Gorman Falls
November 13, 2021, Shower Meditation
I closed my eyes to meditate this morning and immediately saw a rushing river… which led to the edge of a waterfall… cascading over the edge to plummet into the depths below. I opened my eyes.
What is the message?
And that one little vision expanded into all the rest of this.
I had been feeling pressured by time. It was just January, and now it is November. I just turned another year older even though it just feels like a number.
There are days when my river of tasks is slow - when I focus on getting through five minutes at a time as addictive busyness had taken a toll on my ability to being okay with doing nothing.
And there are days when time is much faster - when suddenly I realize I need to shut everything down and get ready for bed.
Where'd the day go? Did I do what really matters in the long run? Will my accomplishments of today matter a year from now? If not, what do I want to do differently tomorrow?
There are the life lessons that say to flow with the current vs. struggling to swim or row against the current.
Am I flowing or resisting?
Am I allowing bouts of fatigue and being completely caught up on my writing and volunteer work to remind me to take breaks?
Am I holding on to thoughts and experiences like they are rocks along the river or leaving them behind and flowing around them?
And the question I sometimes ask myself - if my time on earth expires today, am I doing what really matters?
What does really matter?
Relationships.
It's the only thing I can take with me when I leave earth.
I find myself resisting taking the initiative to make the first move - the first leap over the edge of the waterfall - to connect with my granddaughter. My memories and conclusions about these memories are the rocks I grab during the journey out of fear that I might drown. What exactly am I afraid of? Rejection?
She'll be 9 in January. I've only seen her in person twice, the last time five years ago. I've been waiting for the day she is old enough to call me on her own or even ask her parents to call so she can talk to me. Or longer… the day she is old enough to visit me. And when she is, will she?
What if she is as self-conscious as I am when talking to a stranger? She only knows me by name. I sense her bashfulness when her father occasionally video calls me while she is sitting on his lap. I reminisce about my preference to have words on paper I can reread again in the future vs. relying on memory to hold onto the content of conversations.
I reminisce about my friends who spend time with their children and grandchildren without a second thought. Why is my situation different?
I'm even self-conscious about calling her father - the son I gave birth to in 1983. Somehow, time got away from us. We have both gone through a metamorphosis, and it seems like we are strangers to each other. He's not one to write emails or letters. He's not one to start a chat via text except on a rare occasion. He's in love with his daughter and fatherhood, apparently consumed by every available moment when he is not at work to be with her. I understand. I did that once, too. It doesn't change the yearning I have to talk to him or get a note from him. For the most part, it's his amazing, beautiful wife who nudges him when it's my birthday or Mother's Day. And if she didn't post snippets on Instagram Story, I wouldn't see glimpses of their lives.
Thus, in the theme of the waterfall, watching time rush by, I paused to write my granddaughter a letter asking questions I hope she will write answers to - one I mailed to her with a postage stamp on it. I usually just mail cards and gifts on birthdays and holidays.
What is the message?
And that one little vision expanded into all the rest of this.
I had been feeling pressured by time. It was just January, and now it is November. I just turned another year older even though it just feels like a number.
There are days when my river of tasks is slow - when I focus on getting through five minutes at a time as addictive busyness had taken a toll on my ability to being okay with doing nothing.
And there are days when time is much faster - when suddenly I realize I need to shut everything down and get ready for bed.
Where'd the day go? Did I do what really matters in the long run? Will my accomplishments of today matter a year from now? If not, what do I want to do differently tomorrow?
There are the life lessons that say to flow with the current vs. struggling to swim or row against the current.
Am I flowing or resisting?
Am I allowing bouts of fatigue and being completely caught up on my writing and volunteer work to remind me to take breaks?
Am I holding on to thoughts and experiences like they are rocks along the river or leaving them behind and flowing around them?
And the question I sometimes ask myself - if my time on earth expires today, am I doing what really matters?
What does really matter?
Relationships.
It's the only thing I can take with me when I leave earth.
I find myself resisting taking the initiative to make the first move - the first leap over the edge of the waterfall - to connect with my granddaughter. My memories and conclusions about these memories are the rocks I grab during the journey out of fear that I might drown. What exactly am I afraid of? Rejection?
She'll be 9 in January. I've only seen her in person twice, the last time five years ago. I've been waiting for the day she is old enough to call me on her own or even ask her parents to call so she can talk to me. Or longer… the day she is old enough to visit me. And when she is, will she?
What if she is as self-conscious as I am when talking to a stranger? She only knows me by name. I sense her bashfulness when her father occasionally video calls me while she is sitting on his lap. I reminisce about my preference to have words on paper I can reread again in the future vs. relying on memory to hold onto the content of conversations.
I reminisce about my friends who spend time with their children and grandchildren without a second thought. Why is my situation different?
I'm even self-conscious about calling her father - the son I gave birth to in 1983. Somehow, time got away from us. We have both gone through a metamorphosis, and it seems like we are strangers to each other. He's not one to write emails or letters. He's not one to start a chat via text except on a rare occasion. He's in love with his daughter and fatherhood, apparently consumed by every available moment when he is not at work to be with her. I understand. I did that once, too. It doesn't change the yearning I have to talk to him or get a note from him. For the most part, it's his amazing, beautiful wife who nudges him when it's my birthday or Mother's Day. And if she didn't post snippets on Instagram Story, I wouldn't see glimpses of their lives.
Thus, in the theme of the waterfall, watching time rush by, I paused to write my granddaughter a letter asking questions I hope she will write answers to - one I mailed to her with a postage stamp on it. I usually just mail cards and gifts on birthdays and holidays.
Once upon a time, I had an aunt (one of my maternal grandmother's sisters) for a pen pal. Maybe we can become pen pals, too.
I also wrote another digital letter in the document I plan to share with her when she is either 16 or 18.
The pool at the bottom of the waterfall is beautiful. But in order to experience it, I must let go and travel over the waterfall. Right?
Unless… there is a back way that I can hike in… something my niece discovered she could do one day.
The pool at the bottom of the waterfall is beautiful. But in order to experience it, I must let go and travel over the waterfall. Right?
Unless… there is a back way that I can hike in… something my niece discovered she could do one day.
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