Savoring the last bite

Another new week. How many times have I looked toward a new week? There are ritual activities that make me aware that my time on earth is getting shorter. One is the list I always make at the start of a week of things I need or want to do for the next seven days. Another is when I fill my pill box with my daily vitamins and medications. There is the once-a-week water pick treatment I do on my teeth. Add to these rituals the meetings I attend each week and laundry day, always Monday.

There are the yearly repetitions, too, of course, another Thanksgiving, another Christmas or Easter gone by. Each time we celebrate, the list of future celebration gets shorter. It alerts one to paying better attention. Like the last bit of food at a fabulous meal, the one I want to savor. It is as though each meal were my last, but then…another comes along and it wasn’t after all.

 

Ode to a Blank Mind

It is one of those days when nothing worth blogging about comes to mind.

The most spiritual of days.

How little it is that I know.

Yet…

Christmas is coming and the goose is already getting fat. Tra-la-la.

Meditating with Birds

I knew a man once who invented a thing that could bring the sound of the birds

from the outside of his house to the inside.

How strange, I thought, my friend has too much time on his hands.

My friend’s name was Bob. I suspect it still is.

Bob came to mind this morning as I sat on my front porch for my morning meditation.

It is getting very close to raining:

grey, still, a vague sweet smell, bird chatter lazy.

I thought how much I love doing my meditation outside where my senses hold me in place

like braces that keep a house from sliding off its foundation.

Minnesota summers are short and precious, intense and much appreciated

though the citizens don’t dare express this

I know that I will have to go indoors when winter comes.

Where I will sit in a box before a fire while the sun rises

And listen to the familiar hum of the refrigerator.

Bob, in his box, will listen to birds.

Morning Docking

Standing on the dock in the early morning, I watched a bug of sorts bunny hop the water sending radial circles that crashed into one another. They say our every thought and action does this, send ripples out until they hit a shore, but never have I thought that these circles we create intersect. So what does one do then? I am conflicting with my own opinion expressed last week or when I was 13.

I saw the lake’s bottom through the still water and there was a clam pretending to be a butterfly there, not fluttering one iota so the truth was given away.

Birds, white with black bottoms and long red beaks. Oh, for my Minnesota Bird book now. One heads out to the middle of the lake, another nears the dock until it realizes my watching, then takes flight and I see that the black bottom was its wing tips tucked under.

I realize that nature, to be known, must reach out and grab me. And then, only for a split second am I held before my thoughts seep in.

A Boiling Pot

Some mornings I am so filled up I feel like a pot of boiling pasta…
if I don’t turn down the heat, I will overflow and make a mess.

That is how I feel today.
If I write the thoughts that swirl in my head, I will write for an hour
as I did in my journal today
and more.
Rest assured – I won’t do that.
In fact, I am afraid to share at all for fear I will just keep going
out of control.

Okay, one thing. One thing only.

Often when I write my blogs I am writing to someone in particular.
Someone I care about deeply.
Someone who I recently spoke to.
Someone who needs to hear me,
but I don’t dare say what I want to say directly to them.
Someone I want to read my blog and take in what I have written totally on their own,
not because the words are mine,
rather, because it fits for them, makes sense to them, feels right for them.

For I never want to mess with another’s journey,
yet I cannot ignore the wisdom that seems to bubble up inside me.
My trust in that wisdom is never final.
I have learned that there is always more.
But I also realize that there is another half to communication.
That is the hearing half.
The freedom half.
The fertile soil into which a seed is dropped.