Notes from my journal      September 11, 2001

As I write this I am on a spiritual retreat. In the North Carolina mountains lies a small cabin tended by good-hearted creative people who offer a weeklong gift of shelter and quiet to writers of one kind and another. For days I have been sitting with my thoughts, observing the natural world, making music, drawing and practicing yoga, and writing, writing, writing.  This week is presented as a writing residency but for me this is a spiritual residency.  This week is seven days and nights to let my self speak, play, reflect and write in the company of no one else.  No distractions or television or radio or email. No voices other than my own greetings to Mr. Spider or the blue tailed skink who guards the deck steps. And of course, because the silence reigns here, I hear that inner voice. You know the one that we think of as our conscience, the one that guides our choices or actions. In this space I know that this voice comes not from me but from Spirit or God. It comes from that which lies within and beyond all that exists. 

Here I find myself at a time of the greatest turmoil in the history of modern America.  I am here when the hijacked planes destroy lives and buildings in NYC and our capitol. I am here at a time when few Americans have the privilege of isolation from the onslaught of facts, numbers, analysis, questions and constant discussion of every aspect of this horrific act against not just our people and country but against freedom and humanity worldwide. 

As a city dweller I am used to the activity and presence of people around me. Here I am totally alone.  The news of such a violent act and such widespread ramifications for our country and individual lives is unthinkable and frightening.  As darkness falls I notice fear creeping in.  I play chants of Hildegard von Bingham written in the 12^th Century. I read prayers out loud before bed and ask for safety and protection. I rely on my faith in God’s presence to quell my fears. I hear the voice of spirit urging me to write and to notice everything.  One morning I spend 1 hour with a black fly on the white page where I write. He walks the lines of my words as though he wants to know what I have to say.  And I know the sacredness of life in every molecule of my being.  Each day I awake in wonder that I am here on earth, here at the cabin dwelling among the trees and other living creatures.

My intention here is to be open to God, to fill myself and my days with creative acts that come through me into reality.  I know they come not from me but through me.  I feel the channel and honor the gift of my life as a vehicle for my unique expression of values, thoughts, and beliefs in this outer world. Here I am able to practice ways to live intentionally with Spirit. This is a week of Sabbath days kept in the presence and recognition of Spirit in my life.

Give thanks.

Listen to your inner voice

Keep your daily practice

Honor your creative process

Respect your relationship to the natural world.

Mother's Milk

I notice the tall thin rabbit most mornings. She has hopped around our gardens and yard for several years.  This morning I see her and then notice a small bounding creature coming toward the house. I think it hops strangely for a chipmunk, and then it turns to show me its bunny profile. It is tiny, smaller than my fist. Mother watches from a disinterested distance and the little one plops into the ivy.

At dusk I see Mother again as we clear the dinner table. I say, "I wish you could see the tiny bunny" at the same time that I see it in the grass! We ooh and ahh until it hops away. Mother nibbles grass on the path to the patio. I brush my teeth and am drawn to the window to the garden where I scan for any movement. Suddenly a bunny hops out from the opposite side of the path. I am confused because I saw the bunny go left and this is on the right. It hops under Mother who waits patiently, still.  So quickly that I almost miss it, the first bunny darts out and under her mother.  I call to my husband to come, "There are TWO bunnies!"  We watch from the dining room only seeing the mother but knowing the two are there under her. It hits us at the same moment. They are nursing! And then we see the smaller of the two, flipped on her back, white belly and underside of leg to the sky. The leg pumps and wiggles as she gets gets her evening meal, just like Thumper in Bambi. The whole scene is so peaceful and unreal. I know this happens all the time but right this moment it is in my view, in the cathedral of our trees and my heart soars with joy and gratitude.

In the Moment

April 17, 2011

Usually I arrive at the mountain house in the late afternoon, open the blinds and step onto the second story porch to survey the changes in the valley below. Typically it is only a few minutes before I notice myself breathing easier and sporting a ready smile for just about anything. Life here is relaxing, refreshing and spacious in all ways. 

But yesterday I arrived at noon. I had passed through driving rain of a huge system that spawned dozens of tornadoes in North Carolina and across the South. The wind was 55 mph, so I could not stand outside or pull open the porch doors. I was unsettled. I could not find the ease and release I am used to experiencing.  The internet and cable were still off from the winter, and the deluge overnight had left the fireplace wet and dripping, so I could not have a welcoming fire. I took Cheyenne for a walk along the raging Toe River, ate dinner and went to bed with a movie at 7:15 pm. I still was off my bearings.

When I woke this morning, something had shifted. I happily built a fire to heat the firebox and me, fixed hot cereal and tea, walked in the cold morning air and remaining blustery wind. I opened my collage basket to see what I might create. Creating a collage for my daughter-in-love made me smile. Throughout the morning, I gathered broken branches and twigs from our property to feed the fire and eliminate future disposal of them. I listened to podcasts of sermons from our church and drank more tea.

Later, when I move to the porch and speak with a friend, I realize that part of the reason it took me so long to settle is that here I have space and time to integrate what has been going on in my life.  And I just wasn’t quite ready. For the last two months I have lived more fully in the moment than I usually do. I have lived with others who needed my support. It has been a gift to be able to be present in the everyday lives of those I love who are facing big challenges.  What I realize is that when I live in the moment, I am able to be peaceful, calm and thoughtful about how and what I do and say. I can do that for weeks on end and it feels good. But at some point, I have to face and begin to integrate the totality of the situation.  Our daughter-in-love’s medical challenge is overwhelming and full of uncertainty. She has been courageous and strong through surgery and recovery, but the journey is not over and what lies ahead is daunting.

Yesterday I needed to let myself connect all the medical pieces of her situation and the emotional and psychological aspects for her, my son and for me.  It was not my brain doing this, it was my heart.  And my heart needs space. I could be physically in the moment, that comforting space usually so accessible to me here at the mountain house, but the rest of me needed to let it all sink in and come together however it could.  Today, I rest once again in the greening mountain and the dogwood blossoms dancing in the breeze. Although her life is changed, possibly forever, and the treatment is what everyone wants to avoid, although there is fear and uncertainty, a grim reality and suffering ahead, I am here, in this moment with the stone earth under my feet and the spring wind renewing my faith.

April 19, 2011

I lean into the soft cushion of my chair and consider the forty miles of mountain views beneath me. For most of the day, Cheyenne and my legs share the ottoman on the edge of the terrace where hundreds of iris leaves portend the indigo and white flowers to come.  A fat bronze lizard rustles through last year’s leaves. A small white butterfly and a black swallowtail join a bumblebee in the wild asters above the old stump on the slope.

I alternate reading Traveling with Pomegranates and writing in my journal. While I read, I stroke Cheyenne’s black back and head. I bathed her in the laundry sink this morning so she could air dry in the sun on the terrace floor. But we needed to be together, so I hoisted her onto the ottoman grateful for her presence.

Sue Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor fan my hopeful spirit. I love the book’s structure and the chance to consider two stages of women’s lives through such wise and honest hearts. I think about mothers and daughters as the mother of two sons. My heart holds my son’s wife. With five medical opinions, the news is grim. My son says they realize that the life they had and the one they were living into is no longer a possibility. When they try to return to work, it is evident that nothing is the same. They fear for her life and cannot comprehend how this is happening.  She is my daughter. While I learn to be a grandmother at the beginning of the last third of my life, she is just completing the first third of hers and cannot see much hope or joy ahead. I struggle to know how to support her. Like any mother, I want to make it better. I cannot.  All I can do is be present with her as she moves through this challenge and struggle.  All I can do is hold hope and faith when she cannot.

Angels Watching Over

     In late March, I was in Washington DC helping friends take care of their newborn twin girls.  I spent most of February - May, 2010, tending our twin grandson and granddaughter, so I have experience these new parents could use.  While I was there the dad's parents came by for a Sunday afternoon visit. They brought a delicious lunch from a swanky market, and his mother carried in a large, framed piece held close against her chest.  After lunch, when the babies were down for yet another nap, the new grandmother presented her gift. The hanging was a stylized angel of subtle colors. She hooks rugs and other things and had made this image for her grandchildren.  I asked if she had created the image, and she said that some years ago she had found a small tile of an angel on a trip to Miami.  Last fall, she decided to see if she could create a hooked piece of that angel. She had lost the tile, but she had a photo and went to her local yarn shop for help in enlarging the angel and choosing the colors. She had already begun work on it when her son announced that she would be a grandmother, so she decided to give it to the new family.
     While she was telling this story, recognition set in. I smiled with delight. Over ten years ago, a dear friend gave me a small colorful tile angel she found in Sienna, Italy. I had just built and created a new home office, so I hung the little tile outside my office door as a welcome to visitors who arrive and a blessing when they depart.  The angel hooked and framed is the very same image!

Love and loss

In less than forty-eight hours, two magnificent friends left this earth. Enormous holes appear in my world. The grief and loss tugs at my core, heavy and cruel. I cannot eat. In forty-eight hours from now my precious daughter-in-law goes into surgery for the removal of her breasts. She turns 34 tomorrow. My heart is full of love for these three people and all those who love them. Life feels especially fragile, like a porcelain plate balancing on a tight robe in the wind above a city street. Every greening bush, flowering cherry tree, swaying daffodil sings to me, "life, life, live it today." 

Flora was ninety years old, struggling at the loss of mobility and increasing pain. We shared thirty-six years of loving friendship that began when we were hired to support the secondary Gifted and Talented program for the public schools in Charlotte. She was fifty-four, mother of three adult children, a seasoned professional educator. I was twenty-six, newly married and full of opinions and creative ideas.  We gave each other respectful space that turned into unconditional love and support. Her wisdom and care sustained me all of my adult life.

Tim was not yet sixty, a gifted musician and creator of community. As I write, I listen to his songs and yearn for the cd that is ready to be printed thanks to his valiant last efforts just a couple of weeks ago before his strength gave out. His years' long struggle with cancers and chemo, trials and trauma will continue to inspire me.  The songs he left give us the gift of his unique voice and wisdom words to hold us in the days ahead. His life gives us courage and strength for our own.

My beautiful daughter-in-love shows a strong love of life as she approaches surgery. Her resolve and acceptance of the reality ahead sustains those of us who surround her. Her commitment to a long, healthy life starting immediately after the surgery informs everything she does. She is calm and reassuring,  keeps a positive outlook, and maintains her focus on the future because her heart is grateful.

The lives of these three teachers invite me to give more of myself, to bring my gifts forward, not to be afraid, to live from my heart with love and gratitude, every day.

Walking the Path. . .

. . . or not walking the path which is what i am doing right now. Last fall my shins began screaming at me; well, actually I know they spoke up before that but I was being vigilant in walking my dog and me, so I kept on going up and then down the very steep hills in our mountain neighborhood. Walking provides me time and space to process and refresh. Being in nature, moving in nature makes me feel more connected and at peace. In late October I took my last long walks down the terminals at the Charlotte and Sarasota airports. By the time I got to my parents' home I could hardly be civil without crying in pain.

So I stopped walking. I told Mom I thought I would rest for the weekend. Now it has been nearly four months of watching others walk their dogs as I sit with my legs up. I walk as little as possible, go to physical therapy and pray that one day i can walk and play with everyone else. In the meantime, I notice what needs to be done in my house and garden, read and work on my computer.  I don't feel very productive but remind myself that the hosta is not always producing either.

I wonder about walking the path when you can't walk.  I know I am still on it. I sure am still. The way is being opened ahead of me.  I sit and listen. Not much chatter from the Universe. I pray for our daughter-in-law who at 33 has been diagnosed with breast cancer. And for our son. I send as much love as I can to a very pregnant friend who realizes her life is about to change forever and wonders how she can be the mother her daughters need.  I celebrate the life of a musician friend who continues, despite all odds, to rally heroically to play music one more time for those who love him as the cancer invades. On and on we all walk even though the walking is painful, slow, awkward and long, or short.

So I walk in my mind along the gravel road, down the rhododendron path, across the mossy rocks and watch for deer. I ask for patience and wisdom. I remember what matters most to me and make efforts to be whole-hearted about family, friendships and my spiritual growth. I feel pretty clumsy, awkward and off balance. Is it any wonder, I think, given that my world has been thrown off by these struggles and others around me right now.   I remember this poem and hunt it down. . . and feel grounded.

            Lost

Stand still.

The trees ahead and bushes beside you

Are not lost.

Wherever you are is called here

And you must treat it

As a powerful stranger,

Must ask permission to know it

And be known.

Listen: The forest breathes,

It whispers,

“I have made this place around you,

If you leave it you may come back again

Saying, Here.

No two trees are the same to raven,

No two branches are the same to wren –

If what a tree or a branch does is lost on you

Then you are surely lost.

Stand still.

The forest knows where you are.

You must let it find you.

                                    ~ Translated by David Wagoner from

                                        a Northwest Indian Teaching Tale