Enlightening cold…

I read this poem this morning by a japanese zen master Ryokan, with a smile:

Too lazy to be ambitious,
I let the world take care of itself.
Ten days’ worth of rice in my bag;
a bundle of twigs by the fireplace.
Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment?
Listening to the night rain on my roof,
I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.

Isn’t it a wonderful image? That enlightenment isn’t in words and doing or trying too hard. Perhaps it is in not doing as much, living simply and sometimes taking the time to simply sit comfortably with both legs stretched out.

Even though I love writing about being mindful, my husband reminded me yesterday, that if I was mindful why did I have to do all the extra work I did in spite of having a bad cold and a voice like Mogambo in Mr. India. He was right. I talk about making space to be, and I do it diligently to the best of my ability. I also like getting things done! and accomplishment is one of my favorite things – even if it is sometimes just finishing the grocery shopping or making the dinner. Perhaps that is why I believe in the discipline of a practice: otherwise how would people like me, doers essentially, learn to relax? Even relaxation needs setting aside of time!

And every now and then, we stop trying so hard. We realize we can drop all the stuff we carry and let the world take care of itself. and we can pause to have that hot tea and read poetry and take our time in the shower. We can listen to the night rain and not have to apologize. It helps if we have somebody to remind us that it is okay to do this. This morning, it was Abhi for me. Maybe I can be that for you.

With love, S.

My flat tire lesson…

The last few days have been incredibly peaceful. Nobody has been sick, and things have been more or less smooth. And everyday I pinch myself at our good fortune. And yet it is days like today that I really come alive.

Last evening on a dark cold winter night, on the way to meeting a friend for dinner I realized I had a flat tire. I stopped by the gas station and the kind gentleman who worked there did what he could: he filled up my flat so I could get back home. I would have to wait and see if it held up. My lovely friend Sarah followed me all the way to make sure I got home safe, and then took me out to dinner. And this morning, after calling AAA and getting a spare tire on, I’m waiting at the car service to figure out if I need new tires.

Days like this, when we come face to face with the change, the unpredictability and uncertainty of life in whichever way, our practice comes alive. There is this incredible opportunity to respond rather than react when things don’t go the way we planned. How adaptable are we? And how present? My own mindfulness practice seems to be if I can be in the gas station and be right there and think no more than getting home. When I’m at dinner, to not be anywhere but with my friend- not with the car mechanic or the plans for next day and all that needs to get done. And this morning, to not be anywhere else but here, at the car service waiting.

It’s not like we won’t have thoughts that wish things to be otherwise. Of course it would have been more convenient if I didn’t have a flat at the end of a long day and we didn’t have to change the place we ate last night and so on. But we understand that this is the way things are, right now. They can’t be any other way. And thoughts are simply what they are – thoughts – fleeting. There will be another one before this one even ends…

The more I practice, the more I realize that mindfulness is ordinary. It is being with the washing of dishes, with the brushing of teeth, with the waiting at the car mechanic. It is being in the body when you lift up your arms in a sun salutation or when you see the blue jays outside jumping around from one branch to the other or when you sit with your daughter on the steps, saying two and three. It is the simplest of all practices, it is simply being here.

With love, S.

Is this one or is this two?

I have often wanted to write about this dance of separation and union that unfolds in the deep love between a mother and a child. How there are these profound moments of connection I feel with Anjali when I’m watching her play outside, walking in the fresh air, listening to the sound of the crows in our neighborhood and pausing whenever a car goes by. When she is pointing to the trees and the leaves and wanting to sit up on the cold bench with me – not minding the cold for an iota of a second. There is no separation between us – we feel, we take in, we see. I see my own surroundings as if for the very first time, and it never fails to delight me every single time.

Or like the mornings when we come down and I put on the Christmas tree lights, and feel her joy in seeing the tree light up, pointing to the snowflakes and the angel on top. Or the moment when the discovery of the teaspoon amidst the array of blocks brings out an exclamation: ‘OOOO’ that makes me smile. Or in the mornings when I’m lying in bed and I can hear her up, playing with Abhi and suddenly, she comes running into the bedroom in a pitter patter of small feet, and says Mama! And as I swing her into bed with me, I feel her utter uncomplicated delight. In these incredible moments, there isn’t a she and there isn’t an I, only a We.

I’m equally aware of the moments when there is a she and there is an I. And the I needs space. I need some time out. I’m tired from the demands of caring for a baby, changing the diapers, running after her to get her to eat, or to not put that paint brush into her mouth. When I’m with a friend and can’t finish my fruit salad with pudding, or when I’m cajoling her to not eat tissue paper and she doesn’t listen and I feel a twinge of irritation. Or sometimes when it takes half hour to get her dressed for the cold because she thinks its a game, and all I really want to do is sit and finish a warm cup of tea by myself and put my legs up, without somebody needing me. The moments when we are out of eggs and bread and milk and we have to do grocery shopping and just thinking of the effort it involves makes me sigh. It’s the moments when she is sick and I have tended to her for what feels like many ages that I desperately want to curl up in bed under the sheets. I’m so tired. These moments, I feel the agony of separation and disconnection from my gudiya and it hurts more than the actual physical fatigue.

This morning reading the lines of Wu Men brings it alive:

‘Moon and clouds are the same
mountain and valley are diffeent
All are blessed; all are blessed.
Is this one or is this two?’

These words make me smile. I don’t think Wu Men was thinking of motherhood when he wrote this, but he has hit that deep place in my heart that knows the truth. Sometimes there is one, and sometimes there is two. That is simply the way it is. This heart moves through it seamlessly. It is the mind that finds a difference.

May we welcome all that comes on this journey.

With Love, S.