Sunday I was quick to rise and head straight down to breakfast. Tuesday I was equally content. But Monday, I woke up feeling hopeless. I couldn't raise an arm to lift the covers, and even if the physical act had been possible, I lacked the will to initiate it. There was no point in getting out of bed.

Why the despondence? Because it was a Monday? Because dead gray clouds were shrouding the sun? Because Mama had been depressed?

Buddhists teach that it's depression, but not my depression.

A therapist explained, while I'd slept in utero, the chemicals that ferried my mother's malaise through her blood were coursing through mine, too.

Joy Harjo wrote, while she'd listened from an ancestor realm,
she'd recognized her mother's song and was called into this world by the music.

Mama sang alto. She, Aunt Gerry, and Aunt Mable sounded like the Andrews Sisters, on those occasions they replaced their sibling cattiness with harmony. When she called me to be born her daughter, sorrow composed her tune in a minor key.

Hands cupped over my ears, I capture the roar of blood flowing through my veins. Mama's lament.
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(Read why vacations depress me.)
 
 
As we were packing up at the end of our silent retreat, one of the other women said, "I saw a bobcat this week. I think it saw me first." Had she been afraid? "A little nervous, yeah."

I'd also gotten up close to wildlife that week. I took a daily stroll down the half-mile drive from the cabin to the main road, cutting through a grazing pasture. I walked at a brisk pace, spurred on by the chill in the morning air. About a dozen cows grazed on either side of the long driveway. As I approached them, I slowed down. Involuntarily. Fear was a life-long habit. At least here on retreat, I was at a perfect venue to investigate my fear. I walked a couple of hesitant steps. A calf looked up at me, then ambled closer to its mother. (My apologies to the cows for being presumptuous about their relationship.) I thought the little one was cute, until its mother looked up at me, too. I stopped. I noticed a very slight twinge in my knees. The bigger cow squared herself to the drive, although she remained several yards away. I breathed deeply. The knee twinge dissipated. I resumed walking. Further ahead, cows were lying on both sides of the drive, close enough for me to touch. My knees got very fluttery. I turned to go back. But other cows had closed in on the driveway behind me. Not exactly on the driveway, but they would definitely breathe on me if I walked past. My knees wobbled, but I took a step toward the cabin. My knees buckled, so I stood there and felt my fear, until the cows got bored and wandered off. And when they left, so did the all the symptoms in my knees.

I was grateful for the opportunity to see fear so clearly.
To notice how
it rose and fell and passed away, like all things in life. I got to see how judgments piled on top of anxiety can spiral you into panic. Maybe I'll take this as a starting point, to accept my whole self once and for all. Yes, I think from now on, I'll practice compassion for my fear.

Oh yeah, and a side note to my knees: Are you nuts? You wasted my time on cows? There were bobcats out there!
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Cow Epiphany #1
 
 
On a meditation retreat, we stayed in a cabin built in the middle of a grazing pasture. On the first morning, I strolled down a half-mile gravel drive, contemplating the nature of reality. Several cows lay snoozing nearby. Lying down? Don't they sleep standing up?

Twenty years earlier, I recruited rural students for the University of Kansas. They learned about college. I learned about farms. I overheard a conversation about cow-tipping. "Really?" I asked. "How do you tip a cow over?" "Well, ma'am, they're off balance when they sleep." (Farm kids were very polite.) "So we do it at night." (Also very bright.) "But the owners hate it." (Also mischievous. I liked that.) Still, I couldn't quite picture how it worked.

On the second morning of retreat, I kicked at stones, while questioning the existence of God. A cow looked at me. Did cows bite?

On the last day, I headed down the drive, pondering the finality of death. A cow lumbered toward me. I stopped. He stopped. Lordy, he was bigger than a VW. And way more solid. There was no way in hell you could tip that thing over!

Retreats. Where life's big issues are resolved.
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Cow Epiphany #2
Another post about cows, titled Show Pies

 
 
"Herrera shouldn't have pitched in the eighth." Pardon me while I talk a little Royals baseball. You see, after watching a dozen games, I know something. Never mind the previous sixty-four sports-free years of my existence. "It's H-D-H 7-8-9. Boom. Yost forgot his own formula." I've picked up just enough info to make myself edgy and opinionated. My husband adds, "Yeah, that's why people say fire the manager." So now I know What People Say and I know what People mean when they say it. I'm getting cocky.

A proficient know-it-all needs cockiness. As long as I'm reeling off the tiny bit I know regarding the Royals' relief pitchers and the Giants' I-don't-need-no-stinkin'-relief Bumgarner, I can ignore the fact that the size of what I don't know dwarfs what I do know. Honestly, I don't even know who won the World Series. But you do.

Here's the thing. As I write this, the World Series has already been won. As you read this, you know who won it. You might not even care who won, but you know. Right now, most everybody knows––except for me, because I'm stuck back here in the past, a day before game six. However, my ignorance doesn't bother me a bit. When my time catches up with yours, you can bet I'll look you in the eye and tell you this: "I knew they'd win."
 

New Hat

10/23/2014

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"Can you … do you think … could you … pick one out for me?' I fingered a beret in a booth at the Maple Festival. Mary and Nicki sifted through their piles of autumn-colored knit caps. "Too small, Nicki said. "Try this one." Mary plopped a floppy number on my head. She patted and tugged and fluffed; my face was the center of her attention.

Her fingertip grazed my temple. I leaned ever so slightly into the spot where skin pressed against skin. The sensation raised a memory: another woman's hands––from long ago––that had failed to pat my cheek, failed to braid my hair, failed to articulate my essential prettiness.

"Beautiful," Mary said. She held up a mirror. I peeked. She was right.

I saw very few maple trees at the Maple Festival. They shied away, their scarlets and oranges dulled in comparison with the blazing cuteness of me in my new hat. Touring other craft booths, I pretended to savor cinnamon-roasted almonds, plucked one at a time from out of a paper cone––but really, I was enthralled with how the soft yarn was caressing my ears, warding off the chill of past neglect.

I snuggled into bed that night, still wearing my new hat.
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The glass walls of an outdoor labyrinth imprisoned me within narrow corridors, while giving the illusion there were no barriers. Unlike other labyrinths I'd walked before, this one was triangular, its interior not graceful curves, but all straight lines and angles.

I was timid, because although the whole thing was transparent, I couldn't see which way, or when, to turn. (Forehead-shaped smudges on the walls announced where some who'd entered earlier had misjudged the design.) What lay just ahead? Would the path angle off to the left or right? Or would my next footfall smack me into the glass?

A
queasiness in my stomach intensified with every step, as a familiar hunger for safety gnawed at my gut.

The partitions opened at unpredictable moments, in unexpected directions, but I recognized a rhythm in my body––a slow build of anxiety, followed by relief. Lungs tightened around the breath and then set it free. I began to trust that rhythm. Fear marked a turning point; relief marked another. Rewarding my faith, the glass passageway guided me to the center and eventually spilled me back out onto the lawn.

I'm still waiting to learn such faith in life. To trust that fear evaporates and openings appear.

Read about another contemplative walk.


 
 
Days before the social event of the year, I discovered the occasion was formal. What a disaster: I've got nothing to wear … I have to buy something … I can't afford to buy something … I need more time … I need more money. While my husband and I ran errands, I explained how this unacceptable situation ought to be different and indeed would be different if only events had unfolded differently. So there. My rant continued into the parking lot of Sam's Club, where it petered out in all that fresh air and open space. (I was a little disappointed.)

By bedtime, I was calm, although the problem still remained. Just before we went to sleep, my husband said in the kindest most loving voice, "Sweetheart, there will be other women at the wedding who don't own formals. Wear the nicest dress you have. It'll be fine." And it WAS fine. Peaceful. Why hadn't I thought of that?

The next night, he compounded his genius by saying,
"If you'll be more comfortable with a new dress, it's okay to buy one." And THAT was fine, because he really meant it.

So now, two thoughts about the wedding are floating around in peaceful coexistence.
1) I have to buy a dress. 2) I'll wear a dress I already own. It's the damnedest thing––these two opposing thoughts don't seem contradictory. They're equally plausible. The situation feels different in all the fresh air and open space of my formerly disaster-crowded mind.

The question is no longer what will I do. The question is this: which thought will I believe?

 
 
We paid our admission fee at the Santa Barbara botanical gardens, and strolled down a manicured pathway through tableaus of native plants. We gawked at a stand of redwoods, squeezed into its square footage of natural habitat like a tower of giraffes at the zoo.

Later we pulled off Pacific Coast Highway to worship in the shade of another grove of the California giants.
Massive trunks loomed skyward, blocking out all but a pinpoint of blue. A stream gurgled past our feet, the sound a hymn that barely broke the sacred quiet.

In Napa Valley, a tour guide informed us the
Korbel brothers cleared redwood forest and planted  grape vines. Stumps clung to the ground for decades, impossible to remove. When the television show Combat requested use of the vineyard for a location shoot––to film explosions, the Korbels answered "sure," as long as they blew up those darn redwood stumps.

I wanted to make the redwood something mystical, but now I wonder how best to describe it.


Zoo animal?
Temple god?
Canon fodder?

Or simply tree?


 
 
"The ocean's just around the next bend. I can smell it." We were driving north on Highway 1, just past San Luis Obispo, climbing through foothills that were parched brown from drought. The last time I'd been on this legendary road, I was in my twenties, just out of college. Memories pushed my anticipation of that first glimpse of ocean to the point of explosion. I strained against my seat belt to peer around Ben, as he navigated the winding ribbon of highway. One more curve and the landscape opened like parting curtains. On with the show! The Pacific was a grey-green shimmer of glass under the afternoon sun. "It's so beautiful!" Take another curve and white caps crashed against cliffs. "Oh my gosh." Another curve revealed a lighthouse perched on a spit in a fantasy tableau. "Wow." A whale lolled and dove like a ballerina solo. "Wow." Hour after hour, the scenery unfolded, too beautiful for photos, too beautiful for words. I yawned. I sank into my seat and stared at the glove box. The hills closed around us again, dry and boring. Miles of monochromatic tan and beige. Without warning the beach reappeared. Seals dotted sun-bleached white rocks. Waves crashed. Pelicans dived. "Look at that!"

Good thing God stuck some ugly in there so I'd appreciate the beautiful.
 
 
Teresa's vacationing in Hawaii. Snorkeling. Hiking. Having fun. Where did she learn how to do that?

I've got no training in fun. "Clean your room." "Wash the dishes." "You're failing. Get that C up to an A." Dad once caught my brother playing marbles instead of doing his homework. After the whipping, he was grounded for a month.

My husband and I are planning a vacation; my nerves are wound to the breaking point. I've got to  fill a box for the Salvation Army. Dammit. Didn't I tell you to get this done six months ago? I need to plant annuals in all those empty pots on my patio. NOW. Don't make me come back out here. Which reminds me to mulch the perennial beds. Why the hell are those bags of mulch still stacked in the yard? What've you been doing all summer? I've got no time to pack. I have to clean the oven. It better be done before you leave this house. Move your lazy butt.

The drive to the airport will make me sick to my stomach (I'll give you something to be sick about.), but once we're on the plane, the engine's steady hum will slow my racing heart. I'll nestle in to my seat, lean against my husband's shoulder,  and soothe the  skittish little girl who shadows me.