8 posts tagged “peace”
I am back from another magical romp in the woods.
The children self organized and made the campground their kingdom. While they ran about feral and free, we adults did the important work of cooking, tending the fire and napping. This morning after breakfast we sat around the campfire all of us, strumming guitars and singing. A pastoral Von Trapp family moment twisted only by the children's choice of songs. (I couldn't help but wonder what Child Protective Services would think about the fact that all of our children know this Johnny Cash tune by heart). No matter.
I am unpacking now. I carry the camp chairs in and put them away for the season. They smell like smoke, smoke from the glorious fire, tended by Eric, a blacksmith-wanna-be stoking a furnace fit for smelting. We sat around this fire as the night grew chilly, laughing, telling stories, nursing stout and tequila, sneaking brownies the children never knew were baked, sneaking cigarettes they never knew we smoked.
The little children have been tucked into bed in the Tent-Mahal, lulled to sleep in by the whispers of a father who's own children have grown too old now to be comforted by the cadence of his voice. Teenage fears are not easily chased away by fairy tales but here in this tent at this moment, he is a hero to seven wee ones, a hero with the power to keep the darkness at bay. Covered with children and sleeping bags he is able to relive a memory and to relieve those of us who are too weary of nightly stories, who just need a beer and some quiet. It takes a village...
The little ones are sleeping now. Soundly. The smoke blows in our face as the wind shifts direction and so do we, moving around the circle, shifting positons to talk, to pour a drink, to play. We laugh and sing to homemade music, two guitars, one harmonica. Red wine. Tequila. A few contraband cigarettes. Shake thoroughly. Instant bliss.
One by one sleepy people get up and drift away to our tiny tent city. They drift away until it is only three of us, the roaring fire turned to bright cooking coals now. My dear friend and I lay on our backs in the dirt and gaze at the seven sisters twinkling overhead. Another friend fingerpicking a guitar, Texas blues for the girl with boots, bending strings that connect right to a piece my soul.
And then it is just me, I sit at the fire, shifting the coals around, encouraging them to cool now. I breathe in the smoke, feel the soot settle on my face. I sit in the space of gratitude watching the embers. I am thankful for this trip, for the laughter, for the new people, for the joy my son felt when running free, for the easy hike, the communal dinner, for my dear friend and her family, for all the families together, for the music...for the sweet sweet music.
I lay back, the seven sisters on the other side of the sky now. I can't help but feel that everything is exactly as it should be at this moment. That I, sitting alone by the fire, am exactly where I need to be. That I can relax here in this space. That neither the past nor the future really matter all that much. That the now, these warm coals, this autumn wind, this feeling of rightness is what matters. I think this feeling is called grace. I touch it and wrap my fingers around it. I tuck it into my hair.
I hear my friends stir, shift in sleeping bags. I wish them deep sleep and sweet dreams while I stir the coals. Then, minutes or hours later, I pour water on them and watch the steam rise.
I am so gritty, so grimy from this trip. I have finished unpacking and slip into a warm shower, before I head out to pick up the take-out we will have for dinner tonight. Before I throw in the laundry. Before I check my email.
The smell of smoke wafts through the bathroom--it is washing out of my pores and running down the drain. I want to stop it and capture it. I do not want to let the smoke go. I want it to cling to my skin forever.
We just returned home from West Virginia. The house is quiet now, the unpacking of dirty clothes, of camping gear and photos has been done in a burst of efficiency. Max is fast asleep. The crickets alone keep my company.
Last week when I woke to my 7th straight day of a migraine I knew something had to change. It wasn't just the migraines however that had me shaking. I felt like I was struggling, that nothing I did was enough to make it work. The balancing of work and parenting and being a good friend all seemed to be too much. I felt myself tightening from want.
It must have been the Universe who inspired my dear Jackie to call me and invite us to the woods. At the time she offered it sounded as though it was the only thing I should do. We dropped everything and ran.
I should know now that there is nothing that grounds me like eating and sleeping outside among the trees. The energy of the woods, the mountains, the river repairs me even when I am at my most frayed. Over and over again I rediscover this about myself. I am not sure why I forget so easily.
Indeed it was everything I needed to soothe my tired brain, my achey grouchy soul. It was like an amazing power nap, a kind of (in the words of Eric) reboot for the brain. I feel as though I have been away for weeks, I am so refreshed. The stresses that seemed to paralyze me last week have floated away, like leaves carried away by a stream. Joy is now running circulating freely once more--no longer stuck in the muck am I.
Indeed I feel the entire universe conspired to make this weekend perfect. The sky was the most intense cloudless blue, the air temperature was perfect. It felt as though the forest was in cahoots with our merry band of travelers. The river was perfectly refreshing for us. There were long stretches of little children laughing, shrieking, falling down from silliness. And beautiful moments of silence. And music. And endless firewood. And the perfect amount of yummy food.
Alone and together in shifting combinations we moved about the day, collecting, observing, creating. Each moment unfolded effortlessly as both chaos and community flowed as sweetly as the Potomac around the bend, rippling and bubbling and smoothing out the edges of our lives.
I feel so inspired in so many ways but I feel I cannot unpack it all just yet. I struggle here, tripping over my own bliss as I try and write about it, about the way I feel somehow knit back to together around my frayed edges. I just know that I am. And that at this moment is enough.
For more photos of our adventure, click here.
Today I am filled with a yearning. A sort of mellow sadness. A tightness around my heart.
Last night I slept a deep, delicious sleep. But in this deep relaxation a dream came to me—a dream which won’t let me go.
It is a dream I have had before. I am fixing up a new house, a house I bought in a burst of enthusiasm full of hope and expectations. It was so much bigger than my old one—so beautiful and spacious. But now I stand in all the construction rubble and I don’t know why I left my old one. This house that held the promise of being more is a disaster. Rotting plaster, rooms that seem so suddenly small, an old kitchen and bathrooms that barely work. It is dark an chaotic and smells musty. I miss my old house, cheery and warm. I am angry that I sold it—that I let it go. I want it back. I don’t know why I paid so dearly for this mess of a house, this house I only sort of want now, this house that seems like it will never rise to my expectations. I wake up with the taste of a longing in my mouth. I can’t shake it.
I have this dream only when I am at peace. It is though, only in these quiet and happy moments when my heart is most relaxed that I can face the truth. I am in the middle of soul renovations and I am feeling a bit restless and regretful, wondering why I started on this project--why I dare to look within.
My heart, my life—it is being reconstructed after the hurricane that was my failed marriage destroyed the place where my heart last dwell. The blueprints laid out are ambitious plans—plans that hold promise of space and beauty, but seem so far from completion. I am tired of construction that never ends. I am impatient. I am questioning this new dream of a house—the wisdom of it all. I want my old one back. Sure it was too small. But it was comfortable. It was home.
I have sat with this dream all morning, all afternoon as the children catch frogs and feed ducks. As I pack up our cabin to ready ourselves to leave tomorrow. As I run errands and watch the wind blow through the pines and whip up waves on the lake. I don’t know what to do to shake it and so I don’t. I sit with it until I am at last ready to let it blow away in the Maine breeze, the comfort that I can recognize what is going on in my heart at last what allows it to fade.
Its rained a little everyday now. Not all day, just a bit. Enough to drive us all indoors for awhile to pop popcorn, or eat lunch inside before the sun comes out from behind the clouds again. And I have too admit, I have been a bit draggy and gray myself. Not all day. But I’ve been a bit more tired and grouchy than last year. A bit more foggy and tired.
Last year, my first year at the lake it didn’t rain at all. It was a picture perfect week—for both of us “the lake” and me.
Last year, the lake and I, we were like new lovers putting on our very best for each other. Every day I woke full of energy to witness her brilliant sunrise, the glassy stillness of the water at daybreak. Every day she sparkled, all blue skies and sunshine while I dwelled fully present in the marvel of every hour—“Look how lovely the trees look in the 2 pm light—how different from the way they looked this morning.” “Oh! The air smells so beautiful right now? Does it always smell so clean here on a Tuesday?” And every night we stayed up late together the lake and I, a chorus of thousands of grasshoppers playing along with the soundtrack of the restless waves rocking the boat knocking it against the dock, as I lay on my back on the green green grass and counted stars with my son.
But this year we are sure of our love for each other and so we are no longer pulling out the stops. I am too tired this year for sunrises. I wake well past dawn when the lake is already busy with swimming and kayaks. The nights are not always clear and bright. The grasshoppers are not always singing. And sometimes this lake she is even gray and choppy. And sometimes we both rain a bit.
Now don’t get me wrong…The lake is no less lovely to me. She is every bit as beautiful and peaceful as I remember. I am seeing a new side of her and finding new beauty in the rain rolling of the pines or the reflection of the dark clouds on the water. Furthermore, I am enjoying my time with my cousins twice as much as last year. There is a rhythm and a comfort this year—a routine that feels like it has always been this way—us here on the lake. We feed each others children and pick up our conversations exactly where we left off last year. There is not so much to catch up on. We can just look at each other and smile—holding hands while we watch our children play at the waters edge, helping gather each others books and towels when the storm clouds come.
And this comfort I think is translating to my relationship with these magic surroundings. The beautiful spot I call the lake--she knows I will come back each year a faithful pilgrim. And I too know that she will be here for me next year, a resting spot for my tired bones. This lake and I, we no longer need to impress one another. We are in that phase of a new relationship when you can relax and let a little of your imperfections show. I am really not that much of a morning person. She is not always sunny and bright. But we will love each other nevertheless. In sunshine and in rain. And that love is in the end better than a vacation full of sunshine.
Tomorrow Max and I are headed on a great adventure.
We are off to cabin #2 on a Woods Pond in Bridgton, Maine. We will be joined by a handful of my cousins on my mother's side and their kids. The family will take over almost all of the ten cabins that surround Woods Pond. There is only one small pay phone there--somewhere between cabin #4 and #5 I think. Near the boat house perhaps. I never used it. There is no internet, and barely any cell phone coverage. At night it is so pitch black that you can actually see the stars. During the day you might see a bald eagle go fishing..
Last year was our first year "at the lake" although my cousins have been going for years. It was nothing short of pure bliss. I would wake at sunrise and sit on my front porch with my tea and my book watching Kevin come back from his morning walk or Eileen to float in on her kayak. Max would wake in the morning and skip out of the house immediately finding an "uncle" (read: grown cousin) to take him fishing or one of his cousins--perhaps 12 year old Zach or the teenage Al and Chris to take him out in a boat. Dinners were communal, and delicous and often followed by a bon fire in a huge outdoor firepit. I sat in an adirondack chair almost all day, reading, knitting, catching up with the cousins. Drinking in calm and relaxation and day after day of perfect sunshine.
Our crazy world with its swirling chaos melted away. There was only peace punctuated by the sound of wooden screen doors banging as little children ran in between the cabins or a cousin brought a cool drink out to share.
I needed this trip last year. I had been doing the single mom thing for 15 months and was feeling overwhelmed, tired and a little bit a failure. I need to sink into love. But was nervous. Aside from Eileen, I had really lost touch with many of my cousins. We hadn't talked in ages. We didn't know each other anymore. No matter how hard I tried all my memories of connecting with this crowd floated up from decades past. It had been a long long time.
I knew I didn't have enough energy to put on a good face. I feared they would meet me at my worst.
But fortunately good faces aren't required in our family.
From the minute we pulled in my cousins accepted that I just was--asked nothing from Max and I other than our presence. Reconnection came almost instantly and the love that was woven during childhood, the adoration I had for my big cousins, the fondness I had for the younger ones, it all came flooding back to me as though it was summer 1978. It rose up in me like a song I had sung years ago and upon hearing again knew all the words--but with a twist. They had all grown up into such amazing, brave and interesting people.
But what was even better was watching Max discover the joy of a big huge crazy family. We have been such a small unit of 2 down here in Maryland. Last year with each fishing trip, each frisbee throw, each search for minnows and dragonflies he was weaving his own blanket of connectedness and family. I breathed a sigh of relief. He will have others who call him family, even long after I am gone. I saw it with my own eyes.
By the end of the week, it pained me to say goodbye to my long lost loved ones now found. I knew that the distance and the craziness of all our lives would take over. We made lots of ambitous plans on how we would get together--meet somewhere between New England and Maryland--let the kids play, pick up where we all left off. But I think we all really knew it would likely not happen. So just in case we all just immediately booked another week at the lake in advance. I can't believe it is already here.
Its true I haven't seen any of them (accept Eileen- once- last fall) since we pulled out of the woods and hit the highway. But last week I had a message on my cell phone from Kevin. "Are you still coming?" he asked the playfulness of a 9 year old in his voice. I know he is just dying to dunk me in a kayak.
Ever since I wrote this post I have been lighting a little candle on my serenity altar. I have been feeling so restless of late, seeking something I can't quite put a finger on. I have been praying for a little clarity..., to understand what my heart is yearning for so that I can make her happy.
A few nights ago, I was leaning over to light the candle and my eyes fell on the picture that my friend Pat had given me for Chinese New Year.
It is difficult to tell what it says from the photo here so let me transcribe it here:
Seeing the small is called Clarity
Keeping flexible is called Strength
Using the shining Radiance
you enter the Light
where no harm can home to you
This is called Enlightenment
- Lao Tsu
Sometimes the universe needs to just hit me over the head. I have been looking for clarity in the big, wide and sweeping instead of in the tiny. But isn't it true that real clarity only comes in little portions, tiny moments when it all seems to make sense?. Isn't it true that that we only understand when we explore the intimate, intricate details of any one thing or person or feeling.
I realized that in my haste to catch up with my life--my life that had felt as though it had galloped away from me while I was so tired-- I had stopped noticing the small. I wasn't doing my morning pages. I wasn't taking photos. I wasn't doing yoga or knitting or my mediatation work--all things that help me break down life into the tiniest of bits to appreciate each square inch of beauty. I was all full steam ahead, big picture, getting lots of stuff done.
So this week I am resolving to think small. To find my clarity in all the tiny little bits.
I know, deep in my soul, I am not alone--that I am held by something greater, a loving kind all-wonderful presence. I see Her work in my life, the many gifts that arrive on our doorstep--dear friends, wonderful opportunities, loving family. Sometimes I am just so overwhelmed with the abundance of blessings.
But sometimes it can all feel surprisingly empty, like something might be missing. Truthfully I have been restless lately, trying to put my finger on it. But what on earth am I seeking?
I get on the computer and I search--hoping some kind angel will guide me to the information I need to see. Strike one. I flip through books impatiently hoping something will grab my attention--ignite a passion in me that I need need need to follow, a project, an idea...anything. Strike two. I sit quietly with it--or rather attempt to do so. My mind wanders and jumps and just doesn't want to be still. Strike three.
After months of relentless fatigue I am gifted with space to do all the things I swore I would do if only I had the time. But instead I find myself restless, none of these things holding the attention they deserve: half-folding the clothes, half-reading my books, flipping through the TV, only half my heart able to focus on my son. None of this satisfies this thirst--in fact it leaves me even more parched.
I stay up so late kicking this around that I cannot wake to my alarm clock--not from crushing exhaustion but because I have barely gotten 6 hours of rest. I tumble into my day a little discombobulated and muddle but find I can't focus, stay mindful, be present. And then at night--I fidget again, seeking something I cannot name, something I cannot find.
I am lighting a candle tonight--asking for a bit of mental, spiritual rest. I am saying a tiny prayer that I can just feel still and patient and wait for the clarity I am so itching to receive. I know deep in my soul that I am not alone, that I am held by something greater and I believe that the answer is just bubbling beneath the surface of my heart.
When I was a little girl my mom used to recite this little rhyme whenever we pulled into the driveway after a trip.
"Home again, home again, jiggity jigg...Home again home again to roast a fat pig". I have no idea where it came from but to me it is the language of return. I have been reciting it all morning.
Yesterday Max and I opened the door of our house and returned home after an amazing two week voyage across the Atlantic. I had fully intended to post pictures and write from rural Ireland but the closest thing I found to wifi was a pair of digital walkie talkies that my brother had packed. Amazingly the internet cafes in Ireland all close by 5 or 6pm and so I found myself frustratingly and blissfully unconnected...
The last two weeks were full of wonderful adventures and some fabulous experiences which I hope to write about now that I am home and settled.
For two weeks my entire family (Mom, Dad, brother Sean, sister-in-law Jen, nephew Jack, and of course Maxidoodle and I) ambled through Southern and Western Ireland in a celebration of my parents 40th anniversary. Over 40 years ago, they had come to Ireland on their honeymoon and wanted to celebrate the life they had built by taking their family back to the place where they had started it.
And so we went. All seven of us. In two big cars we drove all around--making our way from Dublin in the East to Cratloe--a tiny village in County Clare where we had rented a house for the second week: Max and I with mom and Dad. Sean and his family in another. Sean and I chattering away on the walkie talkies as though we 10--telling jokes or jointly navigating--pointing out scenes the other might have missed. When we all drove smushed in one car, Sean would roll down the window everytime we saw cows so that we could all moo as loud as we could and try to make the cows look at us. Such is a Casey family vacation.
Max and Jack loved each fiercely and annoyed each other greatly. It was a lovely reminder of my childhood. I am glad that Max is developing the kind of relationship with his cousin that most people only experience with siblings. The kind of relationship that Sean and I experienced. Of messy love and envy and joy. Of invading each others space and drawing new boundaries over and over again.Of loving each other despite everything. Of unending forgiveness.
And along with all the giggling, the laughing so hard I cried, and the teaching of children, there was long stretches of nothing but the wind and the Irish countryside. I found myself often speechless. No inner monologue, no outer dialogue--just breathing and observing and taking it all in. Such long stretches of mindfulness was a miracle that defies description.
We all came on this trip looking for different things. Escape, connection, adventure, renewal, healing, a glimpse of something we had always wanted to see. And like all journeys we came away with different and unexpected gifts: humility, silence, peace, friendship, renewed sense of silliness. Dad learned he can't control everything--as much as he tries. I learned that I can peacefully be with my family and that I won't get lost or consumed by their strong world views which differ from mine. Max learned that its not all about him.
But now, we are back. Happily back and settling into our routine. There are clothes to be cleaned, work to be done, friends to catch up with. So much happened in our little world while we were away. But even as we joyfully dive back in, I know I will return time and time again to the peaceful and silly voyage we just took. I know it will feed my soul. I know that I will do things a little bit different because of what I learned on the wild Irish coasts or the person I discovered inside of me when there was no one to talk to but the wind.
