Category Archives: Mindfulness

Something So Beautiful

Do you ever put off doing something beautiful because you’re too busy?  Until last week, I had been saying “tomorrow” for at least two years every time I drove by the gorgeous lagoon that’s a whopping 1.5 miles from our house.  Ridiculous, I know.

That day after my last online call, I looked up at the cloudless sky, felt the soft breeze, and the sun on my shoulders and heard the words, “Today.  This IS the day!”

So on my way to drop off a ballot at the Post Office and pick up eggs at the neighborhood micro market, I pulled into the parking lot that had been calling my name.  An elderly man carrying the two parts of a fishing pole and a bucket in each hand walked toward me emanating peace. 

The lake I was about to walk around wasn’t just any lake.  It was the one my great aunt and skinny-legged, long braids “me” headed to in her giant boat of a blue Chevy Biscayne.  

There were no seat belts or car seats in those days and even though I was tall for my age, I mostly saw the top of everything as we drove across town to our destination.  I’m sure I was clutching the Wonder Bread wrapper so tightly my palm was sweating.  It would have been a pleasant day, the windows down, the radio on.  

We were on the way to feed the ducks.  My great aunt, our family’s lone Democrat, was the one who took me on adventures.  I’m pretty sure she had as much, if not more, fun than I did.

As I walked the paved trail, part of the city’s major renovation of the park and lagoon, I wasn’t sure she would recognize the place.  But I was sure that 45 years after her death, she would approve.  

The day was a stunner.  The trees were between 20 and 85 degrees of color change.  Of course, back then there were no abandoned electric scooters strewn along the path.  In those days, we relied on push power.

In a neighborhood prone to the whir of sirens, it was oddly quiet.  Silent enough to hear the frogs and the crows croaking. The tall grasses rustling in the breeze.  I stood at the rail remembering.  There were no ducks to throw pieces of bread to now.  

I watched a 20-something fisherman cast his line into the water with a thump.  Another twenty-something man passed by smiling; his friendly pup pulling on the leash to greet me.  

As I walked, I felt an urge to return every season.  To see the landscape change, to notice the movement in me.

The picnic tables and grills surrounding the new shelter were empty.  The water was rippled gently to the west.  I came to the abandoned boat ramp I didn’t remember, rubbed my shoe over the grass growing between its stones.  The boats, like my great aunt and the ducks, were long gone.

I leaned against the railing breathing and snapping photos into and away from the sun.  I felt my great aunt there with me.  Just like she is when I take my “grands” on neighborhood adventures.  Forty-five minutes had passed by the time I headed off.  Yes, I had walked around the lagoon.  But it felt as if I had traveled much farther.


Is there “something so beautiful” you’ve been waiting for the “perfect” time to enjoy?  My great aunt and I would suggest, “Today!  This IS the day!”  Enjoy ~

Spring’s Lovely Betweenness

Welcome, spring, with your

Wide-open windows.

Fresh air and raindrops.

Gentle breezes and rousing wind.

Dandelions.  Nettle tea.

Fresh linens.

Tucked away turtlenecks.

Shaken out mats.

Garden gloves.

Bicycles and yoga.

Ruffled pages.

Walks with Speedy.

Composted clutter.

Open mind. Open body. Open breath.

Space for now.

5 Stars: Daybreak

January Sunrise

Five stars.  Not merely enough for January’s morning quiet, for the dark time when the slightly waning Wolf Moon, the Lakota’s Stay Home Moon, shines high in the western sky surrounded by handfuls of random flickering stars.  Accept the invitation to throw a blanket over your shoulders, open the front door and step barefoot on to the deck and you’ll not be disappointed.  Stillness will penetrate you, possibly more deeply than the cold rushing up through the soles of your exposed feet or the frosty air seeping slowly in through your nostrils, winding down your windpipe into the tiniest of your alveoli. 

Here in the sacred, bracing temple of the passing night, you will stand appearing to do nothing and doing everything.  You will blink trying to train your eyes upon Mother Moon’s subtle rings, already aware that Father Sun is gently scaling the mountain behind you.  Night into day, into night, into day.  A ceaseless tempo, a never-ending wheel, a dependable rhythm to be counted on like death and taxes.  Seen today, yet present even in invisibility. 

Here there is only silence which is why you rise earlier and earlier to catch this morning quiet.  After the coyotes have howled, before the prairie dogs stir and the Colorado blue birds begin to twitter.  When the shivering starts, as it inevitably will, it is best to turn and place your chilly hand on the door’s steely cold handle.  It is also advisable to look over your shoulder one last time as you push that handle down, but not the sadness you feel at saying goodbye to Mother Moon and her attendant canopy of stars.

You move lightly with only the moonlight to guide you, your cold bare feet caressing the bamboo floor gently, before stepping on to the thick red carpet.  Cautiously, making as little sound as possible, you remove the blanket from your shoulders and lower yourself into the chair, feet now poking out of the blanket that covers you on the footstool that doesn’t match.  In a moment, your hand will reluctantly drop to the floor, searching sightlessly for the paper lantern’s switch.  With a quick inhale, you will push the button and yellow warmth will fill this corner of the room.  The furnace’s heavy puffing will cease; all you will hear is the gentle hum of the refrigerator.

This is your time.  Morning quiet before the day and you begin.  Take a few minutes to sink into what will soon be the remnants of this precious silence; letting the stillness pirouette in your ears.  Savor these moments of wonder.  This is not the time to hurry.  Plenty of time remains to straighten the blanket, to cover your seven exposed toes.  To pick up your pen and notebook.  Choose instead to bask in the pulsing stillness knowing that before long you will reach down to turn off the paper lamp, look up one more time to notice Mother Moon’s reflection on the chrome deck rails, and note the gray clouds of day rushing in.