Community- it's messy and sweet

This trip hasn't exactly gone as I expected, as I had planned.


I envisioned myself parked in a campground for days at a time with long walks and bike rides  each day. I'd eat healthy and lose weight. I'd write hours a day and have great thoughts, talk to God, walk on water. A simple life on the road. 


I'd also be alone. Self sufficient. I'd figure out how the mechanics of the camper works and be a competent camper.  Maybe I'd meet interesting strangers and have those conversations that can come from - "I'll never see these people again". The ones that seem so significant but are ultimately superficial to me since I'd have no vested interest in their lives after our short time together.  Life on my terms.  Lovely.


But instead God has me in community. Messy community. 


I've slept at six or seven  different beds. No, just added it up and it's been ten! Ten strange beds in two months. 


 I had three weeks of baby preparation fun with my lovely daughter- can't complain there. I met new writing friends in  Tucson and enjoyed great but not enough time with my brother and family.  Then it got less fun, less about me. 


 I stayed with a dear friend who is going through a huge transition full of turmoil and angst. I went back to cancer land and sat in a hard chair in a hospital.  I walked with a new friend through family landmines and pain.  A weekend in Milwaukee brought me low as I saw it through the eyes of a new transplant having a painful transition.  Even more painful, the transplant was my son. 


I've had to accommodate other people's schedules to return a car. When I called my next landing pad, I found out my plans weren't good for them. Delay? Change? Submit to someone else's plans? blech...


So what's so sweet about community? 


Various friends have expressed so much appreciation for our time together. I have been well loved. It has been a reminder of the wonderful foundation of friendships established here and how community can survive separation. 


While I was helping the new friend in cancer land, I visited the hospital where Bill was treated. I saw cherry blossoms and didn't cry. It was closure; it was good.  


I did have a few significant conversations with some strangers... strangers I'd like to stay connected to. And I am grateful all over again for my wonderful sister and our sweet relationship.


The delay meant I had time to ran around and help friends with a house rehab project. And then, found out at the store that I had forgotten my purse but remembered a friend nearby- I dashed into their house just as they were leaving on vacation yelling, "I need money!"  Messy me, messy community.


And sweet... turns out they had one a sweet roll behind and I got it for my breakfast. 


That's what community is- messy, inconvenient, giving to others, not on my agenda....


and completely sweet.  Life giving nourishment. Even better than a sweet roll. 

Surrender

Empty atrium.

It's quiet in a research hospital on weekends.

Chairs sit empty.

A lone young man walks distractedly through the garden; his oxygen strapped to his back,
his bald head hidden by a white cap.

Even in a weekend hospital, there are the beeps and whir of elevators, muffled sounds of floor activity. Occasionally someone chats on a cell phone.  A family member wanders through on the way to the cafeteria.

I'm on my way to the library and step into the chapel.

But this is a sacred spot.
Here is quiet.
Here is peace.

NIH Chapel

Surrender- to give oneself up,  lay down arms.

  Synonym- 

Yield- to give forth or produce by a natural process or in return for cultivation: This farm yields enough fruit to meet all our needs.

- to give up, as to superior power or authority: They yielded the fort to the enemy.

I knelt and prayed for Leslie, for her family. For those they love, for those who love them. For all of us who suffer.

We surrender. 

Leslie wrote about surrender.  People responded with "Don't quit fighting the cancer." Surrender doesn't mean to quit.

Surrender means to lay down your arms. So lay them down. Lower the fist, thrust angry at heaven. Lay open the arms, grapped so tightly across your wounded heart. Unclench your fingers, the fingers full of fear. Release shoulders that carry the weight of worry . 

Let your arms relax, loose by your side. Feel the weight as they hang empty. Relax your tight fingers, release the palms. Stretch your hands open and experience the possibilities of open hands.  Extend  stiff fingers as tension drains out the tips. 

Now, cup those ready hands. Soft, gentle. Like a innocent child eager to hold a tiny fluffy chick or a soft bunny. Tender, open - with wonder we hold our hands cupped to receive. 

The cupping is our action.  The gift is His choice.  This is surrender. 

This chapel is small, warm, inviting.
He is waiting.
He is here.

Sometimes the gift is strength for the battle. Or grace for relationships. Maybe we need wisdom for the future or patience for the day. Love for the moment.  

Open hands ready for the gift.  Surrendered.

Spring Again

Forsythia

I’m enjoying spring everywhere I go! First in the Deep South, then a bit in North Carolina. Tucson wasn’t quite the burst of flowers I had hoped for but certainly the desert museum had a plethora of blooms.  Now I’m back on the East Coast and it is just as lovely as I remember spring. Spring, whenever it decides to pop, is the crown jewel season for the mid-Atlantic area.

New growth

Spring is new life - green bursting from the ground and from brown branches after their winter rest.  Spring is baby animals and Easter.

Spring is when my husband was diagnosed with cancer.

  

This was our favorite neighborhood to drive through.

Seven years ago there was another glorious April spring.  We knew from the previous few days that something was terribly wrong in Bill’s mouth. We had little experience in cancer land but even a novice recognizes when doctor after doctor enters a room, peers at the screen shots of your body and walks out without a word to you…. something is really wrong.

After a long day, we left the finest hospital in the national capital area and drove to Whole Foods. After choosing veggies, soups and expensive drinks, we joined the throngs of Washingtonians on the annual cherry blossom pilgrimage. 

It was Friday afternoon and enveloped in the glory of spring we slowly drove through the traffic and through our shocked silence.

He asked me if I’d remarry.  I told him he couldn’t die.  

We finally ended up along the bank of the Potomac, far from the hordes at the prime cherry viewing sites. Perched on a damp bench, a carpet of cherry blossoms at our feet, we ate our expensive food and stared at the water. It was spring.  It was seven years ago.

The courtyard at National Instiute of Health

Yesterday I moved into a temporary apartment in Bethesda and met a friend of a friend. She is recovering from a stem cell transplant in her journey against insidious cancer. I'm on her email list. I used to just read about her life in Maine. Then I prayed for her, this friend I hadn't met. 

Today I sit in her hospital room in National Institute of Health. Again I hear the beep of the iv pump; I observe the adjustable hospital bed with rumpled sheets; I smell the disinfectant that blends with the smell of body fluids and medication. I am back in cancer land. The cream walls have a strip of multiple plugs for oxygen, iv monitors, a suspended screen that provides distracting news or movies. The large windows face another building, a green courtyard far below. A beige hospital table wheeled up to the bed has a fake wood surface, an attempt at nature in an unnatural space. Bland, gray containers for ice and water; white Styrofoam cups with lime green mouth swab sticks; and silver Kleenex boxes crowd the table top.  I sit on one of the two high back green chairs; they are stiff and uncomfortable. The mocking presence of the healthy is unwelcome in the land of cancer.

The spring after Bill died, I drove the hour north from my home in Virginia into beautiful Washington, DC. I don’t remember the reason I went or the trip home; I do remember the cherry blossoms, pink and delicate, and how they stabbed a jagged knife into my unprotected heart.  I didn’t seek spring or cherry blossoms for several years.

But my heart has had its winter.  The sap in my veins withdrew to my core and my outer layers were stripped away by the harsh cold winds.  I appeared lost, perhaps even dead.  Like a tree in the winter, still and quiet. The truth of the tree’s structure revealed to an observing world.

And spring has returned to my heart.  Spring is new growth emerging from the rested soil. Spring is trees pushing fresh new sap up from the roots protected from the winter’s freeze. Water thaws and runs fresh, the melody of spring.

My heart is renewed from the rest of my winter. My structure was revealed to be strong and resilient. My roots were protected deep in Grace.   

My joy has thawed and bubbles again.

I’ll always miss Bill. But he would be proud of me. I’m giving back to Leslie.  The lessons from being Bill’s caretaker are not lost.  Compassion is the new fruit of my journey. The Grace that nourished me is nourishing another.  Spring is the earth coming back to life; I’m stepping into a new season, a new life.  

the journey continues, the beauty returns

Good Stuff

I'm with my friend, Leslie. She's in the National Institute of Health in a clinic trial for a stem cell transplant.  Leslie is a courageous, amazing woman.  We've emailed off and on for years and I'm blessed to be on her prayer list. 

This week, I'm staying her temporary apartment in Bethesda while she's in the hospital. 

 And she doesn't have any of her stuff with her. 

I know I've been railing against stuff. But not all stuff is bad- the bits and pieces of our lives that create comfort and bring life are important. Beauty brings life.  I've never visited Leslie's Maine home but I've been to Maine and she lives surrounded by beauty. So here's the beauty she brought with her. 

Fresh flowers and an Edgecomb whale tail mug.

http://edgecombpotters.com/store/pottery/mugs

Leslie has loose tea and do it yourself tea bags. Lovely cuppa tea this morning. 

Leslie teaches people about tea at the Cumberland, Maine farmer's market. 

http://cumberlandfarmersmarket.org/

Cottage Berry Farm LLC
Leslie Fitzgerald
market.galme@gmail.com
Cumberland, ME Berries in Season, one of a kind felted hats and dolls.

Even in a temp cupboard, there is lovely loose teas.

The famous whale tail mug. 

A gift of beauty for her temporary world.

Leslie is gifted knitter. Even here, she has her beautiful wool. 

Beauty in bags, wool, mugs; beauty in Leslie. 

Tea and flowers.... even borrowed art is a blessing.

more tea potential

I absolutely love these mugs. Can you tell?

And I love Leslie.  I love her sense of beauty- mugs, art,  hand died fine wools. I love that her stuff reflects who she is.  As it should be.

Image magazine's motto is "Beauty will save the world."  Amen.


http://imagejournal.org/

More stuff

I’m traveling and staying with friends or family. It’s great. I love people; I love my family.

We all have a lot of stuff.

I wrote about it before- about traveling light. And I’ve decided the fundamental problem is we are blind to our own stuff and we are bound to our own stuff.

When I cleaned out my house, people would come over occasionally to help me. And I could see it in their eyes, hear it in their voice, “Get rid of that thing. You don’t need to keep it. Why are you keeping all that?”  Few people came out and said anything, and if they did, I usually had a defense for the particular treasure, “That was his father’s tool.  My first baby came home from the hospital in that. It’s the children’s art work and I’ve already thrown out most of it.”

I’d love to have pictures of my treasures that eventually ended up in the trash can. But it wasn’t a clever lesson to blog about then, it was a severely painful act. I sorted and I gave away and I donated and in the end, I threw away.

And I don’t remember any of the things I “lost”.  I do remember the smiles of the recipients. I gave away one of my two Le Cruset pots. They weigh a ton and did I really need two? And I love the family I gave it to- we ate meals together from that green pot and it was a true joy to give it to them.  And they treasure it because they treasure me; we treasure each other.  A pot ties us together.

So I’d love to say I have exactly what I need at my new house and nothing else. But I still find pieces of my old life- too many Christmas ornaments, linens I can’t seem to part with (like I’m ever going to iron damask again!), art supplies I swear I’ll use, other people’s art that may or may not fit into this house. “Maybe my kids will want it some day. I paid a lot of money for it.  I may decide to throw a formal party and need an oversize damask tablecloth… in my casual log cabin.”  Deluded- deceived, misled, lied to.

"If I have stuff, I’ll be happy, I’ll be able to entertain, I’ll have something to pass on to my kids." Lies.

Instead we have stuff that we trip over,  stuff to dust (or to not dust and have guilt), stuff in drawers, closets and under beds.  Some of us rent storage units and pay money to make sure we have access to the stuff that won’t fit in our house and that we don’t use.

The reality is- stuff just makes us nuts, takes time to clean and sort and organize. People don’t want to be entertained; they’re looking for a cup of tea and a open heart. And the kids have stuff of their own.  Do you want your mother’s what-nots and thingies?  I know you paid good money for your treasures- she paid good money for hers. But most of us still end up with too much. 

Having a back seat the size of a twin bed is an invitation to "Take more stuff for the baby"

A girl's gotta have clothes. 

Books, book, books!
What did I think - that I could really read two dozen books this winter.?
And write my life story? 

I'm staying with a long time friend. We've known each other for years and years and had drifted apart, lost touch.  But I'm a fiend for keeping in touch and she ended up reading my blog and we are back speaking truth into each other's lives and loving it!

Juanita's wonderful coffee bar in her butler's pantry.
What a terrific hostess!

Juanita would be the first to say she has stuff. Lovely stuff but more than she wants. And this is the plate I found on her coffee area.

Is that it?  Do we need a goal, a focus, a reason to purge?  I got rid of stuff when I had to move and now I need to continue that process. Did God know His enslaved people needed to be refined before they could be the conquerers He foresaw? They needed to leave behind what they were attached to. The mentality of slavery, the bondage to a lifestyle, the stuff that held them back.   They bundled up everything they could carry and fled in the night.  There must have times when they bemoaned the loss of their bread ovens. We know they whined about missing the leeks and the onions of Egypt.  Their shoes didn't fall apart but they must have missed the extra tunics or blankets they had to leave. "Even if the pots we left behind were coarse and crude, they were ours."

The enslaved poor are as bound to their things as much as the rich.   It's our security, our identity, our comfort, our stuff.

So we can either wait for God to give us the divine shove to leave behind our stuff- and let me tell you, it can be painful, or we can chose for ourselves and look forward to Days of Freedom just as the Israelites could.  We're not motivated by what we should do.  Our hearts are stirred to do so we can accomplish a goal. See a change.  Be more fully who we are supposed to be. Without all the stuff.


Simplicity, order, space in our heads, quiet in our hearts to more fully engage with Life.

 Exodus- departure, leaving behind and going forward-

 receiving life from the Bread of Simplicity, 

chosing joy and a Time of Singing, 

rejoicing in our Days of Freedom.

 Unbound from our stuff. 

Revisting a labyrinth, revisiting the stuff

It's spring time in Virginia

 

Flowering plants strain at the warmth,  branches spring into life.

It's almost time for Easter.

                        Lent reflections give me pause

Lenten Rose

Hyacinth emerge near warm rocks

I revist a local labyrinth to walk the pattern, to settle my soul, to hear from God.  Soak in the peace.

My childhood on the farm gives me a great fondness for all things  farm, including silos,
 especially silos turned into intimate chapels with stained glass 

So I walk the eleven circuits of the labyrinth. I seek nothing; He speaks anyway.

Always when we are quiet, He can speak and we can hear.



And I think as I walk carefully, staying within the narrow path of gray. How simple is the labyrinth walk, how profound in its simplicty.

 And then, you are at the center. Simple, clean, ordinary yet extr-odinary. Extra, above, beyond the ordinary- above the common, the customary, the habitual.

I am at the center of the labyrinth, at the heart of my walk.  

But this is too often what my ordinary looks like. 

I have learned some lessons this spring. 

I set off in the dead of winter and have had spring everywhere I've traveled. 

 I have a small home that I haul around with winter clothes, spring clothes, 

summer clothes for the coming season.  

I have books- way too many books. 

I have staples and supplies to cook with; toiletries, toilet paer and towels.  

A mattress topper and linens, throws and pillows.

I carry creature comforts. 

Like moss growing up in the cracks of a labyrinth, my stuff distracts me. 

 The moss would eventually cover the stone if allowed to grow, 

obscure the path,

 blur the lines this seeker desires to follow. 

 I lay on my back on the cool stone floor of grain silos. Previously utilitarian storage, they have been transformed into chapels. A thin strip of mosaic glass bisects thick white walls.  Tops that once guarded grain are removed. Now, clouds flow by and I am guarded by the sky contained in a single, perfect orb. I float beneath a blue and white earth while the brown and green earth rotates beneath me.   Life is complete and all  I need is contained in the small space I occupy.

So why do I carry all the stuff?

 More and more, I am shedding the need for stuff.  I can only fully absorb one, perhaps two books at a time. I need a notebook and a pen, not a dozen of each.

 I collect seeds, rocks and shells but one of each would be enough to remind me of the lessons of desert, mountain and sea.

 I have worn half my clothes.  I'm not even sleeping in my camper much- I know plenty of people who appear happy to host me in their homes. I buy food and cook for them in their fully equipped kitchens.

My camper is helpful to haul baby stuff to my daughter and return the remaining Virginia stuff to my South Dakota house. I'm seeing a pattern here.

Everything is neatly stacked away. Invisible, neat and tidy. Until the road swerves and I hit the unexpected bumps of the road and suddenly, my neat and tidy is strewn and messy. My camper has locking doors but inevitably I leave out a book or two, a box of rocks, a pile of maps, a potholder.  And they all  end up on the floor to confront me when I next open the door.

Is my stuff the moss that is threatening to cover my path, slow down my journey?

1. The material out of which something is made or formed; substance. 2. The essential substance or elements; essence:                        "We are such stuff/As dreams are made on"(Shakespeare).

Stuff

3. Informal a. Unspecified material: Put that stuff over there. b. Household or personal articles considered as a group. c. Worthless objects It also means to cram full, to add more than is legal, to stuff the ballot box, to block an opening, to overeat, to gorge.  To fill one's mind.     http://www.thefreedictionary.com/stuff What does the simple walk look like? Is this how I want my journey - stuffed, crammed, gorged?  This spring as I have traveled, I have soaked in great beauty; met new friends, enjoyed old; captured lovely images and ..... I  have been reminded again, that it's not about the stuff.  I need to let go, give more away, need less. So where else in my life do can I store and stash? When the life journey swerves or hits a bump what other junk ends up exposed? In this season, I'm cleaning out old emotional baggage.  I'm exploring relational patterns that no longer fit who I am becoming.  It's exhilarating. It's freedom. And it's time to cut some bonds to some of the stuff.  I want my future journey to reflect this lesson - travel lighter.... There's beauty in the open road.