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

Still, Still, Still

Still, Still, Still

Early this morning, I went for a walk. These cold wintry days I usually wait until the afternoon to don scarf and walking boots, but by then I’m exhausted and need a nap. My disappointed dog, Carey, sleeps on the floor during naps, sighing, waiting for me to wake up. When I finally drag myself out, the walk is more obligation than joy.

This morning the temperature is in the teens, but without wind, the world outside my door looks crystal clear, gentle and still. Carey whines excitedly as I pull on my boots. Getting outside to salute the sun seems a fitting way to celebrate the winter solstice. I head for the neighboring retirement village to walk the path around the pond. As I circle the parking lot looking for a space, I’m awed by the beauty of early morning mist rising from still pond waters and the pale blue sky above.

Parked, and with Carey leashed, I walk heavily in snow pants, boots, llama hair jacket. Carey prances easily beside me totally unencumbered by her winter coat. It is a different world here, all white, pure and crystalline.  My soul rests and my breath deepens. Each moment flows into another. I flow along. Eternity seems touchable. There are no edges, no constraints, no holiday rushing, no candles or carols, no stressful crowds, no piles of cookies to resist or bake, no shoulds. There is only stillness in white and blue, white snow, white rays of sun, white swans floating on a mirror still pond, water reflecting the blue sky. Every tree branch, twig, fence line and dried weed is kissed with white frost. Clear crystals cling to each shape with indescribably beauty, like hope clinging to a dreary soul.

The scene reminds me of the song: “Still, Still, Still” sung by the Ephrata Cloister Choir on their Christmas at the Cloister CD. The choir sings in German; I have to look up what the words mean.

Still, Still, Still while Jesus sleeps, be still.
His mother o’er him bends, adoring,
All her love in song outpouring.
Still, still, still, while Jesus sleeps, be still.

I’ve played this song over and over this season. It comforts me. I feel needy, my body is extra tired and I miss mom.  She is so close, just on the other side of the pond living in an Altzheimer’s unit, yet the disease has taken her far away. Mom would love this German song.  She no longer responds to music, but in her day, music was love. In our Swiss German culture there isn't much hugging, or expressions of affection, but we sing. Ah, how we sing!  In this silent morning, I think of Mary singing to Jesus. I think of my mother, Mary, and how often she sang to her babies. “All her love in song outpouring” … a truth fitting both Mary’s.

When I get home, I’ll listen to the song again. And, I'll allow the acapella harmonies to pour over me like the love of a thousand singing mothers.

Joyfully,
Sharon

                                                     Merry Christmas!

Waiting to Exhale

I lay on the floor beside 2yr old granddaughter, Avery, watching her breathe. She is asleep, tucked into a little makeshift bed beside Nana’s big bed. She is unaware of the changes happening in her life at this very moment. No matter how much doting parents prepare the way for a new baby’s arrival, there are always surprising adjustments for the older sibling. As I mull these thoughts around, Avery sleeps with trusting abandonment. I pray for momma and babe, for my son who will surely be feeling moments of helplessness this night. The phone lies between Avery and me; the little one sighs in slumber. I smile in response, waiting for the call so I can exhale fully.

Only two years old and this little sweetheart’s world is about to be turned upside down. Ah, one never grows old enough to escape life’s sudden twists and turns. I’m glad I don’t have the power to protect my loved ones from this truth as I’m sure my interference would mess life up more than letting it be.

I confess I thought life would be easier, or at least more figured out, by the time I aged to Nana status, but the older I get the less I know. My own life feels full of birthing and death. There are things wanting to be born in me, things needing to go fallow, things needing to die. I sit by candle light in these dark nights and am grateful for the pull to rest, to hibernate, to embrace darkness. Like a babe in the womb, dark, enfolded, I sometimes need a season of nurturing. The gentle dark quiet helps prepare me for spurts of growth, change and of course, for life’s surprises.

Happy birthing day, new little one. I’m so sorry your tidy little world is contracting too. Thank God, loving arms are waiting. And, thank God for hellos, for siblings, for rest after labor, and for light that comes after darkness.

Joyfully anticipating,
Sharon

Living Fully into Hope

I left for the weekend, my garden bursting with summer's cardinal flowers, impatiens, and geraniums. Autumn colors of gold and rust mixed with delicate red and pink Mandeville buds. I returned home to find a slaughtering frost had transformed masses of colorful flowering plants into wilted piles of dull green.

Today, I decide to say goodbye to summer's fecundity by ceremoniously unwinding the Mandeville vines instead of cutting and pulling them off the trellis. As I work, I notice each wilted bud, thankful for their beauty, their hope in the future.

Leaves and vines curl everywhere, some still alive and viable, reaching far from their trellis home into the potted willow tree nearby filling autumn-bare corkscrew branches with leaf cover. As I uncurl each green finger, I smile at the barren willow's leafy disguise. I wonder how often I attempt to cover my unfruitfulness by standing near someone in full bloom.

I tried saying hello to winter's dark days, to slowing down and holing up, but with sunshine on my back and warm weather predictions, I'm just not ready. This goodbye gesture is enough; it reveals my desire for deeper authenticity, for asking what wants to bloom in me. Like the Mandeville, perhaps many of my buds will die before reaching fulfillment. I want to respond as gracefully as the vine, believing life is not about forcing blossoms, but living fully into hope and promise.

Joyfully,
Sharon

Autumn Joy

Autumn brings to mind cornfields, street fairs, sheep shows, leaf piles, apple crisp and golden sugar maples. And, it’s the name of my favorite autumn plant – Sedum Autumn Joy. I bought the plant on name alone, but soon fell in love with the flowers of this sedum especially the slow, gorgeous transformation from pink, to crimson, to deep rust as summer transitions into autumn. As I enjoy my garden sedum, I contemplate my own transitions.

Last year, at this time, I was baffled by odd health symptoms. This season, after lymphoma diagnosis and four months of immuno-chemotherapy, I’m well into recovery. The last appointment with the oncologist went well despite being nervous about meeting a new doctor. I changed oncologists in honor of a gift to myself on my 50th birthday. I decided since I’ve had male doctors for my first 50years, I’d like to have female doctors for the next fifty. I’m delighted to have good rapport with the new doctor, to hear my recent PET/CT scan shows continued decreasing activity in all ‘watched areas’ and to have scheduled an appointment for removal of my port since maintenance doses of Rituxan and chemo are not necessary. What lovely validations of health and healing! My white cell counts are slowly improving, but still low, so I won’t discard my copious supply of hand sanitizer.

A few weeks ago, during a bout of melancholy and needing some autumn joy, I took a walk, then sat on my favorite bench on a hill overlooking a creek, a pond, and a retirement village nestled among trees ablaze in red, orange and gold.

The sun feels so good after days of rain. I feel blue, yet alive and alert. My mind skips around from thought to thought then relaxes deeply into spacious appreciation of earth’s sights, sounds, and smells. Moments later, as thoughts return, I’m momentarily confused –is this spring or autumn? I see signs of spring: a swollen creek, curving like a ribbon over deep moss and cress colored fabric, water spilling over banks as if fed by spring rains, green grass carpeting the ground before and around me. I look up, reassured by golds and reds; yes, it’s autumn, even if fields of yellow ripened corn are bordered by emerald strips of vigorously growing alfalfa, even if rows of brilliant red burning bushes arise from lush lawns.

Like two eyes that see double when relaxed and single one when focusing together, I almost saw two seasons blending into one! Similarly, my melancholy blurred with deeper joy, until my thoughts and feelings became one with the pulse of life, the green earth, brilliant red leaves, golden corn, flowing waters. I want to savor, while holding all lightly so I don’t become too focused on one thing.

I dread the port removal procedure, unpleasant emotions, difficult life situations, endings, and anticipate a grandchild’s smile, beginnings, and the bite of a crisp apple, but these simple ups and downs symbolize the ebb and flow of change.

Life has seasons to be noticed and enjoyed, and holding everything lightly may help ease the transitions. It’s a comfort knowing I’m not defined by my thoughts or emotions, by what happens in my life. My true self is deeper, wider, more connected to something bigger than myself. In joy or in disappointment, I can focus own my own state, or I can open to the pulse of humanity, of earth and sea and sky, Spirit too. One focus without the other tends to keep me stuck in clinging, or wishing for some other emotion, situation, state or season. Like when I’m lying awake, but numbed, on the surgeon’s table for the port removal, I pray to see a bigger picture than my dread! I like Elizabeth’s advice: visualize the port covered in slippery butter so it pops right out!

I raise my buttered bread this morning to ‘toast’ autumn, loving support, and finding bits of joy in dreadful moments….

Joyfully,
Sharon

Turning the Blues to Joy

I’m under the weather; it’s raining, and I’m sick. My friends have gone on a ‘women’s day out’ without me. I’m tempted to feel blue, so I’m dedicating this whole day to loving kindness.

First, I shower my sick and disappointed self with compassion, in the form of hot tea and reflection. If I give my emotions some genuine attention, they often release quickly. Second, I sit in meditation, dedicating my prayer to all the friends I love, my family, my church community, girls and women who are not yet free, the sick, wounded, elderly, those caught in poverty. Soon I’m sending love to my dog, everyone’s pets, my plants, all creation and humanity, the earth, the universe. Then I sink into God, rest in Divine Love. After Centering Prayer, I rise slowly, embrace the day.

I’m eager, no longer focusing on what I’m missing, but what joy lies before me: sealing my painted, cement sand-cast leaves, blogging, rewriting Kairos curriculum, cleaning my dining room, yoga, reading, and mindfully tasting a new chocolate bar with ginkgo called “Unforgettables”.

I can use all the help I can get in memory improvement. Chemo-brain is gone, thanks to diligence in eating enough protein for recovery, and God’s grace. Mindfulness practice is helping me overcome a lifelong tendency toward absent-mindededness. But, I confess, the joy of finding a delicious dark chocolate bar with only 140 calories that ‘supports memory, concentration, and recall’ is a bit of heaven on earth!

Go forth and enjoy your day! Join me in being present for a moment, mindful for a moment, remembering to love yourself so you know how to love others and receive Grace.

Joyfully,

Sharon

Quotes:

"I'm hopelessly in love with God!" ~ SL, RP, and others Iknow. :)

"What can we gain by sailing to the moon if we are not able to cross the abyss that separates us from ourselves? This is the most important of all voyages of discovery, and without it all the rest are not only useless but disastrous."

~ Thomas Merton