It was a busy summer developing a lot of content, delivering a lot of programs, and burning the midnight oil, night after night. To get a full night’s sleep, I bought some light-blocking curtains for my bedroom windows and slept in, morning after morning.
It also was a hot summer and a menopausal summer, and sometimes sleeping in caused me to miss the fleeting window of cool, morning air most suitable for outdoor exercise. I didn’t feel good about missing sunrises and exercise opportunities. It felt like I was in a rut.
As soon as I got through a particularly busy stretch of presenting up to seven programs a week, I went to Marblehead to visit my friend, Michaela.
When I’m on the coast, my schedule is built around sunrises, sunsets, and tides. To plan for photography and exercise, I consult the local tide chart, The Photographer’s Ephemeris app, and my weather app, in that order. Walking on the beaches in Marblehead is more tide-dependent than some other beaches. At high tide, my favorite Marblehead beach is completely under water.
It’s wonderful when low tide is synchronized with the sunrise, although it’s not always the case. Regardless of the tide status, I get up religiously at the crack of dawn to witness the sun appear over the ocean. In the summer, that means getting to the beach by 5:00 or 5:30 (or even earlier).
In Marblehead, one thing you can bet on is that you won’t be alone outdoors, even that early in the morning. It’s a thickly settled community, and a multitude of people of all ages are out bright and early jogging or walking, often with their dogs. I refer to them as the “dawn patrol”.
There are many more people outdoors exercising in Marblehead than I encounter back home, and it’s truly inspiring. It’s a way of life.
My second morning there, I intended to experience rather than photograph the sunrise. The tide was too high to get a decent walk on the beach, and the day promised to be hot. So instead of waiting for the tide to recede after savoring the sunrise, I headed to the causeway behind the beach. Back Beach is at the other end of the causeway. From there, the Boston skyline is visible in the distance. In the past when atmospheric conditions were right, I’ve enjoyed photographing it with my long telephoto lens. This morning, however, I relished the idea of traveling lightly.
I started walking on the causeway, wondering what the image-of-the-day would be. Every day, it’s something different, and I believe the image I’m most drawn to is a messenger that reveals something I am ready or need to know. Often it’s something I’ve passed by many times before without noticing, and then, all of a sudden, it jumps out and commands my attention.
I hadn’t walked far on the causeway before an inner voice I’ve learned to follow urged me to turn around, go back to my car, and get the big lens. I’m really glad I did because as I walked toward my car, my attention was drawn to an image in the distance that looked like a woman walking on the beach wearing some kind of black and red, flowing garment. My curiosity was piqued.
As I got closer, I saw the woman was dancing with red silks on the beach. Everyone else was walking or jogging, and she was dancing her way down the beach with red silks flowing in the ocean breeze. She was a vision of joy and beauty. I love to photograph women “interbeing” with nature and couldn’t resist taking a few pictures of her from a distance, with my long lens. She filled my heart with joy. I wanted to tell her she was the most beautiful sight on the beach (and wondered if she had any idea she was), but I didn’t want to interrupt her as she danced.
So I watched her for a while, feeling greatly inspired. Then I walked along the causeway, as intended. While walking, autumn leaves appeared on the movie screen of my mind, twirling and dancing gracefully to the ground. They were in contrast to leaves that darted down, reaching the ground as quickly as possible.
Yes! I want to be a leaf that dances the whole way down! I want to embody and radiate joyful, inspiring energy, like her. But there I was walking on the concrete with many others who seemed focused on getting from point A to point B as efficiently as possible, to check off the exercise box for the day. There also were some pairs engaged in lively conversation as they walked, which made me wish for a friend to walk with back home. But those who were alone seemed pretty focused on moving along in that driven, New England way.
Back Beach is a small, sheltered area with lots of tall rock formations and no parking area. When I arrived there, I didn’t see anyone else around. And I felt like dancing.
So I allowed my body to move however it wanted to, in concert with the waves breaking on the shore. I felt too vulnerable to dance out in the open, front and center, like the woman with the red silks. But it was a start. And it felt amazing. Liberating. Connecting.
Afterward, I sat on the rocks for a little while, savoring the sights, sounds, smells, and sensations of the seashore (as my camera silently recorded video). Then I made my way back to the main beach. But this time, I skipped the causeway and walked on the rocks instead. I couldn’t go as fast, but it allowed me to stay close to the water, which was more fulfilling.
The dancing woman helped me to realize that when the tide is high, there are other alternatives to walking or jogging on the causeway with everyone else. You can dance your way down the beach even if the tide is not low enough to walk on a smooth, sandy beach. There’s still enough space to dance. When you dance through life, you don’t have to cover so much ground or go so far. What matters is the quality of being you bring to each step.
When I got back to the main beach, I didn’t see the dancing woman anywhere. I wished I could express my gratitude and share the pictures with her and was determined to find a way to do so.
The next morning, I again got up at the crack of dawn and headed to a new spot Michaela had introduced me to during our evening walk, to witness and photograph the sunrise. The tide was still too high to really walk on the beach, and I considered postponing my walk. But then I noticed the dawn patrol out and about getting their steps in and decided to return to the beach I was at the previous morning.
I pulled into the parking lot and immediately saw red silks at the edge of the water. It looked like she was just getting ready to dance. So I ran up to her and showed her a picture I took of her the previous morning and asked if I could send it to her. We ended up talking for about 10 minutes, and I told her how much she inspired me the previous morning and that I danced on the beach totally because of her. I told her she awakened joy in me, which I then radiated to others throughout the day.
She told me a little about herself (holistic nurse, drawn to meditation and yoga, originally from Estonia). She spoke of wanting to start a ripple of joy, and dancing on the beach was part of that. Her eyes were shining, her energy was radiant, and she seemed to be about my age. A kindred spirit for sure. We exchanged contact info and decided to keep in touch.
While she danced that morning, I took some more pictures of her as part of the ocean landscape, and sent them to her after I got back home. She said they put tears in her eyes.
Being in Marblehead was inspiring in many ways. It was great to spend time with Michaela, for whom I usually cat-sit. (Mr. Butters is the coolest cat ever!) Seeing so many people of all ages exercising outdoors renewed my commitment to prioritize exercise. And witnessing the ocean sunrises inspired me to question why I’m so gung-ho on getting up early when I’m on the coast but not when I’m back at home on the river. Seeing the woman dancing on the beach reminded me that we get to choose how we move through life and inspired me to do so with more joy and creativity.
So I made some changes when I got home. Every single morning since returning from Marblehead, I’ve gotten up to experience the sunrise. And not only that, but I have started a year-long project of photographing every possible sunrise (except when I’m not home or cloud cover is too thick to see the sun), from the exact same perspective. I envision showing how no two river sunrises are alike, and how the position of the sunrise in the sky shifts across the river and back throughout the course of a year.
Every morning while waiting to take the sunrise picture, I set an intention for the day and practice being present as fully as possible. It’s an incredible way to start the day. And then I think of the Marblehead dawn patrol, put on my sneakers, and head outdoors.
I often recall my kindred spirit dancing on the beach, and the image of her inspires me every time, all over again. So far, I’ve done yoga on the riverside and walked the labyrinth barefoot. I also want to dance on the riverside and have a number of spots in mind. And it occurred to me this morning that although it is deeply enriching to imagine kissing the earth with every footstep when I walk the labyrinth, I might try skipping or dancing the labyrinth or playing an instrument as I walk. Or bringing instruments to the riverside and making music with the river.
Because we get to choose how we move through this world. There are a lot of variables that are out of our control, but that is something we can choose.
I love to think of others who dance or make music or art with streams and rivers and oceans and that some of them are doing it at the same time or in the same spirit as me, and we are co-creating with the more-than-human world and starting ripples of joy together.
When I walk on a trail along the river (or any other trail, for that matter), I remind myself not to experience myself walking through the landscape but to feel connected with it, with every step. I want to notice and connect with what’s around me instead of being like an arrow or dart zooming through the air, focused on a destination or checkbox.
When I think of my new acquaintance dancing on the beach, her joyful energy reaches me through space and time and puts more of a spring in my step and a smile on my face and in my heart. I’m so grateful I ended up on the beach when she was there, to be so inspired. And I believe it was no accident. That inner voice never leads me astray.
It took a few days of catching up on sleep, unpacking, and tending to what needed immediate attention, but I finally landed back home after my first trip to the Outer Banks, North Carolina.
Every morning while walking on the beach, I nearly leapt out of my skin because I was so delighted to be there. And yet, I came very close to cancelling the trip—which, in hindsight, seems ludicrous.
In the days preceding the trip, I went kayaking, hoping “river therapy” would help me to discern and follow what really felt like yes instead of the loudest voices clamoring for attention. Lots of fear and heavy, emotional stuff was being dredged up, and it felt like I was inside a pressure cooker. I attributed much of it to eclipse energy and had to use nearly every tool in my toolbox to deal with it. To borrow a term from Eckhart Tolle, my emotional pain body had become activated and was having a feast!
I took mindful breathing breaks every 20 minutes throughout the day and practiced mindfulness meditation both on and off the cushion. Listened to sleep stories on the Calm app and did guided yoga nidra meditations to get to sleep and return to sleep every night. I did RAIN meditation, self-Reiki, and listened to lots of sound baths. Got outside and exercised.
Part of the problem was the energy at home. I wasn’t sure everyone would be okay if I went. If a volcano erupted while I was away, getting back home wouldn’t be easy. The nearest airport was two hours away, and there were no non-stop flights. And what if I got Covid during my travels? Then what? I didn’t want to be on a plane exposing others.
If you put everything together, the predominant emotional flavors were fear and powerlessness: energies I did not want in the driver’s seat. I longed to vacation with Kim and Jodi, two of my very dearest friends. We live in different states, and it would be the first time the three of us would be together since Jodi’s wedding at least 30 years ago. I wanted to say yes to that.
A Sign on the River
Less than 24 hours before my flight was scheduled to take off, I went on the river and asked for some kind of sign. I hoped the more-than-human world would reveal something relevant and insightful.
I watched two ducks fly away from a spot up ahead where a group of ducks were gathered. Keeping a respectful distance, I paddled by. Once I had passed the ducks, I felt compelled to turn around and take a picture. There was something peculiar about those ducks.
Again, I kept a respectful distance and snapped a picture. After I got past them, I looked at the image on my phone screen. The sun was very bright, and the image was small, but I enlarged it enough to notice one of the ducks was caught in netting. The others were gathered around, silent.
I felt tremendous empathy and started crying. Wondering if I or anyone else could do something to help, I posted the picture in a community group on social media. Someone expressed caring. Another person gave me a phone number for wildlife conservation.
Then someone pointed out that the ducks were plastic. Decoys. Which I couldn’t tell from the distance I kept from them or from the tiny picture on my phone screen. They must have floated down the river still partially in their original packaging and gotten caught on the branches of a fallen tree.
I was so caught up in the intense, raw emotions moving through me regarding family dynamics and my upcoming trip that I couldn’t see clearly. I was crying over something that wasn’t even real. A decoy.
Then I realized that was the answer I sought. The picture I took of the decoy ducks was my image of the day, which was like pulling an oracle card from the deck of the universe. A duck decoy is used to lure ducks into danger, to trick or confuse. So perhaps the guidance was not to put so much faith in my emotions for now. Don’t let them guide me.
I got sucked in emotionally by a lure! My suffering came from not being able to see clearly and believing in an illusion that wasn’t real. Being so emotionally raw made me more vulnerable and impressionable.
Change of Heart
Ten hours before my 6 AM flight would depart, I still was almost certain I wouldn’t go. I had talked with both of my friends, and they said they hoped to see me but would support whatever I decided. Kim already had stopped at the grocery store to stock up on frozen vegetarian meals for me.
When my son found me in the living room not getting ready for my trip, he gave me an eleventh hour pep talk. He assured me everything would be fine at home and painted a picture of me enjoying the company of dear friends. Watching the moon rise on the beach. Walking on the beach. And on and on. As he spoke, I imagined myself there and resumed the packing effort I had abandoned the previous day. I had to wake up at 2:30 AM to leave for the airport by 3:00, and he would drive me.
Before going to bed (a few hours before I had to get up), I felt confident everyone would be okay at home. I longed to be with my friends, at the ocean, when the moon was full. To say yes to the beautiful, generous invitation from Kim and her husband. Mary Oliver’s poem “The Journey” had come to mind more than once that day.
I dreaded the whole airport scene, the disruption of my sleep schedule, and all of the driving involved. I hoped people wouldn’t be rude to one another based on whether or not they were wearing a mask. The brain’s negativity bias kept my expectations for civility low.
However, everyone was really chill. And kind and friendly. There were zero issues at the airports or on any of my flights. Nobody displayed an attitude. Some people wore masks, and some didn’t. And it was okay. On one of my flights, someone noticed a tiny earbud on the floor next to the aisle, and people were determined to find the person who had dropped it. Once that person was found, she was so grateful and said she’d been looking everywhere for it. There were smiles and sighs of relief when the earbud was returned to its owner. My airport and flight experiences raised my faith in humanity a notch. I sat across the aisle from people who wanted to help and set in motion a wave of caring.
Neuropsychologist, Rick Hanson, explains our brain’s negativity bias is like velcro for the “bad” and threatening and like teflon for the “good”. It’s a brain mechanism that helped to keep our ancient ancestors safe from the very real threat of being eaten by predators. However, it doesn’t serve so well now. World news can leave us feeling the world is a very dangerous place, and we must always be on-guard. Sometimes dangerous situations and people do make their way into our orbit. However, it’s useful to remember and experience that there are many kind and helpful people in the world, despite the newsworthy anomalies. The vast majority of flights won’t be marred by argumentative people and outbursts, although the outbursts draw media attention.
Experiencing positive energy en route corrected some of my exaggerated narratives about “people these days”. But of course there was much, much more that made the trip worthwhile.
Waking up at 2:30 AM was worth it. (You just do it.) Spending time with Kim and her family and Jodi and her husband was worth it a hundred times over. Being at the ocean is always worth it. So was getting a change of scenery and a little distance from the drama back home. Great weather every day was the icing on the cake.
When Kim and her husband met me at the airport, she told me she knew all along I’d end up coming.
I stood on the beach that first evening and photographed the eclipse moon rising over the ocean at high tide. Then I walked about 30 steps back to the beach house and sat on the top floor with Kim, looking out at the moon rising and shining a path of light on the water. It was exactly as my son had described, and I felt so grateful to be there.
Every morning, my alarm was set for 5:40 so I could witness and photograph the sunrise. Then I took a long walk on the endless beach. (One morning, I walked more than 18,000 steps to a wild horse beach!) My favorite time to be on any beach is at sunrise. I’m much more of an early morning air beach-walker than a hot sun, mid-day beach-sitter. However, I did walk and sit on the beach with Kim and Jodi in the afternoon with a very happy heart.
The timing was perfect. A week prior, a huge storm blew through the Outer Banks and wreaked havoc (similar to the storm that kicked up at home, it now occurs to me). The storm passed, and it was safe to travel. We were there just before the official beginning of summer tourist season, when it was still relatively quiet and uncrowded.
My daily gratitudes included:
Listening to the rhythm of the waves
Breathing in the ocean air
Spending time with Jodi and Kim
Being able to work remotely
Ocean sunrises and the cooler, morning air
Being fascinated by the various forms of sea life that washed up on the beach
Only having to walk about 20 steps from the door of my bedroom suite to the beach
It was a deeply nourishing experience, on many levels. Stretching out of my comfort zone and traveling for the first time since Covid began felt liberating. Vacationing with girlfriends was a wonderful experience I hope to repeat. Beach therapy was greatly appreciated and restorative.
On Calm, there is a sleep story, The Beauty of the Outer Banks, written by Candace Rardon. I’ve listened to it—or rather, tried to listen to it—at least a few dozen times but always fall asleep at some point. Out of curiosity one morning after returning home, I skipped ahead to see how it ends.
“In such a place as this, where the natural world quietly undergoes such perpetual change, you can find the peace to weather the seasons of your own life. To surrender to the winds, to be shaped by the tides, and to let every invisible current carry you to new and undiscovered lands.”
This (plus being with friends) sums up what I experienced at the Outer Banks. I returned home feeling different than before I left. More adventurous and liberated from fear. Refreshed. Renewed. The decision to go on the trip fed my strong self. I’m grateful for the friends I spent time with there and for the friends who encouraged me to go and experience a place they knew I would love once the storms subsided.
I’m so glad I said yes to my heart’s expansive, innermost desire instead of the constricting, convincing fears that would keep me small. The travel was fine. People were pleasant. Our house is still standing, and the energy has improved. Once again, I learned not to put blind faith in worry, anxiety, and fear or to expect the worst from people. In this moment, all is well. I am fine.
And in this moment, too.
It’s okay if you lose the present moment—if you get caught up in the real or perceived fear and drama of the human world. Simply find it again. When you find it, you’ll be able to see more clearly and respond with greater wisdom to whatever storms arise.
If I ever try to convince myself that the process of traveling is too much of a hassle to justify going somewhere spectacular to be with people who mean a lot to my heart, please remind me not to believe those self-limiting thoughts. Sure, take some time to acknowledge and process whatever emotions are coming up. But don’t be derailed by the pain-body and its flying-monkey thoughts! Spending time with people and in places that resource our lives helps us to put better energy into the world. Anything we can do to channel more light and goodness into the world is absolutely worthwhile.
To see some of the nature videos I made while vacationing in the Outer Banks, check out my Vimeo channel.
All of these images are available for purchase, and some will be included in my Saratoga Arts photography exhibition, Seaside, running from June 28-July 28, 2022 at the Clifton Park-Halfmoon Public Library upstairs gallery.
Last week, I spent a morning at the park with my six-year-old granddaughter who loves to explore nature. When we make a list of what we’ll do when we’re together, her first choice is always to take a walk at a park and go exploring.
This time, she was especially interested in sampling the mineral springs and interacting with the ducks. But I also drew her attention to the stump of an old willow tree that had new life growing from it. I’ve been observing the “baby willow” for the past year. (Or maybe two years? Seems I always have to add an extra year due to the Covid time warp.)
When we got up close to the tree stump, we were surprised to find a female duck waddling inside of it. Then we realized she was there because she had a nest tucked away inside a nook!
I photographed the nest quickly and respectfully then moved along, to give her privacy. My granddaughter already was off and running in the direction of more ducks to quack with.
It didn’t seem like the willow stump treasures made much of an impression on her. But it wasn’t long before she made a new friend, who was sitting with his mom at the edge of the pond also observing the ducks. When they went off exploring together, the first thing she wanted to show him was the willow stump secrets.
The mama duck wasn’t there when they returned, so they went inside the trunk for a closer look as the boy’s mom and I tried to catch up to them. From my vantage point, they seemed to be steeped in a moment of awe and wonder.
It’s funny: I won’t run to the grocery store to fetch a missing ingredient, and I tend not to head into town to run just a single errand. This is one of the ways in which my life has changed since the pandemic began. I keep a running list of errands, groceries, etc. and try to check them off in as few trips as possible.
It’s an opportunity to practice patience, improvisation, and creativity. It’s a little game I play, and I play it because I find it worthwhile. Plus, it’s good for the planet to limit the amount of driving I do.
However, if I wake up inspired with a photography idea, it’s a whole different story. Off I go, whether or not any errands can be tacked on.
That’s exactly what happened after looking through the images I took at the park when I was with my granddaughter. The composition of one in particular felt a little off. It would have had greater depth, context, and meaning had I shifted my lens a little higher.
Before I knew it, I was back at the park with camera and three lenses in tow. After recomposing the image I went there for, I lingered for a while, experimenting with “seeing and being”. Zooming in and out. Being still and planted like a tree, taking in the landscape visually, emotionally, and artistically.
I returned to the willow stump and discovered a second nest of eggs inside another nook—with a mama duck sitting on them!
It was a beautiful, Sunday (May Day) morning, and the park was fairly busy. That meant I had to wait for people to move out of my camera frame when I couldn’t hide them behind trees. Such moments are great opportunities to practice mindfulness and patience. (When you have a mindfulness practice, moments of waiting take on new possibilities.)
I watched many people stop to take a closer look at the huge willow stump and the baby willow growing from it, without ever noticing the camouflaged secrets nestled inside.
Observing & Reflecting
I also waited to make some wider landscape images and ended up waiting for quite some time for the wider space to clear. While waiting, I observed families with young children enjoying the park together and remembered when I was raising my children. Back then, I was almost never alone. I often had one in the backpack and the other in the stroller. My children and I were together 24/7. It felt like that’s how life would always be. I had a poem on the refrigerator reminding me that there would be time later for what I wasn’t able to do while immersed in the important work of mothering young children.
That time arrived eventually. I pursued interests and career paths, always learning and growing…and with a lot more time to myself. And so there I was a couple decades later, standing alone with my camera in the park on a picture-perfect May Day morning.
I couldn’t help but wonder how the young children running around chasing the ducks would grow up. What would their lives be like? What challenges would these families encounter?
There was one little girl and her dad who stayed within my frame for a long time because the little girl was so fascinated by the ducks. She chased them, and after they moved away from her, she ran around a tree instead. Then she explored every square foot of earth, or so it seemed from where I stood. The little girl had a lot of energy. Her dad allowed her to explore while hanging back yet remaining present. I enjoyed watching their body language and considered composing a picture in which his caring posture was part of the landscape, but it felt voyeuristic. The mom was ahead of them pushing an empty stroller with a slightly older, less energetic child at her side. It seemed the dad was on daughter duty, giving the mom a bit of a break.
I imagined that two days prior, my granddaughter and I had looked much like this father and daughter, only older. But the same basic idea.
As I observed the dad and daughter from across the stream, a male duck waddled into the willow stump, as if to check on the mama duck and make sure everything was okay. A few minutes later, he waddled back out and into the adjacent stream where a few colorful, male ducks cleverly drew people’s attention away from the willow stump. I presumed he was the daddy duck.
Interestingly, when I looked at my images later, I zoomed way in and noticed the word “mate” right there in the nest. I hadn’t noticed it at the time, for I was too far away. It appeared to be part of a longer word that was folded, with “mate” being the only part visible. I became fascinated and intrigued by this image—which I thought of as Mother Nature’s oracle card for the day.
All week, I was drawn like a magnet to my images of these duck mamas-to-be. A number of situations arose that were out of my control, in my personal life and in the world, and I felt vulnerable. For example, I received a massive car repair bill and wondered if I was being taken advantage of. I listed some items for sale on Marketplace and encountered stealthy scammers whom fortunately I was a step ahead of. My bank had to send me a new debit card because my card somehow had been compromised. Stuff like that. Family stuff.
One of the messages I receive from the mama duck images is that caring is a quiet and often unnoticed, but ever-present and natural force in the world. It’s not loud and showy like those who seek personal gain through taking advantage of, controlling, manipulating, putting down, and objectifying others for whatever reason.
Be wise and discerning. And don’t give up hope, for caring abounds in this world, even now. It just doesn’t tend to draw attention to itself or make headlines, for that’s not what it seeks. Caring always finds a way.
I also saw the duck mamas-to-be doing their best to create a nest of safety and caring in a bustling, unpredictable environment.
Despite our deepest intentions, we can’t always keep our children safe. We can’t transfer our experience and wisdom to them. We can’t direct the course of their life or prevent them from suffering. That’s not our responsibility, it’s not the point, and we only suffer more when we try. But we always can care and be there for them. We can listen deeply without sharing our unsolicited advice, opinions, or concerns—or at least that’s what I’m practicing right now.
My experience of motherhood has not been anything like I imagined and envisioned it would be when I was pregnant with my first child. At times, it’s been pretty brutal, and I swear I signed up for the accelerated learning plan here on Schoolroom Earth! It’s certainly been a path of deep compassion, humility, and surrender. My children have been and continue to be my greatest teachers.
The space between our expectations/desires and reality is a breeding ground for suffering. Thank goodness for my meditation practice and time spent in nature, is all I can say! They help me to let go of the stories of what life is/isn’t or should/shouldn’t be and find balance and inner spaciousness, many times a day when challenges arise.
So there I was alone at the park with my camera, waiting for the scene to be people-free, watching children chasing ducks and interacting with their families. Feeling my feet on the ground, feeling into my body, aware of my breathing, receiving impressions of the environment through my senses, and feeling connected with the life around me. Wondering what these young families will go through as the children grow up and what challenges they face now.
Realizing many other families have had or will have similar experiences—that my experience isn’t unique—has grown my compassion tremendously. There is so much I would have passed judgment on prior to experiencing what I have in this messy, human life.
I don’t normally spend time in nature with my camera in busy places. However, that Sunday morning visit to the park presented a whole new invitation beyond practicing mindfulness and patience in those moments of waiting. It was an opportunity to practice lovingkindness, as well.
Lovingkindness, or metta, is a practice of wishing others well and cultivating caring. All of the people and families who passed through my camera frame were opportunities to send more lovingkindness into the world. Humankind is struggling now, and I silently wished the passersby:
May you be well.
May you be kind to each other.
May you enjoy this beautiful day.
May you live with ease.
May you be free from suffering.
May you know that you are loved.
Generating lovingkindness made the waiting times much more enjoyable. By the time I left the park, I felt more connected to all the life around me. Not just the ducks.