Kathleen Moloney-Tarr

Life Anew

2012-01-18T09:41:00.001-05:00

Today feels like a birthday, a day of new beginnings and possibility. For more than two years I have lived with chronic leg pain that, for the last eight months, has kept me in my house mostly alone. Being housebound was a surprising experience, not one I anticipated for my early sixties. It was hard and trying. Being cut off from friends and normal life experiences increased my sense of isolation and loss.

For most days I sat in a comfortable reading chair with my legs propped on the ottoman. My window on the world was three full length glass doors to the back yard where I watch robins skitter this morning after last night's rain and thunder. I have seen the trees green, gold and bare. I have watched the days lengthen and shorten, the moon rise, wax and wane, the temperatures rise and fall, the hostas push, unfold, and die back. I have rested because I could not walk. I have listened to silence because the voices I love were not present. I have eaten alone, wondered and prayed, wept and whined, been broken and healed. For minute after hour after day after week I have waited and hoped for healing, for a return to active life.

And yet inside me, deep inside, was a relief, too, a relief for this pass from the daily chaotic scramble of my friends still in the working world. If I felt chosen for this pain, I also felt chosen for the gift of silence even though it was far more than I wanted. Because of my training in spiritual direction, I did not take this experience as purely a physical one. I have known that somehow this time would serve me even though I could not figure out why or how.

Today I feel like myself in more ways than I have for several years. After months of working with healers and sitting in solitude, I believe the healing has happened. I won't be running down the street or driving to DC but I believe I can walk again with out injury and that soon I will be driving myself and going places without someone to help me. I am grateful for those few who have stood with me, tended me body and spirit. I feel a surge of creative energy in my whole body, especially in my heart and hands. I want to bring forth beauty and love, compassion and creation. It is my time now. My time to live anew with more awareness of what matters to me, with less will and ego, with more true essence and less concern of what others might think. How grateful I am. How happy and thankful for this new day.

A Visit to an Art Museum

2012-01-11T12:05:00.001-05:00

The blunt shapes and colors: red, pink, blue, white, the big brown hands, the smoke of the train, the birds, the two women in their bright patterned dresses stir me. They say goodbye and my essence says hello. I travel on the train, look out the windows to the backyards where families gather to listen to guitars played by men in railroad overalls. I sit on the porch with the family and look into Madeline’s lush gardens. My hands ache with the work of the day in them and delight in the lift of a baby into my arms. For several hours I move through the Mint Museum’s exhibition of Romare Beardon’s collages, and they take root in me.

These images invite me to cut and paste, to paint and draw, to look out my own windows and create the vista with paper and glue. I lean into the colors and shapes. I back away to see the views through windows in the kitchens of everyday people. I wish I had come earlier so I could come again.

We move to the yarns, weavings and textile creations of Sheila Hicks. Her use of yarn makes my hands want to hold thread and clothe. She gets me thinking. How can I create a piece with color and fiber? The large installations are too costly and big to consider. What could I do at home? Embroidery thread! Available in many available colors and inexpensive, the soft threads would be fun to work with. I promise myself that I will get some soon. I make a mental list of the creations I can feel on the tips of my fingers: collages, fiber sculpture, balls wrapped with ribbon and thread, lines of color side by side on white paper. My energy runs fast the whole day at the museum. An electric buzz permeates my skin and muscles, my heart smiles and my head says, “Create something. Soon.” Something is planted in me that I want to grow. The seeds have roots and I realize once again how important creativity is to my life. It makes me feel whole, open, at peace. It cultivates who I really am.

2011-09-09T09:46:00.001-04:00

Notes from my journal September 11, 2001

As I write this I am on a spiritual retreat. In the North Carolina mountains lies a small cabin tended by good-hearted creative people who offer a weeklong gift of shelter and quiet to writers of one kind and another. For days I have been sitting with my thoughts, observing the natural world, making music, drawing and practicing yoga, and writing, writing, writing. This week is presented as a writing residency but for me this is a spiritual residency. This week is seven days and nights to let my self speak, play, reflect and write in the company of no one else. No distractions or television or radio or email. No voices other than my own greetings to Mr. Spider or the blue tailed skink who guards the deck steps. And of course, because the silence reigns here, I hear that inner voice. You know the one that we think of as our conscience, the one that guides our choices or actions. In this space I know that this voice comes not from me but from Spirit or God. It comes from that which lies within and beyond all that exists.

Here I find myself at a time of the greatest turmoil in the history of modern America. I am here when the hijacked planes destroy lives and buildings in NYC and our capitol. I am here at a time when few Americans have the privilege of isolation from the onslaught of facts, numbers, analysis, questions and constant discussion of every aspect of this horrific act against not just our people and country but against freedom and humanity worldwide.

As a city dweller I am used to the activity and presence of people around me. Here I am totally alone. The news of such a violent act and such widespread ramifications for our country and individual lives is unthinkable and frightening. As darkness falls I notice fear creeping in. I play chants of Hildegard von Bingham written in the 12^th Century. I read prayers out loud before bed and ask for safety and protection. I rely on my faith in God’s presence to quell my fears. I hear the voice of spirit urging me to write and to notice everything. One morning I spend 1 hour with a black fly on the white page where I write. He walks the lines of my words as though he wants to know what I have to say. And I know the sacredness of life in every molecule of my being. Each day I awake in wonder that I am here on earth, here at the cabin dwelling among the trees and other living creatures.

My intention here is to be open to God, to fill myself and my days with creative acts that come through me into reality. I know they come not from me but through me. I feel the channel and honor the gift of my life as a vehicle for my unique expression of values, thoughts, and beliefs in this outer world. Here I am able to practice ways to live intentionally with Spirit. This is a week of Sabbath days kept in the presence and recognition of Spirit in my life.

Give thanks.

Listen to your inner voice

Keep your daily practice

Honor your creative process

Respect your relationship to the natural world.

Mother's Milk

2011-06-11T10:13:00.000-04:00

I notice the tall thin rabbit most mornings. She has hopped around our gardens and yard for several years. This morning I see her and then notice a small bounding creature coming toward the house. I think it hops strangely for a chipmunk, and then it turns to show me its bunny profile. It is tiny, smaller than my fist. Mother watches from a disinterested distance and the little one plops into the ivy.

At dusk I see Mother again as we clear the dinner table. I say, "I wish you could see the tiny bunny" at the same time that I see it in the grass! We ooh and ahh until it hops away. Mother nibbles grass on the path to the patio. I brush my teeth and am drawn to the window to the garden where I scan for any movement. Suddenly a bunny hops out from the opposite side of the path. I am confused because I saw the bunny go left and this is on the right. It hops under Mother who waits patiently, still. So quickly that I almost miss it, the first bunny darts out and under her mother. I call to my husband to come, "There are TWO bunnies!" We watch from the dining room only seeing the mother but knowing the two are there under her. It hits us at the same moment. They are nursing! And then we see the smaller of the two, flipped on her back, white belly and underside of leg to the sky. The leg pumps and wiggles as she gets gets her evening meal, just like Thumper in Bambi. The whole scene is so peaceful and unreal. I know this happens all the time but right this moment it is in my view, in the cathedral of our trees and my heart soars with joy and gratitude.

In the Moment

2011-06-11T09:56:00.000-04:00

April 17, 2011

Usually I arrive at the mountain house in the late afternoon, open the blinds and step onto the second story porch to survey the changes in the valley below. Typically it is only a few minutes before I notice myself breathing easier and sporting a ready smile for just about anything. Life here is relaxing, refreshing and spacious in all ways.

But yesterday I arrived at noon. I had passed through driving rain of a huge system that spawned dozens of tornadoes in North Carolina and across the South. The wind was 55 mph, so I could not stand outside or pull open the porch doors. I was unsettled. I could not find the ease and release I am used to experiencing. The internet and cable were still off from the winter, and the deluge overnight had left the fireplace wet and dripping, so I could not have a welcoming fire. I took Cheyenne for a walk along the raging Toe River, ate dinner and went to bed with a movie at 7:15 pm. I still was off my bearings.

When I woke this morning, something had shifted. I happily built a fire to heat the firebox and me, fixed hot cereal and tea, walked in the cold morning air and remaining blustery wind. I opened my collage basket to see what I might create. Creating a collage for my daughter-in-love made me smile. Throughout the morning, I gathered broken branches and twigs from our property to feed the fire and eliminate future disposal of them. I listened to podcasts of sermons from our church and drank more tea.

Later, when I move to the porch and speak with a friend, I realize that part of the reason it took me so long to settle is that here I have space and time to integrate what has been going on in my life. And I just wasn’t quite ready. For the last two months I have lived more fully in the moment than I usually do. I have lived with others who needed my support. It has been a gift to be able to be present in the everyday lives of those I love who are facing big challenges. What I realize is that when I live in the moment, I am able to be peaceful, calm and thoughtful about how and what I do and say. I can do that for weeks on end and it feels good. But at some point, I have to face and begin to integrate the totality of the situation. Our daughter-in-love’s medical challenge is overwhelming and full of uncertainty. She has been courageous and strong through surgery and recovery, but the journey is not over and what lies ahead is daunting.

Yesterday I needed to let myself connect all the medical pieces of her situation and the emotional and psychological aspects for her, my son and for me. It was not my brain doing this, it was my heart. And my heart needs space. I could be physically in the moment, that comforting space usually so accessible to me here at the mountain house, but the rest of me needed to let it all sink in and come together however it could. Today, I rest once again in the greening mountain and the dogwood blossoms dancing in the breeze. Although her life is changed, possibly forever, and the treatment is what everyone wants to avoid, although there is fear and uncertainty, a grim reality and suffering ahead, I am here, in this moment with the stone earth under my feet and the spring wind renewing my faith.

April 19, 2011

I lean into the soft cushion of my chair and consider the forty miles of mountain views beneath me. For most of the day, Cheyenne and my legs share the ottoman on the edge of the terrace where hundreds of iris leaves portend the indigo and white flowers to come. A fat bronze lizard rustles through last year’s leaves. A small white butterfly and a black swallowtail join a bumblebee in the wild asters above the old stump on the slope.

I alternate reading Traveling with Pomegranates and writing in my journal. While I read, I stroke Cheyenne’s black back and head. I bathed her in the laundry sink this morning so she could air dry in the sun on the terrace floor. But we needed to be together, so I hoisted her onto the ottoman grateful for her presence.

Sue Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor fan my hopeful spirit. I love the book’s structure and the chance to consider two stages of women’s lives through such wise and honest hearts. I think about mothers and daughters as the mother of two sons. My heart holds my son’s wife. With five medical opinions, the news is grim. My son says they realize that the life they had and the one they were living into is no longer a possibility. When they try to return to work, it is evident that nothing is the same. They fear for her life and cannot comprehend how this is happening. She is my daughter. While I learn to be a grandmother at the beginning of the last third of my life, she is just completing the first third of hers and cannot see much hope or joy ahead. I struggle to know how to support her. Like any mother, I want to make it better. I cannot. All I can do is be present with her as she moves through this challenge and struggle. All I can do is hold hope and faith when she cannot.

Angels Watching Over

2011-04-11T15:29:00.001-04:00

In late March, I was in Washington DC helping friends take care of their newborn twin girls. I spent most of February - May, 2010, tending our twin grandson and granddaughter, so I have experience these new parents could use. While I was there the dad's parents came by for a Sunday afternoon visit. They brought a delicious lunch from a swanky market, and his mother carried in a large, framed piece held close against her chest. After lunch, when the babies were down for yet another nap, the new grandmother presented her gift. The hanging was a stylized angel of subtle colors. She hooks rugs and other things and had made this image for her grandchildren. I asked if she had created the image, and she said that some years ago she had found a small tile of an angel on a trip to Miami. Last fall, she decided to see if she could create a hooked piece of that angel. She had lost the tile, but she had a photo and went to her local yarn shop for help in enlarging the angel and choosing the colors. She had already begun work on it when her son announced that she would be a grandmother, so she decided to give it to the new family.
While she was telling this story, recognition set in. I smiled with delight. Over ten years ago, a dear friend gave me a small colorful tile angel she found in Sienna, Italy. I had just built and created a new home office, so I hung the little tile outside my office door as a welcome to visitors who arrive and a blessing when they depart. The angel hooked and framed is the very same image!

Love and loss

2011-03-09T09:48:00.000-05:00

In less than forty-eight hours, two magnificent friends left this earth. Enormous holes appear in my world. The grief and loss tugs at my core, heavy and cruel. I cannot eat. In forty-eight hours from now my precious daughter-in-law goes into surgery for the removal of her breasts. She turns 34 tomorrow. My heart is full of love for these three people and all those who love them. Life feels especially fragile, like a porcelain plate balancing on a tight robe in the wind above a city street. Every greening bush, flowering cherry tree, swaying daffodil sings to me, "life, life, live it today."

Flora was ninety years old, struggling at the loss of mobility and increasing pain. We shared thirty-six years of loving friendship that began when we were hired to support the secondary Gifted and Talented program for the public schools in Charlotte. She was fifty-four, mother of three adult children, a seasoned professional educator. I was twenty-six, newly married and full of opinions and creative ideas. We gave each other respectful space that turned into unconditional love and support. Her wisdom and care sustained me all of my adult life.

Tim was not yet sixty, a gifted musician and creator of community. As I write, I listen to his songs and yearn for the cd that is ready to be printed thanks to his valiant last efforts just a couple of weeks ago before his strength gave out. His years' long struggle with cancers and chemo, trials and trauma will continue to inspire me. The songs he left give us the gift of his unique voice and wisdom words to hold us in the days ahead. His life gives us courage and strength for our own.

My beautiful daughter-in-love shows a strong love of life as she approaches surgery. Her resolve and acceptance of the reality ahead sustains those of us who surround her. Her commitment to a long, healthy life starting immediately after the surgery informs everything she does. She is calm and reassuring, keeps a positive outlook, and maintains her focus on the future because her heart is grateful.

The lives of these three teachers invite me to give more of myself, to bring my gifts forward, not to be afraid, to live from my heart with love and gratitude, every day.

Walking the Path. . .

2011-02-23T14:35:00.000-05:00

. . . or not walking the path which is what i am doing right now. Last fall my shins began screaming at me; well, actually I know they spoke up before that but I was being vigilant in walking my dog and me, so I kept on going up and then down the very steep hills in our mountain neighborhood. Walking provides me time and space to process and refresh. Being in nature, moving in nature makes me feel more connected and at peace. In late October I took my last long walks down the terminals at the Charlotte and Sarasota airports. By the time I got to my parents' home I could hardly be civil without crying in pain.

So I stopped walking. I told Mom I thought I would rest for the weekend. Now it has been nearly four months of watching others walk their dogs as I sit with my legs up. I walk as little as possible, go to physical therapy and pray that one day i can walk and play with everyone else. In the meantime, I notice what needs to be done in my house and garden, read and work on my computer. I don't feel very productive but remind myself that the hosta is not always producing either.

I wonder about walking the path when you can't walk. I know I am still on it. I sure am still. The way is being opened ahead of me. I sit and listen. Not much chatter from the Universe. I pray for our daughter-in-law who at 33 has been diagnosed with breast cancer. And for our son. I send as much love as I can to a very pregnant friend who realizes her life is about to change forever and wonders how she can be the mother her daughters need. I celebrate the life of a musician friend who continues, despite all odds, to rally heroically to play music one more time for those who love him as the cancer invades. On and on we all walk even though the walking is painful, slow, awkward and long, or short.

So I walk in my mind along the gravel road, down the rhododendron path, across the mossy rocks and watch for deer. I ask for patience and wisdom. I remember what matters most to me and make efforts to be whole-hearted about family, friendships and my spiritual growth. I feel pretty clumsy, awkward and off balance. Is it any wonder, I think, given that my world has been thrown off by these struggles and others around me right now. I remember this poem and hunt it down. . . and feel grounded.

Lost

Stand still.

The trees ahead and bushes beside you

Are not lost.

Wherever you are is called here

And you must treat it

As a powerful stranger,

Must ask permission to know it

And be known.

Listen: The forest breathes,

It whispers,

“I have made this place around you,

If you leave it you may come back again

Saying, Here.

No two trees are the same to raven,

No two branches are the same to wren –

If what a tree or a branch does is lost on you

Then you are surely lost.

Stand still.

The forest knows where you are.

You must let it find you.

~ Translated by David Wagoner from

a Northwest Indian Teaching Tale

Evening Visitors

2010-08-11T18:08:00.003-04:00

At first I did not know what I was seeing. I stood at the second story porch rail at dusk, looking out at the mountain and valley view. Something black moved below. Make that four somethings. . . black bears! We knew a mother and her three cubs had been making the rounds of the mountain ridge, but we had not seen them. Now they were on our property, ambling along toward our neighbor's full peach tree. For fifteen minutes the cubs climbed and jumped while Mom stood on her hind legs to pull branches down to her snout. She scarfed up peaches and shook the branches making a dozen ripening peaches roll down the hill. I was surprised how peaceful and serene the scene was. They were so quiet. If I had not happened to look over the rail at just the right time, we would have missed the whole thing. For months I had wondered if I would run across this family on my daily morning and evening walks with our Cavalier spaniel. How grateful I was to watch them from the safety of my porch two stories up with her safely inside the house. I took pictures but the dark shadows under the tree and the dimming light prevented a great shot. The pictures in my mind are very clear! It was one of those times when I felt insignificant and small. We were in their territory. I might think I am in control of my little world, but it is not true. The wonders of the natural world-- the mountain range and misty valleys, the clouds that roll in for days or catch the sunset colors on a spring evening, and the beauty of these bears who roam the mountain just as their ancestors did--all this surrounds me and reminds me of the power of life beyond humans.

In Memory

2010-07-12T09:54:00.004-04:00

I light a candle to brighten this mountain house which is surrounded by fog and to commemorate the fifth anniversary of my mother-in-law's death. She and I had a lovingly close relationship for nearly 35 years. Her presence in my life gave me confidence and a sense of belonging. She took me for who I was, never challenging or ignoring me, always offering unconditional love. Being with her taught me to slow down, to create a beautiful table, to freshen up for dinner. We shared a love of fine novels, antique china and silver and flower gardens. We enjoyed a summer trip to Ireland with her son and my husband, dozens of visits to her Baltimore and Florida homes and many hours of easy conversation about life, children and friends. Her loyalty and generosity impacted all who knew her. I have missed her and still ask her for wisdom in trying moments. These five years have brought blessings she would have loved to share, especially our sons' completion of graduate school in fields they love and the recent arrival of her twin great-grandchildren. Her husband of 60 years has learned to iron and wash clothes and now understands in new ways all that she did to help him be successful. I honor and celebrate the life and influence Florence Tarr has had on my life and my spirit.

4th of July

2010-07-03T08:46:00.002-04:00

Like most people, I enjoy celebrating holidays. Thanksgiving and July 4th tie for my favorites. Both days include times for being with family and friends, playing and talking, listening and cooking, eating and giving thanks.

Two life experiences a decade apart increased my love of Independence Day. In 1990 I started my own consulting business. For several years my supportive husband encouraged me to work for myself. I ignored him or raised my voice to him for a long time, because I was afraid I did not have what it would take to create and sustain a business. I was an English major, for Pete's sake! What did I know about entrepreneurship? When the Charlotte school superintendent eliminated the leadership training center where my creativity and facilitation skills could be happily applied, I had two options: work for another big bureaucracy or start a consulting firm. I started Leadership Dynamics on my birthday in June and by that first 4th of July, I was only two weeks into it, but I had a new appreciation for what our American freedom allows. I could just strike out and do whatever I wanted to do! And I was doing just that.

In 2000 I returned from a three week trip to Guinea, West Africa where I joined my son and his friend [now wife] who were creating a school for Sierra Leonean refugees in Guinea. Living in a small block building, eating Mabinty's delicious but very simple food cooked over a coal fire, walking dusty pot-holed roads, breathing polluted air from constant burning of plastics and garbage gave me another level of appreciation for our country's bounty and infrastructure. Later when our Guinean and Sierra Leonean friends visited, they would remark on things I took for granted like the security of our mail or the dependable trash pickup or the network of excellent roads. I am grateful for all that my taxes dollars support.

Today I celebrate another decade of freedom and opportunity. My new grandchildren enter a different world than the one I have known. One sons apply their values and graduate school educations to environmental issues in law or research science. I can travel, write, tend gardens and spend time with my husband and friends. On this 4th once again, I gather with the extended families of three couples I have known since before I was 21. The grandchildren of the children I babysat are in college. New babies will make their debut. Elders will walk a little slower. And when we sing, "God Bless America" before dinner on the wide green lawn beside the lake, every heart will swell, and my eyes will fill with grateful tears for the blessing of birth into this country.

The Visitor

2010-06-23T14:45:00.003-04:00

As I finished drying the morning dishes, something moved in the air to my left. When I turned, I saw a ruby-throat hummingbird flying through our great room. In the mornings the room is filled with light from large plate glass windows and sliding doors that we often leave open during the day since everyone kept walking through the screen as they looked out at the view. I guess the bird couldn't discern the difference between indoors and out.

I quickly closed all the blinds and shut the front door to eliminate light except at the doorway where the bird had entered. I knew he would tire quickly as he sought escape and banged his beak against the glass at the bottom of a front window. When I got to him, it took several tries before I could cup a hand close to him. Finally he calmed against me, his soft green feathers vibrating lightly, so I covered him in both hands and walked him to the doorway. I stood on the deck at the railings and released him to the sky. My whole body smiled at this unexpected visit of just five minutes or so.

Since then I have thought often about how I closed off the light so the hummingbird could find the "real light" that would take him toward home. I remember times I have been in the dark looking for an opening, some light that would bring me back to myself. Spirit works like that, sometimes closing off the other light sources that won't get us back on our own path and shining brightly in ways that show us the way home.

Creativity in a Basket

2010-06-13T09:52:00.004-04:00

A dear friend and I set out at noon on to wander through Mitchell County, NC, visiting glass, pottery and basket artists who open their studios to the public twice a year. We pack a small picnic lunch so we can spend our time enjoying the beautiful creations instead of trying to find or waiting in line at a restaurant. It is a warm June day, one of those days where you could be lazy in a chair with a book all afternoon or active in a shaded garden. I am grateful for the presence of a friend of many years and the time to catch up as we witness some amazing creations.

We head north toward Tennessee and veer off the highway onto a two lane, winding road through dense forests, open pasture lands, past weathered barns, vegetable gardens springing with lettuce and climbing beans, and arrive at Billie Ruth Suddreth's studio. She is a renowned basket artist whose red, black, yellow and walnut baskets wow the eye and lift the spirit. I attended a show of her twenty-five year basket-making anniversary two years ago and am so happy to meet and talk with her today. Something in me is pleased by her baskets in the way that witnessing a sunrise or hosta leaves turning out of the ground deepens and enriches me.

A student of mathematics, she creates her baskets' unusual patterns by using Fibonacci numbers, a mathematical pattern identified as early as 200BCE and named for a 13th century biologist. The natural Fibonacci pattern is found often in nature's fern curls, pine cones, leaves, flowers and the reproduction of bees. By definition, the first two Fibonacci numbers are 0 and 1, and each subsequent number is the sum of the previous two. Fibonacci numbers are those in the following :

I am pleased to learn that these incredible baskets priced in the thousands of dollars and collected by museums are created using a pattern of nature. I think again of Matthew Fox writing that creativity is the place, a space,a gathering, a union a where--wherein the Divine powers of creativity and the human power of imagination join forces. Such places are sacred and draw us closer to our own spiritual center. Billie Ruth's baskets are such a place and they invite me to seek that space in myself today.

note: I tried in vain to find a photo of one of her baskets on line for you to see.

2010: The First Half

2010-06-08T15:26:00.003-04:00

The earth is our mother, we must take care of her.
The earth is our mother, we must take care or her.

Her sacred ground we walk upon with every step we take.
Her sacred ground we walk upon with every step we take.
~Earth based chant

An earthquake devastates Haiti. A few weeks later another quake rocks Chile. Volcanic ash spews above Iceland grounding European air traffic for days. A coalmine fire traps and kills more than two dozen West Virginia miners. An enormous oil well in the Gulf of Mexico explodes, kills eleven men and pumps thousands and thousands of gallons of oil into the water for fifty days with no end in sight.

I have to force myself to watch the news. The strong images of broken cities, wounded orphans, grieving widows, out of work fisherman and oil-drenched brown pelicans cut deep. I sit in my air condined home or new car wondering, "What can I do to help this situation?" I know I use and want the energy of the oil. I turn off lights, go the speed limit, combine trips, keep my car at home two days a week, and yet I stlil want to be able to drive to the mountains on a whim. I want to be able to travel at my convenience to see my new grandchildren.
The current Gulf oil disaster requires us all to pay attention. I look at the well pumping continuos oil and think, "If the earth is our mother, our nurturer, giver of resources for our survival, then this oil comes from a wound at her core."

The shift in our earth's crust and inside the volcanoes gives me pause. Why are all these things happening in just a few month's time? So far this year the earth has been wounded and broken in too many big ways. Of course, it is not just this year. . . it is our cumulative effet of decades of humans using the earth's resources with little or not regard for the results of our actions. What we humans have damaged, we must correct. We cannot afford to believe that the resources are available to us forever. We must take care of her.

All I know to do is to pay attention to my own choices. I must remember that the earth is our mother. When it is a pain to wash out the peanut butter jar for recycling, I must chose to do it. I buy fewer paper products and am mindful of how I waste water. For ten years we have had a bucket in the shower. I compost. We recycle more than fits in our two red bins weekly. I chose products with less packaging. I am hooked on the new pump laundry detergent in small battles which require fewer resources to make and transport.

Last night I saw video of a crab struggling in the surface oil. The commentator explained that the crabs mistake the oil globs shape for the seaweed they usually eat. The crabs swim up and into the oil seeking food. They are covered, stuck and unable to free themselves. I don't want this to happen to us!

2010-05-31T14:55:00.004-04:00

Creativity is not a noun or even a verb--it is a place, a space,
a gathering, a union a where--wherein the Divine powers of creativity
and the human power of imagination join forces.

~ Matthew Fox, Creativity: Where the Divine and the Human Meet

Matthew Fox identifies what I love most about facilitating workshops and groups or sitting with a person who is attuned to his/her spiritual journey. Together we share a place, a bubble of time and space that opens and contains at the same time. Together we create something new, a sanctuary of sorts. It is a place, a where, as Fox puts it. It is intimate and quiet, yet pulsing with connection and excitement. When we gather to share our true stories, those experiences or insights that have made us who we are today and that urge us forward to continue becoming, we sense Divine presence. Fox calls this New Creation and says it "brings renewal, resurrection, and forgiveness with it."

When we chose to sit down, reflect and write of spiritual wonders or the everyday ordinary that moves us, we create a sacred place for ourselves. Our best self expands, we tap our truth and we feel larger, less confined and aware of more possibilities. And when we share such writing with others, we invite them to join us there.

Writing Your Spiritual Journey creates space for individuals to mine their life for events and experiences that seem now to have been significant to their spiritual journey. Through writing and reading our own stories and listening to and affirming the stories of others, we celebrate and honor creativity.

Peonies

2010-05-28T12:02:00.004-04:00

At dawn I walk our tri-color spaniel down the mountain lane and tug the warm blue fleece robe against my throat to block the early morning chill. As Cheyenne trots and sniffs, I am drawn to the peonies in a neighbor's wild garden. I associate peonies with my mid-western childhood, the large bushes barely able to hold the enormous flower heads bobbing in a breeze. Today beside the wire fence, two small plants attempt to keep their blooms aloft. One sturdy stem boasts five pink blooms from bud to dropping petals. Cheyenne stands with me as I kneel.

I take a cleansing breath and inhale: first the subtle blush of the pink peony, soft and gentle like a newborn baby, then the burgundy ‘s robust and hearty perfume. I stand to face the bright sunlight beaming through the forest at the end of the lane. In such a simple moment, immense joy pulses through me. I am grateful to witness the beauty of the peonies and realize they would have gone right on being beautiful whether I saw or sniffed them or not. They do what they do, create what is their essence to create. As I turn to walk home, I consider my essence and what it is for me to create. I feel charged for my day of writing and revising, eager to begin.

Memorial Garden

2008-03-05T12:46:00.002-05:00

I am out running errands and realize I am around the corner from the memorial garden where our friend’s ashes were scattered the day before. We had to leave before the committal of Barbara’s ashes, so this morning I walk into the garden alone, without the hundreds of people in attendance twenty-four hours ago.

The memorial garden is thirty years old. We attended the first memorial service her, and I notice the garden has been reshaped by gifts of trees and ornaments in remembrance of beloved members of the church community. The garden is tidy. Someone replenished the mulch, trimmed wayward limbs and picked up all the twigs from recent winds. The garden beds encircling an oblong lawn boast a few daffodils and a stand of oxalis, Irish green against the red-brown mulch, but mostly the beauty of the garden is in the flowering trees and bushes that on this March morning show no sign of blossom or bud.

Several benches scattered around the garden invite me to sit a while. Two white marble ones rest in front of old azaleas, and a gray, concrete bench peeks out from under magnolia branches shaped to sheltering a visitor. A wrought iron seat to the right of the garden entrance offers a view across the green lawn to the portico between the church and an adjacent building. Confederate jasmine frames the middle of three portico arches and provides shelter to a statue of St. Francis. Against a brick wall, a small fountain splashes water gently into the pool below. The garden quiet is filled with love for church members no longer present. Every aspect is subtle but intentionally comforting.

So I am shocked to see a pile of gray and white feathers in the middle of the lawn. Something died here recently, probably a mockingbird, although the large number of feathers is surprising. I stop dead as my eyes take in the scene. I am struck by the irony of visible death in the midst of this quiet memorial. Here I come to honor the life of a friend from an early stage my life, to sit in silent remembrance and gratitude, and I am confronted by the presence of death. And yet, I quickly sense how natural it all is. Even though part of me is uncomfortable, another part says, “See, this is life. You cannot escape it. All you can do is honor and love life and those you know. Death is a reality.”

I take a deep breath and move to one of the white marble benches. From here I can see the steeple beyond an oak tree that will shade the garden in just a few weeks. Today her branches are bare so I can watch the clouds and sky beyond.
A noise in the large azalea just to my left startles me. Something alive is moving. I turn to see a hawk fly out from under the bush and up into the oak’s barren branches. His talons clasp the remains of a small body. Tightly gripping his prey, he stands triumphantly on the branch. He shakes his head and waits as though he controls the world. I watch.

Struck by the randomness of my presence here at just this moment, I think of my dad’s 88th birthday today and of Barbara and of my own short life. This is yet another spotlight moment, one of those times when everything seems crisper and bright, when I sense the movement of life through and around me, when I know I am not alone. As the hawk flies off, I offer a prayer of peace and love for all those who come to mind. I breathe deeply and take in the beauty of just before spring. I pay tribute to those who came before me, those I have known and those who will follow my time here. And then I stroll out the garden path and back to my errands.

Mountain Dreams 2

2007-09-07T11:16:00.002-04:00

Two weeks ago we closed on the little house we loved and thought was lost. After a few weeks, the owner had “a change of heart,” a phrase I love to consider, and invited us to resubmit our last offer. They took it and sixteen days later we got the keys! It is more exciting than anything I can remember in the last couple of decades. The house is tender and sweet. It has been gently loved by the couple who designed, built it and loved it for three decades. When I walk through the door, I am totally at home even though most things there belonged to them. She left the soap in the dish, clean rags in the hamper, dishes and linens in the cupboard and the deck chairs they sat on for 30 years.

I have been unable to sleep more than a few hours each night. It's like the movie Groundhog Day. Every morning I wake with the same first thought, "We got the house! It's ours. Oh, my!" and then it is like being eight years old on Christmas morning, so exciting with so many possibilities of changes, good times with friends, special occasions with family fill my mind that I cannot help but begin my day with enthusiasm.

One of the most special parts of this has been how happy my friends are for us, for me. It has been surprising how important their joy has been to me. It reminds me of when I experienced great sorrow and they held it with me, waited with me through the grief and loss, tears and wrenching pain in my soul. Now, just as faithfully, they call asking what's the latest and listening happily, it seems, to my recounts of flooring and room colors and dishes. They hold and share the space and time of this experience with me. They honor how this has come to pass, not just for me but also through our parents and their lives, our raising of our sons, our being at the last pass of our careers, and beginning a time just before retirement. They are truly joy-filled and delighted. I am moved by their happy emotion for us and also am aware of how important it is to me. I am overwhelmed with this gift of a house made possible by inheritance and also by being chosen by the buyers. It is all such an enormous blessing and grace-filled gift too large to accept alone. My friends’ delight gives me permission to rest in the joy of this time, to accept that something so good has happened for us, and to acknowledge once again the truth that our relationships matter more than anything else, even a dream house.

Mountain Dreams

2007-07-27T16:04:00.001-04:00

Something happened today in the two hours of silence and sharing with my spiritual direction partner. Something shifted in me. I did not realize until she left that I felt really different than I had for months. Something had opened, something was gone, and I had a renewed energy, not physical energy, but a spiritual energy. It was like breathing the air around a glacier in the Canadian Rockies.

For more than a dozen weeks and especially the last two, I have lived separate from my regular daily life. I put my writing aside and barely kept the house up as my husband and I investigated, explored, fell in love with and let go of two properties in the North Carolina mountains. It is a humbling experience to find a new space on this green earth to put down roots, make a home and create memories that will last the lifetimes beyond our own. I threw myself into the search and the process, all the while mindful of the need to be grounded in this moment and not to go too far down the path of my dreams. Finding such a place seems to us a good way to connect ourselves, our children and children of the future to the generosity and love my dear in-laws have given us.

The first property we found was four acres of forest on a road to an old firetower off a road that just stops running. It is remote and quiet and beautiful in the peace of the dark woods. The second property is a house with a breathtaking view atop a ridge near the Blue Ridge Parkway. The house is just what I had envisioned for our extended family gatherings: plenty of room for playing cards, dominoes and scrabble, a kitchen roomy enough for a couple of cooks and some observers, five beds and a greatroom to sleep a few more on those wonderful airbeds, a porch, patio, and woodland garden entrance like a house in the woods should have. For reasons too complicated to go into and beside the point, neither of these worked out.

The property search process is like being swallowed by the whale. You get into it and just have to move with the flow in the your specified locale. We traveled the mountains and valleys as we considered houses in three counties, navigated the choices and options of building rather than buying, and learned the ins and outs of purchasing a second home and of owning in the mountains versus the city. We talked over our current and future finances and our relationship, reconfirmed our dreams and our values, envisioned our future in dozens of houses and pieces of property and experienced the loss that comes when one chooses to step aside from a place that at one time seemed so perfect. My parallel journey included coming to terms with childhood fears, naming what I really want, communicating clearly, listening to my true self, speaking my truths, allowing the process to work in me and letting go. Like Jonah, I felt spent and spit out by the whale when I sat down with my friend for spiritual direction.

I noticed that the search process began in October, nine months ago, and the intensity increased over Easter weekend when we first walked and considered the land. I don't know what to make of these time frames but I can't help but notice the suggestion of gestation, incubation, growing in the process or rebirth, creation of a new life, the emptiness of the tomb, and the promise of something great beyond this time and place.

The shift in me is a shift in focus from the mountain search back to my writing, from the external to the internal, from the future to the present. I know that these weeks have not been in vain. I trust that the process has allowed me explore my response to abundance, desire, letting go, listening to my intuition and speaking my truth. I believe we will find a perfect mountain home. I turn to this writing grounded even more deeply in faith and hope and my life's meaning. I continue to do what is in front of me each day, grateful for the journey.

Namaste

2007-07-16T17:46:00.001-04:00

On Sunday the sermon reminded us to create "sanctuary" for each other and for those who join us at church. The minister wondered if we could be more hospitable, if we could find it in ourselves to focus on welcoming others, even those that we unconsciously turn from. When she mentioned the word namaste as a way to approach our relationships with others, I thought of an experience this week I had with a woman I met briefly. I probably will not see her again, but we had an instant connection of loving kindness and compassion. Namaste is loosely translated by the yoga set to mean, "The Divine in me sees or honors the Divine in you" or "The light in me is drawn to the light in you."

When I met the elderly woman she was sitting on her porch reading a religious book about talking with Jesus. I knew she was going through a difficult transition, so I kept myself peaceful and opened my heart to her. Over the course of the hour or so we spent together, we spoke just a little. Mostly we smiled with our eyes and acknowledged each other with our hearts. It was as though we shared a special language. Her life is drawing to a close. She saw me standing in the life stage she had loved so much. We did not need words to communicate. We did not need to talk about facts and details. We just needed to smile and let our eyes say, "Namaste" for our hearts.

Bakaly Camara

2007-06-21T10:04:00.002-04:00

For the last few days my mind and spirit have been split between here and Guinea, West Africa. So many images, sounds, people and memories from West Africa, drown out what is happening in the present. On Sunday my friend and balaphone teacher, Alkaly Camara suffered what appeared to be a heart attack at home in Conakry. He died before arriving at the hospital. Although we are not sure how old he was, our guess is that he was in his 70's. Sadness at the loss of this gentle spirit and amazing musician comes in waves. I have been listening to a CD of his music that my son produced, and the fact that his music remains eases the grief.

His students and friends called him Bakaly. Ba is a term of endearment and respect similar to saying, "honored Grandfather." Bakaly played the ancient balaphone, ancestor to the xylophone and marimba. He was one of the most respected and honored bala players in the world. He had traveled around the world playing with two incredible touring ensembles, Les Ballets Africains and Percussions des Guinee.

I met Bakaly in 2000 when I traveled to Conakry to see what help I could be to a small school for Sierra Leonean refugees that my son had come to know. Tiani studied balaphone with Bakaly and jembe with other master drummers. Bakaly would arrive at our small two room home with his bala, having carried it for a couple of twenty minute walks on either end of a mogbana ride, taking more than an hour to get to us. [A mogbana, a van converted to seat a couple dozen people, is the cheapest form of vehicle transport in Conakry.]

Tiani and Bakaly would take their balas and walk behind the house down to the river's edge overlooking mangrove forests that wound to the Atlantic Ocean. There, under a single towering tree and seated on a large rock, they would play together. Sitting with them and listening to the two hour lessons is one of my happiest memories. Bakaly loved playing with this student who learned so quickly and loved the instrument and its music. Tiani delighted in the process of understanding the melodies and how they combined to create such beautiful songs. The vibrational tones of the bala mallets on the wooden keys creates a childlike sound, light and wistful. The two men played together was like two dancers in a ballet. They did not speak. They were of one mind, spirit and time. They communicated through the music and the movement of their mallets. A couple of times in Guinea, I took a lesson with Bakaly. It seemed to me a waste of his time as my abilities were limited, and I was quite intimidated by his skill and very presence. It seemed wiser for him to teach my son who could then teach me! But today, with his absence so palpable, I am glad to have risked being his poor student.

Later, Bakaly came to the US and stayed in our home, lived for nearly a year with our son, and even played bala at his wedding. I was able to take bala classes with him and to listen to him play many times. He was a quiet person, never demanding but always strong. His dedication to his music and the balaphone came from a deep passion and loyalty to its tradition. He lived simply and wanted to provide a better home for his family. He smiled a lot. He had few comforts and by our standards, the quality of his everyday life was poor. Twice the Guinean government took land and a home he was building to construct a road. Never was he compensated. In the last three years he was building yet another home in hopes that he could move his family out from Conakry.

As I write this my balaphone sits beside me. It belonged to Bakaly and is the instrument he played to record the CD. Some dear friends bought it from him to give to me as a surprise gift. That night, he played Douba, a favorite song of mine. I thought the song played for me was the gift. When they told me the bala was mine, I could not believe them. Finally Baklay stood up with the bala, walked over to me and put it on my lap. His smile was so big. My eyes filled with tears and my heart with gratitude. Just like right now.

Pond Thoughts

2007-06-14T09:24:00.001-04:00

It's an early, sparkly June morning. I am back in from the garden where I raked, trimmed and swept in preparation for a dinner tomorrow night. The pump in my small pond needed to be cleaned, so I hauled it out onto the moss and dumped the rich black water. The twin frogs in residence hid in the pond bottom. They arrived two weeks ago. I heard their loud bullfrog songs before I saw them. A few days later tiny splashes caught my eye when something flicked out from under a fern leaf at the pond's edge. I had to laugh at how little twins produce such big sounds. The frogs grow quickly, so now they are about an inch long. It always feels like an honor when frogs choose my pond for home. Who knows why?

The pump is six years old. It stops bubbling when the silt gets too thick. When I get around to it, I unplug it, dump the water and clean the filters. It is a messy job but one I actually like. I get to play in dirty water and get messy myself. The mystery of the task is whether or not the old pump will revive itself one more time. I always think it may not because it has served its expected term and has been clogged so many times. But once again today, Old Faithful came through for me.

I like the metaphor of this pump. It reminds me that there are times when we all get filled up with silt, gunk, algae and the debris of our lives. Sometimes we keep trying to bubble and pump our selves when we are badly clogged. Sometimes we just stop pumping. Our bodies cannot take any more of what is our normal activity. Sometimes all we need is time out for the rush of clean water to clear our filters. Then we can reposition our fountain spouts and get back to the pond of life where our moving waters and gentle songs contribute beauty and attact others.

It's a bird, it's a plane...

2007-06-12T15:12:00.000-04:00

A funny thing happened at church last Sunday. We had a guest minister who was speaking about our fears and worries and how they limit us. She referenced Parker Palmer's story in The Active Life about going on an Outward Bound trip. When he was rappelling down a cliff, he got in a bit of a fix. The instructor told him it was time to learn the Outward Bound motto: When you can't get out of it, get into it! The minister continue by sharing the fears she had as she approached a pilgrimage in the Himalayas.

All of a sudden a women in the pew in front of me screamed out, "Oh, my God!" and pulled her feet up under her. She looked terrified and pointed to the floor. The woman next to her pulled her feet up. I picked up my handbag off the floor and put my sandaled feet on the hymnal rack. I was sure it was a mouse because the first woman was so frightened. My friend to my right said, "Is it a snake?" Just then an enormous roach, probably a Palmetto bug, skuttled under our pew on his way to the back of the sanctuary. A woman behind us said, "I hate roaches!" The minister, of course, had to stop for a few moments until things settled back down. Being good Unitarian Universalists, no one killed the roach because we believe in the interdependent web of all existence.

Ever since then i have been struck by the fact that each of us presumed the frightening thing was what we fear most; a roach, mouse, spider or snake. Isn't that just like us? We approach situations and relationships fearing the one thing that scares us the most and forget that others are frightened by different things. We miss the possibilities because we are so focused on our fear. I teased the minister at the end of the service, "You didn't plant that bug, did you?"

birthdays and new beginnings

2007-06-11T09:03:00.000-04:00

The air is damp and heavy this morning as the gardens and I wait for a rain that feels just around the corner. Every bush and browning blade of grass is crispy, and the impatiens planted two weeks ago produce new leaves but no colorful flowers. June is like this. The cycle of weather begins to shift from the rains and gentle sun of spring to the more intense heat that draws the moisture from the land and makes me a little cranky.

Each year June brings my life into focus. My birthday arrives in the middle of the month, and for as long as I can recall, I have assessed how my life is going, choices I have or am making, relationships, and the general state of myself in the week before my birthday. I really love birthdays. I enjoy celebrating others', and I like my own.

It has been a different kind of year. I have been mostly healthy, better than the previous year but that is another story, and have traveled a bit to see friends and family and to attend retreats I love. I have worked around our home, written, taught a class at church, served on a couple of committees and boards, and taken it easy.

Part of me feels guilty about having so much that is good and supportive in my life this year . . . and not much stress. My husband works really hard as a high school English teacher. He has a lot of demands on him. I have few on me. I cook and clean and keep our laundry moving through the wash-dry-iron cycle. I try to be cheerful and helpful. But after 40 plus years of working and being available to others' needs, it is a big change to have time of my own and fewer demands.

So once again, I check in with myself. What is working in my life? How do I feel about how I have been spending my time? What do I want to change? What are my dreams for the year ahead? And how do I want to spend my birthday? Usually I like to do the simple things: eat breakfast out back on my patio, take a walk,lunch with friends, go for a swim, have dinner with family. I like to read a novel and call my parents to thank them for the gift of my life. Getting cards and small gifts is nice, too. I appreciate others taking time to think about me once a year. Mostly I want to be with those I love, those who make me better than I am, those who see the possibilites for my next year more clearly than I do.