(Written a week ago)
It’s been two weeks, and I’m still recovering from the sudden loss of a dear friend. He was the closest example of a holy person I’ve ever known. I wish I had told him of my great admiration for him, but he would have laughed and said, “You’re stupid.” I miss his laugh.
While regret is futile, I can’t help but wish I had been more mindful in each moment with him. I aspire to be more mindful in my interactions with all, moving forward. Listen more closely. Be more still and feel the connection.
As social human animals, relationships matter. How we connect ourselves with others is a guide to connecting with our own Supreme Being. The Yamas (the first of the eight limbs of yoga, as developed thousands of years ago by Patanjali in The Yoga Sutras) give clear instructions on how to connect with others: kindness, honesty, not stealing (energetically or otherwise, from our own selves and from others), moderation, and generosity (energetically or otherwise, to our own selves and to others). But I digress.
This morning while I was journaling, I asked Wisdom to help me during this time of sadness, and always. The right hand wrote, “Every moment is a chance to practice quiet. A new opportunity.” I looked up and around, and the tiny rainbows spread across the walls, ceiling, and floor. (I have clear beads hanging in the window, and the rainbows seem to present themselves with lovely synchronicity.) Then, just as quickly and before my eyes, they dissipated. It’s as if the little rainbows emphasized the point.
I know that’s the best message for me: Practice Quiet. It is the practice of this moment because quiet roots me here. Now. With awareness. And it is the practice of connecting openly with the people that enter my personal realm, here, now, and with awareness.
For all the rational realization that this life could end immediately, the loss of such a person in such a dramatic way emphasizes the point.
While I was journaling, I felt a pressure to hurry, to get going with the day’s agenda. The process of sitting and writing and forcing myself to slow and quiet and return to the moment wasn’t easy. I wanted noise, I wanted distraction, I wanted movement. But I needed quiet. I needed stillness.
I needed to be there in this sweet and only moment, and now I need to be here in this sweet and only moment. This is when life happens. And it happens with more ease and more meaning when I live it one little delicious dollop at a time.
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