Looking out over the vista, grateful for the gifts of memory and review, I found myself excited to move forward, when the time was right. Not long after that post, there was a phone call, some earnest questions, the beginnings of some new life phases, and when I opened my eyes, I was surprised to see a pile of rocks and boulders in front of me. "Yep," I thought, "after that rest, it's time to climb. Thanks for the prep!" and up I scrambled.
First I picked my way around, hopping over the smaller rocks, and looking for footholds and handholds to make my way higher. Then I scrambled up the sloping rocks, and the boulders with flat spots, wondering just how high I would ultimately have to climb. Without warning, I've found myself in a crevice, and (having ignored some sage advice: "And when you want to go explore / The number you should have is 4) without a hand or a rope to pull me out.
It's given me time to think. (No need to panic. I'll find my way out; I'm sure of it.) What I realized is that despite how far I've come, something has not changed. Once again, the first thing I did was decide what I needed to do. In and of itself, this is not entirely bad. However, when courses of action are not even considered--let alone tossed aside as infeasible--things may not turn out as intended. I'm pretty sure, now that I'm heading on toward frustrated, that there were other very reasonable options.
It's entirely possible that I was supposed to choose a rock to carry, or that I was to move some of the rocks out of the way. It's also quite possible that I was looking at a rock waiting to be chiseled and molded into something else, some beautiful figure that only my eyes could have seen under the smooth, round surface. Or that someone else may have been stuck in the rocks, and I should have listened for their cries for help.
It's possible I was being invited to sit and watch more of the view developing.
I need to work on moving past my dependence on myself and myself alone. I thought I had. I forgot that moving forward does not mean forgetting what was behind; leaving missteps off the map. The good is in the journey. I have always believed that, but have often, in my full-steam ahead, missed the forest for the trees.
To dig or to jump or to wait. Something to think about.
Showing posts with label commitment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label commitment. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Friday, September 6, 2013
standing still
I've found myself at a standstill. Last week, I had this sense of.....what? I could only identify it as darkness, but that didn't seem quite right. Since I really didn't know what it was, I began to push against panic that darkness was going to descend, long before any darktime weather. I almost called a couple of friends to alert them; to have their warm thoughts shore me up. I resisted (and instead overdid social time, to the detriment of my psyche, and my belly). When I stopped to consider why this sense of something, I realized there was no darkness, only calm. The kind of calm and quiet that is palpable and strong enough to keep me in one place.
At one time, this kind of standstill would have pushed me to wonder why, or what I had done wrong, or not done, to be stuck when I had been moving right along (albeit slowly most of the time!). Today, though, seemed like an opportune time to turn around and look at where I've been, how far I've come. Each day on this journey, I've been reminded, in one way or another, how far I have yet to go. And how far I am behind where I could have been, had I made different turns and avoided some detours and unnecessary exits. (This latter part is always argued--without those fits and starts, I would not be who I am, and therefore could not be where I am now, which is right where I'm supposed to be. While I know this, the thought still creeps in on occasion, and must be pushed away or dealt with.) For the first time, looking back over the course, there is no feeling that I've missed something, or left something behind. I'm pleasantly surprised to see that I have actually covered quite a bit of ground! The place I left from is far in the distance, not just a step back, as I've sometimes feared.
This part of my journey has been moving toward, not away, and I can almost see the change in my stride at that transition. My steps may be slower, but they are surer, stronger and steadier. This view is breathtaking and humbling and uplifting, all at the same time. And I find myself grateful for the standstill; for the time to allow this all to sink in, to take root, to sprout wings. For the first time, I do not find myself resisting the inertia. And I wonder if past resistance has brought on the listlessness and dejection that I find in the darktime (which is still a long way off!); if perhaps there was more looking out I should have done, when the tendency was for me to look inward when the spinning of the world slows......
Should have done matters little. Outward I shall look, and use this glance behind as incentive to move ahead. If I can come this far, I can go this far again plus one step more, and then yet again this doubled distance plus one. And when it's time to move forward again--tonight, tomorrow, next week--I will be ready, willing, with eagerness anew. Into a sunrise.
"The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it."
~Henry David Thoreau
(thanks, Lee!)
At one time, this kind of standstill would have pushed me to wonder why, or what I had done wrong, or not done, to be stuck when I had been moving right along (albeit slowly most of the time!). Today, though, seemed like an opportune time to turn around and look at where I've been, how far I've come. Each day on this journey, I've been reminded, in one way or another, how far I have yet to go. And how far I am behind where I could have been, had I made different turns and avoided some detours and unnecessary exits. (This latter part is always argued--without those fits and starts, I would not be who I am, and therefore could not be where I am now, which is right where I'm supposed to be. While I know this, the thought still creeps in on occasion, and must be pushed away or dealt with.) For the first time, looking back over the course, there is no feeling that I've missed something, or left something behind. I'm pleasantly surprised to see that I have actually covered quite a bit of ground! The place I left from is far in the distance, not just a step back, as I've sometimes feared.
This part of my journey has been moving toward, not away, and I can almost see the change in my stride at that transition. My steps may be slower, but they are surer, stronger and steadier. This view is breathtaking and humbling and uplifting, all at the same time. And I find myself grateful for the standstill; for the time to allow this all to sink in, to take root, to sprout wings. For the first time, I do not find myself resisting the inertia. And I wonder if past resistance has brought on the listlessness and dejection that I find in the darktime (which is still a long way off!); if perhaps there was more looking out I should have done, when the tendency was for me to look inward when the spinning of the world slows......
Should have done matters little. Outward I shall look, and use this glance behind as incentive to move ahead. If I can come this far, I can go this far again plus one step more, and then yet again this doubled distance plus one. And when it's time to move forward again--tonight, tomorrow, next week--I will be ready, willing, with eagerness anew. Into a sunrise.
"The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it."
~Henry David Thoreau
(thanks, Lee!)
Friday, August 16, 2013
goals and expectations
Earlier this summer, I went for the weekend to a friend's for the weekend. She was having a party, and it was pretty neat to meet so many of her similarly "uncool" friends. There was a whole lot of laughter, good food (especially peanut butter cookies!), good wine, and even party favors for some of us. I felt very at home with my friend's friends, and along with all the other good stuff, and a few stray raindrops, there was great conversation. After all these weeks, there are still a couple of comments and questions that have stuck with me.
Two people, at separate times, when talking about family life, expressed surprise at how long I've been married. In fact, I actually was asked by one man, "You've been married since 1991? To the same person? For real?" I smiled and thanked him. I didn't even bother mentioning that it was early in 1991. It occurs to me that perhaps it's interesting to note that this comment and the other ("You've really been married for over 20 years?") were presented by men. I have no idea what that might mean, but I do know that for most of my life, I've been far more comfortable and relaxed talking with men or boys.
The other question that has stuck with me, making me think more than almost anything else this summer, was asked by another dear friend of mine who was there. She asked how we managed to get our teenage boys, four of them, to go to church with us regularly. The simple answer is that we just take them; we wake them in the morning, make sure they get dressed, and load them in the car. Afterwards, we pick up doughnuts or muffins, if we go in the morning, and sometimes go out for pizza, if we go on Saturday night. The simple answer regarding being married, to the same guy, for over half my life, is similar: there's not really been a choice in the matter.
Reality, however, is not always so easy. There have been plenty of mornings that we've all wondered what the point is in getting so frustrated herding the six of us out the door to pray and find peace. And a good many times when I have not really felt like I was going to get any message out of Mass because of being stressed. And despite the fact that I do make a choice each day, at some point, that I am still, and will remain, a happily married woman, there are times when I have to think a little longer about that question before I arrive at the same conclusion. Occasionally, being happy and/or pleasant is a difficult choice; throwing in the towel would be easier. You know that feeling, when you just want to say, "Why does it matter?"
The fact is, in my mind, there isn't really a "choice." I ask myself the question without ever expecting that the answer will be no. I wake up in the morning, and we wake the boys, without ever considering that there is an option about going together as a family. The interesting thing is, frequently when the morning push is particularly trying, and I figure there will be no room for anything to enter my heart, I end up being especially touched by the music, the readings, the homily, seeing a friend.....It's possible that on those occasions, I let my guard down so that I unknowingly let myself hear more in my heart. I certainly wouldn't recommend this as a "method," but I'm grateful for the persistence. (And not just mine.) Likewise, in our marriage, the stressful, cranky, or just plain frustrating times have often turned out to be the times when we've found the most strength. By choice. My point is, marriage and parenting are not easy, or simply defined, or predictable. Marriage and parenting require having a goal, and working toward that goal, consistently and constantly.
I've been married for over half my life, and been a parent for close to half my life. In that time, we've been to Church nearly every weekend, and had dinner together nearly every day. We've been to more concerts, shows, games, meets and matches than I can count. I've also broken up or gotten into the middle of more disagreements, arguments and fights than I care to remember. The goals, though, have always been the same: to raise these boys to be good men, and to love, honor and cherish each other as husband and wife. Each day dawns new, and our lives are our own; no one else can, or should, expect the life we live. Honestly, when I think about how many years, or days, or decades we've been married, I am just as surprised as those guys early in this story. But at the same time, I am proud of our perseverance. (And, truth be told, our competitiveness!) And quite thankful for those who have been our examples.
Goals and expectations.
Two people, at separate times, when talking about family life, expressed surprise at how long I've been married. In fact, I actually was asked by one man, "You've been married since 1991? To the same person? For real?" I smiled and thanked him. I didn't even bother mentioning that it was early in 1991. It occurs to me that perhaps it's interesting to note that this comment and the other ("You've really been married for over 20 years?") were presented by men. I have no idea what that might mean, but I do know that for most of my life, I've been far more comfortable and relaxed talking with men or boys.
The other question that has stuck with me, making me think more than almost anything else this summer, was asked by another dear friend of mine who was there. She asked how we managed to get our teenage boys, four of them, to go to church with us regularly. The simple answer is that we just take them; we wake them in the morning, make sure they get dressed, and load them in the car. Afterwards, we pick up doughnuts or muffins, if we go in the morning, and sometimes go out for pizza, if we go on Saturday night. The simple answer regarding being married, to the same guy, for over half my life, is similar: there's not really been a choice in the matter.
Reality, however, is not always so easy. There have been plenty of mornings that we've all wondered what the point is in getting so frustrated herding the six of us out the door to pray and find peace. And a good many times when I have not really felt like I was going to get any message out of Mass because of being stressed. And despite the fact that I do make a choice each day, at some point, that I am still, and will remain, a happily married woman, there are times when I have to think a little longer about that question before I arrive at the same conclusion. Occasionally, being happy and/or pleasant is a difficult choice; throwing in the towel would be easier. You know that feeling, when you just want to say, "Why does it matter?"
The fact is, in my mind, there isn't really a "choice." I ask myself the question without ever expecting that the answer will be no. I wake up in the morning, and we wake the boys, without ever considering that there is an option about going together as a family. The interesting thing is, frequently when the morning push is particularly trying, and I figure there will be no room for anything to enter my heart, I end up being especially touched by the music, the readings, the homily, seeing a friend.....It's possible that on those occasions, I let my guard down so that I unknowingly let myself hear more in my heart. I certainly wouldn't recommend this as a "method," but I'm grateful for the persistence. (And not just mine.) Likewise, in our marriage, the stressful, cranky, or just plain frustrating times have often turned out to be the times when we've found the most strength. By choice. My point is, marriage and parenting are not easy, or simply defined, or predictable. Marriage and parenting require having a goal, and working toward that goal, consistently and constantly.
I've been married for over half my life, and been a parent for close to half my life. In that time, we've been to Church nearly every weekend, and had dinner together nearly every day. We've been to more concerts, shows, games, meets and matches than I can count. I've also broken up or gotten into the middle of more disagreements, arguments and fights than I care to remember. The goals, though, have always been the same: to raise these boys to be good men, and to love, honor and cherish each other as husband and wife. Each day dawns new, and our lives are our own; no one else can, or should, expect the life we live. Honestly, when I think about how many years, or days, or decades we've been married, I am just as surprised as those guys early in this story. But at the same time, I am proud of our perseverance. (And, truth be told, our competitiveness!) And quite thankful for those who have been our examples.
Goals and expectations.
Monday, August 5, 2013
way to go
Yesterday morning dawned sunny and cool; just the type of mild weather I live for. For whatever reason, Guy and I were drawn together despite this disparity in our favorite temperatures. What we absolutely concur on is that a perfect day shouldn't be wasted, if at all possible. While enjoying coffee, muffins and the paper after Mass, and catching up on status updates, I mused that we should ask our neighbor if we could borrow a couple of kayaks and paddle around. (A friend had posted a picture that said, "Money can't buy happiness, but it can buy a kayak, and that's pretty darn close." My inspiration!) She said yes, and offered a couple of suggestions for a beginner like me, and by 11am, we were changed, packed and loading.
By the time we arrived at the river, the breeze had picked up to a wind, and I swear there were whitecaps on the Susquehanna. No smooth, glassy anything anywhere. Just a whole bunch of pokey looking peaks. After posting pictures of each other in celebration of our spur of the moment date, we asked a guy who was pulling out if it was worth going out. His response caught us both off guard--"No way!" he said. "It's really rough!" He went on to tell us that paddling upstream was the easy part; coming back and maneuvering into the boat ramp was quite challenging. He overshot it and got stuck in the reeds, then had to circle back around. We asked about a park about a half hour away, and he and a fisherman agreed that lake paddling would likely be our best water day.
Back into the truck went the kayaks, pfds and dry bags, and we headed north. We had a wonderful time, racing and bumping here and there, commenting repeatedly on the warm water. Getting stuck in the plant life and seeing more varieties of dragonfly than I ever thought there could be in one place. As we turned back, we pulled out our on-the-water-picnic of green grapes and the most luscious cucumber from a friend's garden, which we ate like an apple. It was a wonderful, relaxing, and rejuvenating day. After we got home, Guy and the boys grilled a steak.
Perhaps the best part of the day, though, happened much later. Four of us were sitting at the table, playing Euchre, when Son #2 came home from work. In his best 'oh, how I'm gonna love this' voice, he bellowed, "And where were you today?!" Laughingly, we told him we'd been kayaking. "I know! And how did I find out?? Because my brother saw it on Facebook! Is that how I'm supposed to find out where you are and what you're doing?!" He smiled and waved his arms around the whole while. "Don't you always tell us we have to text you or call you or otherwise let you know where we are?? I come home from mowing lawns, and do you think I knew where you were?? No!! My brother--my brother!--had to find out on Facebook, of all places!" Busted.
It was awesome! Not only did he remind us of the one thing we really did forget to do, but he also showed us something even more important. He listens to us. Despite the rolling eyes, the frustrated responses, the 'why should I?' responses, he actually hears what we tell him. And takes it to heart. I am thoroughly chastised. And proud of it.
By the time we arrived at the river, the breeze had picked up to a wind, and I swear there were whitecaps on the Susquehanna. No smooth, glassy anything anywhere. Just a whole bunch of pokey looking peaks. After posting pictures of each other in celebration of our spur of the moment date, we asked a guy who was pulling out if it was worth going out. His response caught us both off guard--"No way!" he said. "It's really rough!" He went on to tell us that paddling upstream was the easy part; coming back and maneuvering into the boat ramp was quite challenging. He overshot it and got stuck in the reeds, then had to circle back around. We asked about a park about a half hour away, and he and a fisherman agreed that lake paddling would likely be our best water day.
Back into the truck went the kayaks, pfds and dry bags, and we headed north. We had a wonderful time, racing and bumping here and there, commenting repeatedly on the warm water. Getting stuck in the plant life and seeing more varieties of dragonfly than I ever thought there could be in one place. As we turned back, we pulled out our on-the-water-picnic of green grapes and the most luscious cucumber from a friend's garden, which we ate like an apple. It was a wonderful, relaxing, and rejuvenating day. After we got home, Guy and the boys grilled a steak.
Perhaps the best part of the day, though, happened much later. Four of us were sitting at the table, playing Euchre, when Son #2 came home from work. In his best 'oh, how I'm gonna love this' voice, he bellowed, "And where were you today?!" Laughingly, we told him we'd been kayaking. "I know! And how did I find out?? Because my brother saw it on Facebook! Is that how I'm supposed to find out where you are and what you're doing?!" He smiled and waved his arms around the whole while. "Don't you always tell us we have to text you or call you or otherwise let you know where we are?? I come home from mowing lawns, and do you think I knew where you were?? No!! My brother--my brother!--had to find out on Facebook, of all places!" Busted.
It was awesome! Not only did he remind us of the one thing we really did forget to do, but he also showed us something even more important. He listens to us. Despite the rolling eyes, the frustrated responses, the 'why should I?' responses, he actually hears what we tell him. And takes it to heart. I am thoroughly chastised. And proud of it.
Monday, June 10, 2013
from one hermit to another
Frequently, my Minute Meditation is just that: minute, and by that I mean that I know I am not associating enough significance to it. I read, I nod, I blink twice, and I move on. More and more often lately, I've been going back to read it again after lunch. The second time through seems to sink in just a bit more. Today I had a different experience. By lunchtime today, I had completely forgotten what the meditation had been. I remembered reading it, but (perhaps because I was a little off-kilter from weird sleep last night) I could not recall anything about it when I returned from lunch.
During my lunch, I was reading a bit of my Thomas Merton book* about signs (or lack thereof), intention, and will. I've been having quite a yo-yo experience in this section on Pure Intention, and have been wondering about direction and discernment. The first part of what I read at noontime was about seeing the signs, recognizing them as signs, and the fact that the sign is not the end; merely an indicator of a direction. A suggestion, in some cases, rather than a conclusion. I had mixed feelings about this, but it was clear to me that this was an essay I could ponder deeply. Merton was speaking directly to me, and clarifying, somewhat, the complicated topic of God's will versus man's will--my will, in particular. What really got me, after being drawn in by analogies I could relate to, were the gems that followed. "He does not need our sacrifices, He asks for our selves." "...what God wants of me is myself." "And that is why the will of God so often manifests itself in demands that I sacrifice myself. Why? Because in order to find my true self in Christ, I must go beyond the limits of my own narrow egoism." and most moving for me:
While reading (crying) and contemplating these words, my phone dinged a message. I waited while everything sank in and settled in my mind and heart, then took a look at the message. It was from Daily Catholic Quotes, and read, "God gave Himself to you; give yourself to God" (Blessed Robert Southwell). I couldn't help but connect the quote (and the timing of the pushed email) to Merton's words. Then something made me stop and wonder how many threads were weaving through my day. I went back to my meditation from this morning and re-read this: "...there is only one way to go to the father: the fulfillment of His holy will!"
Merton has cautioned me against putting too much interpretation of signs, but has also taught me to recognize them when they appear. I've stopped asking to be hit over the head with signs and signals, because I have come to realize that doesn't fit me--the me I was made to be. But this seemed pretty clear to me. See, yesterday I spent the afternoon with some fellow parishioners on a pilgrimage to the oldest stone church in North America. I knew or recognized most everyone there, either from Mass or from other social events, though many I had never spoken with. Together we marvelled at the splendor of this beautiful place dedicated to the Sacred Heart, in the middle of farmland. We admired artwork and builders' skill; laughed at some corny jokes; and learned quite a bit about a particular church, the Church, and American history. We took pictures, chatted, become a little more united in our shared faith.
Later, recalling the day, I laughed right out loud. There's a bit of irony that reveals a bit about how far I have come on my journey. Twice at the chapel I used the metaphor of a milkweed pod, growing and about to burst forth. Both times I was referring to the parish family. It wasn't until my laugh out loud moment that I realized I was really talking about myself. Here's the thing: when we joined the parish, I was happy to be smiled and nodded at, but to be a face in the crowd; one of many. When we bought a house outside the parish boundaries, we stayed on as members because we didn't want to belong to a church in the neighborhood, where the kids' classmates would attend, the neighbors; we didn't want to see the same people day in and day out. Almost twenty years later, I can't get enough of the people I've met at our church out of town. Where I once felt that I just needed a building to go to where I could listen and choose my own level of participation, I now find myself participating in ways I never thought I would consider. I am the seed pod. I feel myself ready to split at the seams, waiting for just the right moment, the right conditions, the perfect breeze to carry my joy farther than I can even imagine. I no longer consider myself a face in the crowd; rather, I am one of many making up one body of faith.
Both the pod, and a single seed.
*No Man Is an Island--Book Club at church on June 25!
During my lunch, I was reading a bit of my Thomas Merton book* about signs (or lack thereof), intention, and will. I've been having quite a yo-yo experience in this section on Pure Intention, and have been wondering about direction and discernment. The first part of what I read at noontime was about seeing the signs, recognizing them as signs, and the fact that the sign is not the end; merely an indicator of a direction. A suggestion, in some cases, rather than a conclusion. I had mixed feelings about this, but it was clear to me that this was an essay I could ponder deeply. Merton was speaking directly to me, and clarifying, somewhat, the complicated topic of God's will versus man's will--my will, in particular. What really got me, after being drawn in by analogies I could relate to, were the gems that followed. "He does not need our sacrifices, He asks for our selves." "...what God wants of me is myself." "And that is why the will of God so often manifests itself in demands that I sacrifice myself. Why? Because in order to find my true self in Christ, I must go beyond the limits of my own narrow egoism." and most moving for me:
"God's will for us is not only that we should be the persons He means us to be, but that we should share in His work of creation and help Him to make us into the persons He means us to be. Always, and in all things, God's will for me is that I should shape my own destiny, work out my own salvation, forge my own eternal happiness, in the way He has planned it for me. And since no man is an island, since we all depend on one another, I cannot work out God's will in my own life unless I also consciously help other men to work out His will in theirs." (p. 63-64)
While reading (crying) and contemplating these words, my phone dinged a message. I waited while everything sank in and settled in my mind and heart, then took a look at the message. It was from Daily Catholic Quotes, and read, "God gave Himself to you; give yourself to God" (Blessed Robert Southwell). I couldn't help but connect the quote (and the timing of the pushed email) to Merton's words. Then something made me stop and wonder how many threads were weaving through my day. I went back to my meditation from this morning and re-read this: "...there is only one way to go to the father: the fulfillment of His holy will!"
Merton has cautioned me against putting too much interpretation of signs, but has also taught me to recognize them when they appear. I've stopped asking to be hit over the head with signs and signals, because I have come to realize that doesn't fit me--the me I was made to be. But this seemed pretty clear to me. See, yesterday I spent the afternoon with some fellow parishioners on a pilgrimage to the oldest stone church in North America. I knew or recognized most everyone there, either from Mass or from other social events, though many I had never spoken with. Together we marvelled at the splendor of this beautiful place dedicated to the Sacred Heart, in the middle of farmland. We admired artwork and builders' skill; laughed at some corny jokes; and learned quite a bit about a particular church, the Church, and American history. We took pictures, chatted, become a little more united in our shared faith.
Later, recalling the day, I laughed right out loud. There's a bit of irony that reveals a bit about how far I have come on my journey. Twice at the chapel I used the metaphor of a milkweed pod, growing and about to burst forth. Both times I was referring to the parish family. It wasn't until my laugh out loud moment that I realized I was really talking about myself. Here's the thing: when we joined the parish, I was happy to be smiled and nodded at, but to be a face in the crowd; one of many. When we bought a house outside the parish boundaries, we stayed on as members because we didn't want to belong to a church in the neighborhood, where the kids' classmates would attend, the neighbors; we didn't want to see the same people day in and day out. Almost twenty years later, I can't get enough of the people I've met at our church out of town. Where I once felt that I just needed a building to go to where I could listen and choose my own level of participation, I now find myself participating in ways I never thought I would consider. I am the seed pod. I feel myself ready to split at the seams, waiting for just the right moment, the right conditions, the perfect breeze to carry my joy farther than I can even imagine. I no longer consider myself a face in the crowd; rather, I am one of many making up one body of faith.
Both the pod, and a single seed.
*No Man Is an Island--Book Club at church on June 25!
Thursday, June 6, 2013
water water everywhere
In the shower this morning, while washing my hair, I was thinking about how sometimes I feel as though I am drifting on this journey. My very next thought was that I have many of my best thoughts in the shower; it's a good thinking place, and I've had a number of friends tell me the same, so it's likely that you, too, have had this experience. (Some of my niftiest tap combinations were born in the shower, although by necessity, were tested elsewhere!) Knowing that these are the thoughts that often mean something important, I went back to the feeling of drifting. And then I thought, "Wait a minute! How can I feel like I'm drifting?"
Here's the odd thing: when I consider my journey (previously, my life journey, and more recently my faith life journey), I always see it as a road or a path. Something to be travelled on foot, and occasionally in a car, though how the car gets from where I leave it to where I need it again, I have no idea whatsoever! From time to time, the path is actually a rocky hill or mountain that I have to pick through carefully, or scale with tenacity. Now and then, there is a nice diversion--a hot air balloon from which to get a nice overall view of where I've been and where it looks like I might be headed (mostly looking back, though. Usually there is mist in the forward, and that is quite alright.), or a tree to rest under or perch in to see what and who might pass by.
I took myself back to the drifting feeling, wondering why I chose that word, and recognized the gently rock and sway of a boat or kayak with no direction or propulsion. The word was accurately describing the moment (it's a good drifting, the kind that feels peaceful, restful, a respite) and I welcomed the awareness. Next thing I knew, I was shaking my head because I was seeing a road, a path--a riverbank! I was really in the same place, going in a direction, with the current. A river is a road in many respects. I knew this from history classes, but had never applied it (like too many things) to my own life.
Last weekend, gazing out at the Atlantic and at the Bay, I felt an amazing sense of freedom, as I always do at wide expanses of sea. I wondered why. What the magnetism comes from. I've heard many theories, ranging from the pull of the moon that makes the tides, to the salt to water ratio in the sea being similar to that of our bodies. This morning, I realized in my quick succession of thoughts, that for me, the attraction is the lack of forced direction. There are no sides, no defining edges, as a road has, a path, or even a stream. (Now that I think about it, I'm attracted to mud puddles for the same reason, so it's not just the salt water, as I often thought!) On my way into work, I saw a quote that made me think about last weekend. I'd seen it before, and when I read it, I thought it was an answer to my question about the attraction: "The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea." (Isak Dinesen)
Throughout the day, as I pondered the connections, the threads that would tie all these thoughts together, I realized the beginning of my real answer lies in the borders, or limits, I put on myself, keeping to the path. Even in my contented drifting, I am fearful of straying from what I know. It's not that I don't take chances, or try new things; it's just that I like to know that there is a safety net. If I am really going to reconcile the two sides of my life into one 'real' life, I need to be true to myself in all things, including my journey. I have to be willing--eager even!--to see the wide open possibilities of faith. Trust that the path I follow doesn't just end at the shoreline, or follow its edge, but may--no, will go directly across the ocean from time to time. I need to look directly into the eyes of Love and take one step, and then another. I need to feel in my soul what I feel when I stand on the shore.
Faith, hope and love, and I'm working on all three.
Here's the odd thing: when I consider my journey (previously, my life journey, and more recently my faith life journey), I always see it as a road or a path. Something to be travelled on foot, and occasionally in a car, though how the car gets from where I leave it to where I need it again, I have no idea whatsoever! From time to time, the path is actually a rocky hill or mountain that I have to pick through carefully, or scale with tenacity. Now and then, there is a nice diversion--a hot air balloon from which to get a nice overall view of where I've been and where it looks like I might be headed (mostly looking back, though. Usually there is mist in the forward, and that is quite alright.), or a tree to rest under or perch in to see what and who might pass by.
I took myself back to the drifting feeling, wondering why I chose that word, and recognized the gently rock and sway of a boat or kayak with no direction or propulsion. The word was accurately describing the moment (it's a good drifting, the kind that feels peaceful, restful, a respite) and I welcomed the awareness. Next thing I knew, I was shaking my head because I was seeing a road, a path--a riverbank! I was really in the same place, going in a direction, with the current. A river is a road in many respects. I knew this from history classes, but had never applied it (like too many things) to my own life.
Last weekend, gazing out at the Atlantic and at the Bay, I felt an amazing sense of freedom, as I always do at wide expanses of sea. I wondered why. What the magnetism comes from. I've heard many theories, ranging from the pull of the moon that makes the tides, to the salt to water ratio in the sea being similar to that of our bodies. This morning, I realized in my quick succession of thoughts, that for me, the attraction is the lack of forced direction. There are no sides, no defining edges, as a road has, a path, or even a stream. (Now that I think about it, I'm attracted to mud puddles for the same reason, so it's not just the salt water, as I often thought!) On my way into work, I saw a quote that made me think about last weekend. I'd seen it before, and when I read it, I thought it was an answer to my question about the attraction: "The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea." (Isak Dinesen)
Throughout the day, as I pondered the connections, the threads that would tie all these thoughts together, I realized the beginning of my real answer lies in the borders, or limits, I put on myself, keeping to the path. Even in my contented drifting, I am fearful of straying from what I know. It's not that I don't take chances, or try new things; it's just that I like to know that there is a safety net. If I am really going to reconcile the two sides of my life into one 'real' life, I need to be true to myself in all things, including my journey. I have to be willing--eager even!--to see the wide open possibilities of faith. Trust that the path I follow doesn't just end at the shoreline, or follow its edge, but may--no, will go directly across the ocean from time to time. I need to look directly into the eyes of Love and take one step, and then another. I need to feel in my soul what I feel when I stand on the shore.
Faith, hope and love, and I'm working on all three.
Saturday, May 4, 2013
prompts, prompting
So many thoughts and ideas. So many wonderful and amazing insights. Where to start? With a list.....
-fingerprints (wow--that one is a biggie! "There's a homily there!")
-formulas and differentiation (and how introspection could help)
-introspection!
-the difference between today's "me" (faith, experience, and expertise) & the me of 15-20 years ago
-the wonder and joy of searching
-blessings, like diamonds, belong to everyone :) (that one hit me than so many pearls)
-the affirmation that so many others are "in the same boat" (did I really just say that? Because it's very true!)
-the world is a scary place. We have to do something. My something......
-YES. I can. I would love to--more than I thought I might!
-models--5, and they are all right and good, and work together to raise the roof--provided we recognize and appreciate the gifts of each "We're all in the same pew" (made of wood like a boat. tee hee!)
It was a good night! Grace Uncorked--poured forth into each cup.....
my cup runneth over.....and yet there is room for so much more.
"I thirst"-- for grace, for peace, for love. I can pour......
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