Unbelievably, it’s almost mid-August, and I can feel the end of warm weather approaching, the nearness of fall and winter. Considering how tough the last two, or five winters have been, we might have an added dread of the season. So, the end of summer can be a good opportunity to reflect on what we want or need from this time of year, and this time in our lives. And to try to make it reality before it’s gone.
Last night, I woke up at 5:15 and got out of bed. The moment was delicate, and not only because I was barely awake. Outside, light fell on the grass and trees like mist, like a mist of color, lighter than moonlight but not as deep as midday sun.
It was delicate, fragile because it felt so new, like a newborn. And I seemed to have the moment all to myself. I could hear no other person in the house or on the street. No cars on the road. If we don’t have to get up early for work, or don’t do it naturally, we don’t see the earth like this, just emerging from darkness, as if it were trying to figure out “how do I do this?”
There were birds awake outside singing loudly. One just could not contain itself. I don’t know if it was berating the sun for having previously left the world to the dark, or if it just couldn’t find its mate. Or maybe it was telling the universe the story of morning; and every song it sang, every note or exclamation sprang single-mindedly from its mouth.
We often fear the fragile, fear it could too easily become hurt, especially after this last year and a half, or four years and a half. We all carry hurt. It is the nature of being human, or the nature of being alive. We have the scars and memory of pain, and some have way too much. Being delicate is vulnerable. But it can also be the strongest part of us. It can teach us not only what to avoid or fight, but how. It can shield us or release us.
When the world feels delicate, we notice the tiniest of changes in our surroundings and ourselves. If we don’t retreat into thoughts or get lost in memories, our awareness is heightened. We feel the tiniest tug on our heart. We notice changes in the posture of people we speak with, the quick inhalation, the deceptive movement in the eyes or incipient smile of joy in the lips. And we have the opportunity, if we can allow ourselves to feel it, to move with it. Move in-between the cries of pain, the calls to pleasure, the enticements, or dangers of memory and let all of these teach us the steps in a healing dance.
And we can also feel what doesn’t change. The Greek philosopher, Heraclitus, said, “Everything changes but change itself.” Or Henri Bergson, a French philosopher, argued, “Reality is flowing. This does not mean that everything moves, changes, and becomes; science and common experience tell us that. It means movement, becoming, change is everything there is, there is nothing else. There are no things that move and change and become; everything is movement, is change.”
When we were children, or when many of us were children, summer was a holiday. A holiday with sunlight and play, a time to revive ourselves. A time we could feel the delicate tugs of life and enjoy them. Many children today, many adults, do not have such a memory of summer. But maybe we can remember or imagine some time or place of safety. A time we had a break from stress, anxiety, or fear, a break from frightening people, loneliness, or the news.
How could the remaining time of summer be this for us? How can we feed our souls right now and, by doing so, prepare for the fall and winter? How can we face what’s new with an adult’s awareness and a child’s natural genius with renewal? We need not only seasons of vacation, but moments of joy, beauty, and delicacy.
We might allow ourselves to⎼ think of a of a moment when we felt strong or joyful. Imagine when it was or where, what it looked like or felt like. Or what it was like to be deeply engaged in something. Or when did we feel and what inspired us to ever think⎼ this is beautiful! The beautiful can be so revitalizing.
We can also do this with moments throughout our day or throughout our breathing cycle. I referenced in a recent blog a book by Peter Doobinin called Skillful Pleasure: The Buddha’s Path for Developing Skillful Pleasure. The breath goes through stages: the beginning, middle, and end of the inhalation, a pause; then the same with the exhalation.
What part of the breath cycle is more easeful, comfortable for us? And where in our body do we feel that comfort? We might notice, for example, an ease and comfort in our hands or belly as we pause after inhalation, or in the middle of a longer, softer exhalation.
We can notice both the changeability and strength of the breath and rest in that. We can notice that even with something as familiar to us as our breathing there is so much to explore.
By noticing, we feed awareness and allow the body to regulate itself. We discover the pleasure, the joy in each breath. And then the comfort can spread.
By finding moments of such comfort and joy in our own breath or memory, and by discovering that we can directly face the unknown and the vulnerable inside us, we find ease and strength in ourselves. By facing this now, we realize we can face what’s next. And that is a joy well worth experiencing. That is a wonderful way to spend the last few weeks of summer.
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This post is republished on Medium.
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