Let me hold your hand

 



"Maybe that's because there are times--during intense grief or fear, but also in ecstatic moments of joy or love--when only the language of touch can fully express what we feel."



http://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/201302/the-power-touch

Back to the beginning...

I'm an intermittent meditator.  I like the idea, I like how I feel when I do it, but I find it hard to make it a priority in my daily life.  I suppose if I used broad definitions like walking, doing jigsaw puzzles, listening to music, I meditate pretty regularly.  But, the sit down and focus kind of meditation...not so much.

Yesterday, though, I was at an educational session at hospice on breathing and meditation.  Hospice work can be emotionally rewarding and emotionally draining. Learning how to manage those emotions is part of the training for staff and volunteers.  Our leader for the session was explaining the basics of meditation for those unfamiliar.  She gave the most common advice I've heard, count your breaths.  The idea is that by focusing on your breathing you block other thoughts and distractions.  But, as she noted, most of us can only count about 3 or 4 breaths before getting distracted and need to start back at 1.  What she said next, while I'm sure an off-handed remark to her, hit me like hammer..."It's okay to go back to the beginning."

It's okay to go back to the beginning.

Beginnings are at the start of any project, any task, any undertaking.

                     

Beginnings are chances for a new perspective, a new day, a new look.

  

Beginnings are how we tell a story.

 

Beginnings are on the other side of ends.

Become a Lake

I heard this story today.  I don't know of its exact origin, but I found several similar versions on the web:

Once an unhappy young man came to an old master and said he was very sad and asked for a solution. The old Master instructed the unhappy young man to put a handful of salt in a glass of water and then to drink it. "How does it taste?" the Master asked. "Bitter," spat the apprentice.

The Master chuckled and then asked the young man to take another handful of salt and put it in the lake. The two walked in silence to the nearby lake and when the apprentice swirled his handful of salt into the lake, the old man said, "Now drink from the lake."

As the water dripped down the young man's chin, the Master asked, "How does it taste?" "Fresh and sweet!" remarked the apprentice. "Do you taste the salt?" asked the Master.

"No," said the young man. The Master sat beside this troubled young man, took his hands, and said, "The pain of life is pure salt; no more, no less.

The amount of pain in life remains the same, exactly the same. But the amount we taste the depends on the container we put it into. So when you are in pain, the only thing you can do is to enlarge your sense of things... Stop being a glass. Become a lake!"

For me this story holds two messages.  The first is that we all experience pain in our lives.  If we focus on the pain, if we concentrate it, it will feel worse.  I've often heard the advice that if you are feeling a bit down and blue, one of the best things you can do is go help someone else. By shifting your focus you shift the pain.  By seeing yourself as part of a larger whole you feel more alive.

The other message for me is that our pain is real, but by sharing that pain we may make it more bearable. If we put our pain into the hands of others it will be lighter, if we dilute it in the lake of our friends we can drink more easily.  In the same way, by offering ourselves as part of the lake for others, we allow them to have fresh water, too.

Stop and smell the roses

I went for a walk today with a friend in the Thornden Park Rose Garden.  I am not a gardener, I don't have a green thumb.  But, walking under the flowered arches was achingly beautiful.  My friend was fascinated by the identifying markers for each rose bush.  He puzzled over the names, the dates, the description of the type--multiflora, tea, climbing...Walking the paths was like walking a labyrinth.  Bill's dementia forced us to focus only on what was immediately in front of us, every turn brought a new gasp of delight as if we were seeing each plant for the first time.  Each time a name was read we wondered about its origin.  Fourth of July?  Did the rose look like the red and white of the flag or fireworks exploding in the night sky?  Headliner?     Was that a show off rose?  Gold Medal?  A beautiful yellow.  The sky was a perfect blue background for the colors.  The breeze made sure we were surrounded by scent. Sometimes remembering isn't needed. Sometimes just being present is all you need to do.