Talking to Myself About Holding on to Stuff

As the balloon lifted off, she grinned in anticipation.
Oh, the fun of being high over the forest
Looking down, looking around, missing nothing.
She wanted to claim it all, as though in a gold field.
When there was an eagle's nest, she named it hers.
The hidden lake was given her name.
The flame kept the hot air balloon high,
Where she felt free, unburdened, invincible.

She wondered, as they slowly descended,
What she could claim, name, hold on to
As she had owned her dominion on that high ride.
Now what could grant her that same fullness,
That wide, open, encompassing feel of enoughness?
Could it really be found in boxes of papers from past projects?
Could she be foolish enough to believe it necessary, even desirable,
To skim months old, years old, newspapers and magazines?

"But," she says, "it's me who's holding on. How can I make myself stop?
I want to believe it's some old part of me hanging on.
How can I get to know that part with compassion?"

I know the answer for today. There's nothing wrong. I'm ok the way I am.
When it's important, when the time is right, I will let go and recycle my boxes.
Right now, precious part of me, go in peace. Trust yourself. You will know.

Thoughts at the Bainbridge Bluegrass Festival 2010

The stage was set with new performers at the Bluegrass Festival.
People were sitting in 80 degree sun, some under canopies.
Toes were tapping, and two little girls were swinging arms with their mom.
Mary Ann Moorman (www.auntmama.com),
Whose stories I hear every Sunday at 8:30 am on 91.3, was emcee.
My two friends had eaten their tuna sandwiches on the ferry,
And now I ate mine with yellow pepper slices and guava nectar.

I wish it were as easy for me to change my stage with 15 minutes of sound checks,
And then move on to my next set,
Whether boy friend, income producing, blog writing, clearing clutter, or whatever.
For now--oh, if only I'd remember every now--
I can take the breaks between boy friends,
And the dismay over a less than stellar class I've taught,
And the contrast between messy room and cleared room,
With a bit more grace and ease.

I can be like the musicians, who play their music with zest
And leave the stage when their set is complete--
Not sad, because they know music will always be part of them.

When I picture myself letting go of papers, of projects,
A dread comes over me, reminiscent of a bad report card.
I want to keep what I'm not proud of to myself.
I don't want to admit that my choices, my plans,
Could have had brighter futures.
Like today's musicians, I want to celebrate and be celebrated.
And you know what? Tomorrow is soon enough to get going on that.
Today is the time to dance and enjoy other people's music.

Letting Go as a Parent

A few years ago, I realized that my two kids were not ever likely to be interested in the philosophical discussions I so loved. Holding on to that desire didn't serve any of us. So I've been focusing on what I do enjoy with and about them. I was grateful that, though my daughter had proclaimed triumphantly the first week that she turned 13 that she was "a bitch and proud of it," she has turned out to be a very responsible woman, employee and mother.

And though I might have wished retribution during her demanding years as a teen, I am pleased that her relationship with her 15-year-old daughter is less rocky, more intimate, than ours was two decades ago. And my son is married and produced my second granddaughter in April.

I am grateful I can enjoy our easy conversations, and that they've never gotten into smoking or drugs. Having chosen to accept them as they are, rather than as I might wish them to be, we've enjoyed decorating our Christmas trees, angling for the crisp skin from our Thanksgiving turkey--I usually win the biggest strip--and, in earlier years, children's theatre, the zoo, walking in parks, etc.

When we took home our adopted children, each at three weeks, we were just delighted. Period. My decision to love them as they are has given me freedom to indulge myself for my idiosyncracies. Though I know my daughter doesn't like my asking others at a restaurant for what they aren't going to eat, the rather large part of me who dislikes waste will ask and/or gather for a take home box, rather than see food thrown out.

When my son gains weight from enjoying beer, I choose not to give advice. He already knows my preferences for his health. When he recently sold his grocery delivery business, against my advice, he managed to find a job (though paying less, it offered more freedom) in a few months.

I've gotten clear that if anything happens to my daughter, I'd stay as close to my granddaughter as she'd let me, but I wouldn't be her primary caregiver. I'm sure she would rebel at how I'd guide her.

And letting go of my longing for deep discussions with my kids has helped me look for and find what's special about them. I think I'll call them right now.

The Experience of Awareness I Had Today (11-1-09)

I am the scribe, the reporter, of my time—my mind, my movements, my thoughts.
I lie in bed on this lazy Sunday hearing restful wordless music.
I notice myself drifting to the calls I should return, to the sun calling me to Nature.
To the next meal, the friend to hang out with.

I just finished Lessons From the Dying
And am musing on time and surrender, on impermanence and right here, right now.
As the dying do, I want to be present to what is, and not live with past regrets or future longings.

I notice almost a palpable pull to start my tasks, yet I still am settled into the fireplace feel of this music,
The sun, the leaves on the tree barely moving, the warmth of this comforter,
The awareness of the peace and ease and freedom I feel as I consciously choose to let the CD serenade complete.

This now moment takes in my Mt. Shuksan wall mural,
The empty wine bottle from a fall trip with a lover to Vermont
The aqua vase with a dried branch arrangement,
The three plants on the windowsill, the vase, the lilac teddy bear
The blue stuffed Eeyore perched above a pile of unread books,
The clothes not yet put away, the cloth monkey I sleep with.

I know how easily I fall into one project, then to another,
Without witnessing, observing, my inner terrain.
How I want the clear awareness I’ve honored myself with today
EVERY day, each hour, in any activity or lack of activity.
If it takes setting an alarm several times a day until it becomes a habit to stop and check in,
I can do that. For now, I will read this every day and relive this experience of awareness.