Notes

 "Gratitude is fertile ground."  

Julia Cameron  

    

I have begun reading Craig Child's book, Apocalyptic Planet, Field Guide to the Future of the Earth.  It is giving me courage for the journey into this time of climate chaos. He reminds me that the earth is ancient (certainly by human standards, anyway) and has never been what we think of as stable. We know we are not in for an easy time, and that to witness the extinction of species is a heavy, sorrowful burden. Yet, to read of Childs' walk among the falling glaciers in Patagonia or the unforgiving desert of Sonora, somehow gives me strength.  Childs has an ability to both see and "listen" to deserts, plummeting sheets of ice, and the slow decay of trees and can actually translate some of those messages for us. I think I will go out and take a listen. I have learned that even pollen has a song. The song that I can hear is the hum of a bee at work. We, too, still have work to do, and a major portion of that work is learning to honor the struggles of the life of our earth today. Our song does not have to be solely a dirge of destruction. Yesterday, I decided to play my flute in the backyard. As I slowly got used to the idea that I might actually be heard, I had a sense that the leaves of the trees were listening. The mockingbird was busily singing his multitude of songs, and the crow added one caw for good measure. I am determined to go out singing with them.  

      

             

image: San Leandro, July 2023

Varying Stages

Over the past couple of years, Tyler and I have been tending to our small outside (I don't know what else to call it.) We had the house painted a cheery light green. We had one fence replaced, and will soon replace a second one. A young landscaper took out what was left of a tattered and outdated front yard and replaced it with mulch and some California native plants that I can actually tend to. Tyler created a nice cabana in the backyard where a hot tub once resided. We had to send some moles along their way. I met with an arborist yesterday who will come next week to prune our trees. This year's heavy rains resulted in an explosion of tree growth that is beautiful but too much for our small property. 

I am grateful for these people who have appeared at just the right time to share their energy and expertise.  Both the landscaper and the arborist agree that our birch tree is about 50 years old. The arborist said that the usual lifespan of this large tree is about 70 years. He then added, "Now we need to trim it to curtail its growth so it can live its full lifespan."  

That seems a good approach for those of us who are in the last third of our lives and is, I believe, a good spiritual practice. We cut back on our excesses to maybe live a little more fully into who God has created us to be. I think of Jesus and his words,  "I am the true vine and my father is the vineyard keeper. He removes any of my branches that don't produce fruit, so that it will produce even more fruit (John 15:1-2)."  While we may not relish this idea of being pruned, it is God's way. Therefore, we can trust the process and know that it is sacred.   

    

"We must realize that we cannot be really fed, strengthened, purified, enriched and made holy unless we fulfill the duties of the present moment."
Abandonment to Divine Providence
Jean-Pierre de Caussade

imaage: San Leandro, July 2023.  I am enjoying watching the various stages of the neighborhood artichokes. 

       

A Good Wander

 "Life is a garden, not a road.

We enter and exit through the same gate.

Wandering,
where we go matters less than what we notice."

~ Kurt Vonnegut

    

 I have always thought of our lives as a journey. We are born. We continue, and then we let our physical bodies go. Yet, this meditation reminds me that our souls, which are part of the One Soul, are on a vast journey of exploration. May we learn to be as courageous as our adventurous souls. No matter what we face, we move in and through God.  We are up to something that is probably much larger than we realize.  Let us remember to look around and take note.  

 

  

image:  July 4, 2023, Albany Bulb. One of the most curious parks in the Bay Area. Usually when I try to photograph a bee (in the foreground), I am envisioning a very close image. However, bees know there is a world garden to be explored. I am trying to give them more room.   

 I have been dreaming of written words. A few nights ago I dreamed that I was in college and had to take a writing class from the recent former president of the U.S. Before the class began, he told the students that we would need to plan the total number of letters we would need for the year and we would need to actually purchase them. I thought that was both a ridiculous task, and an impossible one. On a small piece of paper taken from the notebook that I keep in my purse, I simply wrote out a c major scale. 

Last night I dreamed of several blocks of text that I needed to move around on the electronic page. The print was so small I could not read the words which made the task really impossible. If you can't read the text, how do you know where a block should be moved? I do wonder what words were there.  Perhaps they will be revealed later.   

   

This morning I received the following post. Ahh... words I can read and enjoy.  Let's all be kind to ourselves today. Surely that kindness will spill over in all sorts of lovely ways.  

   

If we're not careful, we can spend whole chunks of our lives wishing to be elsewhere, instead of letting gratitude guide us back to where we are now, to all that's worthy of love right here. I have always been a victim of the kind of thinking that I call "grass is greener mentality." Instead of sinking deeply into the present moment of where I find myself and embracing all the beauty and inevitable flaws, I focus on some other, better time to come in the future. The result, of course, is that I miss out on the abundance that's almost always available to me here and now...

Who's to say we can't find solid ground wherever we are, even if we sense that this place is not permanent? Why not absorb what we can and grow where we are, letting ourselves be fed by a life that might at times feel less than ideal? 

~ James Crews, Kindness Will Save the World, as posted in First Sip 

image: San Leandro, June 2023 

I Come to the Garden, but Not Alone

 I have just returned from leading a Bible study in a small skilled nursing community. The people who gather with me have always amazed me with their faith and tenacity, and I am very grateful for the devoted, steady staff. The residents are frail, but they are usually in a good spirits, and they truly seem to believe me when I say that God is with them. Therefore, they have the confidence to greet me warmly, and I, too, am happy to see them. Today there were no mask restrictions, and as I was leaving I shook hands with almost everyone. Honestly, the freedom to approach people seemed like a miracle, and I think we all needed this little bit of normalcy. Yes, I used hand sanitizer, but even that seemed like a blessing, as if I was standing at the baptismal font.  As I said my goodbyes, John, whose words often come out garbled, said quite clearly, "Just remember, my burden is light," as he raised his hand for a high five. There I was, celebrating with Jesus.  

The photograph that is attached is a picture of a Showy Milkweed. I found it growing in a small, but lively, well tended pollinator garden on the grounds of First Congregational Church in Palo Alto. I was able to sit in the garden for a bit during a break from our conference annual gathering this past weekend. How very grateful I was for that patch of refuge of scent and color as I watched a variety of bees do their work.  

Two very different gardens, but gardens just the same. No masks needed, blessed be. As I pulled into my driveway, I thought my own garden never looked better.  

     

image: Palo Alto, June 2023 

Receiving

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

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

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

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

  

image: San Leandro, May 2023 

Spirit of Place

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

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

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

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

     

"This moment this love comes to rest in me, 

many beings in one being.

In one wheat grain a thousand sheaf stacks. 

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

Rumi the Book of Love, translated by Coleman Barks