Meditation in Chipmunk

We’re neighbors, you and I. So what if I live inside, furnace turned up to 72 degrees so I can scuff my bare feet on the fluffy beige shag carpet while admiring my crimson-painted toenails and the last hint of this summer’s sandal strap tan, while you scurry across the cold wooden deck dodging crispy fallen leaves in a frenzied, focused scramble.

Back and forth, side to side. Stopping, pausing, taking off again like a little 100-yard dasher at a miniature track meet, minus the tiny numbered jersey and the crack of the starting pistol.

I get it; it’s November, the height of nut and seed gathering season. Here in Michigan, sunny near-50 degree days are rare this time of year. This is prime weather for hustling and rustling up just as many tasty treats as you can find to stockpile away for the long blustery months we both know are right around the corner.

You might not believe this, but I can relate. Yes, really. So stop looking at me like that with your furry brown cheeks puffed out in disbelief and that quizzical squinty-eyed head tilt of yours.

Like you, I have a tendency to spend an inordinate amount of time running around preparing for the future. Not that this is a bad thing, mind you. I am well aware, from that time in my life I like to call – sometimes wryly, sometimes ruefully – my roaring twenties, that overconsumption without sufficient awareness of your obligations to places like, say, the electric company can cause a ridiculous amount of unnecessary stress and premature gray hair. Do chipmunks get gray hair? Anyway, I digress.

My point is that some planning, some squirreling away of resources for later use (sorry, couldn’t resist!) is both prudent and respectable behavior. The challenge for me comes when I get so wrapped up in my anticipated longer-term needs and wants that I miss out on the good stuff that’s in front of me, right here, right now. When I look too far ahead, or become locked in fear of not having enough at some undefined hypothetical juncture, I fail to unclench my fists and spread my hands wide to take in the abundance that surrounds me, whether I’m able to see it or not. I forget to relax, lean in, and trust – in the flow of life, the kindness of friends and strangers, my own wits and capability – knowing that all, ultimately, will be okay.

I’m working on it. For me, this means fulfilling my responsibilities efficiently and with focus so I can finish at a reasonable time and take a long walk around the neighborhood with my yellow lab, Lulu, both of us sniffing the late-autumn twilight to get a sense of what’s new. It’s opening up space for yoga, meditation, cooking a spicy three-bean chili and a loaf of buttermilk oatmeal bread on a lazy Sunday afternoon. It’s allowing this writing practice to unfold in its own way, without locking myself into a predetermined script or roadmap. It’s more reading, less TV. You get the idea.

I’m not sure what it means for you. And I’m not criticizing your choices. I believe in your ability to intuit what you need to feel comfortable and safe. But how about this: I promise to leave some sunflower and other assorted seeds out for you in the feeder this winter, and you promise to cut yourself some slack and take a few moments today to stop and breathe in this beautiful sunshine-infused fresh air. Deal? Deal. Good.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to take a walk with Ms. Lulu.