At Peace. . .

The night before New Years Eve and I feel a deep calm. Unusual for me on this day of the year. I usually have a twinge of anxiety on the cusp of the new year to come. I feel like we are about to jump off the edge of some metaphorical cliff into the unknown — not knowing what awaits us in the year to come.

Of course everyday we face the unknown — we can never really know what awaits in the day. But we can tend to fool ourselves into thinking that our calendar lays out what awaits us . . . what appointments, what is on our to do list, what people will be showing up that day for dinner, etc. etc.

But on the day before the eve of the new year, it is so much more apparent that the future has not yet been written. It is not yet known. There will be joys to come (I am trusting that) and there will likely be sadnesses to be borne (unfortunately I am sure of that). But not knowing the specifics of either joys or sadnesses creates in me that twinge of anxious dread.

I would have expected much more than the usual anxiety at this soon-to-be New Years Eve and so I am surprised at the calm and peaceful feelings that have come over me. Why would I expect more anxiety than usual? With the surprises that came at the end of the year in October and hailed health challenges that were entirely unexpected, I experienced a return of my PTSD from earlier life surprises. From late October until just a couple of days ago, I could slip easily into mild panic and fear. Sleeping was often a challenge. But in between those moments of anxiety, there were experiences of calm and peace. Often those times came when I received a message or email from someone wondering how things were going, or from my daughter or sister or brothers. Knowing I was remembered and wondered about was comforting.

And so I will enter this 2020 year ahead with calm and peace, having learned one thing very well: how deeply meaningful is contact with another human being. Whether by a 3 word email or a phone conversation or a note in the mail or a cup of coffee at Panera’s — caring relationships are healing and their maintenance is a priority.

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.

Unexpected

Virginia Theological Seminary, an Episcopal Seminary, is offering a “word a day” to consider during each of the days of Advent (a Christian season observed during the four Sundays leading to Christmas). The word of the day, this first day of Advent, is Unexpected. (see link below)

https://adventword.org/en/?mc_cid=be6749bb61&mc_eid=0f6a0eaef9

Unexpected . . . what unexpected event, person, insight has come into your life recently and unanticipated?

I am someone who doesn’t like surprises. Unexpected events can provoke in me a fear response whether they are good surprises or foreboding ones. Once I get over a startle response, my heart rhythm recovered, my breath deepening, I can look at whatever has surprised me and take it in or respond in a more measured way. Most people would describe me as a calming presence, and would be very surprised to know how little it takes to awaken my startle response of sudden sucked-in breath, slight tightening of shoulders, widening of eyes. Someone walking up beside me when I am not paying attention and saying my name, touching my shoulder when I am reading. Nothing big. But I often am deep in my introverted world. In those moments the world outside fades and when it beckons me, it sometimes startles me.

Today’s word, Unexpected, can point to many such experiences. Surprises welcome and unwelcome. Joy at a fulfilled hope. Fear of “what next”. Being unprepared for whatever.

Advent is a season of preparation in my religious tradition. Four weeks, plus or minus a few days, in which to consider our “track record” of living our lives as meaningful opportunities to grow, to share, to love, to forgive and be forgiven. And four weeks to prepare for a new birth of Light and Love which we are called to carry out into the world. We are to share life-giving Love and Light so all may know they are Beloved and share the Light.

Predating Christianity, this dark season in which cold wins and darkness seems to take up most of our 24 hours has always been a season of longing for the return of the Light. Whatever your tradition or practices, may these days be gifts of welcoming the unexpected not with fear but with knowledge that the Light is coming — and Love is already here with us.

Where will I be in 2021??

I just left the orthopod’s office after my one year hip replacement anniversary check up. I’ll only need to check in once every two years from here on. My hip surgery has been a total success and it was a good decision to undertake it.

I stopped at the check out desk and commented to the clerk that I didn’t need to come back for two years. Would someone from the office get in touch with me to make an appointment closer to that time or would I need to make a note to myself?

“Oh, we’re making appointments for two years out,” she said and opened the calendar software to 2021.

So, I will be seeing the doctor on November 29, 2021 (a Monday in case you wanted to know). It is now in my Google calendar on my iPhone — the first appointment date in 2021!

As I left the doctor’s office, I wondered . . . 2021. Will I be healthy? Will I be living in the house we’re presently in? What will be going on in my life then? What will I have done with these two years?

Two years used to be a long time. Even now, thinking about 2021 seems so far in the future! And yet as any of us grows older, our perception of time changes — speeding up and making it seem like days fly by before we’ve noticed.

Before we’ve noticed . . . that is the biggest wondering I have about 2021. Will I arrive at November 29, 2021 and wonder where the time went? Will the days between now and then hold any meaningful events, quilting projects (;^), interactions with others, counseling or spiritual direction sessions, losses, challenges . . . ? I cannot expect of myself that every day will be an experience of deep mindfulness — I know I won’t be able to bring deep intentional attention to every moment. But what I do want is to become better at reaching out to make connections with those around me . . . family of course, current friends, but also others whom I don’t know yet (or don’t know well).

I have spent my life as an introvert and my introversion won’t suddenly change to extroversion. All the flavors of my active vocational life (counseling, priesthood, spiritual direction, teaching) involved intense, often profound interactions with many people, and I often ended a work day exhausted and longing for some time alone to allow my soul to catch up with the rest of me.

But in retirement, I have lots of time alone. I have awakened in this stage of life to a longing for connection with others. . . a connection that goes beyond casual conversation and into a deeper knowing. Martin Buber, Jewish theologian and philosopher, called the first kind of relationship an “I/it” relationship in which neither person really knows the other. The latter relationship he called an “I/thou” relationship. In the latter kind of relationship, one seeks both to know and be known by the other. There is vulnerability, authenticity, discovery of truths about oneself and the other. Not all relationships or interactions can be I/thou, and there is nothing wrong with having some I/it relationships. But I know I seek more of the I/thou in my life.

So November 2021? Will I be nurturing deep friendships? Will I be seeking to live mindfully as I walk this earth? Will I be striving to leave this earth and its people a better place in some small way (undoubtedly an infinitesimal drop in the bucket — but hopefully in some way) for my having lived?

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.

Doors

In the universe, there are things that are known, and things that are unknown, and in between, there are doors.

~ William Blake

I am at the threshold of a door between what I had known and expected and what is unknown to me. Actually, I may be one step beyond that threshold. I am dealing with a very unexpected challenge that is requiring hope in the midst of fear, present moment awareness rather than future planning, and willingness to step back from being in charge to allow others to help me and pray for me and love me.

I vacillate between overwhelm with the messages and kindnesses of friends and family and even strangers who are praying and caring for me . . . a welcome overwhelm that feels like a warm, comforting safe place to dwell. And there is also the overwhelm from medical facts, statistics, and the physical experience of today’s technologies . . . an overwhelm that feels unsafe and fearsome.

I am keenly aware that I am not alone in this experience . . . it is a human experience and a spiritual pathway that so many others have taken and are taking or will take at some point in their lifetime.

The quotation that “caught” me this morning says there are doors between what we know and what we do not yet know or cannot know. I would change Blake’s word to “doorways”. Doors require opening to walk through, and there are some doors like that in our lives that we need to choose to open or leave closed. Images of doorways are different to me — they are openings that are already open. Some doorways we may choose to walk through or not. Some doorways we may not notice and therefore we walk by. Other doorways offer multiple openings and force a choice between one thing and another.

The doorway in my life today offers no choice . . . there is only one portal to enter without choosing or desiring this path. I cannot know what awaits on the other side. What will be revealed (in part or whole) when I step through onto the path? Adventure? Challenge? Affirmation? Ending? Healing? Love? Purpose? Call?

I am not a stranger to this doorway, though. I have walked through a similar doorway several times in my life and I have found a deepening of my spirit, an expansive space inside where empathy for others (and myself) dwells, experienced a humility that reminds me that a greater Being is accompanying me in love. In each experience, I have grown as a person, a therapist/healer, a spiritual guide.

While I am walking through a doorway onto a path that is new and unknown, gratefully, I am not alone. You who read this are part of my circle of witnesses. Thank you.

Five Lines . . .

I just learned about Cinquains . . . five lines of prose that begins with a single noun and the rest of the lines describing it. I’m not a poet. I’m not even a consistent writer on this blog. But writing Cinquains appeals to me because it is simple, accessible, and beautiful in its simplicity.

Here are the guidelines:

Line 1: A single noun . Line 2: Two adjectives describing the noun . Line 3: Three gerunds (action verbs ending in -ing) . Line 4: A sentence or phrase of just 4 words telling how you feel about the noun. Line 5: A synonym of line one.

Try one. They are fun, and sometimes surprisingly insightful. I am no poet, but here are some I’ve played with:

Time.
Moments.Unstoppable.
Filling. Measuring. Disappearing.
Faster and faster now.
Instantly.
Blue.
Cobalt.Sapphire.
Flying.Collapsing.Dying.
The color of 9/11.
Mourning.
Morning.
Fresh.Lightfilled.
Birthing.Rising.Beginning.
Always new, always surprising.
Hopeful.


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.