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

Folding Laundry

 “It you really want to get your life in order, learn to fold your laundry. Neatly, precisely,” he says.

I stand in his Kerala based dress shop, hoping to find something for my nephew’s wedding to a first-generation American born East Indian woman. It will be a weekend of beautiful saris, bangals, exquisite jewel-colored fabrics. I want to find something beautiful from the motherland.

The thing is, shopping in India is an event. In most Indian shops you can’t just walk in, pull something from the rack and ask to try them on. Most outfits are carefully stashed and stored behind a counter and each one is folded and wrapped in a cellophane bag. To try anything on, you must engage the storekeeper who then pulls out each item you want to see.

There, on the floor before me are at least 10 outfits scattered about that I’d asked to see – bright blue, orange, turquoise, emerald-green. It looks like a fabric garden.

I can feel the heat rise me, that feeling of slight guilt, mixed with some internal pressure to be a nice girl, a good person, to make a decision quickly so that I won’t have to “make him” pull out any more things for me to look at.

He, on the other hand is relaxed.

“Yes, folding things neatly is a sign of respect, of patience, of presence,” he says looking directly at me.

I flash on my own laundry folding skills. Slapdash and rushed. T-shirts end up sloppily tossed together, underwear is haphazardly thrown in the basket, pants are barely considered. Folding laundry feels like a waste of time. I have “better” things to do.

I love the days when my husband folds the laundry – my clothes arrive on the bed in neat stacks, almost as though he’s pressed everything with an iron. I admire the care he takes. I can feel the presence his hands take to crease the cloth, stack each item, just so.

I decide which dress to buy. In truth, I’m not sure if it’s really the one, but I feel the need to decide. And surely, since he’d opened so many packages and will have to refold so many clothes, I have to buy something. 

I stand there while this man patiently wraps the dress I will wear to the wedding. It takes time. 

As he hands me the expertly folded package he says, “Come by tomorrow for a chai and dosa, I’ll be waiting,” and flashes a warm smile.

“Maybe,” I say, returning the smile, “Thanks for everything.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he presses on undeterred by my noncommittal answer.

I leave thinking how perhaps he is right, that if I learn to fold my laundry with care, with presence, my life might just find some sense of order.

I’m an Addict

I’ve been an addict my whole life. 
I just haven’t known it.
I’m addicted to doing.
I’m addicted to writing my list and checking it off.
Addicted to getting shit done.

I’ll even tell you my little secret. 
I ADD things back ONTO my list if I did something that wasn’t noted, just so I can check it off to feel more accomplished.

 Seriously? 
But….

It makes me feel good.
It feels like I’m “accomplishing” something.
Whatever that “thing” is, I don’t know.
It’s kept me on a hamster wheel most of my life.

And yet, I can feel the prideful purr within me when people say, 
“Oh. My. God. How do you get so much done?”
“That’s right,” I semi-consciously think, “I get shit done.”
I can feel the smirk-full smile subtly spread across my lips.
“Oh, it’s just how I roll.” I casually say. 

The truth is, it’s an addiction. 
I’ve gotten high off of getting things done, only to fall into bed exhausted. 
My experience of life is that there’s not enough time. To get it all done.

Isn’t this an illusion?

I’m in the midst of a big wake-up call. Right now, as I write this.

I’m what they call a CoVID long hauler. My CoVID symptoms have lingered. They’ve slowed me way down. My lungs have required me to stop most activity. Especially talking. 

I can no longer bust through my list.
In fact, as I lie in bed at 8 or 9 in the morning these days, and watch Springtime bloom on the maple, I’ve been reflecting on how I live and how I’ve structured my days. 

It exhausts me just thinking about it.

Despite being a reflective person, most days I’m running to do more.

And now that life is opening up and the world is getting vaccinated, travel is becoming accessible, people are gathering, I see the desire within me to go out and play, connect, gather. 

Right now, I’m being strong-armed by the virus to sit tight.
Go nowhere.
Keep reflecting.
Pause.
Breathe.

I’m being asked to respond and take response-ability for how I reenter this new world order that is in the making. I can feel how it would be easy to run full force back into the whirl of activity (if only my body would allow).

We are on the brink of a new paradigm. Each of us invited to ponder what’s important for us. How do I choose to live the precious moments of my life? This is my question right now.

I need more time to watch leaves unfurl.
Time to stand patiently with my dog who’s sniffing the bushes.
Time to talk with my 93-year-old mom.

Time.
To do nothing.

What If?

Art by Diane Sherman

What if we felt in our bones and blood that each of us is a part of the very same fabric?
What if we believed that each thread was as important as the next, exactly as it is?
What if we knew in our hearts that whatever anyone else is doing, we are also doing?

That life is a reflection of the Divine and that we are looking out through those eyes?

What if we could celebrate the successes of other people with so much joy? 
Without getting tangled in envy or jealousy?

What if we knew that whatever our present moment experience is, it is teaching us something?
Even though we may not be able to know what that is.
Yet.

What if we opened our hearts even more, to other people, as they are?
Not how we want them to be. 
Not how they’re “supposed to be,” (according to us).
Just as they are.
Now. 
Right now. 
Loving them!

What if we could see that we are Donald Trump?
We are that racist, misogynist in power.
What if we could see that we are the migrant farmer from Mexico picking melons?
We are the immigrant worker struggling to make a living.

Dig inside. 
Try it on.

What if we loved every inch of who we are, from the broken bits that we want to sweep under the carpet, to the dazzling, blinding light of our own magnificence?

What if we found a way to love ourselves so fully, we loved everyone with an open heart – the thief, the murderer, the racist, the philanderer, the whore, the junkie, the needy child, the arrogant asshole, the grieving mother, the saint, the philanthropist, the artist, the dancer, the teachers, the leaders?

What if?

What if we just start with ourselves.
Loving who we are, as we are. 
Now.
Today.

No matter what our yesterdays looked like.
No matter where we’ve been or what we’ve done.

What if?

And from that place, offer it out to the others.
As they are.
Right now.