Comfort and Joy (12/25/21)
Last night as I wrote, there was discomfort and yuckiness in my emotions. But this morning as I sat and journaled, I felt joy inside and a smile crinkling around the corners of my mouth. I felt hope for the future and a sense of calling with my writing. I think about my wonderful time at Cheekwood Gardens a few days ago, walking around: sunlight through bamboo, the lake, the mansion with the orchids, and the herb garden. There is joy and happiness even in the midst of darkness. There is hope even though things can be difficult, even with loss.
What does comfort look like? I think of a soft blanket, enveloping. Like a warm hug that conveys caring. Like sun rays beaming down, warming. What does it take to feel comforted? Are there times that comfort cannot be found, where pain is so overwhelming that “no balm can be found in Gilead”?
Today, in this moment, I feel comfort and joy firm and sure within. A bubbling fountain; a soft caress of breeze and sunlight twinkling through trees. I believe. I believe despite the darkness, despite grief over loss of loved ones, despite pain experienced. I believe in the path of joy. I picture it as this ethereal movement, incandescence swirling through the air and along the path, no matter what the actual path looks like, no matter how dark or treacherous.
Some might say that only a fool feels joyful and comforted in the face of terrible loss and grief. That a person is merely covering up grief with false cheerfulness and happiness. “Whistling in the dark.” Is my joy path merely a “whistling in the dark,” a delusion to keep me sedated? Is it important to allow grief to wash over like a flood, to experience daily the losses, to feel deeply the sorrows? Is an insistence of joy, a relentless pursuit of joy merely a Band-Aid or a drug to ease the pain? I don’t happen to think so. But some might.
For so many years, especially in my teen years, I drank deeply of the waters of depression, darkness, hatred toward life and myself. A steady diet. I just don’t want to live there anymore. I think we have a choice. I have a choice how I decorate the house of my being. And I choose to decorate it with joy, with vibrant colors, with music and sunlight. This picture is so different from the one 5-8 years ago, where I saw myself in a desolate garden with crumbling colonnades, dead tree branches, dead leaves rustling. Emptiness and death. A giant X slashed through me.
I have experienced change. I have learned to a greater degree to be aware, to acknowledge and accept what is, and to move forward positively instead of lingering in darkness and staying stuck. Life is constantly changing. “We never step in the same river twice.” Life is in a state of constant flux—kind of an oxymoron: CONSTANT FLUX. But it’s true. We live. We breathe. Each moment that passes can never be experienced again.
Today I feel gratitude. In this moment, I feel thankful for life. I am thankful for the sunshine entering my window, beaming upon my flowers and other plants, adding light and cheer to the room. I am grateful for the warmth, even if a bit too warm (70 degrees) on this Christmas day. I am grateful for health and for safety. I am grateful. Even though this Christmas looks like no other—no children at home today, and no opening gifts together in the morning for the first time ever since we’ve had kids—I am still grateful. I acknowledge and accept change. I open my heart to what is, to the possibility of greater love, greater joy, greater kindness, greater healing. I open my hands symbolically to receive and to give, to participate in the circle of humanity and the circle of life. I am aware of the past. I am aware of the future. Here I am, in this present moment. Here I am. Namaste.
Journal Entries
Thoughts from School (4/23/24)
Some days I can’t seem to gather the strength to lead with a firm hand when the kids get excited, on a roll about their own lives, distracted away from what they don’t want to be doing anyway, and me all jellyfish, not doing anything about it. Just focusing on helping one student at a time while the chaos rolls like waves about the classroom.
But some days, like today, I seem to gather some visceral fiber about myself. I speak up firmly, restore order to the classroom, and silence reigns—too loud for my students, too disconcerting and peaceful, so I turn on some jazz music. Then they complain about that, saying only old people listen to jazz, and I respond that maybe I am old.
In a different lifetime—to be honest, simply a different phase of this short life I’ve lived—I would have responded with judgment toward the kids that I currently teach. I would have found a space for them in my head—in my thinking and believing—but not a space for them in my heart.
But now, I live out the moments. I try to roll through like a skiff skirting rough waters and rocky shores. Do I allow them to touch my heart? Do I allow myself to learn, to be taught by them about life that is different from my own? How can I make room for their trauma and grief in the midst of my own burnt down homestead? The heart has experienced many fires, the burning down of what was held most sacred. There should be nothing left to burn. And yet, there is. And their ashes, their fires, their destruction heaped upon my own, barely recognizable through the boasting, the cursing, the laughter, the fighting. Through what feels like a lack of respect for life and for others. Some days the jesting, jostling, joking, boasting, the hankering for a fight all beat upon me like the punishing rain pounding as I rode behind Blaine on the motorcycle, or the ceaseless pounding of waves upon rocky shores. Some days I arrive at home so overloaded, water-logged from all the clamor of their lives dumped unceremoniously upon my ears, my mind, and my heart. Or maybe I’ve built a barrier tall enough that not much seeps into my heart. It’s just too hard—too difficult and my heart has hardened like a protective shell.
What would happen if I permitted my heart to crack wide open, like two halves of seashells that I find on the shore? Would my abode split wide and splinter with the beating of the surf? Is there anything wrong with protecting one’s abode, one’s sacred space?
There is pain. I feel it. Is pain only the result of listening to thoughts, as so many teachers are saying in the books that I read? Does pain serve no purpose? Is it best to deny pain, to ignore it, to “reinvent” it? Can it be both—of our own making, unnecessary, yet also created outside of us, a barometer, a teacher that can heal? I don’t know. I simply ask the question as tears blur my eyes and the pain in my heart expands.
AI is Too Much with Us (9/24/24
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This morning as I knelt on the grass to clip the edges where the lawn mower couldn’t reach, I was thinking about the Facebook post that I read last night, saying that AI should be used to do our laundry and cleaning (cooking, dishes, etc.) rather than our writing and art. I thought about that. I agree that we surrender a wonderful thing in seeking AI to create for us or instead of us doing the creating.
However, it occurred to me that maybe AI shouldn’t be used for dishes and mundane tasks either. To me, the mundane tasks give us “thought time” and time for discovery that deepens our art, that enlivens our creativity. While gardening or mowing the lawn, watering flowers, or trimming the edges of the grass, I have the potential to come up with great writing ideas. Thoughts flow as the hands work.
As I was trimming the grass, the phrase “AI is too much with us” came to my mind. I have always loved Wordsworth’s poem “The World is Too Much with Us.” I think my rendering might be an update of our now more modern world, yet really not all that different from Wordsworth’s world. Below, I will copy and paste Wordsworth’s poem. Then I will try to imitate it using the AI theme.
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​ The World is Too Much with Us
by William Wordsworth
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The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
And now I will attempt to alter this poem. (I don’t know about this! I could be more challenging than I think. I might start it and not finish.)
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AI is Too Much with Us
by Wilma Lefler​
AI is too much with us, late and soon
Sitting and watching, we lay waste our power
Hooked to our phones, we wile away hours
We have given our minds away, become buffoons
Asking AI to complete our work until soon
The joy of creating and thinking sours
We rely on AI, grand superpower
For this, for everything we are out of tune
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
An ancient scholar with hands stained and worn
From writing on parchment diligently
Watch children reading books creased and torn
See adults creating, working ceaselessly
Secure in their own prowess yet unshorn.
Quiescence (12/8/24)
Quiescence: a state of quietness, stillness, tranquility; a period of inactivity, rest, or calmness characterized by peaceful or scenic atmosphere.
Quiescence, to me signifies the quintessence of life. Well, maybe not always. I do enjoy activity and feeling as though I have accomplished something. But quiescence is at least the “yin” of life, at least half of the quintessence.
I would like to move more toward a state of quiescence. It’s fine to say that is what I desire and long for. It is another thing to live within that state of being, to settle firmly and deeply into it. What does it take, what would it look like to live in quiescence?
I catch glimpses as I think of my cruise along the Rhine River. As I sat and watched the river flowing by, noticing the changing colors on its surface, reflecting the conditions of the sky. Even as I walked along the hiking trail on the bluff opposite from Heidelberg, and as I trekked the Black Forest, I experienced an inward stillness. As I looked out the bus window and gazed at green cornfields and tobacco fields.
How can I spend more of my moments in quiescence? I can be present here in the NOW. I can settle into inward peace as I walk, as I sit, as I bake. That is a form of quiescence to me. I can picture tranquil places in my mind as I practice yoga or as I am driving to work. Even as I write these words, I can allow the aura of quiescence to surround, feeling the beauty of places that I have visited…the Natchez Trace, the Pacific Ocean along the curving 101, orange groves, mountains in Colorado, golden aspen trees, full moon and stars in the middle of the dessert.
I can also create a quiescent vibe within our home. I can continue to transform space to make it so. Namaste.
Space Within the Walls--How They Dissolve (4/24/25)
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As I imagine the walls within, walls that have been built from childhood and walls that I have added along the way, I feel the heaviness within my gut, like a load of stones cutting off the flow.
And yet, recently hope has stirred anew. I stand in front of walls, right here, right now. I see them. I feel them. I sense their density. But I am the observer. I am not the one holding the walls. I am observing that my mind had created these monstrosities as acts of self-preservation against perceived threats.
Today I imagine compassion around these walls, around the whole totality of them. I imagine compassion seeping into the spaces between the atoms of each stone that is part of each wall. I imagine something that is larger than the walls themselves—the vast spaces between.
In the spaces between, anything can happen. In the spaces between, I notice porousness. I notice blue sky peaking through, red riotous flowers, sunshine.
These walls are only as solid as I allow them to be. And yet, I acknowledge that likely they will not all dissolve in one fell swoop. Likely I will have to return to this place of observing many times, over and over again. I will need to be still within myself. I will need to compassionately notice the density that has accumulated. I will need to imagine the spaces in between, knowing they exist.
In the spaces between, possibility breathes, proliferates, germinates, and multiplies. Anything is possible in the spaces between. Can I figure out how to live and breathe in these spaces in between? Can I allow my intuition, curiosity, and creativity to freely flow in these spaces between? Can I trust that I am able to walk through walls, dissolving their density, to places of greater freedom on the other side? I hope so. I can at least stand here today and imagine it so. I can trust. I can believe.