“‘Kindness’ covers all of my political beliefs. No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this and am happy I lived long enough
to find it out.”

—Roger Ebert

At first, I was going to title this post “Happy Little Things: Harvest,” and write about the simple pleasure of gardening. But as I put words on paper, my thoughts took me in an entirely different direction.

This week’s “harvest” from my garden, if you can call it that, was three yellow pear tomatoes and two stunted carrots. So much effort for so little result, yet still, I keep at it. Kinda reminds me of my writing career (if you can call it that). I’m putting a lot of effort into it, but I’m not harvesting much in the way of finished pieces or paying clients, and I’m frustrated. But I also know that you cannot always be harvesting. Just as in gardening, in writing, in other creative endeavors—even in life itself, there must be times of planting, feeding, nurturing, even lying fallow.

While I desperately want and need to produce fruit, I can’t discount my need for the nourishment of instruction, time to allow ideas to sprout and grow in my head, and time to simply do nothing. I’ve seen the effects of neglect on my garden—nearly my entire crop of winter lettuce grew without thinning, watering and weeding, with predictably inedible results.

In my garden, I’m in the groove now, checking it every day, watering, weeding, and feeding as needed. I’ve got tons of lemons on my Meyer lemon tree, plenty of blossoms and green tomatoes still on my plants, and a few more carrots that might have a chance to grow into something edible. I have green onions and herbs ready when I need them. I’m also working on tending my creativity with the same attention and care. I believe if I keep putting in the time and effort, the harvest will come. And when it does, it will taste all the sweeter for the effort I’ve put in.

Introduction by Ted Kooser: I’ve always been fascinated by miniatures of all kinds, the little glass animals I played with as a boy, electric trains, dollhouses, and I think it’s because I can feel that I’m in complete control. Everything is right in its place, and I’m the one who put it there. Here’s a poem by Kay Mullen, who lives in Washington, about the art of bonsai.

Bonsai at the Potter’s Stall

Under fluorescent light,

aligned on a bench

and table top, oranges

the size of marbles dangle

from trees with glossy

leaves. White trumpets

bloom in tiny clay pots.

Under a firethorn’s twisted

limbs, a three inch monk

holds a cup from which

he appears to drink

the interior life. The potter

prizes his bonsai children

who will never grow up,

never leave home.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2006 by Kay Mullen, and reprinted from her most recent book of poetry, “A Long Remembering: Return to Vietnam,” FootHills Publishing, 2006, by permission of Kay Mullen and the publisher. Introduction copyright ©2011 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

After two weeks of reno chaos, I’m finally able to leave my house for more than the absolute essentials. Yesterday I indulged in the simple pleasure of my favorite local yoga class—Yoga for Stress Relief.

In this class, we use props such as bolsters, blocks and blankets, to help us hold restorative poses without straining and tiring our muscles. We let the props support and cradle us, allowing us to go deeper, hold longer, and really relax into the poses. Yesterday, as I have so many times before, even as I settled into a pose, I could feel my muscles clenched and tense, holding on even when they didn’t need to. I had to consciously relax them into the support beneath me. I could almost hear my body sigh with relief as the instructor led us through the day’s sequence and I began to let go of my tension.

It occurs to me that I do the same thing in other parts of my life. Even when support and help is available, I don’t ask for it. If someone offers to help, I don’t always accept it. I don’t use the resources available to me, just like I don’t relax and let the props do their job in yoga class.

Why?

Well, let’s see: independence (not to say stubbornness), fear of being a bother or a burden, a bit of control-freakishness, and a dash of the two-year-old’s, “I can do it myself!” Oh, yes, those are good reasons.

Even in our more strenuous classes, our yoga instructors remind us there’s nothing wrong with using props to make our poses more effective. Every body is different and requires different support to work its best. We are to listen to our bodies and give them what they need, both on and off the mat. It’s a lesson I’m slowly learning.

Aside from the obvious physical and mental benefits, the message of the Yoga for Stress Relief class is: “Rest now. You don’t have to do it all by yourself.” A good message for us all, and not just while we’re on the mat.

So the next time you need me, you’ll find me in savasana, supported by a folded blanket under my head, a bolster beneath my knees, and an eye pillow draped over my eyes. 

Rest now.

Photo courtesy Karin Henseler

“Unlike bad times, however, good times aren’t bullies that break down the doors and barge in. Joy and pleasure are, instead, excellent guests and, as such, they wait for an invitation. You have to open the door to life’s best moments; you have to invite them in and welcome them when they arrive.

“To be honest, I’ve always found that it’s best to make a big fuss when good times appear at the threshold. You want them to feel absolutely at home. You wouldn’t want them to feel that, while you’re happy enough to see them, you were expecting a little more razzle-dazzle. They might not come again. They depend on genuine hospitality. You wouldn’t want them to think they’d arrived too late, or were deemed insignificant, or were weighed and found wanting.”

—Gina Barreca, “If You Lean In, Will Men Just Look Down Your Blouse?”