Once a month, if my schedule cooperates, I get to take a Saturday morning apart from the norm.  I wake, shower and dress, and then make the short drive to the middle of town.  I think part of the transformation comes as I start to climb the hill, the hill that makes the van groan with effort not once but twice as I ascend the drive to the house at the top of the hill.

One morning it actually felt like going through the mists at Avalon.  There was a veil of fog around the mountain concentrated across the driveway.  The fog thinned around the house.  As if it weren’t magical enough.

The seemingly ordinary group gathers with chatter and coffee preparation.  We move and arrange furniture, make available nametags, pens and papers.  Then we settle, and the extraordinary happens.  We listen, like I mentioned before.  We might listen through the busy-ness that may be mentioned at the beginning in our introductions, but already we’re calling forth the true Self in each other without saying a word.  With stillness and patience, we listen not only to each other and ourselves but to what is not said aloud.  At times that still small voice calls out to us, formed in a gentle question (not for another but for ourself) or exclaimed in a statement so loud we wonder if others hear it.  There is the group time, but we get our solitude for a while.

This last time, I experienced the wash of contentment bathe me in comfort and joy.  I sat in a low cushy chair by one of the windows in a large room.  Of course the window looked out over the back of the mountain, away from the direction I had come and toward the mountainous horizon to our east.  The warm morning turning cooler; the sun rising across the sky.  My favorite wool shawl covered my lap.  A warm coffee rested in my hand.  The other hand held pen and notepad steady as words streamed onto the page.  I felt the union of woman, creativity and the Divine in that blessed moment.  I could have stayed there for hours.  Indeed, don’t many of us lose track of time when we are in such a place of contentment?

I like to think of it as a bit of enlightenment — a lovely experience but not one to be held onto.  Even in the moment, I knew it wouldn’t last, but I also know that I can access that feeling at any moment (sometimes easier than others).  It’s not my lot in this life to be secluded in a hermitage or cloistered among other nuns.  In this life I get to share my joys, faith, love and practice with others.

In this, too, contentment lies.

More often than not, at the dinner table, someone looks down at their lap, fidgeting with their mobile device of choice.  Someone else has caught their attention.  ”Don’t text with your mouth full” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.  Can you count how many times you’ve gone through the checkout line without making eye contact with the cashier?  Many of us opt for automated kiosks.  Is the energy expended in human conversation part of our decision?

We have so many opportunities to connect with one another.  Fortunately, we also have the opportunity to connect with nature, the plants and trees.  Our world can be so beautiful, but we have to be aware.

I venture to say that we are each beautiful, too.  Our souls shine brilliantly with the the Light of Wisdom.  From a twinkle of the eye to a visible aura, we each hold this gift in our being.  We don’t have to do anything; it is there.  It is about our be-ing.  We have to be open, selfless, and vulnerable.  We have to be heard.  We need others to help listen us into this beautiful being, and we need to be good stewards to others and everything around us in return.

Who listens to you?  Who calls your soul forth with the tenderness of a bonded mother with her nursing babe?  With whom can you communicate with a smile or a glance?  Can you gauge how others feel just by being in their presence?  Do you realize you have the power to share compassion with them without saying a word?

I hope you have those who listen to you, that you can check in regularly to see where you really are in this life — who you really are.  May you be one who listens.  Be fully present to those around you.  Be aware.

You are a gift to us all.

For those unfamiliar with the Anglican tradition, the Church calendar is a circle, a cycle, and it has certain colors for every season.  Naturally, there’s a lovely children’s song to teach the season and the meaning for each.

“Purple for preparation.  White for celebration.  Green is for the growing time.  Red is for Pentecost!”

The four weeks of Advent precede Christmas and its twelve days.  Advent is a time of preparing and waiting.  In that time we ponder the Mystery, the Light, Mary, and the other lessons accompanying the season.

In one of my rare solitary moments, I considered what it is that I need to be prepared for, beyond the religious norm.  What I discover, of course, is that my needs parallel with the lessons.

What needs to be done?  What am I required to do as a member of society?  I have to be counted.  I have to pay taxes.  I have to make sure the family is cared and provided for.  My husband and I do this together, the day-to-day, part-of-society requisites.  We have to follow the rules, even if it results in frustration from waiting in lines or finding businesses to be closed due to holiday hours.  We try again.  We do what has to be done.

What is needed of me?  The children need a more compassionate mother (especially this morning).  They need time and attention, which are hard to provide when one is tired and energy levels are low.  Others need the same of me; truthfully, they deserve the same.  Kindness.  I need this of myself, too.

And what might be required from me in this life?  Am I prepared to fulfill my purpose?  I believe that if I’m still alive, I have work to do for the greater Good.  I still don’t know what that work is, but I sense clues.  Ultimately, every moment is an opportunity to change the world for the better.  This is what makes me an optimist, I suppose.  Take the complacency, anger, animosity, even hatred and replace it with awareness and compassion.  It aligns nicely.

The advice given Mary and Joseph works for me, too.  ”Do not be afraid.”  Do the work.  Be present to, for, and with others and myself.  Trust the Mystery and live the Magic.  Goodness is here, in every moment, but I have to be prepared if I want to see it.  I have to be prepared to experience it.  I have to be prepared to be surprised, which ironically I am every time I experience true Grace, Light, and Love.

May we all be so blessed.

Of the four children smacking their cocoa-sweet lips and held captive by The Polar Express, one has a birthday this week, two days before Christmas.  Ten years ago I was 40 weeks pregnant, great with child.  But it wasn’t my first.  I had my support in place.  Preparations had been made.  I knew what to expect, more or less.

In this fourth week of Advent, I love that we light a pink candle to honor Mary.  I love remembering that she surrendered to something greater than herself, that she humbled herself to be a servant.  She didn’t know . . . she couldn’t know what was in store.

Every time I picture Mary or try to work with any kind of visualization or exercise of lectio divina, I have a sense of what Mary might have known.

Surrender.

What was happening was beyond her control.  It wasn’t just about Mary the innocent young woman suddenly expecting child.  As with every mother bearing child, from the moment the baby is conceived and grows, the mother can only do her best to keep healthy.  The formation of the child is left to genetics and the miracle of life.  A mother-to-be can seek the wisdom and comfort of other women to learn all that she can, but when it comes time to birth, there is no bringing forth of life without letting go of one’s identity.  Virgin Mary to Holy Mother of Jesus.  Can you imagine what Mary experienced alone in that stable?  Do you think she found in herself the capacity to pity poor Joseph standing helplessly by?  Could there have been a woman from the Inn who had mercy?  Such details are left unaccounted.

Next thing we know is that there’s a baby in a manger.  Mary has a child, a dependent.  This child’s existence depends upon her care and attention.  She knows this.  With her surrender, though, she knows this child she cares for is not hers alone.  She cares for this precious child not only as her own but as one of God’s . . . as God.  Did she know this?

Could she truly sense this from the beginning?  Could she know the heartache that would come?

From the very beginning, this would be beyond her comprehension.  She might never fully understand.  She could only do her best to do what was required of her in every moment.  She would live fully into each moment, keeping her heart as open as possible to live into the will of God.  This would be the best she could do.  It’s the best any of us can do.

Oh, that I have the humility to live into every moment with awareness and true surrender.  May I raise my children so that they will grow into the beings they are meant to be, not what or how I want them to be.  May I have the strength to be a mother of strength, love, and acceptance.

My children are blessings to me.  I am surrounded by abundance, and I understand this mother role . . . more or less.

Thanksgiving Eve I found myself at the wholesale club post-dinner wondering why I waited, yet again, until the last minute to do this.  Kids to bed, cooking underway, I spent the night on the couch, falling asleep but for the grace that woke me as the boiling potato sputter burned on the stovetop and the lid rattled in low undertone.  The iPad had gone to sleep, too, but the sweet potatoes still needed time in the oven.  Potatoes drained, oven off, I figured all would be well a few more hours when I would be awake enough to conjure up the salad and casserole.

Thanksgiving morning NPR told me the Macy’s Day Parade was underway.  I grinned to myself, remembering in my childhood the warmth of the kitchen creeping into the living room where the t.v. blared the parade and I watched the floats make their way through the seemingly small streets.  It was a day of rest for me then.  Now, looking through my steamed-up kitchen window at the sink, I realize how much work we do.  But in yet another moment of grace, I realize how much I love my family.  For a moment, it feels again like this is my job.  I’m not a working mother, I am a mother, wholly and completely.  (Still, I have to consciously resist saying “just a mom.”)

I was only joking when a co-worker and I marveled at the warm weather earlier this week.  Our office felt like a sauna, and I was grateful for my layered clothing and the ability for others to open their windows in the old building to give me fresh air.  “Don’t worry,” I told her.  “It’ll probably snow next week.”  I was just joking.  But the weather forecast mentioned freezing weather.  My husband researched about chickens in cold weather, what we needed to watch out for and check into.  We got the wintry mix and a few minutes of all-out snow on our way to the relatives Thanksgiving day.  Snow is forecasted next week, too.  You just never know around here.

There’s something about the ice that coated everything around our relatives’ homes.  There was something different this year that I haven’t been able to put my finger on yet, adhere coherent thoughts to.  I do know that there wasn’t ice on our limbs at home, only 30 minutes away.  Maybe it’s just the memory, frozen in time.

Post-Thanksgiving, I slept until 8:30 or so.  It is cold.  The chickens are still alive, though their water did freeze, even in their coop.  (Husband is winterizing their coop more today, even as I write, and they are all out chasing the same bug apparently, in a frenzy.)  I skip the Black Friday madness.  Not everyone participates in that frenzy, but I mentioned to my daughter that we might stop at the bookstore and a couple of thrift stores.  It is a weekday I have off, and I actually have some energy to something other than laundry.  (Of course, tonight there are a few home projects that might be started to last all weekend.  Watch out bathroom and garage!)

I signed up on Ravelry.  I sent a sincere e-mail to a friend.  I have other calls to make.  My gratitude continues this day.

I’ll hem some pants, make a Christmas list, and fill the Advent calendar with a new list of somethings to build onto the anticipation of Christmas in a meaningful way.

Most importantly, my gratitude continues.  On this bright sunny day, no matter how cold it is outside, my heart is warm.  I am a mother, a wife, a worker, a daughter and granddaughter.  My own daughter plays, softly talking for and with her toys, sweetly singing every now and then.  Life is simple and sweet, some moments more than others.

All we ever have is this moment at any given time.  For this I am grateful.  It is a beautiful life.

Denial.  Longing.  Wonder.  Sadness.  Hope.

In the span of a few hours, these are some of the feelings or emotions or thoughts streaming through my consciousness.  As the daylight decreases, nature tells me not-so-subtly that now is the time to be serious about what I am going to lay fallow this winter.

Mainly I cannot believe fall is nearly complete. Some of the trees still haven’t dropped their leaves. It seems last week the ginkos finally decided to go ahead and let go, but there are still some maples ablaze. This week is Thanksgiving.  I haven’t yet put Halloween in the attic, and I haven’t done our grocery shopping . . . or even made a menu/list.  I’m already seeing Christmas lights.

I long for what I can’t have right now. Leisurely time to cook, to plan, to watch the kids think and grow, to create, to write, to daydream out the window into the dazzling autumn light or through the heavy gray. I yearn to take back all that I’ve taken for granted in the past year.  I long to be.  I’d also like to do everything better.  I’d like to do and get done that which needs to be done.

Yet I’m amazed at all that has passed, all the blessings we have. I cannot fathom the significance of all that is and is to come, and I wonder at how all these pieces will fall into place. There is so much Mystery. . .

. . . and so much suffering. I can’t help sometimes from letting it creep up on me, dwelling on it a bit too long. Whether it be personal, trivial dis-ease or greater, universal suffering, it can catch me off-guard and sit heavy on my heart. This must be carefully tended in these winter months.

As the song and sound of the children’s choir rings gently and beautifully in my mind, I sense the hope that Light brings and feel the cycle moving onward, forward, bringing me with it. Light and shadow and ever-present hope through faith. Unexplainable, really. Beyond words. Now is a time to live into the experience and learn as much as possible. My teachers are everywhere. I kiss them good-night. I listen to their stories. I wonder at them and with them. I laugh. I cry. Always, though, I am learning and growing.

The leaves are falling.
The roots run deep in my soul.
What will spring reveal?

Given my life story, I realize that I do believe in a Purpose. We all have at least one. I also love viewing this life as a cosmic dance; we all come together at different stages, go through the steps, however awkward they may be, and keep moving, guided by a rhythm we can hear and feel but can’t really see. Some partners we stay with for a long while. Some partners are there only a bit. Sometimes we’re a group dance, all working together in this divine choreography. I’d rather picture an aerial view of an elegant ballroom, but I know that reality is sometimes like the dark and sweaty clubs with the music so loud you can’t hear one another.

My dance right now takes me into a new room, just as large as where I was before. I’m just having to learn new steps, become familiar with my new partners. It’s still dancing. There’s just a different music playing. Fortunately for me, the music permeates from within the University like a ballroom would, I imagine. Walking across campus yesterday, I wondered if all campuses feel that way on warm fall afternoons: still, studious, alive, wise, full of potentiality. A university campus is so full of those so young, most eager, as well as those who have learned so much, most wise. It’s an electric blend, I suppose, palpable.

So we dance with one another. We share our gifts with ease, no matter how difficult the steps may be. We learn our way into cultivating our talents through practice, practice, practice. No matter where we are or what the music, whether we like it or not, we keep dancing.

And we realize that we are in this together.

We read a poem this weekend that had to be written by a kindred.  Her words spoke in my language, spoke in truth.  I cannot find her complete poem on-line, though there are partial reprints.  Elizabeth Carlson’s “Imperfections” can be found in this book, however.  I dare not repost the perfect little poem in its entirety, what with copyright laws and all.

What I can post is my own writing, though.  After listening to and with Carlson’s poem a bit, we got to go our solitary ways.  I listen well when I am writing, when I am doing nearly anything.  To listen for my own imperfections at a deeper level, I sat.  I wrote.  This is what surfaced.  (I apologize in advance that I cannot get the spacing to change, so pardon the stanza run-on! I tried.)

“imPerfection”

I can sit with the ants in the dappled light

On this, another awe-inspiring autumn morning.

What mysteries might the breeze whisper in my ear?

What chatter does that strange creature

echo from my monkey brain?

Usually I listen for the wisdom I stumble upon,

Doing the tasks that need be done.

For once, at least,

I let myself

discover

my Self.

May the pen be my trowel

And my busy-ness the weeds

I remove from the soil.

The soil is rich and fertile.

Or maybe I fold the distractions

Away

With each shirt, pants, and sock.

Some thoughts need to dry in

Their own time.

No dirty nails this time to

Show for my effort.

Digging deep.

What are the treasures?

I cannot be rid of the roots from the species

Too invasive.

This is hard,

too hard.

But the longer I ignore them, the harder it gets

To let the soil be rich,

To appreciate the beauty

That is there if only

It, too, could obtain the resources

Stolen

by that which needs the

Persistent practice,

The daily tending.

It helps to name the

bermuda grasses of my being.

I cannot ignore the

Reality of money,

The need to connect with my family,

The limits of time.

I have to give up this idea of

Stagnant Perfection.

A garden is not a photograph.

It teems with

Life and Intention,

with Persistent Practice.

Blood and sweat, surely,

From the thorns and twigs of

Truth

Running

Deep.

I didn’t plant the oak tree there

Or the rose there.

Gifts of vulnerable strength and

Fragile beauty.

Timeless, both, and full of

Grace.

The mosquito offers its own poison

As it draws my blood,

Leaving the stinging itch

That will gnaw like the

Censor to challenge any

Gift I may unearth and

Lay claim to.

But it, too, will fade.

And even after my blood

Is dried and gone,

The earth remains to

Receive again

That which it gave.

Live into this cycle,

every moment.

Practice persistence with

Compassion

and

Gratitude,

whether with the harvest of the Earth

or the

Fruits of our wombs.

All is still and alive.

All is well.

This I am told.

With the ceiling fan on and what feels like an open window, I seek the warmth of a blanket.  It’s time to bring out my wool shawl.

I had the immense pleasure this weekend of retreating in the woods, an annual event now during a weekend when the ground rumbles with the vibration of thousands of motorcycles.  Actually, even in the wooded hills, we could hear the rumble on our hike.  At six o’clock in the morning, though, a couple of us sat on the porch in the rockers, listening for owls in the trees.  The ground was still.  The small throw I had was just big enough to cover my arms, and when we went inside to make breakfast, I could feel the morning chill on my cheeks and hands.  It was time for a fire.  Our morning prayer sounded out, accompanied by the crackle and warmth emitting from the hearth.

That afternoon, I brought my knitting to the parlor room and sat by the dark fireplace.  With door open, the fresh breeze was cool and refreshing.  After knitting and napping a bit, the sun dipped below the trees, and a chill returned.  An hour later, I built a fire, awakening the room with comfort and warmth.  A room in which to share good conversation . . . and more knitting.

Autumn is a season of lamplight and glows from fires, gentle chills removed by an extra layer.  Extraordinary sunlight and brilliant blue skies and days so gray to test your memory and resolve.  There’s the brilliant burst of energy and color, if we are so lucky and conditions are just right.  Then there’s the falling away.  More gray than color.  More darkness.  An expected death.  Quiet.  Freeze.

In Autumn, life is still easy and the harvest abundant.  The colors truly are amazing.  We have to enjoy it while it lasts, for this, too, shall pass.

I had the immense pleasure this past weekend of attending the Celebration of Books event made possible by The Oklahoma Center for Poets and Writers.  Needless to say, getting to meet Sue Monk Kidd and Michael Cunningham was amazing.  Listening to Rita Dove read her poetry was spell-binding, and there were so many more wonderful authors there!  Naturally, the inspiration and energy to write ensued after realizing how many of us there really are, published or not.

During one of the breakout sessions, a literary agent from New York, one anyone would be thrilled to have as her agent, shared her soapbox.  Sure, the publishing industry right now is experiencing the pains of change.  Of course the economy is tough.  But if you’re a writer, stick to your craft.  Keep writing.  And the best thing you can do?

Buy books.

Don’t expect a bookstore to work with you and carry your written and published work if you’ve never set foot in their store as a paying customer.  Don’t expect monetary compensation for your work if you’ve never put your money where your passion is.

This hit home with me, as we have the reins pulled tight on the family budget.  The library is our best resource.  Then I realized, however, that we at least buy a book a month.  And we certainly contribute financially to the library with our late fees.  I bought one book at the event and brought two others with me.  What I truly realized is that I don’t buy all the books I want to.  I want to buy lots of books, support as many authors as I can, be surrounded by shelves of stories, adventures and knowledge (preferably in alphabetical order by genre, thank you).

I’m not doing too badly, I assure myself.  Moderation is key.  A book a month is better than nothing.  Amazon might be our new library.  If we don’t buy directly from the publisher or our local bookstore, Amazon is our next best thing.  I do think, however, that the next step is making good friends with the local bookstore.  I do love that place.

I confess.  I am a writer, and I *heart* books!