The Stranger

I recently had an intriguing interchange with a stranger.

First let me say, I love talking to strangers. I talk to them in the grocery store while I am picking out my produce. I talk to them while I am waiting on the interminably long deli line each week. And I will start conversations with them when I am out walking. I don’t apologize for my boldness. I am cohabiting this earth with others, and I would like to get to know them. Besides, strangers are only strangers until you get to know them.

So the other day at work, I was minding my own business. It was Friday afternoon around 3:00, and I was trying to finish up some tasks so I could actually leave for home at a reasonable time. My phone buzzed, and I received a text message from a number I didn’t recognize. “All done. When I get to better service, I’ll send a pic……” The number was from my mother’s area code—the area code in which I grew up and still have a friend or two.

Maybe it’s someone I know, I reasoned. I decided to wait and see if the person texted me again. I put my phone back on my desk, and I promptly forgot about it.

Nearly two hours later, my phone buzzed again. This time, my screen displayed a picture of a white horse, his nose in a feedbag. “This is how he was waiting for me,” the message read. The picture made it very clear that the texter was not someone I knew. Though I felt pulled to hear the story of the horse.

“Cute picture,” I texted back. “But I think you might be texting the wrong person,” I informed the stranger.

“Oops. Thanks for resending… glad I made you smile.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. There is a part of me that wanted to keep texting. To probe deeper. To find out about this random stranger who texted me at quitting time on a Friday afternoon. To tell her about the coincidence of the area code. To find out about the horse. And to make her smile, too. There is a part of me that longed to make that connection.

Because a stranger is only a stranger until you get to know her.

Then she is a friend.

{Photo by Nikki Jeffrey on Unsplash}

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Boredom

When I was a kid, summers were long and slow, and by mid-August, boredom had fully settled in. The long summer days had been filled with play and bike rides and make believe. We had spent time with friends and siblings and cousins—perhaps to the point of annoying each other. We had filled long nights with neighborhood hide-and-seek games that stretched well past dark. We had caught fireflies then set them free. We had grown Monarch butterflies from tiny caterpillars. We went to camp, and we read piles of books. We had spent long, lazy days in the pool until our lips turned blue. Picnics and bike rides, baseball games and kite-flying, watermelon and popsicles—we had done it all. We were bored. And we were ready to go back to school.

But in Massachusetts, where we started school after Labor Day, we still had many long days stretching out in front of us. And we had to fill them.

Being bored was never really a bad thing. Boredom instilled me with creativity. I thought up fun things to keep myself busy. I worked to create useful things from the items we had around our home. I learned to make craft items that people would use, giving me an eye for how shapes, colors, and textures worked together.

I became a deep thinker. In my boredom, I had grand daydreams in which I traveled the world and beyond, taking imaginative detours and side roads. I tried on different identities, playing pretend and dress-up, shedding my quiet personality and donning the cloak of someone more adventurous. I thought about the way the elements of my life fit together.

Boredom pushed me outside where I learned about nature. I watched caterpillars hatch from miniscule eggs and butterflies emerge from chrysalises. We rescued baby bunnies from the neighborhood cats, and nursed an oriole with a broken wing. I explored trails and woods and followed streams. Occasionally, I came to the end of the road and had to figure out where to go next.

Boredom gave me focus. It gave me time to reflect on who I was, what I wanted to do, and how I planned to get there. It forced me to think about which career options would be the best for me, my future plans, and how to deal with my thoughts about myself.

Boredom forced me to realize that life is not all that bad.

And now, as I watch kids focus on their phones, compulsively check messages, and interact with the people sitting next to them via text, I can’t help but think we’ve gotten pretty far off track. Maybe what we need is a little more boredom.

{Photo by Charlein Gracia on Unsplash}

Evening Reflection

Last night, at the tail end of dusk as the sky was still darkening in the west, I stepped outside for a walk down the street. It was peaceful and calm, and I was by myself. From the trees behind my house, an owl called its haunting call, waiting for a response. It was quiet for awhile, and when no response came, it called again, adding an air of mystery to the night.

The owl hooted a third time. From the edge of the slimy green pond, a lone bullfrog lazily harrumphed a response.

Bugs hovered in the air as the temperature dipped from the heat of the day. The path led into the dark of the woods where the brush was thickest, and the bugs gathered in thick buzzing clouds. I considered whether I would return on this same path or venture out into the road where the trees (and therefore, bugs) were more sparse. I opted for the woods at a quickened pace.

The woods opened up, and there were fields on both sides of the road. As I turned toward home at the end of the road, I noticed a shadowy figure off in the distance. Bear? I stared, forcing my eyes to adjust to the low light. No, too thin to be a bear. Deer, I guessed. I stood by a tree and watched it watching me.

I began to whistle a tune, willing it to come to me as the pied piper might. There are those social media videos of people playing various instruments and successfully attracting a herd of cows. Or Llamas. Are deer really that different? I whistled. I watched. The deer stayed still and stared my way.

A moment later, it took off running across the field, stopping briefly at the side of the road as a car approached and passed. It crossed the road and was gone.

I stepped out of the shadow of the tree and breathed in the night air. I made my way back through the stillness to the clamor and commotion of home.

{Photo used by permission of my beautiful daughter}

You are HERE

You are HERE.

Most people think of HERE as a physical locale, and temporarily, it may be. But HERE (in the big picture) is your physical body and your emotional and spiritual wellbeing. In fact, HERE is less a physical locale than a mental state of being. HERE is a permanent but fluid state. Because no matter where you are, you still have to deal with the stuff that you can’t shake off—your health and your state of mind.  The good thing is, if you don’t like being HERE, you can change it.

When you say, “I’ll be happy when I can move to a warmer climate,” or “If only I made more money…,” you are stating that you are not happy right now. Right HERE. And if that is the case, moving to a new place or making more money won’t resolve the unhappy in the HERE.

No matter how much you try, you cannot run from HERE. Who you are, what haunts you, what keeps you up at night, and what pushes you on… these things will stay with you. They will follow you. HERE will always be a part of you.

If you face the HERE, you can do the work you need to do. Figure out who you are and what makes you tick. Learn to love yourself and be content with your situation. You have all the necessary tools and resources available to you. Discover them, grow them, and practice using them so you can become your own Master Craftsman. You will always be able to go back and draw on those resources when you need to.

Because no matter how much work you do and how much change you undergo, no matter how far you travel, you will always be HERE. There will always be work to be done.

You are HERE. Welcome!

{Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash}

Surrender

At the beginning of this year, I came across a picture of a knitting project—a temperature blanket which is completed at the rate of one row per day. I’m not sure what possessed me to take this on, but the finished product looked intriguing. One row per day. How difficult could that be? On January first, or maybe the second, I selected an array of colors—one for each of the ten-degree temperature ranges we’re likely to experience here in the Northeast. I was ready to create a beautiful blanket. One row per day, I thought. I can commit to that!

It wasn’t long before I realized what I had gotten myself into. As I began to knit my one row each night, I realized I had absolutely no control over what the finished product would look like. I could not choose the color I would use each night. Nope. That was chosen for me based on the temperature that day. Suddenly, I was not the creator of the blanket. I was merely an unwitting tool in the finished product. The blanket was going to be its own story, and it was not my story to tell.

Now here we are, almost halfway through the year. I have kept up with my temperature blanket, and I am finding the results somewhat interesting. My colors are based on the high temperature of the day, and there are occasions when I consider fudging just a bit. Ooo, 59°. Perhaps I could knit a row of yellow, my 60s color… but I don’t.

I’ve realized, knitting a temperature blanket has been a giant lesson in surrender.  And this lesson comes at a time when I desperately need it. My children need my advice more than ever.

But do they really? Shouldn’t they figure things out on their own without me meddling in their business? Without me throwing myself into the decisions that will ultimately prepare them to face more and more challenging decisions? Shouldn’t I let them be?

They don’t need me the way they once did, and this is a challenging place for a parent. I won’t always be here, and I know my job is to let them flounder until they ask. My job is to give them the confidence that they have the skills they need. My job is to surrender control and trust that I have done my job in preparing them for exactly this. Even though I might want to help them out just this once… I have to let it go. I have to let them soar or fall so they will learn how to keep moving.

I may not like it any more than I like switching to a colder (or warmer) color in my knitting. But that’s exactly why knitting this blanket at this time has given me such a great lesson. I am not the one in control. I have to let go. My children are ready to tell their own stories.

Weaving

On my way to work one morning this week, I was listening to a story on NPR about a third grade teacher in LA and her chance meeting on an airplane—sitting next to a young soldier as he was preparing for deployment to Afghanistan. She talked to him, inquiring about his life and his training. After a lengthy conversation, they exchanged contact information, and the teacher had her young students send letters to the soldier while he was deployed. When he returned, he visited her and met her students, and now the two are like family. This story made me [once again] realize how deeply interconnected we all are.

We all spend our lives creating a beautiful and unique tapestry that tells our story. Each individual we encounter, every experience we have, each place we visit becomes a part of our lives and influences the greater whole of our identity. We are not only living our own tapestry, but we are contributing to that of others. And when you think of it that way, it is easy to visualize just how much—or how little—these pieces may contribute to the overall fabric. Some elements may be a thin strand woven into the overall piece. Or they may be such a major part of our lives that they are much of the background color.

My life is a fabric woven of chance encounters, momentary connections, and long-term friends and family; they all contribute to the beauty of the whole. They all contribute to who I am. My tapestry has incorporated positive and negative, intricately and inextricably woven together and connected to the lives of so many others.

Thread after thread after thread—various colors, shades, tensions, and textures—add richness of experience and interaction to the final product.

Someday, when I can more clearly see the greater whole as I look back over all of the things that made up my life, I will begin to see how the good and the bad, the momentous and the trivial were all necessary in adding depth and detail and richness to my life.

But for now, I’m going to work on making new connections and having new adventures so I can add a smattering of colorful threads. Then, when I look back over the whole, I can point to this time and say, “Right there–that is where I shook things up a bit!”

{Photo by Camille San Vicente on Unsplash}

From the Stillness

When was the last time you sat in stillness, uninterrupted by a phone, the television, or any other device, paying attention only to your own thoughts, feelings, and ideas? What comes into your head when the outside distractions of our high-tech world are removed?

There is a peace in the stillness that surrounds us, and that peace can be deeply compelling, if only we sit with it and pay attention.

But it’s scary to be quiet, to listen to the ideas that emerge when we are not frenzied by a need for constant busyness. There are ideas in our heads that tell us we are not who we should be. That we are not involved in activities or work we are passionate about. That we are not living our life to the fullness of our potential.

In the stillness, there are ideas that scare us. They scare us with their bigness. They scare us with their risk. They scare us with their potential that could lead us closer to our potential.

So too often, we choose to turn away from the stillness. Turn away from the possibilities. Turn away from the risks. Too often, it’s easier to stay lost in our busy lives rather than face the unknown.

Lately, I have been working on re-centering myself, removing distraction, and rediscovering who I am and what drives me. I have allowed myself to think about what I enjoy, how I express myself, and how to make the best choices for me in the life I live at this time.

I have taken a job that challenges me to move in new directions and to apply my creative ideas on a daily basis. And every day, I try to sit in the quiet for fifteen minutes. Each day. I try to do more.

In the quiet is where I am finding myself. Where I am rediscovering who I am. Sitting in stillness helps me to re-connect with my soul. And even though being still can be scary, time spent without distractions is definitely worth it.

There is a peace in the stillness that surrounds us. And peace is something we all could use in our lives.