Just a Reminder

I think I should read more of Derek Mahon's poetry (born 1941 in Belfast, died in 2020 in Cork). My gratitude to Sister Joan Chittister for including this poem in her newsletter.  

This morning's view of the sunrise was a blessing, and a beautiful way to begin the day - with beauty, awe, and gratitude.  

"Everything is Going to be All Right"

How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart.
The sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.

Derek Mahon, from Selected Poems   

 

     

              

image: Not the view out my window, but rather First Congregational Church, Martinez 

To the Library and Beyond

 Yesterday on my way to the dentist, I stopped by the library to donate a bag of books to The Friends of the Library. I was still a little early for my dental appointment, so I decided to peruse the library stacks. The main library is quite close to where we live, but I have managed to completely underuse it all these years. 

As I wandered among the shelves, I felt gratitude for libraries that offer people a safe place to meander, rest, and yes, even read if they want. In my wanderings I was excited to  come across Belden C. Lane's book: Backpacking with the Saints, Wilderness Hiking as Spiritual Practice. It looks to be as good a read as his The Solace of Fierce Landscapes: Exploring Desert and Mountain Spirituality which I read last year and loved.  

The following passage Lane attributes to Chellis Glendinning, "a twentieth-century ecopsychologist living in the high desert of New Mexico":

 

"I had been eating a simple dinner of brown rice and greens on the roof when I felt something occur in my body, something like a door swinging open. Wide open. A golden sun was just setting behind the Jemez Mountains: bursts of orange and pink were shooting like streamers through the fading sky. To my surprise, I was sensing the full-bodied aliveness of every juniper and rock and hawk on the Earth. By the front door to my house I saw, really saw, the tall pinon that I ordinarily brushed by; its needles and cones were bursting with presence, its branches and trunk with consciousness. I had never before communicated directly with it, nor with any other wild being. I saw how foolish I had been. My recovery from western civilization was underway." 

 While I am not familiar with her work and this is my first introduction to the term ecopsychologist, I can certainly imagine this vivid scene. 

Lane considers his solo backpacking trips to be a spiritual practice. While I doubt I would ever go on a solo wilderness trip, and I have no intention of going on our roof to dine, I think I understand something of the healing that our outdoors can give us. Our wild areas, and even our gardens have much to reveal. As do our libraries. Let us re-discover them all.  

    

Image is not of pinon trees, which are native to the Southwest, but rather Central Oregon ponderosas.

A Late Fall Walk

Yesterday, Tyler and I went for a walk at Coyote Point Regional Park in Fremont.  A friend of mine once mentioned to me that the park looks different in every season. I agree. Yesterday, the marsh was almost completely dry, but there were still wet places where birds could gather. Tyler posted that we saw "a bald Eagle, a few thousand ducks and coots, egrets, bushtits, yellow rumped warblers, sparrows, marsh wrens.... so many birds!"  A pretty festive place, but we have yet to see a coyote. Turkeys hang out at the nature center, where people picnic. Their size and shiny plumage leads me to believe they are skilled foragers and engaging guests at a picnic. 

 

As beautiful as the land appeared, and watching the birds go about simply being birds was fascinating, my eyes kept being drawn to the sky by the light and beautiful clouds. I was reminded of the need to keep looking up and beyond. And I need to do that often. I seem to need a sense of horizon. There I find hope.  

   

"The Presence protects us.  

I was brought low, 

and the Presence was there.  

 

Return my soul; 

rest in the embrace of Infinite care.

 

You have delivered my soul from numbing despair, 

my eyes from  weeping, 

my feet from stumbling.   

   

I  will walk in the presence of the One in the lands of life.

I will be faithful." 

    

from Psalm 116

Psalms Ancient Songs for These Times

Rabbi Yael Levy      

  

In her beautiful book of translations and interpretations of the Psalms, Rabbi  Levy writes that her book was arranged as a collage. I find that to be a thoughtful image. She reminds me that God's sacred Presence and Mystery continue to unfold. So, I walk, in faith, in the lands of life, moving to the horizon, looking at the sky, the clouds, the stars, the moon. Do I stumble? Alas, yes. But so far, I have never once fallen out of this beautiful collage. 

      

    

      

       

    

  

Minding the Lakes

In May of 2025, Tyler and I visited Lake Pillsbury, a reservoir in the Mendocino National Forest. When I arrived home, I wrote about meeting a man at the shore of the lake. He was unloading his canoe, but paused to talk to us. He said that he and his wife had been coming to the lake for many years. In the telling he became quiet for a moment and then added that she could no longer join him, but he kept visiting the lake. He suggested that we go see the elk that lived across the lake, and that we did.

In September of this year, we were surprised to discover the beautiful Lake Ewauna in Klamath Falls, OR as we passed through. On our return trip, we stopped at a campsite at Lake Orr. There I talked to a man who said that he had been camping at the lake many times. He assured me that the sites were first come, first served, and that there were no fees because the sites had no water. That is usually not an issue for us because we carry our own. We found our spot and settled in.

That evening Tyler played his Native American flute by the lake. The man, whose name is Jerry, came over to listen. He smiled and said that at first he thought perhaps someone was playing to the lake to call the catfish. He remembered the time when one could fish on the lake, but it is now covered with lilies and other plants. As I mentioned in a previous post, the ducks seemed quite happy with the lake as it is now.

We decided to stay an extra day at the lake.The view of Mt. Shasta was beautiful, and our campsite was very peaceful. Jerry, his wife, and their dog were the only ones in this small campground that was well tended to by the forest service. Even the pit toilets were so clean they seemed luxurious (Camping does alter one's thinking about such things.)

I think of those who come to know the lakes through the years and in various seasons. Their presence gives me hope that the rhythm of the seasons of going and returning can become our own once more, rather than viewing every bit of land as a potential spot for real estate development. In her book, The Serviceberry, Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World, Robin Wall Kimmerer writes:

"Many Indigenous Peoples including my Anishinabe relatives and my Haudenosaunee neighbors inherit what is known as 'a culture of gratitude,' where lifeways are organized around recognition and responsibility for earthly gifts, both ceremonial and pragmatic. Our oldest teaching stories remind us that failure to show gratitude dishonors the gift and brings serious consequences. If you dishonor the Beavers by taking too many of them they will leave. If you waste the Corn, you'll go hungry...Recognizing 'enoughness' is a radical act in an economy that is always urging us to consume more."

May we be able to pause and simply gaze upon a mountain, a river, a lake, a tree or whatever bit of nature might be in our view. In that pause, let us give thanks, and include a prayer for those who are tending to, and trying to be mindful of such places. Let us take part in the radical act of unlearning greed and becoming vessels of gratitude. There we will find peace. A peace not just for ourselves, but for all of life.

    

image: "Gathering Around Mt. Shasta", September 2026

Looking and Laughing Beyond

Today I spent about half an hour or so visiting a beloved elder. She is over 100 years old. Every time I see her, she asks the question in one way or another, "Why am I still here?" She and I really can not come up with any solid idea other than she is loved, and she loves, and that love has taught her resilience. She has been practicing resilience her whole long life.

Her stories are often repeated. Her hearing is not great. But today, we just laughed. When she told one of her stories that I have many times, she smiled and then laughed. And I laughed.

This afternoon as I reflect on our time together, I wonder if perhaps her soul is here to teach us all to laugh at old age. Not to mock the elders, but to laugh with them as we turn together and learn to face eternity laughing.     

      

image: Lake Orr, September 2026

Hope

 I woke yesterday morning with this photograph on my mind. It was taken on the shore of Lake Orr in September of this year. I titled it  "Hope" because as soon as I saw the scene from the back of our camper that morning, the word came to mind. I felt then, as I do now, that the gold color just beyond the dark trees beckons us with a promise of warmth and light as the day began. Here, I feel that same beckoning many mornings as I watch the sun rise among pink and salmon colored clouds that move across the eastern sky. The changing light reminds me that the earth is still rotating on its axis. While gravity and I are periodically at odds, it feels good to simply stand in awe at the window. 

I cherish such times of awe. Without those moments of silence and wonder, it is difficult to experience both hope and gratitude. While the following quote is about simplicity, I believe it shows us a path to hope. It is from a book of daily devotions written by Brother Victor-Antoine d'Avila-Latourrette. I have turned to this book many times during the past two decades. He tended to his monastery's kitchen, gardens, and the sheep. He also wrote several books, including cookbooks. He loved to cook soup and to bake bread. He probably did much more while he lived in the monastery. I just read that he passed in in February 2023. He was a monk who paid close attention to each season. It makes sense that he would pass in winter. I am certain he passed in peace.

This book is entitled Blessings of the Daily, a Monastic Book of Days and was published in 2002.  His entry for October 20, "Simplicity Finds a Home in the Daily"  begins with this quote attributed to Jack Kornfield and Christina Feldman: "Simplicity, letting go of opinions and cravings is an act of compassion for ourselves. When we let go of yearnings for the future, preoccupations with the past, and strategies to protect the present,  there is nowhere left to go but where we are. To connect with the present moment is to begin to appreciate the beauty of simplicity."  In other words, when the mind becomes quiet.

I do have to smile now. While in the middle of writing this, I received a text from one of my credit card companies asking if I had made a certain charge. I had not. Yes, that flustered me. I think all is in good order now, but, fraud and theft are frustrating, disappointing, and worrisome. Yet, the warmth of hope still beckons. The present moment offers us much, if we can pause long enough to live into it. Sometimes that takes courage. 

Blessings on your daily comings and goings. Let us continue moving towards hope, watching for the signposts of awe along the way.

A gentle rain is falling this morning. The land has been thirsty, so I am grateful. May all drink deeply and thrive. 

 

     

Keepers of the Lakes, Part 1

 I am a little late in writing a couple of reflections about our camping trip in late September, but there are several images and thoughts that are staying with me. I do want to get them recorded before the memories fade completely. The destination of this trip was Central Oregon, an area I was completely unfamiliar with. Tyler is part of an online group of fellow campers who travel in rigs much like ours. They do two or three gatherings a year, but all in Oregon. On this trip we decided that is probably further than we can commit to driving to on a regular basis. Nonetheless, it was an enjoyable trip, albeit a bit chilly at times. 

The first day of our journey we drove as far as Klamath Falls, Oregon. I was surprised to discover how beautiful the area around Klamath Falls is. We arrived in town quite hungry, and enjoyed a nice restaurant dinner. By then looking for a campsite in the dark seemed daunting. We asked the server if she could recommend a hotel and she directed us to one down the street. She asked where we were headed and when we answered, she added "This is God's country." I was tempted to add, "All country is God's country", but I refrained and simply responded, "Yes, it is very beautiful here."  And it truly is, at least before, as Tyler tells me, the heat of summer or the cold of winter set in. 

We arrived at the hotel and again I was surprised. The hotel sits on a body of water which we learned was Lake Ewauna, the headwaters of the Klamath River. After breakfast the next morning I was keen to walk along the lake before we got back into the truck to head to Central Oregon, which I had just learned is also known as the Oregon Outback. While  so-called complimentary breakfasts can lack interest, at least for the tastebuds, there are usually informative pamphlets to peruse. Nonetheless, as long as the coffee is hot and half and half is provided, I am usually content with tough scrambled eggs with a side of something that includes a bit of something to read. 

The morning was quite cool, but the air and water both seemed to glisten, and many birds were on and around the lake. As we continued to walk, we passed by a man who was tucked into a sleeping bag underneath a ledge probably leftover from an old bridge. At his feet sat a dog who looked to me to be at least part Malinois. The dog was quiet, but very alert; it never took its eyes off of us. We, of course, did not try to engage the dog, choosing instead to respectfully walk by. On our return, we saw the two of them pretty much in their same positions as they had before. Again, the dog carefully watched us, but did not move or bark. I mentioned to Tyler that the dog impressed me with its focus and discipline. He agreed.  

I was delighted to see plovers on the shore. They are quick moving, chatty birds who seem to keep one another continually advised of their movements. I tried to photograph them, but the quality of my one photograph proved to be quite poor. The birds were just too far away and were pretty much the same color as the ground. Plus, they seemed to be much more interested in running around in tandem rather than sitting still. I have always thought of plovers as land birds, but I have learned that they do fly and actually migrate. No wonder they chat and move together in unison. There soon will be many miles to cover.      

Alas, there are other creatures that live close to Lake Ewauna: midges, which are tiny winged insects that also travel enmasse. Fortunately, these were the non-biting variety, but they were everywhere. For the fish and the birds that inhabit the lake and the surrounding area, their presence is probably most welcome, and certainly contribute to the lake's well being, even if we humans flail our arms and complain, which can happen a lot in a hotel parking lot during check out time. Nonetheless, I was once again reminded that this is God's country. There is a balance to be found if we can let it be.

On to the Outback. More to come.

   

Lake Ewauna, Klamath Falls, Oregon

Listening To a Very Large Snake

 I woke this morning from a dream of a snake. A very large snake.  

In the dream, I am with several people. We are by a body of water. I am not sure if it was a lake or an ocean because in the dream we spent most of our time in a building next to the water. We are indeed discussing snakes. Unfortunately, I do not remember much of those conversations. What I do remember is a very large snake kept appearing and would follow me around. Not in a menacing way, but it worried me mainly because I knew nothing about it. 

A woman who was also part of the group walked in holding a white egg. I do know this woman in my waking life, but our paths have not crossed in years. As I pondered the egg, I wondered if the snake might be hungry. I then had a revelation about the snake: it was following us because it simply liked the companionship of humans. It also seemed to be changing color. At first it looked to be a dullish brown, but as the dream progressed, it took on a beautiful green patina.  

A man then walked into the room. He had a clipboard, and he was assigning people in groups to study various things, including some smaller snakes. He looked at me and said that he would like me to work with another man who was standing slightly apart from the others. We were to study the large snake, and I was happy about that. He looked at me and simply said, "I like the work you have done so far." 

I recently read online that snakes grow their entire lives. This continual growth means that they periodically outgrow their skin, so they shed it and leave it behind. I think this dream speaks of transformation and transition. Perhaps the egg symbolizes that there is food for this part of the journey. 

Yesterday was my 74th birthday. I am definitely in the third stage of my life, and I want to stay aware of that. My work with SpiritCare taught me that we should not underestimate the importance of this stage of our lives. This is a time of growth as we assimilate what we have learned over the years. It is also a time of learning to let go of what no longer has meaning for us, and learning to let go even when letting go is incredibly painful.  

Today is the first day of autumn, and yes, the leaves are starting to turn. Last night's sky filled with clouds that gave the Waxing Gibbous moon a beautiful halo. The view out our small window at the top of the stairs revealed a view of the mystery that autumn always seems to usher in. 

Blessings to you all, whatever season you may be finding yourself. Do take care and listen to your beautiful souls. 

       

image: February 2026 I have no photographs of snakes. I simply like this photograph.

Honoring the Body

 The first thing I do in the morning is look out our bedroom window and gaze at the eastern sky,  At night, I look west. For the past two nights we have been able to witness a large waxing crescent moon on the horizon. Last night I could see the outline of the full moon to come. I know in truth the moon is always full, but I find it a blessing that we experience phases of the moon as we orbit the sun. During my morning sun salutations today, I was bathed in a tender pink light that continued to grow. There is peace and therefore healing in all of this - perhaps because we humans have always gazed at the horizon and simply watched the light change morning and night.  I say watch, but really we not only watch, we take in and experience those changes. They are a part of us. We are of earth and sky. When we forget that, or choose to ignore, or believe we can dominate all of life, we do so at great peril.    

This summer I have been blessed to do some guest preaching. At one church, I received a gift of fresh eggs. At another, garden grown tomatoes. Yesterday a friend picked some Asian pears from his tree and brought them to us. I know that tree but I did not know that he was the one who planted it as a gift for his wife. The fruit is as sweet as he promised.  

   

​"I bind unto myself today

The virtues of the starlit heavens,
The glorious sun's life giving ray,
The whiteness of the moon at even,
The flashing of the lightning free,
The whirling wind's tempestuous shocks,
The stable earth, the deep salt sea
Around the old eternal rocks.​"

~ from the hymn "Saint Patrick's Breastplate"​ 

​Friends of Silence    

    

​Let us bind  ourselves to the generosity of earth and sky.     

  

      

 

  ​image:  San Leandro, September, 2026.  No pink, but beautiful full light

  

Dreaming

 "I believe Earth is dreaming us into a new way of seeing, a new way of being, if we will favor our senses and receive what is coming to us through heartbreak and love."  

Terry Tempest Williams, The Glorians    

   

When I read this sentence, I thought of the photograph I took yesterday, September 4. I know some of you saw this photograph on Facebook, so please excuse the duplication.  What came to mind today was, "What if this turkey vulture is dreaming the world into existence?"  Yesterday, I watched it fly away. I had no idea why it flew. I have no doubt it saw something I did not; that it sensed something I cannot yet articulate

Creation is ongoing. Despots and authoritarians have their primitive, punitive, and selfish dreams. Let us remember that we, too, are being called to fly.   

Last night I dreamed of a bighorn sheep standing on a high boulder. I am grateful for the encouragement. Creation is indeed ongoing, and according to author and teacher,  Rev. Dr. Randy Woodley, who is of Cherokee descent, creation is also healing. I am beginning to believe that the destruction and chaos we are experiencing now may prove to be healing. Perhaps that is the message of the turkey vulture who certainly knows that death never has the last word.    

   

My gratitude to Rabbi Yael Levy who recommended The Glorians. I am on page 3.     

       

image:  East Bay Regional Park, September 4, 2026

Revisiting Prewitt Ridge 2026

 This morning Tyler received a text from a friend who said that Prewitt Ridge has burned. When Tyler told me, I immediately thought with sadness of the weasel that I did see, and the condors and other creatures that I did not see. I thought of the lizard who joined our camp site, probably because he was there first. Nonetheless, he quietly made room.

When Tyler shared his news with me, for a while I could not speak. I have learned that when I camp in a spot, its presence stays with me. 

So many fires in the West now. So much damage. So many frightened and thirsty creatures on the run, including humans.  Yes, I mourn. I mourn for the lives lost in the Grand Canyon, and in Nepal. We keep trying to conquer the earth, but she will submit only for so long. May we learn to work with her, rather than demanding that the earth work for us.  

The 2026 World Day of Prayer for the Care of Creation takes place on Tuesday, September 1, 2026, marking the official beginning of the ecumenical Season of Creation. It will run through October 4, 2026, the Feast Day of St. Francis. Quoting Diana Butler Bass: "During these weeks, Christians are urged to recognize the theological centrality of God as Creator, Creation itself, the human vocation of caring for Creation, and doing justice on behalf of the Earth and all creatures."

Let us pray, remember, and act accordingly.  

+++

     

Resending my post from May 26, 2016  

"Our lives, our circumstances, and our choices are uniquely our own. There are no right answers. But there is a right question. It's the one that rubs against our self-righteousness, resistance, and fears. The one that revolves a never into a maybe into an okay, let's see.

When you ask yourself, 'Why not?' you may find that you are no longer stepping reflexively backward or standing rigidly still. You could instead find yourself in motion, across a vivid and unpredictable landscape, over impossible mountains and beyond the deep blue water's edge, where you surprise yourself, once and for all, by getting wet."

 Karen Maezen Miller

     

On the second day of our trip we drove up a winding and narrow road in Big Sur to Prewitt Ridge. The road is steep and unpaved, so patience and a sturdy 4 wheel drive vehicle are needed. Having experienced Big Sur only from the coastal highway, I was surprised to discover how high the terrain is. (AI tells me that the altitude is "roughly 3,200 feet" and roughly is a good way to describe every inch of those feet.) Nonetheless, we were able to wind our way to the top of the ridge and found a beautiful campsite that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. We could not actually see the water because there was a layer of fog on the ocean as far as we could see. It would move back and forth along the coast and the valley below us, but it never climbed to where we were, nor did it recede far enough so that we could actually see water.     

After we set up camp, Tyler took a short walk, and I sat and read for a few minutes. Eventually, we both settled in and simply watched the fog. The movement was mesmerizing. Tranquil is a word I don't get to use much, but that is how I would describe our day and evening. However, late in the night that tranquility was interrupted by a loud scream. We both sat up with "What was that?" rushing from our mouths. We listened and heard the unnerving scream again. Our minds settled enough so we could agree that the scream was probably not of human origin. I mentioned that I had heard that at times some wild cats such as a mountain lion can at times sound human-like. The piercing sound was quite unnerving, and my envisioning a nearby screaming mountain lion did not bring me comfort. 

The next morning while still in my sleeping bag, I looked out the window and saw a creature running quickly along the side of our camp. I still had cat on my brain, so I told Tyler that I just saw one run by. He asked what it looked like. I reported that it was tan and smallish with a remarkably long black tipped tail. He then asked if maybe I had seen a weasel. I could not answer the question because I had no idea what one looked like. At that moment we had no cell phone coverage, so the research was delayed, but once I could investigate online, I concurred that I probably did see a weasel. I also learned that in times of high stress or territorial disputes, weasels can and do emit a piercing scream. As alarming as the whole experience was, I feel fortunate to have gotten a glimpse and sound of this creature. When we camp we see and hear birds, mostly jays and woodpeckers, and we often spot lizards and squirrels, but otherwise we do not see much wildlife. Yet, a couple of years ago, we decided to meet two longtime friends at a KOA in Petaluma. They travel in a RV, so we camped among the RVs for two nights. Even in that full campground, a fox and I startled each other on our solitary predawn journeys, and from our friends' campsite I was able to watch an owl taking flight at dusk. I treasure all these brief sightings. 

Karen Maezen Miller's quote resonates with me as I learn how to camp. Unlike Tyler, I did not grow up camping, but even in my 70s, I find it a worthwhile endeavor. I am grateful for his skills that help me to get out in nature so I can get a glimpse of some of her landscapes and wildlife. Most of us need to fine tune our senses. Otherwise, we risk being lulled into giving developers a free hand to pave and overbuild. It is too easy to forget that we are all in this together, and we all need space to thrive.

            

     

        

Image:  Yes, there is an ocean out there, and goodness knows what else! 

May, 2026

View from a Window

I  have decided to return to my practice of doing three yoga sun salutations most mornings. I do these in front of either the bedroom or the living room windows. In the middle of each salutation, I do what is called a child's pose. In this pose, I am on the mat curled up into a ball with the top of my head on the mat, arms at my side. In this position (more comfortable than it sounds) I say a spoken prayer of gratitude, and then I move into what is called a Sphinx pose where I am lying prone on the floor with my legs stretched out behind me. My elbows are close to my body and I lift up my upper torso, not with my arms but rather my chest, resting for a few moments on my lower arms. On Monday morning as I lifted my torso, I was greeted with a view of beautiful pink clouds strewn above the Dunsmuir Ridge. I confess that in that moment I did feel rather Sphinx-like as I silently looked out over land and sky before I continued my movements.

We also had a beautiful sunset on Monday. Our view to the west out our kitchen and dining room windows. revealed a red sky that was stunning in its intensity, unfortunately perhaps because of the Timber fire in Monterey County. Our view to the east was also dramatic. A line of pink clouds stretched along the horizon. A bright waxing Gibbous moon shone above.  No, none of our views are entirely clear due to trees and houses in all directions, and certainly the view of Hwy 580 in the east is less than scenic, but over time we have come to love the views we have. Last night the not yet full moon shone brightly, pouring light through our bedroom window. If our sky is clear on the 26th, we should be able to witness the Sturgeon full moon.

I am grateful that I can look up and see the sky, even if we cannot see many stars because of light pollution. I am also grateful for my yoga class. Over time, I have learned to live with my arthritis, and to respect it. Some poses I simply cannot do. So I pause and rest, and practice honoring what my body can, and cannot do. 

Our neighbors across the street and down a couple of houses are having a new roof put on their house. Roofing is noisy, strenuous work. However, one of the roofers whistles beautifully, and I often hear him whistling, despite the sound of hammering. He reminds me of a bird that has alighted at the top of the roof to sing his song. Yesterday, I watched one of the roofers, not a particularly young man, pause for just a few moments before he began to climb the ladder to the roof. Perhaps he was saying a prayer, or maybe he was just focusing his attention, so his steps and balance would be sure.     

      

See wonders.  

Bow to Mystery.  

Act for the benefit of all.   

      

Rabbi Yael Levy,  

Psalms, Ancient Songs for These Times     

       

         image:  Backyard Iris, 2026

Shedding

"Frequently we do not leave the past behind. We clasp on to it. We dissect it, and let fears for the future, tempered by the past, unconsciously prevent us from taking up the task eternal."

 Exploring Celtic Spirituality by Ray Simpson    

    

I received this quote from Friends of Silence a few days ago, and I have been pondering it ever since. This morning I realized that as I am going through my books, it feels like I am shedding my skin, much like a snake. I think that once a snake begins the shedding process, it does not cling to its old skin. The snake disgards it and moves on. Snakes continue to grow their whole lives, but their skin does not.  

It will always be a temptation for me to hold on to books. Ever since I was a child, seeing one of my books is like seeing the face of an old friend. Books have been trusted companions for many years, much like this house. However, as Tyler and I age, we cannot stay in this house, and truthfully, we cannot stay in the Bay Area. My heart is in Albuquerque. And yes, concerns about the heat and threat of fire also reside in both our hearts as well. We know enough to never underestimate the desert. It is what the writer, Belden Lane, describes as a "fierce landscape". Like the ocean, it must be treated with caution and respect. We know to keep a watchful eye on both.       

This morning as I was waking, I heard a coyote. The animal was far enough away that I could not be absolutely certain that what I heard was a coyote, but nonetheless, I woke in wonder and gratitude. At a minimum, we periodically need to hear and see a wild creature to remind us of the vastness of this life and our connectedness. We need to be reminded of the beauty of this earth, and her fierce independence, despite our efforts to dominate and tame her which we attempt at the peril of not only humanity, but of all of life.   

May I always hear the coyote call as a reminder to awaken from my dreams, and to make at least some of those dreams a pilgrimage. Perhaps this is my "task eternal": to continue to let go and travel light. 

      

 

image:  FCC Albuquerque, Spring 2026

Moving Forward

 In the dream I am running through scruffy brush and prickly plants. I am very uncomfortable and incredibly anxious. I am moving as quickly as I can. I am anxious because I believe I am being chased. I keep looking back, but the light is very poor. I can see little.

Suddenly, I stop running. I stop looking back. I announce in and to the dream, "I am not being chased. This is a dream."  

I wake smiling. I now know some of my personal truth. I am not being chased. Not by a wild animal, an ill-intentioned human, or even by my own feelings and thoughts of personal inadequacy. Today I am not worried about the future nor am I experiencing regrets about the past. I am not afraid of who I am and who I am not. 

I climb on in peace. One step at a time is enough.      

 

Love,

Sue Ann 

    

     

image: Mt. Diablo, June 2026

Returning

 Sorting through my books is bearing some good fruit! I am finally reading the book Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey. The book was published in 1968, and Abbey was already bemoaning the decline of our national parks. He was no fan of the tourist industry. This book, written while he was working as a seasonal park ranger in Arches National Monument, is illustrated by Peter Parnall. The illustrations are black and white drawings of Abbey's sketches of petroglyphs he discovered in the area. The images are distinctive and wonderfully alive. Abbey was a keen observer of the natural world. Athough he passed in 1989, we need his witness more than ever.

I have also returned to The Comfort of Crows by Margaret Renkl, illustrated by her brother, Billy Renkl. It is a beautiful book of 52 seasonal meditations about the animal and plant life Margaret witnesses on her walks, or even just looking out the window of her home in Nashville. The general idea is that one reads and returns to the same meditation for about a week before moving on. The first time I tried this practice, I was just too restless, and I would find myself thumbing through the book, partly because the illustrations, done in paint, drawings, and collages, are so beautiful. I am grateful I picked up the book again when I have some extra savoring time.

The full moon tonight is called the buck moon, a time when male deer's new antlers are in full growth mode. I just read that the full moon will peak tomorrow morning. While we here in North America will not be able to witness the moment of absolute fullness, hopefully we can remember to look up tonight and watch a beautiful full moon rising in the southeast sky. We humans have been viewing the moon for a very long time. Let us join our ancestors by looking up in awe.

From this week's meditation from Margret Renkl (page 163):

"In one fallen tree, the transformation has been unfolding for so long that a little cave has opened up where a branch once joined the living oak. Over years, dead leaves collected in the cavity and turned into soil. In the shelter of that death-opened place, new green life has sprung up; moss and clover and some sort of trailing vine I can't identify. In the center, as carefully arranged as if a florist had planned it for a centerpiece, rises one woodland violet. Everytime I see it, I remind myself to come back in springtime to see it in bloom."

I am reminded that life renews life in mysterious ways. May we all take a moment tonight and receive the moon's healing light.

Translating

 From Father Richard Rohr's post this morning: 

"The word translated “mercy” … isn’t a cold, condescending kind of mercy such as one in power might extend to his victim in return for gratitude or service. It is warm, compassionate, tender, and never seeks to barter. It is almost exactly the same word that Jesus uses later on in the Sermon in referring to “almsgiving.”… Jesus rescued that word from the mere act of proudly pitching a coin to a beggar and made it into a whole attitude of life." 

Clarence Jordan (1912–1969)   

    

I  was  not familiar with Clarence Jordan, but I have learned he was a New Testament scholar, ordained Baptist minister, and Georgia farmer. He was also one of the founders of Habitat for Humanity. This morning I ponder what our nation might look like if we made mercy, not fear and greed, our cornerstone. That, of course, leads me to ponder my own life.      

   

The photograph of the bouganvilla was taken at the fence of a long vacant house in the neighborhood. The house is quite dilapidated and has been vacant for years. However, laborers have recently begun clearing it out. I think they should be wearing hazmat gear, but I take the clearing out as a positive sign, and the pink blossoms remind me that life's current endures.       

            

A Leaf Is More Than a Leaf

 A few days ago, I noticed some crescent moon shaped bites had been taken from the two Serviceberry plants in the front garden. Yesterday, I became concerned enough that I plucked a leaf and took it to our local family owned nursery. There, a man, someone about my age, approached me and asked if I had any questions. I pulled the leaf out of my pocket, told him its source and explained my mission. He looked at the leaf, and then looked up and smiled as he explained,  "You have leaf cutter bees!" 

Never had I heard of that particular bee. He went on to explain that the leafcutters take those lovely shaped bites and use them to build their nests. In response to my question about whether or not there was anything I needed to do, he added that they never take so many leaves that the plant is in danger of dying. They take only what they need and move on. He then asked, "Isn't that lovely?"   

I had to agree, and he and I took just a moment to gaze upon the leaf.  It was a very pleasant moment of sharing our mutual admiration of what we were seeing.

Robin Wall Kimmerer, author of the book, Braiding Sweetgrass, wrote a beautiful book about the Serviceberry. This berry is also known as the Saskatoon in Canada, and I don't think there is a more fun word to say. The berries are very sweet and Kimmerer advises that birds, as well as humans, love to eat the berries. I have not yet seen any birds pecking at the berries, but our two plants are fairly new. 

As I ponder the pollination that the leafcutters provide (they carry pollen on their abdomen), I wonder if the experience would have been a little different if I had simply taken the picture I have of the crescent moon bites. At the last moment before leaving, I decided to take an actual leaf as I talked to an actual person. It was a very rewarding experience of holding the leaf in the palm of my hand as we expressed our mutual respect, with both words and silence, for the work of these bees. 

 

      

"The practice of observing the living world and taking inspiration for human ways of living from its model is an essential element of Indigenous science. It embraces the reality that there are intelligences other than our own, from whom we might learn."

Robin Wall Kimmerer, The Serviceberry, Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World, page 67

           

    

Claiming Our Belonging

 “Our belonging is rooted in the living body of Earth, woven of the flows of time and relationship that form our bodies, our communities, our climate… When we turn and open our heart-mind to Earth, she is always there. This is the great reciprocity at the heart of the universe.”

A Wild Love for the World, Joanna Macy 

Early this morning I woke from a chaotic dream that began with the search for a lunchtime tuna sandwich.  I was working in a busy downtown area, and many people were out and about. I discovered a food court, and found someone making sandwiches. As I waited for my order, I began to talk to two people standing on either side of me. One was a young boy, and the other was an adult male. Both had large and elaborate models of futuristic cars, and both were quite excited. I thought the cars were rather odd looking, and not very practical. For one thing, neither car had a roof or a hood, but did have what appeared to be engines with many hoses and valves.  Actually, I don't even think the cars had doors, but they did at least have a single seat for the driver and a steering wheel.  

I bought my sandwich, said my good-byes, and left. There was a band playing just outside the food court. I knew I was running late, but I stopped to listen. On the ground in front of the musicians (maybe a quartet?), there was a wooden instrument, kind of a cross between a flute and an oboe without a reed. I thought it was lovely. One of the members said, "Take it; it is yours."  I picked it up, but woke before I tried to play it. 

Yet, perhaps I heard it in Joanna Macy's quote. I am reminded that the heart of the universe  is everywhere, and we are part of it. Yes, our love can and does run that deep. We are connected. Even when we think we do not want to be.           

     

image: The photograph that is attached was taken in May at the Nacimiento Campground in the Los Padres National Forest. A beautiful creek runs nearby. If you go, definitely look for the creek, the tree with a heart (a good reminder that they all have one) and definitely bring mosquito repellent. The mosquitos we noticed fairly soon after we got out of the truck. The heart in the tree Tyler noticed the next morning.  

 

       

    

   

"God, Spirit of all goodness and love, open within us quiet places where fear cannot dwell. Help us to create spaces and opportunities for others to know and experience your loving presence and grace."     

Franciscan Action Network, June 16, 2026