Preparing Space. Letting Go. Shedding.

“Why is there so much Lent in Advent? In this season of joy, why do I bump up against my wounds? The wise ones who journey with me remind me that there are cycles of shedding before there is conception, that birthing is painful and messy and loud, and that we find it so hard to let go, to open so that new life can emerge.” Jan L. Richardson, Night Visions

Preparing a space. Letting go. Shedding. Before me lies a table full of photos of a young girl. Me. I see my 2nd birthday; my fifth; another one or two. I think I look dorky. Sullen. Goofy. I think I look brilliant. Wise and beautiful. God’s perfect creation. One in need of constant shedding and letting go.

It is time to start letting go of resentments toward the imperfections of my childhood. I know that I was cared for although not always well. My parents were, after all, human—just like me. I was clothed in handmade creations. Were they made out of love or necessity or possibly both? At age eight, I fell off my bicycle and broke my front teeth and split my lip so badly that it would droop for several years until my mother took me for plastic surgery. Ironically, I appear to be most proud of my school picture taken after my teeth were broken for it is the only picture that bears my signature. The pictures are tiny and could easily have been lost over the years. I am grateful to see my young handwriting testifying to the spunk I had even in my brokenness.

I am grateful for the table full of pictures that I did not think existed. They show me that someone saw to it that my life was documented—perfectly & imprecisely. The school photos. A few snapshots. The glamour girl with my sixties “fall” (i.e. fake hair). A new bike at Christmas. The dangerous sled ride being pulled behind a mini-bike by my father. The trip to Niagara Falls that I wasn’t quite sure we had taken. My dad’s semi-truck. Skipper the dog. My cousin, Vicki who snuck olives from the table with me. My sophisticated sister and my skinny brother before he grew into his ears ☺. Mother holding me on the day I was born.

These photos are helping me shed that which I no longer need. They are marking the time to let love back in. My mother was a woman filled with imperfection. My father was often absent for long periods of time. Together, however, they raised three amazing children. “Good genes,” we’ve always said. “Good hearts” is probably more like it. This, of course, makes me think of my own children. May they grow up well in spite of me AND because of me. I love them the best I can…just as my parents loved me. Yes, it is a time of preparing space. Letting Go. Shedding. It is the time of Advent.

photo: Mom & Me

Everlasting Love

Many of my fondest childhood memories revolve around the time I was in kindergarten. Those memories hold images of skipping and playing and having the freedom to just be Me. That age (around 5 years old) has also been a place in time where it feels like things shifted for me. Kindergarten was a time of living fully in my true self as a little person and also the time that I became aware of the heaviness and darkness that exists in the world. (The entering of paradox, perhaps?)

My most joyous memories come from being in Mrs. Peck’s kindergarten class. It was a private little house just around the corner from my home. I remember the independence of being free to skip around the block on my way to school. To this very day, I can sense the embrace of Mrs. Peck when I hug women who feel like her. Her whole being resonated unconditional love.

Yesterday as I was sorting through some photographs, I came across a cherished picture of me with my beloved teacher. I remembered the photo and was delighted to find it again. The bonus of the day, however, was a letter in her handwriting which I do not ever recall reading before. The envelope had my name on it and said, “Kindergarten Report 1961-62.” While I could regale you with tales of my brilliance at this young age (and there is no doubt I was brilliant ☺), I was most struck by this paragraph.

“It has been most gratifying to watch her development. She is a sweet child and one any parent could be proud of and I know you are. Yes, she is quite right I do love her and it has been such a pleasure to have her in our class. She is most interesting to me.”

Obviously I had picked up on her love for me and shared it with my mother (with great emphasis no doubt.) I have always known deep in my heart that she loved me, but also questioned if I had built it up in my imagination. What a gift to find these words of confirmation almost 50 years after they were penned (for she had not only written them, but also underlined her words of love)! This is a huge affirmation of the power of unconditional love for it has sustained me in ways I cannot begin to fathom. I believe Mrs. Peck is a lovely example of Christ's incarnational love.

The timing, of course, could not be more appropriate. During this season of Advent that emphasizes the importance of waiting, I often ask, “Waiting for what?” An obvious answer is we wait for Christmas; for Christ’s coming. But I believe it is more than that for God is always with us as reminded by the name Emmanuel (translated - God with us) and evidenced through people such as Mrs. Peck. Most often we have no idea for what we are waiting. Little did I know that I was waiting to receive this confirmation of love that had marked my heart with indelible ink.

For what are you waiting this season of advent? Will you allow yourself to rest in the mystery?

photos: Mrs. Peck & me...circa 1961-62

Shadow Reflection

"But the sacred presence is there, breathing in the shadows." Jan L. Richardson, Night Visions

My breath has come in fits and bursts today. with tears & anger. grief & sorrow. loss. I have felt silly about my emotion, because I have so much for which to be grateful. Yet I do not want to rush toward the light. I need to be solemn. Alone. To have solitude, but it's not to be.

Children rustle around me. The phone rings incessantly. The dog breathes hard and asks to be noticed. Messages pile up and clamor for my attention. The soaking carpet screams at me through my nostrils. Momentarily, the smell of warm soup comforts me & then the tears come again.

I am tender. Holy. Yearning to be still. Be still and know that God is here. Emmanuel. God with us. Something beckons in the future, but all I have is now. The late afternoon darkness wraps its arms around me. I want to sleep. To close my eyes & dream. To sleep a night without stirring. Without the need to awaken and check my surroundings.

I yearn for warmth and comfort. To be held in arms that ask for nothing. An embrace that gives without condition. Yahweh. Breath of God. Today I am tired. Worn out from disaster and work. Spent from holding in emotion. I want to cry. I want to create. I want to rest in the shadows.

photo by lucy. snoqualmie pass 12.02.07

The Rains Came Down....

...and the floods came up.

Many great stories in the making...but not today. A wonderful trip to celebrate my sis' birthday. Snow. Rain. Kids. Rain. Advent. Rain. Shop vac. Rain. Moving. Oh, did i mention rain?

I went to sleep Sunday night with this breath prayer: "Breathe God in. Chaos goes out." It was lovely and fortunate since I knew things did not bade well when my husband woke me up yesterday and said, "I could really use your help. There is water pouring into the basement."

If you haven't heard, Seattle just experienced the second largest rainfall in any 24 hour period (3.5+ inches). We are fine. Fortunate, in fact, compared to many throughout the city. Our basement (which is probably the largest livable square footage of our house) is wet and its furnishings are now residing in my living room and dining room. Bill and I spent more than 12 hours vacuuming and pumping water out of the house at the rate of about 120 gallons an hour. We are fortunate. The water came out of our house. We will not know for awhile how severe the damage, but the rain stopped before bedtime.

Needless to say, I have a full day (week, month) ahead of me. I'm still not sure about the breath prayer because my house certainly looks chaotic right now. The cool thing is that everyone I encountered yesterday commented on how calm I was and what a good attitude I had. Hmmmm. Yes, I am fortunate & grateful. More later...

Photos from Seattle Post-Intelligencer. The washout is about 1 1/2 miles from my house.

Belly of the Whale

Inside the belly of the whale, it is dark. Today is the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. For a season, this season, I am being called to let the tears wash over me, to wail, to cry out and let the pain envelope and comfort me. Happiness will not suffice for now. Joy seems so distant, so far away. Sorrow—its mirror image—hangs closely round my heart and soul.

I must learn a new way to comfort myself, and the way does not involve putting on a smile and taking care of everyone around me. How can I suffer—exist—live in the dark night of the soul when all around me are hollow words of "Merry Christmas" and "Happy Holidays"? “Cheer up,” well-meaning friends say. “Get over it,” I tell myself. Easy to say, but I don’t even know what “it” is. I see fear in the eyes of my loved ones. They worry that I am not happy. “You’re not yourself these days,” they say. “I hope you come back soon.” But, I have not gone anywhere. This is me—all I am able to offer—right here and right now. Maybe it is not all of me for it is more of the sorrowful side—some would say the dark side. And, just as I have been known to burst with joy, for now I am bursting with sorrow. I am learning that both are essential for the fullness I desire.

Give your burdens to the earth—the strength of the mountains—the vastness of the sea—God—only these can carry the weight of my burdens. I am called to lay face down on the ground as the Muslims do, connecting my head with the earth. Feeling the solidity beneath me. It is holy ground.

Belly of the whale. It is dark inside here and even as I release myself to the darkness, I begin to feel lighter. A twinkling light. There must be great darkness for the tiniest light to shine. Wait. Just wait. It is the reminder I have heard throughout this advent season. Wait.

“When you are in the belly of the whale, let go, detach yourself, let the pain carry you where it needs to take you, don’t resist, rather weep, wail, cry and put your mouth to the dust, and wait.” Ron Rolheiser