Seasons of the Soul

In Memoriam

A great lady is gone, and I can only say how grateful I am that she was my mother. For those of us who are in or near the Baby Boomer age group, the time is coming when we will begin to say goodbye to our parents. Sometimes their passing is quick and unexpected, and at other times, a long passage of slow deterioration. How ever they leave us, there is much to be gained in the process of their transition that can gift us with a level of depth and awareness of life that we may not have had previously. Just as winter comes, and death appears, spring follows with its new blooms. My mother died on the 7th of January. I bought some flowers on the 9th and put them in my office to remind me of her. As of Feb. 26, they were still going strong. What is death? And what is life? It isn’t the amount of time, it is the quality we share. Thank you, Mom.
From Seasons of the Soul 2001

Quotable Quotes

Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. 
Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great.

~Mark Twain

Virtue of Imperfection

A water bearer in India had two large pots. Each hung on opposite ends of a pole which he carried on his shoulders.. One of the pots had a crack in it, and while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master's house,
the  cracked pot arrived only half full.

For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water to his master's house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of it's accomplishments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.
 
After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream. "I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you." "Why?" asked the bearer. "What are you ashamed of?" "I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master's house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don't get full value for your efforts," the pot said.

The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, "As we return to the master's house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path." Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered it some. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half its load, and so again it apologized to the bearer for its failure. The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of your path, but not on the other pot's side?  That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk  back from the stream, you've watered them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master's table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house."
~Author Unkown

Into Bloom

I was working in my garden yesterday, and marveled at how after winter comes things grow that I never planted. It’s as though all of life competes for space to show itself, making me smile.

During the past year, I didn’t have much time for my garden, and much of it was flat and seemingly “dead”. It was easy to think that nothing would ever grow again because the ground was barren. Yet beneath the soil were the seeds of lush greenery and intriguing wildflowers just waiting for the water that would bring them back to life. They had gone underground. They hadn’t died.

And how many times do we feel barren and washed up? How often do we look at the evidence of lack and believe that is our lot forever? Yet, like the garden, when we least expect it, inspiration may strike, conditions change, and we are brought again into glorious bloom.
From Seasons of the Soul 2001

Quick Stress Reducers for People on the Go

Recently I saw a show on television that spoke of the stress we experience in today’s technological world, filled with over-stimulus and constant bombardment of noise in the guise of communication. The doctor who spoke of the problem also gave some methods for dealing with stress and creating more harmony within the body. She cited three possibilities.

1. When you feel tense, pause for a moment and do this simple exercise: Breathe in to the count of 4 through your nose. Hold the breath for the count of 7, and breathe out through your mouth to the count of 8. Repeat this 4 times, and then breathe naturally. It lowers blood pressure and heart rate, and brings a natural tranquilizing effect to the body.

2. Imagine yourself  in a place that you enjoyed thoroughly. This can be a vacation setting that gave you joy, or any other place within nature where you  felt at peace and connected. Do not just think this image, feel it in your body. As you do, it will lower your blood pressure, and drop the heart rate by 20%

3. Practice laughing. Laughter is used in China therapeutically, and offers a cardio-vascular workout while also releasing endorphins.

These natural methods for releasing tension have mind/body benefits and are enjoyable as well. We may live and work in stressful environments, but we have the ability to do things to make our lives more harmonious no matter where we are

Quotable Quotes

Fulfilling the four needs [spiritual, mental, physical, social] in an integrated way is like combining elements in chemistry. When we reach a "critical mass" of integration, we experience spontaneous combustion--an explosion of inner synergy that ignites the fire within and gives vision, passion, and a spirit of adventure to life. --Stephen Covey

Gratitude

I noted one day when I was busy castigating some aspect of my life that anger and resentment truly do beget more of the same. In a moment of determination, I chose to spend my mental energy on finding things for which to be grateful, interrupting the litany of negatives that were beginning their daily journey through my head.

“Thank you for my wonderful life.” “Thank you for my good health.” “Thank you for my loving relationship, for my children, my family, my friends.” Soon I was expanding and refining my list of things for which to be grateful. And a funny thing happened. As I began focusing on what was going right in my life rather than what was wrong, more right began to occur. I also noted that I was happier. I felt appreciation for small things, and looked forward to what I could accomplish, rather than complaining about what I was not getting done.

The simple act of refocusing...of reframing my thinking patterns has brought a great deal of inner peace. In conjunction with gratitude for all the good in my life, I realize that in the quotient also must come gratitude and appreciation for myself as I am.

We are all set on this journey, and perhaps the quest is not to find the ideal life, but to appreciate the one we’ve been given. As we gain  self-acceptance, we can appreciate others more. And each act of gratitude, appreciation, and acceptance draws us closer to the center of what the heart yearns for and for which we have each been created—the ability to love.
From Seasons of the Soul 2001

The Plum Tree

Spring is emerging. Slowly the buds are blossoming on the trees, and one in particular in my garden always reminds me of the triumph of nature…and also of the human spirit. The old plum tree is the last of a group of trees that were planted in our garden many years ago.

Years ago when we first bought the house, one of the selling points was the number of exquisite fruit trees in the garden. Yet, through the years, each died as their roots hit an underground spring that runs through the property— all except for the old plum tree.

Through the years I lost touch with the trees, as the house became a rental. Once after having to evict tenants who turned out to be drug dealers, I noticed that someone had savaged the plum tree with a hatchet. I thought it might be dead, but it was not. Years passed, and then I moved back to the house that I had not occupied for 29 years. Standing serenely in the garden was the plum tree. The bark is falling off the tree; it is cracked up the middle, and it looks as though a good shove would send it toppling. Yet, each year when winter comes and I think for sure it will be the last of the tree, spring returns and the plum tree sprouts its beautiful buds, unconcerned about its physical appearance. The blossoms become the most delicious plums I have ever tasted, and again I am reminded that nature does not judge itself. The plum tree does not see itself as lacking. It does not look at its missing limbs or maimed trunk. It just does what it was intended to do. And it does it superbly.

How often do we sit in judgment of ourselves? How often are we at war internally over perceived lack or physical imperfections? How often do we get in our own way, restricting the flow of our God given gifts because we don’t see ourselves as good enough, or knowing enough, or thin enough, or young enough, or the right gender or the right race, or the right whatever that gets in the way of being?
    

Our ability to think independently is a great gift. It is what makes us co-creators in the universe. But when we mistake criticism for discernment, we do ourselves a great injustice. We all have a story. We all have our psychic or physical imperfections. But when we allow the impediments of perceived lack, unworthiness or deformity to get in our way, we restrict the flow of God moving through us.
    

We can all learn from the plum tree. We don’t need to fit any image to bloom. The substance of our works is not dependent on our physical reality. It is dependent on the spirit that moves through us, and our willingness to allow our true nature to emerge…to be like the plum tree – whole, delicious, and prolific…no matter what!
From Seasons of the Soul 2001

The Mowing Mailman

The following is an inspirational true story about a mailman in St. Petersburg, Fl, who found his calling beyond the work he did for pay. Written by newsman, Lane DeGregory for the St. Petersburg Times, the story is one that may cause each of us to ask what we might do to make a difference in our own communities:

"On his day off, the mailman returns to his route. He drives a beat-up Cherokee with a homemade trailer hitched to the bumper, parks in front of a little blue house on a corner lot tangled with weeds.

He carries no mailbag. He has nothing to deliver. Except his time.

The mailman unlocks his trailer and rolls a red lawn mower onto the yard. He tugs a battered ball cap over his sandy hair and wades into the weeds.

"This is Jack's house," says the mailman. It all started at Jack's house.

Eric Wills' postal route takes him on a 10-mile hike through the center of the city.

He starts with businesses along Central Avenue, but most of his route is residential. The neighborhoods are mixed, racially and economically. Immaculate two-story homes tower over boarded-up bungalows.

Wills, 30, has been walking the same streets for six years. When he was offered a better route, closer to his home in the Northeast Park area of St. Petersburg, he refused. Somewhere along these cracked sidewalks he found his path.

These are his people: all 480.

He knows who's on vacation, whose in-laws have moved in, who gets the best catalogs, the most bills. When mail starts coming addressed just to Mrs., he knows there's no longer a Mr.

He delivers directly to each house - climbs those steps, stands on those porches. Elderly residents call their thanks through mail slots.

For some, Wills is the only person who ever comes to the door.

Ask him about the people on his route and he'll tell you about Miss Lucille, 86, who worked on Navy ships during World War II; and Miss Betty, 83, whose Irish wolfhound weighs more than she does.

And he'll talk about Jack and his overgrown lawn.

- - -

Iron banisters flank the front steps of Jack's little blue house. Two summers ago, they were strangled with vines. To get the mail to the front door, Wills had to fight through a jungle.

The mailman didn't know much about Jack, except that he was old and seldom got out. A frail-looking girlfriend who didn't seem to speak English lived with him.

For weeks, the mailman struggled through the thicket, silently cursing the man who wouldn't mow his yard. One day, he heard a voice. His conscience? God?

Someone should mow that yard!

Me.

When Wills' letter bag was empty, he drove home and loaded the lawn mower into the back of his Cherokee.

Then he returned to the middle of his mail route.

He knocked on Jack's door, said he wanted to cut the yard. Just to help. No charge. "That yard is the least of my worries," the old man barked.

So Wills mowed that corner lot. Two weeks later, he mowed it again. Even after the old man moved into a nursing home, the mailman kept mowing his yard. As long as Jack's girlfriend was getting the mail, the mailman would look after the lawn.

For two years, Wills has been cutting Jack's lawn. That yard led to another, and another, and another . . .

- - -

On the Monday after Thanksgiving, Wills pours gas into the push mower in Jack's yard and bends to pull the cord. The ancient engine chokes to life.

Wills is tall, with broad shoulders. His calves are thick knots from hiking his route, from pushing that mower on his day off. He longs for a rider, or at least a commercial grade push model. But with the price of gas these days, he can barely afford to fill his tank.

He turns the mower to the sidewalk, shoves his wire-rim glasses higher on his nose. As he starts to cut, a car pulls up and a dark-haired woman gets out.

"Aren't you the mailman?" she asks.

Wills nods and shuts off the mower.

"My mother lives here. Jack's girlfriend?" says the woman. "Didn't you get her note?"

- - -

In time, word spread about the mowing mailman. Much of it, Wills spread himself.

Once he started seeing overgrown yards not as eyesores but as a sign someone needed help, he began knocking on doors along his route. He told churches about his service. Other letter carriers sent referrals.

Wills cuts 15 yards now - for free. In the winter, he comes every two weeks; in summer, he tries to make it weekly. His record is eight yards in a day.

He works alone, in silence, except for the hum of the mower. No iPod or headphones intrude. He says he thinks about nothing. Everything. Mowing, he says, gives him peace.

Several years ago, Wills hurt his foot playing pickup basketball. Every step was agony. He worried he'd have to give up his postal route. So he prayed. And God healed him, he says.

He had been searching for a way to give back. But until he got engulfed in Jack's yard, he wasn't sure how. Now he knows: His calling smells like grass.

"It's just my little way of making a difference," he says. Some of these folks wish they could get out and mow; many can't afford $100 a month for a lawn service. They sit at home, watching through their windows while things get worse.

"A yard is a reflection of the person who lives there," Wills says. "So why not help them feel better?"

Lucille Formanek, 86, calls Wills "a blessing from heaven." A self-described old maid, she has lived alone since her mother died. "He's such a nice, strong young man."

Wills and his brother built a trailer to haul lawn gear. They painted a stick man on the side, mowing around a huge brown cross. Sprayed-on letters say, "Lawns for the Lord."

But the mailman's ministry includes more than mowing.

He rented a bush hog to clear an aged man's five lots; carried out garbage for a retired nun - then paved a path to her garbage bin; dug up azaleas for a single mom; moved heavy planters for a widow; brought his 7-year-old daughter to play piano for a lonely old lady. Recently he replaced a lightbulb for an elderly woman who said she hadn't been able to read her thermostat for weeks.

"In all that time, I was the only person who'd come to her door," Wills said. "What if I hadn't come?"

- - -

The little blue house has a postage stamp porch. Shaggy shrubs fan across the mailbox. Usually, Jack's girlfriend is good about bringing in the mail.

But just before Thanksgiving, letters started piling up.

All those holiday fliers buried the note.

It's folded in the bottom of the mailbox, written on torn paper. Wills fishes it out and walks across the yard. He smooths the message over the handle of his mower.

To: Mr. Mailman

Thank you for your help cutting the grass. Jack died last night and I will be moving out. Again, thank you very much.

The note was signed Zaida. Wills had never known her name."

Quotable Quotes

What a thing it is to sit absolutely alone,
in the forest, at night, cherished by this
wonderful, unintelligible,
perfectly innocent speech,
the most comforting speech in the world,
the talk that rain makes by itself all over the ridges,
and the talk of the watercourses everywhere in the hollows!
Nobody started it, nobody is going to stop it.
It will talk as long as it wants, this rain.
As long as it talks I am going to listen

~Thomas Merton

Listen to the air
You can hear it, feel it,
smell it, taste it.
Woniya wakan, the holy air,
which renews all by its breath
Woniya wakan, spirit, life, breath, renewal,
it means all that.
We sit together, don’t touch,
but something is there,
we feel it between us,
as a presence.
A good way to start thinking about nature,
talk about it.
Rather talk to it,
talk to the rivers, to the lakes,
to the winds,
as to our relatives.

~John Lame Deer

You can complain
Because  roses have thorns,
Or you can rejoice
Because thorns have roses!
~Author Unknown