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It Happens

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In all the recent rain and after a week away, my lawn had turned into a meadow.  With a few hours in the afternoon to mow before the next rainstorm came in and in a hurry to get the job done before teaching my class at 6, I filled up the tank, started the engine, backed out of the garage, and made a few turns around the yard.  I don’t mind the task; having a riding mower it’s kind of nice to go back and forth across the lawn with nothing but engine noise and the smell of grass for an hour and a half.  But something was wrong. . . .I looked, and…a flat tire.  Shoot.

No problem, I had time to get to the store and buy that air compressor I’d been meaning to get anyway.  Was back in 45 minutes, opened it up, read the directions, pumped up the tire, and was ready to go. Another turn around the yard, and something was still not right.  I shut down the engine and looked again.

Sure enough, a copper wire was lodged in the tire.  Without thinking, I pulled it out. A hiss, and there went the tire, flat.  Again.  I called Louie, at Cold Spring Lawn and Tractor (Bless him).  “Well, you can buy a new one,” he said, “or if you pop it off and bring it here I’ll put a tube in it and save you some money.”

“Uh, take the tire off?”

“Sure!” he said, like it was easy.  “You’ll have to jack the mower up, and then you just take off the hubcap, take a screwdriver and pop off the c- clip, remove the washers and it should just slide right off.”   He took my silence for a yes. “I’ll be here, just bring it down.”

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll see you in a bit.”

I put some blocks of wood under the axle, banged them in with a hammer to lift up the mower, and then the trouble began.  There were various attempts with an assortment of tools.  Some choice words.  A little stress.  Fifteen minutes later, I called him back.  “Hi Louie, it’s Leslie again.  I can’t get it off.”

“The tire?”

“The hubcap!!”  The pliers won’t fit, and the wrench slides off the plastic!”  Can I cut it?”

“Sure, I’ve got a bunch, I’ll give you one.”

“Okay, I’ll probably call you back.”

“Yep.”

What’s underneath the plastic hubcap was unrecognizable, covered in what looked like tar. I didn’t see a clip, or washers.  Back to the phone.

“Louie.”

“Hey,” he says, “How’s it going?”

“I don’t know what it is, and it’s covered in tar.”

“Oh, that’s just grease.  I like grease.  Just wipe it off and then you can take a picture of it and send it to my wife’s phone.  You have a smart phone?  Then I’ll run upstairs from the shop and look at it and tell you what it is.”

Now there were dirty paper towels scattered among the hammer, screwdrivers, exacto knife, pliers and two wrenches.  I sent the picture; he texted back.  “It’s a C-clip.”

Another 10 minutes with three different screwdrivers.  The clip finally popped off, went flying.  There was some swearing at this point.  I pulled the washers off.  I pulled the tire, sitting in the driveway with a foot braced on either side. It did not move. I switched positions, leaned back. Tried again.  I tried for a while.  I checked my watch. I kicked the tire.

“Louie.”

“Hi.”

“I don’t get it- everything’s off! It’s not moving!”

“Well, sometimes, you just gotta bang it.”

“Bang it?”

“With a hammer.  Bang it with a hammer.”

With pleasure.  I banged it, and talked to it at the same time.  “WHY won’t YOU come OFF?”

And then it moved, a little.  I pulled, and finally the tire was on the ground.  I raised my fists and make a victory sound like a yeti:  “Uuuuuuuuuuaaaaaaaagggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh.”

Twenty minutes and twenty dollars later, I was back with a pumped up tire, only this time I needed the car jack to get the mower high enough to slide the tire back on.  When I was done, I gave another victory salute and pick up the tools.

And what was my reward for all this work?  I got to mow the lawn.

As I was relating this story to my brother, complete with sound effects, I said, “And after all that, I just get to do what I am supposed to do anyway.”  Zen Master Doug replies, “Of course.  It’s all about the process.”

Yes.  Yes it is.  Can I relate most things in life to the spiritual journey?  Yes. Yes I can.  And most of the time I can go with it.  Most of the time, I feel that I am on a path in the company of Spirit, doing the things that I discern the Divine has called me to do.  Except.  Except for when I get busy, or when I’ve got more than one agenda, or am in a hurry, or don’t know what to do, or feel dumb and have to ask for help, or try really hard and nothing seems like it’s moving.  You know, like how life happens.

But here’s what did happen.  I learned to concentrate on one thing, one step at a time. (Again.)  I remembered to slow down. (Again.) I asked for help and got it. (Again.)  I tried really hard and nothing moved . . .at first.  (Again.) And then it did.

You know, like how life happens.

And so, for you and for me, here’s hoping that our struggles small and large teach us again of how life happens, and how God happens.  May the process (Because it’s all about the process) of grace, and love, gratitude, and peace, happen, even if we do sound like a yeti occasionally.

Peace,

Leslie

 

 

Connected

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The day did not start off all that well.  I was in a hurry, with an agenda in my head mapped out, anxious about the weekend to come:  Leading a two hour intuition workshop on Friday evening, leading yoga for a retreat Saturday morning, attending a grant writers workshop Saturday afternoon, guest preaching at a church on Sunday morning, and leading a workshop on death and grieving at another church on Sunday afternoon.  Who set this ridiculous schedule?  Ah, yes, that would be me.

It was Thursday, and I had a lot of preparation, still.  I taught a yoga class at 7am, and afterward, with the dog in the car, swung around to the deli to grab coffee so I could head to the office for an appointment; rushing.  I had my money in hand; i slammed the car door shut behind me and suddenly, found myself flat on the ground, in between the curb and the car, stunned and hurting.  I had tripped somehow and fallen, splatted, really, full out on the pavement, smacking my palms, banging my knee and the opposite shoulder.  My thumb had a bloody gash where my car key had sliced it open.  I sat up, unlocked the car and sat in the driver’s seat to assess the damage.  I wrapped my thumb in a napkin-I  I had already gotten blood on my shirt-and pulled up my pants leg to survey my knee, which also was skinned and bloody.

This is what happens sometimes when I am stressed and lose the connection to my body. I bump my elbows, or trip, or in this case, take a full swan dive onto gravel.  My brain is  minutes, or hours, or days ahead of my body, and my physical self, being grounded in time and space, cannot keep up.

So.  I slowed down.  I waited patiently in line for my coffee, handing over my two crumpled dollars awkwardly with my left hand and said keep the change. I drove, slowly, to the office. Where I sat and breathed with a friend.  Literally.  Her daughter was ill and anxious and I was teaching some breathing techniques to pass on and to use with her.  I taught Ujayii breathing and we did that for a few minutes.  Then I demonstrated alternate nostril breathing and we did that for a time.  Then I had her sit back and did a full Yoga Nidra body relaxation, so that she could experience it, and share it with her daughter.  In helping her connect with her breath, I connected with mine.

So. Later I took the dog for a hike in the woods, listening to the birds.  A woodpecker overhead was hammering a tree looking for breakfast.  I couldn’t see him, but knew he was somewhere in the canopy high up.  I put my hand on the trunk of a nearby tree–and I felt it.  His beak drumming the branch above reverberated down the trunk and right into my palm. Surprised, I stepped a few yards away and looked up- there he was, a Downy, busy at work. I came close and put my hand back on the trunk, amazed that I could feel him all the way from the top branch, through the trunk, and into my skin.  We were connected, by wood and sap and bark and beak and skin and breath.

I looked down at roots under my feet- connecting to earth and leaves and water and soil.  I felt the breeze and watched as the yellowed leaves  let go from the trees and connected with sunlight and air as they twirled slowly down.  The heartbeat in my hand connected to the woodpecker’s drumming tattoo on a tree branch.  My dog’s gaze met and connected with mine as he paused before dashing ahead.

I had been in a hurry, but had been forced to slow down.  In a new way, I knew that we can be connected if we take the time-to take a breath, to be fully present to one another, to gaze up, to look down, to feel.  That our bodies, grounded in space and time, need this as much as they need water and air.

Later, I connected with my chiropractor, a couple of aspirin, and a bath of epsom salts, much needed after my dramatic tumble.  So be it- if that’s what it takes.  I hope that today there is a connection for you-a little less dramatic, perhaps: sunlight, or a kind word, or a touch or a cup of tea, that lets you connect with the loving person you know yourself to be.

Take a deep breath in and out; I’ll do the same.

Peace.