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.