100 Lighter Days

Left of Snow

 
Photo courtesy of Mister Wind-up Bird and Flickr's Creative Commons

Left of Snow

 

by Peter Andringa

 

What is left of snow?

You asked it knowing--

Nothing.

 

Why was there snow?

You asked it knowing--

I couldn't stop it, snowing.

****** 

Musings on “Left of Snow”

by Deborah Jansen

We think we know all about snow. After all, we shovel it, drive through it, and listen to school cancellations when we get too much of it.

Scientifically and rationally, we remind ourselves that snow starts as moisture droplets that cling and freeze together randomly. Melting and refreezing takes place, which produces intricate, crystalline shapes that finally reach the ground as snow.

But if we stop rehearsing all that we think we know rationally, we finally have room for mystery.

When I read my Uncle Peter’s “Left of Snow,” it hushes me and leaves me open to the sacred. It’s an invitation to be present in simple, daily beauty that’s laced with grace. What is it that keeps us gazing at a sparkling prairie under a winter moon? What is it about mystery that keeps us coming back for more?

Writing Prompts. . .

1.    When was an important first time you remember gazing with childlike wonder at the snow? Did it involve looking out the window, running in it, sledding, building a snowman, making snow angels? Tell me that story. Ten minutes. Go.

2.    When was an important first time you remember snow stopping you from doing something you had planned? Did it involve school closing, getting stuck in the snow, a sledding accident, being homebound for days at a time? Tell me that story. Ten minutes. Go.

 

 

A Time to Be Silent

 

“Word”

by Madeleine L'Engle

I, who live by words, am wordless when
I try my words in prayer. All language turns
To silence. Prayer will take my words and then
Reveal their emptiness. The stilled voice learns
To hold its peace, to listen with the heart
To silence that is joy, is adoration.
The self is shattered, all words torn apart
In this strange patterned time of contemplation
That, in time, breaks time, breaks words, breaks me,
And then, in silence, leaves me healed and mended.
I leave, returned to language, for I see
Through words, even when all words are ended.

I, who live by words, am wordless when
I turn me to the Word to pray. Amen.

from The Weather of the Heart, poems by Madeleine L'Engle; Harold Shaw Publishers, 1988

A Little Bit of Air

“Just so you know, Grandma, get ready for your butt to hurt,” my granddaughter cautioned me. I nodded, grabbed my sled, plopped down on it, and pushed off toward the snow jump.

She was right. Foolish Grandma, jumps are for kids. Well, at least if you’re this grandma.

When I landed, my butt wasn’t the only thing that hurt—so did every vertebrae, the base of my neck, my tongue, and my teeth. I stood up, brushed off the snow, scooped up the plastic saucer, and yelled, “You’re right! I’ll stick to the bunny slope now.”

She flashed an I-told-you-so smile and giggled.

Play! That’s what I love about being a grandma. Stuart Brown, the play guru, says you travel to a parallel universe of free-floating time and creativity when you play. You get to do stupid things, laugh about them, and hopefully learn something. You get to taste the joy of getting a little bit of air—even if your butt still hurts the next morning. <sigh. . .>

TGIF

Big, hairy deals at work translate into hours in the conference room and cubicle. Mounds of tedious, physical labor yield 60 hour work weeks and cancelled hiking trips. What is it about work that colors outside the lines? I live in the Midwest—a region known for its Clydesdale work ethic—but even here we don’t always enjoy our work.

Whether we’re self-employed or not, we see something that’s possible, get it done, notch it to the next level, and repeat as needed. We ante up passion for a project only to discover a monster guzzles marrow from our bones.

A month ago, I led a bicycle tour for 20 friends. I reveled in camaraderie, conversation, cabernet, and  chocolate. But the same thing was true of my pleasure as is true of my work—I gave 110 percent. I planned colorful appetizers, scoured farmers’ markets for the tastiest fruit, reserved tickets at an award-winning theater, and booked dinners at the finest restaurants. In the wake of that “power” vacation, I forgot to call my son on his birthday. I crashed in a near-comatose state when I returned home. I watched more hours of television than I care to admit.

Will I ever be able work on something and sustain balance?

I happen to believe in something bigger than myself. The work of my hands (and mind) gives expression to creativity and craftsmanship, and my spirit responds to a Creator.  But, somehow the ground slips away and I begin to enjoy the clapping more than a sacred calling. How do I become trapped into proving my productivity in the tribe?

The Chinese symbol for the firstborn is Earth or Grounded One. Ironic isn’t it—given the firstborn tends to be a self-appointed workhorse in the family? I wonder what it would be like to wear that symbol as a daily call to serenity. To stay grounded in contemplative prayer. To trust the still small voice that speaks.  

A Not-So-Big State of Mind

 

Enchanted Rock near Fredericksburg, Texas is a huge, pink granite dome that rises 425 feet above ground and covers 640 acres. Photo courtesy of Flick'r Creative Commons and boydbrooks999

“I always told myself that if I weren't interesting, at least I'd lie,” Jerry said as he leaned back in his chair at the dinner table. “Don't you want to tell your car accident story again—this time with more drama?” He arched his eyebrows and sipped his glass of Chardonnay.

“No thanks. Not right now.” I smiled, but flat irony seeped into my voice. We were seated in a restaurant deep in the heart of Texas, and I wasn't in the mood to relive my rollover into the ditch.

Jerry's request for more excitement contrasted with Sarah Susanka's wisdom in the Not So Big Life, which I listened to as I drove to Texas. Susanka claims adrenaline has become our drug of choice. I know that's been true for me. There was a time when I might have milked my accident's play-by-play for all it was worth—or at least tried to.

But tall tales and the BIG LIFE come at a cost I'm becoming less willing to pay. If I don't start rebuilding my life without adrenaline as core operating system, my body will probably get locked in some sort of chronic condition.

During my one-week vacation in Texas, I eased past my basic physical therapy exercises. I hiked to the top of Enchanted Rock on a sunny, 80-degree day. I took as much time as I pleased to bike the long hill to a lookout the locals call “Bat Cave.” Before dinner each night, I sipped a glass of Cabernet and settled into laid-back conversation with friends.

When I returned home, my chiropractor noticed my miraculous, post-accident progress. “It must be the vitamin D,” he quipped. “You were probably deficient.”

“You're probably right,” I replied. I cracked a half-smile when I thought about my Not-So-Big state of mind and the Lone Star slogan, “Everything's bigger in Texas.” Wink, wink.

Morning baptism

photo courtesy of Flickr's Creative Commons

--post by Jennifer Irsfeld James

News reports invade my dreams at too early an hour. A nudge from the other side of the bed encourages me to swat the snooze button. Nine minutes later a loving shove shoos the night owl from her roost.

Brain and body whine for more sleep as I strip down and suit up. I’m headed for holy water: a pool in a school basement where regular immersions stretch and strengthen both muscle and mind. The coached workouts leave me refreshed more so than an extra hour of sleep, but the delayed satisfaction requires discipline.

On the pool deck, I tug on cap and goggles. After a quick glance at the warm-up, I spring forth in a shallow dive and meet the chill with an involuntary underwater yelp. Eventually speed evades the cold: I skim the surface as soaring gull and powerful porpoise until lactic acid builds in my muscles and begins its slow burn.

I take the workout sets one at a time, to stay focused and in the moment. “Participate, don’t anticipate,” sings out one morning-glory fellow swimmer. How wise: Unburdened by future concerns, I swim faster and freer as I push my threshold in speed drills and distance swims.

The intense concentration empties my mind of extraneous thoughts. I surrender myself to the water, which submerges me in active silence.

Calm, centered, and breathing hard, I churn the water with high elbows. Kick strong. Flip at the walls. Grab life-affirming air. Exhale all else.

This is how I meditate as I swim. Regular practice helps me in and out of the pool to let go of multitasking, ruminating, and rehashing. When I can quiet my chattering thoughts, I open myself to clarity, inspiration, and spiritual insight.

After my final lap, I climb out, steadying myself on solid ground. I’m weary, yet buzzing with gratitude. Thanks be to God.

Embrace all of it

A little more than six weeks ago, I was involved in a car accident that nearly took my life. That experience left me navigating a very troubling paradox. I was grateful to be alive, but I was also ungrateful to be alive (mind-body recovery, replacing the wrecked car, etc.). I became irritated whenever someone tried to counterbalance one of my emotions by using the well-meaning phrase, “Oh, but remember. . . .”

Then I focused on "Turn, turn, turn," a classic duet by Judy Collins and Pete Seeger. Thank God, this song's wisdom as found in Ecclesiastes of the Bible allows me to embrace my paradox known as SURVIVAL. And, if I'm honest, this dialectical existence we call LIFE ON EARTH. “For everything, there is a season. . . “

What seasons are you navigating? Tell me that story. . . leave a comment, and I'll respond.

It's about time!

photo courtesty of Flickr's Creative Commons and ali edwards

Why do I have a love-hate relationship with calendars and day-planners? Danielle La Porte offers an answer on Leo Baubata's zenhabits. What I really want is to feel calm and connected—with family, friends, work, self, and the world out there.

She tells me to identify core areas that are important to me in life, so my calendar respects them. I sorted through Oprah's Best Life categories and checked for ideas in Julie Morgenstern's Time Management from the Inside Out. Finally, I sat down to a cup of java with Jen James, my friend and blogging partner.

An hour [and lots of doodling and chatting] later, we landed on our Top Six:

• Work

• Relationships

• Wellness

• Surroundings

• Finances & Possessions

• Spirituality

Honestly, what really bogs me down is the truth a calendar tells. My right-brain self gets emotional hives just thinking about boxes, check lists and “shoulds.” My neck feels tense as I consider all the space occupied by the word “Work.” But, Danielle suggests I de-stress by finding a way to be as balanced as I can be—while I'm at work. . . as well as in the other areas of life. Good point. I want to experience simplicity, connectedness, freedom, and creativity wherever I am. Interesting.

I might even be able to look at a calendar that lets me do that. I'll mess around with that tomorrow.

What are your Top Six? Leave us a comment. . . and your favorite links.

Testing, testing. . . 1, 2, 3

    

photo courtesy of Flicker's Creative Commons and suneko

Satisfied with your silhouette? Just how much of a perfectionist are you? Check out this article from "How to Be Happy Without Being Perfect" and the featured quiz.

"Good news," says Alice Domar, "is that a few simple changes can transform feelings of failure into that elusive sensation of success."

Check out the micromovement ideas on our January 19 post. What small change gave you a boost today?  

Perfectly cluttered

 

photo courtesy of Flickr's Creative Commons and thunderchild5

--post by Jennifer Irsfeld James

Some households have a junk drawer in the kitchen. At my house, nearly every drawer is a catchall for delayed decisions: the semi-important, potentially historic, almost useful, or broken-but-possibly-repairable.

I yearn to purge the excess, but often feel too overwhelmed to take action. At the root, I fear making a mistake—an imperfect decision.

But the slog of clutter is getting to be a real problem. Yesterday I couldn't find the extra digital TV converter box coupon I had promised a friend. I knew I had it tucked away in a safe place,  somewhere. . .

That dilemma brought me to a new book Be Happy Without Being Perfect: How to Break Free from the Perfection Deception, by Alice D. Domar, Ph.D., and Alice Lesch Kelly. Reading about how perfectionism smothers and stifles, both in the words of Domar, a practicing
psychologist, and more than fifty of her patients interviewed in the book, is helping free me from perfectionist paralysis.

My favorite chapter, "Stop Agonizing Over Decisions," offers several tools I've been testing:

• Visualize living with a decision. (How will I feel in a year or even a decade about letting go of a particular piece of children's artwork?)
• Use a decision-making tree to discover hidden fears. (If I give away an antique porcelain box my grandmother gave me, she might find out and be disappointed or angry.)
• Challenge distorted, black-and-white thinking, such as "should" statements. (When I think "It's rude of me not to keep all gifts I receive," I can tell myself "Gifts are given to me to use as I choose, so it's perfectly acceptable for me to donate or share gifts that I cannot use.")

So how's it working? This time, I found the missing coupon after an hour of de-cluttering! But even if I hadn't, I'd still celebrate a bulging bag of recycled stuff and a donation box piled high. Many small decisions decisively made.