One Thing at a Time

My mentor, Rev. Til Evans, once told me this story. When she first came to a new congregation folks had many suggestions about what needed to be done. One mom approached her after church on Sunday with a whole list of things that were wrong with the children’s program and needed to be fixed right away. These were real concerns from a committed member delivered with passion and urgency. Til said “I can only handle one thing at a time. Let’s pick one to work on and I’ll get back to you next Sunday.” And so it went, week by week until all the concerns had been addressed. The mom felt heard, and continued to be an active volunteer and member of the congregation even years later when I served the same congregation, trying to fill Til’s shoes.

I’m guessing Til told me that story as we sat drinking tea because I had likely recited my own list of the many problems that urgently needed to be solved. Til said “I had to humbly admit my limits.” I was struck by her courage to speak her truth. As a young minister I regularly tied myself in knots trying to accomplish all those things people told me needed to be done. What courage and clarity to say “here’s what I can do, the rest will have to wait.”

Now, some 20 years later I still remember this story – it sings in my ears whenever I find myself in a swirling cyclone of things needing my attention. Today I have a much better sense of what I’m capable of, which is rooted in being honest with myself and noticing my capacities. Over these 20 years I’ve learned by experience that it is just not humanly possible to do all the things I think would be good, nor all the things other folks in my communities hope to do. Perhaps it does require humility and courage to acknowledge my limits, especially when I’m disappointing someone’s expectations. But I think of that mom who, years later, told me how she felt a closeness with Til that was rare and precious. Perhaps, along with Til’s generosity of spirit and warm heart, that trust was rooted in knowing Til could admit her limitations and be counted on to come back with what she had learned.

Whenever the cyclone of activity and expectations becomes too much for you, I invite you to think of Til’s wisdom and strength to say “I can only do one thing at a time, where shall we start?”

Friend or Enemy?

My social media feed has figured out that I love trees and moss and native plants, (along with cats getting into boxes and dogs pushing buttons of course). Recently a post came up in a “Native Plants” group, with the photo a plant with tiny purple flowers I see all the time in my yard. The poster’s question- was this plant friend or enemy? Now I’m a native plant lover from way back, and I understand the harm that invasive plants can do as they push out native plants and all the critters that depend on them. But the post stuck with me- is this the enemy? It's hard for me to think of any plant as my enemy.

I’m pretty sure I have that plant, or one of its siblings in the front patch between my sidewalk and street, and based on how fast it grows it probably is invasive. So at the risk of being cancelled, I confess that a couple of years back I took (with permission) several of those plants from my neighbor’s front patch and planted it in mine. Why? Because another invasive plant, Lesser Celandine, had so thoroughly taken over my front patch that when it dies back with the first heat of summer, it exposes the bare soil which runs off quickly in the rain. Then in the July droughts nothing grows and there are no plants to hold in the water. I needed a plant that didn’t mind that challenging soil between sidewalk and street and could fill in quickly when the lesser celandine died back. I think of that plant with the little purple flowers as my friend, because it protects the soil, and helps hold water in the tiny patch.

I’ve tried planting clover and grass in that patch, but slugs think baby clover is the most delicious thing. I definitely thought of slugs as the enemy for a long time, but last year I decided I was really going to figure out how to get rid of them, and as I paid attention to the slugs in my yard, I began to notice how the parent slugs would bring their babies to a brand new basil plant to help them get a good start in life. Sigh.

Squirrels were my first enemy in the garden, as they stole all the bird food from my squirrel-proof feeders, but the more I watched the more I saw families of baby squirrels emerge from neighbor trees, delighted by their antics. I noticed that those same squirrels who stole the bird food defend the territory from mice and rats. Now these families of squirrels are old friends.

It turns out that plant with the little purple flowers is called “ground ivy” which has been a traditional medicine for headaches, colds, and a bunch of other conditions. Yes, it’s also invasive in some places. So is it friend or enemy? Perhaps it’s just a neighbor. It's hard to be alive in this world, hard to feed yourself and your family whether you are a person, a squirrel or a slug living on my block. Neighborhoods are complicated networks of beings with strengths and weaknesses. What I love is life- all the things willing and able to live and grow and fill barren places in the community of being where I call home. It feels like a gift of the spirit to watch relationships deepen as we know each other better, contemplating this web of life as I sit on my porch is a practice that grounds me and restores my spirit.

When the Maps You Trusted Are Wrong

 What do you do when the map you’ve been following doesn’t match the reality of the path in front of you? There’s a bridge under construction in my town that my GPS insists I should be able to cross. It’s kind of a shock to notice that the guidance you’ve been relying on is suddenly unreliable. Once, wondering if the phone knew something I didn’t, I walked right up to the gap only to confirm there was still a big construction site where the bridge used to be. But the software companies that make the map are far away, and here I stand, looking at an active construction site and an uncrossable bridge.

Trusting your senses is a good place to start. We are living in a time when many of the maps that have been guiding us haven’t caught up to the changes in the terrain we are trying to travel. So many aspects of our lives, of our communities, are “under construction” right now- and the ways we’ve always done things are simply not available. I talk with many folks who struggle with the gap between what they feel they should be able to do, and what is actually possible in this moment. Perhaps it’s something they were always able to do that now exhausts their changing body. Perhaps it’s a goal at work or at a volunteer organization that seems achievable but yet is always out of reach. It can be disturbing when an outcome is simply not available right now, while your map insists it should be possible. Maybe it is not you who are wrong, maybe it is the map.

How can you tell? Sometimes you don’t have a whole construction crew waving orange flags to make things clear. If you can resume your journey with a little detour, perhaps it’s easier and quicker just to take that other path going to the same goal without giving it too much thought. Sometimes it’s worth getting curious and investigating. What is the nature of the obstacle? How long might it take to clear? Is there something I could do to help? If a trashcan has blown over into the sidewalk, a moment of attention could quickly clear the path for everyone.

Sometimes we need to pull over and make a new plan. When we are talking not about literal paths, but about finding a life path, a spiritual path that we can travel with integrity, compassion and a sense of calling in the world it can be worth metaphorically pulling over to the side of the road and taking some time for discernment. Long ago, my partner worked for a company that was releasing an early GPS device. We had a beta test version that he used to write instructions, and we put it in the car. One day I was driving to a new place, and the road the GPS suggested changed to a dirt road. Hmmm. Then the dirt road got bumpy and rutty in the rain, then it turned into a bike path. I had to back up through the drenching rain and mud until I was back on solid ground again. I took a breath, turned around and found a new path.

Discernment is a way of making decisions that uses our whole self -- heart, mind, body and soul. It is a way of making decisions that also includes that which is greater than ourselves, be that the Spirit, the Universe, the community of beings. It is a way of deciding that takes a long view and a deep view and arrives at a conclusion that is harmonious for our whole being.

Once we have chosen our path, and begin moving along it, discernment continues to happen all along our journey. Discernment is not just about the big choices, this career or that one, this place to live or that one. We make big and little decisions all the time in life, for as long as we live. Each day we are invited to discern step by step the path we make by walking.

Discernment is not just about moving towards what feels good, or easy. For example, part of ministry is being with people who are struggling, being with our challenges as a community and as a world. There’s a certain way I feel when I know that something is the right thing to do, even when it is hard. I sense that staying on the hard path will matter, that it will connect me to something sacred, to the deep parts of myself, to the person I most want to be.

A blessing to all of us right now who are finding our path is blocked, that the way we hoped to travel is not available, that our map is unreliable. It’s frustrating, disorienting and sometimes scary. I wish you the wisdom to trust the reality you are experiencing, the wisdom to discern your path, faith that a way will open, and trustworthy friends and guides to support you on your way.

Hope Lives Bulbs and Roots

 

This week at my house, the daffodils are finally blooming, and I see signs that the tulips are not far behind. As gardeners know, the first flowers of spring come not from seeds but from bulbs. Any daffodil or tulip you see this today stored up energy all through last year’s growing season, and when it’s leaves were finished that work, stored the energy underground all winter, so it could start again, growing out of that bulb into the sunlight when the time was right. Just about anything you see growing right now comes from a bulb, or from its roots. Trees too- remember half of them lives underground. They have great reserves of life force they store year after year, century after century in their trunks and roots.

Consider mushrooms- I hadn’t realized that the mushrooms we see are like fruit that pop up when it’s time to reproduce- sending spores out into the world to start the next generation. The body of the fungus is a great web of tiny filaments below ground. How much of life is underground! How much life and growth happens where our eyes can’t see.

Here is where I am finding hope this year, even when the late snows or frost damage the spring’s ephemeral blossoms. As sad as it is to see the fragile buds and flowers crushed, or eaten by backyard critters, my hope is underground, in those bulbs, in those roots. My hope is in the trunks of the maple trees flowing with sweetness. The eye-catching blossoms that flutter to the ground in the wind are but a brief season in the life of that tree. My practice these days is to follow the beautiful signs of life back to their trunks and roots. To marvel not only at the temporary beauty, but at the persistence, the enduring life spread out all around us. We can practice following a similar trail in our own lives, our own spirits. Where are the reserves of strength and vitality in your life, in your story, in your community? What sources of nourishment and strength are available to you as seasons come and go? A great treasure trove of life-force persists below the surface which living beings draw on in hard times, and in times of flourishing. On this you can depend.

 

A Spiritual Practice for Boredom

 “I’m Bored!” I would complain to my Dad when I was little. “How could anyone ever be bored?” He would invariably reply “There’s so much to think about!” And yet boredom naturally arises from time to time. For many folks it is arising quite frequently these days when so many of our usual activities are curtailed.

I once used the word “bored” in therapy and my therapist suggested “sometimes when we feel bored it means there is something we don’t want to look at.” So I tried that on- whenever I felt bored I would ask myself “is there something I would rather not look at behind the boredom?” I began to notice that often this was true- that if I took a moment to sink down into myself, a feeling, a memory would arise that invited a deeper look. It might be challenging to explore more deeply, but at least it wasn’t boring!

I tried this with people- when I found someone boring to listen to, I would try to listen more deeply, and sometimes it worked! A fascinated audience does sometimes bring out a more interesting conversation. Often when it doesn’t work it’s because the person who is speaking is bored with what they are saying- they are not engaging deeply with what they are saying and so it is boring no matter how hard I listen.

Sometimes when I’m bored these days, it’s a sign pointing me towards unused energy and creativity. This often happens on a Saturday afternoon after a long work week. My partner and I are recent empty nesters, and the shock of having a few hours to do whatever I want is still novel. I find I just have to be bored for a while before some inspiration strikes me- a new dish to cook, an adventure to plan. Often if I simply settle in on my porch, resigned to boredom, some fascinating new bird will come to my bird feeder, and I am bored no longer.

Another pattern I’ve noticed is that I often feel bored during transitions- some part of me is arriving somewhere new, and I am bored as I wait for the rest of myself to arrive. When I go on retreat without my phone or computer there is invariably a time of acute boredom at the beginning of the retreat as I settle in. After months of wishing I had my full time and attention to give to Spirit, having no other demands pulling at me feels a bit unsettling, boring even. But as I settle into this more spacious way of being ideas, feelings, inspirations invariable flow in to fill the space.

Often there is another patch of boredom at the end of a retreat day, when I have already prayed and read and walked and there is literally nothing left to do. I feel guilty that I SHOULD be doing something with this precious retreat time, but eventually remember that the spiritual life is not really about doing anything. The things we do are just touchstones, guides on the journey. When I am finally empty of worries, feelings, curiosities and am just empty and still, it is a moment I often recall later with wonder when I am back in my regular life- “how could I ever have been so empty? So Still? With no needs or wants, just being?”

In the coming month I invite you to notice boredom when it arises and consider it as an invitation. Where might the feeling of boredom be inviting us? Is it inviting us to listen or look more deeply at what we are experiencing? Is it inviting us to notice that this experience no longer serves us and it’s time to walk away? Is it the seed of some creative new project waiting to be born? Is it time to listen for the slow quiet speech of the spirit? Or is it simply inviting us to be grateful for the spaciousness of a quiet empty moment? This month let boredom be like a meditation bell calling you to notice what is really there.

The Mystery of Dreams

Consider dreams- those fanciful stories that arrive, without our bidding, while we sleep. I have been noticing and pondering my dreams for 25 years now, and the longer I study them, the more I am amazed. After all these years they continue to surprise me with their creativity, and with the way they evoke things which had been going on beneath the surface of my consciousness in useful and surprising ways. As my teacher Rev. Dr. Jeremy Taylor was fond of asking “Who writes this stuff?” – because it is surely not our conscious mind, and yet here they are, showing us night after night a prolific creativity outside the light of conscious control.

We humans often think that what we see, hear, feel, and think with our waking mind is all there is. Our dreams hint that even our own psyches hold mysteries we have yet to uncover, parts of ourselves that our conscious, waking minds are not really paying attention to, parts of ourselves that are still emerging, still in formation. There are many theories about what dreams are, and I believe dreams probably have multiple purposes? One role of dreams is as a reservoir of creativity. Dreams help us process our lives without using the rational mind, or in a way that is complementary to the relational mind.

Paying attention to dreams can be a fruitful spiritual practice. Even if you haven’t remembered a dream in years, you might find that you remember a snippet of a dream here or there just because you read this column. If you wake up in the morning with the sense that you have had a dream, be still, don’t fully wake, just allow your conscious mind to go back inside the dream and review it, revisit it. Notice the landscape, notice the colors and how you feel. Have you been to this place before? Have you felt this way before? Jot down a couple of key words once you have revisited your dream.

Just remembering a dream with your conscious mind now and then, letting it accompany you back into waking can offer some insights or new feeling tones or colors to some aspect of your life. Once you are fully awake, think back over the dream and notice if any parts peak your attention, and invite those into your waking day. I once dreamed I had an armful of oranges, and when I woke I was inspired to draw with my orange pencil. I noticed how much that beautiful bright color was missing in our long dark winter, and how just having orange in my life seemed to cheer me up. Another time, when my son was young, I dreamed of a female lion, and happened to have a little figure of one that I put on my desk. It made me think of all the ways I was like a mother lion, fiercely protective of my son. It made me feel powerful at a time I was struggling with the chores and challenges of motherhood.

More details may come back to you in the simple act of writing the dream down. You could keep dreams in your regular journal if you already have a journaling practice or create a special journal just for dreams. Some folks start the day with their cup of coffee at the computer capturing dreams from the night before in a digital journal. Sometimes as we turn our dreams over in our waking minds insights are revealed, but other important insights may be hidden from our conscious minds, and so sharing our dream with an understanding friend can be fruitful.

When I first started exploring my dreams back in seminary, I wrote in my class notebook “I am concerned that my subconscious will not have exciting new messages for me, only things I already know.” But the more I pay attention, I find there really is something new and radically different to be found in dreams, an invitation to use the non-rational part of our minds. Our dreams are a fresh well we can draw from when we are ready to be surprised, when need reassurance that we are more than our thinking minds.

Seeds of Autumn

There is a lot of poetry written about autumn, much of it praising the brilliant colors of the leaves, and the melancholy as the trees let them go, which remind us of the things we let go of in our own lives, or that final letting go. As I was walking through a park with my friend I asked “what else is there to be said about fall?” She thought for just a moment and then reached up to the nearest tree, a sycamore, to pull off a seed ball. She ran her thumb across it and hundreds of tiny seeds were set free, each with their little puff of fluff that helps them travel. “Seeds – they are everywhere this time of year” she said.

As I have taken my morning walks each day I see that it is true- the milkweed pods with their cottony fluff. The bean tree pods that rattle when you shake them. The gross goo of the gingko tree fruit all over the sidewalk. A shower of little maple-tree wings fluttered by my window in the wind yesterday.

Seeds are the reason of the cranberries and apples and winter squash that show up on our tables at this time of year. Seeds are the reason we have the holly berries and pinecones with which we deck our halls. Here in the northeast the end of fall, beginning of winter there is a great abundance of seeds- so many plants taking this moment to release their investment in the future, feeding us and all the animals who need that nourishment to get through the coming winter.

I usually think about seeds in the spring, when it is time to start my garden, but the plants have been preparing their seeds all season, packing them with the crucial DNA, with a shell to keep that precious material safe until it’s time to grow, with a bit of nutrition to get them started, and with their own unique strategies to help them find just the right spot when it is just the right time to spring to life. All the seeds dropped now by trees, floating on the wind, or squirreled away by squirrels must wait. Many will wait until spring or summer, some will wait for years.

How hopeful I feel as I walk through my neighborhood noticing all the clever plant parents releasing their precious seeds- none of which are going to germinate in this frozen soil. So many of the trees and flowers and weeds that come to life next year will have had their start in this cold and blustery moment. Perhaps it will give you hope too, to think of ourselves releasing our own metaphorical seeds, year after year, some of which will sprout in another season, while others may wait for years to find their right time to grow. Blessings for all the seeds released this season: the ancient wisdom coiled inside their very DNA, the hard protective shell for the waiting, and the faith that the right time to burst forth and grow will come again- as it always does in the ancient cycle of life.

What Heals?

One summer the whole family got Covid. Ugh. I asked my friends on social media for advice, and the frequent refrain was “rest, rest, rest!” My doctor agreed, so I did. Even when I couldn’t fall asleep, I tried to rest. One day when I was feeling somewhat better but still sick I spent some time sitting in my comfy bed reading a book. When I stood up I noticed I was sore. A light-bulb went off in my mind as I remembered that folks who have a serious long-term recovery in the hospital must be turned regularly so they don’t get bedsores. Resting is not the same as being perfectly still.

My wandering mind made another connection-- usually when I have an injury from my yoga practice, or from sitting at the computer, the first thing I try is to not-do the thing that hurts; I rest the parts of my body that are telling me something is wrong. For years I had done this with a particular injury, but no amount of resting seemed to help. Finally my doctor sent me to a Physical therapist who taught me exercises that would help strengthen the muscles needed to support the joints that were hurting.

I hadn’t done any of my PT exercises while I was struggling through the first few days of Covid, but that day I rolled out my yoga mat and did the most basic, gentle exercises. The fatigue and some of the symptoms lingered, but I realized (again as if for the first time) that some problems need something more than rest to resolve. That rest must always be balanced with challenge, with gaining strength and using our capacities. This is true not only for our physical strength and capacities, but for our psyche and our spirit. [If you want to learn more, look up “behavioral activation” for some interesting research on how this can help us with our mental health]

I remember riding my bike up and down the hills in my neighborhood as a kid. I remember how hard I worked to pedal up the hills, and the joy of coasting down the other side. Now that I have celebrated enough birthdays to be officially “over the hill” I think there is a temptation to want to just coast. But as long as we are alive, we must balance resting and strengthening, pedaling and coasting, fiery sun energy and the passive reflective light of the moon. In yoga asana, we are challenged, even in the same pose, to notice which muscles are working, and which muscles can relax and rest (like how clenching your jaw actually doesn’t help with a challenging balance pose). This takes a perpetual discernment- today in this moment, whether I am doing chores, working a busy office job, running a marathon, or recovering from illness or injury, what balance of effort and ease, of challenge and rest would be most healing and fruitful?

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.

 

Noticing Grace

Each month I gather with other spiritual directors online for a time of silence, reflection and deep listening. One month a colleague entered the meeting a couple of minutes late, after we had already begun our silent mediation. When the silence had ended, she was flustered and asked our forgiveness for being late. One member of the group suggested that perhaps we should add to our group agreements that “one minute late is not late.” Another suggested we broaden it to “we will extend and receive grace.” The following month someone else had missed the time change of the meeting, and came in a whole hour late, thoroughly chagrined. I myself had done something similar at a meeting that week, and felt deep sympathy for her. We reminded each other of our agreement “we will extend and receive grace.”

Because this is a group that has been meeting for several years, we have a deep trust, respect and affection for one another. When someone arrives late we don’t take that as disrespectful, but rather the sign that they are having a complicated day that is probably not going according to plan. We value our time together and the quiet ,peaceful time we create. It is much more important to me that each of us is fed by that meeting than arriving right at the top of the hour.

One of the unexpected silver linings of having to do so many things in new ways since the Pandemic is that we see each another make mistakes all the time. If you attend meetings on Zoom, even if you have lots of practice, at some point you are going to forget to mute yourself, or unmute yourself. At least once a week someone asks forgiveness for missing a meeting they had every intention of attending because they just forgot, or overslept, or wrote down the wrong time. It’s easier to understand and forgive quickly when I, myself, have made that exact mistake quite recently. Our shared experience of the pandemic has also made us rethink the notion that if you are sick you should power through and show up anyway. We are coming to see that even though it is disappointing when our friend, family, co-worker can’t come because they are sick, humans get sick and need time to get better.

Sometimes it’s not easy to let go of these mistakes and disappointments. It’s maddening to attend an online event where for whatever reason the sound or video is not working. It’s frustrating when your food delivery is later than promised. It’s discouraging when the person you had an appointment with doesn’t show up. We don’t have to pretend to be happy about it, but we can extend each other a bit of grace. We know that all our lives are complicated and stressful, and we too have received grace when we were late, were absent, or couldn’t get our technology to work.

Grace is not always what is called for in the moment- sometimes things need to be interrupted, a hard truth to be told, a boundary set or kept available – sometimes we have no spare goodwill to extend. We don’t have to extend grace to one another, that’s part of what Grace is all about. Grace is freely given, not earned. My dictionary says that the grace we extend one another is “courteous goodwill” and when we speak of the divine, grace is “free and unmerited favor” or “bestowal of blessings.” We use the same word to refer to someone who is graceful, who moves with ease. This is how it feels to be with people who extend grace to one another- we make smooth and easy our time together with that goodwill we freely give. That same quality abides when we receive grace—when we accept with that same goodwill and ease the gifts others have given, to smooth our way when we are late, or unmuted, or our battery runs out in the middle of a call. Grace is not always available, and so is worth cherishing with gratitude as a freely-given gift.

Call to mind times when you have noticed grace in yourself or in the world around you. Where and how is grace extended and received? This month as a spiritual practice I invite you to notice grace, wherever you find it – in yourself or in the world around you. Grace is not always available, and so is worth cherishing with gratitude as a freely-given gift.