A Fine Sunrise Service

Up early, Finn and I decided to go to the Sunrise Service at Holmes Lake this morning.  Like most early services, it was poorly attended by the bipedals.  In fact, there was only one other car in the parking lot--my neighbor Mary Kay's.  And I was pretty sure we weren't going to sit together, given that she was halfway across the dam by the time I got out of my car.  Fine by me, since one of the reasons she and I love that early service is because the few humans who are there are mostly silent during it.

Atop the dam, I began scanning its backside, hoping to see Mr. Fox at the lectern.  He's a great reader of the holy texts, succinct in his retelling of God's great commands.  Halfway across the lake's spine, I finally spied the fox, who was clearly distracted by voles in the tallgrass. Given that today's reading came from Obadiah (yawn!), Finn and I whispered our silent prayers of thanks for the tiny vole that had disrupted it.

By the bridge, the congregation broke into the service's first song--"All Things Bright and Beautiful"--led by a rather undisciplined choir of geese.  A mallard family, gleeful to have found  a wide swath of open water, hung close to the bridge but refused to join in.  Recalling my own stressful days of bringing young children to church, I withheld my harsher judgments and walked on.

Halfway through the service by now, my mind had started to wander.  Even Finn was distracted, going off trail in pursuit of invisible field mice who'd slept in and were just waking up. My ears stinging from the chill air (I have always hated wearing hats at church), I was glad the sun had begun stretching itself across the sky.

Rounding a corner, Finn and I startled a flock of juncos that were prepping their music for the 10:30 service.  As much as I like their subtle songs, I'm no fan of mid-morning church, preferring instead the comfort of my home's small library, where the Sunday crosswords tempt me.  Though not in a biblical way, of course.

By the second bridge, we caught a glimpse of the guest preacher, a lone blue heron hovering silently over the treetops.  Or, I suppose, it was possible he was hovering over the golf course, wishing for warmer days and a decent chip shot.  Regardless, I appreciated his minimalist approach to this morning's Good Word.  In fact, he uttered not a single one, to which I might have said "Hallelujah!"

Plodding through the final few minutes of the service, Finn and I took note of an eagle-eyed Swainson's hawk, one of the stodgy avian attendees who was making sure we didn't leave early.  The Bluejays weren't deterred, though, heading for the exit, and none too quietly.

Despite the absence of readings, the sloppy singing, the silent preacher--or perhaps because of all of these things--Finn and I left Holmes Lake heartened and lighter in spirit, glad for our time on this earth and our company of creatures, both great and small.

Can I get an "Amen?"

Amen!

Hiding in Plain Sight

I just saw "Hidden Figures," a terrific account of the black women who helped make NASA fly.  That it has taken 50 years for this story to find daylight does not speak well of this land of ours.  And yet. . .

And yet, it happened.  Thanks to courage and grit, smarts and drive, this story happened, even if most of us didn't realize it until just now.   And that, I think, is the point I'm taking home today.  Good does not need the spotlight to legitimize it, although it will blossom when the light finds it.

Three days before a thin-skinned, self-obsessed, pre-Copernican man becomes our president, I have been tempted to turn off the lights and pretend nobody's home.  Tempted to wear my hackles high and pick fights with strangers.  To assume that good will no longer be part of the day's menu.   But "Hidden Figures" reminded me that most things happen behind the stage, away from the bright lights, and that many of those things beckon from very good people doing very good things, often very quietly.

And so, I will hold onto all of the folks who, without even meaning to, have reminded me that there is an abundance of good in this world.  Folks who checked in on me this fall, those who've fed hungry students, tended to tall-grass prairies, stood on the Capitol's steps, fostered tough kids, helped register people to vote, showed others the wonders of thin places, made people laugh and dance and sing, those who've sat with the dying, given their money to causes they believe in. . .  All of these people I know who act quietly and do good in the shadows are part of an abundant tribe, a vibrant throng. And they will still be doing all these things, come Friday and beyond.  Which is why they give me strength and joy and hope, these hidden figures.

And in 50 years, when some stranger discovers one of these small, good stories and shines a light on it?  I am confident that its goodness will sparkle, lifting and sustaining that stranger, just as it lifted and sustained us through these odd days we find ourselves in.

What's Cooking?

Something happened in my kitchen yesterday.  Granted, it wasn't as pretty as the meal I'd made a few months ago (see photo), but it was pretty beautiful, nonetheless.  With the low angle of mid-afternoon sunlight coming through the window, I was watching the cardinals at the feeder while peeling potatoes over the sink. Neat piles of diced onions, sliced carrots and slivered celery awaited their starchy cousin.    

It was a small, quiet moment and I was overcome by the feeling that I'd been there before.  In this place, with these things, happy in my prep work.  

I don't know much French, but I know that I love mis en place--putting everything in its place.   And everything felt like it was in its place, myself included. 

I've made hundreds of weekend meals over the years, working alone in the kitchen with some good music playing and Finn watching from his corner.  It is an easy, well-loved routine of mine.  And that routine found me again, on a bone-chilling Saturday in a brand-new year.

Swimming in the familiar, I somehow couldn't remember the last time I'd made potato soup.  The last time I'd stood at the sink on a Saturday or a Sunday and assembled a meal.  The last time I'd been awash in a beloved routine.  

It made no sense, this feeling.  I make meals all the time.  I'm in my kitchen, at the sink, opening the fridge, looking out the window several times a day.  But there I was, putting on the familiar feeling of deep contentment, wondering how it'd fit as I slipped it over my shoulders.  

The whole weekend, really, has been like that.  Feeling an old, happy groove,  finding a rhythm I'd been missing, synching up with my old self.  The last few months have been like watching a television show where the speaker's lips don't match the words.  I'd been off just a little and then, yesterday, with cardinals fluttering at the feeder, I caught up with me again.  

It was a mis en place moment I hadn't realize I'd been waiting for. And it was delicious.

My Prepositional Phase

This morning, around 6 a.m., I took a little white pill, the first of eighteen hundred and twenty five that I will ingest in the next five years.   In the past few months, I'd heard all kinds of adjectives about this pill's effects.  How it'd make me mean.  Hairy.  Hot.  Fat.  Achy.  Dry.   Not exactly rave reviews.

On Thursday, I talked to my doctor about these words, and my concerns about them.  I also told him about the three-month journey I'd taken since the last time I'd seen him.  How I'd gotten such great care from my medical team, such love from friends and family.  How my mother had died just a week and a half after my surgery.

I talked with him about the intense, microscopic perspective I'd adopted--out of necessity, really--since early August.  How I had spent three months looking closely at things, my own health as well as my mother's demise.  And how odd this past month has been--post surgery, post death, post radiation--a quiet, untethered time in which I wasn't being asked to do anything but heal.

And then he told me that I didn't have to take the pills, even though he thought I should.  That my odds, without them, were pretty darned good. He also disentangled myth from truth, concerning the pills, telling me what might happen to me, but also letting me know what they can do for me.  It was an important shift in prepositions and I paid close attention.

Really, I had never considered skipping this third chapter of my recovery.  But those words--those tough, unpleasant words--did dampen my enthusiasm to begin this phase.  For awhile, I couldn't get over the notion of Jane-plus-25.  But the one word that has haunted me most is the one I spoke most adamantly about when I sat in the doctor's office.  Mean.  I don't want to be mean.    Not for five years, more or less for a day or two.

Still.  

And as we talked through it all, there was a moment when I felt a swell of emotion, when, with a little nudge, I could imagine a flood of tears burbling up.

"Well, I made a promise to my children that I would be a good patient.  That I would do everything I could so that I would not get cancer again."

It was a great appointment.  I really like this doctor, trust his long view and appreciate his quirky humor.  And I felt good about my decision.  Which, really, was a non-decision after all.  I just needed a new preposition.

Two hours into this five-year journey and I haven't grown a beard.  My jeans fit the same and I've been really nice to Finn.

So far, so good.

This Accordian Life

 I used to have a thing with accordions.  And not a good thing.  Our relationship soured in elementary school, when I was taking catechism classes at St. Teresa's.  One day, for some reason, one of my catechism classmates--an odd, leggy, pale boy--brought his accordion and played it for us.  His gangly arms worked feverishly while the instrument wheezed and belched through some unrecognizable tune.  The incident (and, honestly, I really did view it as an incident) kind of scarred me.

I wouldn't look favorably upon accordions until college, when bands like Brave Combo and They Might Be Giants made them suddenly cool to me.  And now?  Now, both Mark and I are suckers for the way the instrument can capture a feeling and break our hearts so well.

I'd be hard pressed to find a musical instrument that does a better job of summing up this squeezebox life of mine.  As a 54-year-old accordion, I regularly vacillate between compressed focus and expansive views, sometimes more than once in a single day.  Facing breast cancer, there were times this fall when I felt like I had no more air left in my lungs.  But always--always--something or someone came along and nudged my shoulders back and filled me up again.  This magical in-and-out quality of my accordion life is why--despite my health, despite the loss of my mother, despite the divisiveness of the election--I still hear music every day.  It is why I have such confidence in the future, even if today feels a bit heavy or scary.

So, I suppose I still have a thing with accordions.  A very good thing.  And I should probably admit that my catechism classmate was way ahead of his time.  Goofy looking as he was, he knew then what it took me another 40 years to finally understand--that there is beauty and awe and music in a thing that is capable of both hugging me and letting me go.

Just Do It

I had a good conversation with a friend Friday about a person who was facing a challenge.  My friend wondered what she should do for that person.  She'd actually answered her own question with one of the words inside of it--do.

It matters not a whit what she decides to do.

The point is, as Nike reminded us, to Just Do It.

"Do" can be a meal.
"Do" can be a hug.
"Do" can be a note.
"Do" can be a phone call.
"Do" can be a look.
"Do" can be a word.
"Do" can be a walk.
"Do" can be shared silence.
"Do" can be a story about herself.
"Do" can be a corny pun.
"Do" can be listening.
"Do" can be a pair of socks.
Heck.  "Do" can even be a Venus Fly Trap terrarium. Maybe most of all.

In this age of Pintrest, when clever crafters publish eye-popping pictures of personalized pap, we middling folk can feel nearly paralyzed by paroxysms of paranoia.  How on earth, we think, can I make something like that?  Better to do nothing at all than to face comparisons. . . . 

Wrong!

(Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. . . . )

If I have learned anything in the past two years, it is to lean in.  To try, especially when I doubt.  And to trust that my own imperfect version of doing is good enough.

Diving In

I loved this painting the first time I laid eyes on it.  Hanging on a kitchen wall in my mom's last house, it reminded me of the endless, joyful hours I spent at East Hills swimming pool, jumping off of its diving board.  This morning, while listening to researcher Brene Brown talk about vulnerability with radio host Krista Tippett, I found myself looking at this painting in a new way.

Arms and legs stretched wide, his body spilling outside of the frame, this young boy suddenly seemed to me to be the perfect model of what it means to be vulnerable, to trust that something will be there to catch him.

Looking back over these past 2 months, I realize I, too, have been a model for vulnerability.  Not a perfect model, to be sure, but I have had so many moments since August 1st when it was clear that I was not in charge, that I would have to lean into trust more than rely upon my own wiles.

Brown's research also looked at courage and she found a surprisingly consistent thread that ran through those moments when courage emerged.  To a person, in everyone that she interviewed, their courage was born of vulnerability.  I don't know how courageous it was of me to buy my first sports bra last week (doctor's orders) or how brave I was, there in the Kohl's dressing room, trying to figure out how to get out of a spandex-laced tank top (another doctor's orders), but I do know that I have been asked to do things in the past two months for which I have had no training.

I also know that my family and I had to find courage last weekend, when the most private of emotions--grief--was played out in the most public of places--a funeral home. And I know that I was scared for a time earlier this week, laying on a table with machinery and technicians hovering over me, people marking me up, machines taking photos of my body, invisible light pouring into it.  There, on that table, staring up into a camera that was staring back down at me, I imagined my mom--in some new place or form that I cannot name--looking down at her daughter who has cancer.  I certainly felt vulnerable at that moment.

But through all of this--from my mom's last weeks leading up to her death to my own health issues--I have also felt something else.  I've felt--with utmost certainty--that I would be okay.  No matter what.  I have felt loved, cared for, looked after, prayed over.   I have felt my oneness with this world, this beautiful place brimming with wonder, these awesome beings shimmering with strength.  I have, in these myriad moments of vulnerability, felt my feet firmly upon this earth and been at peace with it.

. . . more times than I can count, I have felt like I was jumping off the diving board at East Hills pool, arms flailing, laughter burbling from my lips, certain the water would hold me.