O Christmas Tree!

Today was the day. Early on this cloudy morning I was not sure, but as we approached noon, the skies cleared to that brilliant blue that so beautifully embodies the best of a Vermont winter's day. Gary and I gathered what we needed - hand saw, cornmeal, tarp and gloves - and we drove down the road.

The tree farm is just down the road from our place, and there have been years in which we carried the tree home on a sled or sharing the load with our children, but this year it was just us. Involving the car seemed the sensible option. No need to stress our backs or our bodies unnecessarily. 

We thought we had found the perfect tree almost as soon as we set foot in the field, but that felt strange to me. The choosing of a tree process is supposed to take time, properly reflecting the solemnity of the occasion. So we marked that tree with an arrow pointing toward it in the snow and dutifully wandered through the rows of trees, stopping to check one out here, another out there. Gary called me over to examine one he found and I, in turn, did the same, until we had three contenders, including the first one we spotted. 

We returned to the trees we had marked and gave each of them a thorough going-over. Finally, we settled on a tree that, on close examination showed signs of a bird having nested in its branches, as well as an entire dry snake skin, which seemed auspicious to us. I accept that these "signs" may have been the exact things to turn someone else off, but that's okay with me. I fully embrace our eccentricities... most of the time.

Having made our decision, Gary and I spoke words of gratitude and sprinkled a dusting of corn meal before taking out the saw and cutting our chosen Christmas tree down. (This is a ritual we were taught to show respect for the life of the tree.) I was able to carry it out of the field on my own, leaving Gary free to carry the saw and cornmeal, and slip ahead of me to open the car. Once home, it was a surprisingly simple matter to find the stand and settle the tree into its new home. 

"That almost felt too easy," Gary said.

"Yeah, it seems strange, doesn't it?" I replied, pouring water into the stand.

We both smiled contentedly, breathing in the sharp scent of pine, happy that it was beginning to feel a little more like Christmas. Content also, with the thought that, despite the challenges that are so rampant in the world today, maybe life doesn't have to be a struggle. Maybe some things can be as easy as finding the perfectly imperfect Christmas Tree.

 

Seeds of Community & Hope

As the daylight started to fade, Gary and I stoked up our wood stove and bundled up to go out into the wintry night. A friend had invited us to come over and help create a seed mandala using the beautiful multi-colored corn he had grown. 

We had participated in creating mandalas before, and had seen Tibetan monks as well as Navajo artists working with colored sand to do the same. We were eager to put our minds and hands to good use, breathing our prayers for community, for healing, for hope, and for peace into the pattern we would choose to create.

The colorful ears of corn were hanging along the ceiling, having spent the past month or so drying out. Our friend brought some ears down and we got to work stripping the kernels from the cobs, and then carefully sorting them into bowls of yellow, pink, orange, red, blue, purple, and some of surprising yellow and red stripe. 

Sharing a potluck dinner, we took a break and talked about possible designs. The three young children, still dressed as fairies in their fanciful outfits complete with iridescent wings, chimed in, eager to help. Deciding on a Tree of Life, each of us took hands full of kernels, carefully arranging them into a strong trunk, then deep and intricate roots. Once the Tree was established, each child chose a color and helped design a rainbow effect of pillowy leaves across the tops of the branches.

Mandalas are often created as an active prayer, a sign of hope. Their intricate patterns and designs are imbued with sacred meaning. Ours was no different. When we had finished, we all sat back around the edges of the Tree and spoke in hushed tones about what we saw in the beauty and intent of the design. 

As we prepared to leave, we knew that the mandala would last for the night, perhaps, and then the corn would be gathered into bowls to be stored for food this winter. Even though the mandala itself was ephemeral, as most mandalas are, the prayers and intentions it brought forth will, we hope, spill out into our lives and into the world around us. 

The cozy evening spent with a few other creators of beauty and hope, kept my heart warm as we made our way home. I imagine it will continue to keep my spirit hopeful whenever I reflect on it. My earnest desire is that it does the same for others who were a part of the experience, as well as for you, who are hearing about it now.

 

NaNoWriMo

NaNoWriMo is short for National Novel Writing Month, which takes place in November each year. The challenge is to write 50,000 words in the course of one month. This works out to 1,667 words per day for each of November's 30 days. 

At first I didn't really think NaNoWriMo had anything to do with me. I am not a novelist, for starters, but the folks who organize the event are great at making everyone who likes to write in any form feel welcome. They even held a virtual memoir writing camp this summer, which I did not attend, but the idea of it brought home the thought that I could participate this November and write whatever my heart drew me toward. So I did.

I have been wanting to write my memoir for at least 25 years, and I have managed to jot down ideas and even entire essays over the course of that time. However, this all felt disjointed. There was no clear flow to the writing, no underlying theme. I was not sure how to organize my memories and the stories that accompany them into some kind of coherent whole. 

When this year's NaNoWriMo approached, I decided that I would use the month as a springboard for the project. My intention was to focus on a different memory each day, beginning with my earliest ones and going as far as the thirty days would take me. I knew I needed a theme, and after trying and discarding several possible concepts, I settled on "Connections". I figured that this could reflect my connections with Spirit, with the natural world, with family, with friends, with myself, even. It seemed broad enough as well as specific enough to work as a framework on which to build.

November is over, and with it the challenge that I accepted of writing 50,000 words, a day at a time. I am happy to report that I did it! Some days in particular were difficult for me to take time out for writing. Thanksgiving, with its attendant activities of cooking, celebrating with friends and family, travel, etcetera, features in there. And it comes close to the home stretch, so that puts a bit of pressure on, to keep up your word count so you don't have a word mountain to climb during the last few days.

As a way of celebrating the fact that I successfully rose to the challenge, I decided to print out my month's worth of words. They totaled 50,212 words, and filled up 204 pages. Carefully wrapping the pages to protect them from the rain and from being jostled into chaos, I brought them to Staples and had them bound. Mostly I did this to see what it looked like, and how it felt to have something physical to
show for my efforts. Even though I know it is a draft, and a rough one at that, it surprised me how good it feels to hold that book in my hands. 

All of this reminded me of how important it is to just get started on whatever it is that your heart is calling you to do. I am hopeful that this message will continue to draw me forward into the life I imagine.

Solar Eclipse

 There was a solar eclipse today. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of it. Gary stopped by our local library to pick up a couple pairs of the special glasses they offered to community members through which to safely watch the sun slip behind the moon's shadow. I tried them on, and even went outside to see how effective they were, but it was so cloudy that no light at all got through the safety lenses. "Oh well," I sighed. "Guess we are not going to be able to see anything this time around."

When we went on a walk in the early afternoon, it was pretty dark, and I did think for a moment that maybe that was the effect of the eclipse. But the clouds were thick, so I thought it could also just be one of those gloomy, cloudy fall days. There were hardly any sounds at all, and very little movement. Even the chipmunks and squirrels seemed to be hiding, despite the fact that it was still early afternoon and the temperature was pretty comfortable for small creatures to be running around in. "Hmm, I guess autumn is really starting to settle in. The birds aren't even singing," I said to Gary. It was quiet as we made our way up the road, and, honestly, it felt kind of depressing.

When I returned home, I busied myself around the house for a while, getting food ready for supper, sorting through some mail and answering texts from my daughters. 

A little while later, I made my way outside again and had to stop in my tracks in wonder. What a difference! Even though it was only the tiniest bit brighter than it had been when we were on our earlier walk, we were surrounded by a literal cacophony of sound. Every variety of bird seemed to be singing and chattering up a storm. Chipmunks were running back and forth along the rock wall. It was a remarkable contrast to the rather somber mood of the natural world just a short hour before. The world was exploding with life, with sound and movement.

I was struck by the fact that the entire natural world seemed to have experienced the eclipse and responded to it instinctually. They laid low when the unnatural darkness fell over the earth, staying quiet and out of sight, but as soon as the light started to return, they went about their activities again with a renewed burst of energy and, dare I say, enthusiasm.

We may not have been able to see the eclipse today, but we sure heard it and felt it in our bones - us humans and all the earth's creatures too, it seemed. It was awesome to feel so intricately connected to the natural world by sharing in the eclipse with the birds and chipmunks and the other creatures who noticed that today was different from other days. There is something inside of each of us, that longs to be woven into the tapestry of life, to be a part of the larger whole. Today, I felt the pull of those threads.

A Pilgrimage to the Familiar

 

Every September for the past several years, Gary and I, along with our good friends, Meredith and Ray, make our way to Monhegan Island in Maine. It is a place that I have written about before. Ten miles off the shore, Monhegan is an island inhabited by artists and writers in the summer months, some of whom fell in love with the island long ago and some, like me, who are relative newcomers. 

During the colder months the population dwindles down to about 45, the town water supply is shut off to protect pipes from freezing, most business shut down or depend on the honor system. I have tried to imagine what it might be like to spend a winter there, hunkered down in a cozy cottage to focus on my writing. I wonder if I have what it takes to make it through the isolation and the cold. Would my fascination hold? I like to think so, and maybe some day Gary and I will try it out.

For now, we limit our visits to the "shoulder seasons" of June and September when the island is a bit less populated by day trippers and tourists. (Yes, I know I am technically a tourist too, but loving and spending time on Monhegan when she is a little less hospitable feels like it might win me some small concession in that department.) Remembering to bring my down coat in June, climbing into a full set of rain gear to walk out to the edge of Lobster cove's rocks in a storm, singing at a Jamboree lit by kerosene lights as the evening cools, are all gifts of this time of year.

September is beautiful there. Purple and yellow-gold flowers are in bloom. Migratory birds can be prolific, as can be the butterflies. Sunsets are amazing, and there is nothing like exhausting yourself out on the trails all day before coming back to the cottage to toast the sunset on the porch before settling in for a good meal and a cozy evening with friends.

As I prepared for this latest trip to Monhegan, a friend suggested that I consider it as a pilgrimage. The idea intrigued me. I thought it might deepen my experience in ways that simply showing up for a vacation would not. And so, I brought my journal along and committed to write in it every day. Most days I sketched as well, despite the fact that I really have no talent for that kind of art. ("I am an artist with words" I like to assert, "but not so much with any other methods.")

It felt like my time on Monhegan did go deeper in response to seeing it as a pilgrimage. I was less concerned with doing things and more content to simply be. It felt good to show up for each new day with an open mind, willing to let it unfold as it would. I found myself trusting that whatever happened, wherever I wandered, and whatever I did, would be just what the moment called for, and for the most part this is exactly how it felt. 

Coming home is always a melancholic experience. Leaving behind such a special place and such a golden time is not easy, but somehow when I left this time I felt more prepared for the re-entry back into my everyday life. It felt like I had gleaned what I needed to from my pilgrimage, and would be returning home a little more centered for the effort.

Old Treasure & New

I find it really difficult to sort out trash from treasure. Sure, I have heard Marie Kondo's suggestion that I hold each item to see if it sparks joy and only keep those that do, but sometimes the memories attached to things are so strong I can't decipher if there is joy in the mix or not. 

Recently our small town library had a yard sale. Folks set up tables and artfully displayed their wares, hoping someone would choose something they were ready to part with. My intention was to bring a whole carload of things that have been accumulating on our shelves over the past several years. As the day approached, it became obvious that I had not done the necessary weeding out work in preparation for the big event. Sure, I had a few boxes of things to offer, but truthfully, they barely scratched the surface of all that we would like to move along to a new home. 

In the midst of all that did not "move along", Gary and I did decide to bring a couch that has been a part of our lives for many years. It was gifted to us when some dear friends moved out of state several years ago. It wasn't really their style or our style either, but it came with the story of our friendship and some good memories. In my office at the local college, it offered a safe space for students to sit while engaged in wonderful conversations during the years Gary and I worked there. We brought it back to our house when the college closed, but it never really seemed at home here. It's formal airs seemed daintily at odds with our overstuffed couch, pine tables and braided rug.

It is so much easier to part with the things that hold a place in our hearts if we see them transferred safely into someone else's appreciative hands. This is exactly what happened when we brought the couch to the library's yard sale. I did some research to figure out an appropriate asking price, and soon a young family came over, exclaiming about the color, the style, and how it was just right for their home. When I told the woman who the former owners were, she was thrilled, telling me that our friend's book was her favorite childhood companion. As we were talking her daughter came and plunked herself down on the couch, settling in comfortably. It seemed the decision was made; the couch chose its new family just as clearly as they had chosen it.

Where Does the Time Go?

 

Time is such a slippery element of our lives. When I was working, somehow I accomplished everything necessary at home while also managing to carry on a full time job. Now that I am retired, I often get to the end of a day and find myself wondering, "what just happened here!?" The days pass weirdly slowly, but in what should be the opposite, they also go by in a blur, with less accomplished than I had hoped for at their dawning.

A few weeks ago my sister called to ask if Gary and I wanted to join them for a long weekend in the Finger Lakes. Sue and Mike wanted to check out some of the many wineries in the area, and had found a cabin on Cayuga Lake that had a beach for swimming as well as paddle boards and kayaks that we could use to explore the lake. My gut response was, "Oh no, we can't do that. It is coming up too fast. We don't have time enough to plan." But I took a breath, as I am learning to do thanks to several years of mindfulness practice, and asked myself, "well, why not?"

A week later, having made arrangements for our cats to be cared for in our absence, we loaded up the car and took off for the adventure.

What amazed me about those days was that there seemed to be enough time to reconnect in a meaningful way with my sister and her husband, as well as to relax and enjoy the cabin and lake. We sat on the dock to watch the sunrise, sang songs around the campfire with the folks at the cabin next door, we paddle boarded north one day and south the next, and swam for a while when we were hot and tired. We even saw a golden eagle when we were paddling, and a brilliant rainbow stretching from the sky down to the other shore after a storm. Somehow we also had plenty of time to hike to a waterfall in one of the famous gorges, and took in more than six wineries, breweries, or distilleries over the course of our time there.

When we got back home, I was slightly bewildered by all of the exceptionally fun things we managed to accomplish in such a brief time. "How did time stretch so far?" I don't have an answer, but maybe it has something to do with truly being present in each moment as best we could. All I do know is that I am going to keep practicing. Maybe I'll get even better at it, and learn how to stretch out the rest of my life in some amazing ways?

Everyday Rarities

I walked out onto our deck the other day and noticed Ayla, our black and white cat, staring reverentially at the sliding glass door. I turned to see what had caught her attention and was greeted by this Walking Stick. I watched it with much the same reverential attention as Ayla, turning to my cat to make eye contact with her and let her know I appreciated that we were sharing a special moment together.

As we watched, the insect kept crawling across the glass, onto the wood siding, and eventually across the whole side of the house. He was up pretty high, and I worried that he might fall, but I couldn't do anything about that, except to send him my good wishes and prayers for a safe journey. When he turned the corner I walked around to the other side of our house, but could not find him again. 

When I looked up Walking Sticks to learn a little bit about them, I was surprised to discover that they are not at all rare, but they are masters at disguising themselves. People who make it their business to know about them claim that these insects are probably right in front of our eyes quite often. They are so good at blending in with actual sticks, trees, and leaves that we can look right at them without ever seeing them.

Those of you who know me, will understand how this idea tickled me. I am fond of the fact that we can glean wisdom from the world around us if we will only take the time and make the effort to open our eyes, ears, and minds. It is all too easy to miss the gifts of each and every moment of our lives when we are caught up in the busyness of all there is to do. We take ourselves pretty seriously, and so it can be difficult to slow down and notice what can seem to be insignificant details.

We like to think that a cursory glance can tell us enough about a place, a person, an article, or anything, really. But the truth is that taking our time to really look, and to ponder, giving ourselves enough time to discern the difference between a twig and an insect for instance, is a deeply meaningful way to make our way through a moment, a day, a lifetime.

and off he goes...

 

Be Here Now

 

There is such a profusion of beauty in the natural world. The other day Gary and I took a hike on Endless Brook Trail, which is near our home in Vermont. We came upon these flowers at the beginning of the trail. They arrested my attention, as the person who planted and tends them was most likely hoping they would, and I am grateful for that. All too often I plunge from one thing to the next, checking things off of my "To Do" list as I turn my attention to the next thing on said list.

These flowers stopped me in my tracks (tracks that were heading rather quickly and single-mindedly to the summit of the trail), and I am glad they did. They reminded me that it is not just the summit that is of value. The means by which we get to the goal of our climb matters too. In this case, the trail itself and everything it contained was worth noticing. For instance, the name of the trail comes from the brook that runs along it for awhile. The water goes underground for long stretches and then pops up again so it seems to be endless.

As a result of slowing down, Gary and I took in the beauty of these flowers and all of the bees, butterflies and other insects who were visiting them as well. A little further on, we saw a frog in the pond, well-camouflaged among the lily pads he was resting on. Every few steps along the trail, mushrooms of various wild colors caught our attention. They ranged in hue from pale white to yellow, from orange to bright red, and from the tiniest perceptible dot to saucer-size platters scattered among the leaves, roots and ferns.

Of course, we did reach the lookout at the top of the hill after a good while climbing, and the view was nice to take in. Gary and I sat on a fallen tree in what little shade we could find and munched on snacks of walnuts and red grapes along with sips of refreshing water as we looked out over Lake Saint Catherine. Far below we saw boats circling lazily, and above them, some raptors cruising the skies.

On the way down, I stopped at the stream and took off my shoes, sitting with the water as it moved by, and watched the play of sunlight reflected from the water onto the bank across from me. Small fish swam near me, checking out my toes while some curious water creatures who looked like sticks with wiry appendages moved with jerks across the sandy bottom.

Ram Dass is known for his philosophy and book titled "Be Here Now". It is a phrase that I thought I understood when I was first introduced to it, but my earliest impression was just scratching the surface of its possible meanings. I like to think I am getting better at truly understanding it as time goes on. Days like this one, when I can reflect on so many small, interesting and beautiful things that captured my attention tell me I just might be getting closer to not just comprehending what it means to Be Here Now, but actually living it.

Floods

Vermont was in the national news recently due to the abundance of rain that has drenched our state. Roads, bridges, farms and homes have been damaged by the floods. In some cases they have been washed away. 

When the storms were just beginning, I had an appointment in a town that is about an hour north of my home. Listening to the weather reports and reports of the damage suffered by towns not too far from us, I was worried about making the drive. But I decided to go ahead, taking care to pay attention to any advice my smart phone or the Vermont Public reports might offer.

Gary and I drove north, through some pretty intense rain. The tire track lines in the roads were heavy with water, but not really overflowing. In fact, when we arrived at our destination, the rain was light and didn't even require an umbrella. Even so, we decided to keep our errands to the necessary, and headed home as soon as those were complete. The drive home was a little less rainy, but reports of road closures became the litany that accompanied us for the entire ride home.

We arrived home safely, somewhat shaken by the experience and especially by the reports that we heard of so much destruction. Several days of rain resulting in worse flooding than back when Irene hit Vermont, left us and our garden soggy, but fine.

Almost a week later, Gary and I were back in Middlebury, in the evening. We were drawn to the bridge right in the middle of town that goes over the Otter Creek. The water was high. It was forceful as it pushed against an island of trees that are usually not right in the middle of the flow. I took the picture above, sort of as a reality check, reminding me of the strength of those waters. Also reminding me of the fact that despite humankind's technological advancements, we are still subject to the very primal forces of nature.

My heart goes out to those whose lives and livelihoods have been upended by the recent floods. Any one of us could be in their shoes in the blink of an eye. Life is such a tenuous gift. We do well to live each day fully, and to support one another with kindness and healing acts of generosity.

 

Nothing To See Here!

The other morning I took a trail out to the northern end of the island on which I was spending some time. When I emerged from the tree covered trail onto what is labeled on the map as "Pebble Beach" two women were there already. One was sitting, looking out to sea but the other was curled up in a fetal position with her back to the water, her face tucked in and eyes determinedly shut. I couldn't help asking if she was alright.

"There is nothing here," she said, gesturing wildly with her arm without changing position. "I carried my painting supplies all this way and there is absolutely nothing here to see! Nothing worth painting, for sure!"

I looked around at the large, colorful rocks that make me think Pebble Beach was named by giants with a different sense of proportion than me. I looked at the shoreline where I could see some cottages hunkered down near the water's edge. I looked out at the small islands where I knew I would see seals if I was patient enough to wait for them to move. I looked at the sky and the water surface where ducks, gulls and cormorants lazed around, and I wondered how she could possibly think that there was nothing here to see. 

Her friend ventured a careful suggestion that she needed to look around, and I might have said what I was thinking out loud, "it helps to open your eyes, if you want to see anything." 

I walked away, to a place where I could get closer to the water, took off my sneakers and socks and settled in for awhile, soaking my feet and watching what was going on in the natural world. The water was bracingly cold, as it slipped over the kelp, moss-covered rocks and my feet in a way that soothed me and also woke up a lot of nerve endings. 

I felt bad for the woman who lay curled up with her eyes closed. She reminded me of how easy it is for us to shut ourselves off from joy if we are not willing to be open to simple pleasures and small joys. 

When I am having a bad day, an approach that helps me climb out of the doldrums is to pay closer attention to every little thing around me. I might go outside and encourage myself to look for something interesting, surprising or beautiful - a tiny yellow flower blooming in the driveway, an ant carrying a crumb leftover from Gary's and my breakfast, an orange butterfly flitting past, a bird singing or a chipmunk insistently chirping nearby. 

When I am in a funk, it is the little things that lift my spirits more than anything else. Mostly, it is the things I might not notice otherwise, the things it might be easy to pass over with barely a glance, declaring, "there's nothing to see here!" But my eyes tell me otherwise, especially when I keep them open, especially when I am willing to look beyond the surface and wait for the details of each place to emerge more clearly, to show themselves to me. That is when I recognize that there is plenty to see here, plenty to take in and appreciate, plenty of things that make the journey well worth my while.

 

Resilience Lessons from Ducklings

I am on Monhegan Island in Maine for a couple of weeks. It is a place Gary and I have spent time for the past ten years, finding here a sense of respite and calm that soothes my soul. Mostly what I do here is sit on rocks or cliffs, and watch the ocean and her inhabitants go about their lives.

Yesterday, I was sitting in a place called Gull Cove, on rocks pretty near the shoreline. What looked like a floating log appeared on the water moving toward shore, but as it got closer, I realized that it was actually not a log at all, but rather a mother duck and her long line of progeny following closely behind. As they moved into the cove, the little ones started attempting to tip forward putting their bills under the water, desperately trying to capture a bite of something yummy. The problem was, that they were so buoyant they kept bobbing back up to the surface, often with quite a bit of force and a big splash!

The mother duck led them up to the very top edge of a rock where they started jostling for position. As they each tried to get themselves settled on the rock’s ridge line, they kept bumping into one another, and inevitably one or two of the little balls of fluff tumbled down the side of the rather large rock. The first time this happened, I gasped, worried that the little ones who had lost their place in the line-up would be hurt or worse, but as soon as they stopped rolling, they righted themselves and started climbing right back up to the top of the rock.

Soon, the ducklings were lined up in a row along the edge of the rock, happily nestled next to one another. Calm reigned for a little while.

It was not very long before the mother decided it was time to get up and move again. As soon as she climbed off the rock, her little ones followed, a line of fluff balls waddling and tumbling down into the water. As they paddled around in the cove, they started practicing their bobbing again, dipping their little bills in the water, and amazingly soon, actually diving down under water where they stayed for longer than I thought possible. Somehow, in the course of a very little amount of time, they had figured out how to stay under water long enough to achieve their goal of finding some delectable snack. Maybe it was that period of rest that allowed their little duck minds to open up to the next lesson?

I sat on the edge of the cove for more than an hour, watching the ducks until the mothers began to lead them out into the deeper waters of the ocean. Waves washed over them, scattering the ducklings every which way. I worried that some of them would be lost in the fray, but eventually mother and babies were reunited beyond the roughest waves and they set off to their next destination.

Reflecting on what I had seen, I was struck by the resilience and resolve of those little ducklings. No more than a ball of fluff, each of them had a fierce determination to accomplish every new task. It didn’t matter if they bobbed to the surface when they tried to dive, they just kept at it until they figured out how to manage the mechanics. It didn’t matter if they got knocked off the rock by a restless sibling, they just got their feet under them and climbed up again. 

I know that we humans have far more tasks that we need to accomplish in order to achieve competence and adulthood, but I think we can learn from our fluffy companions that a little resilience and a whole lot of resolve goes a long way. If we think we can, then chances are, we can!

Where Stewardship & Ownership Meet

 I am getting ready to preach for the first time since I retired last year. The scriptures focus on Creation, which usually makes me smile. But just yesterday the Supreme Court pulled EPA protections away from wetlands, leaving room for the erosion of over 50 years worth of careful stewardship of these precarious and precious places. The wetlands are the spaces that absorb excess waters when extreme rains come, they protect the integrity and clarity of lakes, rivers, and oceans by filtering sediment and toxins.

The case that brought this to the Court's attention has to do with the concept of “ownership” of land. Some folks bought land, for a pretty penny, and they want to do what they choose with it. On the surface that sounds perfectly understandable, but if we rush to defend "ownership" we often do so by casting the idea of "stewardship" into the shadows.

Gary and I live on land that is in part shared space. We are part of a community of 6 homeowners who each "own" 10 acres and share in the care and stewardship of about 80 acres of orchard, meadow and woodland. When the community was conceived, nearly 50 years ago, the original participants had a loosely defined desire to protect the land and hold it in reserve for future generations. About 20 years ago we placed a good bit of the land into the Vermont Land Use program, agreeing not to develop the land and to care for it in special ways in exchange for a reduction in taxes.

We have interpreted this responsibility in different ways over the years, and for the most part, have been able to agree on what that looks like - mowing the meadow after the Bobolinks and Savannah Sparrows have fledged, cutting trees in the wood lot so as to increase habitat and mast for creatures and also to encourage the growth of healthy trees. Our orchard has presented a challenge, however. It turns out there are a wide variety of approaches to managing an old orchard, and divergent views of what we are working toward with said management.

All of this contributes to my asking, "so, what is good stewardship? What does it look like to take care of an orchard, a meadow, a woodland or a wetland? How much should we be interfering with the natural course of events, and for whom are we managing the land, anyway?" My ready answer is that we are taking care of the land for future generations, but does this mean our children and grandchildren or does it mean the people who will be here seven generations and more from now? 

I would hope that this is the same thing, but recent discussions have proven me wrong, or at least out of synch with the perspectives of some of my friends and neighbors. As I reread the creation story in Genesis, I became aware that my perspective has been shaped by this scripture and how the environmental movement interprets stewardship. It has been shaped by the Indigenous perspective that says the land does not belong to us, but rather we belong to the land. In this vein, I have to put aside my personal needs and desires and bow to the needs of the earth and all of the living beings who depend on her, not just us humans.

It is difficult for us to give up the personal perspective. It is difficult for us to let go of the notion of ownership and all of the rights and privileges this entails. It is difficult to move from a place of bending the land to our wishes and instead, putting ourselves in service to the land, but this is what is needed. It is necessary to do this in order to ensure that there is a sustainable future for any of us.

Obligation or Joyful Pleasure ?

 I was swimming today, reflecting on how nice it is to be staying with my daughter and able to make easy use of the very close-by community pool to swim laps. There was a subtle but important difference between the pleasure I was taking in the feel of moving through the water as I relaxed into the strokes I know so well and the concern I had felt earlier in the day when I thought, “I need to get to the pool so I can do my laps.”

“Actually, I don’t have to swim laps today if I don’t feel like it,” I realized. “I can go if I want to, but I don’t have to. And I can swim if I want to, but there is nothing saying that I have to do laps. I could just splash around for awhile without worrying about how long I swam or how many laps I completed.” 

I sat back on my heels and pondered the possibilities for a little while, savoring the freedom I recognized myself to be luxuriating within. Given this new sense of limitless possibilities, I felt myself released from the need to conform to expectations. I decided I would go to the pool, but once I was there I would simply do whatever felt good and right in the moment. 

When I arrived, I was greeted with a warm welcome by the women at the desk, who are getting to know me. And as I walked into the pool area, the lifeguard and I talked about how quiet it was. She told me just a ten minutes before, the pool had been pretty busy. As a lap swimmer, I was glad for the quiet because it meant I would probably have a lane to myself and could swim without worrying about bumping into other people, especially when swimming the backstroke.

My swim today was just right, because it was just what I needed to tap into the simple pleasure of, not only swimming, but of being alive and of appreciating my body for all it does for me, not least of all carrying me through the water with a certain ease. 

This whole experience reminded me of an interaction I had with a dear woman who directed the choir at a church I served for quite some time. I sang in the choir there, and I have to admit that I did it out of a certain sense of obligation. “You have a good voice. You ought to sing,” was the message the Protestant work ethic and all of my ancestors who espoused its principles imposed on me. But one day Sue, the director, and I were talking. With a sparkle in her eye she said to me, “you know, some people sing because they actually enjoy it.”

Caught red-handed by her incredibly perceptive comment, I thought long and hard about the place of joy in my singing and in my life. Somehow I had managed to take something joyful and fashion it into a “should”. Wow. That was not how I wanted to live my life. From then on, when I sang with the choir I set my intention for experiencing the sheer pleasure of singing. Sometimes, despite my good intentions, I have to admit I grumbled a bit as I made my way to choir practice on a cold winter night, but Sue had definitely helped me see the value of tapping into the joy whenever I could.

I feel like today’s experience with swimming was a reminder to tap into the joys of my life as much as I possibly can. Obligations have their place, but not when they crowd joy and pleasure out of the picture.

A Centering Place

Whenever I am at home in Vermont, I like to make a daily trek to this little stream that runs behind our house. Sometimes I carry a stick of incense, but I always bring a little bit of well water from our tap as I make my way along the wooded path my feet have created over the years. When I arrive at the stream, I offer a prayer of gratitude for the beauty of the day - whether sunny or rainy, warm or cold, and for the gifts that life brings to me. Sometimes this is a highlight of my day - recognizing the simple gift of being alive and able to take in the beauty and sources of wonder evident all around me.

Once my prayers are done and observations of all there is to be grateful for feel complete, I settle in at the edge of the stream and watch the water flow for a while. If I am feeling off, unsettled in any way, spending time with the stream helps. As the water flows, my frayed nerves calm down. The waters refresh and soothe me, clearing my mind of chatter and worries. I like to imagine the water washing my cares away, carrying them down stream and out to the sea where they are diluted into the vastness of the ocean.

This ritual grounds me in the place that I call home. It helps me to feel more centered, especially when facing challenges or dealing with worries. The picture above shows the spot where the water pools and some incense burns over it. You may be able to sense the peace and calm of this place through my words, but it is even more likely that you are calling to mind a place that offers this sense of centeredness for you. I encourage you to go there whether in person or through your memories, and let your heart be at home for a while today.

Like a Butterfly

When Gary and I stopped in Virginia to spend a week with Sarah and Kyle, their neighbors, Debby and her daughter Callie invited us to come over and learn how to work with stained glass. During the pandemic, they had set up an entire studio in their home so they had everything we would need to try it out. When we arrived to take them up on their offer, Sarah and I were entranced by all of the beautiful and unique stained glass pieces displayed throughout their home.

Downstairs in the workshop, we each chose a simple pattern to work with - a butterfly for me and a hummingbird for Sarah. Our hosts assured us that if we caught on, and they were sure we would, that next time we could make something more interesting and complicated. Speaking for myself, this project was just the right amount of complicated for my first attempt, and the process itself certainly proved to be plenty interesting!

With our patterns in hand, we looked through several rainbows worth of colors to find just the right ones to match the finished products in our imaginations. We cut the glass carefully using special tools, and then sanded the edges of each piece with a grinder. This was the first aspect of the process that worked on me like a meditation. Holding tiny pieces of glass up to the grinder as the machine spun, my attention was transfixed as I watched for the moment when each edge perfectly fit my pattern. 

Once they had been ground just right, Callie showed me how to apply a special metal tape around each piece. Some more grinding was in order as I refit the pieces together with the tape in place. Once the tape was secure, it was time to solder the pieces together. This turned out to be yet another opportunity for mindful focus as it was tricky to get the solder to lay down smoothly with no bumps or sharp spots.

Since I wanted my butterfly to have black edges, the last part of the process was to coat the cooled solder with a patina, let it set overnight and then buff it into a nice shine. Saying a grateful "goodbye" along with deep appreciation for Callie and Debby's patient teaching, I was excited to bring my butterfly home.

I learned more than the basic skills of working with stained glass during the hours I spent bringing my butterfly into being. As I said, it was a meditative experience in many ways because so much of the process required patiently shaping and reshaping each tiny piece of glass until all of the pieces fit together just right. It was a deep teaching about the importance of paying attention to detail and of the value of each and every part of the larger whole, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant it was. Every little piece of glass mattered. Paying careful attention at every stage of the process made a difference in the butterfly and in me.

Henry David Thoreau wrote, “Happiness is like a butterfly, the more you chase it, the more it will evade you, but if you notice the other things around you, it will gently come and sit on your shoulder.” As I was learning how to work with stained glass, a deep sense of contentment settled on me. It came to me as an unexpected gift that I had not even thought to pursue. 

My completed butterfly in a sunny window at home in Vermont. 

(I took this last picture, but all of the previous ones were taken by my daughter, Sarah Colletti.)

Mud Season Blues

Photo by Gary Lindorff

This in-between season is one of the toughest ones for many of us who live in the Northeast. We know that spring is coming, but winter is not quite done with us yet. There are tantalizing days when the sun shines brilliantly in a crisp blue sky, but when you walk out the door, the freezing temperatures shock the breath out of your lungs. Then there are days when the winds are warm and invite you to take a stroll down one of the trails in the woods, only to sink into mud that threatens to pull the boot right off your foot. 

I live on a dirt road, so driving during mud season is particularly fraught. It can feel as if your vehicle is being taken over by some alien being that grabs your wheels, jerking you this way and that. Staying on the road can be quite a challenge! The ruts are sometimes deep enough that smaller cars have to be abandoned for a couple of days until someone can deliver a load of gravel and make our road passable again. My Subaru can usually negotiate the mud, but there have been a few times when I had to leave it behind and hike home.

I am pretty tired of mud season already, and there is no guarantee of when it will be over. But there is one sweet glimmer of joy that makes its way into our lives this time of year along with the mud, and that is sugaring season. The conditions that make the mud so ubiquitous are the very same ones that make the maple sap flow. Warm days and freezing cold nights. When the conditions are right you can see and smell the sweet vapors rising out of sugaring sheds as the carefully collected sap is boiled down into delicious maple syrup. 

Photo by Meredith Pratt

Anticipating this treat takes the edge off of the frustrations that accompany mud season for many of us. Even if you don't have much of a sweet tooth, it is nice to sample the wares of local maple sugar producers. Before coming to Vermont I didn't give much thought to the difference between light fancy and dark rich grades of syrup, but an early spring taste test can be enlightening. To take a break from the mundanities of mud season, you could try sugar on snow or one of the wide variety of baked goods to be found at a maple festival in one of Vermont's small towns. If you are feeling particularly ambitious, you could try a cup of tea or coffee brewed with maple sap collected from a back yard tree. 

A little maple syrup may not cure you of the mud season blues, but it is a nice respite for sure.

Photo by Ethan Pratt

 

Winds of Change

It was one of our last afternoons at the beach. The winds were blowing so strongly that sand bit at our legs. Sitting down would have been pointless in that kind of intensity, so we had come just to walk, and even that turned out to be challenging. The only folks thrilled with the weather were the kite surfers who dotted the coastline, enthusiastically riding the rough waves beneath their colorful parachute-like kites.

A few days before, I had tried to relax in my beach chair under similar windy conditions, only to have the pages of my book repeatedly ripped out of my hands, my hair blown into my eyes, and the umbrella turned inside out. Within moments of our arrival, sand had coated every surface of our bags, chairs and towels, and there was no reprieve. Those winds were powerfully steady, and the rip currents were strong. None of this showed any signs of letting up. Needless to say, we did not last very long before we abandoned the beach for the relative calm to be found only a few hundred yards inland.

Today, without the expectation of relaxing in a beach chair or swimming in the surf, we were traveling light. Walking along the beach unencumbered by bags or chairs, we were able to notice things that we had not fully appreciated before. Fighting the wind, I bent down close to the sand and saw that underneath each shell was a tiny mountain carved out of the sand. Each tiny shell-protected mountain seemed to be a microcosm of the larger mountain ranges that stretch across the landscape of this and other countries. Walking against the wind, it was easy to imagine we were trekking across steep and difficult places.

With the addition of these intense winds, what had been a welcoming beach became a stark and desolate landscape that challenged us with every step we took. The sound was relentless, a roar that made it hard to hear anything else. It was difficult to tell where the sound of the wind stopped and that of the equally intense waves began. Some birds were careening overhead, but if they were calling out, their cries were swallowed up and could not be heard.

This did not feel like the same beach at which we had spent so many calm, peaceful and relaxed afternoons! My thoughts veered sharply between feeling sad that we could not sit down to enjoy another one of those sweet afternoons, and sensing that the winds were exactly what we needed to be able to walk away from the idyllic world we had participated in for a good long while.

The winds of change were blowing, reminding us that our time in the south had come to an end. It was time to head home, despite the fact that we would miss the warmth, the sun, the beach and the ocean. It was time to head home and see what possibilities were moving toward us on those winds.

 

We Are All Connected

As we left my Aunt Gene and Uncle George's home on the West coast of Florida we asked them where we might enjoy stopping as we made our way North along that unfamiliar part of the state. They suggested a little town named Micanopy, which retains much of its old Florida sensibilities in architecture and attitudes. 

As we drove into the town, there was a sense of leaving the busy pace of highways, cities and modern suburbia behind. Gary and I gladly got out of our car and stretched. We wandered the streets, enjoying the quaint architecture of the houses and shops, permeated by a sense of a town that had held onto its sense of self in the midst of modernity. We were especially drawn to the enormous Live Oak Trees that could be seen in most of the yards. 

Gary had me stand in front of a particularly large tree as a way of showing the scale of it, and while I was standing there waiting for him to snap a picture, a young man called out to me from the porch of the house where he had been sitting talking with a young woman I took to be his partner. I returned their greeting, and the two of them made their way over to me as Gary arrived from across the street as well.

"All the trees you see around here are actually just one tree," he said. "They are all connected underground. The roots run all through this land, under the ground in this whole town and out beyond it as well."

Gary and I expressed our awe and amazement about the sheer magnificence of the tree we stood beneath and looked around at other trees that we could also see nearby. We stood there with our companions, just quietly taking it in for a while. Standing in that sweetly iconoclastic old town under those spreading moss-hung branches eased something inside of me. It felt like we were participating in some form of holy communion, soaking in the sacred presence of the Oak that literally surrounded us on all sides, towering over us and running beneath our feet. 

After a while I felt moved to try and express what I was feeling. "Everything we see is one ancient, beautiful old tree. Wow. I don't even know how to think about that."

I have read about how trees are connected underground, how their roots help them communicate with one another. I had even reflected on the fact that a small stand of Aspen that grow at the pond near my home are genetically the same organism. But there, in that moment, the concept took on a deeper meaning, a sharper reality for me. This is how the world is meant to be, I thought. We are all supposed to live in relationship with one another at the deepest level possible. We are, each and every one of us, a part of one another. 

I dare to hope that if we take to heart this basic truth of our existence, it could change the world. At the very least, it will change us.

What Heron Taught Me About the Circle of Life

The natural world offers beauty to us. On any given day we can look at the world around us and see something that takes our breath away, if we are open to it. It is fascinating to be in an environment that is less familiar to me, where the natural world shows itself in so many different forms than I am used to. As we drove South, it was wonderful to see the gray and white landscape give way to greens, and eventually to colorful flowers to accent those greens. Palm trees, Hibiscus flowers, exotic-looking birds, glittering turquoise ocean waves and the brisk winds associated with this part of Florida all became readily available to us as we settled into our winter home.

On a walk around a local pond, we were thrilled to see this heron standing pretty close to the observation platform located on the trail we had chosen. Binoculars and a telephoto lens meant we could see details of his appearance that we may have missed otherwise. The heron did not seem to be in a hurry to go anywhere. It stood there long after our own interests had lagged, long after we set the camera and binoculars aside and continued our walk.

Other interesting sights caught our attention as we made our way along the trail. More birds, though none let us get as good a view as our heron friend. We saw several varieties of palm trees as well. We Northerners remarked that we didn't realize just how many different kinds of palm trees there were. Some have smooth trunks while others have a remarkably intricate pattern created by their interwoven fronds. Mosses and air plants, properly called Tillandsia, of which I learned there are 650 species world-wide, hung from branches that stretched over the pathways. It felt good to walk at a slow pace, which allowed us to notice things that we might otherwise have missed. 

I was ahead of our group, poking through the branches to get closer to the pond, when I caught sight of something swimming in the water way across on the other side, pretty near our friend the heron. All of a sudden the heron moved and the next thing I saw was a long snake caught in his bill. I called Gary and the others over to see, passing the binoculars around and focusing my camera to capture the amazing story unfolding in front of us.

Gary had a hard time watching for very long. His sympathies were stretched, including both the heron and the snake. Intellectually we know that the cycle of life exists, and that life for some means death for other creatures, but it is difficult to see this play out right in front of our eyes. There is so much beauty around us, but some of this beauty is at the expense of other aspects of nature. I suppose it is good that we saw this struggle, even though it was not easy to see, because it reminds us of our indebtedness to the rest of the world for the simple gift of being alive.

Matthew Fox, theologian and author, speaking about this almost thirty years ago used the example of an orange he ate for breakfast to make a point. He said that whatever we consume becomes a part of us, so when we eat an orange we should become juicy like the orange, and offer our own juiciness to the world. In this way we pay tribute to everything that nourishes us, and recognize that we are simply part of the circle of life.

 

The Wisdom of Bluebirds

                                                                ~Photo by June Schulte

My friend June took this photo of a Bluebird who was doing his best to deal with below-zero temperatures. When you live in Vermont and it is winter time, your options for keeping warm are limited. Recently, when the temperatures dipped well below freezing, this little guy perched on a branch above a heated bird bath for the duration. Puffing his feathers out, he created as much insulation from the cold as he could muster. 

I have been spending a lot of time with Florida's birds, none of whom seem to have any trouble accepting the warm and sometimes hot weather down here. Being so close to water most of the time, they can easily dip in and cool off if that is their desire. The ocean breezes help to keep things comfortable as well, for birds and for us.

This got me to thinking about how we protect ourselves from the extremes that challenge us - extremely hot or cold weather, emotional ups and downs, and more painfully, the tragedies that sometimes touch our lives. How do we insulate ourselves so that we have the protection we need? How do we ensure that we are not thrown too far off balance by the challenges that come our way?

Sometimes I wish I was like this little Bluebird and could puff up my feathers to create a soft cushion around me. Seeing him got me to thinking about what we humans can do for ourselves when the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" whiz around our ears. What stands in the place of fluffy feathers for us?

Companionship is possibly the strongest protection we have. Family, friends, companion animals, co-workers, other folks who know something about what we are facing. Each of these offers support to us when we need it, and each offers different kinds of accompaniment, depending on their particular gifts and on our relationship with them. Some are good listeners, others offer deep wisdom, some are active and get us moving when we need that, while others are good cozy company when we need to curl up for awhile. 

For me, companionship also comes in the mysterious form of the Holy. Call this God, Spirit, All-That-Is - whatever strikes a chord with your own inner knowing. Even after years of ministering, and of praying my way through a humbling array of crises, the Holy shows up in my life, my mind and my heart in a wide variety of ways. Even now, a simple name does not manage to wrap this Presence up for me in any kind of authentic way. But I know I am held in this Holy Presence, always.

Quite some time ago when I was going through a rough patch, a dear friend guided me to imagine myself surrounded by rose colored light, she described it as an egg-shaped rose quartz. This was meant to provide protection from any outside elements that challenged me and also to be a source of strength so that I could face those challenges with courage. It helped, so I return to this practice whenever I feel the need for a little extra protection, a little extra courage. 

When I surround myself with this light, I feel the presence of all of my companions in life - the mysterious presence of God, Spirit, All-That-Is and the earthier presence of dear family and friends. In this way, I feel held in Love. As I get ready to take whatever step seems the next right thing to do, I am held in Love. If I need to curl up and sit tight for a while as the sweet Bluebird in this picture is doing, I can do that with a sense of peace. Knowing that no matter what, the love of family, friends and the Holy surrounds me now and always, gently guiding me, never judging, always holding me close.