Category Archives: Hope

Dec22

Spotlights, Strobe Lights and World’s End

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Brew_video_still

Still image from The Brew’s “Into the Remembering Sun” music video filmed at Castle Hill, Ipswich, MA

Last night we celebrated the end of the world … or its un-ending, or non-ending … with a local (but internationally touring and recording) band The Brew. Just outside, white-capped waves rolled one over another and crashed onto the dark, wild, and windswept shore of Salisbury Beach. We were dry and safe inside the Blue Ocean Music Hall where the band played their annual holiday concert (with plenty of space for dancing). They are gifted lyricists and classically-trained-musicians-nee-rocker-sons of friends of ours.

They invoked Mayan spirits (who predicted this ending date) with drums. Invited those spirits to be present. Then sang a lot of songs about endings and beginnings. We moved, swayed, sang, and kept time to their offering of pounding music.

So, okay, the world didn’t end last night. Or today. Not literally, though some people in the past weeks, have reason to feel as if private worlds have ended. Oh, and my family knows that feeling all too well … when it seems as if all of human existence has ended, that everything that matters has been erased, or should stop and be silent and pay attention. And in many ways, that’s true. Fragile, tender, vulnerable, fleeting, too-young and beloved parts of our lives are taken away, and nothing can stand up against that loss. Yet we are challenged to continue caring, living, and being engaged in by life.

Some interpretations of the Mayan calendar’s ending date actually talked about transformation. That it was a time of change, rather than cataclysm and destruction. The rising of a new era. That’s another invitation, isn’t it? Renewal. Rebirth. Reclamation.

Perhaps the gift of the ‘end of the world’ prediction is to ask ourselves, what would happen if we lived as if it was about to end? What would we do with that precious time, if it suddenly mattered, because it was limited? What would we release? What would we hold onto? Events in the world remind us, over and over, that we cannot know what is coming next. That NOW is the only gift of time — the only moment — we can be certain of inhabiting.

Brew_video_Still2

Still image from music video by The Brew

Last night, we gathered among friends. Celebrated. Together. If the world had ended … it would have been a good place to be.

But it didn’t end. So my head is full of dreams about another night, another day, and a whole year yet to come. In a season of lights, there is a time and place for the artists’s lights. For the whirling strobe and flashing spotlight. For fingers on guitar strings and keyboards and drumsticks and microphone. For lips and lungs, minds and hearts, to remind us to live. To put our hope and pain into words and share it with each other. To let go. To get sweaty and emotional and expressive under those lights, and remember to BE … to BE the primal and present and passionate mortal creatures that we are.

I offer the copyrighted lyrics of Into the Remembering Sun by The Brew, one of many songs we danced to on the night the world almost ended.

Into The Remembering Sun
by the The Brew (c) 2012

(Verse 1)
On a night when the moon gave no shoulder
Even the wind was feeling old
Even the stars found a cloud to hide behind
Believing my last hope sold
Believing my last hope sold

(Pre-chorus 1)
You come through the gate
Despite what I told you
Still I have no shame
Cause never did I fold

(Chorus)
and I know the world was changing
At least what I had faith in
Burned into the pages time was not erasing now

(Verse 2)
When the days age and relay accounts of love
Knowing now what time was
You and I will be the jewel in the crown
Thrown into the remembering sun
Thrown into the remembering sun

(Prechorus 2)
You run through the gate
Despite what you told me
Still you have no shame
Cause you love me to the bone

(Chorus 2)
And I know your world is changing
At least what you have faith in
You burned into the pages time is not erasing
Let nobody be mistaken
And we’ll walk away so babe don’t be shaken now (?)

(Chorus)
And I know the world is changing
At least what we have faith in
We burned into the pages time was not erasing now
Don’t erase it now

You and I will be the jewel in the crown
Thrown into the remembering sun
Thrown into the remembering sun
Thrown into the remembering sun

Dec17

Comings and Goings: Light and Silence

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Last night, Chris and I stood at the international exit gate of Boston Logan’s Terminal E and awaited Sarah’s return from a semester of college abroad. She came home from Greece with lots of stories and a great craving for iced coffee! We welcomed her home. It’s our first Christmas re-assembling ourselves as a family that must travel to find each other. Sarah is an adult off and about in the wide world, and Chris and I are both living in Ipswich … but always busy somewhere else … so our family rhythms are now timed, in some ways, to her comings and goings.

And Jessie … she is all around us. But there will not be a reunion here. She will not, on this earth, flash her passport at customs, wink at security, and waltz in glittery red shoes through an airport gate, back to us.

There are many sorts of comings and goings.

One week ago, we climbed the swaybacked granite stairs to the top of hill and visited Jessie’s grave. As I’ve mentioned before, it’s a small pink stone set flush with the grass that spreads itself between the roots of two towering maples. It was an international night sponsored by Compassionate Friends, an organization for bereaved parents, to light candles for departed children everywhere. Many communities hosted vigils. Chris and I sat together. Laid on a blanket, staring up at the starry sky clasped between the crooked fingers of the naked winter trees. Lit candles. Put a tiny fir tree by the headstone, and hung one crane on it. Said a prayer full of thorns and hurt and sharp-edge stones and starry nights and hope. There

jessie_headstone

One week later, it seems as if we should hold that vigil again. In fact, its been held over and over, across the country and many other places, to remember the families in Connecticut. We’ve made circles, said prayers, wept, wondered, argued, shouted. I would also say, lighting a candle has its place.

I just don’t have any soft and gentle words for this. I don’t want to light more candles … for little ones … ever, for any reason. Not because of disease. Or starvation. Or natural disaster. Or violence. Not for any cause.

On the other hand, when Toni Morrison spoke at Harvard a few weeks ago, she reminded us about the silence of the Amish community after their own trauma. How they would not speak to the media. Instead their beliefs were enacted through deeds. They attended the funeral of the one who took away the lives of their beloved children. They comforted his widow and children. They raised funds for his family. They razed the schoolhouse full of unspeakable memories, and built a new one. They lived out their compassion and forgiveness, in the midst of their own great sorrow.

I’m not saying that’s the solution for every loss. Just that it is another path, another way, another example among many responses to devastating circumstances.

This weekend, I don’t have words at all. And maybe that’s best. Oh, so many voices already speak into this space, this trauma, this irrevocable tragedy.

And some are comforting. My colleagues found the inside themselves the prayers we all needed to acknowledge the darkness we felt and a reminder to reach, like the winter trees, for the starry night, the promised light.

Yet for me? Though my family knows much about loss, it is not this kind.

So rather than fill the air with more words, I will listen. Listen to silence. Listen to sorrow. Listen to songs. Listen to stories. Listen.

And yes, I will light a candle. It is one act I can offer, when I feel powerless, for my own family and so many others.

Dec15

One Light Burning

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CSilence for too long, I know. And I promised (myself) to share words about light during this season of darkness, this time of short days and long nights … This evening, before the prayers are all whispered, the songs all sung, the matches struck, tapers lit, and flames blown out … tonight I make a beginning.

It is the last of the 8 nights of Hannukah, and just 10 days until Christmas. So many  festivals and rituals also occur around this time of year, and all of them celebrate, one way or another, light. I will share  excerpts from an interfaith service crafted by fellow Harvard Divinity Students over the next several days.

For tonight, let me just offer this excerpt of a poem first published in 1973.

‘A Winter Light’ by John Haines.

By candle or firelight
your face still holds
a mystery that once
filled caves with the color
of unforgettable beasts.

lascaux-cave-walls

Every added flame brightens the darkness: each one. Small lights, burning together, create great brilliance and potency. As do we … vivid spirits, radiant lives … made incandescent together, setting each other alight with humor, hope, compassion, resilience, forgiveness, and love.

Oct29

Hurricanes, For Real

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Yesterday, after our faith community shared the names and worries and celebrations in their lives, about which we prayed as a congregation, I then closed by delivering a spontaneous closing prayer. Inspired by the impending hurricane, of course.  This was offered at at the church where I conduct my field education in Beverly. It went something like, “God, high winds are coming. We have lifted up to you our hopes and our concerns. And we know that you are the Creator who can calm the waters and create a quiet place in our lives and our hearts, a sanctuary amid the storms. Now we ask you to hold our concerns, the ones we speak aloud and the ones that we share through silence, hold them in your light.”

Today as leaves are torn from their twigs and then branches fly loose, and only tree roots cling tightly, as salty white-capped tides rush up over the causeways, making islands of green-tossed hillocks at the edge of sea and shore, as the world is shaken and blown, I’m inside writing  papers, working on an exam, finishing  deadlines, and hoping we don’t lose power, so I can fit it all in. As if I can outrace, outpace all the storms in my life. Can any of us do so?

Although classes are cancelled and businesses are closed, once the world reopens tomorrow, if enough of it remains in functioning order, we’ll be back on schedule. I won’t be permitted to turn my assignments in late, or say I didn’t have time to read my books. At least that’s how I interpret things … but I did take a break to make tea while there’s still hot water, and put a soup simmering on the stovetop. We have our candles and batteries gathered. Extra water set aside. We’re safe inside. Ready as we can be, I suppose.

So I want to pause a moment, and pay attention to Hurricane Sandy. She’s hitting the Eastern coast of the United States. We have friends and family directly in her path as she comes ashore. And likely our part of the country will experience some of her might and fury. Other parts of the country have felt the edges of her storm, which have created blizzards and snow storms, for instance. Her reach is extensive.

Always, I find comfort in language. This simple stanza by William Carlos Williams certainly speaks to our world’s weary resignation when pummeled one more time.

HURRICANE
by William Carlos Williams

The tree lay down
on the garage roof
and stretched, You
have your heaven,
it said, go to it.

Another blogger named Austen Allen collected some hurricane poetry last year. When I was researching storm poetry, his posting popped up, and I defer to that entry for a nice overview of lyrics about storms. You can find more at poetry.org.

Also, if you want to think more deeply about the words that surround our human responses to loss and disaster, consider visiting Nicole Cooley’s entry at poetry.org about the Poetry of Disaster. She argues that far from being voiceless and speechless at times of crisis, we fill the void of loss with language. We shape it. We reflect on it. We try to make meaning, to fit it into verse, so that is knowable. So we can  scale it down to a proportion we can actually understand: a size that fits in your mouth, or can be swallowed by your eyes, that can spoken and read and shared.

Sometimes the storms that lash out at us, that suddenly topple our lives, uproot our realities, or pick us up and carry us off in new directions, aren’t literal weather patterns. Maybe they’re emotional or mental assaults. Maybe their financial crises. Lost jobs or traumatized relationships. Sudden catastrophic changes. Violence or illness. Events we can’t imagine, over which we have no control, that leave us standing in a torn, flooded and sundered landscape. Where nothing is familiar anymore. All is changed and damaged. Yet we are left to navigate, to rebuild, to name and claim it all over again.

Meanwhile, consider this poet’s viewpoint about what is familiar and beautiful to you, and how it can suddenly become your undoing.

Problems with Hurricanes
by Victor Hernández Cruz

A campesino looked at the air
And told me:
With hurricanes it’s not the wind
or the noise or the water.
I’ll tell you he said:
it’s the mangoes, avocados
Green plantains and bananas
flying into town like projectiles.

How would your family
feel if they had to tell
The generations that you
got killed by a flying
Banana.

Death by drowning has honor
If the wind picked you up
and slammed you
Against a mountain boulder
This would not carry shame
But
to suffer a mango smashing
Your skull
or a plantain hitting your
Temple at 70 miles per hour
is the ultimate disgrace.

The campesino takes off his hat—
As a sign of respect
toward the fury of the wind
And says:
Don’t worry about the noise
Don’t worry about the water
Don’t worry about the wind—
If you are going out
beware of mangoes
And all such beautiful
sweet things.

Oct17

Losing Your Voice, Saying Yes, Making Wishes

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This week, I virtually lost my ‘voice’, but I also made wishes, and reminded myself why I have said YES to so many opportunities.

First of all, it’s been a while since I posted, because I have spent so much time lately writing school assignments, that my hands hurt and my throat is sore. I think I’m losing my voice … my writing voice, that is … ha-ha!

But seriously, I haven’t dared consider blogging for a several days, because I needed every productive hour to meet other obligations. Right now, sleep isn’t always on the agenda! I pulled at least one all-nighter this week and stayed awake until 5am completing a paper for a deadline, since I had two papers due on the same day. In the days leading up to that deadline, I’d also delivered a sermon, facilitated a women’s spirituality group, assisted with an ‘Amazing Race’ youth group activity and launched Jessie’s floating wish lanterns onto the dark Ipswich River as part of Ipswich Illuminated … all in the same few days.

Why didn’t I work on the papers and deadlines sooner, you might ask? Getting fresh, aren’t you? Well, I did prepare in advance. Pages of notes. Re-reading books to analyze them. Creating outlines. If I hadn’t done that much preparation, there wouldn’t have been any ideas to plump up and submit as finished works yesterday.

So in fact, I did prepare. But time just … well … there was just enough time, if I didn’t sleep. Phew.

After all, there’s keeping up with regular class assignments: weekly essays, whole books to read each week, and various other assignments including oral presentations, debates and even (yes, it’s true) occasional art projects.

Plus working freelance. Plus, as some of the activities above will have indicated, field education as a seminarian working at a church in Beverly.

And yes, during the week, I actually sit down with Chris and spend a few hours being a person who is married with a husband. Or I take a walk or sip tea with a pal, and behave like a person with friends.

It was the perfect storm of deadlines and other activities this past weekend. More than usual. And you know what? I loved every part of it, even though I was very tired last night!

What did I do, when I wasn’t writing? I laughed, being with teenagers on a scavenger hunt to learn about community service and social justice organizations all over downtown Beverly, then racing to be first back to their church for a prize. I held my breath, and then delivered a sermon at First Church with just an index card as an outline, and powerful stories alive in my head and heart, waiting to be shared. Read an autumnal Mary Oliver poem and lit candles with a community of women I’m just getting to know. Applauded after watching my husband Chris and other good friends perform in the 16 Elm Street historical play.

Ipswich Illuminated? That was magical. So many people work all year, and then overtime on that weekend, to make it as beautiful as it is.

Each year, I stand boot-deep in cold river water, lighting hundreds of candles and nudging origami wax paper boats filled with wishes out onto the tide (thanks, Aileen Ang, for folding those boats). Again this year, they winked like nearby stars in a night sky: a constellation  spilled down to earth. (Thanks to friends Miri and Sadie and other cohorts who helped again this year, assisting people as they chose candles, wrote notes and gathered up their dreams to set afloat on the river.) Jessie’s Floating Wish Lanterns are the one activity we perform specifically in her memory each year, and I wouldn’t be anywhere else on that night.

Two weeks ago, we had friends Mark and Lesley visiting in our home from England. For a few glorious days, I set aside reading assignments, classwork and deadlines. Put graduate school on hold for one long weekend, to be with friends that I only see every few years. In other words, time for important activities and relationships remains a priority.

Yes, my writing voice is a little tuckered out, from finishing all school papers yesterday. Yet the subjects lit fires in my brain, and sparked questions in my heart. Despite the pace and the tension, I am where I want to be.

And I am making time, regardless all these deadlines, to do what’s important. To be with those I love. And just to be. Be.

My Harvard professors, even the intellectual ones who pile on work, will always say … take care of yourself. Find a balance. Don’t read every assigned page. Pause. Meditate. Get something to eat. Take a walk. Catch a nap in a quiet corner. And talk to someone, if it’s all too much. Always take care of yourself.

So I remind myself, and now I remind you … when you get wound up tight by schedules, deadlines, appointments, and activities … and we all do … the question is whether these are commitments that you have agreed to do … said YES to … because you care about them. Because you are moved by their purpose or use of your time. Because you believe by doing them, you make a difference, and it rekindles a light inside you, or connects you to something bigger than yourself. Or simply because it feels good to do this activity or be with this person, and restores your own internal sense of balance.

Check in with yourself. Can you say YES to those questions? Pay attention to the answer.

Me? I’m tired. I’m run down. But right now, I can still say YES when I ask myself those questions.

Sep24

Home

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Yesterday I started field education. That’s an internship, so to speak, working at another church. I’ll gain valuable parish experience and perform new and familiar roles in a congregation that isn’t my home church.

The difficult part of this transition is that Chris and I spend every Sunday morning together, and we have so few chances to spend time in each other’s company, that I miss those mornings … even though we’ve only spent one Sunday apart. In addition, First Church in Ipswich is the longest I’ve ever been rooted in one faith community. We’ve belonged there for 18 years. To spend a schoolyear away from my own congregation, working elsewhere, feels as if the ground is shifting under my feet.

Along with all of the other transitions, it feels as if parts of me are being torn away.

Yes, I know intellectually, that this stretching and moving away from what’s familiar and easy, is all necessary. To work and grow in this new vocation, I must step outside my comfort zone, which in this case is my own community.

It’s what I want. That’s what I tell myself, though I miss what I must give up to be there. Even after one morning away.

So yesterday I spent my first morning in a new congregation. Spent time with both pastors, who have already welcomed me onto their staff. Met some of the congregation’s compassionate and committed lay leaders and community members. Witnessed the youth of this church presenting their summer mission trip to Maryland.

It was all quite nice. Safe. Just not my own faith community.

Finally, at the end of yesterday’s worship service, a friend of mine appeared. I hadn’t expected to see her there. She belongs to this new church where I’m working (I didn’t realize it). One of the ministers is her daughter (I didn’t know that either).

This friend of mine used to be on staff at Winthrop Elementary years ago, where both Sarah and Jessie attended school. She was especially instrumental in Jessie’s successful interludes at school. We all shared an intense journey together each time Jessie made the re-entry to Winthrop classrooms and culture. Her office was often a retreat, when Jessie needed a safe sanctuary to collect herself. They developed a special friendship independent of my connection to this woman. She represents, even now, some of the most wonderful and tempestuous experiences in our long journey with childhood cancer.

So when she appeared unexpectedly in front of me, at the new church, we leaned across the pew and hugged each other. I think I yelped with happiness.

Then I burst into tears. Held onto her much longer than the embrace of friends exchanging greetings. Hung on as if she was holding me up.

I think a knot of emotions all rose to the surface. Every loss and transition I’ve experienced in the last few weeks and months. And maybe ever years.

So much has changed. So much has fallen away. Jessie is gone. Sarah is off at school. I’m starting college again. Chris and I are struggling to find times to maintain connection. And I’m spending a lot of time away from my entire community, including the church which sustained us through everything.

My friend received that grief with a hug. And then I was laughing, overjoyed that I know someone in this new place, this new congregation with whom I’ll sojourn for the next two semesters. Growing. Reaching outside myself for something more. Connecting with something greater. Trying to remain rooted in what continues to be important to me: family and community.

When my friend greeted me in that new house of worship, suddenly I felt as if this new church could also become home.

Can you be at home in two places? Or even more places? Of course you can.

I have many homes. My house on North Main street in Ipswich is intimately familiar, though rather empty now. Ipswich is where I feel connected. First Church’s congregation has been our extended family for years. Already the Harvard graduate school campus feels comfortable.

And now this new church? When I first sat through the worship service, it felt just a little off-kilter and strange. As if I was trying to transpose my former surroundings — the place and feelings of worship among old friends — onto a new and different congregation. Perhaps I was. I * want * to feel comfortable and connected there. But as we all know, as I must remind myself, that comes with time and experience.

Then my friend reached over the pew, and held onto me while I acknowledged everything I’d lost. And everything I’m trying to reclaim. Suddenly, it began to feel more like a new home. Another circle of belonging.

Sep13

Stress: The Good Kind

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I’m so busy I almost can’t breathe. I’ve added every deadline, book, project or homework assignment, class time, phone call, advisory meeting, and other school task to my calendar to keep up with it all. Getting home at midnight one day a week, and between 8-9 pm the other nights. On campus in Cambridge all day, either in classrooms, library or quiet work spaces.

And then there’s family life; that’s being “scheduled,” too, so that I can grab some time with Sarah while she’s home again before going off to her semester abroad in four more days. (I saw her Monday night between 10pm-midnight, when we picked her up at the airport, so far.) Or to make a date with my husband Chris while we’re both awake. Mostly I maintain contact with them via texts. * sigh *

Work life fits tidily into chunks of the day when I can plug in my computer. Sometimes on the train, or in the library. As emails exchanged between classes. Or on the weekdays when I’m staying on the North Shore.

Field education hasn’t started yet. That starts next week. (I’ve already had the interviews). I’ll be apprenticed or interning, so to speak, at a UCC church on the North Shore to gain professional experience in a parish other than my own home faith community. This works both as part of the educational experience at Harvard, but also toward my “discernment” process for ordination by my denomination (UCC/Congregational).

All in all, it’s a whirlwind time. I dream about school. I’m reading books about Christianity and Islam and pastoral counseling and philosophy and language, instead of suspense and science fiction novels. I pack a lunch and dinner. Carry a to-go mug for hot coffee, as well as a water bottle. Have external pockets with  easily accessible student ID, T-passes and commuter rail ticket. Wear sensible walking shoes for the hike from train station to subway station, from subway to classroom, class to library.

In a way, this rhythm is familiar. I used to make the commute in and out of Boston to an office. Rise and go before the sun came up. Come home after it set. Rarely saw the sky, except through the office windows of executives in the buildings of the large financial corporation where I once worked. Made well-intentioned goals to get outside for lunch, walk instead of eat, but usually found that I needed every work hour to complete a project, so that I could make it home to pick up children from extended hours at daycare.

Even further back, I used to work full time, then attend classes at night. Took two courses a semester, for several years, to earn a Bachelors degree with Honors from UMass / Boston. Chris was deep in studies to pass his exams for licensing as an architect. So I’d work on my thesis until 2am, and walk home across the Boston Common at odd hours of the night, to our apartment in the city.

It seems like I’ve always been juggling a lot. All of us have been.

It’s happening to Chris now. He rises at 3-4am to start his work day. Volunteers, works, and makes time for his family when we can be here to connect. Fits in a bike ride now and then.

It’s happening to our daughter Sarah as she juggles saying good-bye to the few friends who haven’t left for college already, or makes trips to see them on campus in Boston. Then packs for her own adventures through Northeastern University’s international program next week.

Yes, it’s stressful. But I want to acknowledge that this is stress we choose, and in which we willingly participate. It leads to something more. Opportunity. Open doors. Education. Vocational shift. Personal transformation. Survival. Hope. Healing. Tangible change. Something we want. There’s incentive to take on this busy schedule, instead of remaining within the status quo.

This form of stress contrasts with situations that are out of our control. Circumstances that cause stress to which we also respond, not because we want to, but because we must. I have lived inside that pressure cooker, too.

In fact, I don’t have to describe much of it to you. Many of you knew us during those times.

Living inside a hospital as the levels of acuity increased over time. First, a shared hospital room with other cancer patients and their parents. Having roommates for weeks at a time throughout the cancer journey. Transfer into private rooms on the oncology unit, which might sound like a privilege, but was too often a bad sign. It was usually due to severity of infection, contagious complications, or more life-threatening conditions (beyond cancer, as if that wasn’t enough). Later, months of life on the transplant unit, inside a single room with changeable mood lights in the ceiling as a second-best attempt at environmental stimulation instead of being allowed to live in the larger world. Life reduced to one room, inside a HEPA-filtered unit with its own air and water circulation, and airlocks to control the environment and separate it from the rest of the hospital (though strangely, you could escape to the Prouty Garden if you traveled …  you couldn’t share the elevator, wore a mask through the halls, and didn’t touch anything).

Finally, the most critical level of care. ICU. Where they have two medical rounds a day, and I woke up for each shift of consultations, regardless of the time of day or night, because events moved so quickly that even 24 hours wasn’t enough time to assess things; we only slept about 2 hours a night. Where the lights are always on, and the number of tubes and machines attached to the patients multiplies.

Through it all, Jessie just stymied everyone. If you looked at the reams of paper, she shouldn’t have appeared as perky as she did. She shouldn’t have transitioned once off the ventilator, sat up within hours to play Hangman with her primary nurses on the ICU team, and lured us all once more into hopefulness. But hey, that’s how she lived through every hour she was allowed to be awake. And even consciousness was taken away, at the end, because she needed to be sedated to stay on a ventilator. But she broke through the drugs from time to time, to try to whisper to us, to kick her feet, to squeeze our hands, to cry, to listen to books, to be part of this world and connect with us.

We have endured that other kind of stress. It escalated inexorably for years. Then months. Then weeks. Then hours. Final moments.

That accumulated stress seeped deep into muscles, bones, minds and spirits. It took years to work its way to the surface, and be released again. We’re still letting go of it, I’m sure.

So I acknowledge that these stressful circumstances may be different in every family, caused by different issues, but that many of us live with them. Unemployment. Mental health issues. Diagnoses of chronic or terminal conditions. Economic instability. Uncertainty about shelter or food: basic necessities. Lack of access to other resources. Addiction. Violence. Crime. Death or endings of many kinds. Loss. Isolation from community. Caregiving for a loved one with an extreme condition.

Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I’m seeking this vocation: pastoral care. Stress is a universal experience. With many causes. We all share it at some time or another, in one form or another.

And I believe — I hope — we all have chances to experience a different kind of stress. The “good kind.”

Although my calendar is busy —  my phone vibrates often, my computer pings with reminders and alerts and alarms to keep my use of time focused, my backpack is quite hefty with gear and books, and I’m always moving —  I don’t mind. There are other sorts of alarms and appointments, meetings and conferences, phone calls and consultations, that lead to different outcomes.

Right now, this stress leads to transformation. So I celebrate it.

Sep5

Puddles: To Leap or Not to Leap

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Sometimes on dark days, when lightning and thunder crash overhead, when rain drenches, we need a reminder that there’s an arching sky above that heavy roll of clouds. And above this mass of grey storm, the heavens are blue blending into purple fading into black.

It’s there, waiting its turn: the light and the blue sky. There’s always a sun burning on one side of the globe or another, and our planet wheeling around it. And beyond our nearest star sprawls an infinity of stellar bodies, sending back light that is already thousands of years old, piercing the veil of darkness on clear nights.

It feels heavy, this weather. Punishing, almost. Torrential. We travel in layers and under cover. We dive for shelter, we crave something warm in our hands.

And yet, our earth needs this renewal. We know this, too. It’s essential.

And of course, stormy days are not unexpected. They’re natural. Hopefully we’re prepared for the turn in weather, not surprised by it … we have waterprfoof gear.  Umbrellas. Boots. Slickers.

I remember being the one who loved to jump into puddles. First one in. Not just as a kid. As a grownup, too.

As a freshman in college, I’d take off my shoes and run barefoot through puddles. I was a young woman on an undergraduate college campus. Didn’t care about social conventions. Walked to class surrounded by friends who were equally inebriated with the sheer joy of life, independence and possibilities. Once one of us tried it — jumping in puddles – we all did it. Laughing under umbrellas, soaking wet, snared between childhood and adulthood.

Mostly now, I admit it, I’m glad to stay warm and dry. Happy to be on the inside, looking out at the rain and lightning.

And yet I wear high waterproof boots that are good for sloshing through deep currents. I’ve used them to wade into the ocean’s tide or the river when walking dogs with friends. They’re excellent for puddle-jumping, too.

Sometimes it’s worth being ready to step into the water. To go through the puddle instead of around it. To make a splash. After all, every day is its own blessing … it’s wise to savor each.

So we can choose to look up. To gaze up beyond the low-slung horizon of  clouds toward the assurance of bright starlit heavens. Or peer down at the ground and the promise of a nearby puddle.

Either way, take this gift of time for what it is. I wish all of us the courage and wisdom to find joy on days like this one. Whether it’s the contentment of being dry with a steaming cup in your palms and the percussive rhythm of rain pounding the roof and the window … the spiritual certainty that our earth is being quenched … the assurance  that the sun is there beyond those clouds, waiting to return … or the elemental joy of stepping outside into the storm and wading through the puddles.

Aug29

Note to Self

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Today at one of the orientation sessions for graduate school, incoming first-year students (that’s me) were asked to write notes to our “future” second-semester selves. We jotted down reflections about our hopes and expectations. Also, our worries and challenges.

Then we sealed them in envelopes. No one will read them … except each student opening and re-reading his or her own note. Next year.

Yes, these notes will be mailed out to us next March. They will serve as a check-in about where we find ourselves toward the end of our first academic year.

We’ll read our notes to ourselves, and gain some perspective.

  • Have we each accomplished or experienced what we hoped?
  • Have we resolved the issues that concerned us?
  • Have we found balance?
  • How are we doing?
  • What’s going on during the spring semester?

It’s a good idea to check in with yourself from time to time. Reflect. Recap.  Take a step back, and remember there’s a “big idea” to many of the decisions we each make in life. Ideally, we’re not just reacting … not just getting by. Optimally we have made some focused, goal-driven, value-laden choices that provide meaning and context to our  home, relationships, career, education, community, health, and other commitments.

Many of us are in some form of transition. Moving. Changing relationship status. Working toward sobriety. Seeking treatment for better health. Entering or hunting for a new job. Taking up new pastimes. Giving time to special causes. Going to school.

Whatever the reason for change … and whatever the nature of such a transition, it’s easy to worry about details, and forget about the new chances that await us. (This presumes that we can view the cause or result of transformation as an opportunity, which may not always be the case.)

In times of flux, we may lose perspective. In my case, I’m sometimes overwhelmed by a litany of anxiety about juggling loan payments, train tickets, textbook purchases, work projects, class schedules, commuting times, registration info, family time, community service commitments, and many other logistics.

Instead, today I literally wrote a note to myself. Months from now, I’ll open up that envelope and read it as a reminder about why I’m back in school. My reasons include personal growth, vocational development, and the integration of professional and spiritual experiences.

You have your own reasons for whatever changes you’re making.

We can each care for ourselves, metaphorically, by checking in from time to time. Maybe you, too, will write yourself a note and open it sometime in the future, like a time capsule. Or you could flip open your calendar and make an appointment with  your “future” yourself … to pause and take stock. Or make it a diary entry. Or a prayer.

However you do it … take the time to reflect. To appreciate. To observe.

And hopefully, if circumstances permit, to celebrate.

Aug16

Belated Ode to London Olympics

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The Olympics are over, and I barely had a chance to see any coverage. Nor did I refer to them, in daily journals.

On the other hand, I had to call and make appointments, or negotiate social outings with friends, so that our visits didn’t interfere with the second half of final Olympic games. That’s how I navigated the past few weeks, in order to see people who watch the Olympics, when I was otherwise working, completing projects, or handling family logistics regarding college stuff for Sarah and myself.

So I haven’t even mentioned or acknowledged that the past few weeks were the Summer Olympics 2012 in London. And that we have friends in England who are covering these events for the BBC in their county. And that we’re cheering for US athletes, but also for every other big-hearted athlete in any competition, regardless of nationality. And that I sneak online to catch up on the highlights, but I have friends who rivet themselves to a large screen every night, watching-watching-watching. And that I cry when I watch.

Now Chris and I don’t follow any sports in particular. Not even baseball or football. We’re fans of New England teams, because they’re our “local” teams. Red Sox. Celtics. Bruins. Tigers (our home town team).

And yet, when I see out-takes of the great feats and competitions of these events, I weep while I watch. Yes, I’m a Kleenex-carrier, because I cry and sniffle at almost any emotionally-demanding experience, like weddings,  sappy commercials … or moving Olympic “final moments.”

Now if you ever DARE to compare your life experiences to those of an Olympic athlete … if you say, for instance, “Don’t you feel like you just ran a marathon? Or got a gold medal?” Well, anyone on those global teams might roll their eyes. It’s sort of like comparing your life experiences to being under fire with other soldiers, without ever having had that combat or military experience.

Sure, we can make comparisons. But if we haven’t lived through it, we can’t imagine it. Can we?!

And yet, the whole point of these games is, in part, to involve all of us in these adventures. To encourage us to identify with young, visionary athletes who dare to dream and strive and reach and fail and win. In a sense, we believe they’re like us, and we could be like them.

Well … let me say … there’s a certain level of justice to the comparison between every-day heroes and Olympic athletes. We all, I think, live through personal times that demand extreme efforts from us. We take on Herculean responsibilities, sometimes because we volunteer for them, and sometimes because we are required to undertake them due to circumstances beyond our control. Most of us, I think, are eventually called, one way or another, to rise up and respond  to an extreme situation.

Homework answer written by Jessie Doktor: Red Sox.

That’s why pediatric cancer patients, for instance, identify with their favorite athletes. We used to hold parties in the resource room during events like the Superbowl, and bald patients would paint team logos on their scalps. Why do they root for their team during baseball’s World Series or football’s Superbowl? Go, Pats! Go, Sox!

Does it matter who wins? Yes, and no. Symbolically, a child may be identifying with a superstar or an underdog team, and if they’re winning, then the child feels inspired by that win … maybe it metaphorically promises the possibility that a child will recover and survive, too. And if they lose … well, the child and other fans realize that a feisty team has put up a great fight, and shown the spirit that inspires us all to keep cheering and believing, against all odds.

In such circumstances, we can imagine ourselves as Olympic-level athletes or fierce warriors. Fighters. Competitors. Winners.

And in that circumstance, who will argue with the comparison? And in that time, don’t the Olympics inspire you all over again?

Maybe we won’t all break speed records or earn medals or stand on the risers while the world sings our anthem. And yet … yes, I do believe, we are all required to perform Olympic-sized feats in our own lives. And so these young athletes inspire us. Remind us. Challenge us.

Like them, we reach for more. Like us, they keep going.