The Springtime Work of Transformation

I asked friends what signs of spring they were noticing. They mentioned birdsong and blossoms. They didn’t mention the bare branches of trees against the bleak grey sky, or the frost we had that morning. This week at my house was wind and rain and mud, the streets and grass in my neighborhood littered with branches swept out of the trees by the rough winds. Then when the sun finally appeared, the first yellow blooms of daffodils and forsythia answered. Spring is always a time of transition. It is unpredictable and quixotic. It can be parkas in the morning and shirtsleeves in the afternoon.

One grey spring morning the rain pouring down the windows mirrored the grief in my own heart and the tears rolling down my own cheeks, as the turn of season reminded me of past losses. I try to let grief do it’s cleansing work when it comes, to let the tears wash through whatever is ready to be remembered or released. Later, on a walk, I had a sense of feeling cleansed, lighter, for having allowed that grief to move through me. I was ready to receive the sunshine, the birdsong, the green shoots of new life. The old truism popped into my head “April showers bring May flowers.”

As spring unfolds around you I encourage you to notice and honor it all- the rain and the mud, rough winds and gentle breezes, and of course the buds and leaves appearing on trees and bushes, and the beautiful progression of flowers so precious and ephemeral. Allow yourself to weep with the showers when that is what your spirit needs, and allow the fresh pops of color in the landscape, the antics of birds and squirrels to nourish your spirit in those moments when the clouds part and there is room for delight. Welcome spring as it moves through your heart doing the hard work of transformation.

Between Inhale and Exhale

Bring your attention to your breath. Notice your inhale, notice your exhale. Without trying to change anything just notice how you are breathing right now. What happens at the top of your inhale? I notice that there is a slight pause, a millisecond of stillness before I exhale. At the bottom of the exhale, I notice the same stillness. (If breathing is not comfortable for you right now for whatever reason, you can just play with the ideas without the physical practice.)

If you want, play around with what happens at the top of your inhale- try to inhale again, and then inhale again. When I try that I notice there comes a point when I can no longer inhale, and moreover, I am REALLY longing to exhale. The same is true if I exhale, and then exhale again, and then exhale again. Soon there is nothing more to exhale, and I am really longing to inhale. What did you notice? I notice that after doing all that I feel a bit off balance, so I recommend taking a few conscious breaths - just a natural inhale followed by a natural exhale, until things feel balanced and easy.

Not long ago I was getting ready to go out of town with my family, so I worked extra hard to get everything wrapped up before I went away. Then during our trip, I tried to do and see all the things I had been missing while I was working. Eventually this was like trying to breathe in and then breathe in again- there was just no more capacity to take anything in. I was full. Another time this year I experienced grief and illness in the same month. I had to lay things down one after the other until I felt empty, and then noticed an urge to “breathe in” metaphorically speaking. I began to wonder what it would be like for my life to mimic the comforting rhythm of a smooth inhale and a smooth exhale.

A recent shopping trip also brought this metaphor to mind. We had done very little shopping over past year, so we had some catching up to do. It felt good to accomplish so many shopping goals, but when we got home, we had no time to begin putting our new things away and had no place to put them. I remembered the natural pattern of breath and thought “it is surely time to exhale- time to clear out some old things and give them away.” But right at that moment we were worn out from shopping. I remembered that little pause between the inhale and the exhale. It feels soothing and natural to me to pause between inhaling and exhaling.

I invite you to carry this image with you as you go about your daily life; notice which activities feel like breathing in, and which feel like breathing out. Notice if there are opportunities for a pause in between. Many aspects of our culture rush us from one thing to the next- like that video app that starts the next video automatically without a chance to pause and process what we have just experienced, like the coupon you get after your purchase redeemable on another purchase next week. We have all been though a lot, have experienced much change and loss, have had to learn new things, and respond to the demands of our time. Do you feel like you are inhaling or exhaling right now in your life? Are you feeling a longing to transition from one to the other? Or is it time for a brief pause? In this busy season I encourage you to play with finding a balance of inhale, exhale, and the spaces in between.

Change of Season, Change of Rhythm

Just when I’ve settled into a nice daily rhythm… the seasons change. My dogs, who insisted on getting up with the sun at 5:30, are now content to sleep ‘till seven. This is just as well, since 7 o’clock in the morning, which was a beautiful time for a walk this summer, is often cold and dark and grim. Lately even the sunny days which are beautiful and crisp end so quickly! Now that the sun is setting before dinner, it’s hard to imagine any evening activities besides curling up under a blanket. I feel a bit guilty for just wanting to hibernate until I remember that all of nature in the Northeast is engaged in this seasonal change. It’s a rare bird I hear chirping on that first dog walk of a winter’s morning. The Squirrels and birds who rose early during the summer now visit my feeders in the afternoon. It’s only modern humans who try to keep the same schedule all year round.

It was kind of a relief that first bitter-cold Saturday afternoon when I finally pulled out my warmest winter blanket and curled up with a cup of tea and a pile of books. In our part of the world where a clear sunny day is precious, I feel compelled to spend each nice hour gardening, walking, socializing, traveling or at least sitting on the porch enjoying the activity of neighborhood critters and the play of light and wind in the trees. Phew. Where I live the weather this fall has been uncommonly warm and dry, the show of leaves stunning and this season’s local apples amazing. I’m sad to see it go and yet as the dark and cold settle in I’m suddenly getting excited about sitting quietly and knitting.

Winter has its own special gifts, revealed to us anew each year. It’s natural that one would want to spend sunny beautiful days enjoying a landscape bursting with life. Summer is a vital time of planting, cultivating and harvesting. But farm stands near me are closed for the winter; pretty much everything has been gathered in. My hose and gardening supplies are in the basement, and I’ve prepared the garden for its dormant period. I too am ready for shorter days when I can be still, without the pressure of growing and blooming and harvesting.

Notice what the change of season holds for you this year. Lay down what your body, mind and spirit needed in Summer and Autumn, and notice what is calling to you right now. I invite you to arrive in this fresh new season ready for whatever it brings.

A Middle Way

Before Gautama Buddha was the Buddha, he was Prince Siddhartha -- born into wealth, power and privilege. He grew up with every luxury a person could want and was sheltered from all suffering. When he finally witnessed sickness, old age and death, he left the palace and went on a search for truth, a search for an end to suffering.

Siddhartha studied with teachers who practiced asceticism, practitioners who believed that hardship would help them find religious truth. They fasted and deprived their bodies of comfort. Siddhartha studied with them for several years, but not finding what he sought moved on. He came to a village and a young woman, seeing him weak with starvation, offered him a bowl of milk with honey, and he accepted the nourishment. In doing so he both broke his vows, but began his return to health.

Siddhartha had experienced both great luxury and pleasure, and extreme deprivation. He discerned that neither of those two paths lead to enlightenment, lead to an end of suffering, and so he chose a “middle way” that eventually lead him to peace and enlightenment.

Recently I was reminded of Buddha’s Middle Way, and found it to be a useful guide in these difficult times. For example --  when I get depressed, I know that if I can get myself up and moving and get some chores done, I usually feel a little better. But sometimes if I keep working too long, I become frazzled and exhausted. I just keep working and working as if I could ever possibly finish it ALL and finally be done. Eventually I catch myself, I remember that instead of seeking an end to work, what I really need is balance. I try to find the right balance; when I have worked “enough” to get my body moving and feel productive but let go of the work before I am depleted. In meditation it is no different; I try to keep my focus on the object of the meditation, but if I become too determined, if I push too hard, I wind up tense and discouraged. If I relax too much I nod off and forget I was even meditating.

The Buddhist Suttras tell this story that is a wonderful way to remember the middle path: A musician approached the Buddha, struggling with their meditation practice and seeking guidance. Buddha reminded the musician that when you tune the strings of the instrument too tightly, they break, and when you tune them too loosely, they don’t resonate enough to make a note. Music happens when the strings are not too tight and not too loose. This coming month I encourage you to practice like a musician playing their instrument; if you feel brittle and tense, loosen your control effort. If nothing is happening, add a bit of focus and energy. If you’ve ever played a string instrument or been to a live concert, you know that musicians have to tune their instruments frequently- it’s not something you can do once and be done forever. In spiritual practice, take time to tune -- looking for that middle way, where effort and ease are in balance, in every moment.

Help for the Tulips

Around my neighborhood tulips are poking up through the layer of leaves that accumulate over the fall and winter. Many spring plants are designed to do this, and start their journey with a pointy bit that breaks through whatever obstacles it finds on its way to the sunshine. Sometimes, however, you see tulip greens that have pushed up through a dry brown leaf, but can’t seem to break free. I often see tulips with a kind of leaf collar that grows higher and higher into the air as the tulip greens grow. 

As I walk around the neighborhood and I see tulips trapped in their collars, It gives me great satisfaction to pull off the constricting leaf and watch the young tulip growth pop out into their full and proper form. I felt like a great tulip helper until one day I tugged the leaf too quickly or with too much force and the tip of the young tulip plant came right off! I felt terrible. Much better to be constricted by a leaf than to be ripped asunder! Some kinds of help are worse than no help at all. After that day I became more careful in my approach, gentle with the young green tulips, but persisted in my mission to liberate tulips everywhere. I began to notice that if you liberate the tulips when they are still young, they spring into a normal shape and almost immediately one can’t tell the difference. Other tulips, who have been constricted for a while may have tell tale shapes in their leaves, like the band around my finger where my wedding ring has been these many years, but go on to have beautiful flowers. Unfortunately, some tulips who have grown for too long under too many leaves seem to do worse for my help. The part of the tulip growth that has been under a leaf burden and has never seen sunlight will be pale and weak. Sometimes when I remove the leaves the tulip flops over and never comes right. It seems as if the plant had wisely formed itself using the obstacle as a support, growing itself to match its unique situation.

This reminds me of the well-meaning help I offer my human friends. When a simple thing we do is helpful it is a delight for both the one helping and the one being helped. Sometimes the help we offer can make life a bit easier but can’t address the deeper scars incurred early in life, or from trauma. But sometimes our well-meaning help doesn’t take into account the unique realities our struggling friends are facing. It may seem to us that they are one quick tug away from being relived of their obstacles, but we forget that living beings have their own inner wisdom that helps them grow creatively around obstacles, unique supports that help them survive what they have met on their unique journey.

All around us are people who could use our help, and our compassionate actions are a beautiful spiritual practice. I encourage you, as you reach out to those your heart is moved to help, to remember the inner wisdom and resilience of the ones you are trying to support. “I could come by for a visit- would that be helpful or are you needing rest and quiet? “What has helped in the past when you have faced something like this? What have you learned comforting or helpful to you? What have you tried already?” Be sure to notice, alongside your empathy for their struggles, how they are showing resilience and wisdom, and the resources they have available.

I encourage you to give that same respect and compassion to yourself. What a miracle any of us have made it this far, I offer gratitude for whoever you have become in order to survive, whatever life-giving forms you have grown into that show your resilience. This season as you see the tulips and other spring flowers in your neighborhood, let them fill your heart with compassion for all who struggle, and gratitude for the always creative spirit of life that helps us grow through obstacles and bloom in the way only we can bloom.

 

The Beauty of In-Between Times

You can’t see the sunrise from my house, it rises behind the hills and a tall building, so when I travel someplace with a clear view of the sunrise it is a special treat. When I can get myself out of bed in time, I love to see the whole sunrise, from the first crack of light over the horizon until the sun finally pops up like a big egg yolk. It seems to take about 45 minutes or longer for the whole process to unfold, a progression of beautiful colors that evolve and change . Twilight is the official name for this period that is neither fully dark nor fully light, though the official definitions make no allowance for the beautiful pink clouds that linger on special days even after the sun is up.

I was visiting the lake earlier this winter and heard that there was a beautiful view of the sunrise just down the block from where we were staying. I woke early and bundled up in all my winter gear, grabbed my camera and trudged out into the snow. Indeed, it was beautiful to see the pink, orange and yellow over the frozen lake, to watch the birds gathering at the edge of the ice, and to hear the dawn chorus begin and grow. I was in luck; it was one of those fortuitous mornings with just the right mix of clouds and open sky. The show was impressive, and changed in beautiful ways, each moment beautiful and unique. I took a preposterous number of photos, but when I reviewed them later, I confirmed that each one was stunning and each one was subtly or dramatically different.

It was, however, also bitter cold, and windy. I had been standing there admiring the beauty for at least half an hour by the time my friend made it out. I could see by my clock and by the fluorescent glow on the bottoms of the clouds closest to the horizon that the sun had probably risen, but had not yet made it over the hills and into view. I remembered from previous sunrises that the long-awaited moment when the sun does appear in its full power is impossible to watch—if you view it for even one second you then have a sun-shaped blob in your vision for a while. I decided to head back inside. My friend urged me to stay – “you’ll miss the best part!” she warned. Despite her warning I headed back toward warmth of the house, casting the occasional backward glance toward the sun. I remembered that sometimes as the sun finally rises, there are beautiful pink colors in the north and west as well. I took some lovely photos of those subtle cotton candy clouds on my way home too.

Later, as I sat at my computer and looked at the embarrassing riches of photos documenting that long hour I spent in the cold watching morning begin, I thought to myself “I don’t think I did miss the best part.”

Twilight is a rich metaphor for a time of transition, since it is an in-between time -- not-day and not-night but a journey between. Our lives are full of transition times, and right now I imagine many of us are going through some big transitions together. Watching the sunrise (or sunset when I have a nice view of the west) reminds me how beautiful transitions can be, a beauty that is no longer visible once the sun has fully risen, or night has fully come. Whenever the transitions you are experiencing seem endless, and you long to finally arrive in the new future, whatever that may be, I encourage you to remember the beauty of twilight, and as you are able, to notice whatever beauty you can find, to be curious about the unique sights and sounds and feelings of the transitional times. Consider adopting a spiritual practice of inviting your attention into the present moment, noticing the subtle changes as the transition unfolds. Bring your curiosity and a beginner’s mind, keeping an eye out for “best parts” that may reveal themselves along the way.

Permission to Hibernate

As the nights grew longer, I just didn’t have the energy I was used to having. When the sun finally set at 4:30 pm, I was ready for bed. I thought maybe something was wrong with me and explained to a friend that I just wanted let go of all externalities, to make myself very small, pull a blanket over my head and read a book by flashlight. That image brought the “aha” of insight -- this is what the hibernating animals looked like in the children’s book I had been reading. Some instinctual knowing had responded to the dwindling daylight and growing cold with a primal wisdom about seasonal change, and how we mammals survive the winter.  

Modern humans often assume that because we have electric lights and indoor heating seasonal change doesn’t affect us. But year after year I have a subtle feeling of anxiety as fall turns to winter, a sense that “I’ll never get it all done” and a desire to lay it all down and hibernate. As I observe this pattern year after year -- the winter drive towards interiority -- I have begun to reframe this cycle not as a failure to keep the pace of the fall, but as a rhythm uniquely suited for winter that has it’s own value. What if there is wisdom in those pre-industrial instincts? It makes sense in the dark and the cold season to make our world a bit smaller, a bit warmer, to be less physically active as we conserve energy in a season with less light, to consume what we have harvested already, rather than start growing new things.

I write this from a region that expects cold, snow and ice in winter. Perhaps you are reading this somewhere else. The spiritual practice is to notice the natural seasons wherever you are right now- really notice the light, the air, the temperature, the moisture. Notice the critters who live near you and their behavior, notice the plants and their seasonal changes. Then notice yourself- are you experiencing changes in body mind or spirit? Are your habits and routines different than they were in the summer?

Right now, my inner bear has decided to hibernate. It looked around at the cold and dark and knew just what the season demanded. When I Imagine the activities of fall, of rushing around gathering and building and harvesting, I feel exhausted and discouraged. When I Imagine holing up on my comfy couch under a wool throw and catching up on my reading, it feels just right. We industrials have the idea that we should be able to keep a steady pace of work all year round, but sometimes that denies the wisdom of living in sync with the rhythms of the body, with the natural world, and with the spirit.

This year, in addition to the always-challenging seasonal transition, we also experienced another resurgence of the pandemic. At the same time I was overwhelmed with the sad news on all sides, of loved ones dying or sick, of friends’ losses and worries. This season of the spirit asks for a pulling in and hunkering down, a winter of the spirit as well as of nature. Some inner wisdom suggests that if I am spread too thin I can lose myself, lose energy, lose what is important. That image of a warm-blooded animal in a small, insulated space felt possible, felt like I could keep myself, my heart and spirit and body warm. Some of those traditional activities of winter feel just right- reading, storytelling, baking, taking a walk through the snow on a sunny day, then warming myself with a blanket and a hot beverage. What does your body yearn for this season? What does your spirit yearn for?

In spring I imagine we will feel a different kind of shift, as the light grows long and the colors of spring delight the eyes. It helps me to know that this desire to hunker down is not for always, just for this season. As a Spiritual Practice for this month, I invite you to notice the seasonal shifts outside and in, and ask “what am I craving right now, and what would it feel like to try that?” Stay alert for signs of change, attuned to the shifting and emerging rhythms of the seasons and of the spirit. Observing the cycles of nature reminds us that our spirits also have seasons, each with it’s own challenges and gifts, and that no matter how dark and cold the winter, no season lasts forever.