SEEDS

"A Natural Garden", oil,
by Mary Maxam

 As April gets set to show us some sunshine and warm weather (we hope), I’m thinking of seeds and the sort of ground they need to sprout up and succeed – not just the seeds of plants, but the seeds of a good life, as well. Just as the seeds of flowers will prosper if the soil is in good shape, so will the seeds of a promising life unfold and thrive when planted in a generous and nourishing heart. Rock-strewn soil won’t promote the growth of new grass, and neither will closed and complaining minds make it easy for happiness to take root. This spring in Mystic, flowers will flourish only in good ground, and inspiring feelings will unfold only in bright and spacious hearts.         

THOROUGHNESS

 It would be a delight, now and then, to live a totally “thorough” day, one in which I do each activity as carefully and completely as possible. When I wash my face in the morning, I would do it in a soft but meticulous way, being sure the soap does its soothing work completely. Having breakfast with Delycia, I would savor the fragrance of the coffee, and taste the toast in a meticulous manner, making each bite a sort of small ceremony. If I walked in the yard, I would walk with awareness -- with attention, perhaps, to the types of breezes passing by, or to the look of a cloud carrying itself lightly above the house. When reading, I would watch each word do its special work, each sentence spin its meaning. I would turn every page like it’s precious, on this delightful day – perhaps tomorrow? – of thorough and devoted activity.

LETTING

  “Let” is a little word I want to work into my life more often. I want, for instance, to sometimes let things happen the way they seem to want to happen, instead of always insisting on the way I want them to happen. I want to let life flow along like the infinite river it is, instead of setting up endless barriers and reroutings so it will do what I want it to do. I want to even let hard luck or heartbreak happen, as they sometimes inescapably will, and then let my endless inner spirit spread out to welcome and accommodate and learn from them.  

BRIGHT THOUGHTS, AND DARK

 Thousands of thoughts pass across my mind each day, and, over the years, I’ve grown more and more determined to entertain, as often as possible, only the most useful ones. If I have a choice in the matter – and I always do – why would I choose to play host to an unpleasant thought when so many pleasing ones are waiting to bolster and inspire me? Why would I choose to linger with a gloomy thought when countless heartening thoughts are standing by? I’m not suggesting a pollyanna approach to living, just a sensible one. I will occasionally face stressful situations, of course, but I can do it most successfully with thoughts that are constructive rather than despairing, thoughts that show the way forward rather than down, thoughts that clarify rather then confuse. If someone set before me a ten dollar bill and a one, I’d choose the ten in a flash, and I’ll pick a bright thought over a dark one any day.    

SMOOTH MOVES

 

"City Traffic", oil,
by Tom Brown

Coming off the interstate this morning, I noticed the smooth flow of cars moving on and off the highway, and it started me thinking about the predominance of smooth movements all across this world – movements that seldom make the evening news. These cars, for instance, were evenly streaming around the clover leaf, as they do 24/7 all year long, with only an occasional disruption. And it happens all across the world on interstates and ramps from San Francisco to Istanbul – billions of cars smoothly cruising along with a silky kind of ease and efficiency. The same is true of pedestrian traffic, the countless numbers of walkers who work their way effortlessly along streets and sidewalks, a ceaseless and almost graceful pedestrian river. Sure, there are jostles and annoyances now and then, but mostly the stream of walkers the world over just keeps fluidly moving. If I could somehow see all this unruffled flow of cars and pedestrians from a few miles above the earth, I would think this planet was a safe and stylish place to live. Unfortunately, the evening news seldom shows us the elegance that’s all around us. I guess the relatively scarce instances of disruption and disarray tell a more exciting story, but they don’t tell the truth about the overall smoothness of this life we lead together on earth.    

A SWEET-TEMPERED BOXER

"Southpaw", charcoal,
by Connie Chadwell

“It is this almost pugnacious acceptance of reality that distinguishes him…”

-- Michael Sadlier, in Anthony Trollope: A Commentary

         Until I read Mr. Sadlier’s essay, I would never have considered using the words “acquiescent” and “pugnacious” in a discussion of how to live a good life, but he used them so appropriately in his treatise on the Victorian novelist that I begin wondering whether a truly successful person has to be, you might say, pugnaciously acquiescent. It’s thought-provoking that the word “acquiesce” derives from the Latin word for “quiet”, for it suggests that an acquiescent person is simply one who finds more reasons for inner peace and quiet than for unease and apprehension. The word literally means “to be at rest”, which summons up a picture of a person who treats whatever happens in life as a noteworthy occurrence that should be quietly welcomed and walked around and appraised. This is a person who knows that little can be gained by giving battle, but that surprising strength can be gained through simple acceptance. To be sure, I’m not speaking about a submissive and spineless acceptance, but rather a pugnacious one – the kind of acquiescence that says, in feisty tones, “Yes, I’m brave enough to say yes to life as it shows itself to me, life as it truly is.” It’s a courageous kind of acquiescence, more willing to wonder and marvel at life’s occurrences than condemn and castigate them. Of course, there will be times when, for one reason or another, events will deserve a person’s censure, but the censure should be given with the same humble acquiescence -- the same sense of quietly accepting what simply needs to be done. A person can be both tough and soft, both stern and merciful. It’s like being sweet-tempered, but with boxing gloves on.

GIVING BY SURRENDERING

"Island Breezes", oil,
by Lori McNamara

 As I was watching the wind in the trees beside our house yesterday afternoon, and the trees swaying and sort of surrendering to the wind, it seemed to me they were giving a gift to the wind – giving their loose-limbed suppleness so the wind could work its way through them with ease. It started me wondering if surrendering is, indeed, sometimes like giving, which is perhaps why we use “give in” and “give up” as synonyms. If a serious snowstorm hits, I can simply give in to it, which might mean surrendering and giving my acceptance, even my approval, to the storm, and just sitting back and taking some pleasure in its magnificence. Likewise, if I take on a task and things don’t go precisely my way, I can surrender to the task by giving up my self-assured stubbornness, thus freeing my mind to find new ways to do the work. Of course, surrendering could also be simply a way of ducking a difficult situation, but there are situations, surely, where surrendering could actually be a way of giving, or giving back, to life itself – giving my willingness to it, my acceptance of it, my readiness to do whatever needs to be done to welcome its richness. Perhaps I can learn to be as limber and yielding as trees, and just bend and lean with life instead of opposing it.     

YIELDING

 Oddly enough, I actually look forward to seeing YIELD signs on the road when I’m driving, for they afford me a chance to once again surrender, something I mostly missed out on in my younger years. I grew up in a culture that equated surrendering with defeat and disgrace, so I became, like most of the guys I grew up with, a “fighter”, a guy who tried to never give in or give up. As the years passed, however, I slowly saw that surrendering sometimes brings conquest instead of defeat, sometimes shows strength instead of weakness. Rivers, after all, surrender to boulders and thus easily flow around them, and winds give in to mountains and thereby blow right by them. Submitting, I see now, can sometimes strengthen a person, and giving way can often get you a victory. I guess I’ve learned, over the years, that treating life like a war is a woeful way to live. I’ve set down my weapons, you might say. I’m yielding more often to the flow of life – and of cars. I’m raising the white flag, and finding force and joyfulness because of it.  

QUEENS AND KINGS IN WESTERLY

         

When Delycia and I were dancing last night at the Knickerbocker Café in Westerly (RI), I think we felt, at least some of the time, like seasoned, free-and-easy dancers. We’re senior citizens with our share of physical imperfections, and we’re brand new students of dancing, but last night we were a couple of young, footloose friends, twirling around like teens set free. The band, The Cartells, was a breezy and buoyant group who were obviously out to make a merry evening for themselves as well as the patrons. They blew and strummed and sang like queens and kings of their instruments, like they were out to set a record for spirit and wholeheartedness. They seemed to play with pure pleasure, and that’s how we danced. We tripped on each other and bumped other couples, but even those mistakes were made with fervor. We smiled when we stumbled, and laughed when we lost our balance. All evening long, the band broke free, again and again, with their strong-willed music, and we made our own kind of getaway – two silver retirees swaying and swinging like life had just started.

SETTING HAPPINESS FREE

 Strange as it may sound, I want to do more releasing than grasping -- and it will be a satisfying shift for me. I’ve spent far too much time trying to grasp and hold onto happiness, and it’s been a wearying kind of work. I’m tired of struggling to seize peace and well-being, to grab this bit of gladness or that bit of pleasure, as if happiness is something tangible that can be caught and kept. I want to live in a different way,  by setting my good fortune free instead of grasping and clutching it. I’ve had sadness in my life, for sure, but I’ve also been blessed with a bounteous supply of happiness, and instead of trying to hold onto it, I want to set it free. I want to release my cheerfulness so it can cheer up other lives. I want to liberate the delight I have in life so it can loosen and free up others. I’m tired of clutching and clinging to happiness. I want to allow it to leave so it can spread its gifts around. (Surprisingly, that’s the only way I can be sure it will stay with me.)

LITTLE GRAND CANYONS

"Grand Canyon Afternoon", oil,
by Karen Winters

  It’s so strange to me that still, at 72, I stress and fret over dozens of details each day, as though I’m the great master-creator, and the success of the day depends solely on me. That’s about as silly as saying that I’m responsible for the sunshine I see outside today, or that sunset won’t take place tonight unless I oversee the details. This universe is a spectacle of immeasurable proportions, and I am simply one of its numberless parts. It’s not my duty to plan and present the spectacle, but simply to take pleasure in it and be blessed by it. Surely, if I were standing at the rim of the Grand Canyon, I wouldn’t be fretting over some rocks that seem out of place, or stressing about shadows that don’t seem as perfect as they should be. The Grand Canyon is glorious without any help from me, and so, actually, is all of life. Yes, I need to do my daily duties with care, but I also need to occasionally step back in astonishment and simply be grateful for the stunning spectacle called life. Truth is, all of us are little Grand Canyons, suffused with mostly-undiscovered magnificence, and perhaps, every so often, we should set aside our fretfulness and unease and just sit and stare at our lives with fascination and thankfulness.

STRENGTH AND GRACE

      For several years now, a friend has been fighting a fearsome illness, and every time I’ve seen him I have marveled at the strength and grace with which he is waging his war. He’s a warrior in the best sense, a fighter who’s using both bravery and patience to beat back the despair that might beset others in such circumstances. He seems strong in a peaceful way, stubborn in a cool, unruffled way. I always sense a sort of valiant mildness making its way across the room to me when I visit him, and it makes me thankful to be there. It’s strange, how the bravery of someone else can cause a little heroism in ourselves – a little more ability to stand up to the scary things in life and softly but strongly say what needs to be said and do what needs to be done. My friend speaks quietly but there’s daring and steadfastness in his voice. I consider myself lucky to just sit and listen.          

AN INDISPENSABLE PART

     Last night Delycia and I attended a splendid concert in New London by the Eastern Connecticut Symphony Orhcestra, and I was especially impressed by the double bass players. With my binoculars, I watched them as they stood in the right-hand back rows of the orchestra. I saw the way they swayed in individual ways, some back and forth with the flow of the music, some side to side, all studying the score or the conductor with concentration, and all lending their smooth, resonant sounds to the music. They were far to the side of center, and there were many stretches when they stood silently and simply followed the music, but the importance of their contribution was clear. They were like those of us who stand aside from the spotlight and do our small, unnoticed, but indispensable part. They stood off to the side, like we sometimes do, sharing their skills, as we do, to make a little more beauty for the world.

NEW SIGNS, NEW WORLD

"County Road", oil,
by Don Gray

 As we drove along the interstate this morning, there were signs I’d never seen before. Naming exits and streets and towns, these signs had actually been there for years, but, in a sense, they were as new as the new sunlight shining on them. After all, since yesterday, new dust had settled on them in brand new patterns, the weather had reworked them by further wearing them down, and the light was landing on them in ever so slightly new ways. In that sense, these were signs I’d never seen before, signs that were newly redecorated, rejuvenated, and actually remade in the hours and moments before we passed them. As I was thinking about it, the signs seemed to almost flash at us in their newness as we passed. I realized, later, that this suggests a startling fact about our universe – namely, the absolute and insuperable newness of all things. Despite my usual inability to notice it, there is newness everywhere – in signs on the interstate, in clouds assembling in the sky in ways no one has seen before, in cars covered with salt in patterns that are each, in some infinitesimal way, different from any previous pattern in the history of cars and salt. I couldn’t stop thinking about it as the day passed – this newness, this freshness, this utter novelty and originality of everything. It seemed like an astonishing life I was living, a life where starting fresh happens every second, a life in which all things – including me – are no more than one-second old!   

SLICKNESS

"Snowy Lane with Crow"
watercolor by Don Gray

 There’s something strange about slickness – how skiers and sledders absolutely love it, but drivers on icy roads sometimes despise it. We drove on slick roads this morning, making our way north to our granddaughter’s school in Brooklyn (CT) for some special 1^st grade performances. Delycia is a skilled and cautious driver, but I still felt like our lives were sort of unfastened and at risk as we drove along the snowy roads. Perhaps skiers feel a similar sense of hazard as they race down slippery mountains, but they also probably love that feeling of carelessness and liberty. I must admit to feeling, on the icy and untrustworthy interstate this morning, a certain amount of apprehension, but I also felt something like a sledder’s high spirits. On a sled as a kid, danger didn’t exist for me, and at 72, I sat back today and almost started to enjoy the adventure of moving carefully and successfully on frozen roads. I think, though, that we both were glad to finally get off the cold, slick roads and into Ava’s comfortable classroom where nothing was perilous and all was delight.  

A BEST FRIEND

   If we say a best friend is one who is always faithful, then, strange as it seems, the present moment is one of my best friends. Being always by my side – always, no matter how bad things get – the present moment is unswerving in its promise to me. In the sunshine of bliss or the darkness of troubles, the present moment is right there with me, as new as a new day. It’s the most steadfast of friends, and, more importantly, the most perfect of friends, since it is always flawlessly what it has to be. Something is perfect if it is as good as it is possible for it to be, which means this present moment (and the next one, and the next) is, indeed, perfect. I can make the next moment be different, but for right now, this exact moment is superbly what it must be.

     What luck, to have a faithful and perfect friend with me, moment by moment!

     

WORKMANSHIP

"Castle Builder", oil,
by Kim Roberti

I’ve always admired people who put good workmanship into their products -- workers who build bird houses or bicycles or skyscrapers or lesson plans like artists making masterpieces. These people put love, not just labor, into their products, and what they produce is usually a stunning success, a model of flawless workmanship. What’s interesting about this is that I see this kind of flair and proficiency every day in the works of the natural world. Doesn’t nature always use perfect finesse as it makes a morning or a storm or clouds crossing over us or mild winds in March? Somehow, style is always present in Nature’s products, be it two old leaves just now tumbling along our driveway, or the grayest sky you’ve ever seen. It’s always somehow flawless, just the right thing when Nature makes it. The gray sky is the best gray sky it can be, with the perfect elegance of grayness, and the elderly leaves look just right as they roll impeccably along.

ALIVE AGAIN

"Dawn", pastel,
by Takeyce Walter

 Seeing the sunlight again each morning, noticing that night has left the land somehow newer and fresher than before, I sometimes have the feeling of being alive all over again. I guess sleep is, in a way, somewhat like a short-lived dying out of life, a sort of simulated death, and so waking each morning might be thought of as a rebirth. With each new dawn comes a start-over, a new beginning, a resurrection of ourselves, you might say. And actually, almost everything starts over in the morning. I’m no scientist, but I’ll bet something clean and clear begins each day in the natural world – some new kinds of light, the somehow youthful look of even old snow, the crisp onsets of breezes that seem surprisingly new. Nothing is old in the morning. The earth, the universe itself, is a refurbished wonder when I awake, if I’m smart enough to see it.      

PREPARING FOR THE WEATHER (OF THE MIND)

Like most of us, I try to take appropriate preparations when serious storms are in the forecast, but I sometimes forget to get myself ready for troublesome “mental” weather. It’s interesting to me that I seem more concerned about high winds and heavy snow than about devastating thoughts, and yet the thoughts can throw my life into far worse disorder than even the wildest winds. Thoughts filled with fears can bring bedlam to a life faster than any storm, and the effects of these stormy thoughts can last a lot longer than downed wires and damaged homes. I sometimes set out flashlights and candles for coming storms, but how often do I shine the lights of optimism and poise inside my mind when I see worries working their way toward me? The scariest storm can be met with vivacity and even exuberance, and fear, frightening as it may be, can be taught a lesson about human daring simply through clear and untroubled thinking. Easy to say, hard to do, but when unease meets serenity, the latter can take the trophy -- always.

JOURNAL

Yesterday we sat together in the morning and made our plane reservations for our UK trip to the Whitby area in May. It was good for me share in these tasks that Delycia usually takes upon herself. It was a smooth and satisfying process.

At noon, we had our lunch on the futon while watching the opening ceremony of the paralympics. Tears came to my eyes as I watched the courageous athletes proudly enter to the stadium -- some on crutches, some in wheelchairs, some clearly hobbling on one leg, and all smiling and waving. 

We joined Jim and Ann for dinner at the Water Street Cafe. Delycia and I both enjoyed our warm duck salad, and the conversation was, as always,  stimulating and enjoyable.

INFINITE TREASURES

      

"Great Expectations", acrylics,
by Gerard Boersma

As I was looking at some of our bookshelves from across the room yesterday, they seemed like shelves of treasures – rows and rows of riches past measuring. Each book seemed like a separate precious item, like a little chest that chose us to find its fortune. These are books we’ve had for years, but only yesterday did they appear to throw off, all of them, the lavish kind of light great books can give. I realized, maybe for the first time, that each of these books contains countless numbers of ideas and feelings – that I could search, for instance, a single Shakespeare play for days and even years and not know the border lines of its wisdom. The way each of these books works is the way a limitless gold mine might work: you walk in and start searching and don’t stop because it doesn’t end. I might live for twenty more years, but it would take ten times twenty years to take in all the treasures of these books – these small, simple-looking packages of paper and print on the shelves beside our fireplace.               

FLAMES AND A LIFE

"Cozy Cabin", oil,
by Don Gray

 As I watched the fire in our fireplace yesterday afternoon, flowing and flaring and sending up sparks, I thought it looked a lot like my life. There was a sort of waywardness in the flames, a beautiful disorderliness that seemed similar to what I sometimes see in my days. There was no pattern in the way the flames moved, just as there is often no noticeable pattern in the comings and goings of my life. Flames flared and fizzled down again in random ways, just as good and not-so-good things in my life flow in and flicker out with perfect casualness. Occasionally, some glowing logs collapsed with a soft explosion, just as carefully proposed plans of mine have sometimes quietly crumbled. But not to worry – when I put some new logs on, the flames quickly curled up around them, just as, in my life, the fires of new plans are always ready to unfurl. It’s interesting that the flames in the fireplace seemed almost irrepressible, as if they were managing themselves and making their own rules, springing up and sparking just as they wished. My life often looks a lot like that, like a strange and astonishing assembly of flaring and flashing happenings. It occurs to me that I should perhaps watch my life with as much fascination as I watched the fire yesterday. 

MORE HOMEWORK, PLEASE!

(said by an imaginary teenager to his English teacher)

Is that all we have for homework? I was hoping for more. Maybe a poem about the power of a happy heart, or an essay about silence flowing through a life with a light

in its hands. Could we please diagram some sentences so we can see the words sitting like blossoms on their branches? Could we study some new vocabulary words so we can listen to their voices, so we can stand

in the green grass of their freshness?

Or what about some grammar exercises,

those stylish puzzles that shimmer

in the light of our desk lamps? Please.

We need to get back the glow that seeing verbs and adverbs side by side

in friendship gives us. Or what about this – could we build one of those airplanes called paragraphs, and try to make it fly? Please?

EVERYDAY MAJESTY

These days, majesty makes itself known in a number of simple ways. There’s the whiteness of snow, for instance – a widespread and stately presence all around us. Delycia and I are in the snowy regions of Massachusetts today, and the sunlight on the snow makes it shine in a resplendent way. There’s something solemn about these hills when they’re wrapped in such robes of snow, almost as if they’re the home of kings and queens, with unseen sumptuous snow castles somewhere among them. I also noticed this morning the majesty of simple people showing their graciousness – an older couple sitting as dignified as a duke and duchess, a man wearing his coat in a kingly way, a woman steering her wheelchair with a certain kind of magnificence. Even the table in a mall where I’m writing this has a clean and correct appearance, as if prepared for a prince, perhaps even a somewhat shabby but spirited senior-citizen prince waiting for his wife.