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!