Posts
So many ways to say the same thing. So many teachers to say it again, in a new way—his way, her way. So many helpers to teach us. So many opportunities to learn, to change. All we need to do is grab onto one of those. And if we forget or falter because of life's curve balls, then there will be yet another opportunity down the line.
A chiding way to interpret all this might be to say: so there's no excuse! No excuse for not finding your path, for not forsaking the less productive by-ways, for "failing" as some might judge it.
Or we could look at it instead as a plethora of occasions to hear, an endless sequence of offers for help. A lifetime of helping hands. If at first you don't succeed, watch for signs. Accept the portents.
I need to stop now before I reveal my true Pollyanna nature, always an embarrassment to one who turns an Eeyore face to the world. I wanted to talk about it all: about other worlds, about the unseen but undeniably present influences that guide us (attempt to guide us). I wanted to talk about silence and withdrawal, applied consciously and with difficulty to a busy life.
Synchronicity. Awareness of what joins us in the circle that is a particular moment of our lives. So easy to ignore the signs. It takes practice to cultivate and nurture aliveness to the moment. No matter how often we are reminded, we forget (being human). And yet there is no need for judgment, because the next moment will come, and the next, and the next. As many times as we can, we notice.
Perhaps I see this as equivalent to a death-bed conversion. A life might be lived without consciousness, but it is redeemed even at the very end when the last awareness might be the beauty of a shaft of sunlight through the blinds of the hospital room.
Is that too farfetched? Would that bit of noticing really be equivalent to the dedicated years of a devotee of tiny beauties?
Aha! We're back to judging, here. Who am I to judge? It reminds me of the parable of the prodigal son: he is not punished for his years of unconsciousness. On the contrary, he is fed the fatted calf. Fairness and balance don't enter into it. Comparisons are odious (Emerson said this). Just do your best. Heed the smallest signs. Welcome droplets of joy.
This morning I polished the table in preparation for my writing class, as I always do. After rubbing in the oil and vinegar, I polished and dried each of the three wide leafs using a soft flannel rag. Side to side I went, leaning into it with my whole body. I found that I tucked my left hand behind my back as I swept heavily across the width of the boards, rubbing with the grain of the wood.
I was tossed back into my memory of watching skaters at Nathan Philips Square years ago. In the midst of chaotic newbie skaters and short-stroke would-be hockey players, there was always an older man—Dutch, I fancied him—who skated slowly, with such dignity and sureness, a long glide on the right foot followed by a long glide on the left. As he skated he held one arm casually but firmly behind his back. So peaceful. So comfortable on his skates.
And I was just as comfortable as I stroked the table with a cloth, one arm behind my back. Grace is always available to us.
Food blog: http://fastandfearlesscooking.blogspot.ca
No comments:
Post a Comment