This afternoon, after doing a bit of work and making pesto from basil in the garden, I was washing up at the kitchen sink when a wave of anxiety hit. I felt myself brace at the familiar, unpleasant feeling.
My friend Debbie Ford passed away last week after a long battle with cancer. I still can’t fathom the idea that I’ll never hear her voice, enjoy lounging on a hotel bed like schoolgirls conspiring to balance work and play, or watch her deliver a wise and wild talk on stage. The world won’t be the same without her sweet presence.
After my dad died last November, I made a deeper commitment to my own health. Watching him go in and out of hospitals treated by well-intentioned, yet overburdened caregivers, made me vow to do whatever I could to stay out of that system.
There are some days when I feel like a fraud. I catch myself teaching one thing and practicing another. I forget what I know to be true, get scared or knocked off track, and fall into old habits that don't work.
Last week my sister Kerri invited me to attend a lecture at a local library called, “ It’s Not About The Hike.“ Pat and Nancy, gals in their 50?s, started walking on their neighborhood sidewalks and eventually ended up climbing the 100 highest mountains in New England.
“We must be completely present for what we are doing, without sacrificing or rushing what’s in front of us in order to get to ‘more important’ stuff later. No matter how mundane the activity, treat everything as important and take pleasure in it.