My Little Mantra

 

I went shopping in the city last Thursday.  It did not go well.  I wandered Target in a fog for about two hours selecting and then rejecting things, unsure why I thought I needed them or convicted because I wasn't sure the money was there to buy them.  My acquisition urge was raging, but I had no clear soundings for choosing.

This fuzzy wanting state descends upon me sometimes when I'm shopping, usually when I'm alone.  I see so many things that seem desirable. I want that, and that, and that other thing, too!  I just want until it seems a twitching, almost compulsive urge that needs to be, not satisfied, but relinquished. 

With that in mind, and after accomplishing the task that caused the trip and more (Discontinued nail polish matched! Sherry vinegar obtained! Deeply discounted winter shoes found!), I saw the wisdom of letting it all go and heading home.  When the winter shoes didn't fit at home the way they had in the store, I lost grip on contentment once again. My felt happiness was still disturbed that night, which made it difficult to write with fun (Unhappiness is not a good muse. It's taken me days to write this.),  but reflecting on the experience did remind me of something I've often fallen back on in times like these.

Ten years or so ago I was newly separated, busted down to a studio apartment and adjusting to getting by on....less household income, shall we say.  I remember an evening when I entertained myself by leafing through a catalog and turning down corners of pages containing items I wanted. When I closed the catalog and saw all the folded corners, I realized that there was no way I would ever be buying all those things.  This was a depressing thought, a limiting thought.

I had run up against this knowledge before.  I had always thought I wanted a great many things and never had money or debt tolerance to buy even a fraction of them. The situation had always been a downer.  But that night I decided that I didn't want to be miserable any more about a situation I could not change and a desire that felt outsized and misguided.

After all, I did not need any of those coveted things.  I decided that I would let my life tell me what I needed, and that's what I would buy.  I found myself saying these words in my mind any time I felt full of that bottomless want:

 Let your life tell you what it needs. 

The phrase served as a reminder that I had what I needed and the ability to supply those needs.  Anything after that was a bonus.  Neither advertisers and manufacturers, with their promotions and persuasions, nor my own compulsions were the arbiters of my purchasing power.  My own genuine life needs were.

After a few instinctive fall backs, the phrase achieved official mantra status.  I didn't avoid feeling disturbance last Thursday, but I did fall back on my self created wisdom while lost in Target.  That's why everything went back out of the cart except the $8.00 nail polish that I was clear I wanted and knew I could afford, and why I looked for winter shoes whose absence had been noticed last season.  When the inner toddler gets a case of the gimmes, it's time to walk away and breathe and only buy what I'm clear I've had an inner order for.

Of course, sometimes I wish later that I'd walked away with an item that haunts me. This is the collateral damage of acquisitive attacks, when true desires become indistinguishable from passing ones. I still remember the sandals that made my feet say "Ah" two summers ago in Richmond.  And now there's the pewter ones I left at Target on Thursday.  I regretted that omission as soon as I was on the interstate home. But letting go is the only way to find peace about it, and they might have felt different at home, too!  Producers will continue to make pretty things to want and then try to convince us to buy them. There will always be more to acquire, and happiness isn't found in obtaining any of it.  Life truly does go spinning on, and just as happily.

The greater wisdom of my little mantra is that I'm instructing myself to look within for purchasing guidance rather than without. Desires that arise from authentic living in that way are worth honoring.  They are usually meaningful, even if they are also for shoes.  They come from and augment the process of becoming my truer self. They are not about acquiring, or holding on to something, so much as expressing, or letting something out. That twitching wanting is a need to fill an emptiness.  Fully funded and soul-led shopping is about adding to fullness. Like distinguishing salt and sugar, two purchases may look the same but taste very different.  One is sweetly free, the other bitingly tight.  Only the buyer knows the difference.

I'm thankful to know that difference now.  I can't avoid being human and therefore vulnerable to attacks of the wants, but I can choose wisely to pat that urge on the head and say, "Now, now.  You know that's not the way.  Put your little hands down and let's go home where we have all we need."

The best part is more enjoyment of what I do buy.  New pretties without a guilt hangover make life finer indeed.

Random Reason to Rejoice #19

The gentle pop of those red roses against all the greens in the room.

When I made the curtains,
I feared that using more color in the room would be limiting.

 I forgot about a little thing called contrast.

Splash!

Super Summer Salad

Why yes, I do love alliteration.  But look at that up there.  Doesn't it look super?  Super healthy anyway.  A perfect salad to take to those hot outdoor potlucks when a mayo-dressed dish is downright dangerous. (Whoo, that was a great run of d's! And I didn't even plan it!)

I found the recipe years ago in a slim publication called Nutrition Action Healthletter, although they freely admitted that it was originally a Cooking Light recipe. I checked: the only change the square-sounding Healthletter made was using oranges instead of tangelos.  Hardly a sacrifice.  Have you tried finding tangelos in the grocery store lately?  Exactly.

The easier-to-obtain oranges hang out with black beans, red pepper, onion, cilantro, and a touch of cumin, bathed in an orange and lime juice dressing.  A little sweet, a little creamy--and a little spicy if you include the hot sauce.  I don't because I don't like heat as much as I like alliteration, but suit yourself.

A little brown rice or hot cornbread could make it a meal. It also makes a very nice side for chipotle-lime marinated chicken, which we really should discuss some day.  I've made it three times. It must be a keeper. But that's for another time.  If your virtuous side needs a cool new bean dish, give this one a try.

If you don't know how to segment an orange, go here.  He's a little over weaning but pithy.  Get it?  Pithy?  Oh, my. Now I'm doing puns.  Let's get to the recipe before I do further damage. 

Black Bean and Citrus Salad

from Nutrition Action Healthletter

Makes 6 servings (3/4 cup each)

Note: I squeeze what's left of the oranges after segmenting to get the juice called for.  It's just about right.

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 cup diced onion

1 cup diced red bell pepper

2 teaspoons grated orange rind

1/4 cup fresh orange juice

3 tablespoons fresh lime juice

1 teaspoon sugar

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon ground cumin

1/4 teaspoon hot sauce

1 1/2 cups orange sections (about 6 oranges), membranes and pith (Ha!) removed

1/4 cup finely chopped fresh cilantro

2 15-ounce cans black beans, drained and rinsed

Heat the oil in a nonstick skillet over medium-high heat.  Add the onion and pepper and saute 5 minutes or until tender.  Combine the orange rind, the orange juice, and the next five ingredients in a small bowl.  Combine the onion mixture, orange sections, cilantro, and beans in a large bowl.  Add the juice mixture; toss to combine.

Nutrition information (because I have it): Calories 230, total fat 3 grams, sat fat 0 grams, fiber 9 grams, sodium 480 milligrams, cholesterol 0 milligrams, carbohydrates 48 grams, protein 10 grams.

Sabbath Surprise

You don't know it yet, but these are my angels.

This past Sunday I was deprived of my usual afternoon delights.  Normally I take to the deck or the couch with a stack of soul-nourishing books, escaping for hours into a beautiful, poetic, thoughtful world.  That little weekly vacation is anticipated all week and prepares me well for the next one.  I am dedicated to this Sabbath rest and loathe to give it up.

But I am also committed to being the chair of the hospitality committee at our church.  This position means that I'm in charge of any dinners we have.  I'm happy to serve in this way.  I've long wanted to feel capable of it, and it's a pleasure to relieve a dear friend who served in this capacity for twenty years.  But when they fall on Sunday evenings, shortening my precious afternoon idyll, I feel just a little resistance, despite my spiritual willingness.

So it was with a little reluctance that I came home and cooked a dish instead of reading blissfully, and then returned to the church for activity instead of remaining home for blessed idleness.  Three gifts made it all worth while.

First,  IT RAINED!  Holy relief! After a month or so of drought, it finally rained and good.  Even though the road was blocked by a downed tree and electrical line, causing us to turn around and find an alternate route and arrive later than planned--even though my new suede sandals got wet--even though the church basement sprang a leak that electrically endangered my burger-frying husband and caused us to lay down a path of towels to avoid slipping on the wet tile--yes, despite all that, I was deeply grateful for the shower.  The thirsty earth needed a drink, and I rejoiced at its slaking.    

Second, I was as moved as usual by the deacon ordination ceremony that my church puts on. It's a simple affair, with brief faith stories shared, a few songs sung, and a laying on of hands, which is my favorite part that always causes me tears.  Those who have never served as deacons before and are therefore being ordained or blessed by the congregation seat themselves in chairs.  All members who wish to do so step behind them, lay hands upon their shoulders, and whisper whatever prayer or words of encouragement they wish to offer.  Having been the recipient of such a shower of affirmation, I can tell you that it's a huge blessing requiring a hanky.  I am always moved both by remembering what it's like to receive this different kind of shower and by feeling privileged to give it to others. 

By this point, having fed people successfully and experienced an emotional blessing, I was already feeling richly repaid for leaving my cave of self nurturance.  Then came my third reward.

The college concert choir often uses our sanctuary for rehearsals and performances, both because the room has very good acoustic qualities and because the college choir director is also our church choir director (We are so lucky!) who knows about the sound gift.  As it happens, they were practicing that very night for the World Choir Games. (Who knew there was an Olympics for choirs?)  They invited us to come up after our service to be their practice audience.  Of course, most of us said yes. I certainly did.  I've been to these concerts before.  They are not to be missed, even if it was running up against my equally sacred bedtime schedule. 

From the moment they began singing, I was utterly transported.  It was angelic music, the kind of crafted singing that always makes me feel that I should go live a life full of things as beautiful as that music every day and never settle for less.  Sitting there rapt in their gorgeous sounds, I wished that kind of life for every one of them, too, these young souls giving their swaying all to deliver the melodies.  There really should be a world where soul moving singing is rewarded as well as paper pushing. That's my idea of heaven on earth. 

When they were done, applause did not do it justice for me.  I ran up to the stage and did what felt right: I got down on my knees and bowed my thanks.  A gift of beauty like that merits prostration from joy and gratitude, and I shamelessly offered it. 

Oh, but I almost forgot.  It wasn't over yet.  On the drive home, we were treated to a beautiful sunset whose glorious pink was reflected in the wet asphalt so seamlessly that it seemed we were driving on the sunset itself.  Were I fully the person I want to be, I would have snapped a humble cell phone picture of that wonder, too.  

Obviously I was not a bit sorry at the end of all these blessings that I had "served" instead of putting myself first. In truth I was triply rewarded for my little bit of giving, so much so that it felt like no sacrifice at all.  Following my callings always pays off.  Sometimes like an instant win in the Big Love lottery. 

Dry Faith

drought burns on

the grass dries and crunches

no need to mow

what isn't growing

and seems dead

but underneath

the roots wait

matted and conserved
ready to rocket their

greenness straight up 

when rain comes again

so resilient and patient

in their nearness

to the source

at the slightest 

provocation they'll

raise their heads and riot

the chore of mowing

will be an offering

to the god of plenty 
and regrowth

Freedom Curtains

Some people grilled burgers and watched fireworks on July 4.  I made curtains.

I have nothing against a juicy burger, especially if it's made with my father-in-law's good beef, or a grand display of sky flowers, as I saw them called on another blog today.  I just had different priorities for a bonus day.

My internal curtain alarm had been going off for some time now.  The time had come to dress that picture window; the inner toddler was quite clear about that.

I always carry a list in the back of my mind and on paper of decorating projects.  Occasionally one rises to prominence in this way, like the answer in an eight ball, and I go with it.  As long as I have money and supplies, that is.

As it happened, I had printed sheets from WalMart originally bought for our bedroom (Why, yes, over a year ago.  How'd you guess?), whose colors actually worked charmingly with the decor downstairs instead.  I slapped away fears of regret and just did it.

We're both very happy with them.  The sumptuous print contrasts serenely with the rough boards of the walls and harmonizes with my much beloved bench and the poster I've had since college, and the billowy drape softens all the lines and rectangles in the room. The bit of extra length allows them to puddle softly on the floor, adding further muchness.  I tried samples of other, more neutral fabrics, which would allow for more variety in table decor, but the unintended sheets were what spoke to me.  Gut response trumps practicality.  Practicality apparently isn't so much my thing any more.

In my own way, they're a personal declaration of independence.  I have cast off (mostly) the judgment and fear and doubt that used to prevent me from doing what I dreamed up.  I still bog down momentarily, but then I get bold and plunge ahead.  Never mind the what if's and negative possibilities.  Who knows what the future holds?  Let's have curtains three hours from now!

And that's all it took.  Three hours--and a little crawling around on the floor.  Hardly sweat shop labor because they're simple.  Just hemmed panels hanging from bought clips.  If you were able to look closely, you'd see that all the hems don't even match in width.  I left some pre-existing ones to save myself some work.  I don't know why I told that.  You'd have to be looking to even notice.  And then you'd deserve what you found.  That's my position on dust under beds, too.

Another something done, another idea birthed and swaddled, feels so good!  And the joyous doing (I don't count my few cursing moments--the point is I don't let frustration stop me any more) comes from self compassion.  When my thoughts constantly chorused my unworthiness, I quite naturally didn't feel like doing much.  Why put forth effort when you believe the results will be bad?  I have more optimism now.  Plus, I've learned that finished really is better than perfect.  Perfect exists only in the imagination.  Finished hangs on the wall and makes my eyes happy.  I'll take that please.  With a side order of puddling.

As I Wish

Letting go is infectious.  I may have found something else in my life that needs jettisoning: my piano.

Let's start with my historical relationship with the instrument. I wanted to learn to play for what seemed like all of my childhood.  My pre-middle-school best friend took piano lessons, and I envied her.  I remember sitting beside her on the bench as she practiced, wishing that I could take lessons, too.  There was no money for such things in our family.  Besides, my friend was an only child.  All resources could be devoted to her edification.  I was the oldest of eight.  I wasn't very old at all before I was some of the resources devoted to the younger children, at least in part.

When I was able to take band in fourth grade, my first question was whether piano was one of the instruments available.  Of course, it was not.  Portable ones were the rule, so I chose clarinet instead.  I did not continue with it in middle school.  Obviously, my heart was not in it.  The piano was my true love, alas unrequited by virtue of enforced separation.

In late high school (I think), my father bought an organ as a family Christmas present.  It came with a few sessions of group lessons to get the buyer started.  I vaguely remember that I attended them, still wanting to play but only being teased with the merest beginner training.

My father bought this organ because he can play one, as well as the piano.  He learned as a child. It just now occurs to me to wonder why he didn't think to teach me to play.  It never occurred to me then.  I'm sure I didn't ask.  I was a wheel that did not squeak if at all possible.  I don't remember asking for lessons from anyone.  I knew that money was tight and that my dad was impatient (I take after him just a little). It never occurred to me to bring up what obviously couldn't be done.

In college, to fill hours, I took two semesters (I think--or was it quarters?) of class piano--group instruction again.  Here was my chance to learn to play at last, even if I did only have a tiny, tinny keyboard for home practice.  It was practically free--I was already paying for school--and they had practice pianos available.

In actuality, it was frustrating.  I wanted so badly to play, to be able to unlock the beautiful moodiness like that in the Chopin CD I listened to at the time.  Instead, I felt myself up against a barrier.  I'd sit at the keyboard trying to will my fingers to move simultaneously or, worse yet, syncopatedly.  My poor brain just couldn't seem to manage the multiplicity of piano playing.  Apparently, I was indeed never meant to be a multi-tasker.  At the end of my time in those classes, I still couldn't play.  Tired of the humiliation of locking up in front of the instructor, I let it go and focused on classes necessary to finish my degree.

As a young adult, my then husband's co-worker wanted to sell her piano.  I bought it.  I still have it, I have moved it three times, and I still don't know how to play it.  The last strong men who moved it complained more when they found out that I didn't know how to play the thing.  That was the first time I questioned, ever so briefly, my attachment to my piano.

I did try to make use of it in my one other stab at learning--using my husband's tuition waiver hours from the college where he works to take one semester of piano lessons from a professor.  It was again the same frustration and lack of progress, even though I had my own practice piano this time.

Currently, the piano--symbol of my thwarted longing--is taking up valuable space in what is supposed to be Dave's studio.  Recently, for the first time, I began to seriously wonder if I really need to keep it anymore.  It's all because of writing.

When I wrote about my pallor--I mean, my ivory skin--and my slender feet, I unearthed ideas about myself that needed to go.  The traits didn't change, but I felt differently about them after probing into the ideas and finding the thoughts behind them, conceptions so old that I'd ceased to notice what I was carrying around any more.  When I did, I found them releasable.  My piano may be one of those burdens.

For most all my conscious life, the piano has been one of the symbols of my wronged status, my lack.  It was tied up in the story of me as deprived, poor, unattended, missing things much desired.  It was all about what I didn't have, the emblem of wanting and not getting.

But I'm an adult now.  I'm responsible for my own life, no longer deprived or held back by anyone but me.  And more realistic, too.

Realistically, here are some other facts to consider.  I've tried--even if not whole heartedly, blocked by low self worth as I was--three times to learn to play my beloved instrument.  None of those attempts seemed to take.

One reason that I may be unsuited to it is the second fact, my irregular nature.  I can't even type well--and I've had those keys memorized since seventh grade.  I constantly hit wrong keys, backspace, and fume.  I have never been able to keep the steady, sure rhythm of a good keyboardist going. Heck, even my heart beat is irregular!  It's a mild arrhythmia, not even requiring treatment, but the point stands.  I'm uneven all the way through. Even singing in choir, I found myself fooled when I thought I could keep proper time without the steady beat of the director. Maybe I'm just too unsteady to be a pianist.

A more practical matter is that I'm vulnerable to tendonitis in my wrists. My inability to properly strike the keys--straight up and down like curved pistons, no reaching and splaying--causes further strain. My work and writing already require lots of keyboarding. Do I really need another hand intensive activity in my life?

But the biggest factor weighing on my mind right now is the questioning my recent writing has produced.  It has revealed that I've carried around sad, outdated ideas about myself that need to be changed.  They've been so much a ground-in part of my identity that I hadn't even noticed them.  When I did, they had to go.

For at least thirty five years I've wished I could play the piano.  So many times I've said exactly that. I have almost always been She Who Never Learned to Play the Piano, a label with an ache of lack in it. It's been part of my identity.  But does it have to be that way?

The newly opened door in my mind shows that no, it doesn't.  Just because I've fingered the baby grand shaped hole in my heart every time I've seen a piano in the past or heard someone play, doesn't mean that I have to now, just as I don't have to view my fair legs with distaste today because a few people in the past did.  I have the power to let go of hurts and move on.  The piano may be an anchor that needs pulling up. 

Of course, the alternative is that I could finally, with my new grown up powers of action, give myself the lessons I've thought I always wanted and check a big item off my life list. I haven't decided yet.  The great gift is that I can be more free in my thinking about it.  The grown up me may not need to play the piano.  It sure hasn't seemed to come naturally to me.  My longing to play may be as outdated as my view of my skin and feet--the child's dream, not the adult's.  I can choose whether this ache is a phantom pain or a true desire, and I have the power to do something about it either way, laying it down or taking it up, as I wish.

Somehow, the decision feels important.  I have felt the crossroads urgency and the old tenderness around the subject as I've written about it. Choosing what to do with this piano requires really knowing who I am and what I need.  Apparently I still have more to learn about both parts.  I also have faith that, with an open hand and heart, I will.