Her eyes opened, and opened all the way, and stayed open. I said, “this is your daughter, this is Kye” and she nodded once, decisively: “I know that,” said her nod. “Would you like me to tell you the news, or sit quietly with you?” No response. I considered. What was there to lose? I started talking.

Her eyes stayed on mine with total attention. When the news was the kind she likes (“I’m going to go up to see M. this week.”) her face would melt into a quiet little beam. When it was said news (“there’s been a terrible oil spill in the Gulf,” and “the economy is not good”) her forehead creased in distress. She was awake; she knew me; she was there.

Forty-five minutes later? an hour? I asked, “have I worn out your brain?” A rusty little “No” came in response–the first speech I’ve heard in a couple of months. So I told her about what I’m writing (the Tao Te Ching commentary), and her mouth made an ‘oh!’ shape, and she she smiled.

There’s no telling what I’ll find next time I go, but what a miracle and a gift that time was!

I found mangoes on a street corner a little while ago, on my way back from seeing my mother–a whole box of them, sold to me off the back of a pickup truck up from the Rio Grande Valley.

They were sold to me by what looked to be a couple of brothers. They were in their early twenties. One of them was holding an enormous exuberant sign that said ‘MANGOES’. I saw the sign, thought about stopping but the corner was busy. But I found a quieter place to park and walked back along a patch of sidewalk walled with enormous weeds, then through the archway of an abandoned pear tree covered with half-ripe pears.

The box was mine for $5. As I left, one of the brothers smiled and said ‘God bless.’

At the next corner were a man and woman sitting at a bus stop. The man was holding up a tiny sign that said ‘hungry’. I had a box full of mangoes! Unexpected ones! I was going to give them to my son and his girlfriend, but that little tiny sign and that young patient couple sitting there–of course I had to stop again.

I asked “do you like mangoes?” They nodded. I said I’d just found them at the last corner. I told them to take as many as they wanted. They each took two, which still left lots. And I had the pleasure of seeing them grinning at each other, as I left.

Later, I wondered whether either of them had a pocket knife–or did they use their teeth to open up the fruit? Maybe I should start carrying a pocket knife again!

Catching up on posts to the focusing discussion list this morning, I was delighted to come across a poem that meant a lot to me a decade ago: “The Invitation” by Oriah Mountain Dreamer.

I was particularly struck by this:

Because I was reading it freshly after a long absence–and reading it within the context of focusing–I took it as an invitation  to ‘source my own life from the presence of beauty’ right at this moment.  As I accepted that invitation, this is what happened:

I began by asking myself: am I sensing the presence of beauty right now?

… yes!

So for a long minute I simply sat with the palpable presence of beauty, before any words or thoughts about it…

And then, looking out the window, I saw a bird soar up to clear the building.

…yes! that’s an instance of this presence!

‘Sourcing myself from‘ this presence… now what does that phrase invite, in this moment?

I sat quietly with the feeling of the invitation, with the palpablility of the invitation, just waiting…

…Ah, the pace!  It wants the exact pace that has room for the soaring bird.  Sitting here planning my day, it wants me to make room for the bird!

I felt a little mist of tears–gratitude for the bird, and for the gift of this poem, and for being reminded of it:  for the invitation to shift my day into a softer slower key.

At this very moment I’m full of arugula, and tomato basil soup, and the awesome feeling of being an aliveness sitting here breathing.

My death is present here too.  It invites me to give what I can give at the moment.  Tonight what I could give was a note to the chef who made that beautiful soup and salad.  (The waiter came back later and said that things like that meant a lot, and the note was now posted on the back wall.)

Earlier today in Parabola I read this:

There is a story about a teacher who asked his students, “If I have five hundred dollars, and in the course of my life I give away four hundred dollars, how much do I have at the end of my life?”

The students eagerly answered, “One hundred dollars.”

“That’s what you might think,” the teacher said.  “But the deeper truth is that if I have five hundred dollars here on Earth, and I give away four hundred dollars, then at my death what I will have is four hundred dollars.  Because in the end, all you have is what you have given.” *

Because of those words, it came to me as I was eating that if I let the chef know how much his cooking mattered to me tonight, he would have, what he had given.  So I wrote the note with care, on thick paper I happened to have with me, to try to give him back the sense of specialness.

I don’t know what to call what I have right now, because of having written a note which shared exactly what that meal’s wonderfulness had meant to me. Whatever it is I’ve got, it’s worth a great deal more than four hundred dollars.

And the more I try to give it away, the more it grows.  It seems this kind of interest is compounded every moment!

* excerpted from John Robbins’ forthcoming book, The New Good Life

I just finished writing a thank you note to my mechanic.  The other night he spirited my cell phone out of a mysterious black hole under the driver’s seat.

Why a thank you note for such a small thing?  …because he didn’t know the size of what he’d just done.  I wanted him to be able to share the depth of meaning hidden in that one-minute job.

My mother and sister are both seriously ill.  They are in two different hospitals in two different cities.  It’s possible my mother won’t survive this time.  Because he got my cell phone back into my hands, my mother and sister were able to connect with each other last night.

Having thanked him, now I want to thank you, dear reader.  Because just as he had no idea of the significance of what he did, there are also undoubtedly times you’ve done things like that and never knew what you did.

So thank you for being you, and doing what you do.

Life is so much more than we know…

Last week I nearly lost my sister.  She was not a good candidate for surgery, in a life-threatening situation.  The hospital staff tried everything they could think of all week, to get the problem to resolve without surgery.  But it didn’t, and she was running out of time.

So, Thursday night the surgeon went ahead.  I thought ‘this is it.’

…And she pulled through.  Even fragile bodies can be incredibly strong.

This week, I have the flu.  It’s not surprising.  Lots of people here are getting it.  Even strong bodies can be incredibly fragile.

I’m seeing it as a good thing.  Bodies know when it’s time for a rest.

Back soon!

It’s midday, and my hunger feels luxurious: luxurious in its intensity and its incipient knowing.

So I’m sitting down with it.  I’m like a lover, asking my loved other, ‘where do you want to go?’ —and then waiting with no hurry.

Like a little child, my hunger is just pure raw desire.  It’s too hungry to tell me what it’s hungry for.

‘Eggs?’ I ask.  — ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Some of the leftover split pea soup?’ — ‘No!!’

‘…A glass of orange juice?’ ‘Yes! Exactly!  But more than just that…’

We wait.

Oh!  That basil from the farmer’s market yesterday morning.  With tomatoes, and onions, and butter, and cream… a soup.  Some of the sourdough alongside.  A salad with the last of the frisee and some pears, walnuts, and blue cheese.

Perfect.

I’ve had this red pillowcover for eighteen years now.  Dominique made it for me when I was pregnant and nesting—I found the material in the remnants at London Fabrics.

Dominique moved to Seattle; London Fabrics closed long ago; so did my marriage.  But here is this red cover, looking humble among my later pillows but not especially worn.

Actually, it’s not really red:  Under the magnifying glass there’s blue… gold… cream… and those are rose threads!

When my eyes were younger, I knew that.

I’m feeling mammalian this morning: very nearly furry.

As I woke, I was just a little animal whose warm weight was even this moment leaving a warm imprint in the nest of my bed.  I felt both front paws tucked together under my chin.  I felt the imprint—in the curl of my body—of the fetus I once was.

And I feel the turn of the season.  Summer has nearly broken; first light comes later now.  It’s the first morning that the heat of my imprint before I first move, feels luxurious.

I stretch; my shoulders crackle.

I’m waiting for S. to decide if he’s staying or going.

He had been separated from his wife for several years when we met. At first, he was eager to complete the process of severing their lives.

But recently, on the other side of a birthday and a serious illness, he’s started feeling old.

He wonders if it would be best to finish what he’s started… if he would lose contact with children now grown… if he has it in him any more.  He’s tired.

It’s tempting to check email after this last long silence, but more sane to put my weight down into other things. I go for long walks, feeling each step’s intricate relationship with the ground, breathing in-three-pause-five-out-eight.

I move to a new studio… clear the clutter from my writing room… pick up the last vegetables from the farm…

…I’m waiting without waiting.