Canada Saga 2011 - July 8

"Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin."(Barbara Kingsolver)                              
"Not only is the past relevant, it's not even done!"  (William Faulkner) 

When my nephew was 3 years old, he charmingly referred to umbrellas as *rain*brellas, using words as children often do, in ways that just make sense to them. Brett at that age always referred to any sort of stomach upset as a *waist* ache. For some reason, known only to her toddler mind, Grace Alivia always said *oh* when she meant 'yes.' Finding this endearing and quite mysterious, I never corrected her, and was almost sad when I returned home from Canada after a summer away to find her saying 'yes' to everything, usually with great enthusiasm. This, of course, preceded her equally enthusiastic period of saying 'no,' also to everything.
I thought of my nephew early one morning this week, when the sky once again held the precious jewel of a small rainbow on the belly of a grey cloud over the ocean. There was no rain, no storms preceding, or predicted for, the day. Sitting gently as pure gift - although there is probably some scientific mumbo/jumbo about moisture in the air and refracting light - and bringing smiles from one other early morning walker with her head in the clouds, was the faint and beautiful glow of what I immediately thought of as a *sun*bow, a puddle of rainbow that appears in soft sunlight, usually against a washed-out sky. Like other minor miracles, it doesn't come with drama; it doesn't preen for attention like it's diva cousin. If you're not paying attention, you may miss it completely. But it can still take the breath away, especially with the backdrop of the smaller mist-covered islands, the soft velvet wind, and the hum of the Eternal, echoed in the ocean.
Because of the extended periods of chilly cool wet weather thus far this year, there has been a lack of urgency in getting out and about. Michael tells me, however, that he has that same feeling of not wanting to be 'out and about' in 100 degree Louisiana. He, along with the rest of my precious family with friends, dauntlessly showed up at my now 15 year old nephew's mid-day outdoor guitar performance during the Seafood Festival in Mandeville over the hot and sweaty July 4th weekend. I'm sure many used *sun*brellas for the occasion.
It's at moments like this that I feel the distance between the two homes of my life. Our rites of passage are hopefully accompanied by the loving presence of those who have been a part of the charms of our childhood years, who have seen our inner light early on, hold the pieces of our history and tell our stories when we forget them in darker moments. In so-doing, they keep us grounded and able to open our hearts as we grow. We see through the generations the wonder of life living itself, grace unfolding, and patterns emerging that make sense of who we are. We see ourselves in the stories of our aunts, uncles, grandparents, and our step-and surrogate parents, then see our children's children's futures, too.  "I am chastened to learn over and over again," Lawrence Heschel writes of his journeys through Scripture, "that patterns recur from one generation to the next." We are a storehouse of memories for each other, in all of our relationships.  One sister listens to another's childhood stories of our growing up, and swears she must've lived in a different house. We have very distinct memories of how God was portrayed by the stern nuns who taught us, and my mother says we're wrong; that's not what she remembers of an experience that was uniquely ours. Something that was quite remarkable to me involving my siblings in our younger years draws a blank stare from them now when I repeat it.
Michael and I often remember details in very different ways, and I was always amazed that he could be so wrong so often...until I, too, was chastened enough to realize our lives and individual perspectives brought unique filters to events, and we literally saw many things differently, and always would.  The wrong and right of issues then fade into the more freeing:  "Ah. That's how he sees it. Isn't that interesting?" My sister often says that brilliant minds consider and debate the same issue, and come down on different sides. When we step back and consider other points of view, panoramas become available, and life opens up; we realize that our vision, like our opinion, comes as "relative to truth," colored by our own history, memories and agendas.
There was a plaque hanging in Brett's room throughout his early and teen years, depicting a large oak tree, and an eagle soaring through the blue skies above it. To the side of the tree were the words: "There are two things we can give children in life: one is roots, the other wings." The plaque now hangs in my nephew's room, ready to set the next generation on a flight through this complicated and marvelous life. Even from a distance, we participate in their memories through our love and support. "These people are in your soul-care," John O'Donohue writes. "In the affection of prayer, you carry the icons of their presence on the altar of your heart."
We show up to our lives, perhaps not as fragile or vulnerable as it would first appear. We come with the strength of those who lived before us. We come with our own individual journeys to take, to learn and grow and live into the memories we are creating, not only for ourselves, but for those we will never know. We come because it is the way God manifests in our world, through our voice, our eyes, our touch, our prayers, carried through generations, an unseen gift we give in response and gratitude for all that has been given to us. We pass on the *rain*brellas and *sun*bows and *oh's* of our memories because they are our truths, they are relevant, and because we're not yet done.
YAY GOD