Wait What Was That? - Eposide 10

What happens when we slow down long enough to notice what usually slips past our peripheral vision?

In this episode of Light in the Garden, Lulu shares a series of surprising encounters with the natural world—from a duck sheltering in a tree to a dragonfly hitching a five-mile ride—and reflects on how paying attention gently reshapes the way we move through our days.

The episode closes with a short guided meditation inviting you to pause, widen your awareness, and practice the simple art of noticing.

Sometimes the light we bring isn’t dramatic.

Sometimes… it’s just attention.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:18

Welcome to Light in the Garden, a soft place to land, to breathe, and to remember who you truly are. I'm Lulu, and this podcast is my offering. Here at Light in the Garden we explore the quiet places where the human and the divine meet. This isn't in a podcast of answers because goodness knows I am still very much a student of life, of living. Rather, it's a place of remembering. If you stay with me, you'll hear stories from the road, from the lake where I spend many hours, and from the long path of my own becoming. Each episode is a companion for your heart, something you can sink into, breathe with, and carry into your day. You'll find encouragement for the weary parts, clarity for the tangled places, and a gentle reminder of the divinity you already carry inside you. This is a space where we honor the mystery where we live with one foot here and one foot in the unseen garden that keeps calling us home. This is Light in the Garden, and I'm so glad you are here. The name of this podcast is called Wait. What was that? So many very cool and amazing and seemingly random things happen in our lives, and we often miss them entirely. Or, you know, maybe that's just me. But because I'm standing still much more often these days, catching what at one time I registered as only some random thing, if I even caught it at all, the life happening around me is all that much more wondrous. Yesterday, literally yesterday, as I was recording last week's podcast, which I record in the very special sound studio, also known as my car at the lake, I caught movement in my peripheral vision when a sudden fluttering of a bird grabbed my attention. I was parked under a giant oak tree, and the wide trunk had several crotches where the trunk had split into three large limbs, creating a kind of a V-shaped cradle. My eye had to keep returning to my script, but I almost couldn't tear my eyes away. It was a duck. A duck? What? I've never known ducks to shelter in the crotches of trees, but we have had multiple nights of freezing temperatures, and this guy had determined that sheltering in place was his preferred location in a tree. Like obviously. I've spent and experienced so many times in nature when I am reminded that my kin, my oftentimes preferred kin, are my other than human family and friends. It wasn't that long ago that I walked into my very small bathroom and nearly stepped on and crushed a large toad who was comfortably seated on my bathroom rug. Large, like paying rent large. The most obvious question is, what are you doing in here? I removed him from the interior location he had chosen and placed him back outside. A few summers ago there was a green bottlefly who hovered outside my bedroom window and clearly was requesting an audience. I got up from my cozy nest and went outside to have a nice morning chat. I absolutely know this creature had a message for me, or at the very least wanted my company. One time I was tubing down Crystal River and a giant dragonfly perched himself right on my knee, and I was mesmerized by his beautiful, translucent blue and green wings. That tube ride was five miles long, five, and he hitchhike hitchhiked a ride with me almost the entire trip. Wait, what was that about? And then there was a time when a hawk was hit by a car. I was directly behind that car, so I pulled over and grabbed a blanket I had in the car, or maybe it was my jacket and carefully wrapped him in it. Those birds are enormous by the way. I took him to the Audubon Bird Sanctuary, but they had to put him to sleep because he was just too terribly injured. Think about the times nature has spoken to you. When I listen or just watch silently, my other than human teachers speak loudly without words. Even earthworms and pests like tree hopping thornbugs seem to have a message for me. The brown or green annolls that are seen by everyone who lives in Florida or who just visits here seem to listen closely when I speak to them. You should try it. They cock their heads to the side and appear to adjust their hearing aids to hear every word. Because I because they find themselves or I find them inside the house frequently, I try to get them back to their natural habitat. But that natural habitat may actually be inside my home. They eat tiny or sometimes not so tiny bugs, and they drink water from the saucers of my plants. They are adaptable, and I welcome these small brothers and sisters. Now, some people are very wary, and that's putting it mildly, of snakes. But I know they are here to help with the circle of life, and I welcome them. One time an adult, fully grown garter snake found its way into my Florida room and stretched his length along the windowsill. He was glorious there, just sunbathing. All he needed was a beach towel. Wait, what is he doing in here? Another time I walked into my kitchen and there was a snake just crawling along, smelling the air. He quickly departed the way he came through some opening which I still haven't found. Maybe that's what all these moments are really doing for me. The duck in the oak tree, the dragonfly on my knee, the snake sunbathing like he paid rent. They slow me down just enough to interrupt my certainty. Just enough to make me stop walking through the world like I already know what I'm about to see. Every time I whisper wait, what was that? I realize I've stepped out of habit and into presence. And what surprises me is that once I start noticing my other than human neighbors, I begin to notice the human ones too. The woman in front of me at the grocery store, the man walking his dog, the tired cashier, each of them carrying a life I can't see. And maybe the light I'm meaning to bring isn't anything dramatic at all. No spotlight, no soundtrack. Maybe it's just attention. Maybe it's pausing long enough to bless the patch of earth I'm standing on and the creatures standing on it with me. So today, if something flutters in the corner of your eye, don't rush past it. Let yourself stop. Tilt your head and quietly ask Wait, what was that? I'd like to offer a longer breathing space now, an invitation to let this teaching land in your body, not just your mind. I call it what was that? Let's slow down things together. If you can, allow your shoulders to soften. Not collapse, just loosen. Take a slow breath in through your nose. And then just let it fall out of you. Another one. Slow breath in through your nose. And then just let it go. This time don't force it. Take another breath in and just let the air leave when it's ready. Now notice the place where your body is making contact with the world. The chair, the floor, the bed, the car seat. Let yourself arrive there. You don't need to go anywhere else for the next few minutes. There's nothing to fix. Nothing to solve. Just be here. Not the center. Just the edges. The sounds in the room, or outside it. The hum of something electrical. A bird. Wind. Distant traffic. The quiet between noises. Let those sounds come to you instead of you going to them. And as you breathe, imagine your vision widening just a little bit. As if the world is happening not only right in front of you, but around you. Above you. Let your peripheral vision wake up. Even if your eyes are closed. No, imagine something small and ordinary drifting into that wide awareness. A leaf moving. Light shifting on a wall. A shadow crossing the floor. A creature passing through your yard. Something or someone you didn't expect to notice. Let the image be gentle. Nothing dramatic. Just present. And inside yourself, softly asked Wait. What was that? Don't answer it. Just let the question hover. Like a dragonfly. Like breath on glass. Like something that came close and then went on its way. Stay with that openness for a few slow breaths. Again. And out. Now notice what happens inside your body when you stop rushing past the moment. Does anything soften? The jaw. The belly. The space between your eyes. Your hands. Let whatever eases ease. And whatever doesn't be exactly as it is. No forcing. Just noticing. That's the practice here. Noticing. And being interrupted by wonder. Pausing long enough to bless that patch of earth you're standing on. And the life sharing it with you. Take one more slow breath, breathe in. And as you exhale, gently return to the room. Wiggle your fingers or toes if that feels good. Open your eyes when you're ready. And carry this question with you today not as something to solve but as a doorway. Wait what was that? Before we leave this space, let yourself name one small thing you are tending to right now. It could be a relationship. It could be a healing a hope. A piece of courage you didn't know you had. Give yourself permission to slow down enough to notice to pay attention so you can ask yourself wait what was that? Hold it gently. Ask yourself these questions Am I ready to release this tight hold on myself? Am I willing to allow life to shine for me? And as you return to your day, carry this with you. Even in the places you rushed past, know that light has been at work quietly growing something that only you can grow. And when you're ready, open your eyes and remember keep one foot in the world and one in the garden. Thank you for joining me today. I really do appreciate it.