indulge
I laid in bed a bit longer, eyes closed, drawing my breath gently into my body and letting my lungs, my ribs, the whole of my chest widen and soften with its rhythm. It felt like an indulgence, to be still for a little while and let my body know the fullness of my breath.
When I finally opened my eyes, snow swirled outside my window. It’s a gift in these late winter days, to feel the lightness, the playfulness of a soft snow. It feels important — this slow breath in the morning. I know that spring and summer will bring with them more work than I can really muster up in my mind at the moment. It feels worthwhile — celebrating the gentle lift of snowflakes in the wind. Every day demands a turn toward the ripples of disaster that linger, collecting time and burden, here in the forest, nearby for loved ones, and for mountain people all over.
I promptly pulled on another layer and took myself out into the quiet wind, to watch the flakes dance through the air, to feel myself a part of the water, even as the seasons change.
Then, and now, my breath readies me.
Is it time yet to indulge?
…in the possibility of change, in the season that opens to us as the days grow longer?
I sat in a gathering not long ago with my beloved poetry teacher, Mary Ellen Lough, and one poem, by Gregory Orr, stayed with me. It begins:
This is what was bequeathed us:
This earth the beloved left
And, leaving,
Left to us.
No other world
But this one:
Willows and the river
And the factory
With its black smokestacks.
No other shore, only this bank
On which the living gather.
We, the living —
Only this bank, on which we, the living, gather. We are woven into the fabric of reality. If a poem can stir this knowing, so might a wander along the bank… the living world. The earth the beloved left to us.
The news rises up through my soles, percolating through my center, diffusing into my arms and legs, finding stasis at my edges. I’m awake.
No meaning but what we find here.
There’s no doubt we are facing changes. Honestly and gently, we can honor the uncertainty, insecurity, fear, and even violence that are somehow growing as the days pass. And even with this sharp sensation of destruction and devastation, honestly and gently, we also await even the slightest glimpse of spring. I am curious how this indulgence might nourish us…
No meaning but what we find here.
I start with my eyes trained to the ground, focus soft and wide.
The dark is dimensional, shaped earth, leaves, bits of branch and stone. Among the browns and greys and blacks, I seek out shades of green. I allow the possibility of altogether new pops of color too.
Along sidewalks and in our backyards, the first green leaves are ones we’d call weeds, bless them. And bless us for our simplicity. For what is a weed if not a constant companion in the world we’ve created, a reminder of what is real even as we might try to stomp it out.
Perhaps you’ve seen some of these already, like my beloved Veronica. Speedwell. The delicious blue of her irregular flower, those tiny petals draw me in. Or perhaps you’ve got daffodils streaming light from their tall tufts.
It is easier, certainly, to tell plants as their flowers bloom. And before long there will be plenty of blossoms for us to ogle. In the meantime, we can indulge a softer attention.
No purpose but what we make.
Notice the shape of the leaf. Is it oval or narrow, shaped like a lance or a heart?
Follow the leaf’s edges. Are there lobes that draw away from and back to the leaf or teeth along its edges?
Look closer. Where are the veins on your leaf? Follow their direction with your eyes.
Zoom out now. See the way the plant grows out of the earth. Do the leaves gather at the base, close to the ground? Or .do they follow a stem up into the air? Maybe both…
Find your meaning. Make your purpose.
Indulge in what is most real to you just now… Prepare your spirit, for the near spring may just turn you into song. May the season’s change sing you awake.
