Capturing the Scent of Well-Being

I am a part of a writing group that receives prompts each month from the librarian on Monhegan Island, a place that I return to twice yearly, and find soothing to my sense of well-being. In June, Mia asked us to send scents to each other. Most of us, despite good intentions, did not manage to do this.

 But the idea of the prompt took hold of me, and while I was sitting in Gull Cove, one of my favorite places on the island, I was inspired to write about a scent that pursues me, and that I, in turn, pursue. I was nestled in a crevice in the great rocks that overlook the ocean there, comfortably supported by the warm rock, cooled by the wind, and energized by the nearby crashing waves.

It is subtle here - not as pronounced as I have experienced its cousins in other places. You have to breathe deeply, and it only comes to you at the very tail end of your breath - a small tease inviting you to try again to more fully capture its essence. 

But each breath can only do so much, can only bring in air until your lungs are full, then, no more. And no matter how deep, no matter how prolonged and drawn out, no matter how fast or painstakingly slow, each breath can only offer that almost imperceptible jewel - the elusively subtle sea-salt air that is particular to Monhegan. 

It is so different from the scents of Cape Cod that hit as you drive over the Sagamore, or the boisterous boardwalk-infused sea air of the Jersey Shore or even of Florida’s sun-baked beaches. Monhegan’s sea air is more retiring, unwilling to flaunt itself, and in its rarity, all the more precious. 

Wishing I could capture it on a cotton ball or in a paper cup, or send it to myself in an envelope marked “Special Delivery”, I take another breath, in the hopes that I might be able call this scent to mind when I return home.

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.

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.

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.

 

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.

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.)

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.

...And Every One, Unique

Gary and I arrived at one of our favorite beaches at low tide the other day. The sheer quantity of shells caught my breath. Searching for shells under normal conditions, when they are scattered sparsely across the wide sandy landscape, is one thing. It becomes something very different when you are confronted with such an abundance of riches. 

You may have noticed that when you are looking for shells on a beach, it is the rare ones that capture your attention. Shells seem to lose their cache' when surrounded by seemingly thousands of lookalikes. Ironically, and sadly to my mind, this is true even of colorful and intriguingly shaped ones. 

To counteract this, I find that I want to appreciate each shell for itself, for the beauty it offers in the pattern of color that sweeps across it, or the unique design of the material from which it is formed. This became more of a possibility for me today when we again arrived at the beach at low tide. Instead of setting up my fitness device to start measuring steps as I usually do, I made the conscious decision not to think of this as a form of exercise. 

I simply started walking. Actually, I started wandering down the shoreline where the waves were receding. As one does in meditation, I cultivated a soft gaze. I was not actively looking for anything, I was simply opening myself up to the time and place, availing myself of the opportunity to take in whatever caught my attention. 

As I walked, I felt peaceful. I didn't feel the need to rush or to arrive at some particular destination. The shells shone up at me from the sand, and I felt like I really saw each one. I noticed colors and shapes. I stopped often to pick up a shell that seemed especially interesting so that I could feel its texture. Some were brittle and paper thin, which others had what seemed to be years worth of accumulation built up on the original shell. Some were intact while others were mere fragments of their former selves, having been pounded by the relentless waves tossing them up on the shore and drawing them back into the water over and over again.

The uniqueness of each shell reminded me of the value of seeing myself and others as I was learning to see and appreciate the shells, as unique and beautiful. This is true even if we are a bit brittle or broken at times. That soft gaze I spoke of at the beginning of my walk, the one I learned in meditation, helps me look at myself and others with the eyes of the heart rather than just in physical terms. This is probably the best gift we can give each other. It is also a pretty amazing gift we can give to ourselves, to see and recognize the unique beauty we bring to the world around us.

The Christmas Tree That Almost Wasn't

Well, we got a tree... actually we got the top of a tree.

Gary and I were walking along the road that passes the Christmas tree farm near our home and we noticed a large tree that had been cut down. It lay there for at least a week, maybe two, so I called the owner and asked if the tree was intended to go somewhere, but he said he cut it down because it was too big. I explained that we didn't want to cut down a tree because we would be gone by the time Christmas rolled around and it felt wasteful. "If that big tree is not going to be used, could we cut the top for our Christmas tree?" "Sure" he replied. "Merry Christmas!"

As soon as I hung up the phone, we drove down with a saw and a handful of cornmeal to offer a blessing of gratitude to the tree for the gift of its life. Gary found a good place to cut, noticing that the tree branched off several times and so had multiple "tops" making it less than perfect as a Christmas tree, but it still felt just right for us.

Several of our friends have chosen to switch over to artificial trees, citing various reasons: It is easier, and far less messy. You can leave it up as long as you want without any concern about fire dangers or messy needles from drying out branches. Environmentally speaking, you don't have to cut down a living tree. We considered all of this for a little while, but came back pretty quickly to wanting to stay with the tradition of securing a live Christmas tree for our home. 

The tradition is actually an ancient one, with roots in Pagan as well as Christian times. While I appreciate the history, I have to acknowledge that my appreciation is mostly personal. In the cold months when deciduous trees have lost their leaves, the sight and smell of pine trees lifts my spirits. This is true when I walk through the woods, and it is true when we bring a Christmas tree into our home. Some evenings I sit in the living room just drinking in the sight of our lit up and decorated tree, breathing deeply in an effort to take in as much of the piney scent as I possibly can. 

Gary and I almost didn't get a tree this year, but I am so glad that we did. The fact that we were able to give new life to a tree that would otherwise have spent its days lying in a field with no particular purpose, makes me feel even better. It kind of feels like this Christmas tree has something to teach me. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that it has two top branches between which our angel stands, or maybe it has to do with its having been rescued, redeemed from obscurity, in a sense? (Although that sounds pretty grandiose when I actually write it down.) Maybe it has to do with the need we felt to have a Christmas tree in our home for these darkening days approaching the Winter Solstice, despite the fact that we will be gone by Christmas itself? 

As I sort out the many emotions associated with this retirement year of "firsts" there seem to be a host of meanings that undergird every decision I make and every experience I have. Meanings that I cannot decipher in the moment, but which I hope might reveal themselves to me at some point in time moving forward. For the time being, I am just enjoying the peaceful beauty of this tree that almost wasn't, enjoying it's imperfect perfection, while trying to accept my own.

 

Close Up & Big Picture Living

 

Gary and his sister Elizabeth are both artists. He is a poet and she is a potter, but they share the uncanny knack of seeing the world itself as art. When we walked in the woods the other day, they took turns pointing out designs in the bark of trees, patterns in the leaves on the forest floor and the intricacies of brightly colored lichens and mosses. For a seemingly gloomy day in between rain showers, they found plenty to see and plenty that delighted their observant eyes. 

I reflected back on our walk today, when I was feeling frustrated by the big picture problems in the world. I don't think I have to recount them for you, you probably have plenty of things that weigh you down without my adding to them. Reading the headlines in the New York Times is probably not a good way to start off my day with a spirit of gratitude or joy, but I do it anyway because I want to be a responsible citizen. I want to know what is happening in the world. The problem is, that if I let myself primarily focus on all that is wrong in the world, it becomes difficult to feel good about anything else. The big picture of bad news can overwhelm any sense of pleasure we might otherwise find in our everyday lives.

This is where Elizabeth and Gary's approach to a walk and to life comes in, though. If we take a mental break from the big picture of the world at large and turn our attention to some small, beautiful aspect of the present moment, it puts us in a better place to cope with the challenges life may bring. The small, beautiful thing we choose to pay attention to could be something no one else would ever notice like the interplay between dark and light on the bark of a pine tree. It could be something personally significant such as a sweet interaction with someone you love. It could be anything that gives your heart a little kick of joy. It does not have to make sense to anyone but you. You will know if it is working for you by how it makes you feel.

Our walk was nearing the end when Gary came to me and stretched out his hand. "Touch this" he said with something like awe in his voice, "it's so soft!" We gathered around and took turns touching the light as a feather clump of lichen or mosses in his hand, agreeing, "wow. It really is soft, and it is so light." 

As we made our way back to the house I felt lighter too. The gloominess of the day, the heaviness of an imperfect world were somehow counter balanced by the tiny beautiful gifts of our walk in the woods.

End of Summer

This time of year brings me mixed feelings. I love the colorful autumn leaves - the orange and red maples that pepper the woods and line the meadow, and the yellow beeches that create a golden tunnel over and alongside the dirt road that leads to my home. It is truly breath-taking to be immersed in this cacophony of color, and I make a point of noticing, of taking it in whenever I can, often stopping along the roadside to snap a picture. But along with the colorful beauty, colder temperatures make it less and less comfortable to sit outside in the morning while I sip my tea and read. Today, there has been a steady cold rain that makes me think twice about going out for my daily walk.

Very soon, I will be indoors for the vast majority of the day rather than breezily moving between indoors and out with little thought. Before that happens though, we will extend the life of our vegetable garden and the flowers for a while longer. Before the sun sets on these cold nights, Gary and I drag old sheets and tarps down to the garden to cover the squash, peppers and tomatoes, hoping to get a few more weeks of fresh veggies before we have to let them go.

I am torn, considering the choice between being fully present in this moment, taking in the beauty that is here now, or trying to preserve what I can for the cold winter months. This morning, for instance, has been taken up with making applesauce with a heavy concentration of wild grapes thrown into the mix for extra flavor and a burst of rich, purple color. It will be so nice to open those jars in the midst of winter, when a taste of this season will be even more welcome than the samples I tasted today.

We can put some food by for the colder months, freezing the garden produce, drying herbs and canning this beautiful purple sauce, but we can't preserve the flowers and the colorful leaves, except in our mind's eye or with a camera. We all know that pictures really are not the same as being able to take in the full glory of a favorite flower in full bloom or the hills of Vermont at the peak of autumn. Knowing this can bring a bit of melancholy even to the most optimistic among us.

This gorgeous hydrangea bloomed for us recently. Fittingly enough, its varietal name is End of Summer. (Or is it Endless Summer, which is a whole different story and a whole different blog?) I don't really need another reminder that summer is over, but as reminders go, it is a beautiful one that I make sure to notice and appreciate every day. Speaking of which, it's about time I brought myself outside to take another look.

 

Diverting Conversation

Today my husband, Gary, and I drove to the end of Spruce Knob Road so we could take a walk on different section of it than we usually do. We parked in a small pull-off across from a field that had recently been hayed. Round bales lay in a haphazard fashion, and an old tractor was parked on the edge of the field near the road. Over the expanse, clouds, puffy and white piled up on top of one another and seemed to be constructed with an eye to setting off the deep blue of the sky. It was a beautiful August afternoon.

When we walk we are often torn between having a deep discussion about something that is on our minds or being quiet so that we can better take in our surroundings. Today felt like a day for silence to me. The beauty of the sky and the fields, the trees in their full summer greenery and the occasional bird flitting by demanded all of my attention.

After we had walked for a while, we came to a stream which had hardly any water. It was unusual to see it so dry, and Gary commented on the news he had read. "Some of the major rivers in Europe are drying up, and out in the Western US they are talking about diverting the Mississippi river to supply water to the drought-stricken Southwest."

I didn't really want to talk about it. Honestly, I didn't want to think about it either. I couldn't help remembering Mary Evelyn Tucker's comment nearly 20 years ago now at a Yale symposium I attended on climate change and the church. She said something to the effect that, if we didn't preach about climate change and encourage our churches to do something make a difference now, then we would be forced to talk about it soon enough because the results of it would become evident and catastrophic.

Well, things do feel pretty catastrophic, and despite the beauty of my surroundings, anxiety zips through my mind. I know there are many small things I can do to help ease the situation, and I do as many of them as I can manage. But I also know that real change will only happen when good, environmentally responsible decisions are made at the national and international levels. 

This means we need leaders who understand the issues and are willing to do what is right, despite the political fallout. This means helping our leaders find their way back to values like honesty, integrity and working for the good of all people and all inhabitants of the earth. It can be discouraging, to see how wealthy businesses and individuals continue to pursue financial gain rather than looking to do what is right for the whole. 

People ask me, "How can we deal with the frustration? How are we supposed to handle the anxiety and the stress all of this brings to our lives?" For me the answer lies in spending time in the natural world every day, even if I am just sitting on my porch for a little while. It means breathing in the air and paying attention to whatever is there - birds flying across my line of vision or a bee buzzing around my lunch, a lush garden of flowers or weeds poking up out of the sidewalk, clouds rolling up from the distant hills or a a trickling stream, my cat pushing at my hand for attention. 

Breathing in, I take in the freshness, the reality of this moment in time. Breathing out, I release the things that trouble me. I do this as long as it takes, until I feel a bit calmer, a little more prepared for my day. And then I stand up and put my hands and my heart toward whatever is next, whatever is needed of me.

Butterfly Peace & Power

This beautiful creature landed at my feet as I drank my early morning mate' on the porch. She sat in front of me for a long time, allowing me to take pictures and enjoy a companionable silence. After a while I went back to my reading, checking the New York Times, actually. As I took in the news, my unexpected guest provided a helpful counter-balance to the headlines, reminding me that the world is not just one thing. It is not just a place where 10 year old girls are raped but unable to terminate the pregnancy in peace and privacy in order to lessen the inevitable trauma of the situation. It is not just a world in which children and persons of color are gunned down at the whim of a fanatic with a ridiculously aggressive gun. And not a world in which the climate is changing but we are unwilling to challenge the oil and coal industries.

No, the butterfly reminded me. This is also a world in which beauty exists, and sometimes we don't even have to look very hard to see it. This is a world of serendipitous visitations by fragile-winged emissaries. This is a world where peace is possible. I know, because I felt peace when that butterfly landed at my feet this morning. I felt peace when the summer breeze blew the wind chimes and when I listened to the birds singing.

Small moments of peace and beauty might not seem like much when measured against the challenges "out there" in the world, and often the challenges in our own lives as well. But these small moments of peace provide the foundation upon which greater things are possible. Scientist Edward Lorenz made the discovery that even a tiny, almost immeasurable change in conditions could alter the weather in the long term. Surprised, he commented that if a butterfly flaps its wings it could ultimately cause a tornado. This led to the popular theory known as "The Butterfly Effect", and to the dream that even the small things we are capable of doing as individuals and small groups can make a big difference.

Even if we believe that our actions or words might make a difference for good, it still takes effort to keep on showing up for peace and for justice. Working against the formidable forces at work in the world is difficult. Greed, white supremacy, power and the fear which I believe is at the heart of these ills, are not easy to face down. But maybe this is where we need to consider my morning guest. Rather than feeling as if we are starting from scratch, how can we emphasize and build on the peace that is already present in our lives? How can we spread it out a little further each time it shows up?