No one person has the whole truth David Hartman, Orthodox Jewish Rabbi and Philosopher
No one person has the whole truth. That is why we need each other.
From my yoga teacher, I learn the truth of discipline, practice, surrender of the busy mind.
From my daughter, I learn the truth of love, change, vulnerability, the fierceness of growth.
From my parents, I learned the truth of my heritage, tradition, family bonds, sacrifice.
From the woman who walks now with a cane, I learn the truth of humility, courage, life as it is and not how we would like it to be.
From the stranger I learn the truth of jealously, of compassion, of misunderstanding, of grace.
From the girl who serves my coffee I learn the truth of dreams, unmet and hoped for, of youth, of possibility.
In seeing the truth of others, I find my capacity to learn.
With each encounter, I am a beginner once again.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
Sin
Oh sinners let's go down, let's go down, gonna go down. Oh sinners let's go down, down to the river to pray.
Drapped in the white robes, I go to the river to pray, to be scrubbed clean, absolved, resurrected. Others come, through the woods, down the sloping hill to the river which is cold and deep this time of year. Late summer rains have made the river swell her banks.
The teachers are there to guide us, hold our hands, cradle our heads as we bend back into the waters. I am ashamed. I have sinned again, and again, against my family, my neighbors, most brutally myself. I have thrown myself away time and again to impatience, to wanting control, to stinginess, to sloth. To the untamed anger, to not having enough.
Still, I am welcomed here among the sinners. Bringing our imperfections with us on wobbly shopping carts, bulging canvas sacks, wicker baskets, cradles, and carts, we come together to the river to shed these heavy burdens we have clung to for so long. In this way, our sins make us humble, alive, creative, and most amazingly, holy again.
Drapped in the white robes, I go to the river to pray, to be scrubbed clean, absolved, resurrected. Others come, through the woods, down the sloping hill to the river which is cold and deep this time of year. Late summer rains have made the river swell her banks.
The teachers are there to guide us, hold our hands, cradle our heads as we bend back into the waters. I am ashamed. I have sinned again, and again, against my family, my neighbors, most brutally myself. I have thrown myself away time and again to impatience, to wanting control, to stinginess, to sloth. To the untamed anger, to not having enough.
Still, I am welcomed here among the sinners. Bringing our imperfections with us on wobbly shopping carts, bulging canvas sacks, wicker baskets, cradles, and carts, we come together to the river to shed these heavy burdens we have clung to for so long. In this way, our sins make us humble, alive, creative, and most amazingly, holy again.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Goodbye Girl
There were many little children in the cafe this morning eating toast on mother's or father's lap, spilling milk, talking, pointing with sticky fingers at the pink topped chocolate cup cakes. One little boy about three years old sat happily in daddy's lap moving his hips in song, poking at the pads of butter on daddy's toast, laughing uproariously at the puppy outside. Moments later he was in tears, utterly inconsolable, frustrated, over blown by life (who among us don't have these moments still!)
I remembered having "one of those" little ones whom I could comfort with just the sound of my voice, my hand on her belly, her head on my chest. Effortlessly, it seemed, and completely, I could comfort the deepest hurts with just my body months before she uttered her first word.
A parent's bond with her child is most profound; one that I feel even today as mine takes the public bus home from school, can be left alone(!) in the house, can make her own dinner. She walks away from me now, decisively, angrily, in hurt, joy, or frustration. My body is no longer a solace for her pain.
I am penetrated by her moods. I still want to hold and see her every day, need to hear her voice to know she is okay. And so it is also for my own mother even as I approach 50 and she an even older age. So it was for my grandfather who at 94 could still think of my mother as a child, the one he needed to care for and would stand by even as his own hands could not longer hold a spoon steady.
I imagine him thinking, "I have lived almost thirty years more than you, held you in my arms before you could walk, slapped you when you smoked cigarettes, walked you down the aisle, held you while you held your own baby daughter. How can I ever say goodbye to you?"
"How do I say goodbye?" I asked a friend when my own father was dying, "I don't know how to do this."
"Tell him you love him, that you will be okay, that he can rest now."
And I did. These words and others came effortless and unbidden. I imagined my father knowing what I was saying even if I couldn't tell for sure by looking into his wandering eyes. I thanked him for bringing me into this world, caring for me in his own strange and quirky way, helping me to grow strong when such lessons were not ready made for girls. My words, I imagine, comforted him with the knowing that he had done his job the best he could, that I would be okay, that he would always be my dad, that he could rest now and find a way to say goodbye.
I remembered having "one of those" little ones whom I could comfort with just the sound of my voice, my hand on her belly, her head on my chest. Effortlessly, it seemed, and completely, I could comfort the deepest hurts with just my body months before she uttered her first word.
A parent's bond with her child is most profound; one that I feel even today as mine takes the public bus home from school, can be left alone(!) in the house, can make her own dinner. She walks away from me now, decisively, angrily, in hurt, joy, or frustration. My body is no longer a solace for her pain.
I am penetrated by her moods. I still want to hold and see her every day, need to hear her voice to know she is okay. And so it is also for my own mother even as I approach 50 and she an even older age. So it was for my grandfather who at 94 could still think of my mother as a child, the one he needed to care for and would stand by even as his own hands could not longer hold a spoon steady.
I imagine him thinking, "I have lived almost thirty years more than you, held you in my arms before you could walk, slapped you when you smoked cigarettes, walked you down the aisle, held you while you held your own baby daughter. How can I ever say goodbye to you?"
"How do I say goodbye?" I asked a friend when my own father was dying, "I don't know how to do this."
"Tell him you love him, that you will be okay, that he can rest now."
And I did. These words and others came effortless and unbidden. I imagined my father knowing what I was saying even if I couldn't tell for sure by looking into his wandering eyes. I thanked him for bringing me into this world, caring for me in his own strange and quirky way, helping me to grow strong when such lessons were not ready made for girls. My words, I imagine, comforted him with the knowing that he had done his job the best he could, that I would be okay, that he would always be my dad, that he could rest now and find a way to say goodbye.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
September Practice
Sally Klempton write, "This month is a good time to look at how the intense energies around us are affecting your own inner state, and to ask yourself how your practice can help you work with these energies. Times of upheaval ask us to practice. On one level, we practice so that we can stay centered in the midst of intensity and change. But on an even deeper level, our practice is what allows us to work with the forces at play in the world, and channel them towards our own awakening, and the awakening of the others in our lives. Practicing intensely, and practicing with intensity, we can actually use the energies of this time for radical inner growth."
I feel a new energy rising, in and around me, as the Earth begins her slow turn away from our beloved sun. Into the darkness, I anticipate the cold. Something about this season makes it easier for me to settle down into things. Perhaps it is because I want to savor what is for me a time a profound potential and possibilities. I am comfortable; there is not too much heat, cold, light, or darkness. The air is fresh and cooler. The lake, still invites me, with open and soft arms but not for long. My child is busy again learning, focused, surrounded by friends and new teachers. I can let go of my worries, if just a bit, as she is occupied in good ways with her own life.
What would I do with this newly found transformative energy? If god asks me, I would tell her of the friends and acquaintances, known and unknown, I long to talk with, solitary walks up high mountains, dips into to my favorite waterfalls. I yearn for September swims, pranayama, yoga, and meditation to help draw into the core of my being. I want to feel the sap rising, thickening, consolidating inside in preparation for the resting time.
This year, I promise to savor the fragrance and tastes of this season, to remember past autumns when those I loved were still alive. I shall seek my stories again.
With my practices, I become lighter. The Autumn energies urge me to let go, even just a little bit, of my grip of things that no longer serve me. Worries like my favorite waterfalls, flow more easily over the rocks. Be stingy now, the slanted sun whispers to me, with the energies flowing through you. They wlll make you strong and capable until you return again to me.
I feel a new energy rising, in and around me, as the Earth begins her slow turn away from our beloved sun. Into the darkness, I anticipate the cold. Something about this season makes it easier for me to settle down into things. Perhaps it is because I want to savor what is for me a time a profound potential and possibilities. I am comfortable; there is not too much heat, cold, light, or darkness. The air is fresh and cooler. The lake, still invites me, with open and soft arms but not for long. My child is busy again learning, focused, surrounded by friends and new teachers. I can let go of my worries, if just a bit, as she is occupied in good ways with her own life.
What would I do with this newly found transformative energy? If god asks me, I would tell her of the friends and acquaintances, known and unknown, I long to talk with, solitary walks up high mountains, dips into to my favorite waterfalls. I yearn for September swims, pranayama, yoga, and meditation to help draw into the core of my being. I want to feel the sap rising, thickening, consolidating inside in preparation for the resting time.
This year, I promise to savor the fragrance and tastes of this season, to remember past autumns when those I loved were still alive. I shall seek my stories again.
With my practices, I become lighter. The Autumn energies urge me to let go, even just a little bit, of my grip of things that no longer serve me. Worries like my favorite waterfalls, flow more easily over the rocks. Be stingy now, the slanted sun whispers to me, with the energies flowing through you. They wlll make you strong and capable until you return again to me.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Love Poem to A Seventh Grader
I tremble sometimes for your happiness,\that ventures abroad on so many ships.\i wish somtimes that you were back inside me,\in this darkness that grew you. (Rilke)
I dropped E off at 7th grade today, my heart skipping just a beat as she took her place among the oldest children in the school. She held my hand (still) as we approached the familiar old brick. I got (and gave) a peck on the cheek.
I wandered by the kindergarten classroom when I left. So little! Eighteen pairs of little toes and fingers, squirming in the circle where they will start each of their next 180 school days.
"I used to have one of those" I told a passing parent. She wore dresses then and patent leather shoes. She clung to J and I for months each morning teary when we left. We passed her from our lap to a teachers and told her, "We will be back!" She was so hungry to read then and learned quickly and with a single mindedness we have known since she was born. She is a sturdy, curious, ambitious learner, still hungry to know, pursue, and create.
I am so grateful for this chance to watch her grow into the person she longs to be!
As Rilke writes, however, I long for her and tremble when she departs from me. The translucent thread that goes from my heart to hers tugs and pulls when she is away from me. I fear it might break. i practice letting go so the threads won't break so she can find her way to me (and me to her) when needed.
For Rilke, God was like the child who grows and leaves us. An everlasting longing for the beloved remains along with the brilliant joy of the bird in flight.
I dropped E off at 7th grade today, my heart skipping just a beat as she took her place among the oldest children in the school. She held my hand (still) as we approached the familiar old brick. I got (and gave) a peck on the cheek.
I wandered by the kindergarten classroom when I left. So little! Eighteen pairs of little toes and fingers, squirming in the circle where they will start each of their next 180 school days.
"I used to have one of those" I told a passing parent. She wore dresses then and patent leather shoes. She clung to J and I for months each morning teary when we left. We passed her from our lap to a teachers and told her, "We will be back!" She was so hungry to read then and learned quickly and with a single mindedness we have known since she was born. She is a sturdy, curious, ambitious learner, still hungry to know, pursue, and create.
I am so grateful for this chance to watch her grow into the person she longs to be!
As Rilke writes, however, I long for her and tremble when she departs from me. The translucent thread that goes from my heart to hers tugs and pulls when she is away from me. I fear it might break. i practice letting go so the threads won't break so she can find her way to me (and me to her) when needed.
For Rilke, God was like the child who grows and leaves us. An everlasting longing for the beloved remains along with the brilliant joy of the bird in flight.
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