Gratitude
The long weeks of staying home have inspired a practice of gratitude.
The initial fear, the threat of the virus taking hold in our midst, the incredible good outcome for us that it has not, and what an understatement that is, has brought a deep appreciation for my life.
Suffering, trauma, wars, famine, neglect, abuse, climate change, floods, fires, have all been part of our collective world for as long as I can remember. It is suffice to say that there has been untold suffering in this world for as long as history has been recorded.
The onslaught of media attention of this global pandemic sometimes has flavours of: before this everything was fine, now it is not. However, regardless of any personal opinion Covid19 has certainly brought to our attention many aspects of society, our lives, our world, that are greatly out of balance. And possibly never before has there been the same cause of such widespread suffering.
This time of lockdown has highlighted that my tendency is to see life through the lens of ‘glass half empty’. What I lack, what could be better, comparisons to others, what is wrong. somewhat melancholic this view point has informed the narrative, to greater or lesser extent, that my mind creates as life unfolds. A commentary that dictates Ok, not Ok. welcome, not welcome, like dislike, yes, no, good bad. You and me.
The Sanskrit word Samsara can be interpreted as ‘to measure’. To weigh up our experience. The first noble truth of the Buddha is that life is suffering. Samsara.
The more I shift my gaze to appreciation I note how this influences my perception. That there is a possibility, just for now, that all is ok. Gratitude replaces grumblings. Eases us into the present, when peace can prevail.
I love to walk. Recently a friend and I discovered a path neither had walked before. The path led steeply downhill, through old forest. Eucalyptus mostly, dried curls of bark strewn in copper and bronze across the path. The forest was silent. Peppered with birds, a rustle in the tree tops as a breeze blew through. As the path levelled out a body of water appeared like a mirage before us. The surprise to find it there and the utter beauty of it anyway, reminded me of a sacred lake, a place where waters are blessed and worshiped, and the loudness of the crickets chirping their praise amplified the delight.
The path wound up through the trees, elaborate art works disfiguring the trunks in knots and burls. And I walked for all who cannot walk at this time. For my friend in lockdown in India who cannot leave her small apartment, who is grateful to have a terrace and a place to be outside. Who is grateful that the hot season has been kind this year and the power cuts have been less too. I walk for the man who lives down the street who has Parkinsons. I see him most days out with a carer, being pushed in his wheelchair or walking himself, holding onto the wheelchair, his gait unsteady. An effort to take each step. Then there is John. John is 94 and has no next of kin. His daily dawn walk to the war memorial near where he lives was the highlight of his day. His balance has become tricky and the strength in his legs seems to diminish every time I visit him. He walks with a wheelie walker now. Even around his flat, scared to fall like he has done several times of late.
My mother has always loved to walk. In her older age she joined a walking group in the Roman town where she now lives. As time wore on so did her joints. Crippling Arthritis leaving chronic pain that nothing seems to help with. Walking became more of a struggle, yet she would push on, leaning heavily on her walker frame. A swollen knee, pain in her lower back. it was painful to witness her daily struggle along the corridor to the lift, to the foyer downstairs of the care home she moved to late last year.
Nowadays she can’t even walk along the corridor. There is a case of Covid19 in her care home now. I find it so sad to consider not only my mom but all the residents isolated even more, unable to leave their rooms.
Care homes have been so much in the limelight of late. Why is it that we have allowed our elders to be cared for by staff who are underpaid? There are no easy answers of course. A myriad of reasons why family structure is as it is. But in this time of pandemic perhaps we can question how we can do things a little differently. Maybe a return to the ways of old will be the solution as the economy no longer allows for the great privileges we have become accustomed to. Have come to expect as our right. I’m often reminded of rural Indian villages. The old woman tending to a young baby on the steps of a mud brick house. Old men playing cards, smoking beedis, drinking chai, whilst kids play close by. I cannot idealize any tradition but shutting our elders away seems deeply informative of so much that is amiss in our society. Families need to pull together. Share resources. Ease the burden on our earth. If only it were that simple.

'Ours is a society of denial that conditions us to protect ourselves from any direct difficulty and discomfort. We expend enormous energy denying our insecurity, fighting pain, death and loss and hiding from the basic truths of the natural world and of our own nature'. – Jack Kornfield

More so than ever I feel immense gratitude for my life. I am acutely aware that I have great privilege to sit on the step of my home, on a late autumn afternoon. Birds sing in harmony, hot ginger tea steams in the cold air. Warm clothes and a wood burning stove ready to light. The vivid beauty of low light spilling through vibrant green all lit up in glory, suddenly fades as clouds stretch like wings across the sky. Its constantly shifting. Changing. Poetry in motion.

The teaching of impermanence rests by my side.
All things arise, suffer change, And pass away.
This is their nature.
When you know this Nothing perturbs you,
Nothing hurts you.
You become still. It is easy.
God made all things.
There is only God.
When you know this, Desire melts away. Clinging to nothing, You become still.
A verse from the Ashtavakra Gita:

And tonight the most incredible sunset. A collage of unsurpassed beauty. The river reflecting swathes of golden glory. A solitary pelican. Stillness. A deep hush as the skies shift to blood red. Time slows for the passing day, a gentle pause, the in- between. Neti Neti. Not this. Not that.
The words of the Buddha: Be a light unto yourself.
May your light shine brightly.
Hari Om Tat Sat. ... Read MoreSee Less

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3 years ago

'Messenger' by Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever. ... Read MoreSee Less

3 years ago