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Spirituality

The Paradox of Both-And

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graphic doodle image of a seated individual centered on a large heart shape

A recent weekend retreat provided time to feed my soul through calm introspection. Together, with more than 50 women, I explored the theme (Be)Coming: Meditations on Sacred Intersections.

At a time when it feels as if every decision is – this or that, right or left – it is unusual to consider a both-and opportunity rather than either-or choice. The retreat theme, the keynote presentations, the small group discussions, and our activities explored paradox. The idea that at first blush something may appear contradictory but with closer reflection a beautiful, intermingled tapestry may be discovered with the prospect of both-and.

As previously experienced, the sound meditation and “walking” a labyrinth, if only with my fingers on paper, were refreshing. New to me was the mudra we repeated throughout the weekend which incorporated symbolic hand gestures as used in various spiritual and cultural practices while reciting peace-focused words. Our time together provided a nice balance between quiet reflection and intellectual content all with the added attraction of staying in Rochester and sleeping at home rather than a conference center dormitory.

Doodle graphic: © 2024 Emily Morgan

Writing

On the theme of repair and the care of my fragile psyche

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white pottery covered cookie jar with colored decoration at top and bottom edge

My Dad could fix anything.  Or so I believed as a child as I saw the bits and pieces, he made whole.  In the fourth grade, I fell on the ice-skating rink at school and broke my blue glasses that were only three days new.  He closed the break near the hinge (a tricky spot), and I wore those glasses for the next two years.  Or, when he glued together the lid of the Red Wing Pottery Cookie jar, not once but twice.  Both times, years apart, I had dropped the lid while sneaking Pecan Crisp Christmas cookies.  Only the nearly squished frog that I rescued when crossing Vine Street was beyond his saving.  Somehow Momma convinced me, in my very distraught state, that the frog was not really appropriate for a “glue job.” We waited patiently for the small green creature in my hand to stop wiggling.  Then, with care, we dug a hole together for the frog’s safe resting place under the apple trees in the back yard near the black tire retaining wall.  

Unfortunately, the certainty that one’s parents control the whole of the world is an illusion left behind in childhood.  Through years of growth and decades of study, right directions and missteps, love found and health challenges, I realize there is very little within the realm of personal control.  We find reassurance but not control in the predictable (fall leaves cascading in riotous color, the coolness of November days at our 44° latitude, or bluejays frolicking in the neighbor’s crabapple trees.)  Even as I acknowledge those scenes are beyond my control, my brain drifts to November 5 and I slip towards dismay again, shocked by the name of another nominee; worrying about the safety of friends who choose to love differently or whose faces are not the color of mine. 

As a result of this month’s assignment for my writers’ group, even in the midst of these anxieties, I experienced a positive mental uptick.  Yesterday morning, while waiting in the Physical Therapists’ lobby, I realized that my malaise over the election has altered my behavior.  Suddenly, I have been “doom scrolling.”  Spending far too much time scanning social media for an uplifting image, an inspirational quote, or just watching random clips from previously viewed HEA movies. I mean – really – who needs to watch disjointed scenes from Pretty Woman?

Today, I am expanding my self-care regime hoping to repair my bruised psyche.  My plan already included drinking more water and limiting the time spent reading the news.  I will replace “doom scrolling” with reading poetry.  And, following the advice of poet Steve Garnaas-Holmes, I will “seek others who are tenderhearted” rather than cocooning. Today’s gathering of my writers’ group served as my beginning.

Photo credit: Red Wing Collectors (Please note: The cookie jar from my childhood is yellow, still in regular use and it will be filled with Pecan Crisps next month.)

Writing

Charismatic Leadership

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My parents met John F. Kennedy in Eau Claire as his campaign swung through Wisconsin in 1960.  My sister and I stood in a sunny hay field near Augusta, waiting over three-hours, for the arrival of Bill and Hillary Clinton and Al and Tipper Gore.  The newly nominated presidential ticket and the soon to be First and Second Ladies had embarked from LaCrosse on a national bus tour that morning.  Richard and I joined a small rally of only a few hundred people at the Rochester Civic Center when Amy Klobuchar first announced her run for the US Senate.  Accompanying her on this round-robin journey to Minnesota’s small bergs, large cities, and the Metro was the junior Senator from Illinois, Barack Obama.

What struck me in July 1992 and stays with me today is the genuine excitement engendered by these candidates, a palpable energy that exemplifies charisma.  While I know there are behind the scenes speech writers refining the text of each presentation, the core message and certainly the delivery belongs to the speaker.  In each case, these campaign stump speeches, whether spoken by the men who would be president, Bill Clinton, and Barack Obama, or presented by unsuccessful candidates, Al Gore, John Kerry, Hillary Clinton, or Bernie Sanders, the speakers clearly conveyed complex concepts, presented plausible policy developments, and inspired hope.  Tim Walz has this same rousing ability. 

While they may appear folksy – Tim wearing a red-and-black flannel shirt and Kamala ready to cook in her kitchen – I believe they are ready to tackle complex national and international issues.  Together they already possess comprehensive knowledge of complicated topics and are quick-studies when presented with updated information.  They each have a history of developing effective strategies in their work towards justice, often with bipartisan cooperation.  And, as a librarian friend described one weekend during those days of speculation when we wondered who Kamala would select as her running mate, Tim really is the kind of guy you invite to your backyard barbeque.  I cling to a fragile optimism for the Harris-Walz ticket, despite a constant barrage of negative news.

But even as I try to maintain a degree of positivity, I am not so naïve to think the world uncomplicated or our societal challenges easily remedied with one election.  Near to home, there are increasing demands on the local community food shelf and growing numbers of unhoused even as we move into frigid months.  TikTok videos reveal unprecedented devastation brought by Hurricanes Francine, Helene, and Milton, each having made landfall within days of each other.  Gaza still holds the nightly news spotlight as death and destruction occur daily and nearly two million people are suffering from severe malnutrition while living in famine-like conditions.  Mentioned less often, despite deaths numbering in the tens of thousands, are the wars in Ukraine, Myanmar, Sudan, Nigeria and other never mentioned places around the globe.

When compared to the gravity of local, state, national, and world issues, my vote feels but a nanometer (that is a measure of only one billionth of a meter) and yet I persist in believing that each vote matters and we won’t go back.  Armed with poetry and a votive candle, I accept my congregation’s invitation to daily reflection using Poetry for Politics ~ Care for the Soul in the days leading up November 5.  

Knitting

Autumnal Knitting

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a selection of six hand knit beanies in various colors on a wood floor

Unlike Shel Silverstein’s Mr. Smeds who had twenty-one hats, and none of them were the same, I knit only eight beanies for this year’s Halloween hat drive sponsored by Hawthorne Helps.  Momma joined the giving with a donation of two knit scarves.  At nearly 101, she may be their oldest donor and HH will feature her picture on their October 29th distribution poster.

Hawthorne Helps is a community partnership between Rochester Public Schools Hawthorne Education Center and the First Unitarian Universalist Church.  The program also receives support from local faith, service, and business groups.  Twice a month, HH volunteers distribute essential items that are not eligible purchases using Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) benefits, such as deodorant, dish soap, or toothpaste.  Each fall, the selection of items available to the adult learners includes wintery weather gear – hats, mittens, and scarves – which are especially useful for new immigrants arriving from warmer climates.

Writing

Invitations

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bright colored goldfinch on twig with purple and green thistles in the background

A Hallmark fill-in-the-blank card, handwritten by the niece who will, next month, become a first-time grandmother, was more than an invitation to a baby shower.  It was – connection to faraway family.  It was – memory of times together.  It was – sadness as we remained in Minnesota and did not travel to Oregon as we might have done before Parkinson’s Disease.  And it was – joy at celebrating the miracle of new life.  The simple card sat on the dining room table for weeks; a physical sign that people were thinking of us and we of them.  It provided the gentle nudge to keep knitting so to fulfill my practice of gifting hand-knit sweaters for new great-great nieces and nephews, as well as the reminder to start this baby’s library with the best in children’s literature.

The most prestigious invitation ever received by my family invited my parents to the 1965 inaugural gala for Lyndon Baines Johnson and Hubert Horatio Humphrey.  The Office of Alvin E. O’Konski, Member of Congress representing Wisconsin’s 10 Congressional District, sent the invitation in acknowledgement of how instrumental my parents had been in 1962 during his tough re-election campaign after re-districting and his again successful bid in 1964.  While my parents did not travel to Washington, D.C. for the festivities, the large, engraved invitation issued by the Inaugural Committee, with an embossed gold seal, hung for decades on the wall next to the custom-built oak desk and bookshelves.

As exciting as it is to receive such honored surface mail, Mary Oliver reminds the readers of her poem, Invitation, that not every invitation will arrive printed on heavy bond paper or translate into a party.  Rather, the invitation may come in the form of “goldfinches that have gathered in a field of thistles” calling us “to linger just for a little while.” 

I find it takes a conscience effort to linger, to slow down, and simply appreciate.  Electronic devices, apps, and online meetings both ease and complicate our days so that to pause feels almost wasteful; a guilty pleasure since there are always more tasks on my to-do-list than time in my day.  And yet, Rev. Ruth MacKenzie writes that to be “our whole and holy self” requires us to act in an “absolute present tense.”  That act of being attentive to the whole person is not easy, whether that focus is time for personal introspection, connecting with a friend, or meeting a stranger.  That then is the challenge (or more appropriately stated for this post) the invitation to look beyond that which is unfamiliar due to all the factors that form our individualities – family, heritage, language, ethnicity, education – and to linger with the individual, focused on the “whole and holy.”  And, sometimes, to accept the invitation Mary Oliver describes, to listen to the goldfinches …

... as they strive
          melodiously
               not for your sake
                    and not for mine
and not for the sake of winning
          but for sheer delight and gratitude -- 
               believe us, they say,
                    it is a serious thing
just to be alive
          on this fresh morning
               in the broken world ...

Photo credit: Andrew Patrick Photography from prexels

Writing

A Writing Journey

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painting of bright yellow chalice with red flame on dark blue background

I created this blog because I needed a creative outlet during the long days of pandemic quarantine.  It was my hesitant exploration into journaling while hoping to capture brief glimpses into our daily life in words and photos.  I never imagined that four years later I would be concluding my first year, in my first ever writers’ group. 

When I attended an organizational meeting last spring, I went armed with intent and not the intent to write but, rather, the intent to walk if there was any mention of constructive criticism.  While my rational mind knew such advice could improve my craft, my heart was too tender.  Luckily, our group is nothing like English Composition 101.  Our time together is never punctuated with critiques or grades and, depending on the writer’s whim, the rules of grammar may not pertain. 

Our writers’ group is part of a diverse adult curriculum focused on spiritual growth.  I appreciate our small nod to “churchiness” as we consider each month’s Soul Matters theme as a possible prompt.  But, I also relish knowing our compositions may flow in different directions since the theme is a suggestion, only a starting point without strict requirements.  

Every month as I ponder what I will write, I see the faces and hear the voices of my fellow writers in my mind.  Their talent and creativity serve as benchmarks, spurring me on to work harder, pay closer attention to word selection and phrasing, editing and then re-editing before our third Saturday gathering.  I am often humbled by the words they choose to share and, if sometimes there are tears, they are tears of heartfelt support.  They may also be tears sprung from such deep laughter as I wonder how I am sitting with someone who should be writing for late night TV.

In a recent sermon, Rev. Victoria Safford shared the phrase, “we are young on our journey.”  My foray into writing still feels very new and sometimes scary.  I am definitely young on this writing journey, but during this past year I have enjoyed traveling hand-in-hand or better described as keystroke-for-keystroke with my fellow writers on this literary path. 

Reading · Spirituality

Lectio Divina Revisited

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graphic depiction of a flaming chalice on a blue quilted background

The practice of reading, thinking, and praying about a line of scripture was a frequent exercise during my Franciscan and Benedictine school years.  At the time, I did not know this by its Latin name, Lectio Divina, but I received a renewed introduction to this practice last evening.

Possibly because of the widespread dissemination of the Rule of St. Benedict, I associated the four-step practice:  read, meditate, pray, contemplate, with St. Benedict (480-547 CE) when its origins are earlier and have been adapted through time.  There is a Franciscan variation designed by St. Clare of Assisi (1194-1253 CE) and, following St. Ignatius of Loyola (1491-1556 CE), the Jesuits expand their mediation into action.

Recognizing that wisdom may be drawn from many sources, a 21st century adaptation of the Lectio Divina encourages the participant to dwell on sacred words beyond just those of a biblical origin but still integrates four thoughtful steps:  begin, pause, reflect, contemplate.

Begin:  Read the text slowly.

Pause:  Let the words settle.

Reflect:  Meditate, pray, or write.

Contemplate:  Identify what the text calls you to do.

The appeal of Benedict’s Divine Order is that each day’s text is predetermined. The reader joins a communion of others contemplating those same words.  There is extra work required to expand the Lectio Divina to include a modern collection of poetry. Today, on a third Thursday Gathering of Poetry, I will begin my Lectio Divina with words from Lucille Clifton.

True, this isn’t paradise,

but we come at last to love it

for the sweet hay and flowers rising,

for the corn lining up row on row,

for the mourning doves

who open the darkness with song,

for warm rains and forgiving fields,

and for how, each day,

something that loves us

tries to save us.

Graphic credit:  © Peg Green

Writing

Remembering Elizabeth Klein

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I have never thought of myself as a writer.  The practical skills needed to earn undergraduate and postgraduate degrees cemented basic composition skills.  These accompanied me through decades of professional obligations as I prepared copious amounts of monthly board materials, drafted legislative platforms, and crafted strategic plans.  Clear and concise never mingled with creativity.  Writing was an obligation and often a chore that I certainly was not going to perform in my limited free time.  Plus, with more than 45 years in libraries, the opportunities to meet published authors abounded and I knew those visiting poets and novelists were “real” writers.

Even though it has been decades since I chauffeured Elizabeth Klein through a packed schedule of author-in-residence workshops and poetry readings, she serves as my benchmark defining what makes a writer.  With funding from a state arts grant, we crisscrossed central Illinois visiting schools, libraries, and art museums.  She shared her poetry and then helped individuals write their own verse.  She described character development, using her recently published, award-winning novel, Reconciliations.  She declared that for her “writing is like breathing.”  Writing was so deeply ingrained in her conscious and subconscious that she could not imagine even a day without writing.  Her dedication to her craft was completely contradictory to my sentiments since I was happy to avoid writing whenever possible.

writing is like breathing

I surprised myself in May 2020 when I launched this blog.  At the time, I was simply seeking a creative outlet amidst our Covid quarantined days; a place to record, in words and images, tidbits of our life.  That decision led eventually to joining a writing group which has expanded my perspective. I now feel emboldened to self-identify as a micro-writer.  Micro as in – only a little.  Micro as in – needing small topics. 

This blog serves as my knitting journal.  A place where I showcase recent projects, reveal a complicated stitch, or share the origins of a pattern.  Infrequently, I will offer a few sidebars about the books I am reading or descriptions of our garden produce.  And now, with the gentle nudges of my fellow writers, I may bravely foray into more substantial topics as I sharpen the skills in my writer’s toolbox. 

Writing

A Valentine Twist

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white and blue stamped and sealed envelopes framed by pick roses

The simple Christmas letter. A theme for stand-up comics and it has probably been the subject of an SNL skit or two. It is received with excitement as the chance to catch up but may elicit unintentional groans as it is withdrawn from the envelope, depending upon the letter’s length.

Certainly not of sociological merit to warrant research, but what do we know of its demise? Is it simply the victim of postage rate increases? Or, no longer needed in these TikTok days? A quick comparison of two of my personal lists – the 80-plus addresses comprising the mailing labels in the top drawer of my desk and my social media “friends” (air quotes appropriate) reveals few crossovers.

As I reported earlier, I am not inclined to make New Year’s resolutions but as 2023 slipped into a new January, I promised to try (emphasis on “to try”) and write more in the days ahead. I intended these written expressions to take the form of blog posts but I am now inclined to expand my medium from electronic page to printed paper. What unwritten rule prescribes that the holiday letter must be Yuletide greetings? Better timing might be a Fourth of July letter, a mid-summer missive, amid sparklers, s’mores or, as Nat King Cole croons “…[during] those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer; [to] dust off the sun and moon and sing a song [that is a letter] of cheer.” Or a crazy concoction of Christmas letter and sweet childhood valentines. Cannot you just hear James Bond sophisticated confidence: “Shaken not stirred” so as not to disturb the delicate lacy heart shaped edges?

This oddly timed February letter would be written while still in winter’s hibernating time – before pruning blueberry bushes; before green garlic shoots force themselves through the composting leaves; before lilac bouquets – all while endeavoring to blend holiday greetings and catch-up letter. And, if I start drafting such a composition now, I would still be just days from the previous year so that events of 2023 would not be old news and, paired with plans for the coming months, could update family and friends scattered across two continents. A letter composed in mid-winter stillness rather than frenzied holiday preparations; a greeting without chocolates, without perfume (I am seeing the Versace Eros fragrance commercial in my mind) and without complicating the florist’s second busiest day of the year.

Halfway through January, nearly two-dozen days from New Year’s Eve, I may have landed on an additional resolution – one that is easy to accomplish by mixing time, HP printer ink, and Forever stamps in a cocktail shaker of Valentine’s Day greetings.

Photo credit:  Nur Yilmaz from Prexels

Writing

Lean into Generosity

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blue sky with clouds, prairie with trees on the horizon

Stuffing or Dressing?  When planning holiday menus at my mother’s house, we call the herby bread mixture “stuffing” even though it is usually never stuffed but baked as a side dish, which technically makes it dressing.  This is one of those times when the word I use doesn’t really matter other than to clarify or maybe create culinary confusion.  But there are times when the words I chose are important and I appreciate the generous nature of my building team members who, with gentle nudges, assist in broadening my vocabulary.

Initially, I referred to the land at the corner of Viola Road and East Circle Drive – the location of our new church home – as property.  After all, our elected board president and treasurer signed legal documents, F&M Bank holds a mortgage, and we are already making improvements to the site as we mow hiking paths and undertake buckthorn eradication – all actions associated with owning “property.”  But we are not so much the “owners” as the stewards, the caregivers, especially when we consider what the land generously offers to us – the wonder of the wetlands, the bounty of old apple trees, and the glory of an oak savannah. 

Even as I am successful in this naming or re-naming feat there are more language challenges.  There are ongoing discussions as to how we might generously allow access to the land but still be mindful in preserving the fragile ecology of the sedge meadow.  How to minimize our liability without posting No Trespassing signs, especially once we recognized the racially charged history surrounding the posting of land; how this practice only began after the Civil War to prohibit the movement of recently emancipated slaves, to make their journey to safer territory longer, as well as offer legal recourse to incarcerate those individuals of color who were caught trespassing.  How can we be generous in sharing the uniqueness of nearly 40 acres of wilderness within the context of our litigious society?

When faced with these and other niggling questions I take consolation and direction from the words Rev. Michelle Collins offers in her blessing entitled Freely Shared:

Let us be reminded of the many things that are freely shared with us
And that we freely share with others.
May we lean into generosity shared from the hearts.

I love that phrase “lean into generosity.”  Our principles encourage us to share from our abundance and our church mission challenges each of us to generosity.  There are times when we may plunge headlong into a fight against injustice and there are those times we can move with care “leaning” into the questions with mindful deliberation.  As our congregation continues its journey of Building Our Future – Beyond Ourselves and I participate in tough discussions, I do so with the knowledge I can lean on the kindness of others freely shared and offer my support generously from my heart.

Photo credit: Robin Taylor