tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54269631941000370312024-03-02T00:39:55.716-08:00Holy Writing
in silence... georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.comBlogger609125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-6948597291462470832024-02-24T08:43:00.000-08:002024-02-24T08:44:55.930-08:00Pilgrimage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQQlHzyBZBWZ7ItPMQAxVZEQdDPXuxtr2prwdfhVEubQbGxA5puEqV-Jjah6fpHnzSyd8KNetmlXmwSNStxJ1EtJOMBJitw90gQxBvN7vorseYQxv7OfEMB4wdOeAHeJM5M0536_xhpTCExD_yxGf9xCcm1k9EGiwhVMcTzbogCXkyglB9LZhUKfLnemSj/s2048/john%20and%20sharon%20on%20the%20camino.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1533" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQQlHzyBZBWZ7ItPMQAxVZEQdDPXuxtr2prwdfhVEubQbGxA5puEqV-Jjah6fpHnzSyd8KNetmlXmwSNStxJ1EtJOMBJitw90gQxBvN7vorseYQxv7OfEMB4wdOeAHeJM5M0536_xhpTCExD_yxGf9xCcm1k9EGiwhVMcTzbogCXkyglB9LZhUKfLnemSj/w400-h300/john%20and%20sharon%20on%20the%20camino.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>Picture this:</b> two fit 70 year olds climbing the Pyrenees, ten miles up and then three straight down, having eaten a roll for sustenance. The wife of the duo is now sitting in the woods at the side of the trail weeping like a crazed mental patient while the man is slumped beside. She is barely able to think but just knows her husband is embarrassed by her as others trod by.</span> <span style="font-size: medium;">Then he turns and says: "I want my Mommy" and she bursts out laughing." The Camino, that 500 mile walk in Spain, is saved.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>After her hero passes</b> she finds notes he made on other trips. One struck her, how he believed that we shouldn't be tourists but pilgrims. What does this mean? It meant a lot I think for John : it meant travelling with purpose, to find what service God wanted him to engage in. To make a difference on his trips to Ghana, Central America and South America. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>I must need metaphors</b> because I have clung to the thought that I am on a pilgrimage still with John but different. In the corner of this room are our two hiking sticks, Camino shells, his running shoes, sunflowers. This is where I pray each morning. It reminds me that if I could do 175 miles of that walk in Spain I can do this hard last few years left to me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>On this walk so far I have encountered many trail angels</b> who have helped me keep going just like on the Camino.Like on the Camino, I have cried over small things, then dropping my soap in the shower, now, not being able to get the cartridge in my printer. The first line of Scott Peck's classic "The Road Less Traveled" is this: "Life is difficult." I don't think we expect that, do we.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>I will end, clinging to my metaphor,</b> with something that happened on the trail: "Mass at the stunning Leon Cathedral. When the homily is given in Spanish I try to open my mind and see what appears. I keep getting the word "profound". Then the message became clearer. We are all profoundly significant in this life. We ALL matter so much to the world, to our world." We are all pilgrims. Amen.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-9891453436117427122024-02-22T09:13:00.000-08:002024-02-22T09:17:13.310-08:00A Darshan moment<p> </p><p> </p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1GgpIgXoZhX01hJNMMDmUsxnQKTjDlLB3XmLYaxMy81VdniJIJqNcf5iyZMZm9BdzwrJdKEz2Q65ezMgro0MkPWFPgslCriFmFsH4CFBh2wvbV1Ht_5zw2QESAFptpS92SSH9imyhvnw3pmBKdCYQERaUtPp7oklsvNUIE_R2nlMkbooe3YIdQAEphp4/s701/gate%203.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="701" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1GgpIgXoZhX01hJNMMDmUsxnQKTjDlLB3XmLYaxMy81VdniJIJqNcf5iyZMZm9BdzwrJdKEz2Q65ezMgro0MkPWFPgslCriFmFsH4CFBh2wvbV1Ht_5zw2QESAFptpS92SSH9imyhvnw3pmBKdCYQERaUtPp7oklsvNUIE_R2nlMkbooe3YIdQAEphp4/s320/gate%203.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>So long ago</b>. A moment of liberation. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>Leaving Mass, annoyed.</b> Prayers for the Viet Cong to convert? Really? When did prayers work, I thought ? What good has this faith done for any of my unhappy, drink sodden relatives including my family? Enough, I'll sleep in and find my own way. How many have gone down that road ?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>Then marriage to my love and Denver. </b>"Please come to Denver in the Springtime." Yes, we will. "Hey, rowdy boy why don't you settle down, Denver ain't your kind of town." A baby girl in tow and then another child to be born there. Looking sadly down I70 towards home a thousand miles away. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Pack up and west to California,</b> land of beauty and all that is good. A lovely tri-plex, walks to the library with toddler's hands held, sandy beaches near by, nasturtium growing in the front, a garden. What more do you want ? Oh ,but want is who we are. There's a hole that no one ever talked about. Oh, maybe St. Augustine did. But how long has he been dust?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Then this happened,</b> with everything I ever wanted surrounding me and in the quiet of a rented living room, I said this: "God, if you are there, help me. " Nothing happened but I felt better. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>I have told this story before</b> but I came across a word today that says what happened next so well. A week later I picked up a small book as a gift. The cover said something about love but when I started to read I was hooked. A story about a saint's statue never getting greasy after years in a kitchen piqued my interest. The essays were from another book that somehow I got my hands on despite no Amazon. "Quantity of a Hazelnut"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>It was darshan."</b> It's a gift; it's like there's a moment in which the thing is ready to let you see it. In India, this is called darshan. Darshan means getting a view, .....as if the clouds blew away and you could finally see the Himalayas. They are letting you have their view, say the people of India, darshan. This comfortable, really deep way of getting a sense of something takes time. It doesn't show itself to you right away".(Gary Snider)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I blew the clouds away with an invitation, help me, whatever that means.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">From then on for all these years sentences in a book would mean something, they would jump out. So many guides :Merton, CS Lewis, Fae Melania. The clouds were blowing away and I could finally see.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">What a treasure to have found that metaphor.</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-57796221560759873302023-10-21T09:15:00.010-07:002023-10-23T05:57:02.851-07:00The eagle, pain and confusion.- Postcard 7<p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaY747ezS3Qvhd5t086B_ICvAmIae44e-u4iDhzGgGxGXpZAN3Xv-8F2bOrlLki4iQ6NZzVK0WhiK3pudrXSDADuT5B2hxNOsbS0SmqkmptfE_x9pMuBTD8uan_zLr6mF7reVpgWhDxWM7kxmZA0lcDOnBov620atqQcy09mMSy2jpk8YyHxTre22zBduA/s300/kiva.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaY747ezS3Qvhd5t086B_ICvAmIae44e-u4iDhzGgGxGXpZAN3Xv-8F2bOrlLki4iQ6NZzVK0WhiK3pudrXSDADuT5B2hxNOsbS0SmqkmptfE_x9pMuBTD8uan_zLr6mF7reVpgWhDxWM7kxmZA0lcDOnBov620atqQcy09mMSy2jpk8YyHxTre22zBduA/w400-h224/kiva.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>What an odd place!</b> Underground, dusty, dark, with drawings on the walls, and yet here in this space I was given life enriching advice by an eagle.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>A Kiva,</b> used for meetings and prayer by Native Americans, was the setting for my writing group to write a story, anything the picture inspired. This was in 2020.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>In my mind,</b> I went down those ladder steps respectfully and quietly. I went with an open heart ready to hear just the wind if that was what was offered. I sat on a wooden bench and closed my eyes.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Soon, I saw an eagle overhead soaring</b> but a bit erratically. Suddenly, I am flying with him and our eyes meet in sympathy. A Voice tells me this: "Many weeks ago a lightening and wind storm surged through here; the eagle was thrown in a thicket of briars. Caught by the thorns the eagle wrenched himself away tearing tendons in his left wing. He flew off in pain and confusion. He has been healing ever since.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>"His eagle mind never once asked:</b> why me or how did this happen, or when will I be better. He flew off and healed. One day at a time. Carry this eagle mind into the future and live."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Those were the exact words that I heard that August day.</b> A road map for me it seemed ,though at the time I had no idea why I would need it. Then came the pain and confusion. However, the boundless, eternal, all knowing Creator saw and using my imagination handed me a gift.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>My imagination </b>is a blank page where the Creator can post truths by way of images and speech. I just have to step aside.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>So I thank that God</b>, the Native Americans, Meinrad Craighead whose story called Vessel inspired us that day and for the eagle who bore the message to me. A deep bow.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-87719862947112638342023-10-20T11:11:00.001-07:002023-10-20T11:26:11.873-07:00 Don't wait for joy to come to you. Postcard 6<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKgoVJZ-9a7mwmkDqiBtIYv2VNc-wJ5_n16idokQyrgc7ppz2Mk-awQyQg76n9YY9klGLIchglEI2yP7rAAuGyXlM9vfHX81W0kDg1ueOIF0EK2BQ9Q1hKSfK3wzl-06tUY1bEG-vl47B9R9qph0Dx6qV5fXOzAwZnGU5tHwQjdOewtnbfRGDdi6HOi_k4/s2016/IMG_1614.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKgoVJZ-9a7mwmkDqiBtIYv2VNc-wJ5_n16idokQyrgc7ppz2Mk-awQyQg76n9YY9klGLIchglEI2yP7rAAuGyXlM9vfHX81W0kDg1ueOIF0EK2BQ9Q1hKSfK3wzl-06tUY1bEG-vl47B9R9qph0Dx6qV5fXOzAwZnGU5tHwQjdOewtnbfRGDdi6HOi_k4/w480-h640/IMG_1614.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>In a moment of grace</b>, I was given to understand that the Camino walk we took together in 2013 would be a perfect metaphor for this hard journey of loss. One foot in front of the other, tears expected, friends along the way that made it easier.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>I think of the young</b> Scot I walked with for a bit who had put his pain avoiding, 40 dollar socks on a clothesline only to have them taken. Plus his banana. We wound up laughing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The postcard to the right was from a place called "Hospital Del Alma", Soul Hospital.</b> A small room with an open door that anyone could enter and listen to quiet music, drink tea and escape the hardship for awhile. I wrote: " Old wooden beams, a candle flickers in a purple glass, a voice chants. In front of me is an old oak table and chairs. A monk is in the garden talking to two pilgrims. Something about this place says I can do the Camino." Something about that hard walk tells me I can do this one.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>There was also a poster on the wall</b> of the front room that talks of shadow chasing, that we rush through the Camino as we do our lives. Oh yes, we do. And how we worry. I remember another elderly walker who said:" Next time I won't worry every minute whether I can do this is not." Another metaphor. What do we miss seeing as we foresee a disaster that never happens?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Our writing group walked the labyrinth again</b> this week and I was given a guidance that had to come from Beyond." <b><i>You must make joy, which is why you are here. Don't wait for it to come to you.</i></b>" And I write my postcard stories and feel joy. I grab a fistful of leaves, throw them in the air and I feel joy. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>So to the wind blown monk </b>who provided this special respite in Castrojeriz, Spain, I thank you for all that I gained by walking through your door, perching in the garden, and just being with the God who must inspire your works.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>And to anyone who reads this,</b> I pray you find your Hospital del Alma today where you can just be, savor your breath and this one of a kind day...and maybe post a picture to show it.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWnYVdYtT6GJ1Il89y3CHc3BqMTtxq0E0_Ehz4O8z7a_huEuFEa7z-09LbMcRwm_ZiK7qtb5R1KHJWQO7MCMSJRDDwMz19snVCLSnOvy6R-8TYh2mjiweaVTrPWiT43OSFIpbqWIakl3ZJ-nlTDl1J3GIOT62NExpHDZLYUvsWQJ5gLsKIs8Ht_85BYhSY/s2016/castrojeriz1.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWnYVdYtT6GJ1Il89y3CHc3BqMTtxq0E0_Ehz4O8z7a_huEuFEa7z-09LbMcRwm_ZiK7qtb5R1KHJWQO7MCMSJRDDwMz19snVCLSnOvy6R-8TYh2mjiweaVTrPWiT43OSFIpbqWIakl3ZJ-nlTDl1J3GIOT62NExpHDZLYUvsWQJ5gLsKIs8Ht_85BYhSY/w480-h640/castrojeriz1.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-746643524249878962023-10-19T09:08:00.003-07:002023-10-19T09:12:07.826-07:00The Monk Who Lost His Faith-postcard 5<p> <span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7TqA5zhdg7Zvtd8RsftG32lmAS03nsekrtLnTZGJ0UNt518lx9f01UYEpkhXokNRC-QPXa9cPbti-sBQFTms4oZI9-d_7m6XNWDau2jsktqfEMFKDAfC0cVTQFHU1uF1rApvqL9lJpepByDXTuVAQ2uK3PfE4hDlB30y9tPXb_vj8bgbvwsve_vrKPyR2/s2016/gethsemane.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7TqA5zhdg7Zvtd8RsftG32lmAS03nsekrtLnTZGJ0UNt518lx9f01UYEpkhXokNRC-QPXa9cPbti-sBQFTms4oZI9-d_7m6XNWDau2jsktqfEMFKDAfC0cVTQFHU1uF1rApvqL9lJpepByDXTuVAQ2uK3PfE4hDlB30y9tPXb_vj8bgbvwsve_vrKPyR2/w300-h400/gethsemane.JPG" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>How did this amazing connection begin? </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>It was a Fall day </b>in Kentucky in the 70s when John and I watched our little kids tumble down a hill at the monastery. Such a joyful scene. We had come to the Monastery of Gethsemane, me being a huge Thomas Merton fan. He had passed a few years before but I wanted to be where he once was.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Out of the corner of my eye</b> I saw a crew cut haired man in denim jeans and shirt coming up a path. We waved. He came over with a big smile and we began to chat. It soon became apparent that something was amiss. I guess it was when he said: "I don't know what I am doing here." It seems our new friend, impressed by the amount of stars and galaxies, had come to an emptiness where belief had once been.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> <b>We invited him to dinner,</b> he came one Thanksgiving and was most kind not to mention the turkey, vastly undercooked, was bleeding. His first meat in twenty years. Poor monk.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>We moved back to Georgia</b> but wrote back and forth. He married and moved to Florida. I recall our first Christmas card exchange; mine was filled with angels and shepherds, his was a Christmas flower bordered in black. Once I sent a letter chiding him and his idol Carl Sagan for their hubris in being sure there was no Creator of this vast incredible universe. Pretty bold on my part.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The letters became less frequent</b> but one day I received the above drawing of his monastery and written on the back was this:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>"Strange piteous futile thing</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>wherefore should any set thee love apart</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Alack thou knowest not how little worthy of love thou art</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>What wilt thou find to love ignoble thee</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Save Me save only Me."</i>..."The Hound of Heaven" by Francis Thompson</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> And I knew that the Hound had finally chased and worn my monk down; that he had turned to embraced the One Who loved him. We will meet again.</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-50716926139227711622023-10-14T10:09:00.006-07:002023-10-14T10:23:14.666-07:00Two Kindnesses on Skye-Postcard 4<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtHvPQN7sm78I5MQX0QUEtc2JqoaeSqIg8IMTBJyJcyURAR7b2K6z_e1YdtviHHuUKu9sqWSCuKOAiiCK-Y3e8IyvgBIDwP-LqQ5mPux7k443KMIVmJzav50Eyr8JR_MeiITm_6vhXI2lM0DIeMsUZjQUrq8UprRSf8pcl1lcDZB4y3EQ58kRMwQEbTR9q/s2016/skye.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtHvPQN7sm78I5MQX0QUEtc2JqoaeSqIg8IMTBJyJcyURAR7b2K6z_e1YdtviHHuUKu9sqWSCuKOAiiCK-Y3e8IyvgBIDwP-LqQ5mPux7k443KMIVmJzav50Eyr8JR_MeiITm_6vhXI2lM0DIeMsUZjQUrq8UprRSf8pcl1lcDZB4y3EQ58kRMwQEbTR9q/w480-h640/skye.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p> <span style="font-size: large;"><b>Scotland is magic</b>. Despite the rain and cold, it captured my heart. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We arrived in Aberdeen in September of 2010 tired but excited .We wandered the streets enjoying gardens and churches then fell into bed exhausted. Immediately, I had this dream:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The lady across</b> the street arrived with a white statue of Mary that she received as a gift. She is so excited .I am doing yoga stretches on the floor and trying to keep an eye on my grey and white cat to be sure he doesn't get out. Short dream but so vivid I wrote it in my journal.</span></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">Four days later,</span></b><span style="font-size: x-large;"> a</span><span style="font-size: large;">fter Inverness, Culloden, and the Highlands, we arrived at the Isle of Skye to another lovely B and B with a view of the firth out the window.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> <b>John decided to hike north</b> to a ruin visible from the town and I sat in a small park, bundled against the wind, reading "Braveheart." A young lad from Glasgow passed and was sure to tell me that the book wasn't true and we laughed. "Maybe, but its a great story", I told him. As we communed, a fluffy cat came from nowhere and jumped on the bench, then my lap. For the next hour we warmed each other. This had never happened to me before and I fell in love with that creature and so appreciated his warmth. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Alas, the dismal rain started again</b> and I had to leave my furry friend to go inside. As I sat at the dining table, writing and enjoying the watery view, the Grandmother of the house came in. She didn't hand me a throw blanket, but with a smile she tenderly put it around my shoulders.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>So I offer my prayers of thanksgiving</b> for the health that John and I had to enable this trip, the kindness of the sweet Scot grandma, the warmth of the fluffy cat who joined us the next day at the bus stop and left only when we got on. He who was by the way, grey and white. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipowehCT13Ot3uXFZicppMa4G-wbllUShIpj2YxVsae-vvyXs4Mf_gO-bf-DB6pznkMZoLz2W_7w4ciNeNc2Xo8xa7HvxjMBcNdDkKXSyBryosDoug3AKbJfA0iesl6vNYvE-EzxvQY7zR4XQmViYhZidp5aaoilXP4zHsWPGUnQ-_fmShTg40RUbLiAhh/s2016/grey%20cat.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipowehCT13Ot3uXFZicppMa4G-wbllUShIpj2YxVsae-vvyXs4Mf_gO-bf-DB6pznkMZoLz2W_7w4ciNeNc2Xo8xa7HvxjMBcNdDkKXSyBryosDoug3AKbJfA0iesl6vNYvE-EzxvQY7zR4XQmViYhZidp5aaoilXP4zHsWPGUnQ-_fmShTg40RUbLiAhh/w480-h640/grey%20cat.JPG" width="480" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-60633755477966711572023-10-06T09:58:00.000-07:002023-10-06T09:58:07.202-07:00The Circle Dream- Postcard 3<p> <span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinzNwRSLgKmzbJhhij8cvAeSVXN5NB4E3SmpOj_eqhG4szFgESNMGCsyVxIZ39uliUHJB-3xzANfgqXLjxQ95pCgeP2fix9tZlZPTGxk_vgMn2sW22RMbmZSpxHYrViIE3AYAJK51B2icHvtghLLy40BTwuOGp3rxEA2uXjP_vQvbU-ptuHJumRV6Ydps_/s2016/the%20circle1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinzNwRSLgKmzbJhhij8cvAeSVXN5NB4E3SmpOj_eqhG4szFgESNMGCsyVxIZ39uliUHJB-3xzANfgqXLjxQ95pCgeP2fix9tZlZPTGxk_vgMn2sW22RMbmZSpxHYrViIE3AYAJK51B2icHvtghLLy40BTwuOGp3rxEA2uXjP_vQvbU-ptuHJumRV6Ydps_/w480-h640/the%20circle1.JPG" width="480" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>This one was short and sweet </b>and it has been tucked in my mind's pocket for years. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>It was a dream</b>. There is a happy circle of people, mostly women; we are dancing to and fro with the Lord in our midst. We are so joyous and wanting to be nowhere else at this minute, just here , dancing. All of a sudden, I feel the Lord take my left hand and attach it to the person's hand on His left as He eases His way backward out of the circle. I am stunned, what's happening here? "Where are You going?" He says: "I am leaving and now, you lead the circle". Of course it is not the same but we keep dancing. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>It was so real that it seemed like a short documentary</b> but its meaning? I never figured that out til..</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>In 2015,</b> with no credentials and a lot of cheek, I started a writing group at my church. I loved writing, the doing , the way it revealed what I thought when I hadn't a clue-the magic. Who will come? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>We are twelve and have been meeting for 9 years</b>. Lives have changed, books written, trips to the wetlands and the labyrinth. We have met our God in the words we share. We write stories inspired by art, postcards and many other oddities. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Where the Creator is there is no time </b>and the Almighty knew what was coming for me as did my husband in some mystical way. The circle has been the way He has kept me balanced. The love and care of my writing group cannot be described. Constant. Sensitive. Patient. Loving. They have held my hand through every minute of my loss.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>We don't dance</b> but Christ is in our midst and it's a wonder.</span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPOcZplOWg0cklhSh8S7qVeH_8v4hyFG5VYPFj4BYdL70AaHVPKaULIh9wjBn9u1RMLjTu7iO8FmqtYouSIX-Pu_3M6R5JiiipM_ONj3LeAyURHasaCiJqBNXcfQM00aVyZXgKMyYIeEhxRwvnuQ2hRgg_u4uvmJ6k3VG9MLvl4kRMGgLzCi0ACY9U6jYK/s1280/the%20circle%202.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="720" height="477" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPOcZplOWg0cklhSh8S7qVeH_8v4hyFG5VYPFj4BYdL70AaHVPKaULIh9wjBn9u1RMLjTu7iO8FmqtYouSIX-Pu_3M6R5JiiipM_ONj3LeAyURHasaCiJqBNXcfQM00aVyZXgKMyYIeEhxRwvnuQ2hRgg_u4uvmJ6k3VG9MLvl4kRMGgLzCi0ACY9U6jYK/w349-h477/the%20circle%202.PNG" width="349" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-72499672112333188892023-10-03T06:40:00.003-07:002023-10-03T06:50:11.184-07:00the white butterfly-postcard 2<p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFqRdRO_jibp06loVgQbpKHrvHaQxjdrUiTDITF2HtpkZ4V0GxmWG35xyovQ4h6FxJVeefWM0DnajMsx8Fj7NUaBLo-SgqgWNFcfW802sJGv1AtWO-UWHFWRZ0hK_Dr6QWhDSWwP2T72FAbSDbEh6HVgAC7hq1loKNvEP-vFbzQvNlgAuwKLINxbIXjpa-/s2016/white%20butterfly.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFqRdRO_jibp06loVgQbpKHrvHaQxjdrUiTDITF2HtpkZ4V0GxmWG35xyovQ4h6FxJVeefWM0DnajMsx8Fj7NUaBLo-SgqgWNFcfW802sJGv1AtWO-UWHFWRZ0hK_Dr6QWhDSWwP2T72FAbSDbEh6HVgAC7hq1loKNvEP-vFbzQvNlgAuwKLINxbIXjpa-/w300-h400/white%20butterfly.JPG" width="300" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p> <span style="font-size: large;"><b>The young man approached after</b> Mass, a member who I had never met before and asked me the strangest questions. Was I close to my mother.? And so on. It seemed so odd that I backed up a bit looking for an escape. We talked a little, how I loved my mother but had lived for years away from home. Then he said: "Have you had an encounter with a butterfly ?" My mouth dropped open and I sputtered, why, yes.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> <b>Oh my, how could he know?</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>A few years before</b> I had been on a hillside in Australia feeling alone, tired and forgotten. I sat on a pile of logs to rest and was treated to the dance of a small white butterfly. It flitted around me, never landing just being with. It was rather amazing. I thought :"it seems like a visit; a comforting, arms surrounding visit." The feeling was so strong that I had to take a picture from there which turned out to be a gorgeous sweeping shot of fields and mountains.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Turning back to my new friend I said</b>: "yes, a very comforting visit" He said: "That was your Mom."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>And so with this postcard</b>, I pray for that young man, my Mother and all the people in Australia who were good to me. Jodi who found a church for me to go to and her Dad who, when that didn't work out, invited me to sit on another hillside and talk about loved ones who have gone before us. For all of this I am grateful.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCqUyjFZ5njFn-X3f3B81vpMhNgNgrcJspw_fdxcnZg5MZHkQmbH97nBFF4PHUpdp4I_V159RD3FoJyrj9pJLSHWJZ5mWGkwTk1VvetX2_9RLJyW9nyH3CrfF_PiXhzoM_8OgCiJlo0iSpviTd2dSTRMKxETjaBfqnpweDG0xD3CWqbOumgJLFjQnMAq50/s1280/those%20we%20love2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCqUyjFZ5njFn-X3f3B81vpMhNgNgrcJspw_fdxcnZg5MZHkQmbH97nBFF4PHUpdp4I_V159RD3FoJyrj9pJLSHWJZ5mWGkwTk1VvetX2_9RLJyW9nyH3CrfF_PiXhzoM_8OgCiJlo0iSpviTd2dSTRMKxETjaBfqnpweDG0xD3CWqbOumgJLFjQnMAq50/w360-h640/those%20we%20love2.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-36639994055846894092023-09-30T11:00:00.006-07:002023-10-01T09:22:54.110-07:00Praying with Postcards-1<br /><p><br /></p><p> <b> <span style="font-size: large;">It began here. My spiritual journey. </span></b></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>In 1969,</b> I had liberated myself from the oppressive duty of church attendance. The priest at St. Clare's in Rosedale said we need to pray for such and such and I thought "when has that ever worked ?" The people I knew who were churched were not happy humans so what good was their faith doing?</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZnYYXwcpjuBxyuh14B0WtaMExGuZ9lGkurh3wURrf0mgL_H566gM9F-EV3CtMJ2O6kzBKmmAiliMFJ34VZ_F0lVlDE0PASeemYXmggFAroZ0nAmO96F1f6YYfSbwDZsPEzVG-qKl87VoEMe3o4QWhcxfUk_hslb29mVnGHCxdxtu6TYNh9IaZ-bt98Pfk/s2016/huntington%20beach%202.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZnYYXwcpjuBxyuh14B0WtaMExGuZ9lGkurh3wURrf0mgL_H566gM9F-EV3CtMJ2O6kzBKmmAiliMFJ34VZ_F0lVlDE0PASeemYXmggFAroZ0nAmO96F1f6YYfSbwDZsPEzVG-qKl87VoEMe3o4QWhcxfUk_hslb29mVnGHCxdxtu6TYNh9IaZ-bt98Pfk/w300-h400/huntington%20beach%202.JPG" width="300" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> <b>I walked my self home</b> over the bridge that crosses the Belt Parkway in Queens and left that nonsense behind. Freedom!!!!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Our small family moved </b>a bit and 1971 found us in California, Huntington Beach. Freedom and paradise! Then it happened: one morning I woke up with a chasm inside that felt as deep as the sea. Something huge was missing: that's the only way to describe it. I can see myself that day standing in our living room praying this pitiful prayer: "God, if you are there, help me." Nothing happened but I felt a tad of relief like I had done "something."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>A week later I was shopping for a dear friend's birthday</b> and found a small book of essays the name of which escapes me. As I read through, it was like the Spirit was holding a highlighter and underlining each word. My eyes were being opened to what was true. I kept saying: "yes, yes and yes, I get it." Unbeknownst to me, I was hungry for the words of faith that I was finding. The essays came from a book called "The Quantity of a Hazelnut" : it changed my life. I still have it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>I was also being tricked into faith.</b> I recall taking a book out of the library in Huntington Beach soon after that .I thought it was a love story called "Late Have I Loved Thee' and how clever is the Spirit , it was the biography of St. Augustine. Everything was undermining my unbelief. That was August of 1971.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>So I use this postcard of that place</b> and I pray with it. I thank God for belief and all it has brought to my life. I pray for the high school friend who keeps that small book by her bedside for these past 50 years: for the author of the book, Fae Malania and for the people who came to a lonely couple's house for Easter. And for being redeemed, thank You.</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-90102613913079422702023-08-07T11:38:00.004-07:002023-08-07T12:59:49.329-07:00The white light in Scotland<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsLnJY40AHpnzwjtxbPFcF5JeYDpZ5S6Ac53J9kWhx91SwKpfxYn9myGkEe7lL9YI6SBCQZMeeCcFQbONG25DGO2BtJQpRx7cK19njaLe6WySQybfUVNnR8tKWKmsAmh2XFrSpwQJ7cUZZEV1otO7tCPelOcht5dbKvDjaAJR6-c2MSUuWu5EnkedrNG6r/s2016/john%20at%20the%20river%20dee.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsLnJY40AHpnzwjtxbPFcF5JeYDpZ5S6Ac53J9kWhx91SwKpfxYn9myGkEe7lL9YI6SBCQZMeeCcFQbONG25DGO2BtJQpRx7cK19njaLe6WySQybfUVNnR8tKWKmsAmh2XFrSpwQJ7cUZZEV1otO7tCPelOcht5dbKvDjaAJR6-c2MSUuWu5EnkedrNG6r/w300-h400/john%20at%20the%20river%20dee.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p> <span style="font-size: medium;"><b>How will I write this? </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>While I was in Scotland</b><span> a close friend sent a beautiful birthday card. I finally got it the other day as my mail was being held. I sent her a text of thanks and she replied ending with this: "I am sure the white light was with you the whole trip." Oh my, how could I have forgotten ! Early in this hard time she had sat with me at Mass. Afterward, she had an emotional time telling me about the white light she saw over my head that she couldn't take her eyes off.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>That was not long after another dear friend </b>had shared this, something that had never happened to her before: "One night as I was holding my handwoven rosary and praying a decade for my friends who are widows, I saw a circle of light at the front of my eyes which were closed. As I lay there enjoying the swirling light , suddenly it turned into a tunnel of white light, with the tunnel itself being a reddish color. I felt led down the tunnel and did not want to open my eyes possibly ending the experience . It was so calm and peaceful."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>And so to Scotland.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Beautiful country, home of my ancestors, land of magic, they say and of treacherous two lane highways</b> with a rabbit's ear distance between the going cars, coming cars and on the wrong side to boot. How did my son do it ?Twenty miles takes twenty years....off your life.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The night before this particular ride to Oban,</b> I kept hearing this: "I wish I was there to care for you." Over and over. I should have known.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>On to Oban, Mull, Iona and white knuckles.</b> We made it and the next day as we sat around having coffee I asked each traveler what was special about that day. We shared a bit and then my son's shoulders began to hunch, his face reddened as he fought back sobs. His sister quietly comforted. Moments passed as he kept trying to say :"I heard. "I heard" and then finally this : "Dad told me to watch that center lane more carefully because his TT bird was in the back seat."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>" When you walk through the storm hold your head up high and don't be afraid of the dark. At the end of the storm is a golden sky and the sweet silver song of the lark, walk on,walk on with hope in your heart for you never walk alone, you never walk alone."</i></b></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAjvKC8yWRRL9SVZNUq2_mI_89mM80d1v4cpR0krQO_4D-acsdM6ToN_WVXAhVPqS48xL_t8fnnXj9uiDxKNwuKKHFcKzFCf8AbpxhyNGB3fp6BRWzLFyq7TB7R6NJFHO6P-cuJM4ljNkSLVjiAn094e26MFXGuwNJ8x83W0QdSxlmp0mXFjtslHXerT1t/s2208/john%20and%20I%20in%20phoenicia%206-21.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2208" data-original-width="1242" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAjvKC8yWRRL9SVZNUq2_mI_89mM80d1v4cpR0krQO_4D-acsdM6ToN_WVXAhVPqS48xL_t8fnnXj9uiDxKNwuKKHFcKzFCf8AbpxhyNGB3fp6BRWzLFyq7TB7R6NJFHO6P-cuJM4ljNkSLVjiAn094e26MFXGuwNJ8x83W0QdSxlmp0mXFjtslHXerT1t/w360-h640/john%20and%20I%20in%20phoenicia%206-21.png" width="360" /></span></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-64964123934557775182023-06-29T10:43:00.001-07:002023-06-29T10:43:55.218-07:00the unused joy jar<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRJx6xt_OZJSYDwpX8gh3APjAvLNPSJU6BYPjFCFg-JBQTr96JCLjmFFSf1ngOQN17YfOyfc3KO5L9wte85fq1tRtm_97094H0Op-q1lPH3YsGpRMOkCez6DHf_uGpG6GZ9HYa4yMfI0ew8pFsi4mP-srwkn1muEwtDkbeNqpEAOzXTgbhOxiKrHqqUZhH/s2016/joy%20jar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRJx6xt_OZJSYDwpX8gh3APjAvLNPSJU6BYPjFCFg-JBQTr96JCLjmFFSf1ngOQN17YfOyfc3KO5L9wte85fq1tRtm_97094H0Op-q1lPH3YsGpRMOkCez6DHf_uGpG6GZ9HYa4yMfI0ew8pFsi4mP-srwkn1muEwtDkbeNqpEAOzXTgbhOxiKrHqqUZhH/w480-h640/joy%20jar.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>On a shelf, ignored since December of 2021</b>. A plain jar that holds cards that capture in writing some moments of joy. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>02-14-20</b> John went back to the store and bought a heart with opals that I had admired.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>03-09-20</b>. Phone call with my niece thanking me for being many things to her. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>04-21-20</b> Finally went to our favorite bookstore. The owner passed them out the back door. Covid.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And so on. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>All the forgotten joys in a glass jar. </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>On Twitter last night I was remined </b>of one. A Twitter Army friend had sent a 100 dollar credit on Amazon to me, a person he never met. I was telling another twitter friend who knew him too what a big heart he had. We both miss his posts as he passed a year after that. I then told her how he had made it to my Joy jar that day. April 21st 2020.The jar that has sat there waiting for my unravelling to subside. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Two cards now, new ones.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> 6-28-23 Sean my younges</b>t son sent pictures from his trip to Mongolia. I was invited but thought he would much more enjoy the trip to the wilds without a whining Momma. He still takes me along and I feel joy.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>06-29-23 The doorbell rings and the smiling</b> face of my nurse friend who, hearing I have sun poisoning from a lake trip, thrusts a big bottle of Aloe Vera in my hand and says, "God wouldn't leave me alone until you got this."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>If we look for it, we find it even when we thought it impossible.</b></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-23506637167514188402023-05-17T09:53:00.003-07:002023-05-18T23:16:17.396-07:00the amazing tale of an English journal<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRRH4g60ZOAgmMzYMKganM9IQaAHBcFitm2gPqE1Qy_E86knzhzObiJK0WyEvQIfcLkIonpVup42chBt7prhjJKIn2_28zfmRowABA1AWf3RNbuXXnrILbWL-1c4E3y4z5z413jNf3zkGAoL3urV5ChRir5a8vqewwQq5Eu8CANAEtZk5IaSwp2q04fQ/s1080/the%20journal%203.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRRH4g60ZOAgmMzYMKganM9IQaAHBcFitm2gPqE1Qy_E86knzhzObiJK0WyEvQIfcLkIonpVup42chBt7prhjJKIn2_28zfmRowABA1AWf3RNbuXXnrILbWL-1c4E3y4z5z413jNf3zkGAoL3urV5ChRir5a8vqewwQq5Eu8CANAEtZk5IaSwp2q04fQ/w300-h400/the%20journal%203.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>It started with an order from my beloved niece to a woman in England </b>who hand makes journals and sells them on line. I will quote Teresa, the purchaser:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>"It was something I purchased for myself,</b> a treat to encourage self care, a budding renewal of my art, watercolor painting.</span> <span style="font-size: medium;">I found it online through that amazing phenomenon of following links, people, artists.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>When I saw the hand bound and handmade</b> watercolor paper journal with two birds wrapped with a length of leather, I loved it, it was perfect. And having always loved birds, it seemed just right. A special self care treat. So happily I purchased this one of a kind journal.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>When it finally arrived from England, I</b> opened it with great anticipation, the treasure I'd picked out for myself. Wrapped in a stunning box, with lavender sprigs and in a muslin bag with a hand drawn card, I reverently took it out. And then I heard it.. the voice...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>'That's not for you, you know.' </b>Trying to ignore what I had a creeping feeling was going to be another familiar message from "beyond", I tried to dismiss the thought, of course it was for me! I bought it myself "</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>But.</b>... I knew who it was for before I heard:' that's for TT bird.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The familiar voice</b> and message was not for me but came through me and I tried hard to send it away.! I tried! But every time I looked at it, I knew. It's for TT bird."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> John had always called me TT bird (sweetie bird)</b> and I had no idea what "the two will become one" meant until he left us. All the decisions made by two, all the hard times borne by two. And then there is just one. The one legged ladder about to fall over. But I know this: the two as one goes on , it does not ever end : the caring, the helps, it is all there in a different way and I for one fall to my knees in gratitude. </span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-41809391355526886122023-04-22T08:22:00.002-07:002023-04-22T10:29:54.748-07:00 shoes of a pilgrim<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo8u6RTXquSDBADd-EUOZJ8JCXzBsm3g_eelSvb8ljxFe6BNkQ-rZYP_cmUVEnaGQyE3LgESxMamEAMaw71pLNz8I31IvZS5-CjBtUSrjbgDaCRmiJzFSCKpukKESaRAmXr3jyICjVnh3wLDHv1a5zZa7WWSaEFYLoJcFJOMRhq_r4XCixnY9v2Heavw/s2016/john%20on%20the%20camino.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo8u6RTXquSDBADd-EUOZJ8JCXzBsm3g_eelSvb8ljxFe6BNkQ-rZYP_cmUVEnaGQyE3LgESxMamEAMaw71pLNz8I31IvZS5-CjBtUSrjbgDaCRmiJzFSCKpukKESaRAmXr3jyICjVnh3wLDHv1a5zZa7WWSaEFYLoJcFJOMRhq_r4XCixnY9v2Heavw/s320/john%20on%20the%20camino.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Several months ago,</b> I had put all of John's shoes in a bucket, ready for my kind son to take to Goodwill. I could let go of these surely, they are just shoes. As I picked the bucket up, I started to weep and my son said: "Mom, you don't have to get rid of anything, ever." All the shoes are still there. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>This picture last appeared in my Camino story. I told of</b> how I can actually read about the Camino with pleasure in the remembering now. Then I looked closely at the picture and noticed the grey jacket on John's backpack. I have been wearing that daily and it has kept me warm all over. That jacket. But what about the shoes. I wore hiking boots, what did he have on? And in the cache of shoes, I found the exact shoes from the picture. The obsession continues, the title being "looking for John".</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>I have a small prayer corner</b> that I go to each morning. It's where we meet : John, Christ and I. Our shiny wooden hiking sticks, one John made, are there, wood pieces from a beloved maple taken down from the house in the Catskills, our Camino shells, sunflowers, the prayer of surrender of St. Charles de Foucauld, a treasured carved bowl made by Australian aboriginals, and a prayer card of St. James. I go to that corner gratefully as it is my sanctuary.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>And now, a new item</b>, the scuffed up, worn hiking shoes that I didn't let go those months ago. Call me mad, it's O.K. I know what comforts me. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-72557833156970542952023-04-13T10:13:00.003-07:002023-04-13T12:56:13.336-07:00 Afraid of many things<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIhRz7BPuh7pWGC5qnty9Vf0nbu7Qf11HAQXFFZrMzw8t_mIzmBX69b7KnZwSvglncI0XLPSypBY02DQtjn_P1mCYiHLn9D4i4F9nVyTkzqvHgb2S4RWTXrrt_ItCzFU3IQP3p_UEwNI36yzQvx912837IHITqEMVrvCvvLmyPVCL6EVLkcjU1pE0E7w/s1024/camino%20shell.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIhRz7BPuh7pWGC5qnty9Vf0nbu7Qf11HAQXFFZrMzw8t_mIzmBX69b7KnZwSvglncI0XLPSypBY02DQtjn_P1mCYiHLn9D4i4F9nVyTkzqvHgb2S4RWTXrrt_ItCzFU3IQP3p_UEwNI36yzQvx912837IHITqEMVrvCvvLmyPVCL6EVLkcjU1pE0E7w/w200-h320/camino%20shell.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><b style="font-size: large;">What do you fear?</b></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>In this hard last year</b> I have been afraid of many things: music, the interstate, riding home in the dark, and anything that might trigger a memory. So when a friend asked if I would like to see a movie about the Camino, the holy 500 mile pilgrim way in Spain, my first thought was "no." What if I sit in the theater weeping like a bathtub overflowing reliving the time in 2013 when John and I did the Camino? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>Instead, I put on my big girl pants</b>, went and enjoyed a movie that was very inspiring and that didn't break my heart. I am getting there.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>I am reading a well done book</b> about another pilgrim and laughing at how similar his journey was to ours. The pain, the joys, the adventure of it all. And now I am rereading my journal notes and reliving the time with pleasure.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...the scene in the Pamplona square where a drunken Russian youth almost landed in John's lap.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...at Mass in that city where my mind kept being flooded with these words: "Jesus is Lord, Jesus is Lord" and then in the homily in Spanish which I don't speak, I heard this: "Jeus es Dio."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...a pilgrimage takes you out of what is usual, the things that cosset and contain your life...a hill looms, a crushing descent, your eyes weep often without your permission.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...writing on a wonderful shady bench on the patio of a church,,,bells peel, roses surround, cobblestones...a respite.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...a picture of John pushing a wheelbarrow filled with cabbage up a steep hill for a older resident of the town..</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>I am so glad my son made</b> me take a camera, my friend invited me to the movie, my beloved said yes to the walk and I kept a journal.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I will end with the title of the book : "To the Field of Stars" by Kevin A. Codd</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...and this prayer given by some nuns after Mass in Pamplona :" <i><b>May Your protective shadow cover them during the day, and may the light of your grace enlighten them at night, may your pilgrims</b></i><b> <i>finish happily the road to Santiago</i></b>. " A prayer for any of us as we walk each</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;">other other Home</span><span style="font-size: large;">.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo9U7nnyxDzxOYgUjuTyjpr7QpUBedwgbjtABYrG92H2-kQ-qEQe6OkYlqoqhq20tDz0t4il2pUbLRO8wcfCnR9oKLyshC-znv8jKWX_yk34qUgPt7uowjU1B8UvFlOY3boi2Iz0qYA300w4LrQQXNUgbw3-LDoyG6-fFUVGNwWcgkhxd87tEp0RJ1sA/s2016/john%20on%20the%20camino.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo9U7nnyxDzxOYgUjuTyjpr7QpUBedwgbjtABYrG92H2-kQ-qEQe6OkYlqoqhq20tDz0t4il2pUbLRO8wcfCnR9oKLyshC-znv8jKWX_yk34qUgPt7uowjU1B8UvFlOY3boi2Iz0qYA300w4LrQQXNUgbw3-LDoyG6-fFUVGNwWcgkhxd87tEp0RJ1sA/w480-h640/john%20on%20the%20camino.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p> </p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-62449966849835486782023-01-17T11:45:00.005-08:002023-01-17T18:57:59.809-08:00they've got their father's heart<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinwAuaBxfQ74XsEwgIuaVNyWQOd-8JmOZmVs7WB-lrcVgyGSj9u7WMAHwjJqSI5g5op1vHfdMuPgEsInAAJzf6lrwEmtCUFMb9UvMbhn1dlt3qEXPIiYe6WD_NpH4JUQDkA8Vu2qqVWjzJrhJvIOZw87zxrm08vHB-s1moKOAd7fghwdl8Zi8xWzoalQ/s2016/John%20and%20Kevin...JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinwAuaBxfQ74XsEwgIuaVNyWQOd-8JmOZmVs7WB-lrcVgyGSj9u7WMAHwjJqSI5g5op1vHfdMuPgEsInAAJzf6lrwEmtCUFMb9UvMbhn1dlt3qEXPIiYe6WD_NpH4JUQDkA8Vu2qqVWjzJrhJvIOZw87zxrm08vHB-s1moKOAd7fghwdl8Zi8xWzoalQ/w300-h400/John%20and%20Kevin...JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Journal Notes 10-02-21</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Kindnesses:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>...</b>an e-mail from Antionette thanking me for doing the writing group.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">....John bought lunch for a lady waiting to get her car fixed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...John picked up a man as he was walking from Kroger and drove him home.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...John brought a strawberry shake home as a surprise for me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>My very insightful niece had written to me on December 22nd </b>of this year :'"the sacred cord connecting you is taut. Evidence that you are he and he is you is in your beautiful children that you created together."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>As with so many things in this hard year I gained clarity only with time</b>. It</span><b style="font-size: large;"> came to me yesterday, the truth of that statement.</b><span style="font-size: large;"><b> I will give some anonymous examples beca</b>use my children are like their Dad; they turn away from praise.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">..a young teen visiting a wealthy man's home . He was offered an ATV to lark about on and as soon as he saw Hispanic kids his age picking grapes in the heat he couldn't do it...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...a couple walking in Las Vegas'. The man saw a homeless man half asleep on a cardboard pallet: money given and then gently the poor man was told that he mattered.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...a man is driving down a busy street when he sees a woman with three small children walking hurriedly along. He offers a ride, drops the kids where they are going, takes the Mom to a motel where she lives. Soon he is trying to find a way to get her a car.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...an adult child who doesn't leave you alone for three months; takes you to church, the movies, out to eat and teaches you how to pump gas. Drives you to the dentist when a tooth is screaming and makes sure you get home from Australia by yourself. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...a young man, after Katrina hit the South, heads, with his truck loaded with dog and cat food, to Mississippi where he drives around trailer parks knocking on doors, seeing what people need.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>John had an employee </b>at his restaurant who called once a year after we retired to invite him to an AA meeting for the anniversary of his sobriety. John went every year, where he was praised for the help he gave to R. At the gravesite a year ago he was the only one who was able to speak and he was wonderful, eloquent and grateful. This year all three of my Georgia children attended the anniversary for R in their Dad's place.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Yes,</b> his heart beats in them. </span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-80718140256130430092023-01-08T16:14:00.003-08:002023-01-09T06:36:32.414-08:00I do not want my life to be only about grief ...<p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFThRydv9N8LDJvMCiCgbfBbEevyPuEaYV5sO0ZnqcglobQTRDNSkQ0Thj0wPVVza-pbp7WpXCqdKpDcHVn0H5WP9-sJTaEF_8Mau0IR8yl-uP54xBJeE0j_rYmBcRxhGWv9PniSqIMyxfZhz_BHvCUo0P1zFi3kxH4K0FUZfyUfbXdk1UTifAgOik_Q/s2016/johns%20card-we%20are%20one.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFThRydv9N8LDJvMCiCgbfBbEevyPuEaYV5sO0ZnqcglobQTRDNSkQ0Thj0wPVVza-pbp7WpXCqdKpDcHVn0H5WP9-sJTaEF_8Mau0IR8yl-uP54xBJeE0j_rYmBcRxhGWv9PniSqIMyxfZhz_BHvCUo0P1zFi3kxH4K0FUZfyUfbXdk1UTifAgOik_Q/w480-h640/johns%20card-we%20are%20one.JPG" width="480" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>I do not want my life to be only about grief. </b>But it seems Facebook knows about my situation and so things pop up all the time. I have learned to skip over them but today a poem jarred loose another story that I must tell. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The poem started this way:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>"How do I live without you? Oh, my love, I do not. </b></i>"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>And that has been my experience</b>. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">On December 22 of this past year I received a message from my dear niece who thinks of me so often. I can tell. She wrote: <i>"your love for him and he for you is stronger than ever.. the sacred chord that connects you is taut...<b>you are him and he</b> <b>is you</b>...keep loving your dear man-he feels it and is longing for the day you can be together again...remember that time is not a thing where he is..it's O.K. to love someone with all your heart...it's the most beautiful blessing that you have..".</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Such odd but tender words. The writer said the words came through her. Later that day I was looking for something in the closet and on a shelf is my box of cards; John's contributions in a bag on the top. On a whim or maybe one of those nudges, I took the top one out and smiled at the old folks perched on a log. I opened and read where he signed this:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">07-25-07</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>"We are one. </i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Love you, John."</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The poem ends this way:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>"You walked such a blazing pathway, when your feet were on this earth, that your imprint lingers on and I place my own feet in your steps, one by one. </i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>How do I live without you?</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>It's really simple, I do not."</i> Donna Ashworth.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And in this grace filled time, on this very blessed earth, I am finding that that is O.K.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-6541510044161847252023-01-02T10:16:00.007-08:002023-01-02T17:54:05.879-08:00being a fairy wren<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfyUxoGFsuX8Je5pLqJ7_iq5pp3R2X_nQPTwahsNMUvdMGYmEQMECC4Bi5IZSROOIF_ahoFi2NoBeATwOiK4Et9ItlLchAoBeLZUqCuqupJjQLRTXFb3AN7Mi7k1e68TxFacQv61SL7xE7wshlak6PY9_hz3fiRvwRSObg7PrYopxpEKwLEXaHHLJiGQ/s2016/crytslas%20journal.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfyUxoGFsuX8Je5pLqJ7_iq5pp3R2X_nQPTwahsNMUvdMGYmEQMECC4Bi5IZSROOIF_ahoFi2NoBeATwOiK4Et9ItlLchAoBeLZUqCuqupJjQLRTXFb3AN7Mi7k1e68TxFacQv61SL7xE7wshlak6PY9_hz3fiRvwRSObg7PrYopxpEKwLEXaHHLJiGQ/w300-h400/crytslas%20journal.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> <span style="font-size: large;"><b>I like wrens. </b>They have been neighbors for decades on the Graham plantation. For thirty years, in the winter, one or even two will perch on a small ledge by our front door and sleep through the night. How did the first one find the ledge and did he instruct all those who followed of its safety? They only live about eight years so the mystery persists. John swore that they must have had chats. I don't know but I love to see their little feathered bodies all curled up in plain sight.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> <b>But there are wrens</b> and then there are wrens. Once you see an Australian fairy wren you are spoiled forever. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>My beautiful Australian daughter-in-law</b> gave me that colorful journal you see. Above the print is a fairy wren. All the other gorgeous birds are from her home country. Some of the questions on each page are : what was the best thing about yesterday and what are you grateful for today, what are your priorities ? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>When the sun hits the fairy wren</b> you know what a gift this bird is as it flits in your yard. Like a rare jewel has fallen from the sky. You have to smile. And I bet you're thinking where is this going.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Years ago, while in prayer, </b>I was asked to be Christ to someone once a day. Why I forgot that I don't know but instead of resolutions like eat more raw veggies and avoid carbs I am going to finally heed that call. Being Christ seems daunting although I get it but what about being a fairy wren to someone each day. This all seems lighter, brighter to me somehow. I look forward to it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>When I tell the welcome lady at Wal Mart</b><span> that I love her, maybe I have dropped a jewel into her apron. A simple thing. Of these things the Kingdom is made.</span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB9PVHmHhzu6BKo1VEznRX5kEmeqIdT8xusV-crCmjMLjBRq7QUWFr7RKtb00XPF-HP4C18URxS6rCeRce36oeOE4dehqUL35bdqzgK3YfS9IKWYgXVF87cjEtnXQ_9PEfxHUq4ugOhq7PTgHcMd-4HjycllaC29M-5kL_KvK0AZbke4UDVlar-Y7DYQ/s1280/fairy%20wren.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB9PVHmHhzu6BKo1VEznRX5kEmeqIdT8xusV-crCmjMLjBRq7QUWFr7RKtb00XPF-HP4C18URxS6rCeRce36oeOE4dehqUL35bdqzgK3YfS9IKWYgXVF87cjEtnXQ_9PEfxHUq4ugOhq7PTgHcMd-4HjycllaC29M-5kL_KvK0AZbke4UDVlar-Y7DYQ/w360-h640/fairy%20wren.PNG" width="360" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-31117022490441880942022-12-31T13:26:00.004-08:002023-01-08T16:27:03.481-08:00when your friend tells you the truth <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_w2rXIwfXaRr3zJPr2m29b07Myi-L4A_qwEj5hSZqiEdMKbkolxBbVDreCRvknzxbPVmrlTzRthVbWVFX-uvsmrxkvb7DpWIYcCVEG_dp2YUrrWxJjxzqNgrga41Dxb55aWW311c7n4GhxgVhoau4fGQUoLTU5TmC3IS37f4WJt4amGrOJlOzgvGpkg/s720/dragonfly%20girl....jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_w2rXIwfXaRr3zJPr2m29b07Myi-L4A_qwEj5hSZqiEdMKbkolxBbVDreCRvknzxbPVmrlTzRthVbWVFX-uvsmrxkvb7DpWIYcCVEG_dp2YUrrWxJjxzqNgrga41Dxb55aWW311c7n4GhxgVhoau4fGQUoLTU5TmC3IS37f4WJt4amGrOJlOzgvGpkg/w400-h400/dragonfly%20girl....jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>It will get pretty ordinary here</b> but bear with me. I have had the flu/cold/covid, who knows, since 12-26. Slight fever, terrible nose products, slight sore throat and last night, I coughed my left lung into my palm. Not really.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>A friend advised that I get some</b> Mucinex to get the gunk out of my lungs. I knew that needed to be done. Then I thought, easy for you to say, healthy friend. I have been a princess taken care of for 57 years .I haven't left the house since Monday, I have little gas in my car, my hair is dirty. BWAAAAAA. I CAN'T do it!!! I thought of friends, tried several delivery options, no go. BWAAAAA. I knew this friend was watching me on line so I found some big girl pants and they actually sold it to me out of the pharmacy drive up thanks to the clerk, Jessica, who made it happen. I told her I loved her on the phone. Do you think she will appear in my kindness journal?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>But here is the miracle</b>, why write if not. As I was grumpily driving to CVS, my Friend took over my thinking. I can describe it no other way.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>This is what I heard:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"<b>At this time i</b>t appears you are weak and vulnerable but I <b>don't</b> want to think of yourself that way. You are My child . This is what I see:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...a youth wo grew up poor getting a Regents scholarship in a house filled with chaos. Determined to get a college degree.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">--- a young lady graduating with a degree despite the chaos and a Father twice housed in a mental institution.</span><span style="font-size: large;">...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...despite growing up with alcoholic parents, and many relatives the same, through determination and My grace, you have never succumbed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...who lost her fist child to miscarriage and endured the fear and sadness of that hospital trip. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...a woman who at 70 years hiked 175 miles of the Camino in Spain.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...and after that started a writing group with no experience, just some ideas. That group has been a healing for many.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...a woman who has endured her greatest fear and not become bitter.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>I have left many out for brevity</b> but share these. If you think I am bragging I am not doing a good enough job writing this story.(But did I tell you about the 11 and a half pound baby I had naturally?.)</span><span style="font-size: large;">What I wrote has little</span><span style="font-size: large;"> to do with me and more with the Friend, the Lord, who has had my hand every step of the way.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>As the words came flooding in I knew what was happening.</b> Today was a test for me. I think I was given at least a year to live in fear and trembling as it is part of the process.(I am not the only one who breaks down in Kroger I am told.).But now it's time to remember who I am. I may fail, who knows, but what a profound gift to be hearing how I am seen by the One who loves us so.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"He is Kind, He is patient, slow to anger and rich in mercy."</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-51080395056367462452022-12-30T13:57:00.002-08:002022-12-30T13:57:45.365-08:00I don't deserve this<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghT0pPnQ0Hw2O7CnwbfpLDjp5ZtNytbLQBPjENKa3EUSUIRGAVp0a6S2u-Bwz0uZYH5Cfo5tyCKq7W0Pc6xCZXyRKR9gqgNeiOJMhZZlKGwIZQnIM_O7CEdlJit9LdynOOEFk_Tiz-IB-uGD7tcmACUvSwYe5FLvvdn0f1pRynNNJFPZDnLc5isohWNA/s969/girl%20in%20the%20rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="969" data-original-width="770" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghT0pPnQ0Hw2O7CnwbfpLDjp5ZtNytbLQBPjENKa3EUSUIRGAVp0a6S2u-Bwz0uZYH5Cfo5tyCKq7W0Pc6xCZXyRKR9gqgNeiOJMhZZlKGwIZQnIM_O7CEdlJit9LdynOOEFk_Tiz-IB-uGD7tcmACUvSwYe5FLvvdn0f1pRynNNJFPZDnLc5isohWNA/w318-h400/girl%20in%20the%20rain.jpg" width="318" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Last June, John and I flew into the Albany,</b> N.Y. airport for a visit to our beloved Catskills. A kindness happened as we deplaned and I heard the Spirit whisper :"why not keep track of those you see on this trip ?" That was the beginning. Now if I pick up my pen to journal, kindnesses jump in my lap like warm kittens and demand to be written about first. It's a habit.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>In a previous story I ranted about a person</b> that did the wrong thing, for me at least. Here are some of those times when the exact right thing was done. Most know who they are.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...<b>Two days after John passed, my family</b> and I went to evening Mass. One dear lady crossed the church, knelt in the pew in front of me and said: "No words just I love you." We put our heads together and wept.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...<b>the staff at our dentist office. </b>They loved John. A lovely card, two calls from the receptionist. And when the office closed, they made sure we are Facebook friends so we can stay connected. The person who called went with the dentist to the new office and having her there when I have to go, heartens me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...<b>One of the friends in our writing grou</b>p has left more than one creative package on my porch. She made a journal for my trip to Australia, a fruit cake and candle for Christmas. And for a year she has given me an open invitation. As I type this I realize it has taken me a whole year to accept. We have a date on Jan 11 for lunch and antiquing. What price for that friendship ? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...<b>John did the bills </b>and although organized I had no idea the system. I needed folders and this angel dropped her life and got folders, labels and would take no payment. Just left them with me with a smile. She also took care of my plants when I went to Australia. She is appalled that I don't talk to them, she spoiled them all. They miss her. I throw her a kiss every Sunday at Mass and we smile. She has my back.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>These are the ones like the kittens</b> that insisted to be written today. There are so many more that I will write about. This is what the beatitude means that "they that mourn will be comforted." You will be comforted in ways you could never conceive because the hole is so deep and people, so kind.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>And finally to John O'Donohue</b>, the Irish poet and writer whose words I was given before John passed because there is no time and God knew that I would need to know this:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>"We cannot see the dead, but because we cannot see them does not mean that they are not there...transfigured in an eternal form. In their new transfigured presence their compassion, understanding and love take on divine depth, enabling them to became secret angels, guiding and sheltering the unfolding of our destiny." </i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>I have lived to know the truth of this.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>We will meet one day</b> and I will thank John O in person where all things are perfect and the only language spoken is love.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-34396362509238989892022-12-24T17:30:00.003-08:002022-12-24T17:48:15.894-08:00the tough guy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3hfYY9Gi24tHCStkU_do3Lrrtja3m9TLAMOirFcvVvgvfB4NRUpqBN4X0KVcKZo56_AH4We_OXTLqK3djr-noA9sa2EghewRLSRN28n0KgO8pZ4WF7G5L0jt0HyuYKgeMC3YHtNiRRMAsGQmYM8BaOqsu5PvRdBPPzyG9qJiQEzZrSVhYqEIUA_JUnA/s2016/john%20honduras.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3hfYY9Gi24tHCStkU_do3Lrrtja3m9TLAMOirFcvVvgvfB4NRUpqBN4X0KVcKZo56_AH4We_OXTLqK3djr-noA9sa2EghewRLSRN28n0KgO8pZ4WF7G5L0jt0HyuYKgeMC3YHtNiRRMAsGQmYM8BaOqsu5PvRdBPPzyG9qJiQEzZrSVhYqEIUA_JUnA/w300-h400/john%20honduras.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>My hero was born into a large Irish Catholic</b> family; he was the 7th child. His Mother was 40 when he arrived on Mother's Day and I think his parents may have been weary by then. I surmise that John tried very hard to find his place in that crowd and get some attention. He was the family clown . He was a good boy and I have a radio that was his as a young child; on it he scratched the words: "John is a fine boy". He wanted to be and he was.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Then came the teenage terrors</b> and on a subway platform at 15 John turned his back on his true self to become a tough guy, his new persona. He searched for a long time for a good fit for who he was. Don't we all ? Church was out of the question for a tough guy.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Drifting into mid-life and </b>unsure, an accident brought things to a head. Where am I going? What am I doing ? Choices. A Cursillo week-end, a jogging habit , focus on the family. A trip to Honduras with our youngest son after a devastating hurricane.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>I have some words that he wrote in 2009</b>. "I thought about the closeness to God (teenage and under) and the years of difficulty(20s) when moving away from God. The ins and outs, the turns, the coming closer and the moving away. Closer is better".</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>In the years after,</b> in the closer years, he led a group from our Church that took yearly mission trips to a Franciscan compound in Honduras. Doctors, nurses, dentists. And if ever it seemed like some praise might be coming his way, he was nowhere to be found. The leader role was a great fit.</span></p><p><span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><b><span style="font-size: large;">There is a plaque on the wall </span><span style="font-size: medium;">of a school in Ghana that he assisted in many ways. The last line reads : "He will be greatly missed."</span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>And in all that serving </b>he was a great father and role model to our four children.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">John later found another niche assisting older people in our parish in a million ways. Playing chess, food shopping, doctors trips, just being with, finding new homes. One of the gentleman he helped eventually passed away and at the funeral his daughter was praising John for his selfless caring of her Dad. I found these words in my journal notes: 12-22-18" I told C. that John had given his heart to Christ." Three years later to the day, John left us. I just noticed that now as I type.</span></p><p><span><b><span style="font-size: medium;">In 2006, as we were planning to run a retreat house in South</span></b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;">Carolina, John wrote: "The Holy Spirit has been guiding my movements for a long time." Yes and the fine boy became a fine man.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>I wasn't going to go to Mass tonight</b>, too cold, coming home in the dark. But on the way to church, this all came to me. I had no intention of writing something so personal but I know it was just another nudge. My John became God's. I know he is now giving all the praise to the One who turned his life around and made him exactly who He wanted him to be : His fine tough guy and mine.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-871899470772146362022-12-18T08:18:00.000-08:002022-12-18T08:18:23.889-08:00Last Christmas<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE2084bCNGm8iQak_IlBLgMq6VWWnPu8QpPqdUXw4g0Ia5hgfmV0ydCPOgf4q2O53Gl6FWP2lRp6Vmb3MoN7ZnPNtDDLNbWJWxh0xElsgvgiMUrirhfQZh5TwVvZ5O1AH4O9LBqqFrp_2k0rUqXZTOdCXsU0xWFIO2UYr6ymd5r5a78WCCTeV6xZF8BA/s2016/hope.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE2084bCNGm8iQak_IlBLgMq6VWWnPu8QpPqdUXw4g0Ia5hgfmV0ydCPOgf4q2O53Gl6FWP2lRp6Vmb3MoN7ZnPNtDDLNbWJWxh0xElsgvgiMUrirhfQZh5TwVvZ5O1AH4O9LBqqFrp_2k0rUqXZTOdCXsU0xWFIO2UYr6ymd5r5a78WCCTeV6xZF8BA/w400-h300/hope.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Last year we celebrated Christmas early b</b>ecause a traveling son would be here . So the day of the 19th we gathered. If anyone noticed the strange things that were happening, no one said. It was only later that we compared notes. Did John really say that? </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>At one point he insisted that a picture be taken just of the six of us</b>, no in laws, no children. It is a perfect picture with faces smiling that perhaps will never be so bright. After dinner when we were cleaning up, John said we will never be together for Christmas again. Some were shocked and asked if either of us had received a bad health report, most of us shrugged our shoulders, Dad being Dad. Then one of the grands was told that John would be her angel. Strange doings here.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>I was mid way through the Glorious mysteries</b> of the rosary that night when my son came running in to tell me that Dad had collapsed. And so it began. In two days the love of my life, the blond haired, green eyed, gorgeous boy I met at 14, would be gone...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>And yet I am writing to assure you that he has not left us.</b> There is not one of us that hasn't been touched in some way by John since then: in a dream, a knowing, a song, a synchronicity, in a vision, a nudge, a guidance. His form has changed, the means are different but he is here. With us. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>When I was going through John's memories folder </b>I found the round medal above. I don't know how he received it, I had never seen it before. The word my pastor used when he called, the word that hangs around my neck now. It was left for me to find when I needed it most.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMKzlupLQJp1pY2eXO1LrYHOX69wVEgvXPVjccq6Y0Nrd__6r2fearXEBGs6f9d1t1S6im2rqyhLNmZtpwE_tL8EzfjJrw3YL_c9B6-XuovBZPGfCubZYBl3p5PgKC1yCcl7bGnFXUIL3dP2xXuTH3Vll2rxZDeJRVNUgPeMM_FVzWphAg66u8ebAlZw/s2015/john%20and%20sharon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2015" data-original-width="1446" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMKzlupLQJp1pY2eXO1LrYHOX69wVEgvXPVjccq6Y0Nrd__6r2fearXEBGs6f9d1t1S6im2rqyhLNmZtpwE_tL8EzfjJrw3YL_c9B6-XuovBZPGfCubZYBl3p5PgKC1yCcl7bGnFXUIL3dP2xXuTH3Vll2rxZDeJRVNUgPeMM_FVzWphAg66u8ebAlZw/w461-h640/john%20and%20sharon.jpg" width="461" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-81413025830071109452022-12-14T06:59:00.000-08:002022-12-14T06:59:46.669-08:00early Christmas gift..<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJHIKqgnjeulRCx76r9_yZGLewuV8cWr3Zl3s6uTKvj0UAOCLsaiuBuCjKMooZKvm7NvNoUBydIl16Q987GjB_IZqpGbex7618gYMFM1caeMtxadv2x6NvREHhmQXiDY0BIlhoeXl0lIszc-Uop1f7ww8is4PDh9DlCLIjUuN1dW5rV8jgrHAZoGd0Cg/s960/flint%20river%20in%20winter%202014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="718" data-original-width="960" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJHIKqgnjeulRCx76r9_yZGLewuV8cWr3Zl3s6uTKvj0UAOCLsaiuBuCjKMooZKvm7NvNoUBydIl16Q987GjB_IZqpGbex7618gYMFM1caeMtxadv2x6NvREHhmQXiDY0BIlhoeXl0lIszc-Uop1f7ww8is4PDh9DlCLIjUuN1dW5rV8jgrHAZoGd0Cg/w400-h299/flint%20river%20in%20winter%202014.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>I have written before how present</b> John has been to me in these hard days of 2022. How I have spent my time trying to find him in his letters, my journal notes and other friends memories.</span> <span style="font-size: medium;">How I woke up one morning to the sound of his voice calling "Honey". None of these things did I look for or expect. In this blessed case I will not ask: Why me?" I will just accept with a full heart.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>When I returned from Australia</b> my focus has been on Christmas, getting gifts and writing to the people who I have gotten cards from who don't know that John is gone. I thought I had put my journal searching behind me. Oh, you foolish griever. I even told a dear friend that I felt John had moved on and I might be too.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>The next day I was rummaging through some art supplies</b> and saw a journal from 2003-4 that had notes from time spent wandering alone through the wetlands near here. Ah, some nature writing , no searching just enjoy the memories of those hours in Nature. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>Before I go on let me tell you about Christmas 2018 </b>when John and I found ourselves alone for the first time in 50 years, having celebrated the week before with the kids. John was not happy. The thought came that we should go to the river and sketch or write haiku. Picture John Wayne being asked to do this : "Well, little lady, that's the dumbest thing I ever heard." Happily John agreed and the day being perfect and sunny we went and sat on logs as the river flowed peacefully by. It turned out to be a lovely day together. John did a sketch that day and since last year I have looked for it in vain. Where is it? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>I sat quietly in my room a</b>nd opened the journal of 2003 and as I paged along, in the back was a drawing dated 12-25-2018 with the initials JJG. You know I cried. A friend said that is John's gift to you for this Christmas and I know its true. I have it framed by my desk next to a pot of dried weeds that I picked on the way home that day.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> Thank you, dear man, for that and everything.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">.</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-46232549272732950652022-12-04T03:49:00.002-08:002022-12-04T03:52:21.699-08:00Watching and waiting<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEindpk1SRS5zMfdlF3K2plDF4mzoRKc8IL8q8HFcjgZ4p87LdJSGbHMAmhuEt_Pj5aj4WVs25nHypQsOy4IZlmY5mGJoPiZ_IrWJjMTn6G6g0GUfom_GcuR-witiNlId-frAHE3wIka-DyVDvMSNUrAJrLpqzPscstiDTLlrSkmXHZ2Azwq0J1dq57EAg/s314/labyrith%20of%20life.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="314" data-original-width="236" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEindpk1SRS5zMfdlF3K2plDF4mzoRKc8IL8q8HFcjgZ4p87LdJSGbHMAmhuEt_Pj5aj4WVs25nHypQsOy4IZlmY5mGJoPiZ_IrWJjMTn6G6g0GUfom_GcuR-witiNlId-frAHE3wIka-DyVDvMSNUrAJrLpqzPscstiDTLlrSkmXHZ2Azwq0J1dq57EAg/w301-h400/labyrith%20of%20life.jpg" width="301" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Last Christmas season</b> my niece sent a large glass bowl with stones and a gnarled dry dead looking bulb , an amaryllis. I followed the directions and by Christmas, there were two tall stalks with bright red flowers. For awhile they looked like aliens coming up from nothing. Watching them shoot out of the stones gave me pleasure last year, the year of loss. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Last year I was invited</b> to give a day long Advent retreat for the staff at church. At the time, my mind was filled with looking for kindnesses and being open to those who have left us, what they might have to say from their place. Little did I know that as Advent ended, I would need to cling to both for dear life.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><b>This year, I received another box with two bulbs</b> and a message that said: Thinking of you at this difficult time." My precious</span><span> niece will never know how this touched me. I have three bulbs now in my kitchen, the old one and the two new that are lighter colored the box says, all waiting for the warmth of the sun. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Kindness.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The watching and waiting on the bulbs </b>to bloom reminded me of this season. What do these four weeks of Advent hold for me ? Why have I always loved them? Why did the love of my life leave during this season ?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>I do know this</b>: companions always come. This year St Teresa of Avila elbowed her way into my life through an offering at St Brigid's Church in Australia where I visited my family. It was based on Teresa's sayings and the music of U2. What ? I attended two sessions and it was good to be with like minded new friends.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>So far what I have learned from Teresa</b> that holds the most meaning was inscribed for me on a birthday card from John in 2016. "<i>Let nothing disturb you, let nothing frighten you, everything passes away , God alone remains."</i> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>And this:</b> "<i> If one perseveres, I trust then in the mercy of God, who never fails to repay anyone who has taken Him for a friend." </i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My God, my friend, thank you.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-28211362352365575742022-10-15T10:42:00.000-07:002022-10-15T10:42:31.067-07:00the bat faced voice<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwBbje8JF1VmWsiiPsyQx_kZQetOtVd2hdeE6chlrKawdpUNggZmN3cxlM4GvQJRdJIXDups-MDm7Q-T3XUqv_ndkXlvaB5tNwgbknyJn0Oiu3ULmT1LEOKT6mTjyGnsCUrjr2QrgE26ctQHnWxjH-izWh0FFMLR-BNYmYE4XLfUSU-Gs4XLh_7HHUbQ/s1024/card-1.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="764" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwBbje8JF1VmWsiiPsyQx_kZQetOtVd2hdeE6chlrKawdpUNggZmN3cxlM4GvQJRdJIXDups-MDm7Q-T3XUqv_ndkXlvaB5tNwgbknyJn0Oiu3ULmT1LEOKT6mTjyGnsCUrjr2QrgE26ctQHnWxjH-izWh0FFMLR-BNYmYE4XLfUSU-Gs4XLh_7HHUbQ/w348-h400/card-1.webp" width="348" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The voice</b> the young girl hears is grey and streaked with harshness. It tells her: "you will always be second best, Loser!, no one will ever love you..".</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>She listens</b> and sometimes repeats these as a mantra, scarring herself each time. She is creating her world without knowing it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>In time</b> she realizes that she no longer hears that bat faced voice. When did it stop? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Was it on the day</b> she asked the Lord to help her as a young woman ? Or the day she finally turned her will over to the One who created her? Halleluiah it is gone. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Soon another Voice</b>, a smiling yellow butterfly voice, called her by name and said:" I love you." Later the Voice suggested that she look for things to be grateful for, be on the look out for kindnesses. How this all changed her. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>And then this:</b> "Each day be Christ to one person."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>We become what we think.</b> Giving thought to anything is creation: giving deliberate thought to anything is deliberate creation. What are we creating?</span></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5426963194100037031.post-74599546131511621012022-10-13T13:24:00.002-07:002022-10-14T05:51:33.792-07:00What brought me back?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6xPovk-maSdVtoYIs4TCjBSODO2sSerdwhK4T6sL29_1Suq5pZYGgZxRzT7flYgwPHDcLPYjtXgMYZGWlCNUZTSWCcPZgZFUeASKnU8N8_V14oFsRb5KBtx7-tXsM-S7bfSzgKJ5CiSY14M_A00yD58Igue1YOBdWNrxkrPGG1vR4C2oohIjX_Jx_5w/s2016/john%20walking%20the%20labyrinth%20scotland%202010.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6xPovk-maSdVtoYIs4TCjBSODO2sSerdwhK4T6sL29_1Suq5pZYGgZxRzT7flYgwPHDcLPYjtXgMYZGWlCNUZTSWCcPZgZFUeASKnU8N8_V14oFsRb5KBtx7-tXsM-S7bfSzgKJ5CiSY14M_A00yD58Igue1YOBdWNrxkrPGG1vR4C2oohIjX_Jx_5w/w300-h400/john%20walking%20the%20labyrinth%20scotland%202010.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>How did I find my way back t</b>o the labyrinth? </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>When John and I ran a retreat house</b> on Edisto Island ,S.C. for a year, the labyrinth was in our yard at Sea of Peace, House of Prayer. Groups would come from Charleston to walk and share their spiritual experiences.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>When troubled by a seemingly impossible</b> family situation, I would drift out and wander the path until I reached the center. Always, I received something. Even if it was just my bemusement at our yellow lab who would walk with me and stand with me in the center until I was ready to walk back out. One day, I heard this "Give her whatever she wants". Direct guidance on how to handle a division of property. I did as I was told and the matter was resolved. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>In the notes that John left behind</b> in the memories folder he writes about reading the handbook for labyrinths, "Walking a Sacred Path" by Lauren Artress. Was this where the suggestion, the whisper of a leading came from?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>For 8 years</b> I had been hesitant to take our writing group on field trips for logistical reasons. How much chaos would it involve to go on a Buddhist Poetry walk at the Wetlands, 4 miles away? I shudder. But now I was compelled to check out the nearest labyrinth and organize a walk. I called the Calvin Center and went to check the path out. Beautiful setting on a lake, a blue heron in the distance. Benches for writing but, Oh Lordy, the path was a tangle of life threatening weeds. I walked a second time, didn't trip and crash and knew I had to make this work.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The Center people</b> cleared the path, bathrooms were near, the day was bright blue and perfect. Each walker has their own story but as I stood at the entrance I thought: "I am lost."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Then I heard:</b> "<i>I am here</i>". As I slowly walked : <i>"like the solid ground under your feet you</i> <i>are held,</i>" Then in a bit : <i>"through all the twists and turns of your journey to come, you are held, you are on solid ground. And you are not alone. " </i>The solid ground is Christ.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The rock labyrinth</b> above is on the island of Iona off the coast of Scotland. This is the beach where St. Columba arrived and brought the faith to the Scots. As John walked that day in 2010, he felt his uniqueness. Uniqueness and so much else.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>I continue on this path</b> of sorrow and mystery, grateful for all the ways that I have been shown I am loved and never alone.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Comments appreciated.</div>georgia peachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947665343985448746noreply@blogger.com1