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There is something about the movement of leaves in wind that, paradoxically, puts me in mind of stillness. I think it is the hidden strength of the tree's roots, the deep connection with the earth that allows the branches to bend. Or maybe it's just that on a quiet summer day, when nothing else is moving, you hear the whisper like rushing water.
Uploaded by 30KASC on 2013-08-14.
Uploaded by 30KASC on 2013-08-14.
Uploaded by 30KASC on 2013-08-14.
People often ask me where I'm from (usually when I've just said something with a particularly nasal twang). I'm never quite sure how to answer them. I was born in Detroit and lived in the metropolitan area until I was 15. Then I moved to Alabama, where I finished high school and went to college. But I've lived in Chicago for 13 years--the longest amount of time I've ever spent in one place. And while I do my share of complaining (traffic, weather, crowds, weather, litter, weather, crime, weather), this place is special. There is an energy here, an openness of heart. There is grit and beauty. There are dear friends in these frozen winds. This city is home.
Bet you guys are getting sick of my mug...
Up until now I haven't really been following the August Break prompts. But today's challenge was a selfie, aka a self-portrait, and I couldn't resist.
I used to be one of those people who hated having her picture taken. Well, technically I still am, but the section on self-portraiture in Susannah Conway's This I Know laid it out in a way that finally made sense: when someone else takes a picture of you, you have no control. On the other hand, when you take a picture of yourself...you see where I'm going with this. After reading that I started shooting selfies like they were going out of style--and it was bliss. I could delete (or hide or throw away) all the bad ones. I could tweak and reposition until I got everything exactly the way I wanted it. And holy shit, I finally started looking sort of okay in photographs. No more deer in headlights, no more chipmunk cheeks, no more double chins. Well, at least none that anyone else would see. It felt good. I even felt, for the first time in my life, sort of beautiful.
Things rarely turn out the way I expect them to. Unfortunately, this often means things aren't turning out the way I want them to, which hurts. This is part of dukka, the dissatisfaction and discomfort of existence. I gain, I lose, I celebrate, I suffer, I yearn, I grieve. The key to equanimity isn't to try and stop these feelings and experiences--that would be like trying to stop the waves from breaking against the shore. The key is to accept them, observe them without judgement. Sometimes that's easy. Most of the time it's not. But that's okay--you get to observe that, too.
That is what I am doing today: observing how deeply I want to control my feelings. Observing how easy it is to sink into negativity, and how assuming the worst about a situation is an attempt to protect myself.
People like to say that when God closes a door, she opens a window. But the truth is that doors and windows don't exist. They are made up of our expectations. They are the paths and opportunities we envision for our futures. I don't think there's anything wrong with that. But every so often I get to the point where it feels like God has locked the door and thrown away the key. When that happens, it helps to remember that there are no windows--there doesn't need to be, because there are no walls. There is only the vast open expanse of here. The infinity of now.