....ode to birdbath

Yogis,
About a week before my next-door neighbor Danny became ill he nonchalantly asked if I wanted his bird bath. The old-fashioned type with a heavy-duty white concrete stand and a painted blue bowl. Knowing him, he probably was the painter.

Only a few weeks later he passed away. He clearly knew he was sick before any of us had a clue. I had not had time to get the bird bath. I knew that his intention was for me to carry on the watering of our feathered friends, of whom he had taught me so much. So, in the dark of night, we went and carried it over.

It has sat in the center of my medicine wheel garden ever since.

Friday evening in heavy 94-degree air I was cleaning and refilling the bowl with the hose. Once finished a wasp flew in and landed at the edge and dipped her face in for a quick drink.

Of course, the birds love it! Sparrows dip in and shake their feathers, becoming adorably round and fluffy. Bluebirds, cardinals, robins even crows take turns at the local watering hole. A rock I placed in the center gives even the hummingbird a chance for hydration.  

Yet the wasp reminded me all of us need water.

Over the summers I remember seeing bumble bees in there. Dragonflies and butterflies. Even Phoebe knows how dependable the bird bath is when we return from a steamy walk. The perfect height! The deer too know where to come when heat waves make water scarce.

In fact, the other day the mother deer brought her two fawns to check out the garden. All three munched away on my goldenrod and black eyed susans (oh well) until one of the babies worked up a thirst and found the birdbath. 

Again…..perfect height! Now she too will know where to come.

Recently birdbaths have gotten a bad rap from mosquitos. But throw in half a mosquito dunk and no eggs will hatch. Safe for all.

Birdbaths offer lifesaving water for all of earth’s creatures and provide great entertainment out my windows. Thanks Danny!

Thirsty,
SARAH

.....mercy

Yogis,
I’m sure you have noticed. The bugs are back!

Big ones, little ones and some so small we can’t see. They may fly, walk or slither, come in every color imaginable and make this life we live possible. Each has a unique role. I know many of you are grimacing right now saying ‘no thanks’, and wishing they hadn’t returned. But it is all in perspective.

As you know, I love to photograph insects. There are those that arrive with a flourish, like a butterfly and getting a quick shot is easy. Others appear like a spec of dirt on a leaf and unless you zoom in you don’t’ realize they are living beings. Yet to really get to know any of them takes patience.

A friend saw her first butterfly recently and wanted to get a picture. She told me it let her get very close and wasn’t afraid. Yes!! When approached with an energy of curiosity and kindness, most will stay or keep returning. The beginning of a relationship. A connection.

Even the tiniest ones when I get soooo close have faces, with eyes, mouths, antennae that will all turn my way as I steady my phone inches away. I watch them chew, wipe their mouths, reach with a leg and even in their most intimate of activities. Sorry!

 

What has developed over the years of getting close to bugs is a deeper sense of compassion. An understanding that anytime I purposely step on or squash one…..especially when it is out in it’s own home, I am extinguishing a life. Regardless of how small.

I was reminded this week of ‘Mercy’ by Rudy Francisco.

She asks me to kill the spider.
Instead, I get the most peaceful weapons I can find.

I take a cup and a napkin.
I catch the spider, put it outside and allow it to walk away.

If I am ever caught in the wrong place at the wrong time,
just being alive and not bothering anyone,

I hope I am greeted with the same kind of mercy.

Do bugs ever have to be killed? Yes I suppose, but even a mindful pause to consider options opens a door to mercy.

Hello beetle,
SARAH

....trickster

Yogis,
Running down my street I spot some bright yellow in middle of the road. Getting closer I see it is a small stuffed duck. It is a little worn but intact so I place it on a big rock on the side of the street so that whoever lost it may spot it. A few days later it was gone.

Next I am running down and in almost the same spot something red catches my eye. A small rope tie. The kind a dog would love to tug on. Again, I shake it off and put it to the side. Now I am getting suspicious.

A few days go by and the red rope is still there but now on the other side lies a small stuffed lamb. I recognize it as lambchop since Phoebe has one which she adores. I am now putting two and two together.

We are in fox kit season and they are now big enough to be wandering out of the den and are eager to play. Therefore, like any good mom would do, toys found around town are brought home for the youngsters. I have often seen the parents crossing in this area. Mystery solved!

It reminds me of the shoes. A couple years ago while cleaning out debris that had fallen in the firepit I uncovered a kid’s sneaker. I mention it to our next-door neighbor and she exclaims that things had been missing from their front porch. Having blamed the kids for being forgetful, we now decide fox is the culprit.

Just last week I found a pink flip flop in our wood pile and a blue croc in the woods. The trickster has been up to its wily ways again.

I love fox.

The way they stop when you are approaching, often sitting to assess the situation before scampering off. Sometimes coming back once you pass and following for a bit. Curious.

And even how they leave a small single poop in a conspicuous place where you spend time to announce their presence. On the front walk, on the rock in the center of my garden and even on a straining bag I had forgotten outside. Really?

They are beautiful, clever, nimble and smart. Do you have fox stories?

Thankful for fox,
SARAH

....the you channel

Yogis,
Are you old enough to remember the knob that was used to find a station on the radio? When looking for a particular channel, you would turn the knob until you found the music or show you wanted to listen to. Called a tuning knob, as you turned it in different directions it would pick up the different frequencies that each of the radio stations were broadcasting on.

It required some precision. Turn a tiny bit too far to the right and there would be static. A little too far left and a different station would come on. Often it would take patiently turning it back and forth several times to finally land right on it. It would then become crystal clear.

You had tuned in…….

Like radio stations, each one of us has our own inner channel. A frequency unique to us. And also like the radio, tuning in to our channel can be challenging.

Your unique frequency is the true you. That you that lays far under the clatter of the outer world. Deep below the noisy layer of thoughts. Below the constant static of that inner chatter. Beneath the distraction of ever shifting emotions. Under the worry and the fear. A part of you that is always there. Never changes. Completely at peace.

How do we tune in?

It’s a practice. In order to tune a radio you have to stop everything else you are doing, get quiet and place your focus on what you are trying to connect to. It is no different for us. This is what is called meditation.

It doesn’t have to be an hour. It doesn’t have to be sitting in lotus in a quiet room. It can be even a few minutes a day, but it does require stillness. A time when doing and movement stops and where focus is shifted to what it is you want to connect to. Searching inward for the channel you know is there.

When you land on it, you will know. It will come in crystal clear. For a moment the rest of the world fades away and you feel complete.

The more times you tune in the easier it is to find,
SARAH

....the piano

Yogis,
The pandemic left us a mixed bag of effects. One of the positives for me is I can teach from anywhere. For example, when I go to NJ to spend time with my parents I can do so without cancelling classes. I did that this week.

This is not the first time I have set up my traveling studio in their living room. My mat framed by a couch and a director’s chair, with a baby grand piano as the anchor for my backdrop.

This week people asked who plays the piano. A simple question that started me on a path.

Memory is a funny thing. You tell a story for so long you believe it to be true but when put to the test you begin to question yourself. My recollection is I took piano lessons from first through fourth grade, and then switched to violin. Never to go back to piano.

My mom though, seemed to have always been able to play. She played well enough that she was my accompanist for numerous violin concerts. I remember us practicing together.

Now the piano sits quietly.

After another asked who plays, I finally went over and sat down. The music was opened to Beethoven’s For Eloise, a song I played innumerable times. I set my fingers on the keys and watched as my brain tried to reconnect the pathways that take black marks and magically turn them into music that fills a home.

Things started coming to me, like ‘every good boy deserves fudge’ for notes on the right hand. Left hand…..not so much, yet at times it knew exactly where to go on its own. Flats. Sharps. A lot to process. My brain felt creaky, but it slowly began loosening. It felt good!

My dad came in. ‘I didn’t know you knew how to play piano.’  I told my story as I remember it. He didn’t remember that. Later I was playing again when my sister arrived. ‘I didn’t know you knew how to play the piano.’ Hmmmm……

Into the picture albums I dove. Yes! There I am at 6 at the piano.  At 8 playing as my sister joins in. Clearly what we learn when young stays deep inside and only needs a spark to reignite it. Who knew? Obviously not my family.

I asked my mom to try to play. As we sat together, her fingers too began to find the keys that turned black little circles into music we could feel.

What do you have buried?

Reigniting,
SARAH

....seeds

Yogis,
My phone rang a little before 9 on Friday morning. It was my mom telling me a bouquet of flowers had been hand delivered a little earlier that morning (flower deliveries at 8am?) and that they were gorgeous.  

Probably ten years ago I started sending flowers for Mother’s Day, with the arrival always scheduled for Friday so they could be enjoyed the whole weekend. My dad agreed to take a picture and send it to me so I could see for myself. I knew right where the flowers would be sitting.

My mom then went on to say that there were so many different colors and types of flowers and that simply looking at them was proof that there was a God.

This has been a running theme throughout my life.

I can remember being very young and her sharing this message with me. That anyplace or anything that inspired a sense of awe or wonder was an easy place to feel the connection of a greater power. Seeing a sunset. Looking over a vista. A rainbow.

Back then, as a good Catholic girl, I pictured God as a man up in the sky that I felt I was supposed to be a little afraid of. Over time my image and beliefs have shifted, yet I feel the presence of a benevolent force behind the awe. A divine creative power that swirls things into being.

Over the past few weeks I have been planting seeds. Dried out and so tiny, I prep the soil, sprinkle them about, shower them with a little water and wait. And every time I spot one of them poking their little heads up to reach for the light, I am astounded that nature can make that happen. That earth, our universal mother, can create life so effortlessly.

Before long these flowers will be big and bright and able to become a bouquet that sits on a mother’s kitchen table. And then from those, seeds can be saved and scattered once more. Amazing.

My mom planted many seeds in me……. Be kind to everyone and everything. Be sure to laugh. Never wear underpants with holes in case you are in an accident. And always stay connected to the awe.

Happy Mother’s Day,
SARAH

....simple (take 2)

Yogis,
It’s hard to believe we are in May! Seems so recent that the new year was launching, and I was sitting here writing about selecting a ‘word of the year’. A word that encapsulated your vision or intention for the year. One that had the right feeling tone. It’s time to check in.

Did you pick one? Do you remember what it was? How is it going?

The word I selected this year was ‘simple.’  As much as I still relish the word, I will admit that choosing it hasn’t had a great impact on my life so far. I want it to…..or at least I believe that I do. Yet, like most changes it takes more than wishing. It requires an inner shift.

I have taken a few steps. Cleaned out a couple of cabinets. Donated a bag of clothes. Cancelled a few subscriptions. Spending less time on my computer.  But as some things clear it seems others fill in. Life and I do not feel simpler.

I receive daily contemplative emails from Richard Rohr’s organization and each week there is a theme. Last week was simplicity which was what got me thinking about all of this. What struck me most were some quotes by sister Jose Hobday. A little of what she said:

“Some folks admire simple living. They would love to declutter. They would love to walk freely. But they don’t really want to do it, because they don’t do it. You must take the actual steps. We can’t do it in our heads. Simplicity is not an idea.”

I love that!  It is not an idea. So what is it?

She goes on to talk about how simplicity must walk through our lives with us. Go to work with us. To the store. We must wear it. Something we embody. My head was nodding with each sentence. I can see that I am treating it like an idea and hoping it will happen. Not a good plan.

When someone who lives simply walks into our lives we can see it on them. We can feel it in them. It is them.

I would imagine this to be true for any shift we are wanting in our lives. Positivity…. Courage…… Trust…… Growth…. They can’t live in our heads.  We must begin by putting them on.

I will be doing a ‘take 2’ on simple.

As spiritual writer Paula Huston says about living simply, ‘it is infinitely more enjoyable’,
SARAH