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Where Mud and Lotus Meet

6/29/2017

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Pink Water Lily by Case Kassenberg

She releases a nervous sigh. “I hope I remembered to pack everything.”

I’m driving my daughter to her marine science summer camp. The kids have an overnight experience aboard a ship. Her words rattle my own anxiety for her comfort and safety. Instead of adding my own baggage to what she’s already packed, I choose to stay quiet and let the apprehension hang between us. Sometimes space is a good thing.

As the car slows to a crawl and we approach the camp counselors, she’s not the same person she was ten miles and fifteen minutes back. With composure, she announces that she can carry the backpack and two bags on her own. I’m not sure if it’s genuine confidence or embarrassment at having her mom help carry the bags that drives her statement. I choose to carry one bag and give her a quick hug. “Have fun!”

Driving home, I watch thought bubbles threaten to cloud a sunny day. “Should I have let her carry her own bags? Should I have given her a kiss? Maybe she doesn’t need me.” Trying my best not to ruminate so much, I’m home before I know it.

I walk into the bedroom to change into shorts and a sports top. My husband is just finishing a work call in the office. He tells me he has another call in sixteen minutes. Great! Maybe I can get on the elliptical machine (also in the office) before his next call. My elliptical routine runs for twenty minutes, but who’s going to notice four minutes of whirring from a fairly quiet machine?

Ten minutes into my routine, his phone rings. He gives me his best serious look and says I’ll have to get off. Stepping off the pedals, I inquire in my best even tone, “Why didn’t you just ask me to wait?” Inside I’m boiling with rage and burning with hurt. I want to say something else, but once again choose to use breath and space to diffuse a ticking time bomb.

I sit down at my computer and send some ecards for upcoming birthdays, wondering if I should wait for him to finish his call and try the elliptical again, or change the scene completely.  I choose the latter. Cell phone, head phones, keys, and sunglasses in hand, I leave the house for walking meditation. Space is a good thing.

As Tara Brach’s soothing voice fills the headphones invoking loving presence in the face of difficulty, I notice that I’m caught between noticing thoughts of past miscommunications and power struggles, sensing the feelings in my body (the burning lump in my throat, the heavy eyes with tears), and how my husband and I will reconnect lovingly when all is said and done. It’s so tempting to skip the pages of distress in this story and turn to a happy ending. But I know that’s a spiritual bypass.
​

I look at the lotus tattoo on my left forearm. It’s pretty – full fuchsia petals sitting on a streak of green lily pad, undisturbed, as if nothing can ruffle its petals. Who wouldn’t want this elegance, this equanimity all the time?

What I can’t see on my forearm is real life –  messiness, confusion, tangled relationships, especially with those closest to me. Lotuses don’t just spring from clear pools of ease. They grow from thick mud and muck surrounded by insects, fish. Hardly the vision of beauty!

Now, I’m interested in the place where mud and lotus meet, the interface between difficulty and clarity. I must notice all the crazy thoughts, feel all the challenging emotions, use breath and space within and around the body, and trust the timeline for lotus birth. The process cannot be rushed. Sometimes life will feel sticky and dark. Other times it will feel joyous, ethereal.

May I live at the border, and deepen my understanding of both places.

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Remembering

6/24/2017

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This moment is so vast from here to there,
horizon not yet swallowing the sun
or releasing the moon till you
let go of your tightly held fists.
The sand slips through anyway.

Breathe, Dear One, breathe.
Feel the tides turn in your belly,
the ocean air in your breath.
Do you hear the sound of seashells
calling you back home to yourself?

Out here you are not deficient
or famous, cruel or kind,
but a wave of pure presence
clearing the slate of false inscriptions
for another possibility.
​

When you leave Here, please
carry True Nature with you.

 
At the water’s edge or in the woods, singing or dancing, playing an instrument or painting, meditating or engaging in mindful movement, being reflected by loved ones or reflecting in silence, running or writing, presence is a present you gift yourself to remember True Nature. It’s how we thin the protective armoring, share vulnerability, and begin to see ourselves in each other.
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A Day in Paris: The Currency of Compassion

6/8/2017

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​It’s our first full day in Paris. I’m feeling joy after viewing Monet’s Le Bassin Aux Nymphéas at Musee d'Orsay​, marveling at how water lilies must have inspired him the way they inspire me. I’m also feeling gratitude after lighting a candle, chanting metta for all beings everywhere, and appreciating the diverse currency inside a glass box at Notre-Dame.

It’s not until we are walking to our hotel room, bellies content with Häagen-Dazs, that my husband stops abruptly.

“Hey, do you know what this charge is on our credit card?”

I open my purse and quickly realize my wallet is missing. Flower! (My substitution for the F word.) I must have left it at the Orsay gift shop after buying some post cards.

We rush to our hotel room and start to call the credit card companies. While my husband and daughter comment on the unfortunate turn of events, I’m doing my best not to add extra arrows of self-judgment.

“Breathe, Kaveri. Breathe. Let your compassionate breath flow, Sweetheart. You know how to do this.”

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As we make our way back to Notre-Dame, I listen to my husband tell our daughter that the probability of recovering anything inside the wallet is less than 5%. Call me a naïve optimist, but I still try to communicate with the one who found the wallet in a language beyond English and French. I try to appeal to his/her heart.


May you be happy.
May life support you in mysterious ways.
May you feel safe.
May you know peace.
(May I forgive you.)
​


OK, so the metta is not entirely altruistic.  I’m hoping to get some part of the wallet back, to be compensated for the good intentions I practiced at Notre-Dame. Earlier, I opened my wallet to take out a dollar bill and dropped in in the glass box to join the prayers for peace by others who have been here before. Maybe I left my purse open long enough for a pickpocket to grab the wallet, or left it on the glass counter as I took out my phone to take a picture.

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I check the information desk at the entrance inside Notre-Dame. The lady behind the counter shows me three black wallets, none of which are mine. I also revisit the donation box. Still, no black wallet. Feeling tired and defeated, I rejoin my family to figure out dinner plans. We decide to try a falafel place my cousin suggested. It’s about a twenty-minute walk from here.

Once we sit down with our falafel wraps, I feel like there is still something missing. I practiced self-compassion and forgiveness for the one who found the wallet. What about the others who lost their wallets? The woman at Notre-Dame showed me three other black wallets. I’m not alone. Others experienced this, too. I take the opportunity to widen the circle of compassion.

May other travelers who lose something major feel safe.
May they find solace and support.
May compassion be an antidote to self-judgment.
May they know peace.
​
I take my first bite into crispy falafel balls dressed in tangy tahini sauce, cabbage, cucumber, and eggplant tucked inside a pita bread. Yum! Dear Universe, thank you for the blessing of these experiences. I lost my driver’s license and major credit cards. I lost an identity, worldly wealth, and gained the currency of compassion.

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    Author

    Kaveri Patel, a woman who is always searching for the wisdom in waves.

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