Being in the Moment

in /by

I think the ocean was my first teacher of “be in the present.”  As a child, my family would race to the Atlantic Ocean every summer to meet up with my cousins. There we ate hot dogs dripping with mustard and battled the waves that seemed as tall as skyscrapers. We howled at the stories of green-winged monsters my brother dug from his imagination, and we played Monopoly long past our bedtimes. I can see those memories like a Panavision film in my mind. I remember them vividly because I was there. In the moment. Children are so good at being present.

Over these many years, there was a move. A job. A new husband. Children. Life becomes hurried and fast. We forget how to hold a moment and the magic of it.

In my forties, I took a class on meditation to slow me down. It did. A bit. I liked how it taught me the importance of my breath. Later I read The Miracle of Mindfulness by the master of mindfulness, Thich Nhat Hahn. I wanted to like it, but at that time I could not embrace the thinking. But the message lingered in my mind.

In the book, Nhat Hahn describes his experience decades ago as a young novice monk at Tu Hieu Pagoda where he was assigned daily to wash the dishes for over one hundred monks. Without soap he had to use ashes, rice husks, and coconut husks to clean the dishes. During the winter when the water was freezing cold, he had to heat a big pot of water before he could begin scrubbing. It must have been a Herculean task. But he allowed the experience to be his teacher. He wrote:

“While washing the dishes one should only be washing the dishes, which means that while washing the dishes one should be completely aware of the fact that one is washing the dishes. At first glance, that might seem a little silly: why put so much stress on simple things? But that’s precisely the point. The fact that I am standing there and washing these bowls is a wondrous reality.”

The great teacher explained that when his friend Jim came to visit, he asked to do the dishes. Thich Nhat Hahn explained that first Jim needed to learn how to do the dishes. This must have puzzled Jim as it did me. Jim was told by the great monk, “There are two ways to wash the dishes. The first is to wash the dishes in order to have clean dishes and the second is to wash the dishes in order to wash the dishes.” Jim understood the wisdom in choosing “to wash the dishes to wash the dishes.” But I was baffled.

I was a young mother with two high-energy sons who needed my attention, a husband who was struggling to build a business and days filled with 150 high school students. I could not conceive of spending time “in the moment” with the dishes. I just wanted them clean—and now!

But the wisdom of the monk had seeded in me. While it would take years, his thinking began to make sense. It is important to try and be here fully in what we do. Even when washing the dishes.  Last week at the beach with my grandkids, I relearned this lesson. Two-year-old Evy came up to me. She had been sculpting sandcastles all morning. With joy she handed me a ball of wet, gooey sand. She glowed like her gift was gold.

Without words Evy had communicated the beauty of being in the here and now at the beach. I knew what to do. I tossed my book aside, and I joined her, digging my fingers deep into the gritty sand. Seeing the joy on Evy’s face as I sculpted a new castle with her, I felt the power of being at the beach when you are at the beach. I will try to remember this even when I wash the dishes.

This morning I found my old copy of The Miracle of Mindfulness. In it Thick Nhat Hahn wrote: “If while washing dishes, we think only of the cup of tea that awaits us, thus hurrying to get the dishes out of the way as if they were a nuisance, then we . . . are sucked away into the future–and we are incapable of actually living one minute of life.”

I am grateful that this idea is taking hold in me. In truth I have always embraced the future and made plans for it. That will never stop being important to me. In writing in my journal, I value being able to reflect on my life and how to make it fuller and richer. But finally, I am making more room for building sandcastles and magical moments.  May we live and celebrate what we have now.

Pretzel

in /by

Pretzel by Jan Adrian

I don’t know if Pretzel rescued me or if I rescued Pretzel.  After breaking up with my partner in the beginning of a pandemic, I was suddenly alone.  As a cat lover, I had cats most of my life, but had not replaced the last two who died 7 years ago. I had been traveling so much that another cat didn’t make sense. Then the pandemic hit. Since I wouldn’t be traveling as much, another cat seemed like a good idea.

I made an appointment at Happy Tails sanctuary, picked out three potential adoptees from their website, and went to meet them.  The first one was totally blah. Just lay there while I tried to make contact.

Pretzel was the second one I met. She was in a room with about five other cats. When I went in and sat on a chair, she was on my lap within two minutes, wanting to be petted, and purring. No need to meet the third cat.

Her paperwork said she was nine years old, didn’t like children or other pets, and was needy.  She sounded perfect for me. But what really sold me was her stunning beauty, her baby blue eyes, and her silky fur. I took her home with me.

Pretzel was a very verbal cat. She complained when I put her into a cage, a car, and then a new environment. But I marveled at how adaptable she was. Unless I take the perspective of our souls and imagine that we chose each other before coming into this world, she had no choice about coming home with me.

She was the eleventh cat I’ve had in my lifetime. We lived together for two years, and I often told her she was my favorite. She came when I called (not a characteristic cat behavior).  When she wanted me to pay more attention to her, she gently stroked my arm with her little paw. She often sat on my lap and purred.  When I returned home after being gone a few hours, she enthusiastically greeted me, and gave me someone to come home to.  I loved Pretzel.

About 6 months ago, Pretzel had a sore on her underside that kept bleeding and didn’t heal. The vet called it a mass and recommended surgery.  One thousand dollars later, the vet had removed two masses from the mammary chain, and a biopsy said they were malignant.  Breast cancer. She thought she got all the cancer in the surgery, but of course didn’t know if other cancer cells were in Pretzel’s body. The vet said it usually takes about six months for cancer to progress, and I should watch for other lumps.

The surgery recovery process was very sweet. Pretzel and I bonded. The first two weeks she was caged in a large wire cage to keep her from walking around and exerting herself. At bedtime the first night, when Pretzel was used to being in bed with me, she frantically tried climbing up the side of the cage to get to me.  Instead of reading in bed like I usually did, I sat on the floor next to her cage and read out loud to her. It seemed to comfort her, and she settled down. This became our nightly routine for those two weeks.

She wore a cone for six weeks to keep her from licking the surgery site. She hated it. Instead of hiding in a corner like cats do when they don’t feel good, she started hanging around me even more. Since she couldn’t scratch her head in the cone, she begged me to scratch it as much as I could tolerate. We bonded even more during that difficult time.

Eventually her surgery wounds healed, the cone came off, and we went back to normal.

Then two weeks ago, Pretzel stopped eating and clearly didn’t feel well. An Xray showed tumors in her chest. Even though we didn’t do a biopsy, the vet said Pretzel had breast cancer, and it had metastasized to her lungs. This is the same diagnosis I am dealing with. What are the chances?

Steroids helped Pretzel feel better and eat a little, but she was no longer her old self. She hung around as close to me as she could get. I felt I loved her even more. Is that possible?

The vet said he could refer her to an oncologist, but in his experience, treatment would not be useful at this point, and I would put Pretzel through a lot of discomfort.  Not something I would choose for her. I knew our time would be short.

I have since heard that it isn’t uncommon for a pet to have the same diagnosis as her owner. Some people theorize that pets take on the disease to help out an owner they love. I don’t know if I believe that, and there is no way to prove it one way or the other. But the idea made me wonder.

What I do know is that my relationship with Pretzel demonstrates the saying I have heard, “If you want to feel love, look for beauty.” Every time I looked at Pretzel, I saw her beauty and my heart was full of love.

Just ten days after starting on the steroids, Pretzel was not eating. She declined rapidly, no longer spending time on my bed with me. She hid in the guest bedroom where she could be alone. I sat in there with her and watched as she changed positions frequently, not able to get comfortable.

She was suffering. Her life was in my hands, and I needed to help her forward. It’s often referred to as the Rainbow Bridge or Kitty Heaven.

Although her time in a body was over, it seemed her spirit remained with me. For such a small being, seven pounds, her absence left a huge hole in my life. Now my house feels empty.

I am grieving her loss, an indication of the love I feel. Grief and love are two sides of the same coin. We can’t have one without the other.  We only grieve what we have loved, and every love will end in loss.  I am so grateful for the time we had together and for the love we shared. I am grateful that Pretzel chose me.

Breathe

in /by

Breathe

By Violet Mitchell-Enos

Ooh ooh child, things are going to get easier,

Ooh ooh Child things are going to get brighter.

Tears rolled down my face.

We had just finished our yoga session–savasana.  Sally, our yoga teacher, said the song just came to her; for me, it was the perfect 70’s song at the perfect time.  A song I had not heard in such a long time but immediately it was so familiar, and now I clung to each of those words wanting to believe them. I searched Sally’s eyes as she gazed through the Zoom lens. Could I glimpse this happier time to come? I saw her eyes so gentle and compassionate. She may not have known about my loss, but she was honoring my grief.

Yoga uses movements and breath with the intention of bringing harmony between mind and body. It was right for me during a time when I was not conscious of my body or mind–grief does that.

I’ve watched my seven-year old grandniece, Laila, teach breathing techniques to her younger brothers, Jace and Sammy. She told them it was meditation. Running so fast away from each other, or to each other, or running away to hide because of something they did that they were not supposed to do. Suddenly they are on the ground, crying with scraped knees, elbows, or hands.  Laila immediately swoops in, diving just like a hawk after food for her chicks.  She says comforting words as she murmurs, “Breathe like me.” She takes a breath in, slow long breath out, breath in, slow long breath out.  Soon, there is no crying, only calm and then they are turned over to me to clean a wound and put on a Pup Patrol bandage.  I’ve seen her pull the boys out to the porch and sit under the chimes with their legs crossed, eyes closed and forefingers touching thumbs as they breathe slowly and meditate.   I’m not sure if they even know what they are doing. But amazingly they sit quietly for a minute or two.

Could I do it, sit quietly and in peace for even a minute?  I recall the time we were climbing the hills, and Laila urged me to take picture of them meditating. They each sat on their own huge granite boulder with their colorful beanies atop their heads, legs crossed, eyes closed, forefinger and thumbs touching faces so relaxed as they breathed slowly in and out. It was a fall day, leaves drifting down from the trees, the air cool, a slight breeze stirring, and the sun shining brightly.  The cloudless sky was a bright turquoise blue that is only seen on macaws next to their bright yellow and iridescent green feathers. In the midst of creation, the children sit anchored on big granite stones–serene and at peace.

I held my breath waiting for him to take another.  This can’t be it, not now.  Frantic, I move to him, lie by him, wait to hear a faint breath, watch his chest to see it rise.  No more, no more breath, no more rising chest—I exhale and I don’t want to breathe again. Then I cry, and I don’t know if I’ll ever stop. 

Breathe, breathe–slow your breath down.  Breathe deep, exhale long.  The exhale is the most healing part.  Sally is reteaching me what I have forgotten and what the children  already know: breath is healing, calming, a bond between me and my world—harmony.

Ooh ooh child, things will get brighter . . .