Of Moon and Ministry

 I am not one who takes pictures of the moon. There is just no way I can properly photograph the moon with my little eye phone. Yet, last week I felt I really needed to take a photograph to help me remember my gratitude for December's full moon. Every morning I was able to watch it descend in the dark western sky, a view I can see from our kitchen and dining room windows.

This was the week when I realized that I needed to learn to take a walk without Jack. Those of you who have or have had a canine walking companion understand how much company they can be. Jack was a quiet dog, and was generally pretty patient when I stopped to take a photograph. I, in turn, tried to be patient when he wanted to stop and investigate something his nose found of interest. Yes, I miss his gentle presence very much.

We all have our strategies for coping with the aftermath of loss. One woman I know said she found she had to give up walking for a bit. Another said that she had to drive to another neighborhood for her walks. A friend of mine actually adopted a four month old puppy within days of her dog's unexpected passing. None of those options (especially the puppy) seemed right for me, so I opted to walk in the neighborhood, but I chose to not walk down the street that I live on. I felt I was not ready to explain why I was walking without Jack.

Yet, life seldom conforms to our plans. I was almost home when I heard a woman's voice coming from behind me. I turned and recognized the woman coming towards me. I usually see her sitting by her window with her Bible in her lap. We have often waved to one another, and we once talked on the phone about a community issue. She and her husband have lived in the church that they have led for many years. She asked me if I was all right. I told her about Jack, and she nodded her head and said, "That is what I thought. I have never seen you without your dog," and she expressed her condolences.

Through this exchange, we now know each other's first names and we know a little more about one another. I learned that they have retired from most of their ministry, but they are still delivering food to some of the elders in their community. She asked if I needed some vegetables. I thanked her and while I truthfully answered that I had plenty, I wondered if I was beginning to look decrepit. And, maybe more importantly, if I were in need, would I have the courage to simply answer yes?

Despite my inner monologue, it was a cordial meeting that helped me realize that I can now talk about Jack so I can stop avoiding neighbors. It also reminded me that grief can connect us to others. We all know grief, and as painful as it is, it is part of our common language. It is not so much that we heal from grief, but rather grief can heal us if, even briefly, we follow its lead and allow others into our lives.

Sister Moon has now journeyed on, and I have not seen Sister Rita since then. Yet, I am grateful for their appearances that reminded me that the earth and moon are still dancing in their orbits, and I am still walking in mine. Others are with me, so I need not worry about being alone.

Training in equanimity is learning to open the door to all, welcoming all beings, inviting life to come visit. Of course, as certain guests arrive, we’ll feel fear and aversion. We allow ourselves to open the door just a crack if that’s all that we can presently do, and we allow ourselves to shut the door when necessary. Cultivating equanimity is a work in progress. We aspire to spend our lives training in the loving-kindness and courage that it takes to receive whatever appears—sickness, health, poverty, wealth, sorrow, and joy. We welcome and get to know them all.

Pema Chodron

as quoted in today's First Sip

image: December's Guidance, 2022 San Leandro

A Day for Healing

 Earlier this week, Tyler mentioned that he would probably have a short work day on Friday in San Francisco. I asked if I could go with him. I was struggling some, and I have fond memories of Jack and I spending a workday in the city with him during the pandemic. So yesterday, I got up and dressed, grabbed my good long forest green coat (one of my best thrift store finds ever), shut the door, and left.

It did feel odd to leave the house without making certain Jack was settled in. It felt odd to have a day when there was no reason to be home at any particular time. There is always the risk that concern, while at times can be laudable, is too often habitual. Sometimes we humans just have to accept feeling odd and get out and meet people.

I had met Yuji before and I was grateful to see him again. He is a very lively Japanese musician and artist who is enthusiastic about everything from Tyler's music to Japanese football, to a dog named Rosie who comes to visit when her human companion needs something from Yugi's incredibly well stocked corner market. As Tyler concluded his transactions, I went outside to take in the sun. It was a beautiful clear day in the city, and the beautiful pink blossoms I spotted in a container alongside the building were so encouraging. Later, I met a proprietor who has created a lovely container garden that stretches for close to half a block alongside his building. I marveled at his rose geranium and its large fragrant leaves. He surprised me by giving me a cutting of it as well as a cutting of a fuschia (okay, I confess I am intimidated by that).

After lunch, we stopped by a dumpling shop where I have shopped before. The women who work there are extremely efficient, so the lines in and out of the cash only shop move quickly, except perhaps when I am there. The only amenities in their small space are their good food, and the warmth extended to those in the neighborhood who appear to stop by regularly. Besides their coveted dumplings, they offer some entree items, and a couple of older customers gave me the sense these women help keep them, and probably others, sustained on a regular basis.

Yesterday reminded me that businesses can play a large part in helping a community thrive. Their presence can be healing for those who are appearing for an hour or so, or for those who are growing old right before their eyes. I was also reminded that Tyler can drive through the city with remarkable alacrity, and he is far more optimistic about being able to fit his car into a small space than I will ever be. I also learned that a hamburger served on grilled bread with homemade sauerkraut and whole grain mustard can be worth sacrificing a diet for. Maybe that is part of what healing is about: tending to the daily, while making room for the new.

May I remember.

image: December 2022, 26th and Guerrero Market, San Francisco

Lighting the Way Home

 Yesterday, Jack, our dog, was put to sleep in our home. We scheduled the appointment about ten days ago, so we were able to do some mental and emotional preparation, but there was no avoiding the sorrow that we woke with on Tuesday. I did some sweeping and straightening up, opened the curtains, lit the bayberry candles, and took a few red carnations from our Thanksgiving flower arrangement for the mantle. I chose a purple etched bud vase that I had not used in a long time. I have two, a purple one, and a blue one that belonged to my mother. I cannot remember where she got them, but she treasured them. Tyler and I have had several conversations about our parents during this time of waiting. I have realized once more that if we let it, grief can bring us to deeper relationships because it reconnects us at a deep level. I paused at the mantle, which is my altar. I bowed my head and thanked the Source of All for letting us borrow Jack, and that I knew it was time to return him.

Dr. E. arrived on time, and explained the two step procedure. She was soft spoken and gentle. No movement was wasted; no superfluous words were spoken. With gratitude, I sensed both her compassion and her training. Jack surprised me by his willingness to jump on the couch in the presence of someone he did not know (even in his last days, he could be enticed by the promise of a few Charlee Bears). We quickly settled into our usual spots. His head was by my side, and my hand stroked his wooly head as it had done every day. Yes, Tyler and I both shed tears.

I keep a string of small white lights on the mantle, and these were lit. As I waited, I reflected on how beautiful the autumn light was that morning, and I was grateful that I had opened the curtains. Then, as Jack's physical body came to final stillness, the light around the mantle became brighter, and the light that came through the windows became even more golden as it filtered through the yellow autumn leaves outside. In that moment I knew only unity. I knew without a doubt that every creature on earth is connected. We are not a zillion separate souls, we are one soul. Whether we are a mushroom or royalty does not matter. All of life is divine because we are all of God. Yes, physical death is a part of having a mortal body, but none of us really die. We simply change and move on.

Thank you, Jack, for bringing this knowledge and this love home.

Next time what I'd do is look at

the earth before saying anything. I'd stop

just before going into a house

and be an emperor for a minute

and listen better to the wind

or to the air being still.

When anyone talked to me, whether

blame or praise or just passing time,

I'd watch the face, how the mouth

has to work, and see any strain, any

sign of what lifted the voice.

And for all, I'd know more—the earth

bracing itself and soaring, the air

finding every leaf and feather over

forest and water, and for every person

the body glowing inside the clothes

like a light.

~ William Stafford

image: I took this photograph yesterday after Dr. E. and Jack left. The brightness of the room had diminished some. Perhaps because at least some of it moved into our hearts. The painting is a water color that a friend of mine painted from a photograph I took on a hike with Tyler and Jack at Lake Del Valle in 2020. Jack loved to hike, so weather permitting, we will return there on Saturday. I thank my friend for her generous gift that allowed me to remember that day and that light with gratitude.

Journeying To the Well

 "What does it take to go down to the well, 

To find the spring, the source, 

To come up and share our offerings? 

And then to go back down to the well again and again, 

Filling our vessels with living waters, 

Sharing our sustenance without hesitation,  

Giving of ourselves with grace and love?" 

Rabbi Yael Levy, meditation on Genesis 24:19, 

Directing the Heart, Weekly Mindfulness 

Teachings and Practices from the Torah    

   

I am trying to exercise some discipline, and work my way again through Rabbi Yael's thoughtful, inspiring book.  My intention is to attend her Monday morning Torah study on Zoom (www.awayin.org). However, she is Pennsylvania, and 11:00 a.m. for her and most of her students is 8:00 a.m. here on the West Coast. Some Mondays, like yesterday when there was a complication with our dog Jack, I fall short. This morning, I am grateful to read this meditation.  

We humans often do fall short, and sometimes we fall long. Yet, grace is always there to help us arise once more with dignity and purpose. We must not take the falling more seriously than the getting up.  

Jesus was born into a practicing Jewish family. We get a glimpse of him at the age of twelve conversing with the rabbis in the temple. I have come to believe that if Christians want to draw closer to Jesus and his teachings, we need to look at his Jewish roots. Because of Jesus, these roots are our roots. This meditation is a reflection about Rebekah who offered water to Isaac's servant and his camels. It could just as easily be a reflection on the story of the Samaritan woman meeting Jesus at the well.  Hopefully, it is also a reflection about you and me. 

      

image: San Leandro, June, 2022

  

Rhythm of Place, Part 3

I arrived at San Damiano a few minutes before registration opened. I decided to take my first of many walks that I would take that week. They have a beautiful area set aside for the Stations of the Cross, and I decided to start there. Just as I was finishing that walk, a man approached me and said, "I am sorry to disturb you, but if you walk back down that path and then down the stairs, you can sit on the bench and take in a beautiful view of the Tri-Valley area." I thanked him for the reminder. I have seen that view before, but it was several years ago. Long enough that I had forgotten about it. I turned and began walking towards the stairs. However, when I got there, there were two people sitting on the bench, appearing to be engrossed in conversation.  Not wanting to disturb them and thinking I had plenty of time for valley viewing, I turned and went on to registration.   

However, every time I returned, there were always two people sitting on the bench quietly talking. On the last day, after I had put my luggage in the car, I thought that surely people would be distracted with their own leave takings so I could sit and ponder the view for a few minutes. I stepped on the path. Because of the large oak trees, the area was deep in shade. Yet, even in that dim morning light,  I caught a glimpse of some movement. I paused, and as my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw a small herd of deer sitting in front of me. The movement that I almost sensed more than saw turned out to be the twitching ears of a young male who was looking at me intently. His antlers were in the velvet stage of growth. What light there was outlined the tips of his ears. He was stunningly handsome. 

I bowed and smiled. I quietly told them I would not disturb them, and I turned towards my car and the journey home.

Deer are plentiful in the east bay. Yet, as common as they are, I feel I have been given a sighting of a rare creature. Because of the shade, I did not try to take a picture. I also did not want to fumble and cause a distraction. The image I am content to carry in my heart.  

I just read that velvet antler is considered medicinal, and that herds are raised for the purpose of harvesting the antlers. This discovery saddens me. Yet, I will continue to believe that one day humans will be able to walk peaceably with our fellow creatures. Then, and only then, will we find the healing we so anxiously seek. I think rather than call this area the Stations of the Cross, I will call it "Where the Deer Can Rest."  I think Jesus would appreciate the change of view.

image: Stations of the Cross, San Damiano, October 2022 

 

Encouragement

 Pema Chodron is an 86 year old American Tibetan Buddhist. I find strength in her age and her wisdom. I have been pulled in several directions this week, so I needed to read this this morning. I have done so several times. At the invitation of his pastor, I will speak briefly tonight at a candlelight vigil of a young Samoan seminary student who was murdered.  He was a vibrant part of the Samoan congregation that meets in our church building. If they were not connected to us, I might have simply read the news, shaken my head, and continued on. But this evening, I will enter the grief of others. I wish that the one who had the gun would have had Pema Chodron's words instead.

 

"The source of our unease is the unfulfillable longing for a lasting certainty and security, for something solid to hold on to. Unconsciously we expect that if we could just get the right job, the right partner, the right something, our lives would run smoothly. When anything unexpected or not to our liking happens, we think something has gone wrong.

I believe this is not an exaggeration of where we find ourselves. Even at the most mundane level, we get so easily triggered - someone cuts in front of us, we get seasonal allergies, our favorite restaurant is closed when we arrive for dinner. We are never encouraged to experience the ebb and flow of our moods, of our health, of the weather, of outer events - pleasant and unpleasant - in their fullness. Instead we stay caught in a fearful, narrow holding pattern of avoiding any pain and continually seeking comfort. This is the universal dilemma.

When we pause, allow a gap, and breathe deeply, we can experience instant refreshment. Suddenly we slow down, look out, and there’s the world. It can feel like briefly standing in the eye of the tornado or the still point of a turning wheel. Our mood may be agitated or cheerful. What we see and hear may be chaos or it may be the ocean, the mountains, or birds flying across a clear blue sky. Either way, momentarily our mind is still and we are not pulled in or pushed away by what we are experiencing."

~ Pema Chodron

source: First Sip

image: San Damiano, October, 2022

Rhythm of Place, Part 2, San Damiano

 "... the Spirit doesn't really descend from on high but arises through the grassroots and through the body of Christ and through small groups, small communities, and individuals."

Laurence Freeman, OSB, Daily Wisdom, October 11, 2022 

     

Every day last week, I gathered with the community to celebrate the Eucharist. In this silent retreat, I would say that the majority of the people in attendance were Catholic. Even though I certainly knew Father Freeman was Catholic, and yes, we were in a Franciscan retreat house, I still was surprised. After being assured by Father Freeman that he would never withhold communion from anyone, I decided to take part. I am glad I did because I found some healing in the ritual, the words, and the repetition. I was reminded of a conversation I had some years ago with a woman who said that even though she was Presbyterian, there was one Lenten season when she attended mass every day at at Catholic church near her home. She found, as did I, that the daily rhythm of coming together to pray and meditate takes root and you will always feel a longing to return. 

 More and more, I find it strange to identify oneself by the church, temple, or synagogue that we attend. I know traditions and cultures are meaningful and this I respect. Yet, we are more. Our roots are deeper than we realize. This understanding is one of the gifts of meditation. Slowly, the thoughts of "I am this" dissolve, leaving us free to love. 

    

photograph: leaves in a fountain, San Damiano, October, 2022 

Rhythm of Place, Part 1 San Damiano

 Thanks to San Damiano's noisy, but quite efficient Keurig coffee maker, every morning this week I brewed a cup of coffee at 6:00 a.m. I would then go and sit under the oak trees at the San Damiano Retreat Center in Danville. Facing north, I would watch Mt. Diablo slowly being revealed as the sun rose. I grew fond of this mountain. The always busy 680 corridor was between us, but I was high enough and far enough away from it that the pre-dawn traffic seemed like a strand of jewels reverentially placed before the mountain. On the morning when I took this picture, tule fog was obscuring the freeway, and at one point almost covered the mountain. I was so captivated by this slow moving wave that I missed the 6:30 meditation.   

Being able to gaze daily upon a mountain is a blessing. I feel no need to climb a mountain, and I really do not care for the phrase, "bagging a mountain." I bag groceries, not mountains. While I like to think that mountains are indestructible, I know this is not the case. Regardless, mountains do inspire a sense of stability and permanence that seems to resonate with my soul. Then again so do prairies, but that is a subject for another time. 

There was much that I loved about this five day silent retreat led by Father Laurence Freeman.  While we gathered for meditation several times during the day and evening, the early morning meditation was my favorite. It reminded me of my spiritual direction intensives when we would gather every morning and evening for a contemplative prayer service. It was a collective rhythm that took root, and I think that will always be a part of me.  However, being silent at communal meals usually feels uncomfortable to me. My father seldom talked during meals unless company was present. While I seldom have a need to chatter incessantly while I eat, extended silence when I share a meal with others sometimes gives me a sense of loneliness. I was able to speak with Father Lawrence about it, and he suggested that I think of it as an extension of the Eucharist. I am still pondering that. However, this retreat was loving, and by the time we were coming out of the silence, I was adjusting to sitting at the table with others and not speaking. My last meal at San Damiano was breakfast on Friday, and our silence had ended that morning. Ironically, I found myself at a table with three women who were all very hard of hearing. Our conversation was limited, and I am still smiling about that. Perhaps that is what Father Laurence meant - just leave it all to God. 

I read and wrote very little at this retreat, but I did take pictures and scribbled some notes so I would remember. These I will share in the upcoming days. As always, you are welcome to read, or not, as you feel called.  

   

Love and Blessings,    

Sue Ann         

     

 

    

Eucharist

 This morning, I met with a small group who live and work in a community dedicated to caring for those with dementia. After the worship service, I began, as I have done for 14 years and 11 months, to gather the song sheets after the service, and to thank those who had been with us. I paused in front of a woman who was in a gurney. During our service, she did not move, nor did she open her eyes. As I stood before her, I placed my hand above her head and quietly said a blessing. She still did not stir. Yet, afterwards, as I was trying to corral our song sheets into a large envelope, a caregiver came to take her to another location. As they moved past me, the resident opened her surprisingly bright brown eyes. She smiled a beautiful smile, and then said, "Thank you."  Her light filled the room and in that moment, I knew only love. I smiled in return, and voiced my own thanks. We then waved good-bye to one another.   

Thus ended my time as a paid staff member of SpiritCare. I do have one more community to visit today, but it is one of the local communities that I will continue to visit as a volunteer. I have been blessed to serve in the eternal presence that is God. The time has been filled, and will continue to be filled,  with laughter and tears and many amens. When I first began with SpiritCare, I told a colleague that I had been kidnapped by Jesus. Today, I was reminded he is still having a say.  

Thank you, Jesus.  

   

      image: August lily, Oakland, CA

Sighting

 I so appreciate receiving this quote from Father Laurence Freeman this morning. I am reminded that when something is not fathomable, that is the time not just to shrug our shoulders and say, "Oh, well," or even immediately attack with intellectual zeal. Rather, that is the time to first bow to the Spirit in awe. 

 

"As we look into the depths of our own soul and see the wonder that is there, the wonder of God as the ground of our being, we experience mystery... Mystery is a real thing; it is not an airy-fairy thing. It is a real encounter with the living God. And reverence is that sense of wonder and respect that we have for the deep laws of nature and the deep laws of the spirit that we can't fully understand. They are mysterious, but we know that we are intertwined with them. We know we are living these deep mysteries, these laws of the spirit."   

 

 

image: San Leandro, September, 2022

The Glorious All Too Real

 Last week (or maybe the week before) it was lizards. Today, a gas station. Jesus shows up in surprising ways.  We best be kind to all and accept the grace.  My nightmare this morning reminded me that when I struggle, I am struggling to reach my heart. I wonder why sometimes that journey seems so hard. Even in a brand new bright red pick-up that yes, was in my dream. Packed with too much stuff, it proved to be of no shiny help at all. Or perhaps ultimately it did. Regardless, this morning I shall walk. Thank you, Jesus.  

This is a beautiful poem.  

Gas Station Communion 

It was a little thing, really,

this offer to fill my tire.
I was unscrewing the valve cap
and heard a voice behind me.
‘Here, I’ll get that for you”

“Oh that’s ok, I’ve got it,” is what I
normally say to such overtures,
this knee-jerk reaction to refuse.
I am the one who offers to help,
I am the one who serves.

Perhaps it was the eager spirit
in his face or his brown eyes
full of hopeful connection that
caused me to say okay.

I felt the vibration of
his unspoken benediction:
I can’t do much for you,
fellow weary traveler,
but I can do this. Lay
your burden down and
I will carry it for a bit.

And I couldn’t help but wonder
how many times I have denied
someone the blessing of serving
because I have been too stubborn
to accept their gift.

As I was standing there in
the sun drenched gas station
parking lot, the hiss and tick of
the air pump sounded very much
like a psalm. I watched his hands
filling more than just my tire with air,
while goodness and grace
swirled around us.

~ Paula Gordon Lepp

First Sip  

  

 

photograph: Oakland, August 2022

Chance Encounters

Yesterday, when I received this poem, my heart soared. It has been awhile since I have seen a lizard, but I, too, grew up on a land of many lizards. Tarantulas, too. Ok, I admit that tarantulas still give me the willies, but what a coincidence! I am not familiar with the work of Alberto Rios, but my heart soared again when I learned that he holds the title of  Inaugural State Poet Laureate of Arizona. I am not sure that all of that should be capitalized, but seems like it should be. He does not know it, but he and I both will turn 70 in September. Suddenly, I am possessed with the idea to go to Arizona to study writing, and maybe even do some!  

I do not have a single photograph of a lizard. This well camouflaged roadrunner must do. I was in Chino Valley, Arizona last year when I was blessed to spot this elusive creature. We are all knitted together. You and I and all that breathes. Surely rocks breathe in some mysterious way.  Maybe I will study science, too.   

  

Today is Friday. As I mentioned last week, Friday is a day I devote to looking for a different view. Perhaps this is news meant only for me, but I share anyway. I love this poem.   

Wishing you all love and laughter today, and always.      

  

Weekend Weather

I misheard the weatherman say
There was rain and a chance of lizards this weekend.

I knew I had misheard it, but still.
I knew, too, never to take anything for granted,

Never to assume, which makes you know what
Out of u and me. Thank you

Miss Lee and second grade. What I heard -
It was silly, perhaps, but I looked around anyway

At least once or twice during the day
As I carefully crossed the very dry street.

This is a place of lizards, after all, and the news
As I heard it was not impossible. Blizzards

Somewhere else, but lizards here. Very possible.
My childhood, after all, was made of them.

I remember a summer of migrating tarantulas,
And I think today they would have made the news

Similarly. Rather than mishearing, perhaps
I heard news meant only for me.

Sometimes, that's how the world is,
Speaking in whatever voice it can find.

A chance of lizards for me -
And me ready for them, old friends, old friends.

~ Alberto Rios

         

 

 image: Chino Valley, AZ 2021

A Different View

Sometimes I need a different view, so on Fridays, I try to get out of the neighborhood if possible. Today, I decided to take Jack for a walk at Oyster Bay, here in San Leandro. As we were leaving, Tyler, who was diligently working on spreadsheets, mentioned with fondness the scent of the dill that grows there.  I love the view of the sky through the tall dill, so that is the path that Jack and I walked. 

  

Much of the park has been cleared for disc golf, and there are some grassy areas with picnic tables. Yet, I much prefer a walk among the dill. Bees also are attracted to dill, and the bee in this photograph surprised me.  I usually do not keep out-of-focus photographs, but this chance encounter reminds me to continue to look for those different views.  

   

    

Let the weeds in their season, 

and let the wildness in its time. 

Let lostness, 

and let wandering 

and waste. 

     

Jan L. Richardson 

       

       

  

image: Oyster Bay, San Leandro, August 2022 

Today

 Today Tyler sold our Murano. When he asked me last night what I thought about selling it, I truthfully said that I was pretty neutral about the decision. We have not been using it much. Yet today, the sale has left me thinking that this is more of a passage than I first realized. The main reason we do not use it much anymore is that our dog Jack is not healthy enough to travel. We have decided that once Jack passes, we are not going to have a dog for a while. We are going to travel a little more lightly.  

The Murano was loved not only by Jack, but by our other two dogs as well, both who have long since passed. Except when driven once a year to Costco, it was usually the vehicle that symbolized fun, whether we were going to the beach or on a longer trek. We will travel again, but the Murano had simply become just a little too big for our needs.  

 

After the transaction was complete and the Murano was on its way, we sat in the backyard and had lunch.  I told Tyler, "We have just downsized!'  We have more downsizing to do, of course, but yes, this is a time of change. The exterior of the house has recently been painted, and Tyler has been working diligently on a backyard project of taking out the hot tub and creating a nice seating area in its place.  A very pleasant young woman who has recently started her own landscaping business is going to help create a dry landscape for the front yard that does not include dead grass. I am grateful.    

In an anthology of prayers entitled God Makes the Rivers To Flow, Eknath Easwaran included a beautiful Native American Indian prayer, Great Life-Giving Spirit. The entire prayer is too long to include here, but I shall conclude with part of it. I love the image of fading into beautiful color. This is an image worth keeping as the journey continues.     

    

  

Spirit who comes out of the East, 

come to me with the power of the rising sun. 

Let there be light in my word. 

Let there be light on the path that I walk. 

Let me remember always that you give the gift of a new day. 

Never let me be burdened with sorrow by not starting over....

Great life-giving Spirit, 

I face the West, 

the direction of the sundown. 

Let me remember every day that the moment will come 

when my sun will go down.  

Never let me forget that I must fade into you.  

Give me beautiful color. 

Give me a great sky for setting, 

and when it is time to meet you, 

I come with glory.   

      

image: San Leandro, August 2022

Concentration

 I do admire how bees simply go about being bees, even in these difficult times. There is a lesson here.  I am comfortable leaving honey making to the bees. We, however, do need to do our part and concentrate on learning to live in peace.  

I am not familiar with Alden Solovy's writing. I look forward to reading more.   

Bees

The bees
Do not stop
Collecting pollen
When humans
Murder each other
With guns.
The bees think:
How strange,
How low
On the evolutionary scale
Must those humans be,
That they haven’t yet
Figured out
How to make honey
Or peace.
    —Alden Solovy   

   

image: San Leandro, July 1, 2022

Continuing

 I generally do not open emails first thing in the morning. I will, however, do a quick check just to make sure there is nothing critical going on since I do not keep my phone by my bedside at night unless Tyler is away. Yet, this morning, I did open an email from First Sip. In it, I believe I found a dependable compass for how to go forward. I love the word magnificent, and I need to bring it back into my vocabulary. Tyler and I have been watching the Netflix series, "Our Great National Parks" narrated by Barack Obama. It is a beautiful, hopeful look at our magnificent planet. Great hope can be found when people work together to stop plundering and begin to preserve and restore. Even in the midst of a drought and climate change, I have reason to believe that the beauty of God's creation will endure.

"To be hopeful in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty, but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness.

What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives. If we see only the worst, it destroys our capacity to do something. If we remember those times and places—and there are so many—where people have behaved magnificently, this gives us the energy to act, and at least the possibility of sending this spinning top of a world in a different direction.

And if we do act, in however small a way, we don’t have to wait for some grand utopian future. The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory."

  

~ Howard Zinn (1922-2010)

First Sip      

 

 

image: Sonoma State University, June 2022

Maybe This Is Perfection

 "Failure is something through which we have to learn. So every time you say your mantra and you get distracted, don’t see it as a failure. Just learn from it, and you learn by going back to it. So it’s not about success, it’s about perseverance. It’s not about success, it’s about faithfulness. And that’s how we learn and that’s how we grow. If you are trying to do it just by being perfect, you will exhaust yourself and you will give up. This way you will learn something immensely beneficial."   

Father Laurence Freeman, OSB     

 

This morning I reminded our dog Jack of this very thing. He was not trying to meditate, but rather get on the couch. He is older and sometimes has trouble getting his body and mind aligned to do what he wants. This morning he did not quite make it. He started to walk away, but I called him back, encouraging  him to try again. The second time, he had no trouble. Was it because he knew I was right behind him?  Maybe just trying again helped him focus?  Maybe a bit of both?  I do not know. What I do know is that I, too, often have a similar  struggle.  Yet, what I am slowly learning is that just as there is no such thing as perfection of faith, I am also learning that in my life there really is no such thing as perfection at all. Perfection is God's realm. I am grateful to set that burden down. I can move a little easier, be a little braver, laugh a little more readily.  It is all journey, and it is all a new undertaking. Fortunately, I still have a ways to go. 

 

  

   

image: San Leandro, May 2022      

 

A small group of us gather via Zoom every Wednesday at 4:00 Pacific time for a short period of meditation in the Christian tradition. If you would like to join us, drop me a note to get the link.   

 

Definitely That Kind of Day

 It is certainly that kind of day here in the East Bay. No, the photograph is not of a peony, but rather a blooming tree that I call the sunny side up tree. I love the golden heart in the center: a glimpse of the soul springing from the essence of God's love.  May all humanity know we, too, can shine with this love. We only have to be willing to let ourselves bloom.   

   

Today

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
So uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

That it made you want to throw
Open all the windows in the house

And unlatch the door to the canary’s cage,
Indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

A day when the cool brick paths
And the garden bursting with peonies

Seemed so etched in sunlight
That you felt like taking

A hammer to the glass paperweight
On the living room end table,

Releasing the inhabitants
From their snow-covered cottage

So they could walk out,
Holding hands and squinting

Into this larger dome of blue and white,
Well, today is just that kind of day.

~ Billy Collins

First Sip 

image: San Leandro, on the last day of May, 2022

Just in Time

I do struggle with self-care some. It is not that I do not practice meditation or yoga or walking. Sometimes I forget to do things just because I enjoy them. However, yesterday Tyler and I drove to Inverness to have dinner with friends. I shall remember for quite awhile that bowl of blueberry ice cream topped with a tiny flower. A beautiful outing and a wonderfully peaceful drive home.  On Saturday, we took Jack on a short walk in the East Bay Hills.  I shall try to keep these practices of going out just because. 

   

"Some days it feels like a foreign language
I'm asked to practice, with new words
for happiness, work, and love. I'm still learning
how to say: a cup of tea for no reason,
what to call the extra honey I drizzle in,
how to label the relentless urge to do more
and more as useless. And how to translate
the heart's pounding message when it comes:
enough, enough. This morning, I search for words
to capture the glimmering sun as it lifts
above the mountains, clouds already closing in
as fat droplets of rain darken the deck.
I'm learning to call this stillness self-care too,
just standing here, as goldfinches scatter up
from around the feeder like broken pieces
of bright yellow stained-glass, reassembling
in the sheltering arms of a maple."

~ James Crews

This poem came to me through First Sip. This information was included: 

"This poem can be found in the lovely new poetry anthology The Path to Kindness: Poems of Connection and Joy, edited by James Crews."   

image:  I love James Crews' description of goldfinches. I have no photographs of goldfinches, but this morning's light on the nashtursims was ephemeral and quite beautiful.  I call it May Light.