The first time I noticed it, I was transplanting my tomatoes in the back yard. It was a warm morning and the distant whrrr of neighborhood heat pumps added a background of mechanical white noise to the symphony of bird songs and wind dance through the tree tops. As I listened to these routine morning sounds, I picked up a distant sound that wasn’t quite right. The mechanistic rhythm wasn’t so precise. Somebody’s going to have to have their HVAC system checked, I thought, and I hoped it wasn’t me.
A couple of days later, as I was walking through the gym parking lot, I heard the same sound, a distant roar, like far off rushing water or farm equipment. What was it?
Then it occurred to me – CICADAS.
Despite the media hype heralding the arrival of the 17 year cicadas, I assumed that since our neighborhood was so new that any batch of baby cicadas nested in our area seventeen years ago would have been scraped away with the topsoil when the land was developed. I figured we would escape the onslaught of the clicking hoards.
I was wrong.
I began to notice hundreds of tiny holes the paths through the wooded part of our yard the deserted exoskeletons clinging to the leaves on the trees above. It was undeniable; they’re here!
By day they crawl across the top of the lawn, drying their wings in the sun (which has been a challenge lately) by night they sacrifice themselves by crashing into our windows, flying full speed towards the light.
They are beautiful, they are plentiful, and they are loud but they are hardly the pestilence warranting the hype. They aren’t even an inconvenience, rather one of those things that make you go “hmmmm”.
In fact, in comparison to this spring’s devastation in Oklahoma, I feel almost frivolous taking note of a few thousand extra insects in the yard.
Nature is mighty. We may be able to control some aspects of our lives, or convince ourselves that we do, but nature will always be wild and free; both beautiful and powerful and particularly unconcerned with the lives affected by its actions.
As humans, the best we can do, and it is the best; what makes us human, is to carry on despite the challenges Mother Nature provides.
This morning, NBC’s TODAY show showcased the reopening of the Boardwalk at Seaside Heights, NJ. I was amazed to see the overhead shots of the string of shops and planked walks. It looks practically the same as it did the first time I was there, forty years ago for my high school senior “cut-day”.
Nature is strong, but human nature is stronger. We are challenged but we endure.
Now when I hear the increasing din of the cicadas in the distance, I am reminded that nature is in charge of what surrounds us, but we are in charge of what’s inside.
I love it when everyday life experiences provide surprise and insight to the big picture. Last week was chock full of those kinds of days.
It all started last Monday when I decided I would organize my life by choosing one room a day and give it a thorough cleaning. Fully energized by my re-commitment to a clean home, I decided to tackle the master bathroom first. Although I do clean it regularly, I admit the shower stall and garden tub are often left for the “next time” since they don’t seem to pose as horrible a heath concern from going a couple extra weeks as the sink and toilet. Anyway, last Monday, after I got home from the gym, I pulled out the mat and tossed it into the washer with the throw rugs, sprayed the shower with Scrubbing Bubbles and climbed in (naked of course) with my cloth to finally tackle that soap scum.
My project was going well at first. I was happy to finally be cleaning the shower, because I do love it when it’s shiny, and I was proud of myself for making the adult choice to clean instead of plopping on the couch to knit and catch up on this week’s episode of Game of Thrones. Then, I felt my feet slip and with no mat to secure my footing or anything to grab on to, I went from vertical to horizontal in a nanosecond, landing out onto the tile floor, like a baby calf being delivered and dumped onto the ground, wet and naked. My head hit the floor pretty hard and my glasses were laying next to me, bent in an awkward contortion.
I lay there for a few moments, taking in the whole scenario. I couldn’t believe I’d been so stupid. Slowly I got back onto my feet, taking inventory of my aches and pains. My head was my main concern, my brow ridge bore the brunt of impact, but remarkably there were no cuts or even visible bruise. I leaned forward over the vanity to get a better look in the mirror, checking my pupils. I did receive an impressive bruise on my thigh where it landed on the shower door track but all in all, I escaped with minimal damage. Reassuring myself I wasn’t critically wounded I got dressed and decided that sitting on the couch was a good idea after all.
As I relived my mishap and routinely checked my pupils, still worried about a potential slow bleed in my brain (had to worry about something), I realized that I had received a powerful reminder from God; that life can change in the blink of an eye. I don’t think I’ll ever clean the shower naked again.
My next revelation came on Thursday when I went in for my annual physical. I am always just a tad nervous about these exams, similar to how I feel when I take my 2000 CRV in for its annual safety inspection. We are both “used” vehicles and despite how good care we are given, you never know what will be found when the hood is popped open! My blood work was excellent as was my muscle tone, etc. The one noteworthy change in my status was that my height was measured a full inch and a half TALLER than ever before in my life! How that happens, I couldn’t tell you, the doctor theorized that perhaps my time in the gym has paid off with improved posture. Maybe I stretched myself when I was flung out of the shower. It’s a mystery. But, for whatever reason, I am taller and feeling ever so lithe at my alleged five foot three!
My last day of revelations was Sunday, Mother’s Day. Dave and I had no plans for the day until we got to church and a friend mentioned that a local artist, Fred Nichols, was holding an open house in his studio in Barboursville that afternoon. It was a glorious day, sunny and bright, but still cool and spring-like and taking a short drive to look at art seemed like the perfect ticket.
The studio tour was fascinating. Mrs. Nichols took us on a tour of the silk-screening workshop and described all the steps in creating the beautiful prints hanging in the gallery. Some go through the printing process over forty times and can take as long as a year before they are complete. I would have liked to have taken one home with us, but the prices were out of our league. After the tour, she invited us to head up the street to their gallery to view works by other artists and enjoy a cup of coffee. So we did.
It was our first time to actually drive into Barboursville. You can’t really see it from the highway because they moved the highway a few hundred yards north sometime back to bypass the railroad crossing. It’s really a shame because what remains of the original town is charming. Located at the intersection of old US Routes 33 and 20, Barboursville lies between James Madison’s Montpelier and Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello. On the grounds of the nearby Barboursville Winery are the ruins of Governor James Barbour’s mansion, which burned on Christmas Day, 1884, seventy years after its construction. All three of these homes were designed by Thomas Jefferson. With the aroma of boxwoods heavy in the air, it just plain smells historic!
The gallery was in an old building that was originally a hotel. And, although the walls were hung with the works of very talented artists, which drew Dave’s attention, my eyes were drawn to the architecture of the building, checking the woodwork, moldings and floors for continuity and looking for changes in the plaster indicating a previous window or doorway. I checked the view from the windows, to get an idea what could have been seen from them a hundred years ago or more. Buildings like that seem to have their own stories to tell and no matter what you hang on the walls, the story will speak over them, to me at least.
This is all that remains of Governor James Barbour’s beautiful home following the fire in 1884
After our gallery tour we took a quick drive over to the ruins. At first I wondered why someone would leave the walls of a burned out home left standing. It just seemed odd and hazardous. Then I saw them. Thomas Jefferson’s hand in the design was obvious from the octagonal front hall reminiscent of Monticello as were the two-story wings at either end allowing for a grand ceiling and staircase in that room. Even though it is only a skeleton of its past grandeur, the Barbour home still had its story to tell.
We walked the full circumference of the house and took advantage of the spectacular view across the vineyards and off to the mountains. It was all so quiet and peaceful.
Then, a bird song followed by a flash of color caught my attention. And there, atop an ancient Thuja, stood a Baltimore Oriole and from the racket he was creating, there must have been a nest nearby. What a treat! I can’t even begin to remember the last time I saw an oriole.
After our tour of the ruins, Dave took me on a proper Sunday drive through the country, taking the byways to see what else we could discover along the way. It was just another adventure in our lifelong journey together and it was (and is) marvelous.
Okay, so I’ve taken a long trip through last week and you’ve got to be wondering just what my great epiphany was from these three completely different experience. To be honest, I didn’t really know myself until a few moments ago, I just knew there had to be something.
The way I see it, it all boils down to this. Life can change in the blink of an eye (or fall to the floor), and even if you don’t find yourself flat on your face, something else you discover about yourself, no matter how insignificant, can change how you see yourself. Lastly, it’s important to have a companion to share adventures with. Even if you don’t enjoy the same things, enjoying different things in the same place can be just as good.
It was a good week and I’m actually sort of happy to catch sight of my bruise now and then because it reminds me of just how good a week it was, despite its awkward beginning.
I was raised in the belief that God will never give you more to handle than you are able with God’s help. There have been many instances in my life when I’ve leaned on that belief to get me through. Yesterday was one of those days.
It all started the night before. Dave and I were crashed on the couch catching up on last Sunday’s episode of the Mentalist. I was playing WordWelder on my I Pad and mentally looking forward to the next day. Tuesday is one of my “free” days; meaning I’m not committed to any one activity. My plans included a haircut and then a dash to Kroger to take advantage of “senior” citizen discounts. (Kroger deems you a senior at 55.) It was going to be a good day.
Then the doorbell rang.
Dave and I looked at each other. It was 9:30 and we weren’t expecting anyone. In the knowledge that nothing good can come of opening your door after dark, I think Dave was waiting for me to get up. I decided as a member the “weaker sex” I would sit back and let him suck it up and go to the door.
On the other side of the front door, in the dark was our neighbor from across the street. She’d had a family emergency come up that would require all the adult members of her household to be away for a couple of hours the following morning and was in need of someone to babysit for her two youngest sons. Since I had no other pressing business the next day other than my long-awaited hair appointment, I agreed to help her out.
It was the right thing to do, but it was also frightening. I didn’t know her children other than to wave to them, and the youngest two were 10 months and 2 years old; or should I say young!
It’s been a very long time since I’ve had charge to wee ones. It’s been almost thirty years since I brought me last baby home and even my grandchildren’s ages are in double digits! What was I going to do with two unknown very little boys?
I said some prayers and hit the deck running first thing in the morning. I picked up the assortment of cat toys strewn on the family room floor as well as any potential choking hazards or heaving things that could be pulled down on a baby. Then I grabbed some on my “Nana” toys I thought might interest the boys. As I was taking one last look around, I noticed the entourage of adults and children heading across the street so I ducked into the powder room for one last time. Moments later, the doorbell rang again.
In just a couple of minutes, my entryway held a pile of baby paraphernalia and I had one wee one by the hand and another tucked upon my hip. It was just like old times!
For the next four hours, my little charges and I got along just fine. As kids go, Chase and Ethan were fairly easy-going. The baby had a runny nose that required a lot of wiping and made it difficult for him to take his bottle. His appetite was good though and I enjoyed sitting him on my lap and feeding him his toddler dinner with my little baby spoon.
It all came back to me; cooking with a baby on my hip, the nose wiping, the formula mixing. I was able to figure out how to assemble the pac’n’play which turned out to be a life saver. Ethan was a fast mover and after chasing him for a couple of hours, I needed a break.
After lunch I there was a definite change in the atmosphere in the family room. I asked Chase if he’d pooped his pants. No, he said. I asked again, reassuring him that I wouldn’t yell at him if he had. He admitted that he had. Then I asked if he’d be more comfortable in clean pants. Yes, he agreed. So we went into the kitchen to clean him up. I thought he’d just lie on the rug, but he assumed a position very similar to a Yoga “downward dog”. It proved to be efficient, but nonetheless, a stinky, gag-filled experience, I am embarrassed to admit.
In many ways, spending the morning with Chase and Ethan was the perfect storm; a way to reconnect with my baby tending skills so I will be ready for my next wave of grandchildren in the next few years or so. By the time they were picked up, they were clean, happy and luckily ready to leave!
Sadly, I don’t have the stamina I had thirty years ago. I still made me trip to Kroger but felt like I was dragging the whole way through the store even though I stopped by the Starbucks counter first!
Once I was home and plopped in my chair for a rest, I was content. Spending the morning with little ones was an adventure, but it was also full of cuddles, giggles and warmth. I don’t know how I did it so many years ago when Dave was busy cruising with the Navy, the memories are so foggy. I do know that I wasn’t alone.
The Triduum is the holiest of celebrations in the Roman Catholic Church; a three-day liturgy consisting of Holy Thursday, Good Friday and the Easter Vigil on Holy Saturday. Observances are lengthy, solemn and packed full of traditional and spiritual meaning as the passion of Christ is remembered and celebrated.
For many years, as a part of our parish RCIA team (Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults) at St. Mark’s, the Triduum marked the completion of the journey of our Candidates and catechumens into full initiation and reception into the Catholic Church. The connection I had with these folks as they made their journey was one full of love and grace and even though they usually thanked me for my help and support, it was I who owed them more for sharing their stories with me and patiently listening to my story as well.
At our group meeting following the Easter Vigil, usually sometime the next week, we would “unpack” the Triduum, mentally taking slow steps through the three evenings of prayer, sharing impressions and thoughts that struck a chord in each of us. These meetings were full of tears, cheers and laughs, as memories of moments of awe, grace and even comedy (after all, we are human attempting to enter the divine) were recalled.
For the past two years my experience has been very different. Shepherd of the Hills is a tiny parish in comparison to St. Mark’s. Tasks that are handled by committees or deacons in a larger parish, are usually handled by one or two women here. Consequently, our liturgies are simpler and more relaxed than in a larger place.
I don’t remember too many details about last year, maybe because of the newness, or perhaps I was making comparisons in my head between what I had and what I thought I’d lost. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t until this year that I was able to begin to unpack what I experienced during the Triduum. I’d like to share two of with you.
The one thing most people will remember about Holy Thursday is the washing of the feet. In remembrance of Christ’s washing the Apostles’ feet at the Last Supper, Catholic communities offer a variety of ways to celebrate this rite ranging from the pastor washing the feet of parish leaders to the entire congregation coming forward to either have their feet washed or wash someone else’s feet. So, when I received an email looking for helpers at the Holy Thursday service, I assumed they were looking for water carriers, etc. When I arrived, I realized I’d volunteered to represent the parish by having my feet washed. So, when the time came, I was called forward with a handful of others. We sat in chairs facing the parish and Father Dan asked us to remove one shoe. Okay, so the ceremony had been reduced to five feet and my liturgical training bristled at the diminishing of the sign value. Then I glanced down at the bare feet on the floor in front of me and realized that of the women there, I was the only one with a painted toe nails. Instead of feeling like a paragon of good grooming, I was humbled. Next, I saw Fr. Dan bend slowly to his knees and begin to walk on them down the line, washing feet. He is not a young man and his joints pain him. As he gently washed my foot and then moved on, I noticed that the hems on his trousers were frayed. Remembering how I fussed about chosing the right outfit to wear, I was humbled again.
My second memorable experience happened at the vigil Mass on Holy Saturday. The Easter Vigil is one of the Church’s oldest celebrations were traditionally adults are fully initiated into the community. During the many Old Testament readings, the history of God’s covenant with his people is traced from the creation story forward. I was chosen to do one of the readings, a favorite of mine; Isaiah 55: 1-11 – “All you who are thirsty,come to the water!” I truly cherish God’s open invitation to come and drink of the water of new life and wanted to proclaim it in a way that would allow others to feel it as well. I practiced reading the passage several times, sat with it, and prayed about it until I was as ready as I could be.
My time came. I rose and slowly approached the ambo. Adjusting the microphone just so, I began by saying, ” A reading from the prophet Isaiah.” and then took a pause and deep breath. Then, just as I began to proclaim the passage, I heard what I was certain was someone breaking wind in a pew to my left. A few seconds later, snickering confirmed my suspicions.
I was struck by the fantastic whimsy of the moment. For a few moments, I struggled to maintain my composure. I have a mean funny bone and when it is tickled, I find it hard to ignore and let’s face it, farts are funny. More importantly, they are basely human. From all reports, my dilemma was not reflected in my reading. For that I am thankful. I’m sure my preparation aided in my carrying on.
I am also thankful for that moment that God “broke into” my reading, reminding me that Easter is all about Jesus entering a very human world, where I’d bet even in his time, a fart would warrant a chuckle.
So this year, I gathered two important lessons about humility to unpack. Both of these moments, different, but very human, have led me to a better understanding of Christ’s passion and Resurrection.
Usually when you hear about “March Madness” it refers to the NCAA College Basketball season coming to a climax and end. This year my attentions have been so diverted that I find myself today, the first day of the championship, not really knowing who’s playing who. Unbelievable!
Since the beginning of the month here in Greene County we have had three major weather events resulting in school closings. The latest was this past Sunday night which coincided with our parish St. Patty’s Day Dinner where we fed almost 125 folks all the corned beef, cabbage, ham, potatoes, carrots, salad and desserts they could eat. Our youth group waited tables while the grown-ups cooked and plated the food, supervised and after the last diner left, began the clean-up.
I have to admit that everything pretty much ran like clockwork up until the clean-up. After Mass, several of us met up in the hall and with our church clothes protected by aprons and armed with vegetable peelers, we peeled fifty pounds of potatoes and a huge pile of carrots while other quartered massive quantities of cabbage and onions. Enormous pots were set to boil on the big black commercial range and the first of the seventeen briskets began to simmer. Given the size of the kitchen, it was a herculean accomplishment to prepare this meal on such a scale.
By eleven-thirty, the food was prepped, tables in the dining room were arranged and set with bright Kelly green table clothes and festive St. Patty’s Day placemats and napkins. Irish pub music filled the room. We were ready except for the finishing touches.
The chief chef was an older woman who is a professional caterer. She single-handedly supervised the crew of volunteers and brought order to our piles of peeled vegetables. After a couple of hours, she sent everyone home, insisting she was perfectly capable and willing to sit with the pots for a few hours. Having been trained since my youth to always be ready to help out in the kitchen, I found it difficult to tear myself away. I did go home for a few hours, to change and grab a snack but was soon back in the kitchen, helping where I could.
At four-thirty our guests began to arrive. By five-thirty, over sixty dinners had been served. If you haven’t been to our tiny church, that might not seem impressive, but believe me, considering our hall only seats comfortably about eighty folks, and the fact that the weather was already showing signs of ugliness, it was a pretty big deal. By seven, the dinner was over, except for the clean-up.
The tables were cleared and the dinning room was swept and returned to normal in a few moments by the remaining youth and their parents. Left overs were wrapped and divided and stowed in the refrigerator. All that remained was a stack of large pots, chafing dishes, serving dishes and flatware. Under usual circumstances, we would have run most of the small things through a couple of cycles in the dishwasher. Unfortunately our dishwasher had been removed a couple of weeks ago in preparation for a new super fast commercial grade dishwasher that hadn’t arrived in time for the dinner. Having to wash all those dinners by hand wouldn’t have even been so bad had we had a good supply of hot water and enough dish washing liquid and Brillo pads to tackle the job. Necessity being the mother of invention, we collectively soon discovered we could make as much hot water as needed a quart at a time by running it through our Bunn coffee maker. Someone ran home for a bottle of Dawn and we were back on track. We even created a make-shift dish drainer by putting the top rack from the old dishwasher over a large baking sheet.
Two hours later, the flatware and most of the smaller serving dishes were clean, dried and put away leaving only the biggest, greasiest, burnt on dirtiest of pots and the floor to finish. Outside, the snow continued to fall. It’s not hard to imagine just how tired we all were. Most of us had been on our feet for four to five hours. We were pooped and our feet hurt; at least mine did. So, we did what sensible people do. We loaded the remaining pots into our cars to wash at home, agreeing to return on Tuesday (since Monday was going to be a snow day).
By the time I got home, all I wanted to do was throw myself on the couch and put my feet up and that’s exactly what I did. Across the room I heard Dave begin to fill me in about the bracket alignment for “The Dance”. In past years I’d fuss about who got in and who got snubbed and why one team rated a one or two seed and another a five or six. This year, I was too tired to care.
It’s important to stop and smell the daffodils, or at least look at them!
Monday was indeed another snow day. Tuesday we brought back our cleaned pots and finished cleaning the kitchen at church. Wednesday I got a call telling me that one of our parishioners had passed away and asking could I help out at the reception on Friday afternoon. Ahhhh. (Heavy sigh.) March madness takes many forms. But this morning, I discovered my daffodils were blooming for the first time. Beauty exists even in the whirlwind.
If the sprouts in the garden are any indication, I will have many opportunities to “vacation” from the pace of the days and months to come as the seasons turn from Spring and then to Summer and “The Wedding” approaches. I do appreciate my mini visits with creation and am forever grateful that I don’t have to look much further than my own back door.
It’s amazing how each day, no matter how routine, can offer the most marvelous opportunities.
On Monday evening I attended my first meeting of the Greene County Women’s Club. I’ve known about the club for more than a year, many of the women from my church are members and consequently, their events and programs frequently make our weekly announcements. I’d paid some lip service to a couple of the gals about “having to come” to a meeting but for whatever reason have been reluctant about leaving the comfort of my home for a meeting.
This past Sunday after Mass, my friend Moira cornered me, but her hands on both my shoulders and said, “Don’t forget the Women’s Club meeting tomorrow night.” After such a personal invitation, how could I pretend to have forgotten again? So, the next evening, after an early dinner, I headed off to the church to check out the Greene County Women’s Club.
The meetings are held in our parish hall, a remodeled home adjacent to the church, a place that is very familiar to me. As I walked into the meeting room, Moira greeted me in a St. Patty’s Day sweater with huge shamrocks across her chest and a pair of bobby shamrock antennae on her head. “Oh good, you came!” she said, “Come on in and get a name tag.”
With my name safely stuck to my chest, I mingled through the room recognizing many of faces I saw. Everyone was very warm and welcoming, asking where I lived, how long I’ve lived here, where did I work; the usual. Then, someone asked, “Did you used to live in Virginia Beach?” I quickly scanned the face and then the name tag and on went the bulb in my brain – standing before me was my friend, Linda, whom I hadn’t seen in twenty years! I let out a shriek and gave her a big hug.
I ask you, what are the odds? Linda wasn’t just a casual friend, she was a good friend. We’d met through the kids’ elementary school where she taught both Maggie and Andy in third grade. We served on the PTA board together, had picnics, spent summer days on the beach sunning and reading while our kids romped in the surf. I don’t know when we lost touch with each other, but twenty years, and moves to Newport, Hawaii and back to Virginia Beach, took their toll, many close friends from those days were misplaced. People move, mail forwarding expires and lives move on.
How both could find each other in the Shepherd of the Hills parish hall in a very small town in Central Virginia is no less than miraculous. I’m so glad I went to that meeting. I can’t wait to see who or what will happen at next month’s meeting!
Yesterday morning as I stepped into the kitchen after returning from church, Izzie was there to greet me. Izzie is our official welcome-home-greeter. If she isn’t already at the door when we walk in, we usually hear a faraway thump from upstairs followed by the quick soft pat of her feet coming down the stairs and tinkling of her bell as she runs to see us. Her motives are not pure, she definitely has her own agenda. During daylight hours she generally wants to be let outside and other times she just wants a bite to eat. Usually, like the good cat hosts we are; we give her what she wants. Yesterday she wanted out. I opened the door for her and as she cleared the threshold, the look she gave me made it clear that she wanted me to join her.
I don’t get outside much this time of year. Walks to the mailbox and to and from the car in parking lots don’t really count as quality outside time. The past few weeks it’s been wet and I haven’t felt all that great so I’ve been holed up in the house pretty much. I was so hopeful last Thursday that we’d finally get some snow and was truly looking forward to going out to hear the quiet, smell the freshness and feel the cold on my cheeks but it wasn’t to be. We didn’t get so much as a flake; just more rain. Yesterday was a beautiful day. The sky was clear and there was enough sunlight to warm my face. Since I still had my coat on, I decided to join her in the backyard.
My initial intention was to just walk around the perimeter of the yard, to check out the gardens and then come back inside. But it was such a glorious morning, warm and bright, I decided to grab my coffee and spend a bit more time outside.
Last spring I created a little sitting area for myself up the hill out back. My vision was that it would be my quiet place, just far enough away from the house to sit andread, think and pray. I admit I haven’t used it as much as I thought I would. For most of the summer and fall the mosquitos feasting on my legs made it too much of a challenge to spend time up there. But yesterday, with the crisp winter air, I could sit bug free in the quiet and enjoy the beauty of the day.
Izzie led the way up the hill, clearly pleased that I was with her. After situating me in my chair and giving me several head rubs against my legs, she walked off to one of her favorite hunting area to patiently wait for the rustling of a mouse or mole under the leaves. It is amazing how she will sit motionless for long periods of time, waiting for a sign. Her resolve is inspiring as she sits in expectation, refusing to be distracted from her mission.
How I would love to be like that; to stay focused on one thing at a time, to allow myself that luxury. Yesterday morning, for a few brief minutes I was able to do just that. Sitting in my warm red chair on the hill, I closed my eyes and let nature become my focus. There were so many bird songs; titmice, cardinals and finches punctuated by the occasional call of a crow and strident tapping of a woodpecker. The gentle breeze caused the dormant upper branches of the trees to gently sway and tap against each other with a soft woody sound. In the distance I heard the muted noise of traffic on US 29. All are the sounds of my backyard, grounded in nature but connected to the world.
Occasionally Izzie returned to me for a pet, reminding me that despite her focused attention to her task, she was nonetheless aware of my presence. I gave her a good scratch on the neck to let her know that likewise, I was still with her. Eventually my focus turned to the rumblings of my stomach and it was time to go inside. As I came down from my hill, Izzie remained, still focused on her hunt. I had already captured what I was looking for, a bit of time and quiet.
Yesterday I was happy to wake up. Although I’d never admit it publicly, for almost two years there has been a teeny bit of me shivering in a corner wondering if the Mayans were actually correct and the world was going to end on 12.21.12.
I know it was silly. It’s just not logical to put so much faith in an ancient calendar that ended centuries after its civilization died out. I’ve been kidding about it, saying that my calendar runs out every December 31st.; so I simply get a new one for the new year. Or maybe the Mayans just couldn’t find a larger stone. Silly or not, given the number of doomsday prophecies in my own adult life, we humans do seem to be hardwired to look to “the end”. Whether it’s an awareness of human failings that makes many believe the entire world must be made to suffer collectively; to be punished; I don’t know but the reality for most of us is that our world will end singularly and relatively quietly when we draw our last breath.
In my own faith tradition, these past four weeks we have been celebrating Advent, a time of preparation for the coming of Christ. To many that means making ready for a little baby born in a stable. For us, it is a time to remember that we, just like Mary, by virtue of our baptism, have been chosen to bare Christ into the world; not just in the nice easy places, but in the dirty smelly stables as well. Our weekly scripture readings have a dark theme, to prepare ourselves, to stay vigilant, to “keep our lamps trimmed and burning” because we never know when the end will come; could be tomorrow or generations from now. What is a soul to do?
Well, for me, now that I am confident the Mayan calendar held no other purpose to mankind than any of the many calendars I receive yearly from the National Wildlife Conservancy, the ASPCA, the local Chinese restaurant and my church, I will take that little bit of me that’s been shivering in the corner and gather the energy spent on this silliness and put it to good use.
I will stay vigilant and continue to prepare not by stashing away canned goods and fuel, but by sharing what I have with those who have less. I will try my best to carry my lamp with the light of Christ to those who have bits of themselves shivering in corners, leading them out to the warmth. It is a time to “lighten up”, to bring joy and light and most of all hope to this darkest time of year.
I was reminded of this when I came down to the kitchen this morning. Andy had some friends over last night and my counter was cluttered with the remnants of entertaining. I signed because I am so very weary of cleaning the kitchen and emptying the dishwasher after weeks of cookie baking and my own entertaining. Then, I read my new cookie plate and let it all go.
Saturday morning while Dave was off practicing with the Greene County Singers, I decided to help him with his yard duties and rake the leaves in the back yard. Shortened daylight hours and busy weekends have put him a little behind the curve in lawn care. I, on the other hand, had a few hours to spare and welcomed a change from my household chores and longed to get out into the fresh air. Raking seemed like a good idea – until I started raking.
The work didn’t seem as easy as it did when I was a kid. The rake seemed heavier at first and my arms felt weaker. I began to let negative thoughts enter my head. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to complete the task. Maybe all my hours in the gym hadn’t gotten me to the point where I could do it. Maybe I was to old. I was beginning to become discouraged.
Then I remembered some important lessons I’ve learned at the gym. First I cleared all the negative thoughts from my mind: allowing myself to mentally break the task into bits. Then I began to focus on my technique; finding the most comfortable and effective way to gather the leaves. Sometimes I used quick short sweeps, sometimes longer and slower. Before I knew it, half the yard was green again!
As I surveyed what I had accomplished, I saw Izzie rolling in a sunny spot in the grass, beckoning me to join her. I thought, why not? Lorenzo gives me rest periods throughout me workouts. So, I laid down the rake and plopped myself on the cool lawn beside Izzie to rub her belly and scratch her chin. It was a perfect moment; quiet and peaceful, the distractions of the holidays were gone. Refreshed, I picked up my rake and tackled the next chunk of lawn.
My mind began to wonder freely as I worked. I thought about Maggie and Jan’s engagement and how happy I am for them. I thought about Andy and offered a little prayer that he be offered the post doc position he just interviewed for. I thought about so many things. Then I realized what a gift it was to be able to let my mind go like that. No phones. No TV. No other voices. Just me in my yard, methodically working and thinking.
Eventually, I realized I had finished. The leaves were now gathered in a handful of large piles throughout the yard, ready to be hauled into the woods. There was now a clear distinction between the lawn and the wooded section of the yard. I had a glimpse of how God felt after he created the world and it was good. Instead of feeling drained and ready to plop in a chair, I felt energized. So, I picked up my rake and began to rake the front yard!
It occurred to me that my time with rake in hand was a reminder of how all jobs in life should be approached; with a positive attitude, good technique, determination as well as respites. A job well done should be one that gives you the energy to carry on. If it doesn’t, and your attitude, technique and dedication are all in rightness, then it is the job that is not right.
I believe that God speaks to us in a variety of ways, connecting to us on an individual basis, tuning into our own personal frequencies. Our challenge is to pay attention, to first tune into and then become part of the conversation. When this this all comes together, epiphanies result.
Saturday morning as Dave and I lazily sipped our coffee and tentatively mapped out our day with “What do you want to do today?” and the dreaded response, “I don’t care, what did you want to do?”, Izzie sat at the back door crying. She knew exactly what she wanted to do; she wanted to go outside.
Months ago, after Izzie’s emergency trip to the vet, we’d decided to keep her indoors for her own safety and our peace of mind. At first she didn’t seem to mind so much, but over the past several weeks, Izzie has made it known that she has had a change of heart and wanted to rejoin the wild world of moles and mice in the back yard. Long episodes of pleading by the door and several unsuccessful excape attempts have caused us to rethink our decision.
We considered Izzie’s current quality of life. Yes, she’s safe, but she’s also become increasingly lazy and withdrawn. Worst of all, she’s been very irritable, growling every time she even catches sight of Purrl.
We tried to ease the situation by allowing Izzie supervised playtime in the back yard. We’d let her out while we were working on the gardens or just to sit in the sun. That worked fine, and Izzie came in when she was called. The problem was that she wanted to go out all the time.
So, after careful thought and consideration, weighing the quality of life issues against the safety issues, we decided to let Izzie be free to roam the yard unchaperoned during daylight hours. For the past few days our arrangement is working. Izzie still asks for our company when she goes out. Sometimes we go and when we can’t, we peak out the door or window, to get a bead on her. Even though we aren’t together, Dave and I are still looking after her, ready to help her in a time of need.
OK, so you may be wondering how a cat crying at the door has taught be about the power of persistent prayer. What was my epiphany? Here goes;
God only wants what is best for us. He loves us and cares for us, despite our best efforts to “run out the open door without supervision”. When we make requests, God doesn’t always give us quick answers. I see that like our consideration in letting Izzie roam free, God must consider the pros and cons of each request with a measure of just how much we yearn for our request. The duration of the requests doesn’t necessarily translate into a positive response, but it certainly reminds God that we are still asking.
Like Izzie, I’d like to know that God is out there with me when I’m out in the world, and because God is God, I know that is the truth. God doesn’t merely peak out the window to check on me.
Aside from The Prayer before supper and the occassional off the cuff conversation with God, regular thoughtful prayer hasn’t been a part of my daily life. It is a goal that I continue to attempt to attain. I think God just might have been tuning into me through Izzie’s pleas at the door, to remind me of the old acronym P.U.S.H. – Pray Until Something Happens. Izzie asked and she received, she “knocked” and the door was opened to her. I just need to follow her example.
Usually when you hear about “March Madness” it refers to the NCAA College Basketball season coming to a climax and end. This year my attentions have been so diverted that I find myself today, the first day of the championship, not really knowing who’s playing who. Unbelievable!
How I would love to be like that; to stay focused on one thing at a time, to allow myself that luxury. Yesterday morning, for a few brief minutes I was able to do just that. Sitting in my warm red chair on the hill, I closed my eyes and let nature become my focus. There were so many bird songs; titmice, cardinals and finches punctuated by the occasional call of a crow and strident tapping of a woodpecker. The gentle breeze caused the dormant upper branches of the trees to gently sway and tap against each other with a soft woody sound. In the distance I heard the muted noise of traffic on US 29. All are the sounds of my backyard, grounded in nature but connected to the world.
