childhood memories

Black and white photo on the left shows a woman wearing overalls sitting on a horse in front of a house. Sepia toned photo on the right shows a man sitting down sorting apples in baskets. This is Mrs. and Farmer Bethke- two people from my childhood. (The picture of Mrs. is long before I knew her.) Thanks to my brother, Ed, for finding these images!)

You never know when you will receive an invitation to a doorway into meditation

I don’t know if it was because I was riding a stationary bicycle, but when someone I was talking with the other day said they grew up on a farm, I was immediately transported. Perhaps because riding a bike was so integral to my growing up years.

There I was, barefoot, toes wiggling in the velvety soft dust of the lane between the corn and hayfields. The cornstalks were rustling in the lazy summer breeze- a drier, more rattling sound than when they were green in Spring. I could smell the sun-warmed hay, freshly baled from the second cutting of the season. Bees buzzing in the chamomile under the apple trees. It made the remaining minutes of my training warm up delightful.

I also thought of the Bethkes- owners of the corn and hay fields, as well as the roadside market down at the bottom of the hill where I grew up. We always called Mrs. Mrs. Bethke, and I remember calling the mister Farmer Bethke, but never Mr..

So many memories of being sent down with 50 cents clutched in my hand, tightly, so I wouldn’t drop it in the tall grass of the orchard, to buy a dozen ears of sweet corn for supper. Sitting on the back steps shucking that same corn.

Sometimes a cow or two would escape from the farm, and wander up the hill and into our yard. Memories too, of Spring smelling of apple blossoms, and the manure spread on the field. Summer sounding like the arrival of mourning doves and mosquitoes. In Autumn, raking leaves, burning them, and sometimes roasting marshmallows. Winter- skating on the pond, and sliding down the hill on an old tractor inner tube, or cardboard refrigerator boxes until the year Santa brought us all flying saucers.

Mrs. Bethkey always wore overalls and a blouse, like in the picture, with a bandana covering her hair, and when it was chilly, a blue and grey plaid shirt (it might be in the photo behind Farmer Bethke!)

I don’t remember much about Farmer Bethke, other than the time he chased and yelled at us for playing on the hay bales stacked up in the field. (They made such a good fort and castle!) Looking back as an adult, I’m sure it was a combination of safety and that playing on the bales would… erm… unbale them a bit.

Their sons were stock car drivers, and we could often hear them revving their cars before an upcoming race.

This is the beauty of Instinctive Meditation® practice. Any small noticing, any memory, can be an invitation to explore our inner world, and reset. I’m so grateful that I’ve become attuned to seeing these invitations, and adding them to my repertoire. The past several days, since this conversation, these memories have been my doorway into meditation.

The farm is long gone, although the house and a couple outbuildings remain. Part of the farm is now a small park. The dusty lane is paved, and suburban houses have taken over the fields. The pond where we skated, and the lone oak on the hill that holds so many secrets still exist, but that’s another story, for another time.

When I was a kid, I was happiest floating on simply being. Laying on my belly, looking at the world up close. Or making cabins for faeries out of twigs on the ground. Wandering through the woods looking for mayflowers and magic. Making up stories and walking around in them until they felt real.

In part, that’s what childhood is for. For some of us, it’s a calling. As an older child and into adulthood, I hid in music, playing oboe and sending out stories written in notes and magic made with my breath.

The question “what do you want to be when you grow up?” made me supremely uncomfortable.

How do you explain to your friends who were planning on being teachers or nurses or mommies that you wanted to live in a hut like Baba Yaga’s so you could take home with you wherever you wandered…to live in a cabin in the woods and write stories. To have people come visit for tea and send them away with packets of magic folded in paper to be tucked away in a pocket and found later when needed?

I’ve had flashes of this as an adult… making things people found beautiful, writing stories, creating magic with sound, having tea with friends and when they left we both felt healed. In the primary world this is why we have hobbies, and friends, and tea.

Times when my ordinary work served a greater purpose.

Sometimes late at night I see myself as a much older woman, standing in the shade looking out at a beach of white sand and a sea of impossible blue. A gentle wind is teasing my dress, inviting me to dance. In this moment I know that whatever I do in life, I will have lived a good one when it’s done, hopefully long from now.

And still. I long to live in a cabin, creating magic that people can see and feel and hear. And maybe take home a packet of paper tucked in a pocket to be found later when needed.

Tag: childhood memories

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