Every year during April my Dads cherry trees start their luminescent blooming...and while they always inspire me to smile, the last few years I cannot help but ponder Ms. Reeve, a lady who made it her habit to come and sit at the end of the driveway for hours on end and seemingly stare at those cherry trees.
I first met Ms. Reeve when I was no more than 5 or 6, alone in the house. There was a knock on the door, and when I opened up I was completely unprepared for what was in front of me. A little lady with a shock of white hair, wearing a skirt in the dead of winter, boots with trash bags for socks, the socks on her hands, three or four jackets in varying states of disrepair piled on top of one another...and a lone tea bag dangling from one hand. 'May I make a cup of tea?' she inquired. Stupefied and utterly speechless, I could do no more than open the door and step aside. She said no more, walked in the to kitchen and put the pot on. A few minutes later, the water boiled, and since I was hiding in a different room, the next thing I heard without seeing of course, was a glass breaking...this was enough to bring me out of seclusion, and what I saw was Ms. Reeve, again holding her tea bag, though now dripping with hot water on the kitchen floor above the broken glass...she had poured the water into a glass, not a mug. Without changing expression, she politely asked if I would boil more water for her. Apparently she decided she wasn't going to move while I did this for her, so for the next five minutes she stood there waiting for the next pot to boil, unwavering in her desire to remain stock still. I suppose she thought more tea would stay in the bag if she didn't move. Luckily for me I was aware of the benefits of using a mug, so she succeeded in having her cup of tea. Never said more than thank you, either,and left as quietly as she came. Naturally, when Mom and Dad came in the house, I had some questions for them...and soon learned Ms. Reeve was our neighbor. My parents aren't exactly legendary story tellers in their own right, so I was left to imagine her riding around on a broomstick in her spare time...that is, until the first snow came, and Dad went to plow her out, with me in tow. Her house was secluded, and by house I mean a building with a roof on it. No electricity, windows boarded up, not even a fire burning. For a 5 year old this was living proof we had witches in our midst. And then she came down to offer Dad compensation for plowing her out...of course, Dad wouldn't dream of accepting, but when I saw the rolled up pile of money in her hand, even I knew he was loony for not taking such an amount. I think it could have paid for my college tuition.
As the years went by, her story came out in bits and pieces. After many years I learned she grew up in Runnymede, the nicest farm in Chester County. I was flabbergasted to see her living in such abject poverty, and made it a personal quest to find out her story in greater detail. All I could really discover were stories that cemented her place as community freak. Driving around with a dead dog in her back seat for weeks, during summer!, until a few folks could trick her out of her car long enough to extract the remains...she never had much, if anything to say when we passed her out riding. All we ever seemed to get was this vacant stare. One day I was down in Greenville at my favorite bookstore when I was about 22, and walking around a corner I ran head first in to a pile of books being held by someone behind them. Luckily I avoided knocking the pile down, but not without grabbing the pile of books. The person behind them must have thought I was trying to abscond with them, for a struggle ensued to reclaim ownership...and though I was merely trying to avoid spilling them, that is exactly what happened. Lo and behold, it was Ms. Reeve on the other side of the books. Needless to say, I was dumbfounded yet again. From seeing her in a bookstore, or away from her house, or having so many books in her possession, I'm not quite sure, but nary a word escaped my mouth as I bent down to scoop them up...until she peered at me in her singular way and inquired, 'you're Bruce's son aren't you?' I fessed up, and we then proceeded to exchange pleasantries like the oldest of family friends. She knew I had started riding races, that my sister was doing great winning as Dad was.
I asked her about the load of books she was buying, and she told me she knew every person the books were about. Personally knew them. Ms. Reeve hadn't changed in appearance even slightly over the fifteen or so years since my first encounter, nor had her choice of clothing. Skirt, trash bags for socks, socks on hands, jacket upon jacket...
I'm always reminded of Ms. Reeve when those cherry trees blossom every spring. I wonder if I'll ever hear the real story, the whole story. But now what I find myself thinking is, when I'm old and gray, wrinkled and shriveled, will I scare the bejesus out of some unsuspecting little 5 year old by asking for a cup of tea?

I keep wondering about spiritual enlightenment...in fact, I imagined these 30 days to draw me closer to finding what exactly ticks inside of me, free from the fog and trance of distractions, practices from almost 20 years of a driving desire to ride races and a singular focus to be able to ride and train that eroded bit by bit the past 10 years, succumbing to losses and hurts, a suffering brought on only by me and the stories weaved so cleverly by an ever vigilant ego. I've come to realize the seeker in me is alive and well, the part of myself craving answers and clarity once directed to understanding life and others who have been a part of it. Answers have indeed come, some blinding in their clarity, still others rising to my consciousness slowly like a lazy summer morning sunrise. I've arrived at a place which brings me tremendous comfort and also something approaching paralyzing understanding. I'm grateful for the process, for whatever it was in me that decided I needed this journey, and particularly for whatever it is in me which reached for the books I've read, the podcasts I listen to every morning, the part of me which finds me arriving at Sunday morning meeting to sit with Quakers, to look within again and again.
Most of what I have found is humbling. I still need to be right. I still allow myself to wallow in indecisioin about future steps...I've found some grace about riding no longer being the primary impetus of who and what I am, though letting go entirely eludes my grasp. Friends in my life have come and gone, some of them going still leaves my heart aching, for I know I could have fought harder to keep them, while others arrive and stay thanks to the person I've become. For years having women as true friends was beyond me, now I count myself lucky to have at least as many as men among my friends. I yearn to find the one true love of my life, and question how and why it is this still so damn difficult. There have been so many contradictions in me and my life, most of them leaving a scar. As this 30 day journey has unfolded I have come to understand aligning what matters in my heart with what I do with my life, these contradictions will fade as healthy practices replace the old ones. Now I can go to the bar, drink water and spend time with friends with only a minimun of angst about drinking, though the urge to drink is still with me it is one I can allow to be without it being in charge. Inviting Mara to tea is a lesson I dearly hope to practice daily, a buddhist lesson as important as any I've come to know. This journey has opened me in a way, reminded me the power of Landmark is alive and well inside. Expressing honesty without judgment is a work in progress, but I'm able to admit one that is going well...while knowing I'm still closer to the beginning than the end.
It's a funny thing, this idea of practice. In yoga this is a simple, yet all-powerful, part of life. Sharing this with others has become a commitment for me. Working on being present has always been one of my greatest attribute while on a horse, though now it's moved on to being present from minute to minute, regardless of where I am. One of the great ironies of being present is being open to those moments of doubt and hurt, not shutting down or reverting to those old practices of self-medicating or judging others, and how this may be even more important than the times of love and happiness. To acknowledge the moments where the storm is raging within is the first step in allowing the moment to pass, and this was a huge re-discovery for me the past few weeks. Just last Saturday I helped a friend deal with her own storm, and yet talking with her tonight I realized I didn't follow up the next day, or the day after that. I learned to keep your friends close, remind them I'm still here, still open to listening and sharing, but first I have to remember. Fingers crossed I will.
Jack Kornfield wrote what I think will turn out to be an all-time favorite book for me, and in it he shares a meditation every chapter. The book is called A Path With Heart, and the meditation I put in my car goes like this;
May I be filled with loving kindness.
May I be well.
May I be peaceful and at ease.
May I be happy.
I love how he chose to use the word May...it encompasses the idea we're not always so, yet also gracefully allows us to acknowledge we can be. We're asking our heart the way a lover beckons one to bed with open arms and a welcoming smile.
The journey has only just begun, but it has gratefully become one to look forward to. One step at a time.

The last couple of years every spring the birds come back in full force, and it is always one of my favorite aspects of this time of year...however, it has become the habit of a certain pair of Starlings to nest right above my back door. Now, I happen to be an animal lover of the highest degree (cats notwithstanding), heck I can't even bring myself to trap the mice that occasionally vacation during the winter in my kitchen, despite their complete disregard for personal hygiene. And these starlings, doing their best to refurbish the nest they left behind last year, always leave a pile of their favorite nesting material on my little porch, which wouldn't be so bad if they didn't use the kitchen window next to the door as their bathroom...and I have to admit, the urge to evict them runs strong whenever I come home to fresh droppings. As intelligent as birds are, why have they refused to evolve to the point of building their own outhouse?!?! I mean, here I am, the kind of person who laments human indifference to the animal world we keep building upon, shoving them aside without the slightest thought of the impact we have towards those we share this world with...but it does irk me so, I have to say, when I find a squirrel ransacking the bird feeder I've just filled up, or the deer who callously feed on my neighbors veggie garden. Can't we just show some mutual respect and dignity??
Of course, I'll never keep the damn starlings from their yearly habit of turning my back door into the ghetto, despite their predilection for tipping other birds eggs out of their nest and installing their own eggs, so the other birds will hatch a baby starling instead of their own! The odd thought has come to me, thinking these effin starlings remind me of the human race, and that is when I really battle putting up a board to prevent them from nesting at my house...I think the lesson here for me is to channel my inner buddha nature and accept the ebb and flow of life and all that live in it. Obviously this hasn't quite reached second nature status in me. Oh, the work I have to do...............
In a related note, I just started reading a book called A Path With Heart. The title comes from Don Juan speaking to Carlos Castaneda, and he simply said; When choosing a path, take your time. Investigate each one thoroughly. And then ask yourself this, Does this path have a heart? If it does, the path is good. If it does not, it is of no use.
The power of this observation hit me squarely between the eyes. The summation is so clear, so unequivocal, it was like trying to look away from the fullest of moons on a crisp fall night. And I hope my memory safely stores this one away forever.

Last night I spent an hour making two cd's for a neighbor of my father...he's been the farm manager as long as I can remember, and I've been saying good morning to him, and not much else, for years...he and his crew drive around the farm picking up trash every day, reliable as Old Faithful. As someone who is fanatic about litter, I've always marveled at them picking up someone else's trash day in and day out. About ten years ago I got a message that Mr. Young would like me to stop by the shop. Not having a clue what he wanted, I felt a twinge of anxiety about this summons, not unlike being beckoned to the Headmasters office unaware of any transgression. It didn't help that Mr. Young never had a lot to say when we passed on the road. He was never rude or short, just taciturn in that old school way. When I arrived in the shop, he and his crew was there milling around. I said morning to Mr. Young, and he turned to an oil can with some envelopes and litter sitting on top, asked me what beer I liked to drink. Not exactly sure what he was getting at, I hesitantly replied Yuengling, kinda stammering. He asked me if I knew anything about what was on the oil can. I saw an envelope with my name on it, and immediately knew I was surrounded by men who picked up trash in the course of their days work and I was a culprit in their eyes. Along with the envelope and litter was a couple of Coors light bottles, and I remembered the day before stopping along a road that borders the farm they work on, where they would naturally pick up and trash. I confessed to having my lunch on the side of the road the day before, having opened my door to let some air in and put my feet up for a short nap after I realized my letter must have blown out while sleeping...I told Mr. Young I was quite old enough to drink at home, I don't drink during the day anyway, and look I told him, as I pulled out two cigarrette butt's from my back pocket that I smoked that morning, I don't like litter, I never do, I don't even chuck my butt's out! I'm sure Mr. Young was a poker player, because his expression never changed. He didn't argue with my thoughts, but he didn't verbally accept my explanation either. I apologized for the letter he picked up, told him I was sorry, and when he didn't offer to continue the conversation, I bolted out the door like a scared suitor meeting his dates Dad for the first time. Never once did Mr. Young ever bring it up with me again, but for years it burned me to consider he thought less of me for being one of those punk ass kids who have no regard for the farm he looked after, a neighbor worse still. I was raised to respect my elders, and with very few exceptions I've managed to remain one who does, but I swear I could see disappointment in his eyes that morning. I apologized, and I meant it, but for years I've wondered if there was something I could say to finally put it to rest. Ever since, Mr. Young has been the same old good neighbor, always says good morning, waves or whatever the situation calls for. The last couple of years he'll even stop his truck if I'm riding one of my horses for a brief chat. About the weather, the season, something short and quick. Not long ago I heard his wife had passed away some months ago, and enough time had come and gone I felt awkward expressing my sympathy. But I've kept thinking it would be nice to share something with him, convey my long held torment about how he might view me after picking up my envelope with the beer bottles and litter, tell him I was sorry about losing his wife, and express my gratitude for his life of service to the most beautifully maintained farm in Chester County. Despite having known this man all my life, I didn't know squat about him, except he has a skeet range behind his house. I'd only ever seen him in his truck or on some farm equipment, and since holding a gun for me inspires the heeby jeebies, I couldn't imagine what gift I could give him. Well, last night I was on itunes trying to find some new music, and it hit me; make the man a cd! Of course I had no clue what, if any, musical inclinations he had, so it was a little like driving at night with the headlights off, but I persevered. And now I have to deliver the two I made. Gonna go back to that shop, like a man damnit, and share my thoughts. Of course, I hope like hell the rest of the crew ain't there. But isn't speaking the truth supposed to come easy?!?! Why yes, it is, but there is a reluctance in me still. Where does it come from? I learned in Landmark the courage we need and sometimes find hard to summon is the result of a childhood fear, the attached feelings which come with being naked in front of another. Figuratively speaking naturally. I don't think Mr. Young would care a great deal for me walking in wearing my birthday suit. But the impulse to protect our precious little heart is so strong, isn't it? Amazing how our defense mechanisms as we grow older do nothing but guarantee wounding the precious little heart in the act of covering it up...
I hope Mr. Young is there tomorrow. And I hope I don't find myself stammering in front of him.

Sundays....what is it about Sundays?? I woke up this morning on six hours sleep, not terribly enthused, not particularly energetic, but by the time I got to the barn and fed my horses breakfast I was smiling and looking forward to a little music. Brandi Carlile was my muse today...And as I was happily mucking out, singing so out of tune you might have wandered past thinking 'Is someone in distress around here?!', I found some inner spirit full of vigor taking over. I decided to go to Quaker meeting, looking forward to meditating and hopefully hearing something inspiring, when I laughed at the ridiculous juxtaposition of looking forward to meeting when my childhood Sunday morning was always filled with dread knowing, just knowing, at some point mom or dad would beckon me to get cleaned up and dressed for church. Aaaargh, what a colossal disappointment that sentence brought me. Wearing the inevitable wool suit only served to heighten my discomfort, so by the time Blythe and I were trailing our folks to church we would find every crack in the sidewalk and rhyme that kiddy saying about breaking your mothers back...nice kids, eh? I would find myself sitting there next to dad, and invariably at some point he would fall asleep, only to waken when the first snore escaped him. Eventually I began to question organized religion, always finding the hypocrisy and guilt trips too much to bear, the glaring deficiencies too large to forgive. In my twenties I completely abandoned any pretense of going to church, though my spiritual practice began to take shape in the form of reading and holding on feverishly to integrity and doing the right thing...with numerous mis-steps along the way. Reading someone like Ayn Rand impacted me in the most positive way, reminding me how we're all responsible for ourselves, no one else can be held accountable for what we do nor how we do it. I felt like I found a guru, a wise old sage whispering directly in my ear, and my ear only. As my thirties rolled around, the grim reality of how life works, watching people drift away from kindness, honesty and forthrightness left me reeling, as friend after friend turned in to acquaintance after failing some internal test only I was privy to. Instead of reaching out and helping, I began to withdraw. And I justified it with some hollow proclamation like if they want my support all they have to do is ask for it. Then, without any tangible thinking on my part, some things began to change in my life...I busted up my shoulder the last day of racing, and almost by chance started practicing yoga, thanks to a suggestion from my friend Katie. It wasn't long before the life of a yogi rooted itself deep inside, so firmly it will always be in life. The knowledge and understanding we are what we practice, without judgment or expectation, resonates so clearly with me I sometimes marvel how I missed out on this simple and yet spectacular summation of a well lived life. Life is indeed what we practice. The power of a group practice, the energetic sharing with your fellow yogi's is a precious experience, one I endeavour to bring to my local community one day soon. Not long after beginning my practice I took the Landmark Forum, and my world was completely turned upside down, rocked to my core in the best possible way. To find the tools that allow you to understand yourself so thoroughly, with a laugh in your belly and judgment long gone, was like finding my true self for the first time...truly remarkable and invigorating. And then, finally, to find some curiosity about Buddhism. I went to a meditation at my yoga studio one Friday night, having no idea what I would experience, and by some stroke of luck listened to a lady named Tara Brach via podcast. There was something in her voice I just gravitated towards, and I've been hooked ever since. Learning to be present is a gift of unbelievable power, another practice I look forward to growing old with. As I sat this morning at meeting, I couldn't help but find the similarities in all three parts of my life, the basic tenet of each being so closely aligned, albeit differing in the methodology, it made me smile. I don't think I'll ever identify with the classical idea of God, nor in the power of organized religion, but today I realized it doesn't really matter. If I can go to meeting and revel in the power of a group sitting, my own buddhist Sangha, and walk away feeling centered if not almost joyous, it isn't hard for me to see how someone might walk away from church with the same feeling. And this might be the best lesson of all.

Saturday, one week to go...
And wouldn't you know it, I had the wheels come off last night. Went to Virginia for my buddy Sean's 40th birthday, packed up plenty of juice and cleanse just so I could keep going without any issue. I drove south in an odd mood of both looking forward to seeing Sean's new home, my friends Laird and Annie, and a touch of melancholy after having a tough conversation the night before, the kind where you are left with the distinct feeling of my forehead taking the brunt of a stone walls hostilities.
So off I went, and for good measure I even put on my ipod and tried to listen to my girl Tara Brach give one of her Buddhist lessons...maybe it was a sign that I had to stop trying to listen because one of my horses had grabbed an earpiece and promptly chewed it beyond repair, thus robbing me of being able to hear well enough while driving. Damn horses. At any rate, the past week or so I had been contemplating the end game of my 30 days, and the inevitable day of eating and drinking, putting my litmus test of choice to an exam...at some point I had to see if I could simply choose to drink. And there was some part of me which thought it should come during the 30 days, while I'm still not eating solid foods. At least not eating solid foods when I'm not having a meltdown at the Superfresh. Ahem. Granted, I didn't really think it was going to be yesterday, but that is how it went. And somehow I managed to not eat at the party, but I suppose that had something to do with the fact I always seemed to have a drink in my hand. So the test is on...
It is an odd thing, this growing up business. Driving up Sean and Ann's driveway reminded me of so many things. For 15 years Sean and I drove to the races in Virginia together, first in his Chevy Cavalier when neither one of us could navigate a stick shift without a neck brace and nothing but a little cash to our name. Now, instead of heading to the races I'm driving up a driveway to a farm Sean and Ann just bought, with their one year old Miles tottering around the house. It's a funny thing to see the first best friend you ever have with a little belly, a kid on his arm. You swear it was only yesterday when you were playing street hockey til all hours of the night, but the reality of your memory reminds you just how long ago it really was...gone is the insecure little kid who could barely look you in the eye, replaced by a successful businessman, husband, and father! Do you think our parents ever experienced the bemused thoughts that come when you go from child to parent? I can only see my parents as parents, not struggling kids trying to navigate this perplexing thing we call life...

Funerals are a funny thing. Yesterday I went to a gathering for Mrs. Hannum, one of the truly remarkable people from this small little part of the world. Our culture has imbued in us this obligation of mourning when someone dies, and there is no doubt when the occasion calls for it we find ourselves awash in grief and thoughts full of what may have been...and yet, on a day like yesterday I couldn't help but feel a certain sense of gratitude, even joy at the service for Mrs. Hannum. She was a woman who lived the life she wanted, a lady who wrung out every drop of energy and focus given her, for 90 years. She pioneered land preservation in our area, spent almost every last penny to her name in the name of keeping land open and foxhunting. And she lived 90 years! While I was pondering the irony of celebrating death yesterday, I couldn't help but be inspired by her legacy. Is it not true how we gravitate towards someone with such passion, how we allow a certain space for those who unquestionably follow their heart?? Mrs. Hannum could be among the most unbending personalities you'll ever meet in your life, yet rarely if ever would you hear a negative word...and doesn't that come from knowing the lady believed with every fiber of her being what she was doing was right? Fanatics should always hold a special place inside us, for they exemplify simple, straightforward love and devotion. I left the service yesterday humbled, knowing I have more than once lost my way, allowed my own fears and insecurities to sabotage what my heart desired...and reminded it can be found again.
I'm currently reading a book called Big Mind-Big Heart. I don't necessarily aspire to be a zen master, or a zen anything for that matter, but a bodhisattva perhaps. The cool thing about any spiritual book is your particular leanings and beliefs don't really matter. We can learn so much from other walks of life, if only we're open to it, free from presumptions and judgment. This book goes into depth about the voices we have inside us and how we might let them see the light of day without the tangled web of insecurity running the show...knowing the voice of fear is in me, regardless of whether or not I try to stifle it or ignore it, and allowing it to come out has been a powerful experience for me. I've done plenty of work in other walks of life, and they've been incredibly helpful, too. This book gives me yet another way to work with what is inside, the pretty and the ugly, the powerful and also the weak, the small and oh yes the very big...just today, I was reminded how the seeker in me is what led me to this 30 day juicing cleanse. I'm grateful to have such a strong seeker in me, for it's taken me places I wouldn't have dreamt of going without it all my life, but knowing it only one voice, one part of many different voices, I can begin to see more clearly the other parts inside, free from feeling threatened. I have the voice of desire, the self, fear, the controller, and on and on it goes...as I spend time with one and then the next, each voice finds its clarity, allowing me to unravel each strand as an inquiry, an investigation...as if pieces of clothing. And you get to laugh, too. Being able to see why is a constant source of entertainment. Even though you're laughing at yourself. Perhaps precisely because I'm laughing at myself...