day ten: 27 days of gratitude

I find that gratitudes are cairns of a different sort, they remind us to focus on the seeds of good already present in our life and through our attention the seeds grow. And so for today, along the trail of life, I will build a gratitude cairn. I am thankful for:

Bodhi for all he is and his vibrant approach to life. Last night when I told the boys that I had read a great little quote about the meaning of life, Bodhi looked at me like I was thoroughly daft, and said, "The meaning of life is Living".
Owen for all he is and his depth of vision. A few days ago Owen texted me, "You're an incredible mother. You love too much. It surely can't be good for you. But still, you somehow continue to manage and that is what I believe your purpose is, to love unconditionally. And you are one of the few people capable of that kind of love. But dont' forget you are loved and that you deserve to be loved. I love you immensely and take this opportunity to thank you for all of your love."
I am grateful, beyond words or sentiments, for the incredible gift of being a mother and knowing Owen and Bodhi.
For a warm home full of beautiful simplicity and quiet reminders to breathe, to rest and to live.
For my body that keeps on surprising me with what it is capable of and inspiring me with its strength, tenacity and usefulness.
For my mind that carried me through grad school while working, mothering, recovering from brain trauma and more.
For creativity that always manages to inspire me in the darkest hours.
For nature in all her beautiful forms, help me to see your beauty in the coldest, shivering hours as easily as I do in the warmer months surrounded by flowers.
For this moment, exactly as it is.
For the past, complete with all its horrors, bumps, bruises, successes and celebrations… thank you.
For my cooking, damn I'm a good cook! and for the food that fills me kitchen like a palette of gustatory possibilities.
For my amazing coworkers who constantly inspire and support eachother. Thank you.
For my family and history, although I no longer choose to live that story, I love each of you and am grateful for it.
For hot tea!
For my gym.
For music.
For weekends.

Thank you.

Comments

Coraggio

When everything looks bleak and the darkness cramps against the cold, it takes courage to simply look out from imagined isolation toward the wide horizon of beauty available in every moment. It takes courage to lean into the sea of life and trust the tide. When weary limbs no longer support us, it takes courage to trust our inner buoyancy and float. It takes courage, in the face of darkness, to remember the light and sit in all our apparent blindness and listen, silently, to the still, small whisper within. It takes courage, in that dark hour, when nothing else remains. Eyes closed. Eyes opened. A glimpse, a memory, a fleeting vision of a light so bright it blurs the borders of things seen and things perceived into a comprehensive wholeness of being. It takes courage.

tree digging

Yes, I know it doesn't look like much. It was only about 5 inches in diameter and 8 feet tall. The root ball was no more than 3 feet deep. But it was a sweet red-bud tree that we planted the year Bodhi was born, his placenta was buried in it's roots and like many of the trees in our neighborhood, it died (see this post to understand why) . I can't say that I mourned its death in a tangible way, rather it produced in me a sort of unnameable melancholy. I am a woman who loves the spring. I nearly live for it. When the first signs of life emerge like a haze of hope, I drink in green with the passion of a desert crawling woman sipping at an oasis. I gorge. This year has been hard. Our neighborhood isn't leafing out in native splendor, instead the tired trees seem to begrudge the effort, only offering a tender shoot or bud occasionally. The north side of many trees appear to have given up all together, too tired after a long winter...

grief

Grief is defined as a deep or intense sorrow. I have been thinking a lot about grief, about it's wide and sticky reach, about the watery quality of it's absorption and the agonizing effort of swimming to shore. Intense sorrow happens. It is a part of life. Yet we press against it. We try to eradicate it. How? We encapsulate our grief in a story, thus effectively removing us from the immediacy of the pain. The mind promises salvation and begins to tell a story, over and over and over. We listen to the inner ramblings, the constant diatribe, the neurotic attempt to avoid the experience. When someone is hurting we listen to their story, we talk about it, we recount our own story, but we certainly don't jump in the waters of sadness, instead we sit on the bank of our familiar longing. Once, when I was floundering in deep grief, my youngest brother knelt next to me and held me for over an hour. He didn't speak. He didn't commiserate. He just jumped in the ...

angelbirdflies

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