Tag Archives: Walk

Survivor Tree

14 Sunday Jan 2018

Posted by in Fox Hill Village, Growing, Nature, Spiritual

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When we moved from Harmony Farm, I retired from my psychology practice along with other professional commitments. I opened my heart to new opportunities and interests.

After settling into my new home, I began roaming Fox Hill’s woods. While walking along a newly formed trail, my attention was drawn to a couple of special trees. One tree I immediately named “Survivor Tree” because of its amazing root formation.

Survivor Tree stands near the crest of a small hill and reaches majestically toward the sky. Its gnarled roots twist and turn; they rise from the ground, travel around and over large and small rocks, then bend into the hill before rising upward to form the trunk. Its roots tell the story of a young sapling struggling to survive: growing around and over immovable obstacles blocking its path, then finally establishing enough of a base to support upward growth.

On daily walks through the woods, I developed the habit of greeting my special trees by name. Inspired by their presences, I touched them, walked around them and communed with them. I offered thanks for their gifts—of oxygen, shelter, shade, food. And I sang songs of gratitude for their lessons.

One season moved into the next. It happened gradually, but I suddenly realized that I thought of my parents each time I passed Survivor Tree. It reminded me of them–my parents’ ability to stay rooted and continue to grow despite daunting obstacles in their path. It also reminded me of their unconditional love.

Around New Year’s Day, I stopped and listened more closely to Survivor Tree. I felt its seed calling from deep inside my heart. Having lain dormant for many years, this seed now asked to be nourished, nurtured and encouraged to grow. Tuning into its call, I realized that Survivor Seed contains a manuscript I wrote while my parents were alive.

The manuscript told the story of my parents’ escape from Hitler-occupied Czechoslovakia—their homeland. While Mother read what I had written and patiently corrected my spelling of names and places from their past, she preferred that I not pursue having it published. At the time, I honored her request.

Now, twenty five years later, Survivor Tree reminds me of that long ago manuscript and my intention to eventually publish it as a book. It will need much revising, but if I help Survivor Seed grow it might reach up toward the sky and branch out to form a book.

Nature’s Fury

04 Wednesday Oct 2017

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Howe’s Beach (Dennis) during Tropical Storm José

Day 1:

Wild ‘n Wooly
Wind Howling
Waves Pounding
Rain Pelting

Day 2:

Ocean Churning
Bubbling,  Boiling
Seagulls  Struggling
Soaring high above

Day 3:

Grey sky, Grey sea
Rolling in, rolling out
White capped waves
Rolling in, rolling out
Froth forming, Foaming
Rolling in, rolling out

Then:

José moved away
With sky still grey
Surf still pounding
Rolling in, rolling out

 

Community

17 Sunday Sep 2017

Posted by in Aging, Elderhood, Fox Hill Village, Land, Nature

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Bill and I planned to live out our lives on Harmony Farm. When we contracted for long term care insurance, we insisted that it cover in-home care. We built a separate building, “the studio”, with our elder years in mind and even investigated whether it might be possible to be buried on our property.

I cherished living in harmony with the seasons. During summer months we slept with windows open, falling asleep to night-time sounds of owls hooting and awakening to our rooster’s loud crowing. We gardened, swam in the pond, walked in the woods, gathered herbs, picked fruit and harvested food. As weather cooled, we moved more inside, yet stayed connected to nature by eating food reaped from our gardens and continuing to care for the land.

As yearly cycles progressed and I anticipated turning 70, I began re-thinking our earlier plan. While Harmony Farm’s natural setting served us well during years of vibrant health and boundless energy, our bodies’ creaks and groans had become increasingly louder. Activities such as chain-sawing fallen trees and shoveling snow had once felt deeply satisfying. We enjoyed the physical work and felt smug about our useful accomplishments. Now inner wisdom screamed “caution,” warning of their price.

It took a while, but we finally admitted that we no longer thrived on the challenges of caring for our land. Swallowing our pride, we hired others to plow the driveway, shovel the snow and handle heavier jobs on the farm.

Concurrently, I began realizing that while the solitude of our home provided respite from the hectic pace of modern life, its isolation might prove too lonely in the years ahead. On my walks through the woods and while sitting by the pond, I reflected on what the future might bring and opened my heart to the possibility of change.

On one of my daily walks, I stopped, breathed in the earth-pine smells and looked around. I noticed abundant ferns growing on both sides of the trodden path beneath the canopy of trees. Light filtered down, nourishing the green world and me.

All of a sudden, a thought flashed into my mind. Like plants and trees, whose roots support and interconnect with one another, I need to live in community during my elder years.

Stunned by the enormity of this idea, I sank to a nearby log. And sat. Just sat.

Enveloped by the aroma of mossy dirt, I contemplated what this change would mean. Moving away from Harmony Farm – could I bear to separate from this beloved land? Adopting a different life style – what might that look like? Downsizing – how to choose what to keep and what to release?

Waves of emotion coursed through my body. The idea of moving, and what that would entail, hit me like a rock. Filled with panic, my heart thumped rapidly

Searching for safety, I hunkered down further to feel the solidity of the log beneath my buttocks and legs. Supported by the log, I focused on my breath, consciously breathing in and out, in and out, in and out.   After quite a while, the surges of feelings slowed, then stilled.

I calmed and decided to tap into the earth below my feet. Sending tendrils of awareness down, I sensed the vast network of mushroom mycelia running underground – between roots and rocks, hither and yon, connecting plant to plant, tree to tree, spreading out like a spider’s web, reaching far and wide.

Reassured by the reminder of interconnectedness, I realized that no matter where I live I would remain connected to Harmony Farm. And wherever I go, I will always be able to connect with nature.

I finally roused myself and slowly walked toward home along the woodsy trail. Passing the pond, I again felt pangs of what would be missed if we were to pull up roots and move. Yet as I watched the water trickle and bubble its way downstream, I considered entering life’s current and seeing where its flow might take me. Anticipating what living in community might bring, a tinge of excitement sparkled deep within.

Returning home, I decided to wait a few days before discussing my insight with Bill. I sat with my feelings and imagined living in close proximity with other people. What might that feel like? Where might that be? What kind of community?

Ideas percolated, feelings bubbled and then I checked in with my gut. Yes, it felt “right.”

When I shared my thoughts with Bill, he initially refused to consider moving from Harmony Farm. Over time, he gradually opened his heart to embrace the wisdom of living cooperatively with others. And so began our next chapter.

 

Moving On

02 Wednesday Aug 2017

Posted by in Fox Hill Village, Growing, Nature

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Fall

Fall’s energy invites us to let go of the old to make room for the new.  And so, during fall, I set my intention to release my ties to Harmony Farm.  I had been gradually separating myself, but the commitment to move on required that I sever the ties more completely.

The land let me know that it was ready.  One day, while taking my meditative walk, I stopped in surprise for a huge branch blocked my path.  I had intended to go up the hill to a ceremonial place – the area where I frequently offered prayers.  Knowing that the branch hadn’t been there the day before, I stood for a while and tuned into its message.

The land blocked my path – clearly telling me to stop my daily ritual of walking up the hill.  I asked for permission to go there this one last time, to say “farewell.”  Sensing that this might be alright, I bent down to see if I could push the branch out of my way.  The branch yielded to my touch, I pushed it aside and slowly trod up the hill.

Arriving at the top, I offered a prayer of deep gratitude.  Thanking the land for the ways it nurtured us over many years, imparting its teachings and helping us to grow.  As I walked down the hill, I felt Harmony Farm release me from its grasp.

Winter

Winter’s energy invites us to retreat within, to dig down deep, to rest, to renew and to dream.  So, during winter, I swam in the dark and dreamed big dreams.  I dreamt of the family who would answer Harmony Farm’s call.

During winter, Bill and I gradually moved into our apartment at Fox Hill Village.  This meant going back and forth between our new home and our old.  While I had intended to continue walking along Harmony Farm’s trails, the woods outside my new home beckoned and I began exploring their terrain.  I discovered an abandoned trail, put pruning shears to use and began creating a hiking path.  My heart expanded to embrace Fox Hill’s land.  And as I walked along the trail, I sensed new dreams bubbling beneath frozen earth.

Spring

Seeds germinate during spring – the time of rebirth, reawakening.  During spring, seeds sprouted and a lovely young couple answered Harmony Farm’s call.  They offered to become its future owners / caretakers.

Spring cleaning ensured, for we needed to finish clearing out stuff we had accumulated during 37 years of living on Harmony Farm.

As with every season, Spring’s polar opposite – Fall – kicked in.  We released more and more of the old, while opening to the new.

 

Dare to Dream: Harmony Farm

25 Tuesday Oct 2016

Posted by in Growing, Nature

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We Had A Dream.

Over 35 years ago, we fell in love with 23 beautiful acres in Medfield, MA. A bubbling stream ran through the property. It fed a private pond and excited our imaginations. We dreamt of living there, in harmony with nature, and gave this dream a name – Harmony Farm.

Building the Dream

After purchasing the land, we began the process of manifesting our dream. Wanting to experience nature as much as possible from inside our home, we designed it with large expanses of glass facing south, which had the added benefit of passive solar energy gains. We built the house overlooking the pond. . A barn for some sheep and a donkey, then a coop for chickens came next.

housespring

While erecting these buildings changed the land, we tried to do so in an earth-friendly manner. Most of the property remained as we found it, with trails meandering through untamed woods and open fields for a grazing and planting. And when planting and tending gardens, we did so organically, without sprays or chemicals.

 Living the Dream

We enjoyed living in harmony with the land. We drank pure water from our deep private well and ate many of our meals from the garden. Our huge vegetable garden grew various types of tomatoes, corn, carrots, peas, green beans, cabbage, potatoes – to name just a few. We also cultivated medicinal herbs and gathered others from the wild. The land generously produced wild fruits: blueberries, raspberries, elderberries, and more. Our breakfasts included eggs lain that morning by happy hens who spend time outside. Nothing can compare with the taste and nutritional value of truly fresh food.

Seasons were no longer marked by pages turned on a calendar. We lived them, experienced them in every cell of our bodies. We ate asparagus in the spring along with the power-filled herb, nettles. During winter we reaped the benefits of our labor in the gardens, eating stored food from our huge freezer and cold storage room.

trail-022No matter what the season, we spent time each day outside. Nature surrounded us during strolls down the winding driveway to pick up the mail, invigorating walks through vibrant woods, and meditative moments sitting by the pond. During spring, summer, and fall we often ate outside, listening to birdsong, inhaling the sights around us. We also swam in the pond – a delightful sensory experience.

Something important happened during the years that we’ve lived on this sacred land. It happened gradually, almost imperceptibly. We began feeling whole, more complete, more peaceful and serene. Harmony Farm had slowly, but surely, changed us. We attributed these changes to the healing benefits of our connection with the natural world.

Sharing the Dream

Full of gratitude for the abundance of our holistic haven, we expanded our hearts to further grow our dream. We decided to share our good fortune with others, give them the opportunity to experience Harmony Farm’s healing properties. We founded Harmony Center, a non-profit corporation, and built a separate building.

The new building provides the ideal setting for experiential workshops and classes. People gather inside an octagonal room with views of nature visible through large expanses of glass. Two bathrooms and another multipurpose room add to its versatility. Harmony Center offers programs that facilitate physical, emotional and spiritual wellbeing in this remarkable setting.

Whether someone comes for two hours or the day, it feels like a mini retreat. Upon turning into our driveway, people leave the hustle and bustle of everyday life behind. Worry and stress release as people open to the tranquility of this place. They leave feeling refreshed and renewed – at peace with themselves, at one with the world.

Dreaming Anew

As we moved into our elder years, we recognized that it was time for us to move on, to release old dreams and make room for the new. While this was happening, Harmony Farm began dreaming of new owner(s) / caretaker(s).

A lovely young couple heard Harmony Farm’s call.  These like minded souls will now care for it, love it, help it to thrive.

They dare to dream!

Change

08 Thursday Sep 2016

Posted by in Nature, Whole

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We humans alter the Earth to suit our needs.  We impact our environment, often with little thought to long term consequences.

I’ve been blessed to live on 23 beautiful acres.  Harmony Farm’s pond, stream, woods, and fields have impacted every aspect of my being.  Admittedly, we changed the land by building a house, a barn and a studio, but we tried to do so in an earth-friendly manner.  When planting and tending gardens, we did so organically.

While living on this small slice of nature, I spent time each day outside.  My activity depended on the season.  I walked trails through the woods almost every day and when snow covered the ground I did so with snowshoes.  During spring summer and fall, I ate breakfast by the  pond listening to birdsong, inhaling the sights around me.  I also frequently swam in the pond – a delightful sensory experience.

pondlambs-038

Something important happened during the 36 years that I’ve lived on this land.  I changed.  It happened gradually, almost imperceptibly.  By spending time outside each day, I began feeling whole, more complete.  More peaceful and serene.

The land changed me.

Praying

12 Tuesday Feb 2013

Posted by in Nature, Spiritual

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On the day of the impending blizzard, I took my usual walk in the woods.  Snow drifted down lazily around me as I put one foot in front of the other and connected with the land around me. 

Arriving in my sacred prayer area, I stood for a while surveying the scenery.  My heart expanded to include each tree, each rock, and each place my eyes touched.   I felt filled with love.

I began speaking out loud.  “Dear Spirit, please protect all of us during the coming blizzard.  Protect the birds, including Blue Jay who sat on the branch outside my bathroom window this morning, from the danger coming our way.  Protect all the wild beings, including gentle Doe who recently visited this area.  Help all who are in the path of the storm find shelter and stay safe.”

I continued praying, “Please guide each snowflake to pass between the tree branches and pine needles.  Help the trees sway and bend with the wind.”  

My prayers became more specific as I asked for protection for my family and friends, for our chickens and sheep, for Star our donkey, for Kali our dog, for Pizzaz our cat, for our home, for Harmony Center, and for all of Harmony Farm.

I prayed, and prayed some more.  Then stood in silence, listening, sensing, feeling.

Deep inside I felt reassured.  I couldn’t say how I knew, but I felt everything would be all right.

As the day progressed, I watched snow pile up and heard wind blow.  When I went over to Harmony Center during the evening, I noticed that our driveway had already been plowed.  I said a mental “thank you” to John for being out in the storm, for taking good care of people like ourselves.

Snowy Scene

Later at night I lay in bed, listening to wind howling around our house.  Snuggled cozily inside my bed, I felt safe and warm.  As I drifted into sleep, I felt deep gratitude for the unsung heroes out braving the storm keeping us safe, plowing, repairing electric lines, answering emergency calls, clearing railroad tracks, etc. etc. 

I prayed for their protection and sent them love. 

Doe

07 Thursday Feb 2013

Posted by in Nature, Spiritual

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The other day I received an e-mail from a friend.  After informing me that her husband had been hospitalized with pneumonia shortly after contracting the flu, she asked that I hold him in my thoughts and pray for his recovery.  

Later that morning I took my usual walk in the woods, which includes visiting a special area on a small hill where I say daily prayers.  I stood for a while in this sacred area, holding Paul in my heart and sending him love and healing energy.  I then vocalized a prayer out loud, asking Spirit to help my both friend and her husband.

Upon finishing my prayers, I immediately sensed a presence on my left.  Looking over, I spotted a beautiful doe looking at me intently.  Again I spoke aloud, though this time I spoke with her and asked her not to be afraid. 

Usually deer run the minute they hear my voice or the sound of my footsteps.  Instead, she remained standing while I moved slowly to another rocky area nearby where I usually say a few more prayers.

Doe on Hill

Looking at Doe, I thanked her for her gentle energy and asked her to send love and healing to my friend and her husband.

Doe and I continued to commune with one another.  I felt her radiating kindhearted gentleness.  She even appeared to pose while I took her photograph. 

When our time together was up, we slowly moved in different directions.  I felt Doe’s gentle energy reverberating inside me throughout the remainder of my walk.

Paul returned home from the hospital and continues to recover.  While allopathic antibiotics helped kill the bugs., Doe’s gentle, loving energy assisted his healing process. 

Thank you dear Doe!  

Learning from Sandy

20 Tuesday Nov 2012

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Heeding warnings of Hurricane Sandy’s impending arrival in Massachusetts, we battened down the hatches as much as possible.  I carried outdoor chairs into the basement, watering cans into the garage, and cushions into the attic.  Bill dealt with heavier items, turning over the picnic table and benches.

We waited anxiously, aware of the wind picking up steam, watching leaves swirling on the ground and trees swaying to and fro.  Standing inside Harmony Center, I gazed through glass windows at the rock cairns outside.  They looked like sentinels standing guard around the building.  I felt them offering strength and protection, along with an ability to ground swirling energy.  I found their demeanor reassuring.

I sent prayers to the trees, asking them to hold on tight with their roots, release their leaves and allow the wind to flow freely through their branches.

Focusing on Sandy, I sent peaceful loving energy her way.  I asked her to be gentle, to let go of anger, and to be kind to all the innocent beings in her path.

I apologized to Gaia, our planet Earth, for all the abuse we humans have wrought – for the ways we’ve taken her for granted while polluting her sacred waters, air and earth.  I begged for her forgiveness.

As Sandy neared the east coast, I went for a walk in the woods.  Watching the trees bend and sway, I asked them to hang in there, to go with the flowing wind, not fight it.  Arriving in an area I consider sacred, I sent more prayers to Sandy, to trees, to all of Earth’s elements.  I fervently hoped that life would be spared.

Wind howled, rain fell, and so did some trees.  We were fortunate, for the trees along our driveway and around the buildings withstood the storm quite well.  They released some branches and leaves, but avoided hitting the power line and buildings.

Yes, we lost power for a while, but not for too long.  Others were not as fortunate.  Ocean water rose up, flooding areas of New Jersey and New York.  Raging wind fueled fires and devastated communities.

After the wind calmed and rain abated, I prayed for healing.

On subsequent walks in the woods, I observed Sandy’s damage and wondered about the message.  What can we learn?

I notice that oak trees sustained the most damage, especially those with leaves still attached.  Their roots held firm, but their trunk snapped.  Mulling this over, I infer that these trees were too rigid.  Rather than bend in the breeze, they stood straight and tall.   I take this as a lesson – there is strength in flexibility.

Looking at fallen boughs resplendent with brown leaves, I wonder why these particular oaks held on so tightly to their leaves.   They wouldn’t let go.  If they had, perhaps the wind would have flowed through their branches more easily.

Knowing the difficulty I have parting with clothes I rarely wear, I recognize another lesson.  I must learn to let go, to release what no longer serves me.  Taking this insight further, I recognize the freedom that comes with paring down one’s life.  If I let go of irrelevant stuff – whether material possessions, compulsive behaviors or distracting thoughts – I can then focus more fully on what is truly important, more relevant to life.

Most importantly, Sandy sent a message from our planet.

We humans need to shift our relationship with Earth.   We need to recognize that we depend on her for every aspect of our lives: for the food we eat, the water we drink, the air we breathe.  Instead of abusing her, we need to value her, protect her, care for her.   We must end global warming.

Let us heed Sandy’s warnings and learn her lessons.  The time is now.  It is up to us!

Skullcap

30 Sunday Sep 2012

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Herbalists read the land.  Traditional herbalists teach that the herbs we need volunteer in our back yards.  In general, herbs growing closest to our homes are for more daily use, while those growing in more distant places are to be used less frequently. 

Phyllis Light grew up in the folk herbalism tradition.  She taught me to pay attention when a given plant suddenly appears more plentiful, for that plant’s healing remedies will probably be needed during the coming season.  Such abundance is a signal to harvest that herb in preparation for future use. 

After moving to Harmony Farm over 30 years ago, I delighted in identifying the plants growing on our property and learning about their uses.  I found a few Skullcap (Scutellaria laterifolia) plants growing at some distance from my house, at an edge of the stream and in a few spots around the pond.  I tincture some from time to time and use the tincture when I need a nervine that will be calming while also relaxing muscles.  When I travel, I usually take a little with me in case I experience difficulty sleeping. 

I think of Skullcap as being slightly shy.  Her small blue flowers don’t grab one’s attention, and it’s easy to walk by without noticing her. 

Skullcap recently surprised me.  I suddenly spotted a big patch in the middle of a trail where I take my daily walk – an unusual spot for Skullcap to grow. 

Once she had my attention, Skullcap kept me focused on her.  I began noticing plants growing in quite a few places along my daily walking route.  Each day I discovered more.  As I also stopped finding Skullcap in her usual spots, I realized that she was behaving in an unusual manner. 

On a recent walk in the woods, I stared at yet another Skullcap growing smack in the middle of my trail and suddenly remembered Phyllis’s teaching.  “Aha” I exclaimed while bowing my head, “I get it!  Thank you for being persistent.” 

Suspecting that we will need Skullcap during the months ahead, I returned later with a basket in one hand and scissors in the other.  After snipping sprigs from quite a few plants, I hung some to dry in the attic and made tincture form the rest. 

Reflecting on this experience, I wonder, “Could Earth be sending messages about stressful times to come … about the Great Turning?  Could Earth be offering Skullcap as a way to stay centered and calm during this time of change?” 

I have no idea whether I, or we, will need Skullcap in the season ahead.  Yet with bottles of her sitting on my shelf, I feel better prepared for whatever the future may bring. 

Nature’s Internet

19 Wednesday Sep 2012

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I leave for my walk hoping that it will help calm my mind and still the energy swirling inside me.  Following my usual route, I cross the pond and head into the woods.  The trail leads me upstream of our pond, and along what used to be the edge of the stream.  This area was recently invaded by beavers who dammed a culvert, then extended their dam to create a huge expanse of water.  One of my neighbors, impressed by its size, called it a beaver lake.

After walking along the banks of this now beaver lake, I head up a small hill, circle back along another trail, turn left and climb upward.  Arriving at a flat area, I walk to a large rock outcropping, where I stop to pray.

My prayer begins with gratitude; I give thanks for the many blessings in my life.  Digging deep into my heart, I express my sense of going round and around in circles, of feeling ungrounded.  I ask for help, for guidance on where to go next. 

Finishing my prayer, I bow my head, then amble toward a large oak tree growing in the middle of large rocky outcroppings.  After circling the tree, I stand and calmly look around, inhaling the view. 

My eyes suddenly zoom in on a bright yellow patch growing out of the trunk of a fallen oak tree.  Unable to suppress my excitement, I exclaim aloud, “Wow!  That looks like a chicken mushroom.”

I walk over for a closer look, and confirm my initial impression.  Yes, it’s unmistakably a chicken mushroom – one of my favorite mushrooms to eat.  Like most edible mushrooms, it also has medicinal benefits.

Staring at the beautiful mushroom, I think about the mycelium growing underground, for a mushroom is the fruiting body of this web-like network of cells.  Mycelia are our planet’s great recyclers, transforming “dead” trees and other matter (even toxic waste) into vibrant, nutrient rich soil. 

Mushroom guru Paul Stamets considers mycelium to be the neurological network of nature, for these membranes are in constant molecular communication with their environment. They not only sense what is going on around them, they respond accordingly. 

Mycelia comprise Earth’s underground communication system.  Vast mycelia networks enable trees and plants to communicate with one another.  They serve as nature’s internet. 

My recollection of Stamets’s teachings comes to a close.  Caressing Chicken Mushroom’s thick, velvety flesh, I admire her luminescent orange-yellow color while my nose moves closer to sniff her delicious aroma.  Inhaling her essence, I ask whether she would be willing to let us eat her for dinner.  Receiving what I take to be an affirmative response, I bid Chicken Mushroom a temporary farewell, for I intend to return later with a knife and basket for harvesting. 

Resuming my walk, I feel grateful for this reminder of interconnection.  As my feet make contact with the ground, I sense my roots descending into earth, connecting with the web-of-life immediately below.  Feeling deeply grounded, focused and calm, I tap into Gaia and send her my love. 

 

Practicing

10 Tuesday Apr 2012

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Travelling home from the hospital, I worry, “How will I finish preparing to go away?”  “How will I pack if I’m hopping around on crutches?”   I wonder, “Will I be able to enjoy my vacation?”  Taking a positive approach, I decide to release expectations and learn to relax. 

The following day I assiduously ice my sprained ankle and send it healing energy.  As the day progresses, it gradually responds to my ministrations.  My ankle starts allowing me to put some weight on it without screaming in pain.  I graduate myself to using a cane, and manage to pack. Then, thanks to airline wheel chair arrangements, and my husband’s assistance, we’re able to fly to Salt Lake City the very next day. 

By the time I arrive in southern Utah, I’m able to walk unassisted by either the cane or the air cast.  Having looked forward to hiking in the area’s red rock desert landscape, I excitedly decide to give one a try.  Wanting to honor my ankle’s limitations, I review the three morning hikes being offered and sign up for the easiest, beginner level one. 

Our “Explorer” hike goes at an easy pace, with a guide ahead and a shepherd in the rear.  We frequently stop to admire the scenery – red and white rock formations contrasting against black lava areas.  The guide fills us in on geological history and points out interesting plants along the way.  I feel deeply grateful to be able to hike amidst these wonders of nature.  

After two such hikes, I feel increasingly confident in my ankle’s ability to negotiate the terrain.  My mind toys with the idea of signing up for a more challenging hike.  I yearn to ascend to higher heights and wonder whether to take the risk.

Observing my thoughts, I remind myself – “learn to relax.”   I sign up for the easiest hike. 

I religiously continue applying ice to my ankle.  And though tempted to take tai chi, or another class in the afternoons, I focus on relaxing.  I position myself outside, facing Red Rock Mountain with my leg propped up on a chair.  As I absorb the beautiful panorama, I count my blessings, feeling grateful for the experience. 

Now and again, though, the old thoughts pop up, I start debating about trying to do more.  I treat these thoughts like meditation.  Each time my mind wanders to thoughts of doing, I let go of the thought and focus my attention on being, on learning to relax. 

On my last day there I briefly feel tempted to take a more challenging hike.  Attuned now to my pattern, I immediately release the thought and open my heart to the pleasures of a slower paced hike. 

After a truly relaxing vacation, I return home to piles of mail and a to-do list filled with organizational details. 

Now the real challenge begins – continuing the practice at home. 

Letting Go

23 Friday Mar 2012

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I begin my walk marveling at the glorious spring day – sunshine, blue sky, warm weather.  “What more could I want.”

Passing the pond, I note 2 pairs of ducks gracefully gliding through the calm water, and think “the joys of mating season.”  My ears pick up some sounds, not really quacks, more squeaky than that, floating through air.  Soon two more ducks descend upon the pond, their arrival signaled by a very small splash.  The two additional lovers begin their graceful swim, trailed by two small wakes.  

As I continue down the trail, my mind travels to the future, looking ahead to my forthcoming trip.  In two days I’ll be with one son and his family, including three of my seven grandchildren.  And then further ahead, anticipating the short vacation hiking amid red rock formations.  “What more could I want.”

I muse about how much I love living here, on Harmony Farm.  No wonder I rarely travel.  Yet twice a year I pull up my roots and travel to places where I hike.  “What more could I want.”

I see green pushing her shoots above ground and swelling buds on trees.  I smell the vibrancy of earth beneath my feet.  And then … suddenly … my right foot encounters a rock and loses its grip.  My ankle rotates to the side.  I fall.  My hands automatically reach out to cushion my fall. 

Encountering the ground, I evaluate my situation.  No broken arms.  Gingerly rising, I test out my legs.  “Whew,” I think, “I seem to be O.K.”

Resuming my walk, everything feels fine and I feel deep gratitude.  Then, almost halfway home, my ankle begins to protest.  Soon I can barely walk.  Passing by the pond, I think, “Almost home.”  The last rise toward the house my ankle screams “No!”  I crawl the last few feet, hop into the kitchen, make a bee-line for the freezer, retrieve two ice packs and manage to wrap them around my poor ankle. 

After maneuvering my way to the basement, I retrieve a pair of crutches, swing my way to the phone, and begin a series of calls to locate my husband.  To my relief, he comes to my rescue.

Though the emergency room appears empty, we learn that they are dealing with two ambulance cases.   During our long wait, the loudspeaker announces, “Code Blue in Room One, Code Blue in Room One.”  I remind myself of how lucky I am. 

Many hours later, the verdict is in.  No broken bones, but a badly sprained ankle.  They wrap my ankle in an air cast, teach me now to use crutches, and send me on my way with instructions to keep my leg elevated and apply frequent ice. 

Driving home we evaluate our situation.  No we won’t cancel our trip.  I release my anticipation of hiking, and open to what else might happen. 

Letting go of expectations, I think “Perhaps I’ll learn to relax.” 

 

Signs of Spring

27 Monday Feb 2012

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I awaken to a sign of spring.

Looking into the day through the bathroom window, my eyes get drawn to a fiery red area highlighted against an otherwise drab landscape.  Focusing on the color, which sits on a barren branch nearby, I identify the outline of a bird, its crimson chest blazing out into the early light.

At first I think, “ah a robin red breast.” But as my morning eyes focus, I see that the crimson color covers more of the bird’s body than just its chest.  And as I continue staring at what feels like a mirage, I recognize the bird — a cardinal. 

After making the bed, dressing, and completing a few kitchen chores, I go outside and begin walking toward Harmony Center.  A bird’s clear “tweet, tweet … tweet,tweet … tweet,tweet” floats atop the morning’s stillness.  I reply, “tweet, tweet … tweet, tweet … tweet, tweet.”

Arriving in the building, I move toward a large expanse of glass.  Facing east, I see brilliant sunlight streaming through trees and realize how much the angle of the sun has changed.  No longer low on the horizon, the sun’s position is now higher and further east – moving toward spring.

Finishing my morning ritual that includes giving thanks for the day, some chi gong, a little yoga, and additional stretching, I feel hunger stirring in my belly.  Ready for breakfast, I head toward the barn, and then wander into the chicken coup.  Reaching into a nest, my hand encounters a warm oval gift — a freshly laid egg.  Thanks to longer daylight, the hens are laying again. 

As I continue down the driveway to retrieve the newspaper, my ears pick up sounds of birds chirping their welcome to the day.  Looking towards the stream bed, my eyes recognize skunk cabbage shoots beginning to poke above ground.

Arriving at the mailbox by the side of the road, I watch cars whizzing by, their drivers seemingly oblivious to the signs of spring all around them.

Appreciating my good fortune, I count this morning’s blessings – cardinal, sunlight, birdsong, skunk cabbage, and a freshly laid egg.  Ah, signs of Spring!

Oak

14 Tuesday Feb 2012

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On a recent walk in woods behind Harmony Center, I feel drawn to stop and commune with a beautiful oak tree.  I admire its strong trunk and look up into its branches.  Noticing some broken limbs, I wonder what trauma could have caused such damage. 

A snowstorm?  A Nor’easter?  And when might that have happened? 

Observing one branch, I note its position about half way up the trunk.  Judging by the size of the tree, I suspect that this damage occurred about 50 or so years ago.  

Sitting on the ground, I reflect on the relationship between growing and healing.  Despite being hurt, the tree continued to grow.  It first sealed off its wound, and then resumed growing. 

I stand and approach the tree.  Wrapping my arms around its trunk, I sense its deep rootedness, its inner strength, its tenacity and fortitude.  After absorbing these sensations, I step back, clasp my hands against my heart, and bow my head in gratitude for Oak’s important lesson.

Despite its shorn limb, Oak continued to grow.  

Walking in Woods

18 Wednesday Jan 2012

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Sitting at the computer, my mind whirs. Busy with thoughts, ideas for a class, I organize and plan for the future. My fingers tap rapidly at the keyboard, trying to keep apace with thoughts flying through my mind. Yet nothing falls into place.

As my mind goes round and round in circles, my breathing becomes shallow, my body tight. Though my fingers temporarily slow in response to the thought, “might as well check e-mail,” my mind continues to race.

Suddenly becoming conscious of what’s happening, I take a deep breath and ask my body to release, to let go. My breath slows, yet tension remains. Dispensing with the e-mail, I glance at the clock, and realize “it’s time for my walk.”

After donning a jacket and boots, I step outside, close the door, and inhale deeply. Crispness enters my body. I sense air dispersing stagnation, enlivening cells.

Trail in WoodsMy legs find their rhythm as they guide me down a well-known trail. My feet make contact with the leaf littered path, sensing the earth’s undulations and adjusting accordingly. My arms swing beside me, counterbalancing the movements of each leg.

And as my body finds its rhythm, my mind shifts gears. I notice clouds floating across the blue sky above, the soft smell in the air, the rustle of leaves under foot intermingling with the hum of a distant jet. I open to each experience and connect.

I connect with the earth beneath my feet, with the trees along the way, and with the barren branches that have released their leaves to the ground. Touching a white pine frond, I sense green energy prickling my finger- tips and entering my body. My heart expands with gratitude.

Returning to my house, I reflect on the experience and note that my perspective had shifted. Frantic mind evaporated along the trail, replaced by feelings of interconnection – with nature, with life itself.