In the Rockies
Butler Gulch
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Inspirations - nature, spirit, & people: Musings
Inspirations - nature, spirit, & people: Musings: A quiet day in the midst of a busy season is both strange and pleasant. I am writing on an I-pad as I may soon need to replace my laptop a...
Musings
A quiet day in the midst of a busy season is both strange and pleasant. I am writing on an I-pad as I may soon need to replace my laptop and am told that these are the new best thing, perhaps with an attached keyboard which this does not have.
We have had a busy time--grandson Will's 21st birthday dinner, Ben's arrival from Florida for a few days, our Christmas Eve feast plus a visit to son Mike's longtime good friend's family gathering (Johnny did realize that introducing me as "Mother Means" was no longer appropriate!), and the big Means-Sanders family gathering on Christmas evening. I am also visiting friends along the way; however it's that "family" gathering about which I'm musing.
The Means family gathering is actually my ex-husband Tom's family group. Since I am most always visiting our son and family, I have, for more years than I can remember, been part of this gathering. Our holiday plans are made around when the Sanders part of the group can be in town. It is not always convenient, and there were years when I would have enjoyed skipping it. However, son Mike made it clear years ago that he expected me to go. In recent years I have looked forward to seeing everyone.
This year two things made the gathering memorable. The exciting one--seeing the newest member of the clan, one-year-old Rowan--Tom's wife's first grandchild. He really was adorable! The other part of this special get together was for Tom, whose cancer is proceeding without treatment since his body can take no more. It was expected to be his last Christmas. Tom met me with an "I have something for you" and toddled off to return with a gift bag. In the bag were cookies which, Tom announced were hermits made by the recipe I used years ago. He had found the recipe and oversaw the making. I appreciated being part of Christmas memories, memories long not an acceptable part of the conversation.
I had become so accustomed to being this odd-person-out that I had repressed any feeling of loneliness that created. It was only after the gift reminded me of our shared traditions that I realized what had been at the root of my feelings of not belonging--the erased years.
This doesn't happen at the wider Means family gatherings as I remain "Aunt Margaret" to all but the youngest of nieces and nephews and sister/friend to the Means siblings and spouses. I realized that that is why I find those times--funerals these days--important. I have no Cox-Wood family with whom to gather. I keep holiday touch with three cousins, only one of whom I knew growing up, and we have few shared memories.
It is strange to have one's past erased. It will be the same when Tom dies--no room for my grief. In our healing prayer group's last meeting before I left for Nashville, the member who prayed for me said something like "give Maggie strength and comfort as she likely sees the man with whom she shared so much for the last time." It was a wake-up call. Being aware of my feelings even when they make others uncomfortable is difficult. They aren't feelings to flaunt, just to acknowledge and be with privately.
Our children have held tightly to the dad of their adulthood and who he has become. Perhaps that too is part of the erased-memory syndrome.
Christmas night dinner and gift giving was lovely. It was made more fun by young Rowan--so cute as he helped Tom unwrap a package. Our son said that Tom was having a good day. He shared quips and laughter. We were all where we needed to be sharing a mixed family Christmas dinner for what could be the last time. Who knows if that group will come together without Tom.
I am reminded to be grateful for times with all family and friends as today, this time is all we can know.
(As this is not my device, I'll add photos later.)
We have had a busy time--grandson Will's 21st birthday dinner, Ben's arrival from Florida for a few days, our Christmas Eve feast plus a visit to son Mike's longtime good friend's family gathering (Johnny did realize that introducing me as "Mother Means" was no longer appropriate!), and the big Means-Sanders family gathering on Christmas evening. I am also visiting friends along the way; however it's that "family" gathering about which I'm musing.
The Means family gathering is actually my ex-husband Tom's family group. Since I am most always visiting our son and family, I have, for more years than I can remember, been part of this gathering. Our holiday plans are made around when the Sanders part of the group can be in town. It is not always convenient, and there were years when I would have enjoyed skipping it. However, son Mike made it clear years ago that he expected me to go. In recent years I have looked forward to seeing everyone.
This year two things made the gathering memorable. The exciting one--seeing the newest member of the clan, one-year-old Rowan--Tom's wife's first grandchild. He really was adorable! The other part of this special get together was for Tom, whose cancer is proceeding without treatment since his body can take no more. It was expected to be his last Christmas. Tom met me with an "I have something for you" and toddled off to return with a gift bag. In the bag were cookies which, Tom announced were hermits made by the recipe I used years ago. He had found the recipe and oversaw the making. I appreciated being part of Christmas memories, memories long not an acceptable part of the conversation.
I had become so accustomed to being this odd-person-out that I had repressed any feeling of loneliness that created. It was only after the gift reminded me of our shared traditions that I realized what had been at the root of my feelings of not belonging--the erased years.
This doesn't happen at the wider Means family gatherings as I remain "Aunt Margaret" to all but the youngest of nieces and nephews and sister/friend to the Means siblings and spouses. I realized that that is why I find those times--funerals these days--important. I have no Cox-Wood family with whom to gather. I keep holiday touch with three cousins, only one of whom I knew growing up, and we have few shared memories.
It is strange to have one's past erased. It will be the same when Tom dies--no room for my grief. In our healing prayer group's last meeting before I left for Nashville, the member who prayed for me said something like "give Maggie strength and comfort as she likely sees the man with whom she shared so much for the last time." It was a wake-up call. Being aware of my feelings even when they make others uncomfortable is difficult. They aren't feelings to flaunt, just to acknowledge and be with privately.
Our children have held tightly to the dad of their adulthood and who he has become. Perhaps that too is part of the erased-memory syndrome.
Christmas night dinner and gift giving was lovely. It was made more fun by young Rowan--so cute as he helped Tom unwrap a package. Our son said that Tom was having a good day. He shared quips and laughter. We were all where we needed to be sharing a mixed family Christmas dinner for what could be the last time. Who knows if that group will come together without Tom.
I am reminded to be grateful for times with all family and friends as today, this time is all we can know.
(As this is not my device, I'll add photos later.)
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Blessings -- Thanksgiving
I
Ducks on a Boulder Reservoir Inlet taken a couple of days ago.
t is a bright sunny morning here in Colorado. Our intense cold and snow has moved on to the part of the country where some of you reading this live, and I'm hopeful that my son and his family have a safe drive from Nashville to Asheville, NC, where they will be spending Thanksgiving with his Dad's extended family. Grandson Sam (flying with his Mom and Dad from Colorado) told me Monday that he was excited about going to a state he hadn't visited and seeing all the people. He hasn't gone with his Mother to Nashville for some time and doesn't remember all of those he will see in Asheville. It will be odd in some ways not to be there and normal in others as Thanksgiving has been a hit and miss holiday with family for me for years.
I find much for which to be thankful as always, but want to focus on my recent visit to St. Benedict's Monastery in Old Snowmass (near Aspen) for a silent retreat. It wasn't long planned nor was it a retreat that I knew that I needed until after the scholarships fell into place so I could go. We were fortunate to arrive at the Monastery on Monday, November 4th before snow began to fall in the valley. The next morning we awoke to softly falling snow covering the ground and accenting the quiet.
An earlier photo of the Retreat House where we stayed.
Shortly after we arrived the first blessing of my retreat appeared when a young woman got up and walked toward me saying she believed we were acquainted and she was Sarah. Sarah had been one of the bright spots in my early days in Boulder and at St. John's, but we had lost touch several years ago. She now lives above Lyons and is a free-lance editor, with lots of professional editing experience behind her. We were both delighted to connect and met last Thursday to catch up and talk about working together on my memoir manuscript which I had already planned to work on again. Sarah said she hoped to accompany and support me as I work to hone the manuscript once again. I'm hopeful that the material that I gave her won't be too difficult for her.
My roommate Mary Ann was making a diet test during our time there so she prepared and ate her meals in our room--an unusual way of retreat participation and a big unsettling for room silence at times. She is, however, an excellent roommate as far as not talking goes and very considerate in so many ways. I do, however, go as a support for her--driving (her Subaru) and providing a hiking/walking companion.
Silence at these retreats includes no eye contact, which is hard at meals and not always possible with a roommate. The Benedictine monks are gracious (quietly) about those of us of other faiths participating in their communion services, but I choose to attend the first morning, the Thursday evening, and the Sunday services while Mary Ann goes most mornings. I especially enjoy the evening Vespers which I attended regularly. The monks' chants, the silence and the candlelight with the lighted stained glass window of Mary holding the babe lighted make for a lovely way to end the day.
Walks and talks with the three people who staff the retreat are offered each afternoon. All the times with Mary Ann from New Mexico, who has staffed these retreats for years, were quickly filled with me in one of her slots. When talking with her for my 30-minute allotment, I said that I felt drawn to the young monk who was one of the three staff members, but didn't know what we would talk about or why I felt that way. She suggested that I sign up and tell him that I didn't know why.
As he and I walked down the road on a pleasant afternoon, it became apparent that we were destined to meet. He had walked, talked and held a friend during the trying months when she had remembered the terror of childhood experiences similar to mine--a much younger woman living in affluence in a northeastern city--parents with a second home in a much-desired resort community. Her group too was multi-generational. Sharing experiences was healing and inspiring for both of us, and he is willing to read the manuscript in the near future. (I started to post a photo of him, but then realized that it might violate his privacy and as well as using his name would.)
There are others too whose presence, sharing at the ending circle and brief visits during the last dinner and breakfast, made a difference. I think of the Monks and their daily lives of work and prayer with Thanksgiving, especially for my young monk friend and his faith.
Blessings, peace and love from my home to yours.
PS: Son Mike just phoned from the side of the Interstate in Nashville, waiting for a tow truck as his tuned-up ready-to-go car had slipped a belt. He said it would only delay them for a couple of hours as they could drive another vehicle and glad to have the break-down occur locally rather than on the Interstate between cities.
I
Ducks on a Boulder Reservoir Inlet taken a couple of days ago.
t is a bright sunny morning here in Colorado. Our intense cold and snow has moved on to the part of the country where some of you reading this live, and I'm hopeful that my son and his family have a safe drive from Nashville to Asheville, NC, where they will be spending Thanksgiving with his Dad's extended family. Grandson Sam (flying with his Mom and Dad from Colorado) told me Monday that he was excited about going to a state he hadn't visited and seeing all the people. He hasn't gone with his Mother to Nashville for some time and doesn't remember all of those he will see in Asheville. It will be odd in some ways not to be there and normal in others as Thanksgiving has been a hit and miss holiday with family for me for years.
I find much for which to be thankful as always, but want to focus on my recent visit to St. Benedict's Monastery in Old Snowmass (near Aspen) for a silent retreat. It wasn't long planned nor was it a retreat that I knew that I needed until after the scholarships fell into place so I could go. We were fortunate to arrive at the Monastery on Monday, November 4th before snow began to fall in the valley. The next morning we awoke to softly falling snow covering the ground and accenting the quiet.
Shortly after we arrived the first blessing of my retreat appeared when a young woman got up and walked toward me saying she believed we were acquainted and she was Sarah. Sarah had been one of the bright spots in my early days in Boulder and at St. John's, but we had lost touch several years ago. She now lives above Lyons and is a free-lance editor, with lots of professional editing experience behind her. We were both delighted to connect and met last Thursday to catch up and talk about working together on my memoir manuscript which I had already planned to work on again. Sarah said she hoped to accompany and support me as I work to hone the manuscript once again. I'm hopeful that the material that I gave her won't be too difficult for her.
My roommate Mary Ann was making a diet test during our time there so she prepared and ate her meals in our room--an unusual way of retreat participation and a big unsettling for room silence at times. She is, however, an excellent roommate as far as not talking goes and very considerate in so many ways. I do, however, go as a support for her--driving (her Subaru) and providing a hiking/walking companion.
Silence at these retreats includes no eye contact, which is hard at meals and not always possible with a roommate. The Benedictine monks are gracious (quietly) about those of us of other faiths participating in their communion services, but I choose to attend the first morning, the Thursday evening, and the Sunday services while Mary Ann goes most mornings. I especially enjoy the evening Vespers which I attended regularly. The monks' chants, the silence and the candlelight with the lighted stained glass window of Mary holding the babe lighted make for a lovely way to end the day.
Walks and talks with the three people who staff the retreat are offered each afternoon. All the times with Mary Ann from New Mexico, who has staffed these retreats for years, were quickly filled with me in one of her slots. When talking with her for my 30-minute allotment, I said that I felt drawn to the young monk who was one of the three staff members, but didn't know what we would talk about or why I felt that way. She suggested that I sign up and tell him that I didn't know why.
There are others too whose presence, sharing at the ending circle and brief visits during the last dinner and breakfast, made a difference. I think of the Monks and their daily lives of work and prayer with Thanksgiving, especially for my young monk friend and his faith.
Blessings, peace and love from my home to yours.
PS: Son Mike just phoned from the side of the Interstate in Nashville, waiting for a tow truck as his tuned-up ready-to-go car had slipped a belt. He said it would only delay them for a couple of hours as they could drive another vehicle and glad to have the break-down occur locally rather than on the Interstate between cities.
I
Plans -- and Mesa Verde National Park
Cliff Palace -- the largest dwelling ruins in Mesa Verde
This morning I was reminded of all the planning that went on for our trip to Mesa Verde National Park in mid-September and the plans for events to take place after we returned. I had saved today as a writing day, intending to write this blog early this morning.
When I awakened, it was dark and cold in my little place. The electricity was off and the heating, though gas, doesn't work in a useful way without the electric blowers. It was 60 degrees and dark. After checking to be sure that Xcel, the power company, knew about the outage, I snuggled under my comforter and went back to sleep. It was light outside when I woke up--a beautiful chilly bright day. Whatever could have caused a power outage on such a day? The original estimated time for the power to return had been 9:15 am--not bad. However, the phone calls kept coming, and the delays mounting. When the Xcel trucks appeared in the parking lot, I went out to see what was happening. A station wagon was parked right over the spot where the underground break was, and the owner was unavailable. One of the Xcel men helped me open my garage, and when I left at 11:30, they still hadn't towed the vehicle and begun the work.
Now, I'm at a coffee shop with lots of others, drinking coffee, using the computer and charging my phone (and getting warm). I am more aware of the effects of the flood on those who were without power for days and I had water and no flooding in my home so only had a small taste of their difficulties. We take so much comfort for granted!
Mesa Verde -- an amazing place. It looks so barren and yet people farmed those ridges above their homes carved into the canyons.
Much later--I was called out of the coffee shop to assist with some work at church so didn't get his finished. Now, re-reading it, I think of how the people who lived in these cliff dwellings must have kept warm in the winter. Right now there is at least a couple of feet of snow in the Mesa Verde area. I forgot when we were there that the Sangre de Cristo mountain area is that which usually has the most snow of any part of Colorado, and it's on the edge of that mountain range where Mesa Verde is located.
We were amazed as the rangers who led hikes into two of the ruins and the one who led the hike we took shared their thoughts about how these dwellers lived--different theories about how they arrived and when they left. All agreed that it was a hard life.
This ladder at Balcony House (36 ft. I believe) wasn't there for the Ancestral Pueblo people who lived in these cliff dwellings. We all marveled at how they must have climbed the rock faces of the canyons to reach the mesas where they grew corn, grain and squash--and from looking at those "fields" now, we wondered how they grew anything edible. (The ladder is secure though I was slow climbing to the top. It's done two at a time with a little space between the pairs. My friend moved quickly up the ladder so I climbed alone with those behind me wondering if I was okay.)
It seems long ago--that trip in mid-September, but the evidence of the Boulder and Front Range floods are still with us. The last of the highways up the various canyons opened yesterday morning--temporary but adequate until next spring when permanent rebuilding will begin. The county roads that are passable are dirt and won't make for good winter driving. My friend who had been evacuated twice by fires and again with the flooding and with dirt to drive on through the winter showed off her new Subaru 4-wheel drive vehicle yesterday.
I'll sign off of this mixed post and write one for Thanksgiving now.
When I awakened, it was dark and cold in my little place. The electricity was off and the heating, though gas, doesn't work in a useful way without the electric blowers. It was 60 degrees and dark. After checking to be sure that Xcel, the power company, knew about the outage, I snuggled under my comforter and went back to sleep. It was light outside when I woke up--a beautiful chilly bright day. Whatever could have caused a power outage on such a day? The original estimated time for the power to return had been 9:15 am--not bad. However, the phone calls kept coming, and the delays mounting. When the Xcel trucks appeared in the parking lot, I went out to see what was happening. A station wagon was parked right over the spot where the underground break was, and the owner was unavailable. One of the Xcel men helped me open my garage, and when I left at 11:30, they still hadn't towed the vehicle and begun the work.
Now, I'm at a coffee shop with lots of others, drinking coffee, using the computer and charging my phone (and getting warm). I am more aware of the effects of the flood on those who were without power for days and I had water and no flooding in my home so only had a small taste of their difficulties. We take so much comfort for granted!
Mesa Verde -- an amazing place. It looks so barren and yet people farmed those ridges above their homes carved into the canyons.
Much later--I was called out of the coffee shop to assist with some work at church so didn't get his finished. Now, re-reading it, I think of how the people who lived in these cliff dwellings must have kept warm in the winter. Right now there is at least a couple of feet of snow in the Mesa Verde area. I forgot when we were there that the Sangre de Cristo mountain area is that which usually has the most snow of any part of Colorado, and it's on the edge of that mountain range where Mesa Verde is located.
We were amazed as the rangers who led hikes into two of the ruins and the one who led the hike we took shared their thoughts about how these dwellers lived--different theories about how they arrived and when they left. All agreed that it was a hard life.
This ladder at Balcony House (36 ft. I believe) wasn't there for the Ancestral Pueblo people who lived in these cliff dwellings. We all marveled at how they must have climbed the rock faces of the canyons to reach the mesas where they grew corn, grain and squash--and from looking at those "fields" now, we wondered how they grew anything edible. (The ladder is secure though I was slow climbing to the top. It's done two at a time with a little space between the pairs. My friend moved quickly up the ladder so I climbed alone with those behind me wondering if I was okay.)
It seems long ago--that trip in mid-September, but the evidence of the Boulder and Front Range floods are still with us. The last of the highways up the various canyons opened yesterday morning--temporary but adequate until next spring when permanent rebuilding will begin. The county roads that are passable are dirt and won't make for good winter driving. My friend who had been evacuated twice by fires and again with the flooding and with dirt to drive on through the winter showed off her new Subaru 4-wheel drive vehicle yesterday.
I'll sign off of this mixed post and write one for Thanksgiving now.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Without Access
September and October, sometimes even November, are usually among my favorite hiking months. The fall light is lovely, seeping through the deep yellow leaves. The mountain sides, the creek sides are blanketed by aspens and willows turning yellow, gold and occasionally red. I have walked among them filled with delight at the sight and sound of those leaves (especially the Aspens) humming in the breeze.
This has not been a typical year on Colorado's front range. And as a friend and I mused recently, the loss of our hiking access and damage to the local trails is small when compared to friends who lost everything and others who are dealing with lower level living spaces that are not yet habitable. Few basements in Boulder County are used as storage and junk areas. Instead folks extend their living spaces by finishing basements into bedrooms, recreation rooms and great rooms. One friend even had a grand piano in her finished basement that flooded.
I drove into the edges of the high country--across a pass and down into Georgetown. I found a picnic area in which to eat a sandwich I'd brought along. There were pull offs with short walks, but it wasn't like hiking among the leaves. I did love the grandeur of golden mountain sides more fully covered in aspens than those up Boulder Canyon and on view from the RMNP trails. First we couldn't get up the canyons to reach the park; then the park closed, and now the leaves have dropped from their branches.
This time of finding open trails in the flats of Boulder, watching for and taking walks on parts of trails as they opened, and finally driving, Wednesday afternoon, up the newly opened Boulder Canyon Drive to Nederland, has made me think about how I would find the release and nourishment that my usual hiking brings should I decide to move back to Nashville. There, to find the up trails that I love, would also entail a drive--perhaps to Monteagle or Sewanee. There are parks with trails in Nashville, as there are here--not as many for the area, but they exist. However, I spent many more hours walking or running on sidewalks and streets years ago when I lived there.
I haven't yet found the answer to not really hiking--just taking long walks or going on a trail until I reached the yellow tape that closed the remainder of the trail--doesn't give me that release, that sense of being away, of the challenge of going a little farther, of standing in awe, of being alone in God's beautiful world. I did do a panorama of past year's golden hikes--I didn't have to look at photos to go there. I know there could come a day when that's the only way I can enjoy the fall season, and I'm grateful to not yet have reached that time. There are more changing colors at the nearby park and the Boulder Reservoir path a five-minute drive away has re-opened. I will walk there this morning, and I will enjoy it. However, I haven't yet found the answer to doing without mountain hikes. The search continues.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
A Spiritual Place
Chaco Canyon is not an easy place to reach. It is between Farmington and Albuquerque, New Mexico, in the middle of barren desert. Your only choice to stay nearby is that of camping in the park in a rather rustic campground--best done in a camper. We stayed in Farmington and drove the almost two hours to reach the park, ending the drive on a mostly flat dirt road in barren desert country. And suddenly there were canyon walls. Driving in, before we saw any ruins, we felt the spiritual force of the place. For me Chaco Canyon was much more about the energy of the place than about the ruins though the ruins were large and easier to see and spend time in and around than those in Mesa Verde (about which I'll write another time).
A fellow Daughter of the King, an international prayer order whose cross that I wear identified me, was a ranger there and our guide for a two-hour tour of Pablo Bonita, the largest ruin in Chaco Canyon, pictured from a distance below. It was four-five stories at the back walls and had over 600 rooms. Our guide spoke of how the people there must have lived, pointed out the detailed rock work, and we noticed that even the storage rooms were done with care. This entire canyon was filled with astonishing structures around AD 1020 - 1120.
Unprepared for a rocky hike!
Our guide, wanting to be sure we were having an enjoyable time, followed us to the next ruin on the loop and introduced us to the Navajo man who had been the master of restoration in the park for a number of years. He told us he was the only Navajo (a Hopi reservation adjoins the park) and also a medicine man. He said those working there needed his healing services frequently.
And the canyon itself--we could have spent many more hours there, but did take time for a brief walk/hike. It appeared that we wouldn't be going up the hillside--just a little walk around some small ruins. When the trail turned up a rocky slope, it was impossible to stop. The feel of the space and reaching a height where we could survey the area was enticing. The photos give you only a tiny sense of the grandeur of Chaco Canyon. I would love to return, stay overnight and hike the trails.
PS: I've been trying to post this for about a week. Hope it happens today!
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Scrambles Up and Over -- and Partners on the Way
Chasm Lake surrounded by amazing rock walls
Early this morning I was musing about my good fortune with two recent hikes--Chasm Lake and yesterday's Lake of Glass/Sky Pond. Both are hikes that require "scrambles" up and over rock faces, the one yesterday over wet rocks. They aren't hikes to take without a good partner. That's because those "scrambles" up and over the rock ledges are for me, a stretch. A first glance as I looked at the wet boulders in front of me yesterday, I didn't see a foothold that I could reach. They were there. I'd done this hike so I knew I could do it. I'd needed my hiking companion when I'd done it in other years, and I definitely needed a companion up in front this time around.
The "scramble" up to the lakes is behind me.
A companion who was confident supported my confidence. And she was sure that I could do it too. Our third companion decided that this part of the hike was not for him. He waited and was there with the intent of catching us if we fell on the way down. More about those who catch us when we fall later.
I looked back at photographs of hikes before I'd gone digital. They were from our big hike years of 2001 and 2004--nine and eleven years ago. There have been a few challenging hikes since that time, but not as many.
It made me wonder about those scrambles in my life too. In 2001, and even in 2004, I believed in my memoir. I believed it was a book I was supposed to write, and I believed it was supposed to be published--not by me, as in self-publishing, but by a trusted publisher. My Holy Spirit guide tells me still that this is true, but with all the stops and starts in procuring an agent, I am reluctant to take that on as I did before--as a job that I worked regularly.
I have also believed I had a healing message to get out to those who have been seriously abused, especially those with a background similar to mine. However, the easiest path to talks has been to speak to church or spiritual groups. I've enjoyed doing that, and others have been touched, moved and gained insights. But they haven't easily led to more talks. That may be a message--or it could be that I haven't tried hard enough.
I remember a woman priest saying to me a decade ago that my ministry would always be to those most wounded. While I have believed that, I haven't made real movement in that direction.
I believe in the cause that has taken a lot of my energy in the past four and a half years--our local CASA agency supporting abused and neglected children. We do good work, and I believe I have made worthy contributions. The thing is--couldn't those contributions have been made by others? Realizing that deeply is what led me to say I wouldn't commit to another year as president of that board. Letting go of that job at the end of this month is a journey, as letting go always is.
So I'm saying, "Here I am, Lord." I'm ready to do what only I can do, what you have me here to do. I'm saying this knowing that the Spirit is with me and will serve as a confirming guide. I'm also saying this knowing that the partnership I need isn't visible. That's not saying I don't have friends who support what I believe I'm to do--and think they know how I should publish the book! They'll say "great" if (or when?!) it happens, and a couple of them will listen occasionally as I make my way through the process. But a partner is more than that, and a partner is needed. That partner needs to believe with me (even when I'm not so sure) and be there, maybe not to catch falls along the way, but to soften them. I might need to make a similar commitment in turn. Wonder what that would look like?
This is a "scramble" that I'm making room for, I don't know what the journey looks like from here on. I can't see to the next steps. It seems to be this part of life's scramble for me.
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