A Song Worth Singing

I woke up this morning thinking of the word co-creation. In any good relationship, we are called to co-create with one another. That includes our relationship with the Sacred. God is always creating, and is always willing to be in partnership with us if we make room for God to move with us. 

A few days ago, I visited a skilled nursing community.  Here, we must take a Covid test which means waiting 15 minutes before entering the community further than the reception area. I do not find that time unpleasant, and the pause means that the volunteer and I have some time just to talk and  "catch our breath" as my mother would say. 

Our tests revealed that we did not have Covid and we walked around the corner and stepped into the hallway together. The only person in the hall was Pamela who was singing a Beatles' song with full voice. The volunteer and I joined her in song as we opened the door to the activity room.  The three of us entered with laughter.  

A new musical key was invented that day, but I don't think Pamela gets too involved with such details as staying in tune.  I know nothing of her story, but I suspect that poverty and poor health care have played a part. She is a double amputee and is missing many teeth. Yet, she seems to contain a wholeness  that is worth emulating. I do know she loves to color, and she uses bright colors with abandon. 

The vision of her singing in an empty hallway stays with me. I think she is a rare bird with a song worth joining.  That is what God calls us to do.   

     

    

She says she loves you
And you know that can't be bad
Yes, she loves you
And you know you should be glad-  

John Lennon and Paul McCartney   

   

photograph: from my front yard, October 2021 

Deep Language

 Some care communities have some stringent steps one must go through to visit. We must answer questions about our vaccination status and where we have recently traveled and with whom  we have been in contact with. Temperatures are taken. Sometimes I am asked to take off my personal mask and put on a disposable one. Sometimes I must don a face shield. Only then, can I pass by the front desk, which now is invariably behind plexiglass. Everything seems a bit muffled and distant.  If someone smiles, it is sensed more than seen.  Often,  there is a weariness present that is palpable.   

This week, I was in one of those communities. How happy I was to see the activity director walking towards me. She is one who smiles, and no mask can hide the fact that she is smiling. She tells me that Barbara cannot join us because she is expecting her daughter. We walk past Barbara's room, and I wave at her. I ask if I can step in to talk with her for a moment. She is quite hard of hearing, so having a conversation at a distance is impossible.  The activity director assured me that would be fine. 

Barbara seemed not to recognize me until she saw my Bible. She then exclaimed in her gravelly voice, "Oh, yes!"  She spreads her arms wide and reaches out from her wheelchair to give me a hug. I find her delightful. She loves God, and that love pours out on  those she comes into contact with. She apologizes for not being able to join me today. I assure her that a daughter's visit is important. We bless one another, and I travel on to the activity room, where I am greeted with another hug. This time, it is from Estelle  who speaks very little English. The activity director often translates for her, including my prayers.  I laugh and tell the director that God's love translates quite well.  She agreed. 

As I walk back down the hall to visit another community, I see Barbara leaning close to her daughter. They are in an earnest conversation. I walk by unnoticed, and that is how it should be. 

I think a lot about faith when I cross these thresholds because I sense our being anointed by a  love that simply cannot be contained. It spills out everywhere. It cannot be masked or  measured.  I hear it in the laughter and I sense it in the weariness.  I feel it when we open our Bibles and help one another find our way to the same page.       

   

Image: Sonoma State University, June 2015

Relating

I needed to see the post below about forgiveness this morning. Maybe every morning. Father Freeman also reminds me that the real purpose of meditation is to let the meditation usher in a whole new way of being. "It helps us see that the place we should look for the fruits of meditation is not the meditation period itself - what happens (or doesn't) but in the manner and quality of our lives, particularly in our relationships." * We see this in Jesus, who would go to a mountain top, or across the lake, or into the desert. He always returned to the people. For most of us, this is our call. He also reminded people to forgive. Forgiveness and healing go hand in hand. 

'So our first responsibility, if we want to be in relationship and we want that relationship to be a healthy one and a healing one and a caring one for the people we are in relationship with, our first responsibility to others is to be as healthy and as happy as we can be ourselves. And that involves not being too hard on ourselves when we fail. In other words, we incorporate the sense of failure into our practice and learn from failure." **

 

   

   

*Jesus the Teacher Within, Laurence Freeman, copyright 2003, p. 199   

 

**Laurence Freeman, OSB, World Community for Christian Meditation,  Daily Digest, October 8, 2021 

image: San Leandro, September 2021   

Recognizing Royalty

In his book, Like a Thousand Suns, The Bhagavad Gita for Daily Living, Volume 2 (page 220-221), Eknath Easwaran tells a story he learned  from the Hindu scriptures.  In the story, a young prince is kidnapped by robbers. He is raised to ride and shoot with a bow and arrow. His livelihood is earned by ambushing people and stealing their money and goods. One day the king's spiritual advisor happens to ride by him, and pauses.  Despite the coarseness of the young man, the advisor sees in him a glimmer of his true heritage. He knows without a doubt that this bandit is the missing prince. He even goes so far as to give him a hug and address him as "your royal highness." 

Well, the bandit at first rejects the advisor, and no doubt does not appreciate the hug. However, the advisor continues to talk to him about his childhood, about how the father would carry him on his shoulders and how his mother would sing him to sleep with a mantra.  Slowly, the young man begins to  remember and realizes that he is much more than a  bandit; he is a prince. The young man then puts his arms around the teacher, and exclaims, "You're my greatest friend. You helped me to remember who I am!"   The prince then returns home.    

May we all embrace our  divine inheritance. Let us learn to really see ourselves and one another. It is then that we will recognize the Holy One in each of us. This is surely the path to peace, and our way home, prodigal sons and daughters no more.

My gratitude to Sagrada, a beautiful shop in Oakland,  for attaching this photograph to one of their posts.  We, too, glimmer with such light.   

   

    

 

Learning the Language

I am getting to know some of the  residents of a small skilled nursing community that I have just recently started visiting. Several of those who gather with me for Bible study are deeply devout, and this I find both encouraging and humbling.  Lou tends to hide her faith, but her attentive gaze speaks of her interest.  Barbara rolls in with her large print Bible in her lap. She is enthusiastic and also quite hard of hearing.  I help her find the scripture so she can read along. Estella, too, often brings her Bible. She speaks very little English, and I speak no Spanish (it really is time to do something about that).  The activity director helps with translation and we both help Estella find the text in her Spanish Bible. I come with my own Bible, mask, and face shield which makes me feel like some kind of modern day crusader on a budget.  I know protection devices are important, and without them, I probably would not be there. However, they do not help my being heard.  The result of all this is some chaos that everyone seems to take in stride.  

Yesterday, I read from Mark 5:25, the story of the woman who had been ill for 12 years. She dared to venture out of her isolation, with the intent to simply touch Jesus' garment. In that act of faith, she found the  healing that had eluded her for so long.

The healing stories in the Bible remind me that healing is part mystery, and is much more than just being able to return to the way things used to be. We are called forward. Surely, part of healing is moving into wholeness - accepting and becoming  the person God is calling us to be today.  

As I was reading, commenting, and repeating when needed, Barbara practically shouts, "We must pray for my roommate's fiance! He is ill! He must believe he can be healed!" I said of course we will pray for him. Then Mary, whom I just met, added rather determinedly that we must also pray for the trees that are in danger of burning.  I then realized that I had a small praying community with me, and so we began to pray.  I felt Christ settling in among us as we prayed for those who are ill, including all the trees and all the creatures, including humans, who are losing their homes.  We prayed that  children would always be able to walk among trees and flowers.  We prayed for those who had gathered together, and for those who could not. 

As I was preparing to leave,  Estella ended our time as she always does. In the only English I have ever heard her utter, she says, "I love you."  I smile and bow, as I always do, and tell them how grateful I am for them all. The activity director graces me with a new face shield, and off I go, happy in the knowledge that learning to understand one another is possible.  God's universal language is love. Ultimately, that is our native tongue.    

“Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace, and be healed of your affliction." 

Mark 5:34       

   

photograph: Sonoma State, June 2015

Timely

 I woke this morning of my 68th birthday  with a vision. I do not consider it a dream for there was no movement.  I shall try to describe it: 

In the upper left corner is what looks to me to be  a circular pen or corral made of rounded wooden posts.  In the center is a large old fashioned alarm clock, complete with a bell on the top of the clock that  always looks charming until the sound of its ringing  jars you awake  from a lovely sleep.  The face of the clock is white. The numerals and hands are black. The large hand is on 12; the small hand is on 4 or 5 (This is probably about the time I was having the dream.)  The front of the fence (could be a gate), is open wide, and some sort of stream was pouring from the clock.  It sparkles and  does not appear to be water.  I am standing in the stream in the foreground.   I am wearing a long grey dress and on my head is something like a wimple.  My hands are folded, but my head is not bowed. There is no movement. Even the stream is not moving. It really is like a painting.  I wish I could send this note to the surrealist painter, Remedios Varo. Yet, I suppose we all must find our own ways of bringing our dreams and visions to life.  Perhaps the dream is telling me that it is time.  I shall accept this gift.  

It would be a lovely gift to me if you all had a wonderful day today.      

    

 

photograph: San Leandro, September, 2021

Lightness of Being

 During the shutdown, I had a dream in which Tyler and I walk through the double doors of a church.  In waking life, I served this church for a time in the position of what the UCC calls a minister in covenant.  In the dream I am in search of some needed paperwork. The main room is  brightly lit,  and in it are several long tables laden with food. People were sitting at these tables laughing, eating, and drinking. Many wave to us, and we are  warmly greeted by my friend. She insists that we sit and have something to eat. Everyone seems so happy; we cannot resist. The dream came to a close when we sat down to join the festivities.   

I was so struck by the vividness of the dream that I sent Kathie an email the next morning. She wrote back saying that once the pandemic would allow, the community was going to begin working on a new space for the congregation in an existing church. Much renovation would be needed, but she sounded very positive.  

A week or so  ago, I learned that Kathie was in the hospital after experiencing a severe stroke. This morning I learned that she passed last night. I hold her family and that community in my heart. Many of the members of that church have known her since she was a child. I feel their sadness as well as my own.  To hold such sadness does not  feel like a burden, but rather a gift.  Unlike some gifts, I do not have to worry about where to put it, or what to do with it. It feels like it has had a place in me for a very long time.  It gives me hope that maybe I am learning to love. 

 My friend Kim, who passed a few years ago, served this community, and that is how I initially became involved with  them.  When I first heard of Kathie's stroke, I felt Kim's presence so keenly. I do believe Kim guided, and is still guiding her friend in the process of letting this physical life go.    

  

I recently had another dream that I believe is related. In the dream Tyler and I had just moved to another home.  I walk into the backyard. I am surprised to be greeted by a young hippopotamus. He is so playful and affectionate that I cannot help not help but simply enjoy his company.  At one point he trots over and opens his mouth as widely as he can. I then remember, with much concern, that this hippopotamus is going to grow into a very large creature.  I know I am not prepared to tend to an animal that size. While he did not actually speak, I hear his encouragement not to worry. He knows he will eventually live in a zoo and he has no worries about that. I receive an image of a beautiful zoo with lots of water, rocks, and beautiful grounds. I am relieved and I am able to return to simply enjoy his frolicking. 

On my walk earlier this week, I came across a give-away box. On the top was a huge book about dreams. I looked up hippopotamus, and was advised  that it could be interpreted as a sign of something positive coming, something to be enjoyed in the moment.  

This moment, while not particularly enjoyable, is positive for I am reminded that none of us will be in this physical form forever.  I know Kathie and Kim are in a beautiful place, and I thank them for the light they continue to share.  I also thank all of you. 

   

  

photograph: San Leandro, October 2015