Poignant Moments

Every morning, for the last month, I see Dad's Braun shaver on my bathroom shelf.  When my siblings went through Dad's personal items, my husband, Jay, requested the shaver. We put it beside our stack of bathroom towels, knowing it needed cleaning before using or storing, but neither of us doing the job.  There it stayed a daily reminder of Dad.    

Immediately after his death, each glance of the shaver brought a wrench to my gut. Later, a tug in the heart.  Then, with each tug came memories: me as an awkward preteen watching Dad shave at the laundry sink, knowing each motion he would make, eagerly anticipating the opening of the cabinet and the splashing on of Aqua Velva. How I loved the smell of Aqua Velva mixed with the smell of his morning coffee!  Singing the Aqua Velva TV jingle with my sister, I was proud Dad used Aqua Velva because "there's something about an Aqua-Velva man." I remember watching Dad contort his mouth while shaving the cleft in his chin. How did he get all the hair out of that cavern of a cheek dimple?

Now, as I wonder if my brothers also watched him shave thus learning the manly morning ritual, I absent-mindedly pick up the shaver.  Suddenly, I'm propelled to the last memory of holding this in my hand shaving Dad a few days before he died.  Tears come as I remember his exhaustion from just moving his mouth around for me. I catch myself imitating his mouth shifting left as I hold the shaver up to the right side of my chin. Sad spell broken, I laugh, then purposely turn  it on and shave a swath of hair from my own cheek. I'm comforted with this mixing of my fine, feminine facial hair and his wiry, white beard stubble.  

Cupping the Braun in my hands, I think about him losing the ability to care for himself. I wonder if that was as hard for him as it was for mom. Even with advancing dementia mom could put words to her feelings.  "It's not right that daughters have to help a mom shower and comb her hair."   Dad never voiced much, but a sigh or a quickly exchanged glance communicated much tenderness, gratitude, vulnerability and pain.  Such unguarded glances usually brought tears to both pairs of eyes. Alas, I often opted not to catch too many of them.  I so wanted to protect his dignity.  I feel some regret over my opting out now, but I also respect the choice knowing such intimacy is both precious and sometimes too poignant to prolong.  I'm incredibly grateful for moments Dad allowed us to see his heart.  

Inhaling deeply, fortified with sweet memories, I'm ready to clean the shaver. I snap up the trimmer blade and stubble falls like snow. I'm shocked at the amount!  Each shake brings another cascade of hair snow until my sink is coated.  Again, tears prick my eyes. Dad was always so fastidious with his stuff. Illness and aging require much letting go. I unhook the little brush inside and begin brushing out more stubble.  Not long ago, Dad's left hand cradled this shaver as mine is doing, as his right hand brushed.  I can almost feel his rhythm.  Reverently, I brush the shaver clean, enjoying the scent of shaver and falling hair. 

Shaver cleaned, I run my hand through the fallen stubble. It's beautiful and gritty. Dad's DNA in my sink.  Related DNA in my body, in the hand hovering over the spigot. I feel connected. This moment is wondrous, yet utterly ordinary.   Like life, like death. Like every moment I choose awareness. 

I turn on the water and gently wash away my father's hair. Good bye again, Dad. I love you.
Sharon

 ~~~~~

"You're my kind of guy, I want you so,
baby everything about you is go, go, go,
With Aqua-Velva lotion the romance began
because there's something about an Aqua-Velva man!"    (TV jingle as I remember it. :)



Listen to your father who begot you, and do not despise your mother when she is old.
Proverbs 23.22

I pressed my father's hand and told him I would protect his memory. My father smiled and passed away to the spirit land. Chief Joseph

Waiting For Rain

There is a hush outside this morning. No bird chatter. Even squirrels stop their relentless gathering to ponder the gray canopy above. Bright streaks on the eastern horizon fade as grasses cling to single sparkles of dew. The countryside waits for rain.

Last week, I leaned into my car to retrieve something and rose too quickly smacking my head soundly on the way up. I automatically rubbed my stinging head. When I comb my hair, rub or scratch my head, I’m reminded of that painful smack. The bruise says pay attention! Why am surprised with each reminder my scalp is not fully healed? Perhaps the bump is symbolic of other bumps in which I’m expecting too much of my body, of myself.

I remember my illness that ended in surgery this past August. Repeated smacks to my physical body! I was mindful through the depression of illness, in listening to my body, honoring the need for surgery finally. The surgeon did a wonderful job and the ordeal wasn’t as dreadful as I anticipated. I’m surprised at the lingering bruise though.

Did I expect things to go the way of a surgeon’s simple descriptions? You lay flat on a table during anesthesia while the surgeon cuts away this and that organ, glues you up, then 4 days in the hospital, a week recovering at home, a month to get your energy back. Did I subconsciously hear ‘fixed, done - like in a month I’ll feel like surgery never happened?’ Modern medicine is amazing, and I certainly don’t want a doctor focusing on the bum side of surgery, but I long for a more realistic, holistic, respectful approach with professionals to walk with you through the whole realm of healing. Couldn’t there be hospice for the living and recovering?

My father died three weeks after my surgery. Death is a smack to the gut, to the heart. In the intensity of family gathering, planning services, sorting-cleaning out-finalizing details from a precious life, soaking up the outpouring of love from friends and extended family, in the miracle of my body functioning as well as it did, in all the grief and beauty, I lost myself.

Nature often reminds me of the power of a good pause. My soul waits with nature; not for rain, but for my interior to assimilate all that has piled up in my life. I need this pause in the moment too. Looking around, I’m astonished at the tiny whitecaps in the ripples of the lazy brook running through the meadow. And, when did the tip of the maple tree turn red? I don’t know what I’ll experience in this spiritual and literal pausing, only that I want to embrace it.

Joyfully,
Sharon

Legacy

                                             

     Legacy

My aging father

sadly said good bye to gardening

handing me brown-

skinned treasures;

his knobby hands cradle

tuberous bulbs.

His smile promises striking orange-pink.                                        

I plant, watching green blades

grow broad and abundant…

year after year,

lovely thick clumps with no blooms.

I wonder if Dad holds the secret

of gladioli. I mourn each season’s loss

plan to dig up, discard, but not yet.

This spring, I’m ill, vulnerable and

rich spikes with voluptuous buds

rise triumphantly above the green clumps.

I watch in wondrous anticipation.

Perhaps the secret

is in letting go. No wonder glads

have become memorial flowers!

My heart swells with promises

of orange-pink while knowing

I patiently loved only green.

Dad’s legacy lives in orange-pink

promises, in lush green letting go,

in growing in wisdom and dignity.   

                                                        

                               

Love you, Dad….sharon

May I be Awake to the Presence

A cardinal calls from high in the Silver Maple the sound delicate and musical.

Uncaring, or competing, our golden banty rooster awkwardly flap-flies to the top of a fence post. His position is at least eight feet lower than the cardinal, but high enough for morning cockiness in surveying his kingdom. Fat black hens cluck and scratch below salvaging fallen seed from the bird feeder. Banty Boy crows, neck stretched, chest thrust so far forward his scrawny toes clutch wood to keep from toppling.

I smile at his swagger, his chicken testosterone, his little bird brain with no clue he’s too small to breed the fat hens he primps to impress. I’m grateful he decorates the fence. He belongs in my garden as much as the beautiful red cardinal. I am awake to the presence of Love.

                                                     

I’ve stopped counting the times I’ve heard this phrase: May God be with you. It’s a lovely phrase and I know what is meant by it, but I like rephrasing it to this: “May I be aware of Love’s presence.” If I believe God or Divine Love is closer than my own breath, how could God not go with me, with you? When God feels distant, and I feel separated from love, I usually catch myself sleep walking through life, numbed by wants, shoulds, schedules or difficulties. When I shake myself awake, Love is right there. I like the reminder to remain awake to the Presence of Love, that constant energy force around me, around you, surrounding all. Perhaps the common phrase: may the Force be with you, could also become - may I be aware of the Force!

May our awareness and awakening impact the world!

Joyfully,
Sharon


“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and go out and do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”     Howard Thurman

 
 
 

Blogging Hiatus

As you can tell, I haven't been blogging.  Not sure when I'll return...there is much happening in my life: hubby's job changed (which amazingly changes everything!), other writing projects, my own joyful immersion in spring and my gardens, and some things I'd rather not 'be with' but life happens and I do my best to accept. Until we meet here again...

Joyfully,
Sharon

If the sight of the blue skies fills you with joy, if a blade of grass springing up in the fields has power to move you, if the simple things in nature have a message you understand, rejoice, for your soul is alive.      Eleanora Duse

Synchronicity

Earth. Rushing water. Blueys. I walk down the gravel path beside the swollen creek, sneakers crunching, heart beating, my soul lost in the song of the morning. The sun warms my cheek as my eyes drink in the cache of tiny blue flowers blooming along the creek bank. Others delight in robins as heralds of spring; I look for ‘blueys’, a wild variety of figwort or speedwell that I affectionately nicknamed.

The highway in the distance rumbles and pulsates with work traffic; the road behind me is alive too. Redwings call, a little song sparrow sits on a dead sprig pumping his little throat with jubilant song. Pines along the creek dance and sway, boughs whispering secrets of earth, water and sky. I walk, breathe deeply of earthiness, of the joy of living, of the dankness of goose droppings and dead night crawlers washed up, vulnerable and exposed on the path, their lives sacrificed and now fertilizing, sustaining us all. I show respect and gratitude as I step over each offering.

Carey, my Australian Cattle Dog, is in complete sync with me. I walk and she trots. I stop; draw in a quick breath over a flash of blue brilliance, she stops, waits, watches. Does she see the bluebird too? I resume walking; she trots. I turn, cock my head to listen. Cardinal is whit-whit-whitting somewhere high in a tree, Blue Jay screeches, a goose rises up from still waters, all dripping and feather rustling, then settles into stillness, the construction site to my left spills noises of pounding and sawing. I suddenly notice Carey also paused, ears perked, head cocked for better listening.

Awe washes over me, warms my belly, tingles my skin. Every cell in my body vibrates. I am the wolf pack. I am the earth. I am dying. I am fully alive. I am synchronized, united with dog and earth and Love and wonder. I am community, sharing nature’s Eucharist.

In one instant I know more of God than ever before, and also realize I know utterly nothing about God. I have just experienced love expanding me; I don’t need any search for meaning. I am simply here, strengthened by rushing creek water, enlightened in the song of the mocking bird, receiving God smiles in blue weed flowers, communing with the Whole.

Joyfully,
Sharon

Carey, 10 years young!

Savor the Ordinary

For the last few months I’ve drawn, painted or colored a mandala each week. Wikipedia says: “Mandalas are a generic term for any plan, chart or geometric pattern that represents the cosmos metaphysically or symbolically, a microcosm of the Universe from the human perspective.”


I use mandalas as a way of connecting to my soul, to hear God in fresh ways, to stimulate my right brain, and to just play. Playing is fun! I am relearning how to playfully create and not take creating so seriously. Creations don’t to be worthy of selling or sharing to be fun and meaningful.

The last retreat I co-facilitated I wanted a visual to symbolize impermanence, so I created a mandala of candy. I enjoyed the simple beauty that arose; those who ate the candy enjoyed the beauty and the impermanence! Ordinary candy, ordinary people, ordinary play, became a feast of admiring, savoring, and letting go.

Find beauty in the ordinary. It doesn’t take time, just a shift in awareness. You don’t have to stop to smell the roses; simply inhaling deeply as you pass will do. Savor ordinary meals, ordinary days. Savor each connection with humanity, no matter how brief. Brief eye contact here, a smile there is a beautiful way to notice another. The simplest noticing often makes a difference in someone's day. Life isn't mostly heroics; it's about showing up day and after day, present, aware, and purposefully looking for beauty, truth and goodness.

Love deeply, find beauty everywhere, play, create, and let go!

Joyfully,
Sharon

 The only lasting beauty is the beauty of the heart.  ~ Jelaluddin Rumi
 
It's the beauty within us that makes it possible for us to recognize the beauty around us.  ~ Joan Chittister in The Psalms
 
Beauty saves. Beauty heals. Beauty motivates. Beauty unites. Beauty returns us to our origins, and here lies the ultimate act of saving, of healing, of overcoming dualism. Beauty allows us to forget the pain and dwell on the joy.  ~ Matthew Fox in Original Blessing
 
Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. ~Paul writing in Philippians 4:8

Walk Humbly, Live Justly, Share Joy!

Today is my dad’s birthday. I celebrate his life, his providing for me when I was dependant, and the play-on-my-name question he used to tease me with as a youngster: “Sharon, will you share your joy?” I’m amazed at how this question has quietly shaped my life.

I try to walk humbly. Bumbly may be more accurate, as I lovingly but rather absent-mindedly and with much failure, find my way through life. I throw away the self-criticism stick whenever I find it in my hand; the act of finding it, learning from it and then releasing it keeps me humbly embracing both my gifts and my faults. It’s as hard to live justly with myself as it is live justly with others. I slip unconsciously into judgment or criticism, while being easily overwhelmed with injustice in the world, especially my abundance and others’ lack. Yet, in all this, my life invitation continues to be about sharing myself, my gifts, my joy.

As an introvert and a five on the enneagram, for those who care about such personality typing, I am compassionate, somewhat visionary, a keen observer with a need to withdraw and a tendency toward stinginess. As a middle child in a family of eleven boisterous, extroverted siblings, I struggled with my desperate need to withdraw and my equally desperate need to watch everyone having a good time. I seldom fully participated, partly from sheer fear of being overwhelmed, from incoordination and shyness, from a hint of stinginess or stubbornness, but mostly from a natural love of observation.

I'm not sure if Dad knew children live into their names, into the messages given them as they grow up. With so many child psychology books at my disposal, I knew a hint of this truth when naming my own children, understood more when I got my first cattle dog to herd the goats on our farm and was strongly advised not to name him “Killer” or “Speedy”, and am understanding more as I'm living deeper into the prophetic tone of Dad's pun with my name.

What a precious gift dad gave me in asking me this question, an unfolding gift needing half a lifetime to receive. As a pre-teen, I struggled with craving my dad’s attention while feeling awkward and shy, with wanting to be joyful and generous, but feeling pressured, stingy, like I hadn’t had enough joy and the world owed me.

I ’m glad I inherited my dad’s love of exotic flowers, orchids, amaryllis, roses (I dedicate the blooming Clivia on my windowsill to dad!) and I’m grateful for his challenge to me.    

 I laugh with my daughter, Kim, when we share the driving forces in our lives. Mine is to be in seclusion or live in a hermitage, and the other is to share everything, live intimately with others in an intentional community. She suggested I build a cabin attached to a commune! Ah, the challenge of when to withdraw and when to share.

I struggle with writing; I love it and I hold back. It comes naturally, but it's lonely. I’m afraid I’ll miss watching extroverts having good times if I withdraw and write. Perhaps, joy is right in the middle of this paradox of needing to hide and wanting to share. I receive joy when observing, when participating fully at times too, when giving to others, but there is equal joy in withdrawing to muse, dream, create, receive wisdom, and gather strength. Perhaps writing and reflecting, experiencing and observing, sharing deeply with others in honor of life, is my way of walking humbly, living justly, and sharing joy.

Thanks Dad, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Joyfully,
Sharon

Thoughts From a Ordinary Prophet

 

This blog started as a way of writing my way through lymphoma diagnosis and treatment. A year later, my blogging includes stuff about my dog, garden, grand children, life in general. I wonder if I need a new focus.  This silly title draws me: Thoughts From an Ordinary Prophet. I looked up the word prophet. None of the definitions are my intention. However, I could possibly see myself as a spokesperson for a cause or movement with the cause being wanting to increase my ability to love, laugh, notice and savor.

Of course, I need plenty of grace to embrace those four, especially when I’m in a bad mood and want to see the glass half empty. On the other hand, I’m fascinated by how everything I encounter in life can be my teacher, even crappy stuff like peevishness and picking up dog piles in my yard. Speaking of my dog, she could be a prophet since she teaches me how to be present, wag my tail more than snarl, and be enticed by a good path!

If I am open to learning from everyone and everything, and share what I learn with tail wagging enthusiasm, I could be a kind of an ordinary oracle, a seer of the common and normal. In a world besotted with fame, grandeur and celebrities someone in love with simplicity and normalcy could be refreshing.

I love the prayer: God help me want to be ordinary. It smacks us idealists in the face doesn’t it? I love the prayer because it shows me how to embrace my inability to change the world NOW. It means choosing the path less traveled, without attachement to having written a famous book. It means standing by a line of trees, sad they are going to be cut down, but sadder still in never noticing them before knowing of their fate.

The trees ask me: Just how much do I not notice? How often do I sleep walk through life?  How much to I dream of  extraordinary while missing the beautifully ordinary?

I also love Marianne Williamson’s quotes: “Meaningful life is not a popularity contest.” Or “The voice of ego and the world speaks louder than the voice of heart and God.” And especially, "Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.” That last one trips me, makes me want to change the world again. Then I have to sit down and pray to want to be powerfully ordinary.

Perhaps, doing what I love to do most is enough. Perhaps sitting on a bench loving this fabulous earth, being awed by clouds and birds, honoring the life of the dead cat on the roadside, loving my dog, my family, myself, loving others, passing the wonder of stars and moon on to my granddaughters, laughing with the breeze, writing a blog or poetry is actually extra ordinary, and sharing my love of life is prophet-like. If so, then we’re all prophets. If we realized our power, the power of loving, laughing, noticing and savoring, the world would surely change, one ordinary prophet at a time.

Joyfully,

Sharon