First thing this morning, there was a list running in my head of tasks that needed attention right away, or so I believed. I made my way to the kitchen in robe and slippers, reaching automatically to switch off the lamppost out front. The inner productivity police were telling me I was already behind—not a very kind or peaceful way to begin the day.
But outside the window, past the lamppost, my neighbor’s saucer magnolia was in full bloom. Lit by the rising sun, branches and blooms leaning languidly over the drive, the tree’s abundant flowers spilled onto the ground below. The sight lifted me above the weary trails in my mind, and awakened me to the beauty of the morning.
That tree hadn’t worried as it weathered the winter; it didn’t fret about whether it would bloom. It didn’t resist coming to life in the early spring. It didn’t tell itself that opening its buds was too hard, or question its own timing when the days turned warmer. It didn’t judge the number of blossoms on its branches, or their color and size.
Instead, it simply allowed the sap to rise and the buds to form and the sun to invite them to open. It didn’t “do” anything. It certainly didn’t force anything. It allowed life and the season to flow through it.
And today, that beautiful magnolia invited me to do the same.
I would love to be looking forward into the new year with energy and clarity. It would be great to be moving ahead, powered by a sense of direction and a spirit of taking charge. But what I’m feeling is that I’m behind already.
Over the holidays it felt wonderful to check out from the news and the routines and even the Zoom connections that carried me through the prior months. Resting from them makes clear the effort that they all require. Now the gears are creaking as I try to get going again.
Transitions are hard for toddlers, and maybe they don’t really get any easier. We simply learn to soldier on. With the new year underway, it’s time for plans and schedules. The unopened door into the work that I have yet to begin is daunting as always. I have to remind myself that the work most always ends up being do-able once I walk through that door. It’s just a matter of turning the knob and leaning in.
Like all of us, my particular circumstances are set against our larger societal challenges. Bearing up in the current climate requires some effort in itself. There’s a race out there between the vaccine distribution channels and the new, more contagious, strain of coronavirus. I had internalized what felt ok to do, the volume of traffic in a store that felt safe to enter. Not much felt ok. Now the level of contagion is worse and I no longer have that sense of what’s safe. The virus is moving faster and the vaccine seems to be rolling out in slow motion, getting no closer to me at all. It’s a terrible thing when trying to live with good, responsible judgment seems indistinguishable from living in fear. And now there’s the chaos in Washington, too.
For weeks I’ve held onto how Rabbi Ari Saks recently described the meaning of Hanukkah. It speaks directly to this time. He says that lighting the menorah celebrates a victory in the midst of a larger battle, the outcome of which is yet unknown. It’s an act of faith, a way of drawing strength and courage from the small sources of light along our path. It’s also an act of courage to name what we hope for, to tend it, and to work for it.
That’s where we are as this year begins. There is hope and good news, but the shot in the arm is not here yet. There’s a new vision and leadership, but the transfer hasn’t happened. We’re in between the promise and the manifestation, and we persevere.
Once a week I tune in for a guided meditation offered by a wise teacher named Marion Gilbert. During her Monday Meditations I experience my burdens being lifted. It shifts my perception in a way that lets me feel absolutely carried and supported, with a perspective that allows me to be completely at peace. It works on my psyche just like smoothing an animal’s fur.
My worrying mind wants to be in charge. It thinks it should be in charge, yet has no capacity to change much of anything. My strongest agency comes from where I place my attention and what I choose. The best choice is to find that solid place to stand where I can observe the mind doing what it does, and be aware all the while that reality is bigger than what the worrying mind is able to perceive. That’s when I can remember that I’m being carried into the new year, that it’s not all up to me, and that ultimately all will be well.
Through all the challenges of this season, the beauty of autumn has restored me almost daily. In the isolation brought by the pandemic, changing colors offer something new in every walk through the neighborhood. Through the divisive political climate, the trees present a cyclical drama where everything has its season. Even, or especially, amidst the painful realities of the time we’re in, nature is a healer. The landscape itself compels us to savor these glorious days for the short time we have them.
I love the towering shimmer of tulip poplar leaves, stirred by the breeze like ripples in a golden stream. I’m in awe of the maple’s golden-red foliage, translucent in the sun, like the glow of stained glass in afternoon light. Holly berries redden, pinecones open, burnished acorns fall from the oak. Each tree in its own way yields to the turning of seasons, again and again and again. The reassuring rhythm is a balm for anxious days.
In the tender days of a difficult year, this beauty touches me more profoundly than ever. When I allow the natural world to speak, my heart responds. I’m reminded of what I’d forgotten: I love this land, with its proliferation of life and growth and beauty. I love its forests and orchards, its fields and gardens, its grazing acres and neighborhood lawns. I love the variety of what grows here—the feast of color and shape, texture and size, rooted in the local soil of each one’s unique place.
The hues of this season sing of abundance, with the dazzling specificity of each particular shade. May this array of beauty speak to our hearts; may its diversity show us what can grow. May this glorious outpouring of life teach us generosity, and may the words we speak to one another be carried forth on the breath of love.
Many years ago when I was an undergrad, I learned that the week of final exams was a time of great anxiety. The dorm’s common rooms filled with study groups, and solitary students hunched over their desks late into the night. Across long tables in dining halls we commiserated about upcoming tests and unwritten papers. (We scarcely noticed the cafeteria dishes clattering in the background as other people prepared our food and cleaned up afterwards.) It was the crucible of the semester’s end. Fashionable girls abandoned blow-dry styles for ponytails, and went about bare-faced, attired in sweatshirts. The library tables were full, and everyone looked stressed.
My senior year I lived off campus, in a neighborhood where no one else was in college. The strangest thing happened. During finals week I had some exams. I studied. I wrote papers. I worked hard and I finished. The drama I believed was part of finals was entirely missing. No pervasive anxiety anywhere, except when I showed up to take a test. For the first time I understood that the concentration of worried students on campus created its own separate atmosphere, a storm cloud looming over the dorms and classrooms.
The time we’re in feels something like being caught under that storm cloud. Certainly, there’s more at stake than a student GPA, and the expanse of unease is far beyond the reach of a college campus. But the principle is the same. On a national scale, we’re creating this atmosphere as we amplify each other’s anxiety.
The news is intense right now. I listen to NPR on the radio while I’m cooking, read online newspapers over coffee, watch news on tv in the evening, and try to keep up with The Atlantic magazine here and there. The routine of all this news-gathering has a soothing regularity, despite the distressing content. The state of our nation is a topic of urgent conversation over Zoom or in person. But all of this takes a toll.
Our collective emotional pitch is creating the reality we’re living, and it’s not good for us. It keeps us on edge, affects our relationships and our health, and creates a climate where disinformation can easily take hold.
I’ve had to learn to recognize when I’ve hit my limit for news, and more importantly, how to step away from that anxious mindset. Though at this point I can’t walk a few blocks to reach a different climate, I’m finding that walking a few blocks helps anyway.
Different things help different people. In this final week before the election, it’s a good time to be intentional about cultivating some peace of mind. How can you allow yourself at least a few minutes a day to rest from the rising anxiety? Is there a place where you can be in nature? Is there a project you enjoy working on? Is there a friend with whom you enjoy spending time? Is there something new you’d like to learn? Can you revive your mindfulness practice?
In that last, quiet undergraduate year, I missed the excitement of finals week on campus, just a little. What I actually missed was being caught up in the shared experience with my classmates. For all the distress, we were going through something important that bound us together.
I know now that I could have helped myself and others if I had been less overtaken by the hive mind. I could have made more of a contribution if I had more perspective on the hive’s anxiety. I could have offered the genuine assurance that we simply had to do the work in front of us, and the reminder that a few deep breaths would make it easier.
That’s true now, as well. We can’t control events, but we have a great deal of choice in how we respond to them. We can choose where to put our energy and attention. We can recall how we’ve been carried through other difficult times in our lives, and allow that to give us a better perspective. If each of us can keep our balance individually, it will help bring peace when we need it most.
After half a year of guarding against the coronavirus, there’s no longer much that feels novel about it. We’re all learning to live with the isolation and limitation, along with the toll it takes. I feel like a potbound plant. Yet just as roots pushing against their container force new growth above the soil, the constriction of these days pushes me to leaf out in new ways, even as I long for life to open up again.
I’ve learned about sewing masks over these long months since the pandemic took hold. My first efforts were pleated rectangles, stitched on the machine one after another like a banner of prayer flags. In those early, frightening days when masks were nearly impossible to find, each was a supplication for safety, offered to and for my loved ones.
The masks I make now fit better, and there are many other places to find them. Maybe I’ll attempt another round with a new design, but these days I’m weary of the project and the clutter. It’s time to clear the dining room table, piled with the fabric, interfacing, and allergen filter I’ve experimented with. I designated a box for keeping my tools and materials at hand. Like the fears that arrived with the virus, they’re not quite put away but no longer sprawling everywhere.
In this and so many other ways, we’re living in the in-between. Covid has imposed strange, yet increasingly familiar, routines even as it remains long way from being over. The end, so far, isn’t even in sight.
I would have thought that my imposed solitude should yield more creative work, and more plans for teaching. After all, the quiet is something writers and contemplatives long for. But for much of the summer, I haven’t been able to settle on what project to take up next, or what kind of plans to be putting in place.
I remember months ago considering paths to choose from, different directions in which to focus my attention. New possibilities surely still exist, but at this point there is nothing to illuminate the path forward. I lack a sense of beckoning energy, or of alignment with a greater will, when I consider generating something new.
If I knew what to work on I would do it, but the character of this time resists forward momentum. Even now as the calendar turns toward fall, usually a productive time for me, it’s not a season for looking forward. For now, I’m doing more learning than teaching, more reading than writing. I’m digging and planting in my yard, and trusting that the soil of my inner life will yield new growth as well. We’re living in a liminal time. I’m getting through it with this repeated mantra: Bow to what is.
For me, bowing to what is means allowing myself to see what is happening and to accept that it’s real. It means not resisting or denying what is true, even if I dislike it. It means trying my best to see without distortion. Only then can I respond effectively, whether it’s showing compassion to myself or someone else, or setting a boundary where it’s needed. We can’t force the world to be as we wish, we can only meet the world where it is and go from there.
The events of this year are bigger than I am. I can’t fix what’s wrong. Yet how I respond, how each of us responds, matters. We need deep healing in this country—not just a fix, but a reset. How to do that is beyond me, but I want to be part of finding a way. When things are this out of balance, the best thing I can offer is a commitment to connecting to the true, balancing center, and encouragement for others to do the same.
So my direction, for now, is not so much forward but inward. I look for glimpses of the pattern being woven through the unfolding of these days. I listen for the messages behind the daily onslaught of news. I value silence, a rest from the stream of information that yields no insight. If true knowledge is to be had, it must come from deeper and more enduring place.
The upheaval we’ve all experienced this year has made clear that we are not in control. But we do have choice. We’re part of something bigger than we are, and each of us has a role to play as this greater reality unfolds. This is a time for each of us, in our own way, to listen for our soul’s wisdom.
This world is in dire need of the genuine gifts that each of us can offer. We must read the inner compass that allows us to bring forth the abilities that are uniquely ours to share. How do we act not from fear but from love? What can we offer that strengthens the collective?
This liminal time offers an invitation to consider questions that we’ve held off, perhaps for years. It’s time to listen—not to the cacophony out there, but to the wisdom that dwells inside. It’s time to see clearly, respond effectively, and create a society that can somehow hold us all. Let’s keep working to find a way of life, individually and collectively, that fits better.
Lately I’ve been weeding and mulching according to the sun, working when I can have shade in the heat of the summer. By 8:30 my time’s up, and even that is pushing it. Afterwards it feels good to sit on the porch and cool off, enjoying the improving landscape as the sun lights up the yard.
When I dug out a shrub from the front yard earlier this summer, I didn’t do anything beyond smoothing the dirt to reclaim the space it left. I pulled a few weeds then looked away for a moment. Suddenly the opportunistic crabgrass had not only taken over but grew in a mound threatening to replicate the size of the bush that had been there before. Among the spreading fingers a small cranesbill geranium with pale pink flowers bloomed—who knew you were there? But the voracious weeds nearly choked it out.
Nature abhors a vacuum they say. Physicists seem to be saying there are no vacuums, really. Everything exists in a field that connects everything. But our senses recognize that creating a space invites something to fill it.
Putting things in order, clearing space, is enormously satisfying. It brings peace. Then immediately the world presses in. So we need rituals and routines for holding that space, for preventing the opportunistic weeds from taking over and choking out what would bloom there.
It was a lot of work to pull out the crabgrass and other weeds that took over that fertile patch of soil. The job would have been easier if I had jumped on it sooner, but it’s done now. I worked carefully to keep the volunteer geranium intact while I extracted the weeds from around it. This time I covered the bare ground with a layer of mulch to help keep the weeds down. I need that help to hold the space until I get other things to grow there.
Whether it’s in a garden, or on a tabletop, or between the lines of a day planner, holding space can feel unproductive. It’s the antithesis of having an agenda. And yet holding space is about the healthiest intention we can have.
It’s interesting to consider the difference between an “agenda” and an “intention.” Agenda is a kind of willfulness, the imposition of not only what, but how and when. An intention is more expansive. It names a value and leaves open how to achieve it. It’s the yutoriof consciousness (yutori being a Japanese word meaning “a space of sufficiency and ease”). There are times when the focus and direction of an agenda is needed—it enabled me to do the work of clearing the weeds. At other times, intention is needed to allow room to breathe and for new life to grow. While an agenda tries to avoid surprise, intention makes space for the unexpected and creates the possibility of delight on the way to where we want to go. Intention holds things lightly.
Creating and maintaining space in our lives claims the fertile ground of our heart and soul. Staying with our creative and contemplative practices protects us from encroachments that rob us of what we need to be fully alive. We don’t have to let ourselves be overrun by crabgrass, whether it takes the form of negative thoughts from within or impositions from without.
At a time when the news feels more oppressive week by week, fear and despair (or the anger and hate that disguise them) are the weeds that can take us over if we allow it. Our lives individually and collectively are too important to allow that to happen.
We have the ability to love one another and to bring love’s healing to the world. We need space in our lives and our hearts to do that work. The gentle intention of holding space is important right now. Holding and tending our heart space, being watchful for weeds and removing them promptly, will allow beauty and healing to bloom in our hearts, our lives, and our world.
I’ve known for months that a shrub in my front yard needed
to be moved, but all through the fall, winter, and most of the spring, I avoided
doing anything about it. It was a big project and I was focused on other things.
There was nothing wrong with the plant itself, but it was out of balance with its surroundings. It obscured the once-visible house number and blocked the roses trying to grow nearby. This happened little by little, the barely perceptible daily change imparting no sense of urgency. The encroachment grew, until a few days ago when something changed.
The tide of emotion moving through this nation and washing
over me needed some kind of release. Grief and pain and anger over injustice is
finally permeating our individual and collective psyche at a level we’ve never experienced
before. And on that particular day, not knowing what to do about the larger picture,
I found myself wrestling with the simpler task in front of me.
I cut into the ground with the tip of my shovel, making a circle wider than the reach of the shrub’s branches. I put my whole body into it, gripping the handle, foot on metal, shoving the blade into the soil with all the strength I could muster. Yet I also worked carefully. This bush was rooted in the wrong place and causing problems in the landscape, but I didn’t want to destroy it. Instead, I wanted to resituate it elsewhere.
When the underground structure was finally exposed, I was able to tip the shrub over. The root system ripped free with the sound of a thousand filaments breaking, muffled by the earth. One root, inexplicably longer and larger than the others, I had to cut with a pruner. I didn’t want to harm the plant, but I was doing violence to its intention to remain.
As I dug and sweated and pulled on those roots I held the
question of where I was planted, and in what ways I might be rooted in the
wrong place. I held the question of how our collective landscape needs to be
remade, and what my part might be.
I continue asking, praying the question of what I can offer to support change, how I can act in a way that is compassionate and responsible. The answers take time. The questions are seeds, and I’m tending the ground where they can grow.
The shrub is doing well so far in its new location. I watch
its leaves and water it well, willing it to take hold in this better place. The
leaves are indicators but the important work is below ground. That’s where the
hidden roots make their connection with new soil.
Beneath the ground unfolds a process that despite its familiarity remains a mystery. The seeds of questions we’re willing to ask break open, pushing new life up into the sunlight.
This morning I lifted the lid on my Dutch oven to see the most beautiful loaf of sourdough bread I’ve made yet. The reveal has some drama, and a successful result is something to celebrate. The dough has a life of its own, making each loaf turn out differently.
Sourdough loaf baked in a Dutch oven
My relationship with the starter and the process is ongoing, and includes an element of the unknown. But my understanding grows, and the quality of the bread reflects the cumulative learning with every bake.
This grand experiment began in the initial, shocking days when
the pandemic overtook us and normal activities ended. In a spirit of
grow-your-own self-sufficiency, I wanted to see if I could capture wild yeast
from the air and make my own sourdough starter. The ingredients were flour,
water, time, and attention.
It took weeks to coax a bubbling starter into being. I fed
it, adjusted its diet, and found the place in my kitchen where it was happiest
to live. I even gave it time on my porch when the breeze was warm, inviting
more yeast to the party.
My first efforts at bread were heavy and dense—less fluffy pillow and more like memory-foam. But I kept at it. Eventually, both the starter and my ability gained strength. I’m still learning, but I’m making progress.
The loaf I made today came out high and round, golden brown,
with rustic edges to the scores I slashed just before placing it in the oven.
The aroma while it baked was a dark and yeasty bass note, a hint of the
underworld of life not visible or commonly met in the daily round.
The leaven for this loaf was literally taken out of the air.
Not thin air, but air dense with life, with wild yeast that move through the
world all the time. There’s much more than the virus that moves through the spaces
between us.
The cultivation of this starter is a flavorful testament to the fact that we live and move and have our being in a field, not a vacuum. The space surrounding us is rich and dense and full of life. It is not an emptiness but a connective medium. It conveys all manner of ways through which creation affects us, and we affect one another.
We are part of a larger world that exists outside our concrete perception. This greater reality reaches us, impinges on us, supports and challenges us, and works with us when we manage the skillful means and awareness to engage. This rich field—call it Energy, the Life Force, God, the Higher Mind—offers leaven for our lives.
There’s no need to procure yeast elsewhere. Everything we need to bring life to the simplest of ingredients—flour, water, salt—is right here.
Excerpt from a letter to those whom I see in my practice. I offer it here to support and encourage others as well.
A windowsill in my office
This is a time to take especially good care of your inner
life, just as you follow recommendations for staying physically healthy. Notice
what’s happening inside and hold it with kindness and self-compassion. By
supporting ourselves in this way we allow emotions to release, rather than have
them set up camp and impede our lives. Listed at the bottom of this note are a
few online resources you might find helpful in these times.
These days I’m making an effort to be aware of how I’m resisting
the current circumstances of my life, and gently inviting that resistance to
ease. I’m trying to cultivate the practices that help me engage with others in
a calm and grounded way, and to make time and space for the things that help me
feel more resourceful and present. Walking in my neighborhood, meditating,
listening to music, talking with friends, digging in the dirt, reading, and
writing all make a difference for me. I’m seeing how important it is to take a
break from the news and allow times of quiet when I can rest, inviting a sense
of the greater Presence.
I’m also holding the question of what I might be able to
offer as we make the changes coming in the next few weeks and months. I trust
that what we’re going through together can create space for reshaping of our culture
in a positive way, and I’m curious about how I might help that happen. I’m open
to experiencing this time of withdrawal as a chance to reconnect with what is most
important. And at the same time, I’m appreciating my connection with others as
a primary value in my life.
It’s important to remember that we are not alone. We are in this together, and I believe we are inseparable from the One for whom there are a thousand names. The sacred ground of being holds us in love and sustains us through everything that happens.
I hope you and your loved ones are well, and wish you peace
as you navigate this unsettled time.
With love,
Susan
Here are the online resources I mentioned:
For those able to claim space and time at home, this is
about creating a half-day retreat:
Everyone has moments of feeling alone, as if we’re plodding
through our days disconnected from the rest of the world. But as we watch the
spread of the coronavirus, evidence of our interconnectedness challenges that
perspective. Perhaps in more normal times we question our role, our belonging,
our place in the family of things, as the poet says. The spread of the virus
says that what happens to some of us affects all of us. We’re all in this
together.
To believe we are separate is to be looking at the world through a distorted lens. We are part of a greater whole. Whether hourly workers have paid sick leave affects everyone. The struggles of small businesses to stay afloat ripple through the community. The decision of whether to stay home when we’re sick affects not only those in our immediate circles, but potentially impacts other places around the world. No one is an island.
We respond to this reality, to the world and our circumstances, with either fear or love. Our choice matters. We can’t choose the emotions that arise as we see the spread of COVID-19, but we can choose the ones we live by. We can’t control events, but we decide how to meet them. Our lives and those of others are shaped by whether we act from fear or love.
I see love in how people are taking care not to spread the
virus. Careful handwashing protects not only the ones doing the washing, but
those with whom they come in contact. As we learn that the virus is spreading
undetected among apparently healthy people, those who aren’t particularly
worried about their own health do a great service to those more vulnerable when
they take precautions. Love also plays a role in discerning whether to gather
and how best to look after a community.
I also see love on the part of health care workers, making
themselves and their facilities as ready and as safe as possible. We all take
reassurance in the fact that they show up to care for those made seriously ill
by this virus, as well as the other illnesses they treat every day. They
strengthen our society through the courage and generosity of their work.
Certainly fear is driving behavior as well. My local grocery
store displays two new signs: “No face masks” and “No hand sanitizer.” Trading
in the stock market seems as panicked as the run on cleaning supplies. Fear has
shown up in the senseless suspicion of Asian people, and in the desire to place
blame for the outbreak. Fear can also drive us to put our heads in the sand, refusing
to live in the real world, ignoring or denying the seriousness of a situation
that we do not want to face. Anxiety and fear spread more easily than the
virus, another reminder of our interconnectedness.
Yet we can also share a sense of calm and love with one
another. Peace in the face of challenge is something we can spread through our
communities. A loving presence passes easily from one person to the next, and
it alleviates all sorts of suffering—our own and that of others.
Choosing love includes taking care. It means seeing as
clearly as we can what is happening, and making good responsible choices about what
we will do. Depending on our circumstances, love might mean showing up, or it
might mean staying home.
We tend to forget, perhaps for long stretches of time, that love
exists at the heart of everything. It’s like the water table deep in the ground,
supporting our lives and connecting us to one another. That ever-present source
of life remains available, and the more of us who can tap into it and share it,
the more readily everyone can drink from its life-giving waters.
