Meditation and My Pelican
These days, I often think of my mom's words she used all the time in the last five years of her life, I'm just doing the best I can. There have been a few days this week when following through with my Lenten intention of 40 Days With My Mother writings has been hard and non-existent! Oh well. As the French say, c'est la vie! Aren't we all just doing the best we can right now to find a new normal each day, to push through, to remain calm in mind, body, and spirit?
I love all the efforts of teachers providing virtual sessions of practices of yoga, other forms of exercise, and meditation. I haven't participated in any yet, as I'm still trying to get myself into a home schedule. One thing I have been doing is spending a lot of time in my kitchen, which is very therapeutic for me. I do enjoy cooking and trying new recipes. I know if my mom were here and in her younger years, we would be talking a lot about the food we are making and sharing the results of our efforts.
Cooking was for her and is, for me, a meditation practice. Washing the dishes is one of my least favorite things to do, but even this has become a meditation practice as well. Heck, taking out the trash and recycling has become a walking meditation! That's right. The simple basics of daily activity are less of a chore and more of a therapeutic practice these days.
Since I've been back from Florida, this morning was the first morning that the sun was clearly shining, brightly streaming through my windows. With the senses from my daily beach walk still fresh, I remembered a pelican I walked past each morning. This guy was funny. He stood in the same spot each day, keeping his social distance from a fisherman fishing from the shore. The pelican stood facing the ocean, not bugging anyone who walked past and not infringing on the space of the fisherman either. As fellow pelicans flew past, he remained still. If the line of the fisherman tightened, he didn't budge.
I thought of him this morning as the sun streamed through my window in my writing room. The closest thing I have to sand is the fresh damp dirt in my yard, waiting for spring grass to grow back. Usually, when the sun shines in, I let its heat fall on my shoulders. But this morning, I turned to meet Her. I put on some calming music. I sat backward on the sofa, my mom's that I had reupholstered, and faced the window, the vibrant light beaming on my face. Closing my eyes to the sun, I got myself still and sat before it. I didn't set a timer. I didn't wish to be anywhere else. I didn't overthink about creating a perfect spot or an ideal way to meditate because such things don't exist. My dog came in and went. My kids came downstairs and started making breakfast. They all miraculously left me alone. I giggled, thinking I felt like that pelican staring at the sea, although my sea was through a window that desperately needs to be cleaned.
I think I'll try it again tomorrow. I may be meditating with the rain. The following day it could be a thunderstorm. Even if I can't feel the sun, I'll know She'll be there. Showing up in the same spot, as I do the cooking, the dishes, and the trash right now, all as mediations, will be helpful to get through these homebound days.
Be still and know that I am
Be still and know that I
Be still and know that
Be still and know
Be still and