There are two new faces on the farm…Woodrow and Marley. Blackmouth Yellow Cur brother and sister. Barney was our introduction to this breed and I fell in love with their loyal tender hearts. Often misidentified as a boxer mix or as mutts, these dogs range in size from 70 to 100 pounds, square muzzles or pointed, red, yellow or beige. Bred in the south as farm helpers, family protectors and hunting dogs, they are so tenderhearted they often will protect their family children from being disciplined. Woody and Marley were rescued from a kill shelter in Georgia and brought to us by their foster mom, Lois, on Friday. In one of those happy coincidences that so often seems to happen in the dog rescue world, Lois’s son lives in Asheville so she visited her son and us at the same time.
Forging a relationship with a rescued dog can be an interesting proposition. Their life before you is largely unknown and the influences of other people show up in strange ways. Barney was afraid of men in baseball hats and anybody with a camera. Where did the camera come from? Woody seems to be an open, friendly fellow with lots of bounce, a canine Tigger. Marley is more fearful, stays close to her brother and is protective of him. She loves to be loved. Lois did a wonderful job with them and they are beginning to settle in.
Saturday morning, Michael took all three dogs, Rufus, Woody and Marley, walkabout on the farm. He leashed Woody so Rufus wouldn’t take them on a runaway mission. After an hour they came back tired and ready for breakfast. When I went to muck stalls and feed Ferdinand, they walked down to the stable with me. The horses hung their heads over the half doors trying to figure out these new dogs while Woody and Marley approached warily. Shirley and Kate, the donkeys, have a more straightforward approach. They stretch out their necks much like an angry goose and rush the dogs. Woody and Marley take the commonsense response and get behind the fence where they are safe from donkey nips. Cats are being treated with respect since old Daisy hissed, swelled up and popped Marley on the nose when she didn’t like being barked at. And last night was the first ride in the Kubota to the pond to visit the ducks. Farm dogs here have two choices for locomotion…run by the Kubota or ride in it.
As I watch these dogs adjust to a new home, strangers, strange animals, different rules, scary experiences, I am struck by their ability to give and receive love even as they struggle to settle in. Marley comes to me, sits and snuggles her head against my knee, asking for physical reassurance of loving intentions. Woody comes and sits beside her, pushing into the magic circle of love. Soon Rufus comes and asks for his share. I am bathed in love just because I am there, I am safe, I love them back.
I wish we had the kind of world where we could share love with other people the same way these dogs do. When I was tired, or afraid I could rest my head on someone’s shoulder and feel a loving pat. If life was overwhelming me and sadness weighed me down, I could find someone to hold me up until I was able to stand on my own again. When anger caused me to lash out and bite the hands that feed me, there would be instruction on the way back into the good graces of those I had hurt. Love would flow for no other reason than the presence of the other. Perhaps this is the world the prophet Isaiah glimpsed, a new heaven and earth where the wolf and the lamb shall lie down together, where God answers us before we cry out our need, a world where love between those who are different creates peace and harmony of being. Loving like a dog might be closer to God’s way of loving than our own. Makes you wonder if the bumper sticker is true… Dog is God…
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Sunday, July 31, 2011
The accidental gardener...
The sere summer breezes bring stirring of the air but no relief from the heat. Rain has been an infrequent visitor and the ground is baked hard. The only pleasurable outdoor time is early morning and late evening. This morning I woke early to a quiet house and went to the front steps to sit a spell. Wiley, my faithful grey cat, came and sat by me, purring as I scratched his ears. We sat and watched the rabbits play at the edge of the front yard. One rabbit would jump straight up in the air coming down where he started while the other rabbit ran towards him, a game of some sort. Birds flew by, crows cawed and the rooster crowed. The stillness of the air and the quiet broken only by bird and cricket song were my morning prayer.
As I sat, I surveyed the flower border that edges our front walk. Colors run riotously without any apparent rhyme or reason… pink (phlox, Echinacea, achillea), yellow (black eyed Susans, yarrow, early blooming mums, daylillies), orange reds (roses, painted daisies). The kale’s leaves are pale purple and past ready for picking. The garlic’s blooms have faded and fallen over. It is a late summer Technicolor show that defies the hot dry weather. Mixed in with the flowers are weeds that I have not pulled adding to the greenery.
I am an accidental gardener. Unlike my mother who tends her flowers, weeding and mulching and fertilizing, I plant and forget. Sometimes I remember to water or fertilize but more often than not plants are on their own with me. This leads to casualties (you can kill a nandina) and surprises (if kale is left to bloom and re-seed, it pops up in wonderful places). Tall hollies and crepe myrtle can be transplanted if you use a tractor to move them. Earthworms love newspaper layered under mulch. My gardening skills are improvisational and experimental. If it works and looks good, keep it. If it doesn’t bloom or smell good, don’t plant it. Feel free to move plants around and create new vistas. Share your extras.
I sat at the supper table last week surveying the garden of our children, their spouses and our grandchildren. A torrent of sound… laughter, questions, stories, little hissy fits… and a river of love’s history… my mother holding her two youngest great-grandchildren… good food from grandma… deviled eggs, fried squash, mashed potatoes… meals prepared by grown children who love to cook… Moravian chicken pie, orzo with fruit and veggies, pork tenderloin with pineapple pepper sauce. My belly was full of thanksgiving for this wonderful accidental garden of family. Who knew we would have six grandsons each one so full of themselves? Children are married to spouses we love and they all seem to tolerate our quirks with good humor most of the time.
I take a road trip through time remembering the years of birthing and growing these grown up children. Church, piano lessons, dance recitals, soccer games, plays, sleepless nights, worry and wonder a part of my daily routine from the birth of our first child until today. I see the perfection in the imperfection of our lives together, the love that runs over and under the occasional snarkiness, the sheer joy of being as grandsons splash and play in the Leaning Tower of Pool and my heart overflows with tears for the wonderful garden of family and life I have been given. It is grace undeserved and I know it. Thanks be to God for accidental gardens of all kinds and for the gifts of love that bloom in our lives year after year, popping up in unexpected places and ways.
As I sat, I surveyed the flower border that edges our front walk. Colors run riotously without any apparent rhyme or reason… pink (phlox, Echinacea, achillea), yellow (black eyed Susans, yarrow, early blooming mums, daylillies), orange reds (roses, painted daisies). The kale’s leaves are pale purple and past ready for picking. The garlic’s blooms have faded and fallen over. It is a late summer Technicolor show that defies the hot dry weather. Mixed in with the flowers are weeds that I have not pulled adding to the greenery.
I am an accidental gardener. Unlike my mother who tends her flowers, weeding and mulching and fertilizing, I plant and forget. Sometimes I remember to water or fertilize but more often than not plants are on their own with me. This leads to casualties (you can kill a nandina) and surprises (if kale is left to bloom and re-seed, it pops up in wonderful places). Tall hollies and crepe myrtle can be transplanted if you use a tractor to move them. Earthworms love newspaper layered under mulch. My gardening skills are improvisational and experimental. If it works and looks good, keep it. If it doesn’t bloom or smell good, don’t plant it. Feel free to move plants around and create new vistas. Share your extras.
I sat at the supper table last week surveying the garden of our children, their spouses and our grandchildren. A torrent of sound… laughter, questions, stories, little hissy fits… and a river of love’s history… my mother holding her two youngest great-grandchildren… good food from grandma… deviled eggs, fried squash, mashed potatoes… meals prepared by grown children who love to cook… Moravian chicken pie, orzo with fruit and veggies, pork tenderloin with pineapple pepper sauce. My belly was full of thanksgiving for this wonderful accidental garden of family. Who knew we would have six grandsons each one so full of themselves? Children are married to spouses we love and they all seem to tolerate our quirks with good humor most of the time.
I take a road trip through time remembering the years of birthing and growing these grown up children. Church, piano lessons, dance recitals, soccer games, plays, sleepless nights, worry and wonder a part of my daily routine from the birth of our first child until today. I see the perfection in the imperfection of our lives together, the love that runs over and under the occasional snarkiness, the sheer joy of being as grandsons splash and play in the Leaning Tower of Pool and my heart overflows with tears for the wonderful garden of family and life I have been given. It is grace undeserved and I know it. Thanks be to God for accidental gardens of all kinds and for the gifts of love that bloom in our lives year after year, popping up in unexpected places and ways.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
I was listening...
I am listening….
The full moon night light poured in through the windows of our bedroom as I lay in bed listening to Rufus the Basset Hound bay. It was his “I think I see and smell something” bark… one bark that ends on a shrill up note followed by two regular barks. I listened to the night sounds in between barks and heard nothing out of the ordinary. After a few minutes Michael got up and called Rufus in to the house. He had been sleeping on Barney’s old bed outdoors so we had left him outside last night to enjoy the moonlight.
I walk out on the back porch and see Junie B and Dixie standing at the gate. As I come down the steps, they speak to me. Junie B has a wonderful throaty nicker, a Greta Garbo voice that brings a smile to my face. I carry them a treat and rub their faces. They have been eating too much clover and are drooling like faucets. When Dixie is nervous or frightened, she snorts and huffs. Sometimes like a child, she plays at being afraid. She gives voice to those feelings and I listen, look around to see what is happening. It is a visiting dog, one she does not know, and she is giving notice.
My mother calls. Uncle Harold is very ill, his third heart attack, and she is so worried. Aunt Peg is coming for a visit. She is going to get her son to drive her to the farm and the two sisters will have another time to be together. Callie, my daddy’s cat is missing, and she is worried about what might have happened to the old girl. Mama’s cold and cough are hanging on and as I listen to her, I worry about whether or not she should see a doctor.
The red tailed hawk swings in wide circles above my head slicing the air with his sharp keening cry. I look up and listen as he searches for food from above. There are rabbits aplenty this year as so he need not look at our chickens. He is a beautiful bird flying with an economy of motion that is an aerial dance.
A Mary Oliver poem, “Days”, ends this way… (excuse the spacing)
Whatever it was I was supposed to be this morning-whatever it was I said I would be doing-
I was standing at the edge of the field- I was hurrying through my own soul, opening its dark
doors- I was leaning out; I was listening.
So much of my life has been spent listening. I sit in silence and hear the sound track of my life filled with the voices from long ago. There was so much I missed listening the first time and I hear more clearly now the love in my father’s voice, the fear in my sister’s voice, the sheer joy in my grubby young son’s voice, the pride in my daughter’s voice as she walks to school alone for the first time, the independent streak a mile wide in another daughter’s voice as she pushes my hand away from brushing her hair, my husband’s voice rumbling a bass accompaniment to our everyday living. And underneath, around and above, always there is the sound of God’s presence in my world. Sometimes the sound is silence and in the silence, if I listen, I can hear God pass by.
Today, God, I want to lean out and listen. I want to hear your voice in the voices around me and in the sounds of your creation. Give me an ear to hear, O Lord and incline your ear towards me. Please?
The full moon night light poured in through the windows of our bedroom as I lay in bed listening to Rufus the Basset Hound bay. It was his “I think I see and smell something” bark… one bark that ends on a shrill up note followed by two regular barks. I listened to the night sounds in between barks and heard nothing out of the ordinary. After a few minutes Michael got up and called Rufus in to the house. He had been sleeping on Barney’s old bed outdoors so we had left him outside last night to enjoy the moonlight.
I walk out on the back porch and see Junie B and Dixie standing at the gate. As I come down the steps, they speak to me. Junie B has a wonderful throaty nicker, a Greta Garbo voice that brings a smile to my face. I carry them a treat and rub their faces. They have been eating too much clover and are drooling like faucets. When Dixie is nervous or frightened, she snorts and huffs. Sometimes like a child, she plays at being afraid. She gives voice to those feelings and I listen, look around to see what is happening. It is a visiting dog, one she does not know, and she is giving notice.
My mother calls. Uncle Harold is very ill, his third heart attack, and she is so worried. Aunt Peg is coming for a visit. She is going to get her son to drive her to the farm and the two sisters will have another time to be together. Callie, my daddy’s cat is missing, and she is worried about what might have happened to the old girl. Mama’s cold and cough are hanging on and as I listen to her, I worry about whether or not she should see a doctor.
The red tailed hawk swings in wide circles above my head slicing the air with his sharp keening cry. I look up and listen as he searches for food from above. There are rabbits aplenty this year as so he need not look at our chickens. He is a beautiful bird flying with an economy of motion that is an aerial dance.
A Mary Oliver poem, “Days”, ends this way… (excuse the spacing)
Whatever it was I was supposed to be this morning-whatever it was I said I would be doing-
I was standing at the edge of the field- I was hurrying through my own soul, opening its dark
doors- I was leaning out; I was listening.
So much of my life has been spent listening. I sit in silence and hear the sound track of my life filled with the voices from long ago. There was so much I missed listening the first time and I hear more clearly now the love in my father’s voice, the fear in my sister’s voice, the sheer joy in my grubby young son’s voice, the pride in my daughter’s voice as she walks to school alone for the first time, the independent streak a mile wide in another daughter’s voice as she pushes my hand away from brushing her hair, my husband’s voice rumbling a bass accompaniment to our everyday living. And underneath, around and above, always there is the sound of God’s presence in my world. Sometimes the sound is silence and in the silence, if I listen, I can hear God pass by.
Today, God, I want to lean out and listen. I want to hear your voice in the voices around me and in the sounds of your creation. Give me an ear to hear, O Lord and incline your ear towards me. Please?
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Forgiveness and forgetfulness...
Michael and I celebrated our forty second anniversary Monday with our good friends Cannan and James by taking a time out at the Sourwood Inn on Elk Mountain Scenic Highway. Every year when July 12 rolls around, we spend time remembering our weddings. Cannan remembers us as young seminary students at Crescent Hill Baptist Church, remembers our wedding. I was her wedding director, a superfluous assignment, trying to herd cats at the rehearsal as all the strong minded participants felt free to tell us all how it should be done. This year our laughter was seasoned with tears as we listened to James share his journey into forgetting. Communication was an essential piece of his being as a pastoral counselor and professor. Words mattered and memory informed his life. Now, he tells us, he is learning to communicate from the heart since he can no longer speak and remember freely.
Our innkeeper, Nat Burkhart, was a longtime neighbor when we lived in town. In his retirement, he and his wife, his daughter and her husband built and staff the Sourwood Inn. It sits high on Elk Mountain near the parkway and is perched among blooming sourwood trees and clouds. At breakfast, Nat engages us in theological conversation as he serves oatmeal pancakes and juice. We learn he gives all his guests “propaganda” telling them they don’t have to read it, just don’t put it in the trash because when he empties the trash cans, it will hurt his feelings to find it there. He hands us some of his “propaganda” from various books and articles that have caught his soul’s eye and I bring it home to read. One of the passages is from “The Luminous Web” by Barbara Brown Taylor,
“It is not sufficient any longer to listen at the end of a wire to the rustlings of the galaxies; it is not enough to even examine the great coil of DNA in which is coded the very alphabet of life. These are our extended perceptions. But beyond lies the great darkness of the ultimate dreamer, who dreamed the light and the galaxies. Before act was, or substance existed, imagination grew in the dark. Loren Eiseley
The physicist Neils Rohr, who was so conscious of the limits of language, liked to tell the story about a young rabbinical student who went to hear three lectures by a famous rabbi. Afterward he told his friends, ‘The first talk was brilliant, clear and simple. I understood every word. The second was even better, deep and subtle. I didn’t understand much but the rabbi understood all of it. The third was by far the finest, a great and unforgettable experience. I understood nothing and the rabbi didn’t understand much either.’
Since I have studied under Rabbi Jesus, this story makes perfect sense to me. There are things no one can talk about. If we insist on trying, as we are inclined to do, then something unforgettable may happen in the air around our words, but it will not be because we understand them in any rational sort of way.”
We all live within the limits of our minds with or without Altzheimer’s. Our imagination is sparse and bound by our experiences. Do we imagine a God who hears our prayer or is prayer a means to action for us? Do we remember our faith stories and cling to the past or are we traveling into new unexplored realities of Imaginative Being informed but not bound by our history? Have we forgotten who we are and to whom we belong? Can we forgive ourselves for not remembering?
Forgiveness and forgetfulness… part of the Great Mystery… We are finite creatures who will never be able to see through the dark glass clearly no matter how hard we try or how learned we are. Like James, I am trying to learn how to live from the heart because no words, no memory can contain the Mystery. And, I must forgive myself for my forgetfulness, my inability to keep my eye on the prize. Tina Turner’s signature song asks the question, “What’s love got to do with it?” The answer is Love has to do with everything and even when words fail to come, when my memory begins to fade, Love will sustain me as it has these many years. And it will flow from James’ heart to mine unrestrained by the limits of language. Thanks be to God for the mysteries that I cannot begin to imagine.
Our innkeeper, Nat Burkhart, was a longtime neighbor when we lived in town. In his retirement, he and his wife, his daughter and her husband built and staff the Sourwood Inn. It sits high on Elk Mountain near the parkway and is perched among blooming sourwood trees and clouds. At breakfast, Nat engages us in theological conversation as he serves oatmeal pancakes and juice. We learn he gives all his guests “propaganda” telling them they don’t have to read it, just don’t put it in the trash because when he empties the trash cans, it will hurt his feelings to find it there. He hands us some of his “propaganda” from various books and articles that have caught his soul’s eye and I bring it home to read. One of the passages is from “The Luminous Web” by Barbara Brown Taylor,
“It is not sufficient any longer to listen at the end of a wire to the rustlings of the galaxies; it is not enough to even examine the great coil of DNA in which is coded the very alphabet of life. These are our extended perceptions. But beyond lies the great darkness of the ultimate dreamer, who dreamed the light and the galaxies. Before act was, or substance existed, imagination grew in the dark. Loren Eiseley
The physicist Neils Rohr, who was so conscious of the limits of language, liked to tell the story about a young rabbinical student who went to hear three lectures by a famous rabbi. Afterward he told his friends, ‘The first talk was brilliant, clear and simple. I understood every word. The second was even better, deep and subtle. I didn’t understand much but the rabbi understood all of it. The third was by far the finest, a great and unforgettable experience. I understood nothing and the rabbi didn’t understand much either.’
Since I have studied under Rabbi Jesus, this story makes perfect sense to me. There are things no one can talk about. If we insist on trying, as we are inclined to do, then something unforgettable may happen in the air around our words, but it will not be because we understand them in any rational sort of way.”
We all live within the limits of our minds with or without Altzheimer’s. Our imagination is sparse and bound by our experiences. Do we imagine a God who hears our prayer or is prayer a means to action for us? Do we remember our faith stories and cling to the past or are we traveling into new unexplored realities of Imaginative Being informed but not bound by our history? Have we forgotten who we are and to whom we belong? Can we forgive ourselves for not remembering?
Forgiveness and forgetfulness… part of the Great Mystery… We are finite creatures who will never be able to see through the dark glass clearly no matter how hard we try or how learned we are. Like James, I am trying to learn how to live from the heart because no words, no memory can contain the Mystery. And, I must forgive myself for my forgetfulness, my inability to keep my eye on the prize. Tina Turner’s signature song asks the question, “What’s love got to do with it?” The answer is Love has to do with everything and even when words fail to come, when my memory begins to fade, Love will sustain me as it has these many years. And it will flow from James’ heart to mine unrestrained by the limits of language. Thanks be to God for the mysteries that I cannot begin to imagine.
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