Life as Metaphor

As I grow in experience, age, and – hopefully – wisdom, I find more and more often that if I keep my eyes open and pay attention,  valuable lessons and metaphors are all around me.

This morning I took Charlie for a walk along the Clackamas River. We’d just been there last week, Monday or Tuesday. There were plenty of rocky beaches exposed and the water was fairly calm. Today it was a completely different story.  I was . . . flabbergasted is the best word I can come up with . . . at how much water was in the river and the lagoon Charlie often likes to wade and swim in. 

The river was twice as wide as the last time I’d seen it; the lagoon much bigger and deeper. Those rocky banks were completely covered in several feet of murky water. In fact, the areas just a few feet below the paved path looked liked swamps: the alder, maple and cottonwoods looked more like cypress wading knee-deep in water.  The little area where we usually walk down to the lagoon was completely gone. The ramp to the Sheriff’s boathouse and dock is normally a steep decline; today it was almost level.  And it happened so quickly!

As I walked along pondering these huge changes, I thought about how the landscapes of our lives can completely change overnight.  Losses or disasters, accidents or illnesses, even unexpected blessings and graces and insights can completely change our views.  Often these can be very painful and difficult and we long to go back to normality, to what we’ve always known and been comfortable with. But these experiences often have the potential to broaden us, deepen us, carry us beyond our normal channels of life, of thinking, and give us a kind of  unexpected freedom.  Like the rain-swollen rivers, we can become filled to overflowing with compassion, understanding, love, wisdom and a desire to make a difference, or at least be different.

Usually, like the floods, these feelings and changes are temporary, and eventually we recede back into the well-known paths, the accepted comfort zones for us. But sometimes the experience of flowing beyond our banks, being freed to be a little wider, a little wilder, a little outside the expectations of family, friends and society, can lead us to flow through new channels, follow new paths. I’ve been reading “Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life” by Fr. Richard Rohr.  He talks about great suffering and great love as the two main portals to the second half of life, one of wisdom, love and union with God and all of creation.  This is a journey that is ongoing and takes great courage but holds the potential for becoming fully the people God created us to be.  It’s a great book, very thought-provoking and wise. 

Another recent experience I had presented more metaphors from nature. I’ve likely mentioned before that birds seems to me to be special messengers. I have a particular affection for Canada geese; I use a sketch of one on my logo for Gray Wings Press. I can’t recall when I first felt this connection to Canada Geese – possibly when John and I, fairly recently married, moved to a small farm near the Ridgefield, Washington, wildlife refuge and regularly experienced huge flocks of geese flying overhead. But perhaps this connection goes back much further. 

A little over a week ago I was driving north on I-205, bound for an interview regarding my next book. Just after I crossed over the I-205 bridge spanning the Columbia River I spotted a flock of geese – probably 15 or so – heading west. As I watched them I saw another flock of about the same size heading east. The two flocks were flying directly towards each other, like two spears poised to strike together.  I held my breath and watched in fear and awe, believing they were going to crash together, fight to hold their position, their “sky space,” and that geese would be injured and killed in the coming together. 

But I was wrong.  As I watched, the most amazing thing happened. The flocks of geese did, in fact, come together, but they meshed seamlessly – as skillfully as a well-practiced drill team -- and formed one larger flock. In the process of this maneuver, the flock turned south and flew towards the river.  I gasped, in relief but also amazement. I believed I had received an amazing gift in viewing this cooperation.  As I continued my trip north, I thought about how many times humans hold so fast to our beliefs, our positions, our possessions, our self-righteousness that we aren’t able to even see the possibility that we might all be going in the same direction. We can’t give up an inch of our space, our stuff, our beliefs in order to help each other and work together to arrive safely at our journey’s end. A journey that we really all are on and that well might be much more enjoyable and productive if we worked together instead of gritting our teeth and flying forward headlong, giving no quarter to our supposed enemies. And these are geese! Clearly much wiser than many humans. No wonder I think of them as special messengers.

So keep your eyes and hearts open to the messages the world sends you through nature. You might see or hear just exactly the message your soul needs today. 

No Wrong Place

It’s amazing to me how often – if we pay attention and look for it – we find inspiration. I have often written about finding it in nature when I take Charlie on his walks. This morning I found it checking Facebook. Some of my friends post quotes from time to time and I have a growing collection of beautiful quotes that some day I really will have to organize in some fashion.

This morning’s offering came from my friend, Laurie, in Denver. Laurie and I have never met; we’re Facebook friends through a mutual friend. In fact, several of my Facebook friends, including Laurie, were as a result of my connection to Sherold, who is one of the authors in “Real Women, Real Wisdom.” And Sherold is my friend through Marilyn – also one of the contributors to the book and who, coincidentally, grew up in the Denver area. I’ve known Marilyn for a number of years, though we’ve really only become very close over the last few years. She has been an amazing gift in my life. Just sort of an example of how interconnected we all are, or can be if we want connection. I personally think connections with good people, as well as with nature and the world, are critical for our journeys.

The Zen quote Laurie posted this morning actually supports this: “No snowflake ever falls in the wrong place.” (Zen Wisdom)

In a conversation with a friend late last week, I shared my belief that things happen the way they do for a reason. As I wrote in “42 States of Grace,” I don’t believe God orchestrates our lives or creates crises. It’s a natural, physical, real world and things happen. But I do believe God is there holding us as we cry, and crying with us in our pain. I also believe God can use anything and everything as an instrument to open our hearts, make us more loving and compassionate. More connected to all of creation. God can even use Facebook.

For me, the lesson in this quote is: right now, at this present moment, you – like the snowflake -- are exactly where you are supposed to be. And right now, in this present moment, is where God can be found. In spiritual circles, this is called “the sacrament of the present moment.”

I’ve been reading more of Richard Rohr this week and he often talks about the need to lose ourselves, our egocentricity, our need to control, be noticed and be special. Jesus said that “unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat.” (John 12:24). The truth is, there is very little we have control over, and letting go of that illusion is very freeing. We are unique and special and noticed, just by virtue of being children of God, but we don’t trust the truth of that. If we cannot believe in our own inherent value, it will be very difficult to believe in the inherent value of all others of creation, including a single snowflake. And it will be impossible for us to let go of our need for individualism, for ego gratification, which keeps us separate, rather than connected.

So, back to the snowflakes. Another quote Laurie posted (I think it may be snowing in Denver): “A snowflake is one of the most fragile creations, but look what they can do when they stick together!” (Unknown) They can create beauty, but they can also create chaos. Alone they are unique and beautiful but will quickly melt away. They have to give up some of that individuality and join with many others to have a lasting impact. In the same way, we are called to give up many of our individual ego needs and become united, at one with creation.



So my Christmas prayer for you is that you take each moment as a gift, know that God is in that moment. Taking time to spend with loved ones, giving gifts of yourself, being present to each other is much more important than serving a perfect Christmas dinner, or having the presents wrapped and under the tree exactly by 10 p.m. on Christmas Eve. Let go of others’ expectations of you and see yourself and them as inherently beautiful and beloved, just as you are.

And if you are blessed with a white Christmas, remember you, like each snowflake, are exactly where you are supposed to be right now, at this present moment, creating beauty by just being you.

A Dance of Freedom

We’ve had a pretty amazing run of weather for December in Portland. It’s barely rained at all. We’ve had some foggy, cloudy days, and some unusually cold weather. But the foggy days have been sprinkled here and there with one or two or sometimes even three days of bright, crisp weather with clear blue skies and sunshine that warms through the chilly temperatures. It’s been the kind of weather I grew up with in Central Washington, the kind of days I experienced last January in Albuquerque. The gray foggy days make me appreciate so much the bright days and how energized I am when the bright sun is again part of my life.

Charlie has loved this weather because it means he gets longer walks. Even as Charlie gets old and slows down, he still becomes full of life and almost puppyish when I put his harness on and he gets to get in the car. It’s well known that dogs’ lives are measured in sevens: one year of dog life equals seven human years. But that’s more of an average. The larger breeds have much shorter lifespans and so their years are more like eight or even nine human years. That puts Charlie, who will be 10 in April, at around 70 or possibly closer to 80 in human terms. It’s reassuring that, even at his age, he can be so enthusiastic and joyful. He loves to run and explore when I take him off-leash, and today we walked our favorite walk near the river so he got to go wading chest-deep. No matter how cold it is out, he still loves getting wet.

I’ve written before about leaves falling. For some reason they capture my imagination this time of year. There are very few left on the cottonwoods, alders and poplars along the river but those that are left seem to be clinging tightly, perhaps struggling with the decision of whether to hold on or let go. Last week while walking in the sun, there was a light breeze and occasionally a leaf would come drifting, dancing down. They reminded me of princesses waving from a parade float: all fluttering, flittering, spinning and swirling. And they seemed joyful, too, like Charlie being off-leash.

It was like they had finally been able to come to terms with whatever fears or reluctance had kept them tied to the tree, shackled, and they were finally able to let go of the fears of falling. It felt as though, as I watched them drift down, that they called to me: You, too, can let go of your fears, let go of judgments and criticisms and comparisons, let go of what others expect of you. Come join us, dance with us, let go of your ties and shackles and flow into the currents of life and find your true destiny.

As I look at the naked trees this time of year, I see the stark beauty revealed that is hidden when the leaves cover up the branches.

And so, as Advent progresses towards Christmas and another year draws to a close, I continue to find myself longing for freedom, the freedom to let go of all attachments and dance like a leaf on the currents of God’s grace.

Good Mourning

I think fall may be MY season; I love the colors and the coziness. I love the sunny Indian summer days and the crisp nights that sweeten the apples and grapes, as well as the first days of rain that water the earth and bring the rich green of Western Oregon back. I love having a pot of butternut squash soup simmering on the stove or the smell of pumpkin pies baking.  I even love football; well, I like football, especially when I have a team to cheer for.

But despite my love affair with fall, it often evokes in me feelings of melancholy, a sense of loss and mourning. It is a sure reminder of time passing, of the coldness and dreariness of approaching winter. While I love all four of the seasons, as I grow older, I am less and less enamored of the approaching dark and chilly and damp days of winter.

Those changes I wrote about on my last post continue to entrance me. When I wrote that just a couple days ago, very few of the leaves had started to fall. But this weekend they seem to be making up for lost time. My lawn that was green just a couple days ago is now completely yellow and gold with all the leaves. I watch them spin and dance as they tumble down from my maple tree, in a hurry to move on to the next phase of their leaf lives.  The dogwoods and sweet gums, so gorgeous in their crimson and scarlet cloaks just days ago, are almost bare. 

And I realized this afternoon while walking Charlie that I am mourning that and other losses: promises and possibilities that never came to be; dreams that remain unfulfilled and seem unattainable. Like those dancing leaves, life around me seems to be in a hurry to move on to its next phase – whatever that may be – but sometimes my heart isn’t ready to go there; or perhaps  my mourning stems from the realization that my heart is ready but, unlike the leaves, it is not yet my time to float free.

November is the month in the Catholic Church when we especially remember loved ones who have died. All Saints and All Souls days are specific feast days set aside to remember those who have traveled to the far distant shore ahead of us. I have become more convinced of what we call the “Communion of Saints” this fall, that those who have died remain part of us, continue to be with us in spirit and love. They have left us physically but aren’t really gone. Eight years after losing my husband John, I had a conversation, of sorts, with him last month. The messages I received were comforting and reassuring. I was reassured of his ongoing deep love for me and our children and grandchild and of his continued presence in our lives. But even more, I was reassured of God’s love and promises, of a future filled with hope and beauty.

As I wrote in “42 States of Grace: A Woman’s Journey,” after John’s accident, while he was being life-flighted to Seattle, he died on the plane. The medical people with him resuscitated him. What I didn’t know then but understand now is that he didn’t want to come back, wasn’t willing to stay bound to earth and his broken body; he had already decided to move toward the amazing light and love pulling him away from us. He didn’t want to leave his family, but he knew we would understand.  And be happy for him.

I do understand. Perhaps that is part of my mourning, my melancholy:  the desire to experience that wonder and mystery in such a profound way. To feel that love that everything we have experienced here on earth can only hint at, can never quite compare to or measure up to. But I accept that my place is still here; I apparently still have work to do. Sometimes it feels like very lonely, fruitless work, and I continue to long for someone I can share this life with, but that, too, seems not meant to be my path.

Some day it will be time for me to lay my burdens down, but that time has not yet come for me. So I am reminded to use fully the time that remains to me, to love tenderly, to be gentle and forgiving, especially of myself, and to enjoy the gifts God sends us all every day, if we take the time to look for them and to pay attention.

A Very Positive Review

We received the following review a couple weeks ago from Rose City Reader, a well respected book blogger:


Real Women, Real Wisdom: A Journey into the Feminine Soul is a collection of 17 essays by women "of a certain age," all reflecting on what they have learned from the stories they have lived. Maureen Hovenkotter, author of 42 States of Grace: A Woman’s Journey (reviewed here), edited the collection and contributed the final essay.

Each piece focuses on, or is inspired by, a "transformative" event in the author's life – death in the family, illness, divorce, or job loss, for example. One essay specifically examines suffering as part of our lives, and another the idea that things don't turn out as we expect, but the themes of suffering and unfulfilled expectations run throughout all the stories.

What makes these accounts of suffering and loss emotionally piercing instead of maudlin is that every writer concentrates on how her experience brought grace into her life, and how she used to the experience to move closer to God or grow spiritually. Many of the women are in a Catholic writers' group together, so they bring a Christian perspective, but none of the essays are dogmatic. One of the authors is a practicing Buddhist, another a self-described seeker, and all share an acceptance of traveling varied spiritual paths.

The authors aren't celebrities, but don't be put off by the somewhat amateurish nature of their publication. Most are professional writers; all are gifted storytellers. The collection will teach and inspire as the stories linger. It is the kind of book that many readers will turn to again and again as they face the same sorts of life challenges as the authors.

NOTES

This book is at the top of my gift list for women over 40 with a spiritual bent, which, when I think about it, is a LOT of women I know. 

Got Too Much Change?

Columbia River Gorge in Autumn

Kayaking on the Willamette River in November

I've been noticing some changes lately. Today while walking Charlie I was struck by change -- not nickels and dimes; that might hurt --but rather how different everything looks now on the path from when we walked along it just last week. I try to pay attention and be aware of the life around me as we walk, try to make it a contemplative prayer walk rather than a get-it-done walk. I look for God in the beauty I see, and this time of year there is plenty of beauty out there. The weather is cooler, the days shorter, the sky not as blue.

Today’s message on the walk was a reminder of the constancy of change. As I wrote in the introduction to “Real Women, Real Wisdom,” there is no insurance you can buy to prevent change. It can’t be stopped. Life is a change agent: as long as there is life, there will be change. It’s kind of a paradox: everything changes except change.

Today the river that was so wild and full just a few months ago had relaxed into a fairly quiet, docile stream, and the shoreline has grown as the river has shrunk.  I would guess it’s dropped 25 feet or more since early summer. 

The tall green grasses and brush along the path have all gone to seed and the smaller birds are feasting; many of the grasses are now brown and dead-looking. The osprey family has abandoned its huge nest for another climate where the fishing is better.

Of course, the deciduous trees are changing color daily. The sweet gum trees in my neighborhood that were more than half green a couple days ago today are bright scarlet. The leaves are hanging around later this fall – something to do with all the rain this spring and summer, the weather geeks say. The leaves are also unusually brilliant in color. I think I say that every fall but it’s actually true this year, at least according to those same meteorologists.  

Of course I am changing too. Physically I get older every day, gaining new little pains or issues. This summer I started working with a chiropractor to address some issues with the narrowing of my spinal column (spinal stenosis) and then worked with a naturopath to look at my diet and how it might be impacting my health. We made some major changes – eliminating all grains, dairy, sugars – but I found it too challenging and elected to just try gluten- and lactose-free for the time being. It seems to help.

But I have to accept that I am no longer in my 20s or 30s, no longer able to do some of the things that were so easy back then.  That can be frustrating. I had to hire someone to help me finish some of the yard work I’ve been hoping to get to all summer. It wasn’t happening and every time I worked on it, I paid for it with a good deal of back pain.

At the same time, as I have grown emotionally and spiritually these last few years, I find I am much more at peace with the person I am, with my limitations and failures, as well as with my successes and blessings. I am more accepting. And perhaps that is what change teaches us – whether it comes on fast and furious like a flood or slowly over time like the leaves changing color.  If we can accept that things change and that we often have little or no control over them, we learn to adjust. We adjust our viewpoints, our expectations. We learn better how to live in the now, because we realize our now will likely look very different next week or month or year. And we learn to appreciate and be thankful for what we have, even the hard things.  

As we change and grow, we often get little epiphanies about how something that seemed very painful at the time was, in fact, a gift that helped us on our journey. I had that experience last month. A woman in my spiritual direction class was preparing for her upcoming wedding. She shared with me how long she’d had to wait to find the right partner but admitted that it was for the best. She said it really took those long years for her to become the person who could appreciate the man she was planning to marry. She needed all that time to get to know and love herself, to be ready for this relationship.  It struck me that the losses I’ve experienced over the last eight years, though incredibly painful, were necessary for me to begin my own journey of knowing and loving myself. 

So I try to remain open to the change, embrace it even. I trust that I am in good hands and the God who knows and loves each of us better than we will ever know ourselves will not steer me wrong.

Review of the Day: 42 States of Grace

Review of the Day: 42 States of Grace