The windows are open and the birds are chirping. The sky is gray and last night it rained, though I didn’t hear it. I slept soundly, after an evening with friends and my dear sweet love.

It was a safe night, one filled with trust. But not every night is like that, nor every day, and in the past year, it has amazed me how little loyalty exists between people in this world.

I’m not going to bore you with cynicism and rebellion. But I will say that the definition of loyalty apparently is not universal and indeed, it changes with the wind.

In work, as my father says, you have no friends. So I can live by that.

With regard to friendship and personal connections, I used to believe there were unspoken truths that bound us to one another. Sadly, this is not a universal belief. And it’s a realization that I have resisted greatly.

Of course, the real truth is that the outside world can never provide reassurance or comfort. It is constantly changing. And our universal purpose is to be of service, to have compassion, to GIVE. Except not everyone knows this. Or cares to embrace it.

And that’s where the discrepancy arises.

I’ve spent a long time looking for peace and solace outside of myself. I don’t do that anymore but still I am surprised when faced with someone else’s expectations.

The cool air is beautiful through the window screen. I used to write about these moments in perfect clarity, with the perception of a poet. I used to spend weekends in the lap of the Shenandoah foothills, cradling coffee with water from a running brook and cream fresh from the cow in the yard.

I used to believe in miracles.

And truly, I think I still do.

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I’ve tried everything. Chicken wire stapled into the wood frame. Marigolds planted at either end. Last year, I sprayed hot pepper spray and fox urine incessantly. And still, the rabbits find their way in and nip off the green beans, the carrot stalks, the cucumbers until they can no longer grow.

And while I know it’s only a garden, I feel violated for all the effort I’ve expended trying to create nourishment right here at home.

Yesterday, Shaya said, “The rabbits are mean because they’re eating people food in our garden.”

And while I melted at the earnestness of his sweet little voice, I shook my head and said, “No, honey, the rabbits don’t know any better. They’re not smart like people to understand that we planted the garden for us – they think it’s for them.”

It’s raining today, as it’s been raining for weeks now, and teh sky is gray-green and full of clouds. Apparently a sudden cold snap – after two weeks of near-90 days – has thwarted Michigan’s spring crops.

The asparagus we ate last night, and the broccoli omelets, fresh and green from the Sunday farmer’s market, sure tasted rich and full. Why worry about what’s to come when the abundant stroll we took among the farm tables early Sunday morning – in the rain, no less – had so much to offer?

Herbs and weirdly shaped eggplants and squash, already harvested by local hands.

You know, in these parts, the question of can we survive or will the economy turn, doesn’t really matter anymore. Worry is wasted emotion. There are businesses growing and businesses starting and people innovating so that the economy is a new one and one rich with intention.

Still. The morning is so dark I almost think it’s still time to sleep.

And so, with another day before me, and a day midway through a fast-moving week, fast as the river current which had risen to swallow the picnic table beyond the farmer’s market, I abandon any idea of worry and simply do what is right before me, under my nose, what is actually growing, rather than exert the effort to be concerned about what has been snipped along its path.

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Have you ever wondered what life would be like IF…

Fill in the blanks. You were fatter or thinner, taller or shorter, had more sex, had less sex, were more in love, were less in love, had a different job, lived on a mountaintop. The list is endless.

Deep in the afternoon, all I see are white clouds drifting across the light-blue sky. I am thankful for the breeze coming through the window screen and the ceaseless song of birds. When I am ready to retire at night, they are still singing on their branches.

In the garden, the beans are taller by the day. Tomatoes just waiting to sprout. I used to have a backyard swing and spend warm afternoons listening to the wind and turning the page. Last winter, the squirrels ate through the cushions. It’s time to find a new one.

And I am remembering weekends at Peg’s farm, the mismatched mugs on low shelves where wall met ceiling, the sunrise over the Shenandoah foothills early, wine at night in plain goblets like exclamation points for our poems.

And I am remembering weekends in Des Moines – vast wind and extreme heat, utter bitter cold. The walk from the hotel to the Meredith headquarters and my editors – lovely, all – believing in the redemptive quality of stories.

And I am remembering the times so long ago now, when I wished for just-one-thing to ensure absolute happiness. Of course that thing never came and so I spent my time waiting and wishing.

I don’t do that anymore, though I wish it hadn’t been so long since my last weekend at Peg’s. No, today, I have everything I need, everything I want, and even far more. And the best part of it all – is that gratitude has arrived with the birdsong, that and an understanding that we are all on a path toward realization, toward higher purpose, toward bliss.

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I’ve been studying Vedanta philosophy for the past two months and it is transforming my life, my work and my relationships.

The messages are simple and clear:

Do work for work’s sake.

Do what you CAN do and stop worrying about what you can’t do. From a place of what you CAN do, you will be able to do more.

Love is universal identification, not individual preference.

Have an attitude of gratitude.

Forgive on the spot.

In a relationship, focus on your duty. Give, rather than take.

Those are little easy nuggets, but the message is far deeper and profound. It’s a lasting approach to LIFE and to truly living. And I recommend just dipping your toe in if you want any chance of success and happiness.

One immense by-product of our society today is DRAMA. Everyone spins out of control with dramatic interpretation, emotion-flinging and roiling in the woe-is-me drama of it all. Of anything. In the workplace, between friends, at home.

And it doesn’t need to happen. That’s the easy secret. It’s all in our minds. And if we can just shut up those niggling voices, we will be so much better off.

It’s not about you, it’s not about me, it just IS. Think about that. Ingest it. Carry it on your tongue. Nothing is personal unless we make it so. It’s how we interpret things that get us into trouble.

Personal attachment – that’s a downfall, friends. We can love, we can cherish, we can mourn when we lose, but if we are to lead happy lives, we must use the earth around us, not depend upon it.

Today will be 87 degrees in Michigan. Bright sun. The plants will settle in the wind. Tomorrow it’ll be milder, in the mid-70s. Today is a good day and so is tomorrow.

Universal Identification. Try it sometime.

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There was the parade marshall, waving to the people lining both sides of Third Street. The Coneheads danced by, and the dogs with their foil-tipped ears, meant to look like aliens. The women with the UFOs around their mid-sections – real and imagined.

Welcome to the annual UFO Festival held every May in McMinnville, Oregon, to honor the famous Trent UFO photographs, taken by a local farmer and his wife in 1950 to possibly show an alien spacecraft.

I tip my hat to the owners of McMenamins Hotel in that town, which created the UFO Festival out of memory. The parade at 1 p.m. the Saturday of the two-day celebration, where everyone comes from all the nearby towns and some drive from further reaches because they’ve heard about it.

The stores that turn their displays alien – clothing mannequins adorned with foil ears and purple or green disks around their middles. Signs bearing “on the parade route!” – indicating the stores ideal for browsing before and after the festivities.

A brilliant marketing ploy. Possibly the most brilliant one I’ve ever encountered.

McMinnville is a sleepy town in the wine country outside Portland, Oregon. It’s charming, with a few good restaurants and boutiques. Trees overhang the downtown streets and it’s not far from sprawling vineyards in the lazy sun.

But every May, McMinnville is packed. Surrounding inns see a burst of guest activity. The restaurants, the wineries, the shops all get a boost. And under the tent outside McMenamins, the locals and those from far away buy sweatshirts, T-shirts, dog snuggies and headbands with floppy antennae for way too much money – all emblazoned with the town name they aren’t likely to forget.

What a way to drum up business for a town that most people would’ve simply forgotten.

Anyone can do this. It’s just that most people don’t. Create a holiday for your business, your line of work, your city, your street – and see what type of attention you can generate. Of course, it all comes down to the marketing.

There are thousands of views of UFO-McMinnville postings on YouTube. UFO Magazine and Google have a million options when you type in those two words. That doesn’t happen like magic. It’s the spin doctors, like me, that make it so.

Go to it. Make a difference. And let everyone know you’re here.

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“You can grow up with literally nothing and you don’t suffer if you know you’re loved and valued.” — Esperanza Spalding, The New Yorker, 3/15/10

In WebsiteMagazine.com’s May 2010 issue, Tim Ash writes about “creating influence and trust in a place of uncertainty.” If I were to listen to my father, a seasoned, successful businessman who never gets ruffled by the wild actions of others, I would say that such a goal is not even possible.

I can hear his voice as I type: “Lynnie, in business, you have no friends.”

Sounds harsh, I know, but I think he may be entirely right.

Last night, as I drove along the darkened road with my friend Roz beside me, after a riveting talk by Vedanta scholar Gautam Jain, we talked about how relationships are about duty – and pondered the purpose of friendships. We came up blank.

They may be enjoyable, they may enhance our lives, they may offer support and wisdom and community. But seriously – what is the role of friendship?

If our goal in the world is to find internal peace by renouncing ego and minimizing (or eliminating) attachments, then what is the role of friendship?

And then tell me, please, what the role of “FRIENDSHIP” is in business? Isn’t that an oxymoron?

Dr. Robert Cialdini’s principles of universal persuasion:

1. Reciprocation: People return favors. Give to get. (I agree with the idea of having an attitude of GIVING – but not for the purpose of receiving.)

2. Scarcity: If I can’t have it, I want it. Perceived scarcity creates demand.

3. Authority: People tend to believe and obey “authority” figures. Create an “expert” persona.

4. Consensus: People look for “social proof” (i.e. follow the crowd).

5. Liking: People are easily persuaded by people they like and are attracted to.

There’s a sixth one, consistency, but I didn’t find a compelling example or argument to convince me to share it here. Sure, we want a consistency in our lives, but of what? And how does that apply to creating influence and trust?

So the argument in Ash’s article is that these principles are super-important on the Internet, which he describes as “a sweeping, ever-changing communications network that creates uncertainty in its wake.”

But I have to ask – doesn’t that definition describe the entire world? If we fool ourselves into believing that the world stays routine, that nothing changes, then our perceptions are flawed. The world is ever changing, ever moving, and it is simply our inability to flow with constant change that holds us back.

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What do you write about when you are living life? Is writing for the people who are yearning in one direction or another, backwards or straight ahead, but never right where they are sitting?

Nonsense. Writing is a way that we capture a moment and share it with the world. And I have not written of my moments for over two weeks now, though there have been many.

Like the moment I took down the painting above my computer screen, hung there 2+ years ago during the painstaking path of divorce. It’s a thin canvas with texture in the form of paint atop paint, and words – I am, after all, a master of words – evoking the passion and fear and confidence and quiet I felt at the time.

It’s no longer necessary and the colors are too igniting for me now.

I signed the painting like all artists do in case someone wonders who screamed that color onto canvas. And I vacillate between wanting to store it in the basement with my aunt’s wedding present, her painting of Moses with the tablets, his hair tufted so full and curly he looks as if he has horns. Or maybe it’s time to throw it out, say goodbye to moments long past.

And there was the moment when, late into the night, Asher wept on my shoulder about how I never recount stories of him before his siblings entered the mix. And so I told him, quietly, in the dark of his room and enveloped in his superhero sheets and blankets, that all I ever wanted in life was to become a mother and he gave me that. He gave me all I ever wanted. And the tears gushed anew, only then they were tears of joy.

And then there was the moment early this morning, when all three of my lovely dear children were cuddled up in my bed and I decided to start a new tradition, on Mother’s Day, of telling them stories of moments in their lives. We laughed, we snuggled, we hugged and rolled, and a new day with bright sunshine was well under way.

And so I leave you this morning with one last captured moment, a moment still in progress: window cracked, cool air promising to warm in the afternoon sun, not a single cloud above, and birds ever chirping their innocent songs. Cars pass. Tree branches wave and woosh in the wind. Warm air of indoor heat blazes over my toes. Onward and upward, outward and ahead. Every day a gift, every moment to be cherished.

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It’s as if I haven’t wanted to put it into words, so I haven’t wanted to blog. But I must.

Yoga Shelter Life Training, which I completed April 15-19, was incredible. Transformative. Inspiring. So worth it. And so challenging.

I took away so much meaning and inspiration for my everyday life. It looks something like this: Do the work for work’s sake. Have gratitude for everything and everyone. Approach everything you do with an attitude of Apres Vous, “After You.” The whole point of a relationship is to be OF SERVICE. Eliminate the selfishness. Be of service.

The day before Training, I was at Christ Church Cranbrook, listening to the pastor speak of the history of this beautiful place of worship, and hearing about stories of faith and community from a whole range of interfaith participants.

And here’s the message I took from that gathering: Your faith is your SIGHT. What you choose to see.

Faith is love and respect for all living beings. It’s not the book; it’s the voice.

And finally, my children and I have strolled through The Story Of US exhibit at Cranbrook Institute of Science twice now. Each time, I am moved by the amazing truth and clarity it took to compile an exhibit about humanity, illustrating our similarities, and emphasizing that differences are all figments of imagination. Barriers to connection. Fodder for war.

sub * sis * tence – a source or means of obtaining the necessities of life.

The range of our interactions is virtually limitless.

Relationships are the fabric of our humanity. re * la * tion * ships – the connections that bind people and communities together.

Creating bonds. Realizing you are really part of a team.

The relative inadequacy of our eyes as a lens for receiving truth. Perception is everything.

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It was in the 50s and breezy, rain splattering down like spitting from the sky. The kids and I drove through a web of highways and burnt houses, concrete columns and vast factories, and ended up in a neighborhood of houses that once stood majestic. Detroit.

We were the oldest and the youngest in a crowd of eager twentysomethings, there to green the city, to plant trees. And despite the rain, we wore our gardening gloves and rubber boots and grasped the shovels and the rakes and the big plastic buckets as if our lives depended on it.

Of course, my daughter whined and cried from the cold. It wasn’t really that cold, but inertia can render one unpleasant. While we listened and watched, heard stories of the groups that brought us there and learned how to properply plant a tree wrapped in a burlap bag, she hovered at my leg, unhappy.

We traipsed then down the street to a white X on the grass and a tree lain on its side. We dug in with the point of the spade and hefted clumps of sod out of the planted earth.

A man came with an ax and hacked away the dead roots within. The kids handled fat pulsing worms with their fingers, in awe. And once the hole was deep enough, they eagerly stomped the dirt flat, preparing it to receive the tree.

We were given a ginkgo and the task of bringing it to life tall and steady in the wet earth. By then, our cold had vanished and our blood pulsed. There had been tears, of course, for one sibling pushing the other out of the way, and impulsive threats from me, the mother, in a lame attempt to keep harmony.

But all in all, we were dedicated to expanding life.

After, we ate so much food at Zeff’s in Eastern Market, a place where my family has roots from a century ago.

And much later, around the dinner table, when I asked my usual question, “Tell me something great about your day!”, it was my daughter, the tear-streaked miserable one this morning, who said, “Planting the tree.”

What is like poison in the beginning, becomes nectar in the end. Always.

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There was one single tree outside my office window, its arms reaching upward to the sky and delivering beautiful flowers every spring to lighten my gaze. I’ve lived here 7 years and every year, that tree has watched me through the seasons as I’ve watched it. And in the cool quiet of every morning, it was the one symbol of beauty and nature in this built-up world.

And today, when we arrived home from school, cut branches littered my neighbor’s lawn.

They chopped down the tree, pulled it out from its roots, leaving the earth gaping and raw. Inside the car, the kids and I fell unquestionably silent. “I feel so sad,” I said as we ambled into the car, bookbags and coats among us.

“I know,” said 8-year-old Asher, the most sensitive one of us all.

The view from above my desk: white siding, the slats of a rust-splattered vent at the peak of their roof, and above it white sky more cloudy than clear. So appropriate. My own personal metaphor.

Just one day after Earth Day but not everyone notices. On the playground, Asher had painted his face yellow from dandelions. He was like a 2nd-grade warrior with battle paint.

At home, after he’d scrubbed it twice to erase every last bit, he fell into my arms in tears. I’d asked him to go to yoga with me the night before but he was the teacher in my children’s play school and it was more fun and immediate to play power trip than seek peace with Mom.

“I wish you’d gone to yoga with me last night,” I said as he sobbed. From exhaustion or hunger or sheer sadness at the loss of that pretty tree, I don’t know.

“I WANTED to go!” he exclaimed.

“I asked you and you said you’d let me know,” I replied.

“Why didn’t you ask AGAIN?”

I don’t know. No good answer at all.

We are all fragile in the lap of this world, seeking the solace and comfort of those constants, like the flowering trees that every year promise to begin life anew.

At Christ Church of Cranbrook last week, the pastor of that majestic baroque church said, “Your faith is your sight – what you choose to see.” And he added, “Love and respect for all human beings.”

I’ll take it a step further. Not just human beings, all creatures. Call it love, call it faith, call it belief in this world. If you chop one tree down, what’s to stop you from decimating a forest?

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