! No! No!) and squeals of laughter become screams of frustration. Footsteps falter and fall, and little bodies need to be picked up and comforted.

While I was visiting, there was a post going around on the internet about being a stay at home mom. I read it and shared this excerpt on my own Facebook page:

"The people who completely immerse themselves in the tiring, thankless, profoundly important job of raising children ought to be put on a pedestal. We ought to revere them and admire them like we admire rocket scientists and war heroes. These women are doing something beautiful and complicated and challenging and terrifying and painful and joyous and essential. Whatever they are doing, they ARE doing something, and our civilization DEPENDS on them doing it well. Who else can say such a thing? What other job carries with it such consequences?"

Even though I raised only one child, I quickly learned that being a full time stay at home mom was a job fraught with conflicting emotions and one that required more energy than just about any other.

Yet, given it to do over, I wouldn't change a thing. Wouldn't give up being there for every one of those fabulous frustrating minutes. Wouldn't miss one sticky kiss or even one noisy temper tantrum.

Because let me assert this: I believe that being a full time stay at home mom (if you can possibly afford to do it) for at least the first five years of your child's life, is the most important gift you'll ever give yourself.

That's right, I said a gift for yourself. Shepherding the development of a tiny human, especially your  very own tiny human, is a mind-boggling and humbling experience. It trumps every corporate coup, every artistic masterpiece, every legal battle fought and won.

Trust me - you don't want to miss it. Because one of these days, on a day that will come far quicker than you ever anticipated, those children will walk out your door and start their own lives. You'll have plenty of time on your hands when that happens. But you'll also have plenty of memories and a well placed sense of satisfaction about the days you spent devoted to their care.

But even though I believe staying home with your kids is valuable and important for them and actually quite selfish for you (because who wants to go to their grave feeling like they shortchanged themselves in kid-time?), I also think it's equally as important for every mom to have their own life.

You mothers out there covered in burp cloths, Boppy pillows, and onesies - you're sneering at me, I know. "Have my own life??" you're thinking. "I can't even find time to go to the bathroom! Where will I find time for a Life??"

It's a process. With every step toward independence your tiny human takes, you need to take one too. You need to venture forth into the world, one that doesn't include babies or toddlers and all their trappings. Join a book group or a photography club. Take a yoga class. Go to work part-time.

Take some baby steps down the road that will eventually lead you back to a Life of Your Own. Because babies don't stay babies. You, however, will be a grown woman for the rest of your days. And when baby is grown up and gone, you need to be comfortable and happy in your own skin. And you need a Life to Live while you're wearing it.

We hear a lot these days about Helicopter Parents who hover over their kids every move from the time they're born until - and even after! - they're married or in the work force. Hovering is bad news for kids, but it's even worse news for parents. Because one of these days that kid is going to get fed up with you buzzing around the perimeter of their lives and they'll swat you aside like the pesky creature you are.

And that will hurt everybody, but it will hurt YOU most of all.

The Mommy Track doesn't always seem like the Fast Track, but it really is. Those childhood days speed by faster than Helio Castraneves around the oval at Indianapolis. Give it all you've got, but start thinking about your exit strategy too.

Find meaningful ways to be and do and create that are just about you. You'll never forget how to be a mom. But you can forget how to be your own person, and that's something too valuable to let slip away.

September Saturday

Already, the last Saturday in September.  There is a purposeful intensity to the sun - it hangs low in a purely blue sky and penetrates the long sleeves of my t-shirt with heat. I'm still here, it tells me, burning through the cotton shirt, don't count me out yet. Oh don't worry, sun, I will not ignore you. I step out onto the deck, intending to to sweep it clear of grass clippings and the first flurry of golden poplar leaves that have started raining down on it. Instead, I just open the gate and let the dogs scamper down into the yard. They each find their own patch of sunlight and lay right down in it, looking up at me with grateful eyes for the opportunity to replenish their own stores of solar energy. I am supposed to  keep them on a leash , but this is a rule I break all the time. My dogs always stay close to me, and as long as I keep a sharp lookout for squirrels that might entice them, I know they will behave admirably.

So I sit on the step and lean back against the railing. There is no human noise today, and I love that. Birds are constantly chattering here because so many of us have feeders, and there is just enough breeze to rustle the dry leaves. But no lawnmowers, no cars, not even any dogs barking. Hard to believe there are 320 homes in such close proximity.

It's 3:00 and I'm tired. Every afternoon about 3:00, my energy gives out. The pattern of my days is such that I'm usually finishing up errands or work about 3:00, often driving back from my mother's house after taking her shopping or picking up the dogs. I think I've always gotten tired about 3:00 - maybe after all those years of being on school schedule, my body is used to the end-of-school-day let down. Until recently, I would just power through...continue on with whatever was next on the schedule, push myself to keep going, keep doing.

But last week I decided to stop doing that, stop pushing myself farther than my body wants me to go. When 3:00 comes and I am tired, I will rest. I will find the nearest bench and sit on it for a while. If I'm home, I will take off my shoes and curl up on the corner of the couch, pull a soft blanket around my shoulder, and read. I will treat my tired 3:00 body with tenderness and care. I will pour it some water, make it some tea, listen to it's creaks and groans and let it be still for just a little while.

And on days like this beautiful last Saturday of September, I will sit on my porch and lean my shoulder against the rough railing of the deck. I will let the sun splash across my face, I will breathe in the dusty smell of drying leaves. I will not look at nor give a thought to Twitter feeds or Facebook posts. I won't even bury my nose in the pages of whatever book is usually in my hands.

Because September Saturdays don't last forever, and neither will I. It's  alright for me now, in the September of my own life, to just be still sometimes. To be quiet. There is no need for me to always Do Something, even if it's something pleasurable. Sometimes the gift is not in Doing but in Being.

And so here I Be.

Sufficient Grace

It can be as small the fluttering wings of a hummingbird hovering over a purple petunia, or as expansive as a doctor’s smile offering a clean bill of health after a lingering illness. You can find it brewing in a china teapot, between the covers of a book, or in the melody of your favorite song. You feel it when a baby leans his head against your shoulder or when your husband takes your hand during an evening walk. I will never be this happy again, you think to yourself. Nothing could be more beautiful than this.

Grace.

The word grace has two familiar meanings, and in my mind they combine to create a complete definition of the concept. ”Seemingly effortless beauty, charm, and refinement,” says the Oxford Dictionary, but also “Divine love and protection bestowed freely by God.” When we acknowledge the effortlessly beautiful moments of our lives and relationships, then we are most aware of something divine, something that offers us protection from the harsh realities of life.

Sunday’s are grace-full days for me, and part of me that wishes the world closed up on Sunday’s, the way it used to when I was young (oh now I’ve become one of those women who hearkens back to the good old days). But I wish more people could have a day to savor, to slow down their pace and experience whatever grace life brings their way. I like the idea of setting aside one day in the week to honor grace, notice it where it falls, give it as a gift. Even though I’ve lately fallen out of the church-going habit, I find myself going quiet on Sunday mornings, giving myself some time to be still and notice some of the things I think of as belonging to God – the changing seasons, the blue sky, the faithful companionship of my animals. I’m thankful for waking up with a healthy body and mind, because for so many it is otherwise. I’m grateful for this beautiful home and the loved ones who share it with me. I allow myself the luxury of time on Sundays, time to take the dogs for a longer walk than usual, time to read one more chapter in my book, time to search through all my music until I find just what I need to hear. I will myself to be patient and to move slowly when my usual weekday tendency is to rush and hurry through the hours.

These are the ways I let grace into my life, acknowledge it’s presence as a gift. How full of grace is this life, when you wake in the morning with heath and love, surrounded by food and warmth, when you rise from a soft bed and put on clean and comfortable clothes that fit your body. When you speak daily with people who care about you and are willing to listen to your stories, and when you sit quietly and listen to theirs.

This is Grace, this beautiful and charming life of mine. A gift from God, it’s sufficient to lead me from hour to hour, year to year, decade to decade.