I moved from the beautiful Pacific Northwest at the tender age of 19. I vividly remember the time I went home a few years later,when our kids were really little. I scoured the scenery for the familiar. For the sense of home. Maybe it was because life was so busy, so forward-moving at a breathless pace, or maybe because my actual home town was changing really fast. At any rate, I didn't find it. I said to myself at the time, well we can never go home again.
Last week, several decades later. we went to Oregon with good friends to enjoy the wine country of the Willamette Valley. But first we drove across the coastal range to the incredibly beautiful Oregon coast. On that drive, just outside the window were these trees and plants that were so familiar, I honestly saw them as if I was 19 years old and riding in the car with my parents. That time of life came rushing back. The way I felt, my life stretched out before me. It almost made me cry.
Maybe because it wasn't my specific home town, and I didn't need the buildings and roads to be the same as they were. I only needed those trees. That air. Those blackberry bushes along side the road. But it was a gift of the rarest kind. A bone deep memory of a wonderful childhood. A bone deep memory of a loving family who cherished the beauty of their homeland. It's a new memory I'll file away, to take out again someday and spend some good time being grateful.
Monday, June 12, 2017
Thursday, April 27, 2017
Little Feathers: Looking Back, Going Home
Little Feathers: Looking Back, Going Home: There are times when the past seems like a siren song. When going through old photographs, reading old journal entries is a balm, an antidot...
Looking Back, Going Home
There are times when the past seems like a siren song. When going through old photographs, reading old journal entries is a balm, an antidote for the fast paced, lightning-round feel of today. I've been doing it in other ways too, giving in to this instinct for going home. I've been re-reading books I loved years ago. I know it's partly because I already know the ending. There is no risk that an author is going to yank my heart out at the end and stomp around on it. And even though my own past has sad parts that left that same heart battered, it is still safer than the great-unknown of tomorrow.
Thomas Wolfe made the saying, "You can't go home again" famous. He wrote a book by that title. I have heard it over and over again, and I usually thought it was the logical conclusion drawn from the fact that time changes places and people, so you can't recreate an experience by going somewhere you once called home. But this morning it is meaning something else to me.
I do believe we are meant to keep learning, keep growing, keep becoming. And an occasional look in the review mirror to remember with gratitude, to give thanks for the past, is a good thing. Laughing at my naivete, even my fashion choices, is fun because I am not mean to myself about it. But spending too much wishing for the certainty of the past really does rob me of today.
Maybe it's because the world is so volatile today. When trouble is everywhere, no one rests easy. But maybe this isn't a time in history to rest easy. I hope some growth will come of the unrest, and we will come out of this period of civilization with more compassion, more humility, more insight into what is really true than we had before.
So, going home. If I can't live in the security of the past, I have to do that thing I know is right. Darn if I haven't heard it all my life. But, like other things that are hard for me, like honoring my body with the right amount of nutrition and exercise, I struggle with honoring my spirit with the right amount of trust in God and the simple grit to do the next right thing.
I won't get it exactly right today. And though the soft glow of memory would have me believe otherwise, I know I didn't get it exactly right in the past, either. It's almost funny that someday this will be the past. Like thinking of some hip-hop songs being golden oldies. Makes me laugh. Like the first time I realized the music in my elevator was a Beatles song.
Like a turtle who takes his home with him everywhere he goes, I want to take my home with me into this day. Bringing with me all I was given that got me to today. Giving thanks for being here. Looking up, looking out, Breathing deep. Seeing beauty. Giving thanks some more. Just saying that makes today feel more like home.
Thomas Wolfe made the saying, "You can't go home again" famous. He wrote a book by that title. I have heard it over and over again, and I usually thought it was the logical conclusion drawn from the fact that time changes places and people, so you can't recreate an experience by going somewhere you once called home. But this morning it is meaning something else to me.
I do believe we are meant to keep learning, keep growing, keep becoming. And an occasional look in the review mirror to remember with gratitude, to give thanks for the past, is a good thing. Laughing at my naivete, even my fashion choices, is fun because I am not mean to myself about it. But spending too much wishing for the certainty of the past really does rob me of today.
Maybe it's because the world is so volatile today. When trouble is everywhere, no one rests easy. But maybe this isn't a time in history to rest easy. I hope some growth will come of the unrest, and we will come out of this period of civilization with more compassion, more humility, more insight into what is really true than we had before.
So, going home. If I can't live in the security of the past, I have to do that thing I know is right. Darn if I haven't heard it all my life. But, like other things that are hard for me, like honoring my body with the right amount of nutrition and exercise, I struggle with honoring my spirit with the right amount of trust in God and the simple grit to do the next right thing.
I won't get it exactly right today. And though the soft glow of memory would have me believe otherwise, I know I didn't get it exactly right in the past, either. It's almost funny that someday this will be the past. Like thinking of some hip-hop songs being golden oldies. Makes me laugh. Like the first time I realized the music in my elevator was a Beatles song.
Like a turtle who takes his home with him everywhere he goes, I want to take my home with me into this day. Bringing with me all I was given that got me to today. Giving thanks for being here. Looking up, looking out, Breathing deep. Seeing beauty. Giving thanks some more. Just saying that makes today feel more like home.
Wednesday, March 22, 2017
Little Feathers: Let Me Say This About That
Little Feathers: Let Me Say This About That: My mom and I were laughing about how no one wants our advice...even though we clearly have some great advice to give. But we laughed because...
Let Me Say This About That
My mom and I were laughing about how no one wants our advice...even though we clearly have some great advice to give. But we laughed because we know darned well, we don't want to take other people's advice either! At least, not about the big things, the real things. We may take advice on how to accomplish a task, or become proficient at something. But not about the important things.
Here's the thing about advice-giving: we aren't qualified to do it. Because we have not been in the exact situation of any other person ever. We have not felt their emotions the way they feel them, because every human's emotional makeup is as unique as their finger print. Even within a family, the notion each member holds of life and how to live it is different.
"If I were you..." is a goofy way to begin a sentence. Because we have no way of knowing what in the world we would do if we were them. We've never been them. I had a friend, long ago, who said that to me so often, I even rolled my eyes now, years later, as I typed it.
So...let me say this about that: I love learning things from other people. I love hearing their experiences. I love discovering their strengths. I love witnessing their hope. But good boundaries require me to interpret their truth through my own filter. It's work I'm obligated to do to be honest with myself and true to my own identity. That can be hard to do with someone you really admire, or someone you have subconsciously put on a pedestal.
When difficulty strikes, when life gets challenging, or downright hard, it is good to be able to lean on each other. It is a gift to be there to help when someone needs it. And it is very good to remember that we help each other the most when we give freely, with no strings attached, with no expectations.
In many 12 step rooms I've heard the phrase, "Take what works and leave the rest". What an amazingly respectful seven word sentence. I like it so much, I'll just say this about that: there are many things I can't control. My own behavior is about the only thing, and sometimes it's a quacking duck. But it is empowering to realize that we are not obligated to take advice, or give it!
Here's the thing about advice-giving: we aren't qualified to do it. Because we have not been in the exact situation of any other person ever. We have not felt their emotions the way they feel them, because every human's emotional makeup is as unique as their finger print. Even within a family, the notion each member holds of life and how to live it is different.
"If I were you..." is a goofy way to begin a sentence. Because we have no way of knowing what in the world we would do if we were them. We've never been them. I had a friend, long ago, who said that to me so often, I even rolled my eyes now, years later, as I typed it.
So...let me say this about that: I love learning things from other people. I love hearing their experiences. I love discovering their strengths. I love witnessing their hope. But good boundaries require me to interpret their truth through my own filter. It's work I'm obligated to do to be honest with myself and true to my own identity. That can be hard to do with someone you really admire, or someone you have subconsciously put on a pedestal.
When difficulty strikes, when life gets challenging, or downright hard, it is good to be able to lean on each other. It is a gift to be there to help when someone needs it. And it is very good to remember that we help each other the most when we give freely, with no strings attached, with no expectations.
In many 12 step rooms I've heard the phrase, "Take what works and leave the rest". What an amazingly respectful seven word sentence. I like it so much, I'll just say this about that: there are many things I can't control. My own behavior is about the only thing, and sometimes it's a quacking duck. But it is empowering to realize that we are not obligated to take advice, or give it!
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
Little Feathers: Lent and Ultimate FOMO
Little Feathers: Lent and Ultimate FOMO: Dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return. Even the ancient language can't hide the message, though it is a truth I spend a lot of ti...
Lent and Ultimate FOMO
Dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return. Even the ancient language can't hide the message, though it is a truth I spend a lot of time and effort pretending doesn't apply to me.
Lent always catches me unprepared. Ash Wednesday comes really early for me each year, even when Easter is later in the year that usual, like this year. I know it is because I would prefer to think that ashes to ashes is just a saying and not a reality. I suppose it is because I do that thing that many people do...pretend that life will go on an on.
For creatures who know from the outset that we will someday be dead and gone, we sure spend a lot of time imagining, pretending that is not the case. We think it's morbid, somehow, to talk about the thing we all will do, eventually. We will die. We will be gone from this earth. But there is such a cultural restriction on talking about it that we have made up a litany of phrases to avoid saying the words. 'He passed away. She went to her maker. They passed over Jordan. When I'm gone.'
Bob and I are in that strange time of life when dying has turned out to be something people our age are doing. We watched it happen to our parents, and noted their surprise. But somehow it is different when it is you.
When I first heard FOMO, someone younger than me had to explain that it was an acronym for Fear Of Missing Out. I applied it in my mind to fear of missing parties, events, fun things that others got to do. But now I see I have FOMO. Ultimate FOMO. Because I don't want to be gone. I don't want to think of our loved ones going on without me. Of the generations to come that I will never see. Of the Christmases I'll miss or the family birthday dinners where I won't be singing along.
Some might say that a Christian shouldn't feel that way. That our faith should be strong enough that we don't fear anything about death. Maybe that is the case for some people, but I would not be honest if I said I don't mind the idea of being dead and gone.
But here comes pesky Lent. Today. To remind me that I can't put my faith in this life. That I will die. And that I need to do some work on my attitude toward death. Just look up books on dying and you will see how big this task is for human beings, by the number of people who have written about it. And that doesn't count the huge numbers of people who wrote about it and didn't get published. Or who grappled with it and never wrote down a word. It's a subject so deep and wide, so ultimately unfathomable that it is sometimes easier to ignore it. Until Lent. Lent may be a church season, but it's also a time of life. It's a time when we are forced to turn and look at this thing we don't really understand.
Today when I get ashes on my forehead in the shape of a cross, they will be an aid to me. They will be a benediction to my spirit. Because they remind me that death is not the end of my relationship with my creator. It heals me to know that there is solace in that symbol of sacrifice and death. And that burned-up palm branches/cries-of-hosanna turned to grief at the foot of the cross reminds me that there is no death I can endure that will separate me from the love of God. Though that doesn't eliminate my fear, it gives me hope that even in that state of human need, I will not be alone. And I have no doubt that God has the whole FOMO thing covered in some fabulous way that I can't imagine on this side of the great divide. Sigh. Since Lent is here, since it is a time and and a state of mind, I'll take the ashes for the gift they are. And I'll say it's okay, even when it isn't, because I have to believe that ultimately it will be.
Lent always catches me unprepared. Ash Wednesday comes really early for me each year, even when Easter is later in the year that usual, like this year. I know it is because I would prefer to think that ashes to ashes is just a saying and not a reality. I suppose it is because I do that thing that many people do...pretend that life will go on an on.
For creatures who know from the outset that we will someday be dead and gone, we sure spend a lot of time imagining, pretending that is not the case. We think it's morbid, somehow, to talk about the thing we all will do, eventually. We will die. We will be gone from this earth. But there is such a cultural restriction on talking about it that we have made up a litany of phrases to avoid saying the words. 'He passed away. She went to her maker. They passed over Jordan. When I'm gone.'
Bob and I are in that strange time of life when dying has turned out to be something people our age are doing. We watched it happen to our parents, and noted their surprise. But somehow it is different when it is you.
When I first heard FOMO, someone younger than me had to explain that it was an acronym for Fear Of Missing Out. I applied it in my mind to fear of missing parties, events, fun things that others got to do. But now I see I have FOMO. Ultimate FOMO. Because I don't want to be gone. I don't want to think of our loved ones going on without me. Of the generations to come that I will never see. Of the Christmases I'll miss or the family birthday dinners where I won't be singing along.
Some might say that a Christian shouldn't feel that way. That our faith should be strong enough that we don't fear anything about death. Maybe that is the case for some people, but I would not be honest if I said I don't mind the idea of being dead and gone.
But here comes pesky Lent. Today. To remind me that I can't put my faith in this life. That I will die. And that I need to do some work on my attitude toward death. Just look up books on dying and you will see how big this task is for human beings, by the number of people who have written about it. And that doesn't count the huge numbers of people who wrote about it and didn't get published. Or who grappled with it and never wrote down a word. It's a subject so deep and wide, so ultimately unfathomable that it is sometimes easier to ignore it. Until Lent. Lent may be a church season, but it's also a time of life. It's a time when we are forced to turn and look at this thing we don't really understand.
Today when I get ashes on my forehead in the shape of a cross, they will be an aid to me. They will be a benediction to my spirit. Because they remind me that death is not the end of my relationship with my creator. It heals me to know that there is solace in that symbol of sacrifice and death. And that burned-up palm branches/cries-of-hosanna turned to grief at the foot of the cross reminds me that there is no death I can endure that will separate me from the love of God. Though that doesn't eliminate my fear, it gives me hope that even in that state of human need, I will not be alone. And I have no doubt that God has the whole FOMO thing covered in some fabulous way that I can't imagine on this side of the great divide. Sigh. Since Lent is here, since it is a time and and a state of mind, I'll take the ashes for the gift they are. And I'll say it's okay, even when it isn't, because I have to believe that ultimately it will be.
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