Canada Saga 2012 - June 30

"There must be always remaining in every life, some place for the singing of angels, some place for that which in itself is breathless and beautiful." (Howard Thurman)

"Aloneness and connections are like tides in the sea of your heart,
separate tides, flowing in and out. (M. C. Richards)

When Michael leaves, an aloneness sets in that is both gift and challenge. As I watched his plane taxi down the runway, tears welled-up along with anticipation of quiet time. The fruits of the spirit are set in solitude, their ripeness in connection. As we walked in the cool dampness of Helliwell Provincial Park before he left, surrounded by the magnificent quiet of an old growth forest with its mulched trails swallowing every footstep, I appreciated the luxury of walking in silence and companionship on the journey, alone yet connected, ebbing and flowing in the sea of relationship.

Now, in a comfortable aloneness on this rainy morning, I sit and listen to the wind chime singing in rich deep chords to the strong gusts outside the back door, not in melodic protest, but in gratitude for being given voice on this cool grey damp day. The eagles were huddled on the beach this morning, one off by itself, bracing and camouflaged next to a tree trunk, betrayed by the white head even on this cloudy day.  I feel sometimes that I'm inside one of those 'Find the Hidden Object" pictures that Grace is so fond of, where a screwdriver or a flashlight is disguised somewhere in the wood stacks of a barn, or a needle is in 'plain sight' in a haystack.  Only here, it's a rabbit barely distinguishable at the base of thick low-growing shrubs, or an eye that gives away the head of a deer in the grey of an early morning wild-flower meadow.

Or a hidden grace that reveals itself in an unexpected encounter at the coffee shop.

There is a law here, that smoking is not allowed within close proximity of outdoor dining. I don't know the exact wording, but I appreciate the smoke-free area outside of Bradley's where I sit most mornings. A gravelly-cough made me look up from my book last week, as cigarette smoke wafted over from the farthest table. An unkempt, unshaven face stared back at me from beneath a filthy hat. I was annoyed, and grateful that I was ready to leave.

As I packed up my things, however, I heard a fairly sheepish voice say, "I'm sorry. Am I running you off?

I've already put it out, see? I'm trying to quit, but it's really hard." I stopped then to really look; instead of a cursory and dismissive glance, I met a gaze filled with frustration and pain.  "I stopped for 3 weeks," he said, "but then I had stress in my life, and I thought I'd just have one more and you can't do that, you know. You can't have just one more." He then rambled on incoherently about his life, becoming vague with his words, his eyes vacuous.

The morning's lesson from my online course briefly skittered through my awareness: "Know that God is in every encounter. Each moment is sacred." I found myself taking a slow breath, and telling him about my niece, who is also struggling with quitting, and how difficult it is for her. "I wish you only good things," I told him.

His eyes focused sharply as he said with great clarity: "Who knows? This may be the moment I needed to finally quit." And though I knew and he knew it probably wasn't, maybe it was one of many that would eventually lead him to freedom. Each moment has the potential to be what Jean Pierre de Causade calls the sacrament of the moment: "When God manifests in this way nothing seems extraordinary, because everything is made to seem remarkable." 

In the end, we don't know which of our words, gestures, smiles, looks might be a significant sacred moment in the life of another. A flower shines to us; a butterfly grazes our shoulder; a breeze touches us just so; we overhear a comment in a checkout line or someone hums a tune and changes the grace of our day, and we in turn change another's.

Being here for these few short months is like a microcosm of a life span. Time is limited; there are longings that will never be met and so few, really, whom we touch or talk to in a lifetime. But each encounter comes with an opportunity to practice the sacrament of the moment. How can we squander our words and actions with divisiveness and judgments and ridicule when they can so easily be used for elevating, and we are given such a short time to speak them? "Suddenly," Rabbi Heschel writes,  "we feel ashamed of our clashes and complaints in face of the tacit glory in nature...Only one response can maintain us: gratefulness for witnessing the wonder, for the gift of our unearned right to serve..."

When we returned to the car from that walk through Helliwell, we realized we had left the camera in the trunk. We're taking less and less pictures each summer.  There is something about 'capturing the moment' that seems out of touch with the freedom of being in it. I think again about deCaussade: "It is the way itself that is amazing, and there is no need to adorn it with any other miracles...It is a miraculous everlasting revelation and rejoicing." We are left with the sacramental moment in all its breathless beauty, taking our cue from the singing of angels in wind chimes, and through all of our aloneness.

YAY GOD

Canada Saga 2012 - June 14

"I, God, am your playmate! I will lead you in wonderful ways, for I have chosen you."

(Mechthild of Magdeburg)

"It is a happy talent to know how to play." (Emerson)

The garden, usually colorful and joyful by now, sits unplanted, with empty hooks where hanging baskets should be. Our little patio home, generally all spiffed-up from its winter dormancy in just a few days, remains in need of a good surface cleaning. Our return was delayed by some late weddings in Louisiana, and the usual effort of settling in has been further delayed by some lingering back and neck pains accrued in those final weeks of preparing for our summer in Paradise, making even sitting at the computer today uncomfortable.

 But we are here, having landed Tuesday on a cool misty afternoon, greeted by four circling eagles over the tiny Qualicum airfield. Besides an inoperative computer and an ever-increasing sputtering from Michael's little run-around car, our arrival was marked by an almost eerie normalcy, as if we were just returning from a quick trip for a gallon of milk instead of a winter-long absence. Michael, of course, now has two manly projects: dutifully researching used car options, and finding a solution to my recalcitrant computer, while I attempt to rest my neck and pretend the garden doesn't matter.

 The realities of other changes are more reflective of the cycles of life and play. A good friend has slipped more deeply into dementia, and instead of visiting with her at the coffee shop or in her apartment, I'll be seeing her in the nursing home. Sweet and funny Mickey, our precious neighbor and friend died with Alzheimer's over the winter, not without leaving more stories about her numerous attempts at escape from the home.  Another neighbor, a golfing friend of Michael's, died quite suddenly last fall, and we'll miss seeing him for the occasional chat out by the water. I think of my Uncle, who, just weeks before his passing in April, was toasting and hosting all of us late into the night in celebration of his 90th birthday. Another friend is preparing for the joy of her second daughter's wedding, while I look forward to meeting the newest addition to her family, her grandson from her first daughter.

 This shift in season and setting each year offers almost a time-travel perspective, a reflection of the ever changing and impermanent aspect of life. Ultimately it is only Love that remains: families tearfully saying good-bye, friends hugging warm welcomes, the heart and soul stirring with the rhythms of the ocean and the flights of eagles, a deer's eye watching through the fragrance of the wild roses, the Divine ruah in the breath of the forest wind, the HU of a breeze rushing down from the mountains.

 It gets harder and harder to leave each year, whether from Louisiana to the Island or the other way around. Before we left to come up here, I visited an elderly friend who had broken her ankle and is now bed-ridden in a skilled-nursing unit. "My ankle got stuck in one place as I fell away from it," was her explanation of her accident. Yesterday a young friend here described her broken leg in much the same way: "My foot slipped off a curb and got stuck while my body fell in another direction," setting up a spiraling action that shattered her tibia. Over and over again, we make the same mistake along our own journeys. When we resist, when we are rigid, when our spirit is called to move, to listen, to shift and we aren't paying attention, something in us breaks.

 The good news - the GREAT news - is that we are never forever broken, only comforted, set aright, and pushed gently forward into our calling, much as a mother might encourage her child to return to the swings after a fall. Sometimes we are called to work. Sometime we are called to play. Sometimes, hard as it might be, we are called to rest as we heal. "The true object of human life is play," wrote Chesterton. "Earth is a task garden. Heaven is a playground."

 We have been blessed and fortunate enough to find this little piece of heaven on earth, and the task of the garden will be play soon enough.

YAY GOD.