Wobbling

My son Nick, in early days of standing on his own, balances on this ancient redwood, a grin of success on his face.

 

Recently I started Physical Therapy for a problem I’ve had for a long time. Frankly it’s making me grumpy. I can’t tell if it’s working, but I ache in new places and I just feel off kilter. There are lots of reasons for us to get off kilter; it could be a loss or injury, a new job or relationship. From new traffic patterns on our commute to a bathroom under construction, even minor changes can ripple out in surprising ways.

I remember noticing, when my son was little, that periods of discomfort and frustration were often followed by leaps of growth, like teething, learning to walk, learning to talk, or mastering some new skill. When we are very young this cycle repeats itself in quick repetition, so it is easy to see that a period of frustration precedes a period of new mastery and confidence. Now that we are older, our growth spurts can be harder to spot. We assume because we are adults with bills to pay and laundry to fold that we are done growing, we are “grown up.”

But living beings are never done growing; being alive always involves change and growth. Our changing world requires change and growth. And as any teething toddler can tell you, growth is not comfortable.

Have you ever watched a child who was just learning to walk? There’s a lot of wobbling as they learn to balance – a lot of falling too. Adults don’t like to wobble. Not only does it undermine our adult sense of competence, but it feels a bit out of control. When my grandmother had a stroke years ago, it took her weeks of physical therapy to learn to walk again. She sounded amazed when she told us that story- both amazed that a full grown adult could have to learn again one of the earliest tasks of life, but also that such learning was possible. Of course not all people are able to walk, and this offers a different form of the same challenge- the wobble of learning to get around in the world in our own way.

I have a friend who was an advanced student of martial arts. He told me that whenever they learned some new sequence that required balance, he would wobble around experimenting. He assumed the other students judged him for wobbling, but he knew that the process of wobbling around in a new position ultimately gave him better mastery of it. Imagine all the years of wobbling it takes Olympic gymnasts to stick the landing, then light up with that victorious grin on their faces.

So if you find yourself feeling wobbly in your ever changing life -- physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually -- perhaps it would help to remember the toddler growing from a crawler to a walker. The bigger the growth and change, the more wobbling may be required. Sometimes a period of wobbling and disorientation means that new growth is just around the corner. Blessings for all who wobble.

Faithful Moon

  

I have taken many disappointing photos of the moon over the years, and a few good ones. I noticed, as I searched through my photos, that I mostly have photos of the full-ish moon, and no photos at all of a crescent moon. I gave myself a summer discipline- I would take a photo of the moon each day for a month. I’d always been a bit confused about when and where the moon would appear, and hoped this practice would help me finally understand. I downloaded a moon app to my phone, so I would know what time the sun would rise and set each day.

 

Fortuitously, on the first day of my new discipline, a waxing gibbous moon appeared in the sky while I was taking my dogs for their evening walk. I rushed to grab my camera and fiddled with settings until I got a passable photo. The next night I couldn’t find the moon, so I explained my daily-moon-photo plan to the family and asked them to please yell out “moon” whenever they saw it. The first time my partner yelled “moon” I rushed to spot where he was pointing – there it was! I ran for my camera, but by the time I got back, it was covered by clouds. Disappointed, I added another app to my phone so I could more reliably locate the moon in the sky. I checked my app several times each day and began making progress toward my goal. 
One night that great super moon was due to rise right at bedtime. I live in a valley and it would take hours for the moon to appear above the hills and tree line from my house. Not wanting to miss it, I jumped in the car and drove to the top of a hill, finally capturing a lovely photo in a gap between trees and through whisps of clouds. 

I was starting to get the hang of it- the moon rose later and later each day, generally rising at one side of my yard behind one clump of trees, and setting near the front of my house behind another clump of trees. I looked forward to my first morning photos of the crescent moon, but between the trees in full leaf and the morning clouds, days went by with no photo. Soon my app showed me that the crescent moon would be right near where the sun was appearing, but I couldn’t look at the spot without hurting my eyes. I finally understood why I had so few photos of the crescent moon!

Each day I searched the sky multiple times, the disciple no longer about snapping a photo, or even spotting the moon, but just following the trajectory by holding the app up to trees or buildings or whatever blocked my view. At least I was learning something. A Jewish month always starts on the new moon- historically months began on the day that the first little sliver is sighted in the sky by 2 witnesses, and validated by the trained astronomer Rabbis. As my month of moon watching approached the time of the new moon I understood why it was traditional for folks to stand on a hill together awaiting that first moon siting. Even with my partner and son helping, it was a full 6 days after the calendar told me the new moon had appeared before I saw it with my own eyes.

Then the rains began, and I tracked an invisible moon holding my app up to the cloudy sky for several days with no photograph at all. Finally the waxing gibbous moon appeared as I walked my dogs in the evening, just as it had the month before.

Through all those days when there was no visible moon to photograph, a phrase kept popping into my mind “Faithless as the moon.” I went to look up the text, sure it was Shakespeare, and found I had made it up. Because in fact the moon is not faithless, she is right where she should be in her transit whether we can see her or not. What Shakespeare did write (in Romeo and Juliet) is: “Do not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly. then your love would also change.” This is also not quite true; the appearance of the moon changes, and where she hangs in the sky and when, but the moon itself is quite predictable if you track her patterns and do a little math (or download an app).

The moon is actually quite faithful and changeless -- it is only our point of view that changes. As a preacher this spoke to me. In these quixotic and dramatically changing times. In a summer when both rainstorms and long dry periods came in unprecedented and anxiety-producing ways, I liked the idea that the moon was always there whether we could see it or not. I came to enjoy and look forward to the practice of noting the moon’s rise and set and following her transit on the sky, even when she was invisible to me day after day until finally, right on schedule, the clouds parted and she appeared where she was supposed to be. Perhaps the moon can help us have faith in those things we know are there but cannot see, like the Love that never lets us go. Like the inescapable web of life which holds us in relationship even when we feel most alone. After a summer of searching for the moon, she has become a reminder, when we see her and when we don’t, that there is more to this universe than we can see, and we can have faith in that.

I have taken many disappointing photos of the moon over the years, and a few good ones. I noticed, as I searched through my photos, that I mostly have photos of the full-ish moon, and no photos at all of a crescent moon. I gave myself a summer discipline- I would take a photo of the moon each day for a month. I’d always been a bit confused about when and where the moon would appear, and hoped this practice would help me finally understand. I downloaded a moon app to my phone, so I would know what time the sun would rise and set each day.

Fortuitously, on the first day of my new discipline, a waxing gibbous moon appeared in the sky while I was taking my dogs for their evening walk. I rushed to grab my camera and fiddled with settings until I got a passable photo. The next night I couldn’t find the moon, so I explained my daily-moon-photo plan to the family and asked them to please yell out “moon” whenever they saw it. The first time my partner yelled “moon” I rushed to spot where he was pointing – there it was! I ran for my camera, but by the time I got back, it was covered by clouds. Disappointed, I added another app to my phone so I could more reliably locate the moon in the sky. I checked my app several times each day and began making progress toward my goal.

One night that great super moon was due to rise right at bedtime. I live in a valley and it would take hours for the moon to appear above the hills and tree line from my house. Not wanting to miss it, I jumped in the car and drove to the top of a hill, finally capturing a lovely photo in a gap between trees and through whisps of clouds. 

I was starting to get the hang of it- the moon rose later and later each day, generally rosing at one side of my yard behind one clump of trees, and setting near the front of my house behind another clump of trees. I looked forward to my first morning photos of the crescent moon, but between the trees in full leaf and the morning clouds, days went by with no photo. Soon my app showed me that the crescent moon would be right near where the sun was appearing, but I couldn’t look at the spot without hurting my eyes. I finally understood why I had so few photos of the crescent moon! 

Each day I searched the sky multiple times, the disciple no longer about snapping a photo, or even spotting the moon, but just following the trajectory by holding the app up to trees or buildings or whatever blocked my view. At least I was learning something. A Jewish month always starts on the new moon- historically months began on the day that the first little sliver is sighted in the sky by 2 witnesses, and validated by the trained astronomer Rabbis. As my month of moon watching approached the time of the new moon I understood why it was traditional for folks to stand on a hill together awaiting that first moon siting. Even with my partner and son helping, it was a full 6 days after the calendar told me the new moon had appeared before I saw it with my own eyes.

Then the rains began, and I tracked an invisible moon holding my app up to the cloudy sky for several days with no photograph at all. Finally the waxing gibbous moon appeared as I walked my dogs in the evening, just as it had the month before.

Through all those days when there was no visible moon to photograph, a phrase kept popping into my mind “Faithless as the moon.” I went to look up the text, sure it was Shakespeare, and found I had made it up. Because in fact the moon is not faithless, she is right where she should be in her transit whether we can see her or not. What Shakespeare did write (in Romeo and Juliet) is: “Do not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly. then your love would also change.” This is also not quite true; the appearance of the moon changes, and where she hangs in the sky and when, but the moon itself is quite predictable if you track her patterns and do a little math (or download an app).

The moon is actually quite faithful and changeless -- it is only our point of view that changes. As a preacher this spoke to me. In these quixotic and dramatically changing times. In a summer when both rainstorms and long dry periods came in unprecedented and anxiety-producing ways, I liked the idea that the moon was always there whether we could see it or not. I came to enjoy and look forward to the practice of noting the moon’s rise and set and following her transit on the sky, even when she was invisible to me day after day until finally, right on schedule, the clouds parted and she appeared where she was supposed to be. Perhaps the moon can help us have faith in those things we know are there but cannot see, like the Love that never lets us go. Like the inescapable web of life which holds us in relationship even when we feel most alone. After a summer of searching for the moon, she has become a reminder, when we see her and when we don’t, that there is more to this universe than we can see, and we can have faith in that. 

An Abundance of Stones

We live not far from Cayuga lake, and when we speak of “the lake” that is what we mean -- deep cold water surrounded on many sides by rock face and tree-covered hills in alternation. I had never lived near a lake before, and we are still somewhat amazed and grateful to have it as a neighbor. Imagine our surprise on our first visit to Lake Ontario- we thought of Cayuga as a large lake (it is the longest of the Finger Lakes) but it is small compared to Lake Ontario whose opposite shore disappears beyond the horizon. Unlike walking the silty shore of lake Cayuga, where I can gaze at the landscape as I walk, we noticed walking the shore of Lake Ontario day after day, that our eyes were constantly drawn down; the shore where we walked was covered with smooth, rounded stones making a bumpy and uncertain footing -- at times like walking on marbles. On our Lake Cayuga shore dark grey shale rocks, pointy and flat, predominate. The shores of Lake Ontario collect some of the most diverse rocks in the world rounded and polished by the motions of the lake. 

As my we walked and rambled and gazed my eyes were drawn to particular stones. At first I was charmed by the perfectly smooth oval stones in pastel colors- many had subtle stripes or concentric circles showing the layers which formed the rocks over time. Others sparkled and looked like diamonds reflecting the sun in the shallow water. My husband and I noticed some that made us laugh- one, he said, resembled Fred Flintstone’s remote (we brought that one home). Many had flecks of bright colors -- pink, red, yellow. The green ones were rare, so I had to pick those up when we saw them. Some we admired for their smoothness and rubbed them between our fingers. Some had beautiful stripes like the landscape. I could go on. In fact, all week I admired the stones, in piles and one by one. We filled our pockets with stones and made stones into beach sculpture. I brought some up onto the deck, to admire them once again -- to notice how dramatically they changed when dry. 

There were just too many stones. Too many beautiful, unique, interesting, smooth, shiny stones. I put my very favorites (still too many) in a container to take home when we packed up, and we brought the rest back to the beach where, of course, there was still an unimaginable number of stones beckoning.

This is a good problem to have. I remember days when I’m so down that nothing seems beautiful; hard feelings obscure my sense of joy and gratitude like clouds in front of the sun, and everything seems dull and grey. What a blessing to have days where I am cheered and inspired and moved by the beauty that is all around us, even the stones beneath our feet. “Taste and see” encourages Psalm 34 and truly there is goodness all around us, even in this world that also has struggle and sorrow. 

On such a morning, standing at the edge of the lake looking at those stones sparkling I feel, somehow, responsible for seeing, tasting, enjoying and being grateful for it all. There is so much when you gaze on the world around us in wonder and awe; some days it overwhelms me. It is too much for our human hearts- it is simply too immense. Perhaps we can only really love it one stone a time -- one flower, one sunset, one friend at a time. I can imagine coming to know this so deeply that I no longer have to fill my pockets with rocks, that I could hold a lovely thing in my hand, and then set it down, knowing that there are truly an infinite number of beautiful things all around us. In the meantime I do enjoy that bucket of rocks I brought home from our time away. For now it is enough.

 

How We Hold On In Discouraging Times

from the Smart Anglers Notebook by Carl Richardson, illustrated by Ted Walke

While stopped for a travel break at the Pennsylvania visitor’s center, we found a display about ice fishing, including a description of how to make and use your own ice awls. The helpful illustrations showed how, if you fell through the ice, you could use the awls by driving each spike into the ice, pulling yourself out of the water and onto the ice, and then rolling to safer ice. Though I will probably never do any ice fishing myself, I was so impressed by the clear instructions and practicality that I grabbed a flier on my way out.

Later on that evening, the family was talking about Habitat For Humanity’s first ever 3d printed house. We were charmed by the idea- how pretty the house had looked, how quickly it had been built. “Maybe this could make a real difference,” said someone hopefully. A young person in my family expressed a long-time frustration that no matter how many small improvements we make, great suffering continues. We offered examples of big changes in the world, like in the fight against Malaria and AIDS, but he countered with the big persistent problems of our time. He's right of course. There are many people suffering right at this moment. And some of that suffering could be relieved if we came together a did all we could, yet the great problems persist.

It's important to look critically and realistically at the problems of our world. But when we do, it is easy to sink into despair. “Despair” I offered “can be a slippery slope. We can always come up with more and more reasons to feed our despair, and once we begin, it has a kind of addictive quality and a limitless appetite. It sucks us in. In my experience, despair is not helpful.” I grasped around for a metaphor. “These little bits of good news, like the Habitat for Humanity houses, they are like the points in the ice awls. We grab on to them to pull ourselves out of despair, so that we can roll to safer ice.” Once we have pulled ourselves out of the suck of despair, then we can look for solutions, and do whatever things we can do to make life better for all we touch.

Our spiritual practices can be like those ice awls. When I feel the pull of despair, they anchor me in whatever solid ground I can find. One practice I use is looking for what my teacher Brook Thomas calls “basic goodness”- by which she means not necessarily something that feels good (it can be hard to find anything that makes us feel good when we are truly discouraged) but any ordinary sort of neutral feeling. If I am having one of those days when “everything hurts” I might notice that actually the tops of my feet feel neutral. If my worries are weighing me down, I notice those basic things I don’t often pay attention to; right now I am in a dry, warm room with working electricity that powers my computer and a nearby lamp. I have a full belly and am able to breathe without effort. I hear the sounds of my housemates and neighbors. All of those ordinary good things are like the solid ground on which we can anchor ourselves. Even if, say, your heating goes out, or you have a respiratory illness that makes breathing onerous, we can shift our anchor to some other basic goodness- the people who will answer if I reach out to them, the solidity of the comfy chair that holds me up, the warm blanket I wrap myself in.

I believe that there is a basic goodness that is deeper and larger than all the troubles of the world. One of the most important practices that sustain us in unstable times is to remember and connect to this deeper goodness. I encourage you to locate or build your own “Spiritual Awls,” and keep them handy whenever you notice yourself sinking towards despair. This is one of the reasons for spiritual practice, so that we can anchor ourselves in what is good, what is enduring, even in challenging times. Anchored in basic goodness we are able to see the beauty in even the coldest winter, and to help and support one another from that stable ground.

 

Where is Beauty Now?

I believe there is beauty to be found in every season, if we look deeply and patiently. I make a practice of looking for beauty and wonder wherever I find myself. Sometimes it is the dramatic colors of sunset, or a glowing moon rising behind the hills, but sometimes it is more subtle -- a bit of green lichen on a dead branch, the wildflowers poking up in a roadside ditch. When I get a chance for some time away on vacation or retreat, this practice brings me special joy as I learn the unique beauty of a new place, and let that beauty nourish my spirit.

One winter I was traveling in the grey and brown season of the year. I was dispirited by the grey skies, the dry brown leaf litter everywhere, the empty trees, the dirty remnants of old ice and snow. I gazed out, that first morning of my visit, over the parking lot at the grey and the mud and I was discouraged. Perhaps it was the fractal patterns of a thin layer of ice over a mud puddle that emerged overnight -- each puddle frosted with fragile geometric patterns -- that first gave my eyes something to enjoy. Perhaps when the weak winter sun finally emerged, so did the birds and chipmunks enjoying the feeder across the parking lot. The moss also responded to the melted snow and the sun’s rays by bursting to life and shining a bit of emerald green contrast to the relentless brown of the landscape. Perhaps it was all these together that helped me tune into the particular beauty of the season of brown and grey. I became curious about the different shapes of the bare branches against the sky- some smooth and round, others twisting in sharp complex angles. Both were beautiful in their own way; each told a different story of many seasons of growth and life. Even the relentlessly brown acorns and oak-leaves, pine-cones and seed pods caught my eye with their abundance and the patterns they made laying in drifts on the ground. It had taken several days of earnest looking for the beauty of that time and place for it to show itself, but in the end, I was moved by its beauty.

In another place and another season, as I walked across the sparkling shells in the tide-pools by the ocean, I knew objectively that what I was looking at could be called beautiful. I felt so unappreciative that I was not able to enjoy that beauty. But my heart was heavy and joy was not available that day. I could only be present with what was real for me. I learned that day that sometimes before I can see the beauty of the season where I am, sometimes I have to grieve the seasons that have passed. I walked, and pondered, and finally wept – the storm outside felt like the storm in my heart and spirit. When the storm passed it was like my eyes had been cleaned, and now I could take in the wonders that had been there all along.

I believe there is beauty everywhere, if we look deeply enough, but it is sometimes hard to see. Here where I live in the Northeast, the green of summer fills the sense. The tulips, crocuses and forsythia of spring offer hopeful bursts of color in the gradually renewing landscape. But winter, after the first frozen storms have made a brown mess and the skies are grey more often than not, can be an ugly season. Even so, there is beauty there if we look patiently and with a loving eye. If you find yourself in such a time, I invite this practice- it’s okay to grieve the loss of summer, to miss the bright colors of May, but have faith that wherever you are there is beauty which can nourish your soul, if only we have the patience to let it reveal itself to us.

Remembrance

Our beloved Trey

When I was little, the minister of my church used to remind us that those we have loved live on in our memories even after they die, and because they have touched our lives, they live on in us too. At his time of my life, I no longer take memory for granted- each year I remember less and less as the ordinary moments of years past begin to fade.

And so it is that the sharing of memories and stories of our beloved dead becomes a sacred act. It is a practice that reminds us that our connection to those who came before is not broken, even in death. When we share memories and stories it helps us strengthen those connections and keep these memories alive. Although our loved ones’ absence from our physical lives is real, so is the presence that remains in our hearts and minds.

I once read the story about the family dog who always slept on a certain part of the carpet. Even after their beloved dog died, the family noticed how they kept the habit of detouring around that spot. That empty place became a reminder to the family of their companion who still filled a space in their hearts. Though the physical presence was gone, that space they held for her had its own kind of presence that was tangible for them, a space that inspired memory.

In many cultures this autumn time midway between the fall equinox and the winter solstice is the season to remember loved ones who have died. Whatever your culture or faith tradition, I invite you to find time to call to mind those beloved dead you are feeling close to this year, whose memories, love and wisdom you most want in your life right now…

Those we loved and who loved us.
Those whose wise counsel we sought out.
Those who knew how to bring a smile to our face, who helped us think about things in a fresh way.
Those whose lives inspired us.

You might do that in a private way, or you might share these memories and stories with family and friends. Often sharing brings back things we might have forgotten, and also creates support for the process, creating a compassionate space to remember and cherish things that might bring up tender emotions.

This time of year, or whenever the spirit moves, I invite you to remember your beloved dead. May their memories support, comfort, challenge and inspire us though death has taken their physical presence from us.

Our Beloved Sandy, Napping

 

This Season, Like No Other

“Seasons come, as seasons do, old and known, but somehow new” – Max Coots

 

As the wheel of the year turns, some things are the same every year- the chill air at night as the days grow shorter, the changing colors of the leaves on the trees. In these things we are connected with all the beings in our ecosystem- with the squirrels now frantically burying nuts all over my yard, the geese honking in the air, plants coming to fruition each in their own time, all preparing for what we in this northeast bio-region know will be a cold winter ahead.

Other things we can count on are peculiarly human, and link us to our human community- the bustle of the school year underway, preparations for an election in November. Our holidays and traditions help us mark the turning of the seasons.

This autumn will be like no other. It will have some of the same things -- chill air, changing leaves, new semesters, elections -- but differences subtle and not so subtle mark this year in its uniqueness. Right now as farm stands near my home fill up with apples, pumpkins, and the last of the autumnal harvest, the stores are full of Halloween candy bringing memories of years past. When we first moved to the home where we now live, my son wanted to host a party for his new friends on Halloween, and so we gathered with cider and costumes, and progressed around the neighborhood together. It was a joyful success, and so it became a tradition in the years that followed. I have some wonderful memories of those parties; some years it was hot, other years bitter cold or raining. Over the years, friends changed and costumes changed, the kids got bigger, as did their bags of treats. 

Soon my son grew too old for trick or treat. Then a different neighborhood became the “it” place for trick or treating, and the kids would beg to go find their friends on the other side of town. Our annual gathering got smaller and smaller and finally came to an end. A friend who had joined us since that first year seemed amazed when I told her “no party this year.”

I feel some sadness about the end of that tradition, but the next year we went out with a small child who toddled door to door, amazed and bewildered as she learned the trick-or-treat ritual for the first time. We witnessed the joy of our young adult neighbors hosting their first ever trick-or-treaters, their delight at being the ones to welcome costumed children, to offer them treats, and watch the little one’s face light up as they praised her costume and filled her bag.

This is one of the ways seasonal traditions touch us. They help us mark not only the cycles of the seasons, but the longer circle of our lives. Like a string of memories, I can see Halloweens when I was a child, and a teen, and a parent. I now wonder “what is Halloween for me in this new season of my life?” Seasonal traditions show us how we are changing, how our community is changing, how our ecosystem is changing. They show us changes that might otherwise be too subtle or gradual to notice day to day.

We talk about observing seasonal traditions, and I like that way of putting it -- observing this season, exactly as it is. As the season unfolds, “old and known, but somehow new” I invite you to adopt a spiritual practice of noticing; get curious about what is the same and what is different. Notice what changes are happening within you, and what remains the same. Notice how this autumn is like no other. What are you noticing about this season? How does it remind you of other years? What is different and surprising? May this autumn be for you both familiar and new- a fruitful harvest of our growing season.