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?

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.

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.

In Situ

When the sun came out after a cloudy morning, I decided to take a walk. I love to feel the winds blowing and watch the leaves float through the skies. As I walked a variety of leaves of all colors and conditions caught my attention. Some drifted down to the dirt road, while others caught along the side of the road, landing on piles of their older neighbors. The phrase "in situ" came to me. It means "situated in the original place". 

I thought it would be interesting to take pictures of the leaves exactly where they fell, even if that meant a background of dirt and rocks or decaying brown vegetation. I found it meditative to walk along noticing but not moving anything as I recorded the truth of what was. Often the sunlight cast interesting shadows and patterns of light on the leaves, or the wind blew offering a new perspective in the moment.

As usual, what was going on outside of me caused me to reflect on my interior workings as well. How do I fit into my surroundings? What kind of contrasts do the colors, light and shadow create around me and within me? What does "in situ" mean for me as I feel my way into the next phase of my life? I don't have answers, although I enjoy writing as a way to explore thought-provoking questions. And maybe it is like the leaves I photographed today. Maybe each background against which we find ourselves offers a new perspective? Maybe there is something I can glean from each place in which I find myself, whether that's walking along the road, on my couch with a cat on my lap as I meditate, kneeling in the garden planting garlic, driving to town with NPR on the radio or sitting with the sun on my shoulder as I type out some thoughts?