Canada Saga 2008 June 26

"The world is holy.  We are holy.  All life is holy.  Daily prayers are delivered on the lips of breaking waves, the whisperings of grasses, the shimmering of leaves." (Terry Tempest Williams)

 

Michael has a picture on the computer desk here.  It is my first encounter with the Pacific Ocean, back in the early 90's.   I am standing on the typical Northern California 'beach',  its gravelly dark rock  and foaming surf at my feet, grey skies overhead, and pasture land and LA 1 behind me.  I'm a very small part of the photo, which was obviously taken from a distance, and the whole scene sums up our relationship with the magnificence of Nature and her gifts.  With the entire ocean at my feet, I am standing with binoculars, looking off into the distance for ????  How could anything be more than what I am already being offered in that moment on that spot?  Why am I looking 'through a glass darkly,' as St. Paul says, adjusting a lens that is constantly out-of-focus, straining to see more, when the graces are whispering at my feet?

 

For the first time this summer, it was sunny and warm enough to walk the beach here, and every step was a journey and a Saga unto itself.  Each smooth rock called for the attention it deserved as divine creation.  I am fascinated with the tiny white crab scurrying sideways and burying itself in sand perfectly sculpted with the tide's artistry.  A mother and her two little girls strolled along at vacation pace, poking feet into tiny holes and squealing with the cold water of the buried clams' geysers.  We were the only ones on the beach, and other than their laughter, the noise was all Nature.

 

To my chanted "Om," the 'amen' of universal Oneness, the gentle surf responded with a soft gurgling 'shanti,' the peace of Sanskrit, the oldest language in the world.  I wasn't walking alone; we never are, but sometimes it's more available for us to sense a Presence that is always waiting to be found...in the next beat of the eagle's wing, in the next murmur - or roar - of the surf, in the next phone call or encounter with a loved one. And we, with our 'binoculars,' stand instead looking into the distance for a future moment of happiness or a past experience of pleasure, while the great "I AM" softly cloaks us with mystery and wonder.

 

On a prayer-walk in Rathtrevor yesterday morning, as the path meandered out of the dark forest and up towards the water, a movement caught my attention.  Standing about 30 feet from me on the edge of the clearing was a two-point buck, silhouetted by the old growth cedars and a rising sun.  We watched each other quietly, his velvet antlers at attention, each muscle in his lean body tensed, ready to bolt if necessary.  As I talked softly to him, he began to walk with the ease and fluidity of an animal in its element, total grace in motion.  He came towards me for another 10 feet, then disappeared onto a mostly invisible trail,  swallowed by the shadows in the cool woods.  He may as well have stepped into another dimension.

 

When the buck appeared, it startled me from praying for the recently deceased father of my sister-in-law, and for her family. It reminded me that the rituals of our traditional faith arise in such moments, and the Psalm (42?) rose spontaneously within: "As the deer thirsts for the running water, so my soul thirsts for you, Oh my God."  A loving Creator has placed puzzle pieces along the way, offering little hints that the world IS holy, even in grief,  and we, especially in those moments, carry the pieces for each other.

 

We had a lovely week while Michael was here, enjoying the cold rainy weather (me), catching up on some reading (him), and hiking our favorite trail on Hornby Island.  We even got to take in the colorful Farmer's Market on Salt Spring Island, he got to hit a few buckets of golf balls, and we attended a wonderful performance of South Pacific down in Chemainus with our dear friends, Gordon and Carrol.  Michael comes alive in Gordon's presence the way we do when someone has seen our inner essence, and holds the space for us to be our best.  As I teared-up hugging  Carrol, the events of the last year came flooding back, with the knowledge that this very safe friend understood.  I know it was healing for both of us to be with them.

 

Michael has since returned to Louisiana, and calls regularly, mostly to tell me that it's very very hot in Louisiana.  He is working, visiting with family and looking forward to the next phase of our summer, the wedding.  No sooner will he get back than we'll be off to Lopez and Orcas Island to make a few arrangements for the event.  Our friends from Colorado will be here soon after we return from the San Juans, and then we travel again to Lopez,  to take on our next roles in life: in-laws.  When I look at Stephanie, though, and think of introductions in the future, I hear myself calling her my 'daughter-in-love,' because it seems that's how she's entering the sanctuary of our family.  It is already a blessed summer.

 

For now, I'm enjoying the luxury of early morning encounters with heaven-on-earth, the genteel ways of our little community, playing in the garden, wondering at the holiness all around, and listening to the grace of the ever-present Om, Shanti.

YAY GOD

Canada Saga 2008 June 15

"Anything, everything, little or big, becomes an adventure when the right person shares it." (Kathleen Norris)

 

When he was about 8 years old, Brett and his Dad went out on a little pier on the water in the State Park at Gulf Shores, Alabama.  Michael was going to teach him how to fish, figuring the evening was long, we had all the time in the world, and Brett might learn a bit about patience.  Michael baited Brett's hook, cast his line into the water, and gave the rod to Brett.  No sooner had Michael turned to prepare his own pole than Brett yelled with surprise: he had his first fish.  For the next hour, each time the bait hit the water, Brett had a bite.  The catch was small, and released immediately, but he had a great time.  The next day, they again went out to the pier.  After five minutes of fishing with no bites, Brett was bored.  It was a long time before he went fishing again. 

 

That memory came back to me as Michael described their trip through the Tetons and Yellowstone, where in one day they watched a magnificent sunset over the freshly snow-packed Tetons from Jackson Lake Lodge, then encountered a wolf on the side of the road, a grizzly and black bear in battle, a stampede by a herd of bison, two spectacular water falls, and Old Faithful doing her thing.  So much magic and wonder were packed into such a short time period, when the beauty and mysticism of nature are equally stunning in small quiet nuances. 

 

In her wonderful book, High Tide in Tucson, Barbara Kingsolver says: "A great many people will live out their days without ever seeing such sights, or if they do, never gasping. My parents taught me this - to gasp, and feel lucky.  They gave me the gift of making mountains out of nature's exquisite molehills. " I could hear in Michael's tone his sense of wonder and appreciation, and I was grateful to my own Dad who taught his love of the outdoors by example, just as Michael was teaching Brett.  If Brett grows to 'gasp and feel lucky,' we will have accomplished much as parents.

 

As it was, Brett tells me he learned a lot about his father on the trip, and a lot about himself that he needed to learn.  He has reached the age and stage in life where he wants to know some of the history that makes him the man he is today.  He asked questions about us as a couple in relationship for 40 years and about his father's reflections and challenges in life.  There is no better school room than an enclosed car for six days, and the journey had its ups and downs, geographically as well as emotionally.  It is clear that the experience deepened both of them, and the timing was perfect as he embarks on this next life-changing phase. 

 

Michael told me, with obvious pleasure, that as soon as Brett knew that Stephanie would meet them in Seattle to accompany Brett back to New York, Brett's whole focus and energy changed to one of anticipation.  The past and the future are merging, the man gleaning from the father the commitments, the loyalties, the responsibilities of being the loving husband.  I just still can't believe that they survived all of this without me.

 

Michael 'surprised' me by arriving very late Saturday night instead of Sunday morning, but I suspected he would, and had his welcome card out waiting for him.  We spent a lazy day Sunday at the annual Show-And-Shine Father's Day car extravaganza in downtown Qualicum, on a spectacularly sunny day - the first of the summer.  It's amazing how quickly we adapt to the pace and joy of being here.  We spent an hour by the water yesterday evening, again counting our blessings, perhaps a bit more deeply this year, and enjoying the beauty all around us.

 

The day before Michael arrived I had finally made it over to the Heritage Forest to walk and pray.  I had forgotten how deeply peaceful it was, and as I entered thought immediately of Frost's poem: "The woods are lovely, dark and deep."  And cool.  And soft with its mulch trail and filtered light.  It was the grace of the sweet release of deep breathing, when every muscle in the body relaxes, and there is no other place to be.  In the soothing quiet, prayers came easily for my sister-in-law's family, grieving the loss of her father who would be buried the day before Father's Day, and for others who are in varying stages of healing, joy and gratitude.  There was a bench in the center of the park and I had my own little moment of delight as I read the plaque: "The woods are lovely, dark and deep," it read, and continued, "but I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep."

 

Then I heard them: the white ravens, twins born a few weeks ago with three other black siblings.  They were playing and cavorting, calling with their rich thick voices, exploring tree trunks and flitting about a clearing on the side of the forest.  Since they have blue eyes, they are not albino, but ravens with a "genetic defect."  What a funny term for a miracle.  They are a text divinely written about one of nature's 'exquisite molehills.'

 

Now that I have the right person to share it with, I'm hoping they'll play again in the forest tomorrow for Michael, and we can gasp - and feel lucky - together.

YAY GOD

Canada Saga 2008 - June 6

"In the most sacred places, we do not perceive spirits, but only the silence of the Great Mystery.  We go to those places to touch the deepest wisdom and to renew our being."

(Kenneth Cohen)

Spring birds of soft yellows and pale reds twitter and frolic and tease each other in the junipers outside our back window.   They don't seem at all dismayed that the temperature is a very un-seasonal 50 degrees, the skies a deep pre-snow grey over the mountains, and the winds are picking up, although the rains have stopped for the moment.  Our neighbors' bright, colorful hanging basket across the way is the only sign that this is not a winter day.

"June-uary," the locals are calling it; me, I'm loving it.  After sweating for the last few weeks, wearing sweats and turtle necks is a very welcome change.  Hopefully the temps will be somewhat warmer when Michael arrives next Sunday.  He doesn't share my joy in this type of Pacific Northwest weather.  He and Brett  left New Orleans this morning on their father/son trek across the country to Seattle, where it will end, appropriately, on Father's Day. Brett will fly back to NYC, and Michael will continue on, arriving here in Qualicum, hopefully, that evening.

My own arrival last week was accompanied by a welcoming committee of one.  As our plane cleared the tall pine trees surrounding the tiny Qualicum Airport last Wednesday evening (after my twelve hour odyssey of flights and airports), a lone bald eagle watched the runway. And since Daigle, in its French form d'Aigle, means 'of the eagle', it seemed to book-end a journey that had begun with another bald 'eagle' dropping me off in New Orleans earlier that morning.  Somehow, in between,  I had managed to pick up a ferocious flu virus which set in Thursday night, accompanied by 102 degrees fever, and associated muscle aches and pains.  It was a good weekend, chilly and damp, to rest, keep warm and heal, and be grateful that my doctor had insisted I bring flu virus medicine with me last year.

Although I knew my neighbors and friends would willingly assist me by going to the store, getting me movies, and making me comfortable, there was another part of me that needed this enforced solitude after the past year.  It was a time of stillness that I probably would not have taken otherwise.  I remembered my wise old Doctor's prescription for rest from years ago: two hours in bed: no TV, no reading, no music, just rest; then one hour up - alternate this pattern for as long as necessary. 

So for 2 days I floated between worlds - groggy dreams, hazy bouts of aches, deep sleep, warm memories.  I thought of such beautiful people who have been so sick recently, and called out their names for blessings, feeling like some Romper Room Teacher: "I see Tommy, and I see Chris, and I see Pat, and I see Paula and I see Denny."  From our own wish to be well emerges the most honest prayer for the healing of all who are suffering - a measure of the individual's innate unity with all of creation.

It wasn't until I got to my precious Rathtrevor Provincial Park this morning, however, that I felt fully on the mend, from the sickness, and from the jolts of last year.  When I entered the park, with all of her familiar fragrances and sounds and silences, I had to agree with Elizabeth Bibesco, who wrote in Balloons: "Talk about the joys of the unexpected, can they compare with the joys of the expected, of finding everything delightfully and completely what you knew it was going to be?"  Sumptuous pink wild roses were everywhere, their sweet odor layered above the cedar forest floor;  fresh sea breezes swirled in occasionally.  It was all balm, washing over the experiences, inviting new awarenesses and gently supporting the very act of breathing and living.

Before I could walk the park, though, I had to sit, to be still, as if I could ever take all of the Mystery, the Wonder, the All of it in.  It didn't escape me, however, that the wondrous mystery of All could - and does and will - take in all of me.  So I chose a large old tree, fallen, weathered smooth and washed-up by the seashore, to sit on while I just  listened.  Soon all sound was fading into a gentle surf mantra, its steadiness a chorus to life, to the benevolence that surrounds us, always.

With each soft rush came the awareness: these waves would never hit these rocks in this way under this sky ever again.  Life was all happening, right here, right now as it does in every moment, for the first and last time, and it was painfully, extraordinarily beautiful and sad.  The whole winter came flooding back, filling the mind first, through memories of numbing medical jargon and hospital experiences, then the heart with emotions of those days and nights of wondering, and finally welling-up in tears, of release and relief and gratitude and joy and being. 

Heart attack, congestive heart failure, life-style shift, Brett's joyfully anticipated marriage, tearing-down our beloved old home, rebuilding, acknowledgement of our parents' hard-fought wisdom, illnesses of loved ones, the reality of endings and impermanence, the groaning of the world in its rebirthing, the ecstatic breath-taking beauty of our crazy quick lives.  How can we be anything but grateful?

Eckhart Tolle, on his Findhorn Retreat DVD, tells the story of a commercial someone sent to him.  It depicts an infant being born, shot out of the womb like a cannon ball into the sky, screaming.  As it climbs higher, it ages, becoming a young boy, a teen, a young man, reaching its zenith as an adult, then beginning its descent, still screaming until it crashes into its grave as an old man.  The entire life is depicted in this 30 second commercial with its message that life is short.  Such a profound message, taught by mystics of the ages, and captured in such dramatic fashion by what Eckhart remembered as something as banal as a beer ad. 

Sometimes our lives do seem like that.  The young, caught up in the exhilaration of ascent, turn the newborns' terrified scream into a youthful, joyful cry.  At our peak, we groan as we realize the descent is coming.  When we are wise, we see the beauty, perhaps screaming it indistinguishably to those on their way up, and holding it for those falling around and before us, our voices raised now in their final cry of awe and recognition, praying that someone will do the same for us.

"Beauty," Thomas Moore has written, "takes you out of your cramped, merely personal worries, and sets you down in a field of eternity...The experience may last only a moment, but in these matters a moment is enough."  Whether it's viewing a work of art, hearing an eagle at sunrise, spending time with a precious child, hearing a loved one's voice on the phone, sharing memories and laughter, or listening to an ocean chorus of ecstatic joy, each experience touches our deepest wisdom and renews our being.

It's good to be home.

YAY GOD