Broken

I’ve just gotten off the phone with the Member Appeals department at Kaiser. The very nice woman on the other end of the line told me my appeal to get my MRI has been denied; even though I meet all the criteria on the list except one. Even though she tells me it is the best appeal letter she’s ever read.

Denied.
This is after my orthopedist put in the first request for the MRI.

That was denied.
Now my appeal has been denied.
My blood is boiling. I feel rage and desperation welling in me.

The thing is, the sharp shooting pain through my left groin that radiates down my leg is so intense it makes it hard to focus, to get anything done. It has its way with me on a daily basis and has me hobbling around holding on to walls and railings, counter tops, and door handles.

I can barely lift my breastbone to stand up straight in the morning because each time I do searing pain invades my body like a bayonet. For the first hour of the day, I stoop like a 90-year-old and hope that slowly the sensations will subside so I can stand up straight.

I ask her, “well, what can we do now? I am in so much pain and because I don’t check the box of having had physical therapy in the last three months, my appeal has been denied. I understand that Kaiser needs to have policies and rules, but there is an exception to every rule, and I am that exception. Let me tell you why.”

She tells me she can write a second appeal to an outside source that will review my situation and perhaps overturn the appeal.

“Ok,” I say. “Well, I’d like to tell you why I am the exception and why I should get this MRI approved.”

She listens.

I launch into my 24-year journey of healing after the car accident. Hit by a car as a pedestrian. I won’t bore you with all the details, but let me just say, I flush out the big picture and urge her to weave into her report that I think it is inhumane to deny people who are in so much pain access to an MRI because they don’t check one box, but they check all the others.

She’s compassionate. She’s listening. I feel it.

When I get off the phone, I feel confident that the second appeal will overturn the first. If not, I will do a sit in in my doctor’s office until I get that MRI. I am determined. I have no choice but to make this happen.

All week I’ve been fantasizing about having a cane to lean on and I have one. It’s at my mother’s in Oakland. It’s an African cane with a beautifully carved handle. I used it as I healed after my accident in my 30s. Now, I want the cane. I need the support. It will be a relief to lean on it.

A friend of mine does me the favor and packs it up and sends it to me. She sends it UPS and it arrives just after I get off the phone with the Member Appeals lady.

I’m so excited to get it. I open the package and pull it out, and the handle is broken into 5 pieces. I look at it and a tidal wave of grief hits me like a tsunami and the dam bursts, and I am wailing like my mother died. This broken cane tips me over the edge.

“Noooooooooooooooo,” I wail. I sob and heave, wander from room to room. “Noooooooooooo” The sobbing lets the grief go. It floods my body and rushes through like a raging river.

I hobble from room to room crying.
I feel broken.
I feel the loss of not being an able body.
I feel the brokenness of the system, the injustice, the lack of care.

I feel for the people who aren’t good advocates for themselves because they’re in too much pain, too sick, or can’t speak up for themselves.

I feel for the overworked doctors who have no time to advocate for their patients.
I feel for the world, the senseless killing.
I feel for the brokenness of humanity.

I wail for the world. I wail for myself. I wail and let it all run through me like a river of grief.

Once the storm passes, I look at the cane and imagine putting it back together. Healing it. Fixing it. I imagine my own body healed, stitched back together in whatever ways possible so I can live pain free.

I imagine peace in myself and in the world.
May it be so.

Those Little White Pills

When I pull out the small white bottle from the kitchen cupboard that I’m cleaning out, I wonder how old they are and why I have them. My mind flickers back to the mouth surgery I had last year. Oh, yes, I took a few then.

Hmmm, I wonder. Why did I keep these I ponder. Aren’t these the kind of drugs people sell on the street; I mutter to myself.

Yup.
Hydrocodone.
Five-to-twenty-five-dollars street value for one pill.

My counters are filled with things from the cupboard – health supplements ranging from vitamin D to desiccated beef liver, alongside fish oil, reishi mushroom powder, nasya oil and other Ayurvedic remedies.

The opioids seem out of place. But as I go to throw them away, instead, for some reason, I place them back up on the highest shelf in the cupboard.

Now, something you must know about me for this story to make sense is that I hate taking pain meds. After my accident and subsequent surgery 24 years ago, I raced to get off the Vicodin as fast as possible.

I don’t like polluting my body with synthetic chemicals, much less anything that might be addictive. And I abhor the headaches and grogginess of the side effects. So, even to me, it seemed strange to choose to keep this little bottle of white pills.

But, as they say, no one ever knows what lies ahead.

Again, I want to give you a little context before I dive into the rest of this story. Twenty-four years ago, I was hit by a car as a pedestrian, broke my tib and fib, and have a titanium rod in the middle of the fibula from the surgery. I’ve spent the last two and a half decades healing myself through a plethora of modalities including osteopathic treatments, chiropractic, physical therapy, acupuncture, mainstream medicine, energy healing, journaling, meditation, yoga and ayurveda, exercise and diet.

Let’s just say, I have left no rock unturned, or so it seems. In fact, I spent all of 2022 returning to physical therapy to help heal the radiating pain swooshing down my left leg again. I sought out PT because I noticed I could no longer schedule walking dates with girlfriends. You know, the middle-aged ladies’ walking dates? Yeah, even that was too much. I never knew when the searing nerve pain would raise its ugly head and say, “Yeah, no way girlfriend. You’re not going for that walk.”

So, I adapted and began having tea with girlfriends. I did more gentle yoga. I began swimming. But let’s just say, if I were a dog, I’d be a border collie who wants to run and move, so these downgrades of activity level were seriously cramping my fun.

Fast forward to a month ago, early October 2023. I am back to battling intense pain in my body, unable to walk my 14-year-old dog without limping, unable to stand easily on my left leg without pain shooting down the leg. I am at once frustrated, sad, in pain and slightly demoralized by this 24-year journey.

One night, after standing and teaching my ESL class at the community college in town, I come home, and my left hip is on fire. That is when I reach for the small bottle of white pills on the highest shelf in my kitchen cabinet. I don’t care, I want the pain to go away. I want the drugs.

And it works. Within an hour, I feel better. I’m slightly floating in a different realm, relieved of raw nerves on fire in my hip. I sit in front of my TV and watch my nightly Netflix show and enjoy the relief.

For a while.

Suddenly I understand how you can get addicted to opioids. How a simple desire to be pain free can begin the downward spiral and addictive journey.

When I wake in the morning, my head pounds, my mouth is dry, and I realize why I don’t want to take those pills. All of which launches me on another journey to figure out what is going on.

Again.
But that’s the next story.

Art Matters!

“I’m saving my money so I can buy some of Diane’s art at her open studios,” he tells his mother. When my friend relays this to me, just a few days before my show, I feel my heart melt. I also feel a dash of hope for the world.

Everything about this feels right.
Except, I have no art he can afford.

You see, he’s seven.

That day I put on my task list, “create a ‘make an offer’ box of art so that River can buy something.” I look around my studio, which is bursting with art made over the last decade, and I find at least 60 pieces to put in that box.

He is so excited about the art show. His mother tells me, “If it weren’t for River, there’s no way I’d be coming into town on a Sunday to come to your art show, even though I love you. It’s all him.”

So, as they come in at 2 pm, right when the show opens, River immediately hands me a card, looks up at me with his big brown eyes as though to say, “Open it. Now.”

Which I do.
Immediately.
Out falls one of his large first grade photos, and inside the handmade card he’s written:

“To Diane,
I can not wait for your art show!
Love River”

I am speechless.

Everything about life feels right at this moment.
Here before me is a seven-year-old boy who is an artist in his own right, as well as a bourgeoning cowboy. And he wants to spend his hard-earned money on art. My art.

My mind and heart do back flips.

I at once feel there is hope for the world if this little boy sees the value of art alongside the value of ranching and farming. His parents are ranchers. They own Browning Beef – a cattle ranch where they raise grass-fed cows in Spangle, WA. Both of them rope cows, herd cows and Frankie, his mother, is steward of managing the beef selling business. River knows all about ranch life.

“River, I hear you want to buy some art,” I tell him. He looks at me and quietly nods. “Come, here’s the box of art to look through. This is a box where you can find something you like and then you can make me an offer.”

He smiles and gets to work. He stands there in his cowboy boots, plaid shirt and with serious focus, he looks at each painting in the box.

I can feel my own excitement that he is going to purchase his first piece of art. When he comes to me, about forty-five minutes later, he has four pieces in his hands. He wants them all.

We sit down on the grass, and I ask him to tell me why he chose the pieces he did.

“Well, I like this one because it’s abstract.” (I can’t help but think that most seven-year-olds would not know the word ‘abstract’).
“And I like this one because I want to be a farmer when I grow up, and it reminds me of that.”
“What about the other two?” I ask him.
“I don’t know, I just like them.”

Nice, I think.
He knows what he likes. He has a quiet, unassuming confidence.

After he shows me the art he’s taking home, he pulls out $30 in cash and gives it to me. He beams as he hands me the money. I take his cash in my palms and offer a little bow of gratitude.

“Thank you, River. I hope you love your artwork. Thank you for buying these pieces.”

When I talk to a friend later and tell her the story, she puts it in perspective for me. “He is a collector, and he has spent nearly all of his life savings on your art.” This bit of information floors me and gives me hope.

Hope that we all put our money where our hearts lead us and support what we value.

(This blog piece is written with the permission of Frankie Browning, River’s mother.)

Less is More! Notes about the Yearlong Clothes Fast

My living room/dining room transformed through the process

At the beginning of the year I decided to do a fast. 
A clothes fast.
A fast from buying clothes, jewelry, accessories.

For a year.
That was the commitment.

It is now mid-August and I’ll be honest, I’ve broken the fast. I have purchased shoes that I “needed,” a purse “that will last me a lifetime.” I’m sure you get it. Like all great dieters know, we rationalize whether it’s to have that piece of chocolate while on your diet, or to buy that piece of clothing when on a year-long clothes fast.

Before I dive into why I broke the fast, I want to take you back to the beginning of the year, my commitment and what that commitment led to and how it’s changed me and my house this year. Because, it’s been profound. 

going to the clothes swap

Check this out…. So, within the first two weeks of my clothes fast, I was invited to a clothes swap. I was beyond thrilled. I immediately felt like the Universe had my back.  I was dealing with withdrawal symptoms from not being able to pop into my thrift shop for my weekly visit to find something.I was also twitchy, irritated and cranky. So when someone in the community invited me to her clothes swap my inner teenager was ecstatic. “Loophole!”

Now, I have to point out that I’d given myself the “ok” to go to clothes swaps, and to give my nice clothes to consignment stores, where I could “spend” the credit. So, loopholes for acquiring clothes were already in play. As long as I wasn’t spending any money to get the clothes, the way they flowed into my wardrobe was irrelevant. I also informed  my friends of my clothes fast and invited them to  give me any clothes they might be purging from their wardrobes.

Back to the clothes swap. I quickly  ran through my closet and pulled out 4 bags worth of clothes so easily it was scary. This swap was the beginning of sorting, clearing, purging, not just clothes but my entire house. 

Shortly after New Year’s I began listening to the podcast called The Wannabe Minimalist (now Wannabe Clutter Free) and the host offered a challenge to get rid of 496 items in your house in a month. The idea was to begin with 31 things the first day, then go down to 30 things the next, 29 the next etc. I took it on and that began an avalanche that led me to purge my house of things I don’t use, don’t love, or was keeping “just in case.”  Through that process I got real with myself about how I use the space in my house, or more importantly how I DIDN’T use space in my house. 

For example, I had an old desk that had some kind of stuck energy, a desktop Macintosh I never used, and I had turned my dining room into an office that was a dumping ground for  papers, books, bags, and things I didn’t want to deal with. I no longer had a dining room and I sat at the back of my kitchen using my laptop to do my work and sat at a table I’d had for 30 years that I no longer loved. I was keeping it because my parents had given it to me.

What began as a clothes fast soon turned into a hurricane of change in my house. I had some serious talks with myself about how I wanted to use my house, and what I could let go of even though I thought I couldn’t.

My living room soon became a transition room full of bags I would take to the Goodwill, the American Cancer Society, to my high end clothes consignment shop. I sold my desktop computer, got rid of the desk and once the office was cleared out I got a bee up my bonnet to change the color in the “office" to transform it into a dining room. 

So I painted the dining room, which led to painting the living room.

By the end of April I had gotten rid of at least 500 things in my home, repainted both the living room and dining room, bought a “new” desk, a “new” dining room table and I had a space to entertain at home. I reconfigured my office space into part of another room, and it remains mostly clutter free. 

So, in June, when I felt the urge to buy a cute pair of summer sandals that fit me and were comfortable, I checked in with myself about the desire. Was this just me “wanting” something or was there something more? Was I at the mid-year point and just couldn’t hack the yearlong fast?

No, this felt like a real want/desire that I decided to give myself permission to get those shoes and enjoy summer with cute sandals. Because, guess what, I actually didn’t have ANY cute sandals. And a girl’s gotta have at least one pair of cute sandals! I figured, I’d made up the yearlong clothes fast rule, and I could change that rule if I wanted to.

However, when a person announces to their entire community that they are doing a yearlong clothes fast, and people ask about it, it seems only fair to come clean and let you know what’s happened. 

I have several takeaways from this practice of not buying clothes, which led to purging items in my house, which led to redoing parts of my house with paint, and here they are….

• Once I got past the habitual behavior of buying things out of habit and began focusing on what I already own, I began to appreciate and love the things I already have. I stopped looking for something new all of the time.

• I now use the clothes in my closet that I’ve kept and I feel great wearing everything because I only kept what I love. I still have an abundance.

• The energy in my house feels lighter, clearer and when I look around I love all of the little corners filled with things I enjoy.

• I realize I have everything I need.

• My impulse to buy things has been reduced by 75% at least. I now pause and consider what I buy and am more mindful about bringing things into my home.

• I “shop” in my own house for presents and gifts to give to friends (which I’ve done for a long time) and it feels great to pass on things I love so I make room for other things to flow to me.

• I notice I want to own less and am more in the present moment enjoying something for the simple moment.

My biggest takeaway is that less is more. I have less to take care of, sort through, dust, clean and eventually throw out. I like having less and really being able to see the beauty in what I do have.

I’m going to continue to practice traveling lightly, at home and on the road.

nook at the back of my kitchen where friends sit when I cook

It's Vibrational

Something is happening to me.

It’s subtle.
It’s profound.
It’s undetectable to the outsider.

But I feel it.
It’s vibrational.
That’s it. It’s vibrational.

It has to do with the commitment I made to “not buy clothes, used or new” for the entire year. All of 2023. And let me just say I am someone who habitually drops by the corner thrift shop on a weekly basis to “just see” what treasure may appear – a “new” pair of UGG boots, a “new” cashmere sweater, a “new” bag.

Let me dial back to mid-January. I’m driving along Garland Avenue, and I thought, “Oh, I’ll just pop into the American Cancer Society Thrift Shop to see what’s there.” My body felt the impulse to turn the wheel and direct the car to the corner of Post and Garland. As I felt the impulse and had the thought, the following thought came, “Oh, that’s right, I’m not DOING THAT this year.”

The serotonin-hit I was about to get evaporated as fast as the thought came. I could almost feel the dopamine drop. “Right, I’m NOT DOING THAT this year,” I reminded myself. The next thought was: “Oh, and it’s only January 23rd.”

“It’s ok,” I reassured myself. “You just went to that clothes exchange last weekend and got rid of four bags of clothes and came home with five “new to you” items. You’ve gotten your shopping hit for the month.”

By February, I could feel the habitual impulse to thrift shop waning. I began listening to a podcast called The Wannabe Minimalist which talks all about the benefits of simplifying, owning less, being able to find your things, having more time because there’s not nearly as much mess to sort through.

This podcast offered a 30-day challenge to clear out your home. I took it on. I’m in the process now and it is changing me. Vibrationally.

Take the gray towels I bought at Costco over two years ago for example. First off, I already had towels I loved. They were gray, thin, very absorbent. I only had six, which was fine. But on one Costco run, I impulsively plopped four fluffy gray towels into my cart. They promised luxury, a satisfying after shower drying experience. The moment I tried them, disappointment set in. They weren’t nearly as absorbent as my own towels. Water sat on my skin when I tried to dry myself. I used them a few times, and they consistently disappointed.

So, the towels sat there, folded in the closet for two years. Each time I opened the closet, I felt that dash of dissatisfaction, a sprinkle of guilt for the impulse buy, and a pinch of wastefulness. Each time I opened the closet I was spritzed with these unpleasant feelings just by looking at them.

All that ended last week when I chose to put them in a donation bag and take them to my favorite thrift shop. Now when I open the bathroom closet door and see my favorite towels neatly stacked in a spacious arrangement, I feel happy, relaxed. Calm.

I continue to declutter. Since the beginning of the year, I’ve moved out at least 10 or 11 large bags of clothes and things in my house. I am beginning to feel a sense of JOY when I look around my house because I’m keeping ONLY those things I love. This process is teaching me to let go of those things in life that are not a vibrational match to my most joyful, loving self.

It’s all about choosing.
It’s about letting go.
It’s about choosing love, joy and happiness.
Letting go of discontent, guilt, responsibility.

 My home is getting a clutter colonic and I am feeling clearer and lighter as each bag of stuff trundles off to the goodwill or some thrift shop to be donated.

Day 17 of the Yearlong Clothes-Buying-Fast

It’s day seventeen of my yearlong Clothes-Buying-Fast.
But who’s counting?
Only 348 to go!

Just today I walked past my favorite high-end consignment shop on my way to meet some artist friends at a close by coffee haunt. This is the store where I get my nice things – my Lulu Lemon yoga clothes, my Italian boots, my Coach bags.

The store is small, sits on a corner and has large windows with displays of fun, funky, elegant fashion for a third of the retail price. Now, on any regular day, in past years, I would have allotted time to pop into my favorite store, peruse the well-curated wares and most likely (because, whose kidding who?) buy something.

Something new.
Something that feels good.
Something that looks fabulous.
Something I don’t need, because, well, I probably have something like it at home already.

But today was different.
Today I knew I wouldn’t be going into that store to look around and dream about where I could wear the new item I might find on my treasure hunt.

Today, I had to resist temptation.
I walked by.

Of course, I looked.

I saw the cute leather bags in the window, the snazzy cowboy boots paired with flared maroon pants. I saw an irresistible sweater I would want to try on if I opened the door and stepped in. I felt the longing, the pang, the desire, and at that point I turned my head away, focused on the few steps I needed to take to get safely to the coffee shop without walking through the doors.

“Whew,” I said to myself under my breath. “That was hard. This yearlong Clothes-Buying-Fast is going to TEST me.”

I must confess, however, last night I went to a clothing exchange. Clothing exchanges are on the “OK” list. There is no cash involved. Only clothes exchanged from my closet with other peoples’ clothes from their closets. I was lucky enough to haul home three dresses, two new pair of leggings, some “new” slippers and two gifts.

Let’s just say, I’d gotten the hit of adrenaline that happens when we find some new piece of clothing we like. Right ladies? You know what I’m talking about 

Even though I’d just come home with “new” items, I felt the familiar feeling walking by my corner store. I felt the longing to run my hands over beautiful THINGS, cashmeres, silks, fondle the leather bags. And this desire is not born out of need.

It is born out of some deeper place of want.
Of desire.
Of promise.

Yes, it is a promise of having something so fabulous, so beautiful that it will make me feel that much more beautiful. It’s the promise of having some place to wear it, go out, enjoy the titillating excitement of, perhaps, a date.

Oh.
There.

I said it.

A date.

It’s been years.
It’s really been a lifetime that I haven’t dated.
Because I never really have.

I’ve never liked dating.
The truth is, I don’t know how to date.
I’m really a much better friend.
Much better partner.

But dating is so gray and in-between.
It’s all about feeling things out.
Trying things on.
Saying yes to this.
No to that.

It’s full of potential pitfalls.
Hurt feelings.
Rejection.
Misunderstandings.
Confused boundaries.

The truth is, I’d rather scrub the grout clean between the tiles on my kitchen floor before choosing to date.

I don’t want to end up in the rejection pile, like old clothes that don’t get chosen at the clothing exchange and wait in a pile to go to the Women’s Shelter.

So, perhaps this year is about getting even more comfortable with the clothes I have, the ones I already love and spend time living into the promise of my own life.

Perhaps, then the new kick ass boots, or fabulous new bag will land in my life from out of nowhere, like the non-date who will show up with no warning and it will feel just right.

Benji, My Teacher

Benji, September 2022

You snuggle your skinny body up to me, press your back into my belly. I can almost feel the bony ridges of your spine through the covers. It’s rare we cuddle this way, and this may be the last time.

Ever.

So, I wrap my arm around your once strong chest and hold your heart in my hand. It thumps under the rib cage, under your silky fur, under your skin and muscles, now soft with age.

You rest your head near mine, and on occasion you press it back into my face. I kiss the top of your hard, bony skull. We lie there and I feel your breath move in and out and notice you take some longer, deeper breaths. I naturally follow your rhythm and take a longer inhale, exhale.

You’ve always been my teacher.
“Breathe” you seem to be saying.

As we lie here, I remember why we called you Benji the Bullet. How you took off in the woods after deer one day in the middle of winter. How I was alone with you and Zara, how the landscape was bleached by snow, how my fingers were frozen, how I had no sense of direction. How I thought I’d lost you.

I remember the days of tug of war with the blue Kong toy. You and Erez on the living room floor, rolling and tossing, jumping, and you growling – all for effect. Both of you gripped the blue Kong tug of war toy for life. Fierce, strong, determined. You drew sweat and grit from Erez. And most of the time you won! You taught me to never give up.

I remember keep away in the living room, how Erez and I would station ourselves at either end, no furniture in between us, and we’d throw the ball back and forth, you’d run this way and that to catch it and then leap in the air, pirouette, and snatch the yellow ball out of the air like a crocodile snaps up its prey. You taught me to keep my eye on the ball.

I remember all your nose nudges to my elbow while I sat at my computer. You’d tell me, “Time to take a break. Let’s go play, let’s go for a walk,” and me always answering with “in just a minute. I have just one more thing to do.”

As you’ve aged, you’ve taught me to chill, to sit still, to watch life go by, look out the window, watch the leaves flutter, listen to the birds.

Yes, as I lie here, you teach me again to be present. Present to this last moment with you, arms wrapped around you, feeling your heartbeat, listening to you breathe, feeling the warmth of your body pressed against mine.

Present.
With this.
Here now.

In Borrowed Shoes – Why this title?

Finding the title of my book was a huge challenge. The strings together 108 short vignettes of life. I chose this number based on the number of beads in a mala, which is what the Buddhists use to meditate and count the number of mantras they’ve said. It’s also a sacred number according to mathematician Leornardo Fibonacci as 108 represents the wholeness of existence.

This book is about walking towards my own wholeness. It is an invitation for the reader to walk towards his/her own wholeness by including all their experiences in life and owning them.

For a good chunk of time, I wanted to include 108 in the title of the book. I reached out to my Facebook community to ask them for ideas. I talked to friends. I researched what makes a good book title.

In the end, I stumbled upon one of my own stories titled, “In Borrowed Shoes,” and something about it made me pause and consider that this should be the title.

We walk through life “in borrowed shoes” for much of our lives. As we search for ourselves and our own meaning in life,  we try on other peoples’ identities.  Think about it. First, we try on our parent’s shoes and take on their ideas and values. Then we take on the values and ideas we learn in school. Then we take on ideas and values of our workplace, our spouses, our country, our religion.

As we start to make our own discoveries, we begin to get uncomfortable. We start to feel like the shoes we’ve been given don’t fit. The values and ideas and value systems we’ve taken on don’t work for us.

We squirm.
We fidget.

Our subconscious knows it’s dangerous to question and challenge the status quo. Life as we know it might fall apart.

And it often does when we begin to step into our own shoes. When we put on our own shoes there is no map, no set road, no forged path. We must trust our inner guidance. Trust our burning passion. Trust the unseen knowing that is moving us in a new direction.

For much of my life I felt uncomfortable in the shoes I’d been offered. I questioned religion. I didn’t believe in the Virgin birth (Catholic). I didn’t understand why all the priests were men. I didn’t imagine growing up, getting married, having kids and a white picket fence. I didn’t imagine having a corporate job.

But there was no road map for me. All I knew was I loved reading about other artists, writers, adventurers, the ones who risked social ridicule, risked being ostracized, risked a comfortable life to pursue their passion.

I’ve been searching my whole life for my own shoes. The comfortable ones. The ones that feel like me. and slowly and steadily I stepped into my own shoes. I found my path.

This book is about THAT journey. The slow, steady movement towards embracing the life I am here to live as the unique soul I am. That is my hope for everyone! That each of us lives the life we are here to live that is uniquely ours.

I offer these stories as a fellow traveler so that you, the reader, know you are not alone in your quest to bloom into yourself as fully as you can in the time you are given.

Benji....

Is it the right thing to do?
The right time?
How do we ever know?
And who am I to say?

What I do know is that you wander the yard and walk in circles, paw at the dry earth for no reason. I do know that your hind legs fail you often, as though they’re a collapsing accordion and you don’t know if they will hold you up.

I do know that you sit at the top of the stairs in the morning, your bum on the landing with your two front paws on the stair below for minutes at a time. I imagine you wondering if you can make it down the long narrow chute to get to breakfast. One more time. You ponder and pant, your breath heaves as I call to you in my chirpy, encouraging way. “Come on Benji, you can do it.” But it often takes three, sometimes four minutes for you to make the move.

What I do know is that our walks are short, and it takes ten to fifteen minutes to get around just one block, your back stiff and tight. And I do know that you shadow me most days, anxious and panting, and I’m never quite sure what you need or want. Most days you sleep, your body sprawled out in its long, black sinewy way. You no longer hear me when I enter the room, or call you from the kitchen.

I do know that getting in the car is harder now, even with the doggie step Erez made you last year. The car is not much of an option any more to go on any adventures. Though we did make it to the river recently for you to dip your paws and lap up a drink. Perhaps one last time.

You’re an old man now…your time is coming. I feel it. But I can’t help but remember….so many things.

Remember when you were the fastest dog in the park? When you ran like the road runner, your legs scrambled under you so fast that we could barely see them moving. Your only focus was the ball. The ball. The BALL! I remember thinking “that’s going to hurt later in life!”

Remember when I lost you in the woods when you were just a puppy? When you took off after a deer. It was winter, snow piled high, and we were in Riverside State Park, me, alone with Zara. I asked her to track you down. But you were the tracking dog. She was the party dog. But at last, you appeared, panting, out of the blue like you’d had the adventure of your life.

Remember when you learned to swim? How scared you were? How we bought you the life vest and finally we threw you off the deck at Jewel Lake and once you figured out you weren’t going to drown (especially with the vest on) you took to the water like a duck. You swam as hard and fast for the ball in the water as you ran for it on the ground!

Remember all the tug of war with Erez? How you two wrestled on the dining room floor for the red tug of war toy made by KONG. You were so tough you gave Erez a good workout every time.

Remember the endless winter nights of keep away with the ball in our dining room. Zara perched on the couch, waiting her turn, you running back and forth between me and Erez to catch the ball. Sometimes you’d shoot up into the air like a geyser and snatch it out of the air before it reached either of us.

And then there were the heating vents you were terrified of. The cat, Jupi, who scared you to practically shake in your skin. I remember how you’d look away to say, “please, leave me alone, I won’t hurt you.” And yet you could have killed him with one snap.

I could go on my precious one. You’ve been my teacher, my friend, my snuggle buddy, my joy for 13 good solid years. I will miss you beyond measure…

And yet it feels like time.
I see it.
Erez sees it.
You’re tired.
You can rest my love.
You’ve lived a great life!

Staying Creatively Juiced

One of the big questions in any creative life is “How do we stay inspired?”

There is a natural rhythm to our creativity that ebbs and flows like the tide. When we are in an ebb of creative juice, sometimes we think we’ve “lost it.” – lost the magic, lost the connection to source.  What I’ve found over my four decades of creative practices is when I’m experiencing an “ebb” of creative juice, it’s a sign to do something else.

That’s what I do.
I now trust the process that all things come and go and will most likely come around again.

The natural “ebb” time of our creative flow is an opportunity to go do some things that will spark your sense of PLAY, CURIOSITY and EXPLORATION.

Here are five things I do when I’m filling up my cup of inspiration.

1. Practice Seeing Differently. A fun thing to do is to go for a walk – in your neighborhood, in nature, in another neighborhood – and choose a color you’re drawn to. Then be on the lookout for that color and take pictures of what shows up. For example, if I choose RED as my color and I’m out an about, I’ll take pictures of anything I see that’s red – the bicycle ( I may not have otherwise noticed) the flaming red poppy, the red door in the neighborhood, a kid in a red T-shirt. You get the idea.

   
   This is a chance to open your eyes in one way and narrow your focus in another. Your focus is on RED. That means you’re filtering out other things. The fun and play in this is that you have no idea what will show up for you.
   
   Then, if you want to play further, you might make a collage of the things you saw on your walk that were red. You might NAME the objects that were red and write a short poem with those words in the poem. And/or you might ponder what each of these objects symbolize for you and how they might be a message for you now.

2. Borrow from Other Artists. A fun way to get inspired about your own creative flow is to look at what other artists are doing. If you’re a visual artist, you might peruse through art books, social media, or art magazines to see what other artists are doing and then try out something you see. OR just take in what you see and let it percolate within you for some future time when you’re making art.
   
   I love going to museums and galleries to see what other people are doing with their work and if I’m inspired, I’ll try it out in my own work.

3. Take a Road Trip or a Trip Abroad. One of the magical things about getting away from where we live is that we stir the pot and wake up to the new images, scents, roads, landscape of a new place. If you’re feeling really stuck, giving yourself the opportunity to go somewhere new is a fun way to stimulate a sense of aliveness and alertness. I’ve always found traveling an inspiration for my creative life. Especially when I’m able to go to other countries where the customs, language, visuals are so different from at home.
   
   When you go, take your journal with you if you have one, and take notes. What’s piquing your interest. What is activating your heart? What’s calling your spirit. Trust your intuition and follow the thread of where you feel drawn to go and explore.

4. Peruse a Book Store. Writers invite us into their worlds through story, poetry, and so many other kinds of writing. Take yourself on a trip to a bookstore and just walk around. See what books call you and why. Is it the cover art of a book? Is it the title of the book? Is it the author you know? Pick up some books and flip through them. See if there are any messages for you to glean as you walk through the store. Maybe treat yourself to a new book and see what it stirs in you for your creative life.

5. Do a Ritual. Most of the time we are moving through life with our to-do lists, going about life in a super-habitual way without thinking too much about the deeper part of our being and what it needs. I LOVE ritual to bring myself into a more present, aware state of being. There are so many ways we can do rituals (which is another blog post!) but for now, I’ll share these few ideas:

   Gratitude: Before you eat your food, take a moment and pause to find the gratitude for the food you’re about to eat and all the people who made it possible for it to land on your table.

   New Moon and Full Moon – they happen every month: The new moon is a great time to set intention for yourself. It’s a time to call in new things that you want to manifest. The full moon is the cycle of completion, a great time to offer thanks and look at what you completed in the past month.

   Birthdays: I LOVE celebrating birthdays. My own and other peoples. The birthday is SUCH an amazing time to celebrate someone you love. To honor them and let them know how important they are to you. Next time a friend or family member has a birthday, write them a little love letter about what they mean to you in your life.

We all experience energetic ebbs and flows in life. When you relax into what is truly here for you rather than fight against it, life feels easier. You, quite literally, feel more “in the flow.” The same is true for your creative practices.

When you find yourself in a creative “ebb” relax and enjoy the opportunity to feed your creativity in a different way. Try out some of these ideas, not with the intention of “getting your creative juice back” but to stoke the fire that will eventually rekindle itself.

 Blessings on the creative path!

Weeping

Are you crying?
I am.

Weeping.

For the seven- and eight-year-olds
Whose lives have been snuffed out.
Like flickering candles
Their lives cut short too soon,
Young ones who believed in magic
And still loved balloons.

Weeping.

For the parents who sent their kids
To school, lunch bags full of love,
Who gave them a gentle shove
As they kissed their tumble-haired
Boys and girls goodbye.
Never in a million years
Did they think this would be
the day their little one would die.

Weeping.

For the classmates who survived,
trauma etched in tender grooves
Of their malleable minds,
Now caught in a bind,
Innocence surgically sliced out
And removed.

Weeping.

For our nation.
Who are we?
Who have we become?
And why are we so numb?

Hate crimes fill the headlines,

Fear lurks at our doors.
How can we pick ourselves
Up off the floor and be the change
As Gandhi said, before so many more
Are dead?

Still, I weep for those in Buffalo,
Just ten days ago. Ten dead then,
So many more today.

Hate crimes fill our times.

We must investigate our own hate,
The way we get irate, hesitate, don’t step
In and up to the plate.

These are not times to sit back and relax
Look the other way. It’s time to advocate,
Legislate, have a say.

It’s time we ask ourselves who we
Want to be.
What Kind of world am I creating?
What kind of world do I want to see?

The one I imagine is still one full of love,
Where I offer you the right of way,
Or perhaps a sorbet, or an invitation
To come and play, all day.

Join in and create the world you
Want to see, right here, right now,
Become who you want to be.

(Tribute to Uvalde, May 25th, 2022)
written by Diane Sherman
Listen to it here:

https://youtu.be/SyOG0oh5jKc

To All the Menopausal Ladies…

This is for you, ladies, those of you in the thick of it. 
The thick of the “change.”  

The mid-life one where you feel you’re starting to lose your mind, bits of memory gone rogue like stray planets. Or maybe you flip-flop like a fish on land all night long, throw off covers, pull them back on, stick your leg out from underneath to regulate the heat, the sweats that leave you in a puddle of yourself in the morning. Those nights where your partner grunts and groans, half waking from your unrelenting twitching and turning. 

Or maybe you find yourself about to blow like a raging volcano and go off on your dog who got underfoot, your husband who asked if you paid the bills or your teenager, who again, is stuck in his room playing video games.

Let’s face it, this thing, this demon menopause that invades you like an alien making you a slave to hormonal rides that seem to last, well, for years, is a bitch. It’s like nothing else. And all the while you have to keep on going, trudge through the days, take care of aging parents, your mother who’s been repeating things for a few years now, asking the same questions every week, sometimes not remembering names, places. You still have to get food on the table, for yourself, your partner, your kids. The dogs. Don’t forget the dogs.

Oh, and your job, where they expect you to be all even-keel-and-analytical-showing-no-emotion, you have to stay steady for that. The piles of paper flood in through the mailbox or digital versions wind up in your inbox. Bills need to be paid, the house trim painted, the garden weeded. 

Oh. My. God.

Once you realize it’s happening, once you feel the foggy brain, the sleep deprivation, the swinging moods, hot flashes, raging irritability you begin your mission. 

You try everything to handle it, control it, squash it like a bug. You down the herbal remedies, black cohosh, red clover, don quai. You sprinkle flax seeds on oatmeal, eggs, salads, you eat more greens, give up caffeine.

You up your exercise routine, walk more, get on your yoga mat. You surrender to meditation and commit to 15 minutes a day. You follow the “good sleep” regime, cut out all electronics after 7 pm, buy black out shades, take baths before you go to bed.

But still the memory lapses continue, the brain fog feels like wandering in a bog, often you slither from room to room wondering why you’re there and how you got there. You stand, like a demented deer in the middle of the room, shake your head, feel that pinch of embarrassment about not knowing why you’re there and finally just leave without completing your mission. Whatever it was. 

Thankfully no one saw you. 
You wonder if dementia is starting early.

You try acupuncture, massage, ayurvedic cleanses. 
More meditation. 
Journaling.

Eventually, after searching and seeking for some relief, which hasn’t come from all of your efforts, you turn to drugs. The bio-identical hormones. The ones that will replace what your body is losing.

Anything, you think, at this point. I’ll do anything.

Of course, it’s not a quick fix. There are too many renegade parts to this process of unraveling the most fertile years of your life.

You just keep wondering when it will stop. You wonder how long the ride will be and when will you return to the “you” you knew before? The more grounded, less volatile, less sleep deprived, clear headed, in charge, capable woman? 

When will she return?

Well, good news ladies!

This will pass. You will get through it. I mean, you don’t really have a choice, do you? Unless you have a temporarily insane moment that takes you and your loved ones out. 

So, sit tight.
I promise there is light on the other side of the menopausal tunnel.

Other good news: you’ll be a softer, kinder, more patient, less judgmental version of yourself. Because, if you make it through, you will have been in the menopausal rock tumbler chafing off your sharp edges. You just won’t have any energy left for your own bullshit.

The bad news?
Well, it’s going to take time. 
Some say 4 ½ years. Others say 7.
For me, it felt like 10.

But the new you, the one who’s able to sit in the backyard and enjoy the simplicity of cherry blossoms fluttering in the wind or watch bees buzzing from one long lavender stem to the next, she is content. Relaxed.

The brain fog clears, the raucous rage rumbles itself out to a simmer. You find yourself grateful to be calm, sleep well, think clearly. You find yourself grateful for the simplest of moments.

Yes, it will pass.

But if you’re in it now, buckle your seat belt. 
Warn your people. 
Remind them it’s not personal. 

And do your best to be kind and loving to this you that is on a ride of a lifetime.

Sniff Sniff Sniff

Our walks have changed. 

They’re more like sniff fests, moving from  bush to bush, post to post. I wonder what he smells, what information he discerns. Sometimes I imagine it, “Oh, this is the terrier down the street, the three year old who eats dry kibble and has a cat at home.”

Or  perhaps it’s more like, “Oh, I’m going to let you know I’m tough big guy. You can’t scare me you rottweiler you. No sir.” And then he lifts a leg to make his own mark.

Truth is, I have no idea. 

What I do know is that he’s a prancer. He always has been, but now there’s a lightness to his step, and an occasional giddy up in his back legs that seem like they might collapse out from under him in any moment.

As we walk the snow free street in February sun and soak in the winter warmth he stops when we get to the corner. I’ve learned that this is his way of taking control. His way to say, “I’m not going that way.” 

So we do the dance. 
I ask him, “Which way are we going?” 
He stares at me motionless.
I then point my body in a new direction to see if that’s the way he wants to go. 

Nothing. 
No movement.
“Ok, Boo, which way do you want to go?” I ask.
I turn again, choose another direction.
Still nothing.

Depending on my day, and what’s waiting for me on my desk, or if I have somewhere to go after our walk, I play his wait and see game to give me directions. Today is one of those days. I simply wait.

And when I find the right direction, just like that, as though he were a toy dog that’s been wound up again, his legs begin moving and he’s prancing again. Until, we get to a bush just a few steps down the way.

Sniff, sniff, sniff.
Sniff sniff.
Sniff.

I wait. 
I purposefully left my cell phone at home.
I watch him. I listen to his sniffing. I marvel at his thorough inspection of the bush.

It takes a while. 

Today, the sun helps me stand there. When it’s sub zero weather, I’m more apt to pull him along and tug at his collar.

Though our pace is slow, I ponder the days ahead when he won’t be around to take me for walks. I wonder if I will take myself out for a walk without him and sadly, I think, no.

And with that thought, my heart bursts open just a bit. I’m so happy to be with him, watch him sniff and let him direct where we’re going.

Practice

I am practicing.
Practicing being here.
Not there.
Not somewhere over there
far away in some other land
full of warm, wet air
and large shiny leaves.

Yes, I am practicing being here.
Now.
Walking icy paths,
cleats on my boots,
wool hat covering my ears,
my neck wrapped in soft wool.

But, sometimes, because
of the well-worn pathways of wanting
something other than what is,
I long for another life.

Over there.
Somewhere.
Not here.
Not cold.
No cleats necessary.

So, I count my blessings
when I remember to.
The simple ones.
Strong legs.
Warm mittens.
Cozy sweaters.

And when the sun beams
through the winter sky
and drops a golden ray
on my head
I soak it in.

Blessed.

Right here.
Right now.

by Diane Sherman

Binge Watching

I’m still in my flannel pajamas. I’ve already had coffee and breakfast. I’m moving on to lunch. I’ve been binge watching my Spanish TV show all morning because the booster shot ran me rough shod. I feel like I’ve just gone through the washer and dryer. My head is about to explode, my body aches all over and I have waves of chills that come and go.

I’m supposed to be getting on a plane to Barcelona tomorrow with two dear girlfriends. We’ve been planning this trip for months. I’m going, in part, to celebrate my upcoming sixtieth birthday. They are getting on that plane.

I’m not.

So, not only am I binge watching because the booster shot kicked my ass, I’m in part, having my own little pity party. It’s not a full blown party, just a tiny “poor me” party that I’m not going to Spain tomorrow with my friends. Nothing like the rager pity parties of the past.

And, mind you, this is all of my own volition. It’s not like my friends said, “You can’t come anymore.” No, I did a risk evaluation a few weeks ago. Omicron was peaking in the US, Europe’s infection rates were on the rise. People were getting stuck at borders. International flights worldwide had been canceled. People got stuck abroad. For weeks. Oh, and my house-sitter-friend isn’t available to stay on.

I noticed anxiety had replaced excitement about the trip. 
Anxious I’d get stuck in Spain.
That my elderly dogs would be left with no care.
That I wouldn’t be able to teach my upcoming immersion.
That I’d have to shell out more cash to stay in some Barcelona hotel, and just stare at the walls.

I checked in with friends in Europe to get the on-the-ground-report. “Stay home,” was the overarching message.

Stay home.

My inner pre-teenager had a moment. “I don’t want to stay home. I want to go with my friends. It’s not fair. I don’t have anyone here to help me. I want to go. I want to go. I want to go.”

Shortly after this internal outburst, my nearly-sixty-year-old took over. “It’s ok, Diane. Spain will be there. Your friends will be there. This will not be the last time you three will do something together. You need to stay put. You know you do.”

When I made the decision, when I felt it in my body, I relaxed. I could feel my stomach soften, my shoulders released and my breath deepened. That’s when I knew I’d made the right decision. 

But today, a day before the scheduled departure date, feeling like shit, still in my pajamas, I’m binge watching, listening to Spanish, getting a glimpse of Madrid. This is the closest I’ll get to Spain right now. Like a good adult, I wished my friends a wonderful trip.

At least I’m not feeling guilty for binging. Last year’s six months of long-haul COVID taught me to relax into it and watch TV in the middle of the day. In the morning for that matter, because guess what? I couldn’t DO anything else. The virus had zapped me of all energy, my lungs burned for months and I depended on people to grocery shop, walk my dogs and pop by with a smile.

So, while this decision to stay is not what I wanted, I’ve learned, again, that life doesn’t always turn out the way we want it to and to find a way to relax into what’s here in front of us. Even if we have to have a tiny pity party for a moment.

Building Tiny Bridges

I spot her as I stand in line with my red bag at the Egypt Air counter on my way from Istanbul to Cairo. She dons the black Muslim veils, black gloves and her eyes peer out of a tiny slit of fabric. My thoughts turn to oppressed Saudi women who aren’t allowed to drive and who’s heavy handed husbands keep them in line. I wonder who this woman is, what she’s doing traveling and where she’s going.

Her robes touch the floor. I can’t even see her feet. A flurry of feelings pass through me. In a nano second my mind launches into a litany of  thoughts imagining what she’d think of me - sinner, disbeliever, loose American woman with her short sleeves and short skirts. Temptress. 

She moves on and disappears into the airport by the time I check my bags. I don’t give it a second thought until I’m sitting on the plane in seat 22H heading to Cairo. The plane is nearly full, but the two seats next to me are empty and here she comes, walking down the aisle. When I see her, I have the flickering thought, “Oh, please don’t sit here,” at which point she gestures that these are her seats - one for her and the young man behind her.

He hoists a huge blue bag into the bin over my head, and then glides past me to the window seat. “Sorry,” she says, as she brushes past my knees while hugging her purse close to her body. “No problem,” I say. The woman behind me raises her eyebrow in my direction, as if to say, “crazy.”

What are the odds? I ponder. I gaze down. I’m full of that feeling of not-quite-sure how to behave. The cultural gap feels wide. I don’t understand the Hijab, the need to so fully cover oneself. It feels repressive. It reminds me of the nuns in grade school and how we couldn’t see any bit of flesh, or hair underneath the long robes. I always wondered what Sister Teresa looked like out from underneath the wimple.

I assume this woman won’t want to talk to me, the American sinner. I’ll focus on my book, not that I was looking for conversation anyway. But then something ignites the volley of questions. Simple ones at first. 

Where are you going? 
What’s your name? 
Where are you from? 
And we are in. 
We are chatting like two long lost friends.

Her name is Mona, she was born in Egypt, now living in Quatar, has eight children. She met her husband when she was living in London. It was a love marriage, not an arranged marriage. They are separated now after seventeen years.

“I think arranged marriages are better,” she tells me. “A mum knows her children, knows the values they need in a partner. Emotions fade. Love fades. There is so much more than the whimsy of emotion.”

We dive into religion, talk God, Buddhism, yoga. “Oh, I know God exists,” she says. “He wants the very best for us.”

She is so open. Not what I was expecting. 

“Ok, tell me about the hijab. What’s it like to wear all black and not reveal a bit of skin?” I ask. “It’s so hard for me to imagine wearing those heavy clothes, especially in hot weather.”

“I love it,” she says. 
“I feel safe and contained. There is something completely freeing about it. No-one can see you, but you see out into the world.”

She tells me she’s been in Cairo on a business trip. 
“What’s your business?”
“Lingere.”
I burst out laughing. “Seriously?” 
“Seriously,” she giggles.

We are about to land. 
The time has flown by. 
We’ve talked the entire way. 
“So, would you ever think of visiting the US?” I ask.

“No. That’s a place I won’t go. I don’t think people would know how to deal with my attire. I’m too much of a symbol of what is not right in the Muslim world for Americans.”

I take in her words.

She’s right. Look at me - open minded liberal with a whole host of judgments I had about this person I didn’t know just because she’s wearing the hijab.

“You’re right. It’s sad, but true.”
As the plane descends we exchange business cards.
“It was so great to meet you,” I say.
“Yes, yes it was. Many blessings to you,” she offers.

As I get off the plane, my heart feels full and grateful. 
Grateful for her openness.
Grateful for my openness.
Grateful to have built a tiny bridge across worlds.

If You Don't Ask They Can't Say Yes

We’re sitting on metal chairs in the Peruvian Restaurant in downtown Oakland. Both of us are starving. My friend has just worked out and it’s been hours since I’ve eaten protein. One glance at the menu and I see what I want - a 16 oz Angus steak with potatoes.

Most people assume I’m a vegetarian since I’ve been a yoga teacher for decades, but this body needs meat. I thrive on meat. When I’m famished I feel like a hungry lion prowling the savanna.

I look at my friend, whom I’ve known for thirty years and blurt out, “I want the steak.” He immediately says, “Oh I’ll share that with you if you want.” Awesome.

It seems an age until the waiter comes to jot down the one thing we want, and another age until the sizzling, tender, fat dripping meat sitting on a bed of potatoes arrives in front of us. Two serrated steak knives come with the meal.

I slice the perfectly cooked meat in two, slide one section onto my plate with a handful of roasted potatoes. Talking ceases. We are both cutting and chewing. Chewing and cutting.

It’s a fatty cut. Grizzly. The flavor is oh so good. As we slice and cut, chew and savor, we both find a lot of grizzle and fat. “Keep the fat. I’ll give it to my girl,” says my friend speaking of his adorable young pitbull mix dog who’s waiting for us in the truck. “Absolutely!” I get it. I have two dogs at home who get to lick the plates after every meal.

After we devour our food, we both look down and see that a third of the steak was fat and grizzle. “I’m going to talk to them about the steak. That’s a lot of fat. Maybe they’ll take something off the bill,” says my friend.

“Really?” I say, “what are you going to say?”
“Just that it seems like this steak had a lot of fat and I’ll ask if they can reduce the price.”

“Really?” I say again.
“Well, if you don’t ask, they can’t say yes”
“Wow, I’ve never thought of it that way. Ok, I want to see this in action.”

It would never dawn on me to ask for a discount because the steak had a lot of fat. I can feel the hint of discomfort rise within me, but I’m more curious now than uncomfortable since my friend will do the asking. I want to see what happens.

He calls the waiter over and in a calm, somewhat matter of fact tone says, “We noticed the steak had a lot of fat and grizzle - almost a third of the steak - I wonder if you might be able to reduce our bill?”

It is clear no one has ever asked him this question. “Let me talk to my manager,” he counters. A gentle Peruvian man dressed in a suit comes to our table to take up the request and my friend walks him through the details. Again I feel the discomfort arise within me. He scoops up our bill on the table, walks away and talks to someone else. “We’re not going to charge you for this. If you can just leave a nice tip for the server that would be great. And next time, please let us know sooner if this happens so we can bring you a different steak.”

I am flabbergasted. 
Seriously?

We just ate a delicious steak, we’re taking the fat home in a box to the dog, and because we asked a simple question, we’re getting lunch on the house.

I look at my friend with a glimmer in my eye. My smile betrays the laugh in my belly that he knows well. His eyes smile back. He is magical. Always has been.

“If you don’t ask, they can’t say yes,” he grins.

It’s Time

It’s time.

Time to pause.
To stop.
To breathe.

Time to look inside,
wide-eyed, listen to
where the soul abides.

Yes!  It’s time.

We are in this together.
No one spared.
Not the gray haired,
the visually impaired,
the ones who care,
nor the well-prepared.

No border recognized
despite those who agonize
criticize, demonize,
or over-analyze. 

We are all at risk,
players in the same game
trying to reframe,
let’s stop placing blame
or trying to induce shame.

Yes, it’s time.

To pause.
To be.
Do less.
Breathe more.
Soak in the sweet silence of snow,
help someone on skid row,
work on a new tableau.

It’s time!

To offer what you can.
Lend a helping hand.
Nothing grand.
A kind word, a note in the mail,
kiss your dog, watch him wag his tail.
Dance with your friends,
make soup, say grace,
thank God for this amazing place.

It’s time.

Take stock.
Consider who you came to be
and set your spirit free.

By Diane Sherman, 2021

My Teacher

Night’s curtain fades,
becomes a thin sheath
between dreamtime and wake.

It is our time together
when you press your back
into my belly.

Sleep lingers, muscles
twitch, your breath
heavy.

I wrap my arm around
your barrel chest
hold your heart
in my hand.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
Torrents of twitches
convulse your limbs.

I imagine you running
in the other world
chasing balls
catching them mid-air.

Your breathing quickens
heartbeat steady
in my hand.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.

Again and again, 
you teach me to rest.
To luxuriate amongst
the pillows and stretch 
askance on the bed.

You teach me to focus.
Keep my eye on the ball.

You teach me to look 
out the window
and enjoy what’s arriving
moment by moment
day by day. 

Hedge Church

At dawn a chorus of birds gathers at the Cherry Laurel Hedge Church two doors down. They invite in the day with melodic trills serenading the neighborhood. The air reverberates with their chitter-chatter songs of joy.

Only recently have I stopped to listen to their morning melodies. In fact, I didn’t really notice them before. Now, I set my alarm to wake in time to listen in.

As I heed their birdcall, I can’t help wondering what they’re saying. I imagine this pre-dawn ritual an offering to God, melodious prayers sung from branches, grateful for another day, grateful to have braved the night, grateful for emergent light.

Just today, in the pre-dawn darkened sky, I cracked the window from my bed and heard faint falsettos, warbles and chirps. I leaned my body towards the cold air, still half in the dream world, kept my eyes closed and listened.

Listened for the ritual of wonder. 
Listened for the feeling of reverence.
Listened for the warmth of gratitude circulating from within.