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.

you are held....

As I wandered the country roads this summer, I searched for bees.I had heard that honey bees are suffering a steep decline that has scientists very worried.My mind also went back to a shameful pastime that my young friends and I engaged in on summer afternoons on Long Island: catching bees in jars of dirt.One must ask why? Because it was fun to turn the jar over and watch the poor little amber bodies struggle  laboriously through the dirt to get to the top of the jar.We would then turn it over to watch them climb upwards again.Eventually, we let them go because we weren't really cruel children.How they fared with dirt on their wings or how long it took to clean themselves off was none of our concern.

I'm sorry!!!!

Each morning of this mountain summer, I would go up the steep hill to a screened tent that my husband set up for me to write in my journal and pray.On August 30th I was given this thought : "The sky above holds you, the earth below holds you, my eternal Love holds you. Look for the signs of this miracle in your life.You are held."

But, I also received strict instruction about judging others.I heard:  " Judgment clouds seeing.You become wrapped up in the rationale for your judging and won't notice the clover or the bumble bee which are infinitely more important.Don't cloud your mind, it shackles your spirit from soaring".

Ah, so what does all this mean?I am still sorting it out.I will leave it to you to ponder but I know this:
the time that I spend in my garden watching dragonflies, enjoying their transparent wings edged in black and their green eyes in a black head is nourishing.They are delicate beyond words and yet, they fly and soar like my soul is to do.The purple clover that always shows up in the summer to feed the bumble bees who also appear, are an anchor in my wanderings. Signs.

...whatever is lovely...

The evolution of the story goes on, that terrible story.Not only was the young woman sexually assaulted but he took pictures and sent them to his swim team buddies.How much more can we take of this degrading and shameful story ?I am ashamed to be an American after this.Ashamed to be a human being.When the heroes on bikes who stopped the assault are Swedes in our country for an education, I am ashamed, but glad there are at least heroes.Touching beyond belief is the victim's drawing of two bicycles that hangs over her  bed to reassure her that there is good in this world.

Why am I drawn to this story and explore each new twist?To hate the perpetrator even more?To despise the judge and the father of the felon?

And then today.More horror committed by an American citizen.And so with the internet, we are drawn into these seemingly endless tragedies.

While in prayer yesterday,  I was given direction that I want to share with anyone who feels overwhelmed as I do.If it shifts perspective as it has for me, I am heartened.This is what I heard:

  "Fear nothing.What can damage your soul if you truly love Me ?If I am your focus and your All.All good comes from Me.What have you to fear?See the good, focus on the good; put the evil that men do out of your mind.Make your mind a playground, a garden for butterflies, moonbeams, dancing dragonflies, furrowed rows of flowers. There will be smooth rocks for sitting with a great fountain in the middle with goodness(Godness) pouring out.This garden will then be a place of refreshment for many.Visit this garden that we have created, often.".

"...Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable-if anything is excellent or praiseworthy-think about such things."Phillipians 4:8.

I have a choice.