Letting Go

Attachments. There are many in our lives. Some, like family and friends, are important. Others get in our way on our spiritual journeys.

I like to lead, organize, plan--programs, events, organizations. I prefer to lead by putting together a team, working with others. That's fun for me--and it brings people into my life in energetic ways, working toward mutual goals.

So now I feel called to give up doing this for others. I need to do it for myself. That is, prepare and plan my healing story presentation (which I had a chance to give for a small group in January). I need a team. A friend offered to put together a DVD with my nature photographs, words and/or music perhaps. That is one tool I'd like to have. I can rent a projector that works with my laptop--and a screen if one is not available where I would give the programs. This sounds like a project. Right?! One where I could use my organizational skills, right.

But--there's that word. This is a story that isn't pretty. It's about sharing intimate details--not in writing, an easier way for me. It's about a spiritual journey that began with horrific memories that I didn't want to remember. It about fear, loss, terror. It's not the story that fits with who I look like to the outside world.

I like for my world to look as lovely as the scene in which I'm standing in the first photograph. There I'm comfortable talking about my blessings and the beauty of God's creation. That's a wonderful story. I can and do include Nature's beauty in my healing journey story. I'm not sure I would be writing this without the wonders of yellow centered violets, green, green moss, lichen covered rocks, and woolly worms--white fluffy clouds and blue skies. But the stories that integrate my strong bond with nature aren't pretty ones. I'd like to turn my back on them.

However, they are there and are part of my journey. I heard Scott Brown, the senator from Massachusetts interviewed about his memoir. He said that he wouldn't change a thing--and his story isn't pretty--that all that had happened to him made him who he is. Well, I wouldn't say that I wouldn't change a thing, but that I cannot change any of my past. I can have a different relationship to it, and that's worth exploring.

Cynthia Bourgeault pointed out, in the weekend workshop I attended, that we have our stories. That they are just stories, not who we are. My head knows this. My heart (whole being as Cynthia defines it) needs to get it. She suggested holding the stories lightly and not with attachment. This could leave me with a different feeling about the exposure. Here's to the Grace to do just that--hold the stories lightly and remember they are not who I am.

Then, perhaps, I'll have the courage to tell the difficult stories to those who need to reach down inside themselves and pull up their difficult stories for healing. Who knows? Perhaps that's the place where I must be for the memoir to reach publication. That would truly be a miracle.

Growing Up

I'm finally back to this writing site.

I was blessed to be with family and friends on my annual holiday trip to Nashville. My youngest grandson there turned 18 on December 22nd and his older brother, 20 on January 21st. Ben, the oldest, moved into a house in Nashville with three friends shortly before Christmas. Though Will (youngest) is being urged to leave home for college, I heard whispers of lonliness in my son's voice as he spoke of the possibility of an empty nest next fall. Since his wife has another year of law school (after this semester) and spends much of her time studying, he is imagining a lot of quiet alone time. That's not something he cherishes. More golf, yes. Fewer people for whom to cook? Not necessarily.

My son and daughter left and came back--more than once--and another young friend came to live with me as my daughter left for college in Colorado. My home had been a hub of activity for my children and their friends for years. The quiet would be nice, I thought. However, like my son, I wasn't accustomed to it. We are both people who need people in our lives.

I made growing into quiet time more challenging by moving to a new city with a new job, new home, new church, needing to make new friends. I solved the problem most days by packing up my car with whatever I needed for after-work activities and leaving the lovely home with a view of the lake and mountains for the city. I worked on my roses and small garden early in the morning before I left for work--or on Sunday afternoons.

I covered my inner lonliness with work and volunteer activities. I was too quick to take on challenges that shouldn't have been mine--and to try to be friends with women and men who needed something they thought I could provide. More than once I realized that I had been the one turned to in the hard times but ignored when fun was the agenda for the day.

I had a good life. That's how I thought of it (and still do most of the time)--a job that was challenging with a high profile in the business community, a church community that provided a social life and a place for me to hone leadership skills, volunteer activities that helped others, and volunteer positions in the arts community as well. There were women friends with whom I traded check ins. I could easily have a meeting or a friend to meet after work every day. I developed a group of women friends, who, like me, had careers that weren't the usual in that city at that time. I had time to hike and friends with whom to share my love of nature. Yet there was something missing. I would have told you it was having a good man in my life. It would take a
dramatic change and a spiritual awakening that didn't come quickly for me to realize that wasn't the missing piece.

Knowing that Divine Love is the answer to that inner longing and having it as the cornerstone of my life doesn't mean that I don't sometimes miss the clatter of those earlier times. It doesn't mean that having the right human lover wouldn't be a blessing. It does mean that there's no striving for something out there to fill that inner space. The Divine Indwelling was already there. I simply wasn't tuned in.

Holiday Thoughts

Yes--this is how winter in the Colorado mountains looks. It is not how winter in Boulder looks.
For those of you who know the park, you'll recognize this as a shot of Mills Lake taken on a snowshoe hike a couple of weeks ago. Alas, the ground is not white in Boulder nor has it been for more than an hour or two this season.

Sounds and smells of Christmas have enlivened gatherings with friends, old and new. A small but brightly decorated tree--the efforts of Sam and me--brings the scents and color of the season into this cozy abode. Lamb stew and Cornish hens graced the table, eaten heartily by friends. Cookie cutters are being gathered for that rolling, cutting and smearing of red and green across the likes of Santas and Rudolphs (photos will come later).

Yesterday's sermon reminded us to listen for God's voice in our dreams, in quiet moments, and to remember that His messages sometimes require us to step out, to show ourselves as the messy humans we are. The story of the Babe born in a manager reminds us that God's love is evoked in unexpected places. It reminds us of the new being born in us, no matter our ages. And it reminds us of deep love. May that love be born anew in all of us this Christmas season. May the light kindled in the Temple in Jerusalem long ago and celebrated in the Hanukkah season, continue to burn anew in our hearts all the year long. May all who remember losses this season, be reminded of joyous memories.

From Thomas Merton -- "Let me seek, then, the gift of silence . . . where everything I touch

is turned into a prayer: where the sky is my prayer, the birds are my

prayer, the wind in the trees is my prayer, for God is all in all.

Thoughts in Solitude

Exposure and Cover

Exposure has been on my mind and heart the past few weeks. I've needed to reach a place where it felt safe to write about it.

My reasons for pondering exposure have been (and still are) the feelings I continue to have that the time to publish my childhood memoir is near--that I'm being urged by the Spirit to push in that direction. Exposure for my little girl self doesn't feel so scary. Like the smaller bushes in the pictures, there isn't so much of me to show. It was more what was happening to me. The day I photographed the bare-limbed bushes I had to wait through a gale of wind so that I could hold the camera still. As a child in hard situations, words, switches, and snapping ropes were the gales I weathered. I was blessed to find nurture in the fields and woods of our farm, in the trees and skies in all seasons.

The teenager that still lives inside, however, hollers out in protest to my planned exposure. She relates to the tall bare aspen--so stark against the surroundings. Couldn't she borrow the cover of the evergreens? What about the snow? Looking at the snow scene, at the bottom it's difficult to know what's underneath. Higher up there are glimpses of the underlying rocks. That was how the teenage Margaret lived--cover, cover, and then a glimpse and more cover. Exposure of her nakedness and the violence done to her body should only be done in service to others whose exposure has brought them harm--and for whom her story might aid their healing.

There is beauty in the snow cover. What about the beauty of strength in the bare trees? The wounds on their trunks show. As a child, I decided that winter was a time for the trees to rest, but I worried that they had no protection from the wind and cold. Exposure and no protection--that was the teenager's situation so she covered herself and kept quiet so others would not know.

The exposed gnarled tree roots pulled out of the soil by years of strong winds, but holding still speak to the woman I am today. Exposing those roots as I have slowly done has allowed me to see the beauty and strength in that little girl with the golden curls--and to see and feel her anguish. I've hugged and loved her. It's that teenager who pushes away the hugs, who says leave me alone, don't expect me to care about helping, I want to hide under the white cover of snow.

My healing image these days is one that I wouldn't have expected. The Reverend Dr. Art Latta, in his work with me, encouraged a connection with the crucified Christ as I remembered the abuses of my childhood. For the most part I resisted. I didn't really believe that Christ had to be crucified for God to show love to humankind--and I still don't. My suffering wasn't about salvation either. So imagine my surprise when the image that came to me as I experienced the shame and pain of my teenage horrors was that of my body being carried by loving hands next to an image of Jesus' body being carried away from the crucifixion site by his friend. This image has continue to show up when I allow myself to relive those feelings and bring them up for healing. I must not yet have divined its full meaning. More pondering, more healing, and more exposure lies in wait.

Reflections -- An afternoon in November - RMNP

Sitting in the sun in a quiet spot on the banks of the creek that runs through Morraine Park in RMNP is a luxury. The bridge (in the photo) that carries hikers over that stream echoed few footsteps and fewer voices for most of the afternoon I spent absorbing and resting in nature's beauty--the tinkling stream, the colors of late fall grasses, the changing colors of the creek as the sun moved closer to the mountain peaks in the distance.

I was recently reminded that both a deep connection to nature and the opportunity to luxuriate and melt into a spot with special beauty is a gift that even those who live in this glorious mountain area often find themselves too busy to enjoy. As I find myself again working at a job (in my daughter's design business), I remember that getting out means making it a priority, and finding time to write means getting up earlier.

As winter decends, it's a different kind of beauty that we experience. But for my November immersion, each blade of grass, each rock, each water's ripple filled me with wonder. Which mountain pass had the water trickled through on its journey? How many hundreds or thousands (or more) years had it taken those rocks to become so smooth? Would the grass that grows next spring be a resurgence of the blades that surrounded me as I sat in their midst--or would they be the offspring?

Had the years softened my jagged edges? Had my journey given me more compassion? Would winter allow for deepening spirit and love that would shine in the darkness and flower in the spring? What does winter mean in a spiritual sense? These are but a few of many questions to ponder that occur at this writing. Let's find ways to take time to ponder as the days grow short--and to enjoy winter's beauty.

And yes, I wanted you to see some of what I saw. I took the distance, bridge and rock shots without moving from where I sat on the banks of the stream. I was so blessed!

Nature's Paintbrush--Color Where I Find It

This past Friday afternoon I took a walk into a place that sustained and nourished me during a winter when I was writing and crying and crying and writing, when I had photos of my Tennessee friends and family scotch-taped next to my computer to keep me from feeling too alone in my winter rental in Estes Park. I didn't know anyone and hadn't yet connected with the wonderful centering prayer group there.

After hours of writing, I drove to the then Lumpy Ridge Trailhead on McGregor Ranch and walked, took stairs toward climbing walls and sat, and hiked part-way up the Gem Lake Trail. (At that point, I was afraid to go all the way alone!) I found "my pink rock" soon. I painted, drew, and photographed it in various lights, always looking for the time of day that the pink or coral was prominent. It represented survival--survival that produced beauty and strength. I needed its strength in those days! I could get closer to it than I was last Friday, sit on the climbing stairs nearest its base as if by being there, some of its strength would leak into me.

When I walked I looked for the colored lichen on the rocks, a habit from childhood when I sat on limestone rocks at Dad's farm (lots of rocks there) and tried to pry off lichen without tearing them up. On hikes with my first hiking companion in Estes Park, I marveled at huge boulders and their bright colors. When she seemed less enthusiastic than I was, I finally realized that she had wonderful boulders all around her home! I continued to find the colors and make watercolor sketches of them. And when the snow fell, those colors shined even brighter, cheering me when I felt as if nothing could. The winds blew and pushed me back, but I walked those paths anyway. And when I tired of walking, I found shelter behind one of the boulders and hung out with "my pink rock."

On Friday I didn't feel alone, and I wasn't sad, but it was good to be back, eat my lunch sitting on one of the boulders in the sun, and enjoy the changing colors of the tall "pink rock" as the afternoon sun moved toward the mountains. The trailhead has been moved and renamed, and the old trailhead is no longer on the way to Gem Lake. It was too late in the day for climbers so I was alone hanging out and was again cheered by the beauty of the rocks!

It occurred to me that the huge Boulder with streaks of coral or pink had been a way to connect to God's power and strength. I wouldn't have described it that way in 1999, but it seems obvious now. I had found solace and strength in huge boulders, cliffs and streams beginning during my college summers spent working in Yellowstone National Park. Tennessee's rocks, cliffs, and streams had been where I connected with the Divine. God had spoken to me through that pink rock in a way that I could feel. Praise be for the glories of the earth's creation!

Dead and Alive -- Are We Both?

So these should be photos of Halloween costumes, right? Or the last photos of political ads that we hope to never see again (all of them!).

I spent much of today with a group of prayer sisters listening to a talk that centered on death--since yesterday was the Day of the Dead, today All Saints Day, and tomorrow All Souls Day.

I also spent the weekend in Estes Park with forays into Rocky Mountain National Park, a place that feels like my spiritual home. The photos were taken there on successive days when I spent time alone walking and hanging out in "my park." The bleached tree limbs have a sculptural beauty--and they are long "dead." The two trees symbolize, to me, death and life--a rather stark death and life towering next to and around death.

From a spiritual journey way of looking at these pictures, the bleached limbs could represent our lives stripped of our masks, our false selves, with only our essence, our true selves remaining. There is a beauty there, a grace.

The other photo speaks to me of the little deaths that must occur along the path if we are to grow into the persons we were created to be. Sometimes we struggle to say goodbye to that old self, the one who had put so much stock in material things. We may look longingly as we grow deep roots in new soil. Storm clouds may blow around our new growth and make us wonder if we should have stayed where we were. It takes courage to move to the next place, and it may not look so inviting. It requires faith in the process of becoming, faith that who we are meant to be will provide satisfaction and joy (notice I did not suggest happiness!).

As the seasons move on, so do we--or we stagnate and die a different kind of death. We are becoming bare, our selves shining in our simplicity. The journey is not for the faint of heart.

The path may be rocky and steep. We let go of the old and move on, though we know not what lies ahead.