Blue Sky Mind
I have been journaling again, each morning upon waking up, with a cup of coffee. This is a ritual that was part of my everyday until COVID hit, and my beloved practice was replaced with coming straight to my computer to work or read the news. I tried hard to break the new habit, but its hold was strong, and when I did get to my journal, the interaction felt forced. I worried that my sacred mornings were lost forever. But as we return to a life not ruled by COVID, the spell seems to be lifting, and I find myself returning, inspired and refreshed, to my journal and other nurturing practices.
I start my page with "Good morning, God," and then I write about the weather (as if she doesn't already know). I wonder about this: is the weather talk ingrained in me because my Grandpip would, in his teeny, tiny print, record the weather every morning, year after year, long before any of us would begin to stir; or is it because we are so accustomed to starting a conversation with the weather--an easy point of shared connection to break the ice, that I do the same with my higher power? Or is it an intuitive, sacred practice, a deep knowing that the weather is a reflection of and guide for our inner beings?
As I wondered, I remembered learning about indigenous cultures in graduate school, and being enamored with tribal understandings of time as circular and in relation to nature. While we may plant our gardens over Memorial Day Weekend, indigenous people wait for signs, like the arrival of an insect, to know when the soil is ready for planting. While we see being late as a sign of disrespect, indigenous people see leaving early, before an event has come to its natural end, as disrespectful, which may indeed lead to arriving "late" to one's next commitment. There is no rush, no hurry; instead, a commitment to completing each task at hand in tune with one's natural surroundings. If Mother Nature rains, it is understood that it is a time to pause.
On Saturday, as I wrote in my journal, the rain gently tapped the roof and streaked the windows. The peonies along our porch bowed as the rain pooled the indent of their delicate petals. Despite the quiet peacefulness, I felt restless. After so many days at home, pausing, reflecting and working, I am desperate for free-spirited Saturdays outside with friends, bare feet, and bare faces. As I wrote, I was struck that my mood was in response to an imbalance between what I wanted within and what was without. Had it been June 12, 2020, I would have easily adjusted to the Saturday rain. A year ago, there was no pressure to have a beautiful Saturday outside, because there was no delineation between our days; we often had no idea what day of the week it was. Without schedules, plans, and our limitless desires, time felt cyclical and infinite rather than linear and finite. COVID had a hold on our egos as much as our lives. Like my fellow plants and creatures, I was perfectly happy to be at the mercy of Mother Nature.
The fear that kept me from my journal all those months has dissipated in our post-vaccinated lives, but in its place, the ego grows back, fast and furious. In the past months, like so many of us, I have thought, long and hard, about what I would like to carry forward from my experience of living in a pandemic, and I think, after my journaling on the weather, I'm finally able to define it, succinctly and completely: I would like to carry forward a circular connection to time. Like indigenous cultures, I would like to, as much as possible, live in harmony with my natural environment. I want to continue to cultivate the sense of timelessness I was introduced to during COVID. Like the breath that guides my yoga practice, I would like nature to guide my daily practices.
Sunday was beautiful outside: blue sky and 80 degrees. There was no restlessness to combat, because my ego was happy: I spent time in my garden, planting and harvesting; I spent time in my kitchen, creating a birthday meal for a friend. Our families celebrated outside, bare foot and faced. We laughed and rejoiced in honor of friendship and being together again.
When it rains next, I will pause, wonder about my restlessness, and if it is there, like the rain outside, I will remember "this too shall pass." This clarity feels like a blue sky mind.
As always, thank you for reading,
Georgia
P.S.
1) Our summer schedule will start on June 21! Would you prefer live classes to start at 730 or 8 AM EST? Email your preference here.
2) At our next Blue Light Book Club we will be reading The Body is Not An Apology by Sonya Renee Taylor on Wed June 30 @ 630pm EST. Katie Henry, fellow voracious reader and owner of my favorite local shop Labor in Vain, will be co-leading the discussion with me!