Fall has a special place in my heart. When I was a kid, until I left my parents’ home to go to university, as soon as the grapes would start to ripen, I’d go around the yard and get myself a bunch of sweetest ones, usually by holding up the bottom of my T-shirt for an impromptu fruit-picking bucket. Then I’d sit in one of my special places under the quince trees and eat them. One by one, green, black and red spheres, all juicy and sweet, their flavour divinely irresistible.
Tag: mindfulness Page 3 of 9
It is often believed that major revelations come after periods of fasting, isolation from people, or self-imposed hardship of one kind or another, which is expected to bring out of their hiding our other senses – the ones that start with the sixth one. The senses that live like some forgotten tribe in the middle of the jungle; primal and yet capable of bringing a whole new definition of meaning to your daily existence that has been sustained up to that point, with relative success, you’d argue, by the five senses we all know, trust and would never doubt the existence of.
Mine started more like a sunrise of sorts, or a moonrise. The aster is not important, but the rising part. The part where you see the contour of what’s to come, but are still bracing for the surprise, because there will be one.
Two nights ago, Max and I walked the dog to the nearby school field for one last walk before bedtime. It was wet and foggy. Island weather, we joked, minus the island. When we got to the field, I noticed a man walking his dog and recognized our neighbour who has recently lost his wife of many years. Having heard of that a while ago, I was struggling with finding the most respectful, unimposing and inobtrusive way of expressing our condolences. I’ve been through the loss of a loved one many times and I know there’s no right way of doing it, more so when you barely met the people a few times. I also know what it feels like when people avoid getting in touch following a loved one’s death, because they don’t feel comfortable thinking about it.
So I walked right up to him, confessed my struggle and said we are sorry for his loss. I gave him a big hug and he hugged back; I was grateful for his acceptance of my words and hug. He was grateful I reached out, as people are reluctant to talk about death most of the time. We chatted about the preciousness of life, imminence of death included, while our dogs played. We laughed at their antics, and parted, him with an invite to stop by our place for coffee and chat, him with an offer of baby plants, if we are of the green thumb tribe. I said we are.
Max and I walked some more afterwards, the flavour of the meeting trailing behind us like a stray dog that was suddenly enamoured with us and unwilling to part. An unmistakable sense of peace washed over me knowing that we still have time. Or?…
Truth is, we have today. The rest is not even a promise, but a supposition. The rest is hope. Today is the only time that belongs to us fully. That was the lifeline phrase I hung onto after my parents passed away, processing the best I could their disappearance and the meaning of stringing up one today after another without losing hope as it all ends up one day anyway. We become finality’s happy sad apostles once death takes a loved one away from us, making us aware (more than once in my case,) that the only consolation takeaway we are left with is awareness. Bittersweet it may be, but it’s there. It’s a roller coaster, except that you’re not the observer from up above, or the rider, but the very machine that rattles as you go up and down the tracks, feeling as if you’ll come apart every time the track disappears in a down turn.
All of this came back to me as I plodded along my husband, our steps in sync, words and hearts, post-conversation with our neighbour. Time. So much and so little, so slippery. Fragmented; that is how it feels on most days, due to so many things clinging to be done, interruptions of one kind or another, notifications, the many requests to update our calendars, our social media feeds and the guilt that comes from not keeping on top of it all. Above all, and despite sharing time and space with my sons, I always long for more, as I strive to for remember more of what escapes the fragmentation.
A couple of days later I picked up a copy of When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi, a neurosurgeon and writer whose life was cut short prematurely at the age of 37 by cancer. It’s the kind of book you read with awe and reverence, and do not just read, but cry and think about it long after you put it down. If you are so inclined. It’s the kind of book that invites to contemplation and reassessment; to gratefulness.
It’s a jolt of sorts. Masterfully written, though it was put together in a hurry, as time was not on his side, the book is not one of mourning and self-pity. On the contrary. It is the story of becoming a doctor, the description of the elaborate meanders of options and the clarity of choice through introspection, the re-evaluations once the terminal illness sets in, the contemplation of death from a safe (somewhat) distance as a doctor, and from up-close as a patient.
It is in this context that I make my decision to resist the fragmentation of my time by activities that do not further my contentment with making the most of it. Connection through social media has little meaning if any, if connection through other means is non-existent (face to face, phone, email). Therefore, I will set the unnecessary aside (Facebook and Instagram), and keep what allows me to share my writing, selectively choose my news and reach out, if needed, to like-minded professionals.
It will look like this (or what stays, what goes):
- Facebook (goes): I will have a ‘hibernating’ profile which I need to perform my administrative responsibilities in my work and volunteer work respectively. That includes social media postings on various topics (sustainability, health, community.)
- Instagram (goes): While I am fully charmed by so many awe-inspiring photographs that roll out daily through my feed, I am also aware of the daily trickle of time spent seeing the said photos and more. I know I can make better use of my time living it, rather than living vicariously through others. There are ways to follow people’s work – social and environmental, my two major interests – and I will.
- Twitter (goes): I will maintain my profile for now, but dormant.
As I consciously engage on this path that enables me to make time my ally, I will continue on the journey of writing here, from what I foresee will become a richer perspective. Unfragmented, mindful presence enabled by all those who inspired me through their life, death, writing and presence. From informal mentions of books and ideas, to life bites that define a day, or a moment in a day, or leave an imprint of the kind worth sharing.
I thank you for joining me, if you will, on my new site and through my new blog at www.danielaginta.com. My promise is to make it meaningful. Through mindfulness, which was, after all, the goal behind reaching out of my shell in the first place.
It happened this morning that while I was walking along a snowy path battered by human steps and animal tracks, I heard the ping of a notification on my phone, barely audible through the crunch of my steps. I pulled my mitts off, got the phone out of my pocket and checked my messages. Without thinking twice, I penned a reply, retyping a couple of words (I do not believe in auto spellcheck) which got mangled by my cold fingers. I hit ‘send’ only to feel an irrepressible urge to look upwards to my left. At the top of the tallest spruce (?… mental note: learn to identify trees) the resident hawk was standing with its head turned towards me. This is the second time it happened; that it made my gaze peel from the most estranging of devices and look towards it. The closeness such an occurrence conjures cannot be put into words, nor can it be placed in the context of today when being hurried is synonymous with simply being.
Time itself is the keeper of such moments, so long as we do not fragment it. That is what I am after. Time, alone and with my loved ones; closeness to what matters. The hawk’s gaze.
To my Mom, on her birthday. She was there, every day, wearing her beautiful coat with grace…
Motherhood has no manual. Which is why snuggling next to your little ones and reading say, Charlie and the chocolate factory, on a grey subdued Monday late morning is the thing to do.
‘Can we nibble on some chocolate while we read,’ lil’ boy asks, a sweet mischievous smile pinching the corner of his eye.
Sure can. I used to eat slices of bread layered thick with butter while reading Heidi (by Johanna Spyri). I was about lil’ boy’s age, 11 or so. Reading and munching on whatever Heidi was munching on felt as if a giant hand deposited me right in the middle of the alpine meadow among Heidi’s goats, staring into a crimson sunset that had the divine power to put your heart in the right place for years to come. A well-placed lesson in magic if you will, which lil’ boy reminded me of by asking to nibble on chocolate while reading.
Two pieces of dark chocolate each, we dove under the yellow wool blanket, losing ourselves in Roald Dahl’s unique and clever writing; contorted, invented words painting word pictures weird and fantastic. We let the drizzle of synonyms peppered throughout the text to roll off the tongue, laughing ourselves silly and reading the sequence again and again until curiosity calls for the next paragraph to be read.
We read, eating chocolate and forgoing lunch; snuggles and chocolate for lunch, I rewrite the rules.
Motherhood has no rules really, except for one, perhaps. Be present.
The books you read when you sit with the new baby in your arms much like you do with a cookbook once you already have the meal half-cooked, trying to figure out the next steps… well, those are parenting books. Motherhood is a texture like no other, thick and see-through at the same time, fuzzy warm one moment and frosty the next, because life’s magic wand amplifies everything a thousand times when you become a mother. Or so it feels, possibly due to lack of sleep and magnified emotions, but the jury is still out on that.
Though motherhood, mind you, does not happen at the birth of your baby, but at a few pit stops down the road. It happens when you lay in the dark next to your barely asleep babe, wonder and gratefulness filling you to the brim, when worries creep in nonetheless, because somehow though all is nice and quiet and that little hand is curled around your pinky for comfort, which you know you have plenty to offer, worry is the weed that your fertile heart soil keeps on nursing to life as much as it does affection. It happens when you hug your growing child, when you make him a cup of coffee and you sip it together talking about life in the fast lane, which sounds exhilarating to him and scary to you. Sip, smile, sip. Motherhood lives in a cup of early morning coffee too.
Motherhood swells inside like a high tide when you allow your children to remind you of sweetness and soft presence when your rough edges dig too deep into their being and yours. It shapes you as you snuggle close, so your heart can hear theirs. Motherhood is what happens when you pack emotions and vulnerability and rawness in what seems to be the most fragile space of all: you, your heart and whole being.
You wade through tough times by holding small hands in yours, stickiness notwithstanding, relishing the trust and the reality of being inundated with much more love than you ever thought you’re worthy of. Humbling.
Can you still be loved just the same when you’re turned inside out and raw as can be? Can you you’re your children just the same when they show the raw sides?
Motherhood is not being given to us so that we can excel at being gracious. It’s a ‘come as you are but be willing to grow after you pick yourself up (again)’ kind of deal. You get a fair shot at learning balance and finding your way in the dark, stubbed toes and all. What’s left to do? Dust your heart regularly and show up every day, vulnerabilities and all. Come as you are but willing to grow.
As for rules, it’s up to each of us. We write them when we lay reading under warm blankets with our wee ones, snuggled closely, so our hearts touch theirs. When we finally understand that humbleness, love and fierceness can live together in harmony, much like those art projects your little one kept adding to because ‘look, Mom, there are so many colours and shapes.’ So it is, motherhood bestows colours and shapes and they are all thrown on thick cardboard, glue oozing from under bits of paper until everything is sticky and memorable and ready to occupy space on your fridge door.
And one day, many years later, your wee ones will be grownups and realizing it was all true. All that magic, all that fuzzy warm stickiness. All that rawness and love squeezed into the most fragile yet most resilient package of all. You, as a mother, wearing a coat you adjust daily until it fits. And it will.