Letting Go Takes Courage, Strength, Grit

  Yesterday evening I spent several hours visiting with dear friends. It amazes me to realize I didn’t even know this couple three years ago; I first met Mike in the late spring of 2008, just after returning from my year of travel, and got to know him better through our joint work on a council that he chaired. Through Mike I got to know Janet. They are wonderful people and I decided to invite myself over, using a nice pinot noir as the bait.

Two of their adult children and a daughter-in-law were there; one of their sons was a year or two behind my son at a Catholic high school where they played football together. There were also three large dogs present, including Charlie, which made for an exciting evening at times. Fortunately their cat was safely hidden away. (The last time we visited, Charlie was intent on finding her and ridding the house of an evil feline intruder. Unable to do that, he did the next best thing and raided her litter box. Yuck!)

It was, to use a very tired phrase, a dark and stormy night. The drive across town through rain was challenging and the drive home on the freeway no less so.  But the warm friendship and stimulating conversation was so gratifying and well worth any nervous or confusing moments on the road. (“Where IS that road I need to turn on? Is this the right way? Why won’t that guy behind me back off? I can’t see a thing through this mist and rain!” and other whiny exclamations better left unshared here.)

As Janet prepared salad and ravioli, we all stood around their kitchen island (I admit to a bad case of kitchen envy!), sipping wine and munching on some appetizers I brought. Mike and Janet own a restaurant and are both excellent cooks so it is always a little intimidating to cook for them.

After dinner the younger adults left and Mike, Janet and I sat and talked while Charlie made the rounds getting pets and love. Janet remarked how impressed she was with my journey, but especially my selling or giving away nearly everything before the journey began. She said I was her hero, which of course embarrassed me tremendously, and I had to make a smart-ass response that was self-denigrating. I would have been better served and kinder to just thank her, instead of questioning her judgment in her choice of heroes. But I added that it was extremely freeing to be rid of all that “stuff,” though there were things I have come to regret parting with and sometimes go in search of, only to realize I no longer have them. Still, I have managed to get along well without most of it, though I have replaced a few things now that I have a house and room for things. I admitted that while I always wished I had a nice set of china, of crystal and other nice things, that will undoubtedly never happen. And dang, I’ll have a full and happy life anyway!

Later in the course of our conversation Mike mentioned the need for detachment.  This morning, in ruminating over our conversation I realize getting rid of stuff is one small step towards detachment. Though difficult, it is much easier than giving up expectations, than holding on to desired outcomes, our need to be right, our need to feel important and valued. Often these define us more than our things, more than where we live, or what we drive, which I think are just a symptom of deeper desires to feel that we matter, that we are of consequence.

This fall I have struggled with the feelings of being rejected by people who matter to me, of being not chosen after offering myself for service.  I beat myself up for having nothing of value, at least in their eyes, and it’s a dark and dismal place to go – even worse than that dark and stormy drive last night.

As I was walking Charlie the other day it occurred to me that perhaps this is because I have other work to do. Maybe God is telling me: Missy, there’s something else I want you to do and this committee you wanted to be on, this relationship you wanted, this job you were thinking of, they would be impediments to doing our work. They might make you feel useful and wanted and loved, but you don’t need others to make you feel that way. You ARE wanted and needed and loved, and incredibly useful just being you.  

So that’s where the detachment gets tricky. Letting go of my desired outcomes, my needs for emotional fulfillment, my needs to feel important and valued.  Basically, it’s letting go of what my ego tells me is necessary to be happy.  I need to continue to pray that beautiful prayer of St. Ignatius: “Give me only Your love and Your grace; that is enough for me.”  

Only God knows what lies in my future, but whatever it is I need to be open to it, ready to love it and be there, fully present to my own life. I just hope whatever is out there includes my many good and wise friends.

Reflections on Light and Love

On this winter solstice day I am thinking about Christmas dreams and being human. Today is the day the earthly balance tips and days begin growing longer again, every so slowly, literally minute by minute.  I did some rough figuring based on information I found for sunrises and sunsets in Portland, Oregon, and found that in six months we will have six-and-a-half hours more of sun. Add to that the many cloud-filled winter days when we don’t see the sun at all and it’s no wonder we get grumpy here in the Pacific Northwest!

As I write I am waiting for some of my family’s traditional cookies to bake. I will make another couple of batches before Friday and share them with the family and friends who join me for Christmas dinner. As usual, I spent way too much money on ingredients to make this a picture perfect Christmas. While I enjoy providing delicious foods for company, especially for special holidays, undoubtedly there are other things going on here.

Perhaps I’m trying to recreate family Christmases past, when my parents and husband were still alive. Of course, I’m viewing those days in the most rose-colored way possible. They weren’t storybook blissful, but I miss getting together with my brothers and sisters and their families around our parents’ huge dining table.  My mother loved Christmas and there were always plenty of presents, homemade cookies and delicious food. To fill the void in my life a little, in addition to my son and grandson, I am expecting a friend who is a single mom and her three kids and their grandfather for dinner. 

I want everything to be welcoming and delicious and as admirable as I can get it. I have to admit that is probably because I like to impress people and get a little emotional stroking to help myself feel more appreciated. There I go again, judging myself based on outside responses to me.  I need to accept that my intrinsic value is already a given and not determined by how anyone else sees me. That’s true for each of us.

Still there is that desire to please others, bring joy to their lives. Kind of a Santa Claus complex: make everyone happy. Sorry, not possible. Just as I’m responsible for my sense of self-worth, I am responsible for only my own joy and happiness. I can be kind and generous, but ultimately it is up to each of us to be happy. What happens, for instance, if I shop all month for the perfect gift and it doesn’t bring joy to the receiver? I can choose to feel like a failure, or I can accept that I am a kind person who did my best and the receiver of my generosity chose not to appreciate my efforts.  It’s a reflection of them more than me.  Christmas can either be a test of who loves whom the most or a celebration of family and community and the most generous gift any of us could hope for: completely unconditional love from a most generous God.

Recently a friend who is battling cancer reflected on the loss of a mutual friend who lost her battle with cancer last week. She wrote: “She was a woman with a deep and quiet faith, and the journeys we have both been on in these last few months reminds me that for we who celebrate Christmas, its meaning is not about a God who rescues us from our pain and sorrow and loneliness, but about a God who is with us in all that we experience, the light and dark, joy and suffering, life and death.”

Our God isn’t Santa Claus and doesn’t fulfill our wishes and dreams. I think God plants those dreams within us, but it is ultimately up to us to discover them and achieve them. God doesn’t necessarily FIX things by waving a heavenly wand and sending trouble on its way and health and prosperity to us. Thinking that God will and should be there at our beck and call, like a magic genie, leaves us vulnerable to doubt. If God doesn’t grant my wish -- answer my prayer the way I want -- that might mean that either God doesn’t love me enough, God really isn’t all powerful, or maybe God doesn’t even exist. In the past I’ve tried to test God in this way and I’m not sure God likes tests any better than we do.

Instead God is present with us, comforting us, whispering how deeply loved we are, as we face our human challenges. God is more than a cheerleader; God understands the challenges because God became human in the person of Jesus, and experienced all the light and dark, the joy and suffering, and life and death we all must face at some point. This is a reminder to all of us as those we love struggle with difficult times. We are not necessarily here to rescue them, to fix things . . . but we can make things better by being companions on their journey, by being with them, and reminding them of how loved they are. Tidings of comfort and joy.

And this is what we celebrate at Christmas: that despite our human weakness and frailty, God loves us enough to be there for us always and in all ways.  Even when the sun is scarce, as it is in Portland in mid-winter, God is faithful and God’s love always shines brightly for us. 

Winter Math

Winter Math: a few short walks between rainstorms, or no walks at all + no kayaking + holiday treats like cookies and Almond Roca + the hibernation syndrome of packing on a little weight to make it through the scarcity of winter = diet disasters.

Today I am grateful there was finally a nice long break in the torrentially rainy weather, and Charlie and I got to take one of our favorite walks along a paved trail that is adjacent to the Clackamas River.

The river is wide and full from all the rain; the rocky banks we often explore were covered with water. No swimming for Charlie today.  It hurries on its way west to join the Willamette, itself hurrying north to join the Columbia. I thought rivers weren’t supposed to flow north, but rivers do what they will. Who am I to suggest otherwise?

The trees are bare, reaching naked branches starkly up into the pale blue sky carved and sculpted by snowy clouds. Without the leaves it is easier to see their form and shape. I wonder if there are growth patterns specific to different trees: the alder forming branches different from the vine maple. Truthfully, without their leaves I have a hard time knowing which is which. But again, the trees grow as their nature intends for them to, absent interference from humans, animals, storms or other threats.

The osprey family that I watched over the spring and summer is gone. The chicks have grown and gone their own way. I don’t know if osprey winter here or follow the ducks south. 

A few of the Himalayan blackberries still sport red or golden leaves;, the Himalayan is an invasive species imported from Europe or Asia. Like the starling and English sparrow, these weeds have wreaked havoc with native species, usurping their territory, out-competing for resources needed to grow, pushing natives out of their own home.  But I have to admit, as much as I hate their thorns and their pushy attitude, I love the taste of their summer berries. The birds and small animals do, as well.

Another non-native, wild clematis, catches my eye as we walk. From a distance it appears to be blossoming with little white blooms as it climbs up into a tree. I know these are its seedheads but am intrigued. On closer inspection I see the heart of the “flower” is several small black seeds that form a star shape. Attached to each seed is a gossamer angel wing (it is these that appear to be petals) that will help it fly to a patch of bare earth where it will send down roots and eventually form a new plant. I’m not sure when the vine will let go of these seeds; perhaps a finch or chickadee will find the seeds before they are released, and enjoy a Christmas feast.

These are hopeful reminders to me that God can take all our mistakes and badly-executed good intentions and create beauty and value from them.

Walking in nature with a little sunshine is good for my body but even better for my soul. It clears my mind of dark thoughts that accumulate with dark days. Filling my lungs with air and my mind with beauty always energizes me and makes me want to be a better person, to be the best me I can be, to – as the river and the trees – flow and grow in the directions I am mean to follow.

Star of Wonder

Some people burst into our lives, bringing brightness, light, and, like Polaris – the North star – helping us find our true north. While many stars move with the seasons, Polaris is almost motionless, a fixed point above the North Pole, with other northern stars appearing to move around it. Because of its value for those who have navigated by the stars through the ages, Polaris is greatly esteemed and perhaps the most well known of all the stars.

But when I think about the heavens, I think about the millions – probably billions upon billions – of stars that together make such a breathtaking display on a clear December night. Polaris has been important as a guide, but how dull would the sky be if it were the only star, or if all the stars shone in equal brightness.  Once again I am awed by the diversity God intentionally placed in our world. 

Even within our own little constellations of life – our families, our faith communities, our neighborhoods -- there are people who serve as our Polaris: people whose wisdom and words are valued and often sought. I know people like that. They are beloved and respected and often stretched because of the great demands on their time. But I also know many people who are wise but are rarely  asked to share their wisdom, maybe because their wisdom is shared in much more quiet ways. Perhaps they would be uncomfortable being viewed as a leader, a teacher, a spiritual guide. It makes me a little sad to know there are many whose gifts aren’t always appreciated or fully used or even recognized.

Today I lost a friend who was one of those quiet stars; rather than a bright and fiery star, she was a steadfast, quiet light. To my knowledge she never led others with words – she never made a speech or led a retreat or wrote a public reflection that I am aware of -- she led by just doing what needed to be done. She took care of the little things that made life easier for those around her.

About three years ago I joined a women’s spirituality group. Carolyn was always there, every second Saturday, to set up the chairs, to make coffee, to make sure our meeting space was open and welcoming. She took care of the finances and probably did much more than I ever realized. No doubt people – including me -- took her for granted, just accepting her quiet gifts of herself, her dedication to this group of women without realizing the graces she gave us.  She always shared during our discussions but truthfully I didn’t know her that well, or know that much about her. She was clearly an intelligent and kind person and whatever she shared among the group was always a gift.

Carolyn had struggled with cancer  which she shared a little with our group, though never in a self-pitying way. This fall she found the cancer had reoccurred and just this afternoon she passed away.  And so a star has fallen, and the heavens are a little bit less beautiful because of the loss. It is a reminder to me to really get to know and appreciate people, to see their light. It is a reminder of the value of little, quiet ways of loving. And a call to live life fully while we have it, to touch others whenever we can, and tell them we love them and cherish them.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

“Christmas future is far away, Christmas past is past . . . “

This morning while running an errand I heard James Taylor on my car radio singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” and listened to the lyrics.  I’ve heard this song hundreds – maybe thousands – of times but this morning those opening lines really hit me.

Maybe because I spent yesterday afternoon and evening putting up a Christmas tree. When I sold most of my things to do my traveling in 2007, nearly all the Christmas ornaments I’d collected over the years were included. I kept only a few that had special meaning, primarily those John and I had collected together. Whenever we traveled we tried to get a Christmas ornament to remind us of the trip, a way to relive our experiences as a couple and a family every year.

So this morning JT got me to thinking about Christmas past.  This is a really difficult time for me and for many people who have lost loved ones.  My mother loved Christmas, and no matter how challenging our finances were (and there were years they were incredibly tight), mom always found ways to cover the floor under the tree with gifts.  Of course, when the credit card bills came in January there were often fireworks between her and dad. But it was important for her to be generous and give her family memories of abundance and joy, of wishes fulfilled.  I miss her presence in my life very much, even after 15 years, and especially at this time of year. 

I have found the Christmas holidays even more challenging since John died. This is my eighth Christmas without him.  There are many times I think of him, with sadness and longing, as little things pop up in my life that remind me of him, things we did together or of my status as a widow, as I see other married couples with their families gathered around them.

Decorating the tree with those ornaments we collected throughout our 33 years together brings to mind the trips we took. One of my favorite ornaments is a little angel I found shortly after we moved to Vancouver, Washington, from Yakima in 1971. It was our first Christmas being away from our families and really on our own.  I have always treasured this little angel that was made in Italy for her beauty; but now I also treasure the memories she brings.  There is the cute little howling coyote we got in Arizona one year, a ferry boat from the year we went to the San Juans. Another angel is made of shells. John and I bought her on our first – and last – trip to Hawaii. We visited Kauai in late January of 2003. Just over 9 months later John was gone.  I like to think these angels are bookends to the years we had together.

Thinking of those Christmases past, I am reminded of how sometimes I was sad or sulky or disappointed or had my feelings hurt. There were times when I wasn’t feeling all that blessed. Now, in retrospect, I realize how very fortunate I was to have a loving family gathered around an abundant tree, a table filled with delicious foods, and mostly just conversation and laughter, singing Christmas carols together.  Perhaps it is true, in the words of Joni Mitchell, that we don’t know what we’ve got till it’s gone.  I would give anything for those days again, and a chance to be more thankful and appreciative and joyful.   But Christmas past is past.

So will I be having regrets 10 or 20 years from now – Christmas futures far away – because of joy that I might overlook now, because I get so caught up in feeling lonely or left out or sad? I’m the only one who can make sure that doesn’t happen and I can only do that by being in the now, being present to my life the way it is, finding joy and blessings there, and sharing my gifts as generously as possible. Christmas, after all, has nothing to do with gifts but everything to do with giving and receiving – light, love and joy. It's not about presents but about presence: being there for each other. We were taught how to do that by the greatest Giver of all. And that’s something worth celebrating!

“Christmas present is here today, bringing joy that will last.”

Winter Garden

  Gardening always gives me good metaphors for life.

Today I took advantage of a dry day to do a little yardwork.  I started by cutting the iris stalks and blades (I think iris is technically grass?). I had neglected them last year, although they bloomed anyway, and this fall they are bedraggled and very sad. Kind of like I’ve been feeling the last few days, actually. My mood has been grayer than the skies; maybe there’s a connection.  As I was cutting out the last two years’ growth of Iris blades I discovered tiny little bright green blades pushing up through the brown, dead material. It’s heartening to remember that even when we might feel hopeless and decayed, there is some bright lifeforce trying to push through the ugliness and find it’s way to the light.

Next stop: the roses.  Again, they had been neglected last fall and much of this summer. I gave them a much-needed pruning: think buzz-cut.  These roses have been here many years, I think, though I have only known them just over two years.  There is a great deal of old, dead wood and the new greener wood is having a difficult time finding a place to grow up out of the rootstock.  So I did as much heavy pruning as I could to give the roses a little better chance next spring. We’ll see if it helps.  Just to let me know they wouldn’t take this assault without a battle, a couple of the pruned branches got me pretty good with their thorns.

This reminds me again that sometimes we need to cut back things that look and feel okay or normal to make room for true new growth. This can be very painful.  I often get caught up in old stories, old beliefs, and unless I stop and examine those and toss a few out, I find myself being dragged into lifeless places where my quest to find authenticity is stifled or blocked. 

Final stop: the tree in my front yard. I’m not sure what it is, some type of ash, I think.  It has lovely scarlet leaves in the fall. And they’re much smaller than the maple leaves in my back  yard so a little easier to contend with.  However, this lovely tree has been very inexpertly pruned over the years and its form and shape are unhealthy. Not that I’m an expert by any stretch, but I do know a little bit about removing redundancy and cutting off branches that tend to grow downward instead of up.  Another lesson about removing things in my life that drag me down instead of helping me reach for the light. Using a hand-saw on the larger branches also gave me a good physical workout. Sometimes breaking a sweat helps break up negative thoughts.

So yes, working in the garden this afternoon gave me a feeling of accomplishment, got me out into the fresh air, and gave me a little exercise for both my body and my brain.  This time of year I often think it’s unfortunate that my life is in Western Oregon: my family, my friends. Late fall and early winter can really depress me – the short days, the lack of sun.  I don’t like to be cold. It might make more sense for me to find a sunnier, warmer place to spend my winters. Is living where the people I love are something in my life I need to prune?   Or could I just get a full-spectrum light and do something to mentally take a little vacation? 

The other thing I can try to do is focus on positives, think about others who might also be down and see what I can do to help them a little. Part of my downspin this week is a sense that I have no purpose, that I’m not making a difference in anyone’s life, that no one needs or appreciates me. So I focused on connecting with a few people who have been supportive to me in the past and thanking them, showing my appreciation, reminding them they make a difference to me.  And I checked in with a couple of women who lost their husbands this year, just telling them I care and I understand. I spent a little time on-line trying to see if there are some volunteer opportunities that might help me feel useful and needed. My spiritual director reminded me a couple weeks ago, and a friend reaffirmed it today, that perhaps my presence, just my being with and for others, is what I can do and what makes a difference, even though I may never realize that. 

My friend also suggested I stay with those hard, dark moments, to see where they lead. Does desolation lead us to light if we stay with it? I guess it did for John of the Cross and many other mystics. Perhaps it is only through that darkness that we can finally find the courage to go deep enough for the questions that really matter, to find that still, quiet voice of love and new life  hidden beneath the decay.