Day 74: Back, one fewer

We flew home yesterday, Rick and I, one person fewer than we started with.  We had a great time at orientation, and exploring Seattle a bit while making sure that Kiv had everything she needs to get started with the quarter.  Having time to make the transition helps - first we're all in one hotel room, then she's in her dorm but we're still seeing each other, then off we go.  It's the moment the plane takes off that kind of gets me - this is how far away she is.  This is how long it would take me to get to her if something were to happen. 

At the same time, though, is the feeling of - this is the place where she gets to take her first steps into independent adulthood. This is the place that will nurture her learning, and the growth of her self.  This will become her place, where she is the knower, the insider.  This is her launching pad.

And check out the excitement - it doesn't get better than that.

Day 20: A place to sit

My view for today's meditation:

When I can, I prefer to sit outside.  And there is truly nothing better than sitting near the ocean.  Add in a lovely, quiet, bluff-top garden, and I'm in heaven.  Today is my dear friend's birthday, and she decided that her celebration should start with some time in quiet beautiful contemplation, followed by lunch and a wander through shops, all with friends.  I think it ended up being as much a gift for us, as for her!

I hope your days had a bit of peace and quiet in them, too. Or raucous joy, whichever it is that you most need today.  I confess to being rather ecumenical about sources of joy, contentment, and peace.

Day 8: Connecting

On the way to an appointment this afternoon, driving along the Coast Highway with the top down, I got a call saying that they were running about 15 minutes late.  As it was, I was going to be early.  So I pulled off, got out of the car, and sat myself down on a flat spot to watch the ocean for a while.  It's a perfect day - clear, 80, onshore breeze.  And I just sat, enjoying the sun, and the breeze, and the expanse of the ocean in front of me.

There are ground squirrels everywhere in the bluffs that overlook the coast - they run around and play and chitter at one another.  There came a point when I looked over to my left and saw, sitting there just quietly, a ground squirrel. She was up on her hind legs, front paws resting on her belly, gazing out at the ocean, completely at peace.

I was moved by such a heartfelt sense of deep connection - there we were, two busy beings, taking a moment out of our days to regard beauty, to sit quietly with the world.

Before I left, I bowed to her presence, which so enriched my own.

Day 5: Twenty-five years

Twenty-five years ago today, we had a party to celebrate and to say in front of everyone all the things that we already knew about each other and our relationship.

 (All photos of photographs; who knows where the negatives now are?)

Twenty-five years later, and there are still so many things to celebrate together.  My life is so much richer and happier because of this man and our relationship.  Love you, babe.

(Credit for this last one: GerrBear Photography)

Day 2: Continuing joy in things

AKA: Is it so bad that things can make me happy?
AKA: The hedonic treadmill isn't always a thing.

Today was an errand-y sort of day.  But there came a point when I was able to put the top down on my little Beetle, and turn on the car trip playlist - one of my favorite top-down kind of songs came on, and I was driving down the coast highway looking at the ocean, and it was just perfect.  And I got to thinking - is it such a bad thing that my little convertible Beetle makes me so very happy?  And that got me to thinking - how is it that I continue to be made so very happy by my little car?  Psychological theory suggests that we tend to return to a relatively stable state of baseline happiness, regardless of major life events, positive or negative.  That theory is also often applied to the acquisition of things - we are very excited by them, and they make us very happy, until we sort of acclimate to the happy, and return to our baseline levels.  This is the hedonic treadmill, or hedonic adaptation.

I'm not going to say that that doesn't happen to me - there are certainly things that I have totally lusted after and dreamed about and wanted, that, after a while (or even pretty quickly), stop seeming so exceptionally excellent (there are several knitting projects, and yarn acquisitions, that I'm thinking of right here).

But it is also true that there are some things that I maintain a real, heart-expanding, sense of joy around.  And I'm trying to figure out what they have in common, or what it is that lets me have that deep sense of continuing joy.

A first-pass list:
- my stick-shift convertible Beetle TDI (all of that is relevant - more in a moment)
- Disco (a story for another day)
- my vision, after Lasik (fifteen years ago, maybe?)
- the fact that my leg doesn't have constant nerve pain any more
- the rugs that we got in Turkey
- my back patio (especially, but not limited to, the wisteria, jacaranda, and quiet morning coffee)

I think there's a lot more, and that list may be something I add to over time.  What I think a lot of those things have in common is that they come with a story, or a feeling-tone - and that doesn't diminish with time.  The Beetle is a case in point.  I often said to my husband, in a kind of "check out my silly dream" sort of way, that someday, when we could afford another car (read: after the girls were both out of college), I'd love to get a convertible Beetle.  Stick shift.  Diesel.  For various reasons (having to do with VW's need to buy back my husband's diesel Passat thanks to their nefarious machinations), the possibility of getting a car came sooner than I'd expected.  And then here's the thing: Rick made it happen.  He searched for, and found (in Michigan, no less), the ridiculous, impractical, fantastic, happy-making car that I now have.  (These are so hard to find that the guys at VW refer to it as a unicorn.)  And every time I put the top down, and drive along with the music playing and the wind in my face, it brings me joy.  Every.  Single.  Time.  In a year and a half, it hasn't gotten old.  And it's not just the wind in my face and the music, and the joy of the stick shift (I really love me a stick shift) - it's that all of that is also wrapped up in love.

And someday, that little car will stop working - as all things do.  And that's OK.  The joy part won't stop working, because the emotion behind it doesn't go away.