Favorite Quote
What: Monthly Group Blog Posts
Why: Because of Andes Cruz & Her Indomitable Spirit
Who:
- Andes Cruz
- Mary Spencer
- Stephanie Nocito Clark
- Shaun Young:
- Brad Severtson:
- Beth Cyr:
- Kathleen Krucoff:
- Laura Flavin:
- Andrea Bell:
- Thomasin Durgin:
- Natsuko Hanks:
- Barbara Donovan:
This month’s topic being a favorite quote.
Beloved, Let Us Love One Another
That quote just honestly popped into my head as I panicked, realizing that in my zeal to finish my new website about essential oils I had completely let the 20th of the month, at 9:00 a.m., slip by.
It can happen to the best of us, I guess.
Beloved is such a gorgeous word. And I love to be reminded of the idea that we are all, at our essence, beloved: well loved.
And then, from that place, it isn’t quite as difficult to do the one thing we (or I) am called to do in this life: love one another.
It’s what lets me slip (sometimes) effortlessly into meditation, what reminds me that coming from a place of love with people I find difficult is usually easier in the long run, and, ultimately, the only thing that allows me to forgive myself when I am at my most human.
Enjoy the blog-o-sphere today, and never forget who loves you, baby : ).
さくら always reminds me of お花見。
Thank you Lifehacker, for helping to make meditation mainstream.
As I have said, and Depack Chopra has said, and Andrew Weil has said, and now Lifehacker says: You need nothing in order to start meditating. That’s right, nothing. No yoga mat, no candles, no special clothes. You don’t need a special room, or time or day, or reason, or scroll to look at, or guru, or…well, you get the idea.
Those are all distrations (aren’t they?).
Where it gets tricky is when you try to meditate and you fail so hard. I think that’s where the meditation supply industry comes nibbling at our wallets. Maybe if I just had this Tibetan gong, then I’d meditate. Maybe if I had the right music…the right color in my living room…the right clothes, the right incense…the right life.
Ah, yes. There you are, breathing in, watching your breath, breathing out, watching your br—*screetch* crappy life — Yikes — is that **really** what my life looks like? Back to the breath…etc…for about 30 seconds before you either fidget so much you’re in the next room or you fall asleep.
Right?
In my humble opinion, you should start where you are, and do what you can.
Practice daydreaming…there’s something, I think, in our culture, that puts daydreaming in a special place, a little to the left of meditation. It feels maybe a little like going barefoot, or making mud pies, or skipping school on a warm spring day. It feels good.
It’s a great start.
What: Monthly Group Blog Posts
Why: Because of Andes Cruz & Her Indomitable Spirit
Who:
- Andes Cruz
- Stephanie Nocito Clark
- Shaun Young:
- Brad Severtson:
- Beth Cyr:
- Kathleen Krucoff:
- Andrea Bell:
This month’s topic being a favorite book or movie.
Marshall: They just pay me to drive the limo, sir. I’m not here to tell you who I am.
Joe Banks: I didn’t ask you to tell me who you are.
Marshall: You were hinting around about books, childhood memories and food. That happens to be a very important topic to me, sir. Books, Mr…
Joe Banks: Banks.
Marshall: Banks. Books (and food) make the man. I believe that. You say to me you want me to write a blog post, you want it to be about books, but you don’t know what kind. You leave that hanging in the air, like I’m going to fill in the blank, that to me is like asking me who I am, and I don’t know who I am, I don’t want to know. It’s taken me my whole life to try to find out who I am, and I’m tired now, you hear what I’m saying? Paraphrased from the Internet Movie Database (IMDB).
It’s funny how certain subjects hit me. Ask me my favorite food, I shoot back with lemon squares, which decidedly may not be my favorite food, but were what I felt like eating that moment. My favorite childhood memory caused a bit of angst. My first overly dramatic thought was: “There were none” Which transported me into a brief funk as I came through the other end to “They were all good” and then settled on what I wrote.
But my favorite book? I. do. not. know. Part of me wants to say “The book I have not written yet” Another part wants to list the book I am reading right now: Writing the Second ACT: Building Conflict and Tension in Your Film Script
but though I like it, and though it may help me write the book I have not written yet, it is really not my favorite.
And why does it matter, anyway? I think, perhaps, because to me, “books make the man” They define who you are. I don’t know who I am (yet) and I am tired (right now).
But maybe I can share my favorite movie with you : ).
What: Monthly Group Blog Posts
Why: Because of Andes Cruz & Her Indomitable Spirit
Who:
- Andes Cruz
- Stephanie Nocito Clark
- Natsuko Hanks:
- Shaun Young:
- Brad Severtson:
- Beth Cyr:
- Kathleen Krucoff:
- Andrea Bell:
- Pal Gooz:
- Laura Flavin:
This month’s topic being a favorite child memory.
So here I am, right after my bath, right after my first full day downhill skiing since, oh, I don’t know, 1989 maybe? (and it was retro day at Whitewater, too!)
In my hands, I am holding my baby picture. I am smiling in both pictures.
I was, in the early 1970s, what they now call a “spirited child” (i.e., Raising Your Spirited Child) Walked at 6 months, first stitches at 14 months (from running down the beach smack into the lifeguard’s stand). In my first Easter picture, I have a black eye and am glaring at the camera. This is in wonderful juxtaposition with the adorable basket I am holding at a jaunty angle.
The funny thing is that family lore always goes that my mother didn’t know what to do with a child like me. She’s petite, adorable, and was only 25 when I was born. (cue the smelling salts and a brandy) I love her story about flipping through the baby book (Dr. Spock) and not finding me in there anywhere.
A quick fast forward to me, a young mother, flipping madly through baby books, feeling a slight panic setting in as I realize that my babies aren’t in there anywhere
And then, a quick flashback, first to 1942 as my dear, sweet, petite grandmother flips madly through the baby book, hands in the air, declares she can’t find her baby in there anywhere!”
And, yes, back another few years to 1917, where I imagine her mother in a similar scene.
What could have been my saving grace is that I did not have a daughter. Something, in any case, snapped me out of this multi-generational fog and I began to see a pattern: my mother (as a small girl) was a hell-raiser (adorable, but spunky) She preferred baseball to tea parties, etc. My grandmother’s favorite story is that she would do handsprings all the way from her home to the subway to meet her father after work every day. Absolutely adorable, dimpled face cutely smiling in every picture, but my, oh, my, if you didn’t catch that fire in her eyes you were blind.
My mother’s cousin is interested in family history, and it turns out that Emma, my grandmother’s mother’s mother, “stole” William Hendricks from his first wife to start our line : ) and there is no evidence that she ever married him (legally, that is). (Just to cement the long line of spunk)
My favorite memories of childhood include making mud pies and trying to feed them to the younger siblings, making forts in pecan trees in the vacant lots across the street, riding in a wagon at neck-breaking speeds down hills (a la Calvin and Hobbes, but there were cars involved). I loved wake boarding and diving under huge waves at the last second. I have several sets of stitches in my head.
Since I do not have girl children, I do not know if I would have broken the cycle completely. With each generation, the spirit was beaten down. Dresses were imposed, with white tights and black patent leather mary janes. One of my favorite funny but telling memories is that I, a gymnast, was not allowed to wear shorts under my skirts to school. (I had to wear a skirt). So I always had to make the choice: sit out and watch the other girls do cherry drops on the bars (metal bars with asphalt underneath) or do one, and let my underwear show (I see London, I see France…) Hard choices.
The kind that define you. I ended up mostly sitting out.
As I began to see this pattern, I began to reclaim the fierce (but cute) strength that has been simmering for generations in the female side of my family.
All I can say is, “Watch out” : )
When I was younger, I traveled from Niigata, Japan to British Columbia, Canada going west. Along the way, one of the stops was Beijing. And in Beijing, as I do everywhere, I haunted bookshops. My now husband would tease me relentlessly about this, since it is true that books are heavy, and we were carrying everything on our backs.
I got really strong, and carried home a ton of books. One of these was a small paperback called “Tales from the Shao Lin Monastery” Fast forward 20 years, and this little book is a family favorite. You’d be surprised how much all four of my boys love these stories, and love to recount them for me. One of them is the story of the monk whose training is seemingly pointless, monotonous and really back breakingly difficult. I don’t remember all the tasks, but the one that I always pause at is that he slapped water.
What? At that point, had I been the monk, I would have stopped and considered a change in careers. I can understand, I guess, the utility in chopping wood, or carrying water. I can see the point in certain seeming drudgery that somehow prepares us for something grander.
That’s the point, isn’t it? You do these small, boring tasks well, and then get rewarded by becoming a cool monk who gets to save the day and be the hero.
When things work out this way, there seems to be an order to it all. The chaos is kept at bay. This may be the attraction of certain corporate career tracks. You start in a little cubicle with a red pencil, but you know that, most likely, you will soon be using the blue pencil, and from there, soon enough, a corner office will be yours (this was exactly what I saw in an information interview at Price Waterhouse when I was young—it scared me).
Other examples: You start doing half a chin up. If you keep trying, soon you can do 5 or more. You start making toast. With diligent practice, you will end up making a decent meal for yourself. You start writing mediocre stories. You end up with a ton of stories and perhaps a few novels…but you could ask at this point, so what? What if you never get to the hero part, and all that you have is a bunch of stories?
Chin ups and cooking well are chopping wood, carrying water. There is inherent utility in them. Writing stories is like slapping water. What in the heck is the point unless one day you get to be the hero?
Screech. Halt. Stop. I just finished reading this great, cheery blog post from Copyblogger called Everything Will Conspire to Stop You…So What?
He’s right, of course. And in the Tales from The Shao Lin Monastery, the guy who slapped water for years ended up saving the day and becoming a hero because he slapped water. And he never seriously questioned all the water slapping, he just did it. No family, no friends, no novels written (for that matter). Just years and years of water slapping.
My husband has a little story from Kurt Vonnegut that he likes to tell me when I wish I had more time to pursue fiction writing. Kurt Vonnegut was asked why he didn’t write for years. Kurt’s answer? He had to support his family.
A reasonable thing to do. And he ended up a hero as well.
