a beginning

Under a gray sky
thick with clouds,
dampness brushed
against my legs,
as I put my hand
over my heart
a chorus of birds
joined me in prayer
as I thanked God
for another
day.

The Lumberjack

Stanley, the lumberjack is here.  So far he has cleaned out the ashes, started a fire and is now on his way to the dump to take care of the recyclables and trash.  When we closed the inn years ago, he stayed on with us at the log cabin.  It helped us and it kept him busy.  Jerry was his boss.  He and Jerry had grand plans-a vision.  Now, I must be the one to hold the visions and direct.
It's a big task.

This Saturday morning is strangely quiet. I miss Jerry.  I miss the hearty laughs and stories that Stanley and Jerry would exchange. I miss the delineations in our lives.  Jerry primarily dealt with heating, yard work/gardening and tinkering about the house.  Right now, I hold it all.

My vision is to simplify.  I know it will take time.  In the meantime, I must be patient, breathe and trust that all will be well. I am so grateful that little bits of my life remain the same.  It is good to have Stanley around now and again.

my room

Months passed before I realized the florescent stars that our son strategically placed about the room, twinkle above my head.  Each night I slip into bed, lay my head on the pillow and say a prayer or two with my eyes closed.  What else have I missed in the darkness?
  
Early mornings when the room fills with sun, three  cats  routinely lounge on the bed, doze and wake to watch the birds light on the feeder.  Every plant in the house is pushed against the south-facing window.  The red geranium is in bloom, a few petals loosened and lay on a leaf.   Narcissus bulbs forced propped against small rocks in antique pottery stand tall and green with a delicate array of white flowers.  Books are piled near the bed. Another stack sits near a chair, close to the window.  Here, I  watch the birds feed, read or sip tea. I sew.  I knit.   I write.  I contemplate life. I pray here.

Through the Brambles

                                                                       

Lately, I have been thinking about how I handle stress, disappointment and life's surprises-of which I have had many.  Grit?  It is always a question as to how much I have.  It seems that I have more when I have accessed my resources and supports than when my reserves for "curve balls" has been depleted by lack of self-attention.  It has long been my contention that not only do the daily habits of a spiritual being like praying, meditating and engaging in kindnesses support each soul, but for me, creative pursuits contribute greatly to my well-being.  That is why I write.  It sounds corny, but it feeds my soul.

Writing for the purpose of posting to my blog has become a habit.  The hard part is working on other writing projects that require long term effort, persistence and facing the fact that I don't always know what I am doing as I tread on new territory.  My motivation for my current project is to honor a strong woman who became my dear friend, an unlikely pairing. Part of what thwarts me is the fear that my words will not do her justice.  Part of my fear is that my memory of her remains unclear, foggy. When I think of this project there is a mix of excitement, apprehension and pure fear.  It is easier to think plenty about this project than to plunge ahead and give it a go.  I am hopeful that with all my supports at the ready and by creating a plan for persistent effort, I will find my way through the brambles.

Happiness Collector

Between the hard, cold realities of life's upward climb, there is always  cause for celebration. I collect those moments in photographs and words like I collect coins for lean times.  I guess I am a happiness collector.

Striving for the Impossible

Scattered on the wooden floor,

Balls of

Half written messages,

Rejected

Discarded,

Not good enough.

How does a mere eight years

Of life,

Solidify

The need,

The desire

For perfection?

It makes for 

A

Sad 

Existence.

Always disappointed

And 

Always a

Disappointment.

Loving Through Images

Thumbing through stacks of photos while visiting my childhood home recently, reminded me just how important it is to preserve and treasure family history through images.  I found images of my father as a pudgy five year old in knickers with a pageboy haircut. In another photo my mother at about the same age, smiles in the direction of the camera the blue of her eyes lost in the black and white processing.  There were decks of newer photos too.  My mother was the photographer,  that is when she remembered the camera. She captured mostly holidays or special occasions.  The composition of all her her photos were problematic, the subjects rested on the bottom eighth of the photo showing the tops of heads, while most of the square print was wall and ceiling.  Standing in the middle of my old bedroom, holding the image of Auntie and Gene with their smiles running off the edge of the photo made me smile. Suddenly, I recalled that despite protests (my mother painstakingly took forever to snap a "bad" photo) she continued to be the family photographer.  When I was old enough, I  wrangled the camera from her. From then on I was absent from family photos.

I have a friend that takes self-portraits almost daily.  I stare her image. How does she do that? I couldn't. I thought. She holds all that she has become until that moment in the image. All the joys, the lessons and the pain.  I realize for the most part, I remain absent from photographs.  Although said to be photogenic, I do not like to like to have my photo taken.  Hyper-critical, whenever I am forced to be in front of a lens I hide behind the torso of another and peek. Just little bits of me show.

What would happen if I began the practice of a self portrait a day?  Would I come to discover the light within and learn to accept myself as I am?  Does how I look really have much to do with all the "inside" work?  I could learn to love.

One day my daughters may discover the series of self-portraits and hold them tightly and view them as gifts to be treasured.

Be Like a Fern

Every clock displays a different time.  On days when there is no work, no appointments does it matter?  Responsibilities with time constraints  ruin this plan for me.  I am conditioned to wake up just before the alarm no matter the day, eat on schedule despite my lack of hunger and go to bed before a certain hour.  

Does not the old time farmer adjust his or her internal clock to the cycle of nature?  Generally, I find that during this time of year I long for the comfort of soups, stews and good long books while wrapped under the weight of blankets. Generally,  adjust to the natural seasonal cycles quite easily.  It is during the minute to minute attempts to empty my mind and connect with the Spirit when my mind wildly winds around the constraints of time and doing.  "The mop. The floor Wish I could find that book.  Where is it?  Supper.  I've gotta use up carrots? Chickens.  Bring the scraps. Moldy bread.  Over fridge. When was the last time we...." Rather than the present, I think about the tasks of the future.  It is all about time and my tendency to multi-task.  Touted as a super human feat among woman everywhere, multitasking is the demise to my mindfulness.  Out of necessity, I have been doing it for decades now.  I must retrain myself.  To be.  Quiet, hushed connections.  With this my spirit will grow  in beauty and show up in the most unlikely places, just like those ferns.  

Beginnings

It was about this time of year when my husband and I learned that I was expecting our first child.  Often, I felt a  spine tingling sensation  the same I felt when rising up the crest of a hill and careening into the air of nothingness, an abyss.  Parenting certainly was an unknown.  I had never been one before and I had a mere nine months to prepare.  I wanted my child to have every advantage.  My body was supporting another life.  An appointment was made with a nutritionist, I did not ingest anything that might harm and I walked each day.

My pregnancy was unremarkably remarkable.  It was in the warmth of a late spring day that I began feeling a tightness. I was in labor- a slow labor.  My husband and I arrived early, my in-laws going about their morning routine. They lived nearest the hospital.  My father-in-law had been working for hours already hauling wealthy and common folk's trash to the dump.  He had come home to take care of some billing and was sitting in his plaid rust colored chair, peering over his spectacles as we trudged through the door.  My mother-in-law, drying her hands on a dishtowel cleared the couch and fluffed up some pillows.

The T.V. was forever droning in the background-white noise for living that did not seem to require attention.  That day I was in labor and I felt I needed attention!  Raquel Welch as a cave woman did not amuse me. "Turn that thing off, " I insisted, "I'm having a baby now. Here!"

Normally argumentative in a traditional controlled way, my father-in-law turned off the T.V. and all was quiet for the longest time.

Mothering Big

A decade ago, I made one of those death bed promises that I don't regret, "I'll take care of him, don't worry Ma,"I reassured as I referred to my brother choking back tears.   My mother had always taken care of all of us.  Despite the miles that separated as I grew into adulthood, I knew that she was only a phone call away.  She was there during my most troubled years as a young wife with young children and two full time jobs.  I worked day and night with little sleep or rest.  During periods of great joy mother was there to celebrate births, little dimpled hands wrapping around her gnarled fingers as she rocked and cooed.  She had a great capacity for love. She was always there for me.

For nearly thirty-two years I have mothered.  When life is care-free it is easy to remain filled with love, hope and great joy.  It is during those times when you fear that you will fall to your knees collapsing under the weight of stress, anxiety, frustration and anger that living in the shadow of the most perfect mother becomes challenging.  

It is not fair to compare myself with my mother really.  We live in a different time. Parenting feels a bit more challenging than when I was a kid.  I rode my bike everywhere, the phone was connected to the wall and I could not go far in having a private conversation.  Life today seems more complex and tenuous.  Is that only because I am an adult and a responsible one?  Mothering is a complex job.  Certainly not for the faint of heart.

After my work is done on this earth, it is my fervent hope that  my children will look after one another.  It is in the act of mothering that our children begin to make connections for how they can move about the world nurturing in big ways.

 

Untitled

The soil must be pure and fertile to give life.
Clinging to what is solid and true,
The vine has endured tests,
Through constancy of spirit,
It lives,
Despite itself.

The Journey

As a kid, I talked to God all the time.   Now, I just can't seem to do it.  I pray, mostly when someone asks for help. I seldom pray for myself.  It is clear that I need to work on my relationship with God.  It receded as the tide when my parents died within three months of each other.  Interestingly, I cannot talk to my parents either.  I have lost my anchor and my rudders.  With determination, I will find my way to port.

Through the kindness of a dear friend, I am on holy ground where all souls are seeking the truth for themselves.  I have spent so many, many days here in transformation along with my family.  Alone, this is my journey-one that I must work and sort out by myself.  Presently, I feel empty. Dead.  Perhaps I need to feel the emptiness to appreciate the full bounties of God's love for me, while discovering my spiritual potentiality.

 Where do I begin?  How do I find my way?  I pray that I do.

Unsung Heroes

At first, I wondered what was the big deal-the park being closed due to the government shut down.  Why is this any different than any other off-season visit to the park when we walk across closed gates? Although the politics of this nation locked Acadia and sent the bulk of the rangers home, it is that the safety of throngs of fall visitors cannot be guaranteed.  Yes, this is our park.  Yes, we have a right to enjoy all that this area has to offer, but frankly, the fact is that people do stupid things.  No one intends on falling and breaking a leg only to be rescued from elevations and sharp drops that necessitate a litter to be suspended by ropes and pullies down the face of a mountain.  This operation can only be orchestrated by an army of trained people.  Unfamiliar with the fury of the Atlantic and a mix of storms, spectators have been plucked off the shore and flung into the sea and tossed about like leaves in a whirlpool.  There have been drownings.  Yet there have also been rescues through the heroics of our Acadia National Park rangers and volunteers.  I am privileged to live where I live.  If I choose to venture into the park for a walk, I will use every precaution and a bit of common sense while  repeatedly mouth the words, "Thank you.  Thank you." Our rangers are unsung heroes quietly overseeing the safety of thousands and thousands of visitors each year.  Sometimes, it is only through loss that we recognize all that we once had and enjoyed.

A Beginning

‘Not quite sure what I am going to do when I grow up. My daughter’s response, “You are grown up.  You’re OLD.”  The problem is I don't want to be old.  I want to be young and spunky, yet I can now order from the Senior Menu (lighter portions for my sedentary ways) and some of my other friends still get carded.  Looking in the mirror, I see young and vibrant, while I find wiry blond hair (I am sure of it) springing from my temples and new lines that were not there yesterday.  I’m not ready to be old and to measure life by how much time remains.  I must admit though, that there is a new urgency since I have been writing daily.  There are new places on this earth to discover, stacks of books to read, and miles to paddle, walk and climb.  A new curiosity has risen within me, giving me a life that is just beginning.

"A Woman's Place"

We live in a culture of unspoken rules.  There is a set of expectations that define a woman and  a mother.  Cultural standards may contribute to order and the wellbeing of society, but the rules are often confusing and limiting.  I was talking to a friend who admitted to struggling emotionally, physically, spiritually and financially.  Ordinarily, a very private person, earlier in the day she opened up to a mutual friend who from our perspective is “well put together” and executes life with ease.  Outward appearances do not tell the inner truth.  Why do women seem so hesitant to unite and support each other in common struggles?   The rules are clear, but do not ultimately serve a purpose.  For instance, women are to think of others at all times and take care of themselves last. Driven by guilt, for years I put myself last.  It didn't work and resulted in extra stress, extra weight and a few more medical bills.  Taking care of myself does not come naturally, I have to work at it, yet it gives me the positive energy to ultimately fulfill my responsibilities of caring for others in my roles as mother and teacher. One day self care will be legitimized and society will celebrate the efforts of ordinary women. It will become the expectation of womanhood, as natural as the pull of the tides.

Summer Routine

One thing I am going to miss about the summer is our early morning routine.  Shuffling through the grass wet with dew, coffee cup balanced, we make our way to the corner of the garden.  We sit, listen and observe.  Starlings, sparrows and woodpeckers squawk and assert their territorial rights from our once majestic maples in the front yard.  Hummingbirds thrumb their wings darting close, sipping sweet nectar from the blooms rimming the vegetable garden.  The conditions are perfect for prayer and gratitude.  We sit some more and continue the gentle awakening as we slowly sip and savor our coffee.  We may talk about our plans for the day or what is happening with our kids. 

I try to sort out the elements of what makes these moments ones I do not want to forget.  I am alone with my husband of nearly thirty-three years surrounded by the miracle that takes place in our garden as it changes from day to day.  It is truly a spiritual place, a blessed place. Starting our day in gratitude and prayer in this setting makes for better days.  All these elements combine to make this daily thirty-minute period memorable.  Somehow, we need to replicate it in February.  That might take some doing.

Embracing the Time

There is a different slant of light.  The kettle whistles nearby as my husband and I discuss the weather.  Despite the cool air, this morning, in protest I wear a tank top. My arms exposed and chilled.  As we sit out in the garden swallowed by pink, yellow, and purple evidence of summer, uneasiness settles within.  My mind wanders to the near future. Some plants have withered and will soon transform to varying shades of brown with the entire plot following.  Natural process.   It is always the same these last few weeks in August, yet I get the same feeling in my gut.  I just don’t like it.   Once fall fully emerges, I actually embrace the colors, the crisp air, the cozy layering and all that goes with it.  With this straddling of summer and fall-I must accept and find the beauty in this divine cycle.

Save the WEED!

If I could manage it, I would have a field of “weeds.” According to the Merriam Webster dictionary, “a weed is a plant that is not valued where it is growing. “ Through more than a half-century of living, a good deal of my time has been devoted to contemplating the perplexing station of Queen Anne’s Lace, which is considered a weed.  How do you measure value of a plant? This blossom cannot be eaten, it doesn’t have a pleasing scent, and it heartily grows wild, yet in my opinion its’ beauty outweighs all the things that it is not. It is symmetrical.  Each head is comprised of a multitude of small clusters of individual blossoms seemingly suspended and further a satellite of tiny blooms.   From an engineering standpoint, this plant must be the subject of study for delicate, yet functional construction.  Forget the ‘field of dreams’.  I just want a field of these lacy blooms.

Gifts

Gifts

As all the hens approach adulthood, their personalities have changed.  This transition coincides with my recent weeklong departure. Could it be that they just missed me and are happy to see me or is this truly some expected hormonal personality re-ordering due to egg production?  I have personal experience with hormonal fluctuations and it isn’t pretty, so I prefer the initial explanation: my hens love me and just plain missed me. 

Prior to my trip, the girls paid no particular attention to my presence, except when I gave them food.  Just before I vacationed, they were introduced to a daily serving of old bread and oats rather then their simple ration of cracked corn, laying mash and veggie scraps.  As an additional treat we drilled a hole in a cabbage and suspended it on a clothesline rope, so they could peck away at it.  I read that it relieves boredom. Upon my return, my voice signals them to congregate close to the gate and cluck loudly making entry impossible.  I carefully time my entrance, slowly opening the door, squeezing through an opening not wide enough for passage over the dirt threshold.  Eventually, I risk their escape and push through a wider berth.   Walking through the yard, I am surrounded by squawking chickens quickly closing in on me, no longer soothed solely by my sweet talk.  They cannot possibly be hungry, but then again, I begin to argue with myself, they are growing and maturing chickens. Maybe they eat like our teenagers.  So I proceed to get more grain or bread to suffice. This does not change their behavior.  They continue in their crazy, obsessive ways.  As I am standing motionless, observing their nesting instinct hoping to observe the actual laying or dropping of an egg, I feel a tap on my turquoise ring.  While my arm was by my side, a hen hopped up and pecked the interesting blue stone with the gold colored veins.  “That’s not food.” I respond in alarm.  You can’t possibly be hungry, but then again I begin to argue with myself, this egg laying business is hard work.  My girls have me just where they want me to be, in the center of their yard tossing bread, corn, oats and hanging crispy tight heads of organic cabbage.  Well trained am I, but I must thank someone for the three fresh eggs I got today.

An Unexpected Journey

Insulated by love and dreams as a child, I envisioned a pretty easy life with a weed-less garden and a self-cleaning house.  Being the perfect wife and mother, life of course would be care-free and perpetually happy.  Growing up, I clung onto my fairy tale endings.  Reality bites.  There have been many ups and downs. I have had to rely on many people to support me through this often times overwhelming journey.   These challenges and struggles have forced me to focus on my spiritual self and continually search what is the truth for me.  Selfishly, I wish this spiritual journey would be effortless as well.  This is not so.  It is hard work and takes concerted effort and self-reflection to not stray.  No I am not a perfect being.  Life has not dealt me a straight path, but one with sharp corners and unexpected turns.  Survival depends upon the connections I make as I realize that I really cannot go it alone and no, it won't be perfect.