For the Gulf Coast

I was struck hard yesterday looking at photos of birds, snails, and the general area now being so unnaturally covered with oil along the coast. The friend who had posted the link referred to the photos as gut-wrenching, and they were. My tear ducts were wrenched along with my gut as I saw a small heron dying because of the oil around it.

Wondering how long this will go on, how much can be cleaned up, and how long it will take for the area to recover, was overwhelming.

I had to focus on the possibility of recovery. It seems pointless to me right now for people to try to guess how much oil there is, how much damage it will do, how long it will take to clean it, etc. The one thing that seems clear is that no one knows, and they've just got to do everything possible to manage the mess that's been made. And help the people and animals affected.

And little images came to my mind of green plants growing out of cracks in asphalt or concrete where it seemed impossible, and then the reminder of a piece I'd just read of the way the buffalo are increasing and starting to roam again, and stories I've heard of how quickly an area can be retaken over by wild plants if given a chance.

The sadness at what man's ignorance and greed have done and the thoughts of hope and regeneration reminded me of the words, "for all this, nature is never spent...." When I looked up the poem it was a bit of a shock to remember that Hopkins used oil itself as an image in his first lines. Certainly he wasn't thinking of BP's oil refinery type oil, but still it was strange to find the very word here.

And comforting, very comforting, in that moment to be reminded that this dear, bent earth is not alone in the universe without a Holy Spirit brooding over her with ah! bright wings and doing things we cannot now even imagine, things that will and do continue to charge her with God's grandeur.

I pray for the people of the coast, that they may not despair.

THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

--G.M. Hopkins

A Walker Percy Quote

This life is far too much trouble, far too strange, to arrive at the end of it and then to be asked what you make of it and have to answer "Scientific humanism." That won't do. A poor show. Life is a mystery, love is a delight. Therefore, I take it as axiomatic that one should settle for nothing less than the infinite mystery and the infinite delight, i.e., God....I refuse to settle for anything less.

From an article comparing Walker Percy and Martin Buber's thinking. I've been sick the past few days and reading more than usual. Am thinking I'd like to read some Walker Percy but am not sure where to start.

Postcard

Dear Blog,

I miss you. Sorry I haven't written more often. I promise I will come back. I hope it won't be much longer.

The weather is great. Just a lot going on.

Love,
Sheila

Cut Bouquet

The camera "disappeared" (i.e., I forgot where I'd put it), and I just "found" it today. So this is not a recent photo. It was made just over two weeks ago, of the few daffodils that bloomed in our little backyard. There was a freeze warning for that night, so I cut them and brought them in. And saw the photo today for the first time.

Now here comes evidence of the amazing power of projection. Because when I looked at this photo, while my first thought was, "Oh, look, the sweet daffodils! I'd forgotten I took that picture," and then, "Wow, this makes the windows look even dirtier than I realized they were," my mind quickly went to other things.

I thought how sad for the flowers to have been cut off from their stem, their roots, taken out of the dirt they lived in, away from fresh air and sunshine. Away from the only world they knew, and brought into this space where even the sunlight they get is indirect and comes to them through dirty windows, blurring the view.

I thought how often I have felt that way. Whether it was moving to a new place (whether a dormitory or a country), or losing a job, or losing a friendship that had meant a lot, or via depression losing the ability to enjoy life and feel like my normal self....All kinds of situations can feel like being cut off from oneself and from life as it had been.

And then I remembered beloved Mr. Woodroof, who preached in the church of my growing up for many years, and his talking about the inadequacy of offering someone a "cut-bouquet religion." How it isn't enough to give someone all the information about faith, without helping them actually develop their own faith that takes root and grows way after the original handing down process occurs.

And then I thought about my recent re-reading of The Great Divorce, in which Lewis does such a wonderful job of visually describing spiritual concepts of life and death, freedom and enslavement, selflessness and self-absorption. And especially the sense of joy and glory at being in the presence of the Source of Life and Joy and Glory. The strength and realness that come from being connected to ultimate Reality, the personal God who created the first garden that all living things come from, and who will one day restore all things to their original glory.

So, I looked at this little image of daffodils in the windowsill and thought how our whole life on earth is like that, in a way. We see through a glass darkly. We have some faint form of remembrance of another way of life, of being truly alive. We yearn, and if we don't kill the yearning, we have some hope of it even in this life, the more rooted we become in the Source. And we look forward to the glorious time when "we shall be changed" and the perishable becomes imperishable, when Easter resurrection becomes a shared experience, not a historic event only.

And I was just thinking, "But the flowers can never regain that aliveness! It isn't fair!" (I also encountered an ailing bird earlier this morning while walking, who didn't even try to move away from my friend and me, so I think my sympathetic capacity for innocent creatures was in overdrive.) And realized that of course they can, and they will. Because they eventually wilted and died, and I put them in the compost, and before long they will go back into the earth, and be again a part of something that grows and lives in that very real world that in the moment of the photo they could only remember and look at through the window.

(I am not writing well, just thinking "out loud." Oh dear, I was about to write, "out loud--on paper," because I'm not of course saying this aloud--then realized I'm not writing on paper at all. Now I'm feeling even more detached from reality!)

And just as the flowers have to die to live again, so do we. And the people I know who've done the most dying to themselves are the most "alive" people I know. Their willing-to-die way of life allows them to see through the window, beyond the window, even into the dust and grime of the window of this world, to the Reality that makes it all possible. They are connected to the earth, the sky, the light, the wind. To the Spirit who gives life. And if they get cut off and disconnected by circumstnaces, they know it is only temporary.

So, I think I can now look at this photo without that melancholic feel it gave me earlier. Any image is never the whole story.

But I do think I'll clean the windows as soon as I can.

Easter Night

All night had shout of men, and cry
Of woeful women filled His way;
Until that noon of sombre sky
On Friday, clamour and display
Smote Him; no solitude had He,
No silence, since Gethsemane.

Public was Death; but Power, but Might,
But Life again, but Victory,
Were hushed within the dead of night,
The shutter’d dark, the secrecy.
And all alone, alone, alone,
He rose again behind the stone.

--Alice Meynell (1847-1922)

I wish that I were at church right now for the Easter Vigil. It didn't work out for me to be able to go this year, for various reasons. We will go in the morning for the Easter service, which is celebratory and joyful beyond description. But the Vigil is thick with story, ritual, and mystery--and great joy, with them; and I wanted to be there.

Of course, if I were there, I wouldn't have found this poem and wouldn't be here writing. When I came across this poem while ago, I couldn't help but think how true it is that often the most powerful experiences with God in my own life happen in solitude, not in a crowd. And why wouldn't they? What people in intimate relationship want to display their most precious moments to strangers? Certainly you can experience a form of intimacy with a small group of people, but the most powerful relational moments, the moments that change lives, usually occur one-on-one.

In Jesus' life, we see him continually going away from the crowd, and even separating from his closest friends, to pray. And it's when he is away from everyone else that he is transfigured, that Moses and Elijah appear, and that angels come to strengthen him.

I suppose some would say that if only Jesus had been resurrected in front of a crowd, then there would be proof of the resurrection. But apparently when he resurrected Lazarus in front of a small crowd, even though their witnessing the event caused them to believe, it only caused the authority figures to want to capture the evidence (Lazarus) and kill him, to squash the story. We are all very good at explaining away the things we prefer not to believe, despite evidence to the contrary.

And so, in the middle of the night, alone except for the One he had always been most intimate with, He came alive. From the dead. It boggles the mind.

And from that time on--even though no one saw it as it happened--night became less dark for the many who have believed. Death lost its sting. And those of us who manage to escape the crowd from time to time, are also blessed with powerful encounters with the Light and Life that worked in the dark of death that night.

Maybe being alone on Easter night is not such a bad thing, after all.

Body Language

Lately I've been thinking about my own body more than usual. I'm to be in a wedding soon, which makes me wonder how that little black dress is going to look on me. (It will look a little different from this, as the bride is graciously allowing me, as matron of honor, to add a strap.) And I wonder what on earth I should do with my hair. And I wonder, will I make it up the aisle without tripping on heels, which I never wear?!

I've had several lovely days for walking, and even did a wee bit of running on one of them, and find myself longing to be seventeen again, able to run without thinking about an injured knee. And just being in good enough shape to run five miles when called for. Every now and then these days, I daydream about being able to do that again, though I've still not been able to get the shoes I need, and it's been too cold to run barefoot. So I'm not very far along that path, even though the very idea of being able to dream of it is exciting.

And I've done a bit of yoga and something called Doxa Soma recently, in both cases being reminded of posture. What seems to have stuck in my mind most is the Doxa Soma encouragement to "keep your heart lifted and open," which works much better for me than, "Keep your back straight and your shoulders down."

But the thing about body language that hit me yesterday had to do with other people's bodies, three brief encounters that haven't yet left my mind.

First, I went to the bank to deposit my meager earnings for the week. I parked my car next to a beautifully cared-for antique car, a two-toned teal/acqua vehicle from the early 1950's by my guess. It was just lovely and something of a wonder to behold. The bank was not crowded, so as I walked in I wondered if I could guess who was the owner of that car by how they looked or dressed, or talked, or something. It would have to be someone with money and taste, I figured, and that should show. I asked a couple of men if it belonged to them, but they had no idea about it.

As I was leaving the bank, the car was just pulling out, and I saw who was in it. It was a woman I'd seen in the bank--large, unkempt, with sad posture and with long, thin stringy hair and a whiny voice as she talked with the teller about some problems she was having. It was so completely not what I expected that I just haven't been able to get the image out of my mind.

Next, I went to the bookstore where I worked once upon a time and got to see some of my former co-workers. I ran into a friend from a school where I also worked once upon a time. With each of these people, I couldn't help but notice that their bodies said they were glad to see me. Backs straightened, eyes lit up, smiles appeared. Our eyes connected.

The friend was someone I hadn't seen in over a year, and we had catching up to do, so we stood there and talked for quite a while. In a city this size, it's always nice to go to a place where people know you, and then to unexpectedly run into someone who knows you. It just plain felt good. For a while I forgot that I was wearing my work-in-the-yard clothes, and that the socks I was wearing looked hilarious with the shoes I had on. And I noticed as we talked, and even as I left to check out, how straight I was standing--how open my heart was, both physically and emotionally.

And then, as I was leaving the shopping center, I happened to catch sight in my rear view mirror of a man exiting a jewelry shop and seating himself on the bench outside. It was Saturday afternoon, and I guess he stood out because he was wearing a three-piece suit. I sat in my car having to wait for passing traffic, so I just observed him for a moment. What struck me in this moment was that he was moving his legs in a particular way, knees moving closer and apart, closer and apart, the way children do when they are excited or nervous. The way grownups intentionally refrain from doing when they are excited or nervous--espeically while in the presence of other grownups wearing three-piece suits.

But this man just sat there on the bench, legs playing a rapid etude in contrary motion, with no idea I was watching him. I wondered if he were waiting for someone he was eager to see, or for a wealthy and difficult customer to show up, or if he had just been reprimanded by his boss, or just what those legs were saying. And I doubt I would ever have noticed it, if not for the suit and tie.

No big point to this little writing. Just three separate incidents related to body (and clothing) awareness and my amazement at how much we do depend on body language for information, and how little we may realize others are "reading" us, or trying to. And how the inner state does get expressed, even if clothes (or cars) might give different messages.

So, even though a little black dress and heels do not express my general inner state, maybe if I can stay very calm on the day of the wedding, I can make it down that aisle and back up without tripping.

I sure hope so.

Poem from Elementary School

I know when spring comes.
I feed the birds lots of crumbs.
Flowers are pretty.
Buttercups turn yellow.
Tulips look like red jello.

Have I shared that before on here? Seems like maybe I did, but since I'm still haven't switched my blog over to the newer format and therefore have no easy way to find things, I'm not sure.

Anyway, I have that in a scrapbook of things I did in elementary school. I was taking some real poetic license, because I don't recall ever feeding crumbs to birds.

But the "buttercups," which I now realize are not buttercups at all, but daffodils or more properly narcissus, have been turning yellow around here for a little over a week, and Daffodil Hill is just beautiful. Of course, it has only just begun. Nearly all the grass you see above will soon have green stems poking up, and flowers blooming within the next month.

And even though we're currently in a cold spell (40 degrees at 3pm, when it had been in the 70's this past week), spring is definitely here. Crocus, daffodils, hyacinth, magnolias, forsythia, bridal wreath, pear trees, even some flowering quince....Memphis is blossoming all around, and it's as lovely as ever.

Now, if we can just manage to open this house's windows, which have all been painted shut by former owners. I'll never understand the mentality of a person who chooses to live without fresh air in their house!

Happy spring!

More than a Month!

Wow, I knew I hadn't written in a while, but I didn't realize how long that while had been.

Welcome back to my own blog, eh? I just happened to come across it while leaving a comment on someone else's blog. (Half kidding, but that really is what brought me here.)

We've still got boxes in five rooms of the house. Still waiting to have my office walls patched and painted so I can unpack all my books and things in here. Still looking at the Bermuda grass in the front yard and wondering what we can do to add a little personality out there. Still functioning without a lot of kitchen things.

In the past week, though, I actually had a day that stood out. Because somewhere in the latter half of it, I realized that it felt like a very normal day. That I felt some kind of normalcy inside myself, and that it felt very good.

It's not that I've gone around for months thinking, "I don't feel normal," but the truth is that life has not been normal for quite some time, and that has affected me. It isn't that it has been bad, and it really has not been as stressful as I expected it to be. But it hasn't been normal, and I haven't felt like myself as much as I did the other day in quite a while.

So, a day that struck me with its normal sort of feeling was a very nice thing!

On that day, I had two counseling sessions, both with clients who've been with me for a while and have made good progress. That always feels good. I also had a meeting with a longtime mentor, one of those grounding kind of encounters that make you see that someone you respect a lot, who has known you through thick and thin times, continues to have faith in you. It's the kind of feedback we all thrive on, but which has been scarce since leaving my longer-term job over a year ago.

I also got to spend time outside in the sun! A cancellation gave me a block of free time, so I went to the little lake at Audubon Park and ate my lunch on a bench, communing with sun, water, trees, and ducks. And even with a kindly older man who came and sat on the next bench over. Ah, sunlight and warmth after a longer-and-colder-than-usual winter! What a blessing.

Oh, and I also spent some time in a Harding swing on the grad school campus after a meeting there. Now that's a grounding experience, for sure. No telling how many of those swings I've swung in over the years, and how much good they've done for my mind and soul.

Then piano lessons were a joy, as always.

And after three evenings in a row of being away from home (a chorus rehearsal, doing a presentation on intercultural communication at UofM, and teaching a class at church), I was home Thursday evening, made a real supper, and enjoyed sitting at table with my dear one.

It was a lovely day, and as I said, at some point, I just had this moment of realizing that I felt more like myself than I had in a long time, more "at home" in my own mind and body than I could remember feeling in months. It gave me hope that more such days were ahead, that I might soon feel settled enough to see beyond the immediate challenges, and it just felt good.

And today was another warm day. Warm enough to do some work outside. I spent a couple of hours or more pulling wisteria off our garage and cutting down/cleaning out the privet hedge along the north fence. I think those bushes must have been planted when the house was built almost 70 years ago. I didn't know privet hedge could get that thick! It's taller than than the house, in places.

So, today felt pretty normal, too. I look forward to cleaning more out and planting some flowers around this place. And hoping to actually grow some vegetables this year. We'll see.

Life is an adventure, for sure. But I'm glad for the grounding that makes flying possible and enjoyable. Good to have some of that lately.

And I trust that I won't wait another month to write again. And I assure you that I am going to write again about running barefoot, a theme that got lost amongst all the recent adventure but is waiting to be taken up again.....

Home, Sweet Home

Well, we've been in the new house for a month and a few days, and I'm just now sharing the first photo. Tah-dah, above is the first picture taken of our new house! This was taken on January 7, not after the recent snowfall. I was too tired to get out and take pictures this time, and was also doing a little rebelling against our image-happy society, determined to just enjoy the real thing in the moment, rather than trying to capture it all for preservation.



And here is a view of our lantern, which I just love. It reminds me of Narnia and being open to other worlds connecting with our own. I always hope my home can be a place where that happens.

When we moved in, the light wouldn't come on, but it turned out just to need a new bulb, so now it has its own light. But I liked this picture, how the light from the neighbors across the street was shining in the background. Now I'm thinking it would have really been neat if I could have gotten it positioned so it looked like the light was inside our lantern....



Tracks from walking the dogs in the snow, which is always fun. They got lots of walks those first two weeks. Thanks to the freezing temperatures, our gate and fence weren't finished till way into the new year. It was such fun the first day we got to let the dogs out, seeing them run and play as they hadn't been able to do for so long.



Swirly scrollwork on the front steps, similiar to what we had at the old house. This house was built in 1941, the other in 1942, so they do have some things in common.



And the view out the front door onto the sweet little street we now call our neighborhood.

Moving Thoughts, IV

We are here. We did it, the great American pastime. We moved.

It rained. Almost all day. But we moved.

Our hands and backs ached from the cold and wet and continually carrying things. But we moved.

Wonderful friends and family helped us. And we moved.

So here we are, still with boxes in stacks around the house, because we are doing some work on a couple of rooms before we can unpack them. But feeling more and more settled. And the dogs are doing all right, despite having to be mostly inside for two weeks straight. (The fence should be ready Friday, to end that state of things.)

Thanks to all for your encouragement. It was the least stressful move of my life, and that had a lot to do with having supportive friends and family involved.

And even though we have moved, what a comfort to know that "He will not suffer that thy foot be moved, Who keepeth thee." Life changes are easier when you have such a Rock to hold fast to.