Sensing Gratitude

For these eyes that see the morning's rays
Clear radiant light

For this hair and skin that feel the gentle wind's touch
Soft sweeping embrace

For these feet that tread this well-known trail
Slow strong steady strides

For these ears that hear my four-pawed companion
Pad rustle jingle

For this nose that smells the dew
damp green and yellow

For this tongue that tastes the water
cool translucent fresh

For this life, this season, and these gifts.

To See His Face

Just off the shore of Little Hanging Horn Lake, rests a row of kayaks.  I am here on a three-day retreat with a small group of strangers to rejuvenate and rediscover.  The lake is empty, yet filled to the brim with the previous day's rains.  I have two hours to myself following an invigorating morning of discussion and reflection.  The kayaks look inviting.  After inquiring in the front office of the resort as to where the life jackets are, I inch my way down the slope behind the main lodge.  Selecting a life jacket that's suitable I zip it up and cinch it tight around my torso.  All of the kayaks are wet save one, so that's the one I take.  With my oar in hand, I drag the small vessel into the water that awaits.

Almost immediately I'm a bit disappointed that I hadn't followed my intuition and unzipped the bottom of my black dry vent pants before heading to the lake.  As I paddle side to side, dipping and swinging, droplets of water splash from my oars and begin to soak my pants.  Determined to enjoy my kayak in spite of the wetness, I shrug my shoulders ever so slightly, rest my oar across the kayak, and roll up my pant legs.  Picking up my oar once more and orienting the kayak northwest, toward the lily pads, I promise myself I'll bring a camera out next time.  Of course, there won't be a next time, at least not on this retreat.  But no matter, my clarity of mind on this particular afternoon holds the memory securely. 

Floating leaves and perfectly imperfect white water lilies and yellow water lilies are dispersed throughout the algae and lily pads.  After lingering a bit and implanting their image in my mind, I turn the kayak and begin paddling toward the land mass in the middle of this small lake.  It looks like an island, but something tells me it's not.  Again, my intuition is correct and will later be confirmed by a fellow retreat goer who tries the impossible later that weekend and finds herself unable to paddle all the way around this island-looking peninsula.

As I paddle on, the water remains a sheet of calm, though the wind has picked up a bit.  There is still not another soul on the water.  I decide to stop just shy of going all the way to the center of the lake.  I lift my oar and rest it across my lap.  I close my eyes with the giddiness of a child doing something for no other reason than that it feels good.  With eyes closed, my other senses come alive.  I listen and let the wind move my kayak.  Gently, I sense I'm starting to spin.  When it feels as if I've spun a full circle, I open my eyes.   The winds still swish lightly through my hair, no longer spinning my kayak like a compass seeking true north.  I expect to see the same center stretch of land when I open my eyes, but instead I am a quarter of a turn off.  Or am I dead on? 

The forest before me looks dark, ominous, and unpredictable.  Or maybe dark, wooded, and secluded are better descriptors.  Perhaps lush, green, and alive?  Curious,  I paddle forward.  Just moments before, when I had closed my eyes, I said to myself that I would go wherever this spirit wind led me.  Now, slowly nearing this shore of the unknown, I see her first with my eyes. Then I hear her startled movements backing up the hill, hooves rustling over twigs and grass.  I slow my strokes, just grazing the water now and she slows too.  So once more, I lift my paddles, steady my kayak and slow my breathing.  I want to linger a bit and watch this beautiful spotted fawn.  I want to commune with her.  The fawn calms with an awareness that I am not a threat.  She stays and continues eating, hidden in part by the trunk of a tree.  And I keep gliding, a peaceful observer, who has found what she was seeking.

For I had prayed to see God's face when I closed my eyes and let the wind take the helm.  I had no idea how or if He would actually reveal Himself, but I had asked anyway.   He heard and fixed my on this beautiful young fawn.  Both in her and in the forest before me I can see now that this place is full of life.  It is lush, green, young, and hungry.  I can see Him and I can see myself clearly.  That which was once startled is no longer unafraid.

Reflecting with Great Anticipation

Sweet, savory summer is coming to a close.  Tomorrow my children all embark on new adventures with the start of a new school year.  Though Will is sad to see summer end, he admits he's up for the challenge of first grade and learning more español. "Everything in Kinder was too easy," he tells me.  Claire can't wait to spend all day with her friends and is pumped that her 2nd grade teacher has the cutest baby on the planet.  As for Sophie, she is off on the biggest adventure of all, middle school.  Nerves are high around here, but so is excitement and preparations.

And this teacher mama?  I've decided that this academic year, I'll be right here. Right here every morning to see them off and right here every afternoon to welcome them home no matter the day they've had.  Some days they'll come bounding off the bus up the driveway with stories spilling out their ears.  Some days they'll come lumbering up the driveway with hunched shoulders and heavy feet.  I'll see that they're carrying the weight of the world in their backpacks.  More often then not, my oldest will storm through the back door right past me and up to her room, craving solitude and a safe place to let the tears rain.  And I'll be here, right here.  To delight in their joy or catch them as they crumble. 

I'm looking forward to the 2018-19 school year with much anticipation.  I anticipate being mindful and present in my own life and the lives of my husband and children.  I anticipate completing home projects that are long overdue.  I anticipate making music and writing many more reflections just like this one.

Still Rising

I heard another of my favorite musicians this morning while driving south on HWY 169 to take my daughter to her summer babysitting gig.  Having recently begun listening to an awesome audio book I wondered whether I should pop that in or continue listening to the radio.  Just as I was about to switch over to Trevor Noah's Born a Crime, Jason Gray's I Will Rise Again came on KTIS.  With my nearly eleven year old listening to her own beats in the back seat of our mini van, I belted Gray's healing words.  I can't even recount how many times over the past six months this song met me in my darkest places, when I needed it most.  It found me on the countless solitary walks I took on the trail beyond my front stoop.  It spoke to me as I ached to hear God's voice, to see His face, and understand how He might be working in my soul. 

I don't know what this day or the next might bring, but I am fully at peace now with an awakened soul.  While attending a retreat with Julie Loomis entitled Rejuvinate and Redesign, I was introduced to Mark Nepo's The Book of Awakening.  This day book is AMAZING!  August 20th's entry, Holding in the Belly reminded me of an answered prayer for which I'd forgotten to thank God.  Nepo calls the reader to "Still yourself and see if there is a strain between your doing and your being, a strain from tending something in your life while on the move.  If so, stop and face what is in your belly.  Make what you need to tend where you are going."  In not so many eloquent words, I prayed for the ability to do this.  I prayed for God to give me the courage to stay where I was, to stand still instead of running to the next "doing" that might lift me up, that might make me rise. 

As I wrapped up my thirteenth year teaching, colleagues told me I was courageous to be taking a personal leave for the upcoming school year.  At the time, I thanked them for their encouragement, but I didn't believe them.  I felt defeated and completely lost.  I could not see how I would rise again.  I feared my best days had already come and gone.  Now I can confidently proclaim that those were lies.  For now I am filled with such immense hope that I cannot help but begin to tell my story.

The Desert as a Gift

 

In March, my family and I spent a day trekking around Joshua Tree National Park.  I marveled at the stark beauty of the desert landscape and contemplated my own internal desert, the one of fear and uncertainty that I'd been struggling to navigate since February.  I had pretty rapidly been falling into a state of depression mixed with anxiety that I just couldn't shake.  The physical desert of California showed off a glimpse of the beauty that spending time in the desert could produce, the gifts the desert could offer.

It would be three and a half long months until I emerged from the rough and barren land my mind and soul had wandered into; but I found both small and grandiose signs that day that I would walk in verdant fields again. 

I was reminded of the gift of the desert this morning while mowing the healthy and hearty soil upon which I now tread.  Listening to JJ Heller, one of my favorite Christian artists, I was able to see how far I've come and how beautiful the journey has been.  The fear and uncertainty that tried to swallow me has been replaced with excitement at all the possibilities yet to come.

Click the link below if you'd like to hear the song.

    

God is Still Here by JJ Heller

Perspective

Two photographs taken earlier this evening, one within seconds of the other, while standing on the same spot. The difference is in point of view.  Pivoting, I face a different direction.  Glancing upward, my perspective changes as overhead light breaks through.

Seeking the Clearing

I am a winter light seeker
I look to where it hides
between the clouds and just above the boughs
I sense it in the air as I walk out on my front step
a brisk kiss that calls me to awake

And so, I start off
searching swirls of snow on an ice-capped pond
Gleaning barren branches for just a glimpse
of what I know is there

I ask the wind, "Tell me, what do you hear of the sun?"
Only her hollow hymn resounds
I remember
winters upon winters seeking that same sun
lying dormant on the open prairie of my youth

All is grey
lacking in sharpness and crisp certainty
and yet, there is a a clearing
my seeking soul is sure
and when the clouds part, there will be
wisdom to discern and clarity to see
It is there my will to trod uncertain trails will be restored

And so, I'll continue my wanderings and take small delight
in stumbling upon deer beds on the floodplain forest
imagining caribou of old grazing just beyond my sight
I'll squat low to the ground so as not to miss the tiny elf's home
I'll help my children make ornaments of milkweed-bearded Santas
Together we'll play I Spy for black-capped chickadees
and squirrels scurrying back to their store
We'll hush and listen for the beauty within
and beyond our walls
Carols and prayers this advent season
believing the brightest light is yet to come