Roots

In solidarity to our Irish roots, my siblings, cousins, and I sent St. Patrick’s Day wishes via text all day yesterday, accompanied by assorted jokes, favorite Irish ballads, love songs, and drinking songs. We are scattered over the northeast coast now, but on March 17th we at least manage to be together in spirit on the day that reminds of of our roots.

I grew up in a family of eight, and my father’s two sisters had 12 kids between the two of them. Eighteen grandchildren from three progeny was probably the greatest legacy left by Tom and Mary Dillon, two young Irish immigrants who stepped ashore at Ellis Island by way of a ship called The Cedric.

They left with little and lived to have little more, even here. They never owned a car or a home, and my Dad – the youngest of the three – slept in the unheated attic of the tiny two bedroom cottage in upstate New York. Despite outward appearances that would have one assume otherwise, there was always laughter in that house. For them, life wasn’t much about what you had – it never was. It was about more than that. Of course it was always about getting by, but it was also about religion, music, stories, laughter, and family. As their grand daughter, I grew up in an Irish Catholic family too, so I thought that our family was the way every family was. It was in adulthood that I realized that there are things that are very important to us that came from our Nana and Bop (May and Tom), and the country from whence they came.

They are:

Stories. Stories are very important to us. Good stories, and good story-telling. Several of my siblings are among the best storytellers I know.
Laughter. Laughter is sacrosanct. That is mostly what we try to do – make each other laugh. When we are together, laughter is the unspoken benchmark with which we measure a good time – the more, the better.
Religion. Say no more.
Music! Lots of it, all kinds of it, and songs to sing, especially. I think that many of us are our happiest when singing a song. Around a piano or a guitar? Even better!
The drink – of course! Like every Irish family, it’s big part of our culture. Also like every Irish family, some of us can partake, and others best not. That’s just the way it is.
Food? – Eh! Not so much. Back in the day, “boil the bejesus out of it” was the standard mantra for cooking everything, but after all of the above, who cares!

So here’s to the Irish!

As my brother Tom said yesterday, their love songs are sad and their fightin’ songs are happy.

For whatever the reason, I’m glad I’m one of them.

A Life-Changing Practice

I could tell you my adventures –

beginning from this morning…

but it’s no use going back to yesterday,

because I was a different person then.

These words from Lewis Carroll – most appropriate in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland – were brilliantly displayed in the studio at the yoga teacher’s reunion that I had the good fortune to attend yesterday.

Alice’s statement resonates resoundingly with yoga philosophy. As our asana instructor reminded us, yoga is far less about the poses (for which it is most famous) and far more about relationships. Transforming relationships to self, to others, and to the divine (whatever that may mean to each individual).

The word yoga means to yoke.

It’s purpose is to “yoke” mind, body, and spirit so that the practitioner becomes wholly integrated – the intended version of themselves – to better fulfill their purpose on earth.

The poses during asana practice are a metaphor , or “practice” for life. What is uncomfortable on the mat prepares me for what is uncomfortable in life. Stretches on the mat equip me for the times I need to stretch myself in life. Perseverance on the mat translates to stamina in real life. Honoring my limitations on the mat invites me to respect boundaries in life. Small victories on the mat serve to buoy me in life as well.

I was warned when I started this journey that it would change my life slowly, over time.

It has.

Easeful body, peaceful heart, useful life.

Yoga teaches that most obstacles I face are in my mind alone. When I push myself on the mat, I can do a little more of that in life, too. When I am mindful of my thoughts on the mat, I can be mindful of them in life, too.

Stepping off the mat and back into life, I am transformed.

I am not who stepped onto the mat at the beginning of practice.

Alice was right.

I was a different person then.

Wild Kingdom, or Not?

Turtle

Eagle

Rabbit

Wolf

Which one are you?

Don’t think too hard.

All are of equal value and worth.

Be that animal for a moment or two.

What are your strengths?

What are your weaknesses?

What do you contribute to your community?

What do you need from your community?

Hmmmm…. Interesting, right?

I myself am a rabbit.

Everything about me makes sense when I think of myself as a rabbit.

I am grounded, quiet, observant, quick moving, and a good listener. These are a few strengths.

I am also easily threatened, reactive, hesitant to speak up, and adverse to exposure. These are among my challenges.

To my community, I contribute an eye for detail, a listening ear, a grounded perspective, and cautious judgement.

From the community, I need a chance to be heard, a better sense of the bigger picture, a safe space, and not be preyed on by aggressors.

In your classroom, school, or family, think of your students, colleagues, and family members.

Which animal do they see themselves as? What are their strengths, weaknesses, contributions, and needs?

Who are the turtles? They offer strength and stability, but do they have voice in your space?

Who are your eagles? They offer perspective of the big picture, but are they soaring solo without a sense of stability?

What about the rabbits? They are very perceptive, but are they too threatened to speak?

And your wolves? They are assertive, but are they taking over?

It can be a jungle out there, but it doesn’t have to be.

These lenses offer an enlightened snapshot of the gifts, challenges, contributions, and needs that each person brings to our community table. Having first experienced them at a yoga certification training, I have reaped their benefit in balancing small groups, arranging classroom seating plans, and planning discussion group rosters for adult retreats.

Wouldn’t it be helpful if we knew this much about each other from the start?

If your kingdom is wild, it might not have to be!

Who is who?

Who are you?

A Tail of Two Lovers

I cracked the door open and “WHOOOSH!”

In streaked a ball of white fur, nearly knocking me off of my feet. Tearing several laps around the dining room table, pausing at the near end, paws planted wide, tail wagging and tongue lolling, she announced herself with a single bark.

“ARF!”

Scarlet is here for the weekend.

Oh boy.

Scarlet and our dog Oliver have been dating exclusively for almost eight years now although no formal announcement has yet been made.

She is his foil, and he hers.

She is exuberant, friendly, adventurous, ditzy, and driven by her great love of affection. He is reserved, cautious, grounded, reticent, and motivated by his great love of food.

If she could dress herself, she would accessorize flamboyantly with fire-engine red nails, large hoop earrings, and a rhinestone studded collar. He would prefer an understated smoking jacket (earth tones – of course), silk ascot tucked at the neck, and a tobacco pipe to puff on.

Miss Scarlotta and Professor Fuzzles.

Alter-egos.

Yin and yan.

She once coaxed him out from hiding under a picnic table at the local dog park.

He once saved her from a threatening vacuum cleaner.

She once ran to his house unaccompanied at 5 a.m.

He once lunged at a vagrant dog near her front yard.

She shares duck breast jerky at her house.

He shares chicken wrapped sweet potato niblets at his.

Scarlet and Ollie.

Ollie and Scarlet.

They met years ago on a neighborhood walk, she romping clockwise around the block, and he snuffling counter-clockwise along the same perimeter. Predictably, she ran to him; he stood his ground, not knowing if it was wise to advance.

It’s been that way ever since.

They sparked a friendship that grew to include their human families who – over the years – have worn a comfortable footpath up and down the street, to and fro, carrying casseroles, good reads, and bottles of wine for barbecues, book discussions, and summer nights on the back deck or the front porch.

Ollie and Scarlet.

Scarlet and Ollie.

Little in stature but so big in heart.

And so remains to this very day.

Time Lapse

“It’s going to fall,” I thought, eyes fixed on the old clock from across the room. “It’s going to fall.” Five to ten seconds later, the clock released itself from its perch of sixteen years, and crashed to the ground, splintering into several pieces. I looked at my husband and he looked at me in disbelief – “What happened??” he said, eyes wide.

“I knew it was going to fall,” I said, “I just had this feeling.”

The cuckoo had been keeping time to the rhythm of our family’s life since we were a young family of five. It “appeared” on our living room wall early one Christmas morning when the kids were toddlers and has been our metronome ever since. The steady tick-tock is such a part of our home that we only note it in its absence, and the twice hourly chime allows us to know what time it is with our ears alone. It has kept measure for us through every power outage with just a nightly tug on the chains to reset the weights for their steady descent floor-ward.

The day the clock fell my husband and I had just finished painting the living room, and were putting furniture and pictures back in place. Although the room look great, we were far from it because our daughter had left home abruptly and we were worried. This week-long summer painting project was less about redoing the living room as it was about keeping idle hands and minds from being overwhelmed with worry. The week was drawing to a close, the project was finished, but she had not come home. The chaotic disarray of our home mirrored our emotions all too well.

That afternoon, he hung the clock on the large single nail by placing the dime-sized opening in the back of the clock over the nail, securing it there as it had been for so many years. He stepped away from the clock to continue working.

Our life was upside down and our home was not right, and for this reason, I knew the clock would fall, so I watched it. Minutes later, it did. It crashed to the ground with a terrible sound. The nail in the wall remained untouched and the opening at the back was as before, but the three small animals and the base of the clock had broken loose and were scattered on the floor. Silently -sadly, we knelt to pick up the pieces, placing them gently in a cardboard paint box, wondering if we had found them all, wondering why the clock had fallen, and wondering if it could ever be restored.

“How did that happen?” he said, “the nail is still there.”

Time stopped when she left.

Days passed, and we sent the clock out to be repaired.

The clock came home in due time, and then she came home, too – to our huge relief.

The cuckoo has long since resumed its steady rhythm and through those daily measures we have evolved into family in mind and heart again.

Isn’t it strange how life just knows?

It just knows.

Two True

Blog fog

Flow – no

Why? sigh

Busy tizzy

Tired mired

Taut thought

Blank tank

Rest best

Ahhhhh…..

New view

Shifting lifting

Clearing nearing

Mind find

Poem roam

Glimmer shimmer

Slew-o duo

Grow slow

Go whoa

Write might

Done fun

I won

Magic Carpet

Stepping into the hush I pad toward an open section of floor, assimilating the mood with my soft, muffled steps. Stooping over, I unfurl, watching orange sherbet splash out against burnished wood of the smooth floor.

Straightening to upright, I drift to the corner near the window for blocks, lavender in color – startled at how something with such heft can weigh so little – and then also a curled-up indigo strap from the wicker basket nearby. Tucking both under arm, I cross the room and lift a fringe of woven threads from softly piled hues in another corner and make my way back, navigating through flat parcels of color splayed in neat rows, making it easy.

Settling onto Creamsicle orange, I stretch, placing the lavender cubes just beyond the forward corners of my space and rest the strap atop one – a loosely coiled cobra, lazily asleep.

Peeling off worn socks, I ball them up and put them aside, off of my space, and tuck my folded blanket underneath, offering me lift and comfort. Pretzeled legs raise my knees to meet my outstretched hands which rest palms up, right there.

Ah.

Here – now.

I close my eyes; my shoulders drop.

I go inside and my day leaves me with my exhale.

I let it go.

I breathe in peace and fill my heart.

Ahhhhhhh.

This mat anywhere is home.

Twelve square feet to nowhere and everywhere.

Yoga.

Beach Reach

Yesterday, we nixed our chiropractic visits (no appointment necessary) at the eleventh hour and took the dog to the beach – a stroke of spontaneity for which my husband is famous and I am not. The Jersey shore in March is not always where you want to be, but yesterday was a gem of a day after a week of overcast skies and frigid temperatures. Dogs are allowed on the beaches through March 31, so our chances for a threesome beach day were dwindling with each passing weekend.

Tossing a blanket, water bottle, and bowl in the car we headed out. I was excited to see how our middle-aged Ollie would embrace a new environment that was the backdrop of so many of my summer vacations years ago. In less than an hour, we were there.

Picture perfect, we were solitary beachcombers enveloped by a cobalt blue sky. Collecting shells and romping about, we walked, touching the chilly surf and warm white sand. Eventually we sat on a beach log, soaking in the salt air, the sun, the time together.

I had thought about going, and had mentioned it weeks ago, but would have stuck to my Saturday plans; I’m a planner after all. He is my fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants guy, the one who tosses a Saturday schedule aside with ease to embrace something unknown, instead.

A big stretch for me, this trip was an easy reach for him.

A beach reach.

A day to remember.

Time Tangle

What time is it?

Nine o’clock.

Yes, I KNOW it’s nine o’clock! Any idiot can see it’s nine o’clock, but, what time is it really?

Nine o’clock.

Nine o’clock?

Yes.

Hmmm (pause). Well, what time would it be if it were this time yesterday?

Eight o’clock.

Eight o’clock?

Yes.

So, at eight o’clock yesterday, what time what time would it be if it were today?

Nine o’clock.

Nine o’clock?

Yes.

Hmmm (pause, again). Well, just never mind then! I just don’t get it!!!

Today marks the anniversary of the semi-annual exchange between my parents ushering in the advent – or the end – of daylight savings time.

My mom – as smart as she was – was never quite able to wrap her head around the whole thing despite my dad’s attempts to thwart her befuddlement. Much to our amusement, this usually happened around the dinner table. “Oh, boy – here we go!”, someone would exclaim, tossing their fork, after a casual reminder about the changing of the clocks was uttered. As predictable as it was, the ensuing dialogue never failed to disappoint. In the end, the concept remained as mysterious to her as her confusion did to my dad. And us kids? We were entertained twice a year, just like clockwork.

Years have passed since those days and the loss of our mom, and the eight of us no longer gather around one table for dinner like we used to. I think about her every day, but today belongs to her alone. Today we put the clocks ahead and another daylight savings time begins.

Here’s to you, Mom.

The Yellowness of Friday

Let’s start with Friday because that’s where I am right now.

This day envelopes me with an orange-y yellow glow, sometimes tinged with subtle flecks of red. Comfortable and anticipatory with excitement – it’s Friday, after all.

By early Saturday morning, orange has receded and everything is pulsing – lemony, buttery, radiant, even when wrapping around a cool slate gray sky. How could it not be so? It is Saturday, lest we forget.

Sunday? Equally comfortable but more subdued with soft gray hues, a nice easy gray, at least at the start, although it tends to darken as the day wears on – anticipating the work week ahead.

It fades reluctantly to Monday: a mottle of nondescript, maybe gray and humus splotched with olive and brown, glimpses of purple peeking out around the edges, hinting at forward progress and letting you know that all is not lost.

Tuesday arrives cloaked in deep violet – having increased in lightness from Monday’s dark outer-tinge to an eventual blackberry sherbet smoothness; we’re approaching mid-week, after all.

Wednesday then, boasts a deep royal blue – an optimistic breather, rising slightly above the rest. An uphill climb to its plateau, it will be all downhill from here.

Blue rolls comfortably toward the emerald green of a Thursday morning, lightening to verdant by midday, clearly approaching Friday on the horizon.

In due accord, spring recedes and warmth grows, glowing to become the typical yellow-tinged-with-orange of a Friday – any Friday – increasing in lightness of being as the day progresses, as you must know.

And so it goes. Week to week.

I wonder…What color is your day?