I bob along on a stream of days
which blend and blur and
disappear
into the past.
Days without shape.
My normally tight grasp
on the calendar
slips,
and I am prone to moments
of disorientation,
wondering
‘Should I be working today?’
‘Am I supposed to be in a meeting right now?’
‘What exactly did I do last weekend?’
The future is full of haze and mirage,
the horizon obscured by fog.
More than ever,
the only thing that seems real
is this one
peaceful
ever present
moment.
No need to remember a technique,
fire up an app
or take a class.
Just go into the garden
and do what needs to be done.
A bit of weeding,
tidying the greenhouse,
watering tomatoes and cucumbers,
(there is always something
that needs attention).
Simply do the work,
at its own pace.
When the time is right,
find a spot to rest,
perhaps with a cup of tea.
Thoughts come,
(summer fresh butterflies dance between flowers)
thoughts go,
(there are a lot of dewy cobwebs around)
thoughts come,
(the asters are starting to flower)
thoughts go,
(I can still hear the swallows).
For a few mesmerising moments,
as the sun sets behind the beech tree,
leaf shadows dance on the wall.
The moment I accept the reality of what is, is the moment I relax.
Saturday morning, 4.30am. Jet lag kicks in and I’m not sleeping. I should sleep. I need to be refreshed. I’ve crossed an ocean for the annual tai chi workshop and I want to be rested, relaxed. So I worry about not sleeping.
Every year that I attend this workshop I arrive with a suitcase of worries. Will it be too hot? Am I good enough at tai chi to be here? What if the travel plans go wrong? Did I do everything I needed to do before I left work, before I left home? What if I don’t feel well and miss some of the workshop? What if, what if.
And every year, I love it. I have the most amazing time. I learn, I reconnect with friends, I make new friends. I relax, deeply. I gain insights in my practice. Yes, sometimes it’s too hot, occasionally I’ve felt a bit unwell, but I still have a great time.
4.30 am, Saturday morning. I must go back to sleep. I am anxiously awake.
Then a thought pops into my head. Should I really be asleep? Really? Is that true? No. I am awake. That is the reality.
What would happen if I just accepted that I’m awake? That it’s OK to be awake at 4.30 in the morning and it won’t ruin my whole week?
So I did. And suddenly I’m just lying awake, relaxed, in a comfortable bed. I just enjoy lying there in the darkness, listening to the first tentative notes of the foreign dawn chorus.
And all the other things I am worrying about just dissolve in the dawn.
There is such ease to be found in living life this way, accepting what is instead of fighting reality.
This is my new practice.
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I’ve been feeling a little frazzled today; working, preparing for house guests who arrive tomorrow and getting ready to go on a tai chi workshop next Wednesday in the US. All good things, just they have given me a rather long to-do list!
So, I spent some time reading old blog posts instead, turning to some relaxing poems to calm me down.
And then I decided to quickly turn them into a little ebook, for you to download.
Poems to bring a little calm and relaxation to your day.
And now I’m off to do some tai chi in the garden.
Enjoy
x
I found this today in an old tai chi notebook, a quote by Wolfe Lowenthal from a workshop in Scotland 10 years ago. 10 years on and I’m still working on this, in tai chi and in life. Decided to share it, despite the spelling mistake, because it’s a great quote.
May rushes on,
a juggernaut of growth,
an expansion into summer fullness.
May says
Pay attention to every moment
or I will slip through your fingers.
These gentle beams
which bathe my skin
touched the cold rock of the moon
moments before they touched me.
I sit in wonder
intimately connected
to the universe.
Evening practice.
Ten mindful breaths
beneath the stars.
I am breathing in the cold night air
as goose calls drift up from the estuary.
We share the same moonlight.
Life in the Fresh Air 