BOTTLES AND BUSHES

Today I walked out the door and headed down the driveway. Down the hill, around the corner, past the barn, up the hill, down the hill, to the fence. Pause. Take out the plug, open the gate, secure the gate, walk along the fence out to the pasture.

This, or something very similar, has been my routine for a little while now. Bottle in hand, I head into the tall grasses, a hungry orphan lamb waiting for its sunrise meal.

Something caught my eye this morning. As I pulled on my boots and meandered out the garage, I found the fields aflame with glory, weighted down with splendor. Yesterday had been a particularly fall-like spring day. You know the type - cool, windy with a certain kind of cloud. The type that could release a down pour on a whim but generally chooses not to. With that as my backdrop, this morning was a bit shocking in contrast - clear blue sky, gentle breeze, bright sun, heavy dew.

Dew.

There is something magical about dew. Poems and essays and books are devoted to revelations and meditations found within these tiny droplets of water.

As I stood out there frozen in wonder, no revelations came. It was if my mind could think only this: "Stop! Watch! Feel! Enjoy!" The more I leaned in close, observed water resting so tenderly on grass, the more my being swelled with joy, connection, purpose, peace - a rootedness that anchored me here, in this moment, to myself and to all.

This morning I went to church.  

I walked away carefully, not wanting to disturb this communion of saints. Every few steps I paused, desperate not to leave the grace of it all.

As I slowly made my way back up the hill, down the hill, past the barn, around the corner, and back up the hill I couldn't help but look over my shoulder. Here's the thing - there had been heavy dew and bright sunny mornings a number of times over the last few weeks. These same fields had been aflame with glory and I walked right by. Holy had been right there all along, yet I did not see it.

And then today I did.

That's the mystery of this life - we go about our days in a normal sort of way and then one day we see that the bush we'd passed countless of times had been burning. On fire with majesty all along, begging "Stop! Watch! Feel! Enjoy!"

And so we do and we are changed.

Grace. Beauty. Peace.

STARING AT A PLANT.

On my counter I have a cactus. It sits right in front of where I sit each morning for breakfast, six inches lower than plate level. This particular plant hasn't always held such a regal place in my kitchen. A couple days ago I uprooted it from a spot a bit tucked away, one I don't often have cause to pause at. Frequently I would forget to water it even the meager amount it requires. So here it sits, relocated and eager to be noticed.

There are actually two varieties of cactus in this pot. One that flowers at Christmas and one around Easter. The latter plant is covered in a ripple of buds that slowly open over the course of the day, revealing itself in fullness around noon. After a few hours of shameless display, it draws inward returning to bud and self.

This opening and closing is rhythmic. Cyclical.

A pattern I can expect to repeat each day until the flowers fall to the ground.

A couple days ago I posted this:

In the same way flowers are created to bloom only then revealing the full breadth of their beauty, we too are created to reveal our beauty to the world. The more I lean into the things that bring me life and joy and peace; the more I sink into being created fully enough; the more I open all of me to the world, trusting in it's goodness, the more I'm finding the world to be filled with a tangible pulse, a beat, a Spirit. There is fear. There is pain. Much of which I can't explain. But as I come back to beauty and peace, this is what the world consistently offers back to me.

As I continued to meditate, I began to see the pattern of the plant. What I find intriguing as I watch this plant each day, is how it so closely mirrors the natural patterns within my own being - this idea of outward and inward. In order for its flowers to continue to open, for it to continue to give its beauty to the world, this plant must draw in, close, seek rest and stillness. Carving out space for this rest, this inward movement towards the soul, has been the only way for me to seek with clarity the things that fill me up, bring me life and joy and peace. There is rest, there is stillness, there is silence and from this well we draw movement and creativity and life.

Sometimes it takes moving things around, clearing the dust, bringing things out of corners and into light for us to see.

I almost missed it.

I almost missed the insights this plant had to offer, offers still. I nearly rushed passed it's rhythmic movements and holy pulses.

But I didn't. The discipline of cleaning, of clearing the literal dust, caused me to notice and change. And that's what this inward journey takes. It takes discipline, courage, and faith. It requires saying no to many things and yes to a few. It demands I put away the to-do list, silence the phone, turn off the computer and be present.

It asks me to stare at a plant. To do nothing but watch.

May you shuffle and move and poke around the things that need it. May you draw inward in the same way you give outward. May you seek the pulse that binds everything together as one and immerse yourself in this work of creativity and peace - for you. For all.

MASOOR DAL with onions and garlic

Today I found myself thinking, “If only we didn’t have to eat. I could get so much more done.”

Uh oh.

We were just back from a 10-day trip and woke up late [vacation-lag], finding ourselves rushing somewhat frantically throughout the morning, just trying to make it out the door with hair combed and shoes on. Food was the last thing I needed to be bothered with.

I've learned, with a lot of practice, to watch these kind of thoughts with curiosity. It came from somewhere within me and is probably less about what I actually think and more of a red flag gently warning me something is off. 

I watched and waited.

Pretty quickly I stumbled upon this: I was feeling rushed and out of control, unprepared and unsettled. My body and soul were at work, signalling my mind for a time of slow. Interestingly body/soul chose food as the medium, something I deeply care about. The point was so blatant, so obvious I had to listen. Give up food? Yeah. Right.

I wonder if the act of eating – the process of growing, storing, and preparing food is actually meant to slow us down. The act of creating anything really - food, music, tangible art, literature, children - all of it begs us to slow our steps. It tries to connect us to a more sustainable, livable pace. 

In the same way the seasons can act as a guide if we allow them. Right now the high summer energy is transitioning to the more hibernation-like energy of winter, a time to re-coup from summer. I think our daily meals can show us a similar pattern. Chew or gulp anything really quickly, especially while traveling in a moving vehicle or in a state of anxiety, and you’ll soon find yourself suffering bloat, heart burn, indigestion, constipation, and abdominal pain. Chew slowly and intentionally a meal prepared with care and you’ll find yourself nourished and connected in a deep way. Not a new theory, however I need to be reminded of most things 70 times 7 to finally grasp the importance. 

Hmmmm. 

After a school pick-up, I settled my youngest in for a nap and took my oldest upstairs. We turned on music, shared kombucha, and painted together. We left everything urgent and delved into the truly important - finding meaning, purpose, beauty, and excitement in the now. We slowed down and created something. I listened to the soul within me and entered into an extremely holy moment. My world slowed down to one breath at a time, one brush stroke at at time, the sweet smiles and sacred glances from my child. 

My shoes were off. I was on holy ground.

The more I listen to the whisper within me, the more I find power and transcendence within the slow, the quiet, the creativity in the daily. 

After four hours had flown by and we set our paintbrushes down, I headed to the kitchen to cook dal. Simple ingredients, slowly cooked. Nourishing, warm, holy. 

May you begin to be curious about the thoughts that pop up throughout the day. May you enter into conversation with them as if old friends are stopping by, ones who know you quite well. May you create time to create simply for the sake of creating and, in the process, may you happen upon holy. 

[THE RECIPE]
Serves 6 - 8
Adapted from Rodale's Organic Gardening Masoor Dal

4-5 T. extra virgin, unprocessed coconut oil
1 large onion, finely chopped
4 - 5 garlic cloves, minced
1 1/2 T. whole cumin seeds, dried
2 tsp. ground turmeric or 2 T. fresh turmeric, minced

2 - 3 tsp. sea salt

2 tsp. ground coriander

1 tsp. sweet paprika [and/or 1/4 - 1/2 tsp. cayenne for spice]

2 c. split red lentils [or masoor dal]

6-7 c. water
1 can regular, full-fat coconut milk [optional]
fresh cilantro, minced
cooked basmati rice

Begin by placing the lentils in a mine mesh strainer. Place under running water. Rinse the lentils until the water coming from the strainer runs clear [or really close to clear]. Set aside.

In a large stainless steel pot, melt coconut oil over medium-low heat. Add minced onions to the oil and stir to coat the onions with the oil. Cook until onions are translucent and beginning to soften [adjust heat as necessary to prevent browning]. Add cumin seeds and garlic. Saute 1 - 3 minutes or until cumin is slightly toasted and fragrant. Add turmeric, salt, coriander, and paprika. Stir to thoroughly combine. Stir in lentils and water.

Increase heat to medium-high and bring to a simmer. Reduce heat as necessary to retain small simmer. Cook uncovered until the lentils are very soft and consistency is a little thicker than a creamy soup, stirring occasionally [approximately 30 - 45 minutes]. If it becomes to thick, add water in 1/2 cup increments. Once the lentils are fully cooked, add coconut milk if you are using [milk is completely option - with or without is delicious].

Serve over a bed of basmati rice and garnish with fresh cilantro.

RASPBERRY-ORANGE CHOCOLATE PUDDING

Today I thought I would balance my last post with something delicious in a much less virtuous, "my brain hasn't disintegrated into kale and weird green stuff" way.

I've been writing a lot about balance and finding the happy medium between many extremes: in health, time, family, parenting, mind talk, body talk, soul talk and the multitude of other areas in each of our lives where it can seem we walk a tight rope. There is so much noise about diets, parenting styles, yoga and meditation styles, exercise, supplements, vaccines, religious beliefs, political stances and a number of controversial issues we are faced with today. In fact, it's almost impossible to scroll through Facebook or click on a news website without seeing something that ignites anxiety, fear, a sense of shame or failure, and anger.

Years ago I decided to stop watching the news on a regular basis. Sure, I was being educated on the happenings of the world but at the same time I was being influenced by a station's take on a certain situation and it was almost always pumped up with verbiage and adrenaline in an effort to increase my attention span and emotional reaction. Unfortunately, it's an effective technique. I was confused by conflicting stories and increasingly frustrated with the amount of fear I was being traumatized by. So I turned it off. And I really never looked back.

About a year ago, I realized the health world was quickly having the same effect on my mental and physical health. I had turned down the noise of one voice only to allow another to take over. Instead of worrying about national safety, global warming, and the local crime, I had taken to wringing my hands over supplementation, vaccines, and signs of disease.

Now, a little older and a teensy bit wiser, I'm learning to turn this off too. But this time I'm filling the quiet with things that my soul and open my heart. I listen to music that speaks of joy and beauty and healing. I read books that do the same. I meditate. I play outside. I giggle with my girls. I worry much less about being a good parent and have faith that I am. I trust the people in my life to hold me accountable to the things they know I value and am trying to do less of that myself. I'm working at walking away from judgement of myself and others and walking towards compassion.

And I eat this pudding. Not all the time but as a delicious and special reminder that life, a good and beautiful and balanced life, holds a little of everything: discipline and spontaneity, a bit of fear and a lot of joy, blessing in many forms, laughter and grief, health and indulgence, questions and faith, confusion and understanding, humanness and holy. Without one we truly can't enjoy or learn from the other.

The amazing thing is, and the blessing in it all, all of these can be teachers, guiding us towards wisdom and grace.

[BREATHING BEFORE EATING]

A quick note about breathing before I get to the recipe.

One of the practices I've come to fully embrace is breathing before a meal. I used to rush through a prayer, usually as a quick "check it off the list, let's eat!" routine. Then I sat around our friends' table, friends whom I respect and trust, and had an honest conversation about praying before meals and why we do it. They were in the process of working through a faith established for them as children, questioning what they had been spoon-fed for years. So far they've landed on holding faith and questions in an open palm and tapping forks or spoons in gratitude for the meal. I loved it. And I began to ask questions too.

Then recently, a friend I've been seeing for energy and bodywork mentioned they breathe as a family before their meals in an effort to center their minds and prepare their bodies for the food they're about to eat. I loved this as well.

Here's the thing about being vulnerable about the questions we ask - it gives others the freedom to do so as well and put a name to the doubts we hold.

And so we've moved our mealtime routine in a direction that finds us where we are. We're working at remembering to take three deep, intentional breaths before our meals as a way of acknowledging our food and breath and everything around us as a holy gift. We're teaching our girls to honor our bodies with the food we eat by eating as if we mean to eat. As if it's worth paying attention to. As if each meal is special. And sometimes with words, mostly with our breath, we say thank you - thank you to the one who created us, thank you for each person around the table, thank you for our food, thank you for this breath.

[THE RECIPE]

5 oz. dark chocolate chips
5 oz. semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 c. frozen raspberries [or berry / fruit of choice]
1 13.5-ounce can regular coconut milk
1/2 c. coconut butter
1/2 - 3/4 c. honey
1/2 - 1 tsp. orange flavor [or flavor of choice]
1/2 tsp. sea salt
appx. 7 - 8 small, 4-ounce glass jars with tight fitting lids

Optional additions: chopped walnuts, sliced almonds, toasted coconut, splash of Amaretto or almond extract.

Place raspberries in a medium size saucepan and warm over medium-low heat until very soft [appx. 10 minutes], stirring occasionally. Pour the soft rasberries through a fine mesh strainer set over a bowl. Using a wooden or metal spoon, gently press the raspberries into the strainer to extract as much as the juice as possible from the seeds. Compost or discard the seeds.

If seeds remain in the pan, rinse out the pan used to heat the raspberries. Return the strained raspberries to the pot and add remaining ingredients.

Warm over medium-low heat until all of the ingredients are melted and the consistency is very smooth. Remove from heat and pour into small glass jars. Secure lids tightly onto the jars and place in the refrigerator for 2 - 4 hours or freezer for 1 - 2 hours or until the consistency is just firm.

Store in the refrigerator for up to one week.