Cchicken's Weblog

Every morning I wake up to little furry wiggles next to me.  I groggily reach my hand down towards the twitching lump next to me and find my silly puppy on her back, four legs sprawled out, waiting, just in case someone feels like giving her a tummy rub.  Either me, my husband, or both of us indulge the little one with some nice scratches, rubs, and good love.  She literally smiles.  Grins from ear to ear.  Occasionally, when she’s getting it from both sides, she is so elated, she hardly knows what to do.  She licks furiously one hand, then turns towards the other, and licks some more.

My puppy enjoys her tummy rub with an unbridled delight.  It’s clearly the highlight of her morning, but also serves to force my husband and me to pause, savor the moment, and begin our day with a feeling of play, as opposed to duty.  Instead of waking up annoyed that it is time to go to work again, we end up laughing with each other and realizing once more how lucky we are.  

This morning, while spending a little quality tummy time, I couldn’t help but notice how freely the pup receives love.  She never questions it, she never feels like she needs to finish something “important” first, and she never denies it.  She goes limp with just a hint of a hand reaching for her tummy- she gets in ready position, and relishes every last drop of love.

I think we people often have more difficulty receiving love than giving it.  Many will freely tell loved ones, “I love you,” but aren’t so great at accepting a compliment, or get uncomfortable with a friendly hug that lasts just a little bit longer.  All the ‘practical’ items in our lives seem to build into a wall we keep around our hearts, as protection from authentic love.  We allow for some windows in that wall, and hand out love through those small spaces, but we seem to make certain that only a very few are able to climb all the way over the wall into the totality of our hearts.  

Nine month old puppies don’t think that way.  They are ready and willing to be snuggled, patted, rubbed, and loved endlessly.  They don’t question it, they don’t complicate it, and they don’t deny it.  How much richer could our lives be if we could lean back, be open enough in ourselves to let others love us, without question, just as we are?

Now if only I could get said nine month old puppy to wait just a little longer in the morning before prodding me with her dirty little paws…

This being the season of pumpkins and all sorts of root vegetables, I find that I am reminiscing in a special memory surrounding the glorious yam.

Two autumns ago, I lay sprawled across our window seat, looking outside, and scanning a cookbook for a soothing soup recipe.  I came across a yam based soup…yum yum.  I wasn’t feeling so well, and my darling and devoted husband (boyfriend at the time) offered to go to the store for me.  I hesitated.  There were a few ‘interesting’ foods on my list this time, and I wasn’t sure he was up for the challenge.  His generosity overtook me, and my flu-ish body was so happy cuddled up on the window seat, I sent him off to the ‘healthy’ food store to find ingredients such as: ginger, garam salam, yams, and coconut milk.  On his way out the door, he called back, “Hey- what does a yam look like again?”

“Like a sweet potato, but its not exactly a sweet potato.  It will be in that section though.”  And he was off.

My handsome husband returned about an hour later, clearly disheveled.  He began unpacking the grocery bag, muttering throughout,  ”I got the ginger.  I looked for coconut milk in the milk section, but couldn’t find it.  I gave up.  I didn’t even look for that spice you asked for.  And I think these are the yams.  What are you making with them, anyway?”

I looked over just as he pulled out a fairly large mesh bag filled with…decorative gourds.  I really wasn’t sure how to respond.  

He was still on his frustrated rant.  ”They were kind of close to the sweet potatoes.  I didn’t think they really looked like them, but there was a sign near them that said yams.  What are you making with these anyways?”

“Ummm, I’m not sure what I’m making with those.  The label on that bag says, ‘decorative gourds.’  Those are those things you put around to make a fall decoration.  The yams must have been right next to them…um…hon…those really don’t look like a sweet potato at all.”

I took the ‘yams’ to my classroom the next day, for an adventure in still life painting.  We ordered take out Thai food that Sunday night.

Last week I made a nice fall soup, chock full of yams.  My husband sat down to eat, looked at the soup, and asked, “Are those orange things yams?  I really don’t like yams.  I just like potatoes.”

**note** my husband is truly the kindest person i know- i’m only laughing with him here, not at him.

I have been asked this question numerous times; sometimes purely from a place of curiosity, sometimes from a yoga student, and sometimes from a person with a bit of a smile, which usually serves to deliver the message, “only weirdos meditate.”  Regardless of the question’s origin, I answer the same, “Yup.”  

People who have dabbled in any sort of meditation exercise generally respond with, “I should more often,” or something to that effect.  Those who haven’t may proceed with a follow up question, such as, “Do you just sit there or what?”  or may nod politely, a quiet “agree to disagree.”  As meditation and, yoga for that matter, are experiential understandings, it is quite difficult to explain to someone who hasn’t done it, felt it, or seen it, why I choose to meditate, but I am going to attempt to do so, in the best way I can think of.

Picture yourself on your favorite holiday.  In my case, that would be Thanksgiving, so I’m going to use Thanksgiving as my example.  You wake up to the smells of onions and celery simmering among a multitude of spices, in preparation for the stuffing.  As you come to your senses and start to rise from bed, you realize your only job that day is to prepare food, watch football, spend time with the people you love, and eat.  A wave of peacefulness washes over you, as your mind does not immediately send itself into the typical list-making, task oriented pattern.  Instead, you are free to relish the moment.  You are present enough to savor the smells, look out your window and watch the birds, and rise for the day with a smile.

I find that on Thanksgiving, I am alert to each and every moment, that I am content to be just where I am all day.  During the actual consumption of the meal, I am able to listen to conversation without having my mind wander off into the land of “what’s next.”  I taste each morsel more intensely, I let the wine linger a while longer, and I laugh with more ease and delight.  Post meal, I am so satisfied, both with food and love, I have no desire to leave that moment for another.  It is a feeling so fulfilling that I cannot even remember what it feels like to be stressed, to be concerned about my “to do” list; I am so filled with love for the people at my table, for the food sitting in my belly, and for the little things in life that we briskly pass by on a daily basis.

For me, Thanksgiving magnifies these moments to their highest degree.  Truth be told, however, a person can live with Thanksgiving-like contentment always.  The secret lies in being present to the moment, not replaying the past, nor projecting angst towards the future.  There are numerous means of practicing mindfulness.  Meditation is one of many, and one with a variety of potential methods, but one that over time, invites a sense of contentment into daily life.  I was forced into trying meditation, as I am plagued (or blessed) with a mind that loves to jump all over, which creates internal dramas that serve me no positive purpose.  I have found, over time, that when I replace my negative patterns with positive ones, my mind settles into Thanksgiving dinner mode more often, and I enjoy life, love, and laughter in a more meaningful way.

Right around Labor Day, I was sitting at a local establishment with my husband and a good friend of ours.  As my eyes scanned the menu and the room, I noticed for the first time this season, a football game on the TV over the bar.  I had one of those ‘old people’ moments, when I mused to myself, “Wow.  Another year.  Football season again.”  Just as I was wondering if anyone else marks years by the start of football season, our friend, (BK, that’s you) commented, “I can’t believe it’s football season again.  I always notice how fast a year goes when football comes on.”

I’m not even the most avid football fan- I like it, I watch it, but I can’t sit in front of the TV and stay glued to each and every play for an entire Sunday like my otherwise charming husband.  Seriously.  I’ve learned to not even talk to him on a Sunday except for the important questions like, “Are you hungry?” or “I’m in the fridge.  Do you need a beer?”  

Anyway, I got to wondering why I mark years by football.  The start of football season always brings the start of school, the end to long sun lit days, and the beginning of the ‘hibernation’ period.  By the time football rolls around, I’m usually a little bit ready to settle in, and let soup simmer on the stove and spread the smell of leeks, oregano, and cozy warmth through the house.  I adore summer- there is nothing like clear blue skies, a time without much scheduling, and bbqs and beers.  But there is something about the fall- when the air smells of fireplaces, it is just crispy enough to need a sweatshirt, and the leaves on the ground make that perfectly marvelous crunchy sound.

In addition to the changing season, something about football makes me feel at home, or at peace wherever my home may be.  I remember clearly the first year my husband and I moved out here, far from our families.  I was sitting on our couch, watching the Sunday night game, John Madden’s voice lulling me to sleep.  (Honestly…John Madden’s voice puts me to sleep like some old comfortable song…hmmm. that’s weird)  At that moment, I could have been right back in the house I grew up in, knowing Mom had dinner prepared to be served between the late afternoon game and the night game, my dad lying on the floor, remote in hand, eyes closed, telling us “I’m not sleeping.  I’m just resting my eyes.”  With those memories, I felt at home for the first time in our new house, and I knew everything would be ok.  

Every year flies faster than the one before, and every year brings unpredictable changes, both ‘good’ and ‘bad,’ but every year brings the stability of John Madden’s strangely enormous and bushy eyebrows, booming voice, and fancy screen marker thing that he so enjoys using.  Every year football season arrives with a chance to feel grounded again, to eat warm soup, and to crunch leaves.  I guess that’s why I love it.

Lessons from my puppy

• Soft grass is an invitation to dive, roll, and play.
• You can never be too excited to see a loved one
• When a person opens her eyes, it is time to start loving.
• If you cock your head just right and listen, the answers discover themselves.
• It doesn’t matter what time of day or night it is, there is always cause for celebration.
• The best way to know something is to smell it, lick it, and draw your own conclusion.
• The only time is RIGHT NOW.
• Sometimes things are scary, but a little love can cure that.
• Spirit may flow uninhabited if you don’t care what other people think of you.
• Life is fun. Flowers are there for the smelling, raindrops are for catching, and friends can be made anywhere.
• When tired, rest.  Nothing gets accomplished when you keep pushing through.

Last night, my husband and I awoke to the sounds of retching coming from our little 16 pound furball, Jersey. It is always surprising to wake to an unfamiliar sound, to discern from where it is originating, and then to react appropriately.  Suddenly, I was wide awake trying to comfort our little one.  When the worst of it was in a towel ready for the wash, I took her outside to finish her business.  

There was an instant in which I considered being annoyed that I had been roused out of bed at 2:30 a.m. to go outside and wait for the obliviously delighted puppy to finish playing and start pooping.  It lasted less than an instant.  

As I reaching to pull my sweatshirt around me, I looked up, and saw the clearest night I’d seen all summer.  Luckily, all my neighbors’ porch lights were off; it was complete darkness in my backyard, letting me benefit fully from the twinkling above.  I stood out there, letting Jersey play more than I should have, drinking in the ever expanding light show in my own backyard.  It was one of the moments when you are confronted with the obvious- we are part of something so much bigger.  It feels good to be awed…we should try to be so more often.

I was very recently convinced that writing a blog would be a good idea for me…it took a lot of convincing.  I’m not the type to assume that other people would feel like reading along with my life.  I try to remain fairly private, live my life, and let others live theirs.  So, for me, blogging feels rather unnatural.  

Perhaps my husband’s persuasive attitude to get me to blog is merely a way for me to express my unending stream of ideas and opinions to someone other than him.  ”You should write about that, honey,” has been his constant refrain for quite some time now; I think I’m starting to get the picture.

I was also hesitant on account of my computer skills, or lack thereof.  Computers intimidate me~ and sadly, I don’t have much desire to learn any more about them.  Anyhow, all rambling aside, I was convinced to embark on this ‘blogging adventure.’