Category Archives: observation

Looking for Love…and Wisdom

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Where there is Love and Wisdom,

there is neither Fear nor Ignorance.

St. Francis of Assisi

[The Message of St. Francis, New York: Penguin Studio, 1999, p. 9]

There doesn’t seem to be much Love or Wisdom in the air lately – or at least on the air. Fear and Ignorance, though, are readily available on television and computer screens. The airwaves are full of frightened voices and ignorant commentary. Some of it is unintentional – the result of damaged hearts, minds, and spirits. Some of it is intentional – designed to sell listeners on a new product or political opinion. Manipulating the frightened and unaware isn’t particularly difficult, and it is often profitable. But don’t let this fool you: there is a lot more to life in this time and place, it just isn’t as obvious or promoted.

Take today. As I’m typing this meditation at Kiskadee Coffee in Plymouth, Massachusetts, people I know are at work, spending time and effort to bring hope and peace into the lives of countless others:

Temple Beth Jacob has been preparing for tonight’s Holocaust Memorial service, offering something holy and nourishing from the humiliation and murder of millions. Thank you, Ms. Hirschhorn and Rabbi Lawrence Silverman.

Christ Church Parish, Plymouth, is getting the sanctuary prepared to host the Holocaust Memorial service because it’s for the whole community and the temple doesn’t have enough room to fit everyone inside. Thank you, altar guild, for your hospitality.

Two sons are flying back home to spend time with their older brother and to decide how to best serve their aging parents. The conversations won’t be easy and the solutions won’t be simple. Blessings and Peace, Barry, Bryan, and Dave.

A substitute teacher is getting to know her students. She’s the third one they’ve had in the past six or seven weeks because their usual teacher has a serious medical condition. May God give you both strength and a fabulous sense of humor, Ms. Corde` and Mr. Tersegno.

Love a la Francis is as much an act of courage and will as emotion. It is meaning good things for someone else, and sacrificing to offer them. It is also meaning good things for self, and accepting the sacrifice of others when offered and appropriate.

But what are these good things, and how can I tell the difference between something that I willingly sacrifice for and something that is at my expense? I don’t have a definitive answer, but here’s my provisional one:

Good Things foster the mind and spirit.

Sacrifice may be costly, but it enlarges the spirit and broadens the mind; something at my Expense shrinks my soul and takes gratitude out of the world.

If I grow in wisdom, I’m sure my take on this whole thing will change. Here’s hoping I’m brave enough to make the attempt.

Be Brave!

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You can, you should – and it you’re brave enough to start, you will.

Stephen King

[Daily Peace, Washington, D.C.: National Geographic Society, 2015, April 4]

Stephen King has written dozens of books, some of which could be considered modern masterpieces. Two in particular come to my mind: The Green Mile and Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption. The first was written as a serial novel, with small sections released every few weeks until the whole story was told. The second was a short story. These are not horror stories, even though both deal with tragedy, inhumanity, and loss. Neither are typical of King’s usual writings – the scary books everyone has come to expect. Both were made into exceptional movies.

I wonder whether it was a difficult thing for King to write these particular tales. In addition to the usual pressure and difficulty of writing a book – creating characters and story lines, putting in enough description and action to keep the story moving, bringing the whole thing to a satisfying and fitting ending – is added the anxiety that comes from offering something unexpected to an audience that is used to the thrill of the macabre. It’s like offering a chocolate raspberry torte to a child expecting a chocolate chip cookie: who knows what the response might be, but disappointment and rejection are just as possible as delight and enthusiasm.

Perhaps the hardest part of trying something new isn’t dreaming it up or doing the research. Maybe the hardest part is putting pen to paper and writing the first word, sentence, paragraph, and page. Making the jump from going to to doing isn’t something that comes from knowing it’s possible to do or even knowing it ought to be done: it’s a leap of faith only the brave or the foolhardy can make.

Perhaps this is true in things beyond writing. Perhaps it’s true of any worthwhile endeavor.

May God grant us all the courage to take the first step.

Storm and Calm Lessons

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There are some things you learn best in calm,

and some in storm.

Willa Cather

[Daily Peace, Washington, D.C.: National Geographic Society, 2015, March 17]

When the chips are down, will this person be there? My parents believed the answer to this question divided trustworthy partners from untrustworthy ones, real friends from the merely friendly. They didn’t think the answer could be found in a person’s wealth, talent, personality, or good looks. Only a storm could strip the surface appearance away to reveal the true nature underneath. This is as true for self as well as other: when the chips are down, will I be there? Knowledge of self and the other that is gained in the answering can be painful, and it cannot be unlearned – storm damage.

But not everything is best learned or revealed in storm. Calm, peace, and order provide a safe structure to grow in, and they foster flexibility and strength of spirit. It’s when the storm blows by that I can learn whether the person who wasn’t there when the wind was whipping around is not a true friend or a true friend who just made a mistake. And if I happen to be the one who ran away at the first sign of the storm, whether I’m a true friend or not is also a lesson best studied in calm.

I hope what I do with the answers to such questions has something to do with love of God, self, and neighbor. Otherwise, what’s the point of asking?

Uncovering the Pattern

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I got a mandala scratch kit a couple of weeks back, complete with instructions, a wooden stylus, and 25 scratch squares stamped with mandala patterns –  a birthday gift of relaxation from my sister. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been tracing lines and uncovering mandala patterns as my 20 minute morning meditation activity, matching my breathing to my hand’s movements. Faithful to the tradition of mandala creation, I don’t keep the finished mandalas for very long – all things are temporary, and letting go of my own handiwork is a spiritual discipline in its own right.

It takes me three or four days to complete each scratch mandala. I take my time, choosing which shapes to uncover first, which lines to trace, what areas to uncover and what ones to leave alone. I pause every few minutes to see how my latest marks have changed the look of the whole. When the twenty minutes are over, I take some time to look at the mandala and reflect on how it served as a spiritual focus. It’s at this time that I see how my own work falls into a pattern. There’s a pattern to how I’ve uncovered the mandala pattern. If it’s a six section pattern, I reveal the same part of each section: six circles or diamond patterns standing equidistant from the center and the outer edge of the mandala. Six flower petals around the circles, six rays connecting the petals to the center, and so on. For whatever reason, this way of revealing the overall mandala pattern is satisfying to me, providing a balanced if partial pattern as I work to reveal the whole.

I shared this meditation activity with the class of high school learners I see every Sunday. At the end of the 20 minute exercise, everyone held up their mandala. Some had started in the center, working their way out of the pattern. Others had started by revealing the outer edges and working inward. One or two worked in wedges, completing one whole symmetrical section before moving onto another one. Within these overall work patterns, each person chose the order of individual elements to uncover. Each person’s approach was unique – not a single replication. Each way had its own peculiar beauty and sense.

For me, it was an illuminating experience in the literal as well as the figurative sense. Revealing the pattern by drawing out the brilliant color underneath the black surface produced an illuminated mandala; seeing each person’s unique approach to this spiritual practice revealed his or her particular embodiment of God’s grace and holiness. Being a part of such an extraordinary moment in time and space, how can I be anything but awestruck by this sacred place and these sacred people?

Snow(y) Day

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Tuesday, January 30, 2018

It’s a snowy day, and a school-is-cancelled snow day. After an indoor morning of prayer, writing, and cleaning, I am happy to see that the winds and driving snow have given way to a light breeze and an occasional snowflake. I put on my winter clothes and walk into nature’s crystal white. My street has been plowed, but no one is outside. It’s just me until I turn onto High street. A mother and daughter are shoveling their driveway a few houses down, and the two little girls who live in the big white house are making angels while their mother and uncle look on. Once every minute or so, a car or truck passes. In between, there’s only the scrape of shovels and the crunch of boots to break the peaceful quiet of this place.

No one’s walked on the sidewalks in the past few hours, and only a couple of homeowners have cleared the sections in front of their houses. I think I see the faint print of a boot every so often – someone who walked early in the morning, perhaps. Just like Peter in Keats’ The Snowy Day, I make different patterns in the snow by pointing my feet in or out, or by dragging them to make two long lines. It’s one of my favorite children’s books, one I loved as a young child and I loved as the mother of young children. As I make my marks in the snow, I wonder how many other people have done the same because of Keats’ words and pictures – millions, I’d guess.

The wind has made snowdrifts across parts of the sidewalk and swept other parts almost clean. Mother nature seems happy to give my feet a varied path and my eyes a feast of snowy geometry and graceful evergreen. I’m so glad I came outside. I wouldn’t have missed the sharp fresh air, the joy of this walk, or the beauty of my blanketed neighborhood for anything.

Doors

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I’m on my fourth day of deep cleaning, working my way around the kitchen and into the side entry hall. All my baking supplies have been taken out and sorted, the cupboard cleaned inside and out, and goods replaced. After I shut the cupboard doors, only the faint scent of peppermint soap and vinegar gives any indication of the changes within. It’s only when I open the doors that the impact of my work can be seen.

It only takes a quick glance to appreciate the cleaning efforts in my side entry hall. Scuff marks are gone from baseboards, fingerprints and dirt removed from light switches. The magnets holding keys, bags, sunglasses, and mail are bright and shiny, as is the metal board that holds them to the wall. These are the things that anyone coming into the house might see. But it’s what most of us don’t notice that captured my attention today: doors.

There are three in my entry hall: separating the outdoors from the inside, leading to the cellar, and a usually hidden recessed door marking the entry to the kitchen. The two I can see mark and maintain the transitions from one space to another, keeping cold winds and rain from coming in and people from taking a tumble down the basement stairs. The one that’s usually hidden in the wall can keep my two cats away from people allergic or afraid of them, and provides an extra barrier to the cold if a snowstorm knocks out the power. The ability to connect and separate, to protect and invite, standing silently within arm’s reach – this belongs to these rectangular creations of wood and glass.

Hiding and revealing, connecting and separating, opening and closing. Keeping watch over the space that goes from one place to another. Marking transition from one reality to another: it’s often said that silence, prayer practices, and worship are doors to the great mystery of God. Through them the Spirit draws me into a love far deeper than I can see or imagine. Perhaps I should pay attention to these doors as well. Who knows where I might find myself when one opens and I walk on through.

Same Old, Same Old…Everything’s Renewed

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What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; there is no new thing under the sun. Is there a thing of which it is said, “See, this is new?” It has already been, in the ages before us.

Ecclesiastes 1:9-10 (NRSV)

 

In less than two weeks, 20+ people will come for dinner – an edible thank-you from my husband and me for their leadership in the faith community that we’ve done since 2003. Every year, we enjoy choosing the main course, setting out appetizers and tasty beverages, and lighting the house with just enough candles to create a friendly glow. The pattern is the same, the routine virtually unchanged these past fifteen years. Yet, every one is completely different: new people come while others leave, everyone ages a year, and the weather and conversations are unique to the evening. It’s a routine event and something new and unrepeatable every single year – a living, breathing paradox right in my own home.

One of the ways I prepare for this same old, same old, never before, never again event is by giving most rooms in the house a thorough cleaning. Yesterday, I began this yearly scrubbing in the kitchen. The walls got a wipe-down with Dr. Bronner’s peppermint soap and vinegar, and the woodwork got a Murphy’s Oil Soap treatment. My Electrolux inhaled a truly amazing amount of dust from the refrigerator coils, and the cupboard over the fridge got its twice-yearly once-through. A few leftover Christmas mugs found there way into storage, and I rearranged the cups and plates on the open shelves. Today and tomorrow, I’ll continue this work, cleaning and sorting and rearranging canned goods and baking pans; I won’t make drastic changes, but I’ll rearrange a few things. When the kitchen is done, I’ll move on to the next room, leaving it cleaner and more functional for my efforts.

I’ve come to appreciate and even enjoy this cleaning process. It’s a way for me to acknowledge and accept the evolving needs and patterns of my family life, and the chance to alter my living space to accommodate them. In 2003, my sons were pre-schoolers and my house child-proofed; today, one son is away at college and the other is in high school. The insignificant yearly changes I’ve made in my annual dinner cleaning have created a vastly different configuration in every single room of the house.

If I hadn’t put in the time to clean and update, would I have made the changes that honor my family’s new reality? In the same old, same old of every day life, would I see and be thankful for the transformation and renewal off all things? I wonder…

Nursery Plans

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They came just after Christmas, but I put them aside. Mid-January is the time for lingering over Burpee’s new offerings and deciding which kind of heirloom gourd to order from John Scheeper’s. Johnny’s Selected Seeds came along with the other two, sporting a beautiful display of vegetables on its cover and seeds sold by the pound as well as by the packet. I don’t have nearly enough space to buy seeds by the pound, but it’s good to know that local farmers have the option to get their seeds from local nurseries (Jack Scheeper’s and Johnny’s are in New England, Burpee in Pennsylvania). Saturday night, I put my Burpee’s order in; My John Scheeper’s order will go in next week. A few days beyond that, the seeds will arrive on my doorstep; the plants will come just in time for putting them in the ground. With a wind chill in the air and ice on the driveway, it’s a blessing to remember that the green and growing season will arrive soon enough.

Preparing for this year’s gardens, the one in my yard and the children’s learning garden at my local library, is an exercise in memory, imagination, and planning. I review last year’s garden beds, remembering what grew well and what got eaten by local critters. I choose a theme for the largest garden bed: a Three Sister’s Garden adapted from Sharon Lovejoy’s Roots, Shoots, Buckets & Boots. I picture in my mind the colors and shapes that will emerge from the ground of this year’s gardens, and what simple snacks and salads will be savored every week. Work projects and shopping lists appear on scrap paper, meetings with learning garden leaders crop up on my calendar, and this year’s garden begins to take shape. Soon these garden plans will create a green and growing part of the library’s summer reading program – dovetailing garden activities to the state-wide summer literacy theme. From ordering seeds in January to putting it all to bed in October, this year’s garden moves from possibility and dreams to a blessed reality. It has begun on a January day of ice and wind, with the ground frozen and the earth asleep: nursery to beds to harvest.

But these plans don’t happen in isolation. A baby is due any day now, and library garden work is on hold: it’s more important for a grandmother to greet her new grandchild than to make summer program plans. Calendars and activities will be revised, timetables adjusted. That’s as it should be – a gentle, tangible reminder that life comes in its own blessed time. Life first, plans for life second.

Book Details: Lovejoy, Sharon; Roots, Shoots, Buckets & Boots: Activities to to do in the garden (New York: Workman Publishing, 1999)

308 miles, 27 hours, and $125.64

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Wareham to Rochester (with a stop in Portsmouth) to New Durham, New Durham to Wareham: 308 miles altogether. My older son and I made the first part of the journey on Friday, and the return trip on Saturday. Measured by clock and receipts, these 308 miles took twenty-seven hours (five behind the wheel) and $30 for gas and tolls to make it up and back. $1.15 went to a parking meter, $12.47 to a market, $42 to a restaurant, and $40.02 off a specialty store gift card – expenses along the way. This trip adds up to 27 hours, $125.64, and 308 miles.

But if you asked me about it, I wouldn’t tell you any of these things. Instead, I’d say:

What fun it was to walk with my son through my old neighborhood in Portsmouth, and to eat scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and peas at the Friendly Toast. How interesting to listen to Colin’s stories about walking around Philadelphia.

The fog coming off the snow was so dense that my mother’s road couldn’t be seen through it. 

Seeing my mother in person is so much more fun than talking with her on the phone. 

Laughter comes easily to all of us at our yearly family get-together. There is a precious ease and familiarity to it – a gift that not all families receive.

I missed seeing my Aunt. I hope I get to spend time with her the next time I’m in New Hampshire. I hope my brother, mother, husband, and younger son make the next family event, too. They were missed.

The gifts and the food were fun, but without the people they wouldn’t be worth much.

It’s been a blessing and a privilege to spend my life’s time with these particular people. I wouldn’t trade my relatives for anything or anyone else.

There’s a richness that can’t be found in receipts and odometer readings. The length of time spent isn’t the measure of its worth. Beyond today, I won’t remember the 308 miles, the 27 hours, or the $125.64 I spent. But I will hold in my heart and memory the immeasurable goodness they brought.

 

Preparations begin…

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No matter how familiar the Thanksgiving menu, it’s still a lot of work to get the turkey in the oven and the fixin’s on the table. Shopping, cleaning, and making sure everyone gets home are tasks already begun. There are still a few outdoor chores to do as well – getting the leaves raked and bagged, putting away the hose and collecting the garden tools. It’s the same every year before Thanksgiving because it’s time to prepare for the winter months as much as it is time to prepare dinner. Isn’t that the point of Thanksgiving? Giving thanks for the bounty of the earth as we approach a time when the earth sleeps and nothing grows? In the season of canning and drying, storing apples, cranberries, sage, and other herbs for use during the cold months, I sometimes forget what a counter-intuitive act of faith it is to throw a feast when summer’s bounty had come to an end. Would I be as generous with my Thanksgiving meal if I had to depend on what I’d grown and preserved to get me through to Spring? With a market right down the street supplying more than I’ll ever need in the cold months, it’s hard to know the answer.

I think preparing for this Harvest celebration is trying to teach me something more than gratitude for the food on the table and loved ones around it. I’ve been wondering lately about the garden that is my spiritual life. What are the fruits of this harvest? If I’m honest, there have been many times I’ve neglected to tend this inner spiritual space. I can name quite a few of the weeds that choke its growth because I haven’t put in the time to pull them out – impatience, arrogance, and lack of gratitude come to mind. As far as I know, there is no spiritual grocery store down the street: My spirit lives on what I’ve grown in my God-given garden.

The older I get, the more I realize that my inner spiritual garden becomes more and more visible as I age. How I treat others, especially those whose actions or attitudes frustrate me, is a glimpse into the state of my spiritual growth. Like everyone, I am imperfect and easily broken. If I don’t tend to my spiritual life, I will push my own brokenness on others. If I don’t want to do that, it’s going to take some inner work. If I want enough generosity of spirit to celebrate the bounty of this life, if I want to share what I’ve been given rather than hoard it for myself, it’s time to do some gardening…