On Vagueness

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

via Daily Prompt: Vague

There’s something about vagueness that catches my attention now in a way it didn’t before.

When an answer or a story feels vague, it’s often easy to brush past it. Sometimes there are harmless reasons—protecting a surprise, avoiding unnecessary drama, or simply not having a clear answer yet.

But other times, vagueness feels different.

Subtle. Slightly off. Like something isn’t quite being said.

I’ve started to notice that feeling more in my own life. Not as a clear thought, but as something quieter—more like a small internal pause. A moment where something doesn’t fully land.

And if I’m being honest, I can think of many times I’ve ignored it.

Times when answers didn’t quite add up, but I didn’t press.
Times when something felt off, but I told myself it was nothing.
Times when I wanted something to be true badly enough that I didn’t question it.

Looking back, I can usually see that I knew—at least on some level.

Not in a loud, obvious way. But in that quiet way that doesn’t demand attention… unless we’re willing to give it.

It’s not always about distrust or assuming the worst. It’s more about noticing when something doesn’t fully settle, and being willing to stay with that feeling just a little longer.

Maybe ask one more question.
Or simply not rush to smooth it over.

I think most of us have felt that small internal signal before.

The real question is whether we listen to it—or explain it away.

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On a Song for Someone

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

via Daily Prompt: Song

From
U2

The refrain of this song is used on both of U2’s most recent albums, Songs of Innocence (2014) and Songs of Experience (2017). It was called “A Song for Someone” on the 2014 album, and a “There is a Light” on the 2017 album.  Both titles make sense, as the refrain uses both lines.

Both titles fit, but for me it’s always been about the feeling behind the words.

If there is a light
You can’t always see
And there is a world
We can’t always be
If there is a dark
Now we shouldn’t doubt
And there is a light
Don’t let it go out…

The first few times I heard the song, I didn’t think much of it—except for that part. That part always caught me.

Daren and I saw U2 live years ago, and I remember hearing it there, not fully paying attention, but feeling something I couldn’t quite name. Then later, when the second version came out, we were in the car together driving to Long Island. The song came on near the end of the album, and as soon as the refrain started, I found myself singing along without thinking.

It was slower this time. Softer. Familiar, but different—like running into someone you once knew and realizing they’ve changed, but somehow feel more themselves.

That’s when I started really listening.

A few weeks later, I was driving alone when it came on again. No distractions, no conversation—just the song. And this time, something shifted. I wasn’t just hearing the words, I was feeling them.

It made me think about that sense we all have—something steady underneath everything else. Something that doesn’t go away, even when we lose touch with it.

There are stretches of time when I feel very connected to that part of myself. Clear. Grounded. Almost like I’m moving through life with a quiet kind of knowing.

And then there are other times when I don’t feel it at all.

Life gets loud. Thoughts take over. Emotions pull in different directions. The physical world becomes everything. And that quieter part—the one that feels like truth—fades into the background.

Not gone. Just… harder to access.

When I heard those lines again, it felt like a reminder:

If there is a light
You can’t always see…

Of course we can’t always see it.

We’re not really built to.

We live in a world that constantly pulls us outward—toward things we can touch, measure, prove, react to. It makes sense that we lose connection with something that isn’t loud, or urgent, or demanding.

But that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

The second version of the song—the one from Songs of Experience—feels different to me. A little heavier. A little more worn. Like it’s speaking to someone who has lived a bit more, lost a bit more, questioned a bit more.

And yet, the message is the same.

Don’t let it go out.

Not because the light is fragile—but because our attention is.

There are days when I feel pulled entirely into the noise of things—into thinking, reacting, doing. And there are other moments—usually quieter ones, often unexpected—where I remember.

It’s not something I create. It’s something I notice.

And when I do, everything softens just a bit.

This is just my own interpretation—my own experience of a song that, for whatever reason, found its way to me more than once.

But maybe that’s what songs do.

They meet us where we are, and then meet us again later, when we’re ready to hear something different.

‘Cause this is a song
A song for someone
Someone like me

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On the Sound of Silence

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

via Daily Prompt: Froth

When I first saw the word froth this morning as the daily blog prompt, images of cappuccinos and beer danced in my head. On the surface, that is what I think of. Strangely, froth too is on the surface. It’s mostly empty—offering a fleeting pleasure before fading away. While it looks pleasant and inviting, it can also hide what’s underneath.

When my husband Daren and I first moved in together with our four children—now well over seven years ago—there was a noticeable difference in how we all communicated. Some of us had more to say, while others were quieter. It created a dynamic that, at the time, felt unfamiliar to me.

Daren once shared that silence felt uncomfortable to him, especially compared to what he had been used to before. Hearing that, I found myself trying to talk more, to meet that energy. At the dinner table, conversations often took shape in a particular way—questions would be asked, answers would vary in length, and the rhythm didn’t always feel natural to me. I tried to participate more, but sometimes it felt forced.

When Daren would ask how my day was, I’d answer simply and ask the same in return. He would often share his day in detail. While I appreciated that openness, I sometimes noticed a disconnect—not because anything was wrong, but because what resonated for me in conversation was something a little different.

It’s not a pleasant feeling to feel out of sync with your spouse over something as simple as conversation. I remember feeling confused by my own reactions. Why did this bother me? Why did it feel difficult to engage in a way that seemed so natural to others?

Over time, I began to notice a kind of tightness in my throat when speaking in certain moments. I became quieter—not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because I couldn’t quite find where I fit within the rhythm of the conversation. Family dinners, in particular, sometimes felt like effort rather than ease.

It took me a long time to understand what was actually going on beneath the surface.

Almost two years later, while listening to Simon & Garfunkel’s The Sound of Silence, something clicked. I really heard the lyrics for the first time:

“People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening”

That was it.

It wasn’t about how much or how little anyone was talking—it was about connection. I realized I was craving something deeper than the surface-level exchange of words. Not more talking—just more presence.

And once I saw it there, I began to notice it everywhere—not just at home, but in everyday interactions. Conversations that felt polished, positive, even impressive on the outside—but somehow left me feeling empty afterward. Moments where both people were engaged, asking the “right” questions, responding at the right times… yet something essential was missing.

At times, I also saw myself in that dynamic—playing my part, saying the expected things, but not fully connecting. That realization was humbling. It made me wonder how often we are all doing our best to communicate, yet missing one another entirely.

At home, I had hoped for a place where conversation could feel more natural and unguarded. And while that existed in many ways, I also felt myself becoming more aware of how much effort I was putting into saying the “right” things—being positive, being careful, being appropriate. Over time, that began to feel tiring.

This wasn’t about anyone doing anything wrong. It was simply a mismatch between what I needed and what I was experiencing.

The idea of “froth” came back to me—conversation that is light, pleasant, and easy… but doesn’t quite nourish.

That doesn’t make it bad. It just made me realize I was craving something else.

Deeper conversations did exist in our lives—especially in quieter moments, when things slowed down and we had space to really listen. Those were the times I felt most connected, most engaged, most myself.

The Sound of Silence stayed with me. Not as a critique of silence, but as a reflection on the kind of communication that can exist even when words are present. The kind where something meaningful remains unsaid.

I came to see that what I was reacting to wasn’t the presence of conversation—but the absence of connection within it.

Over time, I began to shift—not by trying to change others, but by becoming more aware of what felt true for me. I spoke when I had something real to say. I listened more intentionally. And I allowed myself to step back from conversations that didn’t feel aligned, without judgment.

Daren and I have also grown in how we communicate. Like most things, it has evolved. We understand each other better now, and there is more ease, more honesty, and more room for both of our styles to exist.

Family dynamics are what they are—ever-changing, imperfect, and full of moments both awkward and beautiful. Every now and then, we still land in a conversation that feels fully shared, where everyone is present. Those moments stand out.

And perhaps that’s enough.

At least now I understand what it is I’m responding to. The awareness itself creates a bit of space. And in that space, I find I don’t need to engage in what doesn’t feel true to me.

Sometimes, I even appreciate the quiet.

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On The Monkey Mind vs Spirit

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

We are born with nothing—not even clothes. At the moment of death, we might be donning some attire and perhaps clutching something—a person, animal, or object (or all three). But those physical remnants remain. We come into the world with nothing physical but the body. When we leave, we leave even the body behind. The only thing that goes is that light in our eyes—our spirit.

So why do we become attached to anything? Why do we spend that precious time between life and death hauling around stuff? Worrying about stuff? “Stuff” being our cars, clothes, friends, jobs, or status. The only thing that really matters is the imprint we leave on the planet, created through our spirit. We can’t haul anything but our spirit out of this world, so why isn’t the spirit the main focus of living? Why are we focused on stuff?

I started yoga like many others—for the physical practice. My first experience was with a VHS tape at home in my living room. “This is easy!” I thought. It must be because I’m flexible and was a dancer when I was young. I moved from position to position and sat there waiting to see what I would be told by the TV to do next. I ignored the cues to breathe—“Geez, I know how to breathe”—and to “open up”—“Isn’t that what I’m doing?” I was annoyed at the end when the suggestion was to lie on my back for several minutes. “What a waste of time!”

I went to actual classes a few times, but I didn’t quite understand it. I only did yoga at home because I heard it was good for you. I didn’t particularly enjoy it, and I absolutely skipped the lying-on-your-back part at the end.

Until one day I went to a class at a local chiropractic office that was offering free classes for a week. The classes all had different names. I couldn’t tell them apart and really didn’t care. The time I was able to get home from work and get my husband situated with the kids was far more important. I went to a class Monday and Tuesday—same experience—but this time I had to lie in silence at the end. I really disliked that part.

However, the Wednesday class was life-altering. It was called “Love Your Body Yoga.” Yoga was yoga to me. The postures all even seemed the same. But there was something different about this class. Perhaps the teacher’s voice or encouragement—I don’t know; it was too long ago now to remember. Somehow, though, I was able to do the postures better. I listened to the cues to breathe and expand in certain parts. I moved slowly, mindfully, and with grace.

At the end, I was looking forward to the lying meditation (known as savasana—pronounced “shavasana”). During savasana, the teacher came around with an oil for our foreheads. When she gently put her hands on my temples, I felt such peace I almost wanted to cry. The smell was light and citrusy, almost like incense. The experience was so comforting. When I left class, I kept touching my forehead and smelling the oil. I felt a sense of peace.

My practices at home became a little different after that, although I was never able to get into a good routine and reap the full benefits of yoga. Years later, on a whim, I signed up for a local class at Park & Rec. I knew yoga was good for me, I knew how to do it (or so I thought), and I wanted a steady place where I wouldn’t be lazy and skip it.

The first class was amazing. I drove away with a sense of bliss. That night in bed, when I turned over in the middle of the night, I felt space in my body as well as an overall sense of harmony. I kept going, and the benefits kept getting better and better. It wasn’t very long before I had my first cry on the mat while in pigeon (something I now know is quite common). Soon after that, the mind-body-spirit connection was undeniable.

Where has this been all my life? Do other people know about it? Why isn’t this more well known??? Our spirit is the key to life.

I didn’t know it until long after I started yoga teacher training, but the word yoga means “to yoke”—particularly, to yoke the mind, body, and spirit. I know there are many other ways to link the mind, body, and spirit. Others have found the answers in different ways but have come to the same sense of yoking. Once you sense that connection, it’s difficult to go back to the material way of living because you know, deep down, that it doesn’t matter.

Yoga isn’t a magical cure that works all the time. In fact, many times I move through a whole practice and never feel “settled.” The difference is that I know my mind, body, and spirit are disconnected, and I do not like that sense of separation. I know that trying to fill that space with stuff only leads to more suffering and even greater separation. I know this—and most of the time, I still cannot master it. But the time between remembering where true peace comes from grows a tiny bit each day.

The time between birth and death is our life. In that life, we accumulate things—physical things. We become attached to those things. We become attached to people. We become attached to happiness and think something is wrong when we are sad. We need to eat, sleep, and eliminate in order to function and stay healthy. To do that, we need stuff. So we spend our lives hauling it around—from birth to death. Stuff to eat, stuff to sleep, stuff to look good in the eyes of others. At any moment, we are likely carrying something—whether it’s a wallet, purse, tube of lip balm, or like me, bags and bags of food, drink, or things I might need.

I’m not proposing that we don’t have stuff. We absolutely need things to function and stay alive. The disconnect comes in two forms:

  1. Taking more than we need
  2. Becoming attached to it

There are two ways to approach this:

  1. You can listen to authorities who preach it
  2. You can discover it for yourself

The problem with the first is that many who preach it don’t fully live it. Our parents taught us not to take more than we need, yet we likely watched them consume more than necessary. The same goes for teachers, preachers, friends, and society at large. The message was conflicted, and if you’re anything like me, you didn’t even question the contradiction.

Discovering it for yourself is entirely different. Once you realize that non-attachment and taking only what you need leads to a sense of freedom, it becomes hard to ignore. Before that realization, the voice in your head may create guilt—but true understanding from within is far more powerful.

Old habits are incredibly difficult to break. There isn’t a switch that flips where we suddenly make perfect decisions. In fact, there is often more inner debate, guilt, and remorse than ever before.

Wikipedia describes the “monkey mind” as a Buddhist term meaning restless, unsettled, and constantly moving. The monkey mind is the voice in your head that never stops. It jumps from thought to thought, worry to worry, craving to craving. It is like a toddler that never grows up—focused on “me, me, me.”

The spirit, on the other hand, is quiet and knowing. It understands what is right. It responds with care—for your body and for the world. It doesn’t shout, but if you listen, it will guide you.

The challenge is that the habits in our brain respond faster than that quiet inner voice. The mind is used to listening to the louder chatter. We give in to it, just to quiet it—like we might with a child. That is why yoking the mind, body, and spirit is so important. When they align, there is no conflict. The path becomes clear.

Even if you haven’t experienced that connection yet—or aren’t sure what I’m talking about—

Consider not hauling around so much stuff, whether physical or emotional.
Practice non-attachment, knowing nothing lasts forever.
Take only what you need.

With time and practice, the space between remembering grows longer… and with that comes a sense of peace.

DailyPost: Haul

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A Frigid New England Morning

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I take a deep breath on this frigid New England morning. The air feels cold and steely in my lungs, but at the same time incredibly refreshing compared to the recirculated, dry, warm air in the house just two feet behind me. I am barefoot on the small, colorful, and very wet welcome mat on my back deck. From inside, it looked a bit warmer out, but one inhale tells a different story.

The thermometer reads 22 degrees Fahrenheit. Even though the air is cold and frigid, there are several signs that spring is on the way. The most exciting sign for me is the red buds on the trees that border our yard. Despite the cold, the trees are aware of the subtle shifts in the atmosphere and are preparing to put forth an abundance of greenery in just a few short weeks. While I’m looking out, I can see frost on top of the barbecue cover, yet I hear birds singing and chirping in the air. That is not something I can say in February. Just the mere fact that the porch furniture was put out means there was a day warm enough not long ago that prompted us to ritualistically begin preparations for the warmer months.

In the evenings, while lying in bed, I am able to hear the peeper frogs through my closed bedroom window. In the late spring and summer, when we sleep with the windows open, we not only hear the peepers, but all types of crickets and woodsy life through the evening.

For months, the ground has been receiving precipitation in the form of freezing rain and snow. But the ground was solid, even during some of the unusually warm 50-degree days in the past few months. Despite the cold, the extra sun is warming the ground enough to keep a thaw, as evidenced by my weight digging ever so slightly into the dirt. This I notice while walking the dog after dinner or while cutting across the lawn to grab the mail.

As I stand on the deck looking out, I feel a flutter of excitement in my chest. Summer is on the way. The cover on the grill will be perpetually removed as we spend many evenings cooking outside instead of in the kitchen. The deck furniture will constantly be moved, full of crumbs and stained with ketchup due to the many hours we spend shifting chairs from the sun, pulling one closer to watch a movie together around a laptop, and eating almost every meal al fresco.

A look over the deck down to the yard below has my heart fluttering a bit more. We have a really large garden that is now empty down the hill in our sloped yard. Very soon, the asparagus tips will start shooting out from the ground on the right side of the garden, just outside the wooden borders but inside the fence where we planted them several years ago. The strawberries will soon follow. Every year, those crazy strawberries try to invade the neighboring soil in the garden after a few weeks above ground, but each year we gently pull back the little green runners that latch quite firmly into the dirt.

In the summertime, the garden is brimming with all types of crops—kale, lettuce, spinach, tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, beets, squash, eggplant, peppers, green beans, herbs like basil, parsley, oregano, mint… and more. Each year we try our hand at a few new seeds. One of the finest ways I feel connected to nature is preparing meals with ingredients that came from our garden.

There is a point every year where the yield is almost too much to keep up with—especially the kale, spinach, and lettuce. Almost daily, I take a trip down the hill to pick the greens. Carefully cutting the leaves back to the main stem keeps the plants producing all season, but it’s quite time-consuming. The bugs are wild at that time of year. At least half the time, I forget to slather on bug repellent and get completely mobbed by whatever is out there.

Often, the sun is so hot that by the time I finish cutting back the greens, the ones I started with begin to wilt. Avoiding that wilt requires several trips back into the air-conditioned house, where they will stay fresh until I have a chance to clean them. Getting back into the house is tricky business because my sandals, legs, and behind are muddy, and I need to trek up the hill in the scorching sun. The trip doesn’t stop at the hill—I still need to climb the steep deck steps. It really isn’t too far, but by the time I reach the back door, I’m often panting from the exertion.

A cool wave of air hits me when I open the door. Unlike the frigid air this morning—which felt like an unpleasant but natural shock—the air-conditioned air in the summer feels pleasant, yet completely unnatural. I have to take off my shoes so as not to drag mud into the house. I creep inside, trying not to touch anything or shake the greens too much, as this will create all kinds of dirt and mess.

After several trips to the garden to avoid wilting, it’s another several minutes—sometimes hours—of processing the greens. They need to be soaked through several rounds, then spun and bagged. There is always more than we can ever eat, so our neighbors, coworkers, and friends often become the unwilling—yet very thankful—recipients of our labor.

I take a step back from the railing overlooking the hill. The deck feels cold and frigid under my bare feet with every step I take. As long as I don’t move, my feet seem to warm the peeling wood beneath them. My next thought wanders to that peeling wood—we need to paint it again. It needs to be painted or touched up annually, despite the promises on every deck paint label that show freshly painted decks with five-year guarantees.

That’s another chore to add to the to-do list. As will be the weekly hassle of weeding, in addition to the more-than-weekly imposition of mowing the lawn, weed whacking, and cleaning up the mulch that looks awful after lawn clippings or dog digging. Not to mention the constant sweeping of the deck, walkway, and sidewalk in front of our home.

As I look around the yard, my heart starts to flutter in anguish this time, thinking about how much work summer is. Why am I looking forward to it? Winter seems nice and simple, as the upkeep of the home is only a fraction of what summer requires when you have a large lawn and garden. I rather enjoy coming home in the dark at four in the afternoon, changing into comfy clothes, and settling onto the sofa with a good book by the fire for the evening. It feels wrong at this time of year, at 6:45 pm, to not be fully dressed. While the sun might be shining, it’s way too cold to enjoy the outdoors.

At the moment, I’m cold, and I have nothing on except flimsy pajama pants and my daughter’s college sweatshirt. I make the crazy decision to walk down the steep stairs of the deck to take a look around the yard. There is the fire pit in the grass and the Adirondack chairs sitting under the deck, waiting for their time to come out for the summer. We have a swing under the deck with an orange cushion and two pillows that is great for summer reading, but also a prime spot to be bitten by mosquitoes.

I start to walk around the house up the hill and remember how steep it is. I am reminded of the flower bed on the side of the house that is a whole lot of work to keep up as well. My heart starts to pound now as I exert energy climbing the hill while my lungs take in the frigid air.

As I round the flower bed and step into my driveway, I see the crocuses that came up a few weeks ago in full bloom. They are the first of the flowers to emerge. Their little green shoots are often seen in late February. Just a quick look at them makes my heart slow down a little.

As I come up the walkway, I see more crocuses on the flower bed on the other side of the house. They too are in full bloom. And right next to them are daffodils that are about to burst forth. Their yellow petals are still closed, but any day now they will open into their full beauty.

I smile internally. I love the flowers in the summer. I love pruning them, cleaning up around them, and bringing many of them into the house. All summer, we have fresh flowers throughout the house. Every time I look at them, I am awed by their beauty. It is one of my favorite things about summer.

As is having the windows open at night. As are the fresh fruit pies I make, the salads we often eat, the fresh tomatoes… oh my.

All seasons are beautiful in their own way. When the days start to become shorter and the mornings in late August and early September grow chillier, I begin to dread the winter. I can’t conceive how it could be dark in the morning or in the evening. I can’t imagine not sitting out on the deck for meals or reading in the evenings by the light of tiki torches and the sound of crickets.

But as the days do begin to shorten, I thoroughly enjoy the colors of the trees, the browning of the flower beds and garden, and pulling out the sweaters and fuzzy boots. While there is a certain satisfaction and connection to nature from caring for the outside for several hours and then enjoying the view with a cool beverage, there is also a contentment in putting away the garden tools and lawn furniture for the winter and turning inward.

I walk back into my home through the front door and feel the unnatural warm blast of air hit me while I wipe the dirt from my feet on the doormat, closing out the frigid morning behind me.

I’m content.

Nature is beautiful, and I’m feeling completely grateful.

via Daily Prompt: Frigid

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