shuffling through the debris

Georgia has finally been visited by cool air and I greet it with enthusiasm.What pleasure to have cold cheeks; to hear the crisp leaves under my feet as I walk the woods.This year I took a few, just turning, leaves and put them on my desk to watch as they colored up in bright red and yellow.And yet, the pink roses still bloom.Wonders all.

I can feel the world curling up, night comes sooner and sap is retracting.

Colder nights means bringing in my house plants, some very old.There is a red crown of thorns that I treat like a fragile baby. It must be 30 years old and I recall the day that I bought it.My son Sean, who was perhaps 10 at the time, and I  drove out to the monastery in Conyers for a wander around and a visit to Flannery O'Connor's screaming peacocks, which she had donated to the monks.It was there on that special day with my son that I bought the plant..........

...And locked my keys in the car; we were 25 miles from home.Then a minor miracle occurred . Instead of losing it and crying/screaming like the peacocks, I deliberately sat down to think things through.It must have been a residue of monk prayers hovering over Conyers that caused this reaction because that is not me.With a patience I don't have, I thought for awhile and then called my son Michael who was home and asked him to drive out with some keys.He was gracious and showing great kindness said;" Of course."That's the way he is.

This small plant was attacked once by my dog Cooper for some odd reason.I came home from work a few years later and Sean had it in his hands with a face that looked as droopy as the plant.He knew how much that little plant meant to me.I potted it again and it survived.No one can appreciate how much I love that plant because of its connection to my two wonderful sons.This feels sappy but so be it.I love them so much.

Last week, I received a message that means a great deal to me at this time of turmoil and rancor.The Lord said this:

"Keep your focus on love.How can you love in this situation?Can you take a minute to love?If I were standing next to you, would your response be different?I am, you know.See that truth, live that truth.It matters."

I am grateful beyond words for all the love in my life.I have no choice but to give that away.

a herald and signs

The wonderful , mild,  Fall weather continues and as if that wasn't enough, the robins are back.One is in the bird bath trying to get set, right before traveling to Florida and points South. Who doesn't love these birds that arrive to tell us of change ?The signs are everywhere.Plump pumpkins, that seem to be smiling, in church yards for sale, purple mums in flower pots and the constant swirling of multi colored leaves.This year, I have plucked a few off the trees around our house and have them on my desk.Watching them change daily has become a blessing of 2016, this year of turmoil.

A church in Mississippi was burned and the culprit left a Vote for Trump sign on the charred side.Within a day, Trump supporters raised over $140,000 to rebuild.A sign of the goodness in people's hearts.Amazing.

This is what sustains me in this world that is as confusing as a house of mirrors: there is a river of goodness and Love that holds the universe in balance.It is around us, unseen, and we have a choice to be part of the flow or not.We can burn churches or collect money.I think of two young friends of mine, who both had a choice to help or not a few years back, Michelle and Kris, and they chose to dive into the river not knowing where the bottom was or how hard it would be.They helped, and the river smiled.

In my prayer time I was told this:"All things point to that Love, that river,  if you have eyes to see and the ego doesn't stand in the way.Perhaps there is a story here."Yes, perhaps there is.

For me, in these worst of times, I have needed to get away and clutch some leaves, fill the birdbath for the robins,and admire the bees in the last rose.Maybe a small stream of opportunity will be diverted in my direction .Will I step in and float along?Or perhaps I  could sing like the Native Americans do when feeling threatened. Together, they chant an old repetitive song until they come to hozhq when their world feels like it is in balance and whole.Amen.

following the trail...

Trail of our Ancestors-Jan Oliver-Schultz



When I saw the painting, I was so moved. How wistful to see the backs of the ancestors as they slowly drift away like leaving spirits.The colors whisper to me ; the blue and green, of calmness and acceptance.The dark trees witness. Is that fire or the setting sun which signifies the end of their era ? Their backs are straight. I feel like running behind them and asking about their lives, their wisdom.

For six years, I was addicted to family research.I have a book called " Collecting Dead Relatives".The yellow cover still makes me laugh. It shows a cartoon drawing of an old red haired lady with big sloppy red boots running through a cemetery with a huge butterfly net.I recognized her instantly. As I ran through graveyards in person and on-line, I gleaned quite a bit about the Irish, Scots and English who walked this path before me.Here is a litany to honor some of them.

For Hannorah, my Irish grandmother, who died when I was two.I have no memory of her but I do have a story.There was a terrible thunderstorm that ripped Long Island in the '20s when her husband was away. Alone with her 5 children, she took out a bottle of holy water and sprinkled each of her children for protection.She awoke the next day to find that in her hysteria, she had grabbed a bleach bottle.A woman of faith.I have the crucifix that she left behind, which I treasure

For William Carpenter, who left England and landed at Plymouth in 1638 with a  wife and 4 children under the age of ten.I am trying to imagine starting over in the wilderness, thousands of miles from home. What courage.These were not snowflakes.One of his ancestors was John Carpenter who served in Parliament in 1303.I saw the street that is named after him when I was in London a few years back.When William died, he left a whole library of books.Did my love for the written word come from him?He is buried in a Rhode Island cemetery and, poignantly, his grave stone simply says " W.C."

For Great Aunt Amanda Knowlton, who looks at me from an old sepia toned photo.She had a baby snatched from her arms by a tornado in Minnesota in the mid 1800s.They never found the child.Imagine.Somehow she survived this terrible blow. I have several of her pencil written letters after this tragedy.Amanda, I would like to have known you in your black satin full skirt with billows of fabric and a white bow tie at our neck, your dark hair pulled back and parted in the middle.Your penetrating eyes.I will never forget you and your child.


For Charles Phillips, Amanda's brother, who served in the Navy during the Civil War.My great-grandfather,.who never came home from the war but disappeared after changing his name.What hole did you leave in my grandfather's life ?Who knows your reasons ?Your well written letters penned in 1864 and 1865 speak of love for family and faith.May you rest in God's arms.

The blood of all of these flows in my veins and I honor them.

I got dressed myself...

Not knowing about this little 7 year old girl would be a great gift.As she got on the school bus yesterday in Pennsylvania, she told the driver that she had dressed herself and couldn't wake her parents.Police found three other children in the home under the age of 5 and two dead adults.They had overdosed 24 hours before.I try to imagine that little girl who probably fed her siblings,  took care of them and still managed to get to the bus on time.God help us.

Their addiction wasn't just to drugs but to more.This world isn't enough, I want more.More good feelings.The jails in this country are full of people who wanted more and did whatever it took to get it.

When was the last time you heard anyone extol the virtue of asceticism ?Or the idea of sacrifice? Prayer is O.K. but fasting and sacrifice?Ewww!!!!

Skellig Michael is an island of rock off the Irish coast. Skellig means steep rock and it was here in the 6th century that a group of monks took themselves to focus entirely on God.They lived on this windblown, desolate rock and had no contact with the outside world.They weren't on retreat, they lived there and never left. Their names are unknown to us.They started a rock side monastery of a few men, slept in stone beehives, ate fish, birds eggs and any small vegetables they could grow and prayed.How hard, no pun intended.They stayed there until the 13th century and what their prayers wrought, we have no way of knowing.

I have been aware of these recluses for a long time but I never pondered what their voluntary deprivation may have brought them.From a book I am reading: "the rough life had its compensations.Asceticism gave an intensified response to the smell of flowers, the texture of stone, the feel of rain, or sun or wind or flight of birds.When they came out of their dark cells their spirits must have lifted to heights rarefied beyond our experience.""The Flowering of Ireland".by Katharine Scherman

This sounds right to me.

A small example comes to mind.I have been reading about the messages given by Mary to the visionaries in Medjugorje, Bosnia, and a theme reveals itself ; prayer and fasting,  prayer and love.It seemed to me that perhaps I could answer this call in a small way.Prayer is part of my day but I decided also to forswear coffee every other day.It's not the coffee but the Carmel Macchiato Coffeemate that starts my day.Ah, the pleasure of this drink going over my tongue and down my throat with warmth and sweetness.Small thing , I know, but let me tell you something surprising; on coffee day I am excited and energized  just thinking about my morning drink in a way that I wouldn't if I had it every day.

Is it possible that by choosing less we will find the More that we long for ?

what I heard the clover say...

How inspiring,  this Fall weather.The window is open and I feel like I just got a shot of vitamin B12.The black birds that descend twice yearly are here stealing all the bird seed but even this is cause for joy.The rhythm of the earth, the seasons changing just when needed most.

The black birds fly down as one, a blanket of birds safe in their numbers.But they also make a huge target for the hawks who live here by the river.The grass is covered in squawking black.When they are not feasting they are haunting the woods with their chirping and screeching.May they all head further south in safety.

Pink and red roses are still blooming in my tired garden along with swamp daisies, with their bright yellow faces that bees love.The Bougainvillea Rain trees have pushed out the pods that will, amazingly, turn pink, coming from yellow flowers.Most of the the leaves in the woods are still green although the  summer tired and curled up ones are falling .The sound of their clicking on the small patio makes me smile.

I spent a good bit of time this summer in a screened tent with a view of the mountains.Also, in walks along a country road,  time sitting by the brook, hikes in the woods.The Japanese call these walks, woods bathing.Cleansing yourself of the stress and tension of civilized life.No wonder I am having such a hard time being on the highway here.Should this body really be hurtling down the road at 70 miles per hour when it has spent so many months in tranquil sauntering ?

Many moments were spent in prayer.I am not a saint but I need this connection to stay centered.When I neglect this time, which I often have, I spin out and get scooped up by the trivial.And I buy clothes.

There was a theme that came at the end of my mountain time.It is not profound but if I ever write a book this will be the title:"Clover and Bumble Bees".It came as a light but it is so simple I can hardly explain it.I will try:  the most important moments are those you spend with the gifts from the Gracious Hand. Things like clover, that come back wildly each year to feed the bees that too come back each year.Do you see the pattern?It is orderly and it works and if we appreciate these things, we will know joy.

Vincent

pennies from heaven

  I was never one of those children who took a pen in hand when I was 7 and produced great  stories and  poems.It never occurred to me to write.I knew no one then that kept a journal. I found my way to this gift when I started a daily running log when I was in my 40s. The entry would start: "it's hot and humid" and then before I knew it, I was expanding that thought to describe the birds I heard and the trees I would pass and so it began.

I am glad beyond measure.

The newest writing class that I facilitate,  the third one, started this week and if there was a theme to the writings of this talented group,  it was hope.Soaring, freeing, liberating hope.I should pay them to come, these women that have stories and words that bless me.

And as if this gift wasn't enough, the other day I heard from an old friend of 60 years ago.We dated for awhile in high school and there he was commenting on my blog.From the sky, the gifts pour down like pennies from a generous hand that roll around my feet, often unnoticed.

Another penny: next class I will encourage the members to bring a different notebook for a purpose other than our art/writing.I will suggest that they look in Goodwill and tell them why.My most current book cost 99 cents and on the second page, the previous owner had offered two things to contemplate.The first is this: "Allow God to speak to you while you are speaking to others."And then Psalm 34:5 which says: "I sought the Lord and He answered me and delivered me from all my fears.".A journal that I bought for written prayers already had a suggestion and a prayer in it.

Journal note: June 6,2016
....."There is no reason to fear anything.God is Lord of all and you walk with Him, He has your hand and your heart firmly in His. No harm shall come to your soul and your soul shall arrive one day at His feet to gaze and wonder forever.Peace. "

Lord, help me to notice the pennies.