Blessed Bride's Day

I noticed on several blogs recently (here is a collection) that there was an open poetry posting invitation for St. Brigid's day. (Reya started it!) While I wasn't (initially) energized enough to find some poetry to post, I did some reflection on the bus this morning about what this day could stand for, speculating on what it meant historically. When I got to my office and peeked at Wikipedia, I found I wasn't far off. I'll share my morning reflections and a couple of surprising points about the day. (Then I did dig up a poem from about this time of year several years ago.)

First, the picture above: it was taken - believe it or not - at *five* *o'clock* *in* *the* *afternoon*. Unthinkable, not too long ago, that there would still be sun visible as I trudged over the snow-covered walk bridge spanning the Mississippi River (that curves right behind my workplace building - one of the best views in town).

My reflection this morning on the bus was about how I was feeling a new stirring of energy, not just faith in the promise of new life that is the hallmark of the Solstice / Christmas, but a real stirring of the real thing - new energy, new ideas starting to stir, starting to spark. The new light is becoming strong enough to keep the cold spells shorter, and start melting the new snow pretty quickly. Yesterday, a light snow fell all through the afternoon into the late evening, accumulating a couple of inches of sparkles, which I waded through to the bus this morning. By this evening, it had started to melt, and lacked much of the fluffiness. (But it was still excellent for the folks down the nearby hill where there are miles of cross-country ski paths and a great big hill for sledding. You could hear the distant, happy cries from my corner.)

What Wikipedia told me was very consistent with my reflections: St. Brigid's Day, or Imbolc, is the mid-point between the Solstice and the Equinox. Christianized, it is Candlemas, which is consistent with the theme in earlier time of the stirring light. The name "Imbolc" has to do with the ewes getting ready to lamb - apparently they start lactating before giving birth. Brigid (before becoming a Christian nun and saint) was a goddess of healing, poetry, and - get this - smith craft. According to Wikipedia, celebrations included hearth fires and candles, "divination and watching for omens." Wikipedia suggested that our Groundhog's Day is an echo of ancient folktales of the hedgehog seeing its shadow, or the hag having a bright day to gather more firewood, determining that we will have more winter.

Well, as you can see by my afternoon photo, we had sunshine today, so I guess we're in it for a while longer yet. Even so, the returning light will make it easier to pick up my steps, focus my mind, sustain my attention, and feel less like I have a head full of Swiss cheese (with holes where my memory should be).

And now for some poetry after all - after (literally) dusting off a stack of little hard-bound record books I kept for that purpose some years back. Er - more than ten years back, I find to my surprise.

2/1 (some years back - and I typed this from the handwritten record of a remembered dream without re-reading it first)

Leaving the mother's house

The house of my childhood
and really, my house
that I live in now
is caving in.

Stuck by lightning!
or some natural
stroke
of disaster.

I can hear the beams crumble
off elsewhere in the house
this hallway seems solid
for now
my mother's room
an odd, unused door
an odd, unused closet
has a quick robe for me

to be expelled, willy nilly
out into the cold
from my mother's house
nothing but a robe!
I pause, though,
to rummage through her things.

The jewel-box on the dresser -
can't find it -
I take beads,
great-grandmother's handkerchiefs
I worry her heart
will be broken
to lose it all.

I pause to hustle
my friends away
from their card games
and Monopoly -
no time for leisure.

I am so hesitant to go,
then I reassure myself
surely
we can come back later
when it's all over and done
and pick through the pieces

surely the jewels,
the small, precious memories
will still be there
for mining.
But this house
is no longer
a habitation
half-wrecked, crumbling
even if it should stand
we must pull it down
it's unstable.

And now, I wonder,
what this house is
what it means
that I have lived there
all along.

And now, I wonder
will the neighbors help me
in the night and cold
if I show up
in this ancient, musty bathrobe?
(My pockets stuffed
with my mother's keepsakes.)

How could I go on
working, living, making progress
with nothing to my name?

If I must leave
my mother's house
the house of the mother
the mothering house
the unchanging house

where I live as mothers do

how will I live?

how will I act,
if not as a mother
acting as all mothers act?

How will I work
if I live somewhere else -

Is mothering just a job
and not my dwelling place?

But there's no time
to preserve, linger,
wonder, second-guess -
shock! the building cracks
and pieces crash and fall
it's time to go now!

(illustration from Wikipedia on Imbolc - not labeled except Stonehenge, sunrise)

Self-Hood and No-Self - or who's in there anyway?

(Picture taken by my mini-computer.)

It's raining, raining - turning all that snow into sullen gray mush. (It will all freeze solid tonight, though.) It's actually quite dangerous walking around out there, as some of the sidewalks are water on top of ice.

I've been thinking about "self-hood" and the idea of "no-self" in Buddhist thought. The aim of mindfulness training is to extinguish the illusion that we are someone in particular, rather than an endless series of conditioned actions and reactions. Coming to this awareness is coolness instead of heat, openness instead of constriction. But it doesn't feel all that appealing to me, or rather, flies in the face of the effort to find voice and establish a sense of personhood that many, especially women, have been engaged in. (And which is the sub-text of many blogs - why else the frequent memes of "25 secrets" and such?)

Perhaps we need to have a solid sense of self before we can let go of it?

Another stopping place in my mind for this Buddhist understanding is the insight from parenting that the person-hood of my children was there from the beginning - they never felt like unfolding buds of potential humanity, but as fully present selves at whatever stage they were. And it always seemed to me that they had a strong engine of internally-generated action, rather than being molded from the outside.

How can we love each other as random collections of conditioned action and reaction?

On this point, I rather prefer the Judeo/Christian/Islamic understanding of the creation of individuals as unique and lovable. There are other Western doctrines I'm not as fond of, certainly. (And I readily confess that this "no-self" concept is much more complex than I'm presenting it.)

At least Siddhārtha Gautama kept it clear that none of his doctrines were themselves actuality - just pointers to experiencing and understanding from the inside. That I can completely agree with.

Thanks, blogging companions

I've had the happy fortune to have had two days largely spent in rest and reflection, thanks to the car acting up and my trusty mechanics at Gorshe Auto not having time to work on it today (AND it being a holiday from work). Today I read through the blog entries for the year. I hadn't realized it had been a year - one that started with a secret blog (on spirituality), which I merged later on after I started this one, in a lighthearted mood one day. As I remember it, starting up the first one was a pretty big deal at this time last year - a ray of light and hopefulness in a fairly bleak period of time. I'm glad I loosened up, though, and found a balance of daily life along with more intense reflections.

It's been a highlight of my year, writing this blog, and especially finding others out there in the Hamlet of Blogville to be blogging companions.

What did I learn from re-reading my blogs?

How many weeks blurred by in a workaholic fog . . .

How I celebrated my elderly dog, Rufus, creaking along for so many months in his late life, and how hard it was to let him go . . .

How much fun it was to buy my new pocket-sized Nikon and try it out (reminder to self: I should carry it around more of the time, to catch life happening around me). . .

What fun it was to travel, and to share the beauties of my home state of Idaho (and more here) . . .

How besotted I could get over a curly young pup . . .


And, perhaps most importantly, that writing is a form of mindfulness for me, and it helps to bring me most fully alive. Also, that it is writing in the context of a community, especially a multi-generational community of women.

Here's to a new year of blogging. I might even try writing some more static sketches to post in my "other" blog, "More about me (than you wanted to know)."

Flash! Just found that this blog is now the first hit when I Google "is there anyone else up there" . . . fame!

Bye for now - and thanks!

Now, in the new year

(Sound track today: Graceland, by Anonymous 4. Sorry - I don't know how to post sound files, but there are samples at the link.)


I've just spent an hour or two rereading a series of writing exercises I did a bit more than a year ago. This was a process outlined in a book I found in a church basement sale (where I also got four little matching bone-china plates with vines etched around their rims): Writing the Mind Alive: The Propriaceptive Method for Finding Your Authentic Voice.

In brief, the method involves a 30-minute span of time, writing while listening to music by Bach, a candle flame burning nearby, employing an approach of writing-while-listening to the thin trail of the most authentic possible inner voice, asking (and answering) from time to time the question, "What do I mean by . . . ".

What I wrote about, over and over (through the four months that Peter and I did this exercise sporadically together, often late in the evening, at the dining room table) was my long-standing question of life purpose, or purposes, I guess. I reflected on the core tension of my life, haunted by a yearning to be a writer but instead plunged into the more public/pragmatic work of raising a family, working with students and student services administrative apparatus, along with part-time teaching. Throughout has been the quest for a spiritual path and commitment to my Quaker community - which is another way of saying, a search for the Divine.

In the wavering but faithful light of these months of reflective, candlelit writing, it became clear that the compartments of my life were still one life, and at the core was the question of attention - of being aware, of being wholly present, in whichever activity I engage in.

Today, I made the decision to stay home from Meeting or shopping or other errands that would require me to drive, as the pump that supports the power steering in the car is beginning to fail. I'll take the car in to be fixed as soon as I can. I had a fearful fantasy of having the power steering fail and trying to wrestle the un-powered steering wheel on my way to or from activities today, and decided to let the car sit.

Perhaps what I really needed, this last weekend before the spring semester starts at the University, is to finally take some concentrated time reflecting on this year's turning from the deepest dark to the slowly strengthening light of a infant spring. Now that I am really "pushing 60" - or at least willing to accept it - what might change? Is it time to let go of the tensions that held me for so many years: the pull between creative introversion and competent outward activity? What's next?

Part of me, inevitably, feels this reflection is self-indulgent - well-known voices from childhood onward, no doubt, pushing me to productive activity, instead of wallowing in whatever feeling or fantasy has captured my attention. But long years of the inner-outer dance have taught me of the importance of pulling myself out of the usual round of activities, of taking some time to gather the threads together, to recognize patterns, to discern the next steps.

Writing does seem to be part of the enduring pattern. It is one way I have of celebrating the gifts of my life - the weak but growing sunlight on the tired snowbanks outside; my family of origin (some now down in Baja, Mexico, basking in the stronger sun); my tawny, curly, inadequately trained little pooch; my life companion upstairs napping. Both the inward quest and the outward bustle are gifts to me, in their faithful constancy. Music is a gift. Friendship - a gift I don't reach for enough. The gift of sleep. The gift of reasonable health and strength. All of it - given over and over, changing and slipping away, renewed past hope. The life I am carried along by, more than orchestrating. I do create within this life, but I am also more a witness to its flow, its unexpected or long-predicted turns and tumbles. So let me let go of fears to flow most joyfully, most open-heartedly, in this cascade of time and turning years.

Here's something from Gloryland - sums it up: "SAINT’S DELIGHT" (lyrics Isaac Watts.

When I can read my title clear
To mansions in the skies,
I’ll bid farewell to ev’ry fear,
And wipe my weeping eyes.

I feel like, I feel like I’m on my journey home,
I feel like, I feel like I’m on my journey home.

Should earth against my soul engage,
And fiery darts be hurled,
Then I can smile at Satan’s rage
And face a frowning world.

I feel like, I feel like I’m on my journey home,
I feel like, I feel like I’m on my journey home.

There I shall bathe my weary soul
In seas of heav’nly rest,
And not a wave of trouble roll,
Across my peaceful breast.

I feel like, I feel like I’m on my journey home,
I feel like, I feel like I’m on my journey home.

Over the hill - or turning a corner?

(last visit to Wildflower Garden - click to expand.)

Most of my adult life, I've held a belief that there was purpose and direction to my life, and that there were reasonably dependable ways of tuning in to what I needed to do to move forward. Meditation, journaling, prayer (as in, holding the issue in the Light and waiting for discernment, as the Quakers would put it), consulting with friends, and occasional coin-tossing for I Ching readings have played a part. For many years, a reasonably faithful practice of dream recall and reflection provided an important source of tracing out the underground streams of energy and movement that often were running in opposition to my conscious intentions.

However, recent directions of life change have been less clear to me. Rather than finding the clues and then following them, it's been more that I'm finding myself making the changes, and only then seeing what the new patterns and energies look like.

Over the years, I've chosen to compromise, in many ways, with the underground currents that I discerned. Perhaps I wasn't brave enough to plunge into the Wild Mind to fully develop my writing (see Natalie Goldberg's book, which I'm re-reading), or disciplined enough to develop the spiritual muscles to become a dependable channel of healing energy in the world. I've earned a living, though, doing useful work that benefits society, or at least does very little harm, and I've provided a container that allowed my two sons to stay who they are becoming, with (I hope) not too many nasty recordings of my worried nagging voice looping in their brains. They are both actively creative, too. They will inherit my challenge of how to make a living and keep that creative self alive.

I'm feeling retrospective-ish, right now, because I feel that my recent birthday - turning 59 - marks turning a corner - and, in a way, a decision to start going downhill, rather than continuing to climb uphill in my job.

In my workplace, I shifted three years ago from being an academic adviser with some administrative duties (some years, fairly heavy ones) to doing administrative work entirely, supporting the direct service of my colleagues. In this new role, I have also supervised a small group of support staff. However, I had applied for and had not been offered the "other job" - of directing the advising unit and supervising the advisers. This last August, the advising associate director position was vacated. We've been scrambling somewhat ever since, and I've pitched in to cover some duties, but eventually we got permission (there's a hiring freeze on at my university) to replace this position within a new structure.

Ever since August, I was clear about seeing this advising associate director as the next step for me, and only recently began to question it. By the time the position was actually posted recently, to my surprise, the job no longer felt like it had my name on it. I didn't apply. Why not?

It's really connected to some underground shift in how I perceive myself. I begin to see the value of letting younger people step into positions that offer them a good stretch, a place to grow. But growing in this public, collective, external way seems to hold less appeal for me. And I feel I can let go because I begin to trust I can contribute in other ways than in being the person in charge. I can mentor others without being their boss. I can put more energy into the committee work I'm doing, some of which directly impacts the values of diversity and inclusion that have been core for me in my career.

And I can turn some of my (increasingly diminishing) energy back to my house and home, my family, my health, my own creativity.

In early November, when we stood in line to check out at the Humane Society with Charlie in his brand-new red harness clipped to one of our old leashes, I felt like I was walking through a door into something new. I didn't feel "this is jolly fun" - but rather a certain amount of sadness and even some fear. I recognized this was a somewhat different path than what I had been thinking I was on - one that held me on a leash, too, of needing to re-balance work and home. I knew at some level that this new situation would put limits on me, bring me down to earth. Also, that this new completely dependent curly bit of embodied life-force would bring care, worry, even sadness into my life. But I knew it was a good decision, and I was right. Now, Charlie is firmly fixed at the heart of our family unit (except that Tim hasn't met him yet), and is droll and winning and so danged cute, 24/7. When I wake up, he springs up from his cushion next to the bed ready for me to stumble to the front door to let him out to pee. He tends to be within a few feet range at all times, sleeping or chewing his rawhide bone, or inviting me to pick him up for napping on my lap. He seems to like it here. He gets us out of doors in all kinds of weather. He did a great job at keeping Ben from panicking with his late-semester crunch. Peter has decided our goal for Christmas day is to get ourselves cleaned up and take a holiday greeting card photo with Charlie on our laps.

Well - looking out the window this Christmas morning, I see another onslaught of the three-day-snowstorm is kicking in. Last night, instead of 5-6 inches of the fluffy white, we got 2-3 inches of slush, because it warmed up enough to be rain mixed with the snow. Heavy stuff! We stayed home all day yesterday (except for slogging around the block with the dog, looking at all the picture-postcard houses with festive lights in the snow), and will stay home again today. I'm forced to really see the clutter in the house. Perhaps I'll have some energy to tackle it.

May the holidays bring us all back to what is essential in our lives. May we take some time to breathe in the spark of awakening light and allow it to fill our dark and constricted places. May the new year's path open up us, and may we tread our unique paths gladly and surely, trusting in the wisdom of what we cannot see.

It's a lamb - no, it's a dog - it's - Super Charlie!

Hmm . . . I wonder . . .


Is it a lamb? Or . . .

maybe it's a dog!

(His eyes don't usually glow like torchlights, though . . . )




I'm saving up the more ponderous reflections about My Life for another post. In brief: taking a few days off; finished my course grading; haven't taken in the solstice yet; house in great need of cleaning; youngest Young Adult Son squeaking through his finals (he moved home to get some support for the last couple of weeks); and . . . I'm choosing not to apply for the job opening in my office that would be a logical next step up the ladder, if I needed to climb any more ladders. Maybe I don't.

I think getting Charlie was some kind of statement to myself that there is life outside the office.

I'll write more when I'm rested up! Happy turn of the year into the Light!

This just in - new family member.

I've not been in the blog'o'sphere for some time lately - it just occurred to me today how much I've been missing some folks. Also, without some reflective writing, I end up feeling a bit too much like my days are calendar pages flipping past in a strong wind. BUT I have news to share - a recent somewhat impulsive trip to the Humane Society resulted in being captivated by our newest family member, Charlie.

The tag said "red poodle mix" but we've come to believe he's a gold-colored Pootalian (or Italian Poohound?). We first thought he was poodle mixed with Martian, but some YouTube footage of Italian Greyhound pups does make his heritage clear. It's most obvious when he's outside on a walk. The vet we took him to for his free check-up came to the same conclusion.

He's the sweetest little long-legged lapdog ever, and seems totally willing to love anything alive (not tested on cats or squirrels, though).

We're keeping Charlie in his kennel when we're gone during the day and also at night, which is the one thing he is most unhappy about, not because he doesn't like being there in general, but because I'm off in the other room (and not allowing him to sleep on my bed, which he has discovered to be the nicest place around). That's hard. But I have enough trouble getting good-quality sleep that I can't risk having that disturbed.

I'm not comfortable, in the long run, keeping him on the commercial food that came with him, as he has frequent sneezing fits and may have somewhat itchy skin (licking though not chewing his feet) - so I've spent some time reading up on people's internet conversations about pet food and allergies. Will do some shopping for an alternative this weekend. Any suggestions? I've certainly read lots of opposing opinions out there on the internet! Don't think I'm quite up for the raw-food diet, though we did some of that with Rufus when he stopped being willing to eat anything commercially prepared (except some of the pricier whole-food types of canned food).

I'll take some more pictures of Charlie in action so you can see his arched back and perky ears. He's beginning to get some fur back (they had clipped him pretty much to the skin - which worried me with winter coming on and all). (Oh - and I bought a little kid vest at a used clothes store and stitched some tucks in it so he has a little lumpy jacket for the chilliest days.) Besotted?

What happened to fall?

A surprise snow shower has loaded the still-green leaves with a soppy burden this morning (this is a cell-phone pic from my office window - see the little wet playground at the left). What happened to fall?

Fortunately, I had hurried off to Emit Shoes last Saturday (a little store that sells overstock shoes out of big cardboard bins) to buy some cheap waterproof boots ($10.95) and some shoes that aren't my usual Chaco sandals - and found some $20 Earth shoes that fit. I love a bargain!

I'm very aware these last two weeks how much a spacious, airy workspace adds to my general happiness at work. Walking down the hall to the elevator or 'facilities,' I see the Mississippi River expanse and downtown Minneapolis open up all along the windowed corridor - one of the best views in town. Cut off from even the view of the weather and trees all summer, I felt like an underground troll, and it was easy to have the whole summer season pass by me only half aware. I know that there were several large storm systems that passed through during those weeks that I knew nothing about until I emerged, blinking, at the end of the day.

Now - to put some attention to work-life balance - which will be harder to do if I don't get my home space feeling a bit more inviting than my work space.

Well - stepping over into Autumn!

In my town, we had a very long, extended summer-like season all through September. That ended a bit abruptly just a couple of days ago. I guess I shouldn't complain - but it is a bit of a rude shock to the system (not to mention I never got around to bringing out my warmer clothes).

In other news, I'm out of my summer-long dingy cubicle and into a recently refurbished building (as of one week ago). My corner office on the third floor (see below) is as big as the department director's - but I'm sharing it with a colleague. For the moment, though, it's just me and my books, which have been transplanted onto the ample shelves. (Presently no room for them at home. . . .) I'm waiting for a ride home because it's cold and rainy out there - not fun to drag my wheelie backpack through the sloppy wetness.



On the job front, there's still no word on the reorganization of our unit, which makes me feel unsettled, but also insulates me (somewhat) from feeling I have to take on all the responsibility for the work that isn't getting done.

To distract myself, I've purchased a mini computer that is my favorite toy for now (except for trying to keep the software from updating itself into filling up the hard drive, which at 8 gigabits is minuscule in today's terms):



Fall always ushers in a very busy time, as I'm teaching my evening course as an overload to a jam-packed day job, but I usually also gain some energy from the brisk winds and sense of planetary tilting toward a new state of being.

I know I'm heading for some days of breathtaking beauty. Hope I can get outdoors enough to enjoy them.

May all of us be safe and contented this season
May our efforts come to harvest
May the gathering dusk not dampen our hearts
May we join together to keep spirits alight
May we all be free from strife
May we be free from suffering

Farewell dear Rufus

Sitting in the hubbub that is night
in this neighborhood

moon tucked behind tree branches
and diminished by streetlamps

a steady thrum pulse of cicada
and strokes of other insect calls

near and far and farther yet
dogs speak
their high and low
sharp remarks

jet noise travels through the sky
from right to left
from beyond the city
to its heart

car tires pass by

a distant siren shouts urgency

the moon stays white
and round
and silent

something has caught me - a childhood sense
of dogs in the night
of everyone busy living

is this what touches the sadness
to come out of hiding?

my brown, stiff, geriatric canine
companion
who trusted us
who took for granted
our goodness and care

as we sustained him through illness
accident
and a very long old age

bending our comings and goings
to meet his needs

week in and out

waiting and worried and paying close attention

and glad he could keep on going

what gave us the right to decide
not to carry you further

it was too hard

we weren't free enough
to give you a few more days

probably full of stumbling and pain

(but how could we not ease that pain?)

you came back in a dream
young and low, like a seal
swimming through air
full of delighted motion
heading straight for me

why were you
with my father, old friend?

do you know
how I learn now
to treasure what remains?

this line came to me
in my scanty spatter of tears
(not yet full-bodied)

how our weary hearts
rebel
at this mortality

so we talk of you as absence

in a heartbeat, gone
from lively part of this family
to a sad furry remnant
not even holding much resemblance --

a mystery!
or a cheat

how shaken we were
to walk away, off
to ordinary bustle

with this absence
as if you had never been

an absence that catches
as habit turns to care for you
to plan to return to you
to expect you at doorway
or heavily asleep on your mat
in the morning

but we're free
now, after so many years,
not to attend to your needs
and when alone in the house
we are truly alone
undisturbed - uncompanioned

from one heartbeat
to no heartbeats left

as if you were resting
as if you were at peace

at least there's
no more pain
no more turning your head away
from offered food

no more stumbling
on uneven ground

I'm sorry we didn't have one more
long, clear, open, unhurried day
to spend with you

I'm sorry we tucked
your ending into a busy afternoon

getting ready
for a trip
to a wedding

I'm sorry
I've been too busy since
to say goodbye

to say I miss you

your leash still in the car
where we dropped it that day

your uneaten food in the cupboard

your ashes gone
with other unclaimed pets' --
we had no need for them

but perhaps ashes would have been something --
more than the lingering fur
in every unswept corner

more than this absence
less palpable than a shadow

just out of view

more than a silence

forgive us
every neglect
or shutting you out of awareness
-- for convenience
-- for busyness

for not loving you
gladly enough,
often enough

for having to make this decision
without knowing
what you would have wanted
if you could know
if you could choose

forgive us, all of you

earth animals
driven away,
poisoned,
or cherished without wisdom

you have stayed our healing companions

you have taught us
life's persistence
life's joy

thank you

and peace
be upon you