....a name

Yogis,
I had an epiphany today.

Every since I started removing English Ivy in earnest on my side slope, native groundcovers have been arriving. Any time I see someone new in the yard I use my plant identifier app to ID it. It gives me common name, botanical name and whether the plant is native to my region..

As long as it falls in the native column, I do a bit more research and most often welcome it with open arms. Black snakeroot is one such plant.

Yet every time I go out and see her and try to remember the name, I can’t. I know the plant by sight. I know its growing pattern, how it spreads, what it likes. I know the plant but can’t remember the name.

The same thing happens every spring as I run the river paths. This morning alone I had to identify the names of 4 different plants that I have become friends with over the years. Each time I am like, ‘of course!’ but don’t ask me again next week.

I know the plants’ essence. I know the personality.  I just can’t remember the name.

It wasn’t until this morning as I did this process yet again that I had a flash of knowing. I am exactly the same way with people!

When I meet you, I am so focused on your eyes, your energy and the way you move. The name is arbitrary to my brain. A minor detail. I hear it, repeat it……and off it flies. The next time I see you, I do know you. I remember you. I don’t forget ‘you’, but have to pray I don’t need to use your name.

I heard in a podcast lately about how language can be a barrier in many ways to our empathy and connection to the natural world. Even at times to each other (think about if someone has a name you dislike from a past experience).

Every label we attach to something drags along stories, judgments and associations, instantly limiting its innate unlimited potential. Children don’t know the labels yet, giving them the freedom to embrace everything and everyone.

Eventually I do remember their name and yours,
SARAH

.....a reminder

Yogis,
I’ve had geese on the mind. As a family with goose history, it has been coming up in conversations. Like when my son was bitten in the butt by one while innocently offering bread. Or times we have been hissed at or chased. And it’s always this time of year because this is when yellow fuzzy goslings emerge from their shells.

With that as the backdrop…….I went for a morning beach run on Tuesday. A spectacular blue skied day. Running along the tide line, I kept getting urges to stop and sit. You know, the inner voice that makes a suggestion. Or that sudden sensation that gives guidance. One would arise. I would consider it and promptly push it back down.

It felt appealing to sit with warm sun on my face, but I would talk myself out of it. I will be in people’s path. I’ll do it later in the run. Etc.

I head through town and cut over to the lake. I spot the bench that faces the water and the urge speaks up again. OK. This time I’ll listen.

Sitting quietly noticing the beautiful greenery, I didn’t see them coming until they were at my side. A mom and dad goose with three goslings. Certain I was going to be hissed at, I sat perfectly still, figuring they would pass on by.

They didn’t. About three feet in front of me the mom and babies lay down while dad stood guard.

I slowly slid my phone out to take pictures. They cared not. Mom groomed herself while the goslings huddled for a quick nap. Dad occasionally looked over his shoulder to keep me on my toes.

What a gift! The whole experience gave me goosebumps…. in a good way! It acted as a much needed reminder.

I get caught up in forward movement. Heading toward and looking for experiences. Those urges I had received were to be still, because when you are still, the experiences come to you. Miracles are always all around us waiting for us to get quiet. To be here.

On Sunday I did the same thing with my granddaughter, and of course it happened again.

Be still to be awed,
SARAH

....sandwich generation

Yogis,
Have you heard of it? Typically the generation in their 50’s who have aging parents and their own children. With everyone living longer though, it seems like the tuna salad sandwich has become a BLT with multiple layers.

Looking at my own life I help out with grandchildren, children and parents. This weekend I had the gift of 3 days with my mom.

Every year my dad travels to his ‘guys’ running, drinking, and generally being a teenager again, weekend. My mom either stays with my sister or I go up to be with her. This was my year.

We talked on the phone several times to discuss what we might want to do. On arrival, we kicked around options. We would prepare breakfasts and lunches together. She would cook dinner Friday, I would handle Saturday, and Sunday we obviously deserved to go out.

Friday evening included cocktails and watching Jeopardy.

Saturday, going to the movies sounded great since neither of us seem to go anymore. A quick read of reviews and we settled on The Sheep Detectives. A family friendly charming movie that I recommend. We even took advantage of the reclining seats in the theater.

We worked on the NYT crossword puzzle together. Reminisced about our past. Walked down to visit her neighbor and watched the Yankees. Even attended my niece’s graduation online. We took Phoebe to walk in a park and even though she had put her sneakers on, mom decided sitting on the bench with another woman was more appealing. The two of them looked like long lost friends in minutes.

My mom is fun.

This weekend reminded me of time with my grandkids. That same unstructured, see what we want to do at the time, kind of days. A relaxed approach to life that keeps you much more aware and present. No ‘have tos’ or ‘shoulds’. A lifestyle that is hard to have with our own children.

Finding myself as maybe the tomato layer in the sandwich now, I realize it is not a bad place to be.

I realize how lucky I am to have my mom,
SARAH

 

.....matriarchy

Yogis,
Spring clean up has begun on the community flower gardens along our town’s main street. Last week was our annual mulching event where those of us who garden and volunteers gather for a few hours of spreading.

During the event I became aware of something.

It started when one of the women showed up with her broom. An old-fashioned corn broom. She promptly positioned herself toward the back of the group. As we completed a section she would come behind, sweeping away what fell in the path and tidying up the garden edges.

Ah, I see. She is the ‘sweeper’ in the group. I am not the sweeper. It never occurred to me to bring a broom or take on that role.

A few other women brought straight metal rakes. They would ask for a pile of mulch to be dumped and they would smooth it out across the area. Again….not me. I am a ‘down on my knees, hands in the dirt’ mulching type. No gloves, of course.

The woman who organizes the event drives the small tractor that carries the cans of mulch from the truck to the gardens. With a no-nonsense approach, she bee lines back and forth and you better watch your toes. The perfect role for her that she returns to year after year.  She keeps things moving and points out issues. But is she in charge? No. No one is boss.

Were there men? Yes, of course. They instinctively took jobs of loading and unloading large cans and wheelbarrows of mulch. Always asking where and when to dump.

A well-oiled machine. I realized I was watching a matriarchy in process.

Another great example......

A matriarchy does not simply mean we put women in charge. That doesn’t change the triangle shape of patriarchy that our culture, society and economy are built on. A matriarchy is in the shape of a circle. All working together. To shift to this takes a deep structural change, not just a change in personnel.

And what is in the center of the circle? Children, elderly and vulnerable.

Mulching made this all so much clearer.

Craving a circle,
SARAH