Buried Sadness

Perhaps this is what happens, over time,
when you lose someone you love, little by little.

(My story is of my dad's Alzheimer's.
Your story might be similar but different, yes?)

You learn to stuff the grief deep down inside
as far from the heart as you can,
compressing it into the smallest version of what it was,
until you can no longer recognize it,
or even feel it because all the sharp edges are tucked in.

It is what you do, it's what you have to do,
for days and then years,
until eventually death arrives
and suddenly you become aware
that you no longer have to hold it in.
Now you have permission. To grieve.

But by then the sadness is buried so deeply
it becomes impossible to find the tears.

Well meaning people say things, in love and kindness,
like "he's in a better place" and you know it to be true
but the words leave you feeling selfish
because you miss the person
here and now.

So you nod and smile and don't explain
because you don't know how.
Not yet anyway.

For now, you close your eyes and smile,
like your dad used to do when he could no longer put sentences together,
recognizing that someday you will cry.

Just not yet. Not today.

A Short Story (for dad)

There was once a man on a journey that took him many places on an amazing adventure.

Some of the paths the man took were planned in advance and well thought out. Some were a complete surprise, even to him. Several turns held challenges. Much of the journey held happiness.

The man collected things on this journey. Mostly memories. He carried them in a large canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

At the start of his journey, the bag was empty. As he grew older, the memories came faster and faster and the canvas bag began to fill.

The man was often accompanied on his journey. Strangers turned into friends as their paths crossed and as they traveled together. He grew into a young man and married the woman he loved. They joined their memories together.

Further along the way, the man became a father and then a grandfather. More memories were collected, some by him and others by his children and grandchildren. They laughed. They joked. They talked of serious things.

The journey continued. New memories were made. Eventually the canvas bag became filled to the top. And although the man could not see the end of the road, he knew the journey itself was a gift from God. He knew that he never traveled alone. He encountered God along the way, through the people he met, the beauty he experienced, the love he felt, and the peace he encountered.

But with time something started happening to the canvas bag, which by now was dirty and worn. The seams, stretched by a full and meaningful life, began unraveling. One at a time, the memories began falling through the holes. The man could sense his loss as the memories slipped away.

His wife saw what was happening. She lovingly picked up all the memories that she could and held onto them like treasures, sharing them with family and friends. People whose lives had been touched by his.

At first it feels like a tragic end to a beautiful story. But maybe not.

Maybe, in a place beyond time and understanding, there is a battered and worn canvas bag that is right now at this very moment being mended by heavenly hands.

A gift from strangers

With the Westside Road closed,
it's a long way to get to Lake George.

I took off with my hiking buddy, with the lake as our goal.
We walked through explosions of golden leaves
set off by the green of the Douglas fir, western redcedar and hemlock,
watching leaves drifting down individually and sometimes in a mass exodus.
Enjoying the solitude and the sun on our faces.
Talking about things of the heart.
A perfect fall hiking day.

When we reached the trailhead we took a break,
and a group of men appeared down the road, heading our way.
We took off, hoping they had a different destination in mind.
The trail disappeared into the forest
and we regained our solitude.

At the lake, we found a log extending into the water
and climbed out on it to have lunch.
Enjoying the peace and beauty of the mountain lake.
Then the group of men appeared. You could hear them
before you could see them. They were loud.
And obnoxious. It amazed me that they seemed to have
little regard for our presence nearby.
I have to say, it made me mad.

They made their way (did I mention loudly?)
along the shore until eventually they were across from us.
And then something happened.
They broke into song, amazing harmonies that carried across the water.
"How Great Thou Art" drifted toward us in an unfamiliar language.
It was beautiful and surreal.

I had to put down my anger and self-righteousness
in order to receive this gift from strangers.
We learned later they were all from Ukraine,
now living in America.
They sing in church together.

A lesson from strangers. A gift of song.
Thank you.

I can do better

Stop and think, I tell myself.
None of this feels right.
So little makes sense anymore.
Are other people feeling this way?

Finding it more and more difficult
to feel at home, not in this place but in this time
when the loudest voices are those of
greed, hatred, violence and power.

The house I grew up in looks the same,
but the neighborhood feels so different.
You notice that too?

Finding it hard to speak the language of truth
when the dialect is dishonesty,
manipulation, power, pride, ego and self.
Flex your patriotic muscles.
Keep out the riffraff. You know the drill.

Since I speak of dishonesty, I should try
to be honest, recognizing that all of us -
you, me, them - are all part of the problem.
It is not a new problem,
it has been around for a long, long time.
Fed by every selfish decision we make,
everything we make into a misguided priority.
As individuals and as a community.

Sure, I'll love my neighbor as myself,
right after I make certain I have everything I need.
Better yet, everything I desire.
(Did I step on you trying to get here? You'll be okay.)
Here, help yourself to my discards.
My leftovers. What a generous person I am.
(Did you see me do that? Good, huh?)

Short-term gain has its hands on the wheel
taking a shortcut across the landscape,
leaving behind devastation and deep, muddy ruts.
For my children and their children.
(I really, really am so very sorry.)

None of this feels right.
What does it look like to live gracefully?
To respond appropriately?
To let go of things that don't matter?
To desire and seek things that do?

Here I am, looking at a page that was blank,
now filled with words. Thinking out loud.
Hoping you will join me.

Knowing I can do better.

Learning to Meditate: Part VI

Sitting in the stillness of the sanctuary,
in the community of friends,
wondering where tonight's journey
will take me.

Breathe in. Breathe out... release.
Pre-established rhythms
guide me along, almost trance-like,
breathe in, breathe out... release,
until I become aware there is more.
This time another word edges in.

Receive.

Suddenly, or perhaps finally,
I become aware of the invitation.

With my breathing, my thoughts carry me
to a high ridge, where I am sitting with my daughter
watching a bird playing with the wind
as the clouds roll over the landscape.

Soaring, then diving, once again climbing
with wings outstretched, higher and higher
only to tuck its wings and dive again.
No visible purpose, no clear destination.
Simply what appears to be the playfulness
of the Spirit, made visible by the wind.

I hear the same message, high on the ridge
and in the quiet of the sanctuary --
"you have my permission to release your worries
and receive my joy."

Breathe in, receive.
Breathe out, release.
Intertwined and connected.

Experiencing the Spirit,
my heart soars.

But what if?

Rarely speaking openly about his faith,
he chose instead to live it.
His choices and priorities
giving definition to what he believed.
The very core of who he was.

Now, when his eyes stare off into the distance,
when his words no longer make sense,
it's easy to imagine that he has lost that center.
That the disease is in control,
giving shape to who he is now.

But what if,
with words gone
(and perhaps no longer needed)
his very breathing becomes his greatest prayer?

What if,
the forgotten memories,
the lost abilities, the total dependence
actually help push aside the ego self,
making room for the indwelling Spirit?

What if,
it becomes a gift to bypass the brain
(which so often leads us astray)
and move directly to the heart
with God, not the disease,
writing the ending to his life story?

What if,
the years of decline
do not feel like years to him?

What if,
when we are saddened by what he has lost
we are the ones who are missing what is still there?

Faith...
the very core of who he is.

Thanks Dad.

When you grow up

Paddling upstream in a canoe, with a high school friend
reviewing our lives with each other -
being both old friends and strangers at the same time
because of the long spaces where we lose touch.
Connected over the years by the shared experiences of our youth.
Good times, yes, perhaps crazy times?

It got me thinking about who I have become
since then and how I got here.
And what it must look like from the perspective of someone else.
Someone who knew me and then didn't and now does again.
Taking pause at where we are now.

Remember how, when we were little, people would always
ask us what we wanted to be when we grew up?

Nobody asks me that question anymore,
apparently because I am grown up. (That still surprises me.)
The gray hair moves me past the question
to a new place beyond.
But if I did get asked that question now
I would answer differently.

Present. Content with what I have.
Faithful. Trustworthy. Connected.
Those are the things I want to be.

We turn the canoe around at a bend in the river
and head downstream,
moving so much faster this direction.
Laughing at how bad I am at steering us on a straight course.
(There's the metaphor perhaps.)

Now, looking back on the day I realize,
I can (and should) rejoice at who I am and where I am headed.

As should we all.

Childhood Traditions

- Haywards Bay, Okoboji


Remember walking from the cottage
to the marshy place with all the frogs?
Over there, a circle of bricks, a raised flower bed,
maybe a foot off the ground.
Near where the sidewalk starts and stops
like an unfinished project.

See it?

It must have once held flowers,
but I don't remember that part.
What I do know is that when we were young
it was impossible to pass by
without walking around the circumference,
at least once, often more.

Barefoot. Arms extended for balance.
Sometimes chasing each other
in a spontaneous game of tag.
...

Walking around the circle now,
seeing with the eyes of an adult,
finally beginning to understand
the rare beauty of our childhood.
Recognizing the sacredness of this place.
Noticing this moment, now.

The pendulum swings from being the child
to seeing through older eyes.
(Hello grandma. It's taken years of living
but now I'm beginning to understand.)
Both experiences are worthy.

Today it is my sister and I.
Arms outstretched,
seeking balance.
Enjoying the moment just because it is.

A spontaneous game of life.

I almost missed it

I have an image of my dad
standing in the kitchen
(this was several years ago).

I was busy, perhaps doing dishes,
I don't remember that part
and it's not important.

He was standing in a small patch of sunlight
in the middle of the kitchen,
his face slightly uplifted, eyes closed.
He was smiling.

My movements around him
did not seem to interfere with his experience.

Eventually, he opened his eyes,
smiled bigger, nodded, and said
"God."

Although he couldn't explain,
here's what I think.
God's spirit resonated within him and he noticed.
He was still and open to it, willing to receive.

I got the dishes done.
At the time, i thought I was
being the productive one.
Took me this long to find the truth.

We were both standing on sacred ground,
but only one of us noticed.

Filling in the spaces

I can never resist
singing the Joe Scruggs version of
"This Little Piggy"when giving my mother-in-law
(what a funny name for someone you love)
a foot massage, tugging her toes,
one by one until the last little piggy.

The same song I sang to
my babies, a long time ago.
I wonder if she sang a similar
song to her children, an even longer time ago?

Remembering is harder these days.
Sometimes when we talk
it's like she gives me the dots,
little glimpses of her past,
and I have to draw the lines between.

The end result might not be an
accurate rendering of her life.

But here's the thing -
it's still a beautiful picture.

A moment can be enough

There is a place where I like to pause
on my evening walks.
A moss-covered mound that always
beckons me to stop.
So I do.

Tonight, responding to the invitation,
I lift my hands to the sky,
following the tree trunks pointing to the clouds,
and sing a line from a song
breaking the stillness around me.

"Create in me a clean heart, oh god"
I pause before continuing
and in that pause I'm gifted with a response -
two hoots from an owl. And again.
Close by, but I can't see it.

"Renew a steadfast spirit within me"
Another pause, another hoot,
this time from the other direction.
The branches of the western hemlock
and Douglas fir are all I see.

"To my prayers you've always given heed"
Finally I see one of the owls, but only
because it takes off from its perch in the canopy
and heads to its companion.

There, I see both of them briefly.
Only for a moment.
But when you are paying attention,
a moment can be enough.
If you are gentle and careful,
it becomes a gift.

A gift I can share with you
through this rough attempt at a poem.
So I do.

Bleeding hearts & forest fairies

Today after work, I took my worries
and my two dogs
out back behind our house.

I crossed two creeks
and climbed through the woods
past the imaginary line
that defines our five acres.

The stinging nettle and salmonberry
had gotten a jump on the weather.
Made me wonder if the peace
I was looking for could be found
in the thorns and brambles.

-------

Leaning against an alder
at the edge of the pond,
smooth bark against my back,
I noticed that I sat down
on a clump of bleeding hearts.
Trampled into the ground,
yet still beautiful somehow.
A lesson there if I'm willing to learn.

Sitting with my face toward the sun,
eyes closed, breathing deeply.
Listening to the stillness.
There, I found myself
closer to the peace I was seeking.
But not quite.


------

Walking back along the trail,
with the light fading,
a rickety wooden table catches my eye.
"Tea for Two" is the name we have
given this place.
For my young neighbor Willow, it is magical --
where forest fairies leave trinkets
and treasures for her to find.

A small glass vase sits on the table,
it was empty when I walked by earlier,
Now it is filled with woodland flowers.

A kindness left for me to find
exactly when I needed it most.

Yes, go

When he had gone a little farther, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John in a boat, preparing their nets. Without delay, he called them, and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men and followed him.    Mark 1: 19-20


This familiar story has always bothered me.
They left their father in the boat. They left their father.
And I know, from the verses that follow, that they left for a very long time.
A lifetime in fact.

I want the back story.

Had Zebedee prepared them, throughout their lives, to follow?
Had he prepared them for this very moment?
Did James and John have any idea what they were committing to?
An afternoon outing? An overnight adventure?
Did Zebedee know what he was losing, and at the same time gaining?

Did they look at their father for reassurance when Jesus called to them?
Did he nod and say, "yes, go"?

Part of Zebedee must have not wanted them to leave.
And part of him must have rejoiced that they went.
I understand this feeling.

I wonder, did I nod and say "yes, go"?
I hope so.

Hopeful anticipation

The great pause.
The time between good friday
and the resurrection.

For those who didn't yet know
the end of the story
it must have felt like
grief without hope.

But for those who came after
who have turned the page
and kept reading
it feels much different.
The purest hope and the greatest love.

Waiting in anticipation.

Resemblances

Like Nicodemus, I seek answers to my questions
in the cover of darkness.
Uncomfortable of what others might think.

Like Moses, I point to my brother and say
"Pick him instead, he's a much better fit for the job."
Preferring to remain in the background,
where the spotlight is not so bright.

Like the woman at the well, I hide my sins
and then, by doing so, forget to seek forgiveness.
Remaining thirsty, when there is no reason to be.

Like Zechariah, I laugh at what appears to be impossible
forgetting that nothing is that way.
Then I wind up speechless. Which is perhaps a gift?

Like Sarai, I take matters into my own hands,
thinking I have the answers rather than patiently waiting
for promises to be fulfilled. What a mess I am capable of.

So very grateful, that I do not have to be perfect
to be loved.

God's story, as told by you and me.

Reassurance markers

On a trail,
a carved wooden sign, faded and weathered gray,
a small metal marker nailed to the rough bark of a tree,
a rock cairn - a sentinel of confidence.
Confirmations that although I might feel lost,
really I am not.
Or, perhaps, if I am, it's okay.
I will eventually find my way.

With pen and paper, in a book or in a song,
when someone else puts my feelings into words
in a way that I have been unable to do.
Providing a way out, an escape.
Helping me better understand my place in the world,
or inviting a quick glance through someone else's perspective.
Validation and understanding joined like colors,
creating a new shade of compassion.

Within me,
the peace that comes with making the right choice,
or sometimes just the act of making a choice,
following the right path for right now.
Being intentional and present.
Listening. Seeking. Discovering.

Realizing that the stones of my experience
might become a marker,
a rock cairn for someone else,
someone like me, who is looking
for small assurances along the way.

Finally, you notice

Swirling.

Reach into the wind within,
try to catch one.
A feeling, an emotion,
like a leaf pushed and lifted by gusts of air.

Release that one,
then grab another.
There,
let go so you can catch the next -
and the next -
and the one after that -
until you notice your hands are full.

But wait,
what if we try something else?

Step forward, into the wind.
This time,
hands by your side.
No longer reaching. No longer grasping.

Instead,
feel the wind move around you.
Emotions brush by.
Hands remain empty.

Eyes closed. Still within.
Suddenly, no gradually,
the sun warms your face
and you notice.
Finally.
At last.

amen, it is so

hello god -
there you are
within reach of my thoughts and my heart
(always within reach)
thank you

it is good to be with you
in this place
in this moment
- now

please enter into my being
settle into my heart
move through my mind
guide me
help me follow your love wherever it leads me
help me include you fully in my experience of life
pure joy, unending love, the deepest peace

i get stuck
when i try to find words to name you, to define my faith
it feels impossible
like trying to fit the ocean inside a goldfish bowl
i can capture only the smallest bit
of who you are

but that is okay because
each day offers a chance to immerse myself in your love
each moment an opportunity to bring my thoughts to the highest places
with you there beside me to share in the present
- now

each person i encounter
becomes a chance to share your love
each challenge, a way to strengthen my trust
refine my belief
expand my ability to see
(or to turn away
in disbelief)

i am
so grateful
to feel your presence
like the ground beneath my feet
(walking barefoot on sacred ground)

you bring hope to each day
- now

amen
it is so

Grand canyons of the soul

We have all met these people.

The ones who have experienced great love,
great loss, great suffering, and somehow through it all,
great peace.

The ones who have a depth within their being,
allowing life's experiences to carve beautiful inner landscapes -
grand canyons within their souls.

You know them when you meet them.

Like water slowly eroding rock,
the layers of who they are
revealed to those who will pause and look and listen.

We have all met these people.
(Perhaps you are one of them?)

Within, an emptiness,
a deep abyss that is somehow filled with beauty and hope.
Sometimes it takes the shadows and the darkness to reveal the light, yes?

As I stand beside them listening, on the edge of who they are
I find myself once again standing on sacred ground,
looking out over the pain and beauty of their lives,
glimpsing God within.

Yes, we have all met these people.
Great love, great loss, great suffering,
and eventually

great peace.

To Katie and Christian

This is what I know.
I am not exactly a wedding-dress-fluffing sort of a mom.

Nobody ever asks me to do their hair and makeup, 
(unless they are under the age of five).

I'm not gifted at raising a glass and offering a toast - 
publicly expressing my inner feelings in front of others.

And I have proven, beyond doubt, that I don't know 
how many people it takes to feed a crowd.

But I'm okay with all that.
Here's why.

Last weekend I got a front row seat
to watch my beautiful daughter pledge her heart
to a kind and good man.

We were surrounded by a sanctuary filled with family and friends,
offering their love and support.

I felt God's presence in the ritual,
the music, the message, the vows, my mom sitting next to me. 
Love and hope, amidst the baby's breath and white lights.

I'm not exactly a wedding-dress-fluffing sort of a mom.
But I'm okay with that. That's not so important to me.

What is important is that my family came together to celebrate
the start of a new journey.

Now, in the quiet of my home, I lift my heart and say,
"To Katie and Christian, may God's love forever be expressed
in the love you share."

Forever and ever. Amen.

Clumsily graceful

Here's what happened, I think.

I stubbed my toe on my faith,
stumbled, lost my balance
and then...



bumped into God.
(who smiled and shook his head at me because that's what love does)

Remembering the burning bush incident,
when God told Moses to take off his sandals
because he was standing on holy ground. 

Now here I am,
walking  barefoot on sacred ground.
Stubbing my toes while seeking grace.
Clumsily graceful? Perhaps.

Following those who have gone before me.
Glimpses of the sacred, everywhere I look,
if I only remember to see. to believe

Hoping that my children and their children and their children
(all people really)
might stub their toes as well. 
Knowing that when they stumble, if they fall, when they fall,
they will find themselves safe 

in loving arms.

Hope is in the sunrise

He found his fullness in the empty space
suspended above the powder.

Pushing limits, always pushing limits, yes?

It's crazy how his hopes and dreams must have felt just beyond his reach,
even as he helped so many others realize their own.

His smile could light up - the world, actually.
Yet he was so often consumed by a fierce and overwhelming darkness.

If only?
Yes, if only.

I cannot understand the world as he saw it,
or life as he experienced it,
or the heavy weight he carried.

But I was witness to the pain of those
who tried so hard to help him on his journey.
Who did their best to love him. Who did love him.
Completely. Through it all.

Now, in a way, it feels over, but really there is so much more.

Hope is in the sunrise.
Indeed.

(I wrote this for my friends who lost their son, an amazing skier, in an avalanche recently. The backcountry was where he found peace from the struggles he faced in day to day life. I hope to cling to the lessons he taught me. I hope to honor the love of his family and friends. Rest in peace Adam.)