Trash and treasure.

Tags

life, mindfulness, Song Village

My heart and mind are so full from a beautiful experience at Song Village this past weekend in the Santa Cruz mountains. Bernice and I led a song circle on Friday afternoon, and we were also invited to lead a song in the closing circle on Sunday morning, where we offered Bernice’s ‘May Peace Prevail Upon Earth’. What a gift to hear a hundred voices lifting that song and that hope into the air!

Five of us – Bernice and I, Shawn, Ann, and friend and fellow song leader Roberta Kirn – shared an Airbnb nearby for the week. During our narrow and winding commute each day, I never failed to notice this one particular turnout spot that offered a view of the valley, of more distant mountains, of the fog over the sea to the southwest – and also of a large pile of garbage purposefully dumped there. Kitchen trash, a pink bucket, a child’s toy xylophone, plastic bags, fast food scraps.

Each day we passed by this scene, and each day I would experience the same range of distinct flashes of emotion – awe at the beauty; anger at the trash; curiosity about the person who dumped it; prickles of fear of the sheer drop into the valley from that turnout.

On Saturday evening, as we made our way down the mountain from Song Village, we made a point to stop at what I’d named ‘Trash Turnout’ to witness the last pastels of the sunset and the breathtaking, salmon-colored full moon rising. As we stood for a few moments mostly silent, save for the crunching of our feet over the sandy gravel, we all pulled our phones out to take photos. At first, I was careful to avoid any view of the garbage in my photos, eager to capture only the beauty. Then, as I paid attention to my aversion, I laughed quietly to myself and decided to take one last photo of the moon rising over the valley and the trash, to remind me of this experience.

There is both trash and treasure in this world, and its beauty and ugliness exist solely in my perception of both. I hope to continue to strike the right balance in my own heart in how I show up for both.

Hope in the ashes.

Tags

hope, life, mindfulness, Sequoia National Forest, wildfires

Having spent most of my life in New England, the idea of wildfires has been mostly an abstraction, something that happens elsewhere, somewhere far away. After spending nearly a month on the West Coast, from the PNW all the way down to LA, I have been developing my awareness of these all-too-frequent-out-here events.

Seeing DOT signs that read ‘Controlled Burn – Do Not Report’ has been a bit alien, startling. The most gripping sights of all, of course, have been those of the evidence of the fires themselves – entire mountainsides and hillsides blackened; thousands of evergreens stripped of their needles, standing like skeletons in a forest boneyard; one side of a sequoia golden and healthy, and the other side deeply scarred by flame; stumps of ancient redwoods hollowed by flame.

During our time in Camp Nelson, we took many walks in the Sequoia National Forest, and one of the most arresting scenes was the one pictured above – a stand of young trees, standing lifeless, some having succumbed to the ravages of gravity, some spray-painted near their base in bright pink with numbers – perhaps they were marked for rehabilitation, or for removal? I wondered. Along one road, with snow capped mountains peering down from the distance, this was the scene, everywhere you looked – the devastating, irremovable mark of fire, leaving nothing untouched.

And yet, just as common a sight was one of hope – springing up underneath the destruction was the greenest, lushest grass I’ve ever seen, made even more so by recent rainfall and frequent fog.

It’s easy to draw the parallels to my own lived daily life: some destructive force entirely out of my control threatens – or manages – to take it all down, and then from the ashes comes the arrival of what is useful and supportive to the renewal of purpose and of life itself. Rising up, falling away, again and again.

I’ll keep walking, and looking, and certainly finding the evidence of this endless cycle of death and rebirth, for as long as I’m able.

Breaks in the clouds.

Tags

awareness, gratitude, life, meditation, mindfulness, spring

It’s been raining nearly nonstop here in northern New England. ‘Tis the season for those April showers, and when I got up on this very wet, gray, first morning of May, I felt a longing for more flowers than I’ve been seeing. Then, as soon as that thought appeared, I reflected on the past week and remembered that those blooms don’t always have to appear in the garden. There were lots of gorgeous flowers that appeared like breaks in the clouds this past week, and here are just a few:

• I started composing a brand new vocal piece that I tried out at Sunday’s community sing, and hearing something like that take shape out in the real world is always such a thrill!

• Shawn and I went exploring in our neighborhood the other day and spotted a pair of loons on the pond! We’ve only seen one loon at a time the last couple of years, and it warmed my heart to see the pair together diving for fish.

• And speaking of birds, I had such a blast watching a lone yellow bellied sapsucker working on the maple tree in the side yard the other day. And, I heard my first vireo of the year, too!

• On Sunday evening, we attended a local show that included the appearance of a beloved student performing with her brothers, who received a thunderous ovation – and then at intermission, I randomly reconnected with an old friend when the two of us least expected it.

• While searching for something else on YouTube the other day, I happened upon a video of one of my songs being sung in the UK to help folks in memory care units. I was already aware that this group, Shared Harmonies, was using this particular song in this way, and still, what a beautiful surprise to hear it in action!

• Did I mention the shipping notification I received for the arrival of the second Heart Songs & Circle Songs CD, slated for tomorrow??

There are at least a hundred more instances like this from just this past week alone – these rays of sunshine piercing through the clouds to remind me of the necessity of a balance between sun and rain to keep the soil fertile enough for the seeds of all these experiences to take root and find their way towards the light. It’s easy (for me, anyway) to allow doubt, impatience, and frustration to cloud the mind and obscure the beauty that is always available, always unfolding, always appearing just as it is. And I am learning, one week and day and moment at a time, to observe life just as it is, all while paying attention to the attitude of mind without defaulting to the old habits of self-judgment.

Here’s wishing you a week full of beautiful blooms that are unfolding at their own pace!

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.

The gravy of gratitude.

Tags

birding, gratitude, mindfulness, Thanksgiving

Anything I want to be better at – piano, guitar, singing, songwriting, cooking, birding, gratitude, mindfulness – requires practice.

I’m slowly getting better at birding. I was so excited to spot this big flock of bohemian waxwings on Thanksgiving Day up in Gorham, NH!

I’m getting pretty good at gratitude, too.

My gratitude practice used to be this: at the end of the day before bed, I’d write down a few things for which I was grateful that day on each page of a 4ishx3ish composition notebook. One little page per day.

Over time, the daily exercise moved from pencil and paper to simply contemplating these things before turning in for the night.

After years of practice, I find that, no matter how sour my mood, I can almost instantly tap into a feeling of gratitude for even the smallest thing, like, ‘I’m grateful that I’m wearing my favorite socks right now.’

I think of any skill as a delicious gravy, and my brain is the biscuit into which it is (hopefully) settling and improving.

Many of us gathered this past week around food and connection to family – and perhaps the sharing of their gratitude – on a day that is set aside for these things. Then, many of us got swept up the very next morning – with Thanksgiving dinner still in the belly – in the hustle and bustle of Black Friday, spending money on things, looking for deals, perhaps pushing past others to get this or that for this person or that person.

Many of us have gotten a lot of practice being consumers in our lives. And many of us are ‘good’ at it.

I wonder – does the skill of being a ‘good shopper’ lead to a more satisfying life? That’s a question we can each quietly ask ourselves, and then listen carefully for the answer.

I also wonder – wouldn’t it be amazing if we could, as a culture, move away from these practices of acquiring stuff and instead creating and sharing more meaningful experiences? To bring more reflective practices into every day, week, month, year, moment of our lives? To cultivate more gratitude, more sit-down meals with loved ones, more connection to one another and to our experience in each moment?

Let that gravy sink in.

Hope and trust written in chalk.

Tags

anxiety, gratitude, mindfulness, musician, touring

This past Saturday night was the first of the last Acoustic Trio shows, and it was a big deal for us – Caffe Lena, the legendary listening room in Saratoga Springs, NY. We’d played there before, and it is always special there.

I’ve been experiencing a strange mix of excitement and dread recently. The sudden return to what feels like the normal I remember of ‘B.C.’ – driving, setting up, soundchecking, playing, greeting friends and fans, sleeping, rinse lather repeat – has been the driving force behind this recent emotional tug of war. The pandemic is still very much here, and still leaving 400ish dead each day, on track to 100k Americans dead each year.

So, I’ve been making friends with anxiety again.

Part of normal touring life is staying in cheap motels, and also with friends of friends and friendly strangers. I’ve always enjoyed this aspect. But as I put fingers to keyboard recently and put out feelers for housing, I was fully aware of what a huge ask this is. Putting on in-person shows and getting butts in seats is hard enough in these strange ‘pandemic-is-kinda-over-but-not-really’ times – but asking some friend of a friend of a friend if you can sleep in their guest room? It’s a big deal.

So, as I was connected with a friend of friend, I felt so grateful – and also super anxious.

The show was great – the friends and fans who came out, and the venue staff and volunteers, were all beautiful.

Shawn and I got the last of the gear loaded up, and navigated to the friendly stranger’s house. And I was feeling nervous. The street was dark and quiet. We didn’t even know which door to go to.

I’ve forgotten how to do this, I thought.

Then, there was the light on at the side door and the two friendly smiling faces (human and dog) to greet us as warmly as you could hope. And there, just in front of her kitchen door – a message of hope and trust written in chalk: ‘Welcome Heather & pals.’

And in a flash, I felt so much more at ease.

As we made our way in with our gear, I briefly expressed my anxiousness to our host, who understood completely and responded by putting the kettle on for tea. She showed us around the house, and then excused herself to bed.

Perfection.

The next morning, we all shoved off in our respective directions, all feeling a bit more hopeful and trusting in a future that has always been uncertain, even before the pandemic.

And the coffee was delicious.

More road adventures await this weekend, and for the rest of this month. I’m taking it all one mile and one moment at a time.