Hey friends,
Remember when I wrote about my mom loving me the way I wanted to be loved the day after I went for a walk with a friend and talked about accepting that she loves me the way she does? Well, this is a video of that conversation.
In that conversation I talked about the dream my dad had before he died. I wrote about that here.
I awoke to find a blanket of yellow
covering the lawn.
Other fading leaves still clung to the tree.
Eventually, they would tire,
loosen their grip
and be vulnerable
to the next brisk breeze.
Then, my dear tree will stand
naked
while rain pelts,
winds push and pull
and snow alights her branches,
chilling her to the bone.
Does she dig in her roots,
hold her bark together
until spring comes
to resurrect life again?
Or does she exhale in the wonder
that, for a season,
she provides an unobstructed view
of the sky?
Or maybe,
as she braces and lets go,
braces and lets go,
she speaks,
to her Creator,
–also suffering on a cross–
as one friend speaks to another,
about dying,
desire
and grace.
*A colloquy, according to Ignatius of Loyola, is a conversation with God, friend to friend, from the heart. — The Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius of Loyola
In one section of the Spiritual Exercises, Ignatius invites us to feel sorrow for the ways sin has impacted us personally and globally, recognize our complicity in the web of evil, and wonder that God has not given up on us. Even now, Christ is healing and reconciling everything.
In Annotation 54, Ignatius directs us to colloquy with Jesus on the cross. In the past, that seemed impossible to me, when I saw him as the victim of my folly and felt flooded with guilt and shame. But I no longer see Jesus blaming me, nor do I believe Jesus had to appease an angry God to atone for my sin. This time, I felt I couldn’t talk with Jesus on the cross because I didn’t want to bother him with my stuff while he was in so much pain.
So I spoke with Jesus about this, as one friend to another. Then I saw that Christ does not minimize my suffering. We are co-sufferers. God sees that we, too, are on a cross of suffering because of what’s been done to us and what we keep doing that we wish we wouldn’t. God doesn’t take that lightly or leave us alone in it. –Esther
The very thing I think I can’t tell you
is what I need to.
The very thing I fear will bring
judgment and rejection,
brings compassion and connection instead.
Sharing our stories,
being vulnerable,
being needy, afraid, hurt and discombobulated
and not having to hide it,
not having to fix it,
not having to be it–
Can you imagine such freedom?
Oh, there are those
who will judge us,
call us self-absorbed.
Let them.
They heard our stories,
and they can’t unhear them now.
It’s too late.
Love has slipped in
and set the captive free.
You can survive on your own; you can grow strong on your own;
you can prevail on your own; but you cannot become human on your own.
–Frederick Buechner,
Listening to Your Life: Daily Meditations with Frederick Buechner
My friend Rod Janz and I went for a walk on the Okanagan Rail Trail in Vernon. Here is some of our conversation. (The title photo is of Fred and me in Banff National Park.)
By the way, you can find the blog post about belonging that I was referring to in our conversation here. You can find a Living from the Heart podcast (in which Rod interviewed Brent Unrau and me talking about belonging) here.
One more detail. The snake in the photo looked way bigger than it actually was. (Otherwise you would have seen a way bigger reaction!)
The day after I walked with a friend
and lamented about
my journey of letting go of
how I wish my mother would love me
and accepting how she does,
she had an up day.
Her brain was back.
She was full of vitality
and questions.
She wanted to know about her pills,
why she woke feeling nauseated
and what she could do about it.
She asked her caregiver where she lived
and enjoyed hearing about the birds she saw that morning.
She wanted to know about me.
How was I settling into Vernon?
How did the sale and purchase of homes go?
Did I want any of her furniture?
When I drove her home after a visit to our new place,
she smiled and said,
“All the time I drove on this street, I never dreamed
you would be living here.”
She loved me
the way I love to be loved.
And now I have to change the story
I tell myself.
You remember us, O Beloved, as we journey through life;
help us to live the Mystery.
—Psalm 106:4, Nan C Merrill, Psalms for Praying
The Spirit is the one who makes
all things new, and ever
awaits our “Yes” to the
Dance.
… come. Claim your home in the
Universal heart.
from Psalm 110, Nan C. Merrill, Psalms for Praying
Hold…
what happened
lift it up in your cupped hands,
up out of the urge to deny, react, or change it.
Lift it right up to your eyes.
See it and name it.
Feel…
the shock, anger, and rage,
the embarrassment and shame,
the disappointment and loss.
Feel…
your breath, the Spirit,
the Comforter,
coming into and out of your pain,
inviting you to dance.
Feel Love’s hand on your back,
Love’s strong embrace
and confident lead.
Know…
We are human. We make mistakes.
We are one in God’s Universal heart.
If someone gains by your loss,
welcome gratitude.
We have all we need.
Heal…
Let go of what’s not your fault.
Let go of what is.
Forgive others.
Forgive yourself.
Claim your home in the Universal heart.
Help me open my heart, so I can hold All that I need to hold Help me open my heart, so I can feel All that I need to feel Help me open my heart, so I can know All that I need to know Help me open my heart, so I can heal All that I need to heal Music and Lyrics by Alexa Sunshine Rose
I knew what was wrong
and why I was bothered.
It made no sense,
and I told myself that.
But the sadness didn’t go away
even when I ate more for supper
and snacked on one thing after another.
In the morning,
I was able to name it.
I felt left out.
I didn’t belong.
I sat with that sad feeling
and the little girl in me
that felt it so intensely.
I came alongside her.
God and I held her hands
and listened
and felt.
Then I knew why she’d been
so happy lately.
I’d had one experience after another
of being invited in,
of belonging,
of being loved.
But that joy faded
and this sadness rolled in
like a thundercloud.
And here we are
feeling it and holding hands,
as it rolls away.
The avoidance of our inner demons — our fears of change and death, our rage and jealousy — only imbues these adversaries with greater power. The more we run away, the less chance we have of escaping. We must face suffering, move into it; only then can we become free from it. —Mingyur Rinpoche
My body didn’t get the memo
that things that spark my anxiety
and spike my cortisol–
an email from the lawyer,
booking a flight,
any change of plan–
don’t threaten my life.
They aren’t the end of the world.
So I need to gently comfort
my anxious body
and remind her:
It’s a false alarm.
There’s no fire,
no danger,
and nothing to fear.
I’m right here.
We’ll be okay.
I see the birds up in the air.
I know You feed them, I know You care.
So won’t You teach me how I mean more to You than them.
In times of trouble, be my help again.
–Jon Guerra, I See the Birds
Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man. “I am willing,” he said. “Be clean!” Immediately he was cleansed of his leprosy. –Matthew 8:3
An uncomfortable conversation
sat in my belly undigested,
occupying my thoughts,
stopping the flow
of oxygen.
I looked up and saw
Love.
She gazed softly upon me,
warming my skin,
easing my heart.
Love let the feelings rise–
the shame of causing a problem,
the fear I’m not enough,
the disappointment that I’ve misunderstood
again.
She invited me to turn
my soft gaze upon these darlings
and the one who ignited them.
Befriend them all
and let them go, Love said.
Let forgiveness flow.
I breathed and imagined
gazing softly,
befriending,
releasing.
Rest now.
You’re safe, Love said.
All is well.
Peace. Be still. –Mark 4:39
After ten days of packing, cleaning and saying goodbye
to our home of thirty years,
Fred and I arrive back in Vernon,
the snow globe of our lives
shaken and set down again.
What do I see as the snow swirls and falls?
Fires out of control,
the sun a small red ball in the sky.
A storage unit full, the rental truck returned.
Fred relieved and recovering.
My siblings gathered around the table,
having travelled thousands of kilometres to be
together while our mother still lives.
We’re talking about high school,
making decisions,
savouring food and wine,
kidding each other–
gratitude, a holy presence.
Our mother is here and not here,
sitting in her chair, legs raised,
tapping her feet together from time to time
as if she’s Dorothy.
There’s no place like home,
no place like this.
No magic spell needed,
no desire to return to the past,
only the wonder
of discovering what each moment reveals
and the grace given to hold it.
Watch closely: I am preparing something new;
it’s happening now, even as I speak, and you’re about to see it.
–Isaiah 43:19 (The Voice)
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An Everyday Pilgrim 