Thank You Summer 2014

Leaving so soon?
Really?
Must you go?
If so
allow my gratitude to follow you
wherever it is you fade off to
every year about this time.
I'm inclined
to pause and remember paws,
tiny and cool on my sun-warmed skin,
receiving nuts and giving simple moments of cheer.
And drawing near
in the spectacular spaces of dawnings and dusks,
flat water and rusks.
And foxes dashing by.
And trying not to cry
at the sheer wonder of family
altogether in one space.
To have the space to breathe
to rest
to read and feed my soul
on rocks, my sockless feet
soaking in the heat of the day
soaked in by the granite.
Best place on the planet.
That was Summer Act One.

Summer Act Two.
Home with you
still outside because I can't abide
to be indoors doing chores.
Patio or pond
I am fond of the birds
and writing words to journal the journey
of my soul, being whole, and not rushed
but hushed, still.
Except when fun chugs in
and we ride the train,
avoiding the rain.
Or a tree comes down
and we own the wood,
piling our satisfaction in stacks
against the winter.

Three celebrations, one for 87,
one for 36,
one for ten years.
No fears going forward,
just God's goodness to trust.

And now, you're leaving
and I'm disbelieving
that it's really that time
again.
Calendars are ready,
plans are steady,
but still.
Maybe you will
visit, on warm days,
when, my friend,
I'll pretend you haven't left.

Thank you, Summer 2014,
and the Father who sent you
and bent you to be
what I needed.

Harvest Falls Asleep

Ready for Train Ride Day

We have now had two happy sleepovers with our youngest grandbaby, Harvest.  He's not a baby though, and he'd tell you so.  He'd hold up three fingers (with the ring finger held down by the thumb) and inform you that very soon he'll be four, in fact.

But up until now he's been young enough to make times away from Momma and Papa, especially overnight, a little too sad.  I am thoroughly thrilled that those days are behind us.

Putting Harvest to bed is a nuanced art form, as his Momma and Papa would tell you.  He takes a passive resistance stance against falling asleep, not miserable, but not easily giving in either.  And because I'm the Gramma and because we want sleepovers at Gramma's house to be relatively freak-out free, I read a scandalous amount of bedtime books to my little guy.

My strategy is deeply subversive.  Choose books with calming themes.  Gradually turn out more and more lights around us.  Make my voice slower and more droning with each turn of the page.  It works.  Though deeply committed to staying awake, eventually even this little hard-core resister begins to droop, eyes glazing, head lolling. 

There's always a pillow nearby of course, and every once in a while I might suggest, "Harvest buddy, it might feel good just to put your head down on this pillow here."  "No thank you Gramma", he politely refuses.  I marvel at his tenacity to remain in an upright position, and continue reading.

And then, at the end of one last book, I just stopped.  Didn't offer the next one.  We just sat quietly for a brief moment.  And then Harvest said, "Gramma, I think I'll just put my head down on this pillow here."  Which he did.  And he was gone.

Why is it that by the time no one makes us go to bed early, it's all we want to do?    Seems totally crazy to me, watching my little guy refuse this good gift of sleep until he literally can't hold off any more.

And I wonder if God doesn't feel exactly the same way about me sometimes.  "Ruth Anne, it might feel good to just put you head down on this pillow called Sabbath I designed for you here."  "No thank you," I politely refuse and remain in the upright position of going about as a human doing instead of a human being.

At least, I used to.

One of the observations that came out of my annual journal-read-through at the cottage this year was how fully I have now embraced the practice of rhythms.  Daily, weekly, seasonally and annually, my practices of coming away for awhile, of stopping the work in order to play, or rest or listen, have become expected, entrenched, etched into my living in life-saving ways.

Not perfectly, but oh so much more easily and willingly.  I was once a passive resister like Harvest.  But funny how with age, workaholism can be a self-correcting dysfunction.  By now I get too tired, and have suffered enough of the consequences to work like a maniac any more.

And it's just feels so good to lay my head down.

"Because there were so many people come and going 

hat they didn't even have time to eat, 

Jesus said to his disciples, 

'Come away with me by yourselves for a while and get some rest.'" 

Mark 6:31

A Narrated Life

Abby, who just turned eight, has, for some time already, narrated her play. 

It's whimsical and sweet and amusing to listen to the 'story' she creates for herself, and for anyone willing to go along, as she presses into no end of a variety of imagined worlds with increasingly complicated and sometimes daring plots.   There's a fair degree of improv employed, as she adapts the play-story to whomever and whatever also happens to be involved.

This weekend we had all three grandkids for a sleepover, so for most of the day she had both her little brother Zachary and her slightly younger cousin Harvest written into the scene.  Mostly, they played along, but sometimes they had their own ideas.  No worries.  Abby just rewrote the narrative.

"Let's go!", she cried excitedly, leaping up from the garden swing.  The other two ponies followed her eagerly.  Only Harvest acts on cue.  Zachary has other ideas, which he voices assertively.  Something about not being a pony any more, but magically turning into a ninja. He demonstrates this by taking a ninja-like stance in front of the newly stacked wood in our backyard.  Nonplussed, Abby adapts. The other pony followed her eagerly while the ninja went to look after the monsters in the woodpile.

If you listen long enough, you hear so many details you'd miss without the narration.  Relational cues.  Emotional nuances.  Insights into motives and goals, and a connection to the broader scope of where this story might be going.

Reminds me of something else, another narration, facilitated through the practice of journaling.

I think I've been journaling in one form or another since I was 11 years old.  Since that time, writing down on paper my observations of the day has evolved from a five line, preadolescent diary entry about cute boys at school, to a rich experience of my beautiful-beyond-description Divine Lover in heaven.  It is hard for me to distinguish journaling from prayer.

Recently I've been realizing just how much God is in my journaling.  Not that I am writing directly to Him all the time, although I do indeed write out prayers often enough.  But it’s more of a sense of His presence with me on the pages as I sort myself out.  It’s like He’s right in here with me; a mystic union of words and feelings and ideas that He is eager to be part of with me.  This is more of a living thing for me.  An exchange of sorts.  Something that give me access to the deeper places of my being, with God, right here on the pages, with me.

In a very tangible way, God and I narrate my life together.

I know journaling isn't for everyone, but for me, I feel that this 'narration' helps me catch so many details I'd miss otherwise.  Relational cues.  Emotional nuances.  Insights into motives and goals, and a connection to the broader scope of where the story of my life might be going.

And like Abby, I want to be ready for the improv.  Not everything goes the way I imagine it will.  Actually, most of it doesn't.  So I adapt with God, and the words on the page keep me grounded and focused, open to the new adventures of a story unfolding.



 

Strange Combo

Fifty-seven, I am finding, is delightful age to be.  Gives me three years to anticipate 60 and the happy possibilities that await me as I approach a decade of opportunities I would never have imagined I'd be imagining.

It's also an age where I am experiencing a strange and satisfying collision of change and consistency. 

My personality defaults to consistency.  As a perfectionist Type A, everything in me craves order and routine.  It's how I get my best work done.  It's the pathway to being most centered in my spirit, most satisfied, most convinced that all is right with the world.  Small rituals of every day, every season, the repetition of it, marks my life, brings me back to true north, marks my journey.

Life, however, isn't consistent.  Not at all.  It's random, surprising, doesn't mind interrupting, loves knocking ducks into disorganized, untamed messes.  Change is always happening, it seems, whether I like it or not.

Used to be, I did not like it, not one little bit.  And I won't pretend I LOVE it these days, because I'm not there yet.

But lately I've noticed that change doesn't phase me like it used to.  When change comes unexpectedly I'm more ready to embrace it, look for the new opportunities, celebrate the chance to clear out old 'stuff'.  And, even though I rarely go seeking it just for its own sake, I find that sometimes, these days, I am more and more the one making the suggestion for how something could be different, particularly when it serves the bigger purposes of what I believe my life is about. 

I am finding a way, these days of my 57th year, to set up the rhythms that allow me to change.  That I don't have to abandon my consistency in order to embrace change, but rather let the regular and repeated beloved practices embolden me for new things ahead.

No growth without change.  And I want to grow so....


And random surprises and interruptions make for better stories anyways.

Sunrise Gratitudes

I think I may be hopelessly addicted to sunrise.  I can never get enough.

Monday morning of the long holiday weekend and I am out on my back patio before 6 a.m.  Slept well, glad for the absence of an alarm to wake me.  But once I open my eyes and see the first light diffusing through the trees outside my window, I can't stay in bed.

It's the quiet I crave.  And while the city can never compete with the utter silence of the Bay at dawn, even here, no radios, no baseball games, no power tools....not yet.  Some far off crows, maybe, and a squirrel scolding, and the gentle running of water in my little fountain here on the patio.  That's all.  To be honest, I'm not sure I would keep the little sanity I have left if it weren't for these first morning indulgences of silence.  It's what makes room for all the thinking and composing and conversing and problem solving that will happen for the rest of any ordinary day.  It clears the way for what's to come; resets my mind on who I am and how I choose to live my life.

And the quiet gives me the chance to receive the Gift.  Each new dawning brings with it an offering of mercy that I need as surely as I need oxygen.  Every sunrise reaches out with the astounding Gift of brand new opportunities and exciting potential and strong grace to start all over again.  Every morning is the bringer of New Mercies and Steadfast Love from the One who made the sun that's cresting over the horizon, yet again; the One who offers this day to me, yet again.