Receiving

 This year during Lent  I returned to the practice of reading a daily entry from Sister Joan Chittister's book, The Rule of Benedict, and I have continued the practice. I am grateful for her ability to interpret Benedict's sixth century Rule for us today.  Like much of the book, part of this morning's passage seems worth pondering before the busyness of the day takes over.    

"Benedict makes two points clearly: First we are capable of choosing for God in life. We are not trapped by an essential weakness that makes God knowable but not possible. Second, we are more than the body. Choosing God means having to concentrate on nourishing the soul rather than on sating the flesh, not because the flesh is bad but because the flesh is not enough to make the human fully human. To give ourselves entirely to the pleasures of the body may close us to beauties known only to the soul. 

Humility lies in knowing who we are and what our lives are meant to garner. The irony of humility is that, if we have it, we know we are made for greatness, we are made for God (Chapter 7, Humility).   

Yesterday afternoon Tyler and I went to the South Bay to have an early dinner with friends. When we left their home, it was not quite dark, but we could see the moon. As I drove up 880, I was struck by the clouds, the moon, and the golden light that seemed to linger. It was as if the inevitable movement into darkness had been paused just a little longer to give us mortals a chance to look up and savor the light. I admit that finding peace and awe on 880 is a rare thing for me. Yet, this morning when I think of those minutes, I believe I was given a gift. I cannot recreate those moments because I did not create them to begin with. However, I can learn to pay attention to the nudge to look up and around, knowing that there are times when the heavens are revealed in flowers, moon, clouds, and stars. They, and we, are more.     

  

image: San Leandro, May 2023 

Spirit of Place

 This morning I decided to walk to our local produce market. The market is less than a mile away and it is generally a pleasant walk to get there. On today's excursion, I needed to take a couple of unexpected turns because of street repair work, but that was of little concern. Well, okay, except when one driver ran a red light because of his confusion about not being able to turn right. I do not think he ever saw me in the crosswalk. Fortunately, I saw him, and was able to smile about it.    

People in this part of San Leandro have planted many flowers over the years, and as I walked towards home, I thought about the phrase, "spirit of place". Spirit of place takes in much: history, architecture, plant and animal life, and probably much more.  It is something not quite definable, but can very much be felt. Our spirit of place is our fertile soil and the backdrop of the Dunsmuir Ridge. We are also close to Lake Chabot, and while we can't see it from our neighborhood, I think that body of water influences the area as well.  Unfortunately, spirit of place is something that is too often ignored and bulldozed. We should cherish it more. It strengthens our humanness, and, unless a place feels negative, it can give us a sense of gratitude and peace. 

Anyway, on the way home, I took a slightly different route, and came across a rose bush with large white blossoms. I paused to take a picture, and then  realized there was not only the scent of rose in the air, but also of orange blossoms. An orange tree was right behind me. Standing there in the pleasantly warm sunlight, I could pause a moment and simply give thanks for it all. 

 May we all find something to celebrate right where we are. Let us befriend the spirit of the earth.  She is doing a beautiful job. 

     

"This moment this love comes to rest in me, 

many beings in one being.

In one wheat grain a thousand sheaf stacks. 

Inside the needle's eye, a turning night of stars."

Rumi the Book of Love, translated by Coleman Barks 

Refuge

I have just finished reading Terry Tempest Williams' book, Refuge, originally published in 1991. I was surprised when I came to the last page. This book had become a daily companion - one of those books where my sense of time slipped away. I find I still cannot completely set it aside.    

There are several backdrops to this memoir. First is the faith of her family. While she eventually left the Mormon Church, she was deeply influenced by the spirituality of her mother and grandmother, and other family members. Secondly, there is the Great Salt Lake, and the birds who find refuge there as they make their long migratory journeys. There is also the story of her mother living with cancer, and her mother's ever increasing faith as she let cancer be her teacher. There is also the death of her beloved grandmother, who also died of cancer. There is also the revelation that her family, among many other residents (not just humans) of Nevada and Utah who experienced radioactive fallout from above ground nuclear testing from January 27, 1951 through July 11, 1962.  According to Wikipedia, by 1994 nine members of the Tempest family had had mastectomies, and seven had died of cancer, including the author. 

 

Nuclear testing was eventually moved underground and then was finally ended in 1992, but we still see the desecration of our earth in many other ways, and this I continue to ponder.  Towards the end of the book, Tempest Williams wrote, "What I do know, however, is that as a Mormon woman of the fifth generation of Latter-day Saints, I must question everything, even if it means losing my faith, even if it means becoming a member of a border tribe among my own people. Tolerating blind obedience in the name of patriotism or religion ultimately takes our lives. When the Atomic Energy Commission described the country north of the Nevada Test Site as a 'virtually uninhabited terrain', my family and the birds at Great Salt Lake were some of the 'virtual uninhabitants.'" 

  

This morning I woke from a dream where I needed to return to an old apartment building where I once lived. Much refurbishing had occurred since I had left, and that surprised me. At one time the building was pretty dilapidated, and I thought it would surely destined to be destroyed. The apartment was dark, but through a window I could see a woman sitting at a computer. For some reason, I needed access to that apartment because I needed proof that I once lived there. I knocked on the door, and the woman opened it. I explained my strange mission, and she handed me a key. I was stunned by her generosity. She then asked if I could help her elderly neighbor who lived across the hall. I said I would try. There I met a woman who was over 100 years old. We hugged, and I placed some cash in her hands. She wept, and then surprised me by saying, "My mother needs this."   

  

Jesus asks us to give thought to who is our neighbor. I will add that maybe we should give thought to who is our mother. Who or what is sustaining us? In turn, who or what are we nourishing?  Those who have come before us, and those on the horizon are all waiting and wanting to know. We are not on a linear path, but rather travel along sacred, continuing curves. We have not yet reached the horizon, and we are already there. 

        

 

photograph:  April, 2023