What I have learned so far

What I Have Learned So Far

Mary Oliver

Meditation is old and honorable, so why should I

not sit, every morning of my life, on the hillside, 

looking into the shining world? Because, properly

attended to, delight, as well as havoc, is suggestion.

Can one be passionate about the just, the

ideal, the sublime, and the holy, and yet commit

to no labor in its cause? I don't think so.

All summations have a beginning, all effect has a
story, all kindness begins with the sown seed.
Thought buds toward radiance. The gospel of
light is the crossroads of — indolence, or action.

Be ignited, or be gone.

Delivering sugar cookies  

to the neighbors

St. Lucia Day

December 13, 2013

Child of God

From Henri Nouwen's The Inner Voice of Love

Do not discount what you have already accomplished. You have made important steps toward the freedom you are searching for. You have decided to dedicate yourself completely to God, to make Jesus the center of your life, and to be fashioned into an instrument of God's grace. Yes, you still experience your inner dividedness, your need for approval and acclaim. But you see that you have made important choices that show where you want to go.

You can look at your life as a large cone that becomes narrower the deeper you go. There are many doors in that cone that give you chances to leave the journey. But you have been closing these doors one after the other, making yourself go deeper and deeper into your center. You know that Jesus is waiting for you at the end, just as you know that he is guiding you as you move in that direction. Every time you close another door- be it the door of immediate satisfaction, the door of distracting entertainment, the door of busyness, the door of guilt and worry, or the door of self-rejection- you commit yourself to go deeper into your heart and thus deeper into the heart of God.

This is a movement toward full incarnation. It leads you to become what you already are- a child of God; it lets you embody more and more the truth of your being; it makes you claim the God within you. You are tempted to think that you are nobody in the spiritual life and that your friends are far beyond you on the journey. But this is a mistake.

You must trust the depth of God's presence in you and live from there. This is the way to keep moving toward full incarnation.

Mumma's Tree Farm

November 29, 2013

The grace of the world

The Peace of Wild Things

Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Annual trip to Stone's Apple Orchard

September 2013

One tiny girl fell off the hay rack while we were moving; one crazed mother jumped after

As of yesterday evening, all apples have finally been made into yummy sauce (sauce made especially delicious when Jared snuck in some ground cloves)

Been relishing each of these amazing "second summer" days with weekly field trips, arguing to myself that experiencing beauty and revering nature supercedes "schooling"

Tomorrow I leave for the annual St. Moses the Black conference being held in Kansas City, MO. Pretty excited for a six-hour car ride without kids.

Peaceful weekend.

Now you are four

Beauty is a heart that generates love.

Thich Nhat Hanh 

The Princess has taken to singing. 

Just the other night I stopped my frazzled attempts to clean the kitchen to give pause and listen to our daughter's tiny "Jesus Loves Me" as she quietly lay in bed awaiting sleep. The purity of the moment, her sincerity, humbled me anew. A glimpse of beauty. A glimpse of grace.

Another day she stretched her lean body in my arms as we all sat together, a solemnity on my heart as I read the beautiful book 14 Cows for America, remembering September 11th and describing that terrible day to the innocents around our kitchen table. And she began to sing. From her mouth, the Prayer of St. Francis, "O Lord make me an instrument of your peace..." A light in the darkness. A glimpse of God.

Our little light turned four last Saturday. An intimate gathering of family and friends came together at my mother's home to mark the day. She was near giddy with excitement and could not help lingering near the gifts, gingerly brushing aside the pieces of colored tissue paper, hoping to catch a glimpse at the hidden contents, giggling when gently reminded that she needed a bit more patience.

You are lovely Lucia Ethiopia Kebedech, chosen and special, carved into the palms of God's hands. Happy Birthday to you!

Our traditional Ethiopian clothes.

Her favorite...chocolate cake

Idle and blessed

What was it, I wondered, this seemingly unidentifiable flying creature? A giant butterfly? A moth? And then with a closer look, I realized in amazement that what I was watching gathering nectar from our flowering hostas was a hummingbird. I was awestruck. Really. In my forty years, I had never seen a hummingbird, it's vigorous flapping wings, it's long, thin beak seeking nourishment. Somehow that seems like a tragedy. 

School started for Thomas, Russell, and Elliot just over a week ago. And in the flurry of Thomas's and my challah baking and beeswax candle making (which was surprisingly easy), today's cooler temperatures and vibrant sunshine afforded the tinies the opportunity to take advantage of their day and throw an impromptu "tea" party. (It was milk. And no, I didn't realize that the milk had escaped from the fridge and was sitting on the front porch.) They were thrilled, and since they were not fighting and were enjoying themselves, so was I.

In order to further relish in the milder temperatures, tomorrow has been declared "field trip Friday." Our plan is to drop off our church's grocery offerings to a local food pantry; venture to the grocery store for some red carnations and probably some doughnuts; stop at one of my favorite places, the Riverside cemetery, and light one of the said candles, say some prayers, and leave our flowers; then journey to Blackhawk State Park for some exploring. "Are you happy?" Russell still likes to ask. Yes, Russell, happy and blessed. 

Peaceful weekend to you all.

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life? 

Live this day

I stretch my arm through the steel bars of his hospital bed and draw his hand out from the plaid blanket covering his increasingly emaciated body. With his consent, I wrap my fingers around his taut skinned and bony hand and begin to weave a story, a story of a life unknown to me. His eyes so often closed are open on this day, bright yet glassy, eyes which are seemingly searching the contents of my face for some sort of recognition. To my questions, he offers snippets after moments of silence. Is this futile? I wonder. Does remembering provoke pain? What is the truth? You whose diseased mind has dispossessed you of your memories, the date you were born, your mother's name, how you met your wife, even your children, whose smiling images sit posed upon your nightstand. Did you actually play the violin? Or have a brother named Al? Were you in the army? It is sobering and disconcerting how few clues to your life surround me in that space. Perhaps one day, when I have read your obituary, there will be answers to the questions riddling my mind. But at this moment, answers are not what matter, for together we sit, the hand of your habitual Sunday stranger clasped in your own, listening to Beethoven, Smetna, Dorsey, reading Berry, Oliver, and the poetry of the psalmists. I kiss your forehead before I leave and pray, and I recognize the bitterness under my lips, that of a body moving from life to death.

Then to you, beautiful boy just turned nine, crack your knuckles, wear those white t-shirts, spit profusely, sing with gusto, rock 'em "Gangnam style," cling to your blanket and Baby Owen, and by all means request to crawl up into the lap of your mother. May God grant to you a long and prosperous life. While, God willing, I will not be at your side as you lay dying, I pray that someone will sit quietly with you, holding your hand, whispering that you are loved. May you live, darling son, truly live, and grow to be full of courage, and wisdom, remembering that it is the poor who are blessed, the gentle ones who will inherit the earth, the peacemakers who will be God's children, the merciful who will be shown mercy, the pure in heart who will see God.

Bless them

Benediction 

Rabindranath Tagore

Bless this little heart, this white soul that has won the kiss of
heaven for our earth.
He loves the light of the sun, he loves the sight of his
mother's face.
He has not learned to despise the dust, and to hanker after gold.
Clasp him to your heart and bless him.
He has come into this land of an hundred cross-roads.
I know not how he chose you from the crowd, came to your door,
and grasped your hand to ask his way.
He will follow you, laughing the talking, and not a doubt in
his heart.
Keep his trust, lead him straight and bless him.
Lay your hand on his head, and pray that though the waves
underneath grow threatening, yet the breath from above may come and
fill his sails and waft him to the heaven of peace.
Forget him not in your hurry, let him come to your heart and
bless him.

One of the Korean War veterans who helped us celebrate.

Thomas later went on to break a board.

Special friends that we love to see each year!

"Adoption has the dimension of connection - not only to your own tribe, but beyond, widening the scope of what constitutes love, ties and family. It is a larger embrace. By adopting, we stretch past our immediate circles and, by reaching out, find an unexpected sense of belonging with others."

- Isabella Rossellini

Works of peace

Jesus is your child, 

your spouse, your neighbor, 

looking for someone to comfort Him.

Are you there?

 Let us make a resolution: I will be there

for my child, my spouse, my neighbor-

not just in words,

but by my sharing and sacrificing.

Maybe just a beautiful smile instead of that ugly look,

maybe a beautiful word instead of that angry word.

Let us take the trouble 

to be that one to comfort Him. 

- Mother Teresa

And though I constantly fail, this is my prayer. Forgive me.

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, 

I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal.
And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge,
and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. 

And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, 

and though I give my body to burned, but have not love, it profits me nothing.

Love suffers long and is kind;

love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up;

love does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil;

love does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth;

love bears all things, 

believes all things,

hopes all things,

endures all things.

Love never fails.

Saints and poets

"Oh, earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you."

-Thornton Wilder

"Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it -- every, every minute?”

 

"No. Saints and poets maybe...they do some.”

-from Our Town by Thornton Wilder

Together they are on the couch, grandmother and granddaughter, eighty years separating them. Curled into the bend of her arm, my bathing-suit-clad daughter sits on my mother's lap, her pony tails bobbing into the side of her grandmother's face as she listens to a favorite story choice, "A House Is Built at Pooh Corner for Eeoyre." And I am grateful.

He spies the abandoned flesh of a newly molted cicada clinging to the house and cannot contain his excitement, his awe. Without hesitation, he moves towards this hollow shell, that which I would thoughtlessly be quick to wipe away, to discard, to discount as ugly. Yet, he sees the beauty in this detritus of metamorphosis left by one of the least of God's creatures. And I am grateful.

Inside the house, with hands immersed in the soapy water of the kitchen sink, I hear his call, "Sing with me," he cries to his twin brother, and the younger cannot resist. Their mouths are open wide, offering to anyone and everyone the gift of their song. Their song is lusty, bold, spontaneous, and uniquely their own. And I am grateful.

Last night the rain spoke to me slowly, 

saying, what joy to come falling out of the brisk cloud, 

to be happy again in a new way on the earth!

That's what it said as it dropped, 
smelling of iron, and vanished like a dream of the ocean
into the branches and the grass below.

Then it was over. The sky cleared.
I was standing under a tree with happy leaves, 
and I was myself, and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves at the moment

at which moment
my right hand was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars and the soft rain-
imagine! imagine!
the long and wondrous journeys
still to be ours.

Mary Oliver

Dragon slayer

For Thomas

Today. Today surrounded by you at the table, my holy innocents, at the moment where blessings should have come forth from my heart and out of my mouth, I became monstrous, ugly, enraged, the dragon lashing out, spewing forth curses of righteous indignation - the ripped screens, the shoes left in the rain, the scrawls of ink all over the walls, the not living up to my requests - my expectations  so poisoned at that moment with anger (Lord, have mercy) I was unable even to pray over the food and demanded that someone do it for me.

And you. You did not shy away but instead were like the warrior-saint - valiant, though perhaps afraid, daring to open your mouth at the offense, singing "Christ is Risen," and then offering gentleness, a soft answer, a blessing, to quell my distemper, bestowing to me, your mother who should know better, a kindly rebuke - a balm rather than a slap to my distorted face - to give me breath, a holy spirit, to create space for repentance.

How quickly you opened your arms, forgiving me again, your terribly flawed, sinful mother. How pure is your heart. How beautifully you show me God.

Isaak's penitential psalm, unaccompanied.

Again, and yes again, O Ceaseless Tolerator

   of our bleaking recurrences, O Forever Forgoing   

                     Foregone (sans conclusion), O Inexhaustible,

                     I find my face against the floor, and yet again

                     my plea escapes from unclean lips, and from a heart

                     caked in and constricted by its own soiled residue.

You are forever, and forever blessed, and I aspire

                     one day to slip my knot and change things up,

                     to manage at least one late season sinlessly,

                     to bow before you yet one time without chagrin.

from Idiot Psalms 

Scott Cairns

Noisome, lighted, and salt

Then He said to me, "Prophesy to these bones and say to them, "O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord'...Behold, I will bring the Spirit of life upon you. I will put muscles on you and bring flesh upon you. I will cover you with skin and put my Spirit into you. Then you shall live..." 

"I know only enough of God to worship him, by any means ready to hand. There is an anomalous specificity to all our experience in space, a scandal of particularity, by which God burgeons up or showers down into the shabbiest of occasions, and leaves his creation's dealings with him in the hands of purblind and clumsy amateurs. This is all we are and all we ever were; God kann nicht anders. This process in time is history; in space, at such shocking random, it is mystery.

"A blur of romance clings to our notions of 'publicans,' 'sinners,' 'the poor,' 'the people in the marketplace,' 'our neighbors,' as though of course God should reveal himself, if at all, to these simple people, these Sunday school watercolor figures, who are so purely themselves in their tattered robes, who are single themselves, while we now are various, complex, and full at heart.

"We are busy. So, I see now, were they. Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? or who shall stand in his holy place? There is no one but us. There is no one to send, nor a clean hand, nor a pure heart on the face of the earth, nor in the earth, but only us...

"...a generation comforting ourselves with the notion that we have come at an awkward time, that our innocent fathers are all dead - as if innocence had ever been - and our children busy and troubled, and we ourselves unfit, not yet ready, having each of us chosen wrongly, made a false start, failed, yielded to impulse and the tangled comfort of pleasures, and grown exhausted, unable to seek the thread, weak, and involved.

"But there is no one but us. 

"There never has been. There have been generations which remembered, and generations which forgot; there has never been a generation of whole men and women who lived well for even one day.

"Yet some have imagined well, with honesty and art, the detail of such a life, and have described it with such grace, that we mistake vision for history, dream for description, and fancy that life has devolved.

"So. You learn this studying any history at all, especially the lives of artists and visionaries; you learn it from Emerson, who noticed that the meanness of our days is itself worth our thought; and you learn it, fitful in your pew, at church....

"Hoopla! All that I see arches, and light arches around it. The air churns out forces and lashes the marveling land. A hundred time through the fields and along the deep roads I've cried Holy. 

"I see a hundred insects moving across the air, rising and falling. Chipped notes of birdsong descend from the tree, tuneful and broken; the notes pile about me like leaves. Why do these molded clouds make themselves overhead innocently changing, trailing their flat blue shadows up and down everything, and passing, and gone? 

Ladies and gentlemen! You are given insects, and birdsong, and a replenishing series of clouds. The air is buoyant and wholly transparent, scoured by grasses. The earth stuck through it is noisome, lighted, and salt. Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? or who shall stand in his holy place? 'Whom shall I send,' heard the first Isaiah, 'and who will go for us?' And poor Isaiah, who happened to be standing there - and there was no one else - burst out, 'Here am I; send me.'"

from Holy the Firm

Annie Dillard

Christ is Risen!

Kristo Gesso!

Kristos Tenestwal!