Frequency of Fullness

Waiting for the Tiger

4:27 PM

Recently, my family and I went to San Diego on vacation where we were able to enjoy a day at a wild animal park near Escondido.

We watched a hilarious bird show with a priceless cameo appearance from a warthog…saw elephants gliding around, sweetly leaning into each other like they were in love…and witnessed a tight little enclave of gorilla families, looking after each other and grooming as a clan.

And we saw tigers.

My three-year-old grandson Finn sat mesmerized, watching a tiger walk past him behind the thick glass, and at one point, we noticed a beautiful feature: a spot at the end of the walkway framing the tiger habitat that was walled by glass where we could sit and watch from underneath the tiger’s pond.

Waiting for the tiger.

I’ve always been one to appreciate a good metaphor, so this one didn’t escape me. I spent many years of my adult life waiting for the tiger; it’s a story I expect to share someday. But not today.

A common reference in psychiatry and mindfulness practice, the idea of being chased by a tiger is used to compare the fight-or-flight reflexes triggered by stress or trauma, to the chemical response of animals in the wild who get an automatic, built-in cortisol spike along with heightened senses in order to escape imminent danger.

The thing is, the antelope who escapes a tiger can be found grazing and relaxing in the fields an hour later.When and if the animal survives, it doesn't get stuck in its head, analyzing the possibility of facing another attack. Once the antelope or the zebra is safe, it relaxes and resumes its regular activities, like, I don’t know, napping, or eating lunch.

It also didn’t escape me that while I was watching for the tiger with Finn, straining to capture any movement in the tall grass that was slightly distorted by the water-under-glass, my focus was fixed. I was waiting to see something that wasn’t there while overlooking all of what was there, right in front of my eyes.

We can’t help it. When we are exposed to traumatic situations, the heightened emotional intensity of the moment muffles anything else that’s going on in our brains, like a bypass. If this exposure to trauma becomes a pattern, so does the chemically driven stress response. (PTSD)

There’s a way through if we can find it.

Ironically, the above photograph is both a reference for a mindset that leaves us us trapped in torturous fight or flight chemistry as well as a reference for a different sort of mindset, one that can offer relief, and even breakthrough.

It doesn’t escape me when I look at this picture that it captures a short, dramatic reenactment of the same decision I make every few minutes as I move through life as I now know it.

If I keep waiting for the tiger, I continue to live under the influence of destructive chemical components that drive my nervous system toward illness, anxiety and exhaustion.

If I surrender the same tired, debilitating dance steps that I’ve practiced over time, choosing instead to trust life to prepare me for whatever is ahead…

If I take my eyes off the distorted image waiting just beyond the present moment…

Then I might be able to see whatever is right in front of me.

The sweet, relatively fearless little boy sitting right in the forefront, wide-eyed with curiosity…

The slow, rocking motion of the grasses in the water behind the glass.

The proof of life in the elements of nature, vibrant with texture and ambient light…

Taking in the gifts that are exploding and expanding right in front of me in the present moment, this is the way through.

just breathe

Glitch in the Exhale

11:09 AM

On January 30th, I will turn 60; it's a big number.

For my birthday, I have chosen to book a bit of time at a dear friend's mother-in-law apartment to enjoy some radical solitude, breathe and be still, and write. Sounds like fun to me.

So, I thought I'd share a bit about...wait for it....meditation and mortality. Super exciting topic, I know.

Talking about prayer and meditation is a dangerously boring and significantly subjective topic to throw out into the wide, wide Interweb expecting anyone to turn an ear in my direction. This isn't exactly the first time I've talked about these topics, but hey, it's my birthday. Humor me. This is a good year to ruminate about my mortality, and I've paid in decades for the right to do so. I'll make this quick.

I have heard it said that the process of dying uncovers the authentic self; in other words, the way we approach life in general is going to lay the groundwork for the way we will ultimately let go of life as we know it. If we tend to spend our days in a cranky or agitated state, this might color the last months of life. If you tend to face life's hurdles with a positive attitude, good on ya; this might make for a less bumpy exit.

Mind you, this conversation isn't so much about training for a successful exit; it's more about considering the way I am running my race, or completing my life's quest, so to speak. After all, the means I use to achieve a certain end needs to match the end I seek. Agitated attempts at control may not lead me any closer to peace, if that's what I'm ultimately seeking. So, what am I here to learn?

At the threshold of this 7th decade, I'm wondering if the state in which I find myself when I'm still and quiet might not be indicative of who I am at my core and how I've evolved over time? In terms of the journey inward, my attention to the breath has been a significant guide.

The first time I was trained in meditation, I had a wise, extremely kind and patient teacher who helped my first experience to be so much more productive and mysterious than I imagined. I was encouraged to focus on the face of my trainer who challenged me to meet his gaze while becoming aware of other things within my periphery; the lesson was on maintaining a point of focus while continuing to practice awareness of the other things that existed in, and even beyond, the space within which I was sitting.

I remember maintaining connection with his face while he guided me, suggesting I "become aware" of the window frame while remaining focused on his eyes. His instruction continued for 45 minutes or an hour as I set my attention on one thing while allowing myself to become aware of others. The lesson: intentionally practice setting my attention on one thing while at the very same time allowing awareness of other elements to be present in my consciousness without getting too attached to them.

Expansion.

Since then, I have worked with a variety of methods, like using a candle as a focal point; in this case, I can hold my attention on the candle while continuing to practice awareness of the things and places around me. I have also worked with guided meditations, body scans, and at times, I have even been able to just put my butt in a chair and sit. Silence. It's in this quiet state of mind that I experience peace and healing.

The greater part of the practice for the last few years, however, has been to focus on my breathing, and I still have a lot to learn about this. As is usually the case where I'm concerned, I learn by trial and error.

Here's what I've observed so far.

When I focus on my breath (or if I focus on anything, if I'm being honest), it's my nature to try to control it rather than observe it. Biofeedback or yoga are good vehicles for experimentation with deep, self-directed breathing patterns, and they've both been really helpful to me, but not so much during meditation. Attempts at controlling the rhythm of my breath in meditation creates a tension between doing and being. Meditation is largely about sitting and NOT doing. It's about acceptance of, and surrender to, what the present moment is bringing, and breathing is a part of that surrender. My brain stem is fully capable of reminding my lungs what to do.

So, why do I often feel like my natural breathing rhythm during meditation...has a glitch? I notice that during the exhale, right when my breath has almost "emptied," there seems to be a pause at the "bottom" of the breath, like, it gets...stuck.

It feels like there's a glitch the exhale.

So, what's up with the irregular rhythm of my breathing...the break in the flow?

As usual, I have a theory.

People who experience panic disorders or even garden-variety anxiety have a tendency to "freeze" physically, to tighten scrunched, elevated shoulders, and hold tension in the abdomen. I wonder if the glitch in my exhale is just another area of tension in my body that needs a reset? Truth is, in lieu of a panicked state that would justify an attempt at controlled breathing, there just isn't any persistent requirement that I attempt to choreograph my body's brain stem functions, and the compulsion to do so is indicative of my (slightly pathological) belief that I need to control everything. Again and always, for me, it comes back to letting go.

Incidentally, many months ago, I wrote a post called "Trust Me," about it:

"Second-guessing my intuition, a less-than-productive pattern that has hamstrung my ability to move through the process of making decisions, has plagued my capacity to move forward since I was small. A classic codependent, I learned the art of imagining how others may respond to any move I make, causing me to freeze even when action was acutely necessary. I can’t say this trait has been useful. Decisions, and the consequences that follow, are a powerfully organic force of life, and it’s torment to live at odds with our choices. What ifs burden my thinking, and it hasn’t gotten better as I age; it mostly ebbs and flows.

So, although these issues have stalked me all the way to my 59th year, I have declared my 60th year will be the year I shed the automatic anxiety I have carried all of my life, and learn what it really means to trust."

A lofty goal, but, a goal, non-the-less, and sitting here today, a week away from that significant benchmark, I believe that how I breathe when I am still and quiet is a meaningful marker, that learning from my observed glitch in the exhale might just move me closer to my target.

So...here's how I am moving through the tendency to tighten during the breathing cycle.

I choose to let go of the need to make my breathing do something that feels right to me, allowing my body to draw deep or shallow breaths naturally. It is what it is; I can observe this life-affirming mechanism without manipulation.

Looking at breath as a sustaining life force, it becomes an exercise in faith to allow my body to breathe without interference; in fact, it seems worthwhile (and helpful for me) to try instead to scan my body for tension, and practice deep relaxation. The more I am able to allow a "let down" in my body, and the natural flow of my breath, the more I seem to be at peace. This is what has helped the most.

I know. It seems a bit indulgent to to write an entire post about my pattern of breathing, so if you've made it this far, I consider it a personal favor. This one's for my birthday.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.

And, keep breathing.

shifting perspective

Rut-jumping: Home by Another Way

8:26 AM

My mind has, over time, collected some recursive thought patterns, accumulated and rehearsed over the years, thought patterns that have become ruts, demanding my focus even though it's my desire to set my attention elsewhere. My personal ruts are usually attached in some way to little relentless character flaws, like anxiety, or, uggghhh, the desire for control.

This morning I found myself wrestling with these old ruts, trying to violently, but unsuccessfully, force the wheels of my apple cart to go in another direction. Entranced, stuck, in unproductive circular thinking, I remembered the famous tale from The Odyssey about the Sirens' song.

The Odyssey tells a classic tale of the brave-but-weary warrior Odysseus who, dreaming of hearth and home, is thwarted by the gods as he is trying to make his way his way back from war. The story is in many ways a solid metaphor for the human experience, a Hero's Journey, and in it we are reminded that our battles and boons are meant to lead us ultimately back home where our newly acquired gifts and hard won wisdom can not only help us to see our previous lives in a brighter light, but also serve the higher good.

The Sirens' Song is the part of the tale that depicts some enticing but threatening ladies who attempt to waylay (and ambush) the hero Odysseus with their song:

"Come this way, honored Odysseus, great glory of the Achaians, and stay your ship, so that you can listen here to our singing; for no one else has ever sailed past this place in his black ship until he has listened to the honey-sweet voice that issues from our lips; then goes on, well-pleased, knowing more than ever he did..." (12.184-196)

The Sirens sing their song in an alluring way that mesmerizes passing sailors, promising both pleasure and knowledge, but sadly, fulfillment of either promise is a lost cause. In reality, their end goal is to sink ships and absorb them, and the men on board, into the sea.

Although the story has taken on different themes over the years, having been manipulated to instill fear as a cautionary tale against a variety of perceived vices, the Sirens are still a ready metaphor for whatever threatens to sink our ships in real time.

The way I see it, the Sirens are all in my head.

This morning, wrestling with my ruts, I happened to be pulling out of the garage to go pick up my grandson Finn when I noticed the changing colors on our Fire Maple, peeking over the top of my house from the back yard. Suddenly, the mesmerizing translucent leaves on that tree had my attention, and I realized I had been reminded of a powerful tool.

I had inadvertently lept over the ruts onto a new path in a matter of seconds.

I am aware of the unproductive tendency I have to force my brain to study blisteringly painful problems that are actually unsolvable in the moment. So, instead of fighting with a mind that was clearly intent on continuing to do what it was doing, nature had given me something else to focus on by simply allowing myself to see what was happening right in front of me.

In a matter of seconds, I was able to do something I couldn't do before; I let go of a negative thought cycle to fix my attention on a positive one.

Since this morning, my pulsing, rhythmic song of the stressors has called to me, pounding against my amygdala, inviting me to engage in an exhausting-but-hypnotic fight-or-flight dance, and in different moments, I have both resisted and succumbed. It seems to be based on whether or not I am able to simply remember the lesson. This is going to take some practice.

James Taylor wrote a song called "Home by Another Way" that refers to another Hero's Journey, the biblical journey of the Magi, or "wise men," that visit Jesus at the time of his birth. King Herod, afraid of the prophecies that a king would be born who would build a kingdom greater than his, sends soldiers to kill all of the children born within a certain time frame, and the wise men rightly assume that Herod's men would be less than kind to any visitors venerating the potential Messiah.

The original "wise guys" decide that to return the way that they came would not only lead the soldiers to the child, but they might not even survive the journey themselves, so they seek out another route. We trust they made it through on their way home.

"Maybe me and you can be wise guys too and go home by another way." (James Taylor)

Fear makes us do crazy things. It can make a powerful king like Herod, frantic about keeping his power, kill a generation of children. Fear can feed war, greed, denial and addiction. And it can enslave the likes of me with a bitter, debilitating loop that forces me to witness imagined nightmares again and again without resolution.

We don't get somewhere new by doing what we've always done. So, how do I finally get home by another way?

I fell into this first rut-jump by accident; it just, happened, and I noticed how the maple tree's orange and red firelight seemed to match the intensity of my stormy inner dialogue. So, how might I replicate that leap? It's not just about self-care. My brain has been digging in these patterns of thought for decades, so this shit needs to have impact, to pack a punch.

So, here's the list of rut-jumping fodder I've tested so far:

Nature: Watching snow fall, listening to the ocean, sun peeking through tree limbs, dogs. Definitely dogs.

Dance: Silly, child-imitating dance, like Bruno Mars or Justin Timberlake with my 3 year old grandson. (He twerks)

Affirmative words: "I love my life," or "This day is going to kick ass."(My rule: profanity that makes you smile is OK.)

Meaningful pictures or videos: Family, the grand babies, my daughter's baby shower, vintage pics of my dad and mom in their glory days.

Warmth: Long hugs, sweet kisses, hot baths and massage. My gentle husband has been doling out all of the above since the day I met him, which brings me to...

Yes, gratitude: It's is on everyone's list for good reason. It shifts the focus, and when it doesn't work, it may be because we're not doing it right. It isn't just an exercise; it works best when it's authentic and true.

I know this won't come easy, and it's a process.

One thing I know for sure; nothing, absolutely nothing, has come from trying to force my apple cart out of the ditch. I'm going to have to go home by another way.

The Only Way to Win

7:24 AM

The mind is a scary place. Do not go in there alone.

Although this phrase has been repeated by many people in many circles, it was my sister her shared this piece of wisdom with me.

And she was right to do it.

I have a habit of bouncing back to anxious thought patterns like a boomerang. Compulsion. Like a rat who keeps slapping the sensor in the cage knowing that there will be an instant reward.

What exactly have I been awarded by nurturing this habit of mind?

From the compulsion standpoint, standing knee deep in the miry swamplands of worry and dread, focusing on the ticker tape stream-of-consciousness that feeds me all of the possible disaster-scenarios on the horizon of potential…well, this exhausting practice is simply a form of hyper-vigilance.

For people who are in severe distress, particularly for long periods of time, repetition of hyper-vigilant thought patterns become ingrained. It’s a tough habit to break.

There’s a drive behind it, this need to keep one’s eye on the ball. Still, does hyper-vigilance pay?

If analyzed closely, I guess I have to admit there have been a few times that being a watcher-on-the-wall has served me. I might not have been able to see something coming down the pike that could have had a more-negative-outcome…if I hadn’t been uber-attentive.

But if there’s a problem here, it’s buried in the premise.

Hyper-vigilant-me is always trying to think ahead, read the room, block potentially negative outcomes, prepare for the worst. But because of my history, it’s what I’m preparing for, and what I’m trying to block, that is off base.

Here’s the faulty premise: if I pay close attention to my relationships, to patterns, to behaviors, and even more pervasive, moods, I can manage the emotional lives of not just myself, but also others around me.

It’s taken me a long time to get to the bottom of this because I was driven and reactive, as opposed to thoughtful and responsive. In other words, I was doing what I was doing without knowing why I was doing it.

When we get to the bottom of the memes that drive our patterns of thought and behaviors, it’s not unusual to find fault lines… weak foundations upon which we have built unstable lives and relationships.

Bottom line, I can’t control anything other than my own actions and responses and behaviors. Trying to do so is Sisyphean in nature… pushing a boulder up to the top of the mountain only to see it roll back down.

Based on clear-headed evaluation, compulsive hyper-vigilance is more destructive than it is helpful. Huge investment, minimal reward.

Peace isn’t achieved just by picking off one negative thought at a time; attempting that practice is like playing the classic Galactica video game in which the invaders continued to be more aggressive and attack more quickly until inevitably, the player will lose.

A variation on the gaming theme, in the 1983 film entitled War Games, starring Matthew Broderick, the young hacker accidentally breaks into the government’s nuclear database and begins a terrifying game with the military base’s computer. The computer’s program believes it’s engaged in war game and prepares to fire a nuclear weapon, for real.

In the climax of the movie, it appears that nobody can regain control of the computer’s belief that it needs to fire the weapon, and it is only when Broderick’s character introduces the computer’s program to tic-tac-toe that it can understand the concept of an unwinnable game.

The resolution of the film offers an unmistakable conclusion:

The only way to win is not to play.

And the only way to win at anxiety-gymnastics is not to play.

So…here are three solid tools for surviving mental war games.

Awareness:

Anyone facing anxiety really benefits from a daily meditation practice that’s authentic, consistent, and compassionate. If you need support, find a meditation group, or contemplative prayer group, and just get on the path.

Among the many gifts meditation can offer, it will help you calm yourself and know your patterns, your habits of mind that aren’t serving.

Substitution:

Sometimes, we need a new gear, or a different track. A gentle redirect.

If our minds are used to returning again and again to similar patterns of worrying or unproductive fixing, we need to stop doing what we’ve always done and just change the channel.

Here’s another short essay on this for reinforcement.

"Rut Jumping: Home by Another Way"

Faith:

I know…I have a lot of nerve barging into something this personal, but whatever your faith tradition…lean into it, and be present.

Let go of the destructive habit of looking behind you, or seeking relief in future-gazing for deliverance.

Help is always here and now, not then or there.

Ask for help.

We can ALWAYS decide, make a choice, to take in the sights and sounds of the present moment including smells, movement, tastes, touch. Infuse the moment with acceptance and gratitude, and you’re on your way.

Like I said, sometimes, the only way to win is to not play those games.

"I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books; I have begun to listen to the teaching my blood whispers to me."

Hermann Hesse, Demian

on showing up

Water Me Well

11:18 AM

"I'm Fine" by Rachael Ibanez

Overwhelmed. This is the word I'm hearing everywhere I look right now.

Currently, Hurricane Harvey is washing over Texas, and I am trying to process images of children, their jammies wet and muddy, as they are towed down the streets of Houston in boats. As I write this, 7 million people in 18 counties have been impacted by this storm, and it isn't over yet.

Almost entirely eclipsed by Harvey has been the painful surge of angry racism that continues to cause argumentative and too-often-unproductive ranting as we take inventory, again, of our national identity. How do we leave our disturbing past behind while continuing to learn from it? To heal?

While these storms rage at the national level, I am equally undone by messages on my Facebook page from smaller communities of people who are hoping to inspire prayer and financial support for their friends and families who are up against leviathon-like personal struggles. One family I know personally is healing from within the sudden aftermath of a brutal car accident involving three children; dad drove the kids to school Wednesday morning, and 5 days later, the family had to say goodbye to their precious 8 year old daughter. They are currently mustering the strength to support another child who is struggling toward recovery. Overwhelming.

How on earth do we respond to these hurricane floods of pain, loss and need? In a world that is often chaotic and at times, desperate, how do we decide where to put our energy, our resources?

In today's meditation on what he refers to as "Cosmic Forgiveness," Richard Rohr takes a birdseye view when he says, "The forgiveness we truly need goes beyond forgiveness for this or that transgression. Ultimately, we each need universal, cosmic forgiveness for being who I am and for reality being what it is. The struggle to forgive this simultaneously broken and unified field of reality breaks us through to nondual consciousness."

Not surprisingly, I am reminded to begin with acceptance, and end with love.

We're supposed to love our neighbor as we love ourselves, and somehow, this idea seems more urgent than ever as the waters continue to rise. It also feels like a really big target. I find myself asking, again, this week...this hour...who is my neighbor? I believe that in the original historical and cultural context, the term neighbor refers to the one who is near. I suppose this means that if someone is calling for help, I respond. I show up. I do what I can, and I do at least what I would want someone to do for me.

Maybe I can't physically be planted inside a Texas shelter right now, reading bedtime stories to frightened displaced children, or in Missouri grieving with this sweet family while they try to recover after the sudden excruciating loss of their little girl. But I can still open my heart, write a check, and participate with organizations and individuals who can offer boots-on-the-ground comfort and relief.

I do work at my local shelter, preparing and serving food. I've done it for years. I just sign up and show up. If I'm honest, I know I am not helping all that much. But I am making a sincere attempt to connect with people in my community who have suffered tragedy and loss, my neighbors who struggle every day just to survive. I smile, I ask how they're getting through their day, and I wash dishes after they eat. It's something.

A woman I know who has signed up to serve at the shelter with me tells me that she was once part of that population, homeless and street bound for over a year. Somehow, she put one foot in front of the other, found all of the good services available in our county that might help, and walked gratefully through the tedious paper trail until she was placed inside the care system where she could receive support and inexpensive housing. She shows up, too, finding ways to serve even with very limited resources. She is doing what she can.

And when knee surgery slowed her down for awhile, I made soup and paid her a visit. No big deal.

Sometimes, the one-who-is-near stands on a street corner with a sign in his hands. My tender-hearted daughter Rachael, and her kind husband Daniel, were recently confronted with a displaced homeless man who has been devastated by his own rising waterline. Rachael felt like the wind had been knocked out of her when she saw his child, a toddler, sitting in a stroller nearby, waiting for dad to find shelter for the night. It was devastating to try, even for a minute, to imagine the panic this father must live with trying to machete a path to survival for he and his child to walk on. Mother and father to their own two year old, Rachael and Daniel stopped to talk, and mostly, listen; they of course mentioned the resources with which they were familiar, attempting to offer solutions. Many of these services wouldn't stretch to cover adult and child, or wouldn't address many of the particular (dire) needs of this little family.

After making a call or two to try and find help, Rachael and Daniel went back into the store and bought diapers, juice boxes and some food, and paid for a night in the motel that the small family had made into a temporary living situation. They knew this would barely scratch the surface, and it broke their hearts that all they could offer was the proverbial "fish," not pond or pole. But they did something.

Even though I cheer when I read about a veterinary doctor flying to Houston to support organizations who rescue animals after the deluge, I'm pretty sure that I need to continue to fulfil my duties here at home. For me, reaching out with an open heart to the-one-who-is-near to me here and now is the most profound choice I can make. This is where I am, so this is where I can try to tune in to any cries I might hear from the rooftops nearby.

Written in the late eighties, "Water Me Well" lives in an old journal, a poem and a prayer of sorts that acknowledges my need for an evolution of the soul, for Cosmic Forgiveness. I am aware of the apparent contradictions as it focuses on both too much water, and too little. As a metaphor, the power of water to both destroy and restore us reminds me of my powerlessness in the face of things I can't control or contain, and this week in history, it reminds me of my commitment to begin with acceptance and end with love.

I need you to water me well,

I want to have my own story to tell

A song for the soul in the darkest night,

guiding them onto a kinder light

I want to raft the river where it runs

picking up passengers as they come

Carry them on while the water's white

giving them rest till the ends in sight

Water me well - tend to your child

Teach me tender - chasten me mild

Pour me out empty - then, Oh, satisfy me

Draw me an ocean, but water me well.

I wanted then, and even more today, to be someone who just shows up.

rewritten narratives

Surrendering the Story

2:52 PM

Equinox

I see now that my story drives me,

a rudder embedded in, and against, the flow.

It pushes the water, resisting the surrender that would guide my ship forward.

And what is a rudder without compass or captain,

or a raft with no current,

or a quest with no map of the wandering stars?

Feigning passivity, the radical surrender of one’s story

marks an equinoctial point

where night equals day, and time completes its circle.

About the poem: It sometimes feels like my inner poet knows things I don't know.

This poem referenced the concept of the equinox before I found myself looking it up, and I still don’t completely understand the related earth science, the astronomy, behind it.

But, I have this notion that like the position of the stars seem to shift with the earth’s wobble, the “boasting, running stars” as John Donne referred to them, our orientation in our own lives seems to shift when we break the push and pull of our personal stories.

be present

Mining for More

9:32 PM

Aaron and I take an almost-annual spring trip to Paradise Village, a stunning resort on a perfect strip of beach that cradles the Banderas Bay in Nuevo Vallarta, Nayarit, Mexico. We love it there, and we breathe in every moment a little more deeply knowing that a week sometimes passes quickly. On my last night to sip tonic water and lime underneath a beach-side palapa at dusk, I worried about how to spend our dwindling hours in Mexico, concerned I’d miss something if I didn't carefully construct a plan, the right plan, and carry it out. Eventually, the urge to control the moment dissipated, and I was able to sit right where I was, and drink in the sounds and sensations of the rhythmic ocean waves.

As long as I can remember, this temporary fear of letting go, of surrendering one happy moment without having fingers or toes planted firmly in the next, has felt like a little eternity, a small death. What if I miss something? It’s as if the threat of change causes me to feel something like grief over un-experienced joy, or a life that isn't fully realized.

This odd awareness of the life and death that is embedded in every moment has inspired an albeit slightly paranoid tenacity for staying engaged with those I love at any and all cost. Whether this defines a co-dependent implosion, or a hero’s journey, I am constantly aware that when it comes to people I love, “I don’t wanna miss a thing.” The last one to turn out the lights, turn off the TV, or put away the Red Vines, my tight grasp on moments that feel good to me, along with an unquenchable desire for connection, can paradoxically feed into a there's-never-enough perspective, leaving me discontent in the midst of abundance.

At 10: Yes, I enjoyed that piece of candy, but a whole candy bar would be better. Better yet, 5 candy bars. At 20, Yes, I know I'm loved, but it's never enough. At 30, My husband is good to me, but it would be better if he would be more (insert current complaint). At 40, A glass of wine is nice, but more is always, always better.

And in my 50s? Thankfully, this decade has, through trial and failure, morphed into one of acceptance and surrender, about settling into the experience of all that resides in this present moment.

What if I knew today that I would be gone tomorrow? Would I waste even one second wishing, wondering, or looking in the rear-view mirror? Would I spend those minutes worrying about whether people visit my blog, or would I still sit lazily on the couch, unkindly focused on my embarrassing sausage-shaped toes?

What if there isn’t any more that can be accessed in this moment by wishing and worrying?

There would be only this moment, lived more deeply.

For me, mining for more looks like slowing down and focusing on what's right in front of me. Today, I went on my morning walk, and I began as I always do, running a virtual gauntlet of mental gymnastics. Thankfully, I have begun to notice much more quickly when my mind is dragging me around, the tail wagging the dog.

I instinctively took a deep breath, whispered internally, "Lets think about all of that later," and I indulged in a sensory inventory, taking in the morning moon while she stubbornly held her place in a sunlit sky. I felt a brisk breeze on my face in tandem with the comforting warmth of the sun on my back, and I purposefully I widened my gaze, aware of all that I could pull into my peripheral vision,

And that's when I thought to myself, sometimes, it's almost too much to contain.

Pages

Waiting for the Tiger

Glitch in the Exhale

Rut-jumping: Home by Another Way

The Only Way to Win

Water Me Well

Surrendering the Story

Mining for More

Laury Browning

recent posts

Labels

Blog Archive

Pinterest

Popular Posts

Like us on Facebook

Followers