Hold Life Lightly

Seasons teach us to hold life lightly.

Everything dies, yet birth comes

in equal measure, if not more abundantly.

We have to wait years for apples

after planting the tree, watching

summer leaves die and fall,

winter’s bareness too, before spring’s 

buds. All the time, the tree grows.

Winter’s death no hindrance, but

necessity for strength to bear fruit.

Even the fallen apples, uneaten,

carry new life within them.

Everything dies and is born.

Hold it all tenderly, lightly.

Words Matter

As a steady drip of water on rock creates a depression,
reshaping stone,
your words heard over and over,
over decades, 
dug into my heart:
You aren’t enough.
   I’m better than you.
      No one else will take care of you.

Spoken often, implied always by your arrogance,
I shrank and withered under their weight,
under the judgment, until it seemed 
my heart broke open.

Whispered softly, words of healing came from elsewhere,
found a way in, hard to hear, hard to believe, yet unretreating,
persistent, falling into the break and lodging
in the heart.
Growing imperceptibly, gaining strength enough 
to counter your negative words.

Growing, as other voices sang them over me.
Growing, until I could hear them 
and believe them 
instead of the lies
you told.
Growing.
Growing, until they crowded out your words
and sang with every heartbeat:
You are beloved.
   You are appreciated.
      You are enough.

I may always bear the scars of your words
but they won’t rule my life.
I live by other words now,
words that give life,
words that give love.

Stubbornness or Adventure

Last week I was in the mountains for some time away. I didn’t go to the mountains with a plan to hike to waterfalls, but most days, those were the trails I chose.

One day I found a great place to eat lunch by a waterfall. As I ate, I noticed leaves that, instead of being washed downstream, were stubbornly clinging to rock, even though water was rushing forcefully over them. I cannot explain how they managed to hold on tightly where they were.

Certainly, there is a time to hold fast, but also there is a time to let go. I thought about the adventure of riding the current of the stream, and how, if we are too intractable, we miss out on the grand adventure that is life. To let go makes one vulnerable, because we cannot know what lies downstream for us.

However, staying stuck to the rock means those leaves will slowly disintegrate right where they are. We can wither when we are stubborn. We can stick so hard to a belief, a way of living, a job, that we wither away in that position. I have certainly known people whose stubbornness kept them from experiencing growth and adventure in their lives. To take hold of life means a willingness to live in the flow, even when that flow takes us through difficult or painful changes. A life immune from risk isn’t much life at all.

Live!

Being saved from death is

not the same as saving

a life. What good is it

to survive, if you don’t live?

I don’t mean, of course, having

a pulse, breath, the daily

maintenance of eating, sleeping.

 

I mean feeling wind on your skin,

savoring chocolate, a glass of wine,

the wonder of seeing a sunrise

or a dear friend’s face.

 

I mean, of course, the way

your heart beats wildly

with joy when something thrills

you, or beats with fear

when you risk yourself or

feel pain. You see, living is not

playing safe, staying behind fences

or locked doors. That may let you

survive, but already you’re dead.

 

Life wants to be lived,

   out loud,

      no holds barred,

         all in.

Then

when death does come, it comes--

an exclamation point at the end

of life’s story, a cause for

celebration.

Building Project

Because it happened, certain gates were shut;

A door opened.

                                                          From “The Parcel” by Robert Bly

 

Looking back at shut gates accomplishes nothing.

You walked through the open door, into new life,

laid a foundation, built,

tore down, rebuilt, a process repeated

until the house was truly yours.

Now dwell there, inhabit it fully,

fill it with light and joy. It is your home.

Who cares what others think of it?

It fits you perfectly.

Reclaiming Myself

You rejected me, hoping, I suppose, to punish me,

maybe to force me to shrink to a size you could manage—

small enough to control,

small so you would always be bigger.

 

I knew that smallness, lived it for years,

diminished by your put-downs, the guilt you

laid on my shoulders to keep me

shrunken, less than, making me think it was

benevolent of you to love me.

 

Your big threats stirred something in me,

something that had not dried up by your abuse

and I rose up by your rejection,

reclaimed myself, set myself free.

There was enough of me without you,

more than enough to thrive, to shine,

to live fully alive.

Origin

 

Happy are those who trust in the Lord,

   who rely on the Lord.

They will be like trees planted by the streams,

   whose roots reach down to the water.

They won’t fear drought when it comes,

   their leaves will remain green.

They won’t be stressed in the time of drought

   or fail to bear fruit.

                                           Jeremiah 17:7-8

 

Down—the unlikely way to go,

but it is where the water of life dwells.

My roots went down to the Source and I found

my origin: to be one with nature, to play

outdoors, to see the world with child’s awe.

I am reborn by descent. I lived serious

far too long.

Now is the time to play, to be curious,

to live in wonder.

Something to Live For

Our life. . . provokes us with the evidence that it must have meaning. . . our purpose in life is to discover this meaning, and live according to it. We have, therefore, something to live for. The process of living, of growing up, and becoming a person, is precisely the gradually increasing awareness of what that something is.                                                                                            

                                                                                                    Thomas Merton

 Something to live for. I wonder how that something changes for us over time. How often do we consciously think about it in our daily round of life? Maybe the phrase only pops into our consciousness when we are shaken awake by some struggle.

 Or maybe it is a gradually increasing awareness, as Merton says, that happens in the ordinariness of life. We might think about what it is we live for from time to time—as we turn the calendar page to a new year, as we approach a milestone birthday, or when we experience a sense of restlessness with life as it currently is for us. We may wonder what it is that we are living for at such times. If we do think about what we are living for, then a follow up question is called for: What am I doing that moves me toward meaning in my life?

 It is easy to be distracted from questions about meaning and what we live for by the thrum of daily news, activities, and a thousand (or even ten) requests for assistance—good things, but must we say yes to every one of them? We are moving, always moving, it seems, but toward what goal? We have filled the hours of yet another day, but with what? At the end of the day, in the purely literal meaning of that phrase, are we any closer to awareness of what we are living for, or moving toward meaning?

 Stephen Covey, in The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, speaks of getting caught up in “the thick of thin things.” As Lent approaches, I encourage you to walk with Jesus through this season, to see how he was aware of the meaning of his life, and how he lived according to it. He had something to live for, and he did. To reflect on the purposefulness with which he approached life can move us to clear away the clutter of “thin things” and focus on what it is that gives our lives meaning. What is it that you are living for?

 

Ahimsa

Though many people think that yoga is predominately about physical poses, the actual postures of a yoga practice are only one limb of the eight limbs of yoga. Yoga is a way of being in the world. The first limb of yoga consists of ethical principles to guide how we live in the world among others, and the first of these is ahimsa, which means nonharming. 

 For those of my readers who are familiar with the founder of the Methodist movement, John Wesley, you may know about his three simple rules, the first of which is Do no harm. Nonharming is a universal ethical principle. 

 I have thought much about the importance of practicing ahimsa as we continue to be in the midst of the Covid-19 pandemic. The opportunity to practice nonharming is always before us, but it is hard to deny the importance of not doing harm to another right now. Harm is front and center, not only because of our unwillingness to take simple steps to slow the spread of Covid-19 but also in the continuing inequities toward people of color in society, especially when it manifests in being killed because of skin color. 

We do harm when we fail to be sensitive to the life experience of people whose experience differs from ours, when we choose not to listen, when we do not seek to understand. We do harm when we stereotype—whether by race, gender, age, nationality, religion, or any other way we box people into categories. 

 What if, for one day, we could practice ahimsa all day long, in mundane, invisible small ways that no one sees? If we could choose to not say the unkind word, share the inflammatory social media post, wear a mask in public, or learn what life is like for someone different from ourselves—by the end of the day we might discover a gentleness within ourselves that had been obscured from view. 

 For you see, when we practice not harming another, we reap the reward by a greater sense of well-being and inner peace. When we are practicing ahimsa toward the world, we experience ahimsa toward ourselves. Imagine how much better you can feel just by choosing to not do harm to another.

A Prayer to Yield

Then he said to them, "Is it legal on the Sabbath to do good or to do evil, to save life or to kill?" But they said nothing. Looking around at them with anger, deeply grieved at their unyielding hearts, he said to the man, "Stretch out your hand." So he did, and his hand was made healthy.

                                                                                                Mark 3:4-5

O God, show me when to speak,

   how to speak, and what to say.

May my heart yield to you and your way.

May I be one who loves, who does good,

   who places life ove rules.

May I practice ahimsa, seeking always to do no harm.

Lord, you know I burn inside with desire for justice and mercy.

Show me the right use of the fire within me, so it brings light and warmth,

   but not harmful destruction.

Let my life bring healing in the world.

Show me your way. 

Lifelong Learning

I celebrated my 60^th birthday recently. In the weeks leading up to it and in the weeks following, I’ve spent a fair amount of time reflecting on my life to this point. I’ve thought about the things that were important to me as a younger person, what I loved and how I was creative and the people who helped to shape me as I grew up. It has felt like crawling under a house to see its foundation, to know what undergirds the structure.

It has been a good exercise, and I continue to find myself surprised by sudden recollection of a memory that gives me insight into who I am.

Honoring the years and events that have brought me to this point in my life, that have influenced what I value and how I see myself and the world, helps me to appreciate the whole of my life. I realize that it the painful or difficult experiences have been the times I now most appreciate, because I can look back and recognize that I gained strength and depth of knowledge that I wouldn’t have otherwise.

When you can recognize this, it makes labels like “good” and “bad” meaningless in the personal, particular sense. This is not to say that when someone injures you, it’s a good thing, but good can come from experiences where harm was intended and inflicted. Growth most often happens through struggle.

One thing I’ve learned through difficult seasons of life is that you cannot plan for every eventuality. However you’ve planned your life to unfold, it is likely that something will derail your plans. When I teach yoga, I encourage students to find the calm within themselves. Our outer circumstances can change suddenly and violently. We cannot control other people and events, but we can control what our internal state will be in response to the unexpected.

This is why the discipline of solitude matters. To hear the voice of God calling us beloved, we have to tune out the voices that tell us we are not. A strong sense of self and a deep sense of inner calm come when we know ourselves as deeply loved by God. And through sixty years of living, knowing that I am God’s beloved is the most important lesson I’ve learned.

Making New Traditions at Christmas

Christmas is a season during which we often place great weight on tradition. We reenact, year after year, things we’ve done previously, elements of past Christmases that hold memory and meaning for us. Though we may balk at tradition at other times, we hold on to Christmas traditions with great zealousness.

Yet there are times when those traditions are no longer available to us. Children grow up, family members die, divorce happens, people move, etc. When these things happen, we grieve the loss of traditions. We may bemoan that things are not what they have been. We lose the patterns of holidays that are as comfortable and familiar as well-worn shoes.

We can become angry, blame those whose changes have wrought changes to our traditions, or simply let ourselves become depressed and despairing. When tempted to embrace an unhealthy emotion, maybe it is good to consider the first Christmas and the chaos it caused to all who were a part of it. An unmarried young woman, pregnant, a betrothed who sticks with her at the risk to his own reputation, a birth away from home and the difficult journey preceding it—there really was nothing very peaceful and calm about that first Christmas!

This year I am thinking of ways to create new traditions around this season.  The inspiration for this came from my Christmas tree. The Christmas I was separated from my spouse, I almost didn’t get a tree. Not knowing whether the separation would be temporary or permanent, the practical side of me thought not to, but I realized that having a tree could provide an emotional lift in a chaotic and stressful holiday season. To appease my practicality, I purchased a $15 prelit tabletop tree and a $1 package of small star ornaments for it. I tied a small gold ribbon at the top and placed my presents for family and friends around it.

This is my third Christmas with my little tree. While in Portland Oregon with friends, I found small wooden bird ornaments that fit both my tree and my personality (I love birds). Another friend brought me some small shiny balls to add to my tree. Decorating it this year was something I looked forward to, because it represented people and memories that I cherish.

My tree is inspiring me to consider how I might make more new traditions for the Christmas season. I want to embrace that things may be as chaotic as they were the first Christmas, and yet also imagine ways to create traditions that will be touchstones in the sometimes messy circumstances that are indicative of “real life.”

Whether your holiday season is chaotic or calm, I pray you can be patient, loving and centered in God’s peace, not just at this time of year but always. Merry Christmas!

Wounds

You were seen with the eyes of perfect love long before you entered into the dark valley of life. The spiritual life begins at the moment that you can go beyond all the wounds and claim there was a love that was perfect and unlimited long before that perfect love became reflected in the imperfect and limited, conditional love of people.                                             –Henri Nouwen

We often have one of two reactions to wounds, both physical and emotional:  we either try to hide them or we become defined by them. To have a healthy relationship to our wounds enables us to be transformed by them. Our wounds are part of us, but we are more than our wounds.

Our wounds can make us stronger. Years ago, my younger son had surgery to correct a recurring spontaneous pneumothorax. The surgeon made scar tissue on the exterior of the lung so it would basically act like glue to hold the lung in place so it would no longer collapse. The wound of scar tissue corrected his issue.

Our wounds do not make us less than. As Henri Nouwen says, we are loved perfectly by God without any reserve, without any consideration of what we’ve done or what we fail to do, or what anyone has done to us. Just as Jesus rose with and was loved with his wounds, so are we.

Jesus did not try to hide his wounds. In fact, he used his wounds to identify himself to his disciples after his resurrection. They connect him to us; they are a sign that being human means suffering, and that in what is apparent weakness, God overcomes and brings new life.

We cannot see the beauty that comes from our wounds when we are in the midst of pain and hurt. Yet when we can live our wounds through, rather than ignoring them or becoming defined by them, God is able to bring beauty from even the darkest places of pain. And often that beauty is beyond anything we could have ever hoped or imagined.

Birthday Reflections

I celebrated my birthday this week and I certainly know I have much to celebrate. I am living in a place of fullness, joy and peace that I could have never imagined for myself. Some people use the expression “living the dream” sarcastically, but I use it with sincerity. Friends of mine have heard me say that truly, I am living my dream. I am grateful for the way my life has unfolded to bring me to this place of deep gladness.

Frederick Buechner says this: The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet. When I first heard this quote, I was in a season of discernment about what I sensed as a call for my life. Following that call took me from what felt comfortable and predictable and set me on a journey that defied any effort at making a five year plan. Even if I had made such a plan, the events that unfolded along the way were ones I could have never predicted.

Fullness of life doesn’t mean rainbows and unicorns. I went through the hardest season of my life thus far in the years between following this call and now. In fact, there were days dark enough and circumstances unsettling enough that I questioned my worth and my call. But God’s love was manifested to me in the love, companionship and encouragement of friends. I likewise realized that the consistent practice of centering prayer and lectio divina had led to a sense of God’s presence that sustained me. I was grateful that I never felt abandoned by God, even when I questioned everything else about my life.

As I reflect on life at the conclusion of another trip around the sun, I can’t think of anything I’d wish for if I had birthday candles to blow out. I am grateful for each moment. I am grateful for my friends. I am grateful for the communities to which I belong. And yes, I am grateful, supremely grateful, for the season of struggle, the pain and the people whose words and actions hurt me. Without them, I would not be where I am today. I would not have learned and lived the truth of death and resurrection in such a palpable way.

So I celebrate that I have been born and that I have been reborn. Life is good. Thanks be to God!

Seen

Humans see only what is visible to the eyes, but the Lord sees the heart.

                                                                                                                --1 Samuel 16:7b

 Because I am seen by God

   I want to see others as God sees them.

There are those who have seen me this way.

   They helped me to live.

   They loved me to new life.

To see another as God sees them—

   what greater gift can we give?

Was it God’s seeing of David,

   his anointing by Samuel,

   that sparked the faith to face Goliath?

Being seen is the sun and water

   for the Godseed in our hearts.

We grow and bloom when seen as God sees.

   We catch fire and burn brightly,

   fully engulfed with life and light.

Attentiveness to the Transitions

When Jesus heard about John he withdrew in a boat to a deserted place by himself. When the crowds learned this, they followed him on foot from the cities.   –Matthew 14:13

After hearing of the death of John the Baptist, Jesus needs some time to himself. However, the only time he gets is the time on the boat. Alone on the water, I imagine him feeling the rocking motion and hearing the waves lapping against the hull. Other than this, things are still, quiet, calm. I can imagine the time on the water soothes his pain.

I’ve read this verse many times but never before have I thought about Jesus’ time on the water. That was merely a transition from point A to point B in my mind. However, a group from my church recently returned from a pilgrimage to Israel. I asked two different men at two different events last week to describe their most memorable moment of the time away. Both of them described being on a boat in the Sea of Galilee in silence for about ten minutes—no boat engine, no conversation. Just silence.

Their descriptions of this experience caused me to pay attention to this verse that details Jesus’ movement by boat. Having heard my friends describe their experience, my own imagination went with Jesus into the boat, and I shared the experience with him. It reminds me that being present is not only about arriving at a destination, but also about being present in the transitions of life, mundane as they often are. For Jesus had only the boat time to renew himself, only that time alone on the water to attend to his grief.

The transitions in my day and yours are many and we often miss the gifts they offer us. Climbing the stairs, driving the car, standing in line, walking across a parking lot—all these are times we can choose to be present and attentive or we can merely be focused on getting to the next thing.

Years ago, I was looking out my office window into the parking lot. A bush was alive with cedar waxwings, devouring the berries. I was mesmerized as I watched them. A coworker pulled his car into the parking space near the bush, got out of the car and walked into the building. He never saw the birds right there in front of him. That happened thirty-plus years ago and I still remember it.

So today, I want to pay attention to the transitions, to the moments between moments, the pauses between words, the spaces between thoughts or breaths. Those are opportunities to be aware of the Spirit’s presence.

Instructions I Need to Remember

Close the door. What’s gone is gone.

Hold the memory, but do not live it.

Love the now, live the now.

See what and who surrounds you and

breathe them fully into your heart.

This moment, this day, the present presence—

embrace it completely. It is the gift.

Let go what is no more. Don’t drag

regret’s anchor or carry future’s

worry stones.

Sink deep roots into eternal now.

Love what you are given,

love what you love without shame.

Sing this moment’s symphony. Let

every note enliven every heartbeat

so that your whole life becomes song,

an eternal, everliving, everlasting

Jubilate Deo.

Ashes

The remains of those whose love brought me into life

I stared at. Two piles of ashes on the hilltop of the island

across the water from the house they loved

in their retirement.

Two metal tags the only marker of place.

I wondered how long these would remain.

Would the bald eagles that nest on that island

add them to their nest, a bit of shiny amid twigs?

Would deer step on them?

My parents would be thrilled with either possibility.

My life has changed much

since the day we paddled to the island

to place their ashes there.

I hold the memories, both good and difficult.

I hold the knowing of their love for me.

A Prayer

I want to be as adaptable as

the mockingbird I saw today

in a drab part of town. I want

to be able to live anywhere

with even grace and joy,

with eyes that seek out beauty,

and a heart

full of fearlessness and laughter.

I know not the route my life

will take,

yet the destination is clear and bright

and that commands my faith and fills me

with peace.

Grant me the heart of the mockingbird

that I may sing

wherever I am planted,

for I rest in your heart O God.

A Place to Thrive

Recently, I confided to a friend my struggle with a basil plant. It had been trimmed and used for a number of months, and was pretty bare of leaves, and those it had were small. I had purchased a new, full basil plant because the existing one wasn’t able to contribute much to my kitchen, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw the old one in the trash. Early one morning, I took the plant outside and dumped the pot at the base of one of the trees along my street at the entrance to the building where I live. I made sure it was right side up and figured it would get rain and sun and have a chance to survive there.

 

For several weeks I watched it as I went in and out of my building. It began to perk up and put out new leaves. One day I noticed that someone had transplanted it to a planter outside the door of my building. It had been seen and loved and cared for. Now it is green and healthy, and I am glad that I placed it where I did and that someone else realized its potential and gave it a chance to thrive.

Psalm 40 reminds me of this plant:

I waited patiently upon the Lord;

   he stooped to me and heard my cry.

He lifted me out of the desolate pit, out of the mire and clay;

   he set my feet upon a high cliff and made my footing sure.

He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God.

   Many shall see, and stand in awe, and put their trust in the Lord.

Our lives at times are similar to that basil plant. Sometimes we find ourselves in places where life is hard, where the gifts we have to offer are not wanted or valued. Like the Psalmist, we may be in the desolate pit. I know I’ve been there, in that place of wilderness, of mire and clay, questioning my life, my worth, my gifts. God came and lifted me, in the form of community, friends who reminded me that I matter. Transplanted into a different environment, an environment of love and nurture, we can thrive. May we be those who help life to thrive, and when others are in places where they feel withered and worn, may we see and love and care for them.