BLOGGY BANANA BREAD

If we belong to each other, connected just as we are.

Loved just because.

If we are beholden , content in what is and thankful and living in compassion.

If we know enough to give love as gifts , pass on the sweet taste of Joy, Humility, Beauty, Kindness.

If only it were a simple as climbing up the mountain of life's struggles with each other, with our friends, our loved ones, our sisters, and brothers.

Would it change the way we live?

If this is the truth of loving , then author and artist, Cindy La Ferle gets it.

Her book, Writing Home, which is a collection of personal essays and her newspaper columns, seems to me a walk of this.

In the preface she notes that part of the need to share our stories is " because we have faith--faith that the universe has meaning, and that our little lives are not irrelevant."

I agree with her, but her writings are so much more. They are insightful, gentle teachings that guide us into the quiet peace of how we are happy if only we know it.

She shares her observations and struggles and messages of gratitude and hope in a what she describes as helping her to find the sacred in the suburban.

I see the sacred in her.

And the promise that it's there in all of us. In me. In you. In our connectedness.

Divided into categories such as Child Care,Work Ethic, Keeping the Seasons, Soul Caring, the chapters cover 12 years of penned wisdom. Reflections that I find myself not only agreeing with, or feeling like I'd too, wrestled with the same issues, but in my journey as a mother, a woman, a daughter, and a part of a community, a body of real people, I felt like I'd come home.

She wrote it, she feels it, she shone that light of hers through easy to read and good to go back to words that ripple. Like good gifts should, as she says in a chapter which discusses their exchange.

"Still, I'm convinced that the gifts we treasure most are the small, unexpected ones that show someone was paying attention to our needs and challenges.

And when you consider their tremendous ripple effect, tokens like the guardian angel coin and the courage stone are so much larger than they appear."

She is committed to living a life of complimenting, acknowledging, making others feel good, showing gratitude.

She reached out to me with encouragement. Just a few minutes of time perhaps. But it was priceless in that moment. It was as though she'd brought me that banana bread she talks about sharing with her neighbours. A warm sense of community, of caring, of giving unconditionally.

And in the way of the Mysterious, she lives near the University where my daughter is currently studying, and actually went there for a time herself.

I may have forgotten to mention it to her in our last email exchange that she's on laundry duty from now on. :)

I'm certain that she won't mind if I show up for tea when I'm in the area on a visit.

And I'll be bearing a small gift.

Visit her website, follow her blog , order her book, or 2 so you can pass one on, ( part of the proceeds of which she donates to charity ), and be blessed.

CALL ME CRAZY

Today began innocently enough. Purposefully. The first of a few posts about some books I want to share with you. A thank you for a blog award that I have yet to acknowledge, and the ever on the back burner bloggy beautification program.

Look at my daughters , so entranced with nature's bounty. Caught by their mom ,taking a moment to appreciate the surroundings as we settle in for our vacation in Mexico last year.

Kind of like the peaceful state of mind I found myself in this morning. Except for the tiny glitch where I woke up in the middle of the night grinding my teeth, a stress related habit, so perhaps I was feeling slightly behind in a few things in my deep deep sub-conscious. Nothing a little walk to the park couldn't fix.

Who knew I was going to plunge into the underworld of petty vandalism and seething irate note leaving?

Because if you know me, you'd be very aware that while I may lose it from time to time , okay many times, at home, with all that unconditional love rolling eyes at me, I 'm not really a public losing it type. Not a take action , cut in line, cross diagonally across the street corners, pull a Uturn, kind of gal. At all. I follow all posted rules . Granted I often mumble about the nerve of someone colouring outside the lines. Entering where it clearly says do not. Sampling in the bulk store!

Sure I know when my back is turned that my kids pull pranks and climb in fountains for photos, and even bring a coconut into their hotel room to try, and then have the nerve to toss it over the balcony !

While I was only mildly traumatized ( we were Mexico , on vacation, remember ) , and they did go down to retrieve it, this is the kind of in the moment off the wall stuff I just don't do.

Except for today. Even after feeling the love this week from all of the blogs about gratitude and kindness.

Or maybe that 's why.

Because 2 things have been getting to me when I walk through my very affluent neighbourhood park. Surrounded by homes that are in reality too large, and no doubt lived in by educated rule abiding community minded people.

I have an issue with people who litter. And this includes gardening refuse. Particularly when you clearly have a beautifully landscaped property and then take it upon yourself to top cut your cedar hedge and let all the branches , many 4ft tall, fall and create a nice mound of mess all along the pubic path.

So I picked it up and hurled it back onto their side today, after a week or more of waiting for them to come and get it.

I'm such a rebel. And yes I'm still shaking .

Perhaps they'll be so thrilled to now have greenery to use for Christmas urns and such. They just might have to use a rake or something to fish it out of the slime on top of the pool cover.

But the real call to action for me came when I once again saw a dog , a large breed, tied on a very short leash that was wrapped around the small staircase up to the patio doors.

No real comfortable place to lounge. No room to move enough. No water bowl that I could see. I've returned hours later , having witnessed this a few different days , hoping that it was a quick solution to something . But no. No car is ever in the driveway. No one answers the doorbell.

So I left a note. Not too nasty. Not too nice.

I'm shaking for the cruelty to an animal. Boggles my mind.

Let alone what goes on day in and day out to children. To spouses. To strangers.

I'm still grateful.

That I had the courage to do the right thing.

Right?

I'll be back doing those other posts when my teeth grinding is over the top in the wee hours and I can't sleep.

1000 Gifts, The Mystery of Gifts

Sometimes I've been delivered from the this I know.

From where others have wished to deliver me.

And this is mercy that has taught my heart to wait. Prepared me for the what will be. The it is what it is of providence.

I offer thanks for not getting what I asked for, prayers unanswered, unexpected burdens or hardships. For not what I want, or presume I need. But for enough and more and this you will endure and rejoice in .

The life that bears down on me and lifts me up, beyond and out of my unwise control and manipulation. Deserved not, but sustaining in complete joy. That I bear down in work and play and all of it is beauty.

161. for not getting the sister our family tried to adopt when I was 9. I prayed hard for her raven hair and elegant smile, and older promise of guidance and worship. The agency recognized that we were not even close to being suitable candidates. I cannot even imagine what my lost and spinning out of control parents were thinking at the time, or not, I suppose, just dreaming in desperation for an act of feel good to wash away their shattering. I prayed again when I grew older and thankful for a her hopeful life spared the grief and craziness that was to come.

162. for relationships that didn't work out, boys that failed to ride me off into sunsets, that left me to be found and swept up in solid, abiding, unconditional love by my husband

163. for my mother and stepfather not divorcing when we were small , although oh how we begged. I know now that she would have come undone completely

164. for a honeymoon surprise pregnancy so young, seemingly impossible, the beginning of the greatest gifts I never could have imagined

165. a husband who didn't co-operate with my frequent requests to move every time something wasn't going my way, knowing my feelings of wanting to run away, my fear of bonding and trust

166. that I often counted the days until I could resume the chase for the life I felt I'd never had. For wishing days away when my four were small and then discovering I was pregnant again. We certainly had taken the correct measures to surgically prevent this. It was not about our Will.

167. for a prenatal worry and the specialist patronizing my quivering questions, telling me not be a martyr and terminate the pregnancy . A later perfectly normal test result and then a couldn't be more healthy and beautiful baby girl, planted me in life right where I am blessed and should always be

168. for a part-time job that wasn't anything like I'd hope it would be. I saw children that were proud of their mother while I learned so much about myself and how I could better serve others and stuck it out until I made a transition to something that wouldn't require such long hours. I often cried on the way to work , but look back on it now as the best thing at the right time.

Isn't this just the way . Isn't this so often the case.

I AM thankful.

For all of it and more. Perhaps I wouldn't change as much of it as I thought I would.

Perhaps Somebody knows more than me.

shared with the gratitude community @ Holy Experience

REDEMPTION

Sometimes it's the hardest part about waking up.

Not the endless pulling and pushing of the everyday.

But taking off the covers of the dark. Where I am alone with the all of me oozing out of hiding, just there in the back of my throat.

Where am I?

Can I walk at least in the rising of grace meeting suffering. Is that enough. Should I kneel. Crawl. Dance.

Where are you?

PEAS IN A POD

I posted here today, and thought I'd mentioned it for those of you who don't know that I have been trying to maintain two blogs. Because the words are less about plants and more about the "stuff" that gets written here, I decided to tell you to read it. Or ask you. Or quietly encourage.

1000 Gifts, Gatherings

The wood floors know their purpose is to gather scratches and dents and grit in the grooves.
The heel marks from dancing to life, as it comes in from the outside, where each of the alone meets the other with pulling into arms and coat passing- I'm here.

Here in the now.
Crumbs and drips and splatters find their way onto newly glistened surfaces.
Smear into fibers. Form a sticky path down a cupboard door to find later.

A goblet shatters.

Welcome all of it. Welcome all of who ever comes and goes .


I sit, sunning tired legs on a late fall morning after.

They came to our table.
Fifty plus near to graduating soccer players, parents, assorted coaches.
The past and future of a community.
The here we are together of broken , battered, wrong, right, worn out , triumphant, beautiful giving it all and putting it out there, walking the path with us friends.

This serving I know. I can listen. Cook. Clean up and after.

Come together and shout and drink, eat, sing, dance and be merry.
Stay long, leave hugged and heard and shining your light on me.

We all have it .
We can see it if we make room for it.
Share the space around the kitchen island, on the sofa, by the doorway.
Squeeze in closer and our cups will spill over.
Life will seep down between the planks and dampen the hard shell of our houses into homes, that shift and soften and wrap creaking worn leaning into us love, around us.

A LITTLE GRACE

EVERY SUFFERING can be blessed because it hollows out a place in us for God and his comfort, which is infinite joy.

Peter Kreeft, Back to Virtue

May I share this...

dying-6-year-old-girl-leaves-love-notes-behind

IN WHICH I CRY, AGAIN

A Gift From My Daughter Who Couldn't Possibly Have Known

son arms pulled her into his promise

spine folding over the drying case of her stiffness

and she wondered if he felt it

as though he were again infant and she could let down

and flow life

his lips brushing brow

hard with worry and softening floating memory

she keeps the house dimmer

cuts down November roses

monthly cycles scrape

tears

grey light seeps in

a daughter 's caress

floats down

as that leaf that somehow sighs

in ending

brilliant crimson gift

in living

in dying

her song is deep in dark underground of earth

of trampled muddied drink

of time taking and giving

where she will wait for spring

for the eternal

I received this sketch of a photo of me, in an email from my oldest daughter, who is away at school. I miss her terribly , and when I saw this , words just touch the surface . Of how much I love her, love my children, my husband. The reminders that keep coming down on my often gloomy soul. That I am loved. And I hope I love enough.

~~~shared with other Light seekers, receiving joy in the everyday and night of it all @ Chatting at the Sky

1000 Gifts, Angels and Heroes Among Us, In Remembrance

Dear Father,

Well Dad, here I am again writing you a few lines. I am all safe and sound but pretty well broken up. I have been trying to write a few lines to you all since we did our little job, but believe me Dad, I was so shaken up that I could not write. ... But say Dad, they talk about there being a hell, well we lived through it for three days and three nights. ... Just think, 48 hours without rations and hardly any water and stuck in the trenches not able to move, under shell fire, both shrapnel and gas for 24 hours, waiting for your turn to come, half choked and your eyes bulging out of your head. ..Oh father, it was cruel. I only hope and pray that I never have to go through the same again. The best friend I had, a Sergeant McLeod, shot, just the second fellow in front of me while we were crawling along the trench, there were 10 shot in as quick as you would say it. One went through a fellow and got me in the leg just a touch like a hot poker. I went to see the Sergeant and he died with just a shiver. I had to leave him, I could not touch him,...I got his cap badge and sent it to his Mother in Glasgow.

Do I remember to give thanks for the sacrifices? The storms and uncertainties endured. The dreams put on hold, years of living worn out , making do. What colour painted these sepia smiles, what songs danced through tired and hopeful bones .

As I stare at old photos and words, why am I now listening for their stories. Their voices.

I had already shut them out, anxious to write a story that isn't there. Eager to erase. Ashamed to admit. Closed down to them, as I supposed had been done to me.

My heart cannot tell lies to itself.

In the dark , alone, these eyes find me.

I am ready to listen. To see. To understand. To set words down so that I can connect all the people to each other. To us, and to the future of .

That poor box of history keeps getting moved from one place of relative unimportance, to another of easily forgotten. It's been misplaced and out of sight out of mind.

It's time to remember. To pay respects.

To learn and teach and honour.

To place them carefully in a place of gratitude.

May peace be with you

The photo above of my Great Grandfather was taken in 1905. The excerpt is from a letter sent home during the war in Ypres, France, May 1915.

This post is shared with the gratitude community @ Holy Experience

LESSONS FROM TEEN ATTITUDES

Imagine just flipping on the sunshine like that.

Turning around with love and acceptance and forgiveness.

Imagine not saying all those things that come to mind, things that want to spew forth and lash out , coming from that place where reason has gone to cower or sit in self-righteous indignation.

Imagine embracing and letting it go , and not puffing up and filling up , with anger or resentment or bitter crying out tears of that's not what I wanted to hear.

Could our perspective just change so easily, without going all the way there, all the way down , all the way too far past?

So that you have to dig around for extra pieces, rebuild from the dumped out mess of it all.

What if they have it right, these young at heart silly teen babes of mine. What if they know that we don't have time.

What if this is the last chance, the last day, the last moment?

The end of our forever to get it right.

What if we're supposed to let it shine on and forward, in case suddenly , as we believe, this is the beginning of how it is meant to be.

I unwrapped this gift from my children. Because they aren't the ones that always act like them.

Shared with the other posts @ Chatting at the Sky, for Tuesdays Unwrapped

1000 Gifts, Full Circle

I have driven past , walked by, jogged toward, rushed away. From the beacon that illuminates our neighbourhood. For 13 years.

In the fading light , dropping colours, slowing end of yesterday's time, I finally saw it.

The splendour and serenity of a warm and worn guidepost .

As a symbol of our subdivision, aptly named in representation, it points the way into our criss crossing of streets and crescents .

Yet I'd always seen it as a wreath on a door, a marker on a road, a sign.

In taking the time to look closely and hopefully bring home a few seasonal pictures, my breath caught and heart opened .

And it captured me , converting complacency and a take for granted attitude, into the power and flow of gratitude.

151. as a wellspring of life, lifted spirits, companionship, community,

152. as support, protection, safety, peace, home

153. as a blessing, providing roots for deep nourishing families, solid foundations to build strength and character and integrity

154. doors that welcome, shelter, invite, protect

155. windows of opportunity, views to tolerance and diversity and differences. Gazes out in hope, growth, new mornings, restful nights

156. reminders of how things change, or stay the same. Validation. Promise. Grace coming down and up and around without end, in spite of , instead of , because of , always.

157. comings and goings of years, seasons, stages, despair, excitement. The passing of time, pets, loved ones, neighbours. The changing of patterns, ideals, priorities, situations, friends, attitudes, sight.

158. the predictable, sameness, rituals, expected. The norms, the same olds , the tried and true, the truth and proven good .

159. the subtle shifts, the gradual steps, the little things that make a difference, the first attempt, the brave beginnings, the move to the right way

160. the inspiration to see the small as the whole. The one as the Body.

To view other shared lives of gratitude, visit the community at Holy Experience

FINDING A WAY

When grace descends , the world falls silent before it.

~Philip Yancey , What's So Amazing About Grace

I can only try.

I can believe that it is enough.

But then , I must , in gratitude, do it again, and still more.

I want to sit in the dark , in the shadows, and stay in the anger that protects me.

But then pride and selfishness will leave parts of me barren and without sight.

No one else can do these things for us I suppose.

If you are making your way into the Light, even ever so slowly, you are not alone.

We are not alone.

HERE I AM , THERE YOU ARE

An almost finished project , a donation to a great cause initiated by the one of the sweetest blogger friends I've come to know. If you aren't already a fan of Megan, of Sorta Crunchy , her authentic , wholesome, wise and gracious site... I encourage you to get to know her. Read about her faith, her love for her daughters, her concern for the environment, and her journey into book writing.

Time to get back to a charity I learned about last year , and plan to plunge full out crazy into when the last of the gardens get put to bed. I think this will be a whole post. With a mission.

Finished reading Writing Home , by the I don't know how she does it artist/writer ( and Mom, blogger , inspiring new friend that lives near my daughter and I'll write about more of this later) Cindy La Ferle. There is more to her website, and more to her life, that I'm eager and honoured to continue to learn the story of .

Making the best of where  unseen greater than invitations lead . Making it count for something, because we can. Because why wouldn't we.  A little giving here and there pulls us out of our Self and into the  each other. That's where we're called to be I think.

The hormones and cold fronts I can't avoid, but the light shifts I can do something about.

         Furthermore, we have not even to risk the adventure alone, for the heroes of all time have gone before us.  The labyrinth  is thoroughly known.  We have only to follow the thread of the hero path, and where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god.  And where we had thought to slay another we shall slay ourselves.  Where we had thought to travel outward, we will come to the center of our own existence.  And where we had thought to be alone, we will be with all the world.

                                                                                                    ~~ Joseph Campbell

1000 Gifts, the village

~~ edited to add to the Unwrapped Tuesdays posts with Emily of Chatting at the Sky. I am still walking around full to the brim with revisiting these memories, and while I used time allotted for other things that I now must scramble to achieve, it was the story that I wanted to be written for the day. For a day of living with more than just folded laundry.

The conversation began with that laugh of remembering, so I sat to sew a button back on a coat, and started at the beginning with my youngest.

Her fingers turned the sleeves and we counted pudgy smiling cheeks like reading name tags over their hearts.

I agreed to babysit first one and then another and then they came in and out the front door over and over , in and out of the years and endless minutes of small child mothering.

Our home opened half-day or 2 hour gaps.

The every other day , once a week, or 2 day halves part-time, adding on to us , but still leaving it as just , enough.

Cindy La Ferle, in her book, Writing Home, notes in one of her brilliant essays on finding the sacred in the suburban,

" They say it takes a village to raise a child, and I've never doubted this maxim. But I've also grown to believe it takes a village to raise a mother."

I couldn't agree more.

I wonder if any of these precious children that passed through our lives realize how much of a gift they were to us. To what my children are becoming. Are.

To me as a person, a woman, a mother. A child.

I am so grateful to each and everyone one of them.

In His image they were made. Unique and important.

I hope the storms that were sometimes rumbling in the distant me didn't cross their dark clouds over my face too much.

I hope I looked them in the eye and hugged their souls , sending them out with a little more joy. A little more pride and sense of community and creativity and empathy.

I hope that by sharing what little we had , what little I could muster up some days, their growing up hearts have a little full space that belongs to us.

For coming into my life just the way you were, at just the right time, I so appreciate you.

I couldn't find pictures of everyone, and in most some of mine are included.

And they are not in order.

In humble gratitude ,

Pria Matthew Wesley Andre Concetta Sonia Jessie Michelle

Borden Tyler Mark Paul Daniel Christopher Jonathan Laura

Kaitlyn Jason Dana Kira Jessica Samantha Brooke Ryan

141. for crafts , and all their messes. Bins and pails and piles of art , creativity , and your sparklings

142. for trips to the park, and along the path, down to the lake, over bridges, up ravines, and into snow forts

143. for games and contests, mini-olympics, and races, winning and losing and playing fair

145. for sharing, and waiting, and letting go and missing a turn

146. for books, from our shelves or yours, from the library, or homemade, for the stories we read together or alone and for helping you make a few pages of your life one

147. for singing and dancing and clapping and bopping. Letting happy and you know it voices layer the walls of all the rooms , the streets, our beings

148. for quiet times, and listening ears, and gentle fingers and holding still . For rest and renewal and patience and peace

149. for dress-up and superheroes and make-believe and pretend. For weapons and wands, helmets and princess gowns. For being strong and brave and innocent and wishful. For knowing what I should have, and believing it.

150. for lessons and examples and exploring and guiding. For globes and maps and secrets and ideas. For different languages , cultures, ideas , foods, and faith. For having it without question, and teaching it to me

This post is shared with the Gratitude Community , a gathering of thankful and joy seeking hearts. It is an attitude that is life changing, life making, and yours for the keeping.

GOOD ENOUGH

No Longer For'

Nor Behind

I Look in Hope or Fear

But Grateful, Take the Good I Find

The Best of Now and Here

Here's to a weekend full of living and loving and maybe some laughing.

Here's to a day where even the dog says come on come on come on.

I keep those words on a piece of paper in my purse.

I try.

Sometimes the cold morning air claws at me .

I scoop out loving, trying to even out the sides of the hole.

Now. Here.

~photo of our dog, Diesel, quote from source unknown( to me)

1000 Gifts,The Three Sisters: A Modified Version

The grilled red peppers spit and deflated in the crisp morning sun, ready to be used as part of our Thanksgiving menu in Roasted Red Pepper Soup, along with Prime Rib, stuffing etc.

I had spent the dark of the morning looking through photo albums trying to find the Harvest picture that captured the essence of our years of celebrating this holiday. I came to the conclusion that we've had incredibly varied experiences. None better or worse. Just different.

Adapting to sports events, opportunities for short vacations, school schedules, and company.

This year just the six of us eased into the dining room at a leisurely late afternoon point. A daughter's voice on the speaker phone confused the dog as he tried to figure out where best to work his sad and starving look.

It was abundant and ordinary, quirky and routine.

Gratitude let's you receive it as more than enough.

Let's you see through Friday's stubborn rain keeping the day in a grey morning state while you head out of your city to the next . To joust for groceries, aisle room, parking spaces and turning lanes.

When the road has turned into a highway in what seems like just these past weeks, strip malls and stoplights and commuters clouding the view of horse ranches, farm fields, and crumbling mills.

You're in a slow motion trance, smelling the frying eggs as the audio book pages fill the car and seep out into the rivers where the ditches are inching up and you wonder if you could float alongside the cattails instead of riding the shopper ' s car in front of you.

No wiper speed seems to be right, and you're trying not to get cut off again, and at least the construction mess is finally behind you.

It seems completely normal when ever so quietly just then, with the warning of flashing lights dimmed behind the shower door, that you see 3 cows, possibly sisters, grazing in the bent green of the shoulder. Today the fence was finally in the way and it crumpled easily and freed them just enough so that when you get home to start doing what families do you're as thankful as they probably are.
Sometimes things just come one after the other, unfolding just as they can, and happening just when they do, and it fills you with a sense of peace. Like how the first frost dusting all the shingles like gingerbread will remind you that you always forget that it can, what with everyone wearing shorts just the hours before.

Seasons melt and wrestle and take turns whether you dance rituals for them or not.
It's routine and extraordinary .

Only the awareness of it as a gift for which you are about to receive sits you in the chair at the table of thanksgiving.

shared with the Gratitude Community @ Holy Experience. The routine and extraordinary.

MOTHERS, MARY, AND OBEDIENCE

L.L. Barkat , at Seedlings in Stone, is leading a community of discussion about Mary, the Mother of Jesus.

I wasn't raised Catholic, but converted as part of marriage. While I don't pray to Mary, I pray for her wisdom .

With dignity and grace she submitted to God's will, and for that type of elegant faith, I can pray without ceasing.

These poems are offered as part of the Random Acts of Poetry prompts. The first one refers to a trip I chaperoned with my eldest daughter's class . Part of the tour included the Saint-Anne de Beaupre Basilica in Quebec City.

The second is from an earlier post .

students at the temple

i rode the bus

with gr.8 hormones

clicking tongue at the short skirts, screeching , hacky sacks, and cursing

the talking before and after and during

not sure I was getting this

the mothering stuff

who was i but a child

riding the edge of my seat

to grandma's house

tell it to me straight

not that bed of roses from eye corner while i'm shushing and kneeling

meet me in your mother's garden

reconcile the questions

whisper the secret under her cloaks

even then in the shrine

they slipped away

rushing ahead so that they lost me

turning my holy moment

into angry pursuit

past corners of marble and plaster and mosaic

until i found them

those too young know it alls

and they offered no explanation but their tears

seeking

burning candles

dancing hands in the sign of the cross

i should have known

should have believed it of them

better than me

past their pulled down jean waists and black rimmed eyes

through the human to the divine

through Saint-Anne and Mary

and the bleeding blood of us all

to His

THINK IT TRUE

I'd like to think
that I would give you all my possessions. Even the good stuff.
I'd like to think
that I will always be in the stands for you , cheering, praising, craning neck to catch a glimpse of you coming around the corner, in the crowd, pushing to the front so you see my salutes to your triumph , feel the joy in your victory, support in your losses and misgivings.
I'd like to think
that I'd bow without prompting, padding your way , easing your journey, smoothing the road with my stooping and serving.
I'd like to think
that I'd trust in you, have faith and believe , even if I don't understand the explanations you gave, quietly respectful when you choose to show me without words.
I'd like to think
that I would find joy in my life even if you fill it with immeasurable suffering .
I'd like to think
that I wouldn't curse you or turn from you or doubt that you ever loved me at all.
I'd like to think
that I will always give thanks. For all the gifts. All the grace. Even if the packaging is a little misleading.
I'd like to think
that I wouldn't judge you or condemn you or forsake you.
I'd like to think
that knowing you and loving you will always be enough.

I'd like to think
like Mary, and just let will be done.

As your mother.
As your wife.

Hosanna

photo from Saint-Anne de Beaupre website

THE PARK BY MY HOUSE

Just here, right over there, marks the beginning of me.

I over think everything.

I suppose.

But I wander.

It's what I did that day, as black capes gathered in sorry whispers when my father took his life. Our life. That perhaps wasn't much of anything but rented or resented.

I felt it breathing down my neck and I ran to the tracks, the secret place where our 10 year old legs snuck. Cutting through and behind and past , so we could cross over to ice cream and secret gardens and bleachers where some of them lit up.

What was it about lines of steel and rush of air and noise that cut through morning groggy and dark evening news.

Why do I still pick gravel from wet sandals and catch burrs and a sweater to squeeze through into the enchanted forest.

Kiss the top of my head here sun.

I've joined the ancient circle.

I want blood red sumac batwing sleeves.

I want birch bark anklets and hayride damp thighs and red sand running down my cheeks.

I want to wear a poncho of fog rising off the river and dance with pine cones jingling from hips.

You meet here too.

In the crackle, with mold and death and dark pushing your hands into your pockets.

You troubled teens, or angst filled tweens, or wandering 10 year olds.

Looking for the breath coming down with the moon drops and running under your shirt and skin and into your soul.

Wanting totem pole cornered rings to help you pray to the gods.

So the river of blue skies and red valour and white peace will run off in the rain and wash over and into the green of your earth and the black of your power.

And you'll keep dancing and swaying to the beat of a living heart.

These words are shared as part of Tuesdays Unwrapped @ Chatting at the Sky. I refreshed my soul with a simple walk to the park this morning. An ordinary day, a sacred gift.

It is also the beginning of some thoughts connected to the book club of sorts at HighCalling Blogs, in a discussion lead by Laura. If you've never visited all of the amazing and inspiring and beautiful people that work and play there , go ...wander.

1000 Gifts, the wholeness of the picture

 

 

 Just an ordinary week of perspective.  Being carved out, tested, stumbling, and losing my focus.

   What often  appears wicked, or sinister, or barren,  can of course , more importantly, mirror our self.

   I am grateful for the reality of our lives, that throw us into conflict with illusion. I take solace in all of the  ugly, and angry, and broken. There is always the impossible to ignore dark of my own making.

   But then the illuminating. See beyond and through and  with eyes rested from the sacred places,      

   present in the eternal.

131.  refuge from cruel words
132.  silence to allow others to speak


133.  gossip that ended where it started

134.  temptation to retaliate, to rant , to hurt, that ended in strong comforting arms of my husband,  wrestling with his own fury about these sports situation, drawn first to lean on each other






135. pride in a child's humble acceptance of an award, knowing she understands that it wasn't all about her, knowing she doesn't want it to be

136. gaining new friends, realizing others really never were, and accepting the bigger purpose in all this

137.  being appreciative for days  that may appear impossible and feeling them unfold as uniquely beautiful

138.  fear of the unknown, of the consequences of our actions or lack of and reassuring moments of a presence  greater than our worries

139.  bitter thoughts that reveal vanity and pride and insecurities, again

140.  home and family  as sanctuary, and determination to keep  sweeping my dusty corners to keep it that way

posted with the Gratitude Community, counting the gifts , with Ann Voskamp @ Holy Experience

          

MAIDEN FAIR

If everyday, I could meet your little face at the door, laughing, as you kick up gold dust,

a cascade of gilded candy apples leaving a trail from the outside in

Where you've ridden a pumpkin coach in a snowglobe world to grow richer and wiser and slowly inside out

Would I?

Like some commandment of mothering?

Because there are the days

When you knock out my breath, gold flecks glisten on soup steam and gushing tears.

In silence I try to answer all the timeless questions, as you brush off cinders.

Would I lean over the wishing well and take away the mystery?

My hands stroke sun gold and satin softness that stood tall against a bully. That found the words to make it stop.

When you comforted and embraced the shocked and innocent and still grieving friends, were you wrapping yourself in our each other?

In our One body?

Perhaps we cannot dance in sparkle dreams where leaves swirl about clinging like armour .

We must greet each other in doorways and windows of the unsolved, the painful, the unjust.

And chose our words and our silences.

And our actions.

Carry the love of our neighbours as ourselves into the misty mornings and dark nights.