The morning glow was a distinct shade of pale pale blue. Gradually, Sky become brighter and more white. As it did, it occurred to me that most change happens slowly. I worked hard to attend to the subtle changes as they unfolded in front of me.
This got me thinking that most of the imperceptibility of change has to do with me not being willing to devote the time to notice.
Today, I will be doing me best to notice the slow subtle changes that are happening around me all the time.
As I sit in the early morning darkness, I watch a Star rise. I know it is rising, because there is a leafless branch between me and the Star that I can use as a reference. When I first sit down, it is below the branch, then behind, then above. Sky starts to shine brighter, and I know that the Sun is not for behind.
All this broadens my perspective to include the slowly turning Earth that brings me morning, the path of Earth around Sun that brings Winter, and the place in which our solar system lives in the Milky-way. It's easy for me to lose track of this larger perspective, and I am grateful to Star for reminding me.
Today, I will be remembering Star as I walk through my day, and thinking about how walking on Earth is like walking on an enormous log floating in the river of Space.
Owl hooted in the South. Suddenly, I saw a flash of Owl's wing, just before she disappeared behind the roof of the screen house. Then she hooted from the North. I was grateful to have caught even a glimpse of her, as she winged silently above my head.
This reminded me how important it is to keep my eyes open. Head up, eyes open, so I don't miss the possibilities that exist right in from of me, right here, right now.
Today, I will be doing my best to pay attention to each moment of my day. Maybe I'll see Owl's wing again.
The first thing that caught my attention this morning was the color of the Sky. Grays and whites morphing into brighter whites with gleaming yellow hues. The variety was staggering, and changing constantly. It was wondrous.
This got me thinking about the infinite complexity of reality. I am grateful to be able to take in such wonder simply by looking up. The bounty of this beauty is available to me constantly.
Today, I will be doing my best to stop, look, and listen, and enjoy the infinite riches that surround me.
This morning, I saw Crow in the Sky. Hurtling Southwesterly, Crow was folding and stretching wings through the gusty wind. It looked like fun to me.
Crow got me thinking. If I had to make the choice between winging through the Sky in communion with the bluster, or coming back to the ground to find food for the day, I would pick the Sky. I would forgo the comfort of food for the experience of unpredictable flight. Thing is, the wind that lifts me today might not be around tomorrow.
This reminds me that sometimes the next right thing is not the safe thing. So I ask myself, “What life enriching choice can I make, right here, right now?” The wind of life might toss me to the ground, but it just might send me to heights I can't even imagine.
Today, I choose to fly.
This time of year, I build a fire every morning. Building the fire starts with a little newspaper. I put tinder on top of that, and kindling on top of that. Then I light the newspaper.
As the fire starts to build, I add more kindling. Then I wait. Once everything catches and is burning steadily, I start to add larger pieces of wood. As the kindling and smaller pieces of wood burn down into a bed of bright glowing embers, I add still bigger logs. I have to be careful, though. If I add too much wood too soon, the fire gets overwhelmed and can go out.
This gets me thinking about how being overwhelmed can happen to me. Trying to do too much at once can put my fire out. What works for me is to pay attention to doing only the next right thing. I put a log on the fire and wait till it catches and is burning well. I avoid the temptation to think about everything at once, like putting all the wood on the fire at the same time.
Today, I will be paying attention to how I am pacing myself, and doing my best not to take on too much at once. That should keep my fire burning brightly.
Because there are so many leaves down, I can now see the golden embers on the horizon as the Sun rises through leafless branches. In this way the bare Trees expose a beauty once hidden from me.
I am grateful for the cycles of loss and emergence, and remembering to pay attention, as loosing something can distract me from seeing what I have gained.
This morning, in the dim light, I got to hear the leaf rustle of Tree singing. I was grateful to be able to witness this morning magic.
Today, I will be on the lookout for other easily missable moments of wonder.
This cloudy morning brings with it shades of muted browns and gray. The grass that has survived the first frosts shows bright green, a result of the lingering blue light waves. I notice that Lichen on Maple tree is a different shade of gray. Different from the bark of the tree or the clouds in the sky.
This all gets me thinking about the invitations I receive from my culture to think of certain thing as beautiful, while excluding others. Cold and raw is bad where bright and sunny is better.
It occurs to me that the difference in light creates difference in what I see, and that there is beauty in all of it, if I chose to decline the invitations that can inform my preferences. Different levels of light illuminate different things. More light does not illuminate more, it illuminates differently.
Today I am declining the invitation to think about today's cloudy sky as something other than what is, and paying attention to what I can see in dimness, that I could not in brighter light.
Because of a number of mistakes, the fixings for tonight's dinner got left out last night. They included chicken, so the whole thing needs to go into the trash. The waste is troublesome, but this goes along with an awareness that there are far bigger problems in the world today. Even still, the series of mistakes and the consequences are something to get by.
The act of actually putting the food in the trash was a beginning, but there is still a process of letting it go that will unfold over the course of the day. Regret will cycle around with acceptance, and I trust that slowly over the course of time, I'll settle into the new menu, and allow our previous plans to go out with the trash.
I am grateful that my mistakes amount only to a minor mishap. I am fortunate enough to be able to waste food without it having any significant impact on my life. The cycle of regret and acceptance, however, is fueled by my awareness of people who's lives include far less bounty. In this way, my difficulty getting past this mistake is emblematic of something important. It would be easy for me to get past the wasted food if I didn't carry this concern and awareness, so I accept the struggle as a small testament to something for which I stand.
Today, I will be paying attention to the way my purposes and intentions can combine with mistakes and create regret. I'll do my best to accept both, as I continue along my path.
As I sat and breathed this morning in the near gale force winds, I saw a group of Crows flying in the Northern sky. They were diving and soaring and cawing out to each other. They circled around to the West, then turned East, dove and rose and vanished from sight. Where they playing or sparing with each other? I don't know what they were doing, but I know what they can do. Crow can fly with skill and grace in extreme winds. I know this because I saw it.
It is not my intention to ascribe my experience onto my creature cousins. I don't now if they were playing or having fun, but I know they can fly in ways I find extraordinary. Without knowing what it is like to be Crow, I know what is like to be me, and watch Crow. In this way, what I get from Crow, or anyone else I observe along my path, can inspire or challenge or remind me in ways that are useful to me, regardless of whether what I see reflects anything that might be real about their experience.
I am grateful for the lessons I receive from my observations of the world around me, and grateful to Crow. The lesson I take from what I saw is to have more fun. I can only hope that Crow and her cousins were having fun, too.
When I gather Mint in the morning, I go out of the cabin through the Southern door. I walk South/Southeast to the Mint patch. I begin on brick path that “T”s East-West, at which point I leave the path and follow stepping stones through a garden. I get on the brick path again briefly before a stone path leads me to the Mint patch.
My Dad used to say, “Put the path where the people walk.” If I were to stay on the brick path after it “T”'s and follow it East I would curve around slowly, eventually turning South, then Southwest until I came to a fork. The fork is the beginning of a cul-de-sac. The stone path to the Mint patch spurs off of this circle.
The brick path is not where I walk, but it gets me thinking about how, sometimes, a circuitous path that leads me nowhere can be useful. At these times the journey is about the path and not the destination. The brick path is a beautiful path in a beautiful garden. It's curves prolong my experience. It's circle brings me back where I began, without me having to turn around. It is a path to ponder on, not to get somewhere.
Today, I am grateful for the lesson from the circuitous brick path. Today, I will think more about where I am, instead of where I am going.
As I sat and breathed this morning, a group of Turkeys descended from their roost just Northeast of the cabin, to start their slow meander across the land. We have many Turkey neighbors, and often see them carefully perusing the ground for food as they pass by.
Turkey's slow deliberate gate gets me thinking about pace. They remind me that amazing things can happen slowly, and that we do everything step by step.
Today, I will be thinking about the lesson from Turkey and giving myself permission to slow down, and attend to the small steps I take that can lead to something big.
When I was bucking up wood yesterday, my chainsaw stalled out and I couldn't get it started again. I figured it was a clogged air filter. Cleaning the filter is something I can do, but it is a twenty-four hour process. That meant that the saw was going to be down for the day, and I was going to have to change my plans.
This got me thinking about another form of acceptance. In this situation, it is the acceptance that my plans don't actually mean anything. Nor is attachment to my plans consistent with my intention of acceptance.
Plans are like a door. They are the thing I go through to see what's on there other side. The trick is in not getting attached to the door. When I'm attached to the door, I'm missing all of the possibilities that exist just beyond.
Today, I will be paying attention to my plans so they don't get in the way of my life.
I woke up this morning and noticed that the woodpile in the woodshed had fallen over. This happens sometimes. I don't know exactly why. There are lots of possible reasons. It could be the ground under the stacks getting harder or softer, or it could be that I didn't stack the wood just right, or it could be that, as the wood continues to dry, the shape of the pile changes, the weight shifts, and the whole thing topples over.
I can't say for sure. It seems that no matter how carefully I stack the wood, this happens sometimes. The one thing I can say is that the pile has fallen over and I have to re-stack it.
This gets me thinking about acceptance. Part of acceptance is accepting that I have to re-stack the wood. But it occurs to me that another part of acceptance started a while ago; The part connected to my knowing that when I stack wood, it might fall over.
Here at the cabin, our wood system in ongoing. I drop trees in late summer/early autumn for the following year. When I'm not dropping trees, I am bucking up the wood from the previous year, getting it ready to split.
Around this time of year, I start splitting and stacking wood that has been drying since last year. That doesn't mean it's completely dry, however, and as a result it is continuing to change. Just like the planks and the cinder blocks and the soil I stack it on. Everything is in a constant state of flux, and though it seem like I am piling one static log onto another, the truth is that the whole picture is in constant motion, making miraculous the fact that the pile doesn't fall over every year.
As I continue to pull back the frame of acceptance, from accepting that the pile has fallen over and the effects that has on my plans for the day, to the reality that the pile might always fall over and that it might fall over after I have re-stacked it, to the fact that the wood is never completely dry and static, nor are the kiln-dried planks it rests on, to the constant movement of the Earth upon which it all rests, I realize that acceptance is more than a practice I take up when I see that something has happened. Acceptance is a way of being that connects me to the ongoing flux of everything. Rather than I tool I can use to deal with day to day situations, it can be a mindset that day to day situation call me back to, through which the particular details of the day find a more meaningful context within the larger frame of life.
In this way, the stacking and re-stacking of wood becomes a reflection of a much larger set of choices. Choices I have made that reflect intentions I have for living. My re-stacking of the wood is no longer a mundane task, but a testament to the confluence of choices leading up to this moment, right here right now. Within this way of thinking, stacking wood, and everything I do connects me to the Sacred, by aligning me with the constant flux of everything. A confluence that began long before me and will go on long after me.
This idea of acceptance transforms what might have been a way to get through the commonplace, into a practice that reconnects us to the eternal. Rather than accepting what we have to do, that we might not want to, we can accept our connection to the constant unfolding of everything and where, within it, we are. In this way, acceptance is not a return to the flow, but a recognition that we are continually a part of it.
With that, I'll go out and re-stack the wood pile, meditating on my connection to the infinite.
The first thing I heard when I went through the Eastern door of the cabin this morning, was Crow. A single caw came from the Southeast. Then, from the Northeast, I heard a series of caws. This kind of call, the caw-caw-caw, always reminds me of laughter, because it seems to be infectious amongst my Crow cousins.
As I sat and listened to them caw-caw-cawing back and forth, I got thinking about the importance of laughter. A good laugh can pull me out of whatever bad mood I happen to be in. I remember when my dad died, how important it was for me and my brothers to sit around and laugh. We laughed about the past, we even laughed about the present; about the fact the my dad was dead, and that the funeral was taking place in the sanctuary where we had played hide and seek as kids, avoiding getting caught by the Janitor, Mr. Peterson.
Our laughter was irreverent, but not disrespectful, and I'm sure my father would have approved. We weren't laughing at anyone but ourselves and the overwhelming situation we were facing. There could be no doubt that learning to live without my father was a serious thing, but learning to use laughter to get through was essential.
I don't believe Crow is ever laughing at anything. I think Crow laughs from the joy of being alive. Whether that is true of not, I appreciate Crow bring laughter into my morning, and reminding me to pay attention to the joy in my own life.
Today, I will remember Crow's lesson and look for opportunities to laugh, and enjoy the healing it brings into my day.
One of the things I am noticing about the effects of this question, what life enriching choice can I make in this moment, right here right now?, is that it focuses me on what I am doing, not what I have done. This disconnects me from the could'a, should'a, would'a's of my life. Sometimes, the answer to the question is to laugh out loud. That's been fun.
I heard Duck on the pond in the darkness of a quiet morning. I thought, what am I to learn today? Then the word “Still” came to me, as I heard Duck fly over my head moving Southerly.
Today, I will be paying attention to the value of not moving.
The electricity goes out, and the first thing I notice is the absence of clock time. The hum of devices is replaced by the sound of the wind and rain, and I start to think about how I am going to have to adjust.
Today, I will be paying attention to things like how much water I use and where it comes from, and enjoying the quiet, because the hum of electricity will eventuality return.
I awoke this morning to the sight of limbs down and a tree snapped in half. No damage to the cabin, but the electricity is out. The Wind had diminished some, but it was still gusting pretty hard.
Then I heard it. Two Owls calling back and forth to each other. Owl is a big bird, but still I was struck by the fact that she would be out in the woods calling to a cousin in such a storm. Where else would she be, I reminded myself?
Then I thought about some of the astounding assumptions I make about my creature cousins. It can be so easy for me to forget that Owl lives outside all the time. No matter how cold or windy or stormy it gets, she is out there. She doesn't get grounded because of lightning, or because the runway gets icy.
Owl gets me thinking about what it is like to live outside. Not survive outside, but really live outside, with the same level of comfort and familiarity I have for living inside. I have thought of this before, when watching Seagulls hover along in gale force winds. They don't struggle of strain, they just seem to float in the Sky, as if it's something they just do.
Because it is. Like the Chickadees in February, my creature cousins don't retreat when the weather gets harsh, they just live their lives.
Owl reminds me of the many possibilities for living, and that the way I am living right now is just one of them. Today, I will be paying attention to the invitations of comfort and security that limit my ability to see alternative possibilities that exist right in for of me.