An Earthquake in the Heart

How Does Anyone Survive Relocating?  

              It is beastly. It is an earthquake in the heart. 
Thankfully, angels come to help you keep your balance! 

I have never moved before except to get married. Almost 40 years ago the stars in my eyes completely blocked any pain of leaving my childhood home. Since then, my friends and family members have moved. And, I'm sure I didn't pay enough attention. I read about moving in novels, of course. But, thought novelists exaggerate the inner upheaval for dramatic effect.  

I figured the farmer and I were solidly put on this land; we would never move so why pay close attention to something I'd never have to experience?  

In the recent past, a good friend talked about the struggles they had in moving. My compassion was so heartfelt; I prayed daily for them. And still I had no idea what it was like. Humanly, it's impossible to go into the inner landscape of another. The best we can offer is companionship and empathy. And soup. 

Angels brought us soup. I hope to do the same during others' earthquakes. 

Somewhere in my becoming more alive and awake, I signed up for a 'Yes!' to life. I want to be fully present to what is. See, feel and honor exactly what is unfolding in life. Often it takes effort to stay present, not sugar coat, minimize, cover up, suppress or blind myself to life. 

Someone hinted I'm too raw; I drag things out too long. At the time, I waffled between feeling chastised and compassion for him. Another asked me why I'm documenting a 'goodbye to the farm' and 'the last this or that' - why am I looking back so much? She could not do the same as it would be too painful. She speaks some truth. It is painful. 

Grandies play in a newly emptied closet. Note
the flashlight hanging by a bungee cord.

Most of us, including me at times, bulldoze our way through change. Or distract ourselves. Change is so unsettling! I love how children play their way through change. 







Being the queen of post-it notes, of finding beautiful answers long after the question, I wish I'd said, "I don't think of it as looking back, or wallowing. I'm standing firmly in the present moment, in the unfolding. My heart is open, undefended; I'm sorrowing and celebrating.  My family is deeply honoring our life together in this place. Our work on this farm, the 4, almost 5 generations of family here. All the sweat, the hopes, the birthing, the dying, the potato digging, steer wrangling, goat milking, hay bale throwing, and egg gathering. The lost dreams, the anger, joy, beauty and stink.... everything.

Four heads watch the grand piano dismantling! Sometimes
angels wear boots and work pants.

I can't do my celebratory bonfire idea, where we invite everyone who ever set foot on this place and loved it with us, to circle around the fire and sing, cry, reminisce, honor the changes. So Facebook photo albums and this blog become my bonfire. Everyone who ever loved this place is invited to gather with us.  

I'll end with a lovely quote by Parker Palmer:   

I know there are folks who don't want to contemplate the end of life, or any sort of loss, before they get there. For them it drains joy from the present moment.  For me, it's the opposite. Every reminder that there will be a last this and a last that — including a last moment — deepens my gratitude for this moment and helps me "be here now."   (http://www.onbeing.org/blog/parker-palmer-the-last-things-to-give-up/8381)


Yes!  Oh yes. 

Goodbye to the farm!     Stunning photo by Krista Stolzfus from Higher Focus Studio

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.