So Much Space: An Exercise in Trust

 

So much space

expanses of time

breathing room, for sure

but for what?

Leaving work life

I imagined

opportunities 

unfurling at my feet

showing themselves

in splendor and possibility.

I find myself 

weighing the choices

looking far down each path

but more unsure than Frost

which one is for me

where my destiny lay

that "one wild"

and don't forget, 

"precious" life

I long for

and imagined

was searching for me.

Now,

here I stand

arms open

expectant

heart welcoming

daring to hope

seeking a glimpse

of what may come

into this space

that is my life

Winter Winds

Wintertime can be harsh

for those who live outdoors

birds flock to black sunflower seeds

scattered over frozen earth

as squirrels perform acrobatics

upending the feeder

What was a cozy nest in springtime

now hangs by threads

woven branches and fluff

exposed

offering no respite

from these winter winds

My friend and I wandered through the town cemetery today, talking about our lives, stopping to marvel at ancient cedars, inscriptions on the gravestones, and to watch a hawk fly. Somehow, being in the cemetery, with its evidence of so many lives lived, did something to my heart. The air was cold, and it was windy. When we came upon this broken-down nest, it made me think of those who do not have a home where they can shelter from the cold. It seemed symbolic of the unravelling of safety nets in our country.

I know we can do better. We can care for one another. If we put our hearts into it, we can push aside power-hungry greed and make way for kindness and compassion. We can ensure that all are protected from the harsh winter winds.

 

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.

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

 

While the Sun Shines

 

While the sun shines

there is much to do

fill the woodbox

hang out laundry

mow the lawn

wash the windows

So easy to consider

all the details

making up survival

these, of course

must be done 

sometime

easier in clement weather

But what about thriving?

what about joy?

caring for the soul?

lifting my spirits?

My new list

while the sun is shining: 

wander in the woods

sit by the stream

soak in the golden warmth

stretch out in my hammock

paint the light

write a poem

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

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.

Beach Cleaning as a Heart Practice

MacArthur State Park is one of our favorite beaches to spend time at while we are in Florida. There is an estuary to explore in kayaks, where we see all kinds of birds flying overhead or hidden in the mangroves around the shoreline. There is a boardwalk across the estuary, and finally, an expansive sandy beach where we can sit or walk for hours undisturbed. 

Storms can alter the shape and scale of beaches overnight, and one day we were shocked to see MacArthur Beach littered with all kinds of debris thanks to an overnight storm. The wind was still blowing when my daughters and I walked down to take a closer look. We saw the remains of someone's freshly built dock - the wooden planks and stairs, although scattered many feet apart, were still raw and freshly treated. A small boat, mostly made of foam and plastic, lay half buried in the sand. We sat for a while on a piece of lumber, and watched the crashing waves as the wind continued to blow strong and steady.

It was too windy to sit for long that day, but the next Gary and I returned and picked up a bucket and trash grabber that were stacked near the entrance to the beach. Walking up the beach that day we each collected a bucket full of plastic bottle caps, bags and fragments well on their way to becoming microplastics that cause so much harm in the worlds oceans. There were ropes and sharp bits of glass and wood, as well as a syringe that definitely gave me pause, walking barefoot as I usually do when I am there.

Since that day, when we go to the beach I often grab a bucket and add litter pick up to my relaxing beach walks. This practice helps me to feel that I am contributing in a positive way to keeping the environment I care about in better shape. It also slows me down. 

I am a person who has spent most of her life hurrying from one place or activity to another, taking very little time to reflect or pause between. How ironic that something that feeds into my need to keep myself occupied and feeling like I am accomplishing something worthwhile is also teaching me about the value of its opposite! It is important to learn how to simply BE, how to slow down to the speed of life. I know this intellectually, but find it difficult to actually practice it. Now, thanks to my desire to contribute by picking up litter, I am reaping the benefit of actually taking time to notice my surroundings, down to the smallest fragment of plastic or shell or seaweed or stone.

The discernment process of determining the difference between trash and treasure is serving me well as I allow myself the time to discern what is next in my life. I am not very patient, least of all with myself, but this is helping, and it enables me to do some good while I wait.

 

NaNoWriMo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

Be Here Now

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Floods

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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.

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.

 

Ghosts that Haunt Me

This piece of writing is in response to a prompt I received from Mia Boynton, librarian at Monhegan, ME. Just in time for Halloween, she encouraged our writing group to craft a piece that reflects on one or more meanings of "haunt". Here is mine:

I have to confess that I am haunted by shoulda, woulda, coulda's ever since Holden Caulfield keyed me in to their existence. There are so many possibilities that might have been chosen, and being one person, I have only been able to manage one choice in each circumstance. But that doesn't mean I don't think about the others. So many choices and we only get to pick one! It doesn't seem fair, does it?

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both,
And be one traveler, long I stood...

Sometimes I feel like I am still standing there with good ole Robert, looking as far down the road as I can, putting off the moment when I take my first step in the other direction. But it is true what they say about not making a choice actually being a choice, and so I know I did finally put one foot in front of the other. I did, finally, start walking down one path, although I confess to looking over my shoulder a bit.

I remember being shocked by a friend who said she never second guessed herself. When she made a choice, she never looked back. She just got on with it without giving even a thought to the options she had turned her back on. Wow, I felt so lost in that moment, lost in the forest of possibilities that torment me every time a choice is squeezed out of me.

The numberless unlived possibilities invade my thoughts like so many ghosts sometimes. usually on a day when I don't feel I have accomplished much. About four o'clock in the afternoon they push me to find something useful to do  before night closes in. Write a novel! Bake bread! Tend the garden! Make an amazing dinner! Compose a poem! Clean the bathroom! Do something, anything! - Quickly - before the ghosts get too comfortable and set up house.

Retired!

This is the first day of my retired life. It is pretty exciting to finally take the step I have been contemplating for awhile now! In The Summer Day poet Mary Oliver asks, "What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" This question has been haunting me. I feel that there is something inside of me that wants to come out, but I don't know what it is. I sense that it needs me to create time and space where it will feel welcomed and safe, where it can stretch its wings a bit and let them dry before attempting to take flight. 

Karen Walrond, author of The Lightmaker's Manifesto, in conversation with Brene Brown, said it is important to create space in your life, to not just get restless, but to get bored! As I listened to their conversation I started to recognize that I am very familiar with getting restless when I take time off from the normal routines of my life, and that my restlessness usually pushes me to get active again pretty darn quickly. It is rare that I allow myself the freedom to actually get bored. Even on vacation, I often bring along a pile of books I plan to read, or work on some writing. I was nervous about retiring and leaving behind a job that was meaningful to me, one through which I felt I was contributing to the community in a positive way. Sure ministry can be anxiety producing, but it also has aspects that are deeply fulfilling and rewarding. Still, after 39 years of parish ministry, I knew it was time. It was time for me to prioritize this other calling that kept tugging at me, the one that Mary Oliver's words reminded me of.

One of my favorite places in the world is an island off the coast of Maine where my husband and I have been going for eight years now, often twice a year. When people ask me what I will do there, my usual response is "I will hike the trails and sit by the sea watching the waves, the seals and the birds." And that is what I do, I sit for extraordinarily long periods of time observing and even becoming a part of the scenery. I realized that this is what I need to do now. I need to simply be present where I am, letting the peace of the place (no matter where I find myself) settle into my bones.

Eventually, whatever is next will start to show itself, but until then I will be trying to get comfortable with any restlessness that emerges. Until then, I will keep breathing deeply, practicing those meditative techniques and prayerful approaches to life that have anchored me through the years. I will be waiting for boredom to take hold, and, hopefully, welcoming it as a true gift.