When Your Home is Your Boat

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There is a story about a man who travels through a desert searching for escape. He stumbles over a dune and there at the base of the dune, he sees a river flowing, it’s waters sparkling in the sun. On the other side, he sees what looks like the land of paradise. Lush. Green. Full of trees heavy with fruit.

He races to the river’s edge and drinks deeply.

He stays there for awhile, catching his breath, letting his body grow strong again.

Eventually, he gets up, scours the water’s edge for wood and makes a raft.

Happily, he rows across to the other side. He climbs off his raft and sets off to explore paradise.

But first, he decides to take his raft with him. Just in case.

Eventually, he grows tired. Bone weary tired. The raft weighs so much. But he cannot put it down. ‘What if I come upon another river that needs crossing?’ he asks himself.

And so he continues to stumble along until finally, he cannot take another step. He falls to the ground and his boat falls with him.

We are all at home now. At least those of us who have a home in which to shelter-in-place. And those who are not ‘out there’ saving lives, keeping us fed, keeping us safe and secure.

We are all at home.

What are you carrying on your back as you shelter-in-place? Does it serve you well?

Yesterday, I spent a few hours cleaning out the basement. My cleaning out/up began with the realization that it’s mid-April (already) and the Christmas boxes are still sitting at the bottom of the stairs, outside the storage room door. (I’d give you the story about why they weren’t on the other side of the door, but it’s not all that interesting.)

Fortunately, along with the boxes, I can now put away that tired old excuse-filled story and relax.

I feel lighter. More accomplished. More peaceful. More spacious.

And all it took to alleviate the weight of those boxes of glitter and boughs on my peace of mind, was to put them in their place.

For me, it is one of the hardest parts of our self-isolation. Whatever I’m carrying, worry, fear, anxiety, guilt, anger, resentment…, grows into a heavy-burden when I do nothing about it. Because I am sharing this space with my beloved, sometimes, the presence of the undone, unmentioned, unspoken creates choppy waters between us.

Fact is, I think I was kind of secretly wishing, hoping, thinking, he’d put all the boxes away. I mean, I took Christmas down. Why can’t he put it all back where it belongs? You with me?

Probably because his COPD makes tasks that require lifting and moving of things very challenging. Probably because it hurts him to breathe when he over-exerts.

It does not hurt me.

What hurts is when my mind goes round and round in circles of discontent, nattering about the ‘why me’s?’ of everyday living.

When your home is your boat, it’s not just what you carry with you that makes a difference in how smooth or choppy the waters upon which you sail. It’s also about how lovingly you navigate the messy places too.

Yesterday, I got rid of a weight on my shoulders that had no purpose other than to weigh me down. In getting the job done,  I released myself of the guilt-riddled anxiety and self-defeating grumbles of resentment that arose every time I walked down the stairs and saw all the boxes sitting by the basement door.

Today, the skies are clear and my sails are set for smooth sailing.

I feel lighter of heart. More expansive in nature.

And all it took was the willingness (and a wee bit of elbow grease) to right my boat by ridding it of the ego-driven thoughts and things that were weighing me down.

When your home is your boat and your boat is your home, carrying unwanted baggage makes the journey a struggle between ego and will or compassion and Love.

When your home is your boat and your boat is your home, jettisoning the things you know do not serve you well, creates space for harmony, joy, peace and intimacy to blossom. In the beautiful garden of their nature, you are free to enjoy the waters of your day sparkling in the light of Love.

The question is: Are you willing to put down the things you are carrying that do not create harmony, joy, peace and intimacy as you sail through your day?

Namaste.

 

 

Remember & Awaken

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I sit at my desk and look out at the trees lining the river, the sun shining on their trunks.

I watch dried up leaves of autumn that still cling to a few naked limbs sway in the morning breeze as their warmth starved branches soak up the sun’s rays.

The river flows freely. The ice that formed a bridge from one bank to the other has melted. Spring awakens slowly, its approach a long drawn out flirtatious dance of farewell, an ode to the loss of winter’s kisses.

I sit and watch the world flow past my window as I awaken to the beauty all around me.

This planet on which we walk, this planet we call our home, it is the home of everything. Trees. Bees. Birds. Reptiles. Mammals. Fish. Flowers. Wind. Air. Water. Earth.

It is our home. Home to all.

We do not own it. We cannot possess it. We are its caretakers.

We must keep it clean. Keep it healthy. Keep it safe.

Remember & Awaken

by Louise Gallagher

The memory of a tree
is buried deep
beneath our feet
walking on the soil
that is its home
its birthplace
its womb.

Tread lightly
the trees call out
swaying their branches
in the sky above
as if to catch
our attention down below
where we walk
oblivious
to their dance of love
with all of nature.

Tread lightly
they whisper
to the air
their voices a sweet caress
calling all the world
to remember and awaken
to the beauty above
below
and all around us.

Tread lightly
you are walking
on our past
our present
our future.

Tread lightly.

The Heart Never Forgets

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George P. Gallagher
April 15, 1948 – March 17, 1997

 

The Heart Never Forgets
by Louise Gallagher

There was a time,
when your words and the things you did made me laugh
a time when your smile felt gentle on my heart
like warm spring rain after a harsh winter.

And then there are those times
when your words pierced my skin
slicing as sharp as a dagger to an apple’s core
leaving my heart exposed to the harsh cold winds of your anger.

There was a time.

Those times are all gone now
ended when your life careened, out of control
like a bullet racing steadily towards its target
on the road to forever gone.

I would take them all back
the good times and the bad
the laughter and the fights
I would take them all back to have you here again.

But there is no going back on death
No rewinding of time to get back those long-ago days.
There is only this time, flowing ever onward, relentlessly
carrying me towards the day when I too shall be, forever gone.

There will come a time when I will meet you there
on the road to forever gone. And when we meet, you will smile
and the past will be forgotten and our hearts will remember only
that which the heart never forgets, Love.

___________________

Perhaps it is that my brother loved to have a big fuss made about his birthday, at least until he started seeing signs of what he didn’t want to see, getting older.

Or perhaps it is that his passing was St. Patrick’s Day and I am wary of mixing laughter and good-times with the day he entered the realm of the ‘forever gone’.

Or perhaps, it is that his death along with the death of his wife, Ros who died in the same crash, was such a trauma-filled time, a time of grief and anger, of broken hearts leading to a broken family circle.

Whatever the reason, it is always on the day of his birth that his memory is strongest. A day I was not there for because, as I always liked to remind him, he was much older than me.

It is hard to imagine my brother at 72, which he would have been today. His memories are frozen in time, his face captured in photographs that ended on that day in March when time stopped moving forward for him, and we began the journey of learning to move on without him.

It was just before his 49th birthday. My sisters and I used to joke that George wouldn’t have enjoyed his 50th. It was too clear a delineation between younger days and older ones to come. He would not have liked the reminders that would have tumbled in on waves of love and laughter from his family and many, many friends. But we would all have loved the opportunity to get back at him for the countless pranks and jokes he had played on all of us.

It would have been my brother’s 72nd birthday today.

He is forever gone, as is the past. Today, my heart only remembers him with that which the heart never forgets, Love.

 

When fear beckons. Dance.

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I awaken to the ruckus of a Magpie squawking outside our bedroom window. Weak dawn light seeps through the blinds.

Beside me, my husband sleeps. His rhythmic breathing a hushed whisper barely discernible beneath the Magpie’s cacophony. I watch his chest move up and down with each breath. His breathing is measured, easy this morning. I push the first ‘what if’ of the day out of my mind. The alternatives to his easy breathing are too scary to contemplate.

I rollover. Check the time on my phone where it sits on my night table. 5:30 am. Is it too early to get up?

I lay in place, sheltering under the blankets, breathing. Thoughts of the day ahead infiltrate the quiet in a swoosh of choppy waves frothing at the edges of my ease of mind. They are filled with distress-riddled words. Pandemic. Covid. Self-isolation. Social distance. Shelter-in-place.

The last vestiges of sleep are ruthlessly washed out of my mind with the tide of emotions stirred up by my thoughts. I get up.

Restless, I walk into the kitchen, turn on the lights above the island to brighten the tepid morning light. I press the on button for the cappuccino maker. It gurgles its familiar greeting.

Beaumont the Sheepadoodle lifts his head from where he sleeps on the chaise by my desk. He raises his back haunches, puts his front paws on the floor, stretches and lowers his back end off the chaise to join his front paws on the floor. He paddles over to where I stand on the far side of the kitchen island. I scratch behind his ears, he leans his warm body into my leg. We stand like that for a few moments. Breathing into the quiet. The morning. The noises and words that disturbed my sleep slip away with his warm, familiar comfort against my body. I say nothing about lying on the chaise where he’s not supposed to be.

I take him out for his morning walk. Long coat covering my pajamas.  The Magpie is gone. The sound of distant traffic ripples through the air in concert with the river flowing past. The streets are empty.

Inside again, Beau wanders off to sleep away the morning on the bed, curled up in the curve of my husband’s legs. I close the bedroom door. Shut in. They won’t arise for a few more hours.

I walk back into the kitchen. Make my latte. Think about cleaning the oven. It’s a self-cleaning oven. Doesn’t take much to get the job done. The job feels too much for me today. I let the thought pass.

I wander through the room. I pick up some papers from one spot and move them to another. I fluff a pillow on the sofa. Fold the blanket I used last night to keep me warm while I lost myself in some forgettable movie on Netflix. I carefully place the blanket at the end of the sofa. Just so. Order amidst chaos.

My head keeps running through the litany of things I should be adding to my To Do list. I need to write them down. I decide its too much effort. I’ll think about the To Do’s later.

I check in with my feelings. Restless. Uneasy. Weary. And my old friend, fear, is there, lurking in the back corner of my mind, seeking disruptive entry.

And I haven’t even checked the news yet. I haven’t read the statistics.

And already I’m weary.

I am weary of the mounting losses. Weary of the constant reminders to wash my hands. Keep my distance. Stay home.

I am weary.

I take a breath.

Weary or not, here I come.

I turn on some music. Not my normal gentle morning sounds of piano and cello.

This is music to stir my soul. Raise my heartbeat. Get me moving. Chase the worries away.

Andra Day. Rise Up.

Aretha Franklin. Respect.

Eurythmics. Sweet Dreams.

Survivor. Eye of the Tiger.

Gnarls Barkley. Crazy.

Gloria Gaynor. I Will Survive.

Journey. Don’t Stop Believin’

Lee Ann Womack. I Hope You Dance.

The voices rise. I rise up to greet them. I start to move. My body. My arms. My legs. My feet. I start to move. Back and forth. Side to side. I find the rhythm beneath the words. I let my body have its way to the beat.

And I am dancing.

Dancing in the morning light. Dancing to greet the day. Dancing to raise me up.

I am dancing away my fear. My anxiety. My weariness.

I am dancing.

I hope you dance. Too.

_______________

Thank you Brian Webb for your ‘Shelter-in-Place Playlist’ and for your inspiration.  I’ve only included a few of your songs here — but the whole list is amazing! Thank you for your inspiration which inspired me to ‘Dance Away the Blues‘ this morning. 

You’re a Dawg. Not a Bunny. (A SWB post)

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Me:  Beaumont. What are you doing?

Beaumont:  The question isn’t what am I doing, it’s, “What aren’t you doing?”

Me:  I’ll bite. What aren’t I doing?

Beau:  Well, first off, using stupid phrases like, “I’ll bite” with a dawg is something you shouldn’t be doing.

Me:  Oh. Right. Sorry. Okay. Just tell me, because I know you will anyway, what aren’t I doing?

Beau:  It’s pretty obvious. What day is today?

Me:  I’ll bi.. Oops. Sorry. It’s Monday.

Beau:  Big enough hint for you?

Me:  It’s Easter Monday?

Beau:  Doesn’t matter what kind of Monday it is. It’s Monday. Writing my blog on Monday is a dereliction of your duties.

Me:  I was busy yesterday.

Beau:  Right. Painting silly little bunnies for your dinner guests on Zoom.

Me:  It was important. I wanted everyone to feel like we were all still celebrating together. And I always make placecards for dinner.

Beau:  Hmmm…. I don’t remember seeing one with my name on it.

Me:  You’re a dawg, not a bunny.

Beau:  Excuse me? And your guests are…

 

Please join Beau on his blog today to read the rest. He’ll be delighted to see you at Sundays with Beaumont. And yes, I know. It’s Monday.

Click HERE. 

 

In Love, fear doesn’t stand a chance.

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Easter Sunday.

No brunch at the golf club today. A family tradition gone by the wayside under Covid’s watch.

No family gathering – at least not in person.

The world is silent. Streets remain empty. Few cars. Few pedestrians.

Shuttered behind closed doors, we wait.

Behind the front door of their home in Vancouver, my eldest daughter and her family wait. Not just the Easter Bunny to arrive but for the arrival of a precious, beautiful baby girl.

My eldest daughter is pregnant. Her baby’s due date, July 9. But, they’re pretty sure she’ll have to deliver 3 – 4 weeks early via C-section due to a liver condition that can appear during pregnancy.

The other day, I was telling her how I am consciously choosing to not think about the arrival of my granddaughter. “It hurts too much to think I won’t be able to be there,” I tell her. “Yet, not thinking about her means I’m missing out on the excitement, the anticipation, the joy her birth brings into my world.”

I must let myself feel. All of it.

I want to compartmentalize my feelings.

Good ones in this wide-open space of my heart beating wildly free. Hard to cope with ones over here, in this lockbox of steel and titanium.

This infant will be coming into a very different world than her brother entered just over two years ago. He too arrived early, but his world was filled with touch. Laughter. Grandparents, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews gathering to meet him, to hold him, kiss him, ooh and ahhh over him, cuddle him.

My granddaughter’s arrival will not be filled with extended family gathering to meet her. There will be no baby shower. No gathering of family to welcome her home. My daughter must cope with the losses amidst the beauty of giving birth.

There is so much missing. So much that will be missed.

But there is one thing that is not missing. There is one thing that will sustain and support my daughter, her family and their precious newborn as they adjust to bringing this new life into the family circle.

Love.

It is always there. Flowing. Embracing. Filling each moment, every heart.

I must remember the Love. Feel it. Be it. Carry it. Hold it with outstretched hands across the Rockies, the interior valleys up and over the Coastal Range to their home by the sea.

I must hold out Love. Hold onto Love. Be Love.

When I think of my granddaughter’s arrival, I want to wish away Covid, wish away self-isolation, wearing masks, constant washing of hands, avoiding physical contact with others, avoiding groups and Zoom calls in lieu of person-to-person gatherings.

I want to wish it all away.

When I think of my granddaughter’s imminent arrival, I want the world to be different. To be less scary. Less one enormous danger zone.

I want what used to be.

I can’t. I can’t wish away Covid and I can’t have what used to be.

I must breathe into what is and remember the Love. The Love that is always present. Always here.

In Love, my heart beats freely. In Love, fear doesn’t stand a chance.

I may not be there to hold her in the first few days of her life on earth. I may not be able to be physically there to help my daughter and her family during their first days as a family of 4.

And my heart aches. I feel the sense of loss. Of sadness. Of wishing that times were different.

And I remember to breathe.

In. Out.

Deeply. Slowly.

In. Out.

The ache eases. It is less pressing, less frightening.

And that’s when it comes to me. The realization that not thinking about my granddaughter gives the virus more power than it deserves.

Yes. This tiny, invisible to the naked eye microbe has changed the entire world.

Yes. It has caused massive suffering, death, economic hardship, mental anguish and a host of other dire things.

But I will not let it steal my joy. I will not let it take away from me the gift of family. Of being present to the anticipation of new life. Of rejoicing in an infant’s arrival on this earth.

I will not give this virus that power.

______________________________________

I awoke this morning thinking about the arrival of my granddaughter and feeling somewhat sad about these circumstances that will inevitably still be in place when she is born.

And now, as always happens when I write it out. I feel more hopeful. More centered. More ready to start creating different pathways to experiencing the excitement and beauty of this time of waiting and her imminent birth.

If you have any ideas on how to adjust ‘what used to be’ to create a loving way in the here and now of being present within her imminent arrival, I would be so grateful for all ideas.

It’s time I let go of ‘not thinking’ and became engaged in actively thinking about ways to celebrate her arrival and her life.

Namaste.

__________________

And for our Zoom-in family dinner tonight, I decided to create family bunnies to be at the table with us.

Doing this gave/gives me great joy.

And I breathe.

My daughter and her family in Vancouver

The last photo is the alcohol ink on yupo paper that became the bunny for Alexis.

Come. Gather ’round the table Zoom-in Style!

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Easter Dinner Nametag

I wrote yesterday of my love for all things culinary. Gadgets and gizmos. Recipe testing, creating and sharing. Making food. Sharing food. Eating food.

The kitchen is my perfect playground.

As is my studio.

The main level of our home is entered at street level. As you walk through from the frontdoor to the dining room and then the deck, the hillside drops away leaving the back end one story up. In the walkout downstairs, the guest room and my studio  open out onto the backyard leading down to the river.

It is beautiful. Idyllic. A perfect creative space.

One of my favourite things to do for holiday dinners (okay pretty well any dinner where we have guests)  is to make place-cards, and to set the table all pretty-like. 🙂

The challenge this year is… well, it’s the one everyone is facing in these times of social distancing – we can’t gather around the same table to share in the family and friendly ties that bind us together.

So… we decided to get creative!

In order to give us a feeling of connection, we are having a Zoom dinner tomorrow with my sister and daughter on the west coast, my sister and daughter who live here and very dear friends who are always part of our special dinners.

And, to make it more ‘connected’, my sister and daughter here in Calgary will be contributing to the meal, as if they were coming to the house for dinner.

C.C. and I are doing the ham with sauce and dessert, my youngest daughter the vegetables and my sister the mashed potatoes. We will each deliver our portion of the meal to my daughter’s house by 2pm tomorrow in packets appropriate for 2 people. We’ll drop off our packages and at the same time, pick up the rest of our meal. At 6:30 MST, we’ll connect via Zoom  ‘at the Easter table’ and share our meal.

Earlier in the day, C.C. is organizing a Zoom with his extended family (he is one of 13 siblings). He’s sent out email invitations to siblings, his son and daughter, nieces and nephews — it will be fascinating to see how many turn up!  A family wedding on his side starts with 60 family members and builds from there!

In these times where we stand together in ‘flattening the curve’ by staying apart, technology is our ally. It is letting us ‘be’ together while in our individual homes.

And of course, given my penchant for making nametags for special dinners, I’ve been busy in the studio painting spring-palette-inspired name cards for each guest at our Zoom-in Easter Dinner. (The especially bright colours are necessary as it is snowing again!)

For those who are here in Calgary, I’ll be delivering them with the food tomorrow so that they can pick them up. For my daughter and her family in Vancouver, and my sister and her husband on Gabriola Island, I’ll be setting a place at the table for them complete with fine china, crystal, nametag and all!

It will be a different dinner than in the past, but it will still be imbued with the special ingredient that makes all our dinners so very heart and soul enriching and tummy-pleasing… Love.

A couple of more of the placecards — more to finish before dinner tomorrow!

 

 

 

The Sequestered Baker

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Food was my parent’s love language.

Their love affair with all things culinary began with my father. As a teenager, he ran away from boarding school and worked in a bakery until he signed up with the RAF at the commencement of WW2.

He married my mother in India during the war and when they arrived in Canada after it ended, my mother didn’t know how to boil an egg. She’d had servants all her life. Cooking was not a necessary life skill.

Dad taught mum how to cook and over the years, they both shared not only the ‘how to’s’ of kitchen magic but also their love for the art of creating all things foody.

Depending upon what I’m creating, childhood memories flood my body when I am in the kitchen. If it’s bread, I am with my dad, hands immersed in flour, kneading and kneading dough. I can hear him telling me to be patient. That baking bread isn’t just about combining flour and yeast and water. It’s alchemy. An ancient art form evoking our ancestors hovered over earthen ovens buried in the sands of sweeping deserts and time’s passing. My father was a romantic by nature. Baking bread always brought out the poetry of his soul.

Appetizers and charcuterie, first courses and desserts… I hear my mother’s voice exhorting me to ensure everything not only tastes delicious but looks beautiful too. My mother was an artist at heart. The beauty of her food a song of love to all who sat down to share a meal at her table.

I thank my parents for the gift of being a romantic and an artist. Creating culinary delights is the counterbalance to my joy of creating beautiful tablescapes.

Vegan very berry coconut muffins

The gift of this time spent sequestered in solitude at home is the opportunity to spend time in the kitchen experimenting, playing, creating.

I just wish the scales weren’t tipping so awkwardly to one side with all my baking. Because, while C.C., my beloved, is delighted with fresh baking every day, my waistline is beginning to wish it had a built-in elastic band! It’s easy for my beloved to eat his full share without moaning. His waistline doesn’t seem to budge an inch no matter his consumption of savouries, sweets, treats and cookies.

But it doesn’t stop me. This solitude keeps drawing me back to the place where I find the most comfort. Where I feel most connected to my family circle. The kitchen.

Tune into one of our weekly family zoom calls, and you’ll find much of the conversation between my two sisters and daughters is all about food.

Creep my youngest daughter’s Instagram account and you’ll see video after video of meals being prepared in their newly renovated kitchen.

And check any of our email Inbox’s and you’ll discover a swathe of recipes shared and well-chewed on.

We love to talk about food. We love to create food.  We love to share what we create.

Thank you mum and dad. These memories and the love of being in the kitchen you ignited in my life, shore me up no matter the times, no matter what’s happening in the world.

That’s why, when C.C. (my beloved) and I renovated our home, our kitchen became the focal point of our design. It’s a win/win. He likes it when I spend time in the kitchen. I love spending time in our kitchen.

I am grateful for its beauty. Its utilitarian nature. It’s many appliances (and gadgets) and the flavourful memories that awaken every time I step onto the kitchen mat.

Namaste.

________________________________________

Earlier this week, on my FB page, I shared the photo above and a friend asked me to share the recipe!

My daughters have always loved my Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Cookies.

The original recipe is in the the Silver Palate Cookbook which became my cooking bible when it came out in 1982.

I’ve adapted it over the years and share my adaptation here:

Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Cookies

1/2 cup butter

½ cup margarine

1 egg

2 tbsp. milk (I use Oat Milk)

1 tsp. vanilla

1 cup unsifted white flour

1 1/2 tsp. baking powder

1/4 tsp. salt

2 cup Rolled Oats

1/2 cup firmly packed Demerara Sugar  (original recipe calls for light brown)

1/2 cup Coconut Sugar   (original recipe calls for white sugar)

10 ozs dark chocolate chips

You can also add in 1/2 c of walnut chunks.
You can also replace the chocolate chips with raisins.

Directions:

Preheat over to 375F

Using the large bowl of a stand mixer and the whisk device (a hand blender works too) – blend together butter and both sugars until creamy and smooth. Whisk egg in a small bowl, add milk and vanilla. Add to butter sugar mixture and whisk until well blended.

In a separate bowl, stir together flour, baking powder and salt. Add to mixing bowl (the electric mixer will not work well for this part as the dough gets very heavy and thick.)

With a large wooden spoon, slowly add in the flour mixture to the butter/sugar mixture a little a time. Combine all.

Add in the oatmeal, one cup at a time. Then the chocolate chips.

Bonus! Because this batter gets thick and hard to stir you get a good arm workout! You can also add in a couple more tablespoons of milk to manage it better.

Refrigerate for ½ an hour (or more)  I make a batch a day from the same batter.

Drop by tablespoon onto cookie sheet lined with parchment paper. Flatten slightly.  You should get almost 50 cookies (medium sized) from one batter.

Bake for 12 – 14 minutes or until edges begin to brown.

Let cool on wire rack.

Enjoy!

 

___________

The muffin recipe can be found here:

 

 

 

When Will The Future Begin?

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Dawn rises quickly here above the 51st parallel. It graces the sky with hurried rosy hues like a prima donna blowing kisses to adoring fans before exiting stage left as the curtain falls and the audience rises to continue on with their lives.

Night has fallen asleep. Day has risen. Daily life begins.

For citizens around the world, especially those of us who have the luxury to take care of ourselves at home in these days of Covid, daily life has taken on a new rhythm. For many of us it is slower. Calmer. Perhaps even less stressful and pressure-driven.

Yet, for the majority of us, there is a constant concern rippling through our minds. Concern for our health and wellbeing and for the health and well-being of those we love. Anxiety about ‘what will happen next?’ Anxiety for what the world will look like when all of this is over.

In a world of information at the press of a key on our laptops, we worry about which sources to trust. Which politicians to believe. Which pundit to heed. We worry about whether we have enough information or the right information to weather this storm. We worry about what the unseeable future will look like.

We worry about whether our children will fall too far behind in school. We wonder how they’ll ever catch up, forgetting the disruptions we are experiencing are universal, including for our children.  In their disruptive nature, possibilities for change, for different, for better arise. Yet, we worry we will not be able to trust what might happen in the future.

For some, the worry of no job and fast depleting resources disrupts their sleep, keeping them from the gift of rest and the relative ease that comes with being at home.

For others, the fear a loved one will die and that it could happen without a loving family member at their side causes an ache in their heart that cannot be eased by positive affirmations.

And for others, this long, drawn-out good-bye to the lives we knew clouds our minds like fog shrouding our view of the road ahead. Lost in its misty, impenetrable greyness, we crave a certainty we cannot see.

We want to know. When will all of this be over? When will the future begin?

No one knows.

Sure, there are graphs and charts mapping out what the timeline could look like. There are projections of illness counts and death tolls.

But there is no concrete, marked on the calendar with a giant X date to say, This is what the future looks like. This is when the future begins.

The future is now.

We are the future.

This future we are living now demands we let go of old ways of living that do not work for us, nor the world. It demands we embrace new ways of being on this planet, ways that do no harm for our fellow human beings and the delicate ecological fabric of our universe. And, it demands we see the world as what it is: One planet. One ozone layer. One gravitational pull. One global environment. One animal kingdom. One humanity. Connected in all ways through all things and beings.

We are living on the practice field of our future. This stay-at-home condition which so many of us are living right now is our ground zero. Our place where we get to choose to make it a sacred, safe environment where we can learn new ways of being with one another, together and apart. To explore creative ways of being at peace staying at home without racing out into the world to find habitual distractions that momentarily ease our angst but cause disruptions throughout our lives and the world around us.

And, it is a time to build our gratitude muscles and practices. To be thankful for all we have, especially those who make our lives rich and meaningful. Those who make what we have possible while taking care to say thanks to those who risk their own well-being in order that we can stay at home during this time of Covid.

We are mapping out our future by sheltering in place. As we go through each day, we are being invited to breathe deeply into what is present in our lives right now. To trust we are doing the right things to take care of ourselves and others. To let go of fear so that we can breathe easily together as one planet, one humanity, one human condition.

Our fear clouds the present. It builds pathways to tomorrow that are not built on trust, but rather, anxiety.

Anxiety does not make a good bed companion, nor a good road builder.

Trust in yourself. Trust in this precious planet we call home. And trust that in doing the right thing today, whatever tomorrow brings, your courage, strength and Love will rise up to guide you in handling whatever comes your way with grace.

Trust that you gave your best to every moment today. You gave your all to create a world of peace, hope, love and joy.

No one can tell us when the future begins. But we each know when tomorrow comes. Right after today.

Let’s live today for all we’re worth so that every tomorrow is built on the beauty and love we bestowed on every minute of today.

 

Namaste

 

Beauty in the rubble.

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My beloved and I had one of those conversations last night… you know, the difficult kind where all you really want to do is dump your unease, your fear, your shallow breathing on the one you love, if only so you can feel relieved of the burdens weighing down your heart.

Yeah. That kind. Where grace takes a back seat to your drive to take your unease out on the one you love.

It is one of the challenges of sequestered solitude. Being together 24/7 is an unusual circumstance.

The mind does not like unusual circumstances.

It prefers the predictable. The known. The road most travelled. Especially where human relations are concerned.

The challenge… Sequestered solitude/quarantine/stay-at-home/sheltered-in-place is such a new circumstance, it can be easy to mistake the comfort and ease of travelling together on the road most travelled for a rut.

For me, if there’s one thing I want to avoid, it’s being stuck in a rut. And, because my ruts are often constructed of unspoken words and thoughts not shared and dreams and fears unexpressed, I end up convincing myself that the only way out is to lob a few word-grenades at my beloved to blow up my silence.

Yeah. Not pretty. Nor all that smart. Because, if you’re like my beloved and me, when I lob a couple of word-grenades at him, he doesn’t like to back down. And then… You guessed it. Game on.

We all hold in our minds, stories of how these battles are won and lost. How fraught they are with minefields and how the best defence is a strong offence.

In moments of discord, however, flinging your words like a heat-seeking missile at the heart of the one you love is not an act of self-defence. It’s an act of aggression.

Yeah. It was that kind of discussion.

Not pretty in the midst of the fray. Grace-filled and loving in its denouement.

Compassion is key.

Compassion for your beloved, and yourself.

Compassion that awakens the grace within to stop, mid-sentence and acknowledge how your behaviour is contributing to the discord. How your fears and uncertainty are the shaky foundation unleashing your angst with all that is going on, and not a statement of anything shaky in your Love for them.

Compassion that allows you to look at yourself and your behaviour with loving-kindness and to look at your beloved through eyes that see ‘the why’ of your love for them, not the why not’s.

These are scary, challenging times. Not just on pocketbooks and bank accounts, jobs and businesses, health and well-being. But on our hearts, minds and bodies. All around us, there is uncertainty. Lacking clarity, uncertainty gives rise to fear. Fear can become a powerful force of destruction when it is not surrounded by Love.

My beloved and I had an uncomfortable conversation last night. It had begun with a relatively benign event that grew into a mountain of discord by days end. Our conversation didn’t start out pretty, but then, when word-grenades are used to ‘open up dialogue’, the ensuing conversation seldom is.

Trapped in the rubble of our discord, we had a choice to make. Dig deeper into our individual foxholes firing shots at one another until one of us eventually falls into an uneasy sleep. Or, join together and dig into the rubble to unearth the exquisite beauty of the truth that sits mounted like a beautiful jewel at the centre of our relationship. Love. It binds us together. It makes our lives and hearts sparkle.

Sometimes, because of our habitual responses to stress, change, uncertainty, we will default to our positions of weakness, rather than strength. And while in our heart of hearts we know neither of us wants to hurt the other or cause the other pain, when weakened by fear, it’s easy to forget that truth.

It is in those moments we must both choose to let go of our need to be right so that we can give in to our desire to grow together in deep, intimate, sacred Love.

My beloved and I fell into the muck of deep, difficult conversation last night. I am grateful. It opened our hearts to deeper, more intimate connection, not just in this time of Covid but in all the times of our lives together.

 

Namaste.