I let go of some guilt (because I haven’t let go of it all, of course).  I let go of some expectations (ditto not letting go of all).  I let go of nearly all of my ideas of perfection (I’m trying, folks!).

When I let go, I find that I gain something else: a lot more breathing room.  Each exhale, in fact, is a letting go of that which we don’t need; we need to exhale.  All day and night, we are taking in thoughts, emotions, worries, anxieties, joys, etc.  We take in so much.  If you’re anything like me, eventually you have to step aside or sit down or go away for a while to let go, clear the mind, and breathe some fresh, clear air — in and out.  It’s lovely to take in a deep breath, to let out a deep sigh.  If I were better at letting go, each breath would be a new moment, not holding on to anything but keenly and mindfully observing that which is before me in that moment.  (And maybe I wouldn’t sigh quite so deeply as often.)

To clear one’s mind doesn’t mean we rid ourselves of the lessons learned from our experiences, the wisdom of our lives, or the emotions we feel and have.  We are very much of this life of ours, but we do not have to be so attached, clinging to it as if it were all that this life is about or as if someone could take it from us.  Such dependency seems to me as if it boils down to fear.  Being fully mindful and present, I believe we can open ourselves completely to the possibility of being in full connection with others.  In a way, that means we become vulnerable, possibly losing ourselves into the whole.  Is that a bad thing?

We have to let go.  Let the children play on the big kids’ playground.  Let our daughters go to the movies alone.  Let the children out of our eyesight, even for an entire weekend.  God grant me strength to let my children drive, fly, go to college, fall in love, be heartbroken, and discover themselves.

Mostly, though, I hope that I can let go enough to do my best, to love as deeply as I can, and to keep on breathing in all that is the blessed life of mine.

This Lent for me hasn’t felt very dormant.  I’ve been reading my Sacred Space for Lent 2012 and Rev. Kate Moorehead’s Get Over Yourself; God’s Here.  This has been tremendous in helping me develop my daily practice.  On an internal level I hope it is stirring something, too.  I keep thinking that I shouldn’t complain that the weather in our region at least has been so pleasant this winter; maybe it saved many from seasonal depression.  Maybe it saved me.

My life is in a state of flux right now.  To a friend recently I likened it to confetti being thrown into the air.  Either we’re still flying up into the sky, or we’re caught in a freeze-frame.  I’m praying for a soft landing, a safe settling.  Transitions are what they are, and no one says they’re easy.

So, we carry on, moving forward, greeting each new day for what it is, what we hope it to be, hopefully without setting ourselves up for disappointment.

Some words from St. Ignatius have caught my attention more than once, so much so that I’ve flagged the page so I can re-read often.  I dare myself to live so courageously.

“There are very few people who realize what God would make of them if they abandoned themselves into his hands, and let themselves be formed by his grace.”        ~ St. Ignatius

When so much of our time is spent running, working, chauffeuring, planning (and trying not to worry), and buying (mostly groceries), what a sweet relief it is to breathe into a moment and feel that sense of calm and loving goodness.  For me, it’s one of those tender mercies, a gentle grace, that fuels my faith and restores my hope.

In this time of Lent, I am keenly aware that the wilderness doesn’t always present as a barren, dry wilderness.  One can be absolutely swallowed, lost, and alone in a dense forest wilderness where the vegetation has run wild; a sense of Self can be lost merely by the need for survival.  Likewise, in an overly busy life, whether it’s in a big city or a rural town, the well-spring of Spirit that fuels us with goodness, faith, and hope, can dry up and become buried by our lists, errands, and good intentions.  Now is the time to evaluate our surroundings.  Sit in the darkness.  Listen to that which scares us.  Observe what fills our days and perhaps steals our nights.

Moving toward the Easter light, I’m reminded of the moments when I know my now is good.  That’s what the Light is for, to help remove the shadow of doubt.

I’m married to a man who never fails to surprise me, and while he may think he doesn’t, he does make me smile more often than he knows.

I am grateful . . . for my husband and for all the loves in my life.  I hope a deep, abiding love fills your heart this and every day.

“We know whether prayer is fruitful or sincere by the way we live our lives.”

Simple words.  A simple reflection on a reading from the day.

Timely, considering my post yesterday.  God knows whether my prayers are sincere or shallow, selfish, and maligned.  Similarly, my children know whether my time with them is sincere.  Am I truly listening to them?  If I’m looking at their body and listening to their words, I know they know; they can tell.  Furthermore, everyone we come into contact with can tell.

Even as it may seem our society is becoming less personable and more virtual, our sense of awareness of presence remains keen if we open our eyes and hearts.  Sincere smiles come from the heart and pour out the eyes, often with tears.  Listening to one another, we may say we can see the gears turning as others are thinking, but that’s not just a cliche.  We can read each other’s minds a bit by paying full attention to one another; body language speaks loudly, too.

We can tell so much from our interactions with one another.  I can tell so much about myself in the quiet (or not-so-quiet).

God grant me strength to be sincere, to be a prayerful presence.

Often, I have to admit, my thanks don’t come until I finally lay in bed, offering my genuine prayers from a tired body.  The gratitude, the thanks with which I begin my prayers, surrounds me.  I am comforted and renewed, and in this calm and peaceful state, I drift to sleep before I know it.

More often than I probably realize, I am aware enough in my waking hours to realize just how many gifts surround me.  For my senior year in high school, I gave my closest friends a poster with 365 of my favorite things written around a picture of me with the recipient.  I made one for my then-boyfriend, now-husband, too.  The blessings of this life are not lost on me, but I could certainly be more aware.

A friend recently recommended a book called One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp.  Ann has a blog, A Holy Experience, that got her started, I believe.  Her story is rich with her faith and ties into scripture.  Her poetic writing and sense of awareness speaks to a side of me that sometimes feels and gets neglected.  She’s unabashedly intense and devoted.  A kindred I haven’t even met.

Whatever our faith tradition, gratitude speaks deeply and as sweetly as the five-year-old speaking “I love you, Mom” into my ear.

Oh, let me count the ways.

“Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while,” says Jesus to his disciples.

That was in my daily reading this morning, and, oh, how I do long for a retreat.  I’ve been away from the family on weekends relatively recently, but it’s been a while since it was truly a retreat for retreat’s state.  At this point in my life, I need clarity, calm, and a solid sense of direction and purpose.  This is harder to maintain when one is frazzled, drowning in to-do’s, or just downright tired.

Jesus was speaking to his disciples.  I wonder who speaks to the women these days.  Who tells the overworked mother to rest a moment, take an hour between nursing, grab a pot of tea and go gaze out the window . . . or sleep a few minutes.  All will be well.  Who tells the outside-the-home-working-mothers that it’s okay to be away for another day or two from the family, not to feel guilty about the piling chores and pleading eyes?  I don’t think anyone speaks up because those around us aren’t sure that all will truly be well.  But, it’s better for a mom to take some time out than to walk around getting crazy eyes and becoming more and more like a woman on edge.  Maybe I project.

We have to take care of ourselves.  To nearly every mother I talk to, I ask if she’s taking care of herself.  I ask about her support system.  To the women I work with and for others I know, I try to set an example.  If I can get away from my household with four kids, surely they can, too.  It’s not perfect, but it’s OKAY.

I wonder about those who don’t need or take time-outs for themselves.  Are they being honest?  Have they fully shut down from their inner voices that guide and protect their best interests?  Because I think that’s where dreams and hopes exist.  If we shut out that voice, we risk losing sight of who we truly are and thus risk losing our sense of purpose in this world.  Yes, being a mother is a worthy purpose, but does it give you a sense of joy — mind, body, and soul?  If not, you’re not listening carefully enough to yourself.  If so, blessings, my Mother-friend; spread that love and joy!

I grant you permission to take a time-out.  Find a friend with a cabin for a night or a weekend.  Pack your favorite nourishing food and beverage.  Sleep in silence, all by yourself.  For you extroverts, take a gang of mothers with you and enjoy the party!  If a weekend doesn’t work, take at least 15 minutes a day for you, and only you.  I smile thinking of my friend who locks the bathroom door for her quiet time.  Take it where you can get it!

As the kids get older, it gets easier to find the time, but priorities will still have to be juggled.  Seeking out a deserted place, finding the time to listen to my still, small voice, I know more clearly what the priorities are.  It takes that leap of faith to put me first that ironically grants me insight as to what is best for all.

He’s ten years old, our yellow lab.  He’s been grumpy since we had our third and then fourth child, and I’m convinced it’s because he didn’t move up the chain of command, remaining at the bottom of the totem pole.  He is above this role of dog, but it’s his lot this life, to watch over and guard this crazy, chaotic, precious family.

Sitting with him at the vet, wondering what was wrong with him, thinking he was surely dying, praying to St. Francis, I tried to make sure my touch was tender, intentional, and soothing.  It was okay if he was dying, so long as he wasn’t in pain.  And would he please forgive me for not loving him as unconditionally as he was and is loving and loyal to us.

It turns out he has a broken — completely broken, up by the hip joint — femur in a back leg.  He only whined a bit.  He still wags his tail.  He just wasn’t eating and moving around.  Otherwise, we probably wouldn’t have known.  Turns out he also has arthritis in a front leg, but the limp he should have he doesn’t.  Our dog has a high pain tolerance, apparently, and he’s healthy for an overweight ten year old lab.

It comes down to whether or not we’ll pay for the surgery.  There are risks, of course, but with our attention and care, he should recover fine.  He seems to have hope, and we realize how much we love the old dog.  So we’ll hope he’ll live another four years, continuing to bless us with his fur, farts, and unconditional love.  Yes, some of that I could live without now, but for today, our family remains six plus two furry critters.

This day when the visitation of Mary is shared, I feel the tenderness radiate through the entire service.  The femininity and tenderness intertwine with the strength and reality of what is and is to come.  Mary answered God’s call with a willingness to serve.  As our priest this morning put it, most of us can relate to an “Oh-crap-what-have-I-done” moment when the reality of our servitude sinks in.  No such moments are related in Mary’s tale, but knowing what we do of the society and culture she lived in, her pregnancy and unwed status were scandalous (not entirely unlike today).  Surely even the mother of Christ had doubts.

We are human.  We doubt and question.  Then the pendulum swings, and we rejoice and praise.  I have a feeling that the trajectory isn’t linear.  I imagine the circle being traced again and again, though at different levels.  Sometimes we might stall, but often once we are set in motion, we keep going, following our path.

May we carry on in God’s will with the faith and willingness of Mary, blessed with a good mother’s love.

Just as in the spring when only for a little while does the green shine in new-ness, the orange hues of the maple  cried out in a blaze of glory.  The wet ground and soaked sidewalks, the gray skies and dreary day in general were the perfect backdrop to illuminate the radiance.

I loved it.  For a moment I felt I could be in New England or even in England; I could be in any time period.  Truly, it felt timeless.  Yet the very nature of the colors speak to the inevitability of time passing, the certainty of change.

This moment, though, I inhale, taking it all in, and exhale, letting it all go, hoping that in doing so I not only let go of that which I love and want to cling to but also release that which does not bring me joy and weighs on my heart and mind.  Yes, we can be attached to the negative, too.

As certain as change is, I’m reminded that I will see these colors again.  The exact pattern of the fallen leaves may change.  The trees I gaze upon may be different, but the autumn will return.  Such is life.