Canada Saga 2013 - September 25

"When I am up here, I feel like I am breathing whole, and the landscape is embracing me."(Penny White, First Nation, from the book "We Are Born With The Songs Inside Us.")
"And my heart soars." (Chief George)

A young mother stood on the boardwalk where I walk most mornings, cradling her toddler in a blanket in the chill of early morning a few weeks ago, just outside of the campground where they were staying. All of the campsites were filled with tents, campers, RV's of all sizes; blankets, folding chairs, trikes, bikes and surfboards were spread everywhere. Her face registered excitement and anticipation at the week before them, and she was filled with plans for activities. "No, no!" she laughed, when I asked if she'd like me to take a photo of she and her baby with her camera. "I don't have my makeup on, and I'm not dressed for a scrapbook photo." She didn't realize, couldn't see, how she was glowing with joy.

A week later, she sat on some driftwood alone, her eyes gazing out over the water toward the mountains, content now to just be in the quiet of the dawn. I wondered if years later she might regret not having the joy of that first morning in a photo to share with her child, with stories of his first visit to the beach, or he to look at in her later years. "And then, who knows?" Marguerite Yourcenar writes: "Perhaps we will be taken in hand by certain memories as if by angels."

I watched a similar scenario all summer long: folks arriving with the energy of their plans, taking boisterous morning walks and bike rides, then quiet at the end, sitting with a cup of coffee on the beach, allowing the surf, the sea, the mountains, the magic of the area to work its wonders. They had gone from frenetic planning to a calm surrender. This morning when I passed by, the campground was mostly empty, almost desolate, a few larger RV's glistening in a drizzly grey chill. When the storm clouds lifted, there was a dusting of snow on Mount Arrowsmith above us, and Michael said: "It's time to go home."

But I feel like I'm home when I'm here, "breathing whole," in this thin place where the boundary between Earth and Heaven seems so close. The air itself is vibrant with the energy that sings with those songs born within us. The trees become the angels of the earth, some of them with scorched trunks that have survived fires hundreds of years ago, embracing,shading and guarding the paths - always rejoicing with their alleluia branches raised heavenward. The waves become the whispers of the All that is beyond hearing, beckoning as I walk beside them, teasing me into and out of reflection as I sit on the driftwood of the foreshore, and calling me to play in their grace.

Every place is filled with miracles and the sacrament of the moment, of course, if we are paying attention. There are some, however, and I hope you've experienced this at least once, that seem to reveal treasures of the heart, in the way that some of our life's moments do: capturing the gaze of an infant, laughing unexpectedly with a loved one, holding the hand of someone who is taking their last breath, being present to a synchronicity or a moment of miracle that is undeniable, and inexplicable.

The island is a treasure trove of such experiences, effortlessly offering miracles. We returned from dinner with some lovely friends on Saturday, and paused at a stop sign, all of us watching two statuesque full-pointed bucks that stood no more than 20 feet away, watching us. I walked to the water late one evening, and as if a hand had touched my shoulder, turned to look back towards the East in time to catch a full-harvest-moon rising over the mountains into a bank of clouds. Five minutes sooner or later, and it would've been out of sight. There have been so many rainbows; so many cascading waterfalls; so many drama-filled skies of roiling clouds, lightening with no thunder, and sun dogs at sunrise and sunset; so many new trails and adventures and friends to love. Over and over we were reminded by the beauty of the area just how fragile and vulnerable our little planet is, how perfectly and delicately balanced, and how very precious.

Our timing has also been unusual this summer, with our month-long break back in Louisiana in July, and our extended stay now until October 1. Michael's healing has progressed. He finally played his first round of golf a few weeks ago, and will do a full day of it tomorrow. Our visit to the sunshine coast was rich and full, with a quiet hike to the incredible rapids of Skookumchuck reverse tides, a too-fast (surprise!) drive on the curvy highway down to Gibson, and our boat tour trip to Princess Louisa Inlet and Chatterbox Falls which turned out to be a private charter, since no one else showed up. We made an inukshuk at the base of the falls, and I remembered one of the traditional definitions of inukshuk: "you are on the right path." In my mind, it translated to a blessing and a call to return.

Rumi says that when his soul soared, it was "free of the tyranny of 'why?' and 'how?'...the thousand veils lifted and I could behold the hidden secret (of God)." I think secrets are scattered about in these sacred places where, if the veils aren't transparent or haven't lifted completely, we are at least allowed a peek. And our hearts soar.
YAY GOD

Canada Saga 2013 - September 10

"Shall we make a new rule of life?...Always try to be kinder than necessary." (J.M. Barrie) "At the end of the day, the equation is in favor of what is good and what is human and what is giving instead of what takes away." (Veronique Pozner, mother of 6 year old Noah, of Newtown Ct.) Caroline called tonight. It must've been a stressful day, because she hung up when she heard me say, "Caroline!" Usually she laughs nervously and answers when I ask how she and her husband are doing. But she gets embarrassed sometimes, and hangs up abruptly. Last year, my cell phone would ring two or three times a day, for weeks on end, always from the same number, and a woman would ask: "Is Mary there?" I would tell her, in the beginning just as information, eventually with an edge to my voice, that there was no Mary at the number, never had been in the 15 years I've had it. My number wasn't even close to the number she was trying to dial. Finally, I called HER number and left a lengthy message on her voicemail, repeating that I had the cell phone number for many years, there wasn't a "Mary" at the number, never had been, and I would appreciate it if she would be more careful dialing. An hour later, the phone rang again from the same number. For some reason, I didn't answer the way I wanted to, which was in anger, but simply said, "Hello," waiting for the routine to begin. Because it felt like some sort of comedy routine, scripted out already, where I was just playing a part. This time, however, I heard an elderly male voice apologizing for his wife, who had had a stroke some months back, and was having difficulty with numbers. Mary was their daughter, who lived not too far away, and helped her mother. We had a lovely chat, in which I found out that he was 83 years old, and wasn't well either. I asked for his wife's name, since this was clearly going to be a relationship, rather than a wrong number, and for his daughter's phone number, in case Caroline ever needed it. Since then, whenever I see her phone number, I smile, remembering what her husband told me: "Well, at least you're a lot nicer than the OTHER lady whose number she's been calling." It's nice to ask Caroline how she's doing, how her family is, and to try to put her at ease, because she's always a bit embarrassed when she hears my voice. Sometimes I don't answer, knowing she'll get the message, and sometimes she hangs up when she hears me. I don't think of her calls as 'wrong numbers,' anymore. Whenever I call my brother, he answers the phone, before even saying hello: "Is everyone alright?" - a light-hearted reminder that we've all received our share of calls with troubling news. Every year for the last four or five years, we've attempted to stay longer on the island, to experience the shorter days and cooler weather, and some of the changing colors. Every year, for the last four or five years, some event has called us home sooner, usually with a phone call: an illness, a death, a hurricane. This year, again, we are scheduled to return to Louisiana on October 1, so each time the phone rings with a Louisiana area code, I breathe deeply before I answer. There are so many moments in life when we want our calls to be wrong numbers, when our bodies go rigid as our minds and hearts resist what we're hearing. That couldn't possibly have really been an ER nurse telling me Michael had a heart attack and was being rushed into surgery. My brother-in-law couldn't really have terminal cancer. My young cousin, caring for her elderly mother and aunt, couldn't have been the one who died suddenly that Saturday night. Michael's cousin couldn't be losing his second kidney. That wasn't really my sister on the phone telling me that my brother had been murdered the night before. Goodness calls us, too, on a daily basis. We hear voices of family and friends, near and far, who remind us, even with a simple "Hello," that we are loved. My friend always answers the phone with a warm, "Hi, Dear!" And that's how I feel when I hear her: dear and cherished by her. Two words. A world of well-being. I remember Michael's mother calling and saying that she was 'lonesome' for his voice. She was a strong feisty woman, who in just a few words exposed her vulnerability, and whose spirits could be raised just by hearing a few words from her son - very few, since she did most of the talking. Tchich Nhat Hahn, the beautiful Vietnamese teacher, suggests that our words are jewels, and we should choose them carefully, just as scripture tells us to dwell on "whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable...excellent or praiseworthy..." In this way, we are "called" to remembrance, that faint stirring of the echo in the heart where we turn to our Source, and recognize who we are, and the Voice which has called us. It's a testament to our human hope and resilience that our first reaction to troubling news is one of shock and disbelief. The world is too filled with goodness for these 'bad' things to be happening, seems to be the message. It's a grace that we're still appalled, dismayed and shocked by tragedy and inhumanity. We are elevated and full-hearted when we hear stories of kindness and compassion, because they resonate deeply. This is our core nature. "Nothing is too wonderful to be true," Michael Faraday wrote, in his thought-provoking play with words. Tomorrow we leave for the Sunshine Coast, an area on the West coast of the mainland that we haven't visited. Along the way, we'll be on yet another boating trip, this one through the Princess Louisa Inlet, and we'll hike to the reverse tidal falls in the Provincial Park there. It will be our final adventure of the summer, as if being on the island each day isn't an adventure in itself - as if being alive each day isn't a miracle and a gift. We just may make it to October after all. Please hold your calls. YAY GOD.

Canada Saga 2013 - September 5

"All beauty of this world is wet with the dew of tears."(Theodor Haecker) "In times of joy or sorrow, blessed be my tears, the holy prayers of my heart. Amen." (Edward Hays in Pray All Ways) After my uncle's funeral a year ago, my cousins had arranged a traditional New Orleans jazz procession. We left the church, and walked slowly behind the small brass band which followed his hearse down the road along the waters of the Bay where he spent so much of his precious earth time. After the original dirge, we second-lined to "When The Saints Go Marching In," ending at the home of his daughter where we all gathered to share an afternoon of memories, photos and food. Along the way, I noticed that 8 year old Grace was holding back, a puzzled frown on her face, watching the tears, smiling and dancing, and clearly confused by the dichotomy of emotion. I put my hand on her shoulder and said that it must seem strange to have people dancing and laughing at such a sad time. She nodded, and took her Mom's hand, making of it whatever is available to a child's perceptions. How to tell her that the human heart is large enough to hold gladness and sadness together? How to explain, even to ourselves, that there is yet a spaciousness holding the heart itself. We feel an ache in exquisite joy and beauty, a longing that can bring us to inexplicable tears, just as our tears, even in the face of extreme loss, create a channel for a deeper sense of belonging. When Brett was here, we took hikes each day, delighted to share our love of the island, as Michael commented gratefully that he was able to do this with more ease. One of our adventures found us sailing through Desolation Sound, an unlikely name for such grandeur and magnificence. It is a place of mountain-views, narrow channels and rocky islands that fall off suddenly to water depths of over 2000 feet. As we listened to the naturalist on board, hundreds of moon jellies undulated ethereally in the clear waters beneath the boat. The weather was threatening all day long, and perfect for the Pacific Northwest: cloud-wrapped mountain-tops, slanted sheets of rain chasing sailboats in the distance, occasional sun-breaks sprinkling the water with glitter, and skies painted every imaginable hue of grey and blue. My camera struggled to capture a divine palette of color subtleties artists can only dream of. In the distance, three dimensional layers of islands and mainland created a back-drop to sailboats and yachts gliding past. With each gentle dip of the boat, the waves rose up in the silence with a soft chant against the hull: 'listen listen.' Brother David Steindl-Rast says that we must BE that great song that arises out of the silence. At one point as I stood on the back deck, Brett walked over and said quietly, "Thank you," an acknowledgment of this gift and blessing shared and received. All background chatter was simply filler, because we're human and our words connect us. The Captain told stories of the history of the area, with his maps and depth charts splayed out. For me, the journey was spent mostly in the silence that Barbara Brown Taylor writes about: "When we run out of words, we are very near the God whose name is unsayable...it is not because there is no more to be said. It is because the unsayable wishes to be said, and the only language is silence." We wandered from the front of the boat to the back, leaned over the rail in the lulling motion of the ocean, and watched the panorama unfold its wonder. Words drifted by ("spectacular," "amazing," "beautiful,"), in all their inept descriptiveness, like these I'm writing. Once the heart is engaged, words are as useful as a ladder in a bottomless well. It's amazing that we return to our ordinary lives after these extraordinary moments. When we got back to the ferry terminal for our trip home, we sat quietly watching the rain, which we had escaped all day. In the silence of reflection, an alchemy takes place: beauty mixed with deep emotion or pain tinged with laughter, somehow become memories, touchstones that we carry with us - of bygone days, or a loved one's laugh, or a quiet faith in the heart that holds it all. Brett was a real trooper while he was here, rising early to walk with me each morning, up for any hike we suggested - and we finally did the whole of Newcastle Island, ending with lunch at the quirky Dinghy Dock. We hiked again to Rosewater Creek Falls (still no hippie ladies), and he attempted to teach me a new computer/system - which I likened to learning to speak fluid Swahili in an hour. No doubt some of the lessons will eventually mean something, as we can say with all of life's lessons when we're paying attention. Through his teen years, he resented any talk of "when you're older, you'll understand." Now he tells me often, when I don't understand certain attitudes or changing mores, "It's a generational thing," without a hint of irony. I still want to tell him, "When you're older, you'll understand." But one of the wisdoms of getting older is that we learn when NOT to say anything - not often enough, perhaps - because we know from experience that they will, indeed, one day understand. The night before he left, he wanted to see the sunset. It was past my bedtime, but Michael was in the shower, so I walked down with him, thinking we wouldn't see much because of the cloudy evening. But when we got to the water and looked east, we saw a brilliant rainbow, book-ended by a sun setting fiercely to the West, all reflected in the waters of the rising tide. It was all there again: the joy, the wonder, the breath-taking-beyond-words gift, accompanied by the familiar pang of ache/angst, the tears and fullness that can be both ecstatic joy and deep sorrow, abiding together in the One heart. The desire to share our moments of beauty with every person we have ever loved gives us some sense of the generosity, the gift that has been given to us by One who would share creation so generously in a sunset, a rainbow, a waterfall, or the face of a loved one. Whether it is the dirge of a jazz funeral, a song of joy whispered by waves or a hymn of praise in the winds of a main sail, we remember that we are not only called to sing, but "to BE that great song," sung to each other. YAY GOD

Canada Saga 2013 - July 5

 

"Be a lamp, be a lifeboat, be a ladder. Help someone's soul heal. Walk out of your house each morning like a shepherd."  (Rumi)

"We are put on this earth to help others.  What the others are supposed to do, I haven't a clue."  (W.H. Auden)

 

And just like that, summer arrived. We went to bed on a cool drizzly Friday evening, and woke up to bright sunshine and the heat of the season, as predicted, just in time for Canada Day weekend celebrations. Michael, still in recovery from both his implant surgery and a very stress-filled week in Louisiana, decided he wanted to spend the day outside. We took the ferry to Newcastle Island, which we knew only from watching the ferries as we ate at the Dinghy Dock, one Island over. At some point as we shared fish and chips or burgers and beer, one of us would occasionally make note of the little ferry boats traveling to the next island, with the observation that we really should check it out.

 

It took us ten years and a few hours to realize we should've done this long ago. From the time we disembarked onto green fields and walked past the totem poles towards the regatta of crayola-colored spinnakers playing out in the distance against snow capped mountains, we were hooked. The map showed that to circumambulate the whole island was only 7.2 kms (roughly 5 miles, not usually challenging for us), and we had the whole day, the whole gorgeous day of brilliant blue skies, soft sea breezes, a wide easy trail all along the water, with access over driftwood and flat slate rock. In the distance, the glacier-capped peaks of the mainland watched over the large white BC ferries gliding over the water. We felt like we were walking in a fairy tale book of magic lands and perfect times.

 

Soon I noticed that Michael was walking much slower than our usual hiking pace; he finally told me that he wanted to take it easy on this one, and not stress himself at this point in his recovery. I soon realized that we would probably not make the first leg of the hike, much less the whole island. At one split in the trail, he found a piece of driftwood in the shade, and rested while I went 'just to the next bend,' to see what was ahead. It was only ten minutes to the next marker, where a panorama of beauty splayed out: sailboats, mountains, two quiet benches, a grassy field with yellow wildflowers curtsying and dancing to the ocean breeze, gnarled and leaning arbutus trees reaching greedily for the sun with their twisted leafy arms, and a landscape of small boulder-filled coves all along the island's Eastern side. When I returned, excited with my find, to see if he wanted to make the short walk, Michael told me he was quite happy where he was, and didn't want to go any further.

 

As we walked slowly back to the ferry, it hit me: this is just a small preview of how life changes. This is what my Mom began to experience as my Dad moved deeper into Parkinson's.  This is what my mother-in-law experienced as my father-in-law lapsed into Alzheimer's. My friend walked the journey with her husband, until his death, of abbreviated trips and more and more visits to doctors and hospitals, putting on hold her art and friends. Michael has put plans on hold to be a sustainer during difficult times for my family. My sister-in-law loved her husband through his terminal illness, wondering why anyone would think she needed a break, when she knew their time together was precious and limited. I saw this time and again with Hospice patients and their families, and see it in the grace of so much giving by so many today. It is not so much people putting lives on hold, as it is embracing or enduring the never-ending changing patterns of lives.

 

Emily Dickinson was talking about those journeys when she said that we never know how high we are until we're called to rise. Most of us have to experience something personally to understand the fullness of another's pain or joy. When we do, the sands shift, and life is forever different. A new normal emerges, and with it a sense of the sacrifice and struggle of those whose lives we've watched as they were changed by the love they gave.

 

We bandy about the concept of getting vs giving: we get when we give; we can't give more than we get; it is better to give than to receive. Perhaps it's less about getting or giving, and more about living in the interchangeable flow of both, that sustains us with its familiarity. The Dalai Lama expresses what he calls the paradox, and what could be referred to as the miracle, of 'wise self-fishness:'  when we give, we become happier. These not-so-minor miracles and moments of unselfish wonder are, to paraphrase Chesterton, the little white handkerchiefs that the Divine drops in daily flirtations with us.

 

The sprinklers turned off just after the sun popped over the mountains this morning, and the tiny droplets of water were shimmering like fairy crystals on each blade of grass and pine needle in the necklace of the new day. They were a reminder that for one brief drop in the ocean of time, we are prisms of divine creation, sparkling and reflecting every hue of Love in our better moments of receiving and giving kindness, until the brilliance and heat of the Divine Sun consumes us back into Being.

 

On Saturday we'll return to Louisiana for a visit, and for the completion of some medical tests, meetings and business for Michael, and to spend time with Mom. We've already decided that we'll be back on Newcastle Island this summer. We may or may not walk the entire path. The journey, after all, is not about the distance, but about dropping handkerchiefs along the way.

YAY GOD

 

 

 

 

 

Canada Saga 2013 - June 25

 

"Elders walk before us. The young follow behind. Ours is a caravan of consciousness." (Julia Cameron)

"Once upon a time...there was the simple understanding that to sing at dawn and to sing at dusk was to heal the world through joy. The birds still remember what we have forgotten: the world is meant to be celebrated." (Terry Tempest Williams)

                                            

Maya Angelou says that we can learn a lot about people by how they handle, among other things, a rainy day. There have been multiple opportunities to learn about people in the last two rainy weeks, with another few days forecast before the heat of summer appears on schedule for Canada Day.  The weather doesn't seem to inhibit Island activity, though. Walkers walk; golfers golf; bikers bike; hikers hike. Even the more adventurous venture out on beaches and in boats, undauntedly saying that at least we are better off than ______, fill in the blank with those suffering from tornados, fires, floods, or excessive heat.

 

But I love the grey that hangs so low over the coast on some mornings that it's like walking in the clouds. As I remember the bright sun above it all, I'm reminded of how often we get weighted down by the droning of the grey on the daily newscasts, caught up in the raining down of a parade of horribles, forgetting that above this, too, is the brighter Light, always present, that transcends it all.

 

And the gentle rain is never a deterrent to a walk in the Heritage, a small but magnificent forest where the silence of the 400+ year old trees invites the equally enveloping shroud of quiet reflection. Charcoal-scarred Douglas firs rise hundreds of feet above the trail, having survived fires that destroyed less hardy species. The burbling of a small creek, invisible at the base of a crevice steeped in fern and heavily treed, is its only giveaway. Nature is casual about her housekeeping, scattering debris and leaving remnants of storms lying haphazardly on her floor. Stilted roots provide nutrients to immature growth, even as they themselves eventually break down completely, leaving an elevated form from which seedlings grow.

 

Other living stumps, having no branches for photosynthesis, are provided nutrients by intertwined roots of nearby trees of the same species, thus surviving and giving what they can to the overall well-being of the forest inhabitants. A walk here is a walk in life being lived, through the miracle of creation, and the generosity of generations constantly giving.

 

Back in April, for some very good reason which now escapes me, we decided that it was time to launch our adventure into the 21st Century by buying 'smart' phones. Our old phones were - well - old. They didn't take pictures; they didn't take notes; they didn't auto 'correct' our spelling; they didn't play music, have apps or voices that talked to us. As we sat at the table in the restaurant hours after our purchase comparing our new phones, we realized with horror that we had turned into 'them:' those people who sit at tables in restaurants looking at their phones, instead of each other; those people we used to motion to with a roll of our eyes, and feel sorry for and then talk in hushed tones about, as we wondered what this world was coming to.

 

Now we've made a truce, we appreciate the features that give us freedom to roam around the continent and still stay connected. One of the best features, and the real reason I wanted a new phone, is its compact and amazing camera. On more than one occasion, I have found myself wishing that I had brought my camera, and then realized I had the next best thing.

 

There are videos that I watch regularly, when I realize just how blessed our family is, and how much I miss them. Like all good lessons, these videos are short, succinct and touch the heart. The first is a spontaneous performance by my nephew, Michael, playing an accompaniment with Grace, to her original piano composition. He sits on the piano bench, casually reaching around her to play both high and low chords to her melody, and the quickest of smiles lights up her face. Her delightful and simple tune becomes a complicated and impressive piece through his mastery. He makes her shine, generously and without effort, and mirrors the Divine Presence in our own simple lives, a Presence that fills even our simplest actions with a grace all its own, even as we are unaware of the 'arms' that surround us.

 

My favorite video, however, is my 93 year old Aunt Lizette, sitting in her wheel chair in the nursing home, being cajoled into sending greetings to my Mom. Up until she was 89, Aunt Liza was a chain smoker, and we were frankly surprised that she's lived this long. Then she fell and ended up in the hospital. When she asked my cousin for a cigarette, he told her simply that she didn't smoke anymore. She looked blank for a moment, then said "Well I'll be damn." And that's how she quit smoking. She'll tell you that she doesn't remember much, and then catch you off guard with a wry remark or a quip that you couldn't see coming. When I spoke with her years ago about some wisdom or other that I had read that was creating questions in my mind, she had some simple advice: "Well," she said, "the problem with you is that you read too much."

 

At Christmastime, we all went to sing songs with her, and Michael and Grace played the piano. She watched as much as she could, nodding along, then nodding off, but smiling. Michael put his arm around me as we were leaving the home and said quietly, "Don't worry, Aunt Cindy; I'll never let you end up in a place like this." But he and Grace go willingly, and walk through the corridors of wheel-chair souls waiting for their transitions in all states of drool and twitches and nonsense talk or screams.

 

Aunt Liza doesn't seem to fit in, and it's no wonder the aides at the home love her. They love her sassiness, and we love her because she's our sweet Aunt Liza who was our first sleep-over, took us in when we ran away from home, made us grilled cheese sandwiches, took care of our grandparents and elderly aunts tirelessly. She reflects back to us the gentler moments of our childhood, with the eyes of our Dad; the very soul of Creation seems to stare at us from her tired but wise brown eyes.

 

They say that hers is the 'greatest' generation. Like the stilted roots and living stumps of the forest, they continue to nourish us, even in their leave-taking. They give us branches, and we sit and sing their songs.  The British poet, Philip Larkin, said that children are linked to adults by the simple fact that they are in the process of turning into them. As I see Michael and Grace singing to Aunt Liza, I think that the greatest generation is always becoming, rooted in the gifts of their elders. We are born hard-wired for this compassion, and live out of the original blessing we were baptized into by the very fact of our birth as innocents.

 

I see this born into creation each morning, beyond the horizon, beyond even the clouds and Light of the new day, born deeply in the heart of each breath. It is the peace that is given in the song that is sung at the dawn of life, and the one that we sing to those at their dusk, as we celebrate with deep gratitude their world, and our place in it.

YAY GOD

 

 

 

Canada Saga 2013 - June 1

 

"O, for how short a time You have lent us to each other." (Inca Prayer)

 "Happiness cannot be traveled to, owned, earned, worn or consumed...(but) is the spiritual experience of living every minute with love, grace, and gratitude." (Dennis Waitley) 

 

In one sense, it seemed we had just gone out for a gallon of milk, rather than an 8 month sojourn. But as the plane touched down and taxi'd toward the small airport, the closed restaurant stood as a reminder that more than time has passed.  Its owner, a friend who had always treated us kindly, greeted us with his warm laughter, invited us to his home for dinner, and with whom we shared our Louisiana roots, had passed in late April.  For the first time in years, I didn't have gumbo file' in my carry-on to drop off to him. I breathed in the sorrow and pain with tears, then turned to receive the beautiful smile and hugs of a dear friend waiting to greet and drive us home, a reminder that life, and love, go on. 

 

So we've stocked the pantry and visited Farmer's Markets, brought our flower baskets

for replanting, set out the patio furniture, filled the propane tank for the barbecue, and eaten at

our favorite restaurants. Last Sunday we attended a concert of the Island Soul Choir, a group of 130 locals who practice monthly and perform yearly with a mix of lively and ethnic music. They are exuberant, to

the point that even Michael was on the edge of his seat joining in with a gusty "Guantamera." Seriously.

 

One of the blessings of leaving, of course, is the home-coming, as intense in its joy as the parting sorrow

was last fall. We came home to cool temps, constant drizzle, (or as we call it, pretend rain), a

committee of hugs and 'welcomes!', a heating system needing repair, a garbage disposal that simply buzzed and an oven that didn't get hot.  I tried not to relate any of this to Michael's new best friend, Sparky, but it did seem a bit odd that all these electrical devices were suddenly not functioning after the defibrillator walked through the door.  In a matter of days, Michael's hearing aids both went out, as well. His left one restarted with a new battery, but the right one is still non-functioning, and awaiting attention this week.

 

Last year we left in a blitz of closing-down activities, concerned with the sudden hospitalization

of my Mom, not knowing when we'd be able to return. My sisters practically willed her back to a

degree of health that no one expected, through their love and persistence. She can no longer be

left alone because of some ongoing confusion, particularly over her medicines.Our ever-changing tech

world has created problems with things that used to be simple (using the tv remote, for instance), and

have become more challenging for her (o.k., and me, too). Although she is physically limited in her activities, she is still able to enjoy our visits, take daily walks, and engage in stories about her earlier life, some of which are new to us. 

 

Our lives, too, changed as we adjusted to schedules and shifts over the course of the winter, and an angel sitter named Mary entered our lives to relieve us and be a new friend to Mom.

 

There is a grace in being able to move into the new and demanding role as caretaker, while allowing those cared for a dignity that seems to diminish, the needier we become. Because sooner or later, regardless of our age, we will all be in a situation of needing various stages of care. As we all struggled with creating this new space in our otherwise busy lives, I saw the beauty and compassion of my sisters and nieces, and the incredible generosity of the human spirit offering comfort to a distressed soul, and therefore to the world. Each little task of the day, which seemed rote to us, created a sense of peace and comfort in a world growing ever smaller for her. If we are, indeed, serving the Divine as we serve another, then service becomes a sacrament - easy to forget when the sacred seems so mundane. And this is the very secret of living as  sacrament in itself.

 

My mother would often say she felt like a burden, and I was reminded of Mother Theresa's advice to those who wanted to join her in her charities abroad: take care of your own families; spread God's love through service in your own world.

 

It's sometimes more desirable for us to volunteer in some far off place, or with a stranger, than to be patient and giving to those closest to us, whether it's an older parent, or a child or friend or partner who does that one thing one more time that drives us crazy and tests our love. It's easier to be joyful and tolerant with a confused toddler than with the equally confused - and often more terrified - elderly.  Each of us has held my Mom this winter, as she teared-up in the panic of a mind that she knew wasn't working properly, and over which she had no control. Each of us lives with our own ghost memories of the laughing smiling mother who we have already said good-bye to.

 

It was a winter of learning from my family and my mother, ever the teacher. She would wonder why she was still here, and I would tell her she was still teaching. I felt like one of her kindergarten students, only this time she was teaching the art of suffering and prayer and surrendering, and I was hoping I would never be put to the test. I would not be at the head of the class.

 

So it was with guilt, grief and much thought that we made our decision to come here for our summer. We

know our time for island living is limited to probably these next two summers, and we have to begin to get our place here ready for selling. As we stepped off the plane, the crispness of the cedar air cradled us. I was greeted by the loud barking of sea lions off shore the next morning, and the ever-present deer watched quietly as I walked the Rathtrevor path in the cool rain. The wild roses danced their fragrance with the ocean's, filling the air with their joy.

 

Thomas Wolfe said that we can't go home again, echoing Heraclitus: you can't step in the same river twice.  But there's a home within the Heart that we never leave, and places and moments that bring us back, return us to the Flow in the never-changing, ever-abundant River of grace. Maybe one day I'll leave that kindergarten class.  I'll grow up enough to "live every moment with love, grace and gratitude," wherever life finds me.  Until then, a very generous Spirit has given us the blessing of being together in this treasured place and time.

 

YAY GOD