August 2005 Newsletter
Online Issue # 10
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The Front Page
Lessons in Allowing
Standing at my kitchen window, looking out over the back yard garden that is still creating itself, I return to the word—allowing. And I wonder, is that what I'm doing with this garden now? Allowing it to find itself, create itself?
In the beginning I envisioned a back yard garden, but it was vague. Mainly it involved expanding the area for growing flowers and reducing the amount of grass to be mowed. There was no plan on paper, no picture in my head and no list of plants to be included. But there was a clear beginning, a day when I acted and the transformation started—with destruction.
My neighbor Dianne coached me from across the fence on how to kill the grass using twenty layers of newspaper weighted down with wood chip mulch and a few old bricks. Dianne explained that in a few weeks I could begin planting by cutting through the newspaper and the dying grass into the soil beneath, which I did. I put in a few plants and a few more, then more and more, although I no longer remember what came first and what all I planted. There still was no real plan.
At some point into the project I got excited about creating a butterfly garden and began selecting plants known for their butterfly attracting powers. It took a season or two, but the butterflies found the garden just like they were supposed to. Now, from midsummer on, I enjoy the sight of these lovely, gentle creatures circling the back yard in elegant loops in the warm afternoon sun. In all the years before this, I remember only an occasional butterfly in my yard, nothing like the regular visitors they've become. My attempt to provide a damp sandy area for them to drink was less successful, so this spring I finally dumped out the sand and turned the puddle into one more bird bath.
The garden, and my life, continues to evolve. Plants grow and multiply until they threaten to overwhelm and take over neighboring plants. Some plants disappear and are never seen again, even with repeated attempts to reintroduce them; pincushion flower and clematis are two that come to mind. Occasionally plants appear, brought in on the wind or by squirrel, bird or me. Some are welcome, some I eventually weed out.
I can see now that I'm moving toward allowing: giving up trying to control what is happening because a part of me really prefers it that way, needs it that way. I like the mystery and the surprise, and the relaxed, easy feeling. I look out the kitchen window now and I see a garden, which is what I wanted to see. But it's not the one I vaguely envisioned and it's not the one that was there last summer, last month or a few days ago. Even today the light is ever changing the garden, first highlighting one thing then another. The bloom cycles are moving through their year the way they do, maybe a little ahead of schedule this year. A few days ago I looked out back and was genuinely disappointed that nothing was blooming spectacularly. Nothing. And now, just a few days later, the bee balm is bursting out all over. It has invasive tendencies and I have allowed it to flourish, encouraged it to spread. I have allowed it even though it wasn't in my original vision. But I didn't know then how lovely and airy it is on a breezy day, how much it likes my backyard and how well it grows and spreads, compared to a lot of things that never survived to reappear and re-delight.
Sometimes, sitting in the back yard or on the back steps, I take in the whole of it in one giant sweep. My reactions can vary from “This is a miracle,” (which I love) to “This is so out-of-control. What have I done? Where do I start?” Then, instead of taking it all in and continuing to grow more overwhelmed and frightened, I make myself see just one thing in the garden. Something like one lily bud, growing pregnant with sweetness that will soon open to reveal excessive beauty. Or one drop of sunlit water, magnifying the lovely leaf veins of some green, growing thing. Or one animated chickadee, darting around spilling sunflower seed for the young squirrel eating beneath the bird feeder.
In allowing my garden to become itself, I'm also learning to allow myself what I need, what I desire and what I deserve.
“Give Thanks For Unknown Blessings Already On Their Way”
Earlier this year, I had multiple encounters with the above saying attributed to a Native American elder. I've been contemplating and appreciating the wisdom of these words and slowly discovering a thread of connection that circles back to this idea of allowing. I've been paying attention to how open and how willing I am to be blessed. Do I allow myself to be blessed? Do I allow myself to receive the blessings I am consciously cultivating? Do I allow myself to welcome blessings when they appear, in the ways they appear?
In June I had outpatient surgery to remove a benign cyst in my jaw. For a few days after the surgery, I felt like a wounded animal. I just wanted to be left alone in my safe, quiet nest of a home. I allowed myself that comfort and quickly realized that I also needed to allow my wise and knowing animal body to heal itself. Allowing was my finest option because I do not know how to grow bone, even with the help of a bone graft. Fortunately, my own body instinctively knows what is needed and is doing the healing for me. I did what I could: rested, chose soft nutritious food, took my medications / supplements, drank lots of water, and imagined healing. But mostly I allowed the miracle of healing. Actually, I welcomed, affirmed, imagined and allowed it.
This is the meditation I wrote for myself and memorized to prepare for surgery. I read it to a few people afterward and they encouraged me to share it here, so I will.
I choose to have this surgery to restore my heath.
I am safe and divinely protected each and every moment.
I am grateful for each person who guides and encourages me.
I allow myself to fully trust the wisdom and expertise of my surgeon and everyone who assists.
I attract safe, respectful, kind and loving care.
I thank my body for cooperating with the surgery and healing itself.
I take time to rest and nurture myself before returning to the work I love.
Life is good and all is well.
I live with daily awareness of my extremely good fortune.
I crafted each line to directly and positively address my real concerns about the upcoming surgery. When I felt "complete" with the wording, I tested it out to see whether I had created a statement that expressed what I most wanted in this situation. I memorized all the lines and then repeated the affirmation to myself during the days before my surgery, while waiting on the day of surgery, and even afterward.
This writing exercise was another valuable lesson in practicing allowing and in making it real. I'm pleased to report that not only did I choose and affirm the lines I wrote, I also allowed them to be my experience. The blessings, that were on their way, did arrive and I opened my life to receive them—the healing ones I envisioned and affirmed, and many more—including the sun and the rain, and the butterflies that visit my garden.
With ever more gratitude,
Laurie Mattila
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