Category Archives: Spirit & Sacred

Dec19

Lamps and Light from Three Traditions

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Don’t you feel, just a little, pricked and prodded with hope by the tiny lights that flicker around us at this time of year? So many people put lights in windows, wrap them around stairs, weave them through evergreens, hang them outdoors to sway in the wind … making the darkness a little brighter.

And it’s not so much that darkness is unwelcome … there is a slumbrous, restful quality to deep velvety darkness … we can close our eyes and sink into it. Rest. Find peace. Yet we can be warmed, held, and uplifted by each small light that is kindled within it, too.

So I wanted to share sacred texts from three traditions about lamps and light. This idea crosses many cultures and faiths. It is a reminder that we are all deeply connected.

In the Hebrew Bible or Old Testament, we find this passage: Psalm 18.28 —
“It is you who light my lamp;  the Lord, my God, lights up my darkness.”

And also, Psalm 119:105 —
“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.”

In the New Testament, we find this verse: Matthew 5:14-16 —
“You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hidden. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”

In the Qur’an, we find the following passage: Qur’an 24:35, Ayat an-Nur, The Light Verse —
“Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth. The Parable of His Light
is as if there were a Niche and within it a Lamp:
the Lamp enclosed in Glass: the glass as it were a brilliant star:
Lit from a blessed Tree, an Olive, neither of the east nor of the west,
whose oil is well-nigh luminous, though fire scarce touched it:
Light upon Light! Allah doth guide whom He will to His Light:
Allah doth set forth Parables for men: and Allah doth know all things.”

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.

Oct27

Boots, Birds and Good-Byes

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On a difficult pair of days, I wore a pair of high heeled boots, hid behind a costume, became vulnerable, wept, prayed, painted my nails, felt incredibly lonely, connected with special people, remembered those who are gone, and was visited by a winged messenger.

There has been a long silence from my end. Again. It’s been a few weeks of logistics such as deadlines, papers due, mid-term exams, and also … yes, pushing through difficult milestones such as the birthday of a departed friend and the anniversary of the fifth year since Jessie died.

Once upon a time, I wrote every day of Jessie’s treatment, and continued every day after she went on ahead of us, recounting the journey of the living. Now it takes me a week to reflect, in writing, about such moments.

Two days come close together last week. Both are difficult. One is the birthday of my friend Rebecca, who died of breast cancer a few years ago, after a long and gracious life, making a difference in the world of so many people, but especially her family, and most of all her two beloved children Ben and Anna.

Her headstone is only a few yards from Jessie’s, beneath a row of maples, at the top of the hill in the cemetery. Rebecca knew their spots would be close together. We visited those cemetery locations together. Stood while Rebecca was alive under the long shadows of old maples on young green grass, listened to songbirds, felt the stir of the wind, heard  its murmur through the leaves. Made memories up there. Had conversations we often couldn’t share with anyone else, about worries and wishes, realities and dreams, sorrows and hopes. Rebecca lived with a persistent form of breast cancer, and navigated a fine balance of hope in the possibility of a cure or new treatment, the wish for longevity and survival, edged with awareness of a threatening and mortal condition. Rebecca talked about a visit she had made to the cemetery with her family; wanting them to have a living experience with her there, as well as a place to visit in later days. We talked about where she and Jessie would both be (Jessie had already died, but we hadn’t interred her ashes yet), and how they’d be close to each other in the spaces between the maples, and imagined how maybe they’d find each other in the place beyond this one. We believed that Rebecca and Jessie would continue to visit those of us that they left behind, back here on earth.

The very next day marked the morning, five years ago, when my daughter Jessie died. Every year our family approaches this milestone differently. It is a markedly individual and separate experience for each of us as sister, father or mother. And of course, it is a day marked by our extended family, friends or her community, too.

This year, on the eve of the anniversary of Jessie’s death, I found myself locked in memory loops and traumatic flashbacks of the last 24 hours of her life. Vivid images or sensory memories came back. They blur together like this: her lung x-ray looking worse that last full day in ICU, followed by visits of specialists to her bedside, and a phone call conference from a small meeting room to consult with Chris and several medical team leaders to decide a recommended course of action, an evening visit from one transplant care team nurses who believed she’d make it, Jessie waking up that night and braking through sedation to kick and reach for me as I told her we loved her and named each member of her family, holding tight to her hand, 2am worries and conversations with a night-shift nurse as we changed her bed padding and checked IV lines and monitors and breathing tube, later kissing her as they took her off the floor — still medicated to a level of unconsciousness while on a portable ventilator — to undergo a lung biopsy, pounding on doors to get through to the room where a doctor waited to tell me she was dying, sitting in a numb disconnected state while a white-coated medical fellow knelt before me to deliver the unthinkable narration of events that transformed a scan room into an emergency operating suite, knowing our friend and minister Rebecca was beside me every step of that morning, and that Rebecca made the calls I couldn’t make, knowing that Jessie died while Chris and Sarah were en route to the hospital, walking with Chris and Sarah together as if through a gauntlet one final time down the hallway to her room in ICU, where it wasn’t Jessie waiting anymore, just her lovingly arranged body under a quilt, so we could say good-bye.

This year, those scenes – running on endless replay in my mind — recurred over and over. Sometimes scene-by-scene as they really took place. Sometimes as if I rewrote history and changed fate.

If only we had the power to change the script, stop the camera, halt the action, decide to make a different ending, give all the actors new lines, new roles … if only it was make-believe, fiction, theater … not real. But it isn’t. It happened. And there are no sequels or second versions of this particular story.

Of course, I have other beliefs about what comes next. About a spiritual life beyond this one … but admittedly, there is a difference between that spiritual and emotional comfort and the very physical and mortal reality of a child you can read to, speak with, hold close, argue with, sigh about, worry over or dance with.

During the anniversay of Jessie’s death, I always set aside productivity. I don’t do school work or client projects. I cancel any appointments, skip most commitments.

Instead, I give myself permission to be in the moment and experience whatever comes. To make space and go through this, because it will catch up to me one way or another.

It isn’t a day when someone needs to fix what’s wrong. It is simply … an unspeakably sad and moving day. A time when we are permitted to weep or pray or be pissed off or act off-the-charts giddy or stay silent. A time when we experience the feelings that are natural to such milestones; and almost every possibly emotion is likely to surface, visit and be expressed along the way.

On such an anniversary, I don’t have many expectations about what will or should happen. I may lose myself for part of the day. Or find Jessie all over again. Connect with Chris or Sarah, if possible, on this day. Retreat. Or be in the company of friends. Mourn. Remember. Acknowledge. And yes, celebrate.

We often try to experience some of Jessie’s best-loved activities on this day. For instance, my friend Martha got me started on the self-care and healing of pedicures and manicures. You may scoff at this self-indulgent choice, but it is a place of respite where no one expects anything of you, someone takes care of you for a little while, you float and let go, and you even feel a little better (or prettier, or something) on the other side of it. I did it again this year.

And this year Chris and I attended the Rotary Masquerade fundraising ball that evening. It happens every year; it just fell on the same night as Jessie’s anniversary. And what better way to celebrate her vibrant spirit? She loved dressing up, going out to dance, to be with friends.

I dared to wear a pair of black high-heeled boots and a short skirt and a wig. I was someone else: pretending, letting go, running away, wishing, and forgetting. And I was myself: grieved, sad, lonely, determined, giddy, connected, remembering, and living ‘in the moment’.

Underneath the black lipstick, fake eyelashes and sequined outfit, I was a mother thinking about both of my daughters: my beautiful intelligent grownup daughter putting away her textbooks and going out with friends to the night-life of cafes in Thessaloniki during her first semester abroad in college in Greece and my younger child whose ashes rest beneath a headstone graven with her name, marked that day by a blossom and a crimson leaf. Under the red-and-black wig, beneath the black spider rings, I was a friend who asked the opinion of girlfriends about makeup and party outfit, wanting someone to cheer and encourage me for risks to self-image when I wore an edgy costume. In the black boots and red silk top, I felt like a vamped-up sexy wife on a date with my husband, spending time together on a day that holds deep and surreal connotations for both of us, in a year that has been full of exhausting transitions, some wonderful, some challenging. Dancing among peers in masks and feather boas, capes and fedoras, applauding the band and jumping to the rockin’ music, I was one member of a club and a community that showed up to raised funds for local causes.

We aren’t binary: black-and-white, one-or-the-other, either-or. We, as humans, are so much more complex and layered and intricate and impossible to unknot or explain. We are just … who we are. And different, every moment, every day.

The next morning, I woke to the rush of wings as a bird fell or was knocked down my chimney. It emerged, eventually, from the hearth in our bedroom to circle and perch in our room. A common bird, familiar and full grown. Dark-tipped, pale-chested, bright-eyed. We caught it in a net and released it safely out the front door.

What do I believe about the sudden fall and flight or that common backyard bird that often visits the feeder outside our kitchen window? For me, its sudden arrival represented the visitation of a winged messenger, a spirit guide. A reminder that she’s here in many ways, and somewhere else, too. (You’re welcome to your own thoughts about it … whether you believe its coincidence or meaningful.)

The eve of Jessie’s anniversary, I relived nightmares. The day of her anniversary, I ‘got by’ in fancy nail polish and high-heeled boots she would have liked a lot. The morning after her anniversary, I participated in a startling and sacred moment.

And I am reminded, and I remind you, that we are connected. Body, mind and spirit. This world and the next world. All of us, always on a journey, perhaps in different places along the way, but not so far apart as we sometimes feel or imagine. Nearer than we suppose.

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.

Sep19

New Things, New Year: Encountering Other Faiths

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On one of the first days of Rosh Hashanah, which is THE (or one of many, depends on whom you ask) Jewish New Year, I tried something new. Part of this graduate school time is to work and study and play among people of many faiths. Develop chances to visit, to dip my toe, into other experiences.

Along the way, perhaps to better understand and embrace different traditions as something akin to my own cultural identity … connected, related … though not the same. I’m learning to make that distinction.

Yes, we can share many facets of history, belief and experience in common. Yet we don’t have to be one homogenized, same-everything confluence of cultures. The days of the immigrant melting pot, when we shed our pasts, changed our names, and tried to be like everyone else (usually in a white American-European-Protestant-Christian context) are over. In the past several decades, it has become increasingly safer for people to claim their roots, their ethnicity, their language, their religion, their race, their gender identity, their individuality. That should be okay.

Does this sound idealistic? Yes. Possible? Yes. Easy to do? No? A work in progress? Always.

We should be able to live side by side, yet be different from each other. Coexist in a pluralized society that respects and wrestles together with constructing a civilization that accommodates and welcomes diversity in many forms.

As part of this journey, I want to de-mythologize other faiths. Remove the stereotypes, biases and assumptions that I have internalized, or at least carried with me as an unconscious filter.

One of the forms of education I am receiving is to recognize other religions, practices and beliefs as different, but not as something that occurs “outside” a spectrum of societal patterns. Not “apart” from what we define as culture and civilization. Not “other” or “alien.” Not wrong, bad or in any way unacceptable.

One way that I’m grappling with this goal is to take classes. To study other religions through their history, art, development in different nations and languages, their connection to governments and politics, and through a glimpse into their sacred revelation. To understand each religion in its role as part of our broader American (Western) tradition, as well as its presence in other parts of the world. To this end, I’m taking two classes on Islam. It makes me look differently, already, at world events and the media coverage of them, political rhetoric, and our responses to them.

On the other hand, it’s best to get to know diversity up close. To form relationships with people who identify themselves in association with a variety of race, ethnicity, nationality, religious tradition, gender association, cultural affiliation and other characteristics. To make friends. To get to know each other, and put a face on “differences.” To study and learn together. Ask each other questions. Share each others’ traditions. I can do so with my classmates. We all learn and share with each other, and it’s safe to ask questions and explore diversity in this setting.

Back to the “new thing” I experienced.

Yesterday I attended a Rosh Hashanah New Year’s service. It was an improvisational service led by one of the students, Jeremy. It included many readings and songs in Hebrew. Jeremy’s voice rose, rich and redolent, to the rafters. His face shone with happiness to share this time with us.

We participated in some responsive readings in English. We recited a statement of faith (This rarely happens in the  annual Jewish tradition, since this is a religion of practice versus creed, unlike Christianity, but much like Islam. In fact, it may only happen in this service each year.) We remembered the departed. We considered and let go of our trespasses from the past year, since this is a time of letting go and starting anew.

Side note: My friend Miriam, however, celebrated somewhat differently. Among other rituals she and her children participated in Tashlick, which is the act of releasing crumbs or pieces of bread in a moving body of water. Naming regrets or transgressions, and letting them go. Setting new intentions for what you can do right, better and with more integrity in the coming year.

At the end of the worship service Jeremy sounded the shofar. This is a ram’s horn. It makes a blatting cry. It resounded through the chapel. We all listened to its echoes fade.

I cannot say I understood or connected with all aspects of the service. The parts in English resonated with me. They’re akin to my own statements of faith, and align with my beliefs. I felt bound in community.

Here’s the frustrating part. Admittedly, I was restless, listening to long passages in a language I don’t understand, regardless of how beautiful they were.  I felt, right then, like a little kid attending a classical orchestral concert, with no education or appreciation for what I’m listening to, and a tendency for my mind to wander, even while I try to pay attention and let it all soak in. * sigh *

A fellow student Lauren explained that much of the language (Hebrew, so I didn’t understand some of it, though we were provided with translations) of the service is a metaphor from archery. The intention is to recognize where we have “missed the mark” and improve our “aim” through our actions and intentions, so we will be “on target” in the coming year.

Another student, a Muslim peer, also attended the Rosh Hashanah service.  Like me, she’s trying to learn. To expand her understanding on an experiential level. She asked permission to record Jeremy’s recitation. I haven’t asked her why she wanted to record it, although I suspect that the Hebrew chants echo with the art and practice of oral recitation of the Qur’an.

The echoes fell silent. The year has begun. It is a sweet time, these High Holidays, in the Jewish year. We dipped apples in honey. Left the room, a little lighter in spirit, and perhaps a little wiser … or more foolish and opened-up … than we’d arrived.

Sep11

Be an Instrument of Peace

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I cannot pretend to have wisdom on a day like 9/11. Nor to truly understand the depth of its impact. Simply to acknowledge that it shook not just those who were hurt or lost, and their families and communities, but all of us. It changed our world view. It rippled out in layers of distrust and violence, but also in ever-growing rings of hope and resilience.

Just yesterday a friend and I remembered being together on the day that the Twin Towers came down. We’ll always remember where we were that day. Wanting to scoop up our children and hold them close. Not sure if the world was ending.

We recalled worrying for a friend who traveled internationally on American Airlines flights to London. Was she alive? As it turned out, she was okay, but she attended the funerals of several colleagues — crew members — for weeks afterward.

We remembered the arrival of a little boy from that devastated Manhattan neighborhood to our daughters’ school in New England. His home was not habitable; his school was closed.

This past weekend, our neighboring town of Rowley dedicated a memorial to 3 townspeople who were on one of the flights. They used as their monument, a piece of steel from the site of the crash. It was moving, yet can never express all that was taken away on that day.

In my father-in-law’s town in New Jersey, where the ferry leaves every morning for Manhattan, the memorial is larger. Too many folk were connected from the small seaside town to the large city center; their passengers worked in those buildings, and many never came home.

And finally, our minister Rebecca Pugh Brown uncovered and recounted for us the story of Andrew Rice, and his journey of loss and forgiveness. His brother David was in the second tower. Andrew was a journalist at the time, and much of the rhetoric after the day of 9/11 didn’t fit his view of the world. He was angry, but he sought some sort of resolution or healing step. His story is shared on the site of The Forgiveness Project.

Then, as David Rice’s summary tells us, “Later, a group called Murder Victims Families for Reconciliation were contacted by the mother of the alleged 20th hijacker, Zacharias Moussaoui, who has been held in solitary confinement in Northern Virginia since September 11. She had a unique request. She wanted to meet some of the families of the victims and ask for their forgiveness.”

We were nervous; scared of our Government finding out, and scared it would be just too upsetting. But finally a small group of us agreed to meet Madame al-Wafi in New York City in November 2002. As we waited in a private university building, a mother whose son was killed in the World Trade Centre went down the hall to meet her. We heard footsteps, then silence. Then we heard this sobbing. Finally they both came into the room, both mothers with their arms around each other. By now we were all crying. Madame al-Wafi reminded me a lot of my own mother, who had cried so much after David died. She spent three hours with us and told us how the extremist group had given her mentally ill son a purpose in life.

One day I’d like to meet Zacharias Moussaoui. I’d like to say to him, ‘you can hate me and my brother as much as you like, but I want you to know that I loved your mother and I comforted her when she was crying’.”

Today I’ll sit in a class at Harvard University called “Understanding Islam.” There is so much education, awareness and bridge-building to be done.

I want to work side by side with Muslim brothers and sisters, to create a world that has space and hope for all of us. That’s part of my work and purpose by attending Harvard. That’s why practitioners of Islam are studying alongside me, for the same reasons.

Today is a tense, emotional, difficult day. It’s easy to step awry.

Instead, breathe. Listen. Pray.

Pay attention to what you’re feeling. Honor it. Acknowledge it. Then let it wash through you. Let it arrive. Let it go. As much as that is possible for you.

Be an instrument of peace today. For yourself. For others. For our world.

Aug28

Obstacles as Blessings

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A wise person from my past once made the observation that we grow frustrated by obstacles. Yet if we look again, we might realize these are providential occurrences. Blessings.

For instance, we’re in a hurry to arrive at a destination. We’re driving. Ahead of us, someone is going slowly. Below the speed limit!

We grit our teeth, talk to ourselves, complain out loud, gesticulate and generally grow agitated. The woman making this observation, Rev. Sue Remick, challenged her listeners to reconsider whether the slow driver ahead was a problem or a gift. She suggested that this driver, going slowly and causing us to brake and travel at a more thoughtful pace, even causing us to arrive late, was placed in our paths to keep us safe.

Such situations – like a maddeningly slow driver, or losing your keys so you leave the house later than you’d like, or getting a call just as you’re about to walk out the door — could be read as cautionary signs. Blessings in our travels. Fateful moments that we could interpret as a chance to take a little time. Breathe. Pay attention. Stay safe. Slow down.

Some people call these moments “God winks.”

My kundalini yoga instructor has her class recite a specific chant three times at the beginning of many sessions. She also says the chant to herself three times before she turns on the ignition in her car. She believes that it is the difference between safety and danger …  this discipline that causes her to pause, focus, take a little extra care, and begin her journey with a breath of prayer to bless her way. She thinks those few seconds of repeating sacred words, invoking divine assistance, may have saved her life more than once.

I say this same prayer to slow a wheeling mind at night, or to calm me down when I’m angry or overwhelmed, and need to breathe slowly and deeply.

In any situation, you can be annoyed by the delay. Feel your blood pressure escalating.

Or you can breathe. Say a prayer. And try to be grateful for the frustratingly slow driver, or missing keys, or extra errand that sends you on a detour … and consider it a blessing. You may not know just what fate you have escaped today. Or what fate you have embraced.

Such an interpretation is entirely yours to make … but if the event is the same, regardless of how you respond to it, you might as well receive the benefit of it, yes?

After all, if you arrive safely at your destination, or even find yourself going someplace else altogether, you are one step further along your journey … wherever it may take you.

 

Jul30

Discombobulated and then …

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Mill River General Store porch by Chris Doktor

What do you do when you can’t finish what you set out to do, and have to change your plans? What do you do if you’re in a place you didn’t expect or want to be? How do you respond?

That’s been a big question on the past few youth group trips, and it was a challenge again this past weekend. Chris and I spent three days in Western Massachusetts, with all the gear and supplies for bike riding. We were part of First Church’s summer youth group trip. (For sake of clarity, let me say that I was the designated van driver, not a cyclist. I followed the riders’ route with the support vehicle that includes first aid, water, snacks, dry clothes, bike rack and extra seats if anyone needs a lift.)

Indeed, adults and teens cycled about 50 miles through 3 states in two days. That’s less than our group wanted or planned to do, but our riders accomplished some portion of their goals, anyway. We did it, despite setbacks such as severe storms.

On a prior trip to Staten Island at the beginning of the summer, a soul-searching discussion about responses to big setbacks, problems and disappointments moved a larger group of students and adults to tears. Later they focused on “what is your rainbow?” in a time of storms and floods. Adults and teens sought insight into how they discovered hope or resolution when they found themselves in trouble.

This weekend, our challenges weren’t as dramatic, but similar themes arose again. What happens when things don’t go your way? What do you do about it?

In part, our group decided to “go for it.” They rode out beneath overcast skies in chilling, heavy downpours, climbing steep hills and braking cautiously as they descended again. They wound along scenic rural ridges, wooded peaks, pewter-colored waterways, through small villages and bustling town centers. They used the driest, earliest hours of Saturday and Sunday to capture those experiences. By the middle of each day, bad weather heightened to thunder, lightning, storms and a few flash floods. Our crew had to stop riding.

Yes, our youth group managed to make the best of each day’s forecast; they sat in the saddle for a few hours, and did what they’d come for. Yet everyone wanted more. More miles. More hours riding. More adventures on their bikes.

We also cancelled tempting destinations like waterfalls and scenic farms. We opted not to attend the outdoor Tanglewood concert. We gave up some of our plans for fun.

So we had to adjust our expectations, adapt to the change in plans, and find something else to do with all that extra time. We had many reactions. We were … Restless. Surprised. Tired. Annoyed. Sad. Distracted. Nervous. Irritable. Weepy. Playful. Hungry. Creative. Silly. Hopeful. Resourceful.

What didn’t we plan for?

  • Wash outs on roads we’d just traversed.
  • Power outages in villages where we took refuge.
  • Unavailability of road maps, just in case we got lost, GPS didn’t work, or our printed directions didn’t have enough detail.
  • Being stuck half-way through the route by impending storms, and needing vehicular rides for the entire group to a safe, dry shelter.
  • Hours of free time indoors during rainy weather.
  • Cutting our whole weekend short, because it didn’t make sense to attend an outdoor concert later on Sunday, in such torrential conditions.
  • Language barriers, since one of our younger guests spoke more French than English.
  • Lugging along more food than we could ever consume.

What did we have going for us?

  • A warm, cozy starting point from Bob Lee’s home in the Berkshires, with showers and beds.
  • A van loaned to the church by Ipswich Ford, that was big enough to transport our gear and members of our cycling group, in two back-and-forth runs, to a safe dry place when our first day ended very suddenly due to bad weather.
  • The unplanned-for hospitality and emergency shelter of the Mill River General Store’s front porch, with hot coffee and warm muffins, in the worst of the storm.
  • Later on, a spacious, warm and dry UCC church to host us on the second night, with a fabulous kitchen and plenty of space for games and group worship and community meals and sleepovers in the heart of Great Barrington.
  • Great meals and plenty of food for healthy cuisine.
  • Chocolate.
  • First aid kit for falls, cuts, bruises.
  • All our safety gear and experienced riders to make sure we were safe.
  • A local guide (Bob) who knew every road and gave detailed turn-by-turn directions to get us back home again.
  • Coffee (or in my case, black tea).
  • Secret buddies who gave little gifts to each other all weekend, for more fun and fellowship.
  • Good temperaments among our participants, both young and old, willing to go with the flow and find new ways to engage each other in fun and fitness: yoga or abdominal workouts, games of Simon Says and cards, cooking, washing up, journaling, worshiping, cycling, and talking.
  • Members with enough French, especially one eloquent high school student, to translate sufficiently that our young visitor eventually relaxed, made friends, and began to participate more fully in communal experiences by the end of the weekend.
  • The magic of card games and other forms of play to bridge the gap across culture and languages, and connect people of different ages, genders, traditions and nationalities in a common experience.
  • The universal communication of music. Two youth members, Grace and Anna Josiah, played Bob Marley tunes on the ukulele. Our new friend Lucas grinned broadly through that impromptu prelude to our last gathering of the weekend.
  • Even when you know the lyrics, they’re more beautiful when everyone tries to sing along, off-key and in more than one tongue, because we’re all unified, at least for a little while.

Since it’s a faith-based group and outing, we read scripture as part of the weekend’s activities. One of them, Matthew 6:25-29, talked about not worrying. Easier said than done, sometimes. After all, I was the SAG wagon driver (support vehicle that followed riders during the weekend, and yes, I got lost, and yes, we had storms and a hurt rider and plenty of adventures). Plus I’m also a … well, let’s admit it … a mother. And mothers, by nature, tend to worry.

As it turns out, though, “don’t worry”  worked as a theme for us. As a message, in the form of a raggae song, it closed the gap in our group, drew smiles on an overcast day, and brought unity. Our youth sang …

Three Little Birds
by Bob Marley

“Don’t worry about a thing,
‘Cause every little thing gonna be all right.
Singin’: “Don’t worry about a thing,
‘Cause every little thing gonna be all right!”

Rise up this mornin’,
Smiled with the risin’ sun,
Three little birds
Pitch by my doorstep
Singin’ sweet songs
Of melodies pure and true,
Sayin’, (“This is my message to you-ou-ou:”)

Singin’: “Don’t worry ’bout a thing,
‘Cause every little thing gonna be all right.”
Singin’: “Don’t worry (don’t worry) ’bout a thing,
‘Cause every little thing gonna be all right!”

Rise up this mornin’,
Smiled with the risin’ sun,
Three little birds
Pitch by my doorstep
Singin’ sweet songs
Of melodies pure and true,
Sayin’, “This is my message to you-ou-ou:”

Singin’: “Don’t worry about a thing, worry about a thing, oh!
Every little thing gonna be all right. Don’t worry!”
Singin’: “Don’t worry about a thing” – I won’t worry!
“‘Cause every little thing gonna be all right.”

Singin’: “Don’t worry about a thing,
‘Cause every little thing gonna be all right” – I won’t worry!
Singin’: “Don’t worry about a thing,
‘Cause every little thing gonna be all right.”
Singin’: “Don’t worry about a thing, oh no!
‘Cause every little thing gonna be all right!

In preparation for our closing circle, as we reflected on the weekend, everyone drew symbols or scenes about what the weekend embodied for each of us. We used scratch art to do this, so every page started out with a black wax coating on it. (You use a wooden stylus to scratch away the top layer, exposing colors underneath.) Your work reveals vibrancy in the shape or pattern of your choosing. Even the act of clearing away the black coating, and finding something special underneath, was a symbolic act.

  • The common elements among our drawings were rain clouds, spiky suns, bikes and riders, curving roads, trees and mountains.
  • One youth drew interlocking circles, as a symbol of connection, since he was only able to participate in part of the weekend, but felt like he’d been tied to the entire experience.
  • Someone else drew a border of spoons, reminiscent of our silly, laughter-filled card game called “Spoons” (which is a game that requires no skill with cards or numbers, but requires lots of monitoring other people to see who has gotten four-of-a-kind and has taken the first spoon … this game is like musical chairs, so everyone sneaks or grabs for a spoon, and the last person to reach for one, won’t get a spoon, and loses that turn, accumulating points in the form of letters, aka, S-P-O-O-N).
  • Our French-speaking member wrote, “Merci” alongside his whimsical sketch.
  • People drew and spoke about the metaphor of journeys as a path without beginning or ending.
  • Or the cycling as a roller coaster, uphill and downhill, exhilarating and alarming in turns.
  • One rider drew the wheel of life with the spokes of the experience connecting the outer circle to the inner hub of water and rain.
  • Another drew herself riding with her hair blowing, depicting the chance to think while out in the silence and solitude of nature.

(Plus, of course, if you follow this journal, or  read our www.dok.com blog during the years with Jessie’s childhood cancer, you know that riding bikes is one way that our family continues to make meaning out of events in our life. In a way it’s a a sacred, spiritual and healing act.)

We closed the weekend with the song “Let It Be” by the Beatles, after reading Psalm 139 about being claimed and known by our Creator at every turn in our path, regardless of how far we may go. The Beatles lyrics answered, in their way, the conversations and questions we posed to ourselves all weekend, and the very life lessons we learned as we problem-solved through storms and other challenges. I don’t think you have to belong to any specific faith to be moved by the Beatles, even if they mention Mother Mary in this song. It calls to all of us, and gives us some response to the universal question, “What do you when you can’t complete the journey what you started, when your plans change and you’re rerouted on detours toward a different destination entirely, and you must choose some other activity and goal instead, or you cannot continue at all?”

Let It Be
performed by The Beatles (written by Lennon/McCartney)

When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
Let it be, let it be.
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

And when the broken hearted people
Living in the world agree,
There will be an answer, let it be.
For though they may be parted there is
Still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer, let it be.
Let it be, let it be. Yeah
There will be an answer, let it be.

And when the night is cloudy,
There is still a light that shines on me,
Shine on until tomorrow, let it be.
I wake up to the sound of music
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
Let it be, let it be.
There will be an answer, let it be.
Let it be, let it be,
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be

Jul26

Taking Stock

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The past day has made me pause, and realize that it’s time to set aside a little of what’s best about this season, this community. Pay attention. Make note. Maybe even save some of it, put by, to pull out again during cooler and busier times of the year.

Many of us have transitions coming up at the end of the summer. Maybe sooner. School resumes. Work hours change. Pressures seem to mount up. Children have different schedules and needs, or go off to their own new destinations (our living daughter is headed for college). Demands on our time, energy, focus and resources grow more pronounced.

Meanwhile, there is something just a bit slower and more reflective about summer months. We take a little longer to finish projects, linger over meals, sit outside in the fading daylight hours, sip a beverage, talk until night truly falls, and realize that we’ve captured some memorable moments along the way.

Yesterday, despite hours of work, I had time to savor a few experiences. And it made me realize that just like picking fresh produce in the fields at Appleton, and maybe preserving some of that summer vitality as sauces and other pantry goods, to be stored up for later use … it’s a good idea to stock up on some sunny, special moments now, to draw upon later.

For instance, while Chris was at a meeting for the United Way yesterday evening and Sarah was out with her peers, I walked over to Meryl’s house near the river. As twilight fell, I sat still long enough for Raina, Meryl’s daughter, to paint an extravagant henna tattoo on my ankle and calf. Caught up briefly with friend Terri about her photography and some of the projects that are coming up. Spoke to a local writer about her jaunt to Harvard’s Baker Library with a member of the Heard family for a celebration of Augustine Heard and our historic economic connections to China. As Raina traced out her henna design, she and I talked about theater and dance, boarding school and sacred symbols in tattoos, and the future of the kittens she and her mother are fostering. Despite being allergic to cats, I bottle-fed and cuddled a tiny grey furball named Brie, just a few weeks old, who is technically under the care of the Merrimack Feline Rescue Society, but is living for a few more weeks in their home, learning to be people-friendly, playful and to expect affection in his life. (Aaacchhhoooo.) Meryl shared a scoop her homemade chocolate cayenne ice cream, made in anticipation of family arriving this weekend. The scent of lavender oil infused into henna clung to my skin, and the unexpected bite of spicy seasoning in sweet dessert stayed on my tongue.

Later I was invited to a late dinner with our neighbors Hugh and Gary. Over the table we discussed books and travel to Maine, friendship and work, pets and family, the fate of old musical instruments, and all kinds of food. Good things that we all love. We talked about the connection between daily yoga and the habit of prayer, meditation as a channel to God, what we believe about life here and a spiritual life beyond this one. I walked home, barefoot, in the dark, gallantly escorted to my front door by Gary. At the end of the night, I snuck in a few pages of a novel by Daniel Silva. Went to sleep, holding Chris’s hand in the utter darkness, as if we were the only two people in the whole world.

Tattoos, art, kittens, tomato-basil salad, chilled wine, history, recipes, books, friends, photography, travel, family, reflections on loves ones departed and living … it all wound into the beauty of the latter part of the day.

If I can decant such times, distill them and put them into the pantry of my heart and mind, I will be able to draw them out later. Hold up their deep golden colors and purple shadows to catch the light. Savor again their pungency and sweetness, motes of dusty summer drifting through the layers of flavor and memory. Close my eyes, release sensory richness from its captive state, and recall what is good about an evening in this community. Let days like this one warm up my soul from the inside out.

Jul16

Every Prayer

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Every prayer is sacred and powerful, regardless of language and religion. Prayer also comes in many forms. So I have come to believe.

When our younger child Jessie was diagnosed and living with cancer, we learned to appreciate and welcome every form of prayer, positive intention, affirmation, meditative reflection, mantra, chant, song, or any other form of energy ever offered to us. Don’t all faiths and practices, in the end, have the same intention, at least when it comes to sending out cries for peace, hope and healing into our universe? For the sake of one child, or a generation of children?

When we were in the hospital, we wanted and needed every vibe and Amen that came our way. We hung up a cross, Buddhist prayer flags and a hand-made Native American dream catcher. We made a bowl that accumulated — as gifts from practitioners of many healing methodologies or faiths – angels of all sizes and shapes, a Buddhist prayer wheel, stones incised with words like love and believe, prayer cards from saints and sacred sites, crystals with different healing capabilities or properties, necklaces or bracelets strung with symbolic beads and prayer boxes. We received a quilt, blankets and shawl all stitched with more prayers and wishes. We listened to music ranging from vacation bible school songs to sounds of the earth itself, plus hymns, chants and mantras.

We cherished all of them, because they came to us from many parts of the country and the world. Carried home from other people’s travels. Some hand made. All tenderly packaged and delivered, when we were isolated in one small room, unable to go further than oncology unit’s hall or the garden downstairs.

Of course, sometimes people would make observations, sometimes in the guise of a prayer, with the best of intentions or from inside their faith tradition, that we didn’t agree with. Sentiments such as “this happened for a reason,” or God “wants another angel in heaven” or “you’re only given what you can handle.” The Creator in whom I believe doesn’t dole out diseases as punishment, to balance the scales, or to fulfill a predestined script. I understand that other families with different backgrounds found these statements to be comforting and consoling, and I wouldn’t ever negate or argue with those perceptions, where they provide support. Yet if we couldn’t bear to be told such things, we were explicit about asking people not to make certain statements; we established boundaries, when we needed them, even though we wanted every good wish and prayer.

Personally, I cannot imagine a Creator who deliberately creates illness, famine, war, disease, hunger, poverty and other conditions that hurt us. In my estimation, we connect with the Sacred when we find comfort and resources to endure or overcome these situations. Even when people offer strength and help to each other, we act in sacred ways. Maybe we find relief through a song that inspires us or a shower of 10,000 paper cranes. Perhaps acting through a doctor’s quick insight and action or a nurse’s gentle teaching. Playfully lifting us up through a counselor’s silly games or a playmate’s challenge to a feisty competition. Or in the tasty delivery of a homemade meal or steaming beverage. In many small and big ways, the Creator’s presence comes to us as compassion and healing.

Empathy and mending, grace and tenacity, laughter and honesty: these still come to us, in other ways, though that chapter of our lives is over. If you ever listen to my daughter Sarah sing Hallelujah, you will know that prayer continues to be part of our lives.

Yes, I believe in all prayers.

In times of urgency, we ask for help or rescue.

  • That’s often when we’re most likely to bother praying. We’re in need. In crisis. Seeking a miracle, even
  • When our need is extreme, sometimes it makes sense to be specific, and ask for exactly what you need. During cancer treatment, we used to ask for Jessie’s healthy blood counts, protection from infection, remission, and stability. Yes, we also asked for broader blessings, but they could be interpreted many ways: hope, courage, fortitude, healing. These days, we ask for continued emotional connection and healing within our family, and for grace and growth during new adventures.
  • You can imagine, even now, that I grapple with a gut-level reaction that specific prayers weren’t answered. I’m sure you have those feelings, too. Years ago, we requested Jessie’s survival. We have all had those moments, those specific requests we made, that didn’t turn out as we hoped. Over time, I have come to a reconciliation between what I asked for and what occurred. For instance, maybe the only possible resolution, the only form of peace and dignity that remained for my youngest child, was the one that came to her. Letting go and moving on to the next part of her journey, because it was … finally … time. And what kindness remained, in holding her here, in the conditions under which she lived?

When you pray as part of a regular routine …

  • … such as at bedtime every day, prayers can be like an entry in a diary. Or a one-sided conversation. Gentle. Sometimes formulaic. Reciprocal, though the other party is silent, but listening in. “Guess what happened today? Did you hear? I’m thinking of these people … be with them. Know what I’m planning next? Be with me as I take this step.”

At times, we experience Book of Job moments.

  • Like Job, I have cried out, “No! Why?!” Screams of rage or defiance, desolation or confusion. These primal screams are also forms of prayer. Communication with our Creator. Healthy ones, I think, because a real relationship can sustain moments of doubt and anger, fear and despair … these are how relationships grow. Even relationships with Yahweh.
  • After Jessie passed, I thought nothing more, nothing worse, could happen to our family. Yet there have been additional times when my loved ones have been vulnerable, hurt or compromised. All over again!
  • I have called out, at those times, demanding, “Couldn’t we just keep a loved one safe? Haven’t we been through enough?” No, it seems. We are all human and vulnerable, and life will continue, the world will keep spinning, and experiences will accumulate apace, not sparing us either the best or worst of existence, just because we feel time should stand still … give us a respite …. since we have endured so much already. Life isn’t like that. There’s not really a 10-minute intermission between acts. It just keeps going. Sigh.

Happily, we sometimes pray out of gratitude. Celebration. Hallelujah.

  • We pause and reflect, acknowledge a special experience or blessing.
  • Maybe we notice a silent, awesome, profound moment. We give thanks when we feel particularly moved or connected.
  • Or we honor  something special  — extraordinary — such as a milestone. Graduation, anniversary, promotion, birthday, or other landmarks.
  • Sometimes it comes in a moment of laughter and humor. When your perceptions shifts, and a situation strikes you as funny, and you regain balance and connection.
  • It’s a healing practice, to remember to say thank you. To count blessings. To name our gifts and their Source. With praise. Exultation.
  • Because the Creator is in these moments –  the quiet-wow-introspective-soulful ones, and the wild-happy-loud-rowdy-dancing-singing-clapping-hoorah ones — as surely as in the darkest ones.

Sometimes, we’re taught to turn over our situation to the Creator’s consideration, and say, “Thy will be done.” That has always been a tough lesson for me.

Really? Relinquish control, or my idea of what the best outcome would be?  As I’ve said before, and as Reverend Rebecca Pugh reminded us again on Sunday at church, sometimes the answer we receive to prayer isn’t the one we expected. It may surprise us. Alarm us. Challenge us. We may not even realize, until later, that we received an answer at all.

Of course, some folks don’t have a specific religious affiliation. And even if you believe in a divine force or Creator, you may not credit that Someone is listening or intervening on our behalf. That a divine Being is stirring up the pot of events in this world to change fate at the request — on behalf of — of fragile, finite human beings.

I have my own view, based on personal anecdotes and experiences, that causes me to believe that I am connected to a Creator who cares and actually interacts with us. But that’s me. I honor other viewpoints, too.

The cancer mom Jane Roper, who is new to this journey, is receiving many prayers, too. She is eloquent and honest, in this excerpt from her blog:

“… while I respect and appreciate the fact
that other people like to pray, I’m not really a pray-er myself.

Or maybe I am. I certainly engage in prayer-like activities sometimes.
I will silently ask for strength or courage or patience or peace,
either for myself or for others. Last weekend when we found out Clio was sick,
I did a whole lot of desperate, tearful praying
that she’d be OK, and that we wouldn’t lose her.

But I’m not entirely sure who I’m addressing in these prayers.
I don’t believe in “God” in the classic, personified sense
so much as I believe in a sort of force / energy that connects us all,
and is maybe somehow responsible for the incredible
and beautiful creation that is our world (dude).

… But I do believe that people’s
thoughts / prayers / vibes / whatever
can have a positive effect on how
we handle adversity and experience joy.

I mean, I think I do. I’m not sure.

… So. Is it weird that I like other people’s prayers
even though I’m skeptical of my own?”

People are moved to pray at certain times. Even if you’re not sure. If you have doubts. Or you don’t believe in it, not really. Motivated by joy. Or desperation.

As I have said before, I find comfort and personal growth in the habit of prayer. Yet I’m not rigorous about the form that prayer takes for me. I grab hold of opportunities as they present themselves. There’s Sunday prayer in church as a community. There’s meditation in my yoga class in the morning. There’s picking herbs at Appleton. Sipping a hot drink. Paddling in a kayak. Listening to my daughter. Touching my husband. Walking through sunlight and shadow. Playing with a dog. Writing in a journal. Serving others. Singing. Sitting still, noticing the world.

Prayer can be individual or communal. Silent or aloud. Action or words. Directed toward the deity of a specific faith, or simply to the sacred universe. And throughout our lives, we will learn new ways to pray.

Prayer is a tool. A practice. An opportunity. However and whenever you do it, it’s a chance to connect and communicate with something bigger than yourself.

Every syllable, every thought, every vision, every hope, every wish, every intention … it all has potency. And when it is directed toward goodness and healing, wellbeing and peacemaking, stability and humor … when it is aimed at building connections … then such prayers, regardless of origin, must be working for the same cause. So I hope. So I believe.

Namaste.