Surroundings

What are your surroundings? What belongings, sights, and aromas make up your home? What people are in your tribe? I think these are interesting questions, particularly as I remember the stages of my life. During graduate school, I focused on my PhD and inner-work (who am I? what circumstances created the person I am?), and less on making my apartment a home. When we moved to Appleton, I was a new faculty member who worked 70-hour weeks, with no leftover energy for my surroundings.

Gradually I found a more sustainable work path. Part of this sustainability came from continued, deep, and varied inner-work. Once I found a safe space within myself, I could more authentically focus on my surroundings. I finally understood the choices I had--choices about how I spend my time and with whom I spend my time. I surrounded myself with interesting, creative, compassionate people--people who lift me up and fill my soul. (And I stepped away from those who deplete me.) Then I began nesting in my home: painting walls, decorating, making food, creating a comfortable environment for solitude and connection.

Now my house is my favorite place to spend time. And, like everything, it's a work-in-progress. It fits where I am right at this moment, and will change when needed. It's such an alluring daydream-- in which I often indulge--to imagine all my house and yard projects wrapped up--completely finished. But that's not how life works. Just when we think something is wrapped up, another challenge arises--such is the nature of our ever-changing world. Interestingly, though, the in-between stages are often the most rich. 

An ode to my beautiful, authentic, work-in-progress house:
Surroundings
What have I gathered?
Colors, plants, handmade gifts,
candles, and soft blankets.
The lingering laughter of friends.
Wildflowers in beer-bottle vases.
Favorite recipes folded and placed
in a smooth wooden box.

I'm surrounded by books,
words, journals, and framed faces
of the ones I love.
I smell warm bread, simmering garlic,
and freshly-cut basil.
I see flours, beans, art supplies,
cookbooks, and rocks tenderly taken
from Caribbean beaches.

My home welcomes stretches of solitude
and gatherings of friends.
There is music--dance, cook,
relax, or listen.
Perhaps Mark will play fiddle.
We'll eat tasty, wholesome food
served in colorful pottery.

Feel free to make a mess.
Feel free to be yourself.
I've gathered trust, forgiveness,
love, and acceptance.
Gently take them from my heart.

Solo Vacation

In a previous blog post, I discussed the balance between connection and solitude, and my intention to vacation solo at a bed and breakfast in Door County. Interestingly, this particular intention is on my Life Menu: "Take an away-from-home vacation alone, and luxuriate in my own company." When we open, these things tend to bubble up to the surface.

I spent my 43rd birthday alone at a lovely B&B, The Blacksmith Inn, on the shore of Lake Michigan. I inhabited a cozy third-floor room with a big deck, on which I ate all my meals (with a lovely lake vista). The wind was strong, so the sound of lapping waves was my background music, along with bird songs.

I'm comfortable in solitude. In fact, it restores me. Yet it's still interesting to observe my habits. On the first morning, I slept in and then ate a tasty breakfast on my deck. The first few minutes I rushed, assuming I had things to do that day. But then it hit me: I had absolutely nothing scheduled. Nothing. And I was by myself, so I was completely in charge of the day. That was a lovely feeling--very freeing. A luxury I appreciated and thoroughly enjoyed. My day was mindful and expansive.

Many of us like our own company; in fact, we often seek our own company when we feel irritable or tired. It's safe to be with ourselves, work with the discomfort, and not have the added layer of interacting with others. But I have more difficulty in my own company when magical things happen--when I savor a delicious dinner, watch a gorgeous sunset, drink champagne in the hot tub. These emotions are spacious, so it's natural I want to share. Yet it's more than that.

I feel less comfortable luxuriating in my own company because some part of me wonders if I deserve it--if I'm worth it. When I'm with Mark or friends, then I feel safer, because I so deeply believe in the goodness of others. They deserve this enjoyment, therefore I do too. But when I found myself alone, I rubbed against a slight discomfort. I sat with this feeling and realized it's part of the habituated questioning of my enough-ness.

The good news: once I recognized this old habit for what it was, I released it. I was mindful and quiet, and I could genuinely see and feel my enough-ness--my basic goodness.  This allowed me to fully enjoy pleasure and happiness with myself. I ate strawberries and drank champagne in the bubble bath. I washed my hair under the big faucet of the tub. I read poetry aloud to myself. I savored my food and the view.

I also made space to read, write poetry, draw in my journal, do yoga, lay in the hammock, run the country roads, drink tea, and eat homemade cookies. It's also interesting to list the things I chose not to do: watch a movie, eat too much, over-explain to strangers, shop, or get in the car. I made choices that filled my soul. 

This was a new place in my journey with myself. I've sat meditation retreats; I've spent meaningful alone time at home; I've regularly retreated with Mark for 5 weeks in the Caribbean. Yet this was my first vacation with myself. No distractions. 

I accompanied myself through pleasure, irritability, peacefulness, excitement, sadness, love, fear, happiness, and creativity. Through this process, I know--deep-down know--that I enjoy my own company. And this helps me enjoy other's company all the more.

A Poem That Rhymes

My niece Emma is part of my creative tribe. She's a wise 15-year-old with interesting ideas, creative talent, and a great eye. She reads my blog and enjoys when I write poetry. Yesterday she requested I write a poem that rhymes. I like a new creative challenge, so I agreed to work on a rhyming poem (she promised to write me a rhyme in response). I thought this might take days to simmer, but yesterday I made zucchini bread and was inspired to write a poem. For those interested, the recipe is from amazing cook Heidi Swanson. (I'm in love with this bread. It's one of my go-to recipes in the summer, and I include everything Heidi lists as "optional.")

A Poem That Rhymes
Zucchinis are in season,
but that's not the only reason
I make the delicious bread.
It gets me out of my head
and back to the here and now,
where all my senses say wow.
The ingredients so very tasty;
my movements never hasty.
Except my impulse to eat the batter.
Raw eggs? Doesn't matter.

This bread is wholesome and yummy,
and brings a smile to my tummy.
The recipe requires time and care,
yet I have an extra loaf to share.
Food made with love is a great gift,
and via the process my spirits lift.
Plus I have scrumptious bread to eat.
Thanks, Heidi, for concocting such a special treat.

Inner-Excavation

Two weeks ago I started a read-along of Liz Lamoreux's thought-provoking (and beautiful) book Inner Excavation. The read-along is lead by Liz in the most heartfelt way, and it brings together a group of diverse, interesting, and creative women (it's certainly not only for women, but no men enrolled--BTW, enrollment is still open, and it's free).

The subtitle of the book is "Explore Your Self Through Photography, Poetry and Mixed Media." I've long loved photography; poetry is a recent find, yet feels comfy and enjoyable; mixed media I haven't tried, but this read-along has--at the very least--gotten me to think differently about my journal (e.g., pasting in photographs, making art).

I've spent my adult life exploring my inner-self, in a multitude of ways. Some explorations more intense than others. But this particular process is different: it's steeped in creativity. The exploration is really of my own creativity and expression. I try new things, feel vulnerable, yet still share my work. The read-along group is a supportive and safe group with which to share. And some parts of me (especially the tender parts) require safety in order for sharing.

When appropriate, though, I think it's helpful to boldly share, without the benefit of a safety net. To share something with which I feel fairly comfortable, yet still makes me feel vulnerable. And then trust. Trust that whatever the reaction (or non-reaction), I am strong enough to handle it. In the words of Brene Brown: "Vulnerability is our most accurate measure of courage" (2012 TED talk).

To be brave means to be vulnerable. And I think the more brave, vulnerable acts we witness, the braver we become--the more willing we are to try something new or share some long-protected piece of ourselves (or at least consider sharing). With this in mind, I share two--very personal--pieces I recently created. [Click on the picture if you want a larger view.]

Namaste. (The light in me sees the light in you.)

Summer Market (A Poem)

Summer Market

Swarms of people gather.

They discover local beauties:

kohlrabi, berries, spinach, lilies.

They talk of heirlooms, recipes,

and weather (of course).

Kids twirl to music;
adults interact with friends--old and new.
A young woman slowly walks 
with a bouquet of vibrant flowers.
Another passes with a basil plant,
nose to the leaves.

Parents pull wooden wagons

loaded with vegetables

and tired children.

Colors abound: deep green,

bright red, vivid purple.

Zesty tones cover produce

and summer dresses.

The sun shines brightly,
welcoming both people
and plants
to this dance of a market.

Morning Reflection

Very early this morning, we received big thunderstorms. The thunder kept me awake, but I was soothed by the rain--not just the sound, but the rain itself, as my plants are in desperate need of water. We've had quite a dry patch here in Appleton. So the pouring rain was a lovely sound, as I knew my plants would drink it in.

While my morning coffee brewed, I went outside, just as the sun peeked out of the clouds. I took many pictures of my daisies, and after processing the photos, I realize what great lessons they teach. One lesson is about perspective. I'll illustrate with some questions: On what do you typically focus? The details? The big picture? The positive? The negative? When is it easiest for you to see many different viewpoints? To what views (e.g., identities, philosophies) do you tightly cling? 

These are important questions to ask. When I'm centered (not rushed) and authentic (in touch with the real me), then I have much more space to see and accept different perspectives. When I'm lost in the busyness, I rely on my habit of (false) control, and it's harder for me to see the big picture.

Daisy: Two Views

There's a quote, attributed to writer Anais Nin, that speaks to my heart: "And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." Most of us know this feeling--we hold tightly to protect some tender part of ourselves, yet that tightness leads to more suffering than just facing our fears, trusting ourselves, and blossoming. There are many places in my life where I've blossomed, and some places where I'm still a bud. But through life experience, self-reflection, connection, and meditation I have more and more blooms. And that's a lovely thing. Even lovelier is that we all have different ways of blooming. We're connected, yet unique. We all have buds and blooms, just in diverse ways. I think it's helpful for us to honor the buds in ourselves and others, and also celebrate the blooms--every single one of them.

Ways of Blooming:

Birthday Celebrations: Connection & Solitude

People's reactions to birthdays are interesting and sometimes indicative of deeper feelings. I think most (all?) of us struggle with feeling like we're not enough--that we must do more, achieve more, be loved more in order to be enough. We search externally for that which can only be found internally: our true center; our authentic self, where we are good and enough, just as is.

How do birthdays relate to this? Some people shy away from birthday celebrations--perhaps because they don't feel worthy of the attention. Others are drawn to big celebrations--perhaps because they want the external validation of enough-ness. I was in the latter camp for many years. But now I've settled into my own skin and my birthday celebration has morphed into a general celebration of life (not specifically of me).

My birthday is June 14, which typically corresponds with the end of Lawrence's academic year. So my fabulous friends Jen & Andrew annually host a birthday potluck for me on the evening of graduation. Yes, it's a celebration of my birthday, but it's also a celebration of summer. My dearest friends and their families gather in Jen & Andrew's gorgeous backyard. We eat the best food in Appleton (my friends are not only interesting, loving, & supportive, but they're also wonderful cooks). We drink wine, share stories, laugh a ton, chase the kids, and really connect with each other in a special way. There's no better way to celebrate and share my birthday.

Mark leaves for Rochester, NY early tomorrow morning and returns late Sunday night. He's participating in a match racing clinic and regatta. It makes me very happy that he has this opportunity. It also means he's gone on my birthday. This got me thinking about advice I've received from many women I respect: at some point in your life, take a vacation by yourself. So tomorrow I head to Door County for two nights. I'm staying at the Blacksmith Inn, right on the shore of Lake Michigan. I've got a cozy third-floor room with a balcony. I'm taking my camera, my journal, my running shoes, some books, and a true spirit of adventure. In Mark's words it's a "me-cation." After deep, wonderful connection with friends on Sunday, I look forward to deep, wonderful connection with myself this week.

Sounds in Silence (A Poem)

From May 18-20, I attended a silent meditation retreat led my Cheri Maples.

Sounds in Silence
The sound of the bell resonates.
People slowly leave the hall.
At breakfast we eat without speaking.
We are in silence.
Yet the room is alive:
The ice maker hums;
utensils interact with plates;
coffee pours into cups;
shoe-less feet walk softly.

We are in silence.
Yet our minds fill with chatter:
This food is colorful.
Reminds me of my garden...
This food is delicious.
Did I take too much? Am I...
Back to the next bite
(the next moment, 
the next breath).

We are in silence.
Yet nature is alive:
Birds sing in different pitches;
wind blows softly, then loudly;
water trickles and laps;
flower petals float to the ground.

The sound of the bell resonates.
We mindfully walk to the meditation hall
in silence.

CSA Box of Goodness

This is our third summer of participation in Community Supported Agriculture with Keune's Farm. On Wednesdays we get a box filled with colorful, nutritious produce. The Keunes take great pride in and care with their sustainable, organic farming. It feels good to support their effort, and we benefit greatly for the fresh, flavorful weekly food.

Sometimes I like to experiment with new recipes. Other times I like simplicity. Mark once heard some good cooking advice: Use excellent ingredients and do very little to them. Good olive oil mixed with garlic and tasty, fresh produce makes an excellent meal--and topped with great cheese, mmmmm.

Yesterday morning I made an egg mess using the whole bag of spinach (oh, it feels so good to eat greens), cherry tomatoes (they actually had taste), garlic, and feta cheese. Matched with some olive-bread toast (one of the breads we routinely make; it's actually easy--really!), it was a delicious breakfast.

That evening, Mark and I had a happy hour in our backyard Adirondack chairs. We drank margaritas (Cook's Illustrated's recipe), but instead of chips we had salted, fresh radishes. Tasty, tasty goodness. And this is just the first week of 20. Many more food adventures to come.

Black and White

There are many parallels between photography and life. Previously, I wrote a blog post on how color applies to both photography and life. But black-and-white photography is actually not like the black-and-white view we sometimes have in life. In pictures, B&W processing shows richness in texture and depth in patterns, and also shows many shades of grey. Black-and-white thinking, though, allows for no richness and no grey. B&W thinking is rigid, judgmental, and restrictive; as opposed to B&W photography, which is a flexible choice--a different way to view the world.

We Wisconsinites had a big election last night. The issues involved were (and are) divisive for our communities. These are emotionally-charged topics, and many people contract into B&W thinking (e.g., I'm right and you're wrong). I am deeply disappointed with the results of last night's election. It's not what I wanted, but it's what happened. And that doesn't make it wrong. There's much more middle ground. The more life experience I gain, the more I realize nothing is black and white--everything is filled with shades of grey. In fact, it's the shades of grey that allow us to understand and empathize (even just a little) with everyone in this zany world. And that connection is vital to our sense of community.

Wendell Berry wrote a thought-provoking poem called "Enemies." The first two sentences:
"If you are not to become a monster,
you must care what they think.
If you care what they think,
how will you not hate them,
and so become a monster
of the opposite kind?"

Hate comes from B&W thinking. Beauty comes from B&W photography. I hope we can embrace the muted shades of grey; embrace the richness (and complication) of life; and embrace each other, even if by baby steps.

Changing Weather (& Emotions)

After a long, cold winter, we crave spring. And when it arrives we rejoice. We bask in the sun and mindfully look for new plants bursting from the soil. I think weather is a wonderful metaphor for our changing emotions. Weather changes. No matter how long winter feels; no matter how hot a particular stretch of summer feels; no matter the length of time without rain--the weather eventually changes. One thing we can count on: change.

Change is actually a wonderful thing with regard to emotion. We can trust in the fact that difficult emotions--fear, anxiety, grief, sadness, shame--will not last forever. Eventually they morph into other emotions, even if for brief moments. Our fear that disturbing emotions might last forever is an added layer of suffering. On the flip side, we also add suffering by wanting the positive emotions--joy, excitement, inspiration, love, acceptance--to actually last forever. In Buddhist language, we cling to pleasant emotions and are averse to unpleasant emotions. Interestingly it's the clinging and the aversion that cause us suffering. It's not the emotions themselves--that's just the normal stuff of life.

The greatest benefit I've received from meditation (and, in particular, meditation retreats) is the know-it-in-my-bones experience that emotions do indeed change. I might be in great pain (physical and emotional) one day, but the next day can be completely different. And just knowing this makes the difficult times easier to work with. I trust that the emotional weather will change. This allows for just a little space and softness around the clinging and aversion--and that space is where I can find peace.

Beautiful Shadows

As a child, I was scared of the dark and of shadows. Throughout life we hear many negative references of shadows: lurking in the shadows, dark shadow self, shadow of death. I want to make a positive plea for shadows. I think shadows are rich, interesting, and comforting. Where there is light, there is also shadow.

Yet we're trained to shrink from dark places. For example, our habit is to retract from difficult emotions. Interestingly, it's these strong emotions that hold great lessons and are the pathway to growth. The shadows created by light are an opportunity--a chance to see beauty in a new place. A chance to befriend a new place in our heart or to view a cafe table in a new way:

I now look for both light and shadow, as I find them equally beautiful. Two complementary and necessary ingredients of photography and life. Reminds me of a powerful poem by Naomi Shihab Nye, "Kindness," where she describes the need to know deep sadness before understanding true kindness (the shadow and the light). The poem's last lines even reference shadow as a friend:

"Only kindness that raises its head

from the crowd of the world to say

It is I you have been looking for,

and then goes with you everywhere

like a shadow or a friend."