Reminder

This week I attended a conference for work that was held at "Vildmarkshotellet" (The Wildlife Hotel) which neighbors Sweden's largest zoo. Glorious weather, astonishing landscape, fantastic food, indoor pool & spa, families with KIDS everywhere! And even though I tend to get nervous with mobs of children running around rampant like mini-maniacs, I got that; this place was kid heaven.

And then I passed the mini-movie theater while headed to the restaurant, and I spotted the wheelchair. Being in the wheelchair business, I have this "work-related-condition" that compels me to as discreetly as possible investigate any wheelchair I come across. Damn, I thought, a competitor's. Then I saw the thin, youthful looking legs. My eyes continued upward until I noticed that it was a younger woman quietly seated in the chair. But she didn't look like she was paralyzed; nor did she resemble someone with MS or some other condition that's common among wheelchair users.

That's when I noticed the scarf around her head, and my aching heart reached out to her.

It completely filled me with sadness to realize that this was probably a woman stricken with cancer who had most likely lost her hair due to chemotherapy. Later on, I couldn't stop thinking about her; I couldn't stop feeling sorry for her. Yet, somehow I doubt that pity does anyone any good. So I asked my silence, "What am I supposed to feel? I mean, I can't help this woman. I can't do anything for her young family. Is there any way to feel anything other than despair?"

That's when my silence reminded me, "You can be thankful for all that you have, just as I'm sure this family is making the most of the time that is given to them." So it's not like I'm saying, "Thank God it's her and not me!" But I am grateful for the reminder and for the much needed perspective (yet again).

And as I saw her young daughter crawl up into her lap the following morning with her slightly older son by her side, I silently hoped that their stay had been perfect, and I prayed that all would turn out well for them soon.

Happy Midsummer.

Don't try hard; try easy!

That's probably my all-time favorite Baron Baptiste quote. Sometimes more progress is made by not overdoing/overthinking everything. Sometimes just doing little things is enough. Not every day has to contain bold, new revelations to behold.

My favorite chore is mowing the lawn. We have a self-propelling lawn mower, so the tempo at which I move is decided by the motor. I am forced to move at a constant speed for roughly 45 minutes. We have a pretty symmetrical, flat lawn as well, so I only move back and forth, in straight rows.

Talk about an opportunity to just be in the moment. At the start of a new row, I lift my gaze to see the line I need to follow. Then I have to drop my eyes in order to follow my steps. A steady tempo. Senses subdued. I breathe, and I usually don't think about anything at all. The mower is heavy enough that I feel my body being comfortably exerted.

And when I'm done, I feel an immense joy to be fortunate enough to have a home in such a beautiful place.

It's Vicki's fault!

Yes, I blame Vicki. She just had to mention "fried dough" in an FB post a couple of weeks ago. Since then I have been aching to return to my hometown, the place where I grew up. I am even clandestinely pricing airline tickets. I want to see the bandstand. I want to go to the Village Fair Days (and smell that fried dough). I want to sit on a blanket by Candlewood Lake. I want to take a walk along Kent Falls.

So what creates this longing? It's not as though I don't like where I live today. On the contrary, a day doesn't pass where I am not struck in awe by the beauty that surrounds me. I mean, I live in a village outside a medieval town that borders the sea for crying out loud! So what is it that I am missing that lies embedded in my memories of my childhood? I have come up with a theory; here goes...

You know the cliché regarding old people who reminisce about when they were young with crystal clear details, but they still don't know what they ate for breakfast? I believe that as children we are so much more naturally inclined to practice mindfulness. And by absorbing our experiences into the deepest parts of our memory, they become molded into a part of our identity. Thus, we never forget them since they represent who we are. It's nothing we even deliberate over; we just are that way. We take our shoes off and run in the dewy grass (and don't care that we get dirty). We hold our hands up in the air to keep gnats out of our face so that we can play "Ghosts in the Graveyard" until bedtime (and refuse to let anything stop us from having fun). We catch fireflies in jars. We lose ourselves in the crickets' lullabies at night. We eat fried dough (without having the least bit of interest whether it's GI-friendly or not).

We live. And we feel as though we are a part of life.

I think that's the secret. By seeking out experiences, by removing our veils of shoulds/shouldn'ts, by just being in the moment, we are rewarded with a sense of belonging. And that sense of belonging brings with it the gift of security. We feel no separateness because within that security we receive validation as we realize that we are always welcome to actively participate in the universe's neverending dance, no matter where we are. And we meet the universe halfway by embracing the opportunities we are given.

So while I am not one to condone "living in the past", I think that by revisiting our past every now and then, we are reminded of how we could (should?) be living in the present. And yes, while there's a lot of things I wish I would have done differently as a child and adolescent, there's so much more we as grownups could learn from the wisdom of children.