Unexpected Color (in weeds?!)

Have you ever felt like a weed--the one who was ignored while the flowers got all the attention and praise? Or are you a weed as a wild one--doing things that others dare not do?

Growing into my teen years, I was definitely a weed--skinny, underdeveloped (still am in some places!), and shy when thrown into a sea of new students in a big town junior high and high school. Mother didn't let me forget that I had skinny legs, didn't need a bra, and that my shoulder blades stuck out. I would come to enjoy my redder than blond hair, but Mother had wanted brunette, brown-eyed children like Dad (she forgot that he had 4 reddish-haired siblings as well as the three others who were dark). I wanted that dark hair and those big brown eyes and felt like the biggest weed around those who had that coloring. At the new schools, I stood on the sidelines socially. I was the weed in the midst of a flock of flowers. Like a bee, I was attracted to the flowers and had no interest in hanging out with other weeds.

As an adult, I was more the weed who didn't mind standing out by having career positions that men usually filled. Often it didn't make me popular, but I didn't mind being different in that way. Had I changed colors from the masses? Yes, but they weren't the colors of transformation. They were the colors that made me feel better than.

The weeds/plants pictured above were all green earlier this summer. Their sizes and shapes were different, but they were recognizable as the same species.

As we develop spiritually and shed our need to be who someone else wanted us to be, as we allow our divinity to shine through, our colors change. We can be the person we were planted here on earth to be--the colors that are ours. As the plants pictured above, we can be as different as our talents. We still belong to the same family--that of human beings, but our unique selves define our shapes and sizes.

I love the colors of the "weeds" in these photos. They made me think of our colors as human beings. Do we show up as light when we walk into a room? Do we bring darkness and gloom with us? A woman recently told me that I brought so much of the Spirit into the small room where we were meeting that it got in her way. An interesting concept--right? Perhaps she was in the Spirit's way? It was, however, a different way for me to be seen.

This morning I am aware of the origins of a couple of my huge pet peeves--ways that others irritate me by being their false selves. I hardly have room to talk. Centering prayer continues to allow me to be in touch with my various false-self parts--to notice them until I can't stand myself in those areas, to allow my opinions, anger and jealousy formed in early childhood to come to the light and be available for Divine healing. It's work--sometimes worth a laugh, often causing tears--but transformation isn't intended to be easy.

As I look at the beautiful colors of fall plants and leaves and know that they are about to fall and die until another season, I ask the Almighty to let those false-self parts that are present to me this morning die too. I pray that in another season, I will be more compassionate with my fellow travellers on this journey.

Making Peace

Peace with change, peace by accepting our powerlessness and giving over to the Divine power to bring about peace--in our lives, in our communities, in our country and in the world--this calls to me at this time in the life cycle of nature, and with the loss around us here in Boulder County.

I acknowledge the need for this peace on the anniversary of 9/11. I know this peace with the passing of a truly great Episcopal priest who was the Rector at St. John's in Boulder for 25 years and a priest in the church for over 50 years. I'm praying for hope and peace for all of those who lost so much in the fires which are not yet out in our mountains.

All of us who love our mountains so deeply will suffer in this loss, but in different ways than those who lost homes--some that had been rooted in our canyons since the late 1800s. My favorite drive up to Gold Hill to enjoy the golden aspens is now gray with ash and ruin, but I'll drive up another canyon to enjoy the aspens. I'll look for another road. Others must look for another home.

The fall color show brings with it the realization that those leaves will fall, dry up, and the berries will either be eaten or turn black and drop to the ground. Fall depressed Mother. She stood at the kitchen window and watched as "her birds" ate their last meals for the season, readying for their flights to warmer climates. She had difficulty enjoying the red, orange, and yellow maple leaves as she projected us into winter. I try to be present to each day's beauty--and I'm able most days. My camera pushes me to see beauty in all things, all people, all places.

Our blue Colorado skies arch over blackened trees and smoldering ashes where homes once stood. I can remember when those blue skies angered me as I dealt with loss. How dare the maple leaves put on such a show when I am feeling such pain, I thought the fall my brother was killed in an automobile wreck. How dare the sky be so blue and the roses so lovely as long buried memories spued around me, destroying who I had thought I was? The artist whose show and party is celebrated tonight is worrying that people won't want to attend because they are grieving their losses.

Peace for me is about holding the dual realities of death and destruction together with the hopes and joys of new life and unfolding blessings on our paths. Without the losses in my life, I would not have had the compassion I needed to listen to the woman who was crying as she chose new linens in a Boulder store this morning. She was ending a 24-year-old marriage, knowing it was the right thing for her, yet unable to stem the tears flowing down her cheeks.
Without unearthing the fear I had as a young child when Mother was too sick to take care of Bill and me and Daddy had gone out to the fields, I wouldn't understand the fear of not knowing how to do what was needed, the fear that whatever I did, it wouldn't be right, be enough. I wouldn't understand the sister who wants to scream at her younger siblings to shut up when they asked for their Mother, one who can't for whatever reason, be available.

I'm allowing for grief and loss--emotions of the child Margaret whose Mother was crying so loudly that she couldn't hear her daughter--to bubble up from within so that I can hold them up for Divine healing, thus allowing me to be more peaceful. My contribution--the only one I know how to make--is to allow God's peace to emanate through me to those with whom I come in contact in my daily life. God's peace--available to all, not to one religious group and not another, but to all. Blessed peace from within.

Loss & Home

No, I didn't take photos of the smoke. I could have. I still could. There's plenty around. It smells of smoke in my condo.

My thoughts are of friends who were among the first to lose their home--a new one for them. And my thoughts go back to neighbors a few houses down the street who lost all but the shell of their home back in Springfield, MO, when our children were toddlers and babies.

Homes are so important. They are our places to be. The place that is ours. While we may think of ourselves as citizens of the world, home is our place. I chose my parents house in town as home for many years. I didn't live in that house until I was a senior in high school. The house I had grown up in was on the farm my parents sold to allow us to move to town. It wasn't a place I wanted to call home. But my attachment to that house in town lasted long after it housed my parents. It was hard to let go. I kept it past it's maximum dollar value. I was deeply emotionally attached.

I expect that it has been torn down now. The neighbor's son-in-law bought it, planning to tear it and his inlaws house down (after they both died) and build an office building there. I know it didn't happen as soon as he had planned, but by now--probably the scraping has been done whether or not the building has been erected. That house was the one I was most attached to. It had been my first safe space.

I have moved often enough that I have left a number of houses behind. Two I had lived in when new, had chosen paint and wallpapers, fixtures and flooring. One I left too quickly (it almost sold out from under me) and other deep griefs left no space for grieving the house that I had so enjoyed. The second was my home in Chattanooga--space I loved as much because the huge windows let the lovely out-of-doors in as for the finishes I had chosen. I was awakened by the sun rising over the lake through the sliding doors of my bedroom. I looked up from my computer at my rose garden--one I'd put in myself. Unexpected tears well in my eyes as I remember it now. It was the only home I've had that spoke of me. If you knew and visited me, you knew that was my home. It may be the last one I'll have.

I have made peace with having only a rental home--space that can't be really mine as I can't paint the walls or change the finishes. I've noticed some spurts of grief as I'm writing, but acceptance is present. My space is filled (crammed you might say) with my "stuff." I have stuff to share. I've downsized dramatically from the rambling ranch on Trimble Road--the home my adult children and their friends miss. (I miss living in that neighborhood and all the activity that took place in that home more than I miss the house.) I've left furniture with my son and daughter-in-law--some they are using and some no longer of use. I have boxes and chairs in my garage. There are photos everywhere. I am reminded to spend some winter days working on photograph books.

The first years I lived in Colorado most of my things were stored or in my daughter's living space. I actually got along fine without them. I was, however, glad to have them back in my space when that was possible. Many of those things have since been let go as I downsized a couple more times.

The photograph is of my Great-grandfather Wood's rocking chair, one he made, according to the lore. It was in our farm house but was painted white. Mother had it moved, along with a pie safe, also painted white, to the old farm house on Dad's farm when we moved to town. I rescued them, thankfully, as the other piece that she had stored there that was an antique had been stolen. Mother had thought they were oak--a wood she considered worthless. When Dad and I began to strip them, we discovered they were both walnut. I got them when we closed the house, years later. I've used that image because it's of a piece of furniture that holds family history, one I would mind losing. I would mind losing the orange vase too. I blew it from a piece of glass so it's a sentimental decoration. Neither are worth a lot of money. It's the things that hold memories that are hard to lose.

A removing clutter expert once said that we should take photos of things we want to remember and save the photos rather than the things. I am taking pictures of my historical pieces, but am not yet ready to part with all of them. On the other hand, there are things that I've kept because I needed a little table or a chair here or there. So my living space is comprised of things I enjoy and things I think I need. I'm wondering about those needs. Are they real? And might not GGWood's rocker be better off at my son's home? And that china cabinet made of cherry wood from the farm where three generations of Wood-related people were born (including me)--what about that huge piece that towers over a corner of my living space? Those aren't decisions for today, but as I let go of attachments, I have more work to do.

Home--it is where I am, right?!

Falls Fires

I had pulled the photograph of the flower in its final stages of life and planned to write about fall in relation to the changing cycles of life. However, I first went to reading and editing my memoir as I'm getting ready to send a blast of queries into the Ethernet. As I wrote, I noticed that the building across the parking lot had taken on a strange orangy color and out my high windows on the north side, I saw clouds that glowed as if the sun was trying to shine through them and somehow couldn't. I was curious.

I stepped outside and smelled it. Smoke. I walked to the street and looked across the fields into the hills where I saw the smoke billowing into the sky. One of the late summer and early fall dangers in Colorado is that of wildfires. This year we had such a wonderfully wet earlier summer that what was lush grass has yellowed and the high vegetation is fodder for any spark that lights on it.

Back inside, I switched on the TV. What is being called the Four Mile Canyon fire was being reported on by Denver reporters still on their way to the fire site. They had already spoken with a family who had lost their home. A woman from a nearby canyon community called in to say she was evacuating her home. I had considered driving up Boulder Canyon past Nederland to hike today. I would have been on the other side of the fire zone and my easy access to Boulder would have been blocked off.

Smoke has now covered our recently blue sky. Ash is beginning to float in the air as if it was very light snow. That is little hardship compared to those who are trying to save their homes. It is cooler today--down from the high 90s yesterday to the 70s today, but the winds have been whipping around the 30 mph range, up to 65 mph in gusts. They say the humidity is under 10% in our area.

Those of us who can see and smell the smoke from a safe distance cannot help but realize how lucky we are. It takes such a short time for fires to whip around hills and from tree top to tree top--for lives to be changed.

It is with gratitude for my safety and that of Michelle and her family, and with prayers for those who are fighting the fire and those who have and will suffer losses, that I go back to my memoir. I'll write about changing cycles of life on another day. And I'll be checking on the status of the fire with friends and the news media--and praying for the winds to calm.

Water & Fall Light

Fall's light on the stream that runs beside and crisscrosses the Butler Gulch trail was stunning. The photos barely reflect its beauty. Sitting beside the small waterfall surrounded by a high meadow and mountains was inspiring. My sandwich tasted better! I was grateful to be alive and able to hike and enjoy such beauty. I had been on this trail only once and that was in the midst of the season when flowers bloom profusely by the trail and across the high meadow. I wondered, when a woman I had recently met suggested this hike in early September, whether I would enjoy it without the flowers. She reminded me of the water and said that it was a beautiful hike at any time. Right she was! The perfect day and the fall light enhanced an already lovely trail and high meadow and made the water dance before our eyes.

We did find flowers--the mountain gentian in the photo blooms in August and early September. Their bright deep blues caught our unsuspecting eyes as they blossomed beside the trail. But the water carried the day for me.

I have many photographs of lakes, waterfalls and streams from this summer's hikes, and want to make a photo book of my favorites. For a woman reared by a pond on our farm, a wet weather stream flowing from a spring on Dad's farm, and a creek that flowed through pastures on my best friend's family farm, my connection to water seems unlikely. However it was formed, it is strong--from the white sand beaches of the Gulf to high mountain lakes above treeline, streams meandering across meadows and those rushing down mountainsides, I am nourished, inspired, healed.

We stopped on the way down and sat near the water that rushed from above. It was mesmerizing, satisfying in a way that I can only call soul nourishing. On longer hikes there isn't time on the way down to stop and sit. I will remember (hopefully) that some hikes need only to be along stream beds where sitting and being is possible. We were alone at our lunch spot and had plenty of space as we stopped on our downward hike. It was a good time to enjoy the water and fall's exquisite light. I was blessed.

Little Gems on Daily Paths

I don't have to hike mountain paths to find little gems. The dew drops caught in a web were in my daughter's yard. The butterfly was resting on wildflowers on the Walden Ponds trail near my home. And the red leaves and berries were beside a trail where I often walk in Boulder.

I wasn't hurrying or I would have missed each of these compositions. I was on ordinary walks in ordinary (well maybe Walden Ponds are not so ordinary) places, stretching my legs, breathing the air, glad to be alive.

How many times do I hurry past the beauty of small things? Even on the steepest part of our hike to Shelf and Solitude Lakes, we needed to be so present to each of our steps that we missed more little gems than we noticed. Always there is beauty around us. There may not be roses, but stopping to see, there is beauty.

Standing Out from the Crowd

A morning walk at nearby Walden Ponds caught this late-in-the-season blade of grass waving alone in front of the greenery around one of the ponds. It reminded me of how many ways I have felt as if I was out in front. Good ways, yes--among the first to have visible professional positions in a man's world in the 60s, 80s, and even in the 90s. Those opportunities were exciting--and yes, often stressful. I was visible, an easy target.



I live in a condo complex with lots of other people. Yet I don't have neighbors as such. It's been years since I had neighbors of the kind where it would be easy to borrow an egg or a cup of flour (do we even do that now?).



Last night at our meditation group (centering prayer) one spoke of being alone, even in a crowd. Others agreed. Yet we are aware that the Divine Presence is always with us. Being present to the Presence can become a positive habit. Not all believe this Presence exists, but my experience knows that it does--and that if I am aware, that I may be lonely, but I am not alone.

I resonate to the grass that's blowing in the wind, bending, but not broken. Yellow, but not dead. Standing in front, exactly in the spot it calls home. I'm older than most. I don't have the vital coloring of the young. I know that it's okay to stand in front. My feet are firmly planted. I'm at home wherever I am.

"He drew me up. . .out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure." Psalm 40, Vs 2.