Follow that Firefly!

In the winter, things seem to plod along at a soothing, repetitious pace. I like that! An unexpected change is welcome for its infrequency, and the quick return to the regularly scheduled program brings satisfaction.

In the summer, all bets are off.  Kids are home from school -- an even more glaring change for me these days since some of mine are away at college during the school year -- and the schedule is different every day. I no longer have the excuse of it being a school day to keep the family tucked safely in the house; they scatter and vanish, returning only to grab a bathing suit. Are they using sunscreen, have they eaten their vegetables? Are they hydrating?

And food. I shop, then a horde of locusts sails through and the cupboards are bare and the dishwasher is full and who left a peanut butter knife on the counter again? I swear I put six of those away every afternoon. Popsicles and watermelons chill next to the Hershey bars in case a s'mores craving hits. Meals are haphazard and mostly grilled; sometimes there's a crowd at the table and the next day it's only me and my husband.

Oh, who am I kidding.  I love this too! Spinning summer days flash by in a daze of color and motion. The summer is short and fast, and finally there is an excuse to gobble that ice cream cone in sixty seconds flat. Pockets of calm and togetherness, like today as the girls and I hung out by the pool, reminding ourselves about how they used to make me pull them by their feet through the water, and stand with my legs apart so they could courageously swim between them. They teased me about not wanting to get my hair wet (yikes, I am getting old!) and wearing a swim suit with a skirt (it's cute! I swear!).

And in a minute it will be gone with the last flash of a firefly's butt.

Salute the Sun

How full is your glass?  This week we celebrate the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. As I reminded my yoga class of this upcoming day, someone responded, “Oh, I hate the summer solstice. It means the days are going to start getting shorter.” 

Yipes!

What other wonderful things do we dismiss as being negative because it is bringing about a future change? Do we cry at our child’s eighth grade graduation through dread of having a high schooler? Do we lament our first grey hair because now we are old? Do we skip a milestone celebration because we don’t want to think back on happier/better/younger times?

Don’t miss a celebration NOW because of a fear that is in the future. Enjoy the long day. Enjoy the sweet summer nights. Eat a fresh-picked tomato (it’s lunchtime and I’m hungry . . .) And watch the news on Wednesday to see if you can catch my daughter and me Surya Namaskar-ing our heart-centers out with a few other folks (like 1500) in New York’s Times Square. Woo hoo, longest day of the year!!

Abby doing Camel

Yoga is so fun with a crowd!

Take it from Mae

I know I have blogged about this before, but it bears repeating: Eliminate all negative words from your vocabulary. Now. And double up your efforts when talking to yourself. 

Don’t worry if you slip up, because you have a backspace key so you can correct yourself. If you forget your kindness resolution and kick yourself in the butt (you yogis can literally do that, I know!), send a quick shout out to the universe that you take it back, that you actually meant to pat yourself reassuringly on the back. Then continue on your Positively Charming way.

When office chitchat turns snarky, ask yourself, “Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?” If you have to answer No to one of these questions, it’s probably time to change the subject. (Try talking about food – everyone loves food, and it’s very distracting, plus it’s true, kind and necessary!)

There is no need to be mean to your self or to others. It just makes everyone cranky. Take a tip from Aibileen (to Mae Mobley via K. Stockett in The Help), and repeat to yourself and others:  “You is kind, you is smart. You is important.”  And I’ll add, “You is loveable.”

The &*!#$% Scenic Route Again

I was driving with my daughter recently, and twice I uttered an expletive (I know! I could hardly believe it myself!).  The second time I added some mutterings about being mad at myself for being so absentminded and stupid.  My lovely child looked at me and said, "Mom, it's not like you to talk bad abut yourself."  So I took a deep breath, and stopped talking. It would have been nice if I'd been able to give myself a pep talk, but it had been one of those days and saying nothing seemed the best course.

We all have "those days", when nothing you do turns out the way you want it to, or when it seems like everything you touch turns to lead instead of gold.  I was lucky someone who loved me was around to pull me up short and remind me that trash-talking myself would not make anything better. So often we continue to berate ourselves until we've dug ourselves in so deep it's hard to climb up again, and we begin to believe our own negative propaganda.

I should listen to my own advice more often, because I am famous in my house for saying things like, "Sweetie, you can do that mad or you can do it happy." It's so easy to moan and kvetch about something or someone, but that just drags you down into a ditch, and it gets damp and lonely in there. Be your own best friend and remind yourself that you are great, and terrific, and even though you make mistakes, you are still perfect. Because if being perfect meant never making mistakes, perfection would be undesirable -- after all, making mistakes, taking missteps, and trying new things are what teach us, and we all want to continue to learn.

So I will continue to learn that even though I forget where I'm going and have to make several u-turns on the road, I am gaining knowledge about the byways and seeing neighborhoods I never knew existed.  The scenic route! Perfect.

Do you know just enough to be dangerous?

soph·o·mor·ic [sof-uh-mawr-ik, -mor-]  

adjective

1. of or pertaining to a sophomore  or sophomores.

2. suggestive of or resembling the traditional sophomore; intellectually pretentious, overconfident, conceited, etc. but immature: sophomoric questions.

conceited and overconfident of knowledge but poorly informed and immature <a sophomoric argument>

of, relating to, or characteristic of a sophomore<sophomoric humor>

I remember a college professor telling my class the meaning of “sophomore”. Since most of us were sophomores at the time, we were highly insulted; myself included, apparently, since I still remember it! But face it, we’ve all pushed a point with great certainty, all the while missing a main fact that would nullify our argument if only we knew it. (And if this scenario does not seem familiar to you, ummm, just ask a friend if he’s noticed you being sophomoric!)

We often close ourselves off to new opportunities and new ways of doing things because we think we already know it all. Perhaps we are better off being perpetual freshmen, open to what is before us and willing to admit we don’t know everything.  In yoga we speak of “the beginner’s mind”, reminding ourselves to step into every situation with an open mind and heart.  It doesn’t mean that the way you do something is “wrong”; but often, it doesn’t hurt to try the other guy’s way. 

Ultimately, you decide what is right for you, but if you have been able to weigh both sides of the situation and then make your decision, you have graduated sophomore year and are now a junior!  

Home Planet

We fondly refer to her as Mother Earth. This place of beauty and joy, of hardship and sadness. Our home for a few years or many, where we take things for granted and forget to say thank you; where we rejoice in gratitude and appreciate the gifts.  She’s been called by many other names, like Terra Firma, the Big Blue Marble, Gaia; I like to consider her Mother.

Everyone could use another Mother, right?  No matter how you feel about your earthly mother, Mother Earth is a universal source of nurturance and care.  The more mothers the merrier, I say!  (Just ask my brother, who grew up with five older sisters and a mom – on second thought, maybe it’s still too soon  . . .) Mother Earth brings us food, and presents us with materials for shelter.  She steadfastly revolves around the sun to bring us Day and Night, Summer and Winter. Even when we strew trash around like we tossed clothes on the floor of our adolescent bedrooms, Mother Earth doesn’t desert us. She may not be thrilled, but she just shakes her head (earthquake!), sheds a few tears (flood!) and hopes we learn someday to clean up after ourselves.

I don’t actually think Mother Earth quakes and floods to punish us, but it is a nice illustration. We take it personally when Mother Earth overwhelms us with her changing moods, but truly, she is neutral.  She turns and churns, creates and destroys, nourishes and starves with impersonal regularity. 

Even when we become a planet populated by peaceful, loving citizens, Mother Earth will still have her earthquakes.  She will still spew lava and spill too much rain. Oblivious to the despair she has wrought, she will then bless us with sunshine and soft grass beneath our feet, and be a source of much joy and wonder. The advantage we will have then is the ongoing care and love from our neighbors, when neighborhoods stretch across the entire planet.

And I like to think that would make Mother Earth smile.

Walking in Circles

I step into the labyrinth as the church bell towers strike nine.  The slow, even count echoes my footsteps; or is it the other way around?  The chimes turn into a melody, and I walk on to the sound of “Holy, Holy, Holy”.  Yes, it is.  The sun is warm and the air is soft.  As I turn right and head toward the strip of woods the ground grows hard and cold, no grass growing in the deeply shaded area.  I continue around and step into the sunshine, where the grass is thick and soft, warm beneath my bare feet.  A small brown and orange butterfly flits across my path to settle on a tiny yellow flower.  I carefully step around her and continue my circling.  As I walk along the paths edged with old brick, I try to empty my mind of all but sound.  The church bells fade into silence and the birds take over, chirping and tweeting their secret messages to each other.  Cars going by on the road make a sound like the wind through trees, and again I am in the sunny section of the path, soft grass and warmth on my shoulders.  Ah, the center.  Here is where I pause and gaze up into the tree tops, spring leaves rustling softly, sun on their tops and their lower branches in shadow. I return to the path, retracing my steps, circling the labyrinth’s center in small circles, then larger, then, surprisingly, another small circuit close to the middle before widening out again.  Slow steps in rhythm with my breath.  Clover, wild strawberry, packed dirt, soft grass; beneath my soles each step takes a different tone.  I start to wax poetic in my mind: Life is sometimes cold and hard, then the next step takes you into the sun, with soft freshness to carry you forward . . . then I turn off my brain and return to my senses.  The spring air is fragrant with green, the dog rests patiently in the sun, hidden animals scurry beneath the trees, and my feet touch the Earth.  Oh, how quickly the return trip seems, always shorter than the walk in to the center.  I step out of the labyrinth and go up to the ancient pin oak, pressing my palms on her rough bark.  I know her roots are spread wide beneath me, echoing her branches, holding her deep into the ground.  I pat her mossy surface, and call to the dog.