Endings and Faith

This morning I am thinking of a former brother and sister-in-law after learning that she died last evening. End-stage renal disease was the culprit so this had been a process. She had a deep faith as does her son who let us know through Facebook. Brother Bob has been a part of her faith tradition for forty some years so I suppose he does too. Though their way of thinking about faith and mine are different, that faith must help.

I didn't begin this writing with the intention of writing about faith, but that's what's showing up.

Her son wrote on Facebook to cousins and aunts (of which he still considers me one) that his mother had passed into the arms of her Savior. That provides a beautiful image, one of love and

peace.

I'm more concerned with faith in this moment by moment existence than with the end-of-life faith. I think of them as one. Today is when I need faith in God's love, the Divine Wisdom of which we are all part. Selfishly I suppose, I want my share of that faith and Divine Wisdom.

The Gospel writers all quote Jesus as saying, My love is sufficient, in various ways.

I ask for clearing of the muck that prevents that love from shining through me as part of all my prayers, the openness to let the critical voice go quiet and Divine love pour through. Compassion is the name most often assigned to that Divine love in my world. Faith in that compassion and its striving for the best in all of us is the faith I most need.

I also need faith that the Holy Spirit, my inner voice of that Divine, will show me where and how I'm to use my talents, a way to share Her healing message--if that call is true and not my old self showing up to give me a sense of mission. Faith when the mission doesn't seem to have a path, when the way is unclear; faith to take a step and trust that if it isn't the right one a correction will come before I've wasted too much energy or time--that's faith I need today.

I want to be wrapped in that Divine love now. Is that asking too much?!

Music Everywhere

I realized as I sat down to write this morning that I had two subject sloshing around in my head--as opposed to mornings when my head feels empty of anything to share. I also realized that because I pair writing and photos that I haven't written about other passions, music being an important one.

Recently I have been blessed to hear live music that has been creative and inspiring. It has included the Met's live HD performance of Gluck's Iphigenie en Tauride in a Boulder theater, a concert by a local chamber music orchestra, and several of the weekly free concerts by Colorado University's College of Music faculty. There have been evenings when I thought I was too tired to drive to CU for a concert. Then I would remember that I would be tranported from my daily activities to another realm, one of beauty in which I could wrap myself.

The talented violinist, the Chinese pianist, the baratone singing Odgen Nash's poetry all took me with them as they used their talents. However, I was most stirred and inspired by faculty composer, Daniel's Kellogg's program. I also recently heard a CD rendering of a composition by Joseph Landers, a Montevallo University (in Alabama) professor, whom I knew as a young boy. These young men create music that's new, sometimes edgy, both vibrant and shimmering.
How blessed we are to have their creativity in our midst.

Music in my early childhood was primarily that of hymns and children's Sunday School songs. Deep and Wide, Climb, Climb Up Sunshine Mountain, and Jesus Loves Me are examples. We looked forward to the birds' return each spring, to their songs. Mother's favorites, the blue birds, came to the kitchen window, where Mother whistled their tunes back to them.

I learned to tune out screams and cries, even sniffling. I didn't know that in shutting out sounds of pain and grief, that I would lose ability to discriminate close tones and replicate notes of music. That in ignoring sounds that were bad to me, I wouldn't have the acute ability to hear beautiful sounds. This is another rung in the "it takes darkness to perceive light, despair to enjoy hope--all of those truths that are not what we want to believe. As I've been willing to remember the harshest sounds of my childhood, I've recovered some of that fine discrimination, but with age, not all of it.

The sounds of crickets and frogs were evening music, sometimes a chorus in the night. The rooster's crow rose above the birds singing in the pear tree by my bedroom window and signaled that it was time to get up.

Water's music was and is today one of the most soothing or energizing sounds--as long as it is not rushing to overflow its banks in the spring thaw. As a child I begged to go with Dad to his farm, the other place, for several reasons. One was to trudge to the spring and listen to the sound of the water as it bubbled from wherever its source and flowed over the rocks and into the little creek bed, down through the trees that held vines strong enough to hold Billy and me as we swung, pretending to be Tarzan and Jane of the jungle. The spring and creek's music was quiet in the winter, robust in the spring, leisurely in the summer--until with August's heat it dried to a trickle.

I look forward to spring's thaw and hikes along side rushing creeks, their roar sometimes so loud that talking must cease until we come to a quieter place. In the meantime, I will enjoy live music as it's presented around Boulder and fits my budget, and I will play more of my CDs at home and in the car. There is music for every mood and any occasion. And I will enjoy the music of laughter, especially that of grandson, Sam. I am blessed with the sound of music.

Anticipating Spring

Yes, I'm ready for spring. Here in the Rockies one can imagine on these warmer days that spring is around the corner. It is, but not around an immediate corner.

I had a start this morning when I looked through the photographs that I had transferred to "pictures" from my Olympus site. Many of those that aren't of friends and family are titled "end of" something. Some of these photos I have used on this blog. That sounds a bit depressing, even when titled "beauty at the end of ...."

Today I'm fast forwarding to spring and thinking of new beginnings. Yes, the flower photos are from last year's early hikes. Those of you from the South have a jump on us. Some of you have blossoms in your gardens all year around. My photos are of last year's early wildflowers--my only garden these days.

Wildflowers. Wild blossomings. Perhaps this later in life time allows for tapping into our natural wildness. I'm referring to our deep Divine selves that are willing to risk trying out new things, putting ourselves out there in new ways, risking failure, dissolving walls and extending our love and compassion.

For me this means risking more rejections from agent queries to represent my memoir. It means reminding my friend who said she would help to find time to keep her promise. It means finding places to give my nature and healing talks--and including photos that represent the stark side of nature as well as her beauty. It means extending a hand in a different way and allowing myself to identify with others who have been damaged in similar ways.

I've stayed in easy places--centering prayer groups, church groups. Even in my role as a board member of our local CASA (Court Appointed Special Advocates) non-profit, which works with neglected and abused children in Boulder County, few know how much I could have used a CASA in my childhood--not that such programs existed then.

I like to look good, to cover my scars, to talk about healing as if it comes easily (and perhaps for some few it does). Being vulnerable in new ways is a challenge. Telling my story in ways that let those who hear reach deep inside themselves and find their own buried wounds and bring them up for healing is a delicate balance. Telling just enough--not so much that feeling sorry for me is the reaction. Understanding which stories resonate with a particular audience. It would seem that I need a series--so on one occasion I might use numbers 1, 3 and 5. On another nos. 2, 4 and 6. Something like that. Then the photos would have to be versatile too. Just brainstorming.

What in your life has a new beginning, a new way of seeing or being? Where is a place that you have been hiding and might be willing to be seen?

Anticipating spring makes me smile. Warm sunny days are comforting. Wildflowers bend in the wind and straighten back up. They share their beauty indiscriminately. Can we do the same?

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.