Knowing what to say or do in difficult times when those we care about are suffering isn't easy, but our efforts—small and feeble as they might be—are greatly appreciated by those we offer them to. Yesterday, in response to reading There Is No Good Card for This, I shared snippets from some of the emails my soul sisters and I exchanged during difficult times. But that's only part of the story. In supporting others through difficulty, we deepen our relationships, and find ourselves filled with gratitude, even in the midst of our struggles, because of the gifts of encouragement we can offer one another. Here then are some of our words of Thanksgiving (though many more have been spoken and remain in memory only): I woke up on this first day of the New Year with renewed hope. I think 2017 was the most challenging year of my second half of life…. Thank you both for being my rock, my anchors, my companions. Honestly, I would not have made it without the strength of our bonds. I am so grateful…. I wish for us strength, courage, creativity, and hope for 2018. Today I'm coming out of hibernation and the first thing I wanted to do was to write to my two soul sisters. I am doing well and seem to have entered a new and unfamiliar stage in life—where I am challenged to accept my good fortune. It makes me happy knowing how fulfilling your life is. Just wanted to let you know I’m thinking of you…still feeling a bit of the after-glow of being able to spend some very special moments together. My heart swelled with gladness reading about you getting away for some spiritual renewal…. Thanks for taking me along in your heart and mind. I will be elevated all week with you there, laboring for love and worshipping. Hallelujah! Thanks for being with me in spirit! Honestly, I always know that you are in my pocket or on my shoulder. What a comfort you are. We will hold you in our circle with us with thanks for the flourishing of your gifts. I can picture you driving through beauty, breathing fresh air, having a day of worship, peace and rejuvenation and deep emotion. I’m so happy that there’s psychic space in your life again for creativity, social relationships, and romance! It was wonderful to hear your "voice" tonight via email and to catch up a little on your life a little. Wow, thank you for calling me into your labyrinth journey yesterday and for the virtual day together welcoming the new and unknown, doing the best we can (and then NOT worrying about it), raking leaves in the spring sunshine, and ascending and communing in prayer. Balm for the spirit indeed. It was lovely just reading about it. I'm so excited for you. So glad to know there are friends nearby to receive and welcome you. How rewarding for you to know you are making a profound difference in the lives of others. Life doesn’t get any better, in my opinion! Thanks for your affirmations. It’s such a blessing to share the highs as well as the lows, and all the in-betweens in our lives. Thanks for “being” together with me last night, it was so meaningful to share my incredible day—I will always remember yesterday and how it came to a close with my sisters. I'm so excited to be living into the fullness of my second half of life with so many enduring friendships … and two soul sisters. Feeling blessed. Dear sisters of light and laughter, I’m appreciating our ongoing email exchange and the deep generosity of spirit flowing among us. —And to you, dear friends and readers of this blog post: May you find light and laughter in your darkest circumstances and may your hearts be open to the gifts of recognition and encouragement, large and small, well executed or awkward, offered by strangers and friends alike on this journey through life.
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I just listened to the book There Is No Good Card for This: What To Say and Do When Life Is Scary, Awful, and Unfair to People You Love by Kelsey Crowe and Emily McDowell. It’s a quick and helpful read (the print version is even illustrated) filled with both helpful and awkward foot-in-mouth conversations of people sharing difficult news. The gist: avoid platitudes, trust your instincts, don’t make it all about you, and when in doubt reach out. For decades in my adult life I could not hold another’s suffering without succumbing to sorrow (even despair) myself. I was too wounded by my chaotic childhood and felt my own inadequacies so acutely, that in my desire to be compassionate I often ended up in a spiral of worry about the other person, terrified about their circumstances as I imagined myself unable to cope in similar circumstances. It took most of my life to learn to hold another’s sorrow lightly: caring about them and their circumstances, but stepping away from my need to fix, heal, or remove their troubles so that I could be released from my own fears about their situations. Allowing others to live their own lives as they choose is difficult when those choices aren’t ones I’d make. The authors of There Is No Good Card for This remind readers to be generous with ourselves, to forgive our unhelpful responses that arise from kind intentions, and to know that we have countless opportunities to practice what to say (and do) when life is hard for those we love. Two dear friends and I, soul sisters, as we call each other, have developed a conscious practice of supporting each other in difficult times and celebrating the good, mostly via email given our geography. (Another dear one and I reach for the phone and prayer across the miles when things get rough). Here is some of what we’ve written to each other in the past eight months that inspires me, and will, I hope, inspire you, too:
Difficult Times A dear friend whose husband was in his final days with brain cancer said she would hold her husband's hand until Jesus came to hold his hand. And that's what I'm gonna do… Cried when Carrie Newcomer sang the song, "You Can Do This Hard Thing," as I am doing this hard thing... I appreciated your words about needing to identify your own emotions/process before talking; so helpful to understand “where we go” when stressed and own that part of it. I have little time to catch up on email replies. I do read as much as I can; when I do, I don't feel so isolated. It was a bittersweet visit, thinking of memories of our life there in the past, and inability to travel now… To let go I need to do a little whining, thanks. I was so freaked out I didn’t know what to do…. I hope your week has been less dramatic than mine. The affirmation card said, “I do the best I can, and then I don’t worry about it.” Well, I’ve been doing the best I can and then worrying constantly about it… I’ve definitely got some healing to do from old wounds around the need to be perfect. Praying for light along your pathway. As you walk in the dark, may you know that God is present to and with you, even when it may feel otherwise. Even though I've been rather self-absorbed, you have been on my mind and in my heart. I think of you daily and try to imagine what your day is like. Thank you for your wonderful words of support and encouragement. I must admit that there are times when humor escapes me and I get down in the dumps discouraged. But I think I have my dad to thank for the humor that returns to me when I remember to keep focused on the light and lightness within. You are incredible! With serious illness all around, you manage to hold on to humor. Honestly, I am grateful for sharing each of your life's challenges. Your friendship and deep sharing gives me hope, grace, companionship, for the long days and sometimes sleepless nights. Hoping you are receiving the soul nourishment needed to sustain you… I’m just a bit tired and punchy, and mentally more-than-ready for life to move forward and onto the next right place and bright season. I am learning to see my faux pas, to apologize, and respond more appropriately. So I celebrate that growth in my life. It wasn't expected, but it opens me to another dimension of honoring the dead by honoring her beloved living ones. It’s such a long process of loving detachment, and it’s so hard to do. I’m hopeful that time and distance will help you to come to a feeling of peace, knowing that you’ve done you’re part in the relationship, and to, as you say, move on with your life. I’m holding you in my heart as we wait in the darkness of the solstice and of wondering what is next for each of us. In the meantime, may you find moments of joy in the coming holidays. Thank you for bearing witness to the struggles our family is faced with. No words are necessary although knowing that I can share this darkness with you lightens my burden greatly. It’s my birthday and I’m spending it at Teen Writing Camp with a dozen 12-to-18-year-olds who’ve voluntarily chosen to sit in a stuffy library meeting room at the Port Orchard Library each afternoon this week to write and learn about writing. We’re opening our last session with thirty minutes of silent writing time before the conversation will range wildly (and may include zombies) and it’ll take all my quick thinking to keep up with their questions and stories. These dozen are full of enthusiasm and ideas and a penchant for the absurd. Half of them are writing novels, some are writing trilogies. They live close to their creativity. It’s been twenty years since I began creative writing for “fun” though I’d had the impulse for at least a decade and had squashed it thanks to my inner critic—a rule following responsible adult who told me my time and imagination were better spent taking care of my family. (Though I did make up elaborate bedtime stories for my children many nights, I never wrote any of them down.) And now, I have the privilege of helping a crop of young writers claim their gifts of creative genius. What I love about being with these teens is that no one has yet convinced them that their imaginations need to be reined in, that creating fantasy worlds and inventing characters is a waste of time, or that they lack the talent to be “real writers.” A writer is someone who writes, and these teens write—in their heads, on paper, on devices. They invest scads of time and brainpower inventing characters, world building, and crafting elaborate plots. On my birthday, my husband often asks me what wisdom I have to impart now that I’m a year older. Usually I don’t have much. But, this year, inspired by interacting with these teens, I’ll share a few words of wisdom gleaned from them that apply to writing and life:
Our writing time is winding down and soon we’ll be eating birthday cupcakes (mine’s gluten-free), listening to the stories that have been woven in this half-hour, and discussing how to stay motivated for the long haul. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate the gift of another year well lived. The view from the Port Orchard library parking lot!
The red rhododendron in my new front yard burst into full bloom seemingly overnight yesterday. After months in bud, some unseen signal orchestrated an explosion of color, a riot of red on green branches. These days, I'm feeling a bit like a budding rhododendron. After four moves in just over six years, my husband and I have settled into a home and community where we'd like to stay beyond our previous two-year-ish home renovation and sale endeavors. Planning to be in one place for the foreseeable future, I'm feeling the desire and finding the courage to branch out and develop a place for myself in the local community, "to bloom where I'm planted," as I've seen on gardening gear. I have a devoted prayer partner and a rich personal spiritual life, but I've been without a worshipping community for four years and knew it was time to find one. I am an introvert, small talk is difficult for me, the thought of church "hopping" or "shopping" has little appeal, and I always have anxiety in new churches about whether or not I will be able to participate in the Eucharist/Communion, since I cannot eat gluten (wheat). The last church I attended was Episcopal, and as a newcomer to the Pacific Northwest, the constancy of the liturgy was exactly what I needed when nothing else in my life was familiar, except my husband! And so ten days ago, I emailed St. David of Wales Episcopal church in the nearby (13 miles away) town of Shelton and asked about the Eucharist. Yes, they had gluten-free wafers available (though previously reserved for shut-ins, they made a change to accommodate me—and others like me). This morning they began a class between services on the history of Anglicanism and I was one of three who joined the priest around a table in the fellowship hall. Today we celebrate Pentecost when the Holy Spirit whipped in like a mighty wind and burned bright as tongues of fire, inspiring thousands of strangers from all over to hear God in their own language. It's a day I've observed in the past by dressing in red, swirling streamers in worship, singing the Spirit Song, and writing poetry. This year I observe a quieter Pentecost, a day where the Spirit has come on a gentle breeze, late afternoon sun warming a cool day, where I have come to a new place and heard God speak in a language that welcomes me into Communion, conversation, and study. A detail I love: St. David of Wales is not just the patron saint of Wales, but also the patron saint of poets! In his honor, I close with one of my poems:
Pentecost We can’t outrun Pentecost Hot breath of God on our faces Spirit scorching our hair One day it will singe off our eyebrows and throw us into the street on a tongue of flame Pentecost comes to set us on fire to brand what we know on our skin to clean us to bone and sinew The dove circles overhead alights on our crowns dares us to expose the spirit of things How do we tell the world we have been burnt down blown away and recreated How do we open our mouths and let tumble out what we know marrow deep Someone has survived the burn and danced in the ashes This someone will stand with us and keep sacred the space at our center It is the very emptiness that fills us this void alive with fiery whirlwind sweeps us into tornado dance Shake up our lives throw us off balance refuse to set us down until we arrive at Pentecost Today I handed over the keys to the Wauna (Gig Harbor) fixer-upper my husband and I purchased on the Key Peninsula in June 2015. Fully renovated, it’s been given a new lease on a long life, sold to a couple who love the final result, and Kevin and I turn our attention to our new home in need of even more care and restoration than the last. When we arrived on the Key Peninsula with our keys to a foreclosed property, we knew we’d be moving on after a few years, but we didn’t know where. For the past few years we combed The Key for possibilities including a red-shagged funhouse on the cliff above Henderson Bay, to a foundationless cabin at the tip of narrow road outside Lakebay, to a sturdy ranch at the southernmost end of Longbranch, all with incredible views of Mt. Rainier. But none of those possibilities were feasible. We were under contract on a short sale in Gig Harbor, then a bank-owned home on Fox Island, that never materialized, so we widened our search, following the ribbon of Hwy 302 from the Wauna curve to its terminus at Hwy 3 in Belfair, then along Hwy 106 hugging the Hood Canal, west past the hamlet of Union to a rickety home on the waterfront facing the Olympic Mountains where we’re undertaking another transformation. I say goodbye to The Key, thankful for patrons of the arts like writer Jerry Libstaff, and his wife Pam, and their incredible hospitality hosting Words & Music and Watermark Writers. It was wonderful to mingle with local writers like Key Peninsula News reporter Irene Torres (who invited me to write for the paper), and Ted Olinger (former KP News editor) at poetry readings and book signings at the Blend Wine Shop & Bar, thanks to Jerry’s organizing, and Blend owner Don’s generosity. I leave inspired by people like artist, writer, and community activist Carolyn Wiley (who seems to do everything, and well); by Larry & Annita, who have a ministry of providing free firewood to veterans and struggling families (we donated the trees, and the labor to split them, that we removed from our property); by the husband selling his wife’s jams between Lake Kathryn Food Market & Cost Less pharmacy to raise money for the fire department (though I can’t find Lake Kathryn anywhere)—and many others who share their gifts with the community. I leave especially thankful for my neighbors, who put up with a yard full of tools and lumber as we renovated our home and appreciated our contribution to the neighborhood health. I take visual memories as well: The two polka-dotted boulders near mile marker 8 on Hwy 302 that remind me of giant dice. Semi-trucks barreling toward me as we traverse the narrow Purdy Bridge. The SUV I followed over the bridge, its side-view mirror scraping the guardrail, sending off sparks. Men and women clad in waders and headlamps harvesting oysters during the late night low-tide in Burley Lagoon. And most of all, the elusive glorious Mt Rainier (which I wrote about in a newspaper column): backlit at sunrise on certain mornings, wreathed by lenticular clouds in midday, glowing pink at sunset. The Olympics have their work cut out for them.
This year has been difficult for me and so many I love (as you can see from my last post "The Difficult Gifts"), so it's not surprising that RESILIENT was the word that introduced itself for 2018 one morning in early December when I was showering.
Resilient seemed fitting, a continuation of my desire to remain open and graceful in the midst of life's challenges, most especially my mother-in-law’s illness and death in 2017, and the continual changing of our deadline to finish and sell our house—our main source of livelihood. The resilience I seek to emulate isn’t just mine, it’s something I witnessed (and still witness) day in and day out as those I love coped (and continue to cope) with job loss and changes, moving, lack of housing, family strife, illness, death, and all the self-doubt and challenges to faith these circumstances stir up in us. I participated in Abbey of the Arts’ free online “Give Me a Word 2018” mini-retreat and nothing rose to replace resilient, though I got clarity on the type of resilience calling to me. I’ve seen my share of resilient flooring at Home Depot, and I’m not interested in bouncing back unchanged. I’m intrigued by resilience in the way Psychology Today looks at it: Resilience is that ineffable quality that allows some people to be knocked down by life and come back stronger than ever. Rather than letting failure overcome them and drain their resolve, they find a way to rise from the ashes. Psychologists have identified some of the factors that make someone resilient, among them a positive attitude, optimism, the ability to regulate emotions, and the ability to see failure as a form of helpful feedback. Even after misfortune, resilient people are blessed with such an outlook that they are able to change course and soldier on. Resilience seemed not only fitting but sufficient, until I awoke in my own bed on December 31st after a week of Christmas travel spent sleeping with my husband on a wiggly air mattress. My eyes flitted open and closed as I anticipated sunrise, looking to see if the skies would be clear enough for Mt. Rainier to be visible. I plumped my pillow and slumbered in the growing light, glancing out the window, every time I regained consciousness. That’s when the word INTENTIONAL dawned in my brain as clear as the looming mountain. I would live 2018 with intention—who needed resilience?—and I’d get a day’s jump start. So as soon as I finished eating breakfast, I set about doing something in my skill set to help finish our home renovation: touch up painting. In retrospect, I remember that my husband mentioned something about being unsure of paint sheen as we gathered brushes, rollers, and paint trays, but his words scudded by like a quick moving cloud in my eagerness to be intentionally productive. I painted some glitches on baseboards then tackled the entry walls, scuffed up from our recent floor tiling. After lunch I returned to the entry to find swaths of shiny paint all over the walls. I’d used semi-gloss, and the walls clearly were not that sheen. The entire room would need to be repainted—maybe the entire main level of the house. And when I had that realization, I completely lost it. Why had my husband set me up with the wrong paint? If he’d only warned me to paint one inconspicuous spot, I wouldn’t have gone wholesale on the walls (as if I’m not responsible for my own actions; as if he has to supervise everything I do). I sarcastically commented about throwing away time and money, and my husband sarcastically commented back that yes, that’s exactly what he loved to do. I stomped to the bedroom, thrashed on the floor, huffed and puffed and cried until my anger was replaced with the heavy weight of sadness and shame. Intentional? Hardly! I hadn’t even paid attention to what my husband told me. I hadn’t asked questions, or made sure I understood. Resilient? Rolling on the floor wallowing in self-pity is only resilient if that’s the type of flooring you tantrum on. When I skulked downstairs and tried to talk about it reasonably, my husband told me that someone—maybe me, maybe one of our crew, no one knew—mixed up our paint finishes during one of the many weeks he was out-of-town caring for his mother, and that in fact, we’d discovered it when I’d touched up the kitchen months ago, and the same thing had happened. How had I completely forgotten? Probably because back then we were preoccupied, and rightly so, with love and loss, and everyone was simply doing the best they could for and by each other in the midst of a poignant and sacred season. In helping my husband to care for his mother in her last months, I was intentional, and resilient. I know this about myself: I am better able to focus on the big picture and attend to the big things in life “that really matter.” Yet I know the small things of daily life, and how I respond to them, are great in their impact. It is the mosaic of such moments that comprises our lives creating the image we have of ourselves, and the impression we leave on others. The great paint debacle of December 31st is simply one example (of too many, I’m afraid) of precisely why I need INTENTIONAL RESILIENCE as the words to guide my life this new year; and always. What words will shape you this year? Oh life, you give me too much opportunity to receive your difficult gifts. You ask me to let go of my desires, my expectations, my wants, my will-- the my, my, my that drives me to distraction, anxiety, fear. You ask me to practice seeing the present apart and aside from my wish to craft existence into something easy and comfortable the recliner and slippers I would opt for over this narrow path these sharp stones that cut and bleed. And life, practicing the art of accompaniment seems never ending as I stumble in descent alongside those I hold dearest through dark canyons. We long for illumination and the river coursing the valley floor where we might drink of life. Instead we travel through fractured families and ailing health down through loss of job and identity, mental faculties and sense of self down amid despair and death. Hands skimming striated walls, we are dwarfed by enormity as we touch the long history of the world and our very small places in it. Oh life, accepting what is, along with our insignificance is such a difficult task. Difficult too, to give thanks in every circumstance, to love the fleeting and fragile. More difficult still to cling to nothing but this moment to find hope and peace in breath alone—And so life, we must practice again and again the art of embracing your difficult gifts. In loving memory of my mother-in-law "Mama Honey" Diane Warner It was December 1980 and my boyfriend Kevin and I had been dating a little over a month when he was having dinner with his family at a Japanese restaurant in Aptos during our Christmas break from UC Davis. One of his siblings asked either what my last name was or how to spell it (it was Preimsberger) when his mother piped up that it didn't matter..."It's going to be Warner," she said, "I see it in the tea leaves." She had yet to lay eyes on me, but she was right. Kevin and I married in August 1982. I remember announcing our engagement on New Year's Day 1982: Kevin and I drove from Davis to San Jose to find his mom in the library at their big house they dubbed The Mansion, visiting with a cousin—family and friends were always stopping by for a visit—I don't remember who else was there, but I do remember how happy his mom was for us and to celebrate, she made some calls and rounded up some of her kids and a few other relatives who lived nearby and sent Kevin and me to Taco Bell to pick up dinner. We came back with bags of tacos and burritos and ate them in the formal dining room at the large table topped with a beautiful crocheted lace tablecloth, toasting with glasses of Pepsi. I was instantly welcomed into this big family—if Kevin loved me, then they loved me. That gift of belonging is one of the most precious gifts I've received in my life, a gift that my mother-in-law extended to me and everyone who graced her doors. Any friend of anyone in her family, or any friend of a family friend, was a friend of hers. Friends and relatives could stop by my mother-in-law's anytime. No need to call first. And any occasion was a cause for celebration. No need for a fancy menu, or to send out invitations. No need to plan in advance or even need to clean if pressed for time—you could just pile everything in a corner and drape a sheet over it. I used her trick many times when my kids were little, and it was the perfect decor for Halloween parties! On the other hand, she especially loved making things beautiful, and decorating for holidays by filling the table with candles and crystals or acorns and pinecones, and when I had the privilege of hosting Thanksgiving dinners with my husband at our house, my mother-in-law—who’d been dubbed “Mama Honey” by our oldest child—was the first to lend a hand and to compliment my arrangements, a collection of my children’s school craft projects I saved and reused. My mother-in-law had a huge oak dining table custom built for her beach house in the early 1980s that sat more than a dozen, and it traveled with her after she moved from there. In the past 35 years I've had the privilege to gather around that table time and time again, with family and friends and strangers who became friends; some of who are no longer living (but feasting with Mama Honey in the next life I hope). Her generosity was genuine and never grudging. Her door and heart were always open, and there was always room for another person at the table, even when they showed up unannounced on holidays after the meal had begun. A true model I’ve tried to emulate—not always successfully. That big oak table got overrun in the past year or so when my mother-in-law wasn't able to get around, even in her apartment. As she began to feel better, the clutter began to bother her more, and I made it a goal to clear it off for her—sorting, filing, and recycling the items it held—in July as she was recovering from a three-week hospital stay. And just in time for the last day of our visit, we gathered round that beautiful table for what would be Mama Honey’s last supper with extended family. There were three children, one grandchild, several in-laws and a few friends gathered for deli chicken and pre-made potato salad, bagged green salad, steak, watermelon, and iced tea. Our menu unpretentious as she'd taught us. There was also a young man most of us were meeting for the first time; a young man who Mama Honey had predicted her granddaughter (my daughter) would marry weeks before she even met him.... Time will tell, but based on my experience, she’s always right about that sort of thing.
Prayer in the Time of Evil
When evil shatters the lives of our brothers and sisters and smashes our illusions of inclusivity, and safety, when the shards splintering our nation pierce our hearts-- grant us solace in our weeping and the courage to dream and speak and act for peace. When violence and hatred bombard our senses spewing lies and hopelessness-- free us from demonizing our enemies as we voice sharp and needed words that name our own complicity while we seek justice, equality and compassion for those who carry the weight of oppression and evil. Let us not be undone by the unconsciousness of fear and hatred, nor give into powerlessness and despair-- Let us reach for each other and step together into the unfolding future holding fast to love. I’ve been up in the air a lot these days, uncertain about many things, caught in worry and anxiety over finances, deadlines come and gone, and the precarious health of those I love. And it’s been taking to the air that has grounded me—not because I’ve gone to exotic locations, or taken a vacation (my plane trips have delivered me to the doors of loved ones in need), but because aloft, the smallness of my life is put into rightful perspective. I was in the air a few days ago, on my 56th birthday, flying from Seattle to San Jose. Instead of my usual “volcano tour” along the Cascade Range, I sat facing the west, and found an entirely new perspective as the plane arced over Southern Puget Sound. I saw the whole of the Key Peninsula—where I currently live, and then miles of the Hood Canal. I spied the fingers of the Skokomish River emptying into the Canal’s Great Bend, pinpointing the strip where my next live-in project house is perched along the shore waiting. We winged past Olympia and soared over the Coast Ranges for hundreds of miles, the lip of the land along the sea always in sight, and the blues of the water and sky bleeding and blurring into the horizon. Ribbons of river wended through mountains and valleys, and by some trick of late afternoon light, the metallic reflection of our plane acted like Tinker Bell’s wand, turning the water below us into flowing silver solder as we passed. I was mesmerized by the magic of it. My husband met me at the airport and took me to dinner. “Do you have any birthday wisdom from your 56 years on Earth?” he asked. “Always get a window seat,” I answered. There is more to it than that. You can’t simply sit by the window, you have to open the shade and look outside, and not just look, but look mindfully, paying attention to what is in view—without being distracted by the inflight magazine or preoccupied with schedules. I gazed out the window, focused on the mountains, sky, sea, and settlements appearing and disappearing below me. The landscape unfolding sparked curiosity and wonder. My troubles slipped from mind, as I contemplated only what I could see in the present moment. Hurtling at 38,000 feet, covering 900 miles in less than two hours—that itself was miraculous enough, but to travel through clear skies, witness to such glory—gratitude filled my soul. As we began our descent over the eastern slopes of the Santa Cruz Mountains, narrow roads snaking along the ridges came into view. Dwellings straddled the spines and slopes along the San Andreas Fault. Whether humans are brave or foolish for building homes and living lives on the sides of mountains that will tremble and slide I saw our vulnerability as universal: how precariously all of us are perched as we cling to life.
The plane travelled further south, toward Morgan Hill, then looped north for our landing in San Jose, and the Santa Clara Valley filled my view. This valley, familiar as Silicon Valley to millions, was once called the Valley of Heart’s Delight. It is the place where my husband, and his mother, and her family back five generations, was born and raised. Houses and high-rises have long since replaced orchards and farms; commercial towers and hi-tech campuses fill the valley from edge to edge, and in each of those buildings: people. All those precious lives, too many for me to even comprehend, living and breathing, hoping and despairing, side-by-side in this one place, held and known by the same force that created the shifting tectonic plates—that too, is nothing short of miraculous. Too soon we touched down, the world shrinking to the confines of the plane as we taxied toward the gate with the restless rustle of passengers reaching for cell phones, tethering back to daily concerns. Seatbelts snapped open, overheard bins unlatched, the aisle crowded with bodies. How quickly the liminal space of flight of evaporated, people taking leave of each other, and the pilots and crew who had borne us between heaven and earth, defying time and gravity. In those moments of reentry, I looked at the faces around me, feeling as though returning to my seat after receiving the sacrament of Holy Communion. I recognized my fellow travelers as family, and felt such tender love toward them, toward all who walk and breathe and inhabit the earth, that the walls protecting my heart cracked and in that exposure, I experienced just a glimpse of God’s expansive love for us. Then it was my turn to deplane. I hoisted my backpack and my heart reassembled, because I don’t know how to survive in that egoless split-open place for long. I trod along the jet-way, hoping and praying that a fissure would remain along the fault line of my heart, one that will gleam like liquid silver in the light. |
I began blogging about "This or Something Better" in 2011 when my husband and I were discerning what came next in our lives, which turned out to be relocating to Puget Sound from our Native California. My older posts can be found here.
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