sobbing on the mountain..

The hubris, the cheek of it all.

It was the Fall of 2013 when my husband and I left for Europe with a friend to walk the Camino, the holy pilgrim path of 500 miles in Spain. But did we start in Spain? Oh no, we had to do the whole thing, so we arrived in a small town in France so that we could climb over the Pyrenees the next day. Did you read that?The Pyrenees Mountains! Up in the dark, with a roll for breakfast and with an exuberance that should have been a warning, we started our trek. Up, up, for 13 miles with no food but some lovely views. When we reached the top, I was weeping like a open faucet; so depleted that I wanted to curl up in a ball.

 And then there was the down.Three miles over a rock strewn path with no other way to go. After a few feet, I took off my hat put it over my face and started wailing.This was the 70 year woman who was going to show those Europeans that Americans aren't soft. Soft? I was shredded cheese,  an overcooked pasta dish, a mess.My husband was very patient and later told me that he was so whipped he wanted to call for his Mother. Finally, we got down and I took two Advil, had some wine and just knew that the next day would be better. And it was for ten miles but by the 13th mile, I knew that my feet and my soul  just couldn't do this.

We finished but with train and bus assistance, walking only 175 miles.

I was reminded of this horror by today's wonderful Advent readings from Isaiah who I wished had been with me those days for inspiration. Listen: " Come let us climb the Lord's mountain, that he may instruct us in his ways,.and we may walk in his paths."...

Despite all that had happened, we were on the Lord's mountain and as if to underscore this, Guy happened. He was a  Frenchman about our age who was hiking the trail.The second night, we encountered him at dinner.My French would fit into your sock and his English wasn't there, so we smiled alot. After night prayers in a convent, I kept getting the feeling that the rosary that I was carrying needed to be given away. And to Guy. The next morning, in the dark, I saw him heading out the door. I followed, pressed my small green ladybug rosary into his palm and went back to eat.I  looked up and there he stood and through tears he told me that the day before he had lost his beads somewhere on the trail.Amen.

rosary by the river..

The woods are now filled with the muted yellow of an artist's palette.The green has fled and here and there I can see the grey of tree trunks that stand sentinel by the river.The birds have been taking their yearly fling southward; the bird bath yesterday was visited by blue birds, bright orange robins, stunning blue jays, and some red headed house finches.None seems in a rush to leave.

There is nothing more calming than walking in the woods, leaves scattering, saying the rosary. The one that I am using was made in Russia; the beads are blond wood with a cross that is edged with curves and all caught with white string. Simple. I recall the day that I bought it in St.Petersburg. It was a beautiful August day, two years ago. After the store purchase, we went into St. Issac's church and I saw a perfect bag to hold it.There was Russian writing embroidered on the side and oh, how I wanted that little bright blue sack.However, despite my fevered yearning, they didn't accept anything but rubles.How Russian of them! Of course, we had none.  I smile remembering how my husband scoured around looking for rubles outside the church, only to find that we couldn't get back in without missing the bus.A memory worth many rubles.

Sauntering with rosary in hand, I never feel alone or unproductive.I hold the mother's hand and we wander together in harmony.The beads come from a forest on the other side of the world in a place that, years ago, I would have been unable to go.The faithful in St.Petersburg gathered that day in a small side chapel of that huge cathedral.They held a service touching in its intensity.Heads covered, eyes on the altar or closed, grace dwelt among them. While in that city, we also saw the place where American communists helped bring on the Russian Revolution.What was going on in that church is of a different sort . Mary, Queen of Heaven, pray for us.

strolling through the leaves with Riley...

Again, a stunning Georgia day.No clouds, just a thick blue background to the many colors in the woods.The bright orange pumpkins, side by side on a bench in the front yard, look  to a day that may reach 80 degrees and wonder. Each day brings more reason for gratitude.

Last year at Thanksgiving, each of my family members wrote 5 things of thanksgiving on a piece of paper as we always do, and then we read them aloud. My grandson Riley, 14 at the time said ,"Jesus". His brother thought he said Chees-its and started to laugh and then had us all laughing. A truly joyous moment for me for many reasons. Just their being there and for the faith of a teen-age boy.And laughter.

The first time I saw Riley's heart was a few years back. He may have been three at the time and we were sitting on a log in the backyard when his Grandpa came up.Immediately, the little boy held out his small bag of Graham Cracker Teddy Bears for John to share.Now Riley is as tall as his Grandma, thin from running cross country and has bright red hair that stands up with glee.

I recall a day thrift shopping with him when  he suggested we get something for his younger sister who couldn't come.He picked out a necklace with a silver dolphin hanging from it.I thought it perfect for her as, at the time, she wanted to be a mermaid when she grew up. He also found a small green Bible that was free.His face shone with joy. Riley, please always delight in giving and in the Word.

When I started writing, this was going in a very different direction. But our inner place of mystery and delight knows what really needs to be said. So this is about Riley, my precious grandson, who told his Dad that he remembered being with God before the long journey down the steps that he took alone to come here.He was about 4 and still had that memory which I  hold in my heart.

And so this writing is really a prayer for protection for my dear RiRi, and a hope that he will always feel God's presence and follow His lead. Yesterday, while in prayer, I was given this which is too good not to share:

......"for all the good in the world, give praise: for all that has been given you, both great, this land, and small, this journal. Ask for what you need daily. Ask and smile as you wait for a response.
   Is it peace of heart ? Ask, and thank before it comes. Is it riches or wealth, ask and see what different thing enters your heart. Is it health? Ask and see what changes need to be made.
Hold the hand of the One who loves you and ask."

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 ?