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