Canada Saga 2010 October 4

"The first and last word belong to God, and therefore not to death, but life, not to sorrow, but joy, not to weeping, but laughter.  For surely it is God who has the last laugh." (Conrad Myers)

 

How can such beauty ever be described?  The ocean breathes, sometimes groaning, with the moist in and out of life itself.  Caterpillar clouds consume mountaintops, and towering strands of evergreens disappear in the grey cocoons.  We walk along a cliff, under the umbrella of an ocean-side forest where lime green grandfather-beards, heavy with a fog of precipitation, drape from grotesquely twisted and moss-covered tree branches.  Unseen buoys ring warning bells somewhere out at sea, and the lighthouse sounds a foghorn every 20 seconds.  Every available surface is kissed with a moisture so gentle that even the spider-webs glisten and dazzle. And behind it all, the surf, the ever-pounding white-noise of Nature, lulls thoughts and draws walkers and surfers and beach-combers and those who are content to just stand at the edge of the Island.

 

We are on the wild West Coast, walking the Pacific Rim trail, one of our favorite yearly haunts. Here there is a summer season, an off-season, and a storm season when accommodations are at a premium, and tourists come to watch the enormous and powerful waves that move across the ocean and slam into the shoreline.  Even though we are not in storm season,  there is a constancy to the pounding rhythm of breakers as they crash on out-lying boulders, and ripple onto the shore.  It is a lullaby at night, and we sleep with the doors and windows open.  In the morning, walking on the beach is its own meditation, with a silence available between the waves, beyond the ocean's roar, and all of life becomes a metaphor for the simple spiritual walk we are called to.

 

When I was pregnant with Brett, we lived in a house in Colorado, on the edge of a field of a scrubby pasture with wildflowers decorating the otherwise brown and cactus-strewn land, and a view of mountains in the distance.  Each morning that summer, I would walk the rocky path, mesmerized by the colors of the sunrise on the Indian Paint Brush blossoms, and listen to the horses and cows behind the fence.  From somewhere deep within, the song would emerge: "Who will buy this wonderful morning? Such a sky, I never did see. Who will tie it up with a ribbon, and put it in a box for me?"  I find myself singing it again this summer.  I sing and watch the geese flying over the water in formation, the sun rising behind them: "Who will buy this wonderful feeling? I'm so high, I swear I could fly." The summer becomes the song; the lyrics become a swelling of gratitude.

 

This wild west coast sings to my soul like no other place I've visited and loved.  She holds secrets behind her mists:  giant boulders that will not submit to the constant pounding, and break the waves that crash around them; tiny distant islands standing alone against the ocean's onslaught; hidden coves with sea kelp floors and caves accessible and exquisite only at low-tide, like the beauty revealed after our hearts have been awash in grief when our storms  briefly subside. 

 

Off the main Pacific Rim trail, hidden through a patch of particularly wind-sculpted trees, there is a small bench high above the ocean, with a stunning view of the lighthouse.  The first year we found the bench, the colors of the imbedded tiny Lego pieces and marbles were bright yellow and red and green, playful and eye-catching. The memorial plaque dedicated the bench to a two year old.  It took my breath away, which usally happens when beauty and joy are juxtaposed with the mystery of deep sorrow.  Now the bench is weather-beaten, with fading colors, and unless one really pays attention, it would be a rather pedestrian seat in a spectacular setting.  I watch as people walk around it to get a better photo-op, side-stepping an ocean of someone's pain ( "THE pain" I once heard Stephen Levine call it, acknowledging the universal nature of grief),  to snap a picture of another ocean, one with sound and fury and the power to also open the heart.

 

We had never been to the west coast in October, and thought we would find changing colors through the mountains.  Instead, although sunny weather had been predicted, we found clouds and heavy precipitation as we descended towards the coast.  On our way home, we experienced the opposite, and witnessed the beginning of the bright seasonal colors in the high evergreens.  The same road seemed like two different trips.

 

Michael tells me sometimes that he wishes he could live in 'my' world, one he sees as fantasy and dreams, where I imagine that people are kind and life is without struggle.  I marvel at this, each time he says it.  There is no perfect world, except the one we live in each moment, perfect in its imperfections.  And too often, I am the one being unkind in moments when I know better.   Father Gregory, a Benedictine monk at St. Joseph's Abbey in Covington, told me once that Christ said the burden was easy and the yoke was light - He didn't promise a world without either.  Although our roads through life are quite different, there is exquisite beauty available for the seeing, through the pain, and in the ultimate Laughter.

 

We decided this would be a wonderful way to end our seasons here: with the roar of a surf evoking at once joy and melancholy, and with the mist folding its curtains behind our departure, the fog horns reminding us that we are constantly guided through storms as we leave for home, heads bowed, grateful, joyful, blessed. 

 

The last two days have been spent tidying up and winterizing our humble little piece of Paradise.  I do it with happy memories of morning walks, musical outings with friends, and the new connections and deeper relationships of the summer.  It is difficult to leave, and joyful to anticipate being back with family and friends.  Cleaning the toilets and walking the Pacific Rim trail, however, are very different aspects of life. And although I know my spiritual path and teachings tell me to live in the grace of the Now, and to be in the joy of the moment - remembering that "THIS is the day the Lord has made" - I keep wandering back to the sound of the ocean and the deep mysticism in the red-barked gnarled Arbutus trees, the winding paths and windswept scrub brush. 

 

The memorial on Benjamin's toy-studded bench reads: "We listen for your laughter in the wind and the rain, and the crashing waves..."  I stand beside his bench and listen, too.  The wind, the rain, the crashing waves become the first and last word, become the last Laugh. We listen for Your call, the Voice that speaks to us between the waves of our lives, in the wind of our thoughts and the rain of our tears and between the silences of our crashing waves.  We listen for the first and last word, and hear the Laughter in it all, and know that no matter where we are, it is good to be here.

 

YAY GOD

 

Canada Saga 2010 - September 26

"Love and compassion predominate in the world.  And this is why unpleasant events are 'news.'  Compassion activities are so much a part of every day life that they are taken for granted and, therefore, largely ignored." (Dalai Lama)

"We must be purposely kind and generous, or we miss the best part of life's existence." (Horace Mann)

 

Outside the window, I'm watching our first major fall storm announce its approach with winds gusting to 60 kilometers, shaking down branches, bending trees, sending grey clouds somersaulting through the sky and creating cacophony with my normally docile wind-chime.   Earlier this morning, Michael slept in while I walked the windy boardwalk in Parksville, and watched the sun tie-die the low hanging storm clouds orange and red shades of the 60's.  There is an electricity in the pre-storm air: the dogs race each other on the beaches, pouncing and biting at the waves; the adults chat animatedly, and the Canada Geese circle overhead restlessly, before settling in the marsh, only to rise again in unison, and with great noise, fly back the way they had come. 

 

Reports tell us that up-Island, Port Alice has had mud slides from the heavy rains, and Port Hardy is in a state of emergency with power outages and road closures.  We are expecting heavy rains tonight, but the brunt of the storm will pass us by. For us, it's a good day for Michael to do some work at his desk, and for me, reluctantly, to continue getting the house winterized.  My hanging baskets are all down, our yard toys are picked up, and the melancholy process of cleaning out cupboards and sorting clothes has begun.  It is so fitting for this to take place with the feel of the shorter days and cooler temps of a harvest season, when the fecundity of the earth is also shutting down.

 

We look at each other, and wonder where the summer has gone.  It surely must have been more than having rooms painted, and replacing the toilets, refrigerator and hot water heater.  Trips we hoped to take were thwarted by heat, smoke or rain. Michael's unexpected business in Louisiana changed some of our timing.  We've met new friends this summer, and deepened relationships with old ones. The summer becomes a dream montage, snippets of events, people, conversations, walks, landscapes, paintings, tears and laughter shared in moments that touched our hearts.  There were successful fishing trips (Michael), dinners with friends, long evening walks together.  We launched two eaglets again this summer, and felt more like residents than visitors.  Sweet and deep conversations were frequent with my visually challenged friend, with her piercing insights and questions and joy about life.  (I think Rumi had Laurine in mind when he wrote: "Anyone who asks a question already has some of the answer.")  And our lovely Mickey has given us a lesson on the trials of living with Alzheimer's, and the realities of growing older in an impatient world obsessed with youth.

 

Almost every day this summer, I've walked into 'my' coffee shop, and each time I've been greeted with a genuinely cheerful, "Cindy!" by the owners, Lori and Steve.  Every now and then, it becomes almost a comical chorus, with other customers joining in:  "Cindy!," "LORI!," "Cindy!," "STEVE!," "Phil!," "Al!," "Barb!," "Rod!" and whoever else might walk through the door.  I listen, though, as I sit there reading or writing, and observe every single customer singled out with the same enthusiasm.  People walk in heavy with fatigue, or joyful and rested, but they all walk out a bit lighter.  Some folks stay and discuss the ain't-it-awful headlines of the local paper, but somehow it all seems manageable when you've been acknowledged by name, and reminded that you have a place in the world. 

 

Many years ago, I attended a weekend retreat in the piney woods of the Solomon retreat Center in Robert, La.  After one of the silent meditation sessions, we stood in a circle, 50 or so of us, with the instruction that one of us enter the center of the circle, and say our name.  Then all of the retreatants sang the name together, in unplanned but beautifully blended voices.  The result was that often, the person whose name was being sung with such grace, would end up in tears.  How often do we hear our names used indifferently?  How often are we challenged, confronted, or berated in comments that begin with our names used unlovingly?  "How could anyone ever tell you, you are anything less than beautiful?" Shaina Noll sings, "How could anyone ever tell you, you are less than whole?" 

 

In our retreat, when each woman had a turn in the center, we were told as a group to close our eyes, and sing our own first names over and over. We started quietly at first, almost shyly, until gradually, and with increasing reverence, the harmony of the whole became a sacred chant.  We were solo and we were in chorus, we were alone and we were unified with a song that was beyond each individual voice.  This is what I think of as I watch the parade of people in the morning at the coffee shop, each one held precious in that one moment where their name is sung.

 

"I have called you by name," it is written in Isaiah,  "You are Mine."  A grammar school friend, now Episcopal priest, had a workshop on prayer years ago.  She suggested that we personalize Scripture with the names of those we pray for, a powerful way of being connected in compassion to the issue at hand, and the Source of all comfort. We pray in God's name, and hold the space for our family and friends, praying them through illness, grief, stress, in moments of happiness and joy.  So I use the Scripture from Isaiah as God might address those I pray for:  "When you go through deep waters and great trouble, Michael, I will be with you." "When you go through rivers of difficulty, Tippy,  you will not drown!"  "When you walk through the fire of oppression, Michele, you will not be burned up; the flames will not consume you."  "... you are precious to me, Jinx." "You are honored, and I love you, Tommy."  When our names are sung in Divine voice, we receive a grace in that moment; we are touched.

 

When we come up to the Island at the beginning of the summer, we hear and give that same joy as we greet friends, acquaintances and neighbors by name. Then we find ourselves saying goodbyes all too soon, with hugs and promises to keep in touch, all of us knowing, as we grow older, that nothing is a given.  This morning, Michael was out of blackberry jam, and I offered him the option of opening the jar we had just been given by our friend, or saving it for next summer.  He said, "Well, you know what I'm going to say.  Life is uncertain.  Open the jar."  So we did.

 

Cantor Ellen Dreskin observed that when the Divine completed creation it was called 'good,' it was not called perfect.  When we remember to be "purposely kind and generous," we become part of that compassion which rules the day, and moves the world closer to its good.  We sing our names from that compassion, and we sing another's when they have forgotten how to.  And if the world itself is not perfect, we are at least in perfect harmony with the Divine song.  We are touched with the inherent awe of finding the Name within each. We sing the songs of the seasons, of the winds that blow and change the world forever, of storms that bring new challenges, and new life.  And if we are especially fortunate, we hear what we've been born to hear all along: "Behold, I am with you, always."

YAY GOD

 

 

"Just sit there right now.  Don't do a thing.  Just rest.  For your separation from God is the hardest work in this world." (Hafiz)

 

 

Canada Saga 2010 September 13

"Our walls of division do not rise all the way to heaven." (St. Philaret of Moscow)

"For all that has been: Thanks!  For all that is yet to come: Yes!" (Dag Hammarskold)

 

The Celtic mythology speaks of 'thin places,' places where the separation between earth and heaven is a mere whisper-thin veil of perception, and  there is very little dividing the place or moment from the Lord and life beyond.  We each have those thin places in our lives, or have experienced those moments where the veil, separating our physical reality and our sense of something deeper, is felt.  There were those moments with infant Grace, all cleaned up on her changing table, as we lingered, my glasses off, my eyes holding hers,watching each other until we had fallen into another space and timeless time.  Although I left for Canada when she was only 10 months old, the first thing she did when we returned months later was to reach up and take my glasses off and in that gesture, return us both to that fragment of eternity in our gaze.

 

The first time I remember this happening to me was after my brother's death, when his presence felt so very very close that I felt I could SEE him if only if only that wispy ephemeral veil of soul fog would clear.  I have felt on walks in sacred places that at any moment, I could step beyond that veil, right out of this lifetime, and all would be revealed.  What that 'all' might be, I have no idea.  But at those times, I would have been perfectly content to leave this earthly life, bound by all of its constrictions and details and mysteries, and step right on over, dying 'unconfused' as the Buddhists say.

 

When we hike Helliwell Park on Hornby Island, I am blessed with those same feelings.   Last week we walked through the forest on a cushion of soft wet mulch, stepping over the occasional banana slug on the trail, as we are dwarfed by red cedars.  Ferns held the noise of the world in their tiny fronds, and we relished the cottony quiet.  It was hard to believe, as we walked out of the forest and along the cliffs above the water, that anything else was real.  Often on our walks, we watch eagles or turkey vultures or hawks on air currents, circling overhead.  A tiny patch of cloud becomes a rainbow bubble, gently shape-shifting on an underbelly of grey sky.  The only noise is the sound of the gravel beneath our shoes, and a very distant boat motor.  I spied an enormous sea lion on a large rock below us, stranded by the outgoing tide, her mottled skin bearing the marks of her encounters with life.  Michael thinks she can just throw herself back into the water.  I wonder that she may need to wait for a high tide escape.  She is clearly nervous as we watch, but makes no move from her perch. We move along, giving up the opportunity of a photo shot in order to put her at ease, and finished our walk in silence, always reluctant to leave.

 

Now, days later, a pretend rain falls as I leave for my walk, a mist that hasn't quite graduated to a drizzle, bathing the landscape and making the streets glisten.  The fog drapes a grey curtain along the curve of coastline in Rathtrevor, the Douglas firs standing tall next to the rocky seashore, hinting at the dark interior of the forest.  A low-growing evergreen shrub by the side of the trail is a pincushion with drops of water clinging to the needles. I take off my glasses to peer at one tiny shimmery wet globe getting fuller and heavier, reflecting more and more of this mystical numinous gift of a world.  It suddenly releases, and the whole world seems to float slowly and forever in a bubble to the ground, splashing its graces over the parched earth. A baby sea lion barks piteously and a raven flies overhead, her throaty cry filling the air; they call me back from my reverie, and into the world of here and now.

 

Suddenly the dead and dying branches of the woods come to life, with prisms of clear raindrops decorating their otherwise grey-brown barrenness.  In this moment, the shriveled twigs in the last performance of their season find purpose.  The forest is bedazzled with millions of dew-lights hung from every leaf, needle and frond, tiny crystals that even the fog cannot dim. This does not seem like a thin place at all, but a rich full experience and expression of the wonder of being and breathing and standing  in a joy and gratitude so great that there is nothing to do but turn slowly and take it all in. Breathe. Smile.

 

When Brett was 15 years old, we planned his first lengthy trip away from home.  He was going to Germany, to Italy, to Medjugorge with some of his high school drama club members, under the watchful supervision of his teacher and some other adults.  For weeks, he was pissy and sullen around the house, for seemingly no reason.  It suddenly occurred to me that, as excited as he was about going, he was also sad about leaving.  In our quirky and wryly amusing human way, it is often easier to express anger, then to feel and express the depths of grief and pain.  My friend's words of last night came back to me as I walked this morning: "You have three weeks left."  My petty annoyances and short patience with Michael yesterday reveal themselves as the grieving that is already unfolding as our time here gets shorter.   

 

But I am here, still - as my t-shirt says - "on Island time," and filled with blessed awareness.   I walk and see Rathtrevor with new eyes, see configurations of trees and hear complexity of sounds I never noticed before.  I think of my friend, Cris, dying with Aids, saying that he had never lived so vibrantly before.

 

These thin places are our Muses, inspiring us, and speaking to the Soul of that space where "No eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined the things that God has prepared for those who love."  Our Muses must ultimately be transformative, drawing us into the Love, with the whisper of rain, a gentle cool wind, a word of encouragement, a sweet embrace, a timeless gaze. 

 

There are clues here and now, that tell us over and over that we are One in that Love, sharing the thin places, praying in our own way, whether it's in a synagogue, a mosque, a temple, a chair at home or in a Church, or, as Brett told me when he returned from his trip where his class-mates were all in a chapel and he wandered the deeply wooded hills outside, it can be in a forest in Germany.  We all worship at the same altar, ultimately; we worship the Divine within each of us because, as William Willimon wrote, "Love is not a stupid unwillingness to look at the world as it is.  It is the recognition that, because the world is as it is, nothing less than love will do." (William H. Willimon)

 

 The sea lions are quiet in Rathtrevor now, the raven has flown away.  There are only droplets losing their battle with gravity, drumming the dried leaves on the forest floor and creating a soft percussion to the pianissimo waves, a Divine chant harmonizing with the eternal and timeless chorus of Life itself.

 

"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard," Winnie the Pooh says in Milne's classic story.  My tears, of awe and wonder and joy and gratitude, mingle with the gently falling rain. Three more weeks.   I am so very blessed.

YAY GOD

  

 

Canada Saga 2010 - August 28

"What is this life if, full of care,

 We have no time to stand and stare?...
 No time to see, in broad daylight,
 Streams full of stars, like skies at night." (William Henry Davies)

"The heart at rest sees a feast in everything." (Hindi proverb)


The morning's clouds unfold like a multi-colored quilt above the water and mountains, totally hiding the rising sun. A rainbow pool lies on the quilt, bleeding its colors sideways. Who knew grey could be so beautiful? I move a mere three feet over on the sand, and see a distant snow-covered peak on the mainland through a gap between Lasqueti and Texada Islands. As often as I come here to walk and sit, I've never seen it before. It seems to have appeared just for the morning, and I'm reminded how a simple shift of position, of heart, of thought, of reaction - or lack thereof - can create whole new worlds.

As I sit in stillness on the side of the shore, Nature is anything but. Seagulls scream, and drop clams onto the rocks for breakfast; waves crash, dragging ripples that pop-rock their way back to the ocean; crows caw warnings and morning talks to each other. But I find that with Nature making all the noise, I don't have to. So I sit and stare at a log planted on the beach by the outgoing tide, then realize, as it wobbles from side to side, the tide is coming IN, not going out. Five minutes later, it is awash and rocking again, and I realize I can't tell whether the tide is coming or going. My life feels like that sometimes.

In this strange ebb and flow of thought, I remember a CBC radio program I listened to recently, a presentation by scientists and physicists on the modern world. They were telling us that 96% of the world we live in is a dark hole of mystery. We live in the perceived reality of the remaining 4%. The peak I'm seeing for the first time has always been there - a mere shift in position and a clearing of hazy skies reveals the previously invisible. How often is our soul-vision so obscured with the haze of presumptions and assumptions and prejudices that we cannot see the magnificence of our daily peak experiences, and the Light in the souls around us? "In my soul," Rabia wrote, "there is a temple, a shrine, a mosque, a church - where I kneel." She echoes the word's of Scripture: "The Kingdom is within."

After my morning shore-side meditation of last week I returned home to discover that my garbage can cover was missing, a casualty, I assumed of a careless worker. Before I phoned the waste recovery company the next day, I noticed my sweet neighbor standing and staring at the worker's taking down a large tree on some property close by. "Look at them!" she exclaimed. "Look how high they are!" She was all smiles and wonder. So I stood with her for awhile, both of us watching, she making small sounds of surprise occasionally. And as we stood there, a light went on for me. I turned to her and asked, "Mickey, did you happen to pick up a garbage can cover yesterday?" "Oh NO!" she said, eyes wide. But I knew it was a silly question to ask of someone with Alzheimer's. Later, her niece returned the cover to me from Mickey's garage. And we both laughed. We laughed when Mickey, ever resourceful, decided to dry her laundry by draping it over the bushes and shrubs outside, rather than struggle with "that new dryer that's not easy like the old ones." But there are rules and regulations when you live in community, as her niece pointed out to her, and someone complained, seeing only skivvies and wet laundry where someone else might see humor and the endless creativity of the mind, even a mind lost in the confusion of Alzheimer's.

Some of my neighbors 'see' Mickey from their own life perspectives, none-too-kindly. If they would move 3 soul feet over, they might see her joy, hear her infectious laughter, feel her dearness. They might view the mountain peak of her life, visible beneath the blanket cloud of Alzheimer's, and wonder at the continuing spirit in her ability to be amazed at and in small moments of her day.

We have new technology introducing us to knowledge that would've been science fiction a generation ago. But knowledge is not wisdom, as the saying goes. Knowledge offers us information; wisdom clears our vision, and offers us the perspective of the heart. When we stand and stare, we give birth to extra-ordinary flashes of the soul that light our world with visions, and invite us to see and hear the Source within.

Michael knows how to sit and stare. "I'm ready," I'll say. And it is a testimony of faith in humanity that, even after 40+ years of this pattern in our relationship, he will get the keys and head for the door. Then I realize that the lights are on, the back door isn't locked, the food's been left on the counter, I really should probably use the bathroom one more time, and maybe I do need to bring a jacket after all, and where's the water bottle that I had put aside for the trip? None of this is pre-meditated. Some floodgate opens in my mind after I say those words, "I'm ready," and out pour all the little details of things left undone, that have to be tended before we can really leave. He sits and waits patiently, and quietly stares at a blank tv screen, or he puts the keys in the door lock and sits in the car, and waits. He is better at waiting than I am, perhaps because of all the opportunities he's been given to practice.

But we stand and wait for each other, really, in different ways and at differing levels. Not just Michael and I, not just in our relationship, but as people who genuinely understand that our paths are connected, that one country or culture or people in the world cannot suffer without everyone suffering. We stand and wait for each other, gathering unseen graces to carry us through those moments when the brightness that lives on in the world might otherwise be hidden by clouds of unfamiliarity, misunderstandings or assumptions that do not honor the kingdom within each.

On Tuesday, Michael arrives back, and we resume our final weeks on the island. Time has flown by more quickly this summer, although it seems as if we say that each year. There is a palpable difference in the coolness of the air, and the increasingly earlier darkness of evening. My thoughts turn towards returning home to Louisiana to be with family and friends, towards the fall and the dark quiet rest of long winter nights. "Darkness deserves gratitude." Joan Chittister wrote. "It is the alleluia point at which we learn to understand that all growth does not take place in the sunlight." Even in the darkness, we sit and stare, we come to rest in the heart, open now, and feasting on all things.
YAY GOD

Canada Saga 2010 August 11

"I wish I could show you, When you are lonely or in darkness, The Astonishing Light Of your own Being!" Hafiz

 

For the first time in weeks, Michael and I took a long walk along the seashore yesterday. The tides have been high at the wrong times; our 'busy' schedules have been filled with daily doings; the smoke-filled skies from forest fires on the mainland had us indoors for a couple of days.  Whatever the reason or excuse, after blessed rains over the weekend and with a very low noon-day tide, we finally walked the beach bank with its largesse of sand dollars, searching for a white one for Grace(d) Alivia to give our ambling purpose.

 

As we walked, we realized it was slack tide - that brief moment when the tide is neither ebbing nor flowing, yet shifting.  Waters released from captivity high up on the sand rushed out to meet water rushing in from the ocean, and our feet were being washed by both.  Suddenly Kabir Helminski's beautiful quote about the spiritual journey washed over me, too:  "we are knee-deep in a river, searching for water."

 

We began our walk in cloudy weather, with occasional raindrops and a chill wind. The coastal islands and the panorama of the mountain mainlands were veiled, as they were last week when the sun lingered behind a hazy smoke-filled Eastern sky, delaying what would eventually be a spectacular blood-red sunrise.

 

On that beautiful morning, I knew the mountains were behind the smoke, and the sun was rising behind the clouds, and although they were hidden in the moment,  I knew they were there;  I did not believe they were there.  I have experienced the sight of their massive presence and golden light at daybreak.  On this morning, as on most mornings, I faced the invisible curving panorama of the coastal profile and, through the smokey haze, gave thanks for the gift of the unseen sun on this 'sunless' morning.

 

This, ultimately, is the Light of our spiritual faith.  We do walk by (and in) faith, not by sight.  This is the Light of faith of the terminal patient in prayer. 

This is the Light of faith of the grieving before their God. 

This is the Light of the faith of our friends, who held their 16 year old daughter's hand through her 10% chance of living 30 years ago, and now hold their grandchildren, born after her miraculous survival, and after she was told she could never have them. 

This is the Light of the faith of other friends who lost their 16 year old daughter to cancer around the same time, as they continue to worship and sing songs of praise in their Church choir.

This is the Light of the faith of the 16 year old girl who, "By The Grace of a Goodbye," gives her infant son up for adoption, finds him joyfully 40 years later, and writes the song that touches her audience with emotion and tears.

This is the Light of the faith of a friend who was in a near fatal car crash that killed his best friend, and went on years later to create Saints for Sinners medals, which have brought joy and solace and consolation to so many.

 

This is the Light of the faith of knowing only that we will never 'know,' because knowing is limited by the intellect, and faith lives beyond reason.  "No matter how individually brilliant this brain may be," the Episcopal priest, Cynthia Bourgeault writes, "it cannot exceed the limits of its operating system."  So we have been given other guideposts along the ways of faith, like tides and mountains and sunrises behind dark morning clouds, and the beauty of laughter - in joy and despite tragedy - and in our compassion and love for each other.  "Faith," Tagore writes, "is a bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark."

 

I always thought that when the heart breaks, it lets the Light of faith in.  But walking along the ocean, with its symphony soundtrack of breaking waves and shorebird song,  I wondered if maybe when the heart breaks, it lets the Light out, that original goodness that we are born with, the "Astonishing Light of our own being."  This Divine image somehow gets shrouded in smoky layers of defense and guardedness over the years.  Through the quaking of our intense grief, or immense joy, the heart is shaken open and radiance pours out from the Source.  Those in the depths of emotional turmoil or spiritual bliss are rarely aware of the chorus of grace they bring to the suffering world around them.

 

As we walked back to the car with our treasure of sand dollars, tall sea grasses bobbed and swayed,  adding a maestro's baton touch to this aria of reflection. I was reminded once again that we are, as Jacob Boehme said, "a string in the concert of God's joy." 

 

This morning we have cooler temps and bright blue skies, with the promise of  wonderful blueberries from our organic farming friend.  Michael's biking injuries are healing, and he has stopped accusing me of trying to cash in on his insurance policy. (He was tailgating - gasp of shock here - and when I encountered a sharp turn and braked suddenly, his bike skidded and he went down in the gravel, with brush burns as his war wounds.  This is, of course, my version.  In his version,  he stars as the hero who crashed rather than running into me, a charming story on its own.  Once again, our two stories converge into one truth: there was a crash, he was hurt, he thought of my well-being, and is now healing.)  He will be returning to Louisiana on Monday for two weeks of business, then back up here until we come home in October.  And although the moments seem to move slowly here with unhurried days,  the summer itself continues to speed by.  "When we go slower," Easwaran writes, "we are more patient - and when we are more patient, we have a choice in how we respond."

 

For the moment, we're responding by planning a whale-watching trip to the cooler realms up Island this weekend, when the temperatures and haze again threaten to encroach on Paradise. The eagle nest here is empty and the skies are quiet from the incessant pleadings of the eaglets for food during their last days before heading North with their parents.  The sun is rising a bit later and setting earlier now, as the wildflowers, though still in full-bloom, are beginning to tone down their riotous displays.  The cycle of the seasons prepares the earth for the harvest fruits of autumn, and the fallow of winter.  All is patient.  All is faith.  All is well.

YAY GOD

 

Canada Saga 2010 July 29

"We are the miracles that God made

To taste the bitter fruit of Time.

We are precious

And one day our suffering

Will turn into the wonders of the earth." (Ben Okri)

 

A few days after returning to Louisiana for a two week summer hiatus - from our summer hiatus in Canada - I realized that there had been no cars or company at my elderly neighbor's home across the street.  For three years now, she has been in increasingly diminished health due to a terminal illness, and cared for by her son and a home health agency.  Now the house was dark and quiet, and a quick check of the obituaries revealed that she had died the day I left for Canada in May.

 

An image suddenly arose, with a wave of nostalgia: she and her husband were visiting us for the first time 24 years ago, bringing home-made redfish salad with his catch from the day before.  Jewel and Bill must have been not so much older than we are now.  The in between years sped by in my mind at warp speed: my grandmother, my Dad, my brother, Michael's Mom - all alive and engaged in family gatherings; Brett growing up with all of his mis-steps through the teen-age years, and going off to college and life;  arguments, so important at the time, now long forgotten; job changes and life shifts and heart-ache and joys flowing down the river of time; flowers planted in gardens no longer surrounding a home that has been taken down and replaced. 

 

Jewel was in her own parallel world over the same years: the birth of her grandchildren, the loss of her husband, her own mother moving in, then her mother's death at the age of 104.  We weren't close over the nearly quarter century we shared, but our encounters were always friendly: waves, mailbox chats, knowing she was keeping an eye on the house as we traveled in our RV, watching her walk with her friends until she was well into her 80's. 

 

The deep sense of time passages is offered periodically as a gift if we are paying attention, a remembrance of the quick gust of life that we are to breathe in deeply while we are here.  It happens mostly in the grand events of life: births, weddings, moves, farewells of most kinds.  The day after I read Jewel's obituary, we celebrated Grace's sixth birthday, and once again I found myself watching into the past: holding her as an infant, reliving precious memories of first steps and first words, the wonder of her huge eyes as a gentle breeze lifted her jet black hair on a cold January morning stroll, her joyful giggles and silly play and profound and sudden wisdom.

 

Through her eyes, and the eyes of my 14 year old nephew, Michael, I watch this oh-so-different world unfolding in 2010. These two cousins, with their brother/sister relationship,  are learning life together, disregarding my requests that they stop growing up so fast.  They risk and cry and laugh and bloom and sometimes take my breath away in their reckless joy and their beauty.  When Grace asked me to write down the color of my eyes so she could choose eye makeup for my 'spa' treatment, I took off my glasses, got close to her face, and asked her how she would describe them. She thought for a minute before answering "Caramel and honey."  Caramel and honey.  Why limit our choices to brown, blue, hazel, green? When do we learn these limits, that box us in and stunt our awareness of the hues all around us?  After spending time with them, and with all of my family and friends, I left Louisiana in a state of wonder and gratitude that I am so very blessed.  They remind me that this really is what life is all about: to continue falling in love with our everyday moments.

 

We had a beautiful day of uneventful travel back up to Canada, including a First Class Denver to Vancouver flight. Our attendant mistakenly gave the passenger in back of us 'gin' instead of ginger-ale; fortunately, Michael was able to solve the problem by graciously accepting the drink. We landed in blue skies and walked into a welcoming 70 degrees.  After unpacking, we quickly re-embraced our lifestyle here by strolling to the water with our books for a leisurely hour, reconnecting to the easy pace of island living, and the grace of just being.

 

As I sat by the ocean yesterday morning reflecting on our quick trip back home, I could hear only the quiet around me at first.  The soft surf was gently returning on the dawn high tide, and the colors of sunrise were still muted in the eastern sky.  Suddenly the call of a newly fledged eaglet, screaming and scared, split the silence.  Undaunted by their fear, or in spite of it, the two eaglets seem to throw themselves awkwardly off of branches, and crash perilously into the tops of trees as they grab whatever they can to stop their free-fall flights.  When they resist, the parents practice tough-love, flying tantalizingly close to them with food, then coaxing them back towards the nest in spiraling flights of  pure grace.  As the sun crests the mountains, I watch and wonder that we, too, resist what would set us free to fly and soar in our own lives, on the wings of passing time.

 

Shortly after reading of my neighbor's death, I came across Ben Okri's lovely African elegy, in which he also writes: "I, too, have heard the dead singing, and they tell me that this life is good...to live it gently with fire and always with hope."  I write this by the light of the still full moon in the beginning glow of a spreading dawn.  The eaglets are already up and practicing their flights.  I think I'll join them,  closing with the final words of the elegy, because it speaks to this gift of love and life that we find ourselves sharing together in a unique era that is changing our world, and bringing "the wonders of the earth" to these caramel-honey eyes.

 

"There are miracles at work

That only Time will bring forth.

 

There is wonder here,

And there is surprise.

 

In everything, the Unseen moves.

The ocean is full of songs...

Destiny is our friend."

YAY GOD

Canada Saga 2010 July 10

“There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.”  (Thomas Merton)

"All beings are words of God,  His music, His art."  (Meister Eckhart)

 

In the month before we came to Canada this year, we moved Michael's elderly cousin to an Assisted Living Apartment, because of her increasing journey into Alzheimer's.  It was a difficult and challenging time for all of us, and we could not have done it without the extraordinary efforts of extended family.  Anyone who has dealt with Alzheimer's knows the frustrations and anxieties that come with the disease, both for the patient and for all who are involved in care.  After the intense days and weeks of getting her settled, medicated, and dealing with the fall-out of her confusion and unhappiness, we left with a mixed feeling of relief and concern.

 

When we arrived in Canada, we met our newest neighbor - an 86 year old widow with a delightful laugh, an inquisitive manner and, very clearly, in the middle stages of Alzheimer's.  Each time we speak, I get to see the delight in her eyes when I tell her I'm from New Orleans.  Thus far, I've shown her three times how to operate her washing machine, and each time she tells me it's the first time she's washed clothes in this new machine.   I hear the under-current of anxiety in her questions, as if she knows she's holding on and struggling to make connections.  But she sets out on her long walks in the mornings and afternoons, and is always ready for a chat, where everything is new information which she greets with her quick, always-ready smile.

 

My friend, Bill, has a slow smile, and an easy manner suited to his 86 year old life experiences.  After teaching my neighbor once more about her washing machine, I met Bill for lunch at one of his favorite restaurants yesterday.  I love listening to his lazily paced conversation, his cadence a throw-back to his roots in the deep South.  He tells me he wanted to be one of the Tuskegee Airmen of World War 2 fame, but found out he was color-blind on his test.  And while he went on to serve his country as an engineer in the Army, he decided then and there that, as a black man seeing the world for the first time, he would hold onto that concept of being blind to color, and become a global citizen.

 

As we talk, I think of the wonderful novel I'm reading, The Help, a painful and poignantly funny book about race relations in 1962. This eloquent lovely black man has lived through all of the turmoil of the 60's, and raised his children and grandchildren to embrace his own color-blindness.  Not so very long ago, a white woman and a black man would not have been sharing lunch and life so easily, if at all, and what a poorer world that would be.

 

At the end of the day, after the washing machine lessons with my beautiful new neighbor, and the gentle learning with Bill, when I most wanted to just be home and reading, I picked up another friend whose grandson-in-law is a First Nation Carver.  His work was being featured in an art exhibition opening last night.  We traveled the hour down Island to the little community of Ladysmith, where there was a gathering to honor the two brothers who carve together, and two artists from Ome, Japan, with whom they share a special bond. The night included an Eagle Dance in beautiful costume by the First Nation brothers, and an equally beautiful musical performance by Japanese women in the Ome group.  Two cultures, literally world's apart, are joined now through the power of art and music, spreading yet a different 'color-blindness' to new generations.

 

As my friend and I made our way back home, the twilight hour and overcast skies cast a special spell over the coastline, veiling the waters of the Straits of Georgia, and the distant coastal mountains.  Outlines of the islands off the coast were fading, the Master Artist gently erasing the images of the day, as the fading sun peeked under the cloud cover.  By the time I got home, a pale snippet of rainbow hung in the Northern sky, and, tracing the arc, I found another to the South.  In between, a patch of clouds reflected every color in the rainbow, as if it had just stretched out and laid down for the night.  I watched in silent awe until all the colors of the evening sky, and the day, faded.

 

Sometimes when I'm up here without Michael, there is a loneliness that seeps in, a sense of disconnectedness to community.  My relationships are singular: a friend from the neighborhood, a friend from the coffee shop, a friend from a spiritual relationship, a friend from the market.  But I stand outside the circle of community.  And then I wonder if that's not my 'job:' to stand on the outside and see the connections.  I listen.  I observe.  I hear the common thread running through the lives and wounds and joys of each person that I do connect with, and they are all God's music and God's art, as Meister Eckhart says. I am enormously enriched and grateful.

 

We are never disconnected.  We stand together in the drama of life, in the framed portrait of eternity.  We are the lyrics sung by Divine chorus, each note profound, made more so by the rest between the notes.  We are the color spectrum of a Divine palette, perfectly blended, in our best moments color blind, and "all walking around shining like the sun." 

YAY GOD

 

"Surely, there is a window from heart to heart." (Rumi)

Canada Saga 2010 July 1

"All this hurrying soon will be over. Only when we tarry do we touch the holy." (Rainer Maria Rilke)

"Hasten slowly, and ye shall soon arrive." (Milarepa)

 

Canada Day dawns rainy, completely grey and overcast, not good weather for the two small-town parades in the area, the concerts, numerous barbecues and outdoor events.  The outside temp gauge reads 10C, which, when I do the math (double and add 30), tells me it's 50F outside.  I feel quite guilty that I'm perfectly content watching the almost invisible drizzle, drinking a cup of mocha and enjoying a warm muffin while huddled in a fleece vest, with the small space heater at my feet.   I almost walked in Rathtrevor this morning, because this weather brings out the deer and the rabbits, and keeps humans away - as it did me!

 

Fortunately for Michael, with his distaste for this kind of weather, he has flown back to home base, after delaying an important meeting for as long as he could.  He was here for the visit from his brother, his wife and their friends, who were up for a short stay recently.  My sister-in-law and her friend are both mobility impaired with knee and foot injuries, slowing our progress on walks, and preventing some of the usual sight-seeing which involves hiking and more strenuous walking.  The slower walks gave Michael and I the opportunity to take even longer looks at these old beautiful familiar treasures, which we have never taken for granted.  The guys played golf, we visited some galleries and shops, and shifted to a less active routine. The weather cooperated with cloudy chilly mornings turning into beautiful sunshine and skies, and we enjoyed the quiet evenings beside the water with wine and snacks and conversation. On their last evening, we went to the tiny Qualicum airport where we enjoyed a smashing dinner at our favorite restaurant, The Final Approach, aka La Cage Au Folles, where the black owner/chef has roots in New Orleans.

 

But it seems that we haven't been able to settle into a rhythm yet this summer, with my late arrival, having guests,  and now Michael's unplanned departure for a month. In the meantime, we've changed toilets and the hot water heater,  have had one of the bedrooms and a bathroom repainted, toyed with the idea of changing the flooring, and have created upheaval in the process with books and boxes stacked against walls and on tables as the paint dries. 

 

Our lives for the last three years seem to reflect the state of our human condition, one of chaos and a lack of balance.  I feel sometimes like I'm in a funny house where the floor is shifting, and I'm constantly needing to readjust to remain grounded.   Even the eagles have been out-of-character this summer, quiet and seemingly withdrawn from their usual soaring and playful sky-dancing. 

 

Many years ago, a Benedictine monk on one of my retreats told a lovely story about chaos and peace.  He described an art contest held by a Chinese emperor, who commissioned two of the most famous artists in the land to paint a picture of peace for him.  He gave them a year to finish their project.  On the appointed day, both artists arrived with their rather large pieces.  The first proudly showed his lovely picture, a pastoral scene of immense beauty and color.  The second artist humbly drew the simple cloth from his portrait of a fierce and ugly rain storm, lightening bolts, and a raging waterfall.  The Emperor was furious, and accused this man of mocking him.  The artist quietly walked to the painting, and drew the Emperor's attention to the tiny nest behind the waterfall where a mother bird sat tranquilly, her wings covering her small chicks. Father Dominic didn't mention an end to the story, whether the Emperor had a reaction or if the man won the prize. If he did, I don't recall it.  The message was clear: we are to be at peace IN the storm, not FROM the storm.   

 

Michael and I listened to a broadcast recently on CBC, the Public Broadcast Radio in Canada.  An 'immersion' journalist, one who takes a particular topic, thoroughly lives it for a year, and then writes about the experience, was being interviewed about his most recent work.  He spoke about one of his former books, a total immersion for one year in the Bible and its practices, and he ended the interview with a marvelous observation: the people in the Old and New Testaments, he said, constantly gave praise and thanksgiving. He began to do the same, and was struck by the extraordinary number of opportunities for gratitude that arose in one day: he turned on the facet, and water appeared; he clicked a switch, and the lights came on; his food was kept cold by the refrigerator and warmed by the oven or stove; he turned his ignition and his car started; he pushed a button and the elevator door opened; he pushed another and was carried up long distances, and his days went on and on with minor miracles.  He gave thanks, and found himself living in a costant state of awareness of the awe of being alive, which he still carried with him years later. Brother David Steindl-Rast carries the practice to even more basic opportunities: we open our eyes, he says, "What a miracle! What a miracle to breathe!"

 

When we are in our own particular states of chaos, we forget to be thankful.  We see the storm, hear the thunder, and our praise and thanksgiving are drowned out by our personal raging waterfalls of the misfortune du jour.  We misstep, and find ourselves off-balance in an apparently random world. What I do know is that when I'm thrown off-center, a lifeline is always tossed: a new friend, a spiritual teaching, a lovely book, a breath-taking snippet of a rainbow, a glossy and graceful slug on a perfectly mulched trail, an undeniable synchronicity of light and joy. It can be looking at a photo of Grace, or touching the picture that my nephew, Michael, painted for me when he was here years ago, or hearing my niece's joy in announcing her engagement,  or just walking beside the water, mesmerized by the hypnotic chant of the surf of a quiet or pounding morning.

 

Barbara Kingsolver wrote, of those lifelines:   "Be still, and the world is bound to turn herself inside out to entertain you.  Everywhere you look, joyful noise is clanging to drown out quiet desperation."  So many of the wisest teachings begin with those two words: "Be still." This is the tarrying that touches the Holy, that brings peace amidst the chaos, and calls us to rest in the nest of all that is Divine when the world rages around us.

YAY GOD

Canada Saga 2010 June 15

"Each time you express that primal sound of wonder, (WOW!)) you are announcing the presence of holy mystery."  (Rich Heffern)

 "I have always been delighted at the prospects of a new day, a fresh try, one more start, with perhaps a bit of magic waiting somewhere behind the morning." (J.B. Priestly)

 

It is just that promise of the 'magic somewhere behind the morning' that teases me out of a warm bed on these chilly mornings.  Already the song birds are calling to each other as this still-dark night flirts with the Eastern light. 

 

The weather finally got warm enough for us to sit one evening in our Adirondack chairs in the community firepit by the water.  These are the "WOW!" moments we share together, although they are more on the line of a quiet "wow."  Michael inevitably comments that we are so blessed to have this, to be here, to be aware of the beauty given so effortlessly. The soft murmur of the evening tide filling up our little cove is a gentle soundtrack as we watch the living painting of the sky changing from a cloud-streaked blue to a washed-out peach and white foam, framed by Denman and Hornby and Texada and Lasqueti Islands.  The occasional eagle cry reminds us of the ongoing drama behind us as our resident eagles raise another brood of two, and we are sometimes fortunate enough to catch the fierce in-air battles as the parents chase away intruders.

 

On this evening, I spied a lone sea lion off-shore, "playing," I tell Michael, and Michael, ever the provider, notes that the sea lion is bobbing around in a slip-stream of current where he is probably fishing.  Only then do I notice the slight change in water color and motion in the area where he, most likely, is indeed fishing.  Again I marvel at our ability to bring different gifts to our relationship.  Michael didn't notice the sea lion at all at first, then I saw the play, and he picked up on the subtler changes in the water indicating that more than play was going on here.  At times one of us holds the larger vision, at times, the other.  At one particularly difficult time in our lives when I thanked him for sharing a burden that had gotten too much for me, he told me: "Sometimes you carry the water, and sometimes you drink."

 

Over the weekend, we attended a beautiful garden art exhibit, where vendors displayed unique pottery, wood carvings, photography, and hand-carved Native American flutes - their tents set-up along a fragrant cedar mulch trail around a small pond lined with graceful violet Irises.  It's always amazing to see the variety of creativity presented in the different mediums at these events.  Michael enjoyed visiting with an 85 year old wood-carver who took up the craft when he was 65, and had his prize-winning duck carvings displayed on the table with his smaller pieces.  We purchased one of his very small herons, and this morning I called the woman who gives 'play shops' for the flutes that she and her husband were selling, to make an appointment for my first lesson.

 

Earlier that day, while Michael toiled at the gym, I had walked in the blustery wind next to an ocean roiling and churning with furrows of deep whitecaps.  On my return to the car, I noticed a blue crescent kite far to the West, making its way towards Rathtrevor.  A kite surfer - "wind surfer," Michael told me later - was riding the waves, and from a distance seemed to be gliding easily in the rough water.  As he got closer, he was occasionally on his back in the chilly surf as the winds shifted and calmed momentarily.  He waited in readiness - what else was there to do? -  confident of this unseen power, until suddenly he was lifted almost out of the water, continuing along on his journey.  As he drew closer, I saw that he held on dearly to the wires of his kite, maneuvering them to best catch the power and strength of the wind.  Occasionally he disappeared completely, buried from sight between the roaring waves.  What seemed like an effortless glide to me was instead an extraordinary effort demanding remarkable strength, patience, confidence and a spirit of adventure.  

 

I was reminded of a favorite movie line from Rosencrantz and Gildenstern Are Dead: "We should all get a standing ovation just for getting out of bed in the morning."  Our whole life journey appears to be a long Wind Surf.  We all have this Unseen Source behind us, the wind to the sails of the Soul. When we lie in the rough furrows of our lives, sometimes in a dead calm, it seems to take an enormous effort to just remain above water.  Then Spirit lifts us, and we are pulled along, holding on to whatever our guide lines are in the day: prayer, kindness, trust, meditation, laughter, friendship.  Some days others are the guide lines for us, other days we, often-times unknowingly, provide the strength and support to keep someone else afloat, someone who may be walking the shoreline of life, watching us from a distance, noting and learning from our struggles.

 

My kite surfer faded into the East, the only evidence he had ever passed by was the blue of his kite, until it, too, eventually diminished, and was gone.  It is not given us to know the power of the lessons we unwittingly teach as we go about our "ordinary" lives, living in extraordinary grace.  His lesson, and the force of that Wind, continue, "a bit of magic waiting behind the morning."

YAY GOD

Canada Saga 2010 June 9

“When we say, ‘Ahhhhh!’ and say it with a deep sigh -- the kind of exclamation that comes from our depths whenever we witness some aspect of the world’s blessing -- that ‘Ahhhhh!’ is one of God’s most beautiful names.” (Kabir)

In the quiet cold dawn, a numinous light breaks the sky to the East.  The sun is already above the mountains, and casting rays of light velvet gray through dark clouds.  Two stellar sea lions play and loudly guffaw in the distance, but mostly it is silent, even the water offering soundless homage to the creation of this new day.  A lone eagle shoots like an arrow through the sky - and through my heart - a piercing reminder of the exquisite beauty we live in.  It is good to be 'home,' an interior place of soul that the mystics and the Saints find everywhere because they are at home in the Divine which permeates us.  This 'home,' this "cave of the heart," as Bede Griffiths called it, is more available to me here.  It is a constant "Ahhhhh!" punctuating the day and reminding the soul that she IS, always, home.

 

In a lovely take on an old favorite saying, I saw a Jewish proverb recently: "Man plans.  God laughs."  It took three attempts at scheduling flights, one trip to the E.R., a double dose of antibiotics for a suspected episode of diverticulitis, a few arguments with the airline, and a leap of faith before this summer's trip became reality.  Added to the stresses unfolding daily in the Gulf and on the world scene was my usual reluctance to leave loved ones and a routine in life that becomes quite comfortable over the winter months.  Michael had been up here already for almost three rainy cold weeks, working and dealing with his own level of stress over the events unfolding back home.

 

But I finally landed in Vancouver to a lovely partly cloudy sky, breaks of sunshine, just cool enough for a jean jacket, and flew the final leg in the small puddle-jumper with one of the airline's staff.  Once again, mention of "New Orleans" immediately brought a compassionate concerned response, as it has since Katrina, now with emphasis on the Gulf region and its out-reaching impact: "How are you down there? Has it effected your home, your livelihood, your lives? Are you alright?"  This compassionate questioning always brings tears to my eyes. 

 

But people are 'getting it:'  what happened in the Gulf can happen anywhere.  We are careless consumers of our planet's limited resources. There is talk of drilling in the pristine waters off the West coast of the island here, and one of the benefits of our suffering along the Gulf coast is that it is presenting dissenters with new arguments to slow the process down. It is equally important to stress lifestyle changes, conservation, recycling and alternative energy resources.  Even in the small community newspapers, there are editorials about our conspicuous consumption as a species, and our responsibilities to future generations. 

 

Since I've been back, we've been busy getting reacquainted with all of our old favorites,  both the places and the people.  Intense warm hugs from old friends are welcome.  Michael is busier with work than in any other summer, and we are grateful to the world of computers, cell phones and over-night mail that allow us to be here.  Thus far he has only had one brief outing on the driving range to 'find his game.' We've managed to find a new hiking trail on my wonderful Hornby Island, and this, too, came with its own gifts: in the beautiful snake quietly moving through the tall wildflowers underneath "my" bench, with its inscription in the memory of "Cindy, who lived with Christ, in laughter, love and peace," and in the Finnish woman who needed a ride across Denman Island to the ferry, and entertained us with the stories of her travels and life in Canada.

 

There have been other "minor miracles," as my friend here calls these daily graces of synchronicity and loveliness, too many to even write about in this already too lengthy Saga.  Connections come easily here: a possibility spoken suddenly manifests into reality; a friend appears out of nowhere at the perfect time; the intuition to attend a meeting is followed by a rainbow emerging after the gathering in an otherwise blue sky. I live in a state of "Ahhhh!"

 

Yesterday morning, as I walked along the ocean's edge in Rathtrevor Forest in the midst of wonder, my thoughts wandered to the wide-spread effects this oil spill will have on the waters and hopefully, in our hearts and in our plans for our grandchildren's generation. Suddenly a single deer came out of the woods and watched me.  She circled me completely, barely 20 feet from where I stood, and I realized again how fragile and how gentle our world can be.   She found her way back into the forest, just as unseen eagles high atop the tall shoreline trees began a chant and response, and I felt an interior Halleluia vibrating to the Unseen Source of it all.  One of the eagles flew above me, carrying a branch to refurbish her nest, and I thought: however long we've worked on our spiritual nests, a vigilance is required from us.  We add the soft feathering of prayer, branches of compassion, twigs of loving-kindness and concern, and weave it all together with the grace of faith. We don't do this, as Sylvia Boorstein wrote, "once and for all, but over and over again."  I do it with a walk in the forest, my cousin does it at daily Mass, my Mom does it with her rosaries and in her constant intercessions for others, my sisters do it in caring for my Mom, my friends do it in meditation and in Hospice work and in treating the wildlife endangered by the oil spill; one niece does it in her nursing, another in her sitting with the elderly.  The 'Ahhhh' of the Divine "Halleluia," becomes manifest through these human activities, and we behold the name and the face of God in each other.

 

With the public rancor and arguing, with the stresses, with the events unfolding in our lives and in the world, sometimes it appears to be a "cold and broken Halleluia," but the word still springs from the heart.  "Life is filled with suffering," Helen Keller wrote, "and also overcoming."  Beyond the broken clouds, the blackened water,the grieving hearts, the tears of the soul, in the depths of being, there ultimately is, only, Halleluia.  Amen.  Om. "Ahhhhh!"

YAY GOD