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Thanksgiving Blessings

A year ago this week, I sat with my Dad while the hospice chaplain read the Sacrament of the Sick. We had no idea how he would respond to the blessing, or if he would even understand it or be able to attend to it. In fact, he sank right into it. He embraced the potential in the offering so fully that it seemed he heard the permission to notice that his life well-lived was coming to a close and that he was, happily, on death’s doorstep. I described the day at length in A Moment of Grace.

What I couldn’t have known at the time was that that blessing was the beginning of his dying process. Over the next few weeks he moved in and out of lucidity. A few days later, on Thanksgiving, Thomas and I joined him for lunch. As I slowly fed him his pureed turkey with gravy and mashed potatoes, we talked little but laughed readily, enjoying each other’s presence. Every once in awhile, he would lift his head up higher and look all the way across the table. Each time he raised his head high enough to see Thomas sitting across the table, his eyes would open wide with surprise and delight, causing us all to giggle anew at the pleasure of being together.

After lunch, we called my brother’s family. Dad did not want to talk – or listen. He had had all the company he could manage and was growing tired and uncomfortable. He became frustrated with me and, as he became emotionally agitated, he grew more physically uncomfortable. To this day, I feel bad for holding the phone to his ear so he could hear their voices until he pushed it away with anger. I knew how important it was to them to talk to Dad but I had not known his limit of comfort or capacity until we crossed it. When I apologized, he angrily lashed out, “You don’t know. You don’t know what it’s like.” He was shaking with frustration, pain, and sorrow. I could only hug him and agree. I did not know what it was like. But I was doing the best I could in this unfamiliar circumstance, just like he was. That was all either of us could do.

I still do not know what it was like. I could not walk in his shoes. I could only walk beside. As Thanksgiving approaches and I begin to count my blessings, I count the love, learning, and lessons of the caring relationship during Dad’s dementia and death among them. It opened a door for my living in each present moment with greater intention and awareness. I am grateful for the health and openings that continue to grace my days among family, friends, and the opportunities we find to continue to grow and serve.

I had spent the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas last year almost fully in attendance with Dad. He declined quickly and I was visiting daily. At his bedside, I sometimes chattered aimlessly and nervously and I sometimes sat in quiet stillness. I took long walks at the beach, willing the open air and vast ocean into the consciousness of the room where he lay medicated and drifting in and out of awareness. When I was home, I wandered around in the dark and quiet. I meditated, visualized his transcendence, and slept with a rock from the beach on my chest as a gentle reminder to my spirit to remain with my earthly body when Dad walked away from his. Before he died, all of my brothers arrived and we spent several days by his bedside. We said good-bye many times before Dad took his last breath, but by the time I said my last good-bye, I knew it was really the last one I would to speak. My heart finally let go as the words left my lips.

This year, in that same window between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I will be co-facilitating a 2-day Holidays with HeART  workshop at Inn Along the Way. The workshops are an opportunity for people to gather for conversation and creative expression and to honor loved ones, ourselves and each other. I conceived of and proposed the workshops before I had consciously noticed the upcoming anniversary of Dad’s death and how many raw memories this holiday season would hold for me. When I became aware of the timing, I panicked. “Oh no, I’m not really ready to do this yet…” But the panic subsided almost as quickly as it came. Of course, I am ready. I am here to simply walk beside. I imagine the workshop actually originated from that readiness and my desire to create safe spaces for sharing stories of dying, loving, and deep living. We have so much to share and learn from one another. Holidays with HeART will invite laughter, tears, creativity, remembrance, and gratitude to this holiday season. For this, too, I am grateful.

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Living out Loud

Remember that segment in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off when Ferris toots a few off-key notes on his trumpet and proudly declares, “Never had one lesson?” Later that day, he takes the stage on a float in the parade and plays for real. Clearly, Ferris was charmed, but I have been thinking a lot about how much the rest of us can do without lessons.

We bought a piano last summer. No one in our household plays an instrument. A hint of curiosity about playing piano cropped up in conversation and the simple inquiry became an opening to the possibility to enrich our lives. We found a reasonably-priced used piano for sale, and brought it home.

Now we have a lovely piano in our living room and the possibility of learning how to play it looms ahead. For the first week, I was so intimidated I wouldn’t even sit at the piano. I was sure that I needed lessons and the structure of instruction to even know where to begin. A few days later, D got home from school and promptly sat down at the piano. The first night he plink, plank, plunked his way to find all the notes to Mary had a Little Lamb. After a few minutes, he got out his phone and found an online tutorial to walk him through the first phrases of Fur Elise. He soon committed this song to memory too and, within 30 minutes, he had the beginning of a repertoire.

When T got home a few weeks later, he too sat right down and began to make music. The remainder of the summer, they both played for several minutes each morning and each evening. They often explored variations like playing with their non-dominant hand, or with one finger, or depressing the pedal or in two keys simultaneously. Melodies spontaneously emerged from their fingertips. They haven’t had any lessons and their fingering won’t be “right” but they are making music.

After hearing the boys play with exploratory joy and confidence, I wondered why I was waiting for lessons to pave my way. I hear music when the boys play, but worried that when I play it would only be noise. Was I doubting my ability to learn on my own? Am I really so averse to risk that I can’t sit down in my own living room and try? I may or may not make music, but what harm would be done by sitting down and making noise? I thought a lot about the way in which guarding myself from failure was keep me from even trying much less succeeding. What else was I sub-consciously choosing not to do in my life?

I finally mustered up the courage to sit down and taught myself Mary had a Little Lamb one evening. Even better, once that was done, I let my fingers just move. I won’t be on stage at the concert hall anytime soon, but the music is not for anyone else. It is for me, for the joy of making noise, and for the understanding that I can learn and grow.

Since deciding to enroll in ChIME, I have noticed my interest in “living out loud” expanding. That means creating opportunities for thoughts and feelings to take expression in a myriad of forms — sometimes it is movement, sometimes words, sometimes creative art, and sometimes even a few minutes at the piano. I have found that I love the opportunity to create without knowing or caring what the outcome will be. The act of creating something, anything, feels healing. The creative process provides counterbalance to the overwhelming feelings of chaos and sorrow that accompany the too-frequent devastating news of violent action against humans and the earth, natural disasters, wars, and civil discord. And sometimes, the creative process manifests in an outcome that begs to be shared with others — an offering of creation into the world amidst the disintegration. This extension creates echoes that carry creativity and positivity back to me.

I may not gather the courage that compelled Ferris to the float in the center of the parade anytime soon but I will keep finding new ways to live out loud and appreciating the surprises that the practice reveals.

As I explore my own process, I find myself wondering how others choose to live out loud. How many times each day do you approach and then embrace something that is unfamiliar or plain old scary? When do you try something new, even when you don’t know how it will turn out? When do you chose to share your process or your outcome with others?

 

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Shifting Sands

Yesterday afternoon, I sat in class* for three hours. We talked about stillness, meditation, and prayer. My energy rose and fell as the conversation ebbed and flowed. I was introspective, drawn inward rather than outward by the conversation, but I was also restless. Across the circle, a friend caught my eye and I realized that I had been fidgeting anxiously with my feet, almost driven to distraction. An hour later, we emerged from the womb of that basement classroom full of other souls following their own journeys of the heart. Leaving, like birthing, felt unsettling. In our three hours together, we had fallen deeply into  being there in that birthing space together. Taking leave of it, I was acutely aware of again entering the unknown of the wide world.

Crossing the road to get to my car, I noticed how fast the passing cars were going. The mist made the air heavy and dim: it seemed too early to be dusk. It was too loud, too fast and too dark for me to absorb. And then I heard the news, a massive earthquake in Mexico, not far from where my son is going to school. My trembling heart echoed the trembling earth. I remembered how fluid and unpredictable this life is. How can there be time or space for rest and stillness? The sand is always shifting beneath our feet!

After the momentary panic of awareness, I realized the implicit nexus of our conversation about stillness, prayer and meditation. Those practices percolate from deep within us and, more importantly for me, from a space beyond knowing/thought. Practicing them with intention prepares us to respond from a well that is deeper than our own experiences. Drawing from beyond time, space and body, there is abundant strength, courage and love to give and release. Stillness, meditation and prayer nourish us from a well that is always available – the limitless expanse where love, spirit, mystery, god, goddess, allah, divine, etc…resides. From this deep well of constancy, we may be better able to receive and release life’s comings and goings with grace and loving kindness.

I wrote the following as an opening invitation for next week’s class:

Come in, friends. There is a storm outside.

The earth will not stop trembling while we pause, but we will find stillness here. In this room, we are held and nourished, stimulated and refreshed. We need only glance around this circle to witness the light of divine love — or close our eyes and feel its tender warmth.

In this room, our flame may flicker in the wind and then grow brighter. We may doubt and then feel our resolve grow stronger. Our love may wiggle and waver, but we trust that it will persist. The sacred womb of this room prepares each of us to boldly carry that love like a torch into the night. And we find that they are one and the same together, the womb that holds us and the one that wells up from a knowing deep within each of us.

In a lifetime during which nothing lasts and the ground will always move beneath our feet, take refuge here. We are both holding and always held. Be still. Welcome.

Dubai Sandscape

*I have just begun a 2-year interfaith ministry program with the Chaplaincy Institute of Maine (ChIME). During this exploration of heart, mind ,and spirit, the frist year focuses on Contemplation while the second year is about Action. I am pleased to be on this path, eager for the work, and I look forward to sharing periodic reflections at this blog.

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Small, Still Voice

“Centering down” refers to the process of quieting the body and mind in order to attend to the small, still voice that resides within us. That voice is our conscience, our moral compass, that of God within us, Spirit expressed through us. Whatever identity we assign it, that voice is the conduit through which the divine is expressed in our common lives. I think of it as the voice of my true self. In Quaker meeting, centering down requires getting comfortable enough sitting quietly that the internal chatter of our daily lives is replaced by “expectant waiting” for expression of the Spirit. Truth be told, I find it really hard to center down through silence and stillness.

I can, however, find my small, still voice when I am in motion. I figured this out in high school while running long miles to “clear my head” on the weekends. After about 30 minutes of trotting down the road, I would pass a threshhold that I always thought of as the cotton candy line. With my mind enmeshed in soft, fluffy sweetness, my self-conscious deliberations of daily life dissolved and left open space for clearer and more creative exploration of problems and their solutions. In this open space, while still running, I could finish my homework, solve social problems and reflect on potential from a place that had clearly originated beyond my conscious thought. I always assumed this was a result of some hormonal or chemical response that opened neural pathways that would remain closed in the absence of focused exertion. I now realize that it was just my way of centering down. Since high school, I have channeled that compulsion for motion into running, walking, hiking, trailwork and gardening. I have conceived many written pages, designed and led youth programs and built my strongest and deepest relationships while moving. The motion has provided both the catalyst and the foundation for my life’s best work.

In The Book of Joy, Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s daily constitutional is described as meditation in motion, a pathway for accessing the wisdom of the spirit that comes through the wisdom of the body. I think of this as a wisdom of the heart, and it sustains and informs me well beyond the exercise itself. If I jump right into the obligations of a day without taking time for my physically engaged version of centering down, I spend the day reacting to situations and information around me. I am anxious rather than accepting when I notice we will be late for an appointment. I feel anger and sadness when I hear accounts of hate and bigotry rather than feeling the potential for compassion that is the response more likely to actually transform the negative thoughts and energy. These days it feels ever more important to make sure that I am able to speak and act from the place of peace and compassion that can only come from within. My teenage boys are growing ever more engaged in the world outside of the bubble of our family and friends. They consume media reports of world events with the same zeal that they consume large quantities of food. They work to reconcile news headlines with their beliefs about the world and the people of the world. The violent and mean-spirited words and actions at play on the world stage are inconsistent with the acceptance, tolerance and awareness that they have practiced in their short lives. As I try to buffer their absorption of this ugliness in the world, my thoughts get tangled in disbelief and resentment. I shouldn’t have to try to explain intolerance, hatred, racism and bigotry. Further, these irrational behaviors and beliefs don’t hold up well to attempts at rational explanation. My mind can not make any meaning from this madness. I must rely on sharing the wisdom of my heart instead.

I have always ascribed more value to the wisdom of the heart than the efforts of the mind anyway. Lately, I start most days with a walk or a yoga practice in order to open the pathways to the thoughts and feelings that come from deep within. Beginning the day in motion, I have a chance to sink deeply into my own body, listening for the small still voice within me and setting my intentions for the day. From this place, I have the best chance of holding onto my authentic motivations as the external demands and inputs of contemporary life pull me into reflexive responses. Tapped into my own internal energy rather than swept into the frenetic energy of the world around me, I am more likely to be the person that I wish to be for my children and for the wider world. My still, small voice advocates clearly for love, compassion and acceptance. It doesn’t leave room for anything else. Still, I need to refresh my connection to it throughout the day — and that is done best outside. A few minutes walking along the trail, working in the garden, chopping wood, or shoveling snow clarifies my voice. Reconnecting, even briefly, with the rhythms of my body and the rhythms of the natural world refreshes my capacity to hear and abide by the rhythms and wisdom of my heart. The words and actions that come from that heart wisdom are amplified when I have spent even a few minutes in motion under a wide and welcoming sky or a protective canopy of trees.

The more wild the outdoor space and the more time I can spend there, the more profound the positive impact. It is joyful, inspiring and expanding to live and travel with the barest human essentials amidst the bounty and beauty of the earth. A trip deep into a natural place offers a depth of rejuvenation that clarifies and sustains our capacity to hear and act upon our heart’s wisdom. As John Muir invites, “Keep close to Nature’s heart… and break clear away once in awhile, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean.” At Renewal in the Wilderness, Genevieve recently described the strength that she draws from travelling in wild landscapes:: “When I’m in the real Wilderness (with trees and rivers or the vast landscapes of deserts), my heart quiets and my mind stops. I have space to listen. The proverbial Wilderness of the world doesn’t disappear, but somehow becomes more manageable.”

What makes the wilderness of the world more manageable for you? Where do you find space to listen? How do you best hear your small, still voice, that voice that speaks clearly and loudly on behalf of your heart’s wisdom?

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Dry? Freeze? Jam? Give Thanks

The gifts of summer have filled my senses to overflowing.

The air is warm but not hot and constantly refreshed by a gentle breeze that keeps the bugs at bay.  Recently, the wind has carried either the thick, fecund smell of cow manure or a floral smell with origins we can’t identify. This morning, I woke to the drumming of a gentle steady rain. Other mornings, it is the call of birds that pulls me from sleep, declaring territory or announcing food rather than calling for mates as they were a few months ago. The flowers and butterflies are a kaleidoscope of colors, changing from one day to the next as they blossom, mature and decline. The garden is overflowing with fragrant herbs and this short growing season’s crops are at their peak. What am I to do with this abundance?

I began the day trying to reign in the bounty. I cut handfuls of herbs, attempting to save their fresh flavor for the long winter ahead. We built a new drying rack this year and strung a line inside. I am excited to be able to preserve some of the fragrance and flavor for later days. But I’m not fooled, I know the dried herbs will be more subdued than the fresh ones that we put in our salad last night. While it will be nice to have the herbs from our garden in a winter soup as a reminder of summer, they will not bring back the sensory extravagance of the season.

And what about the 10 pounds of local blueberries that I ordered? We have eaten our fill and shared with friends. I need to preserve what’s left before they begin to rot. We can freeze some for winter smoothies and baked goods. But the freezer’s full of the strawberries that we picked in July. It will have to be jam — and blueberry muffins and blueberry pancakes, and…Wait!

Over the course of the morning, I went from fully enjoying the season’s bounty, to attempting to preserve it for future enjoyment, and now struggling for ways to use it lest there be waste. I want to be a good steward of the earth’s resources, but I don’t mean to be clinging to this bounty. I am painfully aware of inequity in the world and always carry the heavy burden of responsibility along with the awareness of my good fortune at being able to maintain the health, safety and happiness of my family. But somehow the preservation of the season’s excess started to feel greedy. Yuck! That’s not right at all. I am holding on too tight. 

The better response to the season’s joys is gratitude. Weeks ago I realized that I could not harness the indulgence of the lazy mornings or giggly late nights of my teenage boys enjoying the freedoms of an unencumbered summer together. I wait patiently for them to greet the day and join me on an adventure in the late morning. I still expect them to do their own laundry, but I love to cook their favorite dinners and appreciate that they are here to eat them. I listen to their late night antics with a smile, even when it is keeping me awake. These could be some of the last carefree summer days of their childhood. Future summers may have work obligations, academic goals or other distractions… Or maybe they won’t. Either way, the time and relationship that is in bloom now will shift and mature. I am simply grateful to observe and appreciate it.

The same is true in the garden and in the kitchen. I will preserve the excess fruits of the summer season, but I cannot retain summer. And I don’t really want to. I want to harvest today’s abundance and store enough to meet tomorrow’s needs without holding too tight. I want to celebrate the smells, tastes, sounds and sights of this day. Preservation for the future is important, but gratitude for the present nourishes even more deeply. Summer’s abundance will soon be gone, but autumn will be full of gifts too. We can welcome each season with joy and preserve its abundance with a gentle hand and light heart. As these long days of summer begin to wane, I will dry, jam, freeze and share the season’s fruits and vegetables. Most importantly, I will give thanks.

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It will all pass, and it will all live on

I am surprised that Father’s Day has taken me by surprise. To the day, it has been 6 months since my Dad died. When he died, there were not any flowers in the field or leaves on the trees. I meditated for hours each day on the eastern tree line as he was dying. The clear and sharp silhouettes of the de-foliated trees against the bright blue sky will forever be a marker of his season for me now. Yet when I looked out to our field this evening, the bright green grass and deep purple lupine in bloom reminded me of the Father’s Day 3 years ago when we moved our picnic table into the shade for a Father’s Day barbecue lunch with my family, my brother’s family and my Dad. We were all laughing, enjoying each other’s company, and working hard to make the best of a tough situation.

I miss my Dad every day and think of the gifts, space and teachings that he offered me and our family during his life and his death. Any longing that I have for his presence usually yields quickly to an appreciation and celebration of his life well-lived and shared. Yet, with Father’s Day looming, the vacancy caused by his absence seems harder to fill today. Maybe it is simply the cumulative weight of losing my grandfather in the last 6 months too. My usually fond memories of time with each of them are made bittersweet by the sharp awareness that none of them can be re-lived.

Yet I am also acutely aware that no moment can be re-lived. That is in fact part of the beauty to be enjoyed in each moment. They are all special and unique, not to be repeated or held too tightly, but they make their mark on us and in us.

They will all pass, and they will all live on.

That not so subtle irony is at the root of many Buddhist teachings. I cannot even begin to embrace the meaning of these concepts, but there is something quite delightful in trying to hold both of these slippery concepts in my mind at the same time. They are liberating, messy and giggly if you try to hold them at the same time — like trying to catch minnows with your bare hands.

The reminder of what will live on allows me to also embrace lightly the joy of the fathers who remain with us, making new imprints today. Our boys have five wonderful uncles. Thomas’s Dad, Jim, is a steady, calm, loving, and principled father, grandfather and father-in-law. Thomas is a passionate, devoted and engaged father for our boys. He and I have observed the best in parenting and nudge each other to offer it to our boys every day. I love co-parenting with him!

Our boys are growing up, getting closer to young men every day.  Today, I realized that fatherhood could be nearer in the future for them than infancy is in the past. Yipes! Gratefully, I also noticed that I am completely confident that that they will be ready. For all of the things that they may not have received from us, there is everything that they have received.

It will all pass, and it will all live on.

I wish you a Happy Father’s Day, with ample time and space to celebrate and appreciate the fathers who are in your past, those who are in your present, and those who will be in your future. What do they teach you?