Holy Writing

in this wood...

2012-01-28T12:15:00.000-08:00

journal notes 1-28-12

...the rustle of the Beech leaves,like beige paper that is much too unique to fall to the forest floor.I hear and appreciate you.Shiver and show us your disdain for the brisk wind.Stubborn ferns, still green and poking up to gain the sun's notice.

Is this a pew that I sit in and listen to the crow choir?Is this wood a chapel?I know this-it calls me to worship as though it were a loud bell tolling in a tower.

The forest floor is littered with the seeds of the next generation of oaks,scattered carelessly,half hidden by dead leaves.No one stayed up all night planning this or helped it along.The acorns grew,fell and if they are in a happy spot,they will send down green shoots into the rich soil.Transformation.

...the flood plain spreads out before me with its broken timber and pools of water.When I look from here,it seems that if I started walking I would see nothing but trees to the Pacific.That illusion is all I need.

When I am in the woods,listening,my pen travels the page with a spryness as if the ink has melted into glittery paint.But, I have to sit quietly for fifteen minutes or so before this happens.My inside skin and mind have to settle into the sacred before this change occurs.My pen seems to know when it's happening.

Today,by chance,I found something from a kindred soul who wandered around the woods in the 12th century.Maybe I am on the right track here:" "I have no other Masters but the Beeches and Oaks.".St.Bernard of Clairvaux

imperfect

2012-01-27T12:59:00.000-08:00

Last week-end my husband and I took a trip on blue country roads to Forsyth,Georgia , where there is a furniture store that has discards from motel and hotel chains throughout the country.We were looking for a dinette set to replace the one we gave our son who moved North last year.We were unlucky in that pursuit but found something else for five dollars that landed in our truck before you could shout,"Favorite flowers"!

It was a large framed picture of a window(love them)draped with a lace curtain(those,too)and hanging from the outside was a window box(wow).Cascading down the front of the box are nasturtiums,(heaven)and other flowers.Of course,since it was five dollars, the frame was beat up but that is not of great concern in the affairs of the heart.

We took it home,my husband painted over the frame with gold paint and there it is in it's wonderfully banged up state;reminder of a lovely day in the country and a gift from my Mother.

When I was ten, I asked my Mother for a dollar to buy flower seeds.I bought three packs;marigolds,bachelor buttons and nasturtiums.I had never seen the last but the picture of the flowers on the pack was bright and happy looking.I followed the directions and within a short time, the rich Long Island dirt yielded a shoot and eventually I had much watched buds and then flowers.Dazzling flowers.This may have been my first creative act.There is no greater satisfaction.

While reading last night I came across the Japanese concept of Wabi Sabi.Wabi Sabi is an appreciation of the beauty of things imperfect,impermanent and incomplete.When the Japanese want a bowl that is in the spirit of Wabi Sabi, they make sure that it has a defect,perhaps one side lower than the other.I found out something further about this concept."If an object or expression can bring about within us a sense of serene melancholy and a spiritual longing, then that object could be said to be Wabi Sabi." Andrew Juniper.

This idea,for some unknown reason, excites me.So I will let my thoughts go to where the Spirit leads.I believe that we come from Perfection and one day ,we return.In the interim, we are here in this obviously imperfect world.What we do here matters.What we do in this vale of tears.Since this is a pain filled world of imperfect health,people,circumstances, our task is to stand in the breach and try to bring balance with our goodness and faith.

We are commanded in Scripture to be perfect as the Father is perfect.I think it means that we are children of God and we are to become what He has perfectly set for us to do on this flawed globe we trod.Since he is love, that is what we are to become,perfect love.

My lumpy bell, scratched frame,rusted coil all speak to me of the imperfect that has such beauty.Perhaps,I have come to love these things because as I have aged,I am so much more gentle with myself and my many flaws and those of others.There are lessons in the imperfect that I want to learn.

altars

2012-01-25T11:36:00.000-08:00

picture by Stephanie de Bourgies

Do you have an altar where you are?A place that speaks to you of setting aside some time to dip into mystery?If you could see mine, you would scratch your head and look at me pityingly.

I have a thin glass vase that holds round,colored stones from Iona,the holy island off the Scottish coast.They were on the beach at the end of the island where a labyrinth was created.The shore is littered with them and I have never seen such rocks.I have a green and red one in my palm now.There is a black and white one the size of a goose egg and a few others of pink and white.

I earned those stones by walking through hill and dale and over piles of cow and sheep droppings to get to the labyrinth.It was there,as I walked ,that the Lord spoke in a way that I will never forget:"Don't worry about anything.I am in charge." I felt my shoulders sag,face muscles give as if a massage had been administered.Amazing experience of peace.

The table that holds my oddities was sold to me by a woman in Woodstock,New York.It cost ten dollars and looks like it is worth much less.Chipped dark paint,unsteady on its feet,it is my altar.The store is no longer in use now although we look when we drive by but I will never forget sitting on a bench near my purchase hearing "Georgia On My Mind" sung by the owner on a guitar with a bubbling creek behind.Can you say that about any table you own?Holy object.

I have a dear friend who has a special spot by a window where she places flowers for a departed loved one.Most sacred space.

The ship bell,the praying,red wooden girl,the red ornament on the rusted spring,and an old cross that belonged to the Grandmother I never knew,completes the arrangement on my altar.It never fails to please me to look at the objects that speak to me so clearly of a deeper life than the one that we see.

What would you put on your altar?

silence

2012-01-24T14:06:00.000-08:00

At the Basilica Of St.Francis in Assisi, there is a priest whose duty appears to be one thing.Every few minutes, as the din from the voices of many tourists becomes annoying, he says,"Silencio".Poor man with a hopeless task.Not hard to know what he is requesting.I have to say that I appreciated his efforts because I didn't travel thousands of miles to talk but to soak in the sacredness and it was difficult with the noise.Talking to and hearing from the Spirit,for me ,requires some quiet.

Ans so again,with snake proof boots on and an extraordinarily blue sky above,I went to the river.I wrote:

..."the log holds a writer who comes as a witness to silence.Just water,trees and bird trills.Nothing else is here but an emptiness that feeds me.The sun wraps its rays around my face and hands and glistens on the brown water.

This is the solitude that poets and saints yearn for.Only the birds are busily present.A Barred Owl and something else explode in sound across the river.This must have aroused the cows to complain but only for a minute and all is still again.

If God is in silence then just listen to this.....

There is one lone Beech that refuses to drop its leaves and they stand out in tan/beige among all the other bare trees.A very strange green bush is growing out there in the water from a dead log. Floating by, heading South,a brown leaf turned sideways.Alone,drifting.

The area on my side of the river used to be a farmland.There are still places where rusted barbed wire is strung between the pines to keep in long gone cattle.Those farmers and cows are gone and one day this log will no longer have a writer to perch."Just an old sweet song....."

tenderness

2012-01-22T12:03:00.000-08:00

I follow a lovely blog called the 60 Second Sabbath.Some of the writings are so inspired and imaginative that I just sit in awe as I read.The pictures that Dirk posts are also a free gift given-just so beautiful.Today's post was about dying of tenderness and as I read I thought of times when I might have given tenderly.

That November afternoon of loss and sadness,I sat in my sister's hospital room,her leaving foretold.She ate very little and it was difficult for her to find comfort as all her bodily functions were failing.That afternoon, she requested that I feed her some cool,red jell-o.I think it soothed her somehow.Privileged,I began slowly to spoon some into her mouth and with each feeding,I whispered a prayer.She smiled and we connected over this humble act.It was simple,long overdue tenderness.

In Honduras, on a mission trip in 2003, my job was to prick fingers for a diabetes check.It seemed to me that many of the people who came had little gentleness in their lives and so as I swabbed the finger I caressed them with the cotton ball in a soft manner-that was all I could do.

I think of my granddaughter's soft cheek kiss and "I love you,Nana" and I melt
inside.The other day at Mass, a friend who sat behind me,who I haven't seen for awhile,rubbed my back before we began.What a gift gestures like that are.

We feel tenderness towards others and it is also an act we can chose."He is like a shepherd...gathering lambs in his arms,holding them against his breast".Mt.40:9-11
Have you felt that?It may have been delivered by someone else.

the sound of a bell

2012-01-21T15:09:00.000-08:00

I have a small collection of bells that began when I bought one in an antique shop in Denver in the '70s.I picked one up in a thrift shop in Aberdeen in September of 2010 and I saw one recently on e-bay that held it's little brass arms out to me.It came today from Texas and as I hold it,I think that it was handmade.It is lumpy and off;I see an artisan working on it.This bell maker must have loved the sea because sitting atop the bell is a ship, perhaps one that sailed the Nile.It has a deep satisfying ring that trills on for awhile.

On top of the ship is a tiny cross which I didn't notice at all on e-bay.Ah,what a find.After I put it on my altar of other oddities,I wrote this is my journal:

"This ship bell speaks to me of letting lose and flying off into a spiritual space.How will that sailing be?What shape will it take? Take me with you ship, as my prayers,thoughts and emptiness change the way I view the world."

Imagine my delicious surprise when I read this today from Thomas Merton:"Last night before going to bed,realized momentarily what solitude really means:when the ropes are cast off and the skiff is no longer tied to land,but heads out to sea without ties,without restraints!Not the sea of passion,on the contrary,the sea of purity and love that is without care,that loves God alone immediately and directly in itself as the All...."

arm in arm

2012-01-21T08:06:00.000-08:00

The young girl shivers as she stands under the street lamp.Dressed warmly in black coat,red hat and scarf,her blue knees protrude as her legs are bare.She is in a school uniform and no pants are allowed.It is a February morning on Long island,the first day of Lent, and she awaits her friend from the next block to join her for the bitter cold six block walk to church for morning mass.

The thin morning light is barely coming into this quiet suburb when her friend joins her;they link arms and off they go.It is the 1950s, and no one worries that these girls will be accosted or snatched up as they walk.

For Lent,these two eleven year olds have chosen this as their sacrifice:getting up at 6:30 A.M. every morning for six weeks to walk to Mass.A few of the neighborhood boys said they would as well but they never lasted.Truth be known, the girls never made it past three weeks.That they made it that long amazes me now.This spiritual adventure and challenge was accomplished because there were two of them.Neither would have done this alone.They kept each other going.I can hear their voices,:"We can do this."Neither girl wanted to disappoint the other so on they trudged.After Mass,they would go home,get books and walk two blocks to the school bus.

Those girls now have grey woven through their hair and are grandmothers.Instead of a block away,they are a state away from each other.The older of the two,by three months, has a website that holds her thoughts on the road to the Holy One.The younger reads those thoughts daily and adds her own deep and sacred thoughts with Scripture that nourishes.

Through generous,amazing grace,my friend and I are still arm and arm,helping each other on the road to the One.

startling bright day

2012-01-19T15:28:00.000-08:00

Who among us deserves a day like today ?It was 32 degrees when I bundled up with many layers,a blue knit hat and black gloves.Off I went in the silence of our subdivision ,walked and then ran for a half mile.How exhilarating!I came back with achievement written on my brow and more energy then when I stepped out.

I missed going back to the river because of other things to be done, but maybe tomorrow.The other day on the way back from my private retreat on the log,I was within five feet of stepping on a sunning curled up cottonmouth.Would this be the thing to keep me from going to my new prayer spot overlooking the Flint?I called my son in Pennsylvania and he sounded disappointed that I would let this stop me.He said,"I have stepped on at least two and they won't bite unless you stand there.Wear boots", and I will.

When we first moved here, I used to go out in the canoe by myself and drift around for hours,enjoying the peace until so many people told me it was dangerous.Why?You might fall out, drown, encounter snakes and on and on.Blech!!!

Today, while reading Thomas Merton,the Trappist monk's, writings I found this:"I need very much this silence and this snow.Here alone I can find my way because here alone the way is right in front of my face and it's God's way for me-there really is no other".That is what I was trying to say the other day.

a poet speaks to an icon

2012-01-17T10:26:00.000-08:00

"Poetry gives voice to what has no voice and form to what has no form and creates the illusion of possession."I love this description by the award winning British poet Sally Read.I wish to read her poems,this young star in the literary world, but I bring her up because of a co-incidence.

The other day, I wrote about Howard Storm who has become a believer and a minister after a near death experience.He told his tale on a TV show, and then the interviewer asked what advice he would give to anyone listening.Breaking down visibly, he said,"Just ask Jesus to help you.That's all and wait.Even if you don't believe."

The next day,co-incidentally,I found a conversion story on line that touched my heart.This is the lead-in information:For almost all of her 40 years, a Suffolk-born psychiatric nurse-turned published poet and passionate atheist felt little but contempt for Catholicism.But then,in less than a year,after a springtime epiphany, she was received into the Church.This is her journey.

It is a long story but in the process of writing a snarky book about vaginas, Sally Read,came in contact with a priest and her questions and his answers caused great turmoil within her.There is more to the story but once in a church that she wandered into, this happened:"In that church was an icon of Christ and,prayerless,I would simply look at him.It was on one of those occasions that I spoke aloud to the face and asked for help.There was no visual or aural hallucination,or anything as a poet,I can use as a metaphor to tell what happened.The nearest I can come to describing it is to say that it felt like someone walked into the room that I recognized........I had and have no doubt that it was the presence of Christ...."

This is exactly how my spiritual journey started,a non-believer, who asked for help from a God that I didn't know existed.In the dark,in the night,in a church,in a seat by a window,in bright sunlight, He will take any crumb of turning.

on the Flint

2012-01-16T09:41:00.001-08:00

Eternity is the water of this river,headed slowly,minute movement, to the Gulf of Mexico.The stand of pines and deciduous trees breath,the river breaths and moves and ripples with the wind.They speak of forever,
being solid,standing,moving,
being alive.It fills,changes,leafs out,rushes and stands.

The Indians saw this and named it Thronateeska,flint colored.I wish the name hadn't been discarded.I see it as they did,constant,unworried,unhurried in all its changes.Being here now,I am quiet,no band, no show.

For some reason New year's Eve in New York comes to mind.That screaming throng down below the TV stand.Then into my thought pops Justin Bieber.By all accounts, he is a decent kid,and he is being introduced to Carlos Santana.The young performer is gushing now, the obligatory praise that may be deserved,who knows ?How many times will this kid have to do this whether it is true or not ?How many times will he have to do this little head fake and be untrue to himself?

Here,no applause is necessary.

a writer's seat

2012-01-15T09:13:00.000-08:00

Journal Notes 1-14-12

...perched above the Flint River on a smooth writer's seat that used to be a strong shade tree.Perfect spot for musing.This log is interesting with its well spaced holes and curves.

It's quiet other than the breeze rustling the leaves and the woodpeckers screeching and tapping.It's quite cold and I wouldn't be here if the sun wasn't so inviting.

Wind ripples the Flint.The ducks who flew off left their good-bye wake.Tall tree trunks across the river are reflected in the brown/grey water.Some parts of my long seat touch the water,making slight waves.A small downy with a blood red spot on top lands right on the tree next to me,cheeps,looks and leaves.Now, he's tapping along with the Pileated woodpecker to my right.This is the woods choir I hear.

Slow, meandering river, a palette of muted colors reflected in the water.Tan,grey,brown,always shimmering,moving and even the bright blue sky is muted by the Flint's brown.I love these earth tones.The slanting sun's rays point to what I should capture with my lens.A spot through the trees across the river that looks like bright blue tissue paper is just a framed piece of sky.One tree across the way,very tall, bare except for large puffs of mistletoe.

And so it is:

Downy woodpecker,
You tap,I sit and listen
Different ways to be.

oh ,my,............

2012-01-13T15:18:00.000-08:00

I keep bumping into the story of Steve Jobs's,the co-founder and CEO of Apple,dying moments.He was surrounded by loved ones and as his life was slipping away,he was looking above them and kept saying,with no explanation:"Oh,My"...over and over.

Why does this intrigue me?

Perhaps because I keep encountering stories of near death experiences.I first became aware of this phenomenon years ago with the Raymond Moody books,in which the author documents interviews with people about their experiences after they had been declared dead.The tunnel, light, calm and peace.Not all experienced this but many.

Today,on Facebook was an interview with the former Chairman of the Art Department at Northern Kentucky University.I had read his book,"Descent Into Death," a few years ago and it is riveting.He died in a Paris Hospital and describes in vivid detail what happened next and it wasn't pretty.

This witness comes right after my friend Wes described his experience of deep calm and peace and hearing an unknown voice telling him to go back after he had died.I think that because of modern medicine, this happening is becoming so common that it is called just NDE.

The interviewer asked the former professor if it all seemed like a dream.I was struck by his answer."No,this is the dream.What is there is more vivid ,concrete,more real."
He got teary(this experience was many years ago)when he related that, because of this experience, he knows that God is about Love and wanting our love and nothing else.He is now a United Church of Christ minister.

I wonder about all this.My friend,Wes, was a non-church goer;Howard Storm,the professor, was an athiest and Steve Jobs wasn't a believer that I know of.What did he see?

winter sun

2012-01-12T14:34:00.000-08:00

The barely yellow sliver of sun is going behind some bluish clouds in the distance.The trees are waving in the cold wind and this is the beauty for today.
When I look out my window in that direction, it is as if I can see forever and the clouds are far away mountains.At their feet is the Flint River,unobserved in its passage.

I didn't expect to find beauty in the Goodwill store where I look for books but at the check-out was the most delightful sound granted to man.A small boy of about five was playing with a wheeled toy and each time it whirled away from him, he broke out in sheer contagious happiness.

And if this was not enough, a sixty year old Chinese photographer,Keren Su, spent his winter days crawling out on the ice of a group of Eastern Canadian islands and spent enough freezing hours to bless us with the attached photo.A friend sent this.I guess it was his beauty for the day and now it's ours.Can you keep from smiling back?

What beauty did you find today?

red ornament day

2012-01-11T10:48:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, my husband and I sold my family's summer home in the Catskill mountains to my nieces.We kept some acres but the old farm house that afforded so many wonderful childhood memories,is no longer mine.

So many changes have taken place in the eighty plus years that have passed since my grandmother bought the house in the 1930s.Incredibly enough,in 2010, tropical storm Nicole flooded the stream on the property and the huge boulders disappeared.These had been my touchstones since I was a baby.In one of my most meaningful dreams,I am sitting on one of those rocks.Only one thing seems to remain.An old glider still sits rusting, on the sceened-in porch.No one can seem to bring themselves to ditch this icon of summer afternoons swaying with a cool August breeze.

When I left the Catskills in 2011, I took an old rusted spring that was under the glider serving no purpose and brought it home.My only piece of a much loved old house.My red Christmas ornament proudly sits on top of the coiled brown spring.They both look like they belong in the dump but I love to see them there.

The other day my husband and I were in an IHOP in Dawsonville.It was quiet,clean and very pleasant as was our helpful waitress.As we were leaving ,I asked for the manager.Employees never know what that is going to mean, so many hovered around nervously.When she came out, I told her about our very good experience with specifics and she glowed.I almost got teary.In the parking lot, I thought of my red heart love resolution and smiled.I was actually doing it and it felt like joy.

looking for beauty

2012-01-10T11:05:00.000-08:00

It is easy to be seduced by nature's beauty when,with wild laughter,Spring is prancing around twirling her veils of daffodil yellow, Japanese cherry pink and Dogwood startling white.But how about the dreary grey and brown of today ?There is a mysterious drab fog in the woods.
As I gaze out the window,nothing stands out to catch my eye.

Perhaps the problem is the gazing with lazy vision ,with no intent of finding.My granddaughter,last Christmas ,found beauty in the crack of a sidewalk and an ice covered weed.She took the picture attached which I treasure and see through her eyes.

In January of 2007, I ordered a journal book called Pausing for Beauty.It has pages with spaces for writing,poems on the edges and a calendar.On each date,I entered something of the beauty that I had seen that day:"a patch of blue after much rain,pansies yellow faces in a grey bird bath,a John Muir quote,the poster at the conference showing Northern lights, marsh birds calling and in flight."

As I type this,I see and hear it again because once I took the time to look and write about it.

My journal says this about January:January is named for Janus the Roman god of doors and gateways.The original Roman calendar consisted of 10 months,304 days.The Romans originally considered winter a month less period.

Well, what does that mean,that it is a throwaway month because there is grey fog in the woods? This journal was my gateway to looking and living deeply,January.

On the second page I wrote this:"Today,if the world ended it would have been enough.To see the pines sway,other bare tree branches against the sky,the brilliant red of the bird....to have memories of summer nights at play under the maples.To have loved deeply and completely and have run with the wind....the laughter of children at play, and hugs at the end of the day.Some men live lives of quiet exultation,one must find out how."

I found a hint today.

winter day

2012-01-05T15:34:00.000-08:00

"If you wish to know the divine,feel the wind on your face and the warm sun on your hand" Buddha

Journal notes 12-31-11

...Sun on my back,cool air on my cheek.It's two o'clock and a howl starts up.That's when the twelve stray puppies were fed yesterday;is the peaceful afternoon over?
I can hear them rustling in the leaves of the pen.

A glancing ray of sun brightens a fern frond that peeks out from behind a tall pine.A sparrow is in the tree above my bench ,sitting with a huge seed in her beak wondering what to do.A few others are preening in the other apple tree.Quiet work.Hawk way up in the still air,drifting,looking.A small wren is over by the house foraging among the leaves.Squirrels doggedly chasing each other around the pines.

I look over at the grass growing among the trees on the acre next to me, watch the sparrows pecking and for a minute I know that it's spring;the frond is still lit up, bright apple green.

sit and open the door

2012-01-04T10:36:00.000-08:00

In silence is the salvation of the world.In deep connection with the scared space within is the end of useless yearning.At peace with the trees bare around me.At home with only the rustle of the leaves.Watching,waiting in silence,I utter one holy word to bring my mind back to empty silence.And in this intention, a slight misty movement happens that is beyond my mind.An unseen,unheard ,invisible filling happens that is not noticed then ,only later.

I started Centering Prayer five years ago, drawn by a newsletter available on a retreat.I hold it in my hand right now,a treasure,a key to a life altering gift.Any movement on my part to be a more loving,accepting being,I attribute to this practise that comes down to us from the first Christians and is found in many other religions.

It is simple and requires no books or great intellect,just the will to be open to the movement of the Spirit.

There is such a hunger for this type of prayer although one may be unaware that it even exists.Do you desire silence,peace,solitude,goodness and a deeper awareness of God's presence?You may be hungering for this discipline without knowing it.I once held a teaching at our church on Centering Prayer and the room was packed which is unusual.Hunger.

"The longer you meditate,the longer you persevere through the difficulties and false starts,then the clearer it becomes to you that you have to continue if you are going to lead your life in a meaningful and profound way."John Main

you matter

2012-01-03T09:36:00.001-08:00

My friend ,Ryan,wrote this on his blog the other day and it struck a chord with me:

"...by our mere appearance on this planet,we matter".It soothed me very much and sounded like something that I hung onto in my lonely teen-age years."You are a child of the universe,no less than the trees and the stars, you have a right to be here...."The Desiderata.

That loneliness and wondering where I fit has happily left me along with many negative tapes that used to play in my head.When they left,at what exact moment, I do not know but I believe that it must have been when I let go of my will and handed it over to the Creator of that same universe.There was no flash of light or angel song but now my spirit has a certitude that it is loved,no,treasured.

In the spirit of red things,I wonder how I can help someone feel that they matter.
I think this is going to take some pondering on my part.I withhold love easily.I was taught that the worst thing was to make a fool of myself or wear my heart on my sleeve.The only thing that I can think of right now is to say,"Is there anything that I can do to help you?".That makes love real.Any suggestions?

the color red

2012-01-02T14:24:00.000-08:00

Today,I added a small red Christmas ornament to my prayer altar as a reminder of what my call is to be in 2012.I am a person that needs reminders because I can easily slip into thoughtless living.2012 is an unopened package and I don't want to waste it.

My previous post spoke of red and this morning a brilliant, shining male cardinal landed on the frozen water in the bird bath as if to say,"Don't forget".It flew off before I could even smile.

There are a few special blogs that I read every day for sustenance.One writer,Ryan, suggested, after reading my yesterday's post,that we both look forward to the red of 2012,thus the ornament.His beautiful writing on Current Ripple has, more than once, led my thoughts deeper.This is how the spirit world works.

So,in the spirit of hearts,I called an old friend from 2006, the year that we spent in South Carolina directing a retreat house.She and her husband were travelling so I wrote a letter that I hope pleases her when she returns.This beautiful Englishwoman was a tower of strength and wisdom when my sister was dying.She took my sister,who she had never met,into her heart when she meditated each day and out of that she was able to help me tremendously.Sylvia,a perfect name for a crystal-like gift on the path.

When I ponder these words;"Let not kindness and fidelity leave you;bind them around your neck"(Proverbs 3:3),I see the warm fuzziness of a red scarf as the binding.I need visuals.

what color are you today?

2012-01-01T06:58:00.000-08:00

Are you sitting there exhausted in your robe of frumpy,dumpy,lazy brown?Are the special holidays over and you are thinking dark blue thoughts of loss or boredom?

What color are you today?

The New Year inevitably brings my thoughts back to 2011.How would I rate it? Will 2012 be better or worse? What did we lose last year;a job,a love, friend?Why is it always loss?

What color are you today?

I thought of all this while at Mass.I sat up front and was taken with the vibrant red of the forty plus poinsettias that lined the altar.The huge Christmas trees were bedecked with large shining red and golden globes.Such grand colors for so joyous a season.

Red is the heart color,that beating organ of care and love.It draws the eye and the soul can't help but warm.Red is the color of the aura around my husband when,once a week, he visits an elderly Army vet who is a shut-in.This soldier fought in WWII and now is mostly alone,his wife having passed away years ago.They laugh and tell Army stories and the time passes.

The Salvation Army kettle is red.

In February, we will send small Valentine cards to the many widows that we know whose hearts must ache on that day of love no longer here.One friend told me how excited she was to get a valentine when she never expected one.

So in the New Year, if what Lincoln said is true,that we all are about as happy as we choose to be,we can choose our own color each day.

What color are you today?

The sanctuary

2011-12-31T18:27:00.000-08:00

It could be said that God's foot is so vast
that this entire earth is but a
field on His toe,

and all the forests in this world
came from the same root of just
a single hair
of His.

What then is not a sanctuary?
Where then can I not kneel
and pray at a shrine
made holy by His
presence.

St.Catherine of Siena

simple

2011-12-30T11:20:00.000-08:00

Let this blow through your heart:

"Do not seek perfection in a changing world.Instead,perfect your love."Buddha

And how can I do this?Right now,I would love a cup of lemon grass green tea.Perhaps my husband would like one,so I will ask,and serve it with a gentle pat on the hand.
A small thing but I need to look out for opportunities in 2012...another resolution.

I have aleardy started one of my pledges;I prayed outside at the picnic table near the twelve puppie's pen and the crows noticed me in a loud fashion.The pups,strays, born under our shed, are like children outside ,tumbling,grunting,falling and tousling each other.A month ago, we didn't know they existed and now we are their feeding fools,three times a day.I guess that's a kind of love....

Spirit,help me to be a deep,cool,green and blue bottomless pool of love.

a new year coming

2011-12-29T13:59:00.000-08:00

I will try to remember to pick up my begging bowl each day and hold it out.Casting an eagle eye on all that happens,I will notice and record in my journal.If hard rain falls into my wooden bowl,I will not pour it out or throw it to the winds.I will feel the rain and let it lead me by the hand to wisdom and trust.I will thank God for it and it will not take me months to do this.

I will read more scripture each day and let it churn inside me and speak to me on that day even though I have read it before.The Word is alive and changes in It's
message as I change.

I will sit outside in the sun even when it is cold as the birds are always there and isn't it sad that their chorus should play to an empty theater.And a walk to the river at least once a week to just to watch the meandering brown water.

I will be more attentive to friendships.On every page of my journal, I will name a friend and write why I am grateful for what they bring to my life.Focusing on the important things.A friend of 35 years just called to invite us for dinner on January 1st.They will be praised on that first page of the 2012 journal.

This is a good start...will you tell me your resolutions?....

the center

2011-12-28T15:57:00.000-08:00

Today, two different voices gave me permission to keep writing about the Christmas season.The first friend lives on the beautiful Hudson River.I can see her at her writing table with the cold,crisp New York air blowing outside,her shining hair piled atop her beautiful face.She writes:"The holy season is never over." Perfect words.

My other friend is an old neighbor,the old Georgia Boy, who survived a near death experience on the operating table and whose words give me joy:"Every day is my Christmas."Amen and alleluia!!!

So with that,I want to share what has come to me through a Christmas card.I do love Christmas cards,especially ones with snow and angels.But there was one this year that pulled me in.It is a Madonna and child.The Mother is young and I am struck by the look on her face.Her eyes are closed as are the babe's.The total peace and contentment of these figures calm me.Some of her dark blue robe covers her child's bare back.This is a picture of completeness.Nothing else is needed by the two figures.They are wrapped in each other in a circle of peace.

For many of us, Christmas is not a time of peace.Obligations pull at our tattered psyches from all directions as we try to make Christmas perfect for others, as if that was in our power.This year,many family changes added to the chaos.

However,by grace,I found an island of sanity that was a great gift.Twice a day, I went into my P.C. room and shut the door.A candle was lit on the rough, ten dollar table that I bought in Woodstock.The tall, brown haired,red robed, wooden praying girl stood above the light.A small Saint Nicholas, Russian looking,multi-colored and carved from wood ,stood near.My red/green stone from the holy island of Iona rested in the front and in the back,a Christmas card with the four Narnia children around the lamppost,the woods thick with snow.Here I prayed the Liturgy of the Hours and rested in twenty minutes of Centering Prayer.

In my own soul's way,I held the Christ, not on my lap but in my very center,the place that Thomas Merton describes as being able to be touched only by God.In those moments,I was an enclosed complete circle.

just grace

2011-12-21T13:18:00.000-08:00

There is a very touching scene in the novel based on fact,Brideshead Revisited.The aristocratic patriarch of an English Catholic family has come home to Brideshead to die.He has been living with a mistress in Italy,absent and estranged from his wife,four grown children and the faith.His devout daughters and son call a priest, over the objections of the book's hero,Charles Rider,atheist,who is the lover of the oldest daughter.

The priest came to anoint the sick man and as they all gathered around the bed,with the cynical Charles glowering in the background,the old man with eyes closed slowly crossed himself with the priest.What this means to his daughters is immeasurable.Charles is befuddled,but in time, that simple action,finally understood,changes Charles forever.The book and the 70s mini-series, have touched me deeply.

Today, my husband and I delivered Communion to a woman who has been away from the church for over thirty years.She was unable to take the host but her family did as they gathered around her bed.We all had tears because their Mother is close to death.Yesterday,however, when our pastor visited, she was alert and as he anointed her,her tears flowed and she blessed herself.Home with God in her heart.Amazing grace,how sweet the sound.....

christmas memories

2011-12-16T08:21:00.000-08:00

It was the last day of school before a long,luscious winter break.The chorus that I was part of assembled in the gym.We were up on a wooden slatted stage facing the gym floor.One by one, the classes in my grammar school came in, each in orderly single file, to the stage where our pastor was giving out holy cards and boxes of hard candy as small gifts.

I thought of this when I heard Dolly Parton singing,"A Hard Candy Christmas." Those candies,multi-colored ,were really hard to eat.Some had gooey centers,others tasted like sickeningly sweet root beer.But nothing could dampen my spirit.We were singing Christmas Carol after wonderful Carol.Toward the end of the singing,I turned and looked out the long glass windows.I beheld the most wonderful sight for a 12 year old. Huge,wet snow falling at a deliriously fast rate and soon we would go home to frolic.Pure joy in my heart.

Later,in 1961, when I was a senior in High School,our glee club went to Mercy Hospital in Rockville Center to sing Carols for the staff and patients.We assembled in the Lobby near the decorated tree and sang our hearts out.In the Lobby , the hospital was raffling off a Nativity set and for twenty-five cents a chance, I scrounged up fifty cents and bought two.As I fill out the stub and placed mine in the full box,I knew that the set was mine.I knew it.

Two nights later, a call brought me back to the hopsital to pick up the set.I felt so blessed that night,for the set and the mystery of the knowing.

Thirty years later,it happened again.As I was going out of my driveway one morning in Georgia, my next door neighbor came over quickly and asked if I was going to church.I said that I was and she, with tears, asked for prayers for another neighbor who was delivering her third child that day.She and her husband had lost a two year old girl to heart problems and this new baby, a son ,was in distress.As I drove, I prayed and then as if a soft hand had been placed on my shoulder,comforting, I knew that all would be well with little Scooter.He is now a grown, hard working man with three children and indeed , all is well with him.

I am in awe of Christmas and Mystery.

I need a little color

2011-12-12T14:46:00.000-08:00

The winter sky is grey and sullen; the tree trunks are a perfect match.I love the symmetry of tree branches against the sky.A web of lacy figures.But this gloom makes me want to stuff my small backpack and head further South,like to the Tropics.

My pack will be heavy with T.S. Eliot's poems,Edith Wharton's "Ethan Frome"and pistachios.Dark chocolate,the scriptures and my grey journal that has a plastic pocket in the front for flowers and ferns.I will walk there unafraid and talk to strangers that I meet.The cold will be a memory.

In 1891, Gauguin left Europe disgusted with his penury and the general failure of any interest in his art.He found his home in the islands and his painting took on a whole life of its own.And grand it is.

What must it be like to turn your back on everything that is familiar and lead your own life.Take what you know about painting and strike out on a new course.Who has that kind of courage?There is a price to pay.Gauguin was a few months away from going to jail,and suffered from syphilis and alcoholism when he died at 52 of dissipation.Maybe, I'll just enlarge his painting and sit with it for awhile.Join me?

the white winter sun

2011-12-11T08:38:00.000-08:00

Winter has never asked me if I like these shorter days.When the sun goes behind the bare, grey hardwood trees to the west, in late afternoon,it seems to fall off a cliff.It disappears much too early in the day.Then,deep cold darkness.

The lunar eclipse last night seems a metaphor for how people are feeling these days.Evictions,foreclosures,lost jobs and broken hearts.The light is gone,hidden from sight.

I thought of this when a dear friend posted yesterday on Facebook:"Where is the Christmas spirit and don't tell me egg nog,people." I chuckled but have been unable to stop thinking of her question.As usual, she has inspired my thoughts and then I recalled something that happened yesterday.

My husband and I went to Goodwill looking for games to play with the grandchildren who are coming for a few days.On a shelf loaded with Christmas decorations, was a tall wooden figure with long brown hair and a red monkish outfit.Her hands were clasped in front of her in prayer,her eyes were closed.She had many chips out of her paint but I liked that and her price, a dollar and forty two cents.I put her back and kept searching for toys.After finding several, I went back to find my praying girl.There she was on the shelf in front of a shopper, a middle aged dark haired woman,who fingered something else.I excused myself and reached over and grabbed the figure.I am a very competitive person and one should be wary of getting between me and what I want.She turned and in a pleasant voice said,"I was going to look at that."Surprising myself completely, I handed it to her and said,"Here,it yours." She looked it over, handed it back and said,"You can have it."I was so happy.I told her she was sweet, thanked her and said that my girl would remind me to pray.We smiled and parted.No pepper spray or hair pulling in the aisle,just two people saying, you can have it.Christmas spirit?

I think we all have a sense of what the Christmas spirit is.They can spelled it Xmas, say Happy Holiday, name it winter break and a holiday tree but that will never stamp out the Christmas spirit.It's like stepping on mercury,it squirts out from under your shoe.If they remove the nativity scene from the courthouse lawn,a silver haired ,blue eyed man in a nursing home will be bending over a desk to make one from glue and toothpicks.

We need Christmas in these dark winter days.We need the More.We have a More sized hole in our center that will entertain nothing but mystery and miracles.It,this center, longs for those things and nothing else will do.And the shining star,quaking shepherds,travelling wise men,singing angels and the holy Babe fit nicely in this spot and bring us joy even if our minds don't accept this, too good to be true, story.

So, Kris, once again ,thank you for your question.I will be on the look out for the Christmas spirit.In the meantime will you sing with me:

"......a thrill of hope,the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.Fall on your knees, oh, hear the angel voices.Oh,night Divine ,oh night when Christ was born, oh night,oh Holy Night,when Christ was born"

Say it for me,Rilke.

2011-12-07T11:56:00.000-08:00

I have been feeding a black and white medium size female dog that has been wandering around our subdivision, looking so lost. She will not come near so I can't bring her in to meet her and tell her that I have named her Molly.

The county truck was around a few days ago but they missed her.Yesterday, I watched her eat from the the family room door and she held my eyes for a minute .Beautiful you are ,Molly with your liquid brown eyes.And so fearful.

There are also some stray cats, beautiful ones, roaming around.As I get older, I find myself connecting with dogs,cats,birds,turkeys in an almost mystical way.Perhaps when you try to open your heart to God, other creatures come sneaking in. When I read on the internet about animal abuse I am so saddened.How can a person swing a kitty around and fling it when the one I know sleeps by me as I watch T.V.?.

All of this animal love reminded me of time spent in Paris at the Cathedral of Notre Dame.We went in the Spring of 2005 and I had no expectations for this most famous of landmarks.When we walked in,the typical Japanese tourists were there, a crowd of them,taking mountains of pictures.Should they be called a snapping of Japanese? They were quiet but hustling around in the gloomy air along with a horde of others. Off to the side was a small area of wooden chairs reserved for those who came to pray.I silently walked in, knelt down and closed my eyes.I was mostly alone.Then I looked up to see what the chairs were facing.The rose window.Magnificent.Holy.And,in what is now a tourist destination,I felt Presence and peace.Rilke has said it better:

The Rose Window

"Inside,the lazy padding of soft feet
creates a silence,almost stupefies;
then all at once one of the drowsing cats
awakes-and pounces;its enormous eye

seizes the drifting image of that quiet,
which for a little while swims around,
before the golden whirlpool sucks at it
and drags it down to oblivion:

just as this eye apparently asleep
gapes open,strikes,and drags its capture deep
into the thunder of its own red blood-

so the rose window in that holy time
within the great cathedral's scented gloom
captured a heart and dragged it up to God." Ranier Maria Rilke

the wheelbarrow

2011-12-02T15:20:00.000-08:00

When I was a child, every Holy Thursday my family would go from church to church to visit the wonderfully decorated altars.There was one church on the South Shore of Long island that was so special.Not only was it festooned everywhere you looked with white and yellow flowers, but there were white cages with bright yellow singing canaries.I can still hear their songs.What a wonderful feast for the ears and eyes,especially to a young child.Then, the next day, the altars were stripped totally bare,statues and the cross covered in purple and the bells silenced, for this was sad Good Friday.

For the last several months, I have been pushing a grey,rusted out Good Friday wheelbarrow everywhere I go.Assorted rocks clang and tumble around and they are so heavy.The handles have given me callouses.Often, I stop, take a few out,rearrange the rest and put the others back.It is still heavy.If only I could find the right thing to say to this pile of rocks;the right arrangement,all will be well.

Going out with this load became too much and so I stayed home and worried.And stared at the wheelbarrow.My prayers have been desperate and whiny.Fix this,this way,I demanded or begged.I hate this,this is not how I saw it.Take this wheelbarrow with it's painful load and give me a break.

Finally,finally, a light came on and with grace I have been able to say,"Thank you for this disgusting, dirty load.I praise you for it.It is certainly not what I envisioned but in your hands it will become a floating, shining barge loaded with flowers,red and orange hibiscus,roses,and parrots, lightly drifting down the Ganges in all its glory."

Scripture says that this is what we are to do and then peace will come.I can't say that I have been dancing but I have felt more calm ,more sure that all shall be well,in time.

retreat

2011-11-30T15:03:00.000-08:00

The attached paintng by Belinda Del Pesco is entitled "Monterey Retreat".I love the quiet,the calmness of the room.We lived in California once in the '70s.The children were 3 and 1 and the tri-plex we rented was in Huntington Beach which is also near the ocean.We were there during a serious earthquake that terrified my Mother-in-law who called from New York demanding that we move home.At 6 A.M.that morning the dogs started to bark,many of them ,and then the house began to shift back and forth.I prepared for death and wondered what a nice girl from New York was doing there.

What I remember most about that time,however, was the air from the sea with its kelp,salt scent coming in the porch window.Walking with my toddlers to the library in perfect January weather and teaching Sunday School to third graders.On my last day, Rose, a sweet blond cherub, gave me a note telling me I was her favorite teacher ever.I still have it.

I walk into this room and notice the coolness,the gentleness of its colors.One change will have to be made.A writing desk has to be found and put up against that window so that I can hear the palms rattling with the wind outside.They slap together as I start to put pen to paper.The flowers in the afternoon shade can be seen if the window covering is opened:the brilliance of the orange and purple Bird of Paradise makes me smile.

The soft dark chair to the right has a small bamboo table with a clear glass vase that holds a rooting bright green philodendron.It is here that I put my Bible,and Liturgy of the Hours and my watch.This chair is where I will go to engage in prayer.

Joseph Campbell,famed educator and author of numerous books on mythology says this:
"I walk off Fifty-first Street and Fifth Avenue into St.Patrick's Cathedral.I've left a very busy city and one of the most economically inspired cities on the planet.I walk into that cathedral and everything around me speaks of spiritual mysteries.The mystery of the cross,what's that all about up there?The stained glass windows,which bring another atmosphere in.My consciousness has been brought up to another level altogether,and I am on a different platform.And then I walk out,and I am back on the level of the street again.Now,how can I hold some of that cathedral consciousness?"

Indeed.

St.Francis of Assisi used to pull his rough brown hood over his head and all knew that he was in his "church".In prayer.So this room is now my church and when I go to it this is what I am saying:

I believe in the unseen.I am leaving what we call the real world of sight and sound and I will engage with the Spirit world,my true home when this life is over.The real world of sun ,sky and beauty is a reflection of what is to come, where every tear will be wiped away.I go into this room, shut the door and there I will receive guidance, not from newspapers or TV ,on how to live my life to be the most blessed one.In the quiet, I will praise God and this lifts my soul.I will ask for blessings for those that I love and I will receive ideas of things to do that will make this world more loving,holy.When I leave, I am a slightly different person and I do trail some of that grace behind me.

from death to life

2011-11-28T16:25:00.000-08:00

A day came recently that I rarely experience anymore.Struggling with unsettling family matters,I have been consumed with worry and hopelessness.Feelings careening around and the word to best paint my portrait would be, battered.

In the midst of this,I said, "Enough.Where are you in this,Lord?I need to know that You haven't caught the last train to the coast while I have been crying in the corner."I sullenly left it with Him.

While watching football this Saturday,my son suggested that I get my PC and look for old friends.Since "my" teams were playing like they had lost the knack for the game,I complied.We did find a few old neighbors on Facebook and sent friend requests.

The next morning, I received a message from a friend in our old neighborhood and the story of his life since we lived next door.He moved away before us and remarried.We were young then and child raising.He was a non-church going, hard worker who helped to create homes in the hot Georgia sun and loved his kids madly.I recall that one night, I thought a snake was in our basement and since my husband was out of town,I called on Jack to get rid of what turned out to be the biggest slug in the history of the South.He also used to restart my hot water heater when the flame would go out.A good neighbor who we have not seen for over thirty years.

When I read what he has gone through in the last seven years,I wanted to hide under my bed.Liver disease, the passing of his wife,a diagnosis of cancer of the vocal chords,the removal of the same and his death on the operating table.In his words, this is what happened:
"While I was in surgery,I saw myself in total darkness and something was beside me.The background was totally dark and it was like I was looking at myself from a distance...I had this feeling of complete calm and peace and then I heard a voice that I did not recognize say,""It's not your time yet"", and then I woke up.My sister later told me that I had died and after losing six pints of blood, it was all they could do to bring me back."

Jack goes on to express his philosophy in the most beautiful way imaginable:
"I am not afraid of dying but God has given me a second chance to finish my road of life and I am making every second of every minute of every hour of every day the best that I can.I have laid my life before God and I am following His wishes every day.Whatever happens in the future, I'll take it as it is because I know I have God by my side to face whatever."

Once again, You bless the hours of this day and make them holy.

make crooked ways straight

2011-11-20T09:44:00.000-08:00

Almost daily, I receive an e-mail from Heron Dance with journal musings from Rod MacIver.I never seem to have time to read them but save them for that moment when I can sit and ponder.The other day, I opened one entitled Butterfly Dream and once again was jolted by what I read,it seemed so perfect.

He writes:"I am sometimes tempted to think that my life should be easier,that I should exist in a state of perpetual enjoyment,that I should move from one triumph to another....That's just not how it is.Or was meant to be,I don't think.Life is movement in a resistant medium.That's how we grow;that's how we appreciate the little things."Amen.

I have a friend who is going through a difficult,painful time and I wish I had the words to make him see that this is for his own,glowing,growing good.It is so hard to see it at the time.We can only encourage and hope that, with patience ,enough time will pass that the light of this situation will appear.

I think back to a strange story that I read once about a group of children who had a chrysalis in a jar in their classroom.They watched it for weeks.Then, when it looked about to burst,and the teacher had left the room, they took a knife and sliced the side of the green cocoon to "help" the butterfly out.Well, there it was in its colorful glory and their impatience caused this:the butterfly would never be able to fly.It seems that the squirming,twisting,wrenching journey out of the small opening in the bottom of the case is necessary for the wings to develop properly.

And the "Heron" goes on to say:"Art created by someone who has experienced alot in life, alot of ups and downs,tends to be deeper,more meaningful....than art created by someone who has had an easy life."So run and do not get weary for in your struggle is your salvation and the help of others.

Dreams

2011-11-17T12:55:00.000-08:00

Looking back,digging around in my memories,I try to see if I had any grand dreams for the future.I don't recall any converstaions about dreams or dream pursuing encouragement from my family.My Great Grandparents came on a ship from Scotland in the 1890s but once plopped down on Long Island, they never went off again.They found jobs,made a living and that was enough.Maybe, getting here was the dream.

Did my parents have wishes beyond an occasional Yankee game at the Stadium? I know this, my Mother had no interests or hobbies beyond a burst of lamp shade making and figurine painting that lasted about a year.Did they have dreams?Did I?

Mine were pipe dreams:singing and dancing in a Broadway show like "Carousel."I had a good voice and loved to sing but when my Mother asked my sister if she should get lessons for me,she said,"Naw,her voice isn't that good." End of dream.It took so little to quash it.

When I finally awoke to wishes of mine, I started to visualize being a manager in the company that I worked for.I could see myself in that office upfront and all the creative ways that I would develop the people that worked for me.Maybe the visualizing did it,I had a rewarding ten years.

Soon,I started thinking of travelling and have been able to do much of that and each trip has been a challenge and reward.I wanted to go to school to be a counsellor but gave that up and it's O.K. Then writing,and writing with a purpose.Not just the pleasure of the word or the scene that is so perfect,that comes from I don't know where,evoking such strong feelings in me.

I will try to find the words:I have looked into the depths of things and seen magic.This sorrow is that but more than that.It has a sheen we can't see,a light that is not clear now but will be.We can change our lives.By doing one thing differently.Let me give you an example.For the last three days, I have been asking my husband if I can do anything for him.This small sentence has brought a mellowness to his face.A small thing.This looking,seeing and changing has come through prayer and writing.

All of this was unearthed by a spare poem that I found and like.It suits me.

"Dreams
not fulfilled
may shatter and embitter
Or deepen understanding
and increase sensitivity
to other's dreams."-Theta Burke

when I am gone

2011-11-16T10:18:00.000-08:00

Someday in the future,I will have to leave my woods.Be it a trip to a health care facility,a hospital or an unwanted move,my bags will be by the front door near where the wren sleeps.

The squirrels will be too busy burying the small acorns in the soft earth near my garden to see my wave.I will stand in the back and memorize the contour of the beeches and the iron wood.My bench will be greyer than when we first put it out there facing the floodplain.Acorns will bounce off the slats and perhaps the new owners will move it or burn it.Poems have poured from my pen on that bench in the wooded solitude.

A few years ago, I took our canoe and dragging it to the river,set sail across and around the islands in the water.It was a shining fall day and being alone on this adventure filled me with joy.Hours spent just drifting,hearing the slap of the beaver's tail,the hawks over head.Wilderness and I.

The offspring of today's deer will come for forgotten corn and the feeder will no longer spill seed for the raucous turkeys.The hummers will go across the street to that grand red feeder and the earth will have forgotten my step.

As I leave,I will have one small colored photo in my hand.Just a glance will bring forth the scents,the sounds,and all of the blessings of this place.All shall be well.

Got a plan???

2011-11-15T07:03:00.000-08:00

Last night, I spoke with a dear friend.She is going through a very difficult time and I can tell that she feels like a rowboat on the ocean being buffeted by squalls and waves as high as the clouds.She is riding the waves and can't find a way to put her feet on sure ground.Her fear of the future is overwhelming.As we talked, it seemed to us that if she had a plan for each coming day of what she would do ,she might be able to get focused on just one day at a time.

The more that I thought of this, the dawning came that I should do this as well.When I worked for BellSouth Mobility, each morning I made a list of what I wanted done that day.I crossed through each item as it was finished with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction.It seems that most of my list-less peers achieved half of what I was able to do and enjoyed the job less.

So what do I do with this unique day? This is my list today.

-Start with this prayer:Creator God, I thank you for this unique, never to be repeated day you have entrusted to me.Show me what to do to make it holy.

-Get outside for at least ten minutes.We were made for the natural world and we need to witness the trees,leaves,colors, breeze and sounds.

-Write something on my blog.

-Ask the people that I live with if I can do something for them.

-Take the hand of someone I love and hold it this day for a few minutes.Look in their eyes.

-Call a friend to see how they are.

I have done half of these and am having a very "present",good day.
Small things you say and I agree but what would it feel like for us to view each day as a gift that we can do something with.Let's plan for that.Many people plan for retirement,death,etc.and just let life happen.Carpe Diem,seize this day, savor it and share the love.

this is how it works,let us rejoice

2011-11-09T16:01:00.000-08:00

How does a bundle that appears in my mailbox contain three such perfect books ?One a travel journal,and two others,the Wildflowers of the Northeast.These sent by a dear high school friend,lost and then found after fifty years.Thank you ,Mark Zuckerberg.

This is how the flow of gifts works, like soft clouds moving across the sky.Blown by a benevolent spirit through whispers and urgings.The wants of our heart are deep beneath our conscious thoughts but the wind knows.

I spent a wonderful lunch in a Thai restaurant with this golden friend and we were right back to where we were when we took off the cap and gown and headed toward adulthood.At my high school reunion, we laughed again with tears at our misadventures and in February she is coming for a visit.It is with deep pleasure that I contemplate this.

This coming back together was not an accident.After connecting on Facebook,it seems that the place in Florida where she lives just happened to be where my husband's Army reunion was being held last January.And so it goes.

Back to the books.Although we chatted at the reunion, Joan had no way of knowing that in March,I am travelling to Australia for a few weeks for my son's wedding.Nor could she know that this same son just moved to the Northeast,loves Peterson's guides and wildflowers.

thick clouds blocked my view

2011-11-09T15:24:00.000-08:00

photo by Dr.Clarissa Pinkola Estes

Today, an e-mail came and the word that jumped out at me was "dark".One of my faithful reader friends noted that my post brought this word to his mind.It is true and I needed to hear that because it helped me see that my mind has been absorbed these last few days by the scandals and horrific news around me.I had forgotten my blessing bowl.

I went to the woods,that place whose winds and trees cleanse me of all thought that does not do it homage.I wrote:"This day has never been before nor have these trees ever been this tall.The small acorn that just fell behind me wasn't on the slender oak last year.This is its time-today-to fall and bounce on the earth.

The woods are quiet,the floor damp; yellow streaks catch my eye as leaves drift to gently cover the acorn.The vacuum waits in the bedroom, silver in the corner as the sun hits it and I sit in the woods.What is more important,the ten pieces of dark lint on the rug or the sights of this one day that will never come again ?"

And so the bowl fills with this quiet ,this surety that the God of Jacob set this in motion.That this beauty,the red,yellow,orange leaves is his.

The Word for today says:"along the banks of the river,fruit trees of every kind shall grow,their leaves shall not fade,nor their fruit fail.....they shall be watered by the flow from the sanctuary.... their fruit shall serve as food and their leaves for medicine."....Ezec.47:12

We are being watered by this river of grace that enables this arbor to always feed, comfort and heal;that is our charge this day that will never come again.And the Lord of Hosts is with us as our stronghold.

How did this happen?

2011-11-07T14:50:00.000-08:00

This posting is a not the usual fare for me but my thoughts are swirling and I need to lay them out and see what's there.

By all accounts,the Penn State Football program is one of the cleanest, most student centered in the nation.No NCAA violations, no thugs coming out of jail to play running back.A strong moral coach who has given his life to develop student athletes.What then can one say but,"How did this happen?" How could one of his former coaches be seen sexually abusing a ten year old by a Graduate Student in the school locker room? And since this wasn't that student's son, he ran away from the scene and the rape continued.God help us.

This seems to dovetail with a horrendous story that has the Chinese society doing some introspection.A two year old toddler wandered away from home there and into traffic.A mini-bus hit her,the driver kept going and 16 people walked or biked by until finally another truck hit her and she died.Authorities said that instant help might have saved her.Was she left to die because she was a female?

In the People's Republic of China couples are allowed one child.Forced abortion is common and it is not a stretch to think that the parents of this tiny little girl are childless now.

The leaves in the woods are yellowing and it looks like golden mist out there.The cool air refreshes and the rich smell of decaying leaves seems to hang in the darkening sky.It looks like all is well and there is no evil.But in the place in Pennsylvania that they call Happy Valley, a dark figure walks slowly around the green grass.His smile is horrifying to see as he thinks of the pain he has caused to boys,parents,students,coaches,a whole community.This chaos is his job and we ignore what he does at our peril.

"For God formed man to be imperishable;the image of his own nature he formed him.But by the envy of the evil one,death has entered the world,and they who are in his possession experience it". Wis 2:23-24

mantra

2011-11-02T09:31:00.001-07:00

Today's psalm is one that is so familiar, so often read at funerals, that I think the words float listlessly over the hearer into the ether,unheard.The words at the end of the 23rd Psalm are the ones that sing to me..."surely, goodness and kindness shall follow me all the days of my life..."

Through grace,this has come to be my mantra and think of what those words ,engraved in a heart, can do for one's outlook.

I quote from a book that I am reading,"A Tree Full of Angels";:Every gift that we receive feeds the little flame that we are."The secret is to recognize the subtle,small gifts as they are strewn around our world like pennies from a Bounteous hand.....

Yesterday's gifts:

-after All Saint's Mass, a new friend,Tim, came over and we chatted, laughed and after sharing our lives, did Centering Prayer deeply together for twenty minutes.The silence enfolded us.

-later, my second son Kevin called and we compared notes about our High School reunions,his twentieth and my fiftieth.He related how he reached out to those standing alone and complimented those that shared their successes.I told him how unusual that was for anyone to do that and I was proud of him.We almost cried on the phone.

-While watching Case Histories on PBS, the scenes of Scotland please me so much recalling the beauty of that green rain soaked country and the helpfulness of its citizens to two lost Yankees last September.

A mantra defines who were are as we stumble along.It colors what we see and what it means.The end of that Psalm is;"And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever."To me that means here and now depending on my mantra.What is yours and how does it serve you?

the red brick house and I meet again

2011-10-30T12:34:00.000-07:00

I recently went to a high school reunion on Long Island.Since we had allowed plenty of time,we drove to my old neighborhood.My heart always beats a bit faster as I see the familiar;Bedford Ave.,California Ave., and finally Webster St.

The house which was built in the early forties sits on the corner.We pulled up and I felt no terror and a small smile crept onto my face.Home.It looks better then it ever did, this small red-brick cape with two white trimmed dormers,a garage and a small side patio that was never used.The front door that had been dark oak and had a myriad of scratches from dogs trying to get out, is now a smooth light brown.

The purple scented lilacs are gone as are the salmon, red and pink azaleas but that's O.K. because the house seems more open,available.A stone path snakes up to the front door and over that is the dormer window to the cloister that was my haven for twenty three years.In that room,my friend Bobby used to sit with me while I did my homework.His house across the street was enveloped in the gloom of a dying parent.It was his haven too, although he may not have realized it at the time.Holy space.

The wonderful, enormous maples that guarded the house were removed several years ago as the roots kept lifting the sidewalk.I took pleasure in seeing that the new growing oaks are doing the same thing.

I wonder about this house,how I would feel about it if I wasn't content with my life.Would I blame the past,the fights,shame and despair that hung between its walls?In that dormer, a thin auburn haired girl who loved to sing decided that her life would be a different one than the ones being lived downstairs and so it is.

mindfulness

2011-10-20T09:42:00.000-07:00

I have a dear friend who,when she became a Buddhist, gave me the Rosary that her favorite Aunt had given here when she was a child.It has a sterling silver cross and crystal beads and is quite beautiful.I have lost it twice and twice it has come back to me.I treasure it and our twenty year friendship.

Perhaps because of her,I am open to learning about Buddhist thought and find some aspects very interesting.When I wander through the gentle teaching often I will bump up against the idea of mindfulness.It is hard for me to get my mind around this in a behavior changing way .If you are doing dishes,do dishes and focus your mind on that not on the person who cut you off in traffic three weeks ago.Be present to the present moment as much as possible.

If we are in the habit of roaming blithely through the land mines of the past or peeking endlessly into the fear fraught,nuclear winter of the future,this change is not easy.Scripture supports this "present" notion when encouraging us to not worry about the future,it has it's own challenges.Most of what we worry about never happens so we are tarnishing the present with worthless negatives.

I have for a very long time been afraid of heaven.I know a Christian should be headed that way and looking forward to it.It's the idea of forever that stops me cold.Like falling off a cliff into infinity.That is so scary to me.Whatever I am doing will NEVER end.I can't handle that.I know, with our limited minds we think in finite terms so we can't get it. Maybe the Buddhists can help me here.

We have many accounts of near death experiences that tell us what heaven might be like.Suppose heaven is always the present.Our thoughts are on the bliss we are in,the Love at hand and we don't need or want to be anywhere else in our minds.No future,no fear.No past,no pain.Just now and it is exactly what we were made for.It fits who we were created to be.Completely.I can do that.

light

2011-10-16T09:40:00.000-07:00

I have a special feeling for the word "light".It may be my most loved word.Perhaps it's because the days are getting shorter now that I think of this.

Do you have a word that when you see it or hear it ,you feel yourself lean inwardly towards it ?Light....warmth....clarity...focus...
tending toward to the good...

My sister died three years ago on the Feast of St.Lucy,December 13.She was a martyr whose name Lucia means light.My older sister suffered from life-long depression and that word brings a different feeling.It feels heavy,life-less,grey.A rainbow would be grey without light.I am so comforted that her death fell on this feast.As she left this world,she must have seen what so many near death sufferers see,the light at the end of a tunnel.

I think of the enchanting colors of that troubled painter,Van Gogh and how he brought this shining not only with his art but with his many works of charity.I think that angels are all light that our clouded vision cannot see;they are bright shimmering beings because they are only about reflecting the Light.We are dimmer beings.

A letter from a dear friend fits this theme perfectly.She had been given a box of wonderful chocolates by a friend while she spent time in the hospital visiting her husband.She savored the thought of the deliciousness for hours until she was leaving the hospital.There stood the security guard who had kept them safe for days and she handed him the box and thanked him.His smile filled the Florida night sky,she said.

Shine.

the meeting

2011-10-13T17:22:00.000-07:00

The small cafe is almost empty on this bright Fall morning.I walk in and gaze across the wood floor to a lighted booth in the corner.He turns, smiles and stands.I drift towards my friend and we embrace for a few seconds.

I have not seen him for twenty-five years and yet the sparkle in the eye,the mischief of that long ago boy is still there.I relax and know that we will once again connect.

I have so many things that I want to know.How did he get to this distant state?Why did he leave our town?What are the things that give him pleasure in the here and now?What does he remember with satisfaction? What does he believe?These are things that can't be conveyed in e-mails.

I recall once he wrote of the feeling that he has when he is in a crowd, of seperateness and aloneness.I want to talk about that and tell him what I have learned about that state of being.And to remind him how easily we talked back then.

We have prayed for each other over the last few years;our families,our health issues.I hope that I can tell him that I feel that support and it matters.

The hour or two flies by as it always did and it's time to return to our lives.I don't like the good-bye.

natural wonders

2011-10-12T15:53:00.000-07:00

Today, I was sitting on our porch,wrapped in a blanket ,when a small hawk crashed into the screen and plopped to the ground,stunned.He lay there for a few seconds twitching slightly,his beautiful striped grey and white tail feathers moving.It was dreadful to see and then,he recovered and took off in what I can only say was a flash.Gone.

This has been a Fall of wonder,of surprising natural happenings in our part of the world.A monarch butterfly crawled out of a tiny hole in her cocoon and emerged in all her orange,black and white glory.She had begun as a caterpillar in New York,hung upside down as a chrysalis on a plant of mine and then emerged on a leaf on that plant on my porch in Georgia.I whisper a safe journey for her trip to Mexico.

We have had three turkeys visit the spot under our bird feeder,and at least ten of them stirred such a noise in the woods one day that I was chased into the house in fear.I wonder if the coyote whose scat I see had hunted them down ?

The deer come for the corn and the hummers are still here,three of them.One day soon that whirring and clicking sound of approach will stop and leave a small sadness.

When we moved here twenty years ago we had just a slight understanding that the Flint River was behind us.None of these woodland visitors would be here without this slow moving ,quiet, naturally flowing river;so mightly named by the Indians.Thronateeska.The mighty Flint.

the butterfly appears

2011-10-07T16:00:00.000-07:00

Things occur in my life that have a way of lightly settling in my mind and staying there demanding my mental exploration.These are gifts,unexpected and having deep meaning for me.

In 2009,I purchased a plant at Wal-Mart that looks like bamboo but is called a good luck plant.Mine has done very well,flourishing out green and full.When we planned to go to New York for three months, I knew that I had to take it as it needs watering twice a week.The summer turned into a muddle of trips back and forth to home and at one point, I had to stick my loved plant in a small stream in the shade so that I could come home.Amazingly, it made it 'til my next trip to the mountains.

In September,my husband brought our three months of clothes,tools,books and my plants back home.The lucky plant had been on an open porch and as I watered it,I noticed a small dark green tube hanging from one of the leaves.I left it alone wondering if it held baby spiders or what.The next morning,I came to the plant and the tube was empty, a hole was in the bottom and it looked translucent.On another leaf was a gorgeous Monarch butterfly.Absolutely new and perfect.

How does this happen?I know that a caterpillar attaches itself to the underside of a leaf,wraps itself up in a chrysalis made from it's own stuff and eventually it turns into a butterfly and comes out.But where do the spines of the caterpillar go?What magic forms those spines into colorful wings?How does this big butterfly fit into that small tube?In the picture attached you can see that the tube to the right of the butterfly is not even half its size.And then as if this weren't enough,this being, attached in New York,appearing in Georgia, will find its way to Mexico.

I knew there was more to the musing going on in my soul.I found it in a book about Hildegard of Bingen.This is what the Lord revealed to her...."You've watched a butterfly climb out of a cocoon,unfurl its wings ,and fly away from its chrysalis, leaving it behind?In the Eucharistic offering ,the bread and wine also undergo a transformation into My Son's body and blood.This must be accepted by faith".

Anything and everything are possible.

an extraordinary man

2011-10-03T14:59:00.000-07:00

Today,the Church celebrates the life of one of the best known men to walk the planet.His appeal is extraordinary considering that he lived over 800 years ago and died in his forties.

I didn't really "get" Francis of Assisi until I saw what he wore and where he slept.Hanging in the lower church of the Basilica that bears his name in Assisi is his robe.If you can call it that.We were there in 2004, in June and it was stifling hot with a breeze nowhere to be felt.And there it hung, a patched burlap looking brown thing that one could see plainly would be scratchy,especially in the heat I was feeling.I had on a white, light, soft shirt that let the air flow and I shuddered to think what that patched,hole-ridden shirt must have felt like.

In Cortona, we hiked down to Le Celle,a hermitage,which was another place that Francis stayed in occasionally.Behind the church altar was his plain cell and in the corner his wooden slatted bed and the rock that was his pillow.

In the small bare church at Le Celle ,I knelt to pray.The hike to this place was long and tiring and my feet were screaming for mercy.We had gone downhill the whole way and I knew there was no way I could walk back up so I told my husband he would have to get a cab.He scowled at that demand as we spoke no Italian and he was envisioning a nightmare coming.As the quiet enveloped me, I heard this,"Walk back."Clear as a chapel bell was this request.The Shepherd had spoken and I nodded.As we left I told John that I would walk and he was surprised.We weren't a quarter of a mile up the road when a car stopped to gave us a ride.

I think of this when I contemplate the life of deprivation Francis chose.He owned nothing,gave every morsel of food away, lived out in the elements and tended the people who had once most repelled him,lepers.

In the silence of the Tuscan hills, Francis was given his tasks and he did what he was asked.This is why we fear quiet and neglect to pray.

wistful

2011-09-18T12:58:00.000-07:00

Speak breeze, of autumn pleasures.Gentle leaves twisting this way and down.Full moon brilliant on the lawn;squirrels crashing through the dried leaves,summer love coming to a time together deprived end.Shorter days and deeper sleep.

The color of pumpkins is something that I see nowhere else in this startlingly clear air.And then the last rain will take the leaves away and remove any trace of warmth.

The falling leaves in Georgia do not in anyway compare with the brillance of the trees up North.I have gotten used to the more muted hues and a few years ago ,found the foliage in New York to be gaudy.But maybe I was just consoling myself because I miss there in this season.

I recall romances coming to an end after summer and missing the presence of special loves."The sunburned hands I used to hold...." There is a wistful tenor to this change that is coming;I can't say why. Who would want to stay in the heat for a second longer?For now I will just hear the sounds and feel the coolness.

angels in New York?

2011-09-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

I finally emptied my summer purse this afternoon and a name and e-mail address fell out.With so many things going on lately,I had forgotten that an angel showed up on the New York Thruway this Summer.

On August 8,my husband and I left Long island in his ten year old Ram truck and headed for the Thruway and upstate New York.Traffic was brutal on every highway we took and my blood pressure was soaring.We had just taken a flight from Atlanta with standby passes and you know how stressful that can be.

It was pouring rain when we arrived at the Sloatsburg Travel Plaza for coffee.We started to relax because we had finally left the city.When we got back in the truck,it wouldn't start.Arghhh!!!!It had sat on Long island for a month and the battery had given all it's juice to the New York sky.What to do with this unexpected "gift"?

The space in front of our truck was empty and just then a young slender man with close cropped hair pulled in and I saw him glance our way.He looked away and then turned and came towards us.For more than a hour, he tried everything to start our truck.As his car was trying to charge our battery ,he went inside to get coffee,the only reason he had stopped.He finally suggested we call the HELP truck that services the thruway and went on his way home from work.That truck got us started and off we went only to stall at the next exit where we got off the thruway to get a new battery.

A huge tow truck came for us and the burly driver was just wonderful.He took me to a motel and my husband to a engine shop and the next day we finally left for the mountains.

My husband was curious about my calm demeanor through the whole ordeal.I guess that I am known to go off the deep end under stress.Mea culpa.I pondered his words and I realized that after the first wonderful offer of help ,I just rested in the thought that we were in "Good Hands".

So, to the two Steves,one with an Island accent who would accept no payment for his help and one with a Celtic cross tattoo on his leg,fluff your wings and take a bow.The Kingdom of God is made of people like you.

wisdom

2011-09-05T14:14:00.000-07:00

"Keep a clear eye on life's end.Do not forget your purpose and destiny as God's creature.What you are in His sight is what you are and nothing more.Do not let worldly cares and anxieties ...blot out the divine life within you or the voice of God's Spirit guiding you in your great task of leading humanity to wholeness.If you open yourself to God and His plan printed deeply in your heart,God will open Himself to you."

Francis of Assisi

greeness

2011-08-31T11:50:00.000-07:00

When I was a child,my sister and I received a monthly paperback children's book and one year the publishers decided to make the background of each page a pale green.This was restful to the eyes,the thinking went and I recently read that students who overlay a pale green plastic sheet on a text page retain more information.Interesting.

When my youngest son was ten, he and I went to a nearby park and with sweat dripping, we tagged a small oak that was being choked by other saplings.In the fall of that year, we went back and looked for the pink ribbon as all the leaves were gone.Something about digging up that winsome tree and transplanting it in our yard stirred the soul of the future biologist and he has mentioned it many times.For his graduation, I snuck into the yard of that house that we no longer own.The oak has to be over 30 feet tall and gloriously green.I took a picture and framed it as his gift.I think that he liked it.

I thought of this today as I was reading a novel about Hildegarde of Bingen,a Dominican nun who lived in 1098-1179 and whose writings are becoming better known.She speaks of the importance to her sisters of decorating the altar in December with green boughs because of the deep need for green in the bare grey winter in North Germany.I understand this.

This all seemed to be a "co-incidence" when I looked over today's scripture and especially the Psalm:"But I, like a green olive tree in the house of God,trust in the kindness of God forever and ever."Ps.52-10.

I pondered this and then did some research.What is the importance of that particular tree?Some of these marvels have lived for over two thousand years.Amazing.They are full of sap and if one is planted in a garden,it will probably outlive the planter.They produce fruit,beautiful wood,olive oil and leaves for tea.The products can be medicinal.

Regeneration is green.Life and growth are green.

So what am I to be in the house of the Lord? Fruitful,hardy,growing,full of the sap of God's word.A living witness to the "goodness of your name".Ps.52-11.

you duped me

2011-08-28T09:01:00.000-07:00

The reading today from Jeremiah sounds strange to my ears."You duped me ,Oh Lord, and I let myself be duped."Jeremiah loved God but was a reluctant prophet.He goes on and on in scripture complaining how people hate him because he tells God's truth.He moans that although he tries not to share the Lord's name with others,a burning starts in his heart that can only be relieved if he obeys and speaks.Poor Jeremiah.

A few times I have felt that burning.There was a day in 1984 when I was "forced" to call an old friend who I knew was suffering unhappiness.The opinion of this friend was so important to me and I wanted to do anything else but call him and tell him of God's great love for him.With heart pounding,I dialed and we spoke.I shared what I believed God wanted him to know.It was a short call and I could tell that he was uncomfortable.

I belive that the duping is accomplished by God's great love.It is like a warm,melted gold stream that looks for the small cracks,the fissures in our defenses,our masks and it slips in and goes around,over and through until we are snared and His.He is the potter and we ,the clay.

Jeremiah had no choice and neither did I that day.Twenty five years later I ,by grace, found out that the dreaded phone call which spoke of that river of warm gold,had transformed a life.

"Sing to the Lord ,praise the Lord,for he has rescued the life of the poor from the power of the wicked."Jer 20:13

the wooden bowl

2011-08-22T16:43:00.000-07:00

When I awaken in these cooler summer mornings in Georgia,the first thing I see is a plain wooden bowl that I found in a thrift shop.It is obviously hand hewn and has been used many times.

The sight of it starts my day with this thought:what gifts will fall into this poor empty bowl today if I hold it out and keep my eyes open? Buddhist monks are known to walk around with their empty bowls.The hope is that lay buddhists will fill it with either money or food.In this way, the monks who own nothing ,will be taken care of.Could I do this?Detachment,humility.

On Sunday,we took our grandchildren to Mass in their town.Before Mass, we read the scriptures for the day and we talked about them.The readings had to do with the Keys of the Kingdom and how we also have keys that the powerless do not.The middle son who is 9 mentioned the touch pad that opens their garage.He was getting it.The oldest boy,13, spoke of a child in his class whose parents don't care about him.We decided that we could use our power to smile at the powerless in our lives.A start.I place that memory of their openness in my bowl.

After Mass, the middle child who has brilliant auburn hair and deep thoughtful eyes,came over and gave me a big hug.Gratitude,hope? I didn't
ask,I just gently dropped it in the bowl.

Today, a memory came from over thirty years ago.I used to read books by a wonderful,joy filled young author,Ann Kiemel, in the eighties.Her books glowed with light and helped my meager faith considerably.I found her today on Facebook.One of her recent post starts with..."I believe,I believe,I believe even when life is torn apart...even when the sun doesn't shine.".I so needed to read that.Soft as a feather,this thought drifts to the bottom of my bowl.

an old desk,a thread and Love

2011-08-04T12:13:00.000-07:00

Something steals over him,in that empty basement that is hot and airless on this Sunday,August 16,1939 in the South.He brushes his stringy hair from his liquid hazel eyes and picks up a pencil.On a whim ,he writes on the bottom of the desk drawer..."I sit here in the basement little realizing what is to come.I can hear Mama singing her beautiful songs,I have just finished the desk and am in a deep philosophical mood...May God bless Our Father,"

He starts to get up to call his mother down so she can admire his work when he feels impelled to add something else.He cuts a phrase from a book and tapes it to the same surface and only then does he feel that his work is done.He walks up the steep basement steps and out of our story.

On another sweltering day in Georgia,an attractive brown haired young woman drives passed an antique/junk store and stops.She sees what she needs out in front of the store.Because she is starting a new job that requires her to work from home,she needs a desk.On this day,however,she is so bowed in grief that a decision to purchase what she sees is beyond her.Her mind is like a pin ball machine, thoughts
carrening around as if her life is on tilt.It is.

In the glorious evening air of Puerto Rico in January of 2011,she has married the man of her dreams.He is gentle,bright and good,not to metion gorgeous.She never thought that she could be this happy.They are both in their early thirties with life like a shining gold lame' carpet spread out before them.

That was before the June 19th phone call from a friend ,telling her that she had lost him to a heart attck.She is devastated beyond words.

On July 1st,she goes back to the store.The desk is no longer out front.She fears it has been sold but when she enters the store it is right there as she walks in and the man at the counter offers it to her for eight dollars.She didn't realize how much she wanted it until that moment and then it fits perfectly into her small car.

A desk is just a desk,isn't it?Can it be something else?The Spirit,the Comforter,weaves lives together for His own purpose.Urges one human to add a note under the desk drawer for a person yet unborn,who would need this particular grace on July 1,2011.The printed note said,"Cast your burden on the Lord and He will sustain you."

unexpected graces

2011-07-24T13:46:00.000-07:00

It's a hot,sunny afternoon in Georgia.My second son married yesterday in a lovely ceremony.The presider was an Army chaplain who used to run the mountains of Colorado with my son and now ministers to Army families.In his reflection, he enjoined the newly married couple to continue to bring light to the world.My son and his new wife have done that often in the last few years;aiding a poor single-mother family monthly with food and clothes ,all from their own salaries and other acts of love.

Scripture says that those who love the poor will be healed on their sick beds and have a special place in the heart of God.And so I expect them to continue to shine their lights and help others.

I was especially struck by the five young men who ran with my son in high school on their high school cross country team.They came from Dallas,Seattle and Portland and closer places to be with my son on his special day.And from across the room I could see their so familiar faces still connecting in hilarity.I am going to send them thank you notes;they made this mother very happy.

We were tired at church this morning.The announcement from the altar of the passing of a lady that I have known for 40 years was a shock.Her family was there and I noticed her grown son in his head down grief.A young boy,an adopted child of an other family, saw him too and reached across from his pew and took the sad man in his thin arms and they held onto each other for awhile.The Body of Christ.

missing

2011-07-21T15:16:00.000-07:00

When I am in the mountains and can't post on this blog,I feel that an important piece of my soul's balance is missing.I don't read the scriptures with the same focus because I have no place to put my musings.

In the mountains,there is no Internet access and so when I go back,I'll leave my PC here.The twenty five mile trip to the library and the half hour restricted access is not conducive to the flow of thoughts that makes up what I put here. Mating a picture with a story is such a creative rush for me.

Today,I met with the four ladies who make up a prayer group that I have been in that meets monthly and has for almost 20 years.One friend spoke of a small thing that happened to her that seemed to fit beautifully with my last post about encounters.

She felt led to go into the small chapel at our church and thank God for the elevation of our former pastor,a Franciscan priest, to the post of the Bishop of Savannah.As she came out of the church, a van pulled up and a man got out and came over to her.
He wanted to know if our church had a French Mass.Well, we do actually and this newest refugee from Africa was warmly welcomed and told about the active French speaking group in our Church.His wife speaks no English.How happy they must have felt as they drove away that they had found a place to belong.

What if my friend had said "no" to that chapel urge? Small things that weave the Kingdom together.

Ichi go,ichi e.

2011-07-18T13:52:00.000-07:00

This phrase describes a teaching of Japanese Tea Masters which means that a meeting with others is a special occasion that will never occur again and is to be treasured.

How many times in my life have I met and connected with someone just for a few minutes,a brief time and experienced something to treasure?.

There was a young boy that I talked to once at the New York World's Fair in 1965.I was engaged and in my early twenties and he, perhaps ten or eleven.We stopped on a bridge overlooking a meadow and talked about the fair and what we enjoyed.He was open faced,so full of life and easy to speak with that I have never forgotten him.

Once at the Atlanta airport flying home to New York for my Father's funeral, a woman started to talk to me and found out why I was going to New York.She put her hand over her mouth and said,"Isn't that just like a man, always leaving us ?"She then continued to complain about everything that life had done to her.I had to smile.

I have a friend who was so angry at her family that she got into her car,drove to the Atlanta Airport and went into the chapel to be alone.A young woman walked in , broke down in sobs and thinking that my friend was a chaplain,shared her pain.Amazing.

I was in a Yoga class once and a young girl kept falling over in this one complicated stand.She was deaf and perhaps because of that her balance was off but she smiled through it all.In my mind,I can see her blonde hair and crooked smile and I remember Mickey for her pluck.

Perhaps the briefest encounter came a few summers ago when I was driving past a house in the Catskills.A middle aged man was coming down a path and he smiled and waved.He seemed so friendly that I waved back with a happy smile.I later found out that he was the Skakel that is now in jail for the murder of 15 year old Martha Moxley back in the 70s when he was a teenager.He seemed so nice and if I had known should I have witheld my wave?

I wonder how open I am now to these encounters.

gifts from a generous Hand

2011-07-10T09:54:00.000-07:00

My youngest son just completed his course work for a doctorate in Biology.My second son is getting married to a lovely girl, who adores him,in two weeks.My heart swells with appreciation for their lives and accomplishments.I have written before about the many achievements of my other son and daughter.

The most tears, however, were shed when my second son received a wedding card addressed to me.It was from my dearest friend and former neighbor,Hildegarde.In the card she congratulated both sons and then told the story of the Easter when my youngest was a toddler.She invited all four of my children over to look for nests of eggs.Each had their own to find...I'll let her tell the rest.."I remember the Easter that you all four came over to my house,dressed so pretty.You,Jessica and Michael found your Easter nest but not Sean.He was so little at the time.His lips began to quiver ,he was so close to tears.But you three gently stood in the way and then pushed him towards his nest.It was a long time ago."

This is who they were,my children,and this is who they still are.And I can't thank God enough for the gift of them.

first mile

2011-07-07T15:48:00.000-07:00

Who am I? How would I describe myself? Once,when I was in my early fifties, a wrecker driver picked me up when my car broke down.He then got on his phone and told his dispatch person that he had just picked up an elderly woman.He wished he hadn't,when I finished with him.I think it went like this."Listen Bubba,I ran three miles this morning,did you?"

The 43 year old woman is slumped forward in a chair in an Atlanta suburban backyard.Her auburn hair hangs limply and her brown business suit is wrinkled and damp.It is July 20,1986 and her 37 mile commute is over but the four hungry teenagers need dinner and the laundry is piled high.She prays:"Help me,Lord,I don't want to live if I have to be this tired."In the humid silence, a whisper,"Run".

Oozing snark, she thinks,"Oh sure,one more thing on my hideously loaded plate.One more thing to wear me out.Again,"run".So she drags herself upstairs and finds old red and white tennis shoes, goes outside and runs up the block.In 8 minutes and 34 seconds, she has run a mile and with a satified smile and brighter eyes, she starts to make dinner.And so it began.

One foot in front of the other,mile after mile:in pelting rain,snow,through woods ,up hills,with her dogs,kids,friends and several times with 60,000 other runners through the streets of Atlanta on the Fourth of July.

Mostly though, she plodded alone, battling discomfort to achieve a goal;three miles,that hill,this race.

All the while, a small silver chisel was carving these words into her psyche","If you can do this,you can do anything,athlete."

old glory

2011-06-14T12:58:00.001-07:00

heading North

2011-06-14T08:40:00.001-07:00

To those faithful readers who bless me with their comments and to those who drop in
once in a while,I am heading North to the New York mountains where I hope to write with my feet dangling in the brook.

Posting will be something else.May just be weekly trips to the library.

I am looking forward to spending time in the beautiful valley that has held my footsteps since I was a toddler.My grandmother,Honorah, bought the property and her spirit is there to walk with me.

Have a delighful Summer wherever you are and please drop in still,once in awhile.....

eternal lotus

2011-06-13T10:17:00.000-07:00

Night retiring,surging up from the mud,what did you see underwater while I slept ?Was it as wonderful as what I saw?

On the first day, the sun came up from you,oh everlasting bloom.You come and go as wise thoughts do.

You are a gift to all who think they are not "enough".I hold you in my palm and smile.Healing,coming back at palest light.

Simple, pure thoughts attend.

2011-06-12T10:52:00.000-07:00

a monastery in Romania

Beyond that collection of boots and shoes is a small cell.The walls of the cell are plain;a cross,a bed with a white cotton cover,a small rustic writing table and a worn Book.

Does the thought of that room scare you?Or does it calm your heart and cause a whisper of joy to stir.This picture is of a quiet,secret place that the monk uses for prayer.One not need to be a monk to find such a place but for most there are challenges.I have a bench in the woods that is my cell.However, most months it is too hot or buggy to use.St.Francis pulled his hood over his head and that was his cell.

To me,the life of prayer,the discipline of it is as necessary as breathe.If I stop praying, my thinking changes.The spirit world becomes unreal instead of being a mist all around me.So I must pray.I pray that I will never stop praying.And sometimes I would rather not.

Thomas Merton ,the Trappist monk ,knew about this:

"The greatest joy in life is to give up yourself altogether for the honor and glory of God,to know that you belong to him entirely,that your will is known and possessed by His love.Anything that tends to that end,any sacrifice,therefore,brings joy and happiness,even though it may be bitter to the flesh."

How does the picture affect you?

take down the dulcimer

2011-06-12T10:26:00.000-07:00

"Today,like every other day,we wake up empty
and frightened.Don't open the door to the study
and begin reading.Take down the dulcimer.

Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground"

Rumi

are you a writer?

2011-06-11T08:05:00.000-07:00

I am.An unpublished,probably never to be published writer,who has found this deep well of grace inside that strains to be out.This is all I know.That the world I see,smell and revel in, needs to find its way through me and onto a page.

The extraordinary glimpses of the invisible world,the surprises,never to be imagined answers to prayers, need to be held up so the sparkles can be seen.Like a strobe light turning again and again to catch each panel's shining.

I once walked a labyrinth and in that still green meadow heard this:"find a way to let the "Godness" inside your center flow out into the world."So I watch and listen .I take pictures to capture the moment of beauty or grace and later, in writing ,I poke around in the roots of the happening to see its meaning.

I am a writer of bounty,of surprises,answered prayers,sparkles,and reveling.Writing.

day lilies

2011-06-10T07:56:00.001-07:00

Is there anything sadder looking than a lily, the day after?It hangs,shriveled,dripping and dead.I clip the dead flowers each morning so the others don't have to be near this sad,useless thing.More than once I have thought,"Why can't they last longer?"

I have read that scientists are working on this very thing:to extend the blooming time of a day lily.Isn't this so "us"?Not satisfied with these gorgeous,multi-budded flowers.Wanting to make them better.But the question arises,how many days is enough?Will a Two Day Lily satisfy?I can hear the grumbling,"only two days."Maybe we can make them bloom in January with a little work.

But the lily blooms for one day in many colors and in hardy abundance.These are the lilies that Scripture said will be taken care of by the generous God.They don't pout because they have just one day.I am here for just a day as well when I consider the eons of time.

This brings to mind a Chinses saying that I have read,"If you have two loaves of bread ,go and sell one and buy a lily."

walking with the sun

2011-06-10T07:13:00.000-07:00

I took a walk with the sun this morning leaving dark and dreams behind.The orange day lilies turned to watch.

An indigo bunting glows its color at the feeder.Dew drops on the edges of the rose leaves suggest an aboriginal dot painting.

Small quick wing shadows and a wren sings.
Each new turning holds an open hand-here this is for you.What do you see?

One is never alone as long as there are chickadees.

In my fantasy world...

2011-06-09T12:58:00.000-07:00

There is something that draws me to humble people.I am not alone in this.The other day ,my friend Eva sent a YouTube video of a young Korean singer performing on Korea Has Talent.As they spoke to him before his performance he mentioned that he doesn't sing very well but he enjoys it and that's why he was there.

In his checkered shirt and blue jeans, he bowed to the three judges and let loose in Italian.My,oh my.He chose Nell Fantasia from an Italian opera.This beautiful piece has been done by the Celtic Women and I first heard it as the haunting background music in the great movie,The Mission, with Robert DeNiro.Beautiful,challenging music and there this boy was,this orphan from the age of three, this street kid from the age of five,who slept for years in public toilets,untrained,opening his mouth to let magic out,to offer beauty to the world.

Listen to the words that are this song:

"In my fantasy world I see a fair world.
Where everyone lives in peace and honesty.
I dream of a place to live that is always free,
Like a cloud that floats,
Full of humanity in the depths of the soul.

In my fantasy world,I see a bright world.
Where each night there is less darkness.
Like the clouds that float.

In my fantasy world exists a warm wind,
That breathes into the city like a friend.
I dream of souls that are always free,
Like the cloud that floats,
Full Humanity in the depths of the soul."

I posted this on Facebook and another friend added this blessing for the singer,this hope for him ,"And I will repay you for the years which the locust has eaten."Joel2:25.

To Eva,Margo and Sung Bong Choi;a deep bow.

the brook...

2011-05-19T11:38:00.001-07:00

It was on a bright blue sky day with the suggestion of a breeze that I took my journal down to the brook.We had company and I missed my writing/meditation time by the flowing stream.It was the Summer of 2004 at our house in the Catskill Mountains.I made my way down the brook to a pool, that had been formed by the neighbors across the street, with logs,boulders and sticks.I sat on the logs and closed my eyes to hear what was around me.In a few minutes the brook seemed to have taken over my mind in such a wondrous way.

Streaming through my mind were memories of joy,times of satisfaction,happiness and grace.It was as if a faucet had been turned on and only golden light was allowed to flow.It was glorious and so calming.I can't find the words.I have never read about anything like this but it happened that day in July.

Soon my niece's husband and son came down the brook and the spell was broken.Was it water sprites,or a moment in heaven.? Is that what heaven will be like;golden,flowing thoughts ?I hold this memory close in wonder.It reminds me of a poem I was looking for the other day.I have loved it always.

Memory

My mind lets go a thousand things,Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,
And yet recalls the very hour-
One noon by yonder village tower,
And on the last blue noon in May-
The wind came briskly up this way,
Crisping the brook beside the road;
Then,pausing there,set down its load
Of pine-scents,and shook listlessly
Two petals from that wild-rose tree.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich

Have you had such a moment?

crow dog

2011-05-18T10:31:00.000-07:00

Wandering and pecking in my yard are three crows in their black shiny garb.My husband calls them crow dogs.He swears they are big enough to walk on a leash.One is on the birdbath and is the size of a football.This is the first year that I have noticed them although they squawk from the swamp once in awhile.

I do love the sound of their call.Robins suggest summer evenings under the maples on Long Island but crows sing of the valley in the Catskills where I went for summers as a child.

Of course, to the farmers, who were many when I was small,they were crop thieves and so the proverbial scarecrow would be erected with floppy hat and long arms to attempt to fool them.The men of the earth had great respect for their intelligence and swore that whatever they did to shoot them was futile.In one of the screens in the house where I summered was a hole the size of the barrel of a gun.A relative would sit and wait but never,no matter how quiet, could they fool these birds.

Recent research has found that they not only use tools but make them and can be taught to talk.Amazing.Their neostriatum,sub cortical part of the fore brain, is comparable in size to chimps and humans.There has been research done in how to train them to pick up trash and dispose of it.Hilarious!!!They also can tell one human from another by face recognition.They have been observed feeding their old and weakened parents.

When I was a child I saw a movie,"Babes in Toyland" and although I have no idea what the movie was about,I recall a terrifying scene where crows were walking around with lit matchsticks setting fires.Lassie,they were not.Does anyone remember that scene?

In 1993,Auburn ,New York was visited by between 25,000 and 50,000 crows and they must have liked it as they are still there.No one knows how to get rid of them or why they came.Sounds like a Tippi Hedren movie to me.

My favorite crow story is in the Buddhist tradition.The first Dali Lama was an infant when robbers attempted to break into the house of his family.The parents fled without the child but when they returned,the infant was being guarded by two crows and the house was undisturbed.

A crow is not a bird but a wonder.

my home is within you

2011-05-17T12:29:00.000-07:00

I don't know why these words from Psalm 87 touch me so much.Is there a more tender,meaningful word than home?My arms feel a bit weak as I type this,almost as if I am treading on holy ground.Home.

I have a dear, unlikely friend who I have known for many years.We visited Kris and her husband in Puerto Rico this March.I could feel a longing in her for a Georgia Spring and was overjoyed to find that she is to move back here in a short while.She wrote..."why not be near family ?"Indeed.

My first home on Long Island was a small red brick cape that I have spoken of often.I have called it a tight,gloomy ship to sail on and it was and still it was wonderful.Many friends, trees and colors of spring around the streets.I lived there for 23 years and it will always have a hold on me.When we go to New York, we always drive by and I am never unmoved.This is the womb where I grew,where I exulted in music,sang all day long and first read Nancy Drew and "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn".

Since then, we have lived in Denver,California,Kentucky and for most of the time,in Georgia.We once left here and moved to a house on a marsh on a secluded island in South Carolina and for a year I walked around in a daze as if my right arm was missing.Such a bad fit for me,just one state over.

Psalm 87 is talking about the home of the chosen people which is the shining city of Jerusalem..."They shall note when the peoples are enrolled there :""This man was born there.""And all shall sing ,in their festive dance:""My home is within you.""Ps.87:6-7

This is why I think I am feeling this scripture so deeply.Our home really is not here and because of that we are never completely "at home" or satisfied,even in the homeplace that does shelter and give us roots.This is the closest we can come to our true home which is within Him,His heart and we cannot get there from here.But we will.

My home is within You.

only this matters

2011-05-15T10:26:00.000-07:00

In September 2010, I went with a friend to a small, ,Southwestern-styled adobe church and retreat house in Alabama.The twenty or so sisters who run the house are young and peppy and the food was good.We stayed from Friday night through Sunday afternoon and even though I loved being there,I am always ready to go home to my family.

My companion and I shared a room.She was the perfect roomie,calm,pleasant and deeply respectful of the quiet times that we were given for prayer.

I spent time walking the grounds,taking pictures, reading the Bible and praying in the small chapel.There were beautiful roses climbing a black wrought iron fence and sweet little purple wildflowers growing between the rocks on the path.Nothing centers and calms me like this type of strolling with soft bells in the distance.

On Saturday night, they planned a novena and veneration of the Eucharist and my plan was to skip that for praying on my own.But then,but then.....a subtle nudge...Go.I thought I had already fully punched my novena card after going to so many in Grammar and High School.Same prayers,same hymns,every Friday for years so I had a perfect excuse not to go but then...I found myself kneeling next to my friend in the chapel with my head bowed.I looked up at the host on the altar in the golden monstrance and these words fell like gentle rain into my heart,"This is all that matters."Period.

Catholics believe that the consecrated host is the Body of Christ and it is He who awaits us after this life.The words that I heard really put things into perspective for me.How many times do I need to be reminded that when I leave here,there will be no 22 inch carrying case going in the overhead bin?It will just be my soul and all the choices I have made over these years.My soul will be shining with gold and bejewelled streamers of love or will be something else.No one will be going with me on this journey and there will be no distractions when I am in the presence of the God of the Universe.The job I didn't get will be the last thing on my mind.Neither the deepest sorrow nor the greatest joy can hold my heart captive in the face of this Truth.He is all that matters.This is a difficult truth to grasp but think of the ramifications if I can take that in and live from it.

summer

2011-05-12T10:30:00.000-07:00

There is a small,pearl covered box that rests on a shelf in my heart.It is there to be opened when I want,but there is a price.It has black and white pictures of innocence........

Of days of sun,play and closeness.
Quiet mornings reading in the deep green shade.
Solid sentinel maples lit from below by a streetlamp.
On a breeze from the South,heavy salt air.
White strong legs finally free.May.
Lilac air;sweet purple,glorious.
Hide and go seek,in the tender,black night.

It is here that we were formed,socially inept,witty and good,yes,good.It is all there in my heart as a gracious gift but with the opening, comes longing.

my house guests

2011-05-10T18:35:00.000-07:00

For at least the last fifteen years,I have had a house wren swoop unto a ledge by my front door at 8:17 each evening to sleep.He tucks his beak under his wing and is motionless 'til sunrise.His spotted tail feathers are just so cute I want to grab and hug him.These nocturnal visit only happen in summer.

The record life expectancy for a wren is seven years, one month so this must be two different wrens.Did the first show the other the spot?How did the first find that perfect little ledge in the first place ?I am so charmed by my little birds that evening guests have to leave by another door so he will not be disturbed.Is that a little loony?

Every morning, the wren is gone and I can hear him calling in the bushes for his mate.Something happened after the last terrible thunderstorm that was very sad for me.I wrote a haiku about it:

After the big storm,
plaintively, the lone wren calls.
there is no answer.

This poem spoke to me of all the loss of life in the South,in the unanswered calls.I just knew the mate had been blown out of a tree and destroyed.But the next night,I was stunned to look at 8:32 and see what the attached picture shows.

Since that night, they have perched together.I sleep better.

the pagoda in the valley

2011-05-09T15:35:00.000-07:00

The humble monk walks slowly up the cinder path to the solitude of the towering pagoda.He is alone and sombre.He has much to reflect on and his hope is that the sacred relics in the place he is seeking will speak to the quiet place in his heart where peace can be found.He can hear the rushing stream,see the sun bathing the snowy mountain tops a pale pink and he rejoices in the things with which he is gifted by his senses.Already his spirit is quieting.

This painting that enchants me so, was created by my granddaughter in her second grade class.It won first place and was displayed in an art center in Dawsonville this Spring.Finally on Mother's Day, I got to see it and in a moment I will never forget,it was given to me by a small,delicate hand as a special gift.So many entities in the picture lure me, the color of the mountains,the blue, curving stream, the simple bridge,the mottled blue sky and finally the sacred space,the pagoda.

Dancing with the memory of this treasured gift is another one. After Frisbee,Chinese food, gifts and cards,she was in the middle of the room and turned and came towards me.She is slight, freckled with blonde curly hair, and now wears studious, adorable glasses that perch on her nose.She keeps a journal and paints.As she approached,in her eyes was such love;she held me there with that love as I gazed at her in deep connection.We hugged for no reason other than to celebrate we two.

my old friend

2011-05-06T14:02:00.001-07:00

This morning, I was looking in an old notebook for a specific poem and, as often happens,found another.This small notebook was one that I bought for a quarter when I was a teen and besotted with poetry.As I read through it,and as the cover falls off,I am struck with my young, good taste.Millay,Dickinson,Byron,Keats,Yeats and Frost.It is long on sea and mountain poems,friends,country and love.I am glad I kept it for so long.Especially today when I want to offer one of the inscribed works to an old friend.

We met when I was ten and he,twelve.And yes,we were lighter of foot.Our friendship was lost in the moving forward from teenage to child-filled adult with moves to the West,South and Texas.After 9-11,a graced "co-incidence" happened and we met again on-line and picked up where we left off after the soccer ball had been put away,the maples taken down from our street and we had rushed to grow-up.

As I typed this authorless poem, I grew quite misty,but my friend of almost sixty years is made of sterner stuff and he will be fine;maybe he will swell a bit at this tribute.I hope so.

My Old Friend

It seems the world was always bright
With some divine unclouded weather,
When we with hearts and footsteps light,
By street and park walked together.

There was no talk of me and you,
Of theories with facts to bound them,
We were content to be and do,
And took our fortunes as we found them.

We spoke no wistful words of love,
No hint of sympathy and dearness,
Only around ,beneath ,above,
There ran a swift and subtle nearness.

Each in most thought was known to each
By some impetuous divination.
We found no need of flattering speech,
Content with silent admiration.

I think I never touched your hand,
I took no heed of face or feature,
Only,I thought on sea or land
Was never such a gracious creature.

It seems I was not hard to please,
Where'er you led I needs must follow,
For strength you were my Hercules,
For wit and luster,my Apollo.

The years flew onward;stroke by stroke
They clashed from the impartial steeple,
And we appear to other folk
A pair of ordinary people.

One word,old friend:though fortune flies,
If hope should fail-til death shall sever-
In one dim pair of faithful eyes,
You seem as bright,as brave as ever.
Author Unknown

how do you speak to an angel ?

2011-05-04T10:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, my godchild Paul, who has been under an angel's wing and in my heart since birth,sent me the attached picture.He found this most unusual angel tucked in the roots of a tree as he walked a street in Brooklyn.Being an enlightened person, he took this as a sign and so do I.It's time.....

I have never seen an angel nor heard one.For many years, they were not on my radar.Then a few summers ago my niece gave me a book on these beings and I read with some interest.So, I took the plunge and asked his/her name.Immediately,"Ariel".With wonder,in my spirit, I said hello and that was that.

The following summer, while in the Catskill mountains,I went down to the brook and the first thing I noticed was a small white feather clinging to a grey rock.My first thought came from somewhere beyond my rational mind,"an angel has been here.".Oh,that's odd.That night,I had a profound dream involving undulating, green serpents down by the brook and a black lion that passed me by with no harm.The next day,my niece gave me another angel book and I looked up Ariel to find that this being is usually depicted in visions and art as a lion.She is also associated with water courses.

I accepted this as a further extension of the hand of my angel.Around this time, the last living member of my family was coming to the end of her life.Alcoholism had taken a toll on my family of four,three were alcoholics but I was not.In my anguish at the horror of this disease,I asked,"Why not me ?"The answer was short and immediate,"You have been protected."As is often the case, I had to wait for the unfolding of the meaning of this.I found it again in the readings for today;"The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him,and delivers them."Psalm 34:8.

My belief is that the thoughts and the negative influences that might have destroyed me,were kept at bay in the spiritual realm.I will understnad this more deeply in the next life.

I haven't seen an angel although in my mind, I see swirling pink,purple and white smoke but then what is the color of love?Is hope blue?

silent time

2011-05-04T08:09:00.000-07:00

A bright Saturday in April.Greenest of grass and a few pink rose blooms nodding in the warm breeze.A lone brilliant yellow iris opening to the sun.Benches in the woods and tables on the porch all set for a special time,outside of time.

This past Saturday, three friends came to spend some time in prayer.The format was simple:almost an hour seated together around a table with a candle,my grandmother's cross and a glowing orchid.In silent prayer,together.Then the same amount of time in writing our prayers, thoughts ,gleanings outside in the woods and finally gathering to share our reflections by the candlelight.

The first shared how pleased God was with our gathering just to be with Him.Tears of joy at His joy.She shared how the lawnmower across the street was not a distraction for her but brought memories of the smell of cut grass and the rows of neatness.

For another ,the candle felt like a grace for her as it shined towards her and upwards as her prayers went.The peace of the time was a gift.

For the third friend, the peace and what was shared by others spoke to her about emptying and being present and why not do it more often.The importance of this time to see as God sees.

In the company of the bees and busy robins my reflection took this form:

"Quiet, deep peace.
All mine to figure
Empty and waiting.
Pray through me ,Holy Spirit
Not in words-in movement
of whispers,yearnings like clouds
or smoke.
Empty time;full time.
supported by other spirits.

Beads on a string stretching to heaven
each bead a life-
tangled,joined,heading Home.

Calling-what should we be doing?
Witness,hold hands,prayer,fasting and acts,
always acts of mercy and finally love.

Eyes-opened heart turned to see the need.As many as there are beads,acts."
**************************************************************************

I think the beads came to mind because of a loss suffered by one of the ladies in the Coming Home program at church.She is a lovely,smiling gift to me.Last week her purse was stolen including the Rosary she received at her Baptism.These thoughts came on the bench:

"The Rosary is a circle,infinite,always,..circle of beads is also as circle of people needing love-that is our call,that circle of beads to pray and people to love.

Not just a rosary but a road of people on the same path needing....and grace to see the need."

And then I knew, as the robin sang an insistent song, that this Thursday I would give a beautiful,crystal rosary,that belonged to a dear relative, to my new friend.The circle is never ending.

the bitter poet

2011-04-28T11:29:00.000-07:00

Several years ago, I came across a poem that had drawn me by its title,"April".By the time I was finished,I had tears streaming down my face.It ends this way:

...Not only underground are the brains of men
eaten by maggots
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup,a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly,down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot,babbling and strewing flowers."

This is a poem that stunned me with its bitterness.I laughed out loud at the cheek of it.I always wondered about this contrary artist and finally read of her in Nancy Milford's "Savage Beauty."This is,of course,about Edna St.Vincent Millay, a gifted, highly appreciated American poet.

What a grand girl she was,rising out of a poor,virtually parent less home in Maine,going to Vassar on scholarships.Older women took an interest in her,younger women and men threw themselves at her feet.She was thin,gamine like,with startling red hair and an elusiveness that was seductive.Her poetry helped to speak for the same generation that loved The Great Gatsby,F.Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda.

"The Blue Flag in the Bog" is one of my favorites.Her use of words just leaves me in awe of her gift.This small woman in a man's world took it by storm and lived by her own rules.She loved whoever she wanted for as long as she wanted.And when, twice, new life tried to come through her,she refused.A contemporary wrote:"Edna did exactly what she pleased,when she pleased and where she pleased.One must remember that about her..."

What Edna did was write poems and nothing got in the way of this satisfying,creative act.What she must have felt when she honed a poem into exactly what she wanted to say.I can see her cheeks flushed with contained joy.

As she aged, the poet's life kept turning as she willed, with drink,morphine,and attempts to rehab.Her work suffered as did her relationships.Milford wrote,"They(the drug journals of Edna and her husband)are among the most troubling and pitiful documents in American literary history."I think of Goethe's quote,"We are shaped by what we love ."Edna loved writing poetry.This is what sat on the throne of her life.

It is with great irony and sadness that I read that on October 19,1950,Edna died by falling down a "flight of uncarpeted stairs."Her neck was broken ,her gifts,gone.She was 58.

Can you see Him?

2011-04-25T15:36:00.000-07:00

Looking for the gifts.Being open to really look and listen.Look Jane,look.See and exult at all the gifts of these next fifty days.

A great pleasure of mine is to find lovely photos or paintings of others and move them to my picture file.In spare moments, to stroll among them, waiting for a story ,a connection to unfold.Yesterday,it was colored Easter eggs, today, "The Women at the Tomb" by Maurice Denis,the French painter who died the year I was born.They stand there all in calm blue,waiting.They seem frozen.

Yes, this is how I must walk the Path,with great calm.With open eyes looking for what is there and then moving towards it.But,we cannot rush this journey to Christ.The written Word left to us should be our guide.Each time we read a passage again,it has a brightness and newness because we have changed and His message is what we need now.

The painting of the women is all blue and yellow.Some raise their hands, others, heads bowed down.And a young girl with them.In the background, I see a yellow figure.Is that the Lord?They don't seem to see him in their grief.They are distracted by what has happened and don't know what to think.Their grief is filling their minds leaving room for little else.But they were brought here,these women who were so highly regarded by this Lord.

And finally, they recognize him and His words are,"Peace,Be not afraid".Such golden,perfect words for those distracted by life things.Peace.

I am going to pray with this wonderful painting and smile as I see Him right there in the background waiting for our eyes to clear and focus on what is important.Which, of course,is the shining,bright yellow,holy, haloed peace bringer Himself.

Easter Night

2011-04-24T18:03:00.000-07:00

It is getting late and I am so weary.The children and grands have left after a day of Frisbee playing,egg hunting, a huge pasta meal, and a son's reading aloud the story of the Easter gift from my German friend of her precious cross.Everyone was quiet and attentive as he read and my daughter had no words, just tears.Then the left-overs were distributed and the children headed to Auburn,Atlanta,and the Georgia mountains.It was a good family Easter and a blessing .

But there were other gifts from the Hand of God that I might not have recognized a few years ago.I transcribe them here so I won't forget.Perhaps you had your own.I would love to hear about it.

The first person to wish me a Happy Easter was walking in the neighborhood before we left for Mass;a young stranger, working out. But then his gift,"Happy Easter", with a smile.

Next to me at Mass was someone I had never seen before.I introduced myself and it seems that she and her husband were heading to Florida and found our Church on-line.She raved about the windows,the trees,the waterfall behind the altar and the friendly community.As she was leaving, she said that she loved being with us and would stop again.An unexpected,loving new friend.

With her pale yellow dress,curly brown hair and angelic smile, my godson's daughter's picture lit up Facebook today.A picture taken on the way home from Church, which pleases me no end.I am incapable of seeing her face without smiling.This is a girl of strength and character.She is three.

My sweet red headed eight year old grandson came up to me during the day and said that,"this was good Easter,Nana."Perhaps because he found the most eggs and dollar bills.Who knows but I'm glad it was a success for him.He took great interest in the old cross.

I shared some inspiring e-mail thoughts with two old friends and had a surprise visitor stop and comment on my blog.Her picture shows a beautiful young woman from England who celebrated her Easter joy with me.How neat is that ? She lives in Hertfordshire and my English ancestors came from there in 1638.Wow.

In my dotage, I have taken to collecting money that I find while walking.I have two hundred and fifty, run over and damaged,pennies.For some childlike reason, it gives me pleasure to drop them in my small jar.I was reminded today of something Annie Dillard wrote :

"There are many things to see,unwrapped gifts and free surprises.The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside by a generous hand.But-and this is the point-who gets excited by a mere penny ?......But if you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity,so that finding a penny will literally make your day,then, since the world is in fact planted in pennies,you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days.It is that simple.What you see is what you get."

So what pennies came your way today?

Easter is every day

2011-04-24T10:01:00.001-07:00

"He is risen as He said and ......I will never leave you orphan......I shall be with you always!!!

This is all that matters.

Good Friday

2011-04-22T05:45:00.000-07:00

'He grew up like a shoot before him,
like a shoot growing from parched earth;
There was in him no stately bearing to make
us look at him
nor appearance that would attract us to him.
He was spurned and avoided by men,
a man of suffering ,accustomed to infirmity,
One of those from whom men hide their faces,
spurned,and we held him in no esteem.

Yet,it was our infirmities that he bore,
our sufferings that he endured,......by his strpes we were healed."Isaiah 53

How far can we run, where can we hide from such love?

chasing Peter with a broom

2011-04-21T08:55:00.000-07:00

The story of Peter's betrayal proves beyond a doubt that I do not have the mind of Christ.Peter is always James Farentino for me.He who played the saint in "Jesus of Nazareth."Tall, dark, curly hair,piercing eyes and a befuddled look.That's who I see as I chase him down Main St.in Jonesboro with my broom.He can hear me shrieking,"After all I've done for you,you betray me three times."Whack on the backs of his legs.I go on,"I saved you from the drudgery of fishing and warned you but NO, you'd never betrayed me,you love me"Take that",whack.Poor man.

But that is not how the story goes;he comes sniveling back and is forgiven and then becomes Peter, the Rock upon whom the Church is built.But maybe this wasn't a reward,perhaps it was a punishment.Who would want that role? Can you imagine this motley group of men and a few women trying to carry on after Christ leaves.All egos and elbowing for important roles and trying to figure out what they are doing,what is the message,who really was this Christ that they wanted the world to know about ?What is to be written down,what is important,what does it mean ?And I have to lead this chaos?

The church I attend is named after an Italian saint,Philip Benizi.He was elected Pope back in the 1200s and headed for the mountains until they found someone else.History tells that he was so humble,he didn't feel worthy of the task; perhaps smart,too.

I think of Pope John Paul ll trying to pastor billions of Catholics and then for his pains being shot at close range several times,in Rome in 1981.My first thought after recovering would have been:"What am I doing here in Rome ?I love Poland and hiking.How can I get out of this?I've given enough and almost my life."

But the Christ mind would,with grace, seek God's glory in this terrible mess.So,in 1983,the Pope walked into the cell of Mehet Agca,the would be assassin ,called him brother and forgave him.Later, he was to befriend the Turkish man's whole family.Rumor has it that Agca wept bitterly when the Pope died.That miracle is what the Mind of God can do.I am far from it,but I pray for it.

Peter still has a hold on us.When I was in Rome in 2004,I twice visited Peter's tomb under the altar at St.Peter's Basilica.As I knelt the man next to me was weeping.Two different men,moved by Peter in some way.Maybe, he was the right choice.

Holy Thursday

2011-04-19T10:25:00.000-07:00

When I was a child on Long Island,this Thursday was a day close to my heart.The altars in the Catholic Churches would be festooned with glorious flowers.Covered in fact were all surfaces with lilies,roses,lilacs,whites,yellows,purples;a feast for the eyes.There was a church on the South Shore,in Oceanside I think, that had cages with yellow canaries rejoicing with song that echoed off the ceilings.As a family we would go from church to church and soak up Spring's bounty.

I am thinking now that this overflowing beauty must have been in celebration of the Last Supper, the day we were left a sacrament of Love.

I don't know if this is still done in the North but here we celebrate something as beautiful,the washing of the feet.In recreating Christ's washing of his apostles'feet, priests,deacons,and altar servers all get on hands and knees and with buckets and towels,wash the feet of some of the congregation.It is so moving,this humbling servitude.

One year ,at the homeless shelter, Sister Pat and I offered to do this for anyone there that Holy Thursday.No one volunteered but the small staff said yes and so we proceeded to wash their feet with great gentleness.Every woman got up with tears in their eyes.Every time I went, after that ,one or another would thank me again.

I am thinking of a story that I read that took place in Rio de Janeiro,Brazil.A desperate man was walking the streets,head down ,muttering to himself.In his despair he was planning his suicide.As he passed a storefront, he saw a T.V. on and the screen revealed Mother Teresa in her humble blue and white garb.She was being interviewed about her work for the poor in India.She who picked up dying lepers and carried them to her House to be tended.In that instant, the man knew that God had not abandoned us.He left the street a different man.

This is what we will celebrate this Thursday, Christ's admonition and example of selfless, humble serving.It brings tears because somehow we know it is really God serving us and He is still here,has not left us alone.

protection in Germany

2011-04-17T18:13:00.000-07:00

The thin blond girl is curled up in her bed when it starts.As the bombs fall, the weeping girl stares up at the cross that hangs over her bed.Her father placed it there before he left to fight the Russians in 1939.He brushed the hair from her eyes when he first handed it to her and said,"This will protect you."She wishes he were here as the flashes from the bursts around her light up the room.She closes her eyes and waits for morning.It is February,1945 in Oettingen,Germany.

Morning comes and through that terrifying night, her stone house has crumbled around her.All that is left is the wall that the cross hangs on and the boards that hold her bed.Not a cinder,or piece of anything has landed on her bedspread.Her Mother calls her and the girl stumbles around the rubble to find her safe outside in the garden.

After the bombing ends ,people come out of hiding and stare in amazement at the wall with the cross hanging amid the destruction.They cross themselves and move on.

In my hand this April night, I hold a black and white picture.There are four girls standing against a low wall holding hands with huge trees in the background.There is only one blond child,the other girls have dark hair.The blond child on the end is Hildegarde, my friend who lives in Florida.The dark haired girl second from the right is Hellla who lived next door to my friend in Oettingen.On the night of that Allied bombing,little Hella was killed.I look at her small figure,hair done so beautifully, a light pinafore covering her knees;her round serious face unaccountably touches me.The two other girls are her sisters ,the Koch girls from Germany.

Hildegarde and her husband,an American GI, moved to Florida over twenty years ago and she is the wonderful neighbor who used to make Easter baskets for my children.She loved children and sadly had none of her own.My friendship with her actually bloomed after they moved, with flowers and loving,inspiring letters and stories exchanged.She is 76 years old now and the gift that came along with the picture is something I cannot speak about without getting choked up.Her cross, that cross from the War has now been given into my keeping.In her letter she wrote..."that cross means so much to me .I can think of no one that would give it a better home than you.Please take good care of it.It will protect you as it has me".I am touched beyond words.

welcome home

2011-04-12T09:47:00.000-07:00

The team is composed of eight members and every Thursday night for ten weeks we have met with those who are discerning whether they should return to the Catholic Church.There are nine people who we are accompanying on this journey and it has been a challenging time.Last week, we talked about the sex scandals in the church and the discussion was loud and unpleasant.The team's role was not to defend but to listen and it was difficult for me,as I love the Church.

Later, the discussion had me thinking of another tumultuous time in the Church in Georgia when it became known that our Arch-Bishop was involved with a young, and to my mind disturbed, member of a church near mine.He chose to resign,stay a priest and move to another state.Just when I had started to get over this, something else tumbled out into the press that really knock me for a loop.It was a sunny,Spring Sunday morning and before going to Mass,I opened the paper to find that another priest was leaving as he had been involved with her as well.I had met this priest and admired him.This was too much.He had gone back to Ireland and I went to Mass,heavy hearted.

This was not a crying time but I felt anger,confusion and great disappointment and I took that with me to church.After ,I waited for my husband in the foyer and out of the church doors came Linda,who is a Down's Syndrome child.She was eleven at the time,pudgy,brown hair and usually smiling.She walked straight to me and took me in her arms.Her hug was long and comforting.She released me,smiled and went on her way.Linda does not know me,has never met me and has not spoken to me since.

When I worked at BellSouth in the eighties, I had a friend,Nancy.I was her sponsor when she came into the church. so we had many spiritual discussions.I think of how often she would share a problem and say,"Why doesn't He fix it?".Then I would wait for her to laugh and I would join her.I would quietly say,"That's not His job" and we would laugh some more.

All that we are promised is this,which feels like small warm arms around me;"I will be with you........always."

seeds

2011-04-11T13:35:00.000-07:00

The book's cover showed some wear;the scene was dreary,a black and white desert.It was "The Sands of Tamanrasset",published in 1961.I kept it for the longest time without reading it and one day,almost gave it back to Goodwill.Finally, I read the story about a Frenchman,Charles de Foucauld, who I knew nothing about.

He was a soldier,born in 1858 and a roue' by all accounts.Selfish,violent and sensual.Pictures show him to be slight of build,with piercing eyes and a mustache,always dressed in military garb.He was an adventurer,exploring Africa and the desert.Here he encountered the Muslim faith which intrigued him.He had left his Christian faith in his youth.Something stirred in that bleak,formless place,in the silence and the wind.Then, after going back to Paris to work on the travel book he was writing,this happened:

"One morning in late October ,1886,unable to sleep,he arose very early and sauntered aimlessly up the dawn-quiet Rue de Miromesnil.As he turned into the boulevard Haussman,his pace quickened and by the time he reached the Place Saint-Augustin,he knew that he was not wandering aimlessly at all.Ahead of him ,surmounting the three byzantine arches of the entry,was the great rose window of Saint-Augustin church."1

He found a priest and said,"I have no faith.I have come to ask you to teach me."The priest replied,"Kneel,confess your sins to God and you will believe."In that church, a humble knee was bent and in anguish, the wrongs of a lifetime poured out.As Charles stood up,he believed.And in that moment, Charles hoisted himself onto the Path that would lead him to martyrdom in Tunisia,in 1916.

Now a priest,in 1901,Charles went to the desert of Algeria to be a friend to all men and he was.Ministering to the poor Bedouins in his humble way,sharing his food and his kindness.He was joined by a priest or two but they never stayed in the desolation for long.His wish was to have others serve with him and to continue his work after his death but he died alone not making one convert to the faith.He had done what he believed was God's will for him.He had planted seeds,what would happen to them? That was out of his control.He said,"Have confidence that the destiny God has reserved for you will be the best for His Glory,for your soul,and for the souls of others."

Charles is in some way walking with me on this Lenten journey and I look at his last picture;his wonderful smile,his dusty,shabby monk's habit and I feel warm.Seeds....

Googling recently I found ,quite by accident ,that the solitary monk has left an indelible mark and has women and men following Christ in his footsteps all over the world and in the desert.I felt joy in this knowing.All of this came to mind today because I had told a dear friend that writing can be discouraging because I have no idea if anyone is reading what I blog.He said to keep on because I may never know who it will affect but it is what I should be doing.Bless you for saying that!

St.Francis, as he lay dying said to his brothers,"I have done what was mine to do,I pray you find what is yours and do it".What a blessed world if this was our goal.

1,"The Sands of Tamanrasset"by M.M. Preminger

a penny for your thoughts

2011-04-07T12:07:00.000-07:00

Photo by Kris

"They made a calf at Horeb
and worshiped a cast image.
They exchanged the glory of God
for the image of an ox that eats grass.They forgot God, their Savior
who had done great things in Egypt."Ps 106:19-21

Well, that's a relief.Never have a made a statue and praised it as God.But wait,wait a minute,when have I put people and their approval or things and their acquisition ahead God?

Several years ago, when my kids were young teens,things were getting out of hand.They weren't helping with anything around our home and my husband and I were drained and exhausted.I called a family meeting and give each person around the table 24 pennies.We all set aside the hours/pennies for sleep,work and school and counted the ones left as our own time.There was some serious fudging going on but the point made at the end of this eye-opening exercise was that my husband didn't have even a half penny for himself.I don't know if things got better but he had my sympathy and support.Maybe the kids realized something.

I thought of that exercise as a worthwhile thing to do as I tout my love and service to God.'
How many hours and pennies do I spend in prayer,writing, serving,visiting the sick and home bound.The scriptures are pretty clear;I must love God with all my heart, soul and strength and my neighbor as myself.And this takes time.

At my age, time is my most treasured gift.What am I doing with it? The truth is in the pennies.

Do you want to be healed ?

2011-04-06T11:09:00.001-07:00

photo by Kris

The lone pathetic looking man, matted hair in his eyes,sits on his green, nearly pulled apart mat, and waits as he always does in the portico by the sheep pool.No one notices him but all know him.The man who has been ill for 38 years and never can get to the pool in time to be healed.He is so weak that he is always beaten in the rush to the waters when they stir.Sad.

But the One notices and asks this mysterious question:"Do you want to be healed"?
John 5:6.Why ask that question?Wouldn't anyone?

When I was a teen-ager there was a popular movie about a young actress,"Marjorie Morningstar".In the movie, Gene Kelly played a talented,ambitious director.As the story unfolds we see the Kelly character time and again acting in a way that would guarantee his failure.I couldn't understand this self sabotage.Did he want to succeed?

In my early twenties my father,a chronic alcoholic who I believed had ruined my life, stopped drinking for good.One would think I could be found dancing witless in the streets.Yes, I was glad BUT a part of my was distinctly uneasy.It was a humbling grace that led me to understand just how much I had used his drinking to explain away my failures.Did I want him healed and myself to take responsibility?

And in all the times at the pool why did no one help this man ?Was he bitter and used his anger to keep people away?If he was healed, would he no longer have that strength that comes from anger?

And then there are the Jews who, not seeing the miracle ,noticed with sharp eyes and righteous hearts the carrying of a mat on the Sabbath.When I got to that part of the gospel I felt a deflation of my spirit that I always feel when someone close to me disparages a wonderful happening.Do I do that?

Lastly, who am I like in this story ?Do I not see the sad faces but notice that slight infraction against what I see as truth?Or am I a person who accepts the healing of Christ and his demand that I stop blaming others who don't take me to the water."Stand up! Pick up your mat and walk".John 5:8.Stop clutching to your pain and shame and let me heal you and then get moving towards a better life with Me.

Rich in questions,humble in knowing,lead me, Lord.

april

2011-04-03T12:12:00.000-07:00

Today,in the warmth of early April, I went into the woods behind our house.It was the least I could do,honor the changes going on back there by the swamp.No one sees the wild azalea high above the fallen leaves, pink buds opening,softest color pink. There are at least ten of these wild trees on the slope and it was worth the trip.Only one is bright orange and it blooms later.

Rue anemone, an endangered flower ,grows on the other slope.Small white and delicate, they could be easily missed if not for my son's finding of them.I sent him pictures of their slight beauty while he was in Australia.To him, they are home friends and he left in winter and didn't want to miss Spring.I am glad he is attached to Georgia and his found flowers.He'll stay nearby when he finally lights in one place.

This Spring seemed to jump out of nowhere.All of a sudden, colors instead of brown and grey.Pink dogwoods and a special Kwanzan Cherry in our back yard.When I was a kid, my friend Carol had one of these growing outside her bedroom window.I remember standing under it,the fluffy rich pink flowers framed by deep green leaves.I wonder if Carol knew what a fairy land,magic and something quite wonderful was out there.I was cherry tree magic deprived until we moved into this house.We planted one as soon as we moved in.It has so many holes from the lawn mower that I keep expecting it to dry up and expire but not this year.

If I keep writing about this, that Spring feeling will come once again,that deep longing mixed with tremendous excitement that I felt as a child on Long Island when we could wear shorts again,the ones with the strawberry print.I can remember running down the stairs from my room thinking I would burst with joy at the warm air and the freedom from galoshes and heavy coats and of friends coming out of winter hiding.

In the woods,in February,the first color is red, and when the setting sun hits the seed pods of the maples they look like brilliant rubies.The first time I noticed them, for some reason I thought of Helen Keller who grew up in Alabama but never saw these jeweled branches.I named them Helen's Rubies and by doing so shared the scene with her.

Today's gospel was about being blind and not seeing.About the healing of the blind man.The rich man was not blind when he passed the beggar Lazarus.He did not see him.We are back to focus again.Am I seeing what is important?The sadness in a friend's eyes?And then what?These scriptures are alive and penetrating.Thinking on this,I went into the woods.

trusting

2011-03-31T10:11:00.000-07:00

"Trust the images that come from
God only knows where.
Share the stories
of childhood:
release them
so they can grow
in people's
minds and hearts
igniting imagination
and new hope."

Michael E.Moynahan "Orphaned Wisdom"

I can't do it!

2011-03-29T11:14:00.000-07:00

picture by Kris

If the Gospel is about anything,it is about forgiveness.It is demanded of believers.This is the hard path that we choose when we follow Christ.And I am not sure it can be done just in our heads.The gospel says that,"My heavenly Father will treat you in exactly the same way unless each of you forgives his brother from his heart.",Mt 18:35.

So how do we do this?I found something that was very helpful to me in a book by Emmet Fox,"Around the Year with Emmet Fox."There are readings for each day and on a certain day I read this:If it is your will to forgive, then the greatest part is already done.Then do this:""Get by yourself,become quiet.Repeat any prayer that appeals to you ,or read a chapter of the Bible.Then quietly say,"I fully and freely forgive (mention the name);I loose him/her and let him/her go.I cast the burden aside .He is now free and I am free too.The Truth of Christ has set us both free and I thank God.""

I have done this and as I type these words my hands feel lighter, tears start to form in my eyes.This is when that big red balloon that you hold inside your heart starts to leave your chest and float into the blue glorious sky.The black tar that has been behind your eyes and has clouded everything you see, slowly melts into a small ball that eventually dissipates.Who knows what you will become, how free you will be when you do this.

The second suggestion is that if the offense or the person comes to mind, we need to pray for their good and let the thought go.I would suggest a third.We need to show that person some care, some token of love.This is forgiveness with your feet.A visit to the hospital room of a person who has hurt you deeply.A "thinking of you" card.

Perhaps it is too late for that.The person is no longer here.How about a tree planted in their name.Some effort to cement the deal.

In my view, there is more.Something that may be harder than all this.Can I forgive myself ?In today's reading from Daniel, the Israelites, have run into trouble once again and are on their knees begging once again to be the apple of God's eye after turning away from Him.Nothing in me condemns them because I have done the same thing.

Once, in Spiritual Direction,I met with a person who, late in life had come to know the Lord.She was so horribly burdened with her past life's sins.What I offered to her was my belief that when we are not connected to God, we don't have the power to resist sin.He knows that,so it might be better to focus on thanking Him for your new life.In a way, if we focus on our past life and transgressions we are paying attention to the author of Evil.If we are sorry,we must accept God's forgiveness.

It was God's work that my nephew,Paul,sent me Fox's book.That the suggestion on how to forgive fell on the birthday of the one person in the world that I desperately needed to pardon so that I could walk into her hushed hospital room and say good-bye.

the thirst we all have

2011-03-27T09:54:00.000-07:00

The water symbol is still being richly revealed in the Lenten scripture.Today is the story of the Samaritan woman at the well.

Christ says to her,"Everyone who drinks this water(the well) will be thirsty again.But whoever drinks the water I give him will never be thirsty;no, the water I give shall become a fountain within him,leaping up to provide eternal life."

Once, at a isolated retreat house in New York in 2005,a woman with grey hair walked a labyrinth.It was a warm summer day, and she was on a week-end retreat to learn about this prayer path.Trusting that the Lord knows her intent, she let go of all thought,all expectation and slowly her feet followed the twists and turns of the grass path,bordered by grey rocks.This thought comes to her,"You have a fountain of goodness in you.Learn how to make it more and how to let it flow."Having little idea what this meant she did understand that the goodness is really god-ness,His works in her that need to be shared.Puzzling this out is not something she can do right now.She must let it sit and trust that the way will become clear.

Two years ago, a friend challenged the seeker to start her own blog and somehow, she did and her first posts assuaged her grief at losing her only sister.As time went on, it became much more than that:a way of sharing her truth;of telling how her life became like the tugboat ,all bright, beautiful colors, with gold and stars surrounding her.A place to convey her deep faith in the Christ who saved her and guides her,a soft,gentle, smiling shepherd with Jim Caviezel's face.

This is what the spiritual life is like.One receives words,living words that are surprising and fathomless and you just go with them until you get it.And sometimes you won't get it in this life but you grab hold,hang on and go on the ride as the water wells up in you and overflows to do its work.

the good man and his bell

2011-03-17T12:21:00.000-07:00

"One of the treasured relics said to have belonged to Patrick-if one might admit the slightest whiff of myth-is the reliquary case in which his mass bell was once kept.We can imagine Patrick rousing his flock with a clanging cowbell and inviting them to come to morning Eucharist.The bell has long since disappeared but more precious by far is the sound of his own words ringing across fifteen centuries."John Skinner

In a small copse of trees I sit with my journal on my lap.The trees are gently swaying as is the grass.The bees aren't still but their hum is a welcome accompaniment to my thoughts.The clouds overhead are moving with the same wind that cools my cheek and
my solitude is rich and fruitful as I write.

The ground under me held my great-great grandparent's feet and their children's.They would go to America during the terrible famine of 1848 on a ship called the Wave.My great grandmother was 16 years old and never again would see the shore of Ireland.I have a photo of her stern,pinched face,brown hair pulled back tightly from her face.This was not an easy life they were going to.They were also escaping typhus which was sweeping their poor,damp and dark huts.Her mother would not escape and after crossing the ocean would die of typhus in New York City in 1857.

The bell of Patrick's faith called my ancestors to Mass for centuries.They could have stayed in Ireland and been fed by the English if they renounced the faith handed them by the Saint.They left.And I am here among the tombs and the silent grass.My ancestors spirits are here.I feel them.I yearn to know them.What singular courage to sail off to the unknown with nothing but family,faith.

There is a story of my grandmother performing a ritual that was handed down from her Irish women ancestors.If there was a fright about, you sprinkled everything with holy water.This night, a storm raged on Long Island so she grabbed her jar and watered down her children with bleach by mistake.Not a pretty sight, I would think.

Another bell rings and I get up to walk to the humble stone church, being called as those before me and as I move,I say this wonderful prayer of Patrick:

I arise today:

with God's strength to pilot my course.
with God's power to uphold me.
with God's wisdom to guide me.
with God's eye to give me seeing.
with God's ear for my hearing.
with God's word for me to speak.
with with God's hand to guard me.
with God's path to become my road.
with God's shield to to protect me.
with God's army to insure my salvation.

your breakers and your billows passed over me

2011-03-16T11:24:00.000-07:00

I love the imagery in scripture.Water has been the theme of the last several days and my musings;lush watered gardens,dropping down dew,raging streams,little red boats.Today it continues with whales,breakers and the erstwhile prophet,Jonah.

The Lord spoke to Jonah's heart that He wanted repentance preached to the people of Nineveh who were far from Him.Understandably, Jonah had other plans.I can read his mind:"What,What? They will stone me,they will mock me or worse ignore me.This is too much ,I must be hearing wrong.I think I'll flee to where I won't hear this ridiculous request.So he tries to escape in a boat and the rest is history.

I understand how difficult this is;to say what God wants said.The thought bubbles up inside you and you try to ignore it.It persists and no matter what you do, it keeps coming back.And with pounding heart, you make a call to someone you think so much of, to tell them of God's love.You do not have that kind of relationship with this friend and their opinion of you is important.You know what you say will be mocked in some way but you must call and you do.I found out,many years later, that the Spirit so loved this person that the call was transformative.

I think of when I have turned from God and how this description of Jonah's is apt:

"The waters swirled around me,threatening my life;the abyss enveloped me ;seaweed clung to my head....When my soul fainted within me ,I remembered the Lord;My prayer reached you in your holy temple".Jonah 2-6,8.

Isn't this what it feels like to be cut off from the Lord?Rudderless,being tossed about by every wind? Scratching around looking for that one thing that will make you happy?

The people of Nineveh reformed after Jonah finally took up his mission.Maybe it was the seaweed in his hair or the look of stark fear on the face of a man who had nearly drowned.Christ is telling us that we have a greater sign than Jonah,Himself.

a toy store is no place for a red-painted tugboat

2011-03-15T12:14:00.000-07:00

When I was a small child,my favorite Little Golden Book was Scuffy,the Tugboat.With his red body,blue smoke stack and big black eyes,he was real to me.The little boy who owned him took him from the toy store and let him loose in the stream by his house.Not only did he have black eyes but he had a will too and off he went in the Spring flooded creek to find adventure.And did he.He passed cows,women washing their clothes in the water, a town,loggers and finally he got caught in a terrible storm.Happily the story ends with him being scooped up by the boy who hangs off a pier in the city to rescue him.

This story enchanted me because my father made little wooden boats that my sister and I would release in the stream at our summer place and race after before they were whisked away.And the idea of a grand adventure always made my blood flow a little faster.

I thought of this today when I read a poem in my Lenten book,"Orphaned Wisdom",

"Get in the boat.
Don't take out the oars.
In fact,
throw them overboard.
Let the water carry you
where it will.
Be surprised.
Getting tense?
Does the suspense
kill you?
Relax.
The current knows
where it is going."

And this is the spiritual life and it is frightening,letting go of control and trusting that "the current knows where it is going."

For many years, I held back what I knew was being asked of me,that I give my will and my heart to the Lord.In my naivete, I surmised that I would be sent to Africa where I did not want to go.It was a long time before I understood that if I was sent ,by the time that happened ,my heart would have been so charmed by His Love that I would have wanted nothing else.So I finally said yes and this is as profound an act as one can make.Everything changes and your little boat speeds up and you are now painted in bright yellow,pastel blue,gorgeous turquoise,and your smoke stack flies a flag with streams of gold and glittering stars.Angels and saints applaud your movement instead of washerwomen.

When you let go in this way, your future becomes an unknown.You will find yourself in Honduras taking blood for a diabetes screening.With your heart pounding,you will make a very difficult phone call that you do not want to make and the result will be unknown to you for twenty-five years.You will walk a labyrinth in Scotland and feel a deep peace.On another labyrinth walk it will be revealed that angels walk with you as you pray.An angel will relay a message from a much loved deceased dog.This is an adventure!

We look back at turning points and for me that assent was the most important.As Helen Keller said;"Life is an adventure or it is nothing."

hardened sponge

2011-03-14T14:05:00.000-07:00

Forever, I have struggled with a mind that quickly goes to thoughts like this:"ewww, what a terrible make-up job that is,her lipstick makes an arch up to her nostrils."This, as I kneel in prayer before Mass starts.I have gotten better at this but I caught myself yesterday thinking,"how can she wear that awful flowered print and clunky heels."When I caught myself ,I administered a mental slap and got back to prayer.

Usually,I console myself that it only a thought but today's scripture laid that comfort to rest with this prayer:

"Let the word of my mouth and the thought of my heart find favor before you,O,Lord,my rock and my redeemer."Ps.19:15."

I think that I have figured out why this thought of my heart has to be as loving as my speech.I am supposed to have the mind of Christ.Can I imagine Him thinking in that manner?As I sit and speak to my Lord is He thinking of me in that way ?In heaven I believe that we will be able to read each other's minds.This is why I will not be allowed in right away because my judgmental thinking would make the rest of of the heavenly host cringe and that would not be the pure happiness we are promised.And do these negative thoughts not travel now in some way and add to the negative energy in the world?

There might be a remedy for my problem.Most of this thinking is aimed towards people I don't know.Starting tomorrow, I will counter this with a word of hello or a conversation.By the time I am finished I will know everyone and love them as He does.That will be my goal.

"Paralyzed
by self-inflicted deserts,
you,
dew,
drop in
You gently,
imperceptibly,make your way
into hardened sponges."

Michael E. Moynahan S.J."Orphaned Wisdom"

you shall be like a watered garden

2011-03-12T09:35:00.000-08:00

Photo by Kris

Walking slowly up the narrow path,I am filled with uncertainty.What will this be like,praying with homeless women?It is spring and dogwoods bloom along Myrtle Street as I knock on the glass door.A few women are milling about in the front,smoking and I nod and smile.When I walk in the din is jarring.This is my first day of meeting with a Sister of Mercy who ministers to the women at the Day Shelter.For four years, I will come twice a month and gather with a handful of ladies to read the gospel for that day.It is a revelation.

The main room of the shelter is filled with chairs,leather sofas and sleeping bodies.The nun and I gather a group of seven or more and go into a small,narrow room with a few chairs,bare walls and an old steel desk pushed to the side.Sister has brought a plant to bring life to this largely unused space.We open with a prayer, a passage from scripture and then sit in silence."What do these words say to you,I ask?"One will speak and then slowly as tears flow, they will all begin to share.In that small room true things are taken out of their hearts and placed like jewels next to the open Bible.We listen.

The women we meet with stay in a night shelter but they must be out by 6:00A.M.Then they find their way to this day shelter where they can rest,pick through used clothes on the day the room is opened to them or read.At 11:30 A.M., they all jump up ,leave the room and wait on line for the bus to take them to another shelter for lunch and so it goes.

I was always nervous in the living room because there was a fog of tension hanging over everyone.Angry women ready to fight over a place on a sofa amid the women hiding themselves behind the books they got off a shelf.If you smiled,someone might snarl,"What are you looking at"?But in the narrow room, we were in sacred space and with the Bible open on the table,all of us knew it.These were women who for days may not have had a warm touch or even a conversation.After praying, all of us hugged in this white small heaven ,before they had to get back to earth which was the bus line.

What struck me about these courageous women was that never was an excuse given for their plight although some families did horrific harm to them.Their choices brought them to poverty,they said, and they wept for the wrong ones and missed chances.Admirable women in a difficult place.

I thought of this today because of the Saturday after Ash Wednesday scripture.Especially this:

"If you bestow bread on the hungry and satisfy the afflicted;
Then light shall rise for you in the darkness,
and the gloom shall become for you like mid-day;
Then the Lord will guide you always and give you plenty even on the parched land.
He will renew your strength,and you shall be like a watered garden,like a spring whose water never fails."Isaiah 58:10-11

What a beautifully moving promise.

Sister Pat has moved to another city and I am intimidated by the drive to Atlanta now but this Lent,these readings ,are really working on me.The poor was always part of the message.What are we doing to satisfy the afflicted? Well,I turned in pieces of gold a few months ago and got two hundred dollars which I have been hoarding,yes, hoarding.I think it's time to let some of that go.It's God's money anyway and He will see that it helps just the right person to give them hope.Amen!

hunger

2011-03-10T11:57:00.000-08:00

In April of 2007, I went on a retreat to a place 15 miles from my house.There were about twenty of us who set out that Friday night for a week-end in "Haiti".We walked a mile down a gravel path,pulling our luggage.The day was bright and cool and the walk was lovely.Then we arrived at our accommodations.A former missionary had built a small poor village out of bricks and sheets of tin and in open huts we slept with no electricity,an outhouse and dinner served on rocks.The dinner was typical island fare,spaghetti with kethcup.What was I doing here ?

On Saturday, we made bricks by hand with clay,water and a press.The bricks would be used to make other huts in case this "retreat" caught on.The last meal on the Sunday we were leaving was a bag passed around that contained the refuse collected from a youth retreat.We were to know in no uncertain terms that many of the island's people ate from the garbage dumps.Sticking my hand in and grabbing a half eaten Tostado was one of the hardest things I've ever done.Humbling and gross.

I think of this because, yesterday I came across a small, crudely hand made piece of fabric with the words Haiti sewn on it.This was given to me on the week-end by a young girl to whom I had offered one of my three jackets when I saw goosebumps on her arms.In return she, who had been to the real Haiti on a mission trip, gave me her precious memento but with a promise that I would pray for these poorest people.I have but not often enough.

Yesterday made me go deeper with this thought because it was a day of fast and I was hungry most of the day.It didn't feel good but I would lay a wager that most of Haiti feels that way every day.

Looking back, it is strange to me that those few days were very happy ones,despite the "deprivations".There was a strong bond between the group members,mostly women my age ,making bricks and sweating in the sun;eating garbage and having the courage to do that.And Haiti is now more real to me and I do pray for the Haitians.And I will never forget that small,crude special gift from a tender young girl.

I hope that Charlie Sheen does go to Haiti and helps out.And perhaps I need to fast more than just on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday.All of this seems to tie in to the readings of today:

"Happy the man who follows not the counsel of the wicked
Nor walks in the way of sinners,nor sits in the company of the insolent, But
delights in the law of the Lord and meditates on his law night and day.
He is like a tree planted near running water
That yields its fruit in due season,and whose leaves never fade.
(Whatever he does,prospers.)Ps.1:1-3.