Cycles of freezing and thawing.

Tags

awareness, meditation, mindfulness, spring

Within moments of taking this photo on Sunday morning, the view changed entirely. The sun appeared from behind the house and began touching the tops of the trees, and I sat gazing out the window, watching the clouds part and the chunks of fresh snow fall helplessly to the ground. By the time we left the house for a visit to Gorham, nearly every trace of Saturday’s snowfall was gone.

On our daily walks around the loop, we’ve noticed the bigger frost heaves on the paved road starting to smooth out one day, and then seize up the next as the temperatures swing wildly within each 24 hour period of early spring.

I have been enjoying the whole mess of it, and noticing the parallels in my own experience. The shine from our recent seven days on retreat seems at times to have faded entirely – and then other times, the gem of that beautiful experience is polished anew by a single moment of awareness of the simplest things, like: the first step in moving from one room into another; tension in the shoulders suddenly releasing upon noticing it; the memory of a dear friend who died three years ago; a pair of goldfinches at the bird feeder; a fragment of a song looping through the mind; pondering a to-do list and a plan for later in the week; the sound of delight in a friend’s voice on the phone; the sounds and sensations of warm running water at the kitchen sink; wondering what to blog about; looking at the above photo and remembering how quickly it all changed.

Each thing that happens, no matter how small or significant, arises, and is known, and then passes. Each one of these occurrences is a chance to thaw the frozen heart and mind, to shine up the gem in each of us, the one that sparkles with the wisdom that is always available in every moment. All we have to do is look, and notice what’s here.

What to say?

Tags

awareness, meditation, meditation retreat, mindfulness

What to say after a week away in the noble silence of retreat, where every thought, mood, action, reaction, sound, sensation, and moment arrives just as it is?

What to say after being in such close contact with the experience of mind and body for seven days?

The question of the week was: What is awareness noticing right now?

And it’s a question that has been continuing to float gently through since we returned home, into moments of joy and frustration, of exhaustion and elation, of ordinary-ness and extraordinary-ness.

There really isn’t anything to say, or even to do. The day, the hour, the minute, the breath, the thought – each of these things is arising, being known, and then falling away. Simply notice what there is to be noticed. That’s it. Easy peasy, right?

HA!

It’s quite an undertaking, to show up for life in this way, to do something that is so simple, and yet at times so difficult.

Awareness is noticing the one photograph I took when the retreat was over (above); noticing the memory of the snowstorm that brought nearly 24 inches of snow to the retreat center; noticing the bright clear blue sky outside the window as I type these words; noticing the flavor of coffee in the mouth; noticing the memory of yesterday’s lovely community sing; noticing the memory of those few dozen red winged blackbirds I heard and watched on my daily walk around the loop while on retreat; noticing a sadness arising upon remembering a bit of news I heard from someone yesterday; noticing tension in the shoulders and then its gentle release as soon as it’s noticed. And on and on the practice goes.

What to say about any of it? It’s all just happening on its own, moment after moment.

And I’m noticing that I have nothing else to say about it, because I’m noticing that it’s time for breakfast.

Just like that –

Tags

meditation, mindfulness

Just like that, the birds are greater in number – hungrier and more talkative.

(It’s like a switch got flipped one night and here they all are, readying for spring.)

Just like that, the front yard is full of sparkling white diamonds.

(Just a moment ago, the yard was a blue blanket expanse reflecting the sky above – then suddenly, the sunlight is out from behind the house and it renders each new snowflake into a tiny prism.)

Just like that, the six hour drive to Morristown is over.

(The world is a 65 mph roar of cars and pavement and people – then an off ramp dumps us off and within minutes, we are silent and motionless in an empty church parking lot.)

Just like that, the soundcheck is over.

(The Sohmer baby grand is loud and fierce, and my voice and Shawn’s bass are filling in around its edges. Then suddenly, the sanctuary is silent again, ready for the muffled conversations of concert goers and volunteers.)

Just like that, my dear friend Dotty is standing right in front of me!

(She was a voice in my left ear the other day, and now I’m standing here hugging her tightly and both of us are smiling!)

Just like that, my coffee cup is empty.

(And just a few moments before, I was breathing in the steam, savoring each warm, buttery sip.)

Just like that, a new song has taken shape.

(I’ve been kicking this can around for months! Wow, I love this groove…)

Moment after moment, all day every day, there are transitions that are as profound as they are ordinary. Recently, I’ve been practicing being more aware of those transitions – opening and closing doors; standing up from my desk; picking up the phone; checking my inbox; putting away the dishes. I’ve been trying to view each one as an invitation to look a little more closely, to notice what I’m thinking about as I put the plates away, or as I chop this onion, or as I open the car door, and noticing how that thought is coloring how I feel. Am I worried about anything? Eager? Excited? Sad?

Just like that, I’m done with this blog post.

A sign of… something springing.

Tags

climate change, gratitude, meditation, mindfulness, ocean, robins

Yesterday morning, after a really fun show with the trio in Rockport, MA the night before, Shawn and I woke up in the home of our fantastic hosts and were lucky enough to experience an ocean sunrise. We took a short walk to the water’s edge and spent some time savoring those precious few moments in its presence before we had to rush home for the next thing.

I could easily spend the rest of this blog post riffing just on the ocean – the feelings, emotions, memories, and sensations that it stimulates; the billions of years of life evolving on this planet starting out there in those deep and mysterious waters; the motion of planets and moons being expressed right before our eyes.

What I wasn’t expecting was the presence of about a dozen robins, living happily in the trees there at the start of our walk.

‘Robins?!’ we both exclaimed to one another, having to remind ourselves of the fact that it was January 8th in the northern hemisphere. Yep, it’s winter alright.

It’s almost like there’s something going on with the climate…!

I noticed my attention wavering and my mind spinning a little bit, pondering the changing climate, the impact that human activity is having on this planet that is home to countless species of life, feeling sad and angry. Robins are a sign of spring, dammit! These robins are a sign of something else springing.

And then my attention returned to our walk on the path, and then on the rocks, and then the beauty of the scene that we witnessed at the water’s edge. I’m so grateful for this life, for this chance to be aware of anything at all!

On our walk back to the house, I stood for a while under the trees and watched and listened to the robins, and also the Carolina wrens (another bird species whose range is expanding). They all appeared to be healthy, doing what birds – what living beings – do.

Life adapts – or not.

Then we bid a grateful farewell to our hosts and got in our fossil-fuel-burning car and made our two-and-a-half-hour drive home to prepare ourselves and our gear for a Zoom concert, to sing and play and share about our joy and awe.

And this morning, I am remembering a song I wrote a few years back:

If I can take one mindful breath
If I can take one mindful step
I may never know what kind of change the world will see
But if I can take one mindful breath
If I can take one mindful step
Then I can remember that change begins with me

May we all take mindful breaths and steps on this one beautiful planet that we share with all living beings.

Coming and going.

Tags

change, meditation, mindfulness, New Year

On this morning after Christmas, I am contemplating this quote from Joseph Goldstein:

‘It’s impossible to count on things staying the same, staying the way we want them to stay—because everything is always becoming otherwise.‘

On the precipice of a new calendar year, this seems especially appropriate.

And he’s right – it’s impossible. And it’s also painful.

So much of my own suffering stems from my wanting things/moments/experiences to stay the same, to grasp at the pleasant, to push away the unpleasant, to capture beauty in a jar and hold onto it for dear life. And all of this is a guaranteed strategy for unhappiness and dissatisfaction.

Here are just a few things that came and went in my awareness this past week that some part of me hoped could last forever:

• this year’s Charlie Brown Christmas tour
• a flock of evening grosbeaks
• that gorgeous sunset on the solstice
• that bag of curry-flavored popcorn
• singing in three part harmony with few dear old friends

Of course, the flip side of all of that is a list of things that came and went that I was eager to put in the rear view mirror:

• an argument with a loved one
• a headache
• my worry about the winter storm
• my annoyance with an aggressive tailgater

Every day, every moment, I am reminded that everything that arises will pass away, including my reactions and responses to those phenomena. It is the nature of all things. It’s painful and it’s beautiful.

As the day to swap out our calendars draws near, I’m reminded also of that U2 lyric: ‘Nothing changes on New Year’s Day.’ In one sense, this is correct: a new calendar year is an invitation to reflect on the past year, to plan for the new one, to resolve to change habits. In another sense, it’s not correct – everything is changing all the time, and each day or hour or moment can be framed as the start of a new year, a new slate onto which I can write my life. I can write words of dissatisfaction and unhappiness. I can write words of gratitude and joy. I can write words that are simply observations of what is happening: I feel dissatisfied/unhappy/grateful/joyful.

However you’re feeling in this moment, I wish you a clear slate, colorful chalk, and a long and beautiful life in and about which to write.

Ask your inner critic if laziness is right for you!

Tags

laziness, life, meditation, mental health, mindfulness, self criticism

I experience such a deep sorrow when I can’t get to everything on my to-do list in the time in which a much less exhausted version of me drew it up. I hate to cancel or postpone anything, especially creative projects. I figure I’m gonna be dead a long time, so why not fill up every hour of every day on my calendar now with all those things I want to do?

Sounds… not so great, doesn’t it?

Oh, if only we could come up with a way to not need so much sleep…

I had to cancel a studio session last week, and I really hated to. I am always up for everything – until I burn myself out and I’m not. My mind was and is always eager, and my body was saying, ‘You’ve got a hell of a busy weekend coming up – you need to be fully rested for it.’

So, instead of going to the studio last Thursday, I sat in the front yard for a while, staring at the bird feeder. Nuthatches, chickadees, titmice, and goldfinches, all in near constant motion preparing for the coming cold. I was really enjoying the peace and ease and calm, feeling gravity settle me into the chair, noticing the regeneration of stamina moving through my mind and body – and of course, I started thinking, Hmm, I’m feeling better. I could’ve gone to the studio today after all…

Shawn came out to chat at one point, and I told him what I was thinking.

He smiled at me and said, ‘Everyone needs medicinal laziness from time to time.’

Medicinal laziness! I love that.

And there’s that word I use to criticize my need for stillness and rest – ‘lazy’. Why do I so often, in my own case, frame the act of taking time out as ‘laziness’? Even in my daily meditation practice, I view it in part as working on something, working on the project of being more present and aware. I’m very often creating more work for myself, even when I’m sitting still and literally doing nothing!!

I do enjoy staying busy.

How many times have I supported the choice of others to take that same time out, but then criticize my own need for that same restoration? I gotta keep a little bit of that care and compassion for myself.

(More work on self to do, haha)

The birds are busy as hell these days, and I have been too. And it’s okay, like them, to rest on a branch for a bit, taking stock of what’s happening and what’s to come, and show up as fully to this body and mind as I always hope to for anyone else’s.

Small moments, many times.

Tags

meditation, mindfulness, touring

This past weekend was another one filled with traveling and live performances, this time with the Acoustic Trio. Shawn, Davy, and I zigged and zagged across upstate NY and NJ to bring our songs and stories to folks in three different communities, each one hungry for live music, each one warm and sweet and open.

As I continue to weave myself back into the 3D world of touring, I find that my practices of all sorts have become even more important. One of my favorite phrases in meditation practice is: small moments, many times. The idea here is to erase the boundary between formal practice and the rest of life, and cultivate a life that is itself the practice. Bringing one’s attention back to the present moment, again and again, whether it’s always to an anchor like the breath or the body, or in a choiceless awareness of whatever bubbles up – the idea is to keep punctuating one’s day – one’s life – with these small moments of awareness.

The cardinal calling from across the road.

The aroma of this cup of coffee.

The delight and gratitude at seeing two friends who drove nearly two hours to see us.

The tiny spider crawling up my arm.

The steepness of this spiral staircase.

The smile on the woman’s face when I sang that one line.

The beauty of the storm clouds letting go of their rain.

The sweetness of these fresh strawberries.

And while I do appreciate, and will continue on with, my extended daily formal practice ‘on the cushion’, I was and am thankful for the opportunities this past weekend to bring the ‘small moments’ practice into focus, all of which helps illuminate my path, my heart, and my life.

Always arriving precisely on time.

Tags

meditation, mindfulness, nature, spring

The early spring window that delights me so much every year slammed shut this week with the arrival of those most unwelcome of guests – the black flies.

And they really like me, always have.

Black flies don’t bite, they suck! So goes the old joke.

Because of these tiny hungry pests, I’ve quickened my steps on our recent evening walks, which can still be so thoroughly enjoyed for their exquisite, kinda-feels-like-summer stillness, and for the salmon colored brush that washes over the sky.

I was so thrilled to hear my first hermit thrush of the year this week, too, with its otherworldly trilling echoing through the woods. And we finally spotted a pair of loons on the pond, and I watched them through my binoculars diving for fish again and again as we swatted at the bugs.

And wow, did it get hot this week. In the 80s with hot dry sun. The high fire danger was finally quenched this weekend with some much needed rain, and the green that was just beginning to bud out is now exploding vibrantly into view.

Everything is always arriving – black flies, birds, leaves, rain, sun – and though my personal clock says, ‘Okay, no thanks on the black flies, and I’ll take the rain at night and sun during the day, please,’ nature gives no damn about that. It just shows up precisely on time, all the time.

I’m trying to be a little more like that, too – showing up precisely on time for everything. And I don’t mean being punctual (although that matters a lot to me, too). I mean in the sense of being present to what’s happening – being reflective rather than reactive. I keep remembering, again and again, to practice zooming out at the beauty of the whole scene, rather than in on each annoyance that distracts me from the larger view.

And I’ll be getting lots of practice as the mosquitos arrive… and that means the dragonflies and bats will soon be doing their zigging and zagging across that same peachy sunset sky looking for their supper.

One bird at a time.

Tags

birding, birds, meditation, mindfulness

I heard someone remark recently that, instead of January 1, she thinks of the first day of spring as the first day of the new year, and I immediately resonated with this. Noticing a group of robins landing in the yard in the late afternoon of the last full day of winter this year seemed to affirm this – a group of red breasted birds gathering like revelers in Times Square, waiting for the equinox ball to drop.

One of my pandemic proclivities has been bird watching, and the last couple of weeks have been a flurry of activity here. The chickadees that survived the winter with us have in recent days been joined by the aforementioned robins, plus a family of goldfinches, and a number of pine siskins, nuthatches, titmice, and an occasional downy woodpecker. Just this past week we heard, then finally saw, the first pair of mourning doves of the year, as well as a single red-winged blackbird.

With practice, the bird visits are becoming the perfect way to punctuate my work hours – and all hours – with moments of mindfulness. One bird at a time, I notice their arrival, notice their beauty, notice my excitement, and willingness and even longing at times to be distracted from whatever I’m working on, notice my joy at their arrival, notice the occasional brief glimpse of disappointment when they fly away.

Happy New Year, everyone!

What now?

Tags

meditation, mindfulness

After spending the last ten weeks writing about my experience on retreat, I have arrived at an interesting moment in which I find myself asking: Do I have anything left to say about anything?

I know that sounds hyperbolic, but in so many ways, the retreat experience pares life down to the absolute essentials:

There is just this.

It’s just a thought.

Be here now.

Seems like a wrapped kind of deal, huh?

Well, there is theory, and then there is application.

At some point, the retreat metabolizes in some way, and then you find yourself angry at someone tailgating you, or annoyed that you can’t find the packing tape, or a thousand other tiny grievances that can seem as large as the world itself.

I am lost in thought most of the time. Hell, even as I’m typing these words, I am thinking things like Who gives a damn other than you about your navel gazing? and It’s just about time to make breakfast and holy shit am I hungry and Oh yeah I gotta pay my cell phone bill.

Yeah I know, it’s just a thought. Yeah I know, there is just this, blah blah blah.

So, what now?

Everything is humming along. The news from the wider world is distressing and overwhelming. And I still have my work to do.

I learn this week about a dear friend whose sister is dying. Suddenly, the world seemed a narrower, darker, more immediate place. My heart aches for him, for his whole family. I picked up the phone and left him a voicemail that may seem trite, and I mean every word. I love and care about and miss and feel sad for him. I started thinking about the family I still have left – people I love, and with whom I connect far less often than I do.

Again – life being pared down to the essentials.

Yes indeed, there is just this – the world as it is, and the story I tell myself about it. My friend and his sister. The beautiful sunset at the pond the other night. The war in Ukraine. The first purple finch of the season. There is this never-ending flow of thoughts, and the follow up intentions and motivations, that all appear out of nowhere, vying for position in the front of the queue. And here ‘I’ am – whatever that means, right? – making choices about how and where to spend my time and attention.

None of us is alone in this wondering, in this strange place between wanting to communicate and wanting to hide. And I sure as hell ain’t no life coach – I’m just a wondering, wandering soul too, doing the best I can to cultivate peace and connection in my own moment to moment experience. And I have found that sharing helps. Even when I’m feeling afraid and vulnerable. Especially so, in fact.

So, what now?

Publish this post, finish my coffee, eat breakfast, work on my various creative projects, go for a walk, play with the neighbors’ dogs, watch the bird feeder, continue to find those delicate balances between wisdom and trust, openness and resistance, gratitude and desire, truth and illusion.

And linger at the pond, and squeal with excitement at that first purple finch.