Thanksgiving

Orion was right outside my window when I woke this morning.

The stars were bright and clear in the predawn sky.

Upstairs, I sat in my rocking chair taking in the view.

My body wanted to go outside, so I put on my jacket and followed the trail through the tall grasses.

Near the bike path, the cypress rose majestically, its presence stopping me in my tracks. I stood there for a while mesmerized by its open arms.

The ocean was loud and fierce.

Still I stood at the top of the dunes, listening, watching.

Then I turned and headed home.

I am grateful.

Life is calling to me

Life is calling to me today.

“Hey you, come out and play!”

It doesn’t really care that last night’s canned Italian wedding soup is not sitting too well in my vegetarian body. It doesn’t really care that I was going to wake slowly and say my prayers.

No it’s too busy cracking really bad jokes – telling me Bruce Springsteen is right next to me, if I’ll open my eyes to see.

And before I knew it I was chanting Badlands and then saying, “Hey, let’s go have our coffee by the side of the road.”

David heard it too. So he cheerfully piled falling apart lawn chairs on top of his car and handed me a fox hunt platter piled with toast and coffee mugs.

Still, I resisted. “Take it easy on the bumps.”

“Just use your arms as shock absorbers,” he retorted, hitting the gas. As we pulled out of the driveway, I watched cups overflow and forgot to worry about chairs.

The sun was brilliant as we set ourselves down on the hillside overlooking the vista of redwoods. I was just getting ready for meditative bliss when David’s chair gave way and he toppled.

“See that’s how it’s done,“ he said, one hand rising victoriously from the heap on the mud, still holding a full cup of coffee.

Life’s calling to me today.

"Hey you, come out and play!”

I could tell you about

I could tell you about the dirt path that begins at the fence across the street, that leads through sweet smelling wild grasses, across the bike path, past the tall cypress that holds presence on this ever changing beach, through the parking lot of the state park, over the dunes where it turns into a narrow sandy path that winds through ice plants over the rise to that incredible view of wide open ocean. I could tell you about following my son along this pathway as he rides his toy motorcycle or following both my sons as they run and race, laughing. I could tell you about what I think about when I follow them like that along the dirt path, watching and breathing - my death. This is the moment I'll come back to at the end, I imagine, satisfied and grateful, knowing I have lived.

I could tell you about the sky right now - how huge and wide open it is - with the fog half way in - or the ocean, loud today.

Or I could tell you about the sound of my neighbor's American flag or my own curtains blowing in and out of the open doorway this afternoon, as I lay still in my bed, resting, my inner slate being wiped clean. I could tell you about how grateful I am that I see it now, the sky I mean, that my senses are alive, awake again after a day of rest.

I could tell you about what gives me life these days - rest, silence, earth, dancing - and what leads me down into sorrow and regret.

I could tell you about that sound just then - the one where wind combined with ocean - making me look up to see who's coming - maybe you? - only to realize once again that all is quiet and still in the noise.

I could tell you about writing these words here with this pen that was given one amazing day in Michigan - how it delights me to pen them and listen to my deeper self - bold woman that she is - even though I know these are only words - fragments - like my self - that will one day disappear - the wind carrying them down the dirt path back to ocean.

Still I delight to write.

Sabbath

I am taking today off.

There is a part of me that thinks this is a dumb idea. After all, there are bills to pay, checkbooks to balance, a house to clean, filing to do, not to mention the grocery shopping and straightening up that needs to happen. And that's just on the personal front.

Still, I am taking today off.

Yesterday, today seemed like a great day to write that letter, but during my morning prayer time, the exhaustion in my bones let me know, "This is a good day to rest." As I sat staring out my window, listening to the fog horn, I could barely hear the birds. It's not that they were not there. It is just that my mind was so loud.

I am taking today off.

The fact that I think I can't stop - the fact that my mind is cheerfully jumping from one plan to another - is a pretty good sign that I must. It's time to do what I know to do to shift my body's energy and surrender. It's time to lay myself at love's door and say, "Please come and find me. I have lost my way."

I am taking today off.

Without sabbath, my life becomes an endless chore.

With it, life is gift.

Love in the Mess

I live on the most toxic beach in California. According to Friday's issue of the San Francisco Chronicle, the water at my beach failed 57% of the tests they did to check it. The water is so bad it can cause skin rashes and even illness. Fortunately, it's not likely to kill us.

The news was right there in San Francisco Chronicle's "Green Guide" next to a picture of David and me walking on the beach one magical evening. Unfortunately, the article was not about the way love shows up whether we're lost or found. It was about pollution.

I knew it was coming. The woman who took our photo told us. That evening when she captured our image, my initial reaction was fear. I wondered whether it was time to move my kids one more time in our search for some place safe.

I did not. Instead, I attempted to make my peace with the fact that I live next to polluted ocean water. This grace filled cottage that I love - that has loved me into healing - that has given my boys so much joy - that has grounded us all in love for the earth - it turns out - is located next to some pretty dirty water.

It's the birds that are causing it. Bird shit, to be precise. Too much of it. Apparently, the dumps off of Route 92 draw the birds. Then they come here to do their thing.

The article said that we're not supposed to touch the water. That's what I was thinking about this morning as I filled my glass jar with this curious mixture of grace and toxicity. It has been my practice since moving here to walk out in the morning and gather a little bit of ocean. I place the water in bowls throughout the house - to clear energy, to spread blessing - mostly to remind me that there is a gigantic sea of love and beauty right outside my window if I feel like looking up to see.

So there I was collecting this day's bowl of holiness and shit, wondering, is the blessing negated by the shit?

Orthodoxy

I'm thinking of losing my religion.

I'm tired of the boundaries - the need to separate sacred from profane. The obsession with knowing who's in and who's out.

Love doesn't think like that.

Today I am thinking of losing my religion, renouncing my membership, my degrees, my title. Instead, I think I'll stay here - where it's lovely, where the scarred earth brings message of hope each day - to those who will listen.

Maybe that will be my orthodoxy now.

Harvest Moon

The Harvest Moon is out.

The boys and I saw it rise over the hills last night at dusk.

This morning, its bright light woke me at 5 am. Instead of my usual prayers, I sipped coffee while it lit up the ocean.

At 6:45, it began to set over the ocean. As it sank, it became bigger and more orange. I woke the boys.

It's not every day we get to watch the harvest moon set over the ocean.

Angel in the Woods

The other morning I woke overwhelmed by grief.

I knew I was in a beautiful place. I knew intellectually that everything I need to be happy is right here. I tried to rally, to lift my spirit through force of will. But "sucking it up" does not work very well for me. So I headed into the woods to have a good cry amidst trees that have been standing still for hundreds of years.

I walked down the trail that leads from Sam McDonald Park to Heritage Grove. I did not get very far. At the spot where the trail winds along a canyon of redwoods, the tears came. I let myself feel the part of me that is pissed at God for leading me down a path that involves so much loss. I sat down in the middle of the trail, stubbornly refusing to go on.

That's where I was - sitting, crying, when I heard a voice.

It caught me off guard. I almost never run into anyone in the woods. And this was early morning. I quickly got to my feet and made an attempt to brush away my tears.

The man was there before I could run. Just one man - which struck me as odd - since I had definitely heard a voice talking out loud. I turned to face him.

"Good morning," I said, resuming my seat in the middle of the path.

"Good morning!" he said, cheerfully, and sat down next to me, as if that were a normal thing to do.

"You're out early," I noticed.

"Yup," he said. "It's my day off. I like to get an early start."

"Where did you come from?"

"Heritage Grove," he replied.

"I've never been that far. I've seen some of the trees along the way. They are lovely."

"Yes," he agreed.

We continued the hikers' banter - talking about how much we love the beauty of California, talking about other parks in the area. Noticing his US Army cap, I asked him if he'd served.

"Yes," he said.

"Where?"

"Bosnia."

I was surprised. I had expected to hear Iraq.

"I've been to Bosnia," I said.

"What were you doing there?" he wanted to know.

"Listening to people's stories. I went with a church group shortly after the war ended."

We compared notes about Bosnia. He told me NATO did a good thing there. I told him about the Franciscan monks who crossed front lines to deliver food to people. We shared our mutual horror at witnessing what neighbors are capable of doing to each other. I told him about the soldier who showed us sniper bunkers overlooking Sarajevo and who confessed his post traumatic stress syndrome. He told me about how hard it was for him to reenter normal life after serving in the armed forces.

Then we turned our attention back to the trees. The beauty of the redwoods. The madrones near the hiker's hut. The oaks in the flats.

Eventually, we parted.

When I walked out of the woods, my grief was gone and my sense of wonder had returned.

Who was the man in the woods who helped me remember who I am?

Death and life

The dog next door is dying.

This evening, just as the boys and I were sitting down for dinner, my neighbor came over in tears and asked if we could watch her baby while they rushed the dog to the vet.

The rest of the evening I remembered how natural it feels to hold new life as I answered all of my sons' questions about life and death: "Why do we put dogs down and not people? What do babies make strange sounds? Can the baby go for a ride on the back of a motorcycle? Why has there been so much death in our lives recently?"

While one son fought back tears and the huge sadness that flows out of his heart sometimes, the other delighted in sharing his baby blanket with our new neighbor.

Welcome

It was foggy when I woke this morning.

I am still not used to this. The way it can be beautifully sunny one day - with views all the way out to the horizon - and then completely fogged in only a few hours later. They tell me that the one is a predictor of the other, the warm sun a sign that the valley is hot and drawing in moisture from the sea, but I still wake surprised.

Inside, my inner busy bee was suggesting projects before I even got out of bed. I tried to pray. But there she was trying to direct things. She speaks in a high pitched voice, this me. She's nice in that "work, work, work" kind of way. She likes to get things done.

I don't particularly like her.

David finds her amusing. I remember one day a while back when I was at his house. We'd had a wonderfully slow couple of days. On the last morning, I got up and started buzzing around.

He sat on the couch sipping his coffee and watched. Finally, he interrupted my inner work party with a joke. "Are we in a rush?"

In my journaling this morning, I did my best to welcome her. But her buzz was loud. "OK enough prayer. Let's get to work." I pushed her away and tried again to be "spiritual" but holding the barrier between her and me was hard work.

I put my pencil down and started moving around my house. I wasn't enjoying my inner dialogue and figured that if I wasn't going to be in a place of quiet today I might as well get some things done.

Another voice showed up. "Maybe welcoming this you is the work."

Imagine that.

For five or six years now I have followed the path of "welcome", greeting whoever I am on any given day without judgment. I try to, that is.

Welcoming me as I am is a trustworthy prayer discipline for me. It is what has gotten me through the train wreck/opening that has been my life these past few years. It is how I am learning to move beyond my default settings into the bigger silence and love.

Y

There was a big Y on the beach yesterday.

Early, before church, I went out for a quick run on the beach.

About a quarter of a mile from home, there was a Y right there on the beach. Someone found a beached tree branch about 10 feet high in the shape of the question, dug a hole, and left it there staring at the ocean, wondering.

New York Birds

I am at my parents' home in NY.

There is something comforting about having the chance to turn back the years of my life and for a morning at least be the kid.

I poured a cup of coffee and sat outside on my parents' deck. They live in the middle of suburbia. Even here the earth speaks loudly. This morning it was the birds. I grew up listening to these birds without even knowing it. I don't know their names, but I remember their songs.

Lights on the Horizon

There were lots of fishing boats out last night.

Late, right before going to bed, after an evening of work, I paused to listen to the waves, the fog horn, all the sounds that help me remember that the world's urgency is not what it is about.

Out on the horizon there were a whole bunch of lights.

It is not usually like that. Most nights, there is one - maybe two - reminders that way out there in the darkness there are brave human beings.

Last night there were a whole bunch of lights scattered across the horizon.

Undistinguished Gems

David and I went for a walk on the beach this morning. On the way out, there was a hawk perched right at the top of the cypress tree. Behind him, the three-quarters moon was still giving off light. Wildflowers were everywhere.

On the beach, it was low tide. David ran right to the edge of the ocean and turned, beckoning me to follow. "At low tide, you can sometimes find treasures here," he explained. Like a kid, he began searching. He picked up a sand dollar with a hole in its center. "A bird already got this one. Sometimes you can find a whole bunch of them before the birds do."

We continued walking. Each of us scanned for treasures. He found a rock half black, half white, like the cookies I loved as a kid. I found a white rock. Most were gray, black. There were lots of broken shells.

"Nothing exceptional, today," I thought.

"Undistinguished gems," David said.

This is how the beach is

This is how the beach is.

One day, my children and I went out there and found ledges six feet high. The children were the first to jump off, coaxing me through my fear of getting hurt, “GERONIMO!”

Another day, it was cold and rainy. Roddy was in volcano mode and wanted to go practice eruptions. While Ian and I ran around throwing the football to stay warm, he shaped mountain after mountain – building them up and then exploding them with delight, “KABLAM!”

Last week, there was a hole deeper than Ian, big enough to shelter five kids from the wind that whipped at us from the ocean. I was on the beach flying a kite, giggling, struggling to hold on and hold my own against the powerful gusts.

Today, I went out to give my body a rest, to let the wind blow away my stress. There were no ledges. No volcanoes. No holes. Just sand swept clean and me thinking of the Mary Oliver poem, “Meanwhile the world goes on and offers itself to your imagination.”

The fog just rolled in. The children are dancing. The blog is up. All is well.