Gobble It Up

Thanksgiving always opens up an extra space or two in my heart.  (Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for my pants, which seem doubly determined to remain true to the pesky number stamped on the little tag inside them.   I find that confounding, considering that most of my jeans these days are more plastic than denim . . . ).

But this is not a post about confounding things.  Rather, it is a list of suggestions, things we can do to keep those heart spaces opened up all year long. The framework for these reflections comes from an old railroad ad campaign--Stop, Look and Listen!  Really, that's good advice, no matter which side of the tracks you come from.

STOP!

Stop doing. 

No, really.  Just stop.  Too often, doing gets in the way of simply living.  Blame it on our obsession with filled calendars or our need for peer approval, but,  for some reason, Americans have decided that doing is the same thing as succeeding.  But, thinking something doesn't necessarily make it so.  Thank goodness.

To break out of that mindset, then, some time this year, stop working--not forever, but for a day or two, just long enough to go to Thedford (see left), where you will be lulled by the loping Sandhills, wooed by the winding Middle Loup, transported by the hum of endless trains.  Honestly, my clan did almost nothing there, but all of us would count it as one of the best vacations of our lives.

And, of course, you don't have to go to Thedford (although I think you should!).  The point is to step away from what you know and move into something different, something slower.

Stop clicking.

My life certainly hasn't gotten larger or better by clicking more.  Sure, I've gotten closer to the Amazon guy, but I've also ended up with more cardboard and crap. And less money in the bank.  Better to buy local, where the store isn't always open and you may not find everything you think you need,  . . . which is a happy, if not backwards, kind of fairytale ending in itself.

And if, in clicking, you hope to learn more about the world, I'd suggest logging off and turning a page instead.  Read a book, buy the newspaper, thumb through the National Geographic at the library.  Often, information that takes its time getting to us is more valuable and more valued.

LOOK!

Specifically, up.

A few years ago, I saw this meme about our love affair with cell phones.  Had the cellular apocalypse not already been occurring, I'd have called the meme 'prescient.'   There is no greater shame for me than to be caught looking at my stupid phone when someone is talking to me.  Alas, that shame probably seems quaint to others, since the act almost has become second nature.  But, really, there is nothing natural about our relationship with our devices.

Besides, if you fall into the trap of living a hunched-over, digitally-filtered life, you miss everything that's happening above you.  And--oh, my!--the view is really something!

There is no better way to start my day (and, if I can just tweak my schedule a bit, I'd add "end my day") than to be outdoors, following the sun.  In general, I'm a fan of looking up.  And, if you have a stiff neck, watching a sunrise or sunset doesn't even involve that much "up," considering that both take place on the horizon.  

A sunrise reminds me of the steadfastness of the natural world, regardless of what's happening in the news.  Time in nature slows me down and puts me on alert, all at once.  And I feel changed--every time.  It's a fine do over.  Maybe the finest. 

LISTEN! 

I once sat on our front steps, the thick summer evening sliding into a cool, calm night, and listened to earthworms move dirt.  I sat there, gape-jawed and mostly silent (a person can't just hear something like that and say nothing!), stunned to hear all of that life just under my feet.

A bit of a talker, listening, for me, is like writing or playing guitar or cooking--it requires some practice.  But all of that practice eventually leads to more interesting stories, better meals, longer jams . . .  and a quiet joy within me.

In listening, I make room for others, and--ironically--I find my own life stretched and changed a bit.  The more I listen, the more varieties of life I can see in this big, beautiful world.   A robin's frantic call on a summer's evening leads me on an owl hunt.  A friend's deep sigh tells me to be patient and let things be.  That one note in the song from "Cider House Rules?"--every time I hear it, it washes over me and I am moved.

The haunting musical note, the peculiar churrr of dirt overturning, the aching tone of a friend's recollection , the Robin's sharp trill of alarm . . . We can't know the stories unless we listen to them.

It is the soft edges of our silence that frame and enliven them. 

It is in our willingness to stop, look and listen that we find our hearts filled to bursting.

As for the jeans?  Well, that's what the button's for.