Have you been heard today?

All around  simple things, a basket of pine cones collected on a warm September day, strewn everywhere waiting to be picked up. The basket from a thrift store for a dollar. Dried weeds in a shiny handmade grey pot. A stone, with impossible green and pink colors, rounded by years of tossing in the Sea that holds the mystical island of Iona.

 On a shelf a green, red and beige wooden flute with an indigenous face carved on it from the thrift store. A plain brown ceramic pot sits next to it. It holds the pebble sized black morning glory seeds. In them is next year's dream of blue. Cuttings from long lived plants in water and clear glass. Catching the afternoon light, all these bring life to my desk, my writing room.

The monks that lived on Skellig Michael Island off the coast of Ireland centuries ago each had a stone beehive hut to sleep and pray in. Their life was one of meditating and deprivation. They ate small plants that they grew in the rocky soil and praised God for simple things like the sunrise. It is said that when a boat would come, the sailors who arrived would be struck silent by the joy that shone from the monk's faces.

What could account for this; those poor monks deprived of the internet, TV, waterbeds and Rap?

It is the quiet, the way they support each other, the praying, the stories they tell of God's goodness.
How they accept that each are not perfect but seek only the good. How they live in the present. But perhaps most importantly,  in that removed, simple place, they are heard, really heard by God and each other. The monks of Skellig left their island long ago but I see their faces each Wednesday in Room 200 when our writing group meets.

simple things

We are sitting and talking about simple things.

Her skin is so fragile, her eyes have clouded, and she nods off as we sit. The New Mexico sun is leaving in the West coloring the Perdanales pink and purple.Colors that are only a memory for my friend.

I have just finished telling her of small things that have brought me joy. The day I awakened to a burden, just an off feeling, a tiredness from all my obligations. Did I really want to drive 74 miles to work and back? What purpose was there in handling employee whining and customer's woes ? What I really wanted was to sit on a log and just be.That's all. Is that too much to ask? You get the drift.Then I opened the side door to my small pocket garden. There she was, Catherine Woodbury, the most delicate of  lilies, opened and almost glowing like a pale pink light. Breathtaking. With that, I was O.K.

It happened again on another day. A simple thing I would never have noticed if I hadn't walked the yard. There in the crease of a dead log, a morning glory with two leaves grew. I was amazed. How did that small black seed get there ? And then I noticed that bud at the top.Once, a Johnny Jump Up amazingly blooming in a sidewalk crack on a hot August day.

My friend's eyes flutter and I tell her how her art has brought me to life. "Picturing you looking at your mountain in the dry desert air inspires me," I whispered. I knew as if it had been written in her memoirs that she savored simple things too. Why else would she paint a singular green leaf falling in front of her patio door.

perfection is a myth

This beautiful Monet postcard reminds me of every stream or river that I have ever loved. I notice the trees with partially bare branches and tawny leaves; the slight bits of snow on the bank and rocks. The rushing sounds are almost audible.What a genius.

There is a stream in the Catskill Mountains that has always enchanted me, the Esopus. It was a warm summer day when some friends joined me for what was advertised as a Buddhist Poetry Walk. Sounds delicious? A lovely grey haired woman monk with a bright smile, handed each of us a baby food jar, cleaned and holding a snippet of a poem. Following her like a quiet gaggle of geese, we slowly walked along the banks of the Esopus. She would ring a small bell, we would stop and take out a poem. Standing silently, we would savor the words amidst the stream sounds and the scent of fir trees. All senses seemed engaged. Then we would move on.

At the end of the walk,on the rocky bank stood a small wooden tea house with timber benches. Our leader quietly passed around a cup of hot tea to each of us with a cookie. This experience of the quiet, the muted sounds of water and shuffling feet , the scent of fresh flowing water and stirring fir trees, the taste of tea and cookies has stayed with me.

The Japanese concept of Wabi Sabi is not easy to translate, but I will try. It has to do with an intuitive response to nature. It also has to do with an acceptance of the imperfect, incomplete and impermanent nature of everything. And the recognition of the gifts of slow, natural living.

That walk by the Esopus was a perfect Wabi Sabi. And what happened next closed the circle. The next Fall, Hurricane Sandy took a rare trip up the East Coast to the Catskills and flooded stream and river.The Esopus was higher than ever recorded, and in a flash the tea house and benches were washed away. Impermanence. I was so saddened to hear that.

Still, I hear the whispers of the Blue Spruce and the Esopus:

Slow down......savor....observe...note....be ready, a hurricane will come...drink from that chipped cup, it's a reminder that nothing is perfect....breathe deeply of the things around you...appreciate.  

the wisdom of Clint Eastwood..

 This is new, I don't fully understand it but at night in dreams I am being visited by someone.This happens almost every night. People from the past, the present and some more than once. I add them to my prayer list and remember them that way every day. Last night was different. Someone dropped in that has been in my life at a distance since forever. Clint Eastwood. Yes, the actor I first met in "Rawhide" years ago.

 I won't go into length about the visit, just that we were in a Western bar and I was buying a rawhide purse with tan fringe and following him around. In our conversation, I found out that he was becoming Catholic. At his age. I was curious and asked why. With big eyes and a stern face he said: "This world will go on forever." He seemed amazed at this, then he went on;," between the ages of 17 and 20, I thought I would never find my way, I was a loser, aimless, lost.". The conversation continues, " There is an invisible dance going on around this world. People holding hands, dancing with joy because they know that there is Mystery, they know that they are here for a purpose and so they swirl and clap and encourage others to join. I want that".

I could actually hear Clint's voice in those words. Maybe you can as well.

So here I am in Jonesboro,Georgia with a new name on my list. Mystery. Will I know someday what these prayers have accomplished ? I don't know. However, I am supposed to be doing this.The list grows and the Dance goes on.

"I trust in the Lord;
my soul trusts in his word.
My soul waits for the Lord 
more than sentinels wait for the dawn...
..For with the Lord is kindness
and with Him is plenteous redemption...'Psalm 130: 5-7.

it will be given back to you...

 Blues for Johanna by Ephemeral Emeralde.

From the water's depth, I see a hand. It is hers. I have been on a wooden dock with my sister; she is 9, I am 5 and I have fallen into a lake that is over my head. I see her hand still, coming down through the blue and green. She pulls me up back onto the deck. That is all I recall . She saved me, my sister.

It is 60 years later and I am in a hospital room with my sister who hasn't spoken to me in four years. She reads my e-mails but won't reply. She knows I have called but won't call back. But here we are; I am holding her hand and won't let go as she tells me of her stay in the hospital, what she is afraid of and how she wants to go home. She will not go home. She has three months to live and will be here until the end. As I leave the room, I tell her the truth: "I love you." She replies the same and on the day she passes, I say the same into a telephone held to her ear. And I say this " I will see you on the other side."

Months later, I am at the monastery, attending a writing seminar. Notebooks are provided, I pick a marbled one that has blue in the background because that was my sister's favorite color. Sometime in the sharing time of the group, I tell how raw the death of my sister is. After the session, a young woman from Florida asks if she could pray with me in the church. I agreed and she prayed a beautiful prayer and left. I began to to tell the Lord of my regret for all the years lost when we weren't communing. Then , I heard this."Those years will be given back to you."

I don't know what that means but it was so unexpected and inscrutable that I believe the words to be true.They comfort as does writing about this part of my life, my life with my dear, missed sister which will continue in another place.

"We journey through treasures every day of our lives, they are on loan so that we might learn to trust and love the Lender."

have I done enough ?

When I left for the beach a week ago, I tried to give my small spindly plant, a crown of thorns, just the right amount of water without drowning it. This little plant means so much to me. It's a connection with my beloved youngest son. There is a story there but that is for another time. One morning at the beach I awoke thinking of that plant, going over what I did for it and wondered if it was enough.

  Do we, as Christians, not wonder that all the time; am I doing enough for the Kingdom?

A few years ago, John and I started taking a man in his 50s to church every Sunday. Robert was HIV positive and had suffered for 20 years with that disease. He had had a stroke and walking was very difficult, his vision was affected as well. He could see a bit. So, we struggled to find a handicapped space every week, help him from the car and often John took him to his doctor for treatments. He was so thin, gaunt really, and weak but each Sunday he waited for us. And on the way home we would have a laugh fest.He noticed things at Mass, not holy things, I am sorry to say. Like the lady whose shoes didn't match anything she wore.Or the haircut that looked bad. On he went and we couldn't help but enjoy him. He was holy and struggled mightily to be faithful to his Lord.And how he missed dancing.

He passed away and having no family here, the church was spare in people. As I sat there viewing his casket, I thought:  "I could have done so much more for him." Once, the people who invited him for Thanksgiving phoned and canceled his visit. He called us crying. We left our family and took him dinner.We should have brought him over. I should have called him more. When his PC wouldn't work, I should have been more patient. I was thinking this with my eyes closed when I saw this: he was above the casket, dancing and then he communicated this to me: "None of that matters now.No one thinks in those terms.All is perfect joy."

I think we worry about the wrong things. Just do as you are led. A smile can heal.A note can lift. And by the way, my little sweet plant is fine. I did enough.