Category: Reflections

Summer 2020

It continues . . . the world outside my windows, I mean. It looks nearly the same as every previous year. Blue sky, white clouds, my brimming garden of blooms. But something is different this Summer 2020.

That something different keeps me from having coffee with friends. No wine with Diane at Edge or quilting circles with Ellen and Padma and Ana and Lois. No shared space with my womens’ circle of friends — we’ve met together for over 40 years but not this year except by Zoom. No eucharist shared in a chapel sanctuary or in a circle outside. Worst of all, no hugs with my dearest sister, Karen. I miss those hugs the most.

Damn you, Covid 19.

Last winter, I planned (without a thought that such plans could be negated) to do garden work with Karen, do puzzles with our Puzzle Club (“Where Friends Gather To Put The Pieces Together”), maybe take a couple of weekend trips to nearby civil war sites with Bill. Now, I am painfully aware that such things likely will be impossible — in 2020 or maybe in my lifetime.

I am frightfully aware that an innocent mistake (I forgot to put on my mask when I went to pick up medicine for my cat) could result in serious illness or my death. So could something simple like being bumped by someone in a grocery store while picking up a necessary ingredient for tonight’s meal, or socially distanced visiting on a friend’s patio where another visitor unknowingly has the virus, or having an in-person ophthalmologist appointment to get a new prescription for lenses. I am keenly aware of risk and take precautions but all it takes is one misstep and this invisible menace can pounce.

I don’t dwell on this each moment. It would make me crazy. But it is exhausting to have to retain some level of alertness in order not to “forget” caution and not to revert to “old” ways and customary behavior.

So it is Summer 2020. A new experience at age 71 . . . and wondering what will be next.

Have I been here before?

Have I been here before? The Advent scripture readings on Sundays are familiar. . . I know the cycle of preparation for the birth, the dressing down by John the Baptist, the scary predictions of the end times in the OT . . . I’ve been here before. Or have I?

I come to this 2019 Advent season carrying different burdens and celebrating different joys from the year past. Every year at this time I feel a mix of familiarity and newness. Always, wonder fills me with amazement at the ancient story of the shepherds and Jesus birth and the angels singing “Do not fear”. Do these angels know that in a few nights Joseph, new to parenthood, will have a nightmare that feels all too true and that he will awaken his wife and child and lead them into another country where they will settle in until the crisis in their home territory has passed. Do the angels know this?

Wonder fills me, too, as I look at my tree full of memories. Lit with warm LEDs, nearly every branch holds an angel or a star. There is the angel we brought back from a college visit to Boulder CO. There’s an angel with a violin that a family at my father’s second parish gave me as a child because I had just started lessons on the violin. There are capiz shell stars from my first husband’s ornament collection. There are Moravian star ornaments that Jessie and I made years go. Homespun angels, handmade paper angels, embroidered fabric angels, stars of rusty tin, stars of fancy gold-embossed glass, a Haitian angel with broad hips and colorful wings made from a recycled metal can.

Wonder. Surprised by angels of light in a dark sky, the shepherds’ wonder triggers in them both awe and fear. “What does this mean? What is this for? Why to us? What should we do?” Curiosity wins out over fear and the shepherds go to look for a child in the middle of that strange night. Down the road in a quiet, private space used for sheltering animals, they find a young family and a newborn baby suckling his mother’s breast. I wonder what sense did they make of the angels’ message then? And what about me? What sense have I made of this? Haven’t I been here before?

Yes . . . and no. Yes, I have followed the path of Advent to Christmas Eve many times before. Yes, I have heard (and read) the birth story countless times and imagined myself at the baby’s birth. But the story of the shepherds and angels and baby and his life on earth continues with challenges and dangers that the young parents could not have imagined. We who have traveled their story know very well what is to come in their lives . . . . but not in our own. Although I may know their story, I have no idea of my own to come in 2020.

So yes I’ve been here before. And yet no I haven’t been here before. I am about to step over a threshold into a new year that holds as yet unknown joys and challenges. And I am filled with wonder . . . both awe and a bit of fear.

I am listening for angels who will sing “Fear not” to me. I bid them to come close and sing loudly so I cannot miss the message. “Fear not, Jane. You are loved. You are not alone this year or any year. The one who is born in Bethlehem is with you always.”

Thanks be to God!

P.S. Oh, and angels . . . please sing your “Fear not” message with a catchy tune so (like an earworm) I can never forget it :^)

First Snow 2019

Opening the curtain this morning . . .

. . . I sucked in my breath. The world had changed overnight. Covering everything — the branches of shrubs, the lawn that had been dotted with the last leaves of fall, the porch bench — was a wispy layer of white . . . just enough to mask the unfinished tasks of fall cleanup still to be done. Such stillness and perfection.

The first snow. It always brushes the landscape with forgiveness, covering even the rustiest, ugliest rake (left out and forgotten when dinner called) with soft white. What we might think of as imperfections dotting our yard — a fallen limb that remains from the wind storm earlier this week, dead flower stalks not yet cut down, the place in the garden fence that needs repair where the deer trampled it in search for veggies — such imperfections disappear beneath a white puff that covers it all.

This white beauty will disappear by noon when the sun returns. But for this moment, I marvel at the miracle an inch of frozen water can bring . . . and am grateful to the Creator who gave me eyes to see a white miracle.

Gratitude

Grateful eyes look at each thing as if they had never seen it before and caress it as if they would never see it again. ~ Br. David Steindl-Rast

I write on the day after the latest school shooting. You may find it odd to be writing today on “gratitude.” I find no joy in the meaningless deaths of children at the hands of other children via deadly weapons that should be used only in war or self defense. Yet such tragedy makes me even more grateful for this day of life and the awareness of it as precious gift.

This recent health challenge magnifies my awareness of this moment, this day. I had slipped back into taking for granted this day and this life and fell into imagining that I had at least a decade (probably more like 2 decades if I’m honest) to enjoy the pleasures of not having deadlines or work projects that required major effort. My initial response on receiving the challenging news was anger that it was likely that I had been given a new “assignment” that would take away from my newly discovered pleasures (reading fiction, learning quilting, enjoying walks, etc.) and replace them with unwelcome “deadlines” and scheduled “must appear” events.

I still can feel angry — at fate and I suppose at God — if I allow myself that wasted energy. But more often now I notice with gratitude the small things that I might have previously passed over without much of a thought. I’m still not great at recording my gratitudes — a spiritual practice that I want to become more regular in. But I often acknowledge what I notice to myself or aloud with a “thank you, God”, or even just see how many people I can offer a grateful smile and “hello” to as I go through the grocery store or on my walk.

I am awed today at the prayers and love that others have offered me in this time. It usually comes via text or email. Sometimes a gift of homemade soup and a book left on my porch or a card with a hand written message delivered by the mailperson. And with each message or gift I return a prayer for that person and feel a deep gratitude that I (who have been a person who often has felt her “otherness” and awkwardness) am loved and held in prayer. I don’t feel deserving of such gifts and prayers — but I am aware that it is not about deserving but about accepting what comes (with gratitude) and not keeping it to myself.

And not keeping it to myself is a fruit of gratitude, I find. Gratitude creates an abundance of feelings . . . of safety, love, joy, astonishment, wonder, connection. The abundance is not to be held close nor stored but to be shared. So I share, perhaps in overly simple ways, but offering gratitude in writing or via a phone call, in my own prayers for others, in offering a smile to each person I see, in writing cards of gratitude for persons who have touched my life.

And I have a long, long list of people that will keep my pen busy for as long as I can write . . . I keep a rainy day file of notes or letters that I have received over a lifetime from persons who have taken time to let me know something that has touched them. They inspire me to respond to others with a “rainy day” message to let them know how their lives have touched mine.

Gratitude . . . I am grateful today for the chill in the air that drives birds to our feeder where Mr B (my kitty) and I watch with wonder. And I am grateful for my body . . . its strength, its resilience, and the ability it gives me to move through the world. Thank you, God, for all your gifts.

9/11

Reading the date, I saw in my memory that whole horrific morning and felt again the terror and threat that overwhelmed me on that blue sky day.

That is what I remember . . . that blue sky. Intensely blue. Purely blue. No clouds or contrail of exhaust. Just blue. Piercing, penetrating blue.

When we visited the Ground Zero Memorial several years ago, I stopped before this wall, unable to pass by. A collage of nearly 3000 watercolor squares in an attempt to capture that color. Piercing, penetrating shades of blue. Like that morning on 9/11. No clouds or contrails of exhaust. Just blue.

And I breathed the blue into my body, feeling the peaceful beauty of pure color fill me. Having walked through the misshapen pieces of tragedy — steel beams twisted and torqued by impact and fire, a searing picture of someone standing in the hole left in the side of the building and about to jump, the dented and damaged stairs from one of the towers — the serenity of the blue sky that day was a gift.

Was that what they saw in their last moments in this life? Foolishly perhaps, I would like to believe that was a part of their awareness. Some brief moment of blue sky . . .

Mountains

I always thought it odd that the Poconos (in northern Pennsylvania) were called mountains. In actuality, they are no more than hills and have a highest elevation of 2200′ +/-.

When I was growing up, my family lived for awhile in central Washington state — sagebrush country and desert. But we had to travel to visit relatives by going through real mountains — the Rockies — and did that several times over the 4 years we were out west. I remember in my mind’s eye the amazing view of the Rockies as we drove west on the flat prairie of eastern Colorado.

At first, the tops of the Rockies looked like small hills, but the further west we drove, the higher they rose in front of us until — miles out from the foot of the mountains they became riveting in their height and hazy blue color. We were a day’s journey from them as we watched with wonder at the height and sharpness of their peaks. And then, we knew, we had to drive through them.

I remember dark tunnels bored out of rock and twisty roads and a hairpin curve that scared my eight year old self. I remember my mother (and me, too) turning from the window and not looking down at the drop of thousands of feet to our right.

The Rockies. Those are mountains — 14,000′ plus! I would love to see them again!

I just got back from a retreat I led in the Blue Ridge Mountains. These ridges deserve to be called mountains as well, although the highest peaks among them are just over 6,600′. They are older than the Rockies and time has ground them down to slightly rounded tops (unlike the jaggedness of the Rockies) and lesser heights. But their valleys are narrow and the sides of the mountains rise steeply from the valley floors. The summits are often shrouded in mist and wind-raked. And blue (see picture above). The Blue Ridge nickname is earned by the isoprene (a product of tree metabolism — beyond that, I don’t know . . . ) given off by trees that reflects blue light. The color is spellbinding and captures one’s attention because of the unusual color. And the shades of blue are multihued giving depth to the scene of multiple ridges layered into the distance.

Whether you are a flatlander or a mountaineer — or perhaps a hills and valleys person — I hope you will delight in looking around you after you read this and wonder in the God-created geography that surrounds you.

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.

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.