De-Clutter

Today I have the day off from work.  The first moment of waking is so clear, so revealing, it's too bad we miss it on work days, what with jumping out of bed and getting ready to go.  Today, as I gradually come awake, my eyes roam around my little home.  It's a cozy, small place, just right for me.  There are windows on three sides; east, south and west.  In the morning, I can watch the sun rise from my futon.  I can also see the sun make it's annual journey from due east, to the north in summer, and way, way down south in winter.  My pots of herbs sit on the window sill in the morning sun: Oregano, Rosemary, Basil and Sage.  This is such a sweet little place.

This morning as I lay on my futon, scanning the room, something feels "not quite right."  Not bad, but not right.  In an instant, it comes to me.  There is clutter.  On the shelf by the west window, in the little wooden bowl on the butcher block table, on the nightstand, the kitchen counters and in the bathroom, where I cannot see right now, but I know it's there.  And it's bugging me.

It's a fine line for me, this neatness thing.  I like a casual place, and I enjoy having my things at hand. But there seems to be a threshold too.  Maybe it reflects my inner process.  Today, I want my little place to be tidy, welcoming and kind.

Oddly enough, I am attracted to the yoga mat first.  On reflection, I suppose that is not odd.  I want to tidy up in this body before I tidy up the house.  I prefer quiet this morning as I take my Vinyasa, flowing from Cat/Cow to Forward Fold, Plank, Down Dog, Peaceful Warrior.  The moves are like home now.  And when I'm done, I feel tidy in my physical self.

Now it's time for the sweet little studio.  All the odd bits of stuff have a place.  Do I use this every day?  Leave it on the counter.  My French knife, my little cooking pot, toothbrush, drinking cup.  Everything else has a place.  And I find those places while Dizzy Gillespie and his background singers fill the air.

I make some food, eat.  And lay down and sleep for an hour.  Spring sunshine floods my studio when I wake.  And I'm off, to walk in the woods, have a beer, listen to some music.

Cloud Towers

This time of year, the weather in my little valley in Oregon is schizophrenic.  There can be rain and cold, biting winds.  And fifteen minutes later the sun is shining so hard you can feel the warmth on your skin. Today when I get to the river path, the sun is shining and there is a warm, welcoming breeze, a breeze scented with blossoms.

The river is huge today, rushing through town as if on a desperate errand.  The rapids are standing waves, a long curl against the current, dark green with white foam on top, turning and turning.  As I walk, the breeze turns suddenly, and fat, cold drops of Oregon rain fall down on the green water, leaving pock-marks and ripples in the water as it speeds past me.

The rain is cold and hard on top of my head.  And as soon as it started, it's gone and the sun is heavy on me again.

Walking in to the pub, I feel fresh and full of possibilities.  There's a man there with a guitar, tuning up.  And Ivy and Faliesha are there, and they are full of possibilities too, reflecting hope and purpose back to me.

The singer has started now.  Sunlight frames him from behind, through the glass walls of the pub behind him.  Outside, it has started to rain again.  The clouds are vast, white towers, and the sun glances off of them.

New view

From my living room window I can just barely see Spencer's Butte in the distance, where I hike all through our mild winters here in Oregon valley.  This morning, standing at the window while I drink coffee, I realize it is not visible.  There is huge maple tree in the way.  It is a big round blob of soft green, because it's beginning to leaf out.

For a moment it seems odd, because I've been looking at my little mountain in the misty distance all winter.  I know I can see it from here.  And then I do see it, through the green haze of the budding maple leaves.  It's right there behind the maple tree.  It's just that through the winter, there were no leaves on the tree to get in the way of the view.

I don't mind, I guess.  The maple tree is good to look at too.  And I look forward now to a new process, a new view; as the leaves on the maple tree mature, the hill behind it will gradually disappear.  It will be back though.  In the fall.

Work, Ego

After 20 years in my chosen field of work, I still love what I do.  On Sunday afternoons, I start looking forward to Monday morning; what will I do tomorrow, what will I create?

At the moment, my position requires that I train and advise, in a day-to-day service environment.  I am an implementer, not an administrator.  My biggest decisions affect the agency, but not the whole field. 

So it was with some apprehension that I attended a policy group last week.  My boss couldn't make it, and she asked me to go in her stead.  Upon entering, I saw people I've known for many years, some for as much as twenty years.  They greeted me warmly, but I felt out of my depth.  There was nothing for it but to put my head up and act with confidence.  In the group, I began to share my opinions and my vision for the future of our collective endeavor.

As I did so, a curious thing happened to my sense of self.  I heard myself talking with confidence and with experience.  My views were careful and reasoned.  As I heard my own voice, I realized that if someone else had said those things, I would have thought that person was wise and determined and tough.  A person who knows that compassion is not easy or simple, a person who knows that the hardest thing about doing good is accepting that you will fail along the way, and you'll have to live with that.

As I heard my voice, I heard a stranger talking.  This hardened, patient, quietly wise person could not possibly be me.  My sense of self would not allow it.  But it was un-deniable that I was the one who was speaking.   And in that moment, I saw and felt my ego step out of the way and allow me to be the "me" that I had become.

In that moment, I experienced "me" without an ego in the way.  Just for a moment, I was only the assembled aspects of awareness and action, a point in space-time where something was being done without a doer.

These moments come along frequently in my work now.  I've learned to watch for them, to give in to them when they sneak into the room and sit down beside me.  I know now that every time they happen, I come away more aware than I was.

Connections

A few nights a week I stop for groceries at a little market here in Eugene called the Red Barn.  I love connecting with people, and going to a store is a place where it can always happen.  There's a moment of forced togetherness there that feels like an opportunity.

Because I like connecting so much, I know most of the people who work at the Red Barn.  But there's one who is newer, and I still haven't broken the ice.  Today could be the day, though, I can feel it.  As I come to the counter she smiles and says hello and starts checking out my things.  A few times, I've said things like "how's the day treating you?" But she's only given polite answers.  I'm looking for that unguarded moment, that "I know you now" moment.

I'm trying to think of something to say when I reach into my coat pocket to look for change and my hand rests on a chocolate-covered Oreo cookie. Before I even know what I'm doing, the words are out of my mouth:

"You know what's so great?" I say, holding up the cookie in its neon pink foil wrapper.

"What's so great?" She says, and her smile is a little skeptical.

"When you put something really nice in your pocket and then you forget it's there until later."

And then, it's there.  The completely un-guarded, we-connected smile.  It's big and lazy and lopsided, and it tells me a little bit about what kind of person she is.  She says something about finding money in her pockets when she does laundry.  But it doesn't really matter what she says, because the smile was the thing.  It was the smile that marked the moment when I made a brand new connection. My guard came down too, and just for a moment there was no "otherness" between us.

I wonder what will happen next time.