In and Down

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I wonder if a food photo will appear here anytime soon.

If I were to be snapping photos, they'd be something like:

Pint of IPA/Triscuits with cheese
Chocolate chip cookies for clients
Pint of IPA/Triscuits with cheese
Brownies for kids' lunches
Pint of IPA/Triscuits with cheese
Chocolate chip cookies for teachers
Pint of IPA/Triscuits with cheese

I'm not apologizing. Just laughing a little. It's one of those seasons when the question, "What's easiest?" has been the loudest.

And one of those seasons when the compulsion to record everything (on iPhone, Facebook, Instagram) has quieted. I've been enjoying just being WITH whatever is going on, just being WITH whoever is in front of me. I've instituted an Internet Sabbath on weekends, and I can't reccomend it enough. To give myself a break from the nudge to SHARE everything has been divine. To rest in my own self, to go "in and down," as Helen Palmer says, instead of being caught in reactivity and externalizing. To trust that everything I need is already present. There's no need to go out and get, to go out and share.

And here I am sharing. I listened to Krista Tippett interview Mary Oliver yesterday. From the first 60 seconds, I had tears running down my cheeks. I've been reading Mary Oliver since high school, but this was the only the second time I've heard her voice. And it was pretty clear she didn't want to talk about her poems. She wanted them to speak for themselves, to stay whole and a little bit reticent. 

The last thing I am is reticent, but, without explanation, here's a poem. I hope you find a quiet place inside yourself this week.

Beginning Meditation

I’m trying. Lord, am I trying.
To be still, to sit in this chair
without books, without music,
without agenda.
To ignore the tree outside my window
and the wind that shoves it
against the house.
Trying not to think about
the tangled wind chime
and how it needs to be taken down
for repair.

I’m trying. Lord, am I trying.
To not pick up the new poems
at my elbow and eat them
like candy.
To look away from the phone’s glow,
the piles on my desk,
the dust slowly settling
on this scrappy self
that fights so hard, every second,
to know, share, produce, achieve,
to not write this poem.