weaving

The birdfeeder is empty, the suet gone.  Yesterday morning, a feathered friend—a woodpecker or chickadee, I can’t remember which—perched itself on the suet feeder, looking (to my eyes) forlorn.  I feel as if I’m letting the birds down.  I know they’ll find food elsewhere; still, I feel like I need to hold up my end of the bargain:  I feed you, you visit my feeders hanging from the birch tree.  There’s been no handshake (no hand-to-feather-shake) of any kind but the arrangement seems to work.  So long as I keep up my end of things.  The responsibility I feel is real.

My friend tells me about cyclamen.  It’s the first I’ve heard of this flowering plant. Days later, without looking for it, I find cyclamen at the entrance of the grocery store, a shelf full of white-red-pink-purple blooms.  I pick a plant, bright pink—though not fuchsia—a just-right-deep-pink—to bring home with me.  The Universe wants me to have this, yes?  I decide yes. When I get home, I look up cyclamen, read that it’s especially popular during the winter months when you can find it on grocery store shelves in full bloom. Apparently.

I plan too much for the week but take full responsibility for everything planned.  I take lots of deep breaths, write lots of to-do lists, drink lots of water, try to sleep.  The sleep is choppy, interrupted, hard won.  I don’t power through the week but I do move through.  What other way is there?  I go for walks, I practice a tiny bit of yoga and teach a few classes, I cook meals for my three.  I spend time with a group of women in a shared space of quiet and words.  It’s almost too much, but it’s also really good and, in the end, just about right.

I watch how I respond to people and situations.  I listen for cues from my body.  I know that I overwhelm more easily than some.  I hold the overwhelm tenderly, hold myself tenderly.  Harsh words and criticism only increase the heavy load when what I want is lightness, when what I want is fluidity and ease.  I can’t make ease happen, can’t force it to magically appear, but I can create the conditions for it.  I can call it in, make room for it.  I can pull up an extra chair, pour an extra cup of tea, so to speak.  I can say, Here,have a seat, tell me what’s on your heart today.

Responsibility, blooms, ease.
I see a thread.
I wonder what I might weave.
What we speak becomes the house we live in.
~ Hafiz ~