Observations of a Black Thumb: Plants as Teachers.

I have a confession to make. I may have a bit of a black thumb.

I have killed many plants in my lifetime by simply neglecting them. I’m not proud of this, of course, and to my credit, the neglect was never intentional.

I’m just busy most of the time.

I’ve found that plants often persist and live despite chronic neglect. Even when thriving houseplants with plump, juicy leaves have turned into dried sprigs, they keep trying to live (albeit with limited economy). Weak little leaves doing the best they can push out of dried stems despite a dearth of the things they need like water, fertilizer, sun (and in some cases, shade).

The good news is, if the plants were still trying, so was I. There was no reason for me to give up if they had even the tiniest bit of life in them. I promised to apologize and to pay better attention moving forward.

But, for a long time, those plants remained sprig-like. I’d keep the plant sprigs going for months like that, and sometimes years. But when the plants failed to recover, I inevitably at some point, in one last desperate attempt to revive the sprigs, would overwater them and they would unfortunately drown.

These days, I am better about caring for houseplants. It’s partially because they are good teachers. Every day, I have to take a pause to see how they are doing. Is there mold in the soil? Are the leaves wilting and the soil is still damp? Is the soil bone dry?

I sometimes don’t always get to them before they start wilting from thirst. As a result, the plants do the best they can until I can remember to notice that sometimes days have gone by.

Poor things. But my plants are forgiving, it seems.  

Sometimes a little breeze from the open window moves the leaves into an attention grabbing wave. Sometimes I see the tiny jar I use to water them when I go to the sink to grab my own glass. Other times, I don’t notice the plants until it’s time to open the blinds. When I notice the plants struggling a bit, I say, “I’m sorry,” and promptly move to take away the dead leaves and water the remaining living parts of the plants.

It has become a simple practice in attention. The more attention I pay to the plants, the better they fare.

I used to keep the plants that I currently own away from the windows because the label said they required indirect light. But, I soon noticed the way they reached for what little sun my west-facing windows provided, even from the middle of the room. I decided to disregard the labels. The plants were obviously craving the sun and when placed them at the window, they seemed to thrive. New tiny leaves appeared and the old leaves plumped, brightening in color. This reaction made me smile. It also made me remember the plants a little bit more.

Because of this, I began to take interest in the way the leaves sprouted and the way the stems moved to absorb the light. I played with moving them closer together and farther apart on the sill. I rotated the pots. At the end of the day, or the next morning, whenever it was I remembered to check in on them I noticed the stems and leaves had moved accordingly to find the best way to reach sunlight, the best way to protect themselves from overheating or freezing.

As my plants respond to the elements and show when they have had too much or when they have had just enough, I too must respond.

It’s a very simple practice that teaches me to take time to carefully observe things, to pay attention and act in nurturing ways.

***originally published at elephant journal. 

Go Ahead, Say it: You are Beautiful. You are Super Duper Fly.

I thought my best friend was crazy the first time I saw her smile coyly at herself in her full length mirror and giggle as she said to her reflection, “You are fly.”

We were going out dancing that night. She was dressed for the occasion, clothes and accessories making her even more beautiful. She glowed, and she told herself so.

I waited in disbelief, dressed in the same utilitarian clothes I used for just about everything, be it work, sitting at home or going out at night.

I barely looked at myself in the mirror back then. I didn’t carry a compact, let alone do more than glance at myself when I was going through the morning rituals of face-washing and teeth-brushing. I averted my eyes from myself, just as if there were an actual other human staring back whose attention I did not want to attract.

I never told my friend this, but later, when I was alone, I practiced. I turned to the bathroom mirror and tried to look at myself. At first the best I could do was a shirt collar or some feature of my body that was not directly associated with my face.

I tried to admire myself, to tell myself that I was beautiful, but I couldn’t. I felt uncomfortable and afraid. I also thought the practice was kind of silly.

But here’s the thing: What my friend did totally set her up for the night.

Her compliments to herself boosted her in such a way that it really didn’t matter what anyone else thought. I remember seeing her dance with complete and utter joy, and she was open to interact with other dancers on the dance floor.

She was beautifully confident. She was bright and connected in a way that I’ve always admired. It was something I wanted to live up to.

I have been thinking for years about how making genuine connections with others begins with having a genuine connection with one’s self. You hear about that thing called self-love all the time. The sentiment goes that in order to love and be able to give to others, you first have to do those things for yourself.

But I couldn’t even look at my own reflection—at least, not until fairly recently, and this, decades later. Before, I would feel embarrassed at myself on two counts: One, I was not sure why something so simple seemed so difficult, and two, I suppose I didn’t feel comfortable with myself.

At times, I felt that I was being frivolously vain. At other times, I was literally afraid of what I’d see in my reflection. There was always some imperfection staring back at me like an acne scar, a crease in the skin, puffy eyes or some other feature I wasn’t sure about like a rogue eyebrow or a facial expression I didn’t recognize.

All I could see were the imperfections, so I shifted my eyes away from my reflection again.
It was difficult to give compliments to myself, but here’s how I began to go about it:

I took a deep breath and faced myself square, looking into my eyes. I simply started by stating, “Thank you for being here.” I didn’t always feel genuine about it. It was something I had to fake until it became real. When it did, there were times I left the reflection with a smile on my face.

I continued by looking at myself in the mirror, smiling, and stating, “I’m proud of you, Tameca.”

Sometimes it was for something as simple as washing the clothes or putting away the dishes.

Sometimes, it was for something as tedious as a full day’s work or errands. Sometimes it was for simply getting out of bed. “I’m proud of you for doing that,” I’d say.

“Thank you.”

Some days, all I could do was smile. Other times, all I could do was blow raspberries and make funny faces. Other days still, I glanced and shrugged and heaved a big breath before going about my day. I kept practicing anyway. I tried to catch myself when I kept the bathroom cabinet door open as a way to avoid my reflection or ducked down below the reflection’s surface. After a while, I began to realize that when I remembered to thank myself, I was able to face myself.

Lately, there are more and more instances where I can see my own glow; I see someone reflected back who I am genuinely happy to know.

On those days, I leave the house happy. My head is high. I make new connections and I truly believe that I am fly.

***originally published at elephant journal.

I Don’t Know Who I Am, Until I’ve Found My Joy.

To find out who we are—especially to find our joy—we’ll try just about anything.

I have been thinking a lot over the last decade or so about who I am, who I want to be and where my joy is. I’ve been proactive about it, too. I’ve seen multiple practitioners, gone to therapy, read books, taken classes, visited healers, prayed, cried, beat my pillows and screamed for the answers.

I imagine many people are in similar situations.

We search for the answer through long-term meditation groups, journaling retreats, oracles and special spiritual processes to become more ourselves (or at least to touch upon the Divine).

We make dietary changes, fast, draw yantras and special symbols during certain phases of the moon.

We might even burn wishes as we spray our homes with strange oils or burn candles and smelly herbs while chanting ancient spells or mantras whose meaning we’re not even sure about.

For me, these practices always seemed to miss the mark, but I could never pinpoint why. I thought that surely I was doing something wrong. I could feel that I was changing for the better, but the answers hadn’t come and I certainly didn’t feel joyful.

There was always another level, another mantra, a certain crystal to buy, another process or retreat. I tried many of these things and I asked a lot of questions of many teachers. I even begged for healing from charlatans who made lofty promises. I read more books and—finally—I gave up. I put all of these things away, because through it all, there was only silence.

I didn’t understand right away that the silence was the most important clue to finding my joy.

I used to think that joy was an exuberance. I thought that it was that high energy we feel when we are elated. I thought joy was loud. Of course, elation is an ephemeral height. It changes like the seasons and cannot be eternally sustained. 

The calmness found in silence is sustainable, and it can be carried through every emotion, with practice, by way of the breath.

When I began to take time to focus on my breathing, I realized that the silence was the answer.

Focusing inward and just listening to the breath helped me to find a certain calm I didn’t know I was capable of. I no longer had to search for my joy.

There it was, inside me.

All I needed was to remember to breathe.

***originally published at elephant journal.

One act of kindness brought a homeless poet's work out of obscurity

Raimundo Arruda Sobrinho wrote every day on the streets of São Paulo, Brazil for 35 years and no one knew what he was writing. Then, a women named Shalla Monteiro befriended him and brought his work out of obscurity.

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Raimundo Arruda Sobrinho had been homeless for 35 years when Shalla Monteiro met him in April 2011 in São Paulo,Brazil. He lived on a street median. Raimundo called it “The Island.”

He had become known as the homeless man who sat and wrote alone in that spot everyday. He always seemed to have pen and paper in hand. Still, few knew what he was writing. “When I saw him for the first time, he gave me one of his poems. From that moment, he started to be a part of my life,” Monteiro says in a documentary about the poet.

Monteira began collecting more of Raimundo’s small poems. She wanted to know more about who Raimundo was. She became his friend.

“Writing is his passion. He writes everyday,” Monteiro says. “Raimundo always wanted to publish a book of his poems and as a person who lived in the street, it seemed impossible to him.” Still, he wrote stories and poems every single day from his wooden stool. He took up whatever scraps of paper he could find, carefully cutting them to be the same size and dating them each with a serial number.

Hope is the heaviest weight a man can carry. It is the bane of the idealist. Signed, the Conditioned.

Raimundo is 77 years old. The poet and philosopher became homeless in the late 70s and has worked diligently for half his life on the streets in obscurity. That is, until Monteiro befriended him. She was impressed with her new friend’s work and decided to start a Facebook page for the poet. She wanted to publish Raimundo’s work so that others could see it and so that Raimundo could “recognize himself as a man and an artist.”

Material hygiene. Mental hygiene. Here, I don’t know which is harder to practice. Signed, the Conditioned.

Raimundo’s Facebook page currently has more than 140,000 fans who have been touched by his story. “As a writer myself, I find this man to be a great inspiration of hope for the rest of the world,” writes Erasmo L Gusman, Sept. 11. Many others are touched by Monteiro’s actions, “Thanks to you and Raimundo for blessing so many. We must never turn away from someone we may not understand. We might be turning away from an angel,” writes Audrey Van Vliet.

In São Paulo shortly after Raimundo’s work was published on the internet, people began to pay attention. They stopped by to say hello and chat with the poet just as Monteiro had done. Many even admitted that they always had wanted to talk with him, but were afraid to do so. Among those who wanted to contact Raimundo was his long lost brother who had sent a message through the Facebook page that Monteiro had set up.

His brother had wanted to find Raimundo for more than 57 years. When he came to the island, he’d found Raimundo surrounded by trash. His brother was unkempt, his hair matted, his body dirty. He was dressed in black plastic bags. It was a shock. “I suggested that he come live with me,” he said.

Damned is the man who abandons himself. These words show that the worse the situation is, never, ever should a man consider it lost. Signed, the Conditioned.

On April 23, 2013, Raimundo left “The Island” to live with his brother and his family. Now, Raimunda is a part of his family again and with Monteiro’s help, is working to publish his book.

*originally published at the now defunct Examiner.com

Sharon Kumm's Beautiful Art

I make a lot of wonderful connections by being a barista, often with artists whose work I admire immensely.

Some time ago, an artist named Sharon came in with her lovely handmade cards depicting historical buildings around Denver. I have posted some samples of her work above (click on the image for an enlarged view of the images). I remember being so giddy with how wonderful her art is. I told her so.

I asked her how much the cards were. They were wrapped for sale, seemingly. She said she would just give them to me but I insisted. "Eight dollars. . . ." was her timid response. I gave her twenty, bought two sets, sent one set to an architecture student and another to a dear friend in Mumbai (who collects handmade cards). "You should be selling these," I said, "I'm not just going to take them from you."

A light seemed to ignite in her eyes. I asked her if she had her work anywhere around town and she said she hadn't, said that maybe she should do something about that. And I thought, "This is nuts! Surely the historical society or the tourist peeps would want these in their store," so I offered to help her. She said that was okay. I went to the tourist center anyway and asked them if they took consignments (while showing them the card sets) and they said yes.

She came in to the store after that, many days in a row, thanked me and showed me each new project, often giving me her work after I had told her about what I had done. Each time she came in I asked her if she had checked the tourist information center or if she had thought about putting some of her work, framed, around the Santa Fe Arts District or somesuch thing. Most days she said she hadn't. She seemed a bit discouraged, especially after she had gone in to the Tourist Center and had been rejected with a stern negative.

I offered to take the work in again because I suspected that her rejection was a product of a certain kind of discernment that I detest but she said that was okay.

I have been worried about her. I hadn't seen her in months until yesterday. One of my coworkers had one of her cards. I ran immediately into the lobby to see if she was still there, found her, and then asked her how she was. She told me that she had put some of her work into a few different galleries. I wanted to hug her right there. She said that I was an inspiration and then I noticed her right hand above the table, shaking uncontrollably and realized when I asked her if she had been drawing any new work, there were only ever unfinished drawings or a few spare lines on any given blank page.

I don't want to end my post here but this is the image that has been with me for almost 24 hours, now. This image and the image of Sharon digging through trashcans for bottles and cans overlap in my mind. This image along with the realization that Sharon probably doesn't have healthcare or very good healthcare and certainly low means (I've tried to call her and her phone has been disconnected).

I can't end this post selfishly, either. I thought I would say something like, we don't know how much time we have with the talents and interests and loves we have, and that I've taken all this to heart in lieu of my own skills and interests and loves. . . . I thought that I might tie in to the political things that are happening right now, the protests and what not but that doesn't feel right, either. Both of the latter things feel like exploitations to me.

The thing is, despite the shaking hand, Sharon is doing something with her work, even if she is only intermittently able (or maybe not even able at all) to draw. Despite the shaking hand, Sharon is being proactive and every time I see her, her eyes are bright!

I suppose then, the right thing to do here is to say that Sharon is an absolute inspiration to me and I have definitely made sure to tell her so.