Author: Janewms17

curious . . . loving life (most of the time, at least) . . . learning to let go of fear . . . walking a path . . . healer . . . writer . . . hopeful . . .

Books

I joined AAUW (American Association of University Women) when I retired. I had attended a program they sponsored a year prior and was impressed at the quality of the program and the discussion that ensued. It felt like a good fit for my progressive sensibilities — a surprise in this time of ultra conservative politics and treading on tip toe around multiple topics that we used to be able to discuss civilly.

One of the activities of the Bethlehem AAUW is an annual used book sale that funds the scholarships we give to young women graduating from high school. I hoped to get involved with AAUW activities, but didn’t think it would be so soon. The call came last fall just after I joined. Would I please consider becoming the “chair” of one of the book sale sections — Biography, specifically.

I had not been to the book sale ever, so I had no idea what this meant.

“Oh, you put prices on books and organize your section by categories,” she said. “Don’t worry, you’ll have help. The woman who used to be chair died last year and her helpers will help you.”

The glitch was that I would be unable to be at the pre-sale or sale days because of a trip that I planned with my daughter.

“That’s ok. We’ll figure something out,” she said. “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

I had wanted to be an active member of the group, and here was my chance. So, self-doubts left behind, I said yes.

So all through this April — every morning from 9-12-ish — volunteers assembled at the Bethlehem Ice Rink (now devoid of ice!) to sort books into general categories (Like Biography, Crafts, Music), then the next volunteers sorted those categories into other categories (e.g., bios of presidents, presidents’ wives, literary bios). And then price them ($1, $2, up to ?) so they would sell.

Sound boring? I have had a ball! No, I’m not OCD. But I am an eager learner whose hunger to learn something new is insatiable. And I learned . . . a lot. Just in Biography we must have had over 900 books that we kept/sorted/organized/priced and many more that we discarded due to age, condition, relevance, etc. In doing so, I learned about many people I hadn’t known (from the flaps, back of the book, skimming several pages) and eras I hadn’t been familiar with and events that were interesting. I found a ton of books I would like to read (but disciplined myself to buy only 6). I interacted with wonderfully interesting women who also volunteered to sort/price/etc. and got to know names and interests and personalities I would like to get to know better. It was fun and informative. Who would have guessed? I’m now looking forward to next April. . .

Come to the Ice Rink and discover bargains and stories and books . . . many, many books!



Waiting . . .

What are you waiting for?

Waiting is a pause, a looking away from the now, an interval, a delay.

Waiting can be a movement away from mindfulness of the present moment as we wait for something to come that is missing from our life right now. Or it can be a momentary pause to breathe, settle, ground ourselves, and to be ready for what is coming.

I have often wasted time waiting for something to arrive that I thought would make my life better, and in doing so, I have missed seeing or experiencing whatever was happening in the present. I waited for difficult situations to pass, for an expected job offer to arrive, for a tough class to be finished, for the retreat I was preparing for to begin, for the root canal appointment (!) to be over and done with. And the time I spent waiting — at least the time I spent just wishing that whatever I was waiting for would arrive now — was lost time when I was not paying attention to anything but avoiding the present moment.

Waiting sometimes feels like punishment. It is actually avoidance, whether conscious or not. When I began to use spiritual practices like meditation and mindful walking, my awareness of the fullness of the present moment astonished me. What I suddenly heard, smelled, felt in my body, saw all around me was an abundance of life. Birds I hadn’t heard, dappled light changing patterns of color and light and shadow, the distant train whistle, the softness of grass in contrast to the roughness of dry ground, clouds that raced and others that moseyed. I was dazzled and delighted. With my normal future-oriented consciousness (or unconsciousness!) and goal directed pace, I missed so much. And Creation offered so much fullness that I hadn’t seen, touched, tasted, heard, felt.

So, am I now transformed and fully conscious every moment of every day? Far from it. I get distracted by worries and waiting. I settle into a funk now and then. I rush to an appointment without tasting the rain-misted taste of the air. I forget to listen for birdcall or look for what shade of blue or teal or grey the sky is today.

But I find myself waiting much less often for something to happen or arrive. I am better at remembering to pause and breathe and step outside more often to spend a mindful moment just being present. And it changes my day every time I do.

Awakening to Moonlight

The past several nights, I have awakened just after midnight to moonlight streaming through our bedroom window. I have been entranced with its brightness — bright enough to throw shadows onto the lawn as I peek out the second floor bedroom window.

I never knew the moon to be so bright. But then, I don’t think I ever paid attention to the strength of moonlight before. When my eyes are adjusted to darkness, the moon’s light is strong enough to walk safely and able to spot any obstacles like the gaping potholes at the end of this winter, or stones churned up by the snow plow and thrown onto the road’s edge. The moon’s light is probably strong enough to do yardwork, if I were so inclined to leave my warm bed and get dressed in the chill of my house at night.

The moon is said to be a symbol of feminine energy and monthly cycles. Supposedly the moon was created as a “secondary”, less bright light than the sun which is said to be a symbol of male energy. Yet the light I am entranced by as I awake to it does not seem to take second fiddle to the sun at all. Moonlight is soft yet bright. It changes through the lunar cycle, never the same any single night. It rises and sets in different places through the year and its timing shifts as well. It does not share its light with an “in your face” brightness — rather it gives just enough light that I can see something but only with soft edges, not well-defined boundaries. And the softness of its light — even at full moon — makes me “work” to see things and know what they are. I have to want to see before my eyes focus and my brain discerns the outlines shown in the fainter light.

The sun’s light can blind one with light, moonlight reveals.

And the moon overcomes the sun in periodic eclipses, blocking the bright light of the sun for a few stunning moments of awe. . .the “secondary” light showing its subtle strength for all to see as though to say, “Each of us has our gifts. One is not stronger, of more value, than another. Remember . . .”

Reconnecting with Heart and Hand(written)

My handwriting has gotten a bit more messy and angular over the years. My hands are increasingly arthritic and stiff and have begun to look like my mother’s. For this reason, I often choose to write emails, notes, reports (and this blog!) on my laptop. In this season of retirement, I am embarking on a project that I have not made time for until now. For as long as I am able, I am bent on handwriting notes and letters of gratitude to persons who have touched my life.

Now, understand that I type well and my speed on my laptop is excellent. I can capture most of my thoughts when I type. However, when I handwrite letters something different and lovely happens . . . there is an emotional experience to the writing. As ink meets paper, memories of shared times and treasured conversations often arise. And the writing of a letter becomes a time of intimate reconnection rather than simple words on paper.

In retirement, one of my intentions is to reconnect with people who were once in my life and who touched me in some way. I have frequently let time carry me past relationships into some different stage of life without acknowledging the way those relationships have touched me and formed me. I know that many of us could say the same thing. I am blessed, though, with this time of my life in which I have more opportunity for reflection and for searching out where the angels in my past have got up to. Some have moved on to be part of the “cloud of witnesses” that I wholeheartedly believe continue relationships with us when they die, and currently surround us with encouragement and guidance. Those who are still alive and kicking I will try to find and reconnect with in notes written in my messy and angular hand. And I will savor the memories such writing brings and hope that they will touch the heart of the other.

Workouts Are OK; But Walking Awakens My Soul

Shoot! Another day that I promised to workout is sliding into dusk. I don’t want to move from my house to go to the gym. It is just 10 minutes down the road, but I would need to climb into workout gear, grab my water bottle, car keys, yoga mat, towel and drive. Then there is the 30 minutes of aerobics (on the bike or eliptical). Then 30 minutes on the mat doing yoga stretches for flexibility and strength. I would rather just walk outside. . . so before it gets any darker, I’ll grab my hiking poles (a Christmas gift from Bill) and walk for 40 minutes.

I will write when I return and let you know how my mood has changed with my walk. . .

After my walk . . . I feel elated, awake even though it is now dark outside. I love walking now that my hip is healed. I can walk easily and without a limp, now. The most I’ve walked since my November surgery is 3.5 miles so I’ve still got a ways to go before I’m ready to think seriously about the Camino again.

I walked the Camino de Santiago in 2008 — three years after my first knee replacement and had no trouble at all. And it was life changing for me (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camino_de_Santiago). I want to walk it (a portion of its 500 miles) again before I die. I would walk about 150 kilometers. Walking 100 km entitles walkers to an indulgence — yes, there are still such things given with the blessing of the Pope. At least one no longer has to buy them — just walk a portion of the Camino. But I would walk it for the experience — and although it would be different than the first walk, I suspect it would be no less amazing.

I am learning Spanish after 50 years away from Miss Cristoforo’s class at Scott High school. I am surprised at how much I remember — it comes back. And now because it isn’t an academic requirement but rather a challenging thing I want to (in order to communicate with the folks who come to our food cupboard every month), I am loving it. I hope anyone I try to communicate with in my “second tongue” will forgive me for the multiple errors I make in grammar and vocabulary. . .

Wow! I’ve wandered away from the topic of Walking or Working Out. But I am glad I didn’t sit out my walk today. It was worth it. And each step means I’m a bit closer to the Camino de Santiago.

Surprise!

My birthday was a couple of weeks ago. It usually passes with three birthday cards (my Dad, my husband, and a longtime friend who never forgets). The weekend before, my husband (a woodworker) was going to pick up some wood from my brother’s house and asked me if I wanted to go along for the ride. I accepted eagerly — I don’t get to visit with my ebrother and his wife often enough through the year, and when they heard I was coming with Bill, they invited us to lunch.

After the usual 90 minute drive, we walked in the door. . . “Surprise,” they yelled. My brother and his wife, my sister and her husband, my 94 year old Dad, and Bill had planned a surprise party for my 70th birthday. And I had had no idea — really!

Now, for some folks, a surprise party might not be a big deal — for some, it might be annoying, especially for a big birthday like 70. To me, it was a huge and welcome thing. I still have the balloons tied to a chair in my dining area — 7 foil balloons of different shapes and messages. “One for each decade,” my brother bragged.

There were cupcakes of a variety of colors, flavors, and icings. There was pizza from the local pizza place. Simple. Unpretentious. But so very affirming that I was loved and cared about. And that warmth and glow fills my heart each time I think of the shout of “Surprise!”

I am noticing a difference in myself since my retirement last summer. Retirement agrees with me and I have had no trouble “adjusting” to it. What has most touched me is the slowing down of time and schedules. I used to feel (most of the time!) that I was running behind — a consistent feeling of having so much to complete but never quite being on top of things — never quite completing what needed to be done. I always got things done — sometimes by the skin of my teeth — but never felt that I finished tasks with time to savor their completion. In retirement I still have things to do (retreats I’m leading, doctors appointments, working out, making connections with friends) but my life feels more leisurely.

A friend of mine says it this way, “I have things to get done, but there’s always tomorrow.” At least it feels like there’s always tomorrow.

I’m cognizant of taking time seriously because I can never know if today will be all I have. But what I am experiencing at this stage of my life is that life can be more leisurely than pressured.

I told myself that I would know I was ready to retire when I felt that my life in the world had made a difference to others. I feel I have made a difference — though not in dramatic ways. I’ve made a difference in small ways in many peoples’ lives. My “rainy day” file teaches me that as I read through two file drawers of notes, emails, journals that offer thanks to me for counseling help or sermons that “landed” or something I said (most of which I don’t remember). I studied and worked at professions that were intended to serve others. And I have served others — sometimes very well, sometimes not — but always that was the intention. And I still find ways to serve, but not with frenetic pressure on myself.

All this is to say that the difference I notice (that I mentioned above) is an ability to be present with others, to trust and accept their love/friendship/ caring. Letting love into my heart and basking in it is new to me (believe it or not). And I am grateful for this softening, letting in, and trusting. It is a true gift from God!

In Grief — You Are Not Lost

Lost
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. you must let it find you.

 –David Wagoner . Collected Poems 1956-1976

A friend of ours died last week of FTD . . . Fronto Temporal Dementia. FTD is an awful disease that steals yourself – who you are, your personality, your values — and leaves you with your memories fairly intact (unlike Alzheimer’s dementia).  It was awful to watch him lose himself as the disease took hold.  Scary,  heartbreaking, unreal . . . almost like he was possessed by some spirit that took over his body.  His wife and son and daughter-in-law cared for him at home, eventually having to install locks on the refrigerator and cabinets to prevent him from ravenously eating everything — literally.  He wandered and they had to follow him or distract him every moment.  This man who had been a well known photographer and collector became unable to hold his camera still and uninterested in his art.  He was unaware of others’ feelings and uncensored in what hurtful things he said to his wife and son.  

Hospice came and helped with his care a couple of times during the week, and offered one week of respite care so his wife could leave his side and try to escape for a brief time the nightmare that was closing in.

After 10+ years the nightmare ended with our friend’s death.  But for his wife, it continues.  She lost her husband long before he died.  She felt her grief had already overtopped any measure and that after he died there would be relief.  Instead, waves of grief accosted her relentlessly.

When she called me panicked at the myriad of feelings she was experiencing, I was able to reassure her that she was not going crazy.   I, too, had grieved the death of a spouse and knew the terror of uncontrollable and unwelcome feelings that come after the death of a loved one. . .sadness, emptiness, anger, confusion, restlessness, inability to concentrate.  All of them normal, and all of them horribly uncomfortable.  And all of them making the griever question one’s sanity and whether there is enough strength and energy to withstand the waves of feelings.

What surprised me as her friend was not the intensity of her feelings, but my realization that I knew at a gut level that this was not the ending of her ordeal but the beginning.  She would be in for a difficult and painful ride that no one could take away. 

Grief takes us and wrings all the energy and hope out of us, leaving painful empty spaces that we can only fill over time.  Over time, the aches of those empty places fill with new friendships, experiences, goals, hopes that soothe and nurture our emerging self.  And we reclaim and integrate into ourselves “old” parts of ourselves that fit whom we have become.  It is not a painless process but a kind of re-birth/resurrection that comes of the grief process.  

It helps to understand grief as a dual process oscillating between a painful letting go of what was and a dawning of new identity and energy.  It is not something we can “manage” except by allowing the waves of letting go roll over us (knowing they will not last forever) and enjoying the moments of energy and joy (knowing they will come more frequently and eventually become a new normal).

Blessings on all who are in grief this day.  Although a part of you has died — yet a part of you is being reborn.  I promise you.

 

Miracles

It is November 15 and the snow is falling rapidly.  We’ve already exceeded the initial accumulation projections of 1-3″.  The forecasters are continually upgrading one inch at a time.  We are now likely to receive up to 8″

Finches feeder

Luckily, I’m enjoying the first snowfall of my retirement — I can stay home and watch the birds hassle each other over the seed in the feeders, and put on my traditional pot of chili that I always make on the first day of snow.

What a miracle it is to be able to watch the delicate flakes accumulate in soft piles.  What a blessing to watch the different species of birds with various colors accenting their feathers and differing patterns of spots/stripes/stippling on their bellies.  The goldfinches are my favorites.  They are emptying the niger and thistle feeder as I write.  All 6 perches are occupied and pity the poor bird who takes a moment to turn her head away from the seed port to survey the hungry birds waiting their turn.  She is likely to be divebombed by an anxious juvenile who has decided not to wait politely for her to finish, but to scare her off her perch and claim it for her own.

What a miracle to see clearly with eyes enhanced by glasses.  To see without the cloud of macular degeneration or the blindness of glaucoma.  It is a miracle to see the varieties of birds and to identify and name them one by one:  house finches, juncos, tufted titmice, black capped chicadee (gymnasts of the feeder crowd), cardinals, tanagers, and more.

Gratitude fills me as I sit here watching.  May I remember the miracle of this time of life, of clear sight, of a snowy day with no where to be except watching the buffet and its takers outside.

Vigil

I attended a vigil in memory of those killed in the Pittsburgh shooting — and to show solidarity with my Jewish brothers and sisters.  It was packed!  Standing room only.

img_0587

  And I felt such joy, even at this solemn occasion.  I puzzled last night about why I would feel joy.  And was it appropriate?  Or did it insult others who were there to grieve?

It was not that I was not sad or hurting or heartsick over these deaths. Rather, I was overjoyed to not be alone in grieving what we have lost as a nation. There are many of us who are searching for a way to demonstrate that we will not be a part of the prejudice and incivility and violence that is destroying the soul of America.  And last night gave us a way to say that by simply showing up.  Hugs and tears and candles and photos and prayers and kaddish for the dead and song.  We spoke through all of these.

So many people I knew last night.  So many people who had been moved to come and stand with others who value and dream of a world where differences are respected, and commonalities emphasized.  A world where curiosity replaces fear and where we are moved to inquire about other’s stories (and tell our own) rather than move apart and judge each other from a distance.

Grief was appropriate.  And joy as well.

Blessings,

Jane+

Who have we become?

As I write today, there is news of 5 (now, 6) “bombs” found to be addressed and sent to well-known Democratic figures.  Luckily, they have been found before being touched by the addressees — and no one is saying, yet, whether they would have exploded if opened.

Were they born of hatred?  Were they imagined in the mind of a demented or mentally ill person?  Were they concocted as a response to the White House allegations of “fake news” or Democrats labeled as a “mob”?  

It would be easy for me to succumb to conspiracy theories and think that maybe it is a ploy for Trump to call for martial law.  But then I would be no better than those who write online and suggest wild conspiracies on the left.  

It is distressing that our country is so divided and that we tend to gather with those whose politics is like ours.  I am often afraid of others whose politics is volatile and different than mine.  It is distressing that there is such hatred and mistrust among us.  

I feel I do not know this country and my fellow citizens any longer.  Will we ever be able to rebound from the hatred and division to find common values and to rebuild trust?  What can I do to maintain that hope?