Saturday, August 24, 2019
Little Feathers: Fear's Equal
Little Feathers: Fear's Equal: Fear keeps us from falling in the gorge. It keeps us from driving too fast (at least, it should). Fear keeps us aware of our mortality so th...
Fear's Equal
Fear keeps us from falling in the gorge. It keeps us from driving too fast (at least, it should). Fear keeps us aware of our mortality so that we can guard and treasure our bodies. That's the good fear.
Fear can also steal the joy of the day. Fear of getting cancer, fear of losing our worldly possessions, fear of losing our personal freedom, power, and discernment (whether to disease or politics), fear of losing people we love. But, no matter how we employ our knowledge and what wisdom we've garnered about the futility of worrying, fear can be the power over us that takes what time we've got and smashes is into a small thing that crumples under the enormity of horrible possibilities.
Which brings me to the gift I got last night. Up here in the mountains of New Mexico, far from the lights of cities or towns, the sky is a constant feast for the soul. And last night, before the moon rose, the stars were so bright and so close, they felt personal. Bob and I sat outside and could not stop staring at them. Blue ones, red ones, twinkling ones, steadily burning bright ones ( I do know they aren't all stars, but that's the name I give them). We had not been outside long when we both saw a huge shooting star. It streaked across the sky with a tail of light that was gone in a second. But it lingered in my heart the longest time. It didn't really make me want to see more so much as it made me want to remember it. Because it was fear's equal.
The cosmos is not merely humbling. For me, with the gift of those stars still shining in my mind this morning, the cosmos is liberating. Yes, we are microscopic in comparison. But we are not inconsequential. This gift of the sky, the heavens, the universe and beyond, this is proof that all will be well. No matter what happens to the stock market or the trade war or climate change, humans cannot do away with this vastness.
Part of my armor against the 'slings and arrows of outrageous fortune' (thanks, Will, that phrase has been in my mind since I first heard it as a child), part of my defense against the fear that steals, is this sky. Because I see the fingerprints of a creator whose passion for creating keeps my heart beating. Keeps me waking up knowing that love is the author of the stars, and that love is here now. A thing of hope, waiting to be borne and shared by the created.
I was wrong when I titled this blog. Because fear is not the equal of hope. Not when I remember the ancient truth, that I was created to love and be loved. The one who made the stars and the cells of my heart is here now. Saying, fear not.
Fear can also steal the joy of the day. Fear of getting cancer, fear of losing our worldly possessions, fear of losing our personal freedom, power, and discernment (whether to disease or politics), fear of losing people we love. But, no matter how we employ our knowledge and what wisdom we've garnered about the futility of worrying, fear can be the power over us that takes what time we've got and smashes is into a small thing that crumples under the enormity of horrible possibilities.
Which brings me to the gift I got last night. Up here in the mountains of New Mexico, far from the lights of cities or towns, the sky is a constant feast for the soul. And last night, before the moon rose, the stars were so bright and so close, they felt personal. Bob and I sat outside and could not stop staring at them. Blue ones, red ones, twinkling ones, steadily burning bright ones ( I do know they aren't all stars, but that's the name I give them). We had not been outside long when we both saw a huge shooting star. It streaked across the sky with a tail of light that was gone in a second. But it lingered in my heart the longest time. It didn't really make me want to see more so much as it made me want to remember it. Because it was fear's equal.
The cosmos is not merely humbling. For me, with the gift of those stars still shining in my mind this morning, the cosmos is liberating. Yes, we are microscopic in comparison. But we are not inconsequential. This gift of the sky, the heavens, the universe and beyond, this is proof that all will be well. No matter what happens to the stock market or the trade war or climate change, humans cannot do away with this vastness.
Part of my armor against the 'slings and arrows of outrageous fortune' (thanks, Will, that phrase has been in my mind since I first heard it as a child), part of my defense against the fear that steals, is this sky. Because I see the fingerprints of a creator whose passion for creating keeps my heart beating. Keeps me waking up knowing that love is the author of the stars, and that love is here now. A thing of hope, waiting to be borne and shared by the created.
I was wrong when I titled this blog. Because fear is not the equal of hope. Not when I remember the ancient truth, that I was created to love and be loved. The one who made the stars and the cells of my heart is here now. Saying, fear not.
Tuesday, July 30, 2019
Of Tricycles and Home
There's a poem called The World's Greatest Tricycle Rider, by C.K. Williams. The poem tells of a wildman inside, one who rides with no hands, upside, fearless. But the wildman is growing older, and the poet worries that because he has not shared his wisdom with the rider inside, the poor wildman is doomed to ride again and again around the same block.
Growing older is accompanied by so many clichés, it's comical. Is there any new thought under the sun about the losses of aging? When I read this poem for the first time this last week, it caused little lights in my brain to spark some new ideas. New to me, at any rate.
What if clinging to the ways I've always been, the abilities I've always had, is actually holding me back from the progress I can make at this time in my life? What if grieving the loss of strength keeps me from trying something new that makes better use of my current state? What if I'm actually better at things I've not tried than at riding the tricycle around and around the block, my feet overshooting the pedals? And, what if there is great joy to be found in trying the new, joy that would mitigate the sense of loss?
They say (don't you love "them") you can't go home again. I understand that it is because time has changed us, even if time has skipped over the actual physical place we grew up. And time has taken away people we love who inhabited our home with us. So, what if we free ourselves from the need to do the impossible, and open our hearts to the home around us? What if we look for ways to make this older body our home, make this group of people our home?
This process of setting the child inside free to love this place and time is a conscious decision. It must be a journey of the spirit that makes this time of life as precious, as productive, as important to our souls as our youth. In a society that idolizes youth, it can seem counterintuitive. Allow ourselves to celebrate aging? To cherish the life left to us instead of longing for the power and beauty of our youth? It might take some work. It might take giving that wildman a two wheeler. But think how much more comfortable he will be with a bike that fits!
Growing older is accompanied by so many clichés, it's comical. Is there any new thought under the sun about the losses of aging? When I read this poem for the first time this last week, it caused little lights in my brain to spark some new ideas. New to me, at any rate.
What if clinging to the ways I've always been, the abilities I've always had, is actually holding me back from the progress I can make at this time in my life? What if grieving the loss of strength keeps me from trying something new that makes better use of my current state? What if I'm actually better at things I've not tried than at riding the tricycle around and around the block, my feet overshooting the pedals? And, what if there is great joy to be found in trying the new, joy that would mitigate the sense of loss?
They say (don't you love "them") you can't go home again. I understand that it is because time has changed us, even if time has skipped over the actual physical place we grew up. And time has taken away people we love who inhabited our home with us. So, what if we free ourselves from the need to do the impossible, and open our hearts to the home around us? What if we look for ways to make this older body our home, make this group of people our home?
This process of setting the child inside free to love this place and time is a conscious decision. It must be a journey of the spirit that makes this time of life as precious, as productive, as important to our souls as our youth. In a society that idolizes youth, it can seem counterintuitive. Allow ourselves to celebrate aging? To cherish the life left to us instead of longing for the power and beauty of our youth? It might take some work. It might take giving that wildman a two wheeler. But think how much more comfortable he will be with a bike that fits!
Wednesday, August 15, 2018
Little Feathers: A Bright Little Feather
Little Feathers: A Bright Little Feather: "Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the song without the words And never stops-at all-" I lov...
A Bright Little Feather
"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the song without the words
And never stops-at all-"
I love this poem by Emily Dickinson. I remember my mom reading it to me when I was just a little girl. The image of a bird singing "a million songs without any words", as Patti Griffin says, is one that I can see in my mind's eye. The face on the notion of hope. Most birdsong is heard without ever seeing the singer. But when the singer perches in my soul and sings those songs without any words, I feel the solace coming straight from the creator.
There are so many things to worry about. Not just the ones "out there" in the big world, but worries for people I love. For friends and family facing illness and grief. For people whose jobs or children or spouse or parents are in trouble. For friends of friends whose losses or sudden challenges send me to my knees. But then the thing happens. Not immediately, because I can worry with the best of them. But then the gift is given. The songs.
Sometimes hope drifts into my awareness like that little feather in Forrest Gump. Just softly rising into the sky, swirling and lifting. Sometimes it's the birds that begin to sing just before the sun comes over the mountain when I'm here at the cabin. The forest behind us is filled with the little gift givers, and they are the sweetest alarm clock. A new day starts with their song.
Last night, hope came from another gift. When I lay awake worrying about everything and everyone, Bob reminded me that there was something else to focus on. All that we have to be grateful for. The beautiful people we were given to love. And that song, that one without any words, the one that perched in my soul and called itself hope, that song lulled me to sleep.
The bright little feather is the one that makes the dawn look beautiful. The one that makes the day seem possible. Emily's hope sang without any feathers. But mine is lined with the downy beauty of the creature who gets to fly, who sings so beautifully from a throat created for music. Hope.
That perches in the soul
And sings the song without the words
And never stops-at all-"
I love this poem by Emily Dickinson. I remember my mom reading it to me when I was just a little girl. The image of a bird singing "a million songs without any words", as Patti Griffin says, is one that I can see in my mind's eye. The face on the notion of hope. Most birdsong is heard without ever seeing the singer. But when the singer perches in my soul and sings those songs without any words, I feel the solace coming straight from the creator.
There are so many things to worry about. Not just the ones "out there" in the big world, but worries for people I love. For friends and family facing illness and grief. For people whose jobs or children or spouse or parents are in trouble. For friends of friends whose losses or sudden challenges send me to my knees. But then the thing happens. Not immediately, because I can worry with the best of them. But then the gift is given. The songs.
Sometimes hope drifts into my awareness like that little feather in Forrest Gump. Just softly rising into the sky, swirling and lifting. Sometimes it's the birds that begin to sing just before the sun comes over the mountain when I'm here at the cabin. The forest behind us is filled with the little gift givers, and they are the sweetest alarm clock. A new day starts with their song.
Last night, hope came from another gift. When I lay awake worrying about everything and everyone, Bob reminded me that there was something else to focus on. All that we have to be grateful for. The beautiful people we were given to love. And that song, that one without any words, the one that perched in my soul and called itself hope, that song lulled me to sleep.
The bright little feather is the one that makes the dawn look beautiful. The one that makes the day seem possible. Emily's hope sang without any feathers. But mine is lined with the downy beauty of the creature who gets to fly, who sings so beautifully from a throat created for music. Hope.
Saturday, June 30, 2018
Thank You, Leonard!
Last night I saw Bernstein's Mass. Peter Bay and friends pulled out all the stops to mount this massive (pun intended) production. I was amazed and awed that Austin would have gotten behind this deep look at faith and hope. Because Austin seems more comfortable with being cool than being introspective. At least, that's my impression.
As the scenes devolved into chaos and anarchy, even the altar wasn't reserved for the sacred. Leonard was pushing our boundaries. Pushing, pushing, pushing to make us say how much is enough. What is of man, and what is of God? How much grief can a human take and still turn to hope, turn to God, turn to truth, turn to good? One thing I liked is that Bernstein stripped away all the props of religion, yelled at and cried out to God, and in the end was left with only the silence, and the small voice of hope singing a new song. A Psalm. Really quiet music from the throat of God.
What struck me again last night is that these times we live in forty some years later are part of the same picture, part of the same journey that America has been on since Kennedy was shot. And way before that. Like to the time of Cain and Able. We had a few years in there that made us think (some of us, because for some this is never the case) that we had come out of the social schisms and tears in the fabric of our society's identity, and that we had healed as a nation. But this grief we experience today at the hatred of one for another isn't new. Our clothes are different, but that's about it.
I know this is a theme I keep coming back to. And I'm not saying, "It's okay, it's been this bad before so we don't need to worry." I'm saying, we are still on this hard road of grief, and we still have choices to make about who we will be in the end. Thanks for the reminder, Leonard.
As the scenes devolved into chaos and anarchy, even the altar wasn't reserved for the sacred. Leonard was pushing our boundaries. Pushing, pushing, pushing to make us say how much is enough. What is of man, and what is of God? How much grief can a human take and still turn to hope, turn to God, turn to truth, turn to good? One thing I liked is that Bernstein stripped away all the props of religion, yelled at and cried out to God, and in the end was left with only the silence, and the small voice of hope singing a new song. A Psalm. Really quiet music from the throat of God.
What struck me again last night is that these times we live in forty some years later are part of the same picture, part of the same journey that America has been on since Kennedy was shot. And way before that. Like to the time of Cain and Able. We had a few years in there that made us think (some of us, because for some this is never the case) that we had come out of the social schisms and tears in the fabric of our society's identity, and that we had healed as a nation. But this grief we experience today at the hatred of one for another isn't new. Our clothes are different, but that's about it.
I know this is a theme I keep coming back to. And I'm not saying, "It's okay, it's been this bad before so we don't need to worry." I'm saying, we are still on this hard road of grief, and we still have choices to make about who we will be in the end. Thanks for the reminder, Leonard.
Sunday, June 24, 2018
Little Feathers: An Unpopular Word in Unpopular Times
Little Feathers: An Unpopular Word in Unpopular Times: We live in unpopular times. How often have we heard the word "unprecedented" in regard to some news item? And it's never good....
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