One Wild and Precious Life

Lovely

Today I had a lovely experience.  Several weeks ago I was contacted by an internet acquaintance: he had friends visiting a retirement community in my area, and hoped I might allow them to contact me.  This was not an extremely close friend, as some of my internet friends are.  I wasn't even sure where I "met" him before.  But I knew he was no fraud or huckster, and of course I conceded.  I love meeting new people (even though I'm an introvert).  I love the connections that the internet has brought into my life.  I'm always on the lookout for new friends and new experiences.  I've met lots of my email friends from various email lists, and they're invariably good people.

So after one missed opportunity (they arrived about 2 hours later than anticipated, and were still taking their tour of the community), I drove the 10 miles back up to where I might meet them (I know how road travel can be).  We connected, checked them into their RV campsite, and I had the chance to visit a bit with them in their fabulous RV.  Have I ever said that one of my fantasies is to buy an RV when I retire and just travel -- visit everyone everywhere I've ever known them (extensive, given my love of the internet, blogging, and email), and just experience different places.  I fantasize that I could travel from Alaska to the southern tip of Chile in some fairly small recreational vehicle (perhaps a van conversion).  Have I ever said that I love to travel?  I'm actually thinking of some slightly larger van conversion, like one I saw last year.  It's plenty big for me and my 2 dogs, though lots of stuff would have to go into storage.

The 3 of us finally connected, had wine and cheese at the Most Excellent RV, and then went out to dinner at a Mexican restaurant not too far from their campsite.  We had an evening of delicious companionship, and I was able to tell them all the things I love about this mountain (they are thinking of settling here, coming from Vermont).  Have I ever said that I sometimes get lonely here, and relish dining companions especially?

Oh, I do hope they decide to come here.  Two new friends, including one retired Episcopal priest, would be a great gift here on the Plateau.  But I do so appreciate the time I had to spend with them, the fun we had, and the chance to express all the things I love about this mountaintop.  I also need to tell you about my experiences of "true bliss" in yoga class recently.  Remind me, OK?

God's Voice

Well, hello, everyone.  I'm back from Kanuga, having completed my current 4-day intensive for The Haden Institute, my training program for certification as a spiritual director.  As I've said before, the primary focus of this weekend was The Theology and Thought of Carl Jung, and our primary presenter, Jerry Wright (sorry, no web page), a Jungian Analyst, was absolutely exquisite.  Not only does he know his subject matter backward and forward, but he presents it in a way we can understand, accompanied by his own stories that are truly glimpses of the Holy.  We also had a marvelous, 3-part BBC video (now out of production) about the life and work of Carl Jung.  I really soaked it up.  The case studies (this time our group processed five of them!) were, as usual, incredibly rich and full of learning for everyone, not just the person presenting.  And all the meetings with my small group, which has remained virtually the same (with a couple of additions and subtractions) over the 18 months, only get better and better, deeper and deeper.

But the very best part of this intensive training weekend was not any of the course content; it was what happened outside the formal meal and classroom settings.  Saturday night, I had a long, wine-soaked, heart-to-heart conversation with my roommate (I've had the same one for the 5 intensives I've attended, so we've gotten to know one another pretty well).  I'm not even sure how we got there, but eventually I found myself telling her that I do not express the true depth of my anger toward God, because I'm afraid I'll lose my faith, or God will abandon me, or somehow I'll find myself outside the circle of faith and love in which I've found myself.  My experience in human relationships has been that people simply do not want to deal with me if I'm angry -- which I think is less about the scariness of my anger, and more about most people's unreasonable fears of anger, and their preference for the superficial and "nice" rather than the "real," which sometimes includes angry feelings.  But who knows: maybe I'm just rude.  Anyhow, my roommate challenged me to challenge God, and as I discussed how unexpressed anger has unfailingly led to distance in my human relationships, I realized that I would have to have another angry conversation with God -- and better sooner than later.  I always imagined myself having a serious "sit down" with Jesus once I was dead, but didn't want to upset the applecart anytime in the foreseeable future.  I can't express to you how frightened I was.  As a parish preist, I felt trapped -- as though I didn't want to do anything to risk a "dark night" of unbelief as I have experienced in my younger years (I have to continue to preach, teach, and uphold the doctrines of the Church, after all), but I also felt as though I could not ask others to push the boundaries of their relationship with God, if I wasn't willing to do so myself.  Quite a bind, it felt like; and I got a stomach ache.  But I also couldn't gaze upon a bridge to cross without crossing it.  My motto in life has always been, "Oh, yeah?  Just watch me!"

Sunday after lunch we have several hours of "silent retreat" time.  We can do whatever we want, except Bob Haden does ask us to walk the labyrinth and to journal at some point during the time.  I took a nap, did a little journaling, anything to postpone what I then knew was the inevitable -- my "come to Jesus" talk with Jesus.  Finally I went into the empty, beautiful chapel -- the one in which Presiding Bishops and Archbishops of Canterbury have preached in the past.  The old wood and stained glass might awe one to silence.  But I had the talk, right out loud, that I knew I had to have.  I told God about my anger, and asked all the questions I've been waiting to ask (more about those at another time, perhaps).  I didn't get any answers.  The very best I can say is that nothing happened.  My faith didn't disappear.  My sense of God's loving presence didn't disappear.  I didn't get any answers, but I felt some relief, and God didn't strike me with lightning when I called "him" (and it definitely felt like "him" during this conversation -- it's often a "him" who doesn't want to deal with my anger) a bastard.  Nothing happened.  I was so relieved.

Then I went on down to walk the labyrinth.  My history with the labyrinth has been a mixed one.  It has taken me some time to "get it."  Probably the first ten times, at least (spread over at least 8 years), that I walked it, nothing happened at all.  It really felt like a big waste of time.  I might have even felt annoyed at wasting my time on it.  I simply didn't understand what all the hoo-ha was about.  In April when I walked it, it was a lovely experience, but certainly I didn't have any kind of mystical or religious experience.  I just managed to meditate beforehand, quiet myself down, and really enjoy being in the moment, walking beneath the sky and the trees, feeling the breeze on my skin and the warm cement under my bare feet.

This time was yet a little more intense.  Even though others were also present on the labyrinth, I could make myself feel utterly alone.  I could walk slowly, so that every step was a prayer.  When I got to the center I faced the four directions and made the profound bows of a half-sun salutation.  It was a perfectly lovely experience, well worth the walking.  I felt the sun, the breeze, the warmth and cool of the cement in the sunny and shady areas.  I felt everything.  It was very good.

Shortly thereafter we gathered in a large circle to share (as we wished, or not) some of the results of our silent retreat time.  I gave a brief outline of my time; I had no artwork or writing to share, as I most often do (this is encouraged and enjoyed).  Mine was good news, I felt -- I had risked a great deal, and lost nothing.  I loved hearing the reflections of others, and seeing their art and artifacts.  My heart was full.  And then the most remarkable thing happened:  I heard God's voice.  I've heard that voice before.  It's a voice in my head that isn't my own voice, talking to myself; it isn't the voice of a parent or loved one, or the voice of anyone I know.  It's not audible, like a voice outside my head, but I know it's not just me talking to myself, either.  If you've ever heard it, you know what I mean.  If you haven't, you probably think I'm crazy.  But the best part is what the voice said:  "I will never leave you.  Never, ever, ever."  Oh, my.  Did I cry?  You bet.  My heart was already wide open, listening to these people that I cared about, having digested a bit more of Jung's theology, which makes my heart sing, having felt closer to people than I usually do.  Yep, all my skin felt turned inside out, like I was wearing the inside, all my delicate nerves, right out on the surface.  But this voice was it.  I'll be telling this story in 20 years, and it will console me through drier, desert times.

And then I felt compelled to speak again (we don't usually do that).  I felt as though this might not be a message just for me, but for the whole community gathered there.  Earlier in the weekend, our small group had a case study where one person said that visions and messages from Native American vision quests were not just for the individual, but the whole community.  I had to tell, and I did.  I had to let people know.  I don't think anybody thought I was crazy.

So, yes, I got my grant written and mailed off before I left.  And yes, I'm keeping up minimally with my reading for the program (I finished a book this weekend, and now only have only 9 to go).  But best of all, I got to hear God's voice again.  Sometime I'll tell you about the very first time I heard that voice, nearly 16 years ago.  It doesn't happen very often; maybe I've heard it once in that long interim.  No, I'm not one of those smug little people who walks around believing that God talks to me all the time -- well, I guess I believe God does, but I seldom listen well enough to hear it.  This was a rare gift indeed, and I will cherish it.  What do you think?

Autumn?

Well, lots is happening here in my life, though I have no beautiful pictures this time.

I have made a detailed plan for the remaining requirements for my Spiritual Direction program (thanks to Will, my coach), and am hustling even to stay slightly behind that plan.  There are heavy books to read and lovely papers to write.  And I need to have it all done by January.  I've committed, covenanted with others to complete this.  So the reading is (and soon, the writing will be) hot and heavy.  Karen Armstrong (The Battle for God) isn't easy reading.  I find if I break it down to number of pages per day, I do best.  I can read 15 pages per day, but half the book is a lot to contemplate, all at once.  So I go for pages per day.  But there are at least 9 other books.

I'm also trying to write a grant for my sabbatical -- which has to be done TOMORROW.  I've got the biggest piece to write, but I'll get it done, despite myriad commitments.  Have I said that I want to spend 3 months in Italy studying 25 significant black madonna sites?  Have I said that could cost beaucoup bucks?  The grant deadline is actually the 17th, but I will be out of town.  So it must be mailed on the morning of September 13th.  I'm working, I'm working.

Thursday morning I leave for Kanuga (Hendersonville, in the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains), for my next-to-last spiritual direction intensive training (focus this time mainly on Jung).  I finally do have a supply priest (only a few are willing to drive for at least an hour to get here -- we are an outpost).  Now all I have to do is complete this grant, write up a case study, and confirm previously made reservations with the dog lady.  Oh, yeah, and all my regular Wednesday commitments to the parish, including the dinner at 5:30 pm after Evening Prayer at 5 pm)

Send up a little prayer for me, for lots of work in limited time, will you?

Sweet Day, Labor Day

September 1 was my father's birthday (I just checked the genealogical pedigree my brother gave me), though somehow I was sure that it was today.  He died when I was 8.  I sure wonder what it would have been like to grow up with a daddy who adored me (as he did).  I wonder what he would have been like as an old man (he was 54 when he died).  I suspect I might have been an entirely different person if I had grown up with a father, and I wouldn't wish for that -- but still, there's a kind of wholeness that I'll never know, growing up in an intact family.  I had a dream about that once, where my father hugged me as an adult, and I said to myself in my dream, "This is what it feels like to be whole.  You must remember this feeling."  According to family "lore," my paternal grandfather was eccentric at best, and a paranoid, crazy old loon, to be more frank about it.  This "diagnosis," of course, was handed down in the days before people knew much about mental illness, and even less about Alzheimer's Disease.  I wonder if that's what Daddy's old age would have held for him.  In any event, my memories of my daddy are pretty much all adoring ones, and so I wish him happy birthday with a loving heart this evening.  If he were still alive, he'd be 102!

Today was simply the sweetest day I've had in a while.  When I went out for my run this morning, it was in the 60s, and before I warmed up, my shoulders in my sleeveless shirt were actually cool.  That was a blessed feeling.  I've been having success with increasing my running time by 5 minutes -- I tried to increase by a full 15 minutes and had no luck with that, so I backed off.  Now I run for 35 minutes (well, I'm not running all that time -- I call it an "old lady run" -- I walk up the biggest hills, so it's nearly half and half, running and walking).  It feels so good; even when I don't want to go, I'm so glad I did when it's finished.  I'm addicted to the endorphins, I guess.  And my dogs love it, both for the exercise and for the time we spend together. When I run, I know I'll have a good day, so I do it 3-4 days a week, at least.  So cool shoulders were the start of a sweet day.

Now when I say "sweet," I'm not talking about some sort of smarmy, sentimental kind of sweet -- perhaps our current slang word "sweet" is closer to what I mean, though that kind of "sweet" seems pretty superficial -- what you might say about a car with leather seats or a half day off school.  No, the sweet that I experienced today was so deep down satisfying and good that I can feel it right now, at 10:30 at night, and it almost brings tears to my eyes.

After my run, I sat out on my back porch with a big mug or two of water (oh, I love the slightly cooler temperatures!), and wrote my morning pages.  My magnolia that grows just off the back porch was badly damaged by our "Easter freeze," and had many dead limbs up above, but was recovering thick green growth down lower.  Eventually the dear parishioner who has worked like a demon in my yard, broke off all the dead stuff, leaving nothing but green regrowth.  Well, now, get a load of this:

The crazy thing is going to bloom!  Full magnolia bloom the first week in September!  So that gave me great joy as I wrote and gazed on my back yard.

Of course, I couldn't sit still in any disciplined way and simply write morning pages.  I got distracted.  I got out my loppers and lopped dead, freeze-damaged growth from my lace cap viburnam.  Then I watered and trimmed all my outside containers, gathering the hose from the front porch border where I used it last, back to the back where it belongs.  I trimmed some branches from my cherry, dogwood, and holly trees, and dragged all the lopped off trimmings to my brush/burn pile.  Of course I got myself all heated up and sweaty by the time I was done -- but I was so pleased with the results!  And at one point I was just sitting, gazing at the back yard, hearing an unidentified bird singing, thinking of possibilities for "rearranging the furniture" in my gardens and making them truly my own -- and my heart just filled and filled with so much joy that I thought it would burst.  I feel so grateful to have such joy in my life, and that my heart somehow knows where to find it.

Late this afternoon, I went to a parishioner's house for grilled ribs (I know, I'm refusing to eat pig (did you know they have the intelligence of a 3-year-old?  How can anyone eat something that smart?) -- but once in a while I just can't refuse gracious hospitality, and she changed the menu the day before the event, and I'd already accepted) and wonderful sides and desserts.  I brought a watermelon from my garden (I still have 3 left now).  It was sweet and delicious -- the watermelon, and the time with other people.

Finally -- I am so grateful on this Labor Day night, to have work that "satisfies and delights [me]," as one of the thanksgivings from the prayer book (page 836) says.  Don't tell my parish, but I can't believe I get paid to do what I do: reading, writing, preaching, teaching, and relating to people sometimes on a deep-down level.  Sure, there are challenging and unpleasant bumps from time to time, and the learning curve for me has been steep, and has taken years.  But I am so incredibly happy here, and can't really imagine being anywhere else.  So this Labor Day is one more occasion for me to give thanks to God for giving me more than I could ask or imagine.

Tomorrow I drive to Knoxville for a get-together with clergy colleagues.  It's an informally scheduled thing with buddies, so I'll be excited to spend a few hours there.

I hope your weekend has been as lovely as this day has been for me.

Oops!

Once upon a time there was a beautiful Jade plant (capitalized because her name is Jade, even though that sounds like an exotic dancer, and she is quite exotic, now that I mention it), over three feet in height, with trunk diameter (not circumference) of about 3 inches.  She was a bit unruly, rather wild and free, tending to lean precariously this way and that.  She loved the east window where she lived since she came to live in her current home, donated by a friend.  But because she was exceedingly heavy in her Italian terra cotta pot, she didn't get turned frequently, and was therefore quite lopsided.  One day Jade's mother decided that a move to another window was in order.  Mom was beginning to rearrange her office, and really wanted that window space clear.  She knew that Jade would adjust to her new spot, and perhaps even grow some foliage on her rather bare backside (blush)!

One evening, Jade took a big topple.  Jade looks very flexy and bendy, but she's actually not so much.  After a bit of cleanup and recovery (ok, quite a bit of cleanup and attempted recovery), poor Ms. Jade looks like this:

Notice the (not quite) bloody stumps where huge branches broke off.  Her mother's heart is broken, of course.  Jade looks positively amputated, and her mother can only blame herself for placing her precious Jade in such a tippy, precarious position.

The back porch fountain has become a holding area for fragments awaiting transplant (thank God for transplant technology!):

And the back porch itself has become a small nursery area to see whether any of these fragments might actually root and grow:

All of these, including the much truncated original Jade, will be pruned into a much shaplier form, once the initial trauma has fully passed.  No more lopsided for Miss Jade nor her hapless (hopeful) offspring!  Now, please don't tell Jade's mother what a bad mom she has been; she's fully aware of that.  Please just send along condolences and best wishes for successful transplants.  I hope it will be a long, mild autumn during which these babies can get themselves rooted.  The original Miss Jade doesn't seem unhappy (only a bit awkward-looking), and seems as though she will probably survive nicely.  Shed a few tears for the demise of one humongous, beautiful plant, and say a prayer for the success of these ill-conceived offspring!

Ah, September!

It's hard to believe that this is the last official holiday weekend of summer.  On the one hand, it has been such a long, hot, dry summer.  But it's still hard to believe that it's September already!  I'll be happy to see fall come, and the temperatures have been cooler these last couple of days.  When I got back from my run (later than usual, because I slept in so deliciously!), my weather page said it was 68F outside.  Lovely!

One of the things I love about living on this Plateau is that the seasons are fairly evenly divided, and I'm happy to see each one as it comes.  In Buffalo, I thought I would die by the time the snow ended (snow season was October to April, with cold spells continuing well into June), and spring was nearly non-existent.  Summer flew by in a flash, and was accompanied by guilt pangs whenever I chose to be inside, rather than outdoors, soaking up the weather.  And autumn, though beautiful there (as it is here), was always the occasion for depression, because my body knew that the long, long winter was just around the corner.

Today I worked in the garden for a spell, and then I got a double batch of spaghetti sauce on to cook for hours.  I use the recipe from Joy of Cooking (my all-time favorite cookbook -- it has nearly everything in it), but love this direction:  "Cook until sauce starts to thicken, about 10 minutes."  HA.  I mean, really.  I don't know what kind of tomatoes they used, but I use Romas, which are supposed to be the best for sauce; and my sauce doesn't start to thicken significantly for hours.  I used 5 lbs of tomatoes, and have over a gallon of sauce on the stove now (it will be less, once it reduces and thickens).  I'll freeze it in quart zipper bags, laid flat on a cookie sheet, and then stack it in my freezer.  It will be so very good on those busy winter evenings when I don't really have time to make something from scratch, but can heat up some of that sauce and eat it over pasta.  Yum!  The flavor gets very intense and lovely, cooking for hours as I do it.

This time I had the good sense to cook it in my soup pot, rather than a single batch in my large frying pan (full to overflowing).  Mmmmm -- it smells so good right now!  I've probably got enough tomatoes in the garden for another double batch, even with all I'm eating on sandwiches and in salads.  My hands were all wrinkly from washing and chopping tomatoes and herbs (though I'll admit I let my food processor do most of the chopping, once I had things chunked up).  At least I got the garden dirt out from under my fingernails!

Want to come over for dinner?  Bring more salad greens, and I'll make garlic bread, too.  A nice Sangiovese di Romagna would be lovely with this.  My sermon's done, so we can just finish off the whole bottle!