An Ordinary Day

  The rain is falling rhythmically outside my window.  Such a soothing sound to guide me into rest.  The day has been full with wonder, blessing, gifts and pain.  In one way I feel battered and bruised and in another I feel fed and renewed.  Tonight I celebrated Beltane with friends in Circle.  The ritual, the words, the community offered the healing antidote to all that had gone before on this day.  It was balm to a words which stung and hope to renew a flagging spirit.
  The drive across the prairies yielded the gifts of soaring hawks, golden fields and the view of rain storms in the distance.  The promise life after a visit with one who is nearing death.  Life is so often filled with contradictions living side by side.  I suppose that we need the balance to understand, appreciate and grow.  I still am pulling for the gift side to win!

Care of the Earth

  The planet is in crisis.  You hear it everywhere you turn.  The news is filled with stories of global warming, dying oceans, vanishing species, and receding ice packs.  Whether or not you believe in climate change it is clear something is happening.  Many of us continue to life as though our choices have no impact on the earth.  I certainly am guilty of being thoughtless in that regard. 
  Today I listened to someone talk about these issues and what we can do about them. He also talked about environmental issues being spiritual issues.  The questions that are raised are: what are humans for, how do we live together in harmony, and how do we live with respect for creation?  They are soul issues.  Being stewards of creation speaks to who we are in relationship to the Creator.  It is different way of looking at environmental concerns.  I have to take a serious look at all my choices including food, recycling, carbon print etc.  Certainly something to ponder.

Veggies or not?

  Tonight I had dinner with some lovely, politically aware, social activists.  As you can imagine, the talk was lively and extremely interesting.  From the fracking in the Alberta tar sands to the Peace Fairy of Calgary, the conversation covered a fair bit of ground.  One the topics was food.  The meal had been prepared with food all locally grown.  Several at the table have food issues so the meal was also gluten, dairy, sugar and seed free.  It is a wonder I could eat anything!  I must admit it was delicious. 
    One of the guests grew up on a farm.  He said that if we actually saw the conditions in which the cattle and chicken were raised, we would never eat meat again.  I have been toying with the idea of becoming vegetarian for exactly that reason.  I do believe that the stress and angst of the animals is held in the bodies and thus in the meat produced.  Passing a full truck of cows with their pink noses sticking out on their way to the slaughterhouse yesterday, I pondered again the source of my food.
   The problem is, I don't like vegetables much.  Any root vegetable besides carrots, ugh.  Tofu looks slimy. Raw tomatoes and okra, yuck.  You can see the problem.
  I don't eat a lot of red meat but I love a good hamburger.  But it appears even that is being ruined by the addition of pink slime.  Sigh.  Maybe a nice piece of gluten free, dairy free, sugar free bread and a glass of water will do me, or maybe I will just have to suck it up and eat my veggies !

Creating your reality

  Life is what we create it to be according to some folks who should know about these things.  If you believe that, it places the responsibility for your life squarely on your shoulders, something I have been trying to avoid.  I have been stepping up, making decisions, taking action but it is quite time consuming and tiring, if truth be told.  Though I must admit some of it is fun and energizing.  
  However, I have discovered over the years when I create I make a mess.  Fabric gets flung.  Paint gets splattered.  Paper gets strewn.  Basically the house is turned upside down.  My life is like that too.  I can tell when something important is happening.  Life gets a bit messy.  I would prefer it to be straightforward and easy but the most interesting things happen in the detours. 
  Today I am circling, right on the edge of making a mess. I am trying to be creative and come up with a decent story line.  The joy of writing fiction is that you can create the world as you would like it to be and inhabit it with people of your choosing.  If I can create an imaginary world that I love, how hard should it be to create a real life that I love?

Pity Parties

  There is something in the air, or the Universe is simply out of sorts.  Pity parties are taking place across North America.  I myself hosted a small one today with select guests: the dogs.  We sat together as they licked my ankles and I relayed a litany of complaints.  Mostly I was whining about being tired and being in urgent need of a personal assistant.  Someone said I needed a wife.  Having been a wife more than once, I think that devalues the role.  However, I still could use an extra pair of hands around the house. 
   The other pity parties that I overheard also included tales of exhaustion, feelings of being overwhelmed and stuck.  Oh, stuck was part of my tirade too.  The sense of trying to do things differently but not getting anywhere was also a common theme.
   I think we should petition the Universe to add vitamins to the air to help with fatigue. Perhaps we could also ask for a more immediate response to hard work and an all expenses paid vacation to the South Pacific.  While we are petitioning, why not go for it?
   Mostly what I hear and what I spout off about is not having time to care for self.  Time has become a precious commodity and we are running out.  Many of us are working long hours at our paid job and then returning home to family or in my case, dogs.  There is as much to do at home as there is at work.  Where are spaces of quiet?  Where are the places of refreshment and renewal?
    Each of us has different ways to rejuvenate.  The challenge is to clear time for those rituals.  In the meantime maybe the wind will blow this season of pity parties into the sunset and usher in a time of peace and joy.  Oh, may it be so!

The Grandmas Part 1

   The memories of the grandmothers have been visiting this week.  Sometimes they gather just to remind me of my roots and sometimes they come because I call them.  This visit is because they wanted to come.  The Grandmas span several generations.  The oldest is my Great Grandmother known to me as Grandma Lulu.  Lulu was 4 ft. 8 in. if she stood up straight.  At her heaviest, she weighed about 98 lbs. soaking wet.  Life was hard for her.  She was married to an abusive man whom she divorced in age when divorce was shameful.  She married my great grandfather, Smitty and together they had two daughters.  Pauline died as a toddler from German measles.  Amelia, my grandmother, died in childbirth with my father.  The story goes that the doctor was drunk and Amelia started to hemorrhage.  The doctor didn't respond appropriately resulting in Amelia's death. 
    Life threw Lulu more than her share of grief but it didn't dampen her playfulness.  When I was little we would play dress up and have tea parties.  We would dance around the living room in our finery as she sang "Sidewalks of New York" or "The Band Played On."  These dance sessions usually ended in gales of laughter.
   Lulu had an imaginary boyfriend named Mr. Snicklefritz.  She would make up wonderful stories about this extraordinary suitor.  One Halloween when I was about eight years old I dressed up in one of my father's old jackets.  I put a hat on and rang the doorbell and announced Mr. Snicklefritz had come to call.  Despite the fact I was laughing so hard I could barely speak,  Grandma Lulu went right along with the charade.
   Another one of Lulu's charms was the the third drawer in her dresser.   It was devoted entirely to candy, any kind you can imagine.  Lulu lived with us down South in the winter because the Boston snow was too much for her at her age.  She would ask my mother, "Can the girls have some c-a-n-d-y?"  Guess what was the first word I learned to spell.
   Lulu was also addicted to the soap operas which my sisters and I were not allowed to watch.  My mother and great-grandmother would argue about this point.  Lulu thought they taught us about life.  My mother thought they were trash. Mom won. No soap operas for us until we were out on our own.
   The National Enquirer was a grand source of news for Grandma Lulu.  She loved that newspaper.  Never an approved reading choice by my parents for their daughters.  It says alot about my mother that Grandma Lulu brought that tabloid into the house, watched her shows and had a bottle of medicinal brandy stashed in the laundry room of a tea totalling house. 
    You couldn't help but love this quirky, delightful woman.  She was charming and endearing, frustrating and opinionated.  I think it is because of her I have bubbles in my office which I blow on a regular basis.  Thanks to her my imagination runs wild at the slightest whiff of a good story.  Life fascinated her and she passed that curiosity on to me.
   I am glad she has stopped by this week to remind me that it might be time to let my inner child out for  a walk in the park or dance around the living room.  That is her gift when she visits.  But she never comes alone.  She hauls along the other Grandmas with her when she drops by.  It is always good to see the Grandmas.  They make laugh and remind me that I am loved.
    Stay tuned.  I'll tell you about the other Grandmas tomorrow.

Paperwork gone wild

  There is a theory that says paperwork, especially financial papers, should be filed carefully and stored in one place.  I personally, do not subscribe to this school of thought.  I am more of a "the pile it unopened around the house" kind of woman.
   Piles work for me.  My desk has to have at least one pile on it for me to be able think coherently.  Granted, it is neatly stacked and not too high. From time to time I am seized  with a "clear the clutter" virus, which leads me to do what I call filing and the end results being a bare desk.  The sleek minimalist look lasts for about five minutes until a new pile mysteriously is born in the same place like a phoenix rising from the ashes.  There is no getting around it, my desk comes with a regenerating pile spell.  I have finally accepted the reality and merely try to keep control of the height of the pile.
   Personal financial papers are filed the same way.  Unfortunately, when tax time rolls around I turn into a raving lunatic.  The frantic hunt for those papers that are needed to file out my tax return correctly is on.  It is important note that my procrastination gene means that the hunt begins very close to the April 30th filing deadline.  Last night the annual hunt took place.  Every nook and cranny, every drawer, every pile paper was rummaged through.  My dining room table is littered with paper, not even in piles this time.  This sad state is a testimony to my desperation.  But on the bright side, I found most of what I needed.  The crucial real estate statement is still missing in action.  I hope the lovely receptionist at my lawyer's office will be able to find me a copy.  I know I had it.  I saw it a couple of weeks ago and put in a safe place.  Translation:  safe place is code for never to be seen again.  My son has four copies of his birth certificate in a safe place yet to be rediscovered.
   With my assorted papers I went to deliver them to a lovely accountant who agreed to do my taxes for me.  I have always filed my own since they have been fairly straightforward.  This year they are beyond my capabilities.  A very patient young woman took my pile of receipts and sorted through them.  Smiling, she told me that some one would be in touch with me soon.  Not to worry, everything will be fine.
    My apologies to the brave soul who has undertaken this Herculean task.  I have learned my lesson.  I can't handle the stress anymore.  An organized filing system is headed in my direction.  Of course, it will need to include piles.

Reflections on a life for sale

  Recently Ian Usher made the news again with the publication of his new book, A Life for Sale.  He is the man who put his life up for sale on e-bay.  He auctioned off everything he owned in June 2008.  His house, its contents, his car, his jet ski, it all went into one big auction lot to be sold to the highest bidder.  He opted for the sale after his marriage fell apart.  Having been through two divorces, I understand the pain and grief that comes with the end of that kind of partnership.  However, it never occurred to me, not once, that I should sell everything and travel the world. Of course, I had two small children at the time. Now they are grown and I am at another crossroad in my life, it might be a possibility.
   Mr. Usher garnered 300K for his life.  Apparently satisfied, he set off to travel around the world. I wonder how much my life would be worth at auction. More importantly, who would buy someone else's life?  It is someone who is so unsatisfied with their own existence they would trade it for a stranger's? Maybe they had more money than they needed and were intrigued by the idea. Maybe they bought it for a child's birthday present.  "Here you go, honey.  Happy Birthday!  Enjoy your new life."
   He had great time.  He swam with humpback whales off the coast of Japan.  He walked on the Great Wall of China.  He went dog sledding in the far north of Canada.  Life has not turned out too badly for Mr. Usher.  He had an adventure, wrote a book, fell in love with a beautiful Canadian woman, sold the rights to the book to Disney and bought an island in the Caribbean.   I think he may be on to something.  E-bay anyone?

Soul food or I love witches!

My spiritual quest has wandered down many paths. I have studied two in depth beyond my own root tradition of Christianity; Native Spirituality and Wicca.  They each provide a place where my spirit is nurtured, my soul is blessed and I encounter the Holy One again.  When one is concerned about the spiritual health and growth of a community, it is important to be able to find places where your own spirit finds rest and renewal.
    It has been far too long since I have attended a Wiccan ritual.  Since I have moved out of the big city, I haven't been able to be part of many of the gatherings.  Tonight, however, the witches come here!  Thanks to a beautiful, graceful woman, a witchy sister, part of the clan gathered in our town.  She opened her home to about seven of us.  We shared a meal.  We did a ritual which she had planned with much love and creativity.  As we sat together amid the glow of the candles, enveloped in the gentle aroma of the incense, we sang and talked.  I sat between two strong wise women whom I love.  Their grace circled around me and held me as I soaked in the holiness of the time.  My battered and bruised soul needed exactly what was offered this night; the company of friends, the grace of sacred space and time and the profound presence of the Divine.  What a blessed gift to receive!

A small miracle

  He wandered into the office a couple of weeks ago asking to see the minister.  I happened to be in but on the phone.  He waited patiently on the old pew just outside of the office area.  A few minutes later, I wandered out and invited him in.  He took a seat on one of burgundy wing chairs placed for visitors. I sat on the other one opposite him.  After our names were exchanged, he began to tell me his story.  I have heard hundreds over the years.  People needing bus tickets, food, diapers, gas money etc.  Each time someone comes asking for help I marvel at their courage to ask and my despair at my limited resources which can't even begin to make a difference.  I am a soft touch and give what I can.
  The office administrators screen who actually makes it into to see me.  They know my secret.   Not long after I had arrived at this church I gave $20 to a mother who said she needed medicine for her child.  The next day found me at meetings out of the city all day.  Later in the week when I showed up again in the office I was greeted with "You gave out money the other day, didn't you?"  Evidently, word had gotten out that the new minister was giving out cash.  A number of the regular street folks had stopped by.  Once they encountered Linda, they left.
   This man, I will call him James, was new to the city. He had a job but he had been out sick for a few days so his paycheck was short.  He needed some money, whatever I could spare to buy some food until the next check came.  I rummaged around in my desk drawer where I keep that kind of funding.  I came up with a ten dollar bill, which I gave him. James thanked me profusely and promised to repay it.  "Don't worry about it,'" I said. "In the twenty-five years that I have been doing this no one has ever paid it back.  It's fine."  "I will bring it back," James said. "I promise."  I had my doubts.  As I said, not once has anyone returned with the money that they given.  Cynical perhaps, but experience is a stern teacher.
    Today was my day off, but I had a wedding rehearsal at 5 pm.  When I went in, there was a note on my desk from Linda.  It read "James Redmond was in today.  He left this for you.  He said to tell you 'I came back.'"  Attached was a ten dollar bill.

Broken bowl, broken heart

  Today my heart was broken.  It will sound silly when I say how it happened, but it is still the truth.  About a month ago the ancient roof over the gym/hall of the church sprang a leak.  Not just a tiny one, but a waterfall like one.  Buckets big and small stretched across the width of the space.  They were replaced the next day by troughs that looked like they could be used to feed pigs.  Over the last few weeks the roof has been repaired, the wet insulation removed and the drying out process has begun. However, the hall is dusty, smelly and not a very nice place to be. 
   Before this afternoon I had not been back in there since the water began to flow.  As I wandered around the space with several other folks looking at the possibilities for how we might re-vision the use of that area, I noticed something.  Sitting on a table layered with dust was the cover to the baptismal font.  The font is what holds the water for baptism, which is a sacred rite in my tradition.  It is when we say "yes" to God's "yes".  It is where the community is born as we are connected to one another through our faith.  I was astonished that a piece of the font would be treated in that manner; stuck in a dirty, smelly room instead of being in the sanctuary where it belonged.  Then I saw the font itself, a  large, beautiful. shallow blue pottery bowl turned upside down next to the cover.  The bowl was broken and someone was trying to repair it and the repair was sloppy. 
   My heart broke as I looked at the font.  It isn't just a bowl.  It is a symbol of where we encounter the Holy One in water and community.  When I stand with a baby in my arms and say the words and as I anoint the child with water the veil thins.  It is a sacred moment.  My call is to be a keeper of those moments for the community.  I am keeper of the stories and symbols; font and table.  The font was broken and no cared.  No one told me. It wasn't important enough to mention. It became another piece of furniture to be repaired.  The significance of what happened went unnoticed. 
     It isn't just a broken bowl.  It is broken symbol.  It is a piece of my call and my keeping broken.  The questions that flow for me become; what symbols are important to our spiritual lives? Are there any?  If there are, how do we handle and treat the sacred, holy symbols of our lives?  I don't know the answers, but I know wanted to weep as I looked at that magnificent bowl on a dirty dusty table in pieces.

Ripple effect

  Today a bride called me.  She was supposed to get married on Saturday.  Can you tell by the use of the past tense what is coming?  She was phoning to tell me that they wouldn't be getting married this weekend. The groom has cold feet or mid life crisis, it was unclear which one or both was troubling him.  Unfortunately, he did not come to this epiphany until after all of the bride's family had arrived for the celebration.  The hall is booked, the dresses are bought, flights have been arranged and now there will be no party.  On one hand, good for him for backing out if this decision is not the right one for him.  However, I was reminded again of how far the impact of our actions travel.  Family and friends certainly, in this case  feel the repercussions of his decision.  But it travels farther; to me, the organist, the wedding hostess, the servers who were going to serve at the reception, the d.j. and who knows where it goes from there.
    Last night was the team meeting for the Victim Services Unit that I volunteer with here in town.  We were debriefing four big incidents to which we were called.  Though I was not directly involved with any of them, I had connections to three of them. One of the witnesses' mother appeared in my office distraught about how close her son had come to dying.  The funeral for one was held in our church, though I did not preside.  One of the people I work with had a cousin who was involved in another one of the incidents.  What happened each time touched not only those directly involved but the first responders, the VSU advocates, the families of the victims and their friends and on it goes.
   Our actions, even the seemingly insignificant ones, are like a pebble dropping into the still water of a lake's surface.  The stone breaks through the water and in doing so produces ripples that spread and disturb the stillness.  I need to keep reminding myself, that what I do matters.  My actions can harm or heal far beyond what I can imagine.  It is a humbling thought and when I remember it, it calls me to offer the best that I am to world.  Some days that is easier than others!

PS. This post is #100!!

Re-entry

After a lovely weekend off, I returned to reality this morning.  Re-entry always takes some time to do successfully.  Holidays take us out of our normal routines.  They provide distraction, rest and a moment in time to regroup.  Most of us slip easily into the flow of life outside of work.  Our attitude when we return back to work tells us a lot about where we are in relation to our work life. 
   The best case scenario is that we are excited and glad to get back to the rhythms our working life.  The worst is that we burst into tears in the car on the way to work.  Thankfully, most of us seem to fall somewhere in the middle.  If we are on the crying end of the spectrum, it is probably time to reassess whether or not we need to be looking for a career change.  Life is too short to spend it crying in the car.
   Re-entry today was fast.  All too soon the phone calls began, the emails arrived and the calendar for the week was filled.  Without the few days break I would have simply shut the office door and hibernated!  As it was I managed to deal with everything that crossed my desk or came through my door.   However,  I am working on a countdown to the next time off.  Anticipation is always good motivation to move through the ordinary pieces of living that inhabit the spaces between holidays.  Come on June!  I can hardly wait!

How much will it cost?

  Today was a shopping day in the April snow.  As the fat wet snowflakes flew across the parking lot, my friend, Deidre and I climbed the stairs into a swanky decorator store.  Deidre's beloved had sent us on a mission to pick out a new table for her writing room in his house.  We started in the sale section, because that is where she always starts and usually finishes.  I usually start there but rarely end up where I started.  We looked at the damaged discounted tables.  We completely snubbed the sales person who was trying to show us some intact lovely pieces. "Far too expensive", declared Deidre.  It didn't matter that her beloved would have gladly paid for whatever she picked out.  But she had a budget and was sticking to it. 
    I, on the other hand, am distracted by shiny things and care not a fig about how much they cost. The fact that I am going to France for month was not a factor as I caressed a large beautiful down throw cushion embroidered with peacock feathers.  It was only $229. "Put that down," said Deidre, "you are going to France."  "Bah, humbug" I replied and continued to fondle the cushion. Finally, she pulled me away and off we went table hunting.  I must admit, I did keep looking longingly over my shoulder in the direction of that incredible but utterly useless pillow.
    Finally, we discovered tucked away in the corner behind a wing chair and a dresser, a lovely shelf unit with three drawers.  It was perfect.  Exactly what she was looking for.  It was a bit more than she had thought about paying but within her comfort zone.   She went to the till to get it ordered and I cruised around the counter with the smelly stuff.  I finally decided on a $8 scented candle.
  Tables and candles purchased we headed out into the snowflakes and onto to lunch.  Of course, we can not let a simple outing be a simple outing. Oh no, we analyse and draw meaning from the most ordinary things in life.  Today we reached a new level.  We realized that everything in life has a cost, mostly emotional cost.  Deidre always assumes the cost will be more than she can afford.  I blithely assume that whatever it is will cost me less than it will.   Both of those perceptions have landed us over the years in more trouble than we care to remember.  We are both wrong.  Deidre has missed out on opportunities and I have been left in a crumpled heap spent from the exhaustion and pain. As we sipped our Miami Ice drinks over brunch, we concluded there needs to be a happy medium.  There needs to be a point where we enter into relationships or situations with a realistic understanding of the cost.  It will cost us something.  The question is how much will it cost and are we willing to pay the price? 

No good can come of this

  Into each life a little rain must fall.  Sometimes the rain turns out to be a downpour.  Other times it is a fine drizzle.  It comes as disappointment, sorrow, or grief. Whatever shape it takes, it brings with it a gray sense of doom.  Nothing in the world will ever be right again.  Life is destined to be parked under the never ending rain cloud.  The saying "There is no such thing as a permanent mood" sounds like wishful thinking.
   Into this swamp of despair lumbers the art of the ultimatizing.  Ultimatizing is the best friend of one caught in a rain storm of life.  "I will never work again."  "No one will ever love me."  "I will never be able to fit into this dress again." "I will never get rid of this cough."  "I will never be able to be seen in public because of this zit the size of Texas on my nose which will never leave."  You know the patter.  We all do it.  We turn one moment in time into the standard by which the rest of life will be lived.  As friend of mine wisely counsels when am I prone to such proclamations, "Oh just stop it."  She is right. No good can come of this type of comment.  Of course, life will change. It has probably changed in the ten seconds it has taken you to read this blog.  Life changes in a heart beat.  You never know what is right around the corner and out of sight just watching to catch you with joy or excitement.  The next time the temptation to make ultimate statements looms, just remember, no good can come of it.  So,  look at yourself in the mirror and smile.  Try to catch a passing cloud of grace and let it carry you on out into the sunshine.  Who knows what will appear between the bouts of rain?

Pamper the Crones

 When days are long and bodies are tired, it is good to have friends.  Especially ones who will feed you, listen to you with compassion and care and then tell you to "Snap out of it." Friends like that come in the form of sisters or  non-relatives who have journeyed with you for years.  After years of sharing the ups and downs of the human experience you get to see the best and worst of someone.  Thank goodness for the ones who love you in spite of your worst and always seem to cheer on the best.
   Tonight I have landed amidst an April snow storm on the doorstep of a dear friend who is providing shelter, sustenance, conversation and quilting space for the next few days.  We both have the weekend off and are planning a "Pamper the Crones" event.  It will involve wine, oracle cards, lots of fabric flinging, perhaps a pedicure and Sunday brunch.  The boyfriend of the friend is invited to brunch. He is afraid is missing all the fun, which of course he is.  However, he is not a Crone and he wouldn't understand most of what will be happening.  If he only knew about the Faerie Cards he might never be heard from again!  So, we won't tell him.  It is a Crone secret because my friend is quite of fond of him and he really is a keeper.
    So off to the secret rituals of the exhausted Crones!  First on the agenda; a nap!
 

Electronics

 I would not consider myself a technologically savvy woman.  Ask my son about how well I navigate the tricky waters of connecting a DVD player or sorting out the new remote controls for the TV and he will simply roll his eyes.  He did, in fact, declare that I was not allowed to go shopping for a computer alone.  Evidently, my last two choices did not live up to his standards.  He did go with me the last time I had to pick out a new laptop.  I tend to be hard on them.  Their life expectancy in my house is less than two years.  I have no idea why.
  Despite my lack of knowledge about electronic gadgets, I seem to have a number of them.  I started looking around the house.  In my possession are the following: an Android phone, e-reader, Ipod touch, two digital cameras and a laptop.  The thought I need a Ipad crossed my mind.  My son assured me that I don't need one, even to travel in Europe.  My sister suggested a Kindle Fire which apparently is an e-reader and a tablet combined.  Now really, do I need another e-reader?  Is a tablet absolutely necessary for me to travel with so I can stay in touch?  Not likely, but I can feel a bout of cruising the electronic stores coming on.  It is only to assure myself that I do not need/want another thing for which to lose the charging cords.  Please disregard the Best Buy bag in the backseat of my car.
   Everything that needs to be charged in my house has to have two chargers, one with which to travel and leave wherever I go and one to stay at home. Another gadget means two more chargers. The idea of more cords is a more effective deterrent than the stern look from my son.  There must be other ways to spend my money.  Perhaps I would be better served by a new pair of shoes to add to my collection.    They don't need to be charged.

The end of the day has come

The day which began early and ended late has come to a close.  Finally, I have returned to the place from which I began; my bed.  What a treat to slide into the clean sheets!  I have made my nest of pillows.  The window is open with a gentle spring breeze blowing in, just enough to make the curtains sway.  One dog is curled up beside me guarding a bone.  The littlest one has given up harassing the damp towel on the bathroom floor and has decided to join the rest of us on the bed.  All is well.
   The day was crowded with unexpected appointments which kept cropping up out of nowhere.  Most were important.  Some were not.  What struck me though was the contrast in people's courtesy levels.  A number of folks were polite and asked if was convenient to come in and see me. Others simply informed about what I would doing tomorrow or next week.  They didn't bother to ask if I were free, could I possibly make time for them or would I be available to do a graveside service for their family.  Those are the people that make a good Southern woman want to curse like a sailor.  I managed to bite my tongue and graciously negotiated what I wanted.  It takes a toll on a spirit to continually navigate through the tricky waters of rudeness without succumbing to it yourself.  Needless to say, my bed is a welcome respite from the day.
    A good night's sleep and off I go again tomorrow. Woo hoo!

Eating crow

   Six weeks ago I made a grand pronouncement that I was writing a book.  I also announced it would be done by Easter.  Well, I have confession to make.  I am still writing the book, but it isn't done.  There are several reasons for it still being in outline form.
   First, it harder a write a book than I thought.  O the arrogance of a novice writer!  I discovered that you need to have a plot mapped out, a least a little bit.   Knowing the main point of the story helps too.  Second,  I didn't have much time when I wasn't completely exhausted.  Somehow I forget from year to year how tiring Lent is.  During this six weeks, even closest friends have not received phone calls or emails.   Once home all I could do was sit and watch mindless TV.  The thought of talking to someone else had me hiding under the quilts.  I like my friends and miss the interaction, but running on empty makes it difficult to connect.  Baking bread as a spiritual practice is so much easier! Third, I am chicken.  What if in fact, I did write a book, what would happen?  How much energy would it take?  Success vs. failure.  Success is scary.  However, I have not given up.  The writing still continues.  Now it has more realistic goals.  I keep telling myself lots of people write books and so can I.  The first step is to get the words on the paper.  Big sigh!  Off to stare at the computer screen until inspiration strikes! Let's see how long it does take to write a novel.

Rabbit holes

  Being a grown up is not a destination.  You don't suddenly wake up one morning and know that you are grown up.  It is a process, always we are growing up.  It is journey fraught with obstacles, distractions and detours.  The biggest danger along the way seems to be the rabbit holes.
   Rabbit holes call out your name and then whisper of your darkest fear.  The trouble is, you catch a hint of its voice on the wind and you lean in closer to hear more clearly.  Before you know it you have tumbled down into the inky void.  As you fall you can hear the voice.  "You won't ever succeed.  You are wasting your time.  No one will ever love you."  You get the drift.  Unfortunately, as you fall you can gather speed.  The voice becomes louder.  However, it also becomes more ridiculous.  "I am lonely," turns into "I am going to die alone having fallen off a chair changing the light bulb in the upper hallway.  I am going to tumble down the stairs, break my neck, and when they find me six weeks later, the dogs will have licked what is left of me clean down to my bones."  Really? 
   There are certainly pity parties on the descent into the rabbit hole.  The saving grace is that after a good wallow, it starts to become silly.  When you realize what nonsense is spouting out of your mouth, the laughter comes.  It is what brings you back to the surface, to the light. 
   The path of growing up is littered with rabbit holes.  To think that you can avoid them is naive. They serve their purpose; to humble you and to remind you how far you have traveled.  If you  are wise and alert, you  can see them coming and perhaps just make do with sticking your head in instead of jumping right on down.  A measure of growing up is the ability to recognize when you have tripped into a rabbit hole and pull yourself back up before you hit the bottom.
    Just for the record, some weeks are filled with more than their share of the pesky things.  Watch out!  You are growing up!

The first step

  Life lessons come from all sorts of places.  Our parents teach us things we need to know to survive in the world.  Friends show us the good, the bad and ugly about ourselves so we can adjust accordingly.  Sometimes we read a book that moves us and stays with us informing our choices and decisions.  Then there is Indiana Jones who has shown me one of the most important life lessons that I know.  Okay, he just reinforces one of my favorite spiritual truths, but he looks so good doing it. 
    The scene is from the "Last Crusade".  It takes place towards the end of the movie.  Indy is trying to get to the Holy Grail to bring back healing water for his father (Sean Connery.  Big sigh. Also good looking) who has been shot by the bad guy.  He makes it through the booby trapped entryway and finds himself on the edge of a great abyss which separates him from the cave which houses the Grail.  There is no apparent way to get to the other side. What is required is that he step out into an almost certain fall to his death.  As soon as he steps out, a bridge appears.  A leap of faith is all it takes.  It sounds so simple, but so often taking that step appears as though it will bring certain death or at least huge failure.  The wonder and mystery of it all is that when we step out in trust, all that we need is provided,  It is counter intuitive but it true.  Thanks Indy for reminding me to take a deep breath and step out even when my heart is pounding and my palms are sweating.  The Grail is waiting on the other side. 

For Good Friday

How much can a soul take?

How much can a body bear, of darkness, of solitude, of everything going the opposite direction of joy?

Someone said that there a certain of amount of sorrow

      that is sufficient for one life time.

Sufficient,  how can sorrow be sufficient? 

Too much.

    It can be too much.

Yet carrying the burden of sorrow

     we gather here on this day….

A day which calls us deeper into the darkness,

  deeper into the sorrow.

How much can a soul take?

    How much can a body bear   

         before it begins to bend and break

             before it begins to sway and bow

       in the wind of the gathering storm?

Yet you call us to this day,

  Beckon us further into the shadows, into the mystery

    Luring us with promises of light and joy,

                        as the darkness grows.

Do we dare trust you?

  Do we dare let ourselves be enveloped in the pain

        with only a possibility held out before us?

Who are you that we should follow?

  Who are you that we should trust

        our very lives to your keeping,

           O One who hangs on a cross

              and gasps for a final breath of air?

   Who are you?

Who are you?

   Stranger yet familiar?

            Unknown yet known?

Your voice seems to remind us

     of a place we once called home

            where life was safe and we were loved.

Are you the one who took us there?

Are you the one who left the gate open,

   Leaving us free to wander or to stay?

Wander we did,

    out from the peace and safety of our home.

  We wandered out,

    so far we lost even the scent  of you on the air,

      home a distant memory.

Now we are here, in this place on this day,

  and we hear the echo of our truest selves

      and the whisper of unfathomable love

            on the air that sweeps from the hill where you hang.

Through the darkness, through the sorrow,

     we catch the scent of home.

How much can a soul take?

   How much can a body bear?

     How much do we ache

        to return to the place from which from which we came?

So on this day as you beckon,

     we dare to wrap our courage around us,

            summon hope,

                join hands

and follow into the darkness, 

    the scent of you,

          the whisper of promise,

you who  comes to guide us home.

  

   

Zombie Guinea Pigs

   Tonight was the night of the Zombie Guinea Pig.  It all took place in the basement of the the local medical building.  I was booked for an overnight sleep test to see if I actually breathe once I close my eyes.  If the way I feel in the morning is any indication, there is not much oxygen getting to my brain.  So off I went, ready for anything.  Well, I thought I was ready anything.

   The room where I was to sleep wasn't bad considering what I was there to do. However, I did have serious concerns about the two very small flat pillows that were provided for my comfort.  I usually sleep with five fat fluffy ones that have been finely tuned to fit different places on my body for optimal sleep.  Obviously, the pillow arrangement is not as finely tuned as I would like, otherwise I wouldn’t be in a  lovely bedroom in the basement of a medical building waiting for a technician to connect up to machines.

    An hour after I arrived, my host for the evening arrived.  He told me to get in my pajamas and meet him in a room down the hall when I was ready.  Had I had any idea what was in store, I might have walked in the other directions. However, modelling my finest sleepwear I trundled through the maze to where he waited.

    He started to connect the wires.  It took an hour.  Really, an hour.  There electrodes everywhere.  My head was covered.  This morning when I washed my hair I discovered that they had been adhered with mud mixed with crazy glue.  I think I got most of it out with elbow grease and hot water but my hair still resembles the Straw Man.  

      Once everything conceivable had been attached.  My host sent me back to my room.  No bread crumbs, just follow the oxygen tubing.  I made my way to the bathroom for my last visit and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  I looked like a zombie guinea pig.  If you don't know what that is, think of the wild haired rodent from the pet store.  Now think of it after it has stuck a tiny finger in an electrical socket. Next add glazed over bug eyes... Zombie guinea pig.  I looked just like one as I headed to bed. Another bizarre adventure to add to the list of my life.

   It seems appropriate that I ended up there in that lab, looking like that the week before Easter.  This week traditionally goes, shall we say, to hell in a hand basket. How much worse can it get than Zombie Rodents?  It is like the Universe unleashes every wonky energy there is and life becomes unsettled and uncomfortable for these seven days.  Often during this time I find myself unable to focus or concentrate very well.  It is no different this year. 

    For the most part, I can find my ground and center my spirit.   Not a chance of it happening right now.  My best breathing techniques and meditation practices are in vain.  Prayer requires that I hang onto a thought for more than a millisecond or at the very least sit quietly.  Nope, not working.  Any shiny object or whiff of distraction will carry me away. 

   These days require that I trust the Holy One to hold me gently,  breathe grace upon me,  root me in the Divine Love until the storm subsides and I find my way back to ground. Oh, how I hope there is a place for Zombie Guineas pigs there!

The day I lost my words

I have lost my words.  I don’t know when it happened or how it happened, but it has.  I have no more words to say.  The realization came to me while I was writing prayers for this Sunday’s bulletin.  As I tried to skillfully craft an articulate prayer that would move my parishioners to tears as they prayed together in unison, it dawned on me that this utterly unique creation sounded vaguely familiar.   I stopped and reread it out loud.  My two small dogs, who sit with me as I write, will sometimes lift their heads and look at me quizzically if I write something really profound and moving.  No response from the canine contingency .Hmm…. What was that again?  One more time into the universe I spoke the prayer.   No, I sadly shook my head, this prayer was not original.  Well, years ago it was when I wrote it the first time, now it just sounds old and tired, sort of like me.  Old and tired will not do for public worship. Nothing short of brilliant is acceptable.  Deep breath and try again.

  It reminded me of when I was a child and my sisters and I would try and retrieve pennies from the bottom of the pool.  Mom or Dad would toss one into the deep end of the pool as we sat poised on the edge ready to leap into the water as soon as the coin hit the bottom.  Deep breath, splash, dive, reach.  We would run out of air, pop to the surface take another gulp and dive again.  We continued diving and breathing until someone finally made it down far enough to grab the shining copper in their small hand and return triumphant to the surface.

                  The prayer was calling me to take a deep breath and dive again.  Summoning up my most descriptive adjectives, stunning images and majestic names for God I plunged again.  As I surfaced once more and looked at the words on the screen, I wondered if I had grabbed the penny and written the prayer to end all prayers.  With a trembling voice, I spoke the prayer aloud again.  While during this reading the dogs did twitch their ears, it was I decided, not any better than the first attempt.  Breathe, dive, write and surface.  This sequence continued for three more tries until I realized what was happening; I had lost my words.

                  After almost a quarter of century of leading people in worship through my own times of celebration and joy, despair and hopelessness, the words were gone and there were no more.  Up until now they had always come, sometimes slowly and with great effort, but they had always shown up.  Now I couldn’t find them.  No amount of hair pulling, meditating, crying or staring at the screen helped.  They were gone.   I didn’t know what to say because I had said it all.  Twenty-three years of preaching and praying is a long time. You can say pretty much everything you know in that amount of time.  One of my homiletics professors used to say “You don’t have to tell them everything you know in one sermon.”  Well, obviously I hadn’t.  It had taken twenty three years.  Granted over those years I had continued to learn, grow, stretch and imagine.  Maybe I have stopped learning, growing, stretching and imagining, though I really don’t think that is the root of the issue.  No, I think I have said all I need to say.  I have used every fiber of my being to tell the stories of hope, to give life to forgiveness, to provide ways for the avenues of grace to be seen, to offer tales of transformation and promises of peace.  I have used every word I know and then some.  I have gathered extraordinary images and woven them into tapestries of eloquence (impressed yet?) and now evidently I am done. 

 For a moment I thought it was like the pool I used to swim in drying up, but that isn’t it.  It is more like Elvis has left the building.    They are gone but the possibility remains that they will return some dark and dreary Saturday night and show up on my doorstep when they are least expected.  Their appearance will startle me as the Magi did Mary and Joseph when they showed up unannounced at that smelly stable on Christmas.  (Yes, I know that isn’t where they actually showed up and yes I do know that we don’t know how many there were.  I have not lost my basic Biblical knowledge, just my words.)  The words are gone, maybe on a sabbatical.  Maybe they have decided to visit a more worthy recipient, perhaps a new grad well versed in the current theology and nuances of faith.  Maybe, they know I would like to retire, so they have led the way.  I don’t where they have gone, but I live in hope that they will show up again, preferably before worship this week.

If they decide to stay gone my guess is there will be a lot of silence on Sunday morning.  Perhaps the silence will let them know how much they are missed.  Maybe, their departure simply means we have gone to the depths of our living with the Holy One where words are no longer necessary.  Lovely thought, but I am pretty sure the congregation is not going to want to go Quaker this soon in our relationship.  Silence it is and we will wait together for the words to return.   

In the midst of this crisis which occurred around ten p.m.  on a Tuesday evening, I texted a close friend and colleague to let her know that I had lost my words and they were nowhere to be found.  “What do you expect if you are trying to write prayers at this time of night?” came the reply from she who was at the same time trying to select texts for the next ten weeks.  “We are after all old and tired.” Is it possible that all I need is a good night’s sleep?

Give what you can

    This morning we had a visitor.  The nice white upper class congregation with whom I work had an unexpected visitor who brought with him an unexpected gift.  He appeared about thirty minutes before the service started.  I was sitting on a pew under the coat rack at the back of the sanctuary looking over what else needed to be done before we started at 10:30.  I smelled him before I saw him. He wandered through the door and sat next to me.  He is a large man whose face tells the story of a hard life.  His clothes told the tale of life on the streets.  The alcohol fumes which came off of him in waves spoke of a night with a bottle.  I turned and smiled at him.  He looked at me and asked if I would pray for him today.  "Absolutely, " I replied.  "What is your name?"  Confusion ran across his face, followed by puzzlement, followed by an outstretched arm with a hospital bracelet on it.  "Well, George (not his real name) I will be happy to pray for you in the service today."
   After a few more minutes of chatting, I said good-bye and headed off to my office to attend to the last minute details of Sunday morning.  One of our building people was standing in a nearby doorway watching George.  "We have seen him before," Leonard told me.  "He will stay until 2 or until we call the police."  I asked him to just let George stay.  He was welcome if he wanted to be there.
     When I came back in to start the service, George was still there sleeping.  He slept as the choir milled around him trying to get organized for the procession.  He slept through the announcement and subsequent cheering about the engagement of our choir director.  He slept until halfway through the Scripture readings.  Today there were many and interspersed with silence and hymns.
   When George awoke, he decided he needed to talk to me.  So, he lumbered down the aisle.  I could feel the anxiety level of the congregation rise.  He stood at the bottom of the steps as we sang. I went over to him.  He asked once again if I would pray for him.  I assured him I would in a few minutes.  Satisfied, he sat in the front pew, his bag of empties beside him.
    During the next hymn, George decided that he would keep time with music by rattling his bag of empty cans.  I couldn't help but grin at him.  He grinned back and shook them harder.  The service continued and George stood up each time we did and participated as best he could.  He sat there in the midst of us as we continued to read the story about the last week of Jesus' life.  The story felt different this year. It became richer and more powerful as George listened with us.
   Next,  came the time for the offering to be collected.  Several lovely middle aged women were in charge of passing the offering plates.  The woman on George's side was trying to politely pass by him so he would not be embarrassed.  George would have none of that.  He rumbled around in his bag and proudly placed an empty Hard Twisted Ice Tea can in the offering plate.  The woman holding the plate was clearly startled.  However, she graciously accepted it and then when he wasn't looking, she pulled it out.  She held it in her other hand until it was time for the offering to come forward.  I received the plates with George's can atop the pristine white envelopes with their twenties inside.  Tears threatened to leak out of my eyes as I looked at that can.
   George gave the best he had to offer.  It didn't matter if I could smell the booze from ten feet away.  It didn't matter if he really didn't understand what was happening.  He came for a prayer and responded from his heart.
    The prayers included him by name.  He smiled at me when I was finished.  At the end of the service, several people spoke to him. One of the men, an EMS guy, gently led him through the sanctuary for a cup of coffee.  I didn't see George after that.  He disappeared back onto the streets.
    We were blessed this morning by a gift from an unexpected visitor.  He gave us  more than he could imagine.  Who would have guessed that grace would come to us in that form.  Thank you, George for you presence among us today.