All of a sudden, overnight it seems, it is dark in the morning when we wake up...not dark with light around the edges but really dark, like the middle of the night dark. The rooster, Cock a Doodle Doo, is crowing later. I can’t gauge the time by the amount of light spilling over the mountain ridge. This discombobulating process is akin to jet lag and always comes as a surprise to me even though I have seen it happen year after year. Darkness sneaks up on me. It is a part of farm time.
Farm time is different from any other way of measuring time for me. Farm time has a rhythm that is connected to nature and its time schedule. It allows you to stop what you are doing to chat with your neighbor who just drove up while you were outside splitting wood. You spend your time off mowing, teddering, raking and baling hay because your cows will need to eat this winter. Living by farm time gives you moments to set a spell and watch the little band of six does and fawns that walk through your front yard to the hay field to graze. The bear that walks down the road by the farmhouse is living on farm time and the mama duck setting on her eggs has a farm time schedule.
The connection to Nature’s time table keeps me grounded (yes, Thad, I mean that pun) in more ways than one. I do literally stand on hallowed ground, ground made holy by the generations of farmers before us who walked these fields, depended on them for their daily bread. Before them there were the Indians whose lives were lived by the creek that runs through our farm. We still find remnants of their tool making when we plow the ground.
All of those who came before me know what I know. Our time on this piece of God’s earth is limited. We are what my daddy called “short timers”. And as short timers, we need to look around us and savor the wonderful gifts of the land we take for granted. Even if we live in the city, we are surrounded by little miracles we take for granted... the rising and setting of the sun, rain storms and cloud formations, the changing of the seasons.
Most of us live our lives insulated from our outdoors by air conditioners to cool us that require us to keep the doors and windows closed, invisible heat that flows through duct work to keep us warm without having to split wood or build a fire, food that arrives in bags from the grocery store that we neither grew nor preserved, Walt Disney animals that are sanitized for human consumption, light that appears with the flip of a switch. We forget how to live connected to the natural world around us. I don’t know for sure, but I suspect that if we were required to live on farm time, outdoors everyday for some work and play time, our lives would change in some fundamental ways.
My life has changed since I began living on farm time. Sara Miles in her book Take This Bread ,speaks of her life as a Eucharistic life, one of gratitude, a good description of how I now live. When we have dusty roads and dry fields, I rejoice in the rain. The bear sitting on Tim and Jeannie’s porch becomes an occasion for the neighbors to gather and wonder about the bear’s life. The barn full of good hay put up with the help of neighbors and other friends causes me to sing a song of thanksgiving. Canned tomatoes, beautiful red jars gleaming in the mason jars, bring visions of winter time soups and I give thanks for the harvest. I, who had a small extended family of origin, now say grace over meals shared with a large family. This family loves and cares for me in ways that take my breath away and I am grateful. My little church community values my gifts and forgives my inadequacies. God is in heaven and even though all is not right in this world, all is well and all shall be made well if we but remember to be grateful in our living.
Farm time... short time... to every thing there is a season the Bible says. So as I enter this season of darkness, I give thanks for the memory of light past and choose to live hopefully knowing the light will come again. Thanks be to God for all time, my time, your time, the times of our lives. Amen.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Driving in my little Subaru... a spiritual practice
I was so befuddled last night when we got home from our whirlwind weekend in California that I brushed my teeth with Benadryl cream... the opposite of being mindful and grounded. I have been practicing “Paying Attention” and “Waking Up to God”, the first two chapters in An Altar in the World by Barbara Brown Taylor, but jet lag and weddings leave my introvert self wrung out and unable to do much beyond mumble and moan. So today I will wallow in quiet and spend quality time with my animals whose speech is mostly non-verbal. I might even get in my new (to me) Subaru Outback and take a drive to a mountaintop for some more peace and quiet.
When our MPV began breaking down regularly (cars tend to do that when they are eleven years old), we found a good deal on a used Subaru Outback the color of metallic gravel dust. The color is important because we live on a gravel road and I wanted something that would at least disguise the fact the car had not been washed for a month. But this little wagon came with so much more... heated seats, a moon roof, six cd player, rubber floor mats, all wheel drive (important when you live in the mountains in the winter), a display window that gives you temperature, average miles per gallon, miles per gallon as you are driving and good gas mileage. When you live in the country, trips to town are made with due consideration. You don’t just hop in the car and drive in to pick up milk at Ingle’s... at least, I don’t. During the recent gas shortage, I was uncomfortably aware of how much gas I used and how I took easy transportation for granted.
I have been playing a little game as I drive. I turn the display window to the mile per gallon display that shows you how much gas you are using as you drive. It is fascinating to watch the numbers change as you accelerate or climb hills or start up from a full stop. I remembered reading that you should press the gas pedal as if there were a raw egg beneath your foot and you don’t want to break it. I tried that and the miles per gallon jumped up. So now I am hooked, addicted to making the most of each gallon of gas. I am the little old lady driving the speed limit in the right lane, being passed by the rest of the world on their way in a hurry to somewhere. But, I have made an interesting spiritual discovery in this process.
When you let go of the need to drive as fast or faster than the other cars, a small switch is turned on. This switch calms my soul. I observe. I see. I relax. I am not competing for quicker, better, sooner, first, nor do I worry about those pesky police who keep stopping people for speeding. Paying attention to the raw egg beneath my gas pedal foot shifts my focus and I am able to let go of the illusion that 70 miles per hour is better than the 60 mile per hour speed limit. I play by the rules and that frees me.
In my spiritual life, a similar transformation awaits when I play by the rules. Paying attention, I see God all around me. Abiding by the Golden Rule of doing unto others as you would have them do unto you gives me open eyes so that I see God in the faces of all who surround me. Practicing the Raw Egg Rule as I drive slows more than my car. It slows my breathing, my mind, my soul and I find a quiet space in my little Subaru, time for meditation and prayer. Letting go of my needs for just a little while gives God an opportunity to break through into my mostly self centered world and “I can hear my Savior calling, follow, follow, follow me”. I wake up to God.
So don’t cuss or sputter when you get stuck behind me or any other slow driver on the road. We may be praying for you and all of us need all the prayer we can get. Wave as you pass us by or better yet, slow yourself down and see if those extra few minutes you gain getting there earlier are really worth it. Life is too precious a gift to waste time being in a hurry.
When our MPV began breaking down regularly (cars tend to do that when they are eleven years old), we found a good deal on a used Subaru Outback the color of metallic gravel dust. The color is important because we live on a gravel road and I wanted something that would at least disguise the fact the car had not been washed for a month. But this little wagon came with so much more... heated seats, a moon roof, six cd player, rubber floor mats, all wheel drive (important when you live in the mountains in the winter), a display window that gives you temperature, average miles per gallon, miles per gallon as you are driving and good gas mileage. When you live in the country, trips to town are made with due consideration. You don’t just hop in the car and drive in to pick up milk at Ingle’s... at least, I don’t. During the recent gas shortage, I was uncomfortably aware of how much gas I used and how I took easy transportation for granted.
I have been playing a little game as I drive. I turn the display window to the mile per gallon display that shows you how much gas you are using as you drive. It is fascinating to watch the numbers change as you accelerate or climb hills or start up from a full stop. I remembered reading that you should press the gas pedal as if there were a raw egg beneath your foot and you don’t want to break it. I tried that and the miles per gallon jumped up. So now I am hooked, addicted to making the most of each gallon of gas. I am the little old lady driving the speed limit in the right lane, being passed by the rest of the world on their way in a hurry to somewhere. But, I have made an interesting spiritual discovery in this process.
When you let go of the need to drive as fast or faster than the other cars, a small switch is turned on. This switch calms my soul. I observe. I see. I relax. I am not competing for quicker, better, sooner, first, nor do I worry about those pesky police who keep stopping people for speeding. Paying attention to the raw egg beneath my gas pedal foot shifts my focus and I am able to let go of the illusion that 70 miles per hour is better than the 60 mile per hour speed limit. I play by the rules and that frees me.
In my spiritual life, a similar transformation awaits when I play by the rules. Paying attention, I see God all around me. Abiding by the Golden Rule of doing unto others as you would have them do unto you gives me open eyes so that I see God in the faces of all who surround me. Practicing the Raw Egg Rule as I drive slows more than my car. It slows my breathing, my mind, my soul and I find a quiet space in my little Subaru, time for meditation and prayer. Letting go of my needs for just a little while gives God an opportunity to break through into my mostly self centered world and “I can hear my Savior calling, follow, follow, follow me”. I wake up to God.
So don’t cuss or sputter when you get stuck behind me or any other slow driver on the road. We may be praying for you and all of us need all the prayer we can get. Wave as you pass us by or better yet, slow yourself down and see if those extra few minutes you gain getting there earlier are really worth it. Life is too precious a gift to waste time being in a hurry.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Walk on the earth not on water.
The miracle is not to walk on water, but on the earth. Thich Nhat Hanh
The ground was a soggy, wet, mucky mess at the campground this weekend. Our work camp family was gathered for our annual reunion and we had a ramp to build for Nancy. Her diabetes is worsening and she is having difficulty getting up the steps to her house so a ramp was requested. Deweese, her brother, had most of the wood we needed so only one trip to the building supply in Bryson City was required. The weather co-operated, sort of, and gave us two long periods of dry time that the men used to discuss the plan, measure, talk, re-measure, cut, discuss some more, cut angles, re-cut angles, and assemble the ramp. The women washed the slimy boards that had been laying in the ground, home to snails and moldy leaves, dried them and laid them out for the men to use. Nancy’s planter, like my planter, was over run with weeds so we talked with her about what kind of flowers she wanted there. We planted mums, sedum, ornamental cabbage and some kind of trailing sedum in her wheelbarrow as a happy for her soul. And all weekend long, we walked on soggy ground.
Mary Lynn, Ida, Janise, Donna and I hiked to Mingo Falls. Actually, Ida and Janise hiked. Mary Lynn, Donna and I walked to Mingo Falls. We couldn’t stop looking at everything we passed by. Here was a bank covered in yellow and orange jewelweed, the mountain remedy for poison ivy. Over there was a small fallen log covered with a bright yellow flower looking fungus of some kind. Underfoot were mud puddles and big rock gravel. Beside the road a mountain stream swollen with rain water passed us by noisily. A berry bush of some kind covered in dried up berries and occasional bright pink flowers popped up in the path. And over there to our right were the bright red berry clusters of Jack in the Pulpit. Trillium leaves peaked out from under the berry bush and somewhere, there was poison ivy because I bear its mark on my arm this morning. A blue mountain heeler puppy came to join us on our walk bouncing here there and yon as well as on Mary Lynn’s white pants.
At the end of the walk, a seemingly endless flight of steps led up the mountain to the falls. Donna chose to lie by the stream and rest while Mary Lynn and I climbed up the steps. Mary Lynn wondered how far up the steps went. My practice is to pretend the climb ends where I can see the last step. And if the last step keeps being farther along, I can still see the end of the steps, just not yet. We sat on a bench along the way and looked around at the damp, sweet, soggy earth that surrounded us. The falls at the end of the climb were breathtakingly beautiful. Full, white water split into streams and trickles, falling four or five stories to the ground over rocks and fallen trees. The water flowed underneath our feet and began its ride down the cove to Cherokee and the Oconaluftee. Mary Lynn and I climbed down off the path and sank our feet into the clear water, not for long because mountain streams are so cold your toes turn blue quickly. We trailed our hands through the sand and felt the rocks smoothed by years of shaping running water. Once again Cherokee earth worked its magic on me and my soul rested in the sounds, smells and the feel of this particular place.
In Barbara Taylor Brown’s book An Altar in the World, there is a chapter named “The Practice of Walking on the Earth... Groundedness”. She tells of the many different religious traditions that require walking and of some of the holy places where pilgrims come to walk. The truth of the matter is that all of earth is holy ground if we but had eyes to see and feet that could feel what lies underneath us. Our walk to Mingo Falls was a holy pilgrimage and the walk I will take this morning down to the stable to muck out the stalls will be holy. The soggy campground was sacred ground because God was in our midst and underfoot. I will walk the labyrinth of my life today mindful of the ground underneath my feet, waiting and looking for God along the way. And if all I do is muck stalls and pick up apples, seeing the wonder of the earth under my feet, it will be my prayer for the day, one of thanksgiving and praise. Who needs to walk on water when you can walk on the earth.
The ground was a soggy, wet, mucky mess at the campground this weekend. Our work camp family was gathered for our annual reunion and we had a ramp to build for Nancy. Her diabetes is worsening and she is having difficulty getting up the steps to her house so a ramp was requested. Deweese, her brother, had most of the wood we needed so only one trip to the building supply in Bryson City was required. The weather co-operated, sort of, and gave us two long periods of dry time that the men used to discuss the plan, measure, talk, re-measure, cut, discuss some more, cut angles, re-cut angles, and assemble the ramp. The women washed the slimy boards that had been laying in the ground, home to snails and moldy leaves, dried them and laid them out for the men to use. Nancy’s planter, like my planter, was over run with weeds so we talked with her about what kind of flowers she wanted there. We planted mums, sedum, ornamental cabbage and some kind of trailing sedum in her wheelbarrow as a happy for her soul. And all weekend long, we walked on soggy ground.
Mary Lynn, Ida, Janise, Donna and I hiked to Mingo Falls. Actually, Ida and Janise hiked. Mary Lynn, Donna and I walked to Mingo Falls. We couldn’t stop looking at everything we passed by. Here was a bank covered in yellow and orange jewelweed, the mountain remedy for poison ivy. Over there was a small fallen log covered with a bright yellow flower looking fungus of some kind. Underfoot were mud puddles and big rock gravel. Beside the road a mountain stream swollen with rain water passed us by noisily. A berry bush of some kind covered in dried up berries and occasional bright pink flowers popped up in the path. And over there to our right were the bright red berry clusters of Jack in the Pulpit. Trillium leaves peaked out from under the berry bush and somewhere, there was poison ivy because I bear its mark on my arm this morning. A blue mountain heeler puppy came to join us on our walk bouncing here there and yon as well as on Mary Lynn’s white pants.
At the end of the walk, a seemingly endless flight of steps led up the mountain to the falls. Donna chose to lie by the stream and rest while Mary Lynn and I climbed up the steps. Mary Lynn wondered how far up the steps went. My practice is to pretend the climb ends where I can see the last step. And if the last step keeps being farther along, I can still see the end of the steps, just not yet. We sat on a bench along the way and looked around at the damp, sweet, soggy earth that surrounded us. The falls at the end of the climb were breathtakingly beautiful. Full, white water split into streams and trickles, falling four or five stories to the ground over rocks and fallen trees. The water flowed underneath our feet and began its ride down the cove to Cherokee and the Oconaluftee. Mary Lynn and I climbed down off the path and sank our feet into the clear water, not for long because mountain streams are so cold your toes turn blue quickly. We trailed our hands through the sand and felt the rocks smoothed by years of shaping running water. Once again Cherokee earth worked its magic on me and my soul rested in the sounds, smells and the feel of this particular place.
In Barbara Taylor Brown’s book An Altar in the World, there is a chapter named “The Practice of Walking on the Earth... Groundedness”. She tells of the many different religious traditions that require walking and of some of the holy places where pilgrims come to walk. The truth of the matter is that all of earth is holy ground if we but had eyes to see and feet that could feel what lies underneath us. Our walk to Mingo Falls was a holy pilgrimage and the walk I will take this morning down to the stable to muck out the stalls will be holy. The soggy campground was sacred ground because God was in our midst and underfoot. I will walk the labyrinth of my life today mindful of the ground underneath my feet, waiting and looking for God along the way. And if all I do is muck stalls and pick up apples, seeing the wonder of the earth under my feet, it will be my prayer for the day, one of thanksgiving and praise. Who needs to walk on water when you can walk on the earth.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Follow the yellow brick road...
She has been my friend for nearly thirty years and is old enough to be my mother. I was gathered in and gathered up by her outstretched arms of love as a young mother. She has known me at my best and my worst and neither seems to matter much in her unfailing faith in me. I sat at her table yesterday, as I have sat at her tables for years, eating lunch with two women I did not know who have also been gathered up by her. As I sat and let the conversation and good food settle my soul, soothe the frizzy nerve endings, I once again said to myself, I want to be more like Celeste. Here are some of the lessons I have learned from her.
Follow the yellow brick road... Celeste has the gift for following the yellow brick road wherever it leads. She heard about the death of a famous musician in our community, researched his contributions to the world of music, went to his memorial service at a local club, heard another young band playing, came to our son’s wedding and met one of the band members who was our son’s best friend, and is now the oldest, most enthusiastic fan of Tubab Crew, a band that specializes in West African music. You can see her at the concerts in the front row, dancing to the music. With her, one thing or person always leads to another experience or a new friend. The yellow brick road is full of possibilities for her.
Wipe out the six degrees of separation... Celeste connects people like the connect the dots pictures. No telling how many people, how many different kinds of people, consider Celeste their particular friend. She is equally at home with mountain grannies and grand dames, people of faith and those with not much faith, preachers and farmers and musicians and models, local yokels and citizens of the world beyond, all are kin to her and she is kin to them. We sit at her table, eating food prepared with loving care, drawn in by the strong ties that bind us to her and through her, to each other... family reunion with kin we have just met.
Walk on the sunny side of life... Celeste has had her share of life struggles and in the living of them manages to find celebration possibilities. Driving her husband to dialysis as his kidneys fail is transformed by making friends with another couple at the center, driving to dialysis together in a convertible with the top down, laughter and joy in the midst of pain and loss. As a teacher in her early life, being a learner is important to her. She finds ways to learn new skills... storytelling, creative clothes making, computer programs... and is surrounded by the gifts of her hands and gifts from others. As her body shrinks in size, her capacity for enjoying life expands and it is a pure pleasure to be a part of her joyful expansion.
Like the Artful Dodger Apostle Paul, Celeste has learned how to be more than content with all of life’s circumstances. Love matters more than being right. Staying in touch is more important than being proper. Adventure is always around the corner. Never pass up a chance to party. God is always closer to you than you think. Thanks, Celeste. I’ll be proud to help Mary serve champagne at your last party. I’ll call you when I get back from my niece’s wedding and we’ll have a tea party. Love you...
Follow the yellow brick road... Celeste has the gift for following the yellow brick road wherever it leads. She heard about the death of a famous musician in our community, researched his contributions to the world of music, went to his memorial service at a local club, heard another young band playing, came to our son’s wedding and met one of the band members who was our son’s best friend, and is now the oldest, most enthusiastic fan of Tubab Crew, a band that specializes in West African music. You can see her at the concerts in the front row, dancing to the music. With her, one thing or person always leads to another experience or a new friend. The yellow brick road is full of possibilities for her.
Wipe out the six degrees of separation... Celeste connects people like the connect the dots pictures. No telling how many people, how many different kinds of people, consider Celeste their particular friend. She is equally at home with mountain grannies and grand dames, people of faith and those with not much faith, preachers and farmers and musicians and models, local yokels and citizens of the world beyond, all are kin to her and she is kin to them. We sit at her table, eating food prepared with loving care, drawn in by the strong ties that bind us to her and through her, to each other... family reunion with kin we have just met.
Walk on the sunny side of life... Celeste has had her share of life struggles and in the living of them manages to find celebration possibilities. Driving her husband to dialysis as his kidneys fail is transformed by making friends with another couple at the center, driving to dialysis together in a convertible with the top down, laughter and joy in the midst of pain and loss. As a teacher in her early life, being a learner is important to her. She finds ways to learn new skills... storytelling, creative clothes making, computer programs... and is surrounded by the gifts of her hands and gifts from others. As her body shrinks in size, her capacity for enjoying life expands and it is a pure pleasure to be a part of her joyful expansion.
Like the Artful Dodger Apostle Paul, Celeste has learned how to be more than content with all of life’s circumstances. Love matters more than being right. Staying in touch is more important than being proper. Adventure is always around the corner. Never pass up a chance to party. God is always closer to you than you think. Thanks, Celeste. I’ll be proud to help Mary serve champagne at your last party. I’ll call you when I get back from my niece’s wedding and we’ll have a tea party. Love you...
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