Drenched with Possibility

On the first Sunday of the new year I shared my word for 2013: Possibility. This week I began my formal exploration of my word. There are many more definitions of Possibility online than there are in the family Random House, the dusty oversized dictionary that has resided for decades in my family home on a special slanted shelf my dad made for it. There is the common one: “the fact or condition of being possible." But my favorite is: “Potentiality for interesting results.” That one beckons me into a wide open future. It peeks, mostly hidden, from around the corner with hooked index finger. It teases me toward exploration. It sets me dreaming.

Next I pull out synonyms that roll on my tongue and bounce around in my heart: plausibility, potentiality, feasible, achievable, realizable, attainable.

And then my favorite beginning exercise: finding quotes about my word. I love the internet. I find several to record in my notebook, to pull out when I need inspiration, or a kick in the butt. Again, I have a favorite, by a woman who proclaims herself an "idea-whisperer," which is pretty cool itself: “I have a habit of letting my imagination run away from me. It always comes back though...drenched with possibilities” (Valaida Fullwood). Drenched with possibilities. Wow. That is how I want to live. Drenched, like the valley on Wednesday when the rising sun turned its winter drab to gold. Drenched, like the first rain in twelve days left the trees and moss smelling green again.

Six years ago, at about this time, just before Lent (the season that I still my busyness and make space for whatever it is I have been ignoring), I thought about Possibility. What if I bought a house? I made a list of what that would mean for my life. I didn’t so much consciously decide to do it as I did follow the beckoning finger to the garden that changed my life. Neither a garden nor a changed life were on my list. A year ago, having turned that possibility to reality, I set my sights on returning to my soul home. It was a Bold Venture. It isn’t time yet for my next venture, and I don’t know when it will be; but it’s always time to be drenched with possibility.

I just read a friend’s blog post about her annual
week-long gathering of a group of women. At their first day check-in they each shared what their busy and productive year had held. Until the talking stick reached the group’s 86-year-old elder. Contritely she confessed that she didn’t know what good she was doing in the world. Everyday she goes to the coffee shop and tries to be friendly, “to make sure everyone gets a welcome as they come in the door.” One day she rocked a fussy baby so his mother could enjoy a cup of coffee. “You know,” she went on, “people just need to be seen. Just need someone to look up and say, ‘hi; glad you walked into the room.’ Mother Teresa said the greatest disease in the world is loneliness, that if she could heal anything about being human, it would be to cure loneliness with love. I try to be like that, to bring a little love into the space around me. But I feel old. I don’t have the hearing, the energy, or the big ideas I used to. That’s all I got to say.”

Selah. I invite you to breathe deeply and read that again, slowly.

Wow. Wow. I can imagine it was hard to speak in the room after that. After a selah, my friend, with permission to comment, offered this: “You are doing exactly what the elder in the village is supposed to do! You are tending what’s right in front of you. This is the fulfillment of your days—the capacity to slow down, to see what needs to happen next, right here, right now—with the young mother, with the baby, with the barrista, with the regulars from town, with us in the circle. Through these gestures of kindly attention offered into your daily surroundings you are a messenger of your deepest values. Every one of us who is moving faster, who is busy beyond managing, who is hooked into the necessities of technology, is counting on you being here amongst us moving at the pace of guidance and paying attention in the ways that you do.”

My mother is this elder to me. Because I am her family, with all the history that comes with a parent-child relationship, I don’t always see it. But everyone she meets is enchanted by her. People tell me all the time, “I love your mother.” She embodies kindness and hope and grace. She is proof that you don’t have to do anything earth shattering to change the world. Her nearly sightless eyes smile behind her dark glasses as she straightens her ever-so-slightly bent body and speaks a kind word to a restaurant patron. That person smiles at the child at the next table, because kind attention begs to be passed on. The child stops fussing and shyly smiles back, before giving her mommy a hug. And on and on into limitless possibility.

My mother and my friend’s elderly friend are preparing our elder places. Through them I see the possibilities for my own old age. But first things first. Right now I have today. Today I can dream about the possibilities in my still-energetic years. What I choose today will pave the way for tomorrow. And tomorrow’s possibilities will set the course for the next day. And all the while I will remember to smile at strangers. It could transform their day. It could call them to possibility.

My sister recently sent me this poem by Rabbi Yael Levy:

What is it that calls us forward,
To lift our eyes
And see that everything is possible?
Just for a moment to feel a strength beyond ourselves,
A love beyond ourselves,
And imagine we can step into the river
And change its course?

Perhaps it is remembering
That everything we do
Shapes the future
For the children we will never know.

Everything we create
Fashions a world for the people who will
Some day call us ancestor.

Netzach (victory) teaches
Raise up right action
And aim toward love and generosity.
Eternity exists in each moment
There is no separation between us
And what will be.

Drench yourself with possibility today. Selah.

Setting Intentions: Status Update

“Set an intention for your yoga practice today,” says the Not-Julie yoga sub at the beginning of Friday practice. My intention, I thought, is to not let your voice annoy me. I am judgmental. I will just own that. I have been called provincial by a former loved one, which seems to me is sort of another word for judgmental, with me being the province.

Here we are nearing the end of Lent and it is a good time to renew intentions set for the new year. If only I could remember what they were. I was going to

greet every day with five half-sun salutations. I forgot for the entire month of January; but since then I have done very well. And I was going to get back to Wednesday weight machines at the Y; I have not done well with that. Since the time changed I have not gotten to the cemetery for the sunrise very often; and consequently I have not been writing and posting One Sentence Mornings.

And then there is my One Little Word. I did the first month's assignment with enthusiasm, and waited impatiently for January to end so I could get the next assignment. I was less enthusiastic about February, and finally, just before month's-end, I figured out my own tweak to the assignment and finished it just before March's instruction came. And I don't like March, either. It feels too small--though small was the point. The instructor's experience has been that 
March is a month when participants lose interest, so she purposely made the exercise humble. But, I thought, small isn't working for me right now; I need BIG, so I wasn't challenged and I have not been purposeful. I see now, though, that the month has been chock full of small happenings involving my word, even though I did not write them down and set an intention to make them happen. I am a list maker, and I often add things to my list after I do them and mark them off so it doesn't appear that nothing has been happening. Which makes it a list of accomplishments rather than intentions. So my OLW in March will be an accounting of achievements without premeditation. Sometimes our work comes from deep within and our brains are the last to know.

I have been cleaning out closets and drawers and cupboards for the past several weeks. Every so often I get tired of things hanging around that are of no use nor value to me. I have never liked clutter. (Well, not for a really long time--since the clothes strung around the bedroom teenage years.) It's another bit of my judgmental personality when it comes to other people's homes, too. I can let it be okay, if it works for them (which I doubt), but I don't know how they can live in it. No, I am not OCD, I just like freedom from the detritus of life that doesn't add value. And I start thinking about what within me needs to be cleaned out. And what needs to make its way in.

Weeds in the garden don't add value. And the warm days and the plenitude of rain this week have resulted in a lot of weeds that need to be pulled. If it stops storming long enough. Perhaps today. Yesterday I run out of the house between showers to plant vegetables. Red peppers, spinach, yellow squash (which I realize now is the composted mystery plant growing in my birdbath planter), and grape tomatoes join the Brussels sprouts and snap peas.

What I notice most in the garden this week is the exchange of individual flowers that pop up victoriously through the hard ground and the cold of early spring, for the lavish clumps of color that are the hallmark of the current warmth and wet. March showers bring March flowers; the 2012 southern version of the traditional premise. The last of the hostas that I have been watching for, also make their appearance this week.

Moles, which couldn’t dig through the yard last summer due to extreme heat and hard earth, are making up for lost ground these warm, wet weeks. Greg Fischel shows proof on the weather trivia this week that there is no precedent for warmest winters leading to hottest summers. Uh huh. What about warmest winters followed by warmest springs? Then what is summer like historically? Even though we are only five days into spring, I am fighting turning on the AC at night; I can generally tough out it well into May.

On the upside of the weather (which honestly I have loved except for the night heat and the open windows that give entrance to the clouds of pollen) is relaxing on the patio with Smudge and the birds after work, enjoying my book and wine. Watching plants growing at rocket speed. Middle-of-the-night thunderstorms, which I love. Early morning fog. And a rainbow! Actually, a double one. Rainbows are so rare here. I just happen to be out of the office on Tuesday and there it is--full arch, all seven colors. A reminder of the intention of the One Who is More; which reminds me of mine. And it evokes in me the importance of setting intentions, so the swiftly flying weeks don't pass unnoticed and uncounted for. And what I have learned about intention-setting is to set them just beyond comfortable. I am looking forward to April's intentions...or accomplishments.

Every Little Epiphany

Wikipedia says epiphanies are rare and are the “last piece of the puzzle after significant labor." Any other use of the word, according to Wikipedia, is made of myth. Well, I’m just going to re-appropriate the word to suit me. Because I can. I think we have little aha moments pretty much every day. Often, like dreams, we don’t remember them. Because we don’t pay attention. What if we did? What if every time we we had a blast of insight we wrote it down? Just another way of being present. No epiphany too small. That is my epiphany for today.

For Those Who Have Far to Travel

An Epiphany Blessing

If you could see

the journey whole
you might never

undertake it;
might never dare
the first step

that propels you
from the place

you have known
toward the place

you know not.



Call it

one of the mercies
of the road:

that we see it

only by stages
as it opens

before us,

as it comes into
our keeping

step by

single step.
..
              -Jan Richardson
(art by Jan Richardson, Wise Women Also Came.

The last line in the biblical story of the three wise ones, is that they listened to their dreams and “returned to their country by another road.” Along with our epiphanies, it seems to me we don’t pay enough attention to our dreams--maybe we are even afraid to dream. I wonder if we dis dreams because to listen and follow might mean getting off the yellow brick road that is so clearly glistening (or even grown dull, but at least is familiar) before us?

A friend posted this Jan Richardson poem on her FaceBook page on Friday--the 12th Day of Christmas. It feels true to me. Looking too far ahead is likely to scare us into inactivity. If the Magi had known they would have to return home on an unfamiliar road, would they have gone? And if they had not gone, would it have changed the world as we know it? Probably not; it wouldn't have even been missed in the biblical tale, really. But the baby would have missed out on some really cool gifts, as would the wise people have missed out on being among the first to be in the presence of the Savior of the World, which was a gift to them. If we don't step out on a dream, or an epiphany, we might not ever even know what we missed. But oh the gifts when we take the risk.

Cellist Yo Yo Ma, one of the 2011 winners of the Kennedy Center Honors for lifetime achievement in the performing arts, says he isn't a brave man, that he is scared much of the time. "But," he adds, "I must like being scared," since he keeps on doing things he fears. Doing it scared. I daresay he probably doesn't like being scared, but maybe it is his signal that he is on the path he needs to be on. Pushing the envelope; taking a different route home.

On Friday, after work, I was exploring my One Little Word through the January assignment, and I had a little epiphany. I remember it because I wrote it down, in a text message to a friend who is engaging a wonderful word of her own this year. I was looking through magazines for the word "go" to add to "boldly" on the page (and, no, neither of those is my word), when I came across the word, "be." In an epiphanal flash, I realize the direction I am seeking is not about going or arriving, but about being--being bold. That's not new, of course; it's some of my favorite spiritual mumbo jumbo: It's not about the destination, it's about the journey. But right there, in the first week of the year with my word, I learn something new about the one I have chosen, and why I chose it. Another little epiphany this week puts $15 in my wallet! Pay attention to your epiphanies--or your aha moments, whatever you want to call them.

The weather this winter is completely wacky. On Tuesday it is 19 degrees; yesterday it is 72. I build a fire on Friday, in spite of the warm weather, and have a burning of the greens. The cold snap finally completes the cycle in the garden. I pull the Persian shield and the purple heart, and cut off the limp elephant ear caladium stalks and leaves and the out-of-season new growth on the banana tree. The main stalks of the banana tree are still sturdy, however, so I leave them standing. Each of  the three winters since I planted the wee banana tree plant, I have treated it differently. I love my experimental garden philosophy. I could read and do what the "experts" say to do, but I prefer to learn as I go. It's my garden, and my life. Besides, the experts don't agree with one another. I am happy that the cold does not affect the single black-eyed Susan bloom, the lorapetalum, or the Lenten rose.

On Saturday's spring-like afternoon, I sun with Smudge on the patio, then walk to the cemetery, where the crows are preening their feathers in the tree tops. I discover that one of the stumps from a tree snapped off in the tornado in the Civil War section has been re-appropriated. I sit for a while and watch the clouds. It's quite comfy. I think of a quote I read with my morning coffee, "Barn burned down. Now I can see the moon" (Basho).

One Little Word for a New Year

“And now let us welcome the New Year. Full of things that have never been” (Rainer Maria Rilke).

A week ago I spend my Saturday journaling time making a list of highlights of 2011--what brought me happiness, and what brought sorrow. As I live with my list this week, I realize three things: 1) the joy far outweighs the sad; 2) without intentionality, I did not name the list successes and failures; 3) I drove every one of the pleasures, and the sorrows were all out of my control.

It felt like a hard year; I am surprised that the balance tips heavily toward joy. Why do we so often let the hard feel weightier than the good? It feels important that I don't think in terms of success and failure. Those words imply something completely different from how I am growing toward the sixth decade of life, and what is important to me. I didn't realize that before now. And, while there is always going to be disappointment and sorrow, we can't always control it; maybe we usually cannot. It is even true that sometimes with wishes fulfilled there is something lost. I don't believe that is always true, but often we must weigh the gain against the price and then proceed, or not. And when life gives us lemons, well, you know: we either make lemonade or jump into the disposal. Our choice.

I leave work at midday on Thursday to use some vacation hours. I feel a little lost; unsure of how to use my precious afternoon. I end up in the garden on what feels like a spring day. I go out to take the trash and recycling to the street, and don’t go back in. I start in on fall garden clean-up, without my gloves of course. It’s been so warm that a lot of the garden hasn’t died back in a timely manner. I start with the summer phlox. It is definitely dried up. I pull the annual penta out of the shard garden. I take a picture of the sun in the tops of the trees up through the dogwood. Without warning I am crying. I feel unbearable sadness. I take it out on the English ivy, just as I did when I began the garden nearly five years ago. It feels good to yank it loose, just as it did then. I get my gloves and clippers.

The banana grove has many dead leaves, but the stalks are still sturdy. I have been kind of enjoying the rattle when the wind blows. And there are several new leaves ready to unfurl. I cut off the leaves I can reach with my short clippers and leave the ones in the top. Perhaps they will protect the new leaves next week when the temperatures plummet to their lowest of the season after this weekend back in the mid-60s. (My mother wants to see another spring in the south before she leaves this life. She should have come for Christmas.) I don’t know what to do with the Purple Heart, the inspiration for the Global Purple front door. The dead parts are all tangled up with the not dead parts, and there is some new growth. I run my hands through it gently and throw out what comes loose, leaving the rest. It, too, will probably be gone after the coming cold snap. I feel like the Purple Heart. Much of who I have been in this city for the past 24 years is dead. I need to run my hands gently through my life and see what comes loose and what is left.

The year that was is gone, and I am looking forward. It is going to be an interesting year, for two things I am going to be a second time grandmother, and I will welcome a new daughter-in-law. Happy things. On day one the year is already unusual: I go out with friends and stay out to see the New Year open! We have dinner al fresco (yes, you read that right, outside in December). We walk among the revelers at First Night, and observe, but do not ride, the "similar to the one in Paris" ferris wheel in a downtown intersection; and touch for good luck, but do not stay to watch drop, the Raleigh acorn.

One of the experiences I am pursuing for this year is signing on to an online workshop called "One Little Word." Amelia did it last year and found it provocative and challenging. Participants choose one single word to invite into their life and engage with all year; to listen to and to see where it leads. Each month there is a prompt with a simple creative, writing, or photography project and a gentle reminder to check back in with your word. Presumably this time next year I will have a journal of some sort to look back on and see where my word took me.

I am not going to share here, right now, the word I have chosen. I need to let it dwell within me for now. I am sure you will see on the page where it is leading me. However, if any of you would like to join this venture with me, let me know. I will share my word with you, and embrace you and yours. Perhaps we can share our journeys on some online interactive web-something, or just between the two of us. Partners are always good when embarking on a new adventure. You can learn more at  One Little Word.

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover” (Mark Twain).