More Than Enough

A little girl stands at my school supply freebies table grasping the pink eraser that she just selected in her tiny hand, her eyes twinkling with delight.  When I tell her that she may take a few more supplies, she smiles and giggles.  She thanks me and proceeds to fill her hands with erasers and glue sticks and runs to her mother.  “I hit the jackpot!” she exclaims.  

A few minutes later, she approaches the table again, this time with a box in hand.  A well-meaning adult has given her a small box in which to carry her loot.  She nods to the half-filled box:  “May I have more?” she asks sweetly.  The gratitude that she had displayed only moments before has dissipated and is replaced by an unquenchable desire to fill the box.  

Humans are the only animals who show up to the earth’s cornucopia with a container.  The more we get, the more we want.  When our cup runneth over, we run to find a jug.

When you have more than enough, you can always get a bigger container, but why would you want to?  Lap gratefully from the abundance of the Universe.  Take a sip or a plunge; it doesn’t matter.  There’s enough for everyone when we show up with gratitude.

Start from Rock Bottom

A lesson in perspective: next time you're having a pity-party about not having the latest gadget, imagine yourself in the context of having just lost everything that you value.  You are suddenly unclothed and unrecognized (for reputation, friends, and family count here as well).  You have no home (yours or otherwise) in which to sleep.  You're ravaged with sickness.You literally have nothing.

Then, slowly open your eyes to what you do have.  The trick is to name it--name it all.  I have my memory.  I have the ability to read.  I have a job. I have cute feet.  I have a meal to eat tonight.   Forget always naming what you don't have.

Just start from rock bottom...and look up.

This I Believe

Life, our goal-oriented culture would have us believe, is the pursuit of grand moments: vacations, parties, graduations.  In my thirty-three years on the planet, I’ve found the opposite to be true.  The tiny, itty bitty moments are the ones that make my heart explode with joy.  I believe that those moments are the meaning of life.

           
I remember a moment when I was a little girl.  Paul, my little brother and best friend, and I were sprawled on the sofa as my mother read to us about the mythical Monopods from one of the books in the Narnia series.  I remember the scent of Mama’s soap, the giggle in her voice as she read of their quirky habits, the complete sense of stillness and assurance that comes from the steady cadence of a mother’s storytelling voice.

           
I remember a moment in Germany.  Kyle was just a little boy, not older than two.  We were on my bed; he was supposed to be settling down for a nap, and I was supposed to be cleaning or performing some other routine task.   His beautiful little fingers reached up towards the stream of light that had bent its way through the darkened room and he played with it.  Chubby fingers swaying through the untouchable, somehow he summed up the meaning of life in that moment.  A silent philosopher at the age of two.

            
I remember a moment that repeats from time to time.  Alex, fifteen, comes into my room randomly, without warning, and sits at the end of my bed as I try to sleep.  He plays his guitar and talks and talks and talks.  His deepening voice strums steadily on hour after hour as he tells me of friends and plans and himself.   I live for those moments. 

            
I remember Alan’s signature cuddles, and our dog Louis’ chin on my leg as I eat my dinner, and the moment when I fell in love with Will.  I remember opening the notes that my daddy left me when he was to be gone for a week, and dancing alone to my favorite song, and losing myself in a cup of tea and a good book.  I remember my boys covering me with flowers in a hidden meadow in a park, and finding a bird’s nest in a strawberry patch, and three lifetimes of bedtime kisses. 

Somehow the planned vacations and the long strived-for achievements just don’t measure up to a collection of these little moments.  They sit on my soul like so many birds perched on the branch of a tree in springtime.  But they not only inhabit me.  The older I get, the more I realize that these moments are me and the reason for me.  This, I believe.

Designed to Fail

"The art of design is to make complicated things simple."

--source unknown

The problem with our society is that we're trying to design our world--to manipulate it into simplicity--when it is (or was) already as simple as nature can and should be. Eventually, all of these manipulations boil down to one thing: we're trying to cheat death. We are collectively so afraid of pain and death that we are willing to strip ourselves of the very essence of what makes us human. Nature can't touch me. I have dismantled her and enslaved the many fragments that are left behind. Slowly, I lop away at her until I reach her core. And when I reach it I find that I have scraped away my humanity, my sensuality, my vitality in the process.

I think of Emily in Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily." One of my favorite parts of the story is how Emily matches her house in her brutal decay. Each step into the house is a metaphor for getting to know the inner Emily.

Our planet and our treatment of it could be seen as a metaphor for the inside of each of us as well. As we tear down our natural environment to build yet another parking lot, highrise, subdivision, we lose a little bit of who we are. Humanity is replaced with laws and processes. Sensuality is replaced with hard core porn. Vitality is replaced with hours of mindless television or internet surfing. So, as the sleek new building is erected (with an energy efficient heating system!), and we watch the biodiversity become fragmented and eventually die, we watch it happen in ourselves as well.

Of course, we managed to sever our collective conscience years ago, so I guess it doesn't really matter anyway.

Back to Basics

I almost bought a breadmaker recently. I contemplated the purchase. I did my research online and in stores, and when I was finally sufficiently prepared to take the plunge, I chose not to buy it. As it turns out: I don't even need a breadmaker.

So, why did I think that I did? Well, back to my relentless pursuit of efficiency. I make pizza every Thursday night. The breadmaker could have the dough ready when I get back from work so that there is no need to wait the required hour of rising.

For over a week, I just knew that my life would be easier if I only had a breadmaker.

Of course, the truth eventually dawned on me. My options were clear: I could purchase, house, clean, and maintain this clunky product, or I could use the bowl and countertop that I already have. The bowl and counter are easier cleanup, cheaper (free), and I get to feel the satisfaction of knowing that my pizza dough is truly handmade.

It scares me to think of how often I overcomplicate my life in a vain attempt to simplify it.

The Thoughts of Things

I've spent quite a bit of time lately contemplating the difference between theory and reality, the man-made world that we think we inhabit and the natural world that we actually do inhabit. Many texts and experiences have informed my thoughts: Italo Clavino's short story, "Love Far From Home," Northrop Frye's The Educated Imagination, anything by Daniel Quinn, and so forth....

Calvino elucidates this difference when his young, male character says, "I still live in a castle of meanings, not things" (7). He describes the difference between kissing Mariamirella and kissing the thought of her. I find that I live in this castle of meanings more often than I probably should. Perhaps this is the curse of the educated? Frye refers to this construct as a tower--the Tower of Babel, more specifically. I agree that our literature, our man-made reality, our thoughts, are taking us away from our most basic and natural selves and that we need to find a way to reconnect our myth and our physical reality.

Of course, Daniel Quinn holds nothing back as he questions the "realities" that we, as a culture, have created. Reading his books--especially Ismael--left me questioning the meaning for my existence and whether or not our current view of the world is even feasible.

In "The White Album," Joan Didion says that, "We tell ourselves stories in order to live" (1). Reading her essay reminds me of the many ways that I distance myself from my own particular reality by creating these stories, these explanations that live only in the mind. I take myself away from "the shifting phantasmagoria which is [my] actual experience" (1), because I--quite frankly--do not know how to live in the moment. The theory of a thing always hangs before me like a gauzy curtain, not fully obscuring my view of reality, but most definitely impairing my full attention to it.

Not Available on I-Tunes

Every movie these days has a soundtrack. Boy kisses girl. Action packed fight scene. Approaching ax murderer. Moment of revelation. They all have their own scores.

I was walking home from the gym in the snow the other evening. The music that I was listening to on the treadmill still blared in my ears. A song came on: you know, one of those about living like you’re dying. Something about the song, my personal soundtrack, made me stop and lift my face up to the darkened sky and taste the snowflakes on my tongue. Made me watch my feet crunch into the layers of snow that had been forming for days. Made me soak it in.

As I basked in this new appreciation of what was otherwise just a snowy day, I wondered why we don’t have our own personal soundtracks. Then it occurred to me where music may have originated. In a still forest, a young woman walks back from getting water at the stream. The crisp air, the quiet stillness fill her with emotion. Maybe she sang the first human song. Her own personal soundtrack, not available on i-tunes.

How simple is the simple life?

Living the simple life is supposed to be easy, right? No. It's supposed to be simple. Simple and easy are two completely different beasts. Easy is the path of least resistance: not having the important conversation, eating the second doughnut, letting the running shoes collect dust. Easy can be very complicated, in fact.

Simple, on the other hand, is actually a path of high resistance. Building a life that suits who you really are takes time and effort, but the rewards are endless. Ironically, the simple life requires the most foresight, the most vision.

When my life is easy, I am bored.

When my life is simple, I am replete with ideas, constantly smiling, on fire.

Simple, as it were, takes a lot of work. But it's worth it.

Enjoying Nature

Any excuse is a good one to go to the park and eat cupcakes on a pretty day. Even a dog's first birthday, I guess. We had a good time. The little guys made a fort with fallen branches, while Alex played guitar. Will and I just kind of watched them...while tending to the guest of honor.

What Makes Today?

I've been asking this question a lot lately. As I snap the camera, as contemplate my life, as I teach my lessons, I ask myself, "What makes today, well, today?" The only answer that I've really come up with so far is that the imperfections--the little, imperfect details--are the only thing to separate one day from the other. When I pay attention to the details, everything else, no matter how large, seems to take care of itself.

Living Differently

"There is no right way for people to live." --Daniel Quinn

I love this quote, because it reminds me that, despite the messages that I constantly hear, I can live life any way that I want. If I don't live exactly how I want, it's because I haven't taken the time to think about and establish a life that fits me to a tee.