As the tree grew, the new leaves in spring brought us hope. Its leafy branches in summer brought us its cool shade, a place to talk in the heat of the afternoon, as we sipped ice tea and lazed in the hot days. In the fall, its colorful leaves reminded us of the cycle of life and brought more beauty to our lives. When winter came, the bare limbs provided rough bark support for the flakes of sparkling snow on crisp days.
Over the years, the tree grew big and strong, and we took its presence in the yard for granted. Kids played noisily under its branches, and brought their friends. All too soon, they grew up and moved away. As the years passed, they’d come back, spouses and kids in tow, and children’s laughter was again heard under its spreading limbs.
As with us all, the tree grew old, losing a bit of its strength. One bitter day, a big storm cracked its trunk clear to the ground, and it was time to cut it down. Suddenly, that space in the yard no longer was filled with summer shade, or the maze of limbs sprinkled with the spring green of new leaves, or the orange and red fire of autumn.
Its thick trunk and fat limbs soon turned into a big pile of firewood, that warmed me as I split and stacked the seasoned hard wood. We were warmed again as the stove crackled and popped, during the depths of many a winter gale and early mornings, when my breath would turn white as I stood near the snowy flat top of the stump, my eye still seeing its tall, proud form.
I sat by the stump of the old tree one spring day, a new sapling in my hand, ready to plant. We needed a new tree there, in that corner of the yard, for the summer shade, and the colorful leaves in the fall, a place where kids could play and laugh. The yard seemed empty without a tree, in all its growing, in its presence in our lives.
Like many things in life, we didn’t really see the tree until it was gone, its silent place in our lives now missed, like the sound of children’s laughter after they’re grown.
I noticed the rings in the wood of the old tree stump. In counting the rings, I could tell its age, and remembered the events of our lives. And, in the counting, I saw that the big growth in the tree was in the spring and summer, when sun and warmth and water were plentiful. The thin, hard wood of the tree, its real strength, had come in the seeming deadness of the winter, when the storms and snows and freezing nights raged, when all seemed silent and lost.
As with new saplings and old wood, strength comes both in the flexibility of new growth, and the storm tested wood added in the height of a dark, cold winter.
8/29/2011
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Showing posts with label personal growth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal growth. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Monday, November 15, 2010
Compassion
“Compassion is not religious business, it is human business, it is not luxury, it is essential for our own peace and mental stability, it is essential for human survival.”
Dalai Lama
And, first, I must be compassionate to myself. Without me being fully healthy, fully aware, then I cannot act in a healthy, holistic way towards others. I must practice what I intend to preach. I must be congruent with myself, first, and then, towards others.
I am human. And, I am a human being. Not a human doing. And, in my being, I am imperfect, and I can and will err. So be it. It is my nature. But, in my mistakes, I learn and become more self aware. Self awareness leads to understanding, and to growth.
To grow outward requires that I also grow inward. Growing takes energy and commitment, and, most of all, direction. Without direction, without purpose, there is chaos. As a human being, I am here to give direction and purpose to my life, and to move ahead, according to the purpose the Universe instills in me and asks me to follow. I must listen to my heart, and my soul, and to then move ahead, with purpose, with direction.
Just for today, I will take a step forward, intentional, purposeful, and mindful of who I am and why I am here. I will listen to the directions of the Universe, and mobilize my soul energy, moving ahead.
In all of that work, I show compassion for myself, and for all humankind.
Dalai Lama
And, first, I must be compassionate to myself. Without me being fully healthy, fully aware, then I cannot act in a healthy, holistic way towards others. I must practice what I intend to preach. I must be congruent with myself, first, and then, towards others.
I am human. And, I am a human being. Not a human doing. And, in my being, I am imperfect, and I can and will err. So be it. It is my nature. But, in my mistakes, I learn and become more self aware. Self awareness leads to understanding, and to growth.
To grow outward requires that I also grow inward. Growing takes energy and commitment, and, most of all, direction. Without direction, without purpose, there is chaos. As a human being, I am here to give direction and purpose to my life, and to move ahead, according to the purpose the Universe instills in me and asks me to follow. I must listen to my heart, and my soul, and to then move ahead, with purpose, with direction.
Just for today, I will take a step forward, intentional, purposeful, and mindful of who I am and why I am here. I will listen to the directions of the Universe, and mobilize my soul energy, moving ahead.
In all of that work, I show compassion for myself, and for all humankind.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Limits I Place On Myself
This June day, life explodes around me. The sun is out, it is warm, and all of life is teeming, growing, expanding. The swallows soar and dive, their iridescent bellies glisten in the sunlight. Everywhere I look, there is life and vitality.
Yet, I can easily dwell in the thoughts of what has been, and is no more. I can grieve, I can mourn, I can ignore the beauty of this June day, and instead, remember the death and gloom of a cold December day, and all that has withered and died. I can dig deep into depression. And, I can dwell in the house of gloam and doom.
“If I were to wish for something, I would wish not for wealth or power, but for the passion of possibility, for the eye, eternally young, eternally ardent, that sees possibility everywhere.”
---Soren Kierkegaard
In the sunlight of this June day, all things are possible, and the warmth of the soil, the song of the birds, and the new flowers all dare me to cast away the gray and gloom of my thoughts, and, instead, see all that is possible. It is a gift to me, and I dare not refuse it.
The wind chimes sing on the invisible puffs of wind, as this evening’s weak clouds begin to move in, promising rain, and new growth for tomorrow. My seeds I planted in the newly spaded flowerbed will rejoice, knowing that I have cleaned out the weeds, and last year’s remnants of flowers. The grapes I have pruned, weeded, and fertilized send out new leaves, daring the rain and the cold of the spring to come again. But, it is June, and the Solstice is coming. And, frost will not return until October. Life abounds now, and I am part of it.
Last week’s burn on my finger from the oven heals, new skin forming, the depth of the wound more shallow with each day, despite my clumsy efforts to reopen the wound and find new blood. I manage to rake the wound across a blackberry vine, bringing a fresh ooze of blood. Yet, despite all my efforts, there is healing, rejuvenation, and new life. Rejuvenation will not be stopped.
In February, my genetics and cholesterol worked hard to clog three of my four heart arteries, and struck my heart, nearly stopping blood flow to my heart, killing heart muscle, and nearly causing my death. Yet, the rest of me resisted, and I began to stabilize, taking in oxygen, and healing the muscle that was destroyed. New life courses through my arteries. My body now craves nutrition and exercise, and every day, I grow stronger, finding new energy, new vigor within me. From simple food, clean water, and sleep, I grow and I thrive. From my front row seat, it all seems to be a miracle, this rejuvenation, this healing, this growth.
Despite my occasional dance with depression, and despite my wrestling with the genetics of my body, I go on. I take stock, I pick up my spear, and I begin to heal, and I begin, again, to seek life and growth. I reject the limits I have thought I could place on myself, and I move on, move ahead, and grow, again.
I pull the weeds, I mow the grass, and still, soaking up the simple forces of water and sun, the weeds and the grass come back. They always do, every spring. They will go on and on. Such is their mission.
The tree that looks dead at the end of the winter now sprouts new leaves and bursts into life, taking the energy of the soil and of the sun, and not only comes back to life, but grows, aiming its energy skyward. Yes, winter will come again, and yes, part of it will die. Such is the cycle of life. But, it will live on again, and, when spring comes again, it will send out new leaves and move, once again, skyward.
The flowers I planted a month ago now come to bloom, vibrant with color and life, next to the chime that sounds in the invisibility of the evening wind. In the last few days, these plants have taken in the sun, the warmth, and the fertilizer I put out last week, and have grown, achieving their destiny as agents of growth and beauty. More miracles, this life, this flowering, this new abundance of color on the deck, next to the wind chime.
One of our cats sits nearby, at peace, taking in the warmth of the evening, the chimes in her ears dancing with the wind, and she is at peace. She comes near, allowing me to pet her a bit, before she moves on, taking in the peace of this evening, and the beauty of June. She sees the possibilities of this day, and so should I.
I went into town this morning, to run my errands, and to visit the new public market. Hundreds of my neighbors and fellow “locals” gather in what, for most of my life, has been a closed down storefront, one of the “empty holes on Main Street”. It was a bank, in my grandmother’s day, and a home for several retail shops when I was a kid. The building was always run down and faded, for most of my life. There are rumors it was a whore house, with tunnels under the street to where the speakeasies were, during Prohibition. It was a rowdier town back then, back when the loggers and the mill workers and the fishermen came to whoop it up on Saturday nights.
Yet, today, it is open again. Reborn, the old brick inside now clean, the home for new entrepreneurs, and a stage, where the community choir sings the hits of the 1960s. I sip a coffee, and listen with my friend, as this old musty building now comes to life. I will be back, to enjoy lunch with my friend, and coffee, and to peruse the merchandise that brave new entrepreneurs are offering. Life is coming back to this place, after many years of death.
I had never thought it possible, to turn this musty place into a new market, the local agora, with great possibilities. I had had my doubts, and I wasn’t’ afraid to share them. Yet, despite the odds, and the years of shoveling out the trash and cleaning things up, this place is coming alive. And, I didn’t see the possibilities. I had set a limit, and, like so many others, said it couldn’t be so.
I sit here, the evening cooling a bit, and sip my wine. I play my guitar, and have a new song in mind, I think. And, there is dinner to make, and conversation with my wife, and maybe the cat will sit on my lap, and want another pet. Or not. After all, it is a summer evening and there is much to be enjoyed.
Yet, I can easily dwell in the thoughts of what has been, and is no more. I can grieve, I can mourn, I can ignore the beauty of this June day, and instead, remember the death and gloom of a cold December day, and all that has withered and died. I can dig deep into depression. And, I can dwell in the house of gloam and doom.
“If I were to wish for something, I would wish not for wealth or power, but for the passion of possibility, for the eye, eternally young, eternally ardent, that sees possibility everywhere.”
---Soren Kierkegaard
In the sunlight of this June day, all things are possible, and the warmth of the soil, the song of the birds, and the new flowers all dare me to cast away the gray and gloom of my thoughts, and, instead, see all that is possible. It is a gift to me, and I dare not refuse it.
The wind chimes sing on the invisible puffs of wind, as this evening’s weak clouds begin to move in, promising rain, and new growth for tomorrow. My seeds I planted in the newly spaded flowerbed will rejoice, knowing that I have cleaned out the weeds, and last year’s remnants of flowers. The grapes I have pruned, weeded, and fertilized send out new leaves, daring the rain and the cold of the spring to come again. But, it is June, and the Solstice is coming. And, frost will not return until October. Life abounds now, and I am part of it.
Last week’s burn on my finger from the oven heals, new skin forming, the depth of the wound more shallow with each day, despite my clumsy efforts to reopen the wound and find new blood. I manage to rake the wound across a blackberry vine, bringing a fresh ooze of blood. Yet, despite all my efforts, there is healing, rejuvenation, and new life. Rejuvenation will not be stopped.
In February, my genetics and cholesterol worked hard to clog three of my four heart arteries, and struck my heart, nearly stopping blood flow to my heart, killing heart muscle, and nearly causing my death. Yet, the rest of me resisted, and I began to stabilize, taking in oxygen, and healing the muscle that was destroyed. New life courses through my arteries. My body now craves nutrition and exercise, and every day, I grow stronger, finding new energy, new vigor within me. From simple food, clean water, and sleep, I grow and I thrive. From my front row seat, it all seems to be a miracle, this rejuvenation, this healing, this growth.
Despite my occasional dance with depression, and despite my wrestling with the genetics of my body, I go on. I take stock, I pick up my spear, and I begin to heal, and I begin, again, to seek life and growth. I reject the limits I have thought I could place on myself, and I move on, move ahead, and grow, again.
I pull the weeds, I mow the grass, and still, soaking up the simple forces of water and sun, the weeds and the grass come back. They always do, every spring. They will go on and on. Such is their mission.
The tree that looks dead at the end of the winter now sprouts new leaves and bursts into life, taking the energy of the soil and of the sun, and not only comes back to life, but grows, aiming its energy skyward. Yes, winter will come again, and yes, part of it will die. Such is the cycle of life. But, it will live on again, and, when spring comes again, it will send out new leaves and move, once again, skyward.
The flowers I planted a month ago now come to bloom, vibrant with color and life, next to the chime that sounds in the invisibility of the evening wind. In the last few days, these plants have taken in the sun, the warmth, and the fertilizer I put out last week, and have grown, achieving their destiny as agents of growth and beauty. More miracles, this life, this flowering, this new abundance of color on the deck, next to the wind chime.
One of our cats sits nearby, at peace, taking in the warmth of the evening, the chimes in her ears dancing with the wind, and she is at peace. She comes near, allowing me to pet her a bit, before she moves on, taking in the peace of this evening, and the beauty of June. She sees the possibilities of this day, and so should I.
I went into town this morning, to run my errands, and to visit the new public market. Hundreds of my neighbors and fellow “locals” gather in what, for most of my life, has been a closed down storefront, one of the “empty holes on Main Street”. It was a bank, in my grandmother’s day, and a home for several retail shops when I was a kid. The building was always run down and faded, for most of my life. There are rumors it was a whore house, with tunnels under the street to where the speakeasies were, during Prohibition. It was a rowdier town back then, back when the loggers and the mill workers and the fishermen came to whoop it up on Saturday nights.
Yet, today, it is open again. Reborn, the old brick inside now clean, the home for new entrepreneurs, and a stage, where the community choir sings the hits of the 1960s. I sip a coffee, and listen with my friend, as this old musty building now comes to life. I will be back, to enjoy lunch with my friend, and coffee, and to peruse the merchandise that brave new entrepreneurs are offering. Life is coming back to this place, after many years of death.
I had never thought it possible, to turn this musty place into a new market, the local agora, with great possibilities. I had had my doubts, and I wasn’t’ afraid to share them. Yet, despite the odds, and the years of shoveling out the trash and cleaning things up, this place is coming alive. And, I didn’t see the possibilities. I had set a limit, and, like so many others, said it couldn’t be so.
I sit here, the evening cooling a bit, and sip my wine. I play my guitar, and have a new song in mind, I think. And, there is dinner to make, and conversation with my wife, and maybe the cat will sit on my lap, and want another pet. Or not. After all, it is a summer evening and there is much to be enjoyed.
Home Life
1.
Chop, chop
carrot and onion
broccoli and red pepper.
Chop, chop
rice cooking, too
its steam rising
mixing with garlic juice on my knife.
Chop, chop,
tossed into hot oil
soon,
sizzle, sizzle.
Mixing, stirring, and soon,
steam rising
garlic in my nose
running around the house,
announcing
dinner ready.
2.
Snow in the hills, cold on my face
hood of the sweatshirt warm.
Feet on the ground, getting moving
coffee brewing, and warm house waits.
Stars out now, the storm gone,
more snow above me, sun an hour away.
Lambs asleep with their moms, horses against the fence
all silent now, awaiting the day.
Sliver moon hangs in the eastern sky
ready to be chased away by the sun.
3.
Fret board slide
up and back, and again
two fingers apart, up, down
back and forth.
Other hand pluck,
pick, beat, pick
one, one, two now,
back to one.
Together, apart
each dancing anew
working toward
harmony.
Again, and again,
the dance, learning new steps
guitar held close, now
part of me
and I, part of the
dance.
Chop, chop
carrot and onion
broccoli and red pepper.
Chop, chop
rice cooking, too
its steam rising
mixing with garlic juice on my knife.
Chop, chop,
tossed into hot oil
soon,
sizzle, sizzle.
Mixing, stirring, and soon,
steam rising
garlic in my nose
running around the house,
announcing
dinner ready.
2.
Snow in the hills, cold on my face
hood of the sweatshirt warm.
Feet on the ground, getting moving
coffee brewing, and warm house waits.
Stars out now, the storm gone,
more snow above me, sun an hour away.
Lambs asleep with their moms, horses against the fence
all silent now, awaiting the day.
Sliver moon hangs in the eastern sky
ready to be chased away by the sun.
3.
Fret board slide
up and back, and again
two fingers apart, up, down
back and forth.
Other hand pluck,
pick, beat, pick
one, one, two now,
back to one.
Together, apart
each dancing anew
working toward
harmony.
Again, and again,
the dance, learning new steps
guitar held close, now
part of me
and I, part of the
dance.
Restringing
Their songs now silent
the finger dances in the evenings, and
the first light of morning,
finished, their voices still
except in memory
and calloused whorls on my skin.
The paper, crisp and white
clean bronze coils spill out
onto the table, next to the rounded wood box
and the old towel I only use for this
ritual of wires and pegs and tension.
One peg, now free to roll across and hide
plays the first note of the new,
flat by an octave and a half,
until I get the tension right again
tight, crisp,
clean.
Round and round I turn, the pitch climbing
higher and higher, until it matches the one next to it,
on the fifth fret, the singing bronze voice right again.
Each string, each a different voice, after more turns
until all is
tight, tuned, and
whole
ready to sing.
the finger dances in the evenings, and
the first light of morning,
finished, their voices still
except in memory
and calloused whorls on my skin.
The paper, crisp and white
clean bronze coils spill out
onto the table, next to the rounded wood box
and the old towel I only use for this
ritual of wires and pegs and tension.
One peg, now free to roll across and hide
plays the first note of the new,
flat by an octave and a half,
until I get the tension right again
tight, crisp,
clean.
Round and round I turn, the pitch climbing
higher and higher, until it matches the one next to it,
on the fifth fret, the singing bronze voice right again.
Each string, each a different voice, after more turns
until all is
tight, tuned, and
whole
ready to sing.
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