Winter Meditation

My house is the opposite of serene lately, but I'm still trying to find some meditational space. We're getting new carpets in half the house, after which, we want to put said house on the market, so we've been doing some deep cleaning, organizing, and--the most cathartic--getting rid of sh#*. We've taken two trunkfulls of old paper and cardboard to the recycling center, and have a living room full of stuff to sell in a garage sale, and if it doesn't sell, cart to goodwill. We're finally not holding on to random nicknacks or old school folders, only keeping the really meaningful things, and chunking the rest. Lightening the load feels excellent, makes me feel like we're ready for fresh beginnings, for change.

I'm in mid-process of change too, trying not to figure out what I want, but how to want what I should want. I want love and compassion to grow in me organically, not trying any more to force myself to feel something, which only produces guilt and bad feelings. So I'm trying out meditation again, or as Natalie Goldberg describes, getting to know one's own wild mind.

I love the trees in winter, and winter as a whole in Texas. It feels clean, fresh. I know those are adjectives usually reserved for spring, but winter in Texas is a whole other animal. The grasses turn golden in the hills, like fields of wheat, and when the wind blows, they move like an ocean. It's quiet, serene. I want to let it soak into me, to live in my expanding chest. It's beauty, and it is very good.