Posts Tagged ‘spiritual’

Today is the first day of the rest of your life. But no worries, so is tomorrow.

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A good friend is facing her first real surgery. She works hard to achieve excellent health and vitality, so when all opinions converged that surgery was absolutely, no doubt about it, a must, she was disappointed. It’s been marvelous to watch her float above that perspective and find the possible positives. “I’m not ‘jumping with joy’ about having surgery, but will be quite glad to have the cyst removed as it pushes against my stomach and causes discomfort. AND I’ve decided that I will program in my mind and body that with its removal, all anxiety will also be taken away. I won’t need all the herbs I take which will save me time and money. I will have more money to spend on pleasurable things and my body weight will be good for my size along with having muscle strength. The list goes on and on. Such a large amount of stuff I’m laying on this surgery.”

I loved this idea, of clumping wishes into little “mind pockets” and one change in behavior or environment will bring them all to fruition. I imagined one pocket holding the hope for less drudgery, more time to ask what is really important. Another pocket would be full of creative inspiration: at my beading bench, loveliness noticed, and my website redone with lightness and beauty. A little “change” pocket would be open to new experiences, encouraging me to abandon over-responsibility and crave surprise.

And it all came true last Friday. I found myself with four unplanned hours in San Francisco while waiting for my husband to have a medical procedure. No expectations, no companion to please. In truth, I was flummoxed for the first hour, balancing the standard questions: Go to a restaurant or a museum? Maybe a café in the museum? Then something rather wonderful happened. While wondering “what to do” I walked along Union Street, stores just opening. My breath was taken away by the modern Afghani rug colors, and the merchant said I was free to take photos with my phone, an idea that would never occur to me. And so I clicked away down Union Street, my pockets of beauty and inspiration and important goals and surprise emptied out along the way. Wandering into a rug store, a Tibetan jewelry shop, flower stalls, I found myself attracted to colors and patterns. Turquoise and white, subtle brocade patterns with bold images, popped out. Later, I sat in the sunshine, eating a salad from the hospital’s cafeteria, reading a magazine, and feeling inspired and refreshed and my pockets with new hopes and dreams, awaiting the next surprising change.


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Interviews with most of my heroes, be they writers or spiritual wizards, reveal their chosen habit of arising with or before the dawn. They touch in with themselves via meditation, yoga, or mindful walks. Then they write journal entries that make me weep, my heart touched by their wisdom. Drives me crazy! When I awaken at their sacred hour it’s because I had a compelling dream, or a guilty start due to a critical task left undone. Or worse, some memory involving shame and pain.

It’s not that I don’t like the idea of being awake very early. This morning, my wake up call was a compelling dream. I had found a tiny building that I’d forgotten I owned. It was made of old redwood siding, with recycled windows forming most of the walls. I could peer in and see a desk and a couch, some book cases. It looked so cozy and private. Here was the solitude I long for, the quietude that always heals me when I’m jangled. When I awoke, I noticed the digital exactness of 5:14.  I focused on the warm comfort under the winter-quilt, joyous that my back didn’t hurt despite yesterday’s three hours in the strawberry patch. But my eyes really wanted to open, and my mind recognized that by being up so very, very early I could enjoy the equivalent of a private retreat. My just-turned-17 year old solidly asleep, and my husband happy to be unaware until I awoke him for his Sunday late morning meeting.

Now, five hours later, I am stunned at my sense of being fresh. Laundry hanging on the line soaking up February’s brave sunshine. I wrote about some of the shame and pain stuff, but just for tiny bit–it seems to help to name it. And I am committed to not beating myself about the head and ears for not being an early riser by habit. Sometimes it is just a gift.

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