Tag: grounding

Sometimes, we forget…

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Sometimes, we forget to have patience.

We forget to have patience with our children. They are young and slow and unable to perform simple tasks. Maybe we need to get somewhere on time, and—as is typical of children—they are not in a hurry. Or perhaps they are not yet adept at the task at hand. Ever watch a young child tie a shoe? It can take f-o-r-e-v-e-r! We grow impatient, and we rush them, yell, or yank them out the door. Or maybe we are trying to teach them something or help with homework. They are not getting it, and we grow frustrated. We give up and let them struggle on their own, perhaps crying as they do so. Children are young and inexperienced with the ways of the world. With what they are learning… so many things And they need parents and caregivers to be patient so they can learn, feel nurtured, and grow their independence and confidence.

Sometimes, we forget to have patience with our coworkers, friends, and family members. Perhaps we asked someone to do something and they didn’t do it. We might have even reminded them. Or maybe they did it, but they didn’t do it the way we wanted them to. So we grow frustrated. We might know someone who has different views than we have. Rather than ask them about their views and the ideas and experiences they have had that have led them to their conclusions, we lash out, call them names, and “school” them in why they are wrong. We don’t engage and we definitely don’t compromise. We are right and they are wrong, and we don’t have the time to mess around in finding some mushy middle ground.

Sometimes, we forget to have patience with strangers. Someone cuts us off when we are driving, and we immediately honk our horn, flip the driver the bird, or get right on his bumper to teach him a lesson. If someone is too slow in the grocery line, even if it is the fault of the cashier or the manager, we stand in line and shift our weight, roll our eyes, and sigh or groan loudly.  When our restaurant order doesn’t come out fast enough, or the server forgets something, we are not nice. And if someone cold calls our phone with a promotional offer from a service we already use—or don’t—we hang up on them rather than politely declining.

Sometimes, we forget to have patience with ourselves. We think we should know something, but we have forgotten. We put something in that ever-elusive “safe place,” and now we can’t find it. We are taking too long to find something on the Internet or it takes us too long to get ready to leave the house. We forgot to do something. We forgot to call the doctor to make an appointment or write down which spice it was that we ran out of last Tuesday when we were cooking dinner. We grit our teeth and think we should know better.

Impatience is all around us. Sometimes, we forget that people make mistakes, that people have feelings, and that every situation offers us an opportunity to decide how to respond. We can be patient, or we can be impatient. The problem is, by being impatient, we miss out on an opportunity to connect with another person—family, friend, or stranger. Patience requires connection. It requires understanding. And it requires us to experience life in the present moment.

So be present. Make the connection. Have patience. It may take a little extra time, but it will be worth it.

Moments

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Photo by Joshua J. Cotten on Unsplash

I have been moving along this road I am on. Day by day. Hour by hour. Moment by moment. I seem to respond to the moments most deeply because they tend to surprise me the most. For example, the moment, a week or so ago, that I noticed the great blue heron standing in the shallow water flowing from the stream into our pond.

The heron always catches me by surprise. You might think that after living here for 20 years, I would expect to see him. But I never do. Often, he is camouflaged in the reeds and grasses, his stick-like legs resembling the straight tan stems of the cattails. His body is the color of dull water reflecting the overcast winter. I’ll be walking along the path by the pond, minding my own business, and suddenly, he appears in my periphery. And I turn to look, surprised that I hadn’t noticed him sooner. Sometimes, I slow my pace or even stop altogether. And when I stop, he sometimes flies, annoyed by my insistence that I see him—even stop to take a picture like a gawking tourist—rather than pass by unobtrusively.

Sometimes, his shape rises out of the evening dusk as he stands in wait for a tasty dinner. One time, it was so dark that I only felt his presence. And when I shone my flashlight into the darkness, it illuminated his angles and lines, once again startling me, and I quickly flipped the light to the footpath before I disturbed him. I’m sure it was too late, that disturbance is, in his mind, my middle name.

But last week, when I noticed him standing in the frigid, half-frozen waters of winter, I was stunned. Last week, moments before the temperatures dipped below frigid. Last week, after snowstorms had blanketed the region with inches of snow. Mid-January, it would seem, would be well past time to fly a bit further south than New Hampshire. To someplace where the tendrils of ice and frost have a more delicate grasp. And yet, here he was, crouched close to the water. Pulled in and fluffed up against the cold.

The moments. Brief encounters with the world that cause me to pause and reflect and wonder. The moments push me to ask questions—Do herons migrate? And they spur me to notice the wonders of the world around me. The moments bring me back from my thoughts, my stresses, my worries, and my plans and they ground me firmly in the present. The here and now.

As you walk your own path down the road day by day, hour by hour, don’t let the moments pass you by.

Untangling

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It is the season of untangling.

For many people, this season is punctuated by the frustration involved in untangling the mess of lights they took off the Christmas tree or unwound from the porch railing or removed from around the windows. This ball of tangled wire is why I always wrap my string-lights around a piece of cardboard as I remove them from the tree. That way, the following year I can plug them in to make sure they work then easily wrap them around the tree.

But this particular string of lights is one I found while I was sorting through all the stuff that has found its way into my house and taken up permanent residence. It was not with the Christmas decorations. In fact, the last time these lights were used was on my deck, outlining the umbrella that keeps the summer sun off my outdoor table.

When I found them, I thought I might put them around my front window for the holiday season, a season which would, no doubt, stretch out to the entirety of winter.  So yesterday morning, I plugged them in to see if they worked and to make sure they are “warm” light rather than “cool.” And for some reason, I left them in a puddle on the floor still plugged in.

It’s kind of pretty the way the one string cascades off the kitchen counter into this puddle of lights on the floor. And I quickly recognized that these lights, this tangled pile, is a metaphor for the year I have just had. I was a tangled mess of uncertainty and self-doubt. I had stayed too long at an institution where I was overworked and treated with deep disrespect. It was a year in which I realized what happens when we remain with people who need to make others feel small in order to boost their own self-importance.

And so, I am untangling. It is a process that will take time. There is work to be done to build myself up, to regain confidence in who I am, and to recognize that my worth does not rest in how many hours I work each week, but in the value of the contribution I make. I need to find a new direction. In recent weeks, I have taken steps to move forward. I have surrounded myself with people who are positive and supportive, and I am beginning to feel a new me emerging.

For now, I may leave these lights exactly as they are. Perhaps I will move them off the floor and instead, place them in my front window as I initially intended. But now, my intention is to put them in the window still tangled in a ball because these lights represent the process I am undertaking.

They represent my untangling.

Old Friends

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There’s something about an old friend that can provide connection to the past to keep you grounded.

Sometimes, you just need to spend a little time with an old friend. Sometimes, being with someone you haven’t seen in years can do wonders for your soul. For your well-being.

On Friday, I had an opportunity to spend some time with just such a friend. We hadn’t seen each other in years since we live on opposite coasts, and the opportunities to get together are minimal. But we picked up as if we had just seen each other the previous day.

What I realized is that spending time with an old friend can bring life into sharper focus. It can remind you who you are, how far you have come, and where you are going. Your old friends, they knew you back when life was new and fresh, and opportunities lurked around every corner. You were still figuring out where you fit and how you could contribute to the bigger picture of life. These friends… they helped you to form your identity as you struggled through challenging times, navigated new environments, and started to settle into your adult life, forming new perspectives that were truly yours (and not your parents’).

Old friends are the best friends. You can go years without seeing them—or even communicating much at all—and yet, you always find yourselves right where you left off. Conversation is comfortable and casual as you move from one topic to the next, sometimes circling back in that weird way in which conversations flow. And yet, it never seems weird.

Sometimes, you just need an evening with an old friend. An evening to re-examine who you are and who you’ve become. An evening to reminisce and remember that change is not always a bad thing. An evening to look ahead as life changes from one phase to the next and you continue to evolve… even through midlife and beyond.

Sometimes, you just need an old friend to help you reconnect to all that once was, and still is, and will be important in life.

The Box

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Photo by Kelli McClintock on Unsplash 

Sometimes in life, we get stuck.

We do the same thing every day. We see the same people. We eat the same foods. We go to the same places. One day, we look up and realize we haven’t been venturing out of our box. Not in a long time. And we think, Maybe, just maybe, it’s time.

Admittedly, my box has gotten a bit smaller in these past two years. My home is my haven, and I have purposely tried to stay away from people and public events as much as possible. After all, I am with student-people every day, working shoulder to shoulder as we share a document or a computer screen.

But my box is small, and it’s getting too tight around the edges. I have to curl myself up and squish myself in to fit, and to be honest, the air has grown stuffy and stale. The scenery is bleak and unchanging. It’s time to stretch… up and out.

Outside my box, I know grand adventure awaits. Plans have been forming, evolving, coming together, to move beyond the confines of my box. My plans are full of light and energy. They will pose challenge and choice and adventure. But these plans are carefully laid and well-timed. These plans are mine and mine alone, though I might bring others along with me. And perhaps, others will bring me along—maybe willingly and maybe kicking and screaming. There is no doubt adventure awaits. I must simply muster the courage to step outside my box and break free.

Welcome Winds

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Photo by TOMOKO UJI on Unsplash

Here in the northeastern United States, winter has been cold and bleak, as winter so often is. The first day of spring was glorious—sunny and warm—but a few days in, Spring turned her back. Winter temperatures and a dusting of snow greeted us one morning, and the wind has continued its bitter assault, letting us know who’s boss.

These winds, they are the winds of change. On the horizon, the golden glow of the morning brightens the dark sky as a long, low rumble of thunder can be heard in the distance. Winter always turns to spring eventually. The spring peepers begin their evening song—slowly at first as one then two then dozens of frogs join in. The earth and air warm and the colors of blooming trees dot the mountains.

These are the winds of change, and they are blowing fierce and free. The change is welcome as the creative embers, buried deep for far too long, are glowing brighter. With a bit of TLC, the sparks will catch and spread their warm energy, bringing new places, new friends, and new opportunities.

Dark winter has lingered long enough, and spring will bring a needed respite. These winds—the winds of change—they are welcome here.

Empty Space

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On New Year’s Eve, as the final light of 2021 faded into an eerie dusk, I walked through my neighborhood listening to my footsteps, a dog barking in the distance, and the sound of tires on wet pavement as the occasional car passed by on the street. I breathed in the damp winter air as I watched the fog rise from the melting snow. I noted how the snow cover brightened my path and softened the darkness. I took in the world around me in my quiet walk to end the year.

These walks have been important to me over the past two years (since the start of lockdown back in March of 2020). These walks have kept me grounded. They have offered me fifteen minutes each morning to reflect on my day, and they have given me space to breathe, reflect, pray, and allow creativity to flow.

Too often, we tend to fill every minute of our lives with “stuff” that likely doesn’t really need doing. We keep a hectic schedule, running from commitment to appointment to activity. In between times, we cram in as much social media and web-surfing as we can in attempt to prevent downtime and keep our minds from being idle. And so as we enter the new year, I want to urge you to leave yourself some empty space.

Despite all we have been told about idleness, an idle mind is necessary to live a healthy and balanced life. Empty space allows us to recognize and process what is going on in our lives, in our heart, in our heads, and with our emotions. When we have a moment to process the heaviness of the world—and the laughter, as well—it opens up space for new ideas to flow. It opens space for new feelings, for grounded thinking, and for a more objective view of ourselves.

More importantly, it is in the empty space that ideas take shape, dreams become reality, creative ideas form, and inspiration happens. It is in the empty space that new thinking can take hold, leading you to move down an entirely new path in your life. Or maybe it allows you to come up with a plan to change the things that need changing in your life. Regardless, empty space is a vital part of a healthy life. As you fill the days, hours, and moments of 2022, leave some empty space for yourself. Leave some space that won’t be filled with the hustle and bustle of everyday life and social media interactions on your devices. Whatever your empty space brings, may it bring you joy and happiness or at least a more defined direction and self-confidence as you face all that the new year may bring!

Wreckage

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My train of thought has derailed. I got caught up in the What ifs of life, and my thoughts were swept away under their own momentum. Remember the Little Engine that Could? That determined little engine used positive thinking—I think I can… I think I can… I think I can…—to pull its cargo of toys and treats up a hill it didn’t think it could climb.

In my case, it is a whole train of negative What ifs that has pulled me off track. In fact, the mantra What if… What if… What if… has been growing stronger and steadier. My train of thought picked up speed going down a hill. It was going faster and faster, and when the track veered off to the right (or the left, I can’t even remember anymore), my train of thought stayed straight and derailed.

Now, I am sitting in a pile of steaming wreckage. Twisted metal rises around me casting spooky shadows against the foggy night sky. All the cargo that was neatly in its place is now scattered across the landscape—a million pieces of life that will never fit back into place all tidy and neat as before the derailment. A million pieces of which I may find only half.

No, sometimes life needs some shaking up. Sometimes, we get too comfortable in our day-to-day, and one thing comes along—be it good, bad, or indifferent—and steps smack into our path with a challenge: “Think you’ve got everything figured out? Try THIS!” And while these challenges force us to re-examine various parts of our life—or maybe the whole thing—seeing life from a new angle can be helpful as we search for a creative solution to a difficult situation or a path to a more productive (and more positive) future.

And so… I sit here in the rubble that was my thinking, my life. I sit in silence, not distracting myself with any of the occupations of life that got me into this situation in the first place. The longer I sit here, the sharper my perspective grows. Of course, it helps that the derailment occurred in the dead of night, and the dawn is slowly claiming the darkness. It helps that the outline of what is left of the train is ever more visible against the faint tint of early day. And as the sunlight begins to poke up over the horizon, beams of light illuminate tiny tendrils of smoke winding their way out of the wreckage. The longer I sit here, the brighter my thoughts become, and I gain a sharper realization of the steps I must take to move forward. The longer I sit here, the more certain I am that I will rise from the wreckage of my What ifs, leave this mess behind me, and move into the future carrying a smaller portion of the weight of the world.

And I’m pretty sure that as I move on and leave the What ifs behind, I will take with me only what is needed for today.

When we are together…

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When we are able to be together again—whether post-pandemic or as the waves recede for now—I am going to smile my warmest, unmasked smile in your direction, and I’ll greet you with a hug so tight, it might feel like I’ll never let go. I really miss hugs. And smiles. I so miss seeing people smile.

When we are together again mid- or post-pandemic, I will stand close to you while we talk—close enough that I will feel your warmth. I will watch your mouth move in familiar patterns as you shape the words you speak. I will nod in agreement, and I might reach out and touch your arm while we joke about one thing or another.

When we are together again, we will sit side-by-side on a bench or across a small table from one another. We might sip coffee or tea or maybe an adult beverage. We will talk and laugh and snack on finger foods we share from a plate that rests between us.

When we are together again, we will have much to catch up on. I will ask how your life is going and how it has changed in recent months. I will ask you about your work, your home improvement projects, your crafts and reading, your mindfulness and reflecting, and how you spent your time in lockdown and in the months since. I will ask you about the ways you’ve found to cope in these most unusual times.

When we are together again, I will tell you about the projects I worked on while I was home, the ones I started and the ones I completed. I will tell you how a project of scanning childhood photos turned into a soul-searching rediscovery of a girl long ago forgotten. And how I reclaimed some of her traits and pulled them back into my now-life. I might even tell you that I’m not sure it was the photo-scanning that prompted the reclaiming, but perhaps the time alone and long moments of reflection served to ground me back into myself. I had pulled apart a bit over the years—my soul tearing from my physical being just enough that the disconnection was real, but not detectable through the hustle and busyness of normal life. I am working to carefully stitch those parts back together so as to avoid a recurrence of this detachment in the future.

When we are together, I will try to explain how very much I needed to be a “helper” when the waves of covid were rolling in. But I felt helpless. I will tell you how that feeling made me dig through my drawers of old fabric and begin making face masks to distribute to family. I will tell you this was a project that lasted through a shortage of elastic and snail-speed shipping on supplies and stretched on for months—even into 2021. Every time I felt like I needed to be more helpful, I would sit down at my sewing machine and stitch face masks. A few hundred face masks later, I have begun to slow my pace—not because I don’t think they will be useful, but because I want to tackle other sewing projects and finally use some of the fabric I bought years ago. It’s part of my intentional recovery and reconstruction.

When we are together, I will tell you about the rethinking I did about my life—about the fact that I am transitioning from being Mom, in an all-the-time kind of way, to mom-to-grown-adults. While I am still mom to three kids, my day-to-day life is no longer defined by my role as somebody’s mom, and that is a difficult but necessary change to navigate. The quiet time of the pandemic has given me an opportunity to think about who I am now that I am not who I was. I will tell you that this time, in many ways, has prepared me for that transition. I will also say that the pang of grief of this transition wound its way through and around the Covid stress-grief and these two feelings became nearly inextricable.

I will tell you that I had many projects I could have done around the house and in the garden, but lockdown meant I was working. Harder than usual. And I took on my second job since life was restricted, and food became (and remains) ridiculously expensive. I will tell you that money was a worry, but that I am fortunate that I have been able to maintain my work thus far. I will tell you that worry is part of my DNA, and I have always worried. A lot. About stupid things. I will tell you I need to let go and let God deal with my stress… and the things I have no control over. Because amazing things happen when you let go of what you cannot control and fully embrace the knowledge that God’s got you.

When we meet again on the other side of the pandemic, I will tell you that it’s good to see you. To be with you, and to talk and to sit in silence. I will tell you that I know the pandemic is not over, but I will enjoy our time together. When we are separated again, I will have these moments to hold onto, to dig into, and to help me realize that I am strong, resilient, and able to find all of the necessary resources when required to do so. I will let you know it’s good to be back. It’s good to be together. But the changes we experienced in the past year? They were good, too. We are stronger now. We are better now. And I hope these changes will stick and weave their way into our new existence, whatever that may eventually look like.