Rest of Winter

Grey and sullen skies portend the rest of winter
stretching out like a vista into the vast, unwelcome, unknown.
Expectations and dreams temporarily dormant,
I walk the back roads, searching for what is real.

Indoors, hope sometimes feels elusive
and I venture out, yearning for certainty in the ordinariness of life in the woods. 
Rhythms of survival, established long ago,
wind their way through the trees above
and fallen leaves below. 

Lost in thought, the chorus gradually creeps into my conciousness.
Robin voices float through the surrounding mist, along with the softer whistling of cedar waxwings
feeding on holly and bittersweet.
Chickadees and titmice flit from branch to branch,
providing the percussion section, 
while a solitary hermit thrush pauses its ground foraging,
soberly considering my presence. 

Promise is present at my feet.
Moss grows in extravagant abundance when all else seems extinguished.
and fungi and lichen are undaunted by what I consider to be harsh conditions.
Acorns, sweet gum balls and ash seeds welcome the cold
they need to germinate in the coming spring.
All is as it should be here...
No resistance, no wasted energy eulogizing what isn't,
Adapting to what is, the key to survival.
The rest of winter.

Solstice Respite

I began this day, wanting to write something about creating safe spaces for ourselves and those we encounter during these troubled times. I wanted to offer words of encouragement to keep working for the well being of each other and to offer illustrations of community and sustenance from the natural world. But I can't seem to find the words, as I made the mistake of looking at the news a little while ago.

And so, all I can offer today is the invitation to step into beauty, as I did this morning. Best would be for you to step outside and into whatever beauty you are afforded where you live. But I offer these pictures of what surrounds me in this place.  

Do not make the mistake of thinking that these images are of frozen lifeless, and barren landscapes for they host an almost infinite number of birds, hidden in the shelter of the grasses, cattails and tangles. Maybe there is an analogy there for us, waiting to be written on another day. 

In these moments as you look, breathe in deeply, feel the frosty air, hear the geese and ducks, woodpeckers and sparrows that are not in the pictures, note the muted hues of tans, and browns and grays and how they play together. Mourn if you need to, be renewed and gather strength for what lies ahead in your day. Breathe a prayer of thanksgiving for life, in all its forms, and a prayer for its protection, as well.

Blessings to you, on this day of the winter solstice.

Promise Obscured

Barren trees and frozen ground, interlacing grays and browns surrounding.
Dormancy with hidden promise, not yet expectation. Too early for swelling buds or coloring twigs. The coldest and deepest sleep is yet to come.
Silence.
Then... tapping, rattling, rustling debris falling from above, curtain of brown powder against the winter sky and branches. Life, after all.

Leaden sky, lifeless amber stalks as far as the eye can see. Low tide, expanse of mud and muck mostly, uncompromising honesty of what is, at the bottom of the marsh.
No illusions of abundance nor reflections of fullness, here.
Instead, crusted icy tributaries, like the tentacles of God winding through this
broken and unsuspecting world,
snake through the mire, unappreciated life-source.

Standing still, unmoving, unnoticed behind dried rushes
in the pale light.
A grey lump, inanimate, dead-stump like, invisible
until a single ray of sunlight reflects back from the white in his face and the gleam in his eye.
Suddenly there. Suddenly, "Oh, of course! How could I not see him,"
even as the sun retreats and he is returned to obscurity.
Sureness questioned...Alive, nonetheless.

Advent.

The Least of These

I have been thinking about juxtaposition, "the act or instance of placing side by side, especially for comparison or contrast", lately. Every day I sadly read of the incoming administration's new instances of assault on the land, disregard for people and utter disdain for decency and the dignity of life. But, every day, I also delight in walks through the woods, the birds at the feeders, the play of sunlight on holly leaves and the rustling of persistent beech leaves in the wind. On the one hand, discouragement at what feels like encroaching darkness, and on the other, gratitude for witnessing life and light, in all its seemingly simple day to day normalcy.  

Lately, I have also been pondering my place in this world and what my contributions to it have been and might be. I tend to measure myself against the efforts of the people who do "big things" for good which, of course, leaves me feeling considerably lacking and is a decidedly unhelpful attitude. Still, I long to make a difference...

 It was in answer to that longing that some well-known words and a new hedgerow planting intersected into the affirmation that my intentions and efforts are valuable, possibly life-changing. The hedgerow is a mix of black chokeberry and still-fruiting winterberry bushes, the latter being visited daily by a migrant hermit thrush from the north. It was while watching the thrush eat that Jesus' words came to me, "For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat. I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in..." 

I realized that all the kindnesses that I extend, be it toward creatures who come to live out a part of their lives in the back yard, or fellow jury panelists with whom I recently spent a day, or a neighbor who needs a listening ear, or a roadside that needs to be cleared of the trash of too many careless passersby....all those kindnesses combine into opportunities for healing, healing for me, as well as others. It is in the doing what I can do, and the trusting to God what I cannot manage that will allow me to live, if not always at peace, at least with the gratitude that I have been able to give to the world what is mine to give, hopefully, for the blessing of all.

Kinship

It was the bite of a newly harvested, Pennsylvania apple that brought me back to my senses. Sweet and tart, spicy and juicy, spark of gratitude amidst the chaos of swirling emotions, acknowledgement of what hasn’t changed.

Christmas fern on the bank up the road, the golden glow of beeches-reminiscent of Lothlorien, chickadee voices that sing all year and that brave, young roadside mullein plant, fuzzily growing taller and trying its best to beat the clock and bloom before the coming freeze.

The robins are here, voices ringing through the woodlands, taking in temporary offerings as they find them, nourishment from holly and bittersweet berries. And I? Where is my temporary nourishment, as needed in this moment? Like them, I ask only for the now, for a way to go on, trusting that when today’s provision is gone, I will be shown tomorrow’s.

It is cold and gray, this morning. I walk, damp and chilled but, driven onto the trails for the warmth of fellowship with disrobing trees, discarded leaves, and the old giants now being whittled to dust by beaks and beetles. The predictable presence of red-headed woodpeckers still surprises me, the prize of many a birder from far away. I can relax here, as their rattling invites me into a world devoid of human social turmoil, but replete with an abundance of grubs in the beaver and borer-killed trees that dot this landscape.

I hear them coming before I can see them, a doe and spike buck moving steadily through the trees, their coats exactly the same color as the bare trunks and branches, more effectively camouflaged than in summer. Close enough for me to read the expression in their eyes, they pause, smelling and wondering, and then, with a bolt, they are gone, vanishing back into the woodlands, beyond sight and sound.

Along the river, I find human fellowship, after all. An older gentleman carrying a long-distance lens watches and waits, dawdling as slowly as I. “There is a lot to see,” I say. “I can only go a few steps at a time before stopping again.” He smiles and nods, “Yes. That’s the way to do it.”
Sometimes, camaraderie comes unexpectedly.

Song sparrows rustle covertly in the thickets, singing improvisational songs and muttering to themselves in the underbrush as I become aware of feet, pattering towards me. Two squirrels, engrossed in aggressive pursuit and heedless of my presence until a few feet away suddenly startle, turn and scamper back from whence they came. 

“Well! What next?” I wonder.

I turn towards home through woodlands still awash in yellow and orange, at peace now, as I haven’t been in days, seven to be exact. One of the ever-present but often-hidden hermit

thrushes teases with its wheezy invitation as I gaze on new evidence that the beavers are back and once again at work.

I have found the temporary nourishment I needed, nourishment to engage the day, to examine my fears, to be grateful for what is, even as I act to change what can be changed. I am of two minds as I look around me, grateful for the moment, anxious for what might come.

Of course all is not lost…Not yet, anyway.

                                                                              

Common Denominator

Today, I will let the images speak to your hearts, as they have to mine.  If you enjoy or are moved by them, pay attention to their common denominator. To be honest, I was surprised and then surprised that I hadn't named it earlier. What do you see? What role does diversity play in the beauty around us?

Don't Miss It

I think it was late afternoon on Wednesday. Reality had begun to sink in, but I couldn't come to grips with it. I sat at my desk, eyes closed, head bent to my knees, too overcome even for tears, brain vacillating between disbelief and despair, anger and grief, and back again. My thoughts were of the climate that envelops our Earth, and the now-seeming futility of seriously working  towards moderating its warming effects and of the danger that unmitigated climate change will bring to everyone who depends on the Earth for food and life. My thoughts were of all the people groups who have been lately disrespected and devalued by the new president-elect and his followers, and of the people groups who elected him. In  the barrage of my reactions, I barely heard the quiet voice that worked its way through my emotions into conscious awareness, "Don't miss it."

"Don't miss it," it repeated. "What?" I could barely ask. "Don't miss the fall. Don't miss the beauty. It will soon be gone."  I felt like a sedated person trying to surface out of the fog, and somehow I brought myself to pay attention.  "Listen," the voice said again, and I heard the leaves of the woodland around our house rustling unceasingly in the wind. There was a message here, if I could but grasp it, but all I could process was a fleeting sense of quiet and nourishment, a gift, seemingly solely for the moment.

It has been a few days now and I, like many, have wrestled mightily with anger aimed in many directions. Anger is appropriate at times. It can cause us to examine ourselves- our focus, our sense of justice, our hopes that have been dashed, our concerns for others. But, I have had to grapple with the personal reality that my anger has, at times, become rage and that in so doing, has rendered me powerless to address any of my original concerns constructively.

While I was out raking leaves this morning, I got to thinking about the new "safety pin" symbol that people of good will are wearing to signify that they are a safe and helpful presence for those in trouble or afraid. I mused about similarities between creating safety for wildlife and safety for people. My leaf raking effort wasn't so much for clearing our lawn of leaves, as it was for creating "safe spaces" for insects, amphibians and soil micro-organisms. Rather than raking and disposing of the leaves, I add them to garden or shrub beds that I've created and allow them to decompose and do their work there. 

I have a sign in my yard that denotes a nurturing space for wildlife...of course they are not able to read it and so I need to create an invitation they can recognize and respond to if they are going to come and take advantage of what the yard has to offer. In Jesus' day, He had a reputation and people seemed to know that He was a person with whom the vulnerable would feel safe and be cared for. I'm afraid I don't have that same well-known reputation, as of yet. But, perhaps the safety pin symbol might be a beginning. Perhaps it can be the recognized invitation that I, also, am someone who cares for others and their lives and stories. And, as each opportunity for caring comes my way, I fervently hope that I will not be too distracted to notice and will heed the voice that whispers quietly, "Don't miss it."

What a Buck in the Marsh Taught Me About Respect on This Morning After the Election

I am fortunate that I have the flexibility to walk the woodlands and visit the marsh this morning. Where else would I go on such a troubling day? I went into this election, determined that no matter the outcome, I would continue to do my best to live as salt and light in a world that always needs both. As an unashamed follower of Christ, I have and continue to attempt to live in accordance with what matters to Him...treating people with love, treating the Creation with care, and recognizing my dependence on the Spirit to help me to know and name my blindness and shortcomings.

But this morning, I have to admit that that determination comes hard. I am chagrined to realize who made up the voting block that has elevated our president-elect. I am sickened with grief and foreboding for what this outcome will mean for the earth, for the Creation, its creatures and all the humans who depend upon it for life, as the party elected will not hesitate to exploit it full measure and never look back.

I was thinking these thoughts, and wondering whether I had anything at all to say in this space this morning, anything gleaned from the natural world around me, as I walked along the boardwalk, when I heard the crashing and saw the dried cattails waving wildly. I had seen possible traces before of deer in the marsh, but was never quite sure. "How would they maneuver through the muck?"

But there he was, thrashing through the cattails, antlers entangled, seemingly struggling to find solid footing. I stopped immediately, as I didn't want my presence to spook him further and felt a surprising connection between that buck and myself, and with the rest of the individuals who make up this nation.  Respect for that buck and his need was instinctive, it came naturally. Respect for wildlife comes from the very core of who I am (perhaps more readily than respect for people, sometimes, I am disappointed to say.)

 As I watched and waited for him to make his way on to safety, I felt a visceral kinship with him in my own need for respect from others today and my need to offer others the same. Many of us are fragile this morning...those who voted other than the outcome, those who voted for it and are now wondering what they have done, those who voted in favor of it and are jubilant.  We all need to realize that many of us are in emotional turmoil and the need of the moment is genuine care and respect for one another. If you can't offer encouragement to those who are wrestling, at least do what I did.  Stay out of their way, give them space, and quiet and time to regain their footing and go on their way. 

This day and the days to follow will be what the nation builds upon as we face this new era. Let us grant each other the grace to be ourselves and to reach out to care for one another even in disagreement. Let us continue our hard work of bringing light into darkness, for everyone's sake.

Noticing

Now and then, various people have commented that I seem to notice happenings in the natural world that they feel like they miss. From what sounds like wistfulness in their voices, I sometimes wonder whether they feel as though I have been granted some secret ability, not available to them. While it is true that I am now innately tuned to the life occurring around me (sometimes to the detriment of conversations with people!) such has not always been the case and, actually, I am not accomplished at noticing visual detail in general.

Certainly, affection for a subject predisposes us to be more sensitive to its presence (as so aptly demonstrated by my young grandsons, who immediately drop what they are doing and look up and into the sky at the sound of an airplane or helicopter,) but the relationship between affection and knowing is a circular one. The more we appreciate something, the more likely we are to want to know more about it, and the more we know about something, the more likely we are to notice and appreciate it.

With that in mind, I’d like to offer some thoughts to consider and questions that you might ask yourselves if you are longing to become more intimately acquainted with the Creation in which you live. Sometimes, all we need is a nudge in the right direction, and our curiosity takes over from there.

Are there still leaves on the trees, where you live? What color are they? What hues of those colors do you see? Which trees turn what colors?

Watch the individual leaves fall for a few moments…stop what you were doing and really watch and savor the wonder. How do they move in their freefall? Notice the differences in the ways that different leaf species twist and turn in the air? Do they tend to land right side up or upside down?

Fall is in the very air, not just in the colors of the leaves.  What does your air smell like? If you come across a fallen log or branch that has started to decay, pull off some bark or some of the wood and smell it.  What does it smell like? Or pick up a handful of leaf litter, feeling its softness and taking in its autumn aroma. Stop and appreciate the fragrances of this fleeting season.

When you go outside to the mailbox, or to your car or for some other reason, pause a moment…what do you see? In the trees and shrubs, what do you see? In any flower beds or weedy patches or your lawn, what is happening in the moment?  What do you hear, when you stop and listen? Insects? Wind in the trees? Crunching of your feet on dry leaves? Nearby birds? What…?

Are there oaks nearby? How long has it been since you really appreciated acorns, that currency of childhood imagination? How long since you stuffed your pockets with them, or just held them in your hand and marveled at their shiny roundness? Maybe now would be a good time to re-experience that delight.

These are just a few ideas to get you started and, if you enjoy the discovery, you have a lifetime before you to pay attention and grow in familiarity and wonder at the world in which you live. And as you notice, greet the creatures, greet even the plants, with whom you come in contact. Greet them as fellow inhabitants of this space we share, greet them respectfully, kindly, lovingly.

As written by Maltbie Babcock, a 19^th century Presbyterian minister who loved God and the land, an obscure verse in the hymn, This is My Father’s World, reads “For dear to God is the earth Christ trod. No place is but holy ground.” Take some time getting to know this “holy ground” a little better. You will be richly rewarded, indeed. 

Fleeting Riches

You need to be in place early if you want to know them in the fall, for after their initial
just-past-dawn sighs, they slip back into obscurity.
Brown thrashers are shy and hidden hunters, lurking furtively in the underbrush and rummaging in fallen leaves in search of prey.
They and the eastern towhees are the first morning voices this time of year and I am surrounded by “chucks” and “to-whees” as they awaken in the rose and bittersweet tangles at the edge of the woodlands.

A ways off, towards the river, bald eagles chortle from above and
wood ducks squeak from below, bookends on the marsh’s vertical space.
Near at hand, cardinals “chink” in the thickets and the white-throats, so exuberant at the newness of day, seem unable to contain their sweet song.
“Why?” I wonder, smiling at their lyrics. “O, Canada, Canada, Canada.”
(Or is it “Sam Peabody, Peabody, Peabody?”)

Autumn’s offerings are still obscured by the dimness, as the crows stealthily fly in from their night-time roost across the river. There will be time for bravado when the sun is fully up.
Birds, no more than silent shadows against a lightening sky begin to fly about, and near at hand, a hermit thrush softly announces his recent arrival.
“Welcome!” I whisper, wishing him rest and abundance during his winter residency.

Gradations-of-grey landscape gradually takes on color as the chorus crescendos
briefly, before dying away as abruptly as it began.
A pale crescent moon hangs in the morning sky, a shade somewhere between white and a soft yellow. What do you call that color – lighter than the blond clumps of Indiangrass and warmer than the cup-shaped spider webs, woven into the tips of the dried meadow stalks?
Even as I wonder, it becomes more faint.

Sweet gums stand in clusters, reminiscent of mottled pyramids in the neglected field, a mosaic of reds, yellows, oranges and purples.
The rough and grass-leaved goldenrods are browning, flowers finished and seed heads ripening, color that gardeners might think of as senescence but is, in fact, the promise of plenty.

Fingers and toes beginning to freeze, I turn towards home.
As the early singers’ songs have hushed, new voices take their place.
Flickers, downy woodpeckers and nuthatches have awakened and strike up their morning conversations. Pileated woodpeckers laugh in the distance.

Sunlight fully falls on coloring foliage in a scene transformed, missed in the darkness.
Gold of pawpaw and spicebush, silver of spiders’ silken strands drenched with dew, copper of pin oak and bronze of the dogwoods, ruby red rose-hips and sumac, emerald cedar and the delicate, fine white lace of frost asters.
Autumn treasures, richness of ephemeral wealth on this chilled and frosty morning.

Sacred Spaces

Do you have sacred spaces, where you meet yourself and Him who breathed the world into being? Spaces in which you find refuge or comfort, exuberance or vitality? On this wild and windy autumn day, I have been thinking back to those spaces that have welcomed me, taken my mind off of myself and garnered my full attention for a time.

Spaces like the yard I nudged towards abundance when we lived in Pennsylvania.

Or the marsh that lies between us and the Potomac River, as day breaks and I watch and listen in the day.

Or a patch of leaves in the grass, so arresting that all I can do is stop and sigh a prayer of thanksgiving for the momentary gift of beauty.

And then there was Trail Wood, where my days were filled with noticing and reflection and a kinship with those who had gone before. The following is a piece that came out of that week, in deep appreciation for Edwin and Nellie Teale and the land they stewarded and loved.

Beneficence

I have been brought to this sacred space, for sacred it has become to me who has never been here before. Perhaps a pilgrimage, I have come to watch for fireflies over the fields by night, swallows by day…to listen to crickets and katydids, to late summer bird song and, if I’m lucky, rain on the roof of the old house. I have come to be a small piece of the history of this place, whose future is yet to be written.

 I spend my days outside, a solitary audience, eager to witness the unfolding dramas of this refuge. They come as unexpected gifts, barely audible echoes from Eden, fulfillment of a life time’s longings.

She walks close behind me, as I sit at the picnic table, the mama turkey, murmuring softly to her seven, worried-looking babies strung out behind her, trying to keep up.
Again I sit, and a red-shouldered hawk drops into the nearby catalpa tree, steadily watching me watching him. Does he, as do I, sense communion, as we stare into one another’s eyes?

I wonder at the young rabbits grazing along the driveway, watchful, but not overly concerned with my coming and going. And, in the meadow, downy woodpeckers forage on mullein stalks, gazing steadily as I pass by. Do wild creatures know when they are welcomed?

 “A magic place?” he asked me. A Beatrix Potter kind of place, it would seem.
If there be magic, it comes not by accident, but by the many long years of beneficence towards this land. A living invitation by one who loved the wild for its own sake, who equated ownership with stewardship, who was at home with the untamed inhabitants of this farm.

There is holiness here, born of gratitude for what has been given, where man is but a participant in the life around him and an observer of that into which he cannot enter. Long years of kindliness have fostered fellowship between the wild ones who have flourished within these bounds and the humans who have lived alongside them. I pray that, far into the future, when we who love this land are gone, the kinship between man and creature will persist and this sanctuary, birthed and rooted in peaceful coexistence, will live on.

Where are your own sacred spaces? 

Comes the Day

Some of my favorite summer sounds – green frogs, and field and woodland katydids are echoing together in the darkness. “Do they sing all night?” I wonder.
Yes and no, I find, as I am awakened by a pair of barred owls calling in the wee hours of the morning. The katydids are quiet, but the green frogs sing on.

The woods are almost silent in the blackness. Except for intermittent rustles in the underbrush, I hear nothing on my way to the bench beside Beaver Pond. Hidden from my eyes, tiny creatures go about their nocturnal business. Do they see me pass by?

Eastern wood peewees are the first to awaken, as the last star disappears into the dawn. Faint chip notes at first, as though the birds are stretching and slowly opening their eyes, not quite ready for the morning. And then, the full peewee song from somewhere on my right, only the one. Soon, another calls from across the water. In answer or just coincidence? Long before others begin to sing in the day, these two converse, on and on. “What is their story?” I muse.

The stillness is broken by a loud unseen splash, followed again by stillness. I am resigned to how often I miss seeing the event that produces pond noise. Usually, I see ripples but the principle player is gone. This time, a beaver emerges from the mist, on a zigzag path towards its dam, mouth full of…what? He heaves himself onto the dam’s slope and disgorges his heavy load of mud and plant matter, carefully patting it into place. Otter-like, he slides back into the water and with a quiet “kerplunk”, dives for another load. How long into the daylight will he work?

I wondered when they would show up. “So, soon?” I sigh.  At least their buzzy droning, closer and closer to my face and ears, holds promise that the phoebes and eastern kingbirds might soon break their fast and eat well. Even for this irritating swarm, I give thanks.

A momentary lull in the morning’s progression invites more questions. What causes that “clacking” sound, seemingly coming from a patch of water lilies? What are those tiny dust-like particles that cover the pond’s surface, seen only at first light? Those two shapes on far-off logs appear to be green herons. Did they sleep there through the night?

As the water now reflects the surrounding trees, the full chorus begins. Robins squabbling, belted kingfishers rattling, catbirds mewing, chickadees chattering, kingbirds’ staccato calls and goldfinches’ musical ones, all in a shared litany of recognition that the work of survival is about to begin, yet again. The kingfishers are the first to fly in and noisily take their positions, except that they don’t seem to know which positions to take and fly repeatedly, and loudly, from branch to branch. Do they really go through this ritual every morning?

Finally, the chittering of barn swallows! Four of them appear, seemingly from nowhere. Just these four, for a few minutes the pond all to themselves. Suddenly, the air space is full of zipping and diving silhouettes as the rough-winged and tree swallows begin their aerial foraging, twittering on the wing. Gliding and dipping, as in an intricate dance, they avoid collision. What sense guides their movements?

What have I missed while studying the swallows? Young Baltimore orioles feeding in the autumn olive above the beaver dam, warbling vireos singing out their melodies across the way, the two green herons croaking and chasing one another from log to log, vying for the best fishing spot and, “Yes!”, now most of the pond’s perches host the phoebes, kingbirds and peewees who have been waiting for just the right moment to commence their breakfast search.

Now, an hour into daylight, the mingled voices of an avian choir echoing from above, the beaver makes a final trip to the dam, pats down its last bit of earth, turns and swims purposefully away. Another day has fully come to Beaver Pond.

Much Needed Respite

I wrote this piece some time ago, but, in honor of a friend who has just put down one of her best friends of the last 12 years, I am posting it again. As I have read the words, I realize how true they are for me, yet again, in these corporate days of uncertainty, as well as private wrestlings. May they bless you, as well. What I write of the garden, is also abundantly true of spending time anywhere in the natural world.

Pollinators, pollinators everywhere in the yard! Bees of all shapes and sizes, butterflies and hummingbirds...Everywhere I look there is buzzing, humming and the fluttering of wings...swamp milkweed, green-headed coneflower, ironweed, joe-pye weed, cardinal flower, garden phlox all playing host to our tiny native wildlife… I feel like a shepherdess winding through the plantings, keeping watch over her flock, ensuring that what they need for life and health is provided.

I have spent much of my day outside today, longing for peace and respite from the upheaval and concern of these tumultuous times. Sometimes I go into the garden as a scientist, to watch and observe the biological interactions. Sometimes I go for the joy of myriad colors, fragrances and bounty of life. But sometimes I wander into the garden because I am troubled, and it becomes a place of sanctuary, a place of refuge for me as much as for wildlife.

The longer we live, the longer we love people and pets, places and endeavors, the greater the loss when they are gone. Over the years, loss upon loss changes us and makes us more tender or more hardened, more pliable or more rigid. We either cooperate with such painful formation or we resist it. 

Stepping into my backyard, where the wild comes to live alongside me, does not remove the fears or losses of my life, but it provides a space large enough to hold the accompanying emotions and ensures comfort as no other place can. The life found there pries my eyes off myself and points them to something, and Someone, greater than my worries. I am reminded that there are seasons and cycles to life and that calm really does return after storms.  I am reminded that life goes on. The garden that was created to be a home for wildlife has also become home to me. It has become a habitat for all.

Opening to God on Retreat

We begin our day without words, unaccustomed to quiet.
Gathered together in the dining room, the clinking of utensils on plates and soft thuds of mugs set on tables is the music of our common life, missed when thoughts are spoken.
Sleepy eyes averted and tentative smiles are given in greeting.
Gratitude in spoken blessing and the unspoken, “Amens.”
Kindred spirits communing in the richness of breakfast silence.

I heard them before opening my eyes, mighty gales and downpours at first light.
Grey is the sky and river, dark the mountains and mist fills the valley,
 damp chill in the soggy, saturated air.
The towhee’s whistle and blue jay’s raucous cries punctuate the background murmur of ground crickets and rain falling on the land and my umbrella.
Reddening sumacs, yellow goldenrods and the tiny white asters dance in the wind, oaks and ashes waving their arms wildly in the wetness.
Rainy, windy autumn morning full of promise, pregnant with the possibilities of the unknown, gift of another day.

“What am I called to let go of, so I can fully live this present hour of my life?” she asked us.

Without umbrella, I was eagerly looking forward to seeing the pond, when the drops began again,
Slowly at first, tap, tap, tapping on the still-green leaves, as I turned back.
I came expecting the crimsons, oranges, yellows and purples of last year.
I looked forward to seeing migrating warblers and the frenzied chipmunks again,
but all I saw was a gathering of tiny gnats, zigzagging around in circles on the underside of yellow birch leaves.

I thought I might hear God speak out here…something profound, soul-searching, challenging.
Instead, I hear silence…abundant, enfolding, nurturing silence, except for the tapping of the rain on the trees.

Sacraments of the present moment.