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