Stressed? Not me!

I squeezed my eyes shut before I opened them and peered at the mirror.  Yep, that left eyelid drooped. Stuck at half-mast. Lovely. Aging is for the birds- droopy eyed, saggy, oblivious, egoless birds.

My mother had droopy eyelids- at a certain point surgery is a medical necessity so you can see. Which means when I’m eighty and walk around with eyelids impeding my vision, I’ll get a face lift.  

Meanwhile, I use the mighty Internet to scare myself with diagnosis of dire conditions.   Of course, stress was mentioned several times also.  Which is nonsense. I can’t be stressed- I moved from the D.C. suburbs to get away from stress.  I live in paradise- literally on Paradise Dr., East Paradise in Leisure Hills to be precise .

And that weird mouth issue- a doctor I’d never seen before quickly declared my stomach acid was eating my teeth and announced, “Maybe you’re stressed.” Rubbish.

So I huffed off to my colonoscopy/ endoscopy and was informed, complete with pictures to back it up - I’m stressed.  The stomach acid is eroding my esophagus. Not much more than the previous scope but clearly, when I moved…. I brought myself along.  Stress and all.

So it wasn’t just my previous pace of life because my pace here can crawl and no one cares. Most would join me in a slow amble toward tomorrow.  It clearly wasn’t the traffic- if I meet a car on the road here it’s likely a dusty truck and he’ll wave. And it’s the wave of the west- a finger raised off the steering wheel.  The friendly index finger acknowledgment.

It can’t be isolation.  Last week I showed off my sweet, small world to dear friends and one declared she was finished worrying about me!  We did meet an unusual number of my new friends and acquaintances.   And it’s beautiful and peaceful here.

It’s me.

I soaked up the competitiveness and pace of the east coast not because I was a passive sponge. It was my competitive, productive-at-all-costs, don’t-waste-time, personality coming to the surface.  It popped to the surface in that like-minded culture.

Here in paradise, it lurks beneath the placid surface.

Well, the water’s been stirred. 

Does God just reach down a huge, divine finger and create a small eddy at the center of our souls?  That's a more comforting mental picture than an angry god hurling a boulder into a watery soul to get our attention.

His finger is gentle, even unobtrusive.  I didn’t feel stressed.  Not enough to admit that there would be consequences to my striving.  I was relieved to have a wonderfully successful retreat behind me. My roofing selections were safely transferred to the hands of another and the new doors were chosen and ordered.  My new porch was lovely and while the steps led to nowhere, they looked great.  The interior was spruced up for company, the larder stuffed, the yard… well, the garden was being tilled by an aggressive mole but at least the pest was outside and doing my garden work.

But I was stressed- the heavenly finger had gently stirred and my body responded. It just took my mind a few weeks to catch up.

So now what?  How can I recognize the familiar tendency to wander off the path into “gotta get it done” land?  When my to-do list exceeds sane limits, can I be sensitive to my history of drift into insanity?  Sane- mentally balanced, reasonable.  Insanity- lack of reason or good sense.

You don’t have to be a mad lunatic with psychosis (other lovely words listed under insanity) to be unbalanced, to lack reason or good sense- to drift off the narrow path.

I used to hear the straight and narrow and think of restrictions, limits, narrowness.  

A friend sent me a wonderful quote this week-

 Wilderness, then, is not only the nature you find outdoors. 

It can also refer to your own true Nature—the You 

that is closest to your birth. 

This inner wilderness is the untamed truth of who you really are.” 

Gerald May

The untamed truth of my life is that I am naturally unbalanced. And my loving, heavenly Father, with a careful touch of the very tip of His finger, stirred up my lovely pond and revealed the muck that had settled to the bottom. Clearly not eliminated by my move to paradise, it just settled into an unseen layer of the same insecurity, frantic busyness and fierce independence.

And with that same gentle finger, He points to the straight and narrow way. The small, quiet path that leads off the natural and into the realm of supernatural possibilities – of renewed trust, of continual dependence, of awareness of my body.  Of balance and reason. 

A path that is too narrow for my bulky rucksack of “do it myself”.

A path that doesn’t meander into unbalance and unreasonable expectations. 

It’s a path straight to the Father’s heart.

You, Lord, are my shepherd.
    I will never be in need.
     You let me rest in fields
    of green grass.
You lead me to streams
of peaceful water,
     and you refresh my life.

You are true to your name,
    and you lead me
    along the right paths.
 I may walk through valleys
as dark as death,
    but I won’t be afraid.
You are with me,

And it’s where I want to be. 

Seasons of Harvest

Six years ago this week, my husband of twenty-nine years died.  Yes, he passed from this temporary world into the eternal, from the physical to the spiritual, from earth to heaven.  But he also died and took our marriage with him. 

It dawned on me today that he died just as the summer turned to fall.  The changing of the seasons.  And my life entered another season as well. 

A dear childhood family grew potatoes
I see his face and the red barn whenever I smell a real dirt-covered potato

When I was a child, I loved summer.  I grew up walking in soft, loamy silt, a foot or more deep, that a not-so-ancient glacier had deposited across our Matanuska Valley.  The glacier was still visible in its 
valley as it retreated in silence, its work of creating the rich farmland finished.  It was rarely hot in Alaska but on warm days, we swam in lakes created from potholes left by more glaciers.  Years before, they had scoured the earth and left behind mountain chunks of ice that slowly sank into the soft earth and eventually melted. Long slow creation of topography. As a child, my days crawled by at glacial speed and life stretched endless before me; it was a season of play. 

Finger Lake, 1956

 (I hit the mother-lode of 1950's pictures of Alaska.  Lovely meander down memory lane. 

I miss my dad.  http://www.flickriver.com/photos/vieilles_annonces/tags/alaska/  )

All that glacial silt was perfect soil for farming and gardening and we did both. My dad cultivated crops and cows, my mother cultivated carrots and cauliflower.  We children moved irrigation pipes in a clumsy stagger of whining and domination.  The smaller ones were soaked when the bigger and stronger tipped up the long water pipes and poured out the frigid contents.  We complained and swatted the inevitable farm flies as we hoed weeds and thinned carrots.  It was a season of work. 


A marriage has seasons of summer- the play of small children, the hard work of tilling, tending, pulling weeds of discontent and irritation.  As a young wife, I also gardened.  My mother could identify exactly what the baby plants were, "That's not a weed, it's a radish."  I was less careful and sometimes lost the packet before it could be carefully staked and pounded down at the head of the row.  So my garden and my marriage had some surprises. "Oh, I thought that was radishes but it is obviously nasturtiums."  "I thought you liked people." Mysteries revealed in due time. Identities sorted out. 

 Planting and tending in a healthy garden results in harvest and abundance for summer always passes into autumn.   Radishes are eaten, nasturtiums are plucked for salads and nosegays.  Surpises are sorted out. In a marriage, entrenched  roles are examined and the inevitable changes come. 


So our marriage ended but the harvest continues.  Our children stagger their way through the watering of their lives and marriages.  Our rich, family community has shrunk and my new community sustains only me but I learned those skills of relationships with him.  Our daughter mourns the loss of  Grandpa Cleveland for her son; our son shares her grief as he anticipates a daughter who will never know his father.  But they are good, conscientious parents, perhaps lessons were learned from watching us toil the ground of parenthood. 

But the surprising harvest is me. I have  bought a truck and camper and sold a home. I bought a log house and am creating a haven and home in an unfamiliar environment. I have ventured into new relationships and explored new places. I made another community and together, we planned a retreat to nurture the vision of a deeper drink at the Well.  And, I'm discovering my identity.  I'm curious, insatiably curious. I love books and reading.  I was not surprised when I named taste as my favorite sense, I love to cook and eat.  But some parts, some labels didn't fit. 

I was always a "moody" child. "You are so moody, stop mopping."  I was a "complicated" wife.    "Why must everything be so complicated with you?"  Identities, or at least, labels.  A seed packet  emptied and firmly pounded into my soul. 

But if my marriage ended too soon, on the cusp of our harvest season, my identity did not die with it.  Turns out I'm not moody, I'm sensitive and prone to clinical depression. Long, light-deprived Alaskan winters were a likely contribution to my struggle to maintain emotional balance.   I experience life with both debilitating sorrow and deep joy. I wouldn't have it any other way. 

And I'm not just complicated... - "involving many different and confusing aspects : a long and complicated saga;"

I'm complex- "consisting of many different and connected parts : a complex network of water channels.

• not easy to analyze or understand; complicated or intricate : a complex personality | the situation is more complex than it appears."

Turns out my label wasn't totally wrong, just incomplete. There was more to me than a pretty picture on the front of a seed packet to become; there was also the small print on the back side, details I didn't bother to read.  Until I had to. 

So alone, I move into another fall. Another season of harvest, of preparation for winter's rest.  And I'm content with being complex and sensitive. Labels no longer fit- I'm not defined by wife or, even mother, as much as I love my children.  Sister grows richer, friend is more precious.   It's a good season. 

Gorgeous aspen, birch and oak trees make up this scenery out of the Black Hills of South Dakota.
 This image was taken by iWitness Viewer: Jackie Zoller Shibley.

Retreating? We're advancing now!

Almost a year ago, my wonderful coach asked me how I would create the community I longed for here in the Black Hills.  Nine months ago, I put down a substantial deposit on a lodge and locked in a date.  In the ensuing months, I have questioned  my choice of dates, my sanity, my abilities to organize my purse, let alone a retreat.

And this morning,  two of my dearest friends drove to the airports that will return them home to Virginia.... after a wonderful, amazing,  "God did it!" retreat this past weekend.


Retreat- according to thefreedictionary.com

retreat [rɪˈtriːt]

vb (mainly intr)

1. (Military) Military to withdraw or retire in the face of or from action with an enemy, either due to defeat or in order to adopt a more favourable position

2. to retire or withdraw, as to seclusion or shelter

3. (Life Sciences & Allied Applications / Physiology) (of a person's features) to slope back; recede

4. (Group Games / Chess & Draughts) (tr) Chess to move (a piece) back

n

1. the act of retreating or withdrawing

2. (Military) Military

a.  a withdrawal or retirement in the face of the enemy

b.  a bugle call signifying withdrawal or retirement, esp (formerly) to within a defended fortification

3. retirement or seclusion

4. a place, such as a sanatorium or monastery, to which one may retire for refuge, quiet, etc.

5. a period of seclusion, esp for religious contemplation

6. (Medicine) an institution, esp a private one, for the care and treatment of the mentally ill, infirm, elderly, etc.

[from Old French retret, from retraire to withdraw, from Latin retrahere to pull back; see retract]

Collins English Dictionary – Complete and Unabridged © HarperCollins Publishers 1991, 1994, 1998, 2000, 2003

As a military term,  retreat first seems to imply turn and run but the definition here is active and positive- to withdraw in face of action with an enemy ... to adopt a more favorable position.  It is pulling back your troops to reassess and form a new plan for the next phase of the battle.

As Christians we are accustomed to retreat as withdrawing for contemplation or restoration.  Jesus withdrew to the mountains and eventually, a quiet garden where He wrestled with the task set before him.  

This past weekend, at a glorious retreat in a cozy lodge in the Black Hills, women withdrew to a quiet place to give space in their heads to think, to give space in their hearts to experience  new ways of connecting deeply with God and to give space in their lives to enjoy other like-minded women.  

 But on our retreat, we also were given tools to create a more favorable position, a strategy for awareness, an awakening to God's activity in our souls and in our worlds.  We retreated and came away fortified and re-Paired- our souls and our minds deliberately connected. We can more clearly see our Creator and hear His voice and feel  His love and grace in our lives. 

Too often in the past, I have attended events, retreats, conferences and had "mountain top" experiences, only to trudge back down the mountain to the valley below.  Back to life....sometimes, life as usual.  

A gift of being more mature, older, a woman of a certain age!.... is the release of my expectations from these events. I now trust that God knows what I need and I have learned how to sift and chose a nugget or two that I can chew on.  And, praise God, my life is no longer a series of ecstatic mountain top experiences and difficult, dreary valleys.  At my age walking the steady path, following in the footsteps of the church fathers and mothers, and recognizing my place in the wide open spaces of God is more than I need. 

And  I recognize the gift of deep, abiding friendships with other women who travel with me. I appreciate how we enrich each other's  journey.  What a lovely, lovely gift.  We don't live this life alone well- we need iron to sharpen us and a handhold to steady us.  We create more and we dream bigger when we join our giftings with other women in a spirit of collaboration and giving. Personal agendas are less important now than hearing God through the voices of trusted friends.  I have had a wonderful retreat myself and the added bonus of a few precious days with dear friends from my life in Virginia.

I'll be writing more in the coming months about the possible fruits of this retreat, the "more favorable position"some of us have found from this time of withdrawal but suffice it to say, the retreat is over and we're now we're advancing.  Ours is not a battle charge lead by a triumphant blast- we're just stepping out in quiet confidence that the God who planted the idea of this retreat, the God who brought these amazing, creative, loving women together for community this weekend; that same faithful God has planted seeds and we are excited to participate.

 Henry Blackaby's book, Experiencing God can be summed up with this- 

"God is always at work around you.

 God pursues a continuing love relationship with you.....

God invites you to become involved with Him in His work."

We have retreated, we have been re-Paired, we are open.  What's next, God? 

The DARK side of Paradise

I know that my life seems practically perfect in every way....

I live in a cute little town.....

In a beautiful setting.

I wake to this every day.....

And witness this every afternoon.

And the world's most amazing grandboy visits me.  

But there is the dark side of my paradise.  I think today is the time to share the seamy side, the tragedies that lurk in this hidden treasure of life.

My wonderful (engineer)  brother came to visit and we made a......
well, a bit of a mess.
That was a week ago. hmmm.... will it just form itself into steps? 

The former owner left no manuals to the various unusual appliances-
including two inoperable water softener systems,  three satellite dishes
and..... a junked TV with TUBE  replaced by a nativity scene. On shag carpet.
You'll have to let your imagination chew on that one.

And here it sits in my side yard. All I need is a couch next to it.

And is that my car door open??? All night???
Yep...

Speaking of my cars.... it's not pretty but it must be confessed. More tragedy.

I live on a gravel road.
I drive on a mile of gravel to get to my gravel road.

It doesn't rain much in the summer in South Dakota.

When it does rain, this is all the "dust" that came off . I need more rain.
Or a car wash and a paved access road.

If I didn't treat my Prius like a truck, it would help.
Hey, I was out running errands and I need some small rocks.

Speaking of trucks.... 

Yes, Clyde's wide rear end (fiberglass, I might add)  has met an immovable object.

The bright side of this tragic story?.... Gorilla tape "repairs" fiberglass.
You can hardly see the damage.
Right???

In this tale of woe, there is the positive. I do have a luscious, amazing flower garden.

Artemisa's silver foliage is the perfec foil against the brilliant morning-glory vine. 

Sunflowers and cosmos compete with miniature marigolds along a rustic log wall.


(Ignore out of focus photography.... our un-professional photographer used her phone)

 Or we could back up a step or two and show the true story of the gardens.

Hmm.... they never show this view in the magazines.
Not quite lucious.

Then there's the relatives that try to add some  humor. What I'm forced put up with!

Unnamed people return from trips with amusing signs for my STUPENDOUS gardens.
Thanks, Larry and Connie.

Bizarre Canadian beer from my sister.
Yes, it's now a garden ornament.
She's searching for a plastic squirrel to complete the ambiance.

Then there's the "native" plants when they don't actually produce wildflowers. 

But we do have -
"A rustic, antique swan with oodles of character reposing in the long grasses, adding charm to the front porch area"

Yeah?  So what's with the weird extra heads? That's charming.....

Or once again we can step back and see it's just an odd swan is dumped in a bunch of grass ,
grass that needs to be mowed.
Along with all the "native" non-wildflowers. 

And that morning-glory photo? Always be suspicious when only one bloom is showing.
It probably means the gardener pulled out the vines with ALL the other buds
when she was weeding.
Idiot gardener.

 But at least I have dirt....

Mostly rocks but nice soft dirt. 

That's because the dirt is a mole hill.
Bubble gum messes with mole tummies. This mole is discovering Dubble Bubble today.

Yes, there are many sad tales in the garden but at least I have plenty of food and I can put out terrific meals. Food?  OMG, I forgot the oatmeal on the stove... and left a burner on again.

Oops.
Actually, stovetop toasted, stone ground oats is usually delicious. 

Ick- lots of black stuff.  Another tragedy in paradise.

Saved by Breyers!

Pick out the gross stuff and add ice cream.
Sprinkle with cinnamon sugar.
Not bad. 

And my counter top often looks like this.  How can one person make such a mess?
My next house will have NO horizontal surfaces.  None.

So there, the soft focus view of my paradise has been removed. I've revealed the truth.

 I have a bit of a mess out here. A bit of the dark side of life. Full of tragedies.

Today's tragedy?
The ice cream is gone.  

 ________________________________________________________________________________

The only photo of author available today-
this post was written and the photographs were taken while she was in her pj's.
Ah... that's paradise. 

And the best news of all?  I'm actually writing on my beloved MacBook Pro.  After spilling orange juice into the dvd drive.  And that, well, that's another story.  In paradise.

http://www.ifixit.com/Answers/View/10904/Soaking+an+%22Al+unibody+MacBook%22+keyboard+in+Isopropyl+alcohol

Rain

Yesterday I finally rode some of our premeir bike trail, the Mickelson Trail. It runs from the northern Black Hills to the prairie in the south. Deadwood to Edgemont -110 miles of gentle slope and beautiful scenery.  And dust.

It hasn't rained, really soaked the earth for weeks. After our ride, my friend and I stood on my porch and wondered about the fire that is only fifteen miles away. The air is full of smoke and dust, my eyes are dry and itchy, the grass crackles under foot.  The hay crop has been dismal, no rain, no grass.  The irreverent have posted a sign, "Fire danger extremely high. Don't even fart in our woods."  We need rain.

And last night, it rained. I caught a whisper of the drops as they gathered and fell, releasing life to our land.  I held my breath and opened the door and the unmistakable fragrance of rain-laden air rushed into my cabin. Cool, even cold air was received with gratitude.  It's raining!

And all evening, I would open the door, step barefoot out onto the cold, smooth planks and sniff the air, listen for the gentle patter.  This was no Virginia gully washer, but neither was it a brief, tantalizing sprinkle we often get in the late afternoons out West.  This was a gentle replenishing of the parched earth.  A dry and thirsty ground.  A dry and weary land......

David knew dry and thirsty. His Psalms are full of the poetry of a desert dweller.

O God, You are my God; I shall seek You earnestly; 

My soul thirsts for You, my flesh yearns for You, 

In a dry and weary land where there is no water. Psalm 63

Sing to God, sing praises to His name;
 Lift up a song for Him who rides through the deserts,
 Whose name is the Lord, and exult before Him.

5 

A father of the fatherless and a judge for the widows,
Is God in His holy habitation.

6 

God makes a home for the lonely; 
He leads out the prisoners into prosperity,
Only the rebellious dwell in a parched land.

7 

O God, when You went forth before Your people,
When You marched through the wilderness, Selah.

8 

The earth quaked;
The heavens also dropped rain at the presence of God;
Sinai itself quaked at the presence of God, the God of Israel.

9 

You shed abroad a plentiful rain, O God;
You confirmed Your inheritance when it was parched. Psalm 68

He rides on the Clouds!
And in this one, He looks like a coho salmon!

And I've been dry and parched. Not just because my home is in drought but because my soul has been ignoring the rains from a good and mighty God.  The God who rides through the deserts- another version refers to Him as "One who rides on the clouds". 

He knows the earth He created, He knows it needs rain. He led those the captive into prosperity and for peoples who depend on the land for their sustinence, prosperity means watered crops and livestock. 

Only the rebellious dwell in a parched land- He allowed His beloved people to wander in the wilderness, a parched land if ever there was one.  Even there He went forth before His people and led them through.  And even that land quaked in awe and the heavens dropped rain at the presence of God. 

I have been soaking in the beauty and wonder of creation. It's everywhere around me.  But only superficially soaking in the beauty and the wonder of my Creator. It's easy to do.  But it is beginning to feel like I dwell in a parched land, my interior landscape as dry as my rain deprived pasture. 

So last night, the South Dakota earth received the rain and my soul received her King. 

  He shed abroad a plentiful rain and confirmed  (confirm- to establish the truth, accuracy, validity or genuiness of, corroborate, verify) my inheritance .... when it was parched. 

This morning the glorious clouds still linger.
The air is fresh.
We are revived. 

Let the rains come!