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

10 Things I Love about "A"

This is a fun little game I discovered at Christine’s blog (one of my favorites) who originally found it at Cathy’s blog. (I don’t happen to know Cathy, however, we are now connected through this letter game and if I had the letter, C, I would add the word Connection, Christine and now Cathy.) Many who played the game said it was harder than you think. I imagined it would be hard to come up with 10, however, my brain switched into high gear and I had a list of about 45 “A’s” before I told myself to slow down and pick 10. So here goes.

1. Christine gave me the letter A for Awakening, so I shall start there. Awakening my creative spirit, awakening to each new day and experience, awakening to life around me. These are most definitely things I love!
2. Advent season has been an amazing time of waiting and discovery for me this year. Great expectation for the celebration of the birth of Jesus and anticipation of what new birth is happening in my life.
3. Aging. I wavered a bit on whether or not I truly love aging. It is one of those love/hate dilemmas, however, aging has provided me with a new perspective and a new zest for life that I did not have in my younger years. It provides a preciousness to each new day and each new year. I turned 50 on September 11 of this year, so hurray for Aging!!
4. Asking questions and seeking answers. I love this, particularly done in community or in my quiet time with the Lord. The beauty is that there are no pat answers and half the fun comes in the asking and seeking.
5. I love Angels! Doesn’t everyone?? I think one of the things I imagine and envy most about angels is their wings. I love the possibility that they can fly which leads me to #6 and….
6. Airplanes. Airplanes take me to far away places for adventure and reunion with friends. My favorite airplane was the tiny one that I jumped out of and flew through the air myself. The air was buoyant and felt like the hands of God gently holding me in my downward flight. It was…
7. Amazing! Life just gets more and more amazing to me. There are new adventures each day, new awakenings, new people, places and things to discover. Truly Amazing!!
8. I could not finish a list of things I love with out including at least one author, because books are one of my very favorite things. I choose Anne Lamott to grace this list. I love her irreverent reverence and her advice from Bird by Bird that if you want to be a writer, “Write!!” These are words that get me going when I often wonder where my writing will lead. Just write!
9. As with authors, the list would not be complete without mentioning a few places since I love adventure and travel. I love Asheville, NC. I have had dreams of moving there and becoming an artist full time. Arizona is wonderful with its beautiful deserts and warm dry climate. Alaska must be fabulous because it produced my dear friend, Maria, and Africa birthed my wonderful husband, Bill—both are places I hope to visit in this lifetime. (Australia is also on my very short list of places that I love before ever having been there.)
10. Since this list of gratitude and love could go on and on, I will end with Abundance and Amen!!

Thank you, Christine and Cathy. If anyone else would like to play, send me a note and I will send you a letter. Blessings and Abundance to you during this Amazing season of Advent. Amen.

photo by bill hughlett

Memory demands so much

---by denise levertov


Memory demands so much,
it wants every fiber
told and retold.
It gives and gives
but for a price, making you
risk drudgery, lapse
into document, treacheries
of glaring noon and a slow march.
Leaf never before
seen or envisioned, flying spider
of rose-red autumn, playing
a lone current of undecided wind,
lift me with you, take me
off this ground of memory that clings
to my feet like thick clay,
exacting gratitude for gifts and gifts.
Take me flying before
you vanish, leaf, before
I have time to remember you,
intent instead on being
in the midst of that flight,
of those unforeseeable words.




photo by bill hughlett


Someone very close to me nearly died this weekend. “Memory demands so much” speaks volumes. Giving and giving can feel like drudgery (Is it ever enough?) Caught in the mire. A slow march. I have been here before. Stuck. Hurting. Sad and Angry. Seeking communication. Yearning. And I am ever reminded of the little girl who forged her way on her own. Alone.

Leaf, take me away. Let me soar high above the pain with you. The trails of a leaf are like the roads on a map. The paths of our journey. Slow march in the heat of the day—the heat of life’s battle. Or bundled, cold and shivering in the dark of night. Praying for comfort and sweet release in whatever form it might take. Death? Peace? Are they one in the same? Will we only find peace when we finally get to heaven? Or is heaven right here on earth and we are privileged to catch small glimpses of it throughout our earthly lives?

“Memory demands so much.” Fragile child on an emergency room table. Teen with eyes rolled back in head. Comatose? Dead? Witnessing the dance toward death—a slow painful march. Memory demands so much.

Can I remember my flight with God holding me in his arms? It demands so much. The hard times seem to flow easily through my brain—present and at the forefront. But can I remember the glory? Those brief moments when I have been known by another? Moments in community battling for the glory of God?

Evil wants us to be overtaken by the dark moments—the emergency room lights—the harsh sunlight of day—the agony of watching a child leave, again and again.

I want memory to turn to the good times. Riding with my daughter on a ferry. Laughing with my son in the car. I did not know how swiftly the time would fly. Memory demands so much. I have been here before—on the edge—on the verge of losing—being left—bereft of God. I feel the rhythm; the moving away, that has become so familiar.

Memory demands so much.

What Do I Know?

What do I know?
I know the sun was out only moments ago with the promise of a dry morning.
I know that now the sky has turned gray and raindrops are not far behind.
I know the kitten in my lap is a creation of God even when he seems to be of the devil.
I know my daughter is beautiful and pure as she sleeps in the room down the hall.
I know that I will always be full of questions and unknowing.
I know God is near and yet I long to see his face.
And I know if I allow myself, His face will be seen in the sun, the rain, the kitten and my daughter.
I will see God in the questions and in the mystery.
I will know His presence even when my heart feels cold and dry because He gives the promise of sun after the rain and light amidst the dark.
But then again—what do I know?

"gus" by lucy

Brazos de Dios

Part I

A red ball of sunshine greets me this morning.
The world is waking up although parts of it never went to sleep last night (including me).
Doors banging—wind blowing—caught in a twister.

My life right now—raw—restless—looking for a place to land.
I know my home is here with me and yet the world keeps hammering away at my sanity and serenity even in the dark of night.

What will I find this weekend among these women who have come searching for freedom?
Will I find my own freedom?

A small Texas bird speaks to me from the tree.
“It is here. Freedom is here for the choosing. Choose life. Choose life.”

Even when the battle is tough and turbulent—when you are caught in a twister—Breathe.
Breathe in the air that smells slightly different.
Take in the vines of the field. They are but branches and the root lies deep beneath.

Trust. Trust God. Trust the process. Trust myself.

Part II

I feel so raw right now—bursting with emotion.
Tender and strong—anchored with a root that is deep and everlasting.

My vineyard is intertwined with sunflowers.
The red rock of my childhood surrounds me. It is the flat terrain of my youth.
Yet I know the road was neither flat nor smooth.

Bobwhite calling. Beautiful. Familiar.
“Come play with me. Come join the rising sun.”
The gnats are trying to irritate. It is my choice to stay calm or to despair.

I watch a small white butterfly—a miracle. Hear the bobwhite.
My stomach is starting to growl. Mosquitoes are buzzing.
This new day has begun.

I will join my friends. I will find solace in the midst of the twister.
The arms of God are all around me.
Brazos de Dios.

photos by bill hughlett