Onion Seedlings

I ordered onion seedlings online last year because my usual local sources were sold out. This year, i have already ordered on-line onion seedlings--slated to arrive the third week of April.

Where is the center of an onion? Where is the center of the so-called self that we say we are "centering"?

We have layers and layers of habit patterns. Oh, those habits are hard to see, let alone peel away. Some of those thought habit patterns bring us to tears. That's how we know we are on the right track to uncovering them.

Today, i am looking at the thought pattern "I'm right." I've nicknamed it I.M. Wright. Ms. I.M. Wright is sometimes wrong. Sometimes, the price Ms. Wright pays for being right is disconnection from friends--she's that insistent of being right. 

Ms. I.M. Wright is closely connected to the thought habit of you-don't-understand-me--UDUM, for short. When those two get together, i just want to cry with frustration.

I watch them pal up during meditation. I listen to each one, over and over. And then they each fall silent.

The mind relaxes. The body relaxes. No one is right. No one is wrong. Life is, and that is all.

Pocketbook Birdhouse

We decided to increase our number of birdhouses a few years ago, so when i see an interesting homemade birdhouse, i buy it.

Last year, at a farmers market, a woodworker had several unique birdhouses. I bought the one made out of an antique wooden pocketbook (I'm guessing it's from the 1940s). A wren has taken up residence. (Notice the stick sticking out of the hole.)

I hung the birdhouse at eye-level, and any number of people walk right by it without noticing.

This birdhouse is delightful. How much ordinary delight do we walk by every day and fail to notice?

Stop. Look. Listen.

Delight is all around.

Red Tulips

Red Tulips

by Denise Levertov

Red tulips

living into their death
flushed with a wild blue

tulips
becoming wings
ears of the wind
jackrabbits rolling their eyes

west wind shaking the loose pane

some petals fall
with that sound one
listens for.

Cold Last Night

Last night, the temperature here dropped to 21 degrees, so yesterday afternoon, i brought many of my potted tulips indoors. Now, i'm waiting for them to bloom in another week or two.

My sweetie and i are also waiting to see if the virus "blooms" in us. We flew home a week ago. Yes? Or no? The answer is "Don't know."

Consider how many thousands of things we don't know.
What am i eating for lunch? Don't know.
When will i take a nap? Don't know.
Where will i take a walk today? Don't know.

Those little don't-knows don't bother my mind. But then the mind latches on to one don't-know and keeps touching it like worry beads.

I open to not knowing.

Can you say that and feel it?

I am not willing to open to not knowing, because....

List whatever comes to mind. No judgment. Just listen to your list.

Infinite Not Knowing.

How does that feel?

Even the tulips do not know when they will bloom.

Too Hot to Garden

With temperatures in the 90s this week, I go out to the garden as soon as i've finished my hour-long meditation from 6 to 7 a.m. I can garden for about an hour before the sun rises over the trees, and then, it's suddenly too hot to garden.

I look for shade and pull a few weeds, but i've lost my oomph.

At the end of life, the body loses its oomph, and it's too late to....  Too late to say that important something to that beloved person. Too late to do that special, unique thing you do. The body goes all out of whack--too hot, too cold, too heavy, too loose. Too late.

What's that one special thing that silently calls your name? Listen. Listen to the stillness.

Paved Paradise

Our Airbnb condo in Puerto Rico faces a beach park, so we are in a great location. But every time we go out the back door to the parking lot to get in the car, we slow down and listen. It's so quiet back there. The parking lot faces a woodsy low land of about 5 acres. It feels like a bird sanctuary. The parking lot is not only quiet and spacious, we hear birds singing, and we feel.... What is that? Paradise?

How can a parking lot be paradise? I am reminded of the Joni Mitchell song, "They paved paradise, and put up a parking lot." That's what this parking lot feels like.

This morning i took a beach chair out behind the industrial-sized generator and sat there for an hour meditating, gazing at the woods, and listening to the birds of paradise singing.

Snake's Tongue

Our hotel room in Dublin, Ireland has a sansevieria plant on a table near the window. Commonly called snake tongue, this plant is undemanding and very easy to keep alive.

In these days, when hateful speech so easily flies off the tongues of those around us and various media personalities, it's good to remember to keep our own tongues in check with Wise Speech. Using our tongues and our words skillfully is not an easy assignment.

In the days after the election, i decided to listen, really listen to someone who voted differently than i did. She went on a 30-minute rant, while my sweetie and i kept our mouths shut. I had asked for a different point of view, and i got it! I could feel in my body, how good the rant was feeling to her in the moment--very fizzy and charged with adrenalin.

After she left for an appointment, i told my sweetie, "That hatred felt great in the moment, but she's going to feel ashamed of herself for the rest of the day." Sure enough, when we saw her that evening, she tried to make amends, which we graciously accepted. "You have one news source," my husband said, "and we have other news sources."

In the days ahead, we are going to be called on to speak truthfully, straight-forwardly, and kindly. That's a difficult recipe to follow.
 
But when anger and hatred is so easy to grow and so seductive, it's time for us to put our nerves between our teeth, and hold our own sharp snake-like tongue.

Coming to Peace with Nature by Dawn Downey, Guest Blogger

This year I'm coming to terms with nature. Starting right now.

Nature means trees: ticks dropping out of them, spider webs stretched between them, and snakes curled up at their roots. I dislike these things. I walk every day, but choose sidewalks and treadmills, preferences no doubt borne from my suburban upbringing.

In April, my husband and I hiked in Wallace State Park. He studied the map painted on a wooden placard and selected Rocky Ford Trail, labeled moderate. As directed, we crossed a dam and headed for the trail. Once across Ben veered right. I continued straight. "How the hell did you know to turn?"

He pointed to a spot a couple yards beyond where he'd stopped. Sure enough, a trail, but it petered out into the patch of weeds at my feet. My attempt to understand the natural world was doomed. Hopeless. Mother Nature had failed to provide me the gene that signals where to change direction in the absence of street signs.

The trail wound through oaks still naked from winter. Bone white sycamore skeletons reached skyward, as it ran parallel to a stream. We stopped where a waterfall trickled over a limestone shelf. Cardinals sang accompaniment to the gurgling creek. The music so delicate you had to hold you breath to take it in. It nourished even a room service kind of girl like me. Lesson one: listen.