To Share Is Divine

A couple days ago I was sitting on the dock looking at trees in fall color reflected in a perfectly still lake.  I imagined taking a photograph I could share on Face Book with the caption “My morning view.”  It was the caption that gave me pause. It’s one thing to want to capture a beautiful scene and quite another to narrate it for an audience, isn’t it? Why did I need to share this moment? Is it narcissistic to think people would be interested in where I am this morning? Am I so self-seeking that I need people to validate my life by “liking” it? Despite my quick desire to share, I stayed on the dock and savored the moment, alone, then wrote about it, and then got my phone and took a picture. And posted it.

Experiencing beauty and tranquility is for me a spiritual moment, and spirituality implies connection. Sharing is what we do when we’re in awe or wonder.  My spirit thrives in connection—with other people, alone without an agenda, or with the power of natural beauty. 

 A desire to uplift seems to run through much of my Face Book news feed, in pictures of darling grandchildren or beloved pets, in stories of strangers overcoming adversity. Even messages of outrage at injustice often focus on the ones working with courage and perseverance to right those wrongs.  I suspect we’re inclined to share with others what nourishes our own spirit not only to be helpful but also because sharing what touches my spirit connects me with yours, and that’s how we all progress.

The Geography of Joy

 

Today I had a rare day off with no prior commitments, so I could discern what I truly wanted to do and where I wanted to be. I packed a lunch and drove to a state park to hike for a few hours. The weather was perfect, there weren’t many on the trails, and I was as content as I’ve been in a long while--perhaps because I was alone and didn’t have to compromise, perhaps because it felt so good to move in sunshine and fresh air, but also because I was in the woods, which is where my spirit finds rest.

Two weeks ago I walked the beautiful beaches of South Carolina every morning, appreciating the majesty of the Atlantic Ocean.  That vacation served its purpose; I appreciate my home and work more than ever.  When it comes to nourishment, my heart needs trees, a lake, a river. Of course I’ll continue to take trips to mountains, deserts, other cities, other seas, but they’re more like good books that transport me to other lives for a delightful time. They’re not home.

It doesn’t take a lot to make me happy, but it's important to know what it is because I’m responsible for my own happiness.  I prefer tea to coffee, fiction to nonfiction, one-on-one conversations to large gatherings, lined notebooks to blank pages.  Do these things really matter? Maybe they don’t for some people. But I’m more useful to other people when I’m content and comfortable, and for me, that also requires a solitary walk in the woods on a regular basis.

We all have our own geography of joy. I’m blessed to live in mine and look forward to returning to this park in a few months with my skis.

 

Living in Life's Closets

 

My husband and I looked at a house this week that we both wanted to love—closer to my work, in the city limits for him, a one-of-a-kind home built in 1934.  But despite its outward charm, once inside, I couldn’t imagine living there and neither could he. While the water issues were problematic, what held me back most were the closets. Granted I’m on a path to minimalism, letting go of more and more clothes every week, but the size and dilapidated shape of those closets gave me serious pause.  I asked myself if I were being too shallow? Perhaps it was time to be more interested in a garden than a closet?

 And then I remembered all the closets that were special spaces for me: I burrowed into the cedar closet that led to an attic when I was a little girl, hid in mine as an adolescent to avoid my little sister and visitors I didn’t want to entertain, sat in the back of my walk-in closet in graduate school and had long soul-searching conversations with myself in a mirror. Today, winnowing and organizing my spacious, clean closet is a dependable source of joy.

Maybe I just love little spaces. Maybe I am shallow and rearranging things calms me down, fills me up, and occupies my time in ways writing and meditating do not. Maybe I’ll outgrow this desire and need at some point.

But for now, closets will be a factor in any new place we move.  Maybe someday I’ll have as few clothes as they did during the Great Depression and spend my time outside talking with neighbors as I hang them on a line.  But trying to become that person before I truly am there is a source of discouragement, frustration, and perhaps even shame.  I think it’s better to know who I am today, what I want, and trust that something that pleases me is also out there.

A Legacy of Love

 

Fifty-nine years ago today my parents married in Salem Lutheran Church, north Minneapolis. It was a Friday evening, chosen as an auspicious day for some Swedish reason.  Shortly after, they drove to Banff and honeymooned all along the way.  The story goes that every time they stopped at a drug store so my father could purchase condoms, he got embarrassed and bought nail clippers instead. That was as close as my mother ever came to talking about sex with me. Even so, I didn’t come along for three more years.

I’m thankful they had such a great love. They kissed every night after work, Mom sat in Dad’s lap regularly, and I fell asleep to the sound of them talking quietly at the kitchen table.  Though I could never make out their precise words, I was comforted by the give and take rhythm of endless conversation.  I think they preferred each other’s company to anyone else, though our family times were filled with games and adult bridge players were a regular presence in our living room.

 My own marriage is less than four years old, and perhaps I waited until I was 52 because Ann and Roger set such a high bar.  I didn’t want to settle for less than sweet compatibility, mutual adoration, and I just wish they were still around to be part of the conversation. 

Keeping the Island Vibe Alive

 

We just returned from a week on a tropical island that was as idyllic as a magazine photo.  The temperatures were perfect, the ocean was clear, warm and glorious, and our time was ours completely. No agendas or alarm clocks.  We had no car so got around on foot, bike, or occasional taxi and kept pretty close to our hotel.  We ate breakfast and lunch together on our patio—simple meals I prepared after our run to a grocery store on the bicycle—and had lovely dinners out.  I didn’t worry about anything; even when our sailboat capsized in the ocean I stayed calm.

Now that I’m back, I’d like to ride this wave as long as I can. I want to be on an inner vacation, so here’s what I’m going to lean into.

Slow down.  Even though I now have certain places I have to be at set times, with a little more planning I can move toward them without rushing.  I spent time on the balcony just looking at the ocean.  I could look at beauty here too.

Do one thing at a time.  I loved preparing meals and cleaning up because that was the only activity I needed to do at the moment.  When I read I didn’t feel as if I should be doing something else.  I want to be that focused more of my day.

Have unscheduled time to let unfold every single day. Part of the wonder of vacation week was just listening to what we felt like doing next.  That’s not really do-able if every minute is previously scheduled.

Listen without interrupting.  I realize that when I interrupt to move things along I’m assuming I don’t have enough time.  I’d like to listen to anyone in front of me as if I have all the time in the world.

Talk to strangers and experience community wherever I am.  On the island, we talked to other guests, to the people who worked at the hotel, to the people we stood next to at the casino and to others on the airplane. I heard wonderful snippets of people’s lives and felt an intimacy I  would like to have with my next door neighbors at home.

 

Minnesota is also beautiful in the summertime, and keeping this relaxed pace alive in me will help me truly appreciate what I have in my life everyday.

Staying Put

I’ve been at the cabin by myself for 48 hours now, and this weekend I decided not to leave, no matter what. I could have run errands, gone to a movie, bought groceries, etc., but instead I’ve stayed put. It’s the rare day without appointments, schedules, or agendas, and yet even when I have the potential for an unstructured day, I’m likely to fill it with a different kind of work or the activities of pleasure. Eating just food from the pantry was a creative challenge and put meals into perspective--they were fuel, not the centerpiece of the day.

This weekend’s commitment to stay put makes me aware of how often I take action simply to be in motion. When a task comes to mind, how often do I ask myself—does this really have to be done right now? Is this how I truly want to spend my time?  I like to think I live mindfully, but how much of my day emerges from habit, routine, and obligation? I’m glad I have mostly good habits and healthy routines, but still, this stretch of unstructured time in one place helped me shift gears. Staying put let me listen to what I truly wanted to do and to do one task at a time.  When I made tea, I just drank tea and a spaciousness opened around me. 

I suppose that’s what the Sabbath is about—once a week our routines are suspended for the sole/soul purpose of connecting with true treasures: God, family, and one’s own heart. Our culture doesn’t really observe a Sabbath any longer, and I don’t either.  I’d like to incorporate a “staying put” day each month, to reset my compass, to reconnect with my inner guidance, and to savor what’s right in front of me.

 

At Arm's Length

I’m not really a horse person, but when I was at Ghost Ranch recently and spied a barn, I moved toward the horses in the pen. About ten feet away I stopped and waved. To my astonishment, two of them looked up and ran toward me, as if they knew me. Too timid to pet them, I took a photo, told them they were beautiful, and thanked them for being so friendly.

Later in the retreat,  we were asked to share something from our afternoon, and I described my experience, including my surprise that the horses were so eager to meet me.  And I wondered aloud if maybe I also assume people would rather not spend time with me, and so keep them at arm’s length through being too busy or too aloof.

Since that brief equine encounter, I’ve noticed how I buffer myself from rejection by not putting myself out there. For example, I didn’t offer any retreats where I work this year, even though I love creating and leading them, because I feared nobody would attend. Silly, I know, but powerful old beliefs that prevent me from fully experiencing the joy of relationships.

So here’s how I’m leaning into greater connection:

·         I’ve asked two friends to talk monthly about our creative endeavors, to set an intention for what’s next, and to support each other imagining it into existence.

·         I’ve invited my mother in law for a weekly supper so my sister in law gets a break and we spend more time with this sweet woman who won’t be around forever.

·         During a recent retreat I stayed in the common area and wrote in my journal rather than stay in my room, and another participant joined me and read . We sat in silent companionship.

·         I rearranged my schedule so my husband and I could enjoy an evening together after days apart.  This doesn’t sound like much, but in the past I would have hoped he would change his plans and then felt hurt when we didn’t get much time together.

Being in a new place on retreat--displacing myself from my routine—allowed me to see outmoded habits that actually prevent the very connections I so desire. It took horses to show me that there’s a world that welcomes me if I only signal by a wave that I’m interested and available.