Mountain Dreams 2

Two weeks ago we closed on the little house we loved and thought was lost. After a few weeks, the owner had “a change of heart,” a phrase I love to consider, and invited us to resubmit our last offer. They took it and sixteen days later we got the keys! It is more exciting than anything I can remember in the last couple of decades. The house is tender and sweet. It has been gently loved by the couple who designed, built it and loved it for three decades. When I walk through the door, I am totally at home even though most things there belonged to them. She left the soap in the dish, clean rags in the hamper, dishes and linens in the cupboard and the deck chairs they sat on for 30 years.

I have been unable to sleep more than a few hours each night. It's like the movie Groundhog Day. Every morning I wake with the same first thought, "We got the house! It's ours. Oh, my!" and then it is like being eight years old on Christmas morning, so exciting with so many possibilities of changes, good times with friends, special occasions with family fill my mind that I cannot help but begin my day with enthusiasm.

One of the most special parts of this has been how happy my friends are for us, for me. It has been surprising how important their joy has been to me. It reminds me of when I experienced great sorrow and they held it with me, waited with me through the grief and loss, tears and wrenching pain in my soul. Now, just as faithfully, they call asking what's the latest and listening happily, it seems, to my recounts of flooring and room colors and dishes. They hold and share the space and time of this experience with me. They honor how this has come to pass, not just for me but also through our parents and their lives, our raising of our sons, our being at the last pass of our careers, and beginning a time just before retirement. They are truly joy-filled and delighted. I am moved by their happy emotion for us and also am aware of how important it is to me. I am overwhelmed with this gift of a house made possible by inheritance and also by being chosen by the buyers. It is all such an enormous blessing and grace-filled gift too large to accept alone. My friends’ delight gives me permission to rest in the joy of this time, to accept that something so good has happened for us, and to acknowledge once again the truth that our relationships matter more than anything else, even a dream house.

Mountain Dreams

Something happened today in the two hours of silence and sharing with my spiritual direction partner. Something shifted in me. I did not realize until she left that I felt really different than I had for months. Something had opened, something was gone, and I had a renewed energy, not physical energy, but a spiritual energy. It was like breathing the air around a glacier in the Canadian Rockies.

For more than a dozen weeks and especially the last two, I have lived separate from my regular daily life. I put my writing aside and barely kept the house up as my husband and I investigated, explored, fell in love with and let go of two properties in the North Carolina mountains. It is a humbling experience to find a new space on this green earth to put down roots, make a home and create memories that will last the lifetimes beyond our own. I threw myself into the search and the process, all the while mindful of the need to be grounded in this moment and not to go too far down the path of my dreams. Finding such a place seems to us a good way to connect ourselves, our children and children of the future to the generosity and love my dear in-laws have given us.

The first property we found was four acres of forest on a road to an old firetower off a road that just stops running. It is remote and quiet and beautiful in the peace of the dark woods. The second property is a house with a breathtaking view atop a ridge near the Blue Ridge Parkway. The house is just what I had envisioned for our extended family gatherings: plenty of room for playing cards, dominoes and scrabble, a kitchen roomy enough for a couple of cooks and some observers, five beds and a greatroom to sleep a few more on those wonderful airbeds, a porch, patio, and woodland garden entrance like a house in the woods should have. For reasons too complicated to go into and beside the point, neither of these worked out.

The property search process is like being swallowed by the whale. You get into it and just have to move with the flow in the your specified locale. We traveled the mountains and valleys as we considered houses in three counties, navigated the choices and options of building rather than buying, and learned the ins and outs of purchasing a second home and of owning in the mountains versus the city. We talked over our current and future finances and our relationship, reconfirmed our dreams and our values, envisioned our future in dozens of houses and pieces of property and experienced the loss that comes when one chooses to step aside from a place that at one time seemed so perfect. My parallel journey included coming to terms with childhood fears, naming what I really want, communicating clearly, listening to my true self, speaking my truths, allowing the process to work in me and letting go. Like Jonah, I felt spent and spit out by the whale when I sat down with my friend for spiritual direction.

I noticed that the search process began in October, nine months ago, and the intensity increased over Easter weekend when we first walked and considered the land. I don't know what to make of these time frames but I can't help but notice the suggestion of gestation, incubation, growing in the process or rebirth, creation of a new life, the emptiness of the tomb, and the promise of something great beyond this time and place.

The shift in me is a shift in focus from the mountain search back to my writing, from the external to the internal, from the future to the present. I know that these weeks have not been in vain. I trust that the process has allowed me explore my response to abundance, desire, letting go, listening to my intuition and speaking my truth. I believe we will find a perfect mountain home. I turn to this writing grounded even more deeply in faith and hope and my life's meaning. I continue to do what is in front of me each day, grateful for the journey.

Namaste

On Sunday the sermon reminded us to create "sanctuary" for each other and for those who join us at church. The minister wondered if we could be more hospitable, if we could find it in ourselves to focus on welcoming others, even those that we unconsciously turn from. When she mentioned the word namaste as a way to approach our relationships with others, I thought of an experience this week I had with a woman I met briefly. I probably will not see her again, but we had an instant connection of loving kindness and compassion. Namaste is loosely translated by the yoga set to mean, "The Divine in me sees or honors the Divine in you" or "The light in me is drawn to the light in you."

When I met the elderly woman she was sitting on her porch reading a religious book about talking with Jesus. I knew she was going through a difficult transition, so I kept myself peaceful and opened my heart to her. Over the course of the hour or so we spent together, we spoke just a little. Mostly we smiled with our eyes and acknowledged each other with our hearts. It was as though we shared a special language. Her life is drawing to a close. She saw me standing in the life stage she had loved so much. We did not need words to communicate. We did not need to talk about facts and details. We just needed to smile and let our eyes say, "Namaste" for our hearts.

Bakaly Camara

For the last few days my mind and spirit have been split between here and Guinea, West Africa. So many images, sounds, people and memories from West Africa, drown out what is happening in the present. On Sunday my friend and balaphone teacher, Alkaly Camara suffered what appeared to be a heart attack at home in Conakry. He died before arriving at the hospital. Although we are not sure how old he was, our guess is that he was in his 70's. Sadness at the loss of this gentle spirit and amazing musician comes in waves. I have been listening to a CD of his music that my son produced, and the fact that his music remains eases the grief.

His students and friends called him Bakaly. Ba is a term of endearment and respect similar to saying, "honored Grandfather." Bakaly played the ancient balaphone, ancestor to the xylophone and marimba. He was one of the most respected and honored bala players in the world. He had traveled around the world playing with two incredible touring ensembles, Les Ballets Africains and Percussions des Guinee.


I met Bakaly in 2000 when I traveled to Conakry to see what help I could be to a small school for Sierra Leonean refugees that my son had come to know. Tiani studied balaphone with Bakaly and jembe with other master drummers. Bakaly would arrive at our small two room home with his bala, having carried it for a couple of twenty minute walks on either end of a mogbana ride, taking more than an hour to get to us. [A mogbana, a van converted to seat a couple dozen people, is the cheapest form of vehicle transport in Conakry.]

Tiani and Bakaly would take their balas and walk behind the house down to the river's edge overlooking mangrove forests that wound to the Atlantic Ocean. There, under a single towering tree and seated on a large rock, they would play together. Sitting with them and listening to the two hour lessons is one of my happiest memories. Bakaly loved playing with this student who learned so quickly and loved the instrument and its music. Tiani delighted in the process of understanding the melodies and how they combined to create such beautiful songs. The vibrational tones of the bala mallets on the wooden keys creates a childlike sound, light and wistful. The two men played together was like two dancers in a ballet. They did not speak. They were of one mind, spirit and time. They communicated through the music and the movement of their mallets. A couple of times in Guinea, I took a lesson with Bakaly. It seemed to me a waste of his time as my abilities were limited, and I was quite intimidated by his skill and very presence. It seemed wiser for him to teach my son who could then teach me! But today, with his absence so palpable, I am glad to have risked being his poor student.

Later, Bakaly came to the US and stayed in our home, lived for nearly a year with our son, and even played bala at his wedding. I was able to take bala classes with him and to listen to him play many times. He was a quiet person, never demanding but always strong. His dedication to his music and the balaphone came from a deep passion and loyalty to its tradition. He lived simply and wanted to provide a better home for his family. He smiled a lot. He had few comforts and by our standards, the quality of his everyday life was poor. Twice the Guinean government took land and a home he was building to construct a road. Never was he compensated. In the last three years he was building yet another home in hopes that he could move his family out from Conakry.

As I write this my balaphone sits beside me. It belonged to Bakaly and is the instrument he played to record the CD. Some dear friends bought it from him to give to me as a surprise gift. That night, he played Douba, a favorite song of mine. I thought the song played for me was the gift. When they told me the bala was mine, I could not believe them. Finally Baklay stood up with the bala, walked over to me and put it on my lap. His smile was so big. My eyes filled with tears and my heart with gratitude. Just like right now.

Pond Thoughts

It's an early, sparkly June morning. I am back in from the garden where I raked, trimmed and swept in preparation for a dinner tomorrow night. The pump in my small pond needed to be cleaned, so I hauled it out onto the moss and dumped the rich black water. The twin frogs in residence hid in the pond bottom. They arrived two weeks ago. I heard their loud bullfrog songs before I saw them. A few days later tiny splashes caught my eye when something flicked out from under a fern leaf at the pond's edge. I had to laugh at how little twins produce such big sounds. The frogs grow quickly, so now they are about an inch long. It always feels like an honor when frogs choose my pond for home. Who knows why?

The pump is six years old. It stops bubbling when the silt gets too thick. When I get around to it, I unplug it, dump the water and clean the filters. It is a messy job but one I actually like. I get to play in dirty water and get messy myself. The mystery of the task is whether or not the old pump will revive itself one more time. I always think it may not because it has served its expected term and has been clogged so many times. But once again today, Old Faithful came through for me.

I like the metaphor of this pump. It reminds me that there are times when we all get filled up with silt, gunk, algae and the debris of our lives. Sometimes we keep trying to bubble and pump our selves when we are badly clogged. Sometimes we just stop pumping. Our bodies cannot take any more of what is our normal activity. Sometimes all we need is time out for the rush of clean water to clear our filters. Then we can reposition our fountain spouts and get back to the pond of life where our moving waters and gentle songs contribute beauty and attact others.

It's a bird, it's a plane...

A funny thing happened at church last Sunday. We had a guest minister who was speaking about our fears and worries and how they limit us. She referenced Parker Palmer's story in The Active Life about going on an Outward Bound trip. When he was rappelling down a cliff, he got in a bit of a fix. The instructor told him it was time to learn the Outward Bound motto: When you can't get out of it, get into it! The minister continue by sharing the fears she had as she approached a pilgrimage in the Himalayas.

All of a sudden a women in the pew in front of me screamed out, "Oh, my God!" and pulled her feet up under her. She looked terrified and pointed to the floor. The woman next to her pulled her feet up. I picked up my handbag off the floor and put my sandaled feet on the hymnal rack. I was sure it was a mouse because the first woman was so frightened. My friend to my right said, "Is it a snake?" Just then an enormous roach, probably a Palmetto bug, skuttled under our pew on his way to the back of the sanctuary. A woman behind us said, "I hate roaches!" The minister, of course, had to stop for a few moments until things settled back down. Being good Unitarian Universalists, no one killed the roach because we believe in the interdependent web of all existence.

Ever since then i have been struck by the fact that each of us presumed the frightening thing was what we fear most; a roach, mouse, spider or snake. Isn't that just like us? We approach situations and relationships fearing the one thing that scares us the most and forget that others are frightened by different things. We miss the possibilities because we are so focused on our fear. I teased the minister at the end of the service, "You didn't plant that bug, did you?"

birthdays and new beginnings

The air is damp and heavy this morning as the gardens and I wait for a rain that feels just around the corner. Every bush and browning blade of grass is crispy, and the impatiens planted two weeks ago produce new leaves but no colorful flowers. June is like this. The cycle of weather begins to shift from the rains and gentle sun of spring to the more intense heat that draws the moisture from the land and makes me a little cranky.

Each year June brings my life into focus. My birthday arrives in the middle of the month, and for as long as I can recall, I have assessed how my life is going, choices I have or am making, relationships, and the general state of myself in the week before my birthday. I really love birthdays. I enjoy celebrating others', and I like my own.

It has been a different kind of year. I have been mostly healthy, better than the previous year but that is another story, and have traveled a bit to see friends and family and to attend retreats I love. I have worked around our home, written, taught a class at church, served on a couple of committees and boards, and taken it easy.

Part of me feels guilty about having so much that is good and supportive in my life this year . . . and not much stress. My husband works really hard as a high school English teacher. He has a lot of demands on him. I have few on me. I cook and clean and keep our laundry moving through the wash-dry-iron cycle. I try to be cheerful and helpful. But after 40 plus years of working and being available to others' needs, it is a big change to have time of my own and fewer demands.

So once again, I check in with myself. What is working in my life? How do I feel about how I have been spending my time? What do I want to change? What are my dreams for the year ahead? And how do I want to spend my birthday? Usually I like to do the simple things: eat breakfast out back on my patio, take a walk,lunch with friends, go for a swim, have dinner with family. I like to read a novel and call my parents to thank them for the gift of my life. Getting cards and small gifts is nice, too. I appreciate others taking time to think about me once a year. Mostly I want to be with those I love, those who make me better than I am, those who see the possibilites for my next year more clearly than I do.