The ever-sardonic Creative Loafing even published a reminder in April’s first issue:

“pollen count” makes its annual return to the lexicon (SK © 2013)

Michael Saunders © 2013

Pollen, pollen, pollen. “My car is totally green.” The April complaints are not much hyperbole. There is a green haze in the air, a noticeable green layer on everything —including human skin, if one stays outside long enough.

Meanwhile, I was elated about spring. After battening down in winter, I crave fresh air and outside noises—birds, wind rustling through trees. In the same week the pollen emerged, I opened my balcony door, indefinitely. Ergo, a  layer of green quickly coated my couch and cushions, the lid of my harmonium, the top of my laptop, the floor nearest the doorframe. But the steady breeze kept too much pollen from settling inside. My vehicle was as green and dusty as any other, though I found no inconvenience.

Pollen pollen pollen. “The pollen count is insane today.” Also not hyperbole. Pollen counts above 90 are considered high—a number which is wishful thinking in a city where the count is routinely above 1000. In mid-April, the count was 8024. The following day, 7809. So yes, ridiculous. Consequently: “My allergies are the worst.”

(I can afford to be a bit more magnanimous, since I don’t have severe allergic reactions, but I am still not immune. This year my pollen-induced cold gave me a couple days of fever, plus more than a week of congestion.)

Michael Saunders © 2013

Meanwhile, I ignored my cold and admired the sakura, the blossoms of ornamental cherry trees. I love the clusters of pink-white petals, the distinct scent—such powerful triggers that I still think of the Japanese word, rather than the name in my native language.

Nowadays, nothing in my life overlaps with the one I had in Japan. Of course, I have many internal reminders—memories, as well as my own sensibilities. My home space has many references to Japan. Otherwise, I never hear, let alone speak, Japanese. I eat primarily with forks and spoons, not chopsticks. Various cuisines, but never Japanese. I live in the hills, not even within sight, let alone the foot, of mountains. I no longer teach in a classroom or even work directly in schools. Sakura, the only external reminder of Japan I have encountered since leaving ten years ago, let me live briefly in both Atlanta and Japan simultaneously.

sakura at Himeji Castle (SK © 2013)

PollenPollenPollen. “I’m praying for rain so the pollen will go away.” A common variation: “I can’t wait til it rains because the pollen is so bad.” On the evening of the 8024 pollen count day, Atlanta had a typical, magical, southern thunderstorm—heavy rain, lightning, wind for half the night, air nearly sexually charged.

petals on the ground (SK © 2013)

Meanwhile, the next morning I mourned the suddenly summery world, where the deep kelly greens of summer abruptly replaced most of the neon lime greens of spring. More conspicuously, all the delicate spring flowers had been pounded from the trees. Post-thunderstorm, the branches of ornamental cherry trees were suddenly bare, piles of pink-white petals heaped on the ground.

Pollenpollenpollen. Jan Brady perfectly expresses my weariness. Witnessing the annual whining routine from pre-pollen through mid-spring  reminds me how out of the present one can become. The only thing more ridiculous than the pollen count is the degree to which people complain about it. And the timing of the same month as Earth Day only adds irony to the complaints.

Even more ironically, people complain for only a few weeks about “bad” air—air that is both temporary and natural. Whereas they live in a heavily polluted city—”normal” air that is both permanent and unnatural. I was a bike commuter in Atlanta for a few years, and still ride my bike short distances nearly every day. Pollen, for a few weeks in spring, has never bothered me as much as exhaust and smog, which I encounter all year.

I choose not to hate on pollen. The brief presence of tree-generated  dust that makes me sneeze doesn’t bother me nearly as much as constant air pollution that frequently appears as black smut in a tissue after I blow my nose. In fact, I would accept a season of pollen—multiple months—to air that generally burns my breathing passages while I ride my bicycle. From my perspective, people often miss the smog for the spring.

Pollen helps generate life; I don’t mind the abundant bursts of flowers amidst the green haze. Pollen’s season is one phase of the plant kingdom’s lusty and dusty time of reproduction. Nature’s orgasm, so to speak. Might as well surrender.

∞ Thanks to Michael Saunders for his humor and photos.

SK © 2013

This post is based on last year’s class at vernal equinox—considering the balance of light and dark, as we move into the light of the season.

I debated how to present meditation as a blog post, if I should write the transcript. In that case, much of the content would be about breathing. But I thought so much about breathing would bury the other content. However, the duration would be more accurate—that the meditation lasted about 45 minutes, which is far less time than one needs to read this post.

But if you do want to read as meditation, I included a few reminders at the beginning. Then I used line breaks and symbols as reminders to breathe more deeply. Or to relax any tension in your shoulders, in your jaw. Or perhaps to sit more comfortably, or to rein in the monkey mind in from the jungle gym of distractions.

Take a deep breath, and take your time.

Wendy Hasenkamp © 2013

Here we sit, vernal equinox. § breathe §
This day of equal dark and light, § breathe §
this threshold of the season. § breathe §

§ § § [deep breath] § § §

Here [in Atlanta], of course, spring appears before this day. § § §
But for the sake of observance, § § §
I consider the newness, the transition into spring. § § §

§ § § § § § § § §

bare branches ready for the light of spring
(SK © 2013)

Spring.
When seeds break through the ground,
when flowers bud.

§ § § § § § § § §

And yet, despite requiring light, plants are first born in darkness.
Seeds usually sprout in the ground, far from light.
Other factors—such as water, temperature, oxygen content—
catalyze seeds so that they burst into life,
often without the light that is later necessary to sustain them.

§ § § § § § § § §

So at first, seeds must grow towards the surface of the ground
without the light on  which they will ultimately depend in order to live.

§ § § § § § § § §

By the time we see signs of spring,
the movement towards light has already begun,
invisible to us.

§ § § § § § § § §

Imagine life’s courage, faith, perserverance
to begin without the actual presence of what it needs to live.

§ § § § § § § § §

The wisdom of plants also demonstrates the necessity of the dark ground.
Where roots, the anchors, must grow.
Even though they are invisible to us.

§ § § § § § § § §

We tend to think of a tree as a trunk with a canopy overhead,
but  in reality a tree is more like a vajra, the trunk in the middle.

SK © 2013

As above, so below—roots are underground branches.
And in some cases,
root systems are larger and more complex than what is above ground.

§ § § § § § § § §

Likewise, most births or rebirths, including our own, begin in the dark.

§ § § § § § § § §

I think of my own seeds, my own intentions planted this past winter.
And I consider my growth.
Though my intentions sprouted unseen, simply as thoughts,
they have journeyed through the dark.

§ § § § § § § § §

And now, at equinox, they are ready to break through the ground.
To be visible.
To be tangible.
To live fully.

§ § § § § § § § §

And yet, I also recall times when breaking out of darkness,
after those courageous journeys of faith,
when I felt overwhelmed by the sudden light.

§ § § § § § § § §

When I wanted to retreat to the security of darkness,
rather than face what seemed overpowering.

§ § § § § § § § §

I consider when tiny sprouts break through the ground.
Are they dazzled by light, temporarily blinded, after all that darkness?

§ § § § § § § § §

But even they were at first overwhelmed by light,
or warmth, or wind,
life compels them to remain above ground.

§ § § § § § § § §

Visible.
Tangible.
Fully alive.

§ § § § § § § § §

And thus that which seems overwhelming is precisely what we need.
We are compelled,
by forces beyond us,
to remain in the light, regardless of any reluctance.

§ § § § § § § § §

We too must root in darkness,
recognizing its capacity for growth,
its ability to stabilize the the dynamism of growing and living in the light

§ § § § § § § § §

Roots keep us cognizant of our past,
absorbing nutrients—the lessons, the wisdom—from the dark.

§ § § § § § § § §

And so,
to balance thriving in the light
with anchoring in the dark.

§ § § § § § § § §

We live.

ink drawing by Chelsea Darling
(SK © 2013)

One of my favorite mantras:

asato ma sad gamaya
tamaso ma jyotir gamaya
mrtyor ma’mrtam gamaya

translation:
Lead us from the untruth to truth.
Lead us from darkness to light.
Lead us from death to immortality.

~ from Brhadaranyaka Upanisad 1.3.28, recorded before the first millenium BCE

(The first line is often translated as “from the unreal to the real” or “from ignorance to truth,” though I prefer the more literal version.)

∞ Thanks to Wendy Hasenkamp for the photo and Ian Boccio for transliteration.

§ § § [breathe] § § §

SK © 2013

She also influenced my views on marriage: I was always told that relationships of any kind require work, though not all the time. There are no perfect partners because there are no perfect people. And definitely no fairy tale endings, because people will always make mistakes from time to time.

As you can probably imagine, I have never liked Valentine’s Day all that much, even when I’ve had a valentine. The burst of sentiment on the world’s second most celebrated holiday often feels contrived—the cynical part of me sighs at the commercialism. For example, Necco, the maker of conversation hearts, produces 100,000 pounds of hearts PER DAY from late February until the following January. The hearts sell out in about six weeks.

I much prefer more personal and spontaneous expressions, but I also recognize that our culture rarely encourages emotional expression. So although Valentine’s Day can make me cynical, it is a fortunate exception to the prevailing cultural standard. I always appreciate hearing about genuine and creative gestures on that day.

But I also want to make a case for the unexpected and unsual being just as meaningful, if not more so, than flowers, candy, teddy bears, etc in February. Though I can appreciate those sorts of gifts, I am a much bigger fan of the opposite: creative, unlikely expressions at unexpected times.

My favorite example is from the summer after my first year of college. I did marine biology research in the Turks and Caicos Islands for the last month of summer. Several weeks after I returned to college, I received a letter that had been forwarded from the TCI. I was completely suprirsed, since I had told my friends not to bother writing while I was away. The postal service there was very slow, and I was there a relatively short time.

SK © 2013

The business-sized envelope clearly contained nothing business-related—my name was written in crazy, grafitti-esque letters in permanent marker. The sender was from my neighborhood in Atlanta, but I didn’t recognize the return address. One of the staff in the TCI managed to find a tiny blank spot to write my college PO box address in ballpoint pen.

Inside the decorated envelope was a single sheet of thin, slick paper, with a letter written in the same thick permanent marker. Upon reading the first teasing line, asking me to bring back some malaria samples, I immediately knew the sender’s identity: a guy from high school, who I’d met in 8^th grade. We always had some chemistry, but never any real dating.

Nothing particularly amazing in the letter—the timing shocked me more than anything else, since we hadn’t communicated at all for the past year. I was awed that he must have called my parents’ house, gotten my address in the TCI, and taken the time to mail a real letter.

SK © 2013

While reading, I vaguely noticed the text underneath the letter—he’d written it on a page torn from a book. Hence the use of permanent marker. Then I noticed “I HATE MATH!!” written in the margin in a different marker. I looked at the text more carefully: a coordinate grid, references to quadratic equations and imaginary numbers.

Suddenly, I realized the page was torn from our 10^th grade math book. At the beginning of that school year, our teacher explained that the school system wasn’t keeping the books, so we could write whatever we wanted in them. I didn’t care, but he was an artist and decorated his pages with gusto. We sat next to each other in that class, and all year he drew in the book. Sometimes silly pictures to make me laugh, other times complex pieces that I admired. At the end of the school year, he kept the textbook that had become a sketchbook.

So not only did he take the time to mail a letter, he chose to write on a page from the math book. For my cynical, unappreciative-of-Romeo-and-Juliet brain, his gesture is still one of the most romantic things ever done for me—an unexpected, completely unique letter that miraculously traveled to the tropics and back before arriving at the post office in a tiny town in North Carolina.

appreciating the unexpected
(Liz Stein © 2013)

All that said, I recognize that some people really appreciate red roses and a heart-shaped box of chocolates. So, love on, y’all—however you wish, whenever you wish. Express yourself accordingly.

∞ Special thanks to Liz, who on no particular day sent a picture of a butterfly inside an avocado.

SK © 2013

SK © 2013

Many people responded, with the most common advice being to apologize, but also to remember that other people’s burdens are ultimately not about you. In other words, you can’t fix what you didn’t (and can’t) cause.

My response was too big for a single screen shot (previous lines cut for privacy):

SK © 2013

SK © 2013

The last time Facebook created a blog topic, the post was my answer. This time, my friend specifically requested me to expand my reply:

How I can I refuse that?
(SK © 2013)

With her vote of confidence, I attempt to do so now….

What my response didn’t mention was that I described how I handle all conflicts, not just those in which people blame me for their unhappiness. I strive to confront conflict with the same mindfulness, respect, and honesty, regardless of who or what precipitated the situation.

I learned this wisdom several years ago, when the owner of a yoga studio (and my boss) confronted me about reports that I had encouraged students to attend classes at a competing studio. I had not done so, but of course my denials sounded hollow to him. Even when I asked how he could believe the ludicrous rationale of encouraging students not to support a place where I earned income, he refused to consider that the stories could be rumors.

Fortunately, my intuition recognized not to accept projections from people who were delusional about my integrity. I saw clearly that another person or other people blamed me, to some degree, for their lack, for their unhappiness or frustration. Though I never confronted those who accused me, I think jealousy motivated their actions. My classes were among the most successful at the studio, despite the one on Friday night being an unlikely time for high turnout.

However, the dynamic between me and the owner, and thus my job, never recovered from the false gossip. Though I held myself accountable and subsequently monitored my words even more carefully, he remained attached to his perception.

Within a few months, I was fired. Not surprisingly, my abrupt departure shocked my longtime students, particularly when it was framed as my own choice—by the owner and replacement teacher who lied to them. But as any politician who’s had an affair knows, the truth will always surface. Eventually, my former students learned of the untruths.

Meanwhile, I had more important matters to which I had to attend—namely, not being steamrolled by resentment and anger. I was devastated at being fired. I had been working since age 14, the youngest legal age I could have a W-2 job, and I had never been less than a model employee. At the time I was in my mid-twenties, still naively believing that being fired proved I was a failure.

Moreover, I had first begun practicing asana at this studio; it was the first place I ever taught any kind of yoga. I had done extra work for the owner, such as publicity, for free or very cheaply. The betrayal from someone I trusted bothered me even more than being fired. I struggled with the constant temptation to contact all my past students and tell them my side. Probably for the best that this conflict occurred pre-Facebook, when that task would have been easy, instead of so daunting that I did not do it.

Instead, I focused on how to handle the situation as constructively as possible:

~ I took responsibility for myself. When the owner first confronted me about the rumors, I acknowledged the possibility that my words could have been misconstrued. Inevitably, students asked what I knew about other studios and teachers. I analyzed my past conversations, considered if something I considered harmless had in fact misled someone to report something valid. And I apologized to the owner if in fact my comments—always delicate and diplomatic—to those queries was somehow taken as disloyal to the studio. I even asked teachers at others studios I supposedly recommended if anyone attended their classes because of my recommendation.

~ In this process, I determined that I had not, to the fullest understanding from myself and others teachers, behaved inappropriately. But after being fired, as I remained angry and resentful, I realized that I had to detach myself from needing those who had treated me so poorly to feel any remorse. Highly unlikely. Furthermore, I had to detach from needing an apology. Even more unlikely. They were never going to apologize.

~ I considered my contribution. Not just in terms of arousing jealousy, but how my actions may have worsened the situation. At first, I did not argue about the legitimacy of the claims against me; I didn’t want to seem overly argumentative. But perhaps in doing so, I legitimized the rumors. Later, I told the owner that I thought people were lying to him, but by then my word was too damaged. I don’t know whether a different response would have made a difference. Not that I care—more important that I consider my fullest potential participation in a conflict. Certainly in other instances my own actions have definitively affected the situation.

image credit DN Nation
(Though I did not use the article in my writing process, I wish to credit the image fully: http://www.forbes.com/sites/mikemyatt/2012/02/22/5-keys-to-dealing-with-workplace-conflict/)

Since that virtual conversation, I have mostly been thinking about how my views of conflict have changed. As a child, I was conditioned to consider fairness as most important—for all parties to feel satisfied with the resolution. As an adult, I recognize that many people are not concerned with justice or integrity. And as if everyone agrees on a single definition of fairness!

Though it might seem counterintuitive, sometimes disregarding the feelings of others is the best option. I find that perspective much more empowering, actually. Some people will never forgive my mistakes, regardless of how much I try to atone. Other times, people will never atone for their wrongdoings.

One of the many, many lessons Eastern philosophies have taught me is that needing or wanting something (such as fairness) simply maintains attachment, which prolongs my own dis-ease. The people who “owe” me apologies—those people are least likely to do so. However, so what? So what. I saw how unempowered I was by craving something that others would never provide. I realized that I was blocking my own recovery from the situation—that I did not actually need what I wanted so badly. Nor do I want to depend on the actions of others to liberate me. When I confront conflict with full honesty and without attachment, I can be at peace with my own integrity and actions, rather than cling to past behaviors and mistakes. Consequently, reconciliation for mySelf is always possible.

I first read this story as a child, when I too considered trees (as well as rocks, creeks, and animals) my friends. Even long before I had read about Ents, as I child I recognized many tree archetypes:

Gnarled, knobbly roots and branches make me think of elders—
perhaps because the knots remind me of arthritic joints, like the ones my grandfather had.
(SK © 2012)

Other trees remind me of capillaries.
(SK © 2012)

In contrast, the smooth, slim skin of crepe myrtles makes them seem young and inexperienced.
(SK © 2012)

Several years ago, I lived across the street from Piedmont Park.  For two years I walked there almost daily, where I witnessed the trees’ seasonal changes minutely. My botanical neighbors became familiar friends. Also during that time, I reread the Anne series, and my adult perspective lent new appreciation of her response to Diana’s laughter:

“Well, one can’t get over the habit of being a little girl all at once,” said Anne gaily. “You see, I was little for fourteen years and I’ve only been grown-uppish for scarcely three. I’m sure I shall always feel like a child in the woods.
…
The white birch you caught me kissing is a sister of mine. The only difference is, she’s a tree and I’m a girl, but that’s no real difference.” [emphasis added]

The challenge of simply breaking the habit of being young—a great excuse for one’s behavior, right? Though I am unlikely to kiss any birches in Piedmont Park, I still appreciate trees as my family and my teachers.

Atlanta springtime is so crowded with flowers that I tend not to think of my friends as much. (I have other distractions, too.) Whereas in summer, trees bombard my vision. However, I don’t notice individual trees as much—not because I don’t see them, but because leaves actually make them less distinctive. Otherwise only parts of trunks or branches are visible, so the differences are less obvious. Summer is the season of unity. Up close leaves differ by shape and size, but from a distance I can barely distinguish the nuances of green within the bombardment of that hue.

greeeeeeeeen
(SK © 2012)

In autumn, trees begin to move inward. Chlorophyll, the pigment responsible for generating nourishment for trees, decreases. Consequently, other pigments which chlorophyll masks become visible. At this time, trees reveal more distinctions from each other. Buttery yellow gingko leaves make those trees arboreal neon signs.

Maya Lemberg Vandermeer © 2012

Red maples are my other favorite.

SK © 2012

As leaves continue to wither and fall, the sky becomes increasingly visible as the seasons transition.

SK © 2012

Despite it requiring me to wear more layers, winter has always felt more raw to me than summer. Nature is certainly more unshrouded, more exposed—everything equally receptive to light and dark, sun and rain, warmth and cold. In contrast to the coverage from their summer canopy, entire tree trunks and branches are easily visible in winter. Trees are more vulnerable to the elements than any other time of year—bare branches, no protection from winter’s intensity. Trees are then unhidden, uncovered—all the colors, patterns, and textures prominent.

SK © 2012

In winter, when trees lack a defining characteristic (leaves), is, ironically, when I feel I see them most directly. In summer, I see massive clumps of green with little trunk stands underneath. In contrast, in winter I suddenly recognize distinctions among trees,  as obvious as people are distinct. Tree trunks are backbones, so to speak—what I consider the essence of trees. Furthermore, bare branches show that trees grow “as below, so above”—that branches are essentially roots in air.

Some trees have upright posture. Others have had scoliosis at some point. Others offer seats or benches, as though welcoming company. Others prefer their brances to grow above the level of normal human activity, so that they’re not bothered by our trivialties.

SK © 2012

Regardless of appearance, all trees surrender in the same way. They bend in the wind, rather than struggle to remain upright. They remain constant in rain and snow, rather than attempt to escape or avoid it. As the adage goes, “leaves tremble; roots remain still.”

Moreover, trees exist on a timescale far vaster than the human one. Tree wisdom also grows from longevity, the endurance of living in one place. J.R.R. Tolkein beautifully personified this sense of time with Ents:

“For one thing it would take a long while: my name is growing all the time, and I’ve lived a very long, long time; so my name is like a story. Real names tell you the story of the things they belong to in any language, in the Old Entish as you might say. It is a lovely language, but it takes a very long time to say anything in it, because we do not say anything in it, unless it is worth taking a long time to say, and to listen to.” [emphasis added]

With humans, I believe that our truest character is revealed in winter, whether literal or metaphorical. In the comfort of spring or summer conditions, being loving and joyous is easy. In those times, we often do not actually display as much of our character. In other words, having what we want does not require much strength of character to be mature, loving, and generous.

Thus truly appropriate that winter is a time of introspection, when many set intentions for the seeds to plant in spring. Much more meaningful to gaze inward when one is at the deepest, most genuine, most vulnerable point of self, rather than engaged with the outward, when the leaves are on the branches.

Rhonda Hobgood © 2012

Far more telling is how we live in wintry conditions—if we resist, as humans often do, or surrender, as trees often do. The people who inspire me most are not those who have success or even recover from failure—because oftentimes they react immaturely after setbacks. I care even less how they celebrate; I am most concerned with how they conduct themselves in adversity. The people who inspire me most are those who, like trees, endure and evolve with grace. Who don’t cave to gut reactions simply for the immediate gratification, without any consideration to later consequences. Who, despite obstacles, betrayals, and challenges, maintain integrity. Who instead of resisting change and impermanence, release attachments and the need for control. Who face their shadows, rather than run from the light that reveals them.

We are most distinct, most truly ourselves, when our spines are uncloaked. And the power of our endurance over many seasons determines how we grow.

trees win. hold your space.
(SK © 2012)

“Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.” ~ Hermann Hesse

∞ Thanks as always to Rhonda Hobgood for generously sharing her photos. Also huge thanks to Maya Lemberg, who, when I requested out of nowhere for a gingko photo, provided one.

SK © 2012

Clearly, 2009 and 2010 were years of launching, which I recognized at the time—starting a yoga studio, organizing a music festival, and traveling for several weeks out west. In all those instances, I felt compelled to do what I had not done before.

In contrast, this blog felt like an exception—in part because I resisted creating it for so long. Years ago, I used to send drafts to my best friend, for no particular purpose, since I didn’t care to share them. She urged me to start a blog, but I thought the effort was pointless without a clear objective or direction.

But for once someone else’s stubbornness trumped mine, and eventually I caved in spring 2010, when I started the most minimal blog possible—all text, no photos. I knew it was visually underwhelming, but I was certain no one would read it, let alone like it. Consequently, of course, my actions assured that outcome: I told no one, except my best friend. Obviously, no one else read it. Even more ludricrously, I used an alias. Seriously? Sadly, yes.

And then I returned to bigger preoccupations. For nearly a year, I had wanted to leave my (mildly) corporate job. Helping direct a yoga studio and organize a festival were rewarding diversions, but I couldn’t deny my unhappiness. The still-tanked economy, however, continued to offer nothing better for which I was qualified, and I was too afraid to quit without something else available.

I desperately wanted perspective, and three weeks out west served me perfectly—nothing familiar, no patterns, mostly solitude. During that time, I decided that I should leave my job, even if the next step didn’t have a clear objective or direction. The universe complied—by the time the literal playa dust settled after my trip, I knew my job would end in three months.

And thus began my frantic search for employment. Writing, always subordinate, was a break from job-hunting. After two months, because I had no leads save minimum wage jobs, I told myself to pursue anything with potential. In other words, nothing, in my desperation, was too far-fetched. I began researching various independent schools and cold-emailed or called ones that I liked, even if they didn’t have any job openings posted.

Meanwhile, my best friend, ever-encouraging, perstered me to share my blog with others. As before, I was distracted; my defenses were weak. Despite my nerves, I posted a link on Facebook. And then figuratively hid under my bedsheets, terrified of the reaction.

SK © 2012

The responses, both appreciative and complimentary, led me to reconsider my inconsequential side project. I changed platforms in order to add photos more easily, since they, like my writing, had been seen by no one. In mid-November, the blog relocated—just like in real life, it got a new address.

Originally, I considered this blog simply a side outlet to organize my thoughts, far less important than everything else. Now, when I consider the timing, I’m struck by how much the decision to start this blog aligns with all the other shifts happening around that time. Less than a month after starting this version, in the last week of my former job, an independent school hired me for the upcoming semester.

This blog is not a deviation from what naturally belongs in my life—rather, it reflects how I live more authentically, ever since I abandoned the structures and expectations that limited me. In this time of threes, I see so much of what I value most in my life having emerged around the same time.

Thricely. Even my band is a trio. Moving into the third year of this project, I more deeply appreciate the structure around what I have spent so much of my life doing, even without having some heady intention at the beginning.

That said, I still can’t answer when people ask what I want to “do” with it. For example, I rarely publicize. But perhaps I should? And how? 2013 brings another 3, after all…

3 x 3 x 3
(SK © 2012)

∞ Thricely grateful to Rhonda, whose encouragement made this all happen.

SK © 2012

Surely the timing is not a coincidence: nature certainly encourages the association of this time of year with ancestor kinship. Just as spring rouses me towards growth, fall accordingly reminds me of diminishment. Leaves wither and fall, but this change does not signal the death of the tree—solely a change of season.

In this way, autumn reminds us that life is not a stretch of living with death as the final punctuation. That linear, finite timeline of “live live live live live and then die” has become too rigid and ultimately unnatural for me to espouse. Whereas spiralled time—multifaceted, multidimensional—encompasses death as one of many, many moments beyond finite measure (and reincarnation as well, for those who believe in it). In other words, life is both living and dying in equal measure.

As Buddhism emphasizes, all is impermanent. Everything is in transition. Seasons cycle every few months. Some life cycles require the juxtaposition of death in order to continue. For example, some female spiders are eaten by their young soon after birth. Other female spiders and praying mantises eat their male mates at some point around copulation (before, during, after)—a much more literal example of the French eupemism for orgasm, la petit mort (“the little death”).

Even more immediately, our very appearance, as we are alive, is in fact death: skin, hair, and nails are all dead. On a cellular level we are dying in every moment, as our cells reproduce. We always exist amidst both life and death; many contemplative traditions teach that we are reborn in every moment. A single breath illustrates this dichotomy: inhalation as birth/renewal, exhalation as death/extinction.

SK © 2012

Samhain is considered when the veil between the worlds is thinnest—fitting for a festival that, among other things, commemorates the dead. Now that the midsummer heat has burned off, plants, too, lose their veils between the life/death realm, as life retreats after the time of harvest. Falling leaves mirror the layers of the veil dropping away. (In Atlanta, the abundance of deciduous trees assures many weeks of constant leaf-fall—so much so, in fact, that the languid, to-and-fro tumble of leaves reminds me of snowfall.)

Halloween, the eve of all these celebrations of the dead, is a combination of “hallowed” and “evening” (e’en)—highlighting the irony of how much our culture has demonized what was originally considered a sacred time.

A few days before she died, I sat by my grandmother’s hospice bed and read her The Prophet, for both our sakes:
“You would know the secret of death.
But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?
…
If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life.
For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.”

juxtaposed–death in the foreground and life in the background
(SK © 2012)

Gibran also noticed a thin veil. And just as leaves fall, I can shed the barrier between myself and realms beyond this one. During winter, a temporary death of sorts, trees delve into a deeper part of life, one not apparent until spring. Recognizing that even now, many years later, I can still feel my grandmother so vividly, I wonder if perhaps death will bring us more deeply into life than we can possibly fathom.

SK © 2012

I volunteered to compile the playlist for the next gathering, scheduled for 9/11/11. We all agreed it was a poignant day, though appropriate for a spiritual (non-religious) group with the following intention:

“Dance Church is a diverse gathering to honor the body/spirit connection,
celebrate life, and build community through improvisational movement,
artistic expression, and an openness to the sacred however defined.
Do your yoga, stretch, roll around on the floor, boogie;
dance alone, with another, with others;
connect with your own spirit and that of whatever may be greater.
A circle will begin and end the gathering and a variety of music will be played.”

Before I presented my playlist that day, two people offered very opposite perspectives about the occasion. One man, wearing a T-shirt commemorating Salvador Allende’s death (on September 11, 1973), criticized the hubris and aggression of American foreign policy. His condemnation bothered another woman, who wished to commemorate the many losses on 9/11/01.

I could relate to both; my patriotism is equal parts shame, frustration, disgust, and exasperation with pride, hope, wonderment, and gratitude. The differing opinions expressed in that moment exemplified what I appreciate most about being American, that we can express, and hopefully tolerate, a massive spectrum of ideas. I have visited enough places to know how frequently freedom is taken for granted here.

I explained to the group that when I considered music to express my feelings around 9/11, I wanted both to celebrate my pride and acknowledge my shame. I chose many iconic songs, often performed by iconic Americans, with a heavy dose of locals.

(As you’ll notice, plenty of icons are missing. I only needed 90 minutes of dance music. And not surprisingly, there are some overlaps from another playlist.)

Rising Appalachia – “Freedom” (Sails of Self)
The title says it all—self-determination is definitely the source of the pride of my patriotism. Rising Appalachia is based out of NOLA these days, but they are originally from Atlanta. The group is a great example of self-determined musicians, with no record label or outside management.

Bobby McFerrin – “Blackbird” (The Voice)
Bobby McFerrin is one of America’s finest, simply a ridiculously amazing musician. (The Voice is a ridiculously amazing album, just him without any accompaniment or overdubbing.) Paul McCartney credits the civil rights movement as inspiring this song. So, in all, an icon covering an iconic song of another iconic group, of whose members were heavily inspired by American music.

David Crosby – “Music is Love” (If I Could Only Remember My Name)
This title has certainly been my truth, as well as that of many others. This song also felt very aligned with the mission of Dance Church.

Robert Randolph & the Family Band feat. Dave Matthews, Leroi Moore, and Rashawn Ross – “Love is the Only Way In” (Colorblind)
This felt like an extension of the previous song, particularly the lines “In the street we’ll be dancing / Out in the street we’ll be moving.”

Marvin Gaye – “Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology)” (What’s Goin’ On)
Another icon, from one of the most iconic concept albums ever. Though the lyrics sound a lament, somehow the song still conveys joy to me. So it is much like much like 9/11, with both the celebration of the survival of spirit, as well as the grief of loss.

Ani Difranco – “Amazing Grace” (Living in Clip)
From January: I grew up singing hymns. “Amazing Grace” is certainly one of the most iconic, and this is by far my favorite version.
Growing up, it was common knowledge that this hymn was written by John Newton, a former slave trader. I love the message that no one is beyond redemption—again, the freedom of self-determination.

Bruce Springsteen – “Born in the USA” (Born in the USA)
This was an obvious choice—certainly iconic, as well as more misinterpreted than not. So it felt even more appropriate for the poignancy of 9/11, noting both the privilege of being American and a war often considered unjust.

Karminsky Experience Inc - “Exploration” (The Power of Suggestion)
This is the only non-American group on the list; however, I first heard this song on a Thievery Corporation album (DJ Kicks). So I permitted inclusion. And it’s iconic, sampling the voice of Frank Borman, an Apollo 8 astronaut.

Dave Daniels – “Got One” (A Place to Put a Dream)
Another local, and a great Stevie Wonder-esque dance song. Rather than relying on mutlihypenations (like rock-acoustic-folk-blues-pop), Dave Daniels simply calls his music “American.” Well stated.

Mary J. Blige & U2 – “One” (The Breakthrough)
Another one (get it? cue rim shot). And the only other exception to the non-Americans, although I think the American woman is the power on this rendition, which I consider better than the original.

Ben Harper – “Get It Like You Like It” (Both Sides of the Gun)
Freedom yet again, in one of the most jubliant first lines ever: “Throw your hands up in the sky, and scream out loud ‘I’m free!’” Ben Harper is one of my my musical icons, for many reasons. He’s also a good example of American diversity, in that he is multiracial and plays many genres of music.

Tom Petty – “Free Fallin’” (Full Moon Fever)
Another obvious choice—like I could make an American playlist without this song. It was an obvious choice to follow Ben Harper’s song (see first line).

Billy Joel – “We Didn’t Start the Fire” (Storm Front)
I remember watching this music video a lot as a child. The song felt appropriate, given that it chronicles nearly half the 20th century, and 9/11 occurred in the first year of the 21st century. The references are also a mix of things worthy of pride and shame—the choice depending on the listener. Wikipedia has a history lesson if you want details.

Outkast – “Rosa Parks” (Aquemini)
Locals, again. Another reference to civil rights. And an excellent dance song.

Shawn Mullins – “House of the Rising Sun” (9th Ward Pickin’ Parlor)
Yet another local, who recorded this iconic song in a neighborhood that became iconic soon after the recording was completed. Though this list is heavily male, worth mentioning that Shawn Mullins chose to use lyrics from the female perspective. Another rendition I find better than the most famous one.

Nina Simone – “Sinnerman” (Pastel Blues)
From January again: Wary of sounding overly dramatic, I hesitate to declare this one of the most epic recordings ever, by one of the most epic artists ever. But both of those assertions are true. Though it’s not the most danceable song, how could I not include this on an American list? Nina Simone is another American icon, who transcended genres better than nearly everyone else.

Stevie Wonder – “Heaven is 10 Zillion Light Years Away” (Fulfillingness’ First Finale)
Stevie Wonder is one of my biggest musical icons (musical, not just American). An excerpt from January: Before hearing [the song], I didn’t know a song that so fully embodied what moves me about life—the heartbreak and the delight, the confusion and the insight, and ultimately the divine presence both within and without. This song best embodies how I try to remember 9/11—the potential for unity, the capacity to strive for better.

Jimi Hendrix – “The Star-Spangled Banner”
Icon, reckon? This was another given for this list. Since the national anthem always functions as an opener, I opted to use it as a closer.

SK © 2012

On this calendar, summer solstice is the midpoint. Perhaps this is why my birthday, which falls in midsummer, between solstice and Lammas, feels less like a beginning and more like a turning point. My birthday is the hinge of my year, when I consider what has resulted from my efforts thus far and in which direction(s) I wish to go for the remainder of the year.

Winter is my internal time, when I plan, scheme, and set intentions. Those sparks of inspiration often kindle larger fires: a business venture, a job, a relationship. But fires don’t burn by sparking—what fuels fires create flames far more powerful than the first igniting sparks.

Given that the highest heat usually occurs after summer solstice, late July’s heat is an apt analogy for my hinging time. Lammas, at the beginning of August, is a harvest festival, during which people reap what they have sown, hopefully with enough proportion to provide food to store for winter. Halfway through the year, I have witnessed how and what my winter sparks have ignited. By that point, I tend to be in some of the strongest intensity, the highest heat. (Naturally, the season encourages this sensation as well.)

Not that I’m complaining—by choice, I like heat. Perhaps because my first season ex utero was humid Georgia summer—much like the watery, heated environment before birth. Heat is my most familiar, and it can be immeasurably satisfying. I feel productive and excited when doing intense work. I like to collaborate—whether writing, planning events, teaching, playing music. I prefer to be in the heat of any work (personal, creative, professional, etc) than in the chill of detachment. For example, I would rather get up at 5:00am to practice yoga than not witness myself day to day. Despite the intensity, the incessant literal and figurative sweating, I still feel more rejuvenated than I ever feel during winter. Sweat begets rebirth, like a baptism.

That said, sometimes heat frightens me. I worry that I’m not actually capable of realizing my intentions, that the pressure will overwhelm me. Emotions flare wildly; relationships become intense. At times I feel like I am standing in a literal fire, desperate to flee. Not a bad thing, that life becomes empassioned. But in those moments, the summerlike heat creates the greatest temptation, the best rationale to give up. So, the hinge of my birthday is the perfect metaphor, the time of year which parallels the heat, the pressure, the passion, the burning of what I do.

a heated summer sunset
(SK © 2012)

“If a [person] has any greatness in him, it comes to light, not in one flambouyant hour, but in the ledger of his daily work.” ~ Beryl Markham

I first encountered this quote in my senior year of high school; my parents used it for an ad in the yearbook. Life continues to prove that sentiment true—anything meaningful I have done has resulted from sustained efforts.

An obvious example is organizing Chantlanta, which requires months of planning: meetings, phone calls, other meetings, discussions, emails, more meetings, further discussions, subsequent emails, return phone calls, and still more meetings.

A subtler example is wishing love towards hateful people, whom I encounter more than I would like. But now I am hardly bothered by spiteful immaturity, such a competing business owner lying about what she does, in hopes to discredit to what I have done for years. Not harboring resentment or wishing her ill has taken years of practice: every day resolving to cultivate compassion and non-attachment. I am grateful for the liberation that accompanies transcendence, that I don’t expend any effort by projecting negativity.

Last month, while I was writing about inspiration, a friend shared an excellent article, “The Radical Journey of Commitment.” At first, inspiration and commitment seemed unrelated. But just as I was discovering synchronicities which taught me about inspiration, the article similarly showed me the potent connection between inspiration and commitment. I began to consider what happens after inspiration, what is kindled from those sparks.

“[I]f you’ve made a commitment to hang in there and crack the code and get it right,
the commitment itself will help you move through all those obstacles.
Our personal commitment engages that force in the universe that we call grace…
commitment itself will open the doors you need to mastery.
…
Passionate, consistent, committed activity releases an energy in us that is eventually mirrored in the outer world.” (emphasis added)

In other words, “not in one flambouyant hour.” So reassuring, that I don’t need to discover some brilliant strategy or truths yet unknown—simply that my commitment will reveal all that I need.

This journey of commitment is indeed radical—a word that I discovered can mean not just extreme, but also fundamental. This commitment fundamentally requires stamina and work beyond inspiration. Inevitably, inspiration is not enough. When I lack enthusiasm or feel inclined to procrastinate, I often consciously disregard the value of inspiration—I tell myself to do/work/learn/play/think/write anyway. Truly, the unconditional, radical“commitment itself” can also sustain, regardless of inspiration.

when computer cut and paste doesn’t suffice, remaining committed to the process
(SK © 2012)

Spiritual practice reiterates this lesson every day. Recently someone told me, “Stephanie, you have yoga; you’re lucky you’re so grounded.” Because she was amidst a major personal crisis, I refrained from correcting her language. Many yoga practitioners avoid the expression “do yoga”—that it fails to represent that yoga, like many other spiritual traditions, is never mastered or owned. To many, the phrase implies a superficial experience with a profound tradition.

I add that the expression doesn’t include the requisite commitment that engenders a profound experience. Though they were not contemporaries, Sri K. Pattabhi Jois and Thomas Edison had similar summations about commitment:
“Yoga is 99% practice, 1% theory.”
“Genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration.”

I also didn’t mention to the same person that she probably cannot fathom my determination. I have gained much wisdom, confidence, inspiration, community, delight, and peace from my practice, but only because I treat it as such. Though I can easily get out of bed after sunrise, even on little sleep, I still struggle to get up in the dark, even after years of early mornings. So I set my alarm at 4:50am, so that I can use the snooze minutes to wake up more fully. I also don’t choose before bed whether or not I will wake up early; I simply go, without giving myself a chance to reconsider.

“Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence.
Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful [people] with talent.
Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb.
Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts.
Persistence and dedication alone are omnipotent.”

I wonder if it’s a paradox to call this quote inspiring…. Not because I wish to discredit my opinions about inspiration, but simply to reiterate that inspiration is not the determining factor of our fullest potential.

Another yoga instructor made the analogy of commitment to spiritual practice with running a marathon, that many people quit just before sight of the finish line, even knowing how close they are to it. (I’m not a runner, nor do I know the accuracy of the statistic mentioned.) The article explains how to remain committed while still acknowledging doubts: “Different from giving up, surrendering in the context of a daily spiritual practice is the equivalent of having faith.” In other words, stay in the fire, even when the intensity seems unbearable. The commitment itself will sustain you.

Back to Lammas, at the crux of the heat. (Appropriately, some traditions celebrated it by setting a wheel on fire and rolling it down a hill.) For years, I have been standing in figurative fires: the pressure to earn a liveable, sustainable wage; the struggle to find meaningful time for friends, family, and creative projects; the wish to do useful work beyond my immediate circumstances. I recognize now the gift of standing in those flames, that rather than darting my eyes in search of escape, I should surrender, start smiling, raise my palms in gratitude. That surrender creates faith, which fuels my commitment further.

Temple of Transition
(SK © 2012)

“What is to give light must endure burning.” ~ Viktor Frankl

SK © 2012

Eli Reiman is both a friend and an excellent photographer (elireiman.com)–I was in good company.
(SK © 2012)

I was flattered to be tagged out of the hundreds of people she knows. And I felt confident that I had something to share—I mean, I always have something to say. And I’m always inspired. But I worried  that “I’m always inspired” would sound hollow, or worse, arrogant.

So I read some responses, (ironically) hoping for inspiration. One person sugggested The Artist’s Way; another recommended taping a photo to the refrigerador; another used task lists. Suddenly my answer seemed foolish, and I felt undeserving of being asked.

A better answer is paradoxical: both nothing and everything. Meaning I do little beyond my ordinary routine for the sake of inspiration. However, everything in my life inspires me in some way; inspiration is self-perpetuating. I sustain inspiration by never escaping it.

Certainly, some things are direct catalysts to my own work (Facebook posts included). I still find much inspiration from works outside my mediums, which don’t necessarily spur direct reactions. Visual art, for example, has always been a huge inspiration—and I am a terrible, terrible artist. Seriously. My elementary students all agreed that I can’t even draw hangman well.

Not to say that I don’t have exceptions: momentous experiences, which stretch beyond their temporal existence and sustain me for much longer. Travel has always inspired me. I lived in Japan for two years, but after leaving I processed the experience for at least twice as long. I still live the lessons I learned in India, nearly seven years ago.

But when I consider what truly sustains me, the daily choices, routines, people, and experiences influence me much more than isolated experiences, however grand. When I considered June in reverse, I suddenly noticed separate occasions when other people had made me consider inspiration.

The Facebook post first made me think of my apartment, where I spend much of my time. My home space is both sacred and mundane (as in “of the world,” i.e. mundo). I always direct a lot of intention towards how I hold my living space, so that it is an inspirational sanctuary.

For example, all the art, with the exception of a print of my favorite Dali painting and a couple posters from Japan, is original, much of it by people I know. Of the pieces which I purchased, I did so directly from the artists. Photos, primarily mine, outnumber the art. My refrigerator doesn’t have any grocery or to-do lists. One side is nearly covered with newspaper clippings and notes I’ve amassed over the years. Pictures of my friends’ children nearly cover the front and the other side. Spanish magnetic poetry fills the rest. The small table on which my brother and I used to eat as children is now an altar, with wristbands from festivals, beads from a Vietnamese monk, black rocks from the Black Rock desert.

4 connected cranes —no tape, no glue
(SK © 2012)

One of my favorite altar pieces is origami from a co-worker in Japan, at a party after my last day of school. In my farewell speech to the school, I mentioned that origami was my earliest exposure to Japanese culture, as well as something I never learned while living in the country. Inspired, the teacher explained that he wanted to make origami for me, for me to remember Japan. Origami is usually made from translucent, seemingly-about-to-disintegrate paper. None was available, so he used thick paper, on which chopsticks had rested on the table. Now, nearly a decade later, I remember him vividly: very inebriated and using heavy, cumbersome paper, folding in five minutes the most intricate origami I had ever seen.

I have other altar spaces: window sills, the top of my bookshelf, a space on my bedroom floor. They hold photos from travel, photos of my grandparents, a Yoda magic-8 ball (a garage sale gift from a friend, with phrases in Yoda dialect, such as “If you will it be, yes” and “It cannot be, no”), rocks from the neighborhood creek of my childhood, rocks from travels, old keys.  (By this point I probably sound like a packrat, but I actually have a fairly equal proportion of used and unused space.)

The tangent vision board—though I’m not a poet, I think good writing should always be poetic.
(SK © 2012)

I resisted for years, but I finally made a vision board, which now hangs across from my bed. So I see it first and last thing every day. When I made it, a couple clippings went on another tangent, so I made a separate one to hang in the kitchen.

Accordingly, I have always loved reading. My bookshelf has books stacked two-deep. Recently I realized the stack of books I’d like to read is too large, that I need to reduce the pile to a more realistic height. My bedside has its own stack of books, so that regardless of what happens in a day, I can reset before I sleep:
Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet
John O’Donohue’s To Bless the Space Between Us
Clarissa Pinkola Estés’s Women Who Run with the Wolves
David Hale and Kris D’s Medicina
Gideons provide Bibles for hotels; I have chosen my own visionary words and images.

After considering my home, I then thought backward a day, to a solstice celebration that another friend facilitated. She and I met before the event in order to plan the ceremony. She focused on Lakshmi, the Indian goddess of wealth and prosperity, usually depicted with gold coins flowing from her hands. My friend focused less on receiving Lakshmi’s wealth, so much as tapping into the source of Lakshmi’s abundance. I understood immediately—Lakshmi is not a mint. Rather, we agreed that she harnesses what surrounds her into abundance, which she then shares. So our ceremony sought to channel what can create a similar flow both into and out of ourselves.

My life certainly reflects this alignment—what I manifest is absolutely the result of the company I keep and the daily I efforts I sustain. In the words of Hafiz, ”Now is the time to know that all that you do is sacred.” Via work, play, spiritual practice, I have connected to many communities. My tribe overlaps in all of them; my spiritual family is always evolving.

I have always loved variety—diversity is my only constant. I don’t need direct encouragement or even direct examples for inspiration nearly as much as I need to be around other people active in their own manifestations. Fortunately, I am surrounded by intelligent, passionate, and enterprising people: chemists, managers, artists, teachers, dancers, doctors, economists, urban farmers, musicians, entrepreneurs, lawyers, therapists, bartenders, athletes, programmers, designers, writers, engineers. Their energy, their ideas, their dedication provide me with inspiration akin to the energy surrounding Lakshmi, what creates the wealth that flows from her hands.

Likewise, my daily life is full of inspiration. Every morning I make time for spiritual practice, which includes meditation, chanting, and breathwork. Indians call it puja; my mom calls it prayer time. Regardless of the label, during that time I’m reminded of all that surrounds me, on the most massive cosmic scale to the tiniest atomic distance. I breathe; I consider those inspiring connections.

Weekdays, I practice asana with many of my favorite people. Everyone there inspires me, as we all face our challenges independently, yet still together in the same space. I have witnessed people triumph over injuries and insecurities; they remind me that not only can I go beyond what seems likely, I will transcend what seems possible. One man in his fifties, though he struggles to touch his toes, does backbends that make me feel like a slacker—I see him surpass his challenges in every practice. And I remember when I first taught him a few years ago, when his legs always shook in his first sun salutation.

Off the mat, my life is a mix of work and creative projects. Over the years I’ve assembled stimulating, meaningful, and somewhat lucrative work, both paid and volunteer. I teach a lot of subjects (mostly Spanish, English, and writing), to students from pre-k to adults. Most people recognize that teaching can be rewarding—I am inspired whether students link math concepts together or reconcile breath and body in asanas.

Moreover, my teaching situations are often wildly entertaining. I have pre-k toddlers who sing songs in Spanish, other elementary kids who love to say crazy things, such as “Soy de EARWAX!” One day they were fixated on chanting “weasel mermaid swimming in your marmalade,” and I allowed them to continue only if they said the phrase in Spanish. It was better than a tongue-twister.

Other projects are variations of my work—also stimulating and meaningful, though not as lucrative. No one pays me to be the (self-appointed) social director for my yoga studio, but we needed one, for occasions when we don’t get up early the next morning.

Usually work and creativity don’t feel that different—work requires creativity, creativity requires work. Sometimes I don’t easily discern what pays me and what doesn’t—my approach is the same for everything I do. For the most part, I have a marrow-deep satisfaction. My cup runneth over.

Just as my life has a blurred line between work and play, I also lack a distinction between life and inspiration—as mentioned, EVERYTHING inspires me. So much so, in fact, that I’m much more challenged by how many things I don’t have time to pursue. I’m never bored. I wish I didn’t have to sleep. I will never have enough time to manifest all that I want to do, say, write, sing, dance, play, etc. I don’t have a bucket list so much as a ridiculous to-do list: Italian, Sanskrit, belly dance, travel, drumming, piano.

a mundane view of the sacred
(James Pullum © 2012)

Then I thought backward again, to early June, to a conversation with yet another close friend, also a teacher and deeply creative soul. He stumped me by asking me how I find time and sustain energy for my creative projects. In other words, how am I productive, how do I sustain action on my inspiration. He knows that I am inspired nearly all the time, but that I still battle writer’s block and procrastination too. He helped me articulate some of my strategies:

the lid of my harmonium
(SK © 2012)

~ All the tools are available all the time, in order to combat “out of sight, out of mind”—the worst that can happen to my efforts. I used to keep my computer on a shelf, but now it’s almost always on my table, where I eat, read, etc. My harmonium and other instruments are next to the table. I tend not to have lengthy bouts of free time, so having everything literally in arm’s reach means I can research, write, rehearse, etc easily, even if I only have a few minutes.

~ Similarly, I’m never without a notebook, which I learned from always carrying a journal while traveling. Another notebook stays next to my harmonium. Sometimes I type notes on my phone, for transcription later.

~ I hoard starts, catalysts, inspirations, tangents. My brainstorming list (a Word® doc on my computer) is 10+ pages, with quotes, song lyrics, links to articles, culled paragraphs from other writings, even horoscopes. My computer’s desktop is crammed with started blog posts, plus another folder of others still in utero.

~ My phone has a good camera, another lesson from traveling, when I always carry the latter. Though I started this blog primarily as a writing outlet, it quickly became a photography outlet as well. A decent camera, readily available, helped reignite my photography inspiration. (Not that I didn’t already have more photos than I can use.) But I like the motivation to notice what I see. And yes, I am an Instagram dork—the same friend hooked me on it.

~ Perhaps most useful, I plan ways to be productive during “wasted” time, such as commuting (or even showering). Before a long drive, I skim drafts or play music, so that I can think about how to develop them.

~ And even though I’ll never have enough time, I have learned that fallow time is necessary. Naps, books, walks—non-working time rejuvenates.

All in all, June was unexpectedly illuminating. (Not a coincidence that all this reflection happened after my 7-day-a-week work schedule ended.) Now, I need to post my reply on my friend’s Facebook wall….

For once, not a sunset, but the moon and its reflection looking like suns.
(SK © 2012)

∞ Thanks to Abby, Tirza, and Ben, in reverse chronological order, plus Suzy for the awe-some article and James for the photo.