The Enigma of Time

Time has a way of continuing to move on. It doesn't matter if we are moving with it, or if we are watching it go past from our easy chair. 

When I am in Florida, as I am now, time has a different quality to it than it does back in Vermont. Despite being here for several months, there is something of "vacation" about my time here. I struggle against this, by transporting my kombucha scoby and sourdough starter 1,434 miles, and making meals from scratch, despite the prevalence of dining options within walking distance once I arrive. I walk every day as I do back home, but here I have the luxury of choosing to walk on a beach or a palm-shaded path. I read the news and do the New York Times puzzles, but when I glance up and away from the screen, the inland waterway is glistening right in front of me, boats lazily making their way out to the sea for the day, and, just beyond them, the golf course stretches as far as I can see.

Florida wants to teach me how to slow down. It wants me to notice the beauty of a white bird foraging for bugs, a manatee swimming by, flowers in full bloom despite winter's chill, lizards darting across my path when I least expect them. I want to comply, I really do, and I think there is a part of me that might be starting to let time to flow by me or through me, but there is a greater part of me that still wrestles with it. There is something within me that assumes it is important to create meaning in every moment. There is a part of me that wants to prove I have achieved something with each day granted. 

I imagine that someday I will discover that there is a balance between the two, a balance between achieving and learning how to appreciate and embrace the beauty of each moment. Maybe this is the year I will take the lesson to heart.

Bear Tracks & Gratitude

When I visit my sister, down in New Jersey, we make sure to take a nice long walk together. It was late afternoon when we found our way to the trail on this snowy and cold December day. "Let's go to the second bridge," she suggested, and I agreed. 

We walked along, talking about our lives. Fresh from our uncle's funeral, we reminisced about our childhood, when our families gathered to celebrate the holidays. The length of time between then and now took our breath away. We walked in silence for a while.

Reaching the second bridge, I saw tracks in the snow. Bear tracks. Sue went on ahead of me, while I stood over the tracks, taking pictures and marveling that only a short time ago, a bear had walked this very path! 

The encounter got me to wondering about all the creatures who walk along the same paths as we, of whom we never see any sign. I thought about our responsibility for those hidden neighbors, to ensure the waters run clear and the winds blow fresh. To ensure that there is freedom and space for the wild ones who prefer to keep their distance.

I also contemplated the uplift my heart feels whenever I see a sign that some rare (or common) creature has passed this way. The gift of knowing that we share this place, this earth, with those who are so different from us, and yet who are also, in some unique ways, so similar.

Gratitude filled me up, and buoyed my spirit as Sue and I, and her faithful dog, Nik turned back toward home.

Rain after Drought

It has been a long, dry autumn here

leaves crunching underfoot

even more pronounced than usual

missing the usual scent

of rich earthy-leafy goodness,

"my" stream dry as a bone

even after a few earlier storms

But I am hopeful today

We woke to rain -

torrents - they would say

two inches an hour

a record of some sort

winds, too

It feels like relief to me

despite almost losing power

and needing to put off my morning walk

so I don't get soaked to the bone

I long to go outside

smell the earth waking up

feel the air ozone-fresh

see the stream flowing

experience something moving 

in me, as well

breaking the drought

 

 

Each Breath a Blessing

I walk a lot

Even when arthritis is acting up

I can't help myself

There is so much that feeds me

out in the world

trees, flowers, mosses, streams, rocks

and all of the creatures

scurrying or flying away in alarm

I murmur my apologies

for upsetting the natural order of things

wishing I was more an accepted part of it all

Settling down by the stream edge

even when the water has gone underground

there is peace here

a quiet

that my soul needs

Breath by breath

blessings given and received

Aware that I am the one

most blessed

by these walks

by these moments

Under Construction

 

Gary and I are in Florida now, a winter destination that we appreciate for its warmth and our ability to walk outdoors despite the fact that there are snowstorms back home in Vermont. Last year before we came down to Florida for our first extended stay, I wrote about the concept of home. This year, knowing what to expect from this place, I am feeling more settled here. The irony though, is that the building in which our condo is located is undergoing major renovations. From 8am until 5pm there is the unnerving sound of drilling, concrete dust floating through the air, and the odors of paint and sealants. Windows are covered with blue plastic or plywood sheets to protect them (and us!) from flying debris. The pool is inaccessible during the daytime hours, and coated with the aforementioned concrete dust and debris of indeterminate nature, even when swimming is allowed, although probably not advised.

A week or so after our arrival, once the flooring had dried and painting was (mostly) complete, we were told that we could once again use our balcony. Gary and I were thrilled. We moved the furniture back out, cleaned windows and were prepared to enjoy our favorite spot in the entire apartment. The staging was still attached, with ropes and wires hanging down 12 stories from the roof, supporting scaffold cages that could be raised and lowered to where the workers were needed. But this seemed like a small thing compared to the ability to enjoy our balcony once again.

Despite having the balcony back, our quiet mornings were not guaranteed. Several mornings, I heard the whine of the staging motor begin as I sat out there in my pajamas and robe, enjoying a cup of tea. I would dash inside to change into something acceptable (to me) for company. Soon enough, the faces of a construction worker or two rose into view. Sometimes they stopped at our level and hopped out to clean windows, touch up the paint or address another last-minute issue. Other times they were just passing by on their way to upper levels of the building.

So, yes, we are here in Florida, enjoying the warmth and sunshine. And yes, we are also living in a construction zone. Most days we wander off to another location for a few hours - the beach, the library, a nature trail - returning as the workday winds down. It is a different kind of balance than the one I anticipated in coming down here, but it works for us. It also pushes us to get out and about rather than sitting too long in one place.

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.

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.

Practicing Presence: A Consideration of Loyalties

Gary and I are spending a couple of months in Florida this winter, staying in the condo that my parents left to us. As a person who has lived in the Northeast all of her life, it feels strange to be in the land of sunshine and warmth while my friends and neighbors back home are shoveling snow. When we used to visit my parents here for a week or so, it always felt like I was cheating on Vermont, engaging in a clandestine affair with the warm sunshine and welcoming ocean. No matter how difficult it might have been, going back home to the snow and cold always seemed like it was the right thing to do.

My attitude shifted the January we returned to the Albany, NY airport after a huge snowstorm. Stumbling off the plane as we entered the chilly terminal, we were in shock after having worn shorts and swim suits for a week. Before going any further, we stopped to pull several layers of clothing out of our luggage as insulation against the cold air. 

A little while later, the shuttle dropped us off in long term parking where we trudged through several inches of snow in our sneakers. Our car was barely visible. Having forgotten to bring the proper equipment, we scrounged around and seized on an empty Christmas cookie tin to scoop the snow off of the car. This was followed up by scraping the windshield with credit cards in order to create a window of visibility. Driving home that night, we questioned our loyalty to the "frozen tundra" as my former mother-in-law used to refer to it. 

After that wintry re-entry ordeal it was not that big of a jump for us to consider spending more time in Florida once I retired. We listed to ourselves and any skeptical friends all of the reasons for our escape - Gary's neuropathy was much better in the heat, I could swim every day, we could write in peace and quiet, and we both knew we would be recharged by walking on the beach which was no more than five minutes away.

Being in Florida, I can say that all of our reasons for coming have played out as well as we hoped. There is an ease that comes from being in an environment that does not threaten you with freezing temperatures or blizzards. The basic warmth, regular opportunities to swim and our proximity to the ocean for daily walks have all contributed to a real feeling of being welcomed here. Sure, we miss our friends. We miss our home in Vermont and the beauty of her wintery landscapes. We miss our sweet cats and the cozy wood fires that heat our house, but we are assured by conversations with friends and texts from our house sitter that these will all be waiting for us when we return. 

Do I feel guilty about escaping the cold? Well, maybe a little, but honestly not nearly as much as I thought I might. This is causing a bit of an identity crisis for me because I like to think of myself as a hardy Vermonter. It is kind of confusing to find myself so comfortable and even complacent with the life we are crafting in Florida. I am starting to feel like I might have a split personality - one being the kind of person who hauls in firewood and walks outside every day no matter how cold it gets, and the other being a relaxed connoisseur of sunshiny warmth and ocean waves. 

This might be confusing, but I also am starting to think that it is just fine.

For years my mindfulness practices have attempted to convince me that being fully present in the here and now is important. I have always found this ability to be elusive, as my mind keeps wandering here and there worrying about what I might be missing out on, when I am attempting to meditate. Mindfulness teachers encourage me to cultivate the ability of being content wherever I find myself, no matter where that is. 

Is it possible, then, that what I am experiencing is a bit of that mindful feeling of presence?  Is it possible that my being content here in Florida, even while knowing I will also be happy in Vermont is an example of mindfulness in real life? I sure hope so. I would love to think that all of those hours of meditation practice are finally paying off.

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.

 

What Makes It Christmas?

Gary and I will be traveling for Christmas this year, spending it at my daughter and son-in-law's home. Having retired, I am no longer responsible for crafting a Christmas Eve Service. This in itself feels very strange to me. I am used to my holiday celebrations being shaped by the outside forces of work and responsibility. If I am honest, I actually enjoy this part of ministry. I enjoy creating meaningful experiences that help people come closer to the true meaning of Christmas and other celebratory days in the church year. 

There is such an outer pull from the world around us to celebrate in specific ways, ways that skim the surface of the season rather than taking us deeply into its heart. I have always been a person who wanted to go deeper. From the time I was a little girl, I have appreciated the mystery that surrounds Christmas. I loved the candlelight at the evening church service, singing Silent Night acapella and then feeling the hush in the darkness afterward as we walked out into the night, clutching our small candles.

Meister Eckhardt gave voice to this mystery for me, claiming, "unless the Christ is born within me, then it does not matter that he was born 2,000 years ago in a stable in Bethlehem." 

I find myself wondering what will bring the season home for me this year. We aren't getting our usual live Christmas Tree, thinking it doesn't make sense. In an effort at compensating, we bought a rosemary bush shaped like a Christmas tree, but it is really not the same.  I did make wreaths with my friend and hung ours on the door as usual, with a string of lights, so that is one tradition that remains the same. Gary and I set up our tiny creche that spins thanks to the warmth of candles arrayed around its base, and placed some pine boughs in a vase hoping that the scent would permeate the air a bit, too.

It is definitely not the same, and yet the differences are causing me to go deeper in my own thinking about what Christmas is really all about. We will gather with family, which for me is the heart of the holiday. I will most likely continue to write about how this all feels to me. My intention is to spend a fair amount of time reflecting on just how the Christ is being born both within and all around me. Maybe a good question to hold in mind is where is the Holy in this moment, in this experience, in this conversation?

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?