Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Why Am I Doing This Anyway?



"For me, creativity is an act of slowing down. Paying attention. Taking time. 
Never doing in one day what could be spread out over seven, including a day of rest.
 It is no coincidence that this is also how I meet the divine."

--Karen Haring, 
from "Creative Slow Down"

Last week I did not have time to write a blog post. I needed to borrow the limited amount of time I usually set aside for writing to finish reading my book club book, and to begin working on writing a reflection for a church service this coming Sunday. Needless to say, life as we know it did not screech to a grinding halt without my weekly musings. Even my own life plugged along pretty much the same as usual. But the thing is, I missed writing my blog. I actually had to make myself NOT write. I think that means it has become a practice for me. I would even go so far as to call it a spiritual practice.

A couple of years back Ken, a member of the worship committee at my Unitarian Universalist church, shared a reflection during a service, a story from his life with broad truths that most people can connect with. I had always loved Ken's reflections and told him how much I enjoyed this one. He said, reflection writing was a spiritual practice for him. At that moment, one of those cartoon light bulbs flashed over my head. Of course! We all have stories. They don't have to be big and dramatic. We just have to spend time mining them for the truths they hold. Telling our stories is one way we give meaning to our lives. It is one way we touch the sacred. 

So that's what I try to do here. I tell my stories. I write about what I need to write about, things I need to pay attention to, things I'm struggling with, things that bring me joy or sorrow, frustration or acceptance. I hope that my stories hold small truths that other people can connect with. And I hope that as I turn my stories over in my hand, letting the light illuminate them at different angles, a few people just might be inspired to do the same with their own stories. I believe the sacred is in our ordinary, every day lives. But we have to slow down enough to look for it. Writing this blog helps me do that. Knowing that some people are actually reading it inspires me to continue.

I thought I would be OK with missing last week's blog since I had a reflection to start writing. But it turns out the writing of this particular reflection is giving me some grief. I'm writing about joy of all things, so you'd think it would be happy work. But for some reason I'm blocked and struggling with it, wrestling with joy. (What a funny thing to struggle with.) Anyway, It will come. It HAS to come before Sunday. But it has not been a joyful process so far. Wonder what that's all about. Maybe there's a story there...











Tuesday, September 11, 2012

My Dharma Teacher Plays Video Games


"The best way to have a good idea is to have lots of ideas."

--Linus Pauling

My son Miles loves math. MY son. Me, the woman who got a D- in high school geometry even after cheating on most of the tests. I can't even cheat well in math, for god's sake, and yet I bore a son who is in an after school math group ... for FUN. When he was in first grade he asked his teacher to explain square roots to him. How had he even heard of square roots in first grade? If I did not have fond memories of laboring and delivering that nine pound baby boy, I would call for a DNA test to prove maternity. 

Miles has an unquenchable curiosity about many things, not just math. He is currently reading Principles of Geology, by Charles Lyell (friend of Charles Darwin) for his independent reading book. Just today he explained to me how Lyell's work influenced Darwin. He also asked me if he could make a flame thrower out of hairspray, and told me he needed sheet metal and heat proof bricks to build a furnace so he could make glass. (It's a relief when he asks if he can make chocolate chip cookies.) Miles is always thinking. If you look closely you can almost see the gears turning inside his head. 

While he may have the mind of a scientist, Miles has the soul of an artist. He paints beautiful watercolors, rich with the textures of the natural world: Grass, stone, water. He draws intricate drawings of machines he'd like to invent, with lots of gears and other moving parts. A tactile kind of guy, Miles is unable to resist touching things in stores and other people's homes. But when he's walking through an art museum he clasps his hands firmly behind his back to help himself resist the temptation to reach out and touch the rich layers of paint on an Impressionist painting or the curve of stone on a sculpture. None the less, there always seems to be a security guard lurking nearby when we're in a museum.

Some time back I spent an afternoon cleaning Miles' room. It took a few hours. That night when I went to bed I found a seashell on my nightstand with a note inside thanking me for making his room so nice.  On more than one occasion he's told me he had "too much money" and would like to donate it. He's bought flocks of chicks from Heifer International, an acre of rain forest from The Nature Conservancy, and made a donation to support our church's warming shelters for homeless men and women, all with saved allowance and birthday money. He has also eagerly helped prepare broccoli cheese casserole for the guests of the warming shelter and graciously served them their evening meal. He said it made him "appreciate being in the middle class."

I realize I am bragging about my son here. But I can't help it. Not only do I love Miles, I admire him. I learn from him every day. He is a walking encyclopedia of scientific knowledge, but facts are not the most important thing he gives me. Miles shows me how amazing the world is when you approach it with curiosity and wonder. He reminds me to ask questions and explore big ideas. He shows me that science, art and religion can share a happy coexistence, like good roommates. And, most of all, he teaches me that a strong mind coupled with a big heart can change the world, everyday, with both grand and humble actions. 

... But math?


Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Getting Through the Clatter


"Poems would be easy if our heads weren't so full of the day's clatter. 
The task is to get through to the other side, 
where we can hear the deep rhythms that connect us with the stars and the tides."

-- Stanley Kunitz

Well, it's happened. Another school year has begun and with it the complex equation of how to fit four schedules together to equal one smooth running day. I've never been good at math, but we do our best around here to get everyone's needs met. I am the keeper of the day's mundane details. What time is Miles' soccer practice? Can I pick Frances up from high school today or does she need to take the bus home? Did Miles put his math homework in his backpack? Which one of us has time to walk the dog this evening? When can we squeeze in a trip to Staples to get Frances a scientific calculator? What the heck is a scientific calculator anyway? Like I said, I've never been good at math.

Things get neglected in the busy rush of the school year. For instance, the dog has the lingering scent of the dead seal he rolled in the other day because we are out of dog shampoo. And speaking of not bathing, I'm not sure when Miles' last took a shower. (He'll never tell.) The laundry is spilling out of the hamper, and I'm looking at a houseplant that hasn't been watered since July. Oh, and then there's dinner. I guess I should feed the children. Didn't I just do that yesterday?

And yet all I want to do is write this blog, sing a song, write a song, read a book, take the dog on a long walk, sit in the yard and watch the changing light, or hang out with my family with nothing tugging us away from each other. These things feel every bit as essential to me as eating and bathing. They are like fresh vine-ripened tomatoes for the soul. If I didn't have them I could survive on supermarket tomatoes, but I would never know how flavorful and complex a tomato could taste. 

Last week I attended a guided group meditation with my husband, Paul. He has been meditating for a couple of years now, and he thought I might enjoy this group. And he was right. There were maybe twenty people sitting on chairs or cushions, a couple of people lying on the floor. The room was homey and comfortable. And the leader, with her Austrian accent, had the most hypnotic voice on the planet. She could have been reading her bank statement and I would have sat there rapt, listening contentedly for hours. O.k., so I dozed off a little during the first part of the meditation, but it was a sweet, dreamy, floaty kind of nap. And when I finally surfaced, I just floated along on that hypnotic voice, watching the cares of the day slip away.

I don't know if I had a "successful" meditation, but I do know that when we got home I did not start barking directions at the kids. I didn't ask if they'd finished their homework or made their lunches for the next day. Just this once I put my faith in the universe that what needed to happen would happen. Paul and I joined them in the living room. And we all sat together, chatting about nothing important, just being together. And for a magical half an hour or so nothing tugged us away from each other.