This Year's Death Poem

Dreams form and dissolve,
Sandcastles of home and work.
This too is practice.

In reflecting upon the year of practice, the Inner Critic has a lot to say.  I'm minding my business on a gorgeous tropical island beach, when she marches up and rather arbitrarily draws a line in the sand in front of me, declaring I have not measured up.  I should be on the other side.  

Where I Am / Where I Should Be:

Complacent / Determined

Hitting the Snooze / Waking Up

Shallow / Deep

Work:  Year Two of private practice now feels comfortable and easy.  Nothing compared to drinking out of the fire hose that was community mental health.  Home:  A sweet, happy, and healthy marriage continues.  Adding a golden retriever puppy to the mix the end of last year has been a delight, and a bit of a wild card in our predictable DINK (dual income no kids) life, challenging our home practice for a time.  The pull of the Relative world has been strong.  Not to mention the Acedia in the early part of this year.  This year of practice has felt like an exhale.  A dissolving.  Diastole.  I have nothing to show for it.  

Inner Critic is going on about how this is a complete failure, a shameful tragedy.  She is squawking and flapping her arms.  She is saying something about what a Zen Student is supposed to look like; some vision of a pale figure in a dark Zendo with blisters on their butt having Deep Realizations.  Usually I hang on her every word, and would be pierced to the core, but here I am in my chaise and floppy hat, noticing how her face is turning red, how faraway her voice sounds, and wanting to offer her a frozen margarita.    

With gratitude, I reflect on the Teachers and Sangha that I have been so open with all this time, who have been observing my practice this year too, and who reassure me not to worry.  I lean into that.  Watching the waves.