The season of letting go

We gather
in the darkening sanctuary.
A small group of us
settle into the pews.

The beginning of a sunset behind us,
a fiery orb trapped in a narrow space
between the horizon and dark clouds.

In front of us
an invitation to be still.
To focus. To be intentional.
To be open.

Beginning, as always,
with the breath.
Closing my eyes, it feels
suddenly like going home.

Breathe in. (Receive.)
A prompting surfaces.
Lean into who I am
to become who you are.

Breathe out. (Release.)
Letting go.
Watching worries fall away
caught in the wind like falling leaves.
Spiraling upward before resting on the ground.

Breathe in.
Move over and make room for me.
(An invitation, not a demand.)
I shift to the left. Just enough.
Now here, let me help you with that.
Breathe out.

But... no wait, hold on a minute.
Panicking at the thought that receiving
help also involves letting go.

Breathe in.
Misplacing my trust.
Clinging so tightly to the wrong things.
Not confident enough to let go.

Then, hearing the words as a thought:
Remember, it was never meant for you to bear alone.
(Release.)

Now, watching the leaf fall,
sadness becomes mixed with possibility.

Seeing hope as a pile of leaves
covering the ground.

Trusting. And letting go.

Listen carefully

Today the grandfather trees spoke to me.
They told me to walk gently on the earth.
They told me it wasn't enough to just love it.
They told me to take care of it.

And I was ashamed.

The last breath

(for my dad)

Watching closely.
For the transition between now and... what?
Something else. Somewhere else. No longer here.
Not the ending. Definitely not the ending.
Understanding without needing to put it in words.

Experiencing the powerful comfort
of having heard and said I love you so many times.
The sacredness of continuing to love to this moment.
Until nothing. And everything. All at once.

Wedged between my brother and sister
in a small room with a small couch.
Next to our mom who showed us over and over
what it is to love someone. That much.
(Wondering how she could possibly say goodbye.)

Being prepared for this moment
through more than ten years of gradual losses.
Little by little. The slowest of seasons.

And then, in that room, you find yourself
suddenly unprepared.

(Looking back, I realize now
faith did not need a prayer
because it was part of everything.)

Two days of watching and waiting
(was it more than two days?)
and then it took us by surprise.

The last breath,
defined only by the absence
of the one to follow.

.....

Later, in the church I grew up in,
standing together, mom listening from up front,
finding strength in each other, we sang.
"My chains are gone, I've been set free."
Knowing it to be finally true.

Realizing the breath we've been holding
can now be released.

Thirty-one years

How well have we loved each other?
A curious question.
Thirty-one years together.
We must have done some things right, yes?

But how well have we loved each other?

My husband, a timber faller then wood worker,
strong hands, rough from his work,
gently cradled babies and held mine.

As an artist, drawn to the wood's inconsistencies,
knot holes, blemishes, insect trails,
intentionally focusing on the simple beauty
of imperfection.

Perhaps this same unique beauty,
these highlighted imperfections,
are also what makes this thing called "us."

There are few straight grains
in our relationship.
Curled shavings pile up on the floor of the shop,
releasing the beauty of the wood
into a smell that can only be called home.

How well have we loved each other?
Enough. Always. Forever.

Highlighting the imperfections.
Creating something uniquely beautiful
into us.

Challenged Beyond

It hurts my neck to look up that high.
There, see? The cables, stretched between two tall Douglas firs.
A belay rope hangs from the highest cable,
running through a pulley, looping back to the ground.

Two, four, six eight, ten...
the knot is checked in a faith-building mantra
like a backwards countdown.

Belay on? (Apprehension makes it a question.)
On belay. Climbing? Climb on.

The ladder feels cold.  And wobbly.
The slack in the rope is pulled tight with each rung,
delivering a dose of confidence through the harness.

The ladder ends and the metal staples begin,
defining the route up the trunk.
Depending on the strength of my legs,
knowing that is the power.

Staying focused on the physical challenge
crowds out the fear. (Well, some of it anyway.)
Then, twisting from the staples, feeling the roughness of the bark,
one foot, then both feet on the cable,
thankful for the mid-height cables on each side to hold onto.

So high above the ground, but trying not to notice that.
Everything wobbles, including my knees.
The belay rope moves with the pulley along the cable above.
I can feel the tension. I know I'm safe, but trust is elusive.

The other end of the cable dead ends into a tree, the goal,
and when I finally reach it I lean against the rope,
stretching to give the tree a quick kiss,
then turn around on the cable.

The walk back to the middle seems easier
because the challenge feels mostly over.
"Turn your back to me, lean back and sit."
The voice comes from below.
And so I do, trusting both the mechanics
and the facilitator, who was a stranger an hour ago.

Finally relaxed enough to take in the view from above
and then it's over. My feet touch the ground.
Smiling. I did it. Again.

Later on, as I replay the experience I realize,
maybe this is the biggest challenge --
making sure your comfort zone doesn't contract with each year
into something so small, you no longer recognize who you are,
or dream of who you want to be.

And so I hope, with everything in me.
I hope I am brave enough,
I hope I am reckless enough,
I hope I am physically able enough,
to do this again.

Come with me next time, will you?



(For all the Cispus Challenge Course facilitators over the years and still to come.)

Patricia Mirembe

Today
my arms are empty
but my heart is full.

Surprised by the discovery of
not one but two miracles -
that of a baby, another granddaughter,
and that of watching
my little girl suddenly a mother.

Witnessing the partnership
between mother and father
as they find their new rhythm,
making room in their lives for another.
Awed by the responsibility.
Trusting in such love.

So many people enter our home,
making it a sacred place
simply by their presence
and their search for what is...
perhaps holy is the right word?

The Little One
who furrows her brow,
squints her eyes,
and then bursts into a smile,
or sometimes an indignant cry.

Either way,
it's the most beautiful thing.

Watching my mom,
holding her great granddaughter,
in the same way she once held me,
representing four generations.
Bound tightly by a shared name.

Witnessing my daughters,
who drift apart in their own directions,
pulled closer together once again
by the love that so easily fits into your arms,
one hand under the round bottom,
the other patting gently on her back,
making it impossible to find a reason
to set her down.

This morning the house is quiet.
It is just the two of us. Again.
Another miracle, easier to miss.
A compatible ease.

Yes, miracles abound.

There you are

- For Polly


There were eight of us. Once.
Now as I count
I have to touch a finger and say each name
because the math never seems quite right.
(Yes, you notice that too?)
Seven.

Heading to a gathering of longtime friends
that begins with a solo road trip.
Driving in the rain toward a promise of sunshine,
following a familiar route
while completely lost in thought.

Launched by a hug from my youngest
and a kiss from my guy.
(The dogs only looked up -
knowing the suitcase meant they weren't invited.)

Singing like you do when there is
no one there to listen.
Suddenly "Karla B's" voice fills the car,
silencing me with a melancholy tune
that carries so many memories -
goodbye my friend.

Making me wish the hugs promised
at the end of the day were here,
with me, now.

Truth nudges its way into my thoughts,
blurring the line between what was and what is.
Realizing that they are with me here,
in the memories and also in this moment.
In the tears and the laughter.
Embraced by a hug that doesn't let go.
(You know the kind.
We have a special name for it, don't we.)

Now, home again,
I think back on the weekend.
The gift of friendship
shared around a large wooden table
with one empty chair.

There were eight of us once.
And, really, there always will be.

Cast the first stone

Here's what I picture.
A man, Middle Eastern descent
squatting on the ground
surrounded by angry confusion.
Eyes focused downward,
drawing in the dirt with his finger.

Listening, taking it all in,
standing out by not participating
in the accusations.

A woman, accused of her sins,
already pummeled by judgement
while awaiting her fate.
No recourse. Alone with her fear.
A tear makes its way down her cheek.

Angry, righteous people,
so ready to judge this woman for her sin.
(Is there no accused man to stand with her?)
A growing crowd waiting, in anger,
in hate, in judgement
to give this woman what she deserves.

Which ends up being what she receives.

Words are spoken.
The stones are dropped,
striking the earth with muffled thuds,
obscuring a heart drawn with a finger
in the dust.

Forgiveness.

As I turn to walk away, I realize
there is something in my hand.
Judgement changes into personal conviction.

He stands up finally,
and looks into my eyes,
seeing my soul.

Who am I in this story?
I release the stone I am holding
along with the sins I try to hide.

Forgiven.