Friends of ours are renting a beach house at Bodega Bay for the week, and a large group of us descended upon them for the day to socialize, eat good food, watch the beach from the big picture window, and generally enjoy each other's company.
The group included three teen-age boys (sons of our friends Annette and Kathryn), plus one of their friends, and a girlfriend. They are a nice group of kids, comfortable to be with, and unintimidated by a houseful of 45-year-old-plus lesbians.
After a lip-smacking dinner of homemade macaroni and cheese topped off by peach cobbler and blackberry pie, we all walked down to the camping area by the beach to watch 16-year-old Will perform "fire poi."
I had heard about his talent, but this was the first time I witnessed it. For those of you unfamiliar with it, fire poi are constructed from chain, with kevlar-blend wicks, that can be soaked in fuel (such as kerosene) and set on fire. The performer then holds one chain in each hand, with the flaming ends suspended, and twirls them through the air, creating patterns of spinning light in the dark.
Will started out using glow sticks. He has now become quite proficient with fire poi, completely self-taught. And, he jokingly states, he has only set himself on fire twice. We were in a large, open sandy area, so there was no danger of burning anything. There were twelve of us sitting on piles of stacked logs, waiting for him to begin.
It was a spectacular show. The fire whirled around Will's head, circling in slow arcs, then more and more quickly, the flames sometimes large with tails, then smaller again. He spun them over his head, under his legs, at his sides, turning about. Butterflies, weaves, magical loops. Within a few seconds, we heard voices. Other people walking through the campground had seen the lights, and were drawn to the show. They approached, watched until the end of the first act, and hooted and cheered. A young boy asked Will eager questions about how he had started. The group stayed while Will did a second act of performances, and then asked if he would be back the next night to do more. Will promised to return.
I had never heard of this type of performance art before. Kathryn, Will's mom, told me it was "koi" and that at the end of the chain were metal fish. I later discovered that this was a running joke, since the name is actually "poi," which sounds close enough to "koi" that the family has adopted the alternate name.
When I see a 16 year old boy on the street, I often feel a little distant and removed. That period of my life seems so long ago. And I am untrusting. I'm not sure I know where that teen is coming from. In other words, I close myself off. So having this experience tonight was good. Here's this 16 year old boy who not only is a nice kid, but he has this amazing, unexpected, wildly interesting talent. He does something I've never even heard of before, and he does it well. He performed graciously and gracefully, answering questions, putting on a show. It was a treat.
I have to keep myself open. I never know when I might run into fire fish in the night sky.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
No Permanence, Joyful Open Eyes
To quote Dainin Katagiri, in "Each Moment Is the Universe"
My plan for this week was to catch up on sleep, do some reading, spend time on my own writing, move organically through the days. Too quickly, though, I found myself distracted by chores and "have to" items, with the sense that I was not getting the indulgence I deserved. I ended up harried and dissatisfied, instead of relaxed, exactly the opposite of what I was hoping for.
Reading this Katagiri quote, which my teacher Tony Patchell shared with me a few weeks ago, I was reminded that I was going about the whole thing in the wrong way. Well, wrong might be too strong a word. How about "misguided"? Instead of trying to create perfect days where nothing interrupts and everything goes my way, I can find much greater satisfaction in facing each moment of every day, no matter the challenges, with humor, wisdom, and presence.
Clinging to the idea of a perfect week off, or even an ideal afternoon, brings up those feelings of despair. Where is my life going? What am I doing with myself? Where do the days go? But when I focus instead on this moment, the task right in front of me, my breathing slows. My sense of harmony increases. I hear the Mozart playing in the background as I type. The brain quiets, and wisdom creeps in. It actually becomes possible to see with joyful, open eyes.
When you see in the proper way, what do you see? You see the true nature of time. In Japanese we say mujo. Mu is “nothing” and jo is “permanence,” so mujo means “no permanence” or “impermanence.” Seeing impermanence is not to face a kind of nihilism that leads to despair; it is to become yourself, as you really are, with joyful open eyes. Thinking in the proper way is not to understand life through your intellect; it is to contemplate deeply how to live every day based on wisdom. When you see the true nature of time and understand how impermanence works in your life, you can use time to cultivate your life and to keep up with the tempo of life without feeling despair. That is the basis of a complete way of human life.The true nature of time. That is definitely something I am grappling with at the moment. One of my co-workers, in my small, four-person office, has announced that she is leaving on Aug. 11. We will be hiring a replacement, but probably not until mid-October. Three of us can put out the newspaper, but it means that no one can be out on vacation, or sick, or not carrying their weight. Since I had not taken any vacation time yet this year, and saw that my opportunities were fast disappearing, I rapidly requested a week off, just to stay at home and regroup.
My plan for this week was to catch up on sleep, do some reading, spend time on my own writing, move organically through the days. Too quickly, though, I found myself distracted by chores and "have to" items, with the sense that I was not getting the indulgence I deserved. I ended up harried and dissatisfied, instead of relaxed, exactly the opposite of what I was hoping for.
Reading this Katagiri quote, which my teacher Tony Patchell shared with me a few weeks ago, I was reminded that I was going about the whole thing in the wrong way. Well, wrong might be too strong a word. How about "misguided"? Instead of trying to create perfect days where nothing interrupts and everything goes my way, I can find much greater satisfaction in facing each moment of every day, no matter the challenges, with humor, wisdom, and presence.
Clinging to the idea of a perfect week off, or even an ideal afternoon, brings up those feelings of despair. Where is my life going? What am I doing with myself? Where do the days go? But when I focus instead on this moment, the task right in front of me, my breathing slows. My sense of harmony increases. I hear the Mozart playing in the background as I type. The brain quiets, and wisdom creeps in. It actually becomes possible to see with joyful, open eyes.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Seating for Five
We have a hummingbird feeder hanging from the eave of our covered porch. It is red, of course, since that is the color supposed to draw hummingbirds. At its base, it is wide, with five yellow sunflowers, and at the center of each is the hole from which the birds can draw out the sugar water.
We have a great deal of hummingbird activity. They are always zooming by, zipping through the air, often just over our heads. What is highly amusing, though, is that only one is ever feeding at a time. A single hummingbird always ferociously guards the feeder, chasing away any other interlopers. So it is a game of tag, of seek and chase. One approaches, then the one at the feeder dives after, and they both soar away, one in mad pursuit of the other.
Sabrina tells me that at her last house, feeling sorry for one hummingbird who always was chased away, she hung a second feeder up, about 15 feet away. Then the dominant bird simply guarded both, hovering in the air at center point, flitting back and forth to make sure no one could get to either feeder on her watch.
So tell me - why does the hummingbird feeder have seating for five? Are there hummingbirds somewhere in the world who are better at sharing their food, allowing company to sit down at the dinner table? Do some other hummingbirds have an altruistic streak, that seems to be lacking in the ones in Alexander Valley? Or were the designers of this hummingbird feeder uninformed of hummingbird behavior? Or, perhaps, the designers were optimistic, thinking if they made the feeder for five, they could cajole the birds into learning how to share?
I watch them and think, "Silly birds! We always refill the feeder. There is plenty for everyone."
But - am I not guilty of that same behavior, in other circumstances? Holding on tight to what I have, afraid to give to others, afraid there won't be enough left over for me? In my case, the object I hold on tightest to is time. I am fearful to commit to things because I don't want to lose my alone time, my flexibility, my "freedom." So I hesitate. I am less than generous when it comes to offering a helping hand. Because I think there won't be enough left for me.
Silly bird.
We have a great deal of hummingbird activity. They are always zooming by, zipping through the air, often just over our heads. What is highly amusing, though, is that only one is ever feeding at a time. A single hummingbird always ferociously guards the feeder, chasing away any other interlopers. So it is a game of tag, of seek and chase. One approaches, then the one at the feeder dives after, and they both soar away, one in mad pursuit of the other.
Sabrina tells me that at her last house, feeling sorry for one hummingbird who always was chased away, she hung a second feeder up, about 15 feet away. Then the dominant bird simply guarded both, hovering in the air at center point, flitting back and forth to make sure no one could get to either feeder on her watch.
So tell me - why does the hummingbird feeder have seating for five? Are there hummingbirds somewhere in the world who are better at sharing their food, allowing company to sit down at the dinner table? Do some other hummingbirds have an altruistic streak, that seems to be lacking in the ones in Alexander Valley? Or were the designers of this hummingbird feeder uninformed of hummingbird behavior? Or, perhaps, the designers were optimistic, thinking if they made the feeder for five, they could cajole the birds into learning how to share?
I watch them and think, "Silly birds! We always refill the feeder. There is plenty for everyone."
But - am I not guilty of that same behavior, in other circumstances? Holding on tight to what I have, afraid to give to others, afraid there won't be enough left over for me? In my case, the object I hold on tightest to is time. I am fearful to commit to things because I don't want to lose my alone time, my flexibility, my "freedom." So I hesitate. I am less than generous when it comes to offering a helping hand. Because I think there won't be enough left for me.
Silly bird.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Alone But Not Lonely
I'm not a big fan of large gatherings, especially meet-and-greets where you have to make small talk with a lot of people. That kind of superficial contact tends to wear me out, and it simply doesn't give me much pleasure. But I like human contact. I enjoy immensely an evening with a few friends, and become quite animated with the energy of conversation. And I adore spending time one on one, where I can talk for hours about books, ideas, dreams, passions.
Anyone seeing me in these environments would probably classify me as an extrovert. I appear to be comfortable and at ease in these situations - and that is not untrue.
At the same time, however, I love spending time alone. I cherish the days when I am able to stay at home all day, puttering around the house, reading books, writing, having my only conversations with my dogs and cats. I find that in order to have those external energetic times, I need time alone to recharge - hours of quiet, uninterrupted space.
Sometimes, though, I manage to combine those two sides of myself, being both alone and with people at the same time, in a deeply satisfying way.
A couple of weeks ago, while researching calendar items for inclusion in my newspaper, I discovered that one of my favorite cellists, Nina Kotova, would be appearing in Napa Valley. Since the concert was set for a Tuesday, Sabrina would be unavailable to attend. I asked my co-workers if they were interested, but there were no takers. I was not about to miss this opportunity; I immediately booked a single ticket online for myself.
The concert was held at Castello di Amorosa, a recently-built replica of an Italian castle. The program included two piano/string quartet numbers, plus a cello sonata by Kotova. Knowing that the venue would draw Napa Valley's "in" crowd, I had dressed up for the occasion. I arrived early, and watched people. Being alone gives you the opportunity to be a "spy;" it's one of the reasons I enjoy it so much.
We were seated in the central courtyard of the castle, in the open air. When the musicians came out, and took their chairs, it became obvious that I would not have a clear view of them, especially because there was a very tall man seated in front of me. For the first piece, I relaxed with my eyes closed, and felt the breeze on my face, imagined the notes falling into my hair, and smiled when small birds flew overhead and gave answering trills to the high tones of the violins. But before Nina came out, I stood and walked to the side of the courtyard, finding a seat on a low brick wall. I now had an unobstructed view of the stage. I watched enrapt throughout her Debussy piece; it was over far too soon.
A woman approached me later and asked me whether I enjoyed the Debussy. I said I liked it very much. She said she could tell. Apparently, my pleasure was visible. I had brief conversations with a few others about the music. I noticed a man and woman with a young boy. The man was carrying a slender musical case. I couldn't tell what it contained, so I asked him what he played. He said he was a cellist. I said, "Oh, it's your bow." He told me he used to play with a member of the string quartet, but now he sold instruments, and members of the ensemble were trying out some of his instruments. He was up from Los Angeles. The young boy was studying piano.
All of this is simple, nothing earth shattering. Conversations, observations, reflections. But it happened because I was alone. I followed my desires, moving to get a better view of Nina, not worrying about whether or not that was appropriate. I was able to be fully present for the entire concert, not off in my head while the music was playing, not engaged in conversation with my partner during intermission, not closed into an inner circle of friends. I was alone but completely there.
I can close my eyes right now and hear Debussy, and feel the breeze on my cheek.
Anyone seeing me in these environments would probably classify me as an extrovert. I appear to be comfortable and at ease in these situations - and that is not untrue.
At the same time, however, I love spending time alone. I cherish the days when I am able to stay at home all day, puttering around the house, reading books, writing, having my only conversations with my dogs and cats. I find that in order to have those external energetic times, I need time alone to recharge - hours of quiet, uninterrupted space.
Sometimes, though, I manage to combine those two sides of myself, being both alone and with people at the same time, in a deeply satisfying way.
A couple of weeks ago, while researching calendar items for inclusion in my newspaper, I discovered that one of my favorite cellists, Nina Kotova, would be appearing in Napa Valley. Since the concert was set for a Tuesday, Sabrina would be unavailable to attend. I asked my co-workers if they were interested, but there were no takers. I was not about to miss this opportunity; I immediately booked a single ticket online for myself.
The concert was held at Castello di Amorosa, a recently-built replica of an Italian castle. The program included two piano/string quartet numbers, plus a cello sonata by Kotova. Knowing that the venue would draw Napa Valley's "in" crowd, I had dressed up for the occasion. I arrived early, and watched people. Being alone gives you the opportunity to be a "spy;" it's one of the reasons I enjoy it so much.
We were seated in the central courtyard of the castle, in the open air. When the musicians came out, and took their chairs, it became obvious that I would not have a clear view of them, especially because there was a very tall man seated in front of me. For the first piece, I relaxed with my eyes closed, and felt the breeze on my face, imagined the notes falling into my hair, and smiled when small birds flew overhead and gave answering trills to the high tones of the violins. But before Nina came out, I stood and walked to the side of the courtyard, finding a seat on a low brick wall. I now had an unobstructed view of the stage. I watched enrapt throughout her Debussy piece; it was over far too soon.
A woman approached me later and asked me whether I enjoyed the Debussy. I said I liked it very much. She said she could tell. Apparently, my pleasure was visible. I had brief conversations with a few others about the music. I noticed a man and woman with a young boy. The man was carrying a slender musical case. I couldn't tell what it contained, so I asked him what he played. He said he was a cellist. I said, "Oh, it's your bow." He told me he used to play with a member of the string quartet, but now he sold instruments, and members of the ensemble were trying out some of his instruments. He was up from Los Angeles. The young boy was studying piano.
All of this is simple, nothing earth shattering. Conversations, observations, reflections. But it happened because I was alone. I followed my desires, moving to get a better view of Nina, not worrying about whether or not that was appropriate. I was able to be fully present for the entire concert, not off in my head while the music was playing, not engaged in conversation with my partner during intermission, not closed into an inner circle of friends. I was alone but completely there.
I can close my eyes right now and hear Debussy, and feel the breeze on my cheek.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Loving A Rogue
Two months ago, a scrappy white stray tom cat showed up at our house. It was a blustery, rainy day. That, combined with his color, led us to dub him Blizzard. At first, hungry and skittish, he was vocal about wanting food but would not come anywhere near us. We dutifully put out wet and dry food twice daily, and established a routine. He was always around near mealtime, but then disappeared.
Gradually, though, he began to stick closer and closer to the house, for more and more hours of the day. Within a couple of weeks, he surprised me by coming right up onto the floor of the shed where his food dish was as I was filling the bowl. A few days later, he rubbed up against my leg. I tentatively reached out a hand, and he allowed me to pet him. I was exultant. We had won him over.
But although now Blizzard spends all his time nearby, and loves to rub against me, and purrs loudly when I bring the food, he is filled with mixed messages. He frequently swats at my hand as I fill the bowl. Sometimes the claws are drawn in, and it's just a tap. Often, though, he draws blood. He has been in the middle of a caress, and suddenly turned and grabbed me around the leg with both front paws, sinking in deep. Two days ago, while happily greeting me, all at once he jumped up and bit me on my calf, again drawing blood.
I believe part of the problem is the fact he is unneutered, and we hope to trap him soon, and take care of that. But beyond that issue, it seems that Bliz has been living in the wild for some time, and has gotten a bit confused about how to appropriately express love and affection. Let's just say he sends lots of mixed messages.
And yet - every day, twice a day, I go out there to feed him. I stay centered in my body, trying to calm him as much as possible. I pay attention to his body language, and remain alert to what he may be trying to tell me. When he whacks me, I am startled, but I have never been mad or thought to myself, "Fine. No more food or love for you!" I simply regroup, refocus, and keep right on loving him.
Blizzard is very docile and sweet with the rest of our cats, never instigating any fights. A couple of toms from the neighborhood have begun showing up late at night to terrorize him, and I hear him in the wee hours, squalling. I jump up from my bed, and rush out, to chase away the intruders, and Blizzard saunters off once again to his post underneath the shed, where he spends the night. In other words, I have adopted him, for better or for worse, just as surely as if he were any of my other animals.
What amuses me, thinking about it today, is that I tolerate this erratic behavior from a cat without a second thought, when I am so sensitive when it comes to human beings. Blizzard may very well rub against me and purr one moment and bite me the next, but it doesn't in any way lessen the amount of love I have for him, or the amount of patience I bring to the relationship. I am not thinking about my needs and wants when I approach him. I am thinking about what he needs, what is going on for him.
Why, then, is it so hard to do that with humans? When my mother hurts my feelings, I question her love in the absolute. When a friend snaps at me, I retreat in silence and resentment, instead of extending a concerned hand of compassion. When my boss is in a bad mood at work, I am convinced that it is something I have done, and I fret all day about how to make it right, even though I don't know what "it" is.
Then I go home to this stray cat, Blizzard. I am patient and compassionate and loving. I willingly lose sleep to protect him. I offer myself up to him day after day, making myself vulnerable, because I know that he wants to love me - he's just not sure exactly how to do it yet.
Ah, loving a rogue. I need to learn to treat everyone in my life as if they were a scrappy stray cat that showed up at my door.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Everything Changes
In a discussion this evening on the Three Marks of Existence, Tony Patchell focused on impermanence, the flux of life.
The Three Marks are (1) impermanence or inconstancy, (2) dukkha or suffering, and (3) non-self. A fourth mark is also frequently added, that of nirvana, or perfect composure, to round out the set.
Tony began with that most famous of quotes from Suzuki-roshi, when asked to summarize Zen: "Everything changes." A full acceptance of that fact, of the absolute fact of transciency, goes hand in hand with the concept of selflessness - because what are you, if you change every moment?
Tony said that we as Zen students must first hear those words from a teacher, or read them in Buddhist writings. Then we must contemplate them, and analyze them, studying them until we can bring them to our own understanding. But even that is not enough. The final step is to meditate, to turn to zazen. Because it is only through zazen that we fully comprehend in our bodies what it means to be impermanent, to be always changing.
Impermanency - it is both incredibly terrifying and comforting at the same time. Terrifying for the obvious reasons. All the "good" things will go. When I think about losing those I love (my wife, my friends, my family members, my animals), it makes my heart clamp up. I'm a little less frightened when it comes to objects. I believe that I could recover relatively unscathed from the loss of my car, or my home, or other such items. But even there, I have vulnerable spots. I get frantic thinking about house fires, not only because I worry about all of my dogs and cats, but because I panic at the thought of all of my writings and computer files going up in flames. It's my words that I'm attached to. Hah! Talk about impermanent!
So how, then, is the thought of impermanency comforting? When I am in a dark place, I know that it will not last. When my legs hurt while I sit zazen, I know that the pain is not endless. When I am frightened, or unsure of myself, or embarrassed, or lonely....everything changes. When I am exhausted, and hopeless, and burned out, pessimistic, angry, frustrated...these feelings pass. What an immense relief to know this is true.
Right now, I am wholly here. Now. And now again. Bam. Right here.
Pay attention. This is it.
The Three Marks are (1) impermanence or inconstancy, (2) dukkha or suffering, and (3) non-self. A fourth mark is also frequently added, that of nirvana, or perfect composure, to round out the set.
Tony began with that most famous of quotes from Suzuki-roshi, when asked to summarize Zen: "Everything changes." A full acceptance of that fact, of the absolute fact of transciency, goes hand in hand with the concept of selflessness - because what are you, if you change every moment?
Tony said that we as Zen students must first hear those words from a teacher, or read them in Buddhist writings. Then we must contemplate them, and analyze them, studying them until we can bring them to our own understanding. But even that is not enough. The final step is to meditate, to turn to zazen. Because it is only through zazen that we fully comprehend in our bodies what it means to be impermanent, to be always changing.
Impermanency - it is both incredibly terrifying and comforting at the same time. Terrifying for the obvious reasons. All the "good" things will go. When I think about losing those I love (my wife, my friends, my family members, my animals), it makes my heart clamp up. I'm a little less frightened when it comes to objects. I believe that I could recover relatively unscathed from the loss of my car, or my home, or other such items. But even there, I have vulnerable spots. I get frantic thinking about house fires, not only because I worry about all of my dogs and cats, but because I panic at the thought of all of my writings and computer files going up in flames. It's my words that I'm attached to. Hah! Talk about impermanent!
So how, then, is the thought of impermanency comforting? When I am in a dark place, I know that it will not last. When my legs hurt while I sit zazen, I know that the pain is not endless. When I am frightened, or unsure of myself, or embarrassed, or lonely....everything changes. When I am exhausted, and hopeless, and burned out, pessimistic, angry, frustrated...these feelings pass. What an immense relief to know this is true.
Right now, I am wholly here. Now. And now again. Bam. Right here.
Pay attention. This is it.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Who Am I To Give Advice?
I have found myself in the awkward position recently of having people ask me for advice. Not little advice, like, "Can you recommend a restaurant?" or, "Do you know of a good place to find organic produce?" Big advice. Questions like: "How can I live with having screwed something up really badly?" Or "Should I leave my job and move to another state, because I may have found a temporary escape from a bad situation I'm in right now?"
Wow. Me? You're asking me?
One of the friends has asked for advice over email. That's a little easier for me, because I can read the note, and then sit with it for a day or two, mulling it over. But the second friend asked me today in person, face to face, while she was crying. I found myself sitting there quietly, listening, and listening, and listening. It was so much to process. A third friend, also in the room, jokingly said, "Oh, you're just sitting there with your Buddha expression." If only!
It is not because I am feeling tranquil and calm and serene. It is because I am slowly sorting through things, trying to make sense of my feelings. Because what comes up first is: Who the hell am I to be giving advice to anyone? For goodness sake, look at my life! Look at all the wrong turns I have taken. Look at all the pain and suffering, the missed opportunities, the ridiculously convoluted path that I have followed to get me to where I am now. Me, offer a road map to someone else?
But I keep sitting, quietly. And the other voice surfaces. Yes, it says. You have experienced a great deal. But each pain, each loss, broke your heart open a little bit wider, and taught you a little bit more about compassion. Without all those twists and turns, you would not have this poet's soul. You would not have the desire to reach out to others. You would be closed off and broken, and you are not. You are whole. You survived.
So now I find myself in this place, where people I care about ask me for advice. What shall I say?
In a poem I wrote a couple of years ago, I penned these lines:
The phone rings. A friend struggles with her marriage’s end,
asking for answers. I make my words a mirror
of her own wisdom, know I cannot predict
what will grow in someone else’s garden.
That is what I learned during those long, hard years. No one had answers for me. Only I had the answers. What I needed was friends who would listen to me talk, friends who would compassionately hear me try to figure out exactly what it was I needed to do, searching through my own soul's truth.
Today I remind myself of that. After some thought, I offered a few tangible suggestions to these friends, strategies for planning. But the most important thing I could do, in the end, was listen, and remind them, in turn, to listen to themselves. The most important answers always lie within.
Wow. Me? You're asking me?
One of the friends has asked for advice over email. That's a little easier for me, because I can read the note, and then sit with it for a day or two, mulling it over. But the second friend asked me today in person, face to face, while she was crying. I found myself sitting there quietly, listening, and listening, and listening. It was so much to process. A third friend, also in the room, jokingly said, "Oh, you're just sitting there with your Buddha expression." If only!
It is not because I am feeling tranquil and calm and serene. It is because I am slowly sorting through things, trying to make sense of my feelings. Because what comes up first is: Who the hell am I to be giving advice to anyone? For goodness sake, look at my life! Look at all the wrong turns I have taken. Look at all the pain and suffering, the missed opportunities, the ridiculously convoluted path that I have followed to get me to where I am now. Me, offer a road map to someone else?
But I keep sitting, quietly. And the other voice surfaces. Yes, it says. You have experienced a great deal. But each pain, each loss, broke your heart open a little bit wider, and taught you a little bit more about compassion. Without all those twists and turns, you would not have this poet's soul. You would not have the desire to reach out to others. You would be closed off and broken, and you are not. You are whole. You survived.
So now I find myself in this place, where people I care about ask me for advice. What shall I say?
In a poem I wrote a couple of years ago, I penned these lines:
The phone rings. A friend struggles with her marriage’s end,
asking for answers. I make my words a mirror
of her own wisdom, know I cannot predict
what will grow in someone else’s garden.
That is what I learned during those long, hard years. No one had answers for me. Only I had the answers. What I needed was friends who would listen to me talk, friends who would compassionately hear me try to figure out exactly what it was I needed to do, searching through my own soul's truth.
Today I remind myself of that. After some thought, I offered a few tangible suggestions to these friends, strategies for planning. But the most important thing I could do, in the end, was listen, and remind them, in turn, to listen to themselves. The most important answers always lie within.
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