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