This morning I’m with Jane Hirshfield’s words: There is only one way to travel and that is inward.  

I believe and follow that, but today I feel the more inward I travel, the more I feel the current pain and suffering in the world.

In one way the crisis is abstract for me.  I don’t currently personally know anyone who is sick or has died, though my sons do, but I feel the energy in the air even as the day comes to light and birds sing a welcome to this new day.

On Saturday I saw my six month old grandson for the first time since we sheltered-in-place.  We kept a 13 foot distance, but I felt how clearly eyes share photons when we look at each other, and how there’s a heart connection no matter where he is but when he’s right here, wow.

Years ago, I was in a class where we placed a metal tube at our hearts – two people – one tube – sending love – there was a melt and bend.

My task today is simple.  Send Love through the waves as I celebrate the simplicity of quiet, the strength.

In the stillness of the quiet, if we listen, we can hear the whisper of the heart giving strength to weakness, 

courage to fear, hope to despair.

— Howard Thurman

My friend Mirka’s blog is on Art and Shelter, and offers a wonderful entry into how we might meet another month sheltering-in-place.  I especially love the human bird nest.

I look up and out on plants reaching to connect summer with spring.

Thich Nhat Hanh says, People say walking on water is a miracle, but to me walking peacefully on the earth is the real miracle.

That is my intention these days, to walk peacefully on the earth, the earth within, all those cells, and this beautiful ground, my abode for now.

As a child growing up in Des Moines, Iowa, the afternoon and evening before May Day, we’d make baskets with handles out of construction paper, and fill the baskets with candy and flowers.  Early the next day, we’d hang them on the door knobs of our neighbors.  May Day!  

Now, today, we’re sheltered-in-place.  It’s beautiful where I live, and the birds are singing and the sun is shining.  I’m struck with synchronicity.  

Yesterday I started reading a memoir, One Blade of Grass by Henry Shukman.  I paused when I came to how his life was changed by Transcendental Meditation.  I remembered back to when I came to it in 1974.  I was newly pregnant with Jeff, and was told pregnancy is a time to be a peaceful haven for what’s happening inside, so I could meditate as much as I wanted, and I did.  I wasn’t confined to 20 minutes in the morning and 20 minutes at night.  I took my mantra and meditation to heart and immersed.  

For a long time though I’ve used other forms of meditation, but yesterday my 25 year old niece invited me to join a Transcendental Meditation group offered on-line. I was delighted.  It would be something we could share though she’s in Boston and I’m north of SF, and we don’t know when visits can happen again.  I don’t see a return to life as it was, and that honors evolution and change.

I’m with these words of D.H. Lawrence: There is nothing of me that is alone and absolute except my mind, and we shall find that the mind has no existence by itself, it is only the glitter of the sun on the surface of the waters.  

What a beautiful image and way to enter this first day in May.

And for a mind tease: Every C in Pacifc Ocean is pronounced differently.

Happy May Day, and circling around Maypoles within and without.

Last night we enjoyed and savored cheese fondue for dinner.  That’s our usual special winter dish, but sheltering-in-place fosters the awareness that every night is a special occasion, and therefore a desire for comfort foods is accompanied by wine.

As we dip our forks, we visualize ourselves in Switzerland, in Grindelwald, viewing and being part of the Alps.

Restrictions will loosen May 4th.  Gardeners can come.  I used to do the gardening myself but part of our yard is fenced with a Japanese garden that rises up a steep slope.  I’m not of an age to tackle that so I’ve been watching the plants stretch and lose their shape and form.  I’m doing the same.

Through this, it’s become even more clear we’re not all in the same boat even though we share disbelief and grief.

One can’t compare a virus and war but that more Americans have died in 100 days than during eight years of major combat in the Vietnam War is sobering, and of course that doesn’t count the number of Vietnamese who died and whose land was poisoned.  

We’re learning we’re in this together.  My breath is yours, and yours is mine, and back and forth we go between you and me, and plants and trees, as we sweep the air like a crust of bread swirling through melted cheese.

In 19th century novels, the weather often sets the mood, the tone, for the scene.  Perhaps that’s still true in books as it anchors our response to our natural surroundings.  Sometimes where I live the fog comes roaring in, but not today.  Today I rise and feel a difference in the air, a resting place, support. I walk out to see and feel soft fog resting on the ridge.

This morning I stayed in bed and gave myself time to sense what’s happening within.  There’s a lovely rhythm there, safety. My world is safe.  I’m surrounded with what I love, a gathering of gifts.

Yesterday I took this survey which takes only a few minutes.

https://med.stanford.edu/covid19/covid-counter.html?fbclid=IwAR1WDbbnjjx0XiPm6pkM-onFe_SswCEPi2SltoAtjuJ3btObQ_EUUnob95I

It’s my teeny-tiny contribution to what’s going on.

Today I received an email where I checked how I am today: better, the same, or worse.  Of course, it only relates to the virus but part of me wants to go into more detail, to analyze how I am today, and I recognize this survey has a focus and a mission, and doesn’t need a broader analysis of the details of my life. Somehow though I want that, want some unseen force to listen. Hey, I’m here, and I’m not the same as I was yesterday, and I understand that’s not the point.

I answer that I’m fine, no symptoms, which is true.  All is the same, somewhat but there’s a stirring of curiosity as to how much more one might ask.  We’re still dealing with Steve’s hands.  Are they a symptom?  Next week our dermatologist will open her office to deal with those who can’t wait.  She’ll do a biopsy.  Meanwhile, I check the box on the survey.  All is fine, the same.

Today I read that during the campaign when Trump insulted and demeaned a war hero like John McCain and got away with it, it unleashed what we continue to see.  He has no reason to change, so people will die so we can have chicken, pork, and beef.  A leader would point out that eating vegetarian for this time period would help our health, the environment, and save lives.  Beans and rice make a complete protein, but no, money is made off factory produced meat, and that’s what matters more than people’s lives.

Anyway, I’m letting all of this dissipate as the fog seeps in even closer, a blanket inviting comfort, serenity, interiority, and rest.

About a mile from my home is a community of seniors. Every Friday afternoon, for years and years, they’ve been out by the road every Friday afternoon around 4:00 with signs for peace. It’s possible there’s wine involved, or perhaps something stronger, but what I’m saying is what matters is the message. “Honk if you’re for peace.” Well, who could not honk for peace. Honk! Honk! We sound like geese.

After my own now earlier than usual glass of wine, since Steve works from home and we eat dinner at four, this comes my way.

I love it!! Enjoy!! These are my neighbors and though perhaps slightly older than I, they are immersed in the game, and I love them, and this beautiful and evolving world we love, cherish, trust, generate, and share.

I was looking forward to the end of shelter-in-place while also enjoying it, thinking this is quite nice, and then, when I learned it would be another month, I became a Grumpy Gus.  What?  Another month?  Hmmmm!

I understand the reasons and I have everything I need right here, and it’s a beautiful day.  

The words of The Doors come to mind.  “People are strange.”  Yes, that must be it.  We are strange. I wonder if contrariness has contributed to our survival.   Is there something in us that wants to say harumph, that enjoys the clenched fist and stamp of the foot?  Is that a survival technique, a mobilization of force?

You can’t push me over; I’m fierce.  

I just finished reading two books by Hendrik Groen, The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83 and ¼ Years old, and then On the Bright Side, a continuation of the diary after a year has passed.  The books  are about life in a care home in Amsterdam, and the author says, “Not a sentence is lied, but not every word is true.’  Hendrik Groen is a pseudonym.

The books deal with serious issues, aging, loss of control, dementia, death, and yet, somehow they are so funny, touching, and sweet that I couldn’t stop reading, and am inspired.   Years dance before me; I am alive. 

A group of the more lively and rebellious in the care home form the Old But Not Dead Club.  One theme is that we need people around us, so it’s interesting to read in times where though we connect on-line, we aren’t in physical touch.

And as I type that, I take it back.  My fingers are on the keys; the keys bounce back.  I touch my hand, tummy, head.  Physicality is here.  Shared breath.  Rejoice.  This living tosses challenges to us, like wedding bouquets, and I know for some, the challenges are overwhelming and there is no track, and for others of us it’s the train we’re on.   

Click-clack!

Unless we’re on a maglev train and then we’re propelled in a hover as we advance.

I placed a photo from the cover of a book I love in the last post. You can see images from the book here. It’s a beautiful meditation so watch and listen.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pVTEtmLPljc

“The Night Life of Trees was conceived when Tara brought Gond artists down to Chennai to work with them; the Gond live in the northern state of Madhya Pradesh, 600 kilometres from the city of Bhopal. ‘We noticed there was a tree in every story they told — ask them to draw a person, they draw a person under a tree. Ask them for a river, they draw a river running past a tree. Ask them for a bird, and it’s a bird sitting in a tree.’ ”

‘The Night Life of Trees’, Tara Books Art: Bhajju Shyam, Durga Bai and Ram Singh Urveti. Design: Gita Wolf and Rathna Ramanathan

It’s beautiful where I live sheltered-in-place.  I rest in gratitude as I look out, allowing the outside world to enter in and sink into me.  Baby raccoons, skunks, squirrels and crows have been born and emit different squeaks and tweets both day and night.

I peruse my book shelves and this morning open space to Charlie Mackery’s book, The Boy, the Mole, The Fox and the Horse.  It’s a simple book about friendship, kindness, and love.

“Being kind to yourself is one of the greatest kindnesses,” said the mole.  “We often wait for kindness but being kind to yourself can start now.”

“Nothing but kindness,” said the horse. “It sits quietly beyond all things.”

The book ends with this. “Sometimes all you hear about is the hate, but there is more love in the world than you could possibly imagine.”

A few days ago one of my sons pointed out that I was obsessing on “he who will not be named”, and this was not a healthy way to live and be.  He sent me this link.

It’s not new and yet it turned my boat around.  I’d been looking backwards and spinning in circles.  Now I’m aware I hold the oars as I observe and learn from what’s here.  I monitor my response.

When I was in fourth grade, I was the fairy in the play Sleeping Beauty who waves her wand and says, “I give you kindness.”  I do that now for myself and for this world we share as it moves and evolves. We breathe together as we honor and respect sheltering-in-place and all that’s here to explore as we go within, and open out.

Today I’m reminded of Stanley Kunitz’s wonderful poem “The Layers”.

It’s worth reading the whole poem, following the journey that leads him to words that came to him in a dream.

“Live in the layers,

 not on the litter.”

When I work with the practice of Sensory Awareness, I feel layers, layers in my eyelids, eyeballs, skin, both on the outside and the inside.

Yesterday I was led in a session to sense what happens when I come from sitting to standing.  It’s quite a journey as I explore that transition from sitting to standing, and then the return from standing to sitting, or is it a return, or simply a unification?