Minding my mindfulness in the New Year

 

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Mindfulness seems to be the buzzword of the day. It had been calling me here and there, when coincidentally, a friend gave me a book about mindfulness in bird watching. Reading the book has been pleasant so far. As I turn the pages, I feel relaxed and calm, because the author's tone and choice of words are relaxing and calming. It is making me want to be mindful, not only in bird watching, but in every aspect of my life. 

        The dictionary compares mindfulness to awareness. I am already aware, or mindful, especially of my surroundings when out and about, but there are times when I am not mindful enough. So, at the beginning of January and the start of a New Year, I resolved to be more mindful, partly because of the book given to me, and partly because being consciously mindful seems like an excellent idea. If I am more mindful, maybe I will not make as many mistakes, at least, that is my intent in seeking to be more mindful. 

        Only two days into January, despite my mission of mindfulness, I made my first big flub, because I was not mindful. I baked a chocolate pie for a friend's birthday, and when I sliced it, syrupy chocolate filling ran onto the plate. I should have baked it longer. If I had inspected it more carefully when taking it out of the oven, I would have known. Instead, I trusted a note from long ago that I had baked it for thirty-five minutes, and I failed to take into account that a new oven had been installed since then, and that a different oven delivers different results. Next time, I will be more mindful.

        Mindfulness is a two-way street. There are times when our mindfulness is overridden by someone else's mindlessness. No matter how mindful we are, mindfulness and mindlessness sometimes collide. 

Through the eyes of a green plant

Believe it or not, plants have stories, too, and this jade would like to tell one:

    I was a tiny twig of a thing, perched on the near-death, reduced-for-quick-sale rack at Lowe's, thinking I was doomed, when a tender-hearted foliage fanatic named Mary bought me for fifty cents, even though she did not need another plant.

Rehashing the Handbag

    For nearly a lifetime, I have been trying to track down the perfect handbag. Every time I go into a department store, pretty purses call my name. Even when I resist the urge, a magnetic force pulls me in, and there I go again, searching for a pocketbook that will help me organize my clutter. I analyze the architecture of each one, measuring compartments for lipstick, note pad, pencil and pen. Fashion is not the primary issue; organization is the focus. But all too often, when sizing up a handbag, I find that it is too big, too little, too heavy, or that it lacks the indispensable outside pocket for my keys. 

    One day while I evaluated a prospective purchase in a store, a woman across from me, obviously in her own sanctimonious search, made a comment, whereupon we exchanged commiserating dialogue about our handbag pursuits. I revealed to the stranger my mission of finding the perfect bag. She confided in me that, without realizing it, she had been doing the same. 

    After comparing notes about our failed missions, the stranger, who didn’t seem like a stranger anymore, walked away empty-handed, but on that day, I found the presumptive flawless bag. It was lightweight with partitions and cubbyholes and even boasted of the crucial outside pocket. Happy with my new find, I went home and filled up the compartments with essential nonessentials from my archaic address book to mini flashlight. 

    Unfortunately, as time went on, my new handbag became overcrowded. With an eerie resemblance to the movie Groundhog Day, another hunt ensued and the cycle began all over again.