Tuesday Noticings

Where is God in this day?  This day where I find myself cursing the phone that won't stop ringing, the endless emails and the long to do list. This day where I find myself whining in exhaustion at 9PM, in line at the Goodwill to buy the white button-down shirt my daughter needs tomorrow for a school performance- the shirt I've already searched 8 stores to find- as my kids dance loud and dizzy circles through the aisles.    And this day when the first moment of silence I've had all day is broken by a knock at the door, "Can I come in? I've had a hard night..."

Surely, God is present and moving in me. I feel wholeness in the movement toward compassion- in the prayers for a grieving friend, in the awareness of the fragility of life, in the hug of comfort for an over-stressed co-worker, in the moment of a conversation when I know to stop laughing and be silent- to be reverent and honor the unspoken pain.  It's in the wave of so many unexpected rushes to deeper meaning and call beneath the chaos...and the moment when I stop steaming with frustration at the long wait and begin to see the people around me as human beings, struggling with their own lives:  the woman haggling over the price of a coat at the goodwill- for whom every cent seems to count; and the man who shuts down his register early- who appears exhausted and longing for a break.

And surely God is present in others- in those unexpected gifts of generosity I don't expect.  Maybe a part of me thinks I don't deserve them, that I have to carry life all on my own.  But to block a gift is to create false separation- isn't this also to block the flow of God? ...So I say thank you, thank you, thank you-- to the friends who take tasks off my to-do list (who do not wait for me to ask); for the moments of connection and the appreciation of my family; for the invitations to my soul that come in places I do not expect- whether it is the executive office or the Goodwill; for the flow of collaborative creativity- beauty and poetry- in planning a worship service in shared ministry; and for all the countless gifts that are being offered- like tiny hands supporting me from so many places- if I can let go and let in.

The fire of life moves in me and all around, and is transformed- from selfishness to interconnection.  From anger and self-pity- to gratitude and compassion.  From me to we.  From separation to love.

Memorial Day Service- and the River that Holds and Heals us All

This UU Memorial Day service from the Church of the Larger Fellowship is powerful and poignant- there is no making it through without tears.  I had watched this last night, and posted about it- but I must have accidentally deleted that post.

So let the worship service speak for itself....we celebrate in community, each of us holding our own story, our own names.   But as we mourn and weep together, the river flows through as a reminder of that which holds and heals us all. May we gather to lift up and honor the lives that have been lost, as the river carries us along with all our yearning for forgiveness...our hope for healing...our promise of peace.

*Note: the service which aired on 5/26 and 5/27 can be found in video archives.  The service includes footage of Rev. Chris Antal speaking of his recent experiences in Afghanistan, and honoring and remembering lives lost.  It was filmed in Garrison overlooking the Hudson River, with West Point in the background... a place that is sacred ground for me. 

The River

I don't know if I can imagine my life without this river.  It is as though no matter how many times the world is destroyed-(and by the world I mean their worlds, our world, my world- as if there were ever any separation)- there is something that flows on and on through it, recreating life. And by this river I mean all of it- not just the pretty hilltops and the mystical woods and the sailboat harbors.  I mean the boys who are shot on the streets of Newburgh. I mean the ones who are learning to shoot behind the towering gray walls of West Point.  I mean the bridges and the tracks too many have tossed away their lives on.  I mean the boardrooms and the bedrooms, the hospitals and the bars, the churches- and the disastrous house.

I dreamed of walking beside the river. There was a sacred rock in my dream, and a gathering of people in an adobe castle. The next day in real life there was a pancake breakfast with community in Beacon, music and children in Newburgh, and a prayer circle in Rock Tavern.  Sacred space.  Safe space.  

I woke from the dreamstate knowing- the healing of this world and your own are interconnected.  I woke from the dream knowing I must heal myself.  And today I knew again if my own life is to be of service, there must be inner restoration.  And then, oh then, imagine....

You are holding a lot- but are you held?  Can a river create space? And who holds you?  I hear the questions they ask though I have closed my eyes. I know only that I am held.   I cannot answer.  But there is a river... a blue blue river reflected, surrounding me.  I cannot answer, though I long to say:  this is why I have come. This is why I am here now- to know only this greatest love and be held, to know only this river that holds me, the river that holds the life.

Sanctuary

There is another song on my heart tonight.  Sanctuary is a Christian worship and praise song-  though I first heard it in a synagogue, while sitting next to a UU friend and behind a man I'd met on a Buddhist retreat.  The Presbyterian minister played it on his guitar, and we sang it over and over that night like a taize chant in the interfaith candlelight service held in my town in the wake of the Newtown shootings last December.  It was a balm for my hurting soul, as we lit candles in that sanctuary, and repeated these words.

Oh Lord prepare me... to be a sanctuary, pure and holy, tried and true

and with thanksgiving, I'll be a living, sanctuary, oh for you.

I am struggling with my own scars that have resurfaced in unexpected ways the past few weeks. I joked recently that it was shadow month (we are supposed to dress as our shadow self at our visit to Silver Bay next weekend)- but I did not know the shadow would be showing up all over the place and knocking me over in real life. Though it is bitter tasting medicine, there is wisdom to be gleaned from her arrival-- the unveiling of my limits, the humbling of my arrogant 'I can do it all' attitude, the revelation of my foolish attempts to play savior to others, and the turning of my heart in prayer- if only to cry out, 'I surrender... help me'.   

In the helplessness and the hurting, I sing- a soul in search of refuge and peace.  And I pray for the wholeness of God to create holy space in me, to be near and close and present, and to create sanctuary- a safe space for healing in my home, my life, and within.  

I know this rose will open...

"I know this rose will open
I know my fears will burn away
I know my soul will unfurl its wings
I know this rose will open."

This song has been playing through my mind this week.  On Sunday, my minister sang it while drumming the rhythm as part of a Time for All Ages; and if this alone had been his sermon, it might have been enough. He told the story of the school children he drummed with during  his recent deployment to Afghanistan -"the greatest gift" he told the children in our UU congregation- and this sharing during our worship service was a gift for me too. 

But of course there was more to his time in Afghanistan, shared in the sermon that followed after the children had left for their Religious Education classes. Stories pulsed In the space between drumbeats- death and drones, pain and prophecy, insulation and isolation, moral injury and healing. 

Together in community we hold this, in the space of our shared sanctuary we hold this, because every story spoken in the light of the flaming chalice is a sacred story we walk with and bear witness to together. 

I pray for that turning of the heart which moves us all closer to world peace. I pray that the arch of our souls curves toward justice, that we do not lead insulated lives, but face together the collective shadow of war. And I pray that we bear witness- not only to the collective- but to our own inner shadows. May this be the work we do- that each one of us in his or her own way find a sanctuary in the larger whole to bear and hold the pain. I pray this for others- and for myself too.

This was my prayer as I sat today overlooking the river, after the rain had passed, quietly singing this song to myself- "I know this rose will open...". I laughed as a groundhog stuck his head up from the lush green foliage at my feet.  And I marveled as a small bluebird perched on a tree branch then flew away, and a little yellow warbler took its place.  The waterfall rushed across the way and the river flowed upstream- past the Thayer Hotel and the West Point museum, through the deepest waters that flow between Garrison and the military academy's high gray walls, and further on down the Valley. I listened to the flow, as even the river seemed to sing-

I know this rose will open.  I know my fears will burn away.

I think of a friend who recently wondered- the rose is so late to bloom, and will it open? We are so many wondering aloud- in bathrooms, in halls, and at the riverside too. We fear it is too late.

But we have seen so much in bud, so much in bloom. Though the medical reports return bleak, the headlines continue to raise murderous fists to the sky, and the gunshots continue to resound, there is a small thing with feathers that nestles close and ruffles in our souls.

Beneath the uncertainty of life, there is this underlying trust. Life whispers- I cannot give you promises that you will not die.  I cannot give you promises that you will succeed.  I cannot give you promises that there will not be pain.  But I do know- yes, I know- this rose will open.  Get closer, and let your fears burn away by the quiet fire.  Get closer, and listen, Life cries- touch me. Touch me and let your soul unfurl its wings.