What is

     I've been thinking about the idea of multiple realities being present in one moment, as with a seed.  My reading and conversation with a teacher tell me that there is only one moment, the present moment.  Consider this from Mark Nepo's The Book of Awakening:  "Being human, we struggle constantly to stay with the miracle of what is and not to fall constantly into the black hole of what is not.  This is an ancient challenge.  As the Sufi poet Ghalib said centuries ago, 'Every particle of creation sings its own song of what is and what is not.  Hearing what is can make you wise; hearing what is not can drive you mad.'"
     I think I'm going to stop thinking about this for awhile. It is enough to observe.

     And this is one thing I observe: the present moment of the worm I found on the snow is beautiful – surprisingly glorious in fact! It did not revive in its worm form, but instead is transforming into new life before my eyes: resurrection, reincarnation in the lap of mother earth.

Thinking outside the box

     The worm startled me. Walking through the white-crusted woods this morning thinking about hibernation, I stopped in my tracks at the sight of this fleshy being, curled up and exposed on top of old snow far from a patch of mud.  How did it get there? There was no sign of beak or teeth marks on it.  It must have crawled there itself during our January thaw, and been overcome by cold. 

     I thought about tossing it onto some bare ground where it might reverse its exodus and burrow back into the soil, but the cold didn't look like it was going to break today.

     I wondered if it was dead.

     And then my little box of spring on my kitchen windowsill materialized in my mind, and I decided to bring the worm home.

     Will it come to life in my box? Or will it just lay there? What if it is dead? Will it dry up, or will it decompose?

     Looking down at it lying in the palm of my black mitten, the worm as I experience it has all those possible realities in it now, and more. For example, I could drop it on the road home and a car could flatten it. Or it could warm up and thrive in my box, get tossed back into the woods in May, and become a happy worm-father to new worms. But instead of predicting what will likely happen and in essence choosing one or two lines of possibility for the worm, I am going to try to just stay in this moment.

     Like my moment in the Christmas kitchen (see Simultaneous Realities I and II), I think realities can exist side-by-side. But I see now there are more than dual realities. It's like every moment is a seed, and all the realities of that seed's existence – from the flower and the pollen that generated it, to its demise as a root breaks out and down while a sprout cracks through and pushes up – all those realities are in that seed. At once.

     So I will watch the worm in my terrarium, and practice seeing it just as it is in its infiniteness. And as hard as it is to push outside my own shell of thinking in mono- or dual- realities, maybe my own nut will crack, and a new way of perceiving will take root.

     I am feeling grateful to the worm, the January thaw, and my box of spring: multiple simultaneous realities right here, right now.

Simultaneous realities II - The Kitchen

     The second snowstorm in three days has passed, and fortunately (for me) there is no ensuing snow day.  Andrew reminds me as I drop him off at school this morning that there are only three days left before Christmas vacation. The mild panic that rises motivates me, but where to begin?  I have a blog post to finish, assorted household chores (the never-ending kind), shopping still to do before the kids are around full-time, and -- ah yes -- a batch of shortbread to bake by 1:30. 

     By late morning I find myself standing in front of a 1954 Kitchen-Aid stand mixer, creaming butter and powdered sugar and vanilla, scraping and becoming frustrated by how it is sticking to the tines of the mixer and getting all over. I am just trying to get through this, my mind on the mess on the dining room table that I need to clear away, and who is going to pick up Anna. Everything is just totally disorganized, and on top of it all, any minute Meg's friend is going to walk in.

      And suddenly I see the whole scene differently. When Meg's friend walks in, she'll find a kitchen bright with sunshine and woodstove warm. She'll see a mom baking Christmas cookies in a comfortably disheveled kitchen, carols playing quietly in the background. This is... this is ideal! This is what the holidays, and family, and friends are all about! I'm doing it, and I didn't even see it. I had to get out of my head! 

     Two realities – the very same scene but different perceptions – exist right in my kitchen. And I have a choice (I always have a choice): be conscious in the present moment, non-judgmental, accepting, or live in my mind's unattainable construction of what should be. So here I am baking Christmas cookies for a dear friend, my happy family's chaos evident in its blessed abundance of laundry and advent calendars and clothes drying by the stove, and it is good. Very good.

Simultaneous realities I – The Window

(written this past weekend)

     Today, our first big winter storm is howling outside the kitchen window.  Last night when we walked the dog, sugar snow was starting to fall.  By this morning, there were maybe eight or nine inches on the ground.  As I wash the dishes and look out the window, bushes are laden with snow, snow blows off the roof, all is white and frozen.

     When I shorten my gaze, I look into a plexiglass box that sits just in front of the winter window. In that box five weeks ago were the dormant vestiges of fall: small evergreen plants including one with red berries*; some mosses and lichens; three withering herbaceous plants**; the soil they are rooted in; a piece of rotting wood hosting the lichens; acorns; decaying leaves; and a stone. It looks like a piece of the forest was lifted and settled into the box, like a diorama. In those five weeks, nothing changed.

      But something was happening. I knew it would, because I've done this before. I knew spring would come to the box, but I didn't know when or how.

      And now in the midst of a snowstorm a moth has emerged, just as two green spikes of Canada mayflower (Maianthemum canadense) have pierced the soil. Over in the Oxalis corner, a little stem with a tight crunch of embryonic leaves has appeared, and I expect 

later today it will open its three shamrock leaves like the moth opened its wings, ready for sunlight.

      I don't know if there even was winter in my box, or if it went from fall straight to spring. But just on the other side of the window, winter lives ferociously in the dragon wind of this storm. It seems miraculous – or like cheating – that here on this side, is spring. I can stand here washing dishes, and witness two realities simultaneously while I am living in the dry protected warmth of a third.

* clubmoss (Lychopodium sp.), a white pine seedling (Pinus strobus), a balsam fir seedling (Abies balsamea), partridgeberry (Mitchella repens), and wintergreen (Gaultheria procumbens)

** starflower (Trientalis borealis), bunchberry (Cornus canadensis) and wood sorrel (Oxalis montana)

The Abundance of Quiet

     And suddenly, it's quiet.  It's a surprise, this trough of unactivity.  I am alone in the house; they have all gone out, some to a show, one to visit a friend.  The evening here has laid itself down to rest.  The couch is mine, and I sit down gladly.

      What a Thanksgiving it was!  Meg is home from college, and Andrew and Anna had half the week off too.  There were comings and goings: appointments, lunch with friends, movies, shopping. On the Big Day itself, fifteen cousins, aunts, uncles, and a grandmother gathered around the table. In the door came squash and pies and wild rice and fresh baked rolls, cranberry sauce cooked on a woodstove, salad, creamed spinach – and outside a turkey turned on a spit over the grill in the driveway. Afterwards we played charades in the living room. As they finally rolled out the door saying goodnight, we made more plans for the next day.

    In the morning light, wine glasses remained by the sink unwashed as ten pairs of bread lined the counter and became turkey sandwiches. Two hours later, ten people and four dogs began an ascent of Pleasant Mountain. The lakes and foothills of Maine's western mountains rolled out to the horizon under a blue sky so clear it crackled. We spent the day taking pictures, crossing the ridgeline, eating nuts and clementines and sandwiches, telling stories in pairs on the trail, and even as the sun set on our descent, we gripped each other and the glorious day, unwilling to let go. And we didn't. We came home and piled on the couch to eat pizza and watch a movie, eager to keep the connection going.

     At what point does the hunger for indulging in family and the stream of our activity become gluttony? Sometimes I feel like the Gross Domestic Product, mindlessly pursuing more, more, more.

     But wait: suddenly here I am on the couch; the dog is asleep by the woodstove; there is nothing to prepare for or clean up from; and it is in this moment of quiet, of no family and no activity, that gratitude walks in. It's like sliding out of the current and into an eddy: when you're out of the flow, there is the space to turn around and see the current for what it is.

 

     It is important to stop. To be alone, with the dog, the woodstove, the night sky, or a mug of tea at the kitchen table before dawn. Don't read the paper or make a list or fill the moment with a screen. Instead, find out if the quiet is full or empty, or if it's soft. Is it the color of cinnamon? Are you in the quiet, or is it in you?

    Outside now, I hear the wind rising; snow and sleet will come tonight. The dog breathes evenly. The refrigerator chuffles off its cooling cycle and the room settles even more to quiet. Soon enough the family will be home again, and I will happily hear their stories burble and cascade through this space. But for now I am grateful for the abundance of quiet circling around me like a blanket, a place of calm from which to finally see clearly the joy of our Thanksgiving.

 

Monarch butterfly update

     The news just came to my inbox that the monarch butterflies have finally arrived at their roosting site in Mexico!  They are late this year, and still coming in.  According to the citizen-science website Journey North (in this case Journey South!), the numbers are down.  Counts and measurements will happen in December, which will give a real picture of the North American population, since they all roost in this one spot.  To see pictures of their arrival, and the trees where they spend the winter, visit this website and click around: http://www.learner.org/jnorth/monarch/fall2013/update111413.html#news.  Meanwhile, let's plant butterfly gardens next spring, and start thinking about those "weedy places" that host milkweed as vital nurseries that shouldn't be mowed or bush-hogged until October.  
     May the overwintering monarchs be safe from storms and cold.  May we all be safe from storms and cold.

Divide and Conjure

     Everything was all set.  This was Family Weekend at Meg's new college.  The hotel reservation was made, the housesitter lined up, the tickets to Meg's Friday evening choral concert waiting for us at Will Call, and dinner reservations for five – five! – made at the restaurant she chose. It was picture-perfect.

      Then, in a remarkable week, not only did the Red Sox win the World Series, but Anna's Varsity soccer team beat a higher seeded competitor in the State championship quarter-finals, and they would be playing in the semi-finals for the first time in fifteen years! On Saturday! At 5:00! Right during Meg's second concert two hundred miles away!

      “It's all right Mama, I understand, you should go, I know how much you want to hear Meg sing,” Anna told me. With her permission, I could keep the picture I had been carrying in my heart intact. Meg in a long black dress, singing classical choral music on risers, the rich sounds of men's and women's voices rolling out over the concert hall. And the next night, Meg in a group of twelve women, singing “Bennie and the Jets” a capella, their short skirts and animated faces keeping time before a full house of cheering students and families.

      Except, Anna wouldn't be there.

      “It's ok Mom, you should be there for Anna,” Meg said on the phone. She had played in championship high school games, and she knew how important it was to have her family in the stands. She was giving me permission to imagine a new picture of my weekend, one with Anna's team in their uniforms and cleats, and parents filling aluminum bleachers and wild cheering and watching the scoreboard and being ready for the emotional elation or despondency afterwards. And then coming home with my girl in the front seat next to me, sleeping in the next morning, being there with her. It was a good picture, just different.

       Each of my daughters was ready to divide their sense of wholeness – of the family that roots for them – for the other. Because of them, I began to conjure up a third possibility in which I could spend one day with each. The details filled in, thanks to Bob and Andrew, the house-sitter, team-mates' families, and a Prius. The distance was not so far. I had a new picture in my heart as Friday approached, not of a heart divided in two, but of two wholenesses.

      The way it turned out was that Meg lost her voice over the course of the weekend, and Anna's team lost the game. But it was a great weekend. I think we all would agree.