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.