Mary Oliver once asked her dog, Percy, how should I live my life? Here is the response:
Read MoreLove, love, love, says Percy.
And hurry as fast as you can
along the shining beach, or the rubble, or the dust.Then, go to sleep.
Give up your body heat, your beating heart.
Then, trust.
“There’s nothing we could know about ourselves or another that could solve the problem that other people actually exist and we are utterly depend on them.” ~ Adam Phillips
When I first began practicing yoga with others, I used to walk from my university residence to the studio in another part of town, my yoga mat bag slung over my shoulder. I would go to a class just about every day (the freedom of being a student!) and attempted to be discrete about the whole thing. “What are you carrying in the bag?” I would sometimes get asked. “An instrument?”, “A fishing rod?”, “A gun?”. “A yoga mat,” I’d say and quickly carry on away from the stranger with a perplexed look on their face.
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I don’t know if this is the most beautiful place in the world or if it is my most favourite. I do know that it is the place that has loved me the longest. My grandparents bought this piece of land 68 years ago and since, built two cottages on it, had 11 children to make it a proper circus, and passed it on as a place to call our own. Now, the cottage is owned in 11 shares and while our family remains close, I have lost count of our numbers that use it on a yearly basis.
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“Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.” ~ Simone Weil
I remember putting my two-year-old son in his car seat for what was probably the 500th time.
While I was thinking something like, “God damn, I can’t wait until he can buckle his own seat belt,” he put his slight hand on my arm and whispered “Whasat?”
I glanced all around and looked back at his face, which was bright with wonder. It took me a few moments to realize that he was talking about the chirping sound of the cicadas ringing on that hot summer day, a sound that I didn’t hear until he pointed it out. The sound was lovely, it was right there, and I didn’t even notice.
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The first time I read Pema Chodron’s book, When things Fall Apart, my father was ill. Overnight, Dad had lost decades of his long-term and short-term memory because of an inflammation in the brain that couldn’t be explained.
He still remembered the people he loved, just not where we all lived. He could still dress himself, but he didn’t recognize the clothes in his closet. He still had a sense of humor, it was just that he would make the same jokes over and over and over.
He was determined to “get this memory thing sorted out,” despite the less optimistic prognosis.
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