Young'uns

wandering around

looking confused

should I go 

this way                        

                    or that?

wait for the wave 

to rush over my feet

or run up into the hot sand?

we were so eager 

get away from the

overbearing parents

always telling us

what to do                    

                    what not to

freedom seemed so appealing

back then

the adults made it look 

so easy

floating on waves

dip your bill for a fish

lift up into the sky

sail through the air

but now

on our own

with my mottle-feathered gang

I'm hungry and bored

kind of cold too

missing mom and dad

Thanksgiving

I am grateful for the little things that make life so meaningful:

Nourishment for body, mind and spirit

Family gatherings

Friends around the table

Conversations that draw me in

Sunshine after clouds

Earthy scents of fresh air

Flowing streams and ocean waves

Deep breaths that calm

Smiles of welcome

A full heart

 

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?

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.

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.

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.

Thanksgiving

Ten of us descended on my sister and brother-in-law's home for Thanksgiving this year. Sue's friends offered her sympathy when they heard this, commenting, "Oh, wow! You must be so stressed! That's a lot of people to cook for!" She responded saying, "no, I am not stressed at all. Everyone will pitch in. We will each do a little bit, so no one should have to stress." 

When she recounted her conversations to me I have to admit that I felt pretty blessed to know that Sue was right about our family. Everyone does help out, each in their own way whether that is with a special dish that they enjoy making (or eating), or in keeping the kitchen clean, or running out for milk at the last minute. 

Often Thanksgiving, or any large holiday meal for that matter, can take hours to prepare for, but only a brief flash of time to actually enjoy. I felt so grateful that when we sat around the table together we took our time. There was a lot of laughter. Stories were shared, and thoughts as well, about what we were grateful for. We reflected on past holidays when grandparents were still with us. In quieter moments, perhaps between two or three of us, we opened up about what was going on in our lives back home. We spoke of challenges and disappointments as well as accomplishments and joys. 

Although some of the memories shared brought a touch of sadness, the main feeling that permeated our gathering was a deep sense of appreciation and gratitude. No matter how difficult life can be, it is good to know that there are people who love you. There are people who have your back and who want the best for you. I left feeling very grateful, indeed.

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.

A Sense of Home

 

Gary and I just returned from visiting my daughters and their families, a trip I had been looking forward to all summer long. It is difficult living 12 or more hours away, and not being able to be a regular part of each other's lives in a natural give and take fashion. The distance means that our time together is "all or nothing". We share meals and space and time, which is wonderful on the one hand, and yet it can also be a bit much if we stay too long. Remember Ben Franklin's adage that fish and guests begin to stink after three days? Well, we push that limit, mostly because it takes so long to get there, but our hosts are wonderfully understanding.

Each time we visit, I long for an easier way to be closer. I take stock of the landscape as we drive, asking myself if I could live there, if I would be happy there. Maybe I could be, but I already have a life that I love, a place that I call home. Almost thirty years ago, when I moved to Vermont I felt my roots grow deep down into the soil here. 

Every time I cross the border back into Vermont it happens. It is a physical response that reminds me I am home. A speaker came to the small town where I live once, soon after we had moved here and said, "when you think about home, it doesn't matter where you were born. What matters is where you plan to live out your days. Where you plan to die." That felt true to me, someone the locally born folks were wont to call a "flatlander." I might have been born somewhere else, but this is my true home.

My history makes it all the more complicated that I miss my daughters so deeply. All I can figure out is that my heart must have more than one home. Putting truth to that, tomorrow Gary and I will drive up to Maine, anticipating a week on an island that also claims a piece of my heart, an island that also feels like home to me. My sense of home there has to do with the ocean and trails through pine forests, with glorious sunsets and growing friendships. 

Truth be told, I often feel like I have left little bits of me here and there. Parts of me stay here in Vermont full time, while bits of me hunker down in other places that have touched my heart, and, of course there will always be parts that hang around with those whom I love. Maybe that is just the way it is when home is made up of several places, and people too?