Always Daddy's girls

"Here's to husbands," and I raised my paper cup of root beer and ice cream to my sister's cup.  We looked at each other and tears dribbled down our cheeks.

"How did we get here?" was her reply.


The day was the eighth anniversary of my husband's death from a particularly nasty cancer- although I'm not sure there is any other type. Every year on this anniversary and on his birthday in March, friends and family celebrate his life with his favorite- root beer floats.  I was fifty-one when he died.  Now my fifty-one year old sister shares root beer and widowhood with me.

We'd never been together to share this little ritual or this sisterhood, this sorority that no woman wants to join.  We reminisced about our marriages and laughed through our tears at what we imagined our husbands' reaction to all the recent upheaval, our dreams, our plans, our silliness.

"They's think we lost our minds," my sister said dryly. She paused and sipped. A fresh gush of tears. She looked up at me and choked over her next words,

"But somewhere, Daddy is really proud of us." 

And we sipped over the salty lumps in our throats. Public ice cream parlors are lousy venues for teary widows.



Our father wasn't perfect but somehow in the midst of imperfect parenting, misunderstandings and stormy teen years, we learned that he believed in us. His words still pop up in our vocabulary- especially "Dawn's cracked, time's a-wasted."   He taught us by his example that men treat women well- they try to provide and protect.  He taught us to ski but more importantly, he taught us to persevere and face our fears. We stood together on the mountain ridge we had just labored up and plunged together over the edge. We saw him rejoice in the sheer thrill of snow flying behind as he sped down the hill and we followed his lead.  He also taught us to maintain control, to watch out for beginners, to be considerate in an activity that promoted self indulgent hot-dogging.

By his example, we learned to work hard, to love one spouse, to commit to our children but also to stand outside on a starry night and breathe deep. Like him we love the feel of a camera in our hand and the elusive perfect picture.  He was a dairy farmer who went to art museums and took us with him. In retirement, he hauled marble on his back off a Colorado mountain and then created clocks from the rocks, which he gave away.

And somewhere, he has two daughters who are grateful, who still miss him, who try to notice the stars..

and who are really proud of him.

"Thank you, Daddy."

Roses on the trail

I've been writing more poetry lately, expressing my emotions with one goal of helping others to express theirs.  And given my season there has been grief, sorrow, pain. It's been good, exhausting but good.  Cathartic. 

But I also recognize my heart's need to keep my focus on beauty, the present moment, the joy of life. I just wrote job of life- perhaps they are one the the same, 

the job of life is to recognize the joy of life. 

So I went for a walk along the Mickelson Trail, the rails-to-trails path that meanders around and through Hill City. As I walked along the old train bed, I thought of my father-in-law and his life of logging and hard work here in the Hills. I thought of my father and his labor both in Alaska and later, back in his native state of Colorado.  It was becoming a bittersweet hike. 

Then I saw roses.  Wild roses peeking through the grasses and wildflowers along the trail. These are not fragile hybrids nor showy floribundas with stunning blooms, not even the carpet roses I'd love to cultivate down a slope. These are the tough little creepers shyly filling in with fragile pink heads. The season is coming to a close and they are shedding their petals, preparing to form tough little rose hips. 

It took me back to my Alaskan childhood and the wild roses along the lawn's edge where the grass met the tangle of trees between us and a neighbor.  Wild but profuse, I loved their blooms and made "tea" from the rose hips.   So.... an ode to roses. 

The History of Roses

by Kathryn Cleveland

Dark curls bent over to smell the fragrance of summer,

tiny fingers poking yellow fluffy in the center. 

Beauty beguiling the innocent. 

Squatting by the edge in the shade of pale white birches,

I stir plucked rose hips into cool water.

A lovely tea for two. 

Childhood behind, 

now years of hothouse roses, my lover's choice to woo me.

Love on a long, thornless stem.

Today memories surface with each step,

of railroads and hard work, of beloved men who lived well.

And for me- another gift of roses.

The dark curls have faded but I crouch to inhale their perfume,

gently brush the pale yellow stamens and loose a flutter of petals,

of the wild prairie rose tangled at my feet. 

Like a child- I am beguiled by their beauty, 

I am steeped with love and tender joy. 

The pull of Love

I wrote about the pull of the moon and decided to do a little research about what the scientific world has to say.  And turns out, the lunar effect has not be well substantiated.

Regardless of the reports of labor and delivery nurses, more babies are not born during a full moon. Crimes do not increase.  Sleep disruptions do not correlate with the moon phases. Our bodies are 75% water but we do not respond to the gravitational pull of the moon.  There are more injuries to dogs recorded but not to humans. No werewolves found either.  And if I wanted, I could cut and paste the same debunking language like 90% of the articles I read- "People get over it- we are not affected by the moon!"

Hmm.... can I chose to believe what my body tells me instead?

So that made me think about the other non-tangible, immeasurable factors in my life. The ones that cannot be "proved" by scientific data and analysis.  The wake up call in the middle of the night that has nothing to do with the phone, but puts you on your knees anyway.  I had a bout of waking up with such concern for a dear friend and it was many years later that I learned she had been in a very difficult season, just when I was compelled to pray. It was before internet, we had limited contact and lived half a world apart. But there I was in Japan, weeping for her and praying as best I knew how.

In my husband's final months on earth, I would sit and rub his feet and we would just be together. He didn't want to talk much about the inevitable and in some ways, I always felt a bit cheated out of the significant conversations I wanted to have. It wasn't an end of life scenario Hollywood or my imagination created but it was what he needed. To be touched, to be held, to have me quiet for once!   And in meeting his needs, in serving his desires- heaven became a slight shimmer away, for me, as well as him.  I've said before- heaven cannot not somewhere far away but somehow surrounds us who are still in this physical world. In those precious and fragile moments, I was so aware of the palatable presence of the unseen. We are exist in the unreal world and he was about to break through the thin veil and into the real.

What if the physical is the reflection,
not the true object? 

And none of my experiences can be proved or verified or reproduced in a lab. And I could care less. Science is invaluable for understanding parts of life but it fails in filling in the cracks where  the spiritual dimension leaks into the physical world,  like light under the door of a dark room.  And that glimmer gives me hope.

I've always longed to be understood and to have greater understanding in a variety of interests. With the Bible, I've studied a bit of Greek and Hebrew and love the etymology of words- where did that word come from, why do we understand that verse that way? What does that mean? Why does life happen the way it does?  I want to understand everything.

No longer. I understand enough to know that some things, the most important ones cannot be put under a microscope and dissected to complete knowledge. I don't need to know the one and only correct way to think or do, in fact, I'm not sure that's even a correct goal. Mystery no longer frustrates me, it intrigues me.  I wish I could tell Bill that he was right and he was never going to really get me- I don't get me anymore either!  But I can accept that. I can live with some ambiguity. Faith isn't about having all the answers, it's also about trusting enough to ask questions that may not have satisfactory answers.  It's more about having a candle illuminate a few steps ahead rather than insisting on a spotlight to reveal everything in one big flood of light.  And perhaps, it's my small candle that is most visible in another's darkness, leaking in under their closed door.  Most hopeful, most comforting.  We are not alone, there are small candles all around us.

So when I don't sleep during a super moon, I believe I may be responding to the moon- somehow. Somehow, I believe there is a another dimension to life that has nothing to do with death and suffering and unfulfilled longings.  I believe we are somehow, more than matter and DNA.  And someday, I will understand. And maybe, on that day, there will be the fullest moon of all, shining on me- pulling me toward Love.

To Him who made the great lights, 

For His lovingkindness is everlasting: 

The sun to rule by day,

 For His lovingkindness is everlasting, 

The moon and stars to rule by night, 

For His lovingkindness is everlasting.

Psalm 136

The pull of the moon.

Insomnia

Tidal ponds wax and wane with cycles of the moon,

rising, falling; increasing, decreasing.

Hanging luminous in the branches of a South Dakota tree,

super moon draws me from my bed,

Are the creatures of the sea sleepless

as well, as the moon tugs

us, from our comfort? KC

This week's super moon kept me up all night. As sleep eluded me, I wandered the porch and remembered my years in Italy.  



There was no air conditioning in southern Italy and the air hung still and heavy in the hot summer nights. I would slip into my daughter's room and will the thick metal door to open without its customary squeak. Then on tiptoe, I'd ascend the stairs to the patio, set on the flat roof.  Standing on cool cement, arms open for any breeze that might stir up from the nearby lake, I'd glare at the full moon.  

The Mediterranean Sea was merely a dark strip of water reflecting moonlight in the distance.  Under the bemused full moon, I would gaze in envy at the sleeping blocks around me and end with a long look south to the soft triangle of Mt. Vesuvius. It was thrilling during the day but in the midst of my night watch I only looked for any signs of its awakening. 

Familiar fear stirred in my gut and my dark questions trickled back. What would I take from my house if that dormant thing came alive and blew up? How much time would we have? Did I have fresh asthma medicine? Should we have a better air mask for him? Why did I live so far from home? 
What was wrong with me that I could not just return to my husband's arms and rest? 

Restless, exhausted, I lay down on the chaise lounge, the plastic straps already damp with dew, and curled into a ball inside my thin cotton gown. And waited for the moon to leave me alone. 

Faith Matures

The Lord turns my darkness into light. 

"Christian faith is a leap into the unknown. Experience confirms the wisdom of every act of trust. The alternation of the darkness of faith leading to understanding, and understanding leading to illuminating the darkness of faith is the normal way that leads to growth in faith. Like everyone else, God wants to be accepted as he is - and he happens to be infinite, incomprehensible, inexpressible.  We have to accept him, then, in the darkness of faith.  It is only when we can accept God as he is that we can give up the desire for spiritual experiences that we can feel.  Faith is mature when we are at ease without particular experiences of God, when his presence is obvious without our having to reflect on it. One who has this faith simply opens his eyes and, wherever he looks, finds God." Thomas Keating, The Heart of the World

Several nights ago, before I tried to sleep, I stood on the porch and watched the moon climb the ridge. The air was cool and fresh. Quiet and luminous. 

 Early in the morning, I tucked my feet into moccasins and pulled on a sweater against the chill. I got in my car and drove out of my neighborhood with parking lights and followed the moon to a forest trail. 

The moon set, the sun rose.  




Back home in my cabin, a world and a lifetime away from the chaos of Naples, I heard a lone log truck downshift before the turn and growl up the climb to the timber forests down the road.

I inhaled the sweet air and watched the light dance across the pasture. I sat quietly and sipped tea, at peace with the pull of the moon. Finally, finding God everywhere I look. 

You are my lamp, O Lord;

the Lord turns my darkness into light. 

2 Samuel 19:29 NIV

Wherever you go, there you are.

I blogged last year about making hay- feeling nostalgic and missing my farmer father, mowing a small patch of my world with my little red tractor. Ah... the romance of the west.

Whatever.

This year I have serious grass issues. The brome grass has grown over my head for the second year in a row and it chokes out all other grasses- native or introduced.  At that height, it eventually lays down and blessedly, dies in the fall.  But I no longer live in a climate where three feet of raked leaves rot down to four inches of compost overnight. And while I enjoyed the flower gardens of my previous home, even there I had no interest in growing grass, having a lawn or raking leaves off of it.

I came out west with the naive vision of low maintenance, maybe some native flowers.  No grass. I certainly didn't want seven acres of brome grass.  I knew what brome was- I grew up on a farm. But had no idea it was such an invasive, aggressive species of grass. And out here seven acres isn't big enough to bother making hay.  Add my dips and ditches and not one even wants to even mow it. Including me.  I may have the possibility of horses grazing soon but they won't eat tall, woody brome.

And way out west where the buffalo roam, five feet of thick grass, matted down several seasons in a row-  makes tinder, not compost.  Dry and dangerous, not damp and beneficial. I came west with one vision of what life would look like. The reality is- I'm still dealing with grass.

In moving around the world and now, as I transition from one life season to another- I've learned something.

You bring you with you, wherever you go. 

If you have "grass" issues in one place, unresolved baggage in the previous season- it comes with you.  God seems to be more interested in our emotional wholeness than we are.  So He allows us to pull that load around until we chose or are forced by circumstances to examine ourselves.  Take off that pack and examine what comes out.

This is probably a lame example but take my problems with grass. Or, as Rodney Dangerfield might say in my place, "Take my grass. Please!"   Is is more than just grass? My neighbor, Mr. My House is Safe Because I Mow Four Acres of Lawn, tells me my grass is a fire hazard. It may make my house less defensible- a dire, yet true threat out here.  I get it.

But I hate being like everyone else. I didn't want the perfect suburban lawn- it just worked out that our house wasn't visible from the street and no one ever forced us to mow the ditch by the creek up front. My husband would have loved a nice lawn and said so, but since I was the gardener and keeper of the lawn, I ignored him. Oh, I mowed the stuff but none of that fertilizing and weed killing and thatching and whatever. Now it seems petty, self-centered. A tactic to get my own way.

I've moved. I'm in a new season of life.  I look out cabin windows and love these sweeps of luscious grass waving in the breeze. It says I'm easy going, natural, earthy. It says I enjoy the prairie the way God intended.  Unlike my neighbors. And also that I'm choosing to forget that prairies only renew by periodic fires. That I'm ignoring the fact that one day there will be a fire close to me- the Black Hills national forest is full of trees killed by the pine beetle infestation. I can look over my amber waves and see dead trees.  Otherwise known as forest fire fuel.

I've changed my location,  entered a new season and I still want my own way. I don't want to do what others do- sometimes to my own detriment.  Maybe it's not about grass.  Maybe it's about God molding my natural inclinations to become more like Him. More willing to be part of a community, less the "You have to do it your way, don't you?" individual.  Oh, I'll always want to follow the different drummer and that was His design for me too.  But I can enjoy being unique, special, odd, creative, off the beaten track with my life.... and still have short grass.  I don't have to be afraid that my mowed lawn will dampen my personality or even creates some impression.  Really, at this stage in life- who cares what the neighbors think?

But when it comes time for protecting my home, keeping us all safer, not being a nuisance if there was a fire, bending my will to the betterment of my community, letting my creative light shine in another way.... mowing my grass is a small price to pay.

How about you? 

Life is always changing, we never know what tomorrow will bring.  

Travel light. 

Figure out some stuff. 

What is it that makes you dig in your heels? 

It'll be waiting for you in that next season!

Touching the fabric of time

It's 4am.

It's the night watch. The "middle of the night, why can't I sleep, if I don't get up and write I'll forget this" watch.  Last year I listened to a fascinating book on stages of consciousness, sleep being one stage, and the author explored the notion of the night watch. Now I refuse to call it insomnia or interrupted sleep and instead, enjoy a mid-night moment before I have my second sleep.  I just arrange time different on some nights.

http://slumberwise.com/science/your-ancestors-didnt-sleep-like-you/


Time isn't always as easy to manipulate. But sorting your stuff can do it too.

Last night we unpacked and touched, sorted and repacked all of my sister's Christmas decorations. Pudgy handprints on faded construction paper. Santa holding a tiny baby- both swathed in red velvet, in front of a wall of draped crimson.




 Four stockings and the brass letters of NOEL they always hung on.  Poignant pieces of family time.




We also found yards of garland, more resembling bright green, toilet bowl brushes than fragrant pine boughs.  Styrofoam balls wrapped in net and sequined in plastic.

 Candles past their prime.  

A broken Joseph from a nativity set she rarely viewed, let alone set in place of honor to celebrate the baby's birth.

Not everything we keep is treasure. 

We all have moments of transition where the old and new collide. 

We all fold the last baby blanket, toss the last soccer shoe, accept the flag from the fresh face soldier.  

We clean closets and pack up houses.  

Life is about our response to the changes along the way,  

and what we chose to bring with us,

 what we willingly or sorrowfully leave behind. 

She chose carefully. What would be a difficult reminder of loss?  What would ease them into a new normal, a sense they are still a family?  What did she want to carry forward into a new season?  What was only appropriate in this old life with soaring ceilings and open wood banisters and railings to swathe for the holidays?  While my sister's life may not ever appear, at least on the outside, this big again, time has proven to me that a large life doesn't always have to involve yards of plastic garland and nine foot Christmas trees.  She too will learn what brings spaciousness to her new world, what will be mourned and left behind for what is ahead.

A large life is a repository of the many small moments.

 A quiet glass of wine on a porch swing at the end of a long day. 

 Laughter around a meal carefully prepared with the guests in mind. Especially if guests are "just" family.  Bike rides to farmers' markets.  Wrapping in blankets and watching the sun rise, 

with a cup of tea.  Double rainbows. A baby's smell, a toddler's laugh.

And also Barbie houses and Christmas ornaments- transferred carefully from one life to another. Bringing one time into another.

This Present Moment

It's been a grueling few months.

My mom had surgery. I asked the surgeon, "What's the recovery time frame, what can she eat, what's the prognosis? What does her future look like? What do I need to do?"

My dear brother in law died. Just like that. Now I worry about my sister, "What will her future bring? What's she going to do? Can I help her, protect her, shield her? "

My daughter just moved and two of my three sons are moving this summer.  I talk to them and my questions aren't always spoken, "Who will be their neighbors, will they be friendly? Will they be able to sell their house, find another one, afford to live there?  Where should he store his stuff during grad school? How can I help?"

I don't dwell on the past. It's over. I've learned good lessons. Time to move on. But somedays I do dwell in the future more than I'd like to admit.  And it's not just the big crisis that occupy my mind. It's the small stuff, too. 

Someday I want to paint my laundry room cabinets.  But what color? How should I landscape my prairie yard? Will aspen trees grow here? Can I plant a spruce over there and when should I dig a hole for it? In the spring I get out there and dig in the dirt. When it's warmer, I want to paint more, maybe someday have a real art studio. Next winter, I want to try snowshoeing. Tomorrow I need to plan the next trip to see the kids.  On and on and on. 

Living in the future can go on and on. But we never arrive. We just plan or fret, wonder or worry. 

Messing around with grandchildren, or any other small people you aren't responsible for, is an excellent distraction from endless ruminations on the future.  Worrying about their future is their parents' issue.
You just get to play. 

My daughter and her family are visiting my South Dakota cabin. It's a bit tight- the stone fireplace is too close to the only seating area and sure enough, the baby girl bumped her head on the hearth and has a mark. The open log steps are a heart stopper when she decides to climb up them when no one is looking. But the big porch is great for the "chase me and I get to scream" game- her two year old brother's favorite.  

And this grandmother, known as Bebe to the adorable ones, is perfectly willing to create car tunnels from art journals, toss sidewalk chalk into the tall grass ( Yeah, two can play that game, Buddy...) and spit watermelon seeds off the balcony. 

I am fully present. 

Before my grandchildren were born, women friends waxed eloquently on the joys of grand-parenting and also their amazing sense of responsibility toward the next generation.  Kinda freaked me out.  I was wound a bit tight with my own babies and had a enormous, anxiety producing sense of responsibility toward my children. I don't check on them when they are sleeping, but somedays I wake up with a urge to call them up and see if they are ok,  make sure they are thriving. I don't. Usually. 

Now I just hang out and play.  I play cars with Mater and McQueen. (If you haven't watched Pixar Cars, check it out.)  


I kiss smooth bellies and that sweet spot behind soft ears and revel in grins and giggles.  I change diapers and marvel at baby dimples and sturdy toddler legs.  



I don't want them to grow up too fast but I have great confidence that when they do, they will be just fine. They are loved.  Just like me. 

Does He really delight in me like I delight in them?   Does he look at my dimples and sturdy legs and smile? Does he look at me and know that it will all be just fine?  When I run to him with open arms, does his heart swell too? 

Heaven will be heaven because it's always the present. Time is our way of ordering life in this place. It works but someday, it will pass away and we'll all be in the same moment.  Fully present, fully joyful, fully confident of being loved and loving.  Like little children.

Truly I say to you, 

unless you repent ( change, turn about) 

and 

become like little children (trusting, lowly, loving, forgiving), 

you can never enter the kingdom of heaven. Matthew 18:3 

I don't really understand repent but I can change, I can turn about, I can choose.... to be more present, more childlike, more prepared for that endless day when all I have to do is love.