Five things I know
That apple pie is a pretty strong motivator
That wearing a great t-shirt can make me feel strong
That the earth is holding me (and you too!)
That laughter and sweetness and happiness can be found even in the midst of heartbreak and frustration
That really knowing much more than this is over rated
Five things I don’t know now
Where all my socks go
Why the cats can’t seem to get along
Why the lights are always on in Max’s room
What is going to happen next
How it is all going to work out
Five things I am truly grateful for
Max
The kitten’s soft fur
The way Rosie cat will sleep on my hip every night
A comfy bed
A warm house and clean water
Five things I am holding space open for
Slowness and space
A great cup of tea
An abundance of silliness and kindness
Creativity
A comfortable place to sit
There have been some big changes in our life lately. The biggest came at my paid work a couple of weeks ago. It was the kind of change that calls everything into question and frees me up for new possibilities. It was the kind of change that open windows when doors get closed; the kind of change that promise new adventures if you follow the string. It is also the kind of change that can stir up all my big fears and set my security-loving gremlins all a-tremble. Everything is in a sort of limbo and its completely unclear which way it will go.
This autumn, like every autumn, I am enchanted by how nature is in transition too. Moving from the juicy goodness and abundance of late summer to the stark, bare essential-ness of winter. Leaves let go so the trees can rest. Birds fly away, frogs disappear into the mud. Oak trees lets their acorns drop with the hope that some of them will find fertile ground come spring. Letting go of everything without any promise but with every bit of faith that eventually the sun will come round again. Autumn is the exhale.
These days, as I marvel at nature’s transformation, this deep letting go, I am profoundly aware that in my own personal changes, I have no idea how it will all work out. I am letting go without any real sense of what comes next. The only thing that is inevitable is the change. And I am practicing finding peace in all the ways things are different than I thought they would be, practicing finding my center and exclaiming, “How fascinating” at every squirmy turn.
Its uncomfortable.
Yet, through it all I have found great comfort in the simple act of planting daffodil bulbs. Digging into the cold wet autumn ground and hiding a treasure. Its an act of faith, really, planting bulbs. It seems crazy this sticking something into the earth just before it freezes, trusting that despite the cold and ice and snow, the thieving squirrels and other hungry animals that it will ultimately spring into something lovely and green and beautiful. But I do it and I never really doubt my flower garden. I can’t say how or why it works but I believe that God and nature and Mother Earth will do their jobs and come spring my garden will be full of color. Like the trees who drop their acorns on muddy fall paths, I am trusting that if I just let go, something new will (one day) be born.
Its that kind of faith pure and simple that I need right now.
This fall, as I plant my bulbs I am adding a new practice. I am writing on tiny pieces of paper the things I am cultivating my faith around. I am wrapping each tiny piece of paper around a bulb and blessing it before I pile the dirt back into the hole. Every day for as little as 5 minutes a day, sometimes as long as an hour, I am digging, praying silently. I am, quite literally, asking Mother Earth to hold onto my dreams, my needs, my deepest wishes.
Here are just a few of the things I am holding the space for, opening up to, trusting in:
That there always will be enough and we will not want.
That an open path to the next phase of my life will appear.
That I will have the resources to support us and to do the work I am dreaming of
That the cat will stop peeing in the house and my house will smell good every day when I walk in.
That allies and friends will show up when I need them.
That life will slow down.
That Max knows how much I love him and that he always feel cherished
That abundance and goodness will find us and that there will be more than enough to share.
That creativity will guide me and I will grow into the healer I am becoming
That I will know what to do at the moment I need to do it
As the days get darker we need to trust more and more. These practices, which feel so ancient to me give me strength. I have a bag of daffodils and I want to share. Leave a comment here or drop me a line at meg (at) megcasey (dot) com and whisper what you are offering up to faith these days. I promise that between now and Thanksgiving, I will plant you a bulb with your wish/hope/statement of faith in my garden where it will rest all winter before it blooms into magic I promise will be just for you.
I am sitting here at the end of what can only be described as a truly nutty week. It was full of disappointment and pain, especially for Max. In less than 6 days time he suffered: a surprise root canal, a puck shot at the back of his leg, an unexpected upper cut to the jaw from an angry kid he didn’t know, a pencil to the eye at school, and a hand slammed in the door and a trip to the emergency room. And that was just the physical stuff. For me too this week has been a wild ride with surprise announcements at work that tore my heart apart.
Tonight I have been hiding away in my newly constructed art room and playing with paper and glue, somehow pasting my own wounds back together.
Early today I took a walk with a friend and told her that despite the week’s misadventures, and rocky twists and turns I was feeling solid and safe and at peace. I have my health. My son is safe–if battered and bruised somewhat. I have good friends, a full fridge, and a car that still insists on working despite the way I have treated her. Joy and silliness are only a corny joke away. We are so blessed.
Tonight, as I clean up the house, putting dishes away and shoes in their place, picking up after the hurricane that is my son and his friends, I am counting my blessings, feeling my heart swell with gratitude for so much. Our life is, in the truest sense so very full, even now–especially now–when it is bumpy and uncertain.
The fall is a natural time of acknowledgement and gratitude, only fitting for me to list out here what is in my head and heart:
Why My Heart is Overflowing:
1. Max is having a sleep over with one of his oldest and dearest friends–a boy who literally knew him from birth.
2. The manager of Max’s hockey team sent a note to us all reminding us to set our clocks back.
3. I have an extra hour of sleep tomorrow morning.
4. I have enough apples to make apple sauce and apple crisp and apple torte tomorrow when I do wake up.
5. My house is peaceful and clear thanks to my dear sister Odette and my darling friend John who came over last weekend and spent their Saturday night with me, clearing out, moving furniture, making trips to the attic and basement, nailing up things and mopping the floor.
6. Max and I went to see our beloved Caps last night and I got to scream my head off with joy when they beat the Boston Bruins 5-3 after an exciting dramatic game.
7. Max is strong and resilient and was climbing trees within hours of the emergency room, waving at me with his ace-bandaged hand. I had to fuss at him to come down and sit still.
8. I have an art room where my home office used to be.
9. Juan brought me over a beautiful new glass table that a client of his was giving away for free. It replaces an old and broken table that we had once settled for but never truly loved.
10. Max and Rosie and Tabitha and I have each other. We have you too.
11. My old gray cat Rosie is alive and warm and cozy and sitting on my lap, talking to me, chattering away in meows and squeaks. She almost died 6 years ago. Yet here she is.
Here we all are. And that is everything.
I am opening a space here in my heart, in my house, in my life. I am opening up a wide open space for miracles. I am feeling a huge shift, as though everything is about to change and I am trusting that all will be well…all will be well and all manner of things will be well.
Things are blowing up, unlocking and transforming all around me. It started this summer when someone I love got really really sick. It was then when I was faced with how quickly change happens. One minute we are lounging by the pool and the next minute we are sitting on the side of the road, with our arms wrapped around our knees in tears. In the space of 5 minutes everything changes.
And then in small and big ways the “way things have always been” started to get unglued. Everything started to unravel. In every corner of my life I am being asked to let go of something. And I am simply trusting, after all that I have learned, that this letting go is simply to create the space for something to be born. I don’t know what that something is yet. I can’t even begin to imagine and so instead, I light my candles, go about my work and leave the door open for miracles.
The other night I made chocolate chip cookies and poured tea and cuddled my boy while I climbed in bed and talked in whispers with some of my dear ones huddled in their hotel rooms. We talked until I was so tired I no longer made sense, long after everything that needed to be said had been said. Its this kind of self care and kindness and compassion that is necessary in times like these. Tonight I practiced music I love to play, watched old music videos from the 80s and then curled up on the couch and listened to my friend play guitar while the kitten nestled herself into my lap. These are the things we can do to simply be, to squeeze the pleasure and beauty out of a day some would call awful. This is how I open to miracles.
Last night at midnight I slipped outside into the sharp autumn and sat down on the cold slate pathway in front of my house. And I breathed. Counted my breaths, one, two, three, four all the way to ten and back again.
And now, I am listening to the rain. That soothing, melodic rain. Its like a lullaby and I am half asleep already. Comforted in the arms of some invisible angel who whispers to me in time to the rain, “all will be well….all will be well…”
I have no idea how this will turn out–these sudden crazy shifts. It could simply be we are experiencing earthquakes but after the shakes it will look pretty much the same around here. Or it could be that new mountains will be born. Either way, the world will keep spinning and I will be wiser.
Yes I am holding out for miracles: little miracles and big ones too. Miracles that will set the world spinning in the most delicious and unlikely of ways. Miracles that will heal and miracles that will inspire and miracles that will reorganize and miracles that will hold me.
Every now and then a possibility shows up that seems almost magical in its design. A perfect situation that seems to be constructed just for me (and Max), even as it sends us spinning in a new direction. I have learned to leap at those opportunities and to follow the string of it where ever it leads me. To wholeheartedly and excitedly say yes to these possibilities when they show up. In big or small ways, they always lead somewhere essential and unexpected.
I don’t know about you, but sometimes, when those opportunities appear and I have said my yes, I am suddenly awash in hopes and expectations. I find myself day dreaming about how amazing or fun or challenging or thrilling it will be. If I am not careful, I can suddenly in my excitement leap ahead imagining how it will look or feel, and what is going to be great and what is going to be hard and what is going to be different than we ever imagined it would be. I fantasize about lessons I will learn. I can get carried away.
Funny thing is, it never turns out exactly that way, and sometimes the possibilities dissolve as quickly as they materialize — like a mirage shimmering in the sun.
It could be an opportunity to host an foreign exchange student who doesn’t come, or a new job dangled in front of me only to be retracted. It could be a chance to partner on a cool creative project or to visit a place I have always wanted to go. It disappointing when that happens and I can find myself suddenly grieving something I never had, something that I didn’t even know I wanted until it sparkled in front of me like a fairy dust.
In the past, when the exciting opportunity slipped through my fingers like that, I could feel something like such a chump for daring to get excited about this unmanifested adventure. Who was I to believe that this exciting opportunity was meant for me? Who was I to believe that I that saying “yes” might carry me somewhere new? Who was I to get so–AHEAD of myself?
Truth is, in those moments I was so focused on the fact that I didn’t land where I thought I would, that I ignored the fact that the adventure had in fact already carried me somewhere–usually somewhere good, challenging or thought provoking. Someplace important. But instead of continuing to follow the string, I would drop it, not realizing that it hadn’t come to a bitter end. And I would get stuck.
But now, I am practicing the art of genuinely, excitedly, openly saying yes without attaching to the outcome. Because I am learning that often, its not the end result that matters, but what gets put in motion when I say yes that matters most.
Offering to host the student who is not coming may have inspired me to finally clean out the guest room, creating space for newness unimagined. The new job that falls through may have inspired me to view my talents in a new light or step into a new role in my current job. The work of readying myself for a project with a mentor may have set in motion a creative process that doesn’t need a partner. The cancelled trip to a dream location may be the thing that gets my travel itch going, readying me to say yes to a future journey that might have otherwise seemed daunting or undoable.
Truth is, every time we open ourselves up to adventure we are indeed swept a little further along the path leading to our dreams, even if we don’t end up where we thought we would. I am learning that sometimes these wonderful possibilities that never materialize may indeed be mirages–wonderful tricks the Universe may use to entice us out somewhere we might never have dared journey otherwise–somewhere uncomfortable or scary or exhausting or just simply counter-intuitive.
Once upon a time, past disappointment may have been thing that gave me pause next time an exciting adventure presented itself.
But now, I am beginning to peer beneath the surface of that disappointment and am finding that actually, really, the disappointment is the mirage. All it takes is a closer look to see what treasures actually were delivered.
Truth is, as a teacher I admire has said, I am (we all are) arriving, exactly where I need to, right on time.
And instead of throwing down the string that led me here in despair or annoyance, I am instead holding on lightly, following it centimeter by centimeter around blind corners and down dark alleys, learning as I go to trust the crazy places it may lead, squeezing the goodness out of every step.
Sometimes in order to get moving you need to break up, break out, break through,
Smash apart something that you once settled for to make space for what is meant to be yours.
Sometimes you need to stomp your feet and bellow in order to open up the space where you will shine instead of being forgotten in the foot lights.
And sometimes you need to strongly draw a line that cannot be crossed, no matter how innocently to protect your heart from folks who stumble blindly and don’t want to open their eyes.
Sometimes you need to walk away from the thing that only sometimes sorta works, even though you have no idea if anything better will be found. Even though it means you will lose everything that you thought kinda sorta held you once upon a time and you think that maybe that thing was the closest you’ll ever get.
Sometimes you need to be fierce.
Because you can’t play this small anymore.
Because if being compassionate does not always mean being “nice”. And sometimes you need to stand completely on your own in order to see how the universe does provide.
Because you need to remember who you are–even the parts that scare you.
Because that is the only way forward. That is the only way.
Every evening at the close of the day, I walk down the escalator to the platform, deep underground and wait for my train.
In the morning my head is already buried in the email on my phone, planning the conference call at 10 am, walking briskly to make time for a cup of coffee before tumbling into the day.
But every evening, I am slower. My magical electronic devices are buried deep in my bag and when I look up at the sweeping arches, it never fails to take my breath away. Shadows fall over the rails as the trains move by and I am transfixed by the holiness of this place. The rumble of the trains could be chanting, it swells to a crescendo, fades and then silence. Everyone waiting in rows on stone benches, heads bowed in something that could be prayer.
And then another swell of noise calls me and I rise to walk through a door, take my seat and lean my head against a window and turn my head to watch the blackness rush past taking with it the busy-ness and business of the day.
As the train exits the tunnel, I am awash in autumn’s golden light–the kind of light that turns the junk yards and tire shops into dramatic post-modern sets where lines and light become the main attraction, making game of shadow and I imagine construction workers as artists arranging it all just so for this moment. I pinch myself as I pass each scene–whispering to noone in particular “I LIVE here. The monuments and capitol buildings and houses that are white have nothing on these overgrown empty junk lots bathed in the warmth of a sun saying it final goodbyes–lingering to kiss everything once more before finally slipping away for the night.
This is my way home, I tell myself every night. This is how I come home.
Max is a very picky eater. He and I have this drama that unfolds this way almost every few days. He opens the fridge hunkering for a snack. He sees carrots and cheese and milk and leftover Thai food. He sees peanut butter and apples and some fish. He does not see leftover pizza –the only food that he thinks will “scratch his itch”. And so he closes the fridge. And whines. And he declares himself starving.
He doesn’t just think he is starving. He IS hungry because he has refused to eat. Dug in his heels. His stomach rumbles because he did not take in what was offered. He didn’t see the mountains of food in the fridge as nurturing healthy goodness, but rather he saw it as “not quite right”. He has rejected it. In those moments, with an empty belly and a mind set on pizza, he really is starving even as he stands before a refrigerator that is full.
****
“You have everything you need.”
When teachers, doctors and friends whisper those words to me I both am deeply comforted and deeply cynical.
I love the idea that I have everything I need. And yet, it is one thing to intellectually understand that “I have everything I need” and quite another to feel the full weight of that. Really feel it and trust it. I have struggled with the whole abundance notion.
Truth is, I can be more like my picky eater son than I care to admit–at least at a metaphorical level. I sometimes find myself standing at a the Universe’s fridge, staring at the makings of a feast, and not finding the thing I think will scratch my itch, I close the door without taking anything and declare myself starved.
*****
Its not hard to see how this happens, how we can miss the abundance laid out for us in all of its juicy goodness. Afterall, we are trained to think in terms of scarcity. Not enough energy, not enough time, not enough money. That is a story our society trains us to tell ourselves over and over again. Its the excuse we make for why we don’t write more, or call more, or practice more. We say not enough so much that we start to believe it and it becomes like a mist that starts to cloud up our lives.
In some cases, I walked right by gifts offered up lovingly by the universe, certain that they were not meant for me. Sometimes I have rushed right by, telling myself I didn’t have time to open the door and peak in, believing I didn’t even have the time to stop and explore and that chances are there would be nothing there anyway.
In other cases, perhaps, I have not even seen the abundance offered because I was so attached to it showing up differently I just couldn’t see it. Truth is, it is easy to open a fridge full of delicious food and declare yourself starving when you can’t find the one thing that you thought you wanted, the deliciousness you had been dreaming about all day.
*****
And yet I have come to believe that this small shift in perspective is the difference between a life full to bursting with joy and love and one in which I feel like I am depleted. Its not simply a matter of gratitude. Its hard to be grateful for something that for one reason or another you simply don’t see. How often have I for one reason or another missed a chance to be nurtured, nourished and held by the universe because I closed the door not recognizing the gift that showed up. How often have I wandered through a banquet feeling starved because I can’t get my mind off pizza.
I am trying to make a practice of seeing the gifts life offers me. Here are just three things I am doing to remind my hungry self that there always is enough:
1. Make a practice of saying yes whenever something lovely is offered. If it turns out I really don’t need it I can pass it along and share the joy. But by saying yes I allow myself to consider and hold what is offered as a gift. By making space for it in my life I can see it.
2. When I find spare change, I tell myself that it is a reminder that there always is enough, even if it shows up in small bits. I immediately put it in a special jar on my altar to remind myself that what we need always shows up.
3. Make what I need from what I have. Make the cookies or the salad from whatever is on hand, even if it is no trouble to run out to get the one thing that feels missing. Redecorate the room from whatever is found in the attic and the basement. Dig through the bottom of the craft bin to make art. See that it all comes together perfectly without any extra steps or trips or additions.
I am curious about how you are cultivating the sense of abundance in your life. How do you celebrate it? How do you teach your eyes to see it? I am opening the comments up and hoping you will play along so I can learn from you.
I don’t know where I learned it but somewhere as a child I started to believe that “perfect” was the goal. A perfect score on the test meant that I was OK, read: not flawed, excellent, deserving of a prize. I think somewhere someone well meaning had taught me that we should always strive for perfection and the rare moments when I hit the mark filled me with a deep relief that I mistook for joy: “I AM good enough”, I would think. As I grew, such a mindset pushed me to excel, but it also pushed me into a kind of deep unhappiness and state of panic.
I only jumped into things that felt like I had a chance of perfecting–if it was truly hard or my progress was slow, well I gave up and put my attention to the areas where I was naturally talented and where perfection was more “attainable”. I shied away from things I was bad at, sat on the sidelines if I could. And I carried great shame about the things that I struggled to master.
And I carried that shame a lot. Because of course, in 99.9% of the things I do, I am not perfect. Not even close.
I am happy to report that I for many years now I have been on a mission to let go of the story that I need to be perfect. In some areas, I have found it easy to be gentle with myself. For instance it was easy to make the choice to let go of having a perfect house when faced with the choice of doing that so that I could spend time with Max. But its been harder for me to let go of perfection in my work. Even though it made me crazy at times, I gained a lot of self-satisfaction from being so GOOD at it. It was only after I realized that the projects that were good worked just as well as the ones that were perfect that I realized I could actually enjoy the work and the process, versus enjoying the fleeting 30 seconds after I finished something supposedly perfectly.
But the greatest gift of letting go of perfect, has been allowing myself to really dig in and try things that I am not naturally talented at and will never be perfect at, but I really enjoy. Like art, and music. Like playing my guitar. My guitar playing is sloppy and my hands are slow to learn. It has taken me almost 3 years to play an F chord clearly–and still, you got it, its not perfect, but there are few things I enjoy more than banging out a Pogues song or strumming a little Dylan.
Letting go of perfect has freed me up to take risks. I will never have the perfect words to say to a friend who is struggling, but its OK to just sit with them and hold the space, or better yet, imperfectly and awkwardly stumble through words that might bring comfort or a new perspective. I am willing to try something completely new for the sake of experimentation with no attachment to being able to do it well. Like picking up iceskating after more than 20 years or learning to swim. Or speaking a new language in a new country or playing at an open mic, despite my disasterously messy playing. I am bit by bit allowing myself to live more fully, more authentically and more joyfully.
Of course, I am not perfect at this practice either and I can find myself slipping into real unkindness toward myself when I don’t hit the mark when I think I should do better. Like communicating with my loved ones. Or in disciplining Max. I am practicing this kind of self compassion every day. Its the practice, not the mastery that matters.
I love that Brene Brown is holding a Perfect Protest and encouraging us all to throw off the heavy weight of perfection to more freely live into our own lives. I can’t wait to read her book, The Gifts of Imperfection.
Click over here to play along with this beautiful woman and lets create a most imperfect revolution.
It has been pouring rain for days here–a warmish/coldish gray autumn rain. It is washing everything clean, helping the leaves to let go of the trees, helping the streets to be clean. Something about the rain this time of year makes my heart swell with gratitude. Here are a few other things that are breaking my heart wide open:
1. Walking by a library today and peering in at the stacks–rows and rows of books and magazines and the smell of old paper. The fact that the library exists makes my heart sing in a way that is embarrassingly geeky.
2. Dinner with three dear girlfriends at Mandalay Restaurant and Cafe. Sitting back and listening to three such beautiful women talk.
3. Chai tea. Warm and frothy.
4. The kitten curled up on my lap while I type. This amazing kitten who will sleep tightly curled up with Max all night, bathing him in adoration.
5. Sitting with an amazing gift from the Universe, sent by design to help me open up to abundance.
6. Singing a lullaby to a soulsister having a miserable day.
7. The smell of Max’s hair after his shower. The way he says my name when he is half asleep.
8. The sounds of the rain, fast and furious and constant on my roof, on the windows, in the trees.
9. An amazingly beautiful duvet cover purchased for practically nothing that fits my room perfectly and might just be the Meggy-est duvet cover on the planet.
10. Walking through a downpour this morning under my amazing red umbrella feeling safe and warm and protected.
11. The fact that I have art, created by people I love, all over the walls of my house.
12. Good books that keep me company while I ride to work on the metro. In my backpack now: Oliver Kitteredge and The Gift of an Ordinary Day.
13. Candles. On my altars, in my room, warm and bright. I will light one for you, ok?
