Keep me quiet…

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I have risen early. Far in the distance, a faint glow paints the horizon. Dawn is coming, gently and full of prayer. I step quietly from my bed, alive to the silences around me. This is the quiet time, the time of innocence and soft thoughts, the childhood of the day. Now is the moment when I must pause and life my heart – now, before the day fragments and my consciousness shatters into a thousand pieces. For this is the moment when the senses are most alive, when a thought, a touch, a piece of music can shape the spirit and color of the day. But if I am not careful – if I rise, frantic, from my bed, full of small concerns- the mystical flow of the imagination at rest will be broken, the past and the future will rush in to claim my mind, and I will be swept up into life’s petty details and myriad obligations. Gone will be the openness that comes only to the waking heart, and with it, the chance to focus the spirit and consecrate the day. What is needed is only a passing of the heart so the spirit can take wing and be lifted toward the infinite. I walk silently toward the window. The darkness is lifting. A thin shaft of lavender has creased the horizon, setting the edges of the trees on fire with morning light. I pause and bow my head…

Kent Nerburn, Small Grace: The Quiet Gifts of Everyday Life

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Thank you David Kanigan at Live and Learn for sharing this beautiful piece (via Make Believe Boutique).
Image: Touch Contagious

The key…

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Do nothing out of rivalry or conceit, but in humility consider others as more important than yourselves.
Phillipians 2:1-4

Pure love, pure motive.

Don’t give in to the temptation to manipulate, positioning myself over or ahead of anyone else.
Don’t try to own it all and don’t try to take what belongs to someone else.

Listen for the whispers that instruct me and boldly take steps in the direction I am being led.
Cultivate my soil.
 That is the key to joy and contentment.

Nothing will be withheld from me.

Encourage others to own what they have been given.
Build up, cheer and affirm — wherever possible.

Understand that some rival because they are afraid.
Understand that sometimes — that might be me.

We weren’t made to self glory — we were made to reflect glory. 

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Photo art: kingabritschgi via Slowly Drifting

Your life, your signature…

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“Despite overall similarities, each nest identifies it’s maker as surely as an artist’s signature”
Maryjo Koch

 Mommy… Did you know that your nest bears your signature?
When you stand back, what do you see?
I remember the days when my children were small.
My girlfriend would come over with her little battalion of boys
and I would make a pile of french toast.

The children would dress up and run barefoot in the grass.
They would make mud balls in the puddles.
There was laughter.
It wasn’t always neat, but it was always pretty.
It wasn’t expensive, but it was enough.
My nest was full of life.

What does your nest say about your life?
Is there music?
Does a candle flicker, adding a glow to your kitchen?
Have you taken your little one out to plant a seed?
Is there laughter?
Do you have time to drink it in?
Do you find yourself crying tears that flow from a pool of gratitude and love?

Who cares if it gets a little messy, just make sure it’s pretty.
Blanket forts are pretty.
Children in footy pajamas, surrounded by piles of books —
That’s pretty.
The mess of life —
That’s neat.

Or is the place in front of the television,
or the iPad in the lap,
or the phone in the hand — is that stuff of your day?
They will remember
and may become too dull to care.
Don’t allow entertainment to smother the life and creativity out of your children.

Take your little one out to watch the hopping robins tug worms out of the soft ground.
Take them out to pick daffodils and teach them to rub the soft petals on their cheeks.
Help them find the tiny buds that line the branches of spring.
Light a candle and use the fancy tea cups.
Write your signature with flare.
Today won’t come again.

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Maryjo Koch, Bird Egg Feather Nest,
via Meditations for Mothers, Elisa Morgan
Photo credit: Julie Falk 

He wished me Spring

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Spring is the time of year when new life vibrates just beneath the surface of the ground.  The earth is warming and pulsing with life. Seeds are germinating and shafts of green are pushing up through the soil — stretching to receive light. The air is cool, dry and crisp. Birds flit about stealing dried bits to stuff into the small places where they will hide their young. Creatures emerge from their slumber to make the sounds that will build to create the symphony of summer.

Spring is also the time when my mother died. With the cool breeze comes the faint memory of the car ride to the memorial service. The sky was a crisp Colorado blue — the day was cruel in it’s beauty. With her, died everything I ever believed about the world. My personal world construct was shattered.  She was brutalized, her blood was spilled, and her heart stopped beating.
Her life was no more.

I think, if she could have voiced her last wish for me, it would be that I would have a chance — a chance to live a rich and abundant life, a life full of love, a life teeming with relationships.
She would have wished me Spring.

And Spring is when my stepmother died. With the sunshine that calls forth the buds on the trees, comes the memories of our drive to the funeral home and the flurry of decisions. We surrounded her bed as a family on the night she died, unaware that as we prayed to say goodbye, that she would really go. I awoke to the alarm, in the dark of the morning, and crept down the quiet hall to her room- it was time to slip the tiny white pill beneath her tongue to quell the anxiety. But when I got there, the weak heaving of her chest had stopped. But I couldn’t be sure — was she breathing? Her skin was cool — or was it? Should I wake my sleeping father to his dread? Could this be?
It was over.

I think, if she could have voiced her last wish for me, it would be that I would have a chance — a chance to live a rich and abundant life, a life full of love, a life teeming with relationships.
She would have wished me Spring.

And Spring is the time when we celebrate Easter. With the dyed eggs, and the grassy baskets, and the pretty dresses, come the memories of the cross and the horror of His passing. With the opening of the daffodils, I remember the day His life-giving blood was spilled in hatred. And with the rising of the sun, three days later, I remember that the stone was rolled away, and He rose.
But was He really alive? It made no sense.
Did they really see Him?
For Him, it wasn’t over.

He did voice His last wish- a wish that has been carried through the generations. He wished that I would have a chance — a chance to live a rich and abundant life, a life full of love, a life teeming with relationships.
Because of Him, I have access to it all.
He wished me Spring.

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Photo Credit:  Caroline Paulus
A late Easter post dedicated to a blogger in England who, tragically, just lost her son, and is suffering through unspeakable grief.
See her story at The Journey of My Left Foot (whilst remembering my son)
My Friend, He wishes you Spring…

Growing Season

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There are four cars in the driveway now — if I get too close to the edge as I pull in, my tires inevitably slip off and sink deeply into the mud. The slimy ruts fill with water.
Action item:
• Haul in stone to extend driveway.

The grass is greening and the birds have grown loud, as they always do in the Spring.
As I look out the window of the hearth room, I catch a glimpse of a bluebird darting in to build it’s nest in the box on the back porch.

I scan the changing landscape and wonder when it will be dry enough to till.
Never it seems.
Spring always comes in with a soaking that lasts for weeks.
We’ll have to watch for the one weekend that comes — there’s only one.
On that weekend, the ground will be dry enough to till.
Miss it and lose.
Of course, last year, and the year before, and the one before that, and so on,
we were watching soccer games on that one dry weekend.
Hm. Not this year.
No spring soccer for the boy.

I dig into the cold dirt in one of my garden boxes- it’s full of worms, and I smile.
There is a constant rhythm — I believe I hear the beat.
It’s time for another growing season.

Time for my son to graduate.

One day soon, he will leave and take his contagious laughter with him.
He will pack up his crazy shrieks and silly songs and the kisses he plants on the top of my head.
Gone will be the thud of his giant, plodding feet.
My cupboards will no longer suffer the wrath of his vacuum powered appetite.

The halls will grow quiet and hollow with the lack of him.

It’s Saturday and he’s in Nicaragua. He will return and bring with him the final countdown.
And while he’s not leaving immediately, it seems the whole world is about to change.

But for today, it’s time to plant seeds,
for in spite of the mud and the muck, and the fact that I can’t till —
the ground is warming and it’s time for another growing season.
The grass is greening and the birds are growing louder,
and the ruts along my driveway are full of water.

What do you come home for?

While this video is two years old, and while it has been viewed nearly a million times, and while it may present a few opinions that not all would agree with, and while this may not be everyone — I find that it haunts and astounds me in it’s presentation of reality.
As I prepare to grow vegetables in my garden, I am struck by the lack of dirt— the lack of the organic — that I see in the video. It makes me think of how, in the suburbs, we press the button on our automatic garage door openers, glide in, and close the door behind us —  sealing ourselves off in our homes for the night.
For me, the video captures some kind of collective groan.

 

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I saw the video: What is Wrong with Our Culture, Alan Watts, on the Collective Evolution Facebook page.

Stories Matter

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The past beats inside me like a second heart.”
― John Banville, The Sea

We are swimming in a sea of selfies and Instagram photos. Our history is being recorded on cell phones and our stories are being told in clever hashtags. Pictures are rarely printed- we simply release them into the cloud with zillions of bits, perhaps never to be seen again.

Our fine moments run together like ingredients in a recipe. At first, it is easy to see that the egg is separate from the flour and the milk from the oil – but with a few quick turns of the wooden spoon, a gloppy mass forms in the bowl- and it goes in the oven- come what may.
We bake the batter of life.

Pictures, journals and stories help us to extract the ingredients and understand the flavors — they unravel the mystery and tell us why one loaf tears like leather and the other like cotton.
Why one loaf is savory and the other sweet.
Why one loaf is dry and the other is doughy.

Stories matters. As mothers and fathers in the digital age, we must do something old fashioned and print the photos stored on our phones and in our hard drives. We must scribble a few sentences about our moments. Not “Children’s Museum, 2015”, but rather, “He never wanted to leave the water table- he played with the dam system for hours,”

Because lo and behold, he is now an engineer.

“Experience had taught me that even the most precious memories fade with the passage of time.”
― Nicholas Sparks, The Wedding

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Quotes from: Goodreads
I
mage from JoAnne Ouellette, The New Curriculum Arithmetics, Copyright 1935