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| Sarah Webb |
I’m on the patio and I’m watering a fern which is dangling in front of me from the trellis. I’m wondering if I can forfeit my sitting practice for today and just spend time in the garden. Sometimes I think all this sitting in front of a wall is not very productive. Also, I’ve been meditating a WHOLE MONTH and I have more questions than ever before. I want to ask about things, but I feel shy and foolish. Like, is it okay to sit and just blissfully daydream for 30 minutes, or should I try and re-focus every nanosecond my mind wanders? And why do I feel more anxiety now than when I started my practice? But back to the fern. I’m staring into all the greenery when I suddenly realize I’m staring into two little shiny round eyes. The little gecko is looking right at me from a distance of only about a foot. He is as Irish green as a color changing lizard sitting in a lush green fern would be. His head tilts to one side, then the other. He is really checking me out. I talk sweetly to him and am getting a kick out of watching his funny little head dance, when, out of the blue, he jumps. Right across the abyss between the fern and me. He has landed on my shoulder and I have yelped in surprise. Then he runs off down the flagstone and away. Hmmm. What in the world was he thinking, jumping over to me like that? Did he just need a quick route down to the ground? It seemed like a friendly gesture actually, like he wanted to reach out to me somehow. Maybe he was trying to tell me, “go ahead and ask your questions, reach out and take a leap of faith.” Okay, I know this is an anthropomorphic stretch of the imagination, but heh, I’m such a novice here that I need these anecdotes to help me along. So I’ll take the visual of flying geckos and use it next time I hesitate to raise my hand in curiosity. I’ll try the leap of faith trick.
About Sharon Meloy
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