Mint Meditation

With the uproar of construction this past summer, and the deconstruction of my herb garden, i got out of the habit of making mint iced tea every day.

My mint patch is supposed to be about 8 feet long and 2 feet wide, but mint oversteps its bounds when no one is looking. So i pull 4 or 5 mint stems out of the ground, cut off the root, smoosh the tall "sprigs" of mint into a big glass pitcher, and pour boiling water over them. My sweetie calls this "iced mint water."

The mint is still vigorous and green, and cold mint tea in the fridge offers variety to my attempt to drink 8 glasses of water each day.

In the uproar of your life, pull out your old meditation practice. You remember how to do it. It's sitting there with you right this moment, just waiting to refresh you.

Photo from tsflowers.com

Woodland Walk

My woodland walk is covered with dead leaves so that you can no longer tell where the path is. The beginning and end of the path are lined with big rocks, which point the way. Then what?

Sometimes, our path is not clear. Our daily life gets covered up by too many things to do.

Mindfulness is the ground we walk on. Mindfulness is NOT one more thing we try to add on to our too-busy lives. We simply change our attitude toward every mundane moment.

Get out of bed mindfully.
Pee mindfully.
Brush your teeth mindfully.
Get dressed mindfully.
Drink your cup of tea or coffee mindfully.
Eat breakfast mindfully.
Walk to your car mindfully.
Feel and hear the crush of fallen leaves under your feet.
Drive mindfully.
That way you'll be safer and so will everyone else around you.

Shrub Season

Except for oaks and beeches, most trees have lost their leaves. The landscape begins to look rather bare, but around the edge of the lawn, shrubs are shining red, orange, yellow, and even pink. Thank goodness for shrubs!

We love our shrubs when they bloom in the spring. Now they draw our attention again as their late autumn leaves color our personal landscape. Spectacular Japanese maples redden or else yellow into orange. Weeping cherries and magnolias are yellow. Double-file viburnums turn dark red. Even that lazy old forsythia, who has been resting on its early laurels for six months, finally DOES something as its leaves tinge toward red potato skin.

The lives of many octogenarians are weakening of failing as their limbs stand bare in anticipation of the coming deep freeze. But some few of these 80-somethings are still going full steam, and they draw our attention. I want to be like that, we think, as if we have the choice.

Our choice is now, while we are young: daily exercise, a nourishing diet, and mindfulness.

When the body finally becomes completely bare of energy in the late autumn of our lives, mindfulness is the only thing that remains.

As one dying friend quipped: her life is now only "Bed, Bath, and soon to be Beyond."

Her advice: Be present.

Glorious Oaks

Two weeks ago, we thought foliage season was a bust, but now that the tourists have gone home, the hills are alive with the colors of oaks--crimson, russet, gold.

Some hillsides are bare of leaves, and some shine oak-ly against the blue sky. The light is delightful, as the naturally shiny oak leaves reflect and refract the sun's brightness. The late afternoon light slants low across the sky illuminating the hills gloriously.

When i take pictures of fall leaves (for this blog), i see that every leaf is aged with black spots, brown spots, or barnacles. Sort of like my aging skin.

From a distance, the aging forest, the aging leaves are beautiful. Up close, we see a leaf's moles and blemishes.

Everything is aging.

My Harvest Basket is Gone

In the summer, i keep my harvest basket near the front door. While harvest season isn't over exactly--kale, chard, and bok choy are still growing happily--it's time for my harvest basket to go south for the winter, into the basement, and be replaced with a basket of slippers for visitors to my home.

The summer harvest is over. Done (whether or not it got "done.") Gone.

We could just spend the rest of the day noticing "Gone."
Noticing everything that changes (which is everything).
Reading this blog. Gone.
Moving the mouse. Gone.
Pushing keys on the keyboard. Gone.
The blink of an eye, and for a split-second, sight is gone.
Breath. Gone.
Heartbeat. Gone.
Saliva swallowed. Gone.

Go on. Notice "gone."

The Tender Annuals Are Dead

The tender annuals are dead--basil, tomatoes, morning glories, and marigolds.
But other annuals still live--alyssum, petunias, nicotiana.

I read the obituaries every day, and note when people my age (or younger) have died. It feels like a mystery. Even though i don't know them, i feel my cohort--the group i was born with--is disappearing. The tenderest annuals have died.

With foresight, i can see that death is coming to me as well. I was at a workshop on Friday, and the presenter asked, "Who here is going to die?" About 10% of the people raised their hands.

We really don't think (or don't want to think) that WE are going to die. Those other people, but not me.

I'm going out to the garden now to pull out the dead and take them to their compost pile grave.

Grateful for "No"

I drove to Boston yesterday to see the Dalai Lama in dialogue with Father Thomas Keating (an architect of Centering Prayer) and Brother David Steindl-Rast (gratefulness.org).

The Dalai Lama encouraged us to cultivate seeds of compassion. I passed out free seed packets from The Meditative Gardener, which say "Planting Seeds of Kindness and Mindfulness." (I'm happy to send you a free seed packet :)

I was surprised and a bit put-off by the number of urbanites who gave their well-practiced lines, "I'm good" (meaning "No thanks") as they put their right hand up, palm-out, as a shield between our eyes.

And then i remembered to be grateful to them for not taking seed packets, (which cost me 35 cents apiece) which they weren't going to use.