On the Cusp of the Days of Awe: Everyday Magic, Day 953

This pre-Rosh Hashana afternoon, as I watch a dive-bombing hummingbird and a dozen others just trying to get a drink from our feeder, my mind is on community. How we can make and keep community. What community is at its best, and how it enacts love as a verb. Why breaking bread, breaking through barriers, and breaking new ground together matters, especially in a time of rough-edged divides, political name-calling, and one-size-fits-all labels  that diminish us all.

I’m also thinking of awe: that sense of wonder at the shining edges and in-depth centers of the life force. From the vantage point of the porch I get to witness this regularly in the parade of clouds behind the translucent lines of spider webs where unfortunate moths meet their maker (and the spider). The good dog, realizing I’m not getting up to let him in, lies down gingerly, then collapses to sleep on his side. A hummingbird suspends itself in buzz on the other side of the screen, and the air is brilliantly bright and cool.

At sundown, I’ll be at the Lawrence Jewish Community Congregation, singing, davening (bowing back and forth in prayer), and even dancing at our Rosh Hashana service before the annual cookie orgy that follows, all of which opens the Day of Awe — the 10 days between the new year celebration and Yom Kippur, the day of fasting, prayer and atonement. During this time, we are called to fix anything we screwed up (particularly with other human) this year, based on the premise that while prayer can right us with God, only action can right us with each other. Of course this also entails looking at how we’ve messed things up with ourselves: times we may have acted not from our values and deepest goodness but from our anxieties and fearful badness.

Which gets me back to community and awe: we can’t sustain positive change in our lives without the help of one another. By opening our eyes to the wonder of how we can show up for each other and ourselves, we may just find the right steps, words, breathes, and stillnesses to arrive right where we are, in the promised land of this beautiful life even while trudging through the desert of brokenness, injustice, heartbreak, and grief.  Whether you’re Jewish or not, a new year is here for the taking (and I believe in jumping onboard for every new start that rolls on through). Let us walk together, and to all, L’Shanah Tovah (have a good and sweet year).

Here is a poem I wrote about this time:

 

Entering the Days of Awe

 

Let us walk unfettered into these days

unfurling in the sun, wide fields of old grasses

bracketed by sunflowers and pebbles.

Let us step into the lapis sky that fastens itself

to the driveway, the sidewalk, the worn leaves

of dying summer under new leaf fall.

Let us give up the wasteful thinking,

the 2 a.m. anxieties over what cannot be changed,

the waking with a gasp. Let us stand in the morning,

the new chill of the air clearing the disgards of time,

fear, reaching too hard or not enough.

Let the wrongs be made right. Let forgiveness

overtake the words we hear and pray, the stories

we’ve made and tilted. Let us remember this dreaming song

from all our beloveds long gone or just over the bend,

each note engraved with lost lands, singing

of how good it is when we dwell together.

Let the peripheral vision in the days of awe show us

the world, the first seeing of the heart, the last pulse

of those we love who travel with us. Let the wind shake

the trees, the tattered leaves shine, the last butterflies

flash their orange, the first dark blue of night

open into a panorama of past and present light

on its way to us all.

Let the next breath we take inscribe us in the book of life.

Let the next breath you give welcome us home.

~ Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg

 

I Love Driving in the County: Everyday Magic, Day 952

This week I drove 100 miles  west and back on Tuesday, then two and a half hours southeast on Thursday, mostly through rural weaves of prairie and brome field where cattle grazed or dozed while storms paraded across the vistas. Earlier in the week, it was to give the first of three Osher classes on the Holocaust  in Manhattan, Kansas, and just recently, to visit a fiction-writing class and give a reading at Pittsburg State University in the state. Taking off and going fast, or a bit slower as the rain blurred the edges of cars and trucks ahead, I reconnected with the thrill of the open road and realized how much I love driving in the country.

Cities can be intriguing, particularly driving through  fabled neighborhoods or vibrant downtowns, and driving in the ‘burbs usually just confuses me or keeps me fixated on not missing a exit,. But there’s something head-clearing and soul-cleansing about zooming through spaces largely devoid of humans and human enterprise. Not to say that the fields and woodlands aren’t impacted profusely by humans, but being in places where few people and many cows, wild turkey, and hawks live just tends to clean the slate for me. Without much but barns, occasional houses or windmills, and billboards dotting the edges of my vision, I can more easily see the panoramic turnings of the weather from crazed storms in one corner to searing blue skies in another, both outside and in the tumble of my thoughts.

Such drives help me uncouple mismatched thoughts, suspicions, and worries over the miles, and unearth clearer senses of where I’m being led, even if it’s just to the next gas station to fuel up, and get some potato chips and iced tea. The hills or flatter stretches unfurl across my line of vision, showing me how much more is happening all the time than I can glimpse. Even when I arrive home a little road-weary, lugging a suitcase, computer, and empty coffee mug, I’m also usually road-happy, satiated and ready to roam closer to home for a while.

The Hospitality of Writing: Everyday Magic, Day 951

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about hospitality in relationship to both writing and self-care. As someone who loves home (and also roaming widely), and making  welcoming spaces in groups, rooms, and my little heart, I realize that there’s an intimate connection between hospitality and the creative process. The more we can invite ourselves onto the page (with grace and tenderness), the more we can show up for our writing. Plus, showing up for our creative sparks is great training for being more present in our ever-shifting lives.

This led me to develop “A Leap Forward Writing Retreat” for Nov., 3, a day I welcome you to my home to write while having someone else (namely me) support you with a  mini coaching sessions, writing materials and resources to peruse, lovely spaces to perch, and all else I see as creativity hospitality, particularly food. We’ll enjoy healthy, and inviting food when we gather at 10 a.m. and get to know each other, share a bit about what writing we’re each planning to do, then head out to the wilds of the work. Of course, there’ll also be lunch, a chance to check back in with each other, and at the end of our day, something like a Kansas version of an English tea to talk discoveries and next steps.

As for ambling into the wilds, I welcome you into the indoor or and outdoor spaces where I can sit quietly, notebook or laptop nearby, and see what shows up on mysterious page or screen. This post includes photos of some perches for writing while you’re here. You’ll have lots of sky to help clear your mind and nearby woods to show you the details of the up-close and always-in-motion world. By early November, there shouldn’t be any annoying critters in the grasses, and weather-permitting we may even go on a little prairie walk with Ken (my husband and a prairie plant expert).

If a “Leap Forward Writing Workshop” speaks to you, more details here. Whether this works for you or not, please consider however you can bring greater hospitality to your writing, even if it’s just to create a lovely space, meal, or walk to support what wants to be created. After all, writing is a way of coming home to ourselves, so let’s come home to our writing in the most welcoming ways possible.

 

Rituals of Pause as the Big Rocks in the Jar: Everyday Magic, Day 950

“Your big rocks are the rituals of pause,” Dr. Neela Sandal told me a few weeks ago. I’ve been working with Neela for a few years to tunnel out (successfully too!) of some chronic health issues, and I had mentioned that I needed more rituals of pause through my day to check in with myself instead of checking off the next item on my endless list. I had also told him about the analogy of how you can only gets rocks, pebbles, sand, and water into a jar if you put in the big stuff first, then the smaller stuff to fill in the gaps. If you put the water in first, then the sand and pebbles, you’ll never get the rocks in.

What Neela, a marvelous integrative physician and founder of Atma Clinic, said rocked my world. Wait, what about all the things I need to do for my health — take supplements, swim and lift weights, rest, eat healthy food, get my ass to yoga class? “Those are the pebbles, Caryn,” he told me. As a person catapulted through my days by an overwrought sense of urgency  with the theme from the cartoon dog hero “Underdog” playing in the background (“Underdog will save the day!”), the idea of the big rocks being, well, just being blows me away.

Some of you may be raising your eyebrows and saying, “Just catching onto this now?” because you’re far more advanced as human beings than the ones of us too enmeshed as human doings, but hey, I’m starting to catch onto what I innately knew all my life. I was a genius at hitting the pause button and being with whatever the window had to show me about trees, clouds, and flitting robins in elementary school although it too often resulted in report card complaints about too much daydreaming.

Now I’m earnestly trying to be less earnest about the here and now.  I remember how, during the Right Livelihood Professional Training opening weekend, I shared with participants what I used to tell students in my English 101 composition classes when I started teaching at K.U. in 1986: “Pay attention. Expect nothing. Keep going.” I thought this just applied to  writing essays, but it obviously speaks to each moment as it comes. Not that I’m evolved enough to live there, but I’m making more space for the spaciousness of stepping outside of my mind’s eye of the world and into the world. Writing, good for so many things, is also good for returning to being: using our words to arrive where we already are.

Like right now when, on a high branch of a locust tree, 20 feet or so above my napping Honda CRV, and in time with Ulali singing “Mahk Jchi,” one of my favorite songs, a bird with a yellow breast calls, “chah chah chah.” A bee floats in  half circle below the hummingbird, dipping beak to feeder. A small leaf, saturated with sunlight, dips off the Osage orange tree. I pick up my mason jar of iced coffee, the big rocks of ice melted minutes ago, take a sip, and bow at the altar of this world.

“How Aren’t You?”: Hummingbirds, Rumi, and Twilight: Everyday Magic, Day 949

In my favorite Rumi poem, “Say Yes Quickly,” I love these lines especially:

Reach your long hands out to another door, beyond where
you go on the street, the street
where everyone says, “How are you?”
and no one says How aren’t you?

All day long, I’ve been pondering how I am not. I am not at Goddard College, finishing a long day of faculty meetings after, as goes my habit, a long night of fighting my travel-spun brain to calm itself enough to tip out of consciousness. I am not walking back to the dorm to get some snacks I bought, likely rice crackers and hummus, to bring to another dorm where most of us faculty convene to relax, joke around, and retell our old stories around wine and whatever crunchy tidbits Karen brought us from Japan. I’m not stepping outside in the cooler-than-here twilight there, watching the tall swaying firs and pines at the forest’s edge, and telling myself to pause enough to take in this beauty.

Instead I’m on my porch about 1,500 miles west and an hour earlier where my view holds bigger sky, smaller trees, and a whole lot of hummingbirds zip-lining without lines from Osage orange tree to feeder to mid-air acrobatics. It’s lovely to be home, far easier on my schedule, health, and sleep cycle, and the air is full of mild buzzing, perhaps the fading out some of cicadas and the gearing up of katydids right before the barred owls call that sounds like a baritone reverse rooster crow.

As some of you faithful readers know, I’m taking my first leave after measuring out my life by semesters much the way J. Alfred Prufrock (in T. S. Eliot’s poem about him) measured out his life in teaspoons. Luckily, semesters hold more than cutlery, and they certainly held me during 64 consecutive ones teaching at Goddard, K.U., and Haskell Indian Nations University. Spaciousness abounds, at least in theory and hopefully in practice soon, without the weight of all the time I would spend traveling, working, traveling, recovering, then undertaking the fabled and heavily-emailed ways of the semester.

At the same time, being human with a propensity for habit and connection, I miss my peeps at the college where residency beginnings are so sweetly imbued with hugging, catching up on each other’s lives, laughing at Katt’s great spins of life,  or finishing each other’s sentences on occasion because we’ve been seemingly together forever in this program. I miss the beautiful campus (although I’ll be there in October for the Power of Words conference) in its summer fullness and all those cute Vermonters who think 82 degrees is hot out. I also miss the nearby pond, crazy cold and deep, where I swim with Lise or Lori, having learned the best way is to go in fast and paddle my arms and legs wild-fast to warm up enough to propel myself across and back. Somewhat discombobulated with all the shifts lately, I tell people I’m at twelves and thirteens, sort of like being at sixes and sevens, but more so.

I’m very happy to be home watching the western horizon orange itself dark while listening for what comes next. Who am I untethered to an academic schedule for six months? I have no idea, but I’m very happy to be on the cusp of reaching my long hand toward another door and stepping over the threshold.

Photos of the view from here and now.