Chasing Squirrels - Episode 11

What do wild lake squirrels, Game of Thrones, Alaska daydreams, aging knees, emotional “acorns,” and a striped hammock have in common?

More than you might think.

In this episode, Lulu reflects on the delightful chaos of watching squirrels at the lake and discovers a surprisingly honest metaphor for her own wandering mind — and perhaps yours. From unfinished projects and overfull inboxes to the quiet fears we squirrel away for “later,” this episode gently explores what it means to live halfway between living in the now...or not.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:24

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, and here at Light in the Garden, we explore the quiet places where the human and the divine meet. This isn't a podcast of answers. Goodness knows I am still very much a student of life and 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 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 very glad you are here. I was recording at my recording location the other day, comfortably seated in my nearly soundproof studio, also known as my Chevy Equinox, recording last week's episode when I noticed movement outside the car windows. This happened the week before as well. I may need to create do it yourself blinders because animal activity always pulls my attention. I can be mid sentence deep, reflective, almost profound, and suddenly I'm whispering into the mic Hold please, is that a hawk? What I ended up witnessing was the wild and ridiculous shenanigans of squirrels on the move. Total chaos. They chased each other up and down and all around the great oak tree under which I had parked myself. They darted this way and that, stashing their finds and then apparently forgetting where they put half of them. Honestly, I felt personally represented. Now the day was one of those that makes people move to Florida. Temperatures in the seventies, the sky recklessly blue, not a cloud anywhere. A few feet from that squirrel Olympics were herons standing like ancient philosophers, songbirds in the hundreds, and turtles basking in the sun as if they had absolutely nowhere to be. But what captured my delighted attention were the squirrels. I laughed out loud. I actually had to stop the recording and start over because I couldn't focus. But I didn't find it annoying. I had an entire entertainment troupe performing a few feet away from me. Was I interrupted or rescued from my usual getter done mentality? I think you, beloved listener, can answer that question. Now I'm not particularly a lover of squirrels in my own backyard. At home they perform Olympic level gymnastics to gain access to my bird feeders, hanging upside down like tiny furry acrobats while I watch in disbelief. But here at the lake I enjoyed them. Between the helter skelter escapades as they clearly practiced for cirque de sole, they would suddenly halt, sit very, very still, and calmly chew on an acorn or whatever edible treasure they had discovered for breakfast in that moment. They had no calendar, no inbox, no existential dread just chew. We laugh at squirrels. But listen, how many of us live exactly like that? It is not a broad mental leap to liken myself to this chaos, and maybe you can relate. How often in the middle of a perfectly good conversation with a friend do I say squirrel and head off in another direction entirely? This happened very recently while I was visiting a friend. We were deep in conversation about this very podcast. I was thoughtful, intent, perhaps even eloquent. Then my eye wandered to a book on her coffee table. Oh my gosh, I blurted out. I have to see that book before I leave. She didn't even blink. She just said squirrel. The huge volume was a picture book of Game of Thrones, a series I loved so much that I named one of my dogs after my favorite character, Tyrian Lannister. Yep, that Tyrion. Books have always called to me, so this was not a one off occurrence, but I think my friend may have been mildly shocked that dragons and medieval warfare and political intrigue are part of my literary diet. We all contain multitudes, don't we? Often my thoughts do not move in anything resembling a straight line. Like a literal squirrel, I may stop, freeze, look left, then right, then run hither thither, stop again, flick my proverbial tail, and dash off in yet another direction. Here's an example of how it works in my world. I'm seated on my love seat, both dogs plastered to either side of me like furry bookends, typing away with what feels like great purpose. My eyes lift off the screen, and I notice my orchids. Huh? They might need water. Into the kitchen I go. While I'm there I make a cup of my favorite decaf Earl Grey tea shipped directly from London because apparently I am that person. And I notice I'm almost out of honey. I'm a bit of a honey snob, so I go online to find my favorite forest honey. While standing in the fridge I decide I may as well check the fridge. The fridge is not inspirational. I should clean that. On the side of the fridge is a photo of a truck camper rolling along an Alaskan highway. Suddenly I'm mentally in Alaska. I have dreamed of a trip to Alaska for years, which reminds me of the novel The Great Alone about a family who moved there wildly unprepared for the hardships of that wilderness. Would I survive Alaska? Would I thrive? Would I pack enough honey? Wait, wait, I was writing something. Back to the love seed I go. So at what point does productivity become distraction from presence? Remember the story of Martha and Mary? Let me remind you, Martha and Mary are the sisters of Lazarus, one of Jesus' friends. And he was visiting one day, and Martha was very anxious to serve. So she was running back and forth, offering Jesus, you know, drinks and nibbles. Meanwhile, Mary sits at Jesus' feet listening to his teaching. Martha gets a little grouchy about this, but Jesus gently corrects her, emphasizing that spiritual devotion is more necessary than busy distraction. Here we find that stillness is not laziness. The unrush is not irresponsibility. One sacred thing at a time is enough. This feels like a fairly accurate metaphor for my squirrel like mind when I'm simply trying to decide what project to head into today or tomorrow or next month. It is modern life for many of us, isn't it? Notifications, emails, texts, phone calls, knocks on the door, and two dogs who believe any shift in my pock posture means WALK. How can we ever complete one single thing when our minds are clinging to a tree branch having a lively debate with another squirrel, both of us planning three winters ahead? I gather ideas like acorns. I have plans to redesign my yard after the hard freeze that wiped out much of it. But as I walk the yard dreaming of new plantings, I'm also aware of the resources required and the back breaking work ahead. Then my mind shifts to wondering whether the physical therapy I'm doing will prevent another injury. Then I remember I need to schedule another appointment. Negotiating with my once live, flexible and very strong body, and this one I now carry around can leave me feeling frustrated and sometimes a little sad. My physical therapist reminded me recently that no matter how much work I put in, my body will improve, but it will not be a twenty year old body again. Huh well there are regrets that float by too, things I once labeled as mistakes that later grew into blessings, like the church I thought I was building that eventually became this podcast instead. Projects, because of course there are always projects fill my mind, building a bird feeder, selling things on eBay, rebuilding my once white picket fence, reorganizing that one drawer while three others wait patiently. And then there's my email inbox. Oh my gosh, let's not even discuss the email inbox. And sometimes I store emotional acorns for later. How much energy goes into preparing for winners that may never come? There are emotions I'm not always ready to look at health concerns with my adult children, questions about aging that stare back at me in the mirror. I had two good friends pass in the last couple of years. My beloved dog passed a month ago. And sometimes I wonder will my writing survive after I'm gone? That's an emotional acorn. This is especially true when it comes to money. I squirrel away dollars quite literally. The envelopes I keep them in are actually labelled squirrel envelopes. These envelopes have saved me more than once, like when my washing machine unexpectedly decided it had completed its earthly assignment. Yeah, this is a true story. But else what else might we squirrel away besides dollars? Anger fear unspoken grief? Interestingly, as I watch squirrels and most wildlife actually, I don't see them holding grudges. They seem better able to shake it off and go back to the business of living. I hope to learn from them, to live more in delight, in wonder, in beauty, and in the moment. I'm fairly certain squirrels are not worried about a cancelled trip to Cancun or whether they mailed a birthday card on time. I have also spent seasons living in a state of when is the other shoe going to fall? But when I observe squirrels, I do not see tiny shoulders scrunched up near tiny ears. I wonder if we can learn to soften without going numb. I wonder if we can learn when to hustle and when to chew the acorn already in our hands. I wonder if we can rest in the branches, or in my case, in my striped hammock, and stop chasing every shiny thought that drops into our field of vision because I do chase them like a jack in the box. But one thing gathering more years has offered me is a gentler pace and a growing respect for what I call the holy usefulness of the unrush. My body figures this out long before my mind does, sending me little reminders that doing one sacred thing at a time is not laziness it is wisdom. So perhaps the real question is this Am I chasing squirrels or am I being one? Is multitasking the best use of my precious hours? Am I sprinting after every interruption? Am I leaping from branch to branch instead of staying long enough to taste the nut already in my hand? This, my friends, is where stillness enters and silence and quiet and meditation. For me, these are not luxuries. They are necessities. Sometimes meditation just looks like staring out the windows of my Florida room, watching tree branches sway until thought dissolves and gratitude rises. Sometimes it's journaling in bed with a cup of coffee, dogs cemented to my sides. Sometimes it's walking outside on a foggy morning, or drawing, or watercolor painting, or touching up woodwork in my eighty year old cottage and brushing my dogs. Anything that places my mind gently in time out quiets the inner squirrel and I find myself wondering what would it be like to sit on one limb for a while, feel the breeze lift my hair, enjoy the nourishment of a thoughtfully prepared meal and know without a shadow of a doubt that I am held and profoundly loved by the creator of squirrels and trees and acorns. And perhaps one acorn at a time is enough. I'd like to offer a longer breathing space now. An invitation to let this teaching land in your body and not just your mind. I call it the Holy Unrush. Take a slow breath in and let it leave you gently. Another breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Allow your shoulders to soften. Let your jaw unclench. You have arrived. There is nowhere else you need to be in this moment. Feel what is holding you up. The chair, the floor, the earth itself beneath the structure beneath you. You are supported. Even if your mind is moving quickly, even if your day feels unfinished, even if questions linger, right now, in this moment, you are held. Let your breathing become slow and unforced. Inhale and exhale. Imagine that with each exhale you are loosening your grip on whatever you have been carrying. Not abandoning it, just placing it down for a little while. The list, the conversation, the worry, the plan. Set them beside you like small stones. There is a deeper rhythm moving beneath your thoughts. See if you can sense it. It is the rhythm of your breath, the rhythm of your heartbeat, the rhythm something older than your striving. You do not have to manufacture this rhythm, it is already here. Notice your hands. Let them open slightly. Let the palms just rest. It's an ancient gesture of receiving. If your mind begins to dart from one thought to another, that is natural. Minds move. They are lively and curious. Instead of following each thought, imagine yourself sit seated beside a quiet stream at twilight. Leaves float past. You do not chase them. You simply watch. Some thoughts are small and harmless. Some feel heavier. Let them all drift. Bring your awareness to your body. Notice where it feels strong. Notice where it feels tender. If you are in a season of negotiating with your body, if you are learning to move differently, if you are grieving at former ease, place a gentle hand over your heart and whisper inwardly, thank you. Thank you for carrying me. Thank you for staying with me. Thank you for doing your best. There is wisdom in your bones now. There is story in your skin. Let that be sacred. Take another breath. Now imagine a soft. Light, not bright, not blinding, but warm and steady. It surrounds you. It is not something you have to earn. It does not measure your productivity. It does not require perfection. It simply holds you. You may call it presence, you may call it spirit, you may call it love. It has been here all along. Rest inside it. Feel how nothing is chasing you in this moment. There is no winter to prepare for right now, no future to solve. There is only this breath, this quiet, this subtle hum of being alive. Let your shoulders fall one inch lower. Let your chest soften. Let your thoughts become less sharp around the edges. You are allowed to live one sacred thing at a time. You are allowed to pause between efforts. You are allowed to be instead of become. See it clearly, and imagine taking that one step while remaining connected to this quiet center. You do not leave this stillness behind, you carry it with you. Take one final slow breath in, and as you exhale, feel gratitude, simple, unforced gratitude just for being here for breath, for body, for the mysterious grace that holds you even when your mind runs ahead. When you are ready, my friends, open your eyes, move gently, and walk back into your day in the holy unrush. Before we leave this space, let yourself name one small thing that is pulling your attention away from presence. It could be a relationship, a healing, a hope, even a piece of courage you didn't know you had. Hold this thing gently and then let it go. Acknowledge quietly within yourself that all is well because God is good. And as you return to your day, carry this with you. Even in the places where distraction may have gotten the best of you, light has been at work, quietly growing something that only you can grow. When you're ready, open your eyes and remember keep one foot in the world and one foot in the garden. See you next week.