Autumn 2012 A Walk with Pat Gohn

Sacred Walk 

           
      A beloved friend, Pat Gohn, the voice of Among Women, is in Colorado. She recently sent pictures back of a morning walk praying the rosary. One of the pictures is of a very old log across a stream, and it evokes for me the Holy in nature. The power of God in mountains, his flow in our lives like the stream, the death and life present in the frame of the photo leads me to ask myself, “Where is my sacred place on this earth?”

One would assume the answer to be at the retreat center where I have spent the better part of ten years working the gardens, but that is not so. Though the gardens are serene spaces of prayer, intentionally numinous, they do not often move me to awe.

Where I have come closest to the God of Earth and Sky is on the Canada side of Lake Superior. This is the deepest of the Great Lakes and legend has it that it never gives up its dead.

I am filled with amazement at the startling power of the wind sweeping cold dark waves off the lake onto stone-pebbled beaches of granite and gneiss. It is a glaciated wilderness millions of years old that still groans with God’s mystery. The jagged vertical cliffs, the strong winds, the scented mist of fertile waters, the drumming of the waves, are all thrilling to the soul. It is the gentler side of the ferocity that is God, and a confirmation of my smallness.

Photo from emily.net

                When I am walking along the coast of Lake Superior, God’s presence feels as near as when in Adoration before the Blessed Sacrament. Standing near the water I can close my eyes and feel His swirling Presence inside my being, and wander about the beaches reflecting with Him for hours. Sometimes I’ve wished for days on the shores alone with Him, in Him, and through Him…in the unity of the Spirit.

There is a hunger in all of us to know that connecting place of prayer, to find a space, indoors or out, that draws us to the Holy. My friend’s finding a lovely walking trail in Colorado opened an avenue for holy conversation through the rosary. For me, remembering those walks within that sacred space along the shores of Lake Superior, induces a hunger to return there and feel His majesty, and a hunger to return home…unto dust and spirit.

Maybe next year I will retreat to a cottage along the shores of Lake Superior. This week I will find a woodland path, and before setting out make sure a rosary is in the pocket of my jeans. 

Autumn 2012 Nearly Feral

Nearly Feral 

                         The three year old tabby is small for her age at only five pounds. Her dark-gray fur is striped in black with a lovely undercoat of coppery-gold and is surprisingly soft and thick, more like rabbit fur in winter.

                Her round little head seems too small for her expressive and large oval eyes, especially when the pupils dilate—anxious at my approach. She is nearly feral and only partially tamed by the priest who cared for her. She needed food and protection from her own kind so he set up a covered cage on his deck where she could eat and sleep in safety. When I adopted her she had two sizeable infected wounds from being attacked by other stray cats and the trip to the vet was traumatic.

                When I look at her tiny paws and miniature prick ears, somewhere deep inside a warm gentleness overtakes me. I want so much to cuddle this diminutive kitty and feel her warm purring body against my own. But she is small and frightened, so my patience is required. I have had her long enough that she no longer bolts from the room when I come with her food.

                In order to move close to her as she shrinks into the corner I lay on my belly and scooch slowly across the floor, softly repeating her name “Georgia.” Extending my arm and petting her with two fingers, I must be very delicate with my touch. Too much pressure or too near and she’ll dart into hiding. When this happens I wait for her to regain her trust and return to me, that non-priest person.

                What I have found works best is to sit on the floor near her with my open hand facing up and resting by my side, but where she is just beyond my reach. This one knows arithmetic well and can calculate exactly how far a human’s arm can reach! If I am patient she will often inch toward me, leaning into my open palm and choosing to feel my touch. She has then decided to be more accepting of my enormity in her little life.

                I think of how God is just so with me, waiting patiently just beyond my reach for me to draw near. He waits, knowing I may bolt if I become sensitive to his approaching greatness compared to my littleness. His quietness draws me in as I trust the closeness of the hand that nourishes and protects. And I too, with desire overriding my fears, inch towards that loving touch.

                Georgia only comes to me at night after I have settled in for sleep. She softly mews at the foot of the bed until I pull my hand out from under the blankets—palm up and fingers slightly curled. She then comes eagerly when I whisper her name. Curling up next to my hip, she rubs against my fingers a few times, places her round little head in the palm of my hand, and settles down. We both fall asleep in peace.

Autumn 2012 Cirrocumulus

Clouds

 

                It’s that time of year when autumn clouds fill the sky for most of a day. Thick and dense, they are a brilliant white with melding shades of gray.

                I love how clouds reflect all the spectrum of light from the sun. Light is made up of the colors of the rainbow and when all the colors are present in equal amounts you get white.

I wrote in my first book, A Garden of Visible Prayer, “White is the color of the Holy Spirit, of truth and sanctity. It represents purity, innocence and kindness. I read somewhere that white teaches us about relationships because, in our perceptions of colors, it tints how we see. White is in itself not a color but the complete revealed energy (manifestation) of all the colors. A very nice explanation of the completeness of the Holy Spirit.” And like the presence of the Holy Spirit that brings light and lightness to my soul, clouds also give me a sense of being free of weightiness.

It is not unusual to see clouds formed at different heights in the stratosphere. When this happens the clouds will appear to move at different speeds relative to their distance from earth. Watching the clouds late one afternoon I see that this layering has taken place; there are higher Cirrocumulus clouds over heavier Stratus.

What was unusual is that these clouds are running in different directions, clearly moving perpendicular to each other! The higher whiter clouds were moving due north and the rain filled Stratus clouds, seeming so low one could almost touch them, speedily moving east and slightly south.

I had never seen this before and stood in the field turning in circles to view all of the sky, eventually sitting against a fence post in awe. My love and learning of natural sciences from undergraduate years began formulating the why of stratospheric wind directions and the collective weight of water vapors. Still, the wonder of the event kept me spellbound for nearly half an hour.

Later as I reflected upon the event, I came to understand more fully how the currents in our own lives can often run contrary, or perpendicular to one another. We can seem to be floating along bright and white and above all earthly things, and then lower dark clouds move in and draw our attention down and on a completely different course.

We may need to be attentive to the potential of storms from these lower obscuring clouds. But let us remain focused on the higher clouds in our lives, those that capture the whiteness of The Light and reveal the currents of the Holy Spirit manifest and moving within our souls.

Autumn 2012 Failure

Failing at what is Familiar

I see myself as a gardener, one whose core identity is tied to soil and seeds, and happiest when bare feet are touching earth and sod. I am a doer, a digger, someone with calloused hands, broken nails and dirty knees. I know what to do and what to say and how to interact within the framework of gardens.

But now I am increasingly unsure of myself as I am uprooted from what is familiar. The increased discomfort of an arthritic spine, the results of an auto accident decades ago, has forced me to leave the work I have always loved. I can no longer do the work needed to maintain gardens and landscapes, or operate a greenhouse. In my own yard the daily four to six hours of toiling, weeding and transplanting is now reduced. I can only work two or three twenty minute sessions a couple times a week, with nothing strenuous being done like digging holes or pruning overhead branches with loppers.  I abandoned greenhousing a couple years ago.

I have found it particularly challenging this summer to accept my new limitations. My gardens are so neglected that it looks as if no one lives at my house. Tall and rampant Lambsquarters and Marestail weeds are choking out perennials and shrubs. I am embarrassed by the slovenly appearance of my once pristine yard, and am too proud to ask for help. Resignation is setting in and I contemplate calling friends to salvage my beloved plants, removing them to their gardens.

With a mind busy and wanting to do, and a body indicating otherwise, it is a challenge to find the balance between being productive while quieting my physical discomfort. Like the story of Simon from Luke’s Gospel, I keep going out into deep waters looking for a means of livelihood and pull in nothing but empty nets.

There is a certain amount of doubt, or hopelessness that creeps in when we repeatedly fail at trying to adapt what is familiar to an unknown situation. Just like Simon, we moved confidently out on to waters that had always provided for our needs only to find that there is nothing to be had.

It is within this self-doubt that Our Lord comes to us. Even though our failure to succeed was not due to lack of trying, He asks us to try again and leaves it up to us to choose to do as asked. Am I as willing as Simon, overworked and exhausted, to go once again into deep waters? Am I ready to ask those who have gone with me before to this place of empty nets, to come and help again? Am I open to saying “…we have worked hard…and caught nothing…but at your command I will lower the nets” and trust Jesus to provide?

And I wonder what will become of my “Yes, Lord” as I trudge back to that place of non-fulfillment, back to gardens and soils and sod.  How will my life change if I too am filled to overflowing with multiple gifts from God? Whose hands will help bring an unexpected bounty to shore?

Maybe my greatest fear isn’t the empty net at all, but the full one of success; the full net that redefines who I am as a gardener and the purpose of His gifts. Maybe it isn’t my back that He needs at all.

Summer 2012 (May 2011) Fragrant Memories

(Being at the Catholic Writers Guild Conference in Texas this week, I am using a column from Spring of 2011 that will appear in my book due out in 2013.)

Fragrant Memories 

Each spring when the air is rich with fragrance I am taken back to days of wonder when I ambled alone through my childhood neighborhood just outside Detroit. As a youth I was fascinated by the natural world. Even in an environment of black-top and tar, nature still persisted.

It seemed every block I would walk down had at least one lilac bush in lavender, white or dark reddish-purple. Most of the mothers in the neighborhood with this shrub in their yard would have a mason jar spilling over with cut blooms on the kitchen table, perfuming the house.

On the way to school I remember one yard along Martin Road had a lovely and strongly perfumed white flowering shrub, which as an adult I learned was a Viburnum ‘burkwoodii’. It flowered just before the lilacs and its scent was so strong in the mornings that I could enjoy it from several blocks away. I’m sure the elderly woman who lived there thought it strange that I, a little girl, would keep walking back and forth in front of her house, lifting my arms like a slow moving bird so I could breathe deeper the sweet scent of spring.

There are many scents that evoke childhood moments of delight. There was the heady odor from wasteland ponds coming back to life, and I knew that soon pollywogs would be skimming the edges of the murky water.  There was the tickling smell of grass being mowed and the rich musty scent of blackcurrant bushes with yellow flowers that mimicked forsythias. With my head tipped back I would often follow my nose, deeply drawing in a scent as I tried to find its source.

Other smells stir my heart. The smell of fresh dill still carries me back to my grandmother’s kitchen and when we would pickle hot dilled green tomatoes. I’m always mindful to plant this herb in with my perennials. Each time I rub against it I think of my grandmother, after whom I am named, and who nurtured my love of gardening. She and I would also make hundreds of jars of jellies and jams for Christmas gifting. The aroma from black raspberries reducing for jelly would cling to my clothes for hours after we had finished waxing the jars.

There are two distinct fragrances that stir my memory of being loved. On my grandmother’s dresser there was always a round pink box of Chantilly dusting powder. I have a small piece of cloth salvaged from her favorite sun dress, cut up for quilting, which rests in a memory box. That little piece of material still carries her delicate fragrance and lightens my heart each time I open the lid. The other memory is of her husband, my grandfather whom we called Buddy. He was a barrel-chested Irishman with an unflappable joy and love affair with life. He would nab and lift me by my waist, calling out “It’s the Margaret Rose!” as I squealed and giggled, being hugged close to his neck and deeply inhaling his Old Spice cologne.

Scent is a wondrous thing, a curious gift from God. He gave us many gifts through which to find joy and pleasure. The sense of smell is only one, but it was the first of my senses that I realized as a child brought me delight independent of the city around me. Scent cannot be dreamed or imagined. It startles us into the present and in the same moment can carry us adrift into memories of heaven on earth.

Summer 2012 LBBs

Seeking Food

The little birds chirp and titter, vibrating their wings in greeting to one another and flutter about unafraid of human presence. Many people call the multitude of sparrows LBBs, short for little brown birds. Where I live we have three different kinds and they are everywhere; in my yard, at the feeder, hopping along sidewalks and in shopping center parking lots.

Charlie Harper

City dwelling LBBs are very resourceful when it comes to finding food. They’ll hop about three feet from where you sit and dart in to grab even the smallest morsel dropped from your lunch.  I have watched them from my car as I waited for fast food service, and laughed at their over-burdened flight after nabbing a discarded French fry longer than their little body.

I am impressed by the cleverness of the LBBs to find food in an area crowded with buildings and covered with cement. One afternoon while walking across the parking lot of a mall, I stopped and delightedly watched a bizarre sight of several LBBs hanging from the grille of a dirty Dodge Ram truck. They were eating dead bugs from the grille! By the number of birds hopping beneath the bumper, impatiently waiting their turn, it was obviously a feast.

The next week at a parking lot to a grocery store, I see near the cart corral colorful patches of what looks to be crushed chalk with a few of these little birds pecking at it. I thought it odd and rather sad that the LBBs would be so hungry that they would try to eat chalk. That was until I entered through the sliding glass doors to the store and saw on a display rounder mini sugar cookies died vibrant primary colors.

The little brown birds were able to seek nourishment skillfully and promptly no matter how difficult or challenging their situation. They were cautious and unafraid to look for food in unfamiliar places. Am I at least as courageous as these sparrows in seeking spiritual food?

There are times in all of our lives when we find ourselves surrounded by a world that seems devoid of love, the essential food for our heart and soul. But are we willing to explore new means of nourishment? Are we open to seeking God in unexplored ways? It is easy to become discouraged in times of drought, when all the usual means of sustenance seem to have dried up. I have often sought and received heavenly nourishment through reading scripture, praying the rosary, attending Adoration and Mass. And have also experienced times when I perceived that these were not enough.

When my heart hungers for God beyond the solitude of prayer, I am often too anxious and shy to move into the world and seek His manna. I become pigeon-hearted and scurry away from any unfamiliar movement no matter how tempting the food.

Maybe I need to pray to be like those little brown birds; courage to seek, cautious in trying, and persistent in my quest to find what will nourish and give me strength for the day.

 

Summer 2012 Great White Egrets

Great White Egrets

From childhood and for most of my life I had been a morning person. Rising early I would soon be out the door to greet the day. Whether going to a job, tending the gardens or walking my dogs I was a bundle of energy. Not so true anymore. The youthful Suzie-Sunshine no longer lives in this body, being replaced by the more determined Little Switch Engine pulling a load uphill. I need time to get myself moving physically and mentally.

I had an appointment on this particular day and it took effort to rise early. On the road, the morning drive was familiar; four miles past farms, misty swamps and a river, to the stop at the four corners, turn south and straight on into the breaking dawn. I was still feeling pretty sluggish; the coffee’s caffeine hadn’t kicked in yet.  My usual morning routine was hampered and I felt off balance attempting to progress into a day started without prayers. With energy level low and bones stiff and aching, I was on automatic pilot and hoping that there would be no need for a sudden cognitive response.

Halfway to town, just before a subdivision are wetlands that I have passed hundreds of times in the past twenty-some years. The marshy area has a clearing next to the road where a small pond exists.  Because of its proximity to traffic and people it is rare to find more than a couple of ducks or geese floating about. Approaching this pond and still at a distance I couldn’t figure out what I was looking at on the water. Whatever it was was white, unmoving and completely the wrong shape for swans. Had someone planted white plastic flamingos as a joke?

As I got closer I was startled by what I was seeing standing there. In the crisp morning sun surrounded by a thin rising mist was a flock of Great Egrets, glowing a startling white against the blackish-green of the water. I felt a surge of immense delight at the vision of these fifty-some birds as still as statues, yellow bills perfectly horizontal to the water. I came to a stop (grateful there was no one behind me) and kept whispering “Oh my God, oh my God…” as I stared at the amazing sight.

It is rare that these birds deviate this far north and west of their summer grounds. With the excessive heat this summer, they apparently thought it warm enough to migrate into our area.

After I had soaked in their beauty, and realizing that several cars had pulled around, I continued on to town. I felt exhilarated from the experience; a gift of living and breathing art at the side of a black-topped two lane road.

God does this in our lives. When we least expect it, and are wholly unprepared, He whispers…and sometimes shouts…Here! I AM. We are often startled by His nearness when we recognize His hand. Bumbling in amazement and at a loss for words we experience goose bumps three layers deep. And I think God delights in His delighting us, smiling at our surprise.