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.