January Morning

Saturday morning I set out early into the barely there mist. Quiet. Still. Had my neighborhood become a ghost town? Were we the only home still inhabited? I imagined the abductors saying, "Hey, did you get that green house? No, but Joe did." Only Joe didn't, and here we still are. Even the dog with the menacing growl, whose solid presence has forced me more than once to the other side of the block, does not appear. I am alone, walking past industrial waste piles of snow where discarded Christmas trees and browning garlands have been tossed, awaiting rescue by city trucks. Every year I tease I am going to sneak onto porches and pluck Christmas wreaths tired and well beyond their "Use by ..." deadlines. Do people not notice as they pick up the morning paper or answer the door to their children's friends how unwelcoming these wreaths look now that January is soon to be February? Perhaps I should start a business. For only $5 I will remove your wreath in a timely fashion. Pay in advance, of course.

In spite of this eccentric irritation, I happen to love winter, and in fact, winter is my favorite season. I catch myself even praying this year will be the longest, the worst winter ever. True, I sigh with others, "Yes, isn't it awful? Sick of it? Yes, me too," but I adjust the glasses on my nose, turn another page and reach for my mug of hot chocolate. I wrap myself in a shawl. I poke the fire. I turn on only enough light to see the book. I move slowly, but steadily through winter tasks. No drawer left unorganized. No letter or email unanswered. No goal unchallenged. No hope unaddressed. The refrain on my lips is "This year I will...,but on my own terms and without zeal or threat of punishment.

Winter's uncluttered, unlittered nature moves me patiently from day to day without surprise of color or blossom or smell of dirt or invitation to jump, to charge forward. Instead I stop. I rest. I delight in Sabbath time. I stretch slowly, deliberately, quietly, so as not to awaken any other bears in my cave.

I value the harvest of fall, the energy of spring, the secure lingering of summer, but even more I covet the lairs of winter, the hidden passages, the unlit corridors, the streamlined views, the bareness of the horizon. The action coldly stopped, frozen without conscious time. I've done what I can all those other days and months and now it is time to leave what is undone and to unwind the sweater till once more it is yarn. It is sheep. It is essence.

Ah, this is it. Winter is essence and offers the time to recall, to re-call my own essence.

Favorite Books of 2009

I have always kept lists of books to read, books to buy and give, and, of course, books read. True, there are still some reading days left in 2009, but in our Christmas letter sent to family and friends, I promised to post this year's list of "favorites" on my blog. Here it is:

Fiction

* In Hovering Flight - Joyce Hennefield

* War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy (My first reading was when I was in college. I loved it this time around so much more.)

* Two books by Pamela Carter Joern: The Floor of the Sky and The Plain Sense of Things

* American Wife - Curtis Sittenfeld (Smart and sexy and how much is true and when will the movie come out and who will play Laura Bush?)

* The House on Fortune Street - Margot Livesey

* The Piano Teacher - Janice Y. K. Lee

* The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society - Shaffer and Barrons (Awful title and wonderful book)

* The Space Between Us - Thrity Umrigar

* The mystery series by Susan Hill. Start with the first one, The Various Haunts of Men. (I decided August was mystery month and devoured this series. The latest has just been released.)

* Olive Kitteridge - Elizabeth Strout

* A Happy Marriage - Rafael Yglesias

* A Gate at the Stairs - Lorrie Moore (Madison writer and this book is on the NY Times best of the year list)

* Jhumpa Lahiri's two book of short stories: Unaccustomed Earth and Interpreter of Maladies. (Overcome your unwillingness to read short stories and read both of these.)

Nonfiction: I am reading far more nonfiction these days and along with books specifically related to spirituality, I am reading a number of books about nature.

* The Forever War - Dexter Filkins

* The Buddhist Path to Simplicity, Spiritual Practice for Everyday Life - Christina Feldman

* Beauty, The Invisible Embrace, Rediscovering the True Sources of Compassion, Serenity and Hope - John O'Donohue

* The Third Chapter, Passion, Risk and Adventure in the 25 Years after 50 - Sara Lawrence Lightfoot

* Seeking Peace, Chronicles of the Worst Buddhist in the World, Mary Pipher

* Listening Below the Noise, A Meditation on the Practice of Silence - Anne D. LeClaire

* The Morville Hours, The Story of a Garden - Katherine Swift

* Small Wonder - Barbara Kingsolver

* On Moving, A Writer's Meditation on New House, Old Haunts and Finding Home Again - Louise deSalvo

* Teaching Trees, Lesson from the Forest - Joan Maloof

* We Two, Victoria and Albert, Rulers, Partners, Rivals - Gillian Gill

* Facing the Lion, Being the Lion, Facing Inner Courage Where it Lives - Mark Nepo

* Life List, A Woman's Quest for the World's Most Amazing Birds - Olivia Gentile (about Phoebe Snetsinger)

* This Year I Will...How to Finally Change a Habit, Keep a Resolution or Make a Dream Come True - M. J. Ryan

* Crow Planet, Essential Wisdom from the Urban Wilderness - Lynda Lynn Haupt

* Traveling with Pomegranates, A Mother-Daughter Story - Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor

* The Seven Whispers - Christina Baldwin (One I return to periodically)

* Epicurean Simplicity - Stephanie Mills

* A Book of Silence - Sara Maitland

* Writing from the Center - Scott Russell Sanders

Perhaps in an upcoming blog posting I will offer a selection of favorite quotes from these books. Stay tuned. In the meantime there is Christmas and entry into the new year. I wish you joy and hope and a deepened awareness of how Spirit is moving in your life. And a new book or two--and even time to read them.

The Spiritual Practice of Cherry Walnut Bread

Four bread tins await. I have returned from a snowy walk to the grocery store to get eggs and butter. When the butter has come to room temperature, I will make cherry walnut bread, one of my Christmas traditions and spiritual practices.

The first year I made cherry walnut bread we were living in St Louis where Bruce was in his last year of medical school , and I was teaching high school English. I was pregnant with our first child, but I didn't know it yet. The recipe came from a magazine, an inserted booklet of quick bread recipes, and was actually for cherry PECAN bread, but walnuts fit our budget better. I can afford pecans now, but cherry walnut it shall remain. I think about baking in that tiny elf-sized apartment kitchen where the only counter space was about a foot long. Somehow good food still was created. I think about the friends to whom I gave bread that first year; many of whom have since died. I am grateful for all they gave to that newlywed and novice teacher.

I'm not much of a cookie baker, except for gingersnaps in the fall or snickerdoodles occasionally, so the bread became my Christmas baking trademark. I wonder if people who receive the bread think of it as Great Aunt Hilda's Fruit Cake that sits on the shelf all Christmas and finally is thrown out with the used wrapping paper and tinsel from the tree. Do they smile and say "thank you" and then hide it at the bottom of the bread drawer? Oh well, I love making it and in the making I encounter a newsreel of memories.

At first I used a pale blue deep pottery bowl from the 30's or 40's, but then I realized how expensive those bowls have become, so I thanked it for its faithful service and decided not to use it so casually, so regularly. Funny, other people only bring out the china and crystal for special occasions, but I relegated that old bowl to infrequent use and "saved" status. Instead, I bought "new" old bowls, not as precious--large yellow Pyrex bowls. Functional, as well as cheery looking, but I must admit I wondered the first time I used it, if the bread would taste the same. I guess it did. No one commented, unlike the year I had a new food processor and used it to chop the cherries. Such protests from the kids. The cherries were too finely chopped. Where were the chunks? I went back to chopping by hand with cherry juice running over and under the cutting board, leaving a red stain on the counter. Eventually I returned to using the old faded blue bowl--just for cherry walnut bread. I missed it and I thought it must have felt useless, put out to pasture. I've always believed in using what I have, enjoying it, so what got into me? It saddens me when I am antiquing and see vintage linens with the label still attached. "Never used," the price tag says. Why not? What happened? Did that special occasion never come?

Well, that's why hometending is a spiritual practice for me. I am reminded that every moment is a special occasion. Every moment is an opportunity to feel the presence. Every memory is a chance to whisper a blessing. I think about the people in my life who have received my offering. I smile and think about my son, who when he was quite young ate several jars of cherries and hid the empty jars behind the couch. Now grown and married, he is making the bread himself. I think about how I created a family cookbook for each of our children before they got married and, of course, the cherry walnut bread recipe is included. I remember the teachers to whom I gave a small loaf along with their Christmas gift, as a token thank you for the love and inspiration they gave our children, and the gatherings where I took a loaf as a hostess gift or the potlucks where a loaf of bread accompanied my salad or casserole. The loaves I make today will go to neighbors and also to Minnesota where we will drive tomorrow to spend Christmas . Perhaps Kate has made loaves herself, but I am the Mom and I need to bring the cherry walnut bread.

Nancy Agneberg's Cherry Walnut Bread

3/4 cup sugar

1 cup butter

2 eggs

Cream together sugar, butter, and eggs. Add alternately with 1 cup buttermilk, 2 cups flour, 1 tsp baking soda, 1/2 tsp vanilla, 1 jar chopped maraschino cherries, and 1/2 cup chopped walnuts.

Butter loaf pan. Bake 325 degrees for 55-60 minutes.

A Grandmother's Reverie

The house is quiet. Startlingly quiet. Turning on the radio or my ipod won't help. Going out for a walk only means returning to a still house. Eventually, probably by morning, I will be used to the solitude once again, but for now I am straining to hear the echoes of young life. Our daughter Kate and our grandchildren Maren, almost 7, and Peter, 20 months, were here visiting for a long weekend, but now they are back home. To counter my melancholy, I turn to a journal entry written a week after Peter was born:

Kate and Mike left the house at 5:00 am for the scheduled C-section later that morning. Bruce and I got up to say goodbye and send them off with love. Maren, however, slept until about 7:30, and we had our usual cuddle time in bed. I brought her in bed with me when she was quite small, before she could walk, and soon that became our blessed morning routine. I wonder if that will be a Peter tradition, too, or if we will have something else that is our own.

Anyway, Mike called us at 8:30 with the great news. Peter had entered the world at 7:54, 7 pounds, 4 ounces; 19 1/2 inches long. Lots of blondish hair with maybe a tinge of red. Maren's nose. And healthy. Both Mom and Baby. Thank you, God. Soon we were at the hospital and Maren had the promised first look at him. Kate later said when Maren first saw him sprawled in his bassinet, legs frog style, arms flung out, fresh after his first bath, she laughed. Chuckled with delight. In that moment she became a loving big sister.

Bruce and I waited patiently in the family lounge, but soon Maren and Mike came and told us we could come meet him. The first time I saw Maren, who arrived five weeks early, but was the largest baby in the NICU, I thought “I know you.” I was overwhelmed by the continuity of life and the sense of connection. I recognized her and felt such deep love—love without fear. Love wrapped in joy. When I saw Peter that first time, I was blindsided with awe, an Old Testament kind of awe. Kate and Mike had been tested over and over again to have him, to bring him forth, and he responded to that persistence; to that desire. I felt unbounded gratitude for whatever role a gracious God played in the birth of this happy, healthy, beautiful boy. He is an unexpected treasure.

When I was pregnant with our second child, our son Geof, I wasn't sure I had enough love. Could I love more? Did I have enough love to go around, to give another baby what it deserved? But it all rushed in. Peter, too, signifies the abundance of love; the bigness of it. Maren would have been enough, but now there is also Peter, and we get to experience the bigness of loving all over again. With every person who came to see him and rejoice in his arrival and hold him and marvel at him, he was infused with more love and the unconscious awareness of the abundance of love; the goodness in life. His presence renewed our hope and increased our joy, but we also gave him these gifts, too. When he was awake-and very alert, he would look with such puzzled eyes, and I kept thinking about the unfathomable change he had just experienced--from the womb to the world. If ever I feel overwhelmed by change and transition (and I do!), I need to think about what each baby endures.

When I held Peter those first days, I talked to him softly, "Hello Peter. It's GrandNan, and I love you very much." With Maren's birth I was given the opportunity to create my GrandNan identity, to become GrandNan, but with Peter I am already GrandNan, a role I love.

A major part of that role while Peter was still in the hospital was to be with and take care of Maren, and I will treasure that time forever. She was great. She relished her new title of Big Sister. She shared the spotlight. She gave her heart to him. She adapted to the hospital environment easily and all the coming and going. She rarely fussed about anything, and she was my buddy. Such a good companion in all those trips between home and hospital. The last time we drove back home she sang Christmas carols in her sweet voice—knowing the majority of the words—not always easy ones either, as in "Hark the Herald Angels Sing." One time I had the car radio on, but quickly turned it off when I heard a terrible story about the beating death of a four year old. She had heard it, too. She is so completely loved—how could she possibly imagine a child not loved as she is?

The morning Kate, Mike, and Peter came home from the hospital, Maren made a "Welcome Home" sign and Valentines for them all. She even helped me clean. Then when Mom and Dad and new baby snuggled in the car seat, came in the back door, they became a family of four. It was time for me to ease out the door. Not easy, but necessary. Besides they were more than capable of handling whatever came up. All was as it should be.

New birth, new life, ongoing life. Love.

The house is still quiet, and I miss our dear ones, but I feel better. Much better.

Oh,no, Not an Identity Crisis

I am 61, and I am having an identity crisis. Yes, we are thrilled we have finally sold Sweetwater Farm, but I now realize how much that home was my identity. Instead of work or even family, Sweetwater Farm was my identity, becoming that almost the minute we moved there in 1997. Leaving our home of only three years in Shaker Heights was a surprising thing to do, and many friends could not understand the draw. After all, it was far from the city, necessitating a long commute for Bruce, and what was I going to do out there?

Well, that attitude quickly subsided, for building on the peace and spirit already present at Sweetwater Farm, we created shelter and sanctuary; a place where people felt privileged to spend time. Visiting us became an event, a ritual, a retreat. Our life there with the gardens and pond, the century home filled with antiques, the barn housing our personal petting zoo --llamas and sheep and geese and goats, and donkey and chickens, oh my-- was what people say they want. We lived the fantasy for many.

Our work blended into Sweetwater Farm, as well, for this was where Bruce could restore and find balance for his work as a hospice medical director, and Sweetwater Farm was where, by and large, I did my work--meeting with spiritual direction clients, holding retreats and classes, preparing my classes and groups, writing. All we did seemed to benefit from and reflect our life there. In fact, I included a description of Sweetwater Farm on my marketing materials and in my introduction to groups and, of course, the annual Christmas letter always included accounts of the current animals and views from our windows.

Once we moved to Madison the identity lived on, but was not always well-received. Last fall I offered a workshop at an end of life conference here and was criticized on the evaluation form because I had mentioned we were trying to sell our Ohio farm. Was anyone interested? The person felt I was marketing it and that was not appropriate in that setting. I just thought I was sharing who I am--the farm as identity. I felt the sting.

So now what? We have indeed sold the farm, and no one in our new life here has ever been to Sweetwater Farm and knows us as its stewards. Yes, we love our new home, for we are people who create home wherever we are. Home is where we give our time, attention and money, and this home already illustrates that. We tend to choose unique homes and settings and "The Muir Manse," named for our street, (See, we've already conceived an identity!) is no exception, for it is located in an interesting New Urbanism development, created by a student of Frank Lloyd Wright. However, I don't think this house will be our identity in the way Sweetwater Farm was. If not the house, then what?

I think I have a fairly clear notion of who I am, although I keep polishing, honing, clarifying, trying to live to that promise, and attempting to uncover my essence. What is unclear to me, however, is what will define my time and attention and energy here. What will be my call here? I don't want to give the impression I am doing nothing with my time. I love the writing group and the book discussion class I attend, as well as being a volunteer at the arboretum's bookstore. I am even enjoying being part of a program dedicated to creating a healthier lifestyle. I have taught a labyrinth workshop for a cancer support center and look forward to working there more in the future, and I am starting a spirituality group for women of my age. Plus, there are always the half-written books lurking in my office. And the grandchildren only 4 hours away. I fill my time, but I don't have a theme yet.

Perhaps my new identity will look like a patchwork quilt. Bits and pieces all put together in a new pattern. I guess I am just surprised to be in this position. Who knew at age 61 I would be in the midst of another identity crisis. How many have there been in these 6 decades and, I wonder, how many more will there be? Stay tuned.

Homeless in Ohio

Nope, I have not abandoned my blog. Instead, I have been enjoying a summer with lots of company and a bit of travel. When reservations began to come into our unofficial B and B, I told myself to just enjoy these treasured times with friends and family and not torture myself about gaps (Big Gaps) in my writing. My father is known for saying "Your day will come." Well, the day to return to writing has come. I hope you are still with me.

This summer has brought a long awaited change. A couple weeks ago we became Homeless In Ohio, a phrase my husband proclaims with delight. After almost two years we sold our home/farm, Sweetwater Farm, and we are now delighted to be the holders of one mortgage only.

The Story: Early in July we were in Ohio to visit our son and daughter-in-love and also to check on the house. We have been extremely fortunate to have a wonderful caretaker for the house and property, but nonetheless we were not looking forward to seeing the empty house and abandoned gardens. I felt myself dreading the return. We did not doubt our decision to move to Wisconsin, but our happy years at Sweetwater Farm had taken a back seat to the stress of owning two homes. The last few months Bruce had suggested that perhaps, in fact, we would not sell it, and Sweetwater Farm would become our second home. I resisted that idea, not wanting to think about that possibility. That notion felt like moving backwards in time.

Well, as we drove up the driveway, I began to feel my heart lift, even soar, almost taking off on its own when I walked into the house. All the love I felt for that home and our life there overwhelmed me as I walked through the now empty house. I had worried seeing it empty would be depressing and that it would look shabby or tired to me, but instead I saw its light and charm and in some ways it looked even better in its spacious emptiness than when full of our belongings.

Being there lifted my spirit because I felt once again the spirit of that place. I no longer feared owning it for a long time. In fact, I could now envision having it as our second home, spending chunks of time there, and I LOVED that image of the future. I remembered with an open heart all the love in that place and how that place nurtured all who entered. I replaced the fear with love.

Two days later we got a serious offer which, after some back and forth, we accepted. Who knows if that shift in perspective was the gravitational pull that caused the heavens to open and to move the offer, but I felt an opening of my heart and I felt changed. I had been so sure that what I needed to do during those many months of waiting was to let go. I actually thought I had done a good job of that. In reality, there was an additional step. I needed to love what was in front of me--not just accept the given situation, but LOVE it. That kind of re-attachment brought me new freedom, and I truly was able to let go and let it all be as it was and was going to be.

Now I think of the new owners and pray their days will be full of joy and blessing in their new home. For a brief moment in time we had the privilege of being stewards for Sweetwater Farm. Now it is time for someone else.

Spiritual Stretching

I was a karate Mom. For several years my young son studied karate. Several times a week during those years I sat through those classes -- children and adults of all ages learning the moves, the steps, the choreography. The movements were quick, strong, energetic, but also, graceful, even meditative. I appreciated how these students and instructors were using their bodies, but it never occurred to me to become a karate student myself. I would be too embarrassed. My body wouldn't work that way. I would need to lose x number of pounds first. But the images of those bodies, all shapes, all sizes, all ages, in rhythmic motion was filed away.

Several years later after moving to a different state, I was walking through our peaceful old neighborhood with its dignified homes and mature, even majestic trees, and I was surprised to see a group of 25-30 people in a park. They were moving gently in sync with each other. They massaged their foreheads, gently shook their legs, bent slowly and held animal-like poses. They were practicing T'ai Chi, and I was intrigued.

In my typical style I approached this glimmer of interest as an assignment and, in fact, decided to write about it in a column I wrote for a community magazine. I interviewed the instructor, observed classes, and talked with participants. The instructor invited me to try the moves myself, experience the class directly, but I was too inhibited and felt I needed to know more before trying it myself. I toyed with the idea of taking the class, but the schedule wasn't a good fit, so once again I filed the interest away.

And then I got a catalogue from a holistic center where T'ai Chi was being offered. The time was convenient, but did I dare? Could I really learn this? So much of my life in recent years had been about stretching, pushing through my tidy envelope, saying to God, "OK, I'm jumping." The move to Ohio was a stretch- a total trusting that this was the right decision. This would just be one more stretch, I thought, as I wrote a check for the class. That was September, 1996.

For many years I participated in that Friday morning circle. We practiced meditation in motion. I learned the moves, much to my amazement, but more than that I learned about how the body is connected to my mind and my spirit. How the body informs my spirit and how I can deepen my relationship with God through the use of my body. And one day I was asked to stretch even more and trade in my participant role for a teaching role. I went on to teach classes myself in a variety of places and with a variety of groups, including cancer patients and their loved ones . Such a privilege.

T'ai Chi became one of my key spiritual practices; a way of expressing, "Here I am God." My way of opening to the Holy. As I breathe out, I empty, release, surrender. As I breathe in, I receive the breath of God. I ask to be filled. T'ai Chi reminds me to dance, to play, to bounce, to follow the energy. To feel the spirit. Through T'ai Chi I express gratitude, joy, and love. T'ai Chi is a way for me to allow the body to move my soul toward God.

Recently, I learned about a T'ai Chi group who meets not too far from where I now live and who practice the style I learned. Once again I found myself hesitating as I had done all those years ago. I have not practiced T'ai Chi for quite sometime. Would I remember anything? Besides, the style has evolved and would I be able to learn the changes? Would they welcome a new member? I guess I have learned something, for I took a deep breath and stretched myself into this new challenge, this new opportunity. As I entered this new circle, I could feel one more piece of the puzzle in my life in this new place slipping into place. Ah, let the dance continue.

Photo credit: Joan Litzow, 2005