Tomorrow is the autumnal equinox. Wind blows. Light changes. Leaves turn. We transition.
Sun Then Cloud Then Sun
Life is difficult. It's also wondrous and beautiful. In her poem, “Buddha’s dogs,” Susan Brown realizes, “I’ve been chasing the same thoughts like dogs around the same park most of my life.” (Profound insight. We’re addicted to thoughts, which are real but not often true.) She ends the poem with these lines: “I wake up for the forgiveness meditation, the teacher saying, never put anyone out of your heart, and the heart opens and knows it won’t last and will have to open again and again, chasing those dogs around and around in the sun then cloud then sun.”
Open Your Heart
I received a simple letter in the mail: my retirement savings will be transferred to a new company. My first reaction: fear. Fear of change and uncertainty. Since my mom's death I feel a heaviness in my chest—pain that feels solid; more solid than anything I've ever experienced. My first reaction: fear. What if this pain never ends?
Both Okay and Not Okay
The weekend before my mom died, I attended a silent meditation retreat. (Not yet knowing of mom's illness, I set an intention: bring loving-presence and compassion wherever I go. This intention serves me daily.) On the retreat-center wall was a quote from Pema Chodron: "We think that the point is to pass the test or overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don't really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It's just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy."
