Was it a Season Like This?

window sill in winter -full of sprouts and cuttings

   

I'm listening to Christmas music while packing up scarecrows and leaf art, eating dinner from paper Easter egg plates, and growing cuttings of lilacs and roses; not even sure what season it is. Moving confuses you; mixes up your life, your sense of time. It is a tyrant worse than a long holiday to-do list.  

Was it a season like this …when everything seemed mixed up...when Christ came?

It’s unseasonably warm here. Makes me feel like planting garden instead of cleaning out the beds and borders in preparation for both winter and moving in the spring.

Moving requires reflection on how you gardened in the past, how you may want to redo things at the new place. It forces your family to reflect too. My grandson, Jude, helped us strip the garden and yard of Nana's treasures – bird baths, statues, and whimsical cement animals- to take to the new house. He picked up shells, rocks to load in the truck. Suddenly, he called with an urgency that made us all turn from our tasks to look at him. His knees and arms were wrapped around our tiny weeping cherry tree; he was grunting with effort gasping at us to help him pull this out!  The little tree, surrounded by Irish moss is part of my cancer survivor garden, and his treasure, since he played under it.  Poignant moments happen daily, in this season of pulling up well entrenched roots and relocating.   

Was it a season like this …not here-not there...when Christ was born?

So many things still hold my heart here. I feel like a pioneer women tucking into the ‘wagon,’ flower seeds gathered from dad’s hibiscus and grandma’s 80year old prim roses. Oh, and I must bring shoots of black raspberries that my grandchildren love!

My insides do not match the Christmas cheer being thrown around everywhere. My soul holds snapshots of sad eyed refuges. My husband and I are choosing to uproot; we are dreaming and happy about the move, yet the goodbye-ing is brutal. How much more so, if war or men with machetes chased us out? 

Was it a season like this …the world a mess, horror upon horror...when Christ was born?

I read social media posts of friend and family celebrations, happy homecomings, gorgeous decorations, while writing this in my journal:    

     Someone is coming to buy our grandson’s toddler bed. Jude's, toddler bed. I want to cry; I can’t watch it go. Granddaughter, Avery writes me notes saying how much she'll miss me after we move. I'm a mess these days. I’m a split personality; one side laughingly eager to live our dreams, the other side overwhelmed with grief.

Hallmark movies always have happy endings.  In reality, Mopsy is still not flying out of the lagoon. His ‘Maybe’ mate left him for a mallard that could fly away with her. I may move and never see him fly.

My mate, my hubby’s shoulder surgery and recovery is delaying our packing up.  Frustration mounts as I try to do too much myself.  Moving, like other stresses, often requires much vulnerability and letting go. Just a few months ago I led a women’s retreat and spoke boldly about learning to accept what is. I even co-wrote a book about having a spacious heart. 

What a fraud! 

My heart is not always open and accepting. Some days it’s curled into a fetal position or shaking a fist, shouting “enough!”  All I can do is observe with compassion, talk to my spiritual director to laugh and cry as together we witness and honor what is presenting in my life.   

This morning, I listened to an ON Being podcast while packing books into boxes. What a fun interview of Martin Sheen, a beautiful soul!  ( http://www.onbeing.org/program/martin-sheen-spirituality-of-imagination/8257)  I was soon laughing with him, with interviewer Krista Tippett, as Sheen quoted Thomas Merton on the birth of Christ: 

 "Into this world, this demented inn, where there is absolutely no room for him at all, Christ comes uninvited."  

Sheen said this is his favorite Christmas quote. With a raspy belly laugh, Sheen adds: "THIS IS CHRISTMAS!! --- Into this world, this demented inn, He comes uninvited. We all think we are seeking, but in reality we’re not."  We choose comfort over stretching. Ease over vulnerability. "This is the deepest spiritual practice - accepting the cup as offered, not as it is altered." When Sheen receives the cup, he always wants to ask, “can I have it less full?  Or with some extra sugar?”

Ah, I recognize myself in him. Into my chaotic world, into this demented chaotic world, Christ comes. Love comes. Hope exists. This truly is the deepest level of spirituality, to love deeply in spite of being human.To be grateful for our humanity, for life. To accept graciously the work and discomfort that is waking up, opening, deepening and change. To risk being vulnerable and human.  

We are all just doing our best to cope, to live as fully as we can. Including me, including you. 

Christ came as a human.  Into a demented inn, a chaotic world.  Chaos comes before new birth, before creation, before transformation. Hope exists. I hold that in my soul, too.           

So, it was a season like this…

Sold our home of 40years -OregonViewFarm

new home in VA!

                         .....when Love came.... 

                     

                      Merry Christmas!!! 

A Hint of Things to Come

Life constantly offers opportunities for us to grow and change, especially before and during times of transition.  Through our very lives, God speaks, providing inspiration for the journey.  If we are youngish and pliable, if our hearts are open, we receive exactly what we need to help us walk through times that scare us.

I find inspiration in the beat of duck wings, the rise of the morning sun, in imagines sent to me through comments of friends, through poems and wise-sayings on email or social media.  All become soul sensing hints of things to come, illuminations of the step right before us ....even as our eyes can’t see much of the journey ahead and our minds tend to worry and fret.

My grandson, Jude, lives in a tiny apartment attached to our house. At three, he really doesn’t understand the lines that divide our living spaces, or that his family won’t live here forever.  His daddy just graduated from college and there is talk of looking for a job and moving to a new place. So, change is coming. 

For months now, unprompted by any adult, Jude found and savored a book called Mouse Moves House. On the day he found it, I thanked the God who prompts and draws us to find the things we need to help move us interiorly in tune with outer change.  At first, the story of moving, terrified the small boy.  He wanted me to read it often; he’d sit enraptured and unsettled. I'd watch the play of emotions moving across his face.  Every time the story ended, he’d loudly proclaim his dislike. Yet, day after day, he’d pick it out again for me to read.  

These days, he loves the words and pictures of Mouse packing his backpack and dropping plates into a big bag, having a cheese snack in the middle of packing up. His mind has adjusted to the scary thought of moving from a home known since birth. 

Good storytelling often moves us forward, opens a reader’s heart toward greater understanding or toward something in life’s horizon.  Add the element of God, of the Divine Mystery (how do those stories and imagines end up right where we’ll find them when we need them?) and you’ve got a hint of how things work:  equilibrium to disequilibrium, and back to equilibrium…on and on in the cycle of life and growth - kissed by Eternal Wisdom, a God holding us in Love always. Whether we’re in the midst of being drawn to concepts or changes beyond our understandings, whether we're dug in and resisting, or flying wild and free, we are equally loved!  As we work our way from the comfort of the known, from the cozy nest, inching toward our edges before slipping into the wild unknown, we are usually filled with doubts, fears and dread.  How little we trust the process, or God’s great holding of us, or the drawing towards growth that results in greater love, spaciousness, and freedom. When we finally take flight, we realize the air under our wings is the same air that lined our cozy nest. The nest, the struggle to launch, the flying, and the very air around us is all part of the Great Holding.

As I prepare for some difficult transitions of my own, I am aware I’m being held. This helps me trust the God who loves Jude- that somehow all will be well – as Jude grows up with or without us sharing the same house.  I feel God’s love whenever I read to Jude, sharing stories of timeless wisdom or in making up my own stories to help Jude understand his world.  Stories have equal meaning to reader and listener.  Here's another favorite of Jude's:  The Egg Book. 

What wonderful, simple wisdom!

Reminds me of Jude's and my conversations as we watch the ducks in our old, unused farm lagoon.

Every day Jude and I count the ducks in our farm lagoon.  Ten this afternoon.

     “Nana, why not fifteen?”

     “Five flew away!”

     “But, I’m so sad. I miss them!”  The small boy’s face looks truly dejected.

     “I miss them too, and yet, I’m happy for them.”

     “Why?”

     “They are FLYING!! Wouldn’t it be awesome to fly? When they were little ducks all alone in their shell, they only knew what the inside of their egg shell looked like. Then they hatched and discovered this awesome lagoon and all their brothers and sisters. They loved it in the lagoon. They learned to paddle and float. They learned to peep and whistle for their momma. They learned to hide under momma’s wings to keep warm. They ate bugs,worms and feed we threw them on the ledge. They tried to catch frogs that popped and croaked on their tiny island.

     But, as they grew up, this wonderful lagoon started feeling small. There wasn’t enough room on the island for everyone to comfortably sleep.  The bigger ducks chased smaller ducks away from their favorite spot under the rushes.

     As they grew bigger, there wasn’t enough room on the ledge for them all to eat. So they started fighting over who got to eat first. Some ducklings got all pecked up and their feathers got pulled out by the bossier ducks.

     And then, they grew bigger still. They heard ducks flying over their heads, in the sky. And what is that wide blue dome above them; what is the sky made of?  They started imagining themselves up there. They started flapping their wings. They tried flying from the island to the ledge.  They wondered what it was like out there in the big, wide world beyond this tiny lagoon.

     One day, five ducks that were fat, sleek and all grown up, flew from the ledge to the island, the island to the ledge and then simply lifted themselves up, up, pumped their wings harder and flew over the lagoon fence. They flew into the wild, blue sky and were very glad they were ducks."

     “Why?”

     “Because they are flying high and seeing the world.”

     “Why?”

     “Because everyone needs to leave home sooner or later, sometimes more than once.”

     “Nana. I yike that.”  I smile and nod.

     “And, I don’t yike it too.”

     “Ah, you got that right, kid.”

We hi-fived, and said farewell - have a great life! -  to the five fly-aways.  

We watched the remaining ten as they pecked and preened. Then we kissed our hands and waved them at the ducks and went on to play baseball in the

pasture above the fenced-in lagoon.

And one final bit of wonderful wisdom:  This image was sent to me by a friend through email. I loved it so much I asked the author/artist, Kristin Noelle, if I may share this on my blog. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Prints can be ordered on Kristin's website:  https://www.etsy.com/shop/TrustTending?page=2

Thank-you for Your Life, Little Bird

One day while putting Jude in the swing, I almost stepped on a bird. Startled, I squealed. Jude looked down and saw the young bird, dead, awkwardly splayed out in the grass. 

     "What's wrong with the bird?" 

      "The bird died." 

His expression turned quite sad, so I deliberately pushed him high enough that he couldn't look over the buckle bar on the toddler swing to see the bird below. As he swung, he shouted no gleeful chant - yook out beyow! - as usual. Instead, he quietly asked.

   

     "Why do birds die?" 

I point out almost everything of nature to him  - the starling's chrr-chrrr warning other birds away from the nest. The dance of a sparrow attracting a mate. The long, mournful call of doves. Jude listens and notices with me. Today, for the first time, we must notice death. I really wasn't in the mood for explaining death. I didn't want to answer questions, or have him help me put the bird in a box and bury. Nor did I want him to watch Papaw throw it on the compost pile. 

I still haven't really answered his questions about how birth. How Aunt KK will get the baby out of her belly. I remember mumbling something about a special place in the body for birthing babies, without providing details. One of his favorite books is Once Upon a Potty; it's a toddler's delight with it's mind-numbingly numerous references to body places and body functions. I confess after a month of reading, I hid the book!  But I did love how the book provided me with a simple explanation for birth too. 

Remembering, I took the simple route for the death question too. 

      "I don't always know why birds die. Maybe it fell out of the tree, or didn't get enough to eat. When I get too sad about birds dying I just say - Thank you for your life, little bird."   Jude pondered this for a few seconds.

    "Why?"   

     "Because when something dies, it's important for us to notice. Because I'm thankful for life, and because it helps me feel better."  I looked down as I answered, carefully avoiding stepping on the bird's body as I pushed. And from the highest arch of swing, drifting down on wisteria scented breezes, came the sound of a small boy's happy voice.    

     "Tank you for your yife, yiddle bird." 

Completely Normal Power Struggle Angst

Our small boy, grandson, darling child, is three. Every parent, nanny, grandparent knows....a three year old is adorable, expressive, demanding, bossy, stubborn, full of -    

            I want to do it       
                         MYSELF! 

- and wails of  "'Dis is mine!" or "Yeave me a-yone; I haff to do my werk!" 

One minute a 3yr old is high-fiving after success on the potty, or wanting to snuggle with you, and the next minute defiant
and hauling back an arm to hit some one or some thing. 

In the midst of all this completely-normal-power-struggle angst, they throw out endearing expressions that melt your heart and make you want to hug them forever. (If they'd let you!)

Yesterday, after lunch, I sang this ditty to my grandson when he stubbornly refused to finish his milk: 


 
        "Drink your milk and drink it all 
          then you will grow strong and tall." 

 Songs often change a toddler's disposition, (and mine, to be honest) especially my song-loving grandson. Thankfully, I know a song for almost every mood or situation. Surprisingly, the milk music ditty didn't work, so I upped the ante by name dropping. And whisper singing the sneaky addition. Whispering usually works for me too. 

            "Drink your milk and drink it all,
              then you will grow strong and tall.....like Avery."


Mentioning Avery, the older, stronger, longest admired cousin really got the small boy's attention.  He picked up the glass, put it to his lips, but didn't drink.                




I had to go higher on the power and adoration chain. And use the opposite of whispering. It's all about timing, sound, facial expressions....drama, in other words. Drama is  EVERYTHING  to a toddler. 

              "Drink your milk and drink it all,
              then you will grow strong and tall.....LIKE PAP!!!"

Notice I didn't say Papaw, my husband, and the man across the table from Jude. Absence does truly make the heart grow fonder when it comes to grandparents. 

BINGO!!  Small boy downed his milk in breathless, gulping 
swallows.  After coming up for air, and with a ginormous
milk mustache, he exclaimed,

        "Oh yeah, becuz, Pap is WAY miles BIG!!" 

A Morning Like This

This is the morning I finally succumb to sick.
Sick at heart – reading earthquakes in Nepal, uprisings
over race and cops, and thousands of other  stuff
on social media …mostly trivial matters , but
human.
Sick of voice, larynx on fire, throat dry and swollen.
I've given up; letting this virus have its way
with me. Perhaps now, healing can begin.

This is the morning my dog eats a nest of baby bunnies,
soft and downy. I turn my back, asking Death to come
quick and painless, while my eyes tear up
for babies everywhere lost, dying
abandoned.
Sick of mind, knowing the ways of this earth. Of
predator and hunter, unfairness and bullying. Of human
vulnerability expressed in art and poetry and innocence.

This is the morning my dad shoots a squirrel; pest digging

In flower beds, and discovers the bedridden woman two

houses down fondly watched that squirrel every

day. Imagine his chagrin and her loss. Sorry, just so

sorry.

This is the morning bluebirds come back. Harbingers

of joy;  the dying one’s  symbol of hope. This is the morning

all is well, of exquisite sunrise, of open heart and silent voice.

HOW TO SAY "Yes!" TO LIFE

Pay attention. Watch for bluebirds                                         

and trains. Distant train whistles are soulful

echoes; speeding cars delight little

boys. Blue wings beat out the rhythm and

colors of hope. Notice the plump song

sparrow - a little body pumping out

music. Trains and birds are accordions, holding

our collective breaths before transforming

us into dance tunes.    

 

Show up. Count the eyelashes on a

sleeping child. Catch the smile of your

suckling babe, when the tiny mouth

opens wide, spilling milk from cherub

lips that dribble down your breast all

sticky, gross and indescribably

precious. Be pen and paper for the

last requests of one you love.

Smooth your hands over your body.

photo by Stephanie Landis

Let hands say with fondness  -my body has

many parts. Marvel over the lines and detail,

having a toddler's no shame. Then, being

gassy is only "peeping."  And, maybe even

marvelous like horses exploding 

into a gallop.

                                                                   

Play with your shadows. Invite your inner 

multitudes to dinner. Notice how love, 

ymiu.com clip art

like sunlight and your own position, 

lengthens or shortens your characters.

Use your best china on colorful linen

cloth. Introduce yourself to yourself; get

to know humanity this way, through honesty,

acceptance, compassion.  

 

Be gentle. Always and above all, be
tender, easy, forgiving your processes, your
angst, your temper, your struggle to love. As you 
do with you, so shall you offer to others. Throw 
away your measuring stick; fling your soul wide 
awake. Embrace what is, stomp and kick your way 
to acceptance. Or sigh.

When stuck in the mud trumpet loudly.

Ask for help from the herd. Do your 

hard inner work. And then watch Tim

Conway's Elephant Story outtakes. Laugh,

cry. Wear your heart on your sleeve right

beside the washable dragon tattoo. Set your

Facebook account to pirate lingo.

Listen with your heart to the song of the

moon. It will drop your jaw, like Richard 

Strauss music.  So will the gak gak! of a 

crow harassing an eagle in mid-flight. Lie

on the beach under the splash of milky way,

listening to the night sky. Hear the sound

a soul makes when awed.

Stay with what's uncomfortable. Put 
up a bluebird feeder and nest box for
your dying wife, knowing every time a
bluebird feeds, builds, your heart will rip
apart with loss and love. Allow your farm 
dogs to hunt groundhogs. Gentle souls 
can know reality; predators can lay across 
your lap, cozy. If you turn away, hurl up 
your pancakes after the first kill, embrace the paradox. Somehow, it all belongs.   

Say goodbye. No matter how hard or 
full of weeps. Build monuments, cairns of
stone or shell. Gather wood. Stand around
the funeral pyre, the birthing table too, and give honor, thanks, dignity. Record your steps. Plant trees, light the fire, look deeply into eyes of loss and place, of memories, of hellos and dreams. Then, when it's time to move on, say goodbye firmly.  

Open your heart.  Let that movie in, fully. Lay 
down your armor; bring tissues, let stories stir 
you to action or sleeplessness. Especially, when 
the little one trips into your room rem-stage 
sleep, and throws up undigested pieces of the day 
on your good quilt.  Hold the sobbing girl, depressed, 
anxious, let her heart open yours. Lie on the 
green grass and stare at the sky, until your heart is wide and expansive. 

Cultivate wisdom. Roll over and play dead

when needed. Say no frequently, so your 

yes can be wholehearted; aren’t those fully alive

attractive? And, every time you take off your

shoes, or fall asleep, or sigh into a yoga pose,

practice dying. Slip off whatever is too tight,

and breathe, knowing in your soul – 

after the pinch - freedom!

Honoring the life of the newest angel in our family- Elaine, much loved and newly released from this earth. 

A Bluebird Hears My Heart

photo by Mim Hurst

Bluebird, bluebird through my window

Bluebird, bluebird through my window

Bluebird, bluebird through my window

Oh Johnny, I am tired.

My daughter, Stephanie, and I were talking about my new bluebird feeder and how much I hoped to lure bluebirds to our meadow. We started singing the children’s ditty above, but couldn't remember the second verse:

Find a little friend and ……

Find a little friend and….

Steph offered- “....and put ‘em in your pocket”

I shook my head. Those are words to the song Catch a Falling Star. Again we sang hoping the melody would trigger our memory. Suddenly, we heard a soft childish voice and realized my grandson had been finishing our phrase quietly in the background:  “Find a little friend and tap her on the shoulder!” 

We hadn't heard him as we were engrossed in our exchanges. Delighted, we tapped him on the shoulder, then hugged and tickled him in celebration of his cleverness. He squealed his happy response!   

Kids remind us how often we don't pay attention to the smallest voice. We hear what we want to hear, give attention to what we deem important or on all the externals, and miss the inner, the quiet, possibly the most profound.

Truthfully, I love deep listening. I tend to be good at picking up on what others miss. I’m not so good that I don’t need reminders, though. It’s been a deep listening kind of winter.  Cold, endlessly windy and snowy, I’ve sat by the hearth of my heart- warmed by internal fires - and did inner house cleaning.  I’ve listened and noticed, allowed some difficult transforming and releasing of old stuff.  So much so, that I want to be DONE with the season.

My body and soul longed for spring. 

So, I prayed for blue birds. Praying involves doing what I can do provide food and habitat, then lovingly sending out a call to the bluebirds. It involves waiting, watching, trying to let go of all demands on said bluebirds. Why should I mess with their lives making them help me cope with mine?  I peek out the window frequently though, and hold my breath, as it's possible to be obsessive and impatient while letting go.

As I mentioned before, it’s been a horrid winter. The snow never ended. People died. My family received news of my sister-in-law’s end stage cancer. Other difficulties were challenging. Interior shifts unsettled me. I often felt helpless and discouraged. I thought I needed a sign of hope, of new life, of spring after this long grunt of a season, so I prayed for bluebirds.

I’m thrilled to announce: A PAIR OF BLUEBIRDS FOUND MY FEEDER TODAY!!!!

I watched them this morning, skin tingling with wonder, as the male bird tenderly fed his mate a meal worm.

His loving attention reminded me of my brother’s tender care of his beloved, dying wife.  Some churches practice washing each other’s feet as a reminder of the call to service during holy week. Foot washing isn't always nice; it requires humility, love, and staying with what is uncomfortable. My brother, and maybe this blue bird, are doing ‘foot washing’ in real life. 

As I watched, I asked the pair of birds to choose my nest box to nest to raise a family, even while knowing the fleeting beauty of the moment. I know I can’t pray and summon anything. If I could I would instantly heal my brother’s wife. And my cousin and all my family and friends.  

Once in a while, when I am vulnerable and open, something unexpected and wonderful happens. Something comes as pure gift, an intersection of my asking, my receptiveness and Divine outpouring. A bluebird hears my heart. Or another small miracle – marvelous but, easily missed. Like a bit of synchronicity, a child’s delightful whisper, a Divine consolation or soulful contemplation. All bring a goose bumpy sense of timelessness and connectedness to love.

Bluebird on Holly, photo by Mim Hurst

All this blue bird longing made me curious, so I looked up “bluebird” on a dream symbol website. “To see a bluebird in your dream symbolizes both happiness and sadness. It is also an indication of purification and resolution to the opposing conflicts/paradoxes in your life.”  Day dreams and longings must count, because happy and sad – yes indeed!  

Like Jude singing the song lines for me, my body and soul have wisdom my mind hasn't grasped. My body and soul know what I need to more fully lament and rejoice. Like a small child’s voice, intuitions and longings, bring wisdom and encouragement.  This is the voice of God in my life, the voice of love, helping me notice, hold the moment, and at least know somewhat of a desire to not clutch or grasp.   

My winter was full of purification – a task I may never truly finish – but I am finished with winter.  

Whether or not the pair stay, THIS is the season for new life, for hope  .....and for bluebirds!  

carolinabirdclub.org