Whipped Ricotta

The taste of whipped ricotta, jam, and lemon zest on bread baked hours before

The brilliance of the stars in their exuberance, fall leaves crunching beneath my feet

The rapture of a thick comforter as nights turn cold and snow threatens

The pre-dawn quiet when it is just the black dog and I navigating dark paths

The ecstasy of watching my children alight as their hands carve wood creations

The comfort of your voice, our joy, roots entwined 1,305 miles away

The marvel of remembering my animal body is also the ant and the distant sun

The wonder that joy should be an inheritance

Intuition

Dropping Anya at her classroom this morning the light was dim and one of her classmates peered with awe at the sky and said, "ANYA! The clouds look like a blanket!" All the surrounding adults paused, looked up, and stared with wonder. It was beautiful. And I wonder if we would have looked on our own.

One of the things I've ruminated upon since getting back from my retreat is when I stopped looking at the stars and clouds. When did I stop pausing with the natural ebb and flow of nature's cycles? When did I stop lying sprawled on my back in the grass, tracing planes with my eyes and dreaming of the worlds beyond those my eyes could conceive? There is a point where we are programmed to turn off our animal self and ignore the intuition and signals sent from our body, a body which was born in nature and will ultimately return.

So often we know a thing before our mind does, our body ignites with an understanding that is inexplicable. As we grow, we are taught to ignore that voice, one which is so organic and preternatural; it is the knowing we were gifted on our first day here. It is an adoring friend when we are young, but slowly we turn from it, forgetting that its interest is solely in the intricate unfolding of the self. It is perhaps the same instinct that had us running from the bear before it crashed out of the forest--but in our artificial world--we can ignore that intuition without physical peril.

But there are many kinds of danger infinitely more frightening than the physical. There is living a half life because you are paralyzed by fear. There is living inauthentically because you no longer trust the voice screaming that staying will mean the death of your vibrance, passion, and creative self. There is staring endlessly into a device at the cost of making eye contact with a stranger or the joy of exchanging laughter in the grocery store parking lot. There is losing the ability to play, ponder, and adventure. There is a slowly encroaching darkness of the soul, a tendency toward cynicism, fear, mistrust, and an implosion of the heart.

We are not born to wither. We are not born to find the passing clouds dull or to rush our children in haste with terse words to the next adult-programmed activity. We are not born to occupy the dark spaces of the world, our hearts like marbles in our chest, the next cocktail the only bit of a light in an increasing midnight. We are born to sing. To write poetry. To make love. To cherish the sunset and the smile of a small child grabbing her mother's hand. And on a day when the Earth is wrapped in the embrace of a cloud that looks entirely like a blanket, it is a thing meant to give us pause, so that we can marvel at the wild luck of being here at all (and especially together).

Hollow Men

There is real sorrow here walking with hollow men

We have forgotten our home in the stars

And fail to hear the brittle leaves as they whisper in the wind

A reminder to relish the kiss of the sun on bare skin

To cherish the heat of a summer day

To recognize that no living thing receives exception

To the endless grind of life and death and life again

There is real sorrow here walking with hollow men

We have forgotten the sweet smell of grass 

As we gaze into a scape of eternal blue

The clouds meandering without intent, directionless

The earth a thrumming, vibrant burst of energy

The ants and worms and fungus helping guide

All the living things back to dust so that they can live again

There is real sorrow here walking with hollow men

Except for the occasion when two strangers bump into one another

Shy smiles and words of kindness exchanged

Except when a piece of music ignites 

Something which had been sleeping in the soft dark

Except when the wild smile of a child

Is a reminder of all which has been forgotten

Retreat! Retreat!

I recently had the opportunity to attend a retreat, which I approached with skepticism and many cyanide-jokes. What I found in the time away from the kids and my life was a wild opportunity to look into my habits, perform ancient yoga with a practitioner who studied with gurus in India, and marinate in the strength and solidarity of other brave, courageous, and accomplished women.

We laid in the grass with bare toes, staring at the clouds; one night, we covered ourselves in blankets and watched the stars, remembering our home among distant suns. We cried frequently, with authenticity and sorrow for the moments we could have done better and the shame we carry in our imperfections. I wrote in stream of consciousness without judgment for the first time since my teenage years. One blustery and cold afternoon, I wrapped myself in a blanket and laid in the grass, the warm sun wrapping me in peace and comfort. I laid there until my mind was blank, the noise of the world falling away, and I transformed into the child I was so many decades ago.

We spoke about healthy and unhealthy emotionality, about our inner-critic and mentor, we meditated in the fuzzy-wee hours of the morning, and we challenged ourselves to mini experiments of courage in the next few weeks. I looked a partner in the eyes, sitting knee-to-knee, while listening to an empathy exercise and discovered the physical distance between us was simply an illusion.

I came back to real life and found that empathy present for every stranger I walk beside; all I want for them is peace, joy, and prosperity. The walls I had spent so many years constructing were dismantled in my time there and I find random moments of joy with strangers happening daily. It is wonderful to be present, to choose to fully participate in this lush and bursting world.

Though I reached the conclusion before committing to the retreat, I have decided to leave my big bertha job and move into something more oriented to patients with a better balance with my kids. It feels scary but my intuition tells me it is also important. There is something about forty that puts so much of my life in perspective; I may have limited years left and I want to be fully here and drink the marrow of these precious mortal minutes. I do not want to waste a single moment plowing away at work that is not in service to others or spend another summer watching my kids grow a year older in camps.

Perhaps there will be regret, but I suspect there won't. The decision to make the leap is almost always the scariest; afterward, there is a new path, adventures, and ever more to learn about myself and this immensely beautiful world.