HE NEEDED A MENTAL HEALTH DAY

He needed a mental health day. I agreed to let my seven-year-old son stay home from school even though we are well into the grand December count-down and I have a million things to do. As we drove back home, I gritted my teeth and kissed the day goodbye, surrendering all hope of getting any Work done for the day. My Day, my Work! I had an important day planned of home and holiday chores, quiet reflective discovery and creative productivity. Besides, I was tired too. I needed a mental health day too–alone.

As we arrived home I had no expectations for the day and we quietly moved into activity. We folded the clothes of the people we love best, laughing at the funny gestures we saw in the shirts and pants, and delighting in the neat stacks of seashell colors. We sang goofy lyrics to holiday songs. We googled the height of Niagara Falls, then compared it to the height of other waterfalls we know.

Preparing vegetables for a soup, I had the peculiar sense that I had never really felt zucchini before. It had such a solid hollowness, that strange squashness. I delighted in the subtle onion pattern of clear curve and clear’s shadow, and the deflated wilted net of the tomato, a wet orangey-red. Each vegetable had its own unique signature feeling, and each way of my sensing it contributed to feeling the many facets of its essence. Each one was to be a part of our soup creation and of our bodies. I felt so grateful! Being completely immersed in the seeing and the feeling, I reminded myself to tune into the smells and sounds. As I did so, the sensations all became fuller and richer; crystal sharp and lush. I remember this kind of cooking. This is heaven!

After lunch, as we fell into a cool, forgiving nap I listened to him breathe as he patted my arm with his dusty boy hands. I sank into a deep sleep, flying through cities in my dreams and having a deep satisfying conversation with my old friend while our legs dangled out of a high-rise window.

Later my son was intently working on a drawing project, taking his time and enjoying the laying of color on the paper, immersed in his vision as it was coming to him. After a half hour, he remembered to criticize his work and say that it wasn’t as good as the spiral I had drawn for him a few days earlier. I was astonished. To my eyes it was gorgeous and unique, among the most beautiful nautilus shapes ever. He had been loving the colors and strokes and experimenting with combining them, loving the dense, rich saturated color as he layered colored pencil over oil pastel as he had seen me demonstrate earlier.

But he had, in his opinion, just rendered a poor copy of my work. How could this be his view? I commented that in his attentive care and passion, he had created something that was all his own and had imbued the drawing with a little of himself. Hadn’t it felt wonderful to sit and create that drawing?

It was at that moment I realized I was doing it again. I was talking to myself. And I wondered why I didn’t listen to myself when I’m saying these really wise and beautiful things to my children. I so often trudge through the day as a recovering muggle – feeling I must do something new, something important – and ignore all of the brilliant things I know right now. Then I catch myself streaming something really magical: a lyrical dream of freedom and connectedness; chopping vegetables with sensual joy; listening to my wise voice speaking with my son.

This wakefulness in the Now moment is pleasure itself. Despite all dashed hopes for a productive day of Work, I found myself connected, intuitively aware and surprisingly productive. Mindfulness, paradoxically, quiets the thinking mind. It is the means and it is the end. It is the doorway. Even if you’re going nowhere, it is exquisite to just be in the doorway.

Lisa Morris is a landscape architect, shamanic healer, land whisperer, and mother of two cool sons. Through her ongoing studies of Katasee, an ancient Peruvian shamanic tradition, Lisa helps others reclaim awareness and cooperation with the wise voices of the Earth.

Lisa’s email is: lymorris@rcn.com

View More Eco Being Items