A Delicate Balance: The Past and the Present

What a weekend! Family and friends gathered at separate events to celebrate our granddaughter's first communion and our youngest niece's graduation from high school. Each event was joyous and marked a transition from one stage of life to another. In our granddaughter's case, she is now participating more fully in the life and practice of her church community, and as she said, "I get to have wine every week now." Our niece is leaving home and childhood and venturing forth bravely and enthusiastically to her college years.

The words from the Lutheran communion liturgy fill my heart:
"Let the vineyards be fruitful, Lord, and fill to the brim our cup of blessing. Gather a harvest of the seeds that were sown, that we may be fed with the bread of life. Gather the hopes and dreams of all; unite them with the prayers we offer. Grace our table with your presence, and give us a foretaste of the feast to come."   

Each celebration was an acknowledgment of the hopes and dreams we have for these special young women whom we love and adore. We gathered at not only the communion table, but at buffet tables, eating and drinking together as a sign of our connection to each other. We looked at each of these loving presences in our lives as hopeful signs of the future  and prayed whatever they encounter that they may always be surrounded by such visible love and support.

In the midst of the festivities, however, a question kept nagging me. How do we continue to live fully in the present when so much of our life is in the past, when we have so much to remember? What do we do with all the memories of past events, events that we have lived before more than once, and now the event is here all over again? Different people. Different times and settings, but the same event. High school graduation. First communions and confirmations and baptisms. Weddings. Births and deaths. Changes and transitions.

I was flooded with memories. For example, as I stood in my sister's dining room, I recalled our own dining room when our daughter, the mother of our granddaughter now, was graduating from high school. My sister was pregnant with the child who we were now celebrating.   I felt pulled back to that same event only all those years ago when I was the mother who had been baking for weeks and had been cleaning and redecorating in anticipation of a houseful of guests, using the occasion as the excuse. I thought about that whole senior year when I had been in tears for every last event. How was it possible that my daughter was old enough to graduate from high school? How is it now possible that she has a daughter old enough for first communion? How is it possible that the unborn child is now graduating from high school and that my younger sister is now facing empty nest? Did anyone notice as I oohed and aahed at the array of treats and the "Oh, the Places You'll Go" decorations in the dining room that I was not fully present, that I was in the past?

And then I walked into the family room, and there was my father sitting in what is known as the Papa Chair, and he seemed to be quietly observing all the fun and fanfare, just as he had sat and watched earlier that day at the lunch after church. I realized how much more the past dominates his days.  I don't know if he was thinking about other celebrations, the open houses he and Mom hosted for each of us  kids or others he attended over the years. Perhaps he was thinking about his own high school graduation. There is a lot of past in his present and who knows how much future.

One of the challenges of these added years is to stay engaged with the present. The memories and lessons of the past are valuable, for sure, and should not be discounted and in fact, can make us enjoy the present even more, but I think it is tempting to lose ourselves in the past with its memories and stories. One clue perhaps is to realize that this present moment is transforming itself into the past right now. In order to remember it all--how our granddaughter glowed as she received the cup of wine, and how surprised she was to receive presents, and the sound of our niece's voice as she said "This is my Aunt Nan and Uncle Bruce" to her friends, and how our young grandson was so at home in my sister's house--I need to stay present. I need to open my heart, along with my eyes and ears, and rejoice in the now.      

Discernment II: The Gifts of Sun, Water, and Warm Breezes

True, I had many tasks to do at home, but when isn't that true? The nudging inside my head was getting louder, more agitated, scratchier, itchier, and I knew this day without rain, this day of sunshine,was calling me to the water. I packed up pens and colored pencils, my journal and a couple books, including Natalie Goldberg's Thunder and Lightning, Cracking Open the Writer's Craft, and the big sheets of sketching paper where I had brainstormed options for my next writing steps, and a new composition book with these words on the cover, "Then swing your window open, the one with the fresh air and good eastern light and watch for wings, edges, new beginnings."  I headed to the University of Wisconsin Memorial Union Terrace on the shore of Lake Mendota, where I could choose the color of my table (green) and the color of my chair (orange). A place where I could sit among students and professors and alumni and enjoy bits and pieces of conversation, but be comfortably anonymous. A place of accompanied solitude. A place where I could pick up the strands of my discernment process.    

What drove me to create this "set-aside" time was the desire to uncover my purpose in my current life. To move closer to knowing what it is I want to do, am supposed to do. To examine the questions rolling around in my head and heart. To reflect on responses from friends and family. To clear the way for answers, direction, the next step.
I began by just sitting. Breathing and allowing myself to enjoy being in this favorite place. A light breeze created ripples on the lake. A hazy sky obstructed the view across the lake, encouraging me to focus on what brought me there. I started writing all the questions, the options, muddled in my head, including "Should I continue trying to write for publication or should I write only for private and personal use?" "If I decide to continue to try to write for publication/for the public what form will that take?" "Should I focus on doing spiritual direction?" And many more. I could hardly write fast enough, exploring these questions. I wrote without rereading, and the time was productive, but not in the way I expected.
I thought I had so much to uncover, so much more that needed to be revealed, a need to dig deeper, but what I discovered instead was that it is time to lighten up. I remembered the words on my easel, "Wait, The light will come," and there I was siting in brilliant light. Lightness seemed to be the key.  My normal MO is to create a plan with clear cut steps and timelines and deadlines and that works well for me--most of the time.  But right now I am willing to take a lighter, easier approach. I know I want to continue to write, but the product, the outcome, feels less important right now. I feel less driven, less rigid. I am willing to let go of the book I have been working on for a long time--for now at least. I am more willing to think about that book as the way I worked through issues of grief and loss and was also the path to writing in a focused way. And for that I am most grateful. Therefore, I don't have a major plan. I will let a plan or plans emerge. I will live lightly with my writing. That doesn't mean NOT do it, but to do it within the context of my whole life.
I left the Terrace feeling a sense of abundance and buoyancy and of being and having enough. If I let go, there is still enough, and maybe even more.

Here are some questions for you:

* What do you do to discern?

* How do you make decisions?

* What helps you clear the space?

* How do you know when you have the answer?

* How do you know the difference between AN answer and THE answer?

I would love to hear your discernment experiences.

Discernment: A Controlled Burn

         Last summer I spent a month in Door County and along with the pleasures of being in a place I love and having friends and family come visit, I set aside that time to contemplate the next step in my writing. I was having doubts about the book I had been working on for such a long time. Should I continue or not? One question. One simple question. I brought the essays with me and the chunky notebook with ideas and notes and plans and bit by bit I reread everything and wrote in my journal and sat and thought and walked and thought. And prayed. 

Much to my surprise, the answer appeared quickly. "This is worth doing, but you need to write more essays than planned and you need to make this your focus." I wrote and edited while I was there. I started working on a book proposal, and I returned home with high hopes and energy. I cleared the space, and the fall and winter were productive times for me.  

Well, it is discernment time once again, and this time there is more than one key question. And this time it doesn't feel as simple. I submitted my book proposal to a publisher and have been in conversation with the vice president of editorial and production, and her suggestion is to totally restructure the book. Now, first of all, let me say, how thrilled I am to even have someone take an interest in my material and to have a door open even a little bit, but her suggestion plummeted me into a muddle of questions--some were obvious (Should I do as suggested or not?) and some were hidden in some foggy place where I didn't want to go--about myself as a writer and about the material. And about purpose.  I allowed myself some time to wail and wallow and then moved into a time of intentional discernment. 

Fortunately, guides appear when they are needed. Most notably, two books. One is The Seven Whispers, Listening to the Voice of Spirit by Christina Baldwin and the other is Decision Making and Spiritual Discernment, The Sacred Art of Finding Your Way by Nancy L. Bieber.  These books offer gentle words of wisdom ("Move at the Pace of Guidance." "Wait. Let the light come.") and strategic questions ("What do you want me to do?" and "How do I need to change in order to do it?"). An attitude of willingness is encouraged. I am willing. Not I am willing to do x, y, or z, but simply I am willing. 
          "I am willing. What do you want me to do?"  
No answer. Darn it!  So many questions and possibilities were percolating in my head--popcorn kernals getting hot and ready to pop. Reading, meditating, and writing in my journal are my preferred strategies, but I needed something more.  

I spread several pieces of large sketching paper on my desk and got out my colored pencils and started mapping, seeing where one idea led and what other ideas opened up in front of me. Arrows and circles and lines and stars flowed across the papers. Lots of ideas. More questions. But no clear answer.
          "I am willing. What do you want me to do?"

A few weeks ago a controlled burn was conducted across the street from our house. I watched the team set underbrush on fire, dowsing the flames almost before they were allowed to burn, preparing the space for desired new growth. Already it is hard to tell where the burn occurred. I think discernment is like that. The burn needs to occur. The brush needs to be cleared away in order for there to be new growth and when the next step or steps are known, there will be only memory of what was there before. I'm trying to remember that. I am trying to be willing.   
     
  

            

And Then There Was One

The van pulled up in front of the house and the doors slid open and out popped energy in the form of our two grandchildren: Maren who is 8 and Peter who is 3. Mom Kate seemed more relieved than energized to have arrived and who could blame her, for four and a half hours is a long time to be the only adult in a car with two children, but they are excellent travellers, and she was fully prepared with snacks and entertainment. They had listened enraptured the whole time to a CD of Charlotte's Web, and Peter immediately told me about the pig and the spider. Maren was a bit more blase', pointing out that this was Peter's first time to hear the story, but she, of course, had read the book before. Hugs and kisses were shared all round, and the unpacking and settling in began. Within minutes, the house was full of books and toys and games and happy voices and movement--and shoes and boots. 

Then after a fun-filled weekend, Kate packed up the van with Pete and some of the boots and shoes and left Maren here for her week of spring break.

Over the course of the next few days we went to the zoo, the National Mississippi River Museum and Aquarium in Dubuque, Iowa ( a real treasure) and the Children's Museum here in Madison. Bruce and Maren became the puzzle masters and put together a 1000 piece puzzle on the dining room table. Since the weather prohibited much outdoor time, we created our own film festival and watched Night at the Museum II, The Parent Trap II, Miss Potter and a Little Women--thumbs up for each one. We even went to see the new Diary of a Wimpy Kid movie. The week was full of activities along with plenty of reading time and sleeping time and just plain hanging out time. Pure delight. Eventually, it was time to return the girl to her rightful owners and on Monday morning Bruce was back at work, and the only shoes in the entry way were mine. Sigh!

Since Maren has gone home and I have returned to my solitary routines and tasks, I have been thinking about my own grandmothers, Grandma Hansen and Grandma Jensen. My memories of my grandmothers are more vivid than those of my grandfathers, even though they were both alive when I was growing up. Perhaps it is because both men were quiet. I was the first grandchild on both my mother's and my father's side, and I was blessed to have lots of grandparent time. I loved spending time with them, but to some extent my experiences were quite different than Maren's. Before she comes Bruce and I brainstorm ideas--where should we take her and what should we do? He schedules vacation time, and I try to finish projects before she comes, for I know I won't spend hours at my desk writing. We eagerly await her arrival and can hardly wait to tell her what we have planned.

When I visited my grandparents, I was quite simply folded into their lives.The work days proceeded and I was just there. I sat on the steps to the cellar while Grandma Hansen crated the eggs she would sell. I picked strawberries in her garden and took lunch out to the field where Grandpa Hansen was working. When Grandpa died and Grandma moved into town, I walked with her to the drugstore where she worked and to the cemetary where Grandpa was buried. We baked cookies and cut out paper dolls and made Christmas ornaments--hundreds of sequins on styrofoam balls. I remember grocery shopping with Grandma Jensen and sitting next to her in church and on a hot summer evening having a special treat, a Black Cow, root beer with vanilla ice cream. I loved her pecan rolls and her pile of magazines. In the afternoon she would stretch out on her couch and read and I would sit on the floor and read, too.

Ordinary events, but an extraordinary feeling of being loved and protected and cherished. That's what I want Maren and Peter to feel, too. I want them to remember being wrapped in love and acceptance. More than the special field trips, I suspect what they will remember most about times with us are the ordinary times--all of us reading in the living room or walking to the park and hearing the sandhills or snuggling in bed in the morning or playing Sorry or Clue after supper. Maybe Maren will remember how she arranges the vintage holiday candles on top of the cupboard in the kitchen or that there were always homemade cookies in the apple cookie jar. Pete will soon have his own set of memories.

The Big Events are great fun, but the real gifts come in the little touches, the soft conversations and the teasing and the giggles, and simply the time to be together. May there be many more of these times.  

Re-Entry: Reflection and Integration

I'm home! After a week of varied activities and sleeping in three different beds, I am home. I have unpacked my bags, done the laundry, read the mail and newspapers, grocery shopped, and answered emails. This morning I resumed my normal morning schedule--went to Curves, walked the neighborhood, and spent time in meditation and devotions--and now it is time to return to my writing life. I love the rhythm of re-entry with its restoration and reinstatement of routine, but the context for the routine has shifted slightly, for there are now additional memories and experiences to integrate into who I am and what I do.

During this time away I wore many hats: friend, daughter, sister, mother, GrandNan, student, and writer. A lot was packed into one week, and even though I am grateful to once again have quiet time here at my desk, I miss the vitality of those days with their interactions and conversations and especially, the hugs and sweet kisses from the grandkids, Maren and Peter.

The world is not the same as it was when I loaded my car and drove to St Paul a little over a week ago. The infamous budget bill here in Wisconsin has been passed, but the protests have not ended, and Japan has been rocked by earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear power plant destruction. Suffering and death. Transformative shifts. Endings and beginnings, although not immediately apparent. High emotions and less than obvious next steps. Feelings of helplessness and also awe at the resilience of humanity. Opportunities to express compassion and to realize our best selves. How do we do that? I am not sure, but I offer the metaphor of the kaleidoscope, thanks to an anonymous writer at the "Awakening the Soul of the Writer" conference I attended this weekend.

"The kaleidoscope is a wonderful metaphor for the creative process because this instrument allows us to twist reality into new patterns. In the kaleidoscope a set of fragments form a pattern, but it isn't locked into place. Reality, the kaleidoscope tells us, is only a temporary arrangement. Creativity consists of rearranging the pieces to create a new reality."

The pieces have been rearranged. Pieces are rearranged every day. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow, too. In that awareness there is hope, along with mystery. In that knowledge there is opportunity for renewal, repair, and even rebirth. Each change, each rearrangement is a kind of re-entry, a chance for reconciliation and resurrection. How we each choose to do that is an expression of essential creativity.

From Artist Date to the Capitol Steps

As is often the case, going on an Artist Date leads me to the next step. In this case the Wisconsin capitol steps. After my afternoon of watching eagles play above the gleaming, glowing water, I knew it was time for me to be a participant, instead of just observer and commentator. It was time to go to the capitol myself and be part of the crowd. I wanted to be counted. I also didn't want to look back in years to come and know I was there, but I wasn't THERE.

As I approached the capitol and saw the throngs of people and heard the drums and chants and saw signs waving and noticed the diversity of people, I felt tears form. I was proud of each person who had made the decision to be part of the number. An old couple, 80 or so, I suspect, holding gloved hands and walking slowly on the edge of the marchers. Children, some in strollers who will have no memory of being there, but their parents and grandparents will tell them about their first march on the capitol. Firefighters led by bagpipers. Students, immigrants, teachers, teachers, and more teachers and workers for whom this is not the first struggle. I heard Peter Yarrow of Peter, Paul and Mary, leading the crowd in I Had a Hammer, his voice thinner and not as strong as in years past, but the heart beating for justice is just as steady. I heard a speaker wonder why it was ok for the governor to accept money from contributors outside the state, and yet he is opposed to people from other states coming to support the protest.

We may not have all chosen to be there for the same reason, and many have immediate and personal concerns that need to be addressed, but I suspect we all would agree on one thing. We were there to peacefully, but clearly reinforce our belief in democracy and to participate in our rights as citizens to remind our elected officials that they work on our behalf. I look forward to spring when I will again walk around the capitol square buying fresh produce at Madison's amazing Farmers' Market, but Saturday, February 26, 2011 was a good day to be there, too.

NOTE: A comment for this post refers to the word "KILL" on the sign in the picture. I almost didn't use this picture for that reason and should have explained the sign. The sign says "KILL the Bill," but that isn't clear in the picture.

An Artist Date for Politicians and Protesters

This morning I printed the second draft of the essay I am currently writing, and the temptation to begin editing and revising, cutting and scratching and red pencilling and pacing and sighing and tearing my hair out is high, but I promised myself that I would step back and take a break from the thinking and the writing. Julia Cameron in her famous book The Artist Way, A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity, recommends--no, insists on--a weekly two-hour block of time set aside to nurture your creativity. The Artist Date. The purpose of the Artist Date is to open yourself to inspiration, insight, and guidance--and to do it alone.

That's what I am going to do today. I have decided to drive along the Wisconsin River to a small town with a little restaurant I enjoy where I can see the water and I hope spot some eagles while I have lunch. I am taking my journal and a book or two (or three) and a couple letters to answer, but maybe I will just sit and breathe and see what I see and hear what I hear and open to receive. I will probably eat a cookie, too.

I think that's what all the politicians and protesters and I might add, all the media people, too, should do. And they should all do it at the same time--and no cheating. A moratorium. A time to meditate and turn off the noise and find some peace and calm and listen for guidance. I am convinced nothing truly wise can come from the current confusion and overload of messages and points and corrections and "he said, she said." I suspect not much listening is happening across the battle lines--certainly not deep listening with the intention of understanding. Listening well takes time, skill, and a willingness to slow down, to let go of expectations, judgments, boredom, self-assertiveness and self-righteousness, and defensiveness, and that can't happen unless we clear the way inside of ourselves for the room to listen. That's where the time-out comes in. Without the time-out exhaustion will overwhelm and the consequences of exhaustion, the inability to think clearly and act prudently, are dire.

Kay Lindahl has written what I think are the definitive books on listening (The Sacred Art of Listening and Practicing the Sacred Art of Listening) and her view is that when people experience being listened to in a spiritual and deep way, they also begin to listen that way themselves. Wouldn't that be a good thing?

Obviously, I know an Artist Date holiday is not going to be declared here in Wisconsin, but you, my friend, can declare it for yourself and who knows what possibilities, what answers, what next steps, what enlightenment will occur because of it. Time for me to go--I have a date, an Artist Date.

PAUSE. I am back feeling refreshed and content--and thrilled, for I saw many eagles enjoying the sunshine perched in a tree on Eagle Island and soaring their own version of a flight plan over the water and into the hills beyond.