the cycle of life is ripening...

A few poems and readings today that have been speaking to me over the past

few weeks. As I reflect on what it means to not only accept but truly embrace a new road at this time in my life's journey, my heart is filled with memories. It is clearly time to let go of so much - possessions as well as experiences - so I am practicing relinquishing all the ways I missed the mark with those I cherish the most. Those sad days are over even as I long to go back in history and fix them. This poem whispers a bit of this truth to me...

Everything We Don’t Want Them to Know
by Maria Mazziotti Gillan

At eleven, my granddaughter looks like my daughter
did, that slender body, that thin face, the grace

with which she moves. When she visits, she sits
with my daughter; they have hot chocolate together

and talk. The way my granddaughter moves her hands,
the concentration with which she does everything,

knocks me back to the time when I sat with my daughter
at this table and we talked and I watched the grace

with which she moved her hands, the delicate way
she lifted the heavy hair back behind her ear.

My daughter is grown now, married
in a fairy-tale wedding, divorced, something inside

her broken, healing slowly. I look at my granddaughter
and I want to save her, as I was not able

to save my daughter. Nothing is that simple,
all our plans, carefully made, thrown into a cracked

pile by the way love betrays us.

A wise albeit bittersweet insight, yes? I was asked not long ago what spiritual practices I have made my own. Upon consideration three have consistently shaped my heart: music, silence and the serenity prayer. I have used the simple words of Niebuhr alongside the songs and the silence for over 30 years. And I still need days - weeks even - to settle into the serenity of acceptance. I so want to be in control even as I consciously know it is impossible. 

  God, grant me the serenity 

to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change

 the things I can,

and the wisdom 

to know the difference.

Earlier this week I read these words from the late Fr. Henri Nouwen and they rang all too true within me, too. 

Against my own best intentions, I find myself continually striving to acquire power. When I give advice, I want to know whether it is being followed; when I offer help, I want to be thanked; when I give money, I want it to be used my way; when I do something good, I want to be remembered. I might not get a statue, or even a memorial plaque, but I am constantly concerned that I not be forgotten, that somehow I will live on in the thoughts and deeds of others. But the father of the prodigal son is not concerned about himself. His long-suffering life has emptied him of his desires to keep in control of things. His children are his only concern; to them he wants to give himself completely, and for them he wants to pour out all of himself. Can I give without wanting anything in return, love without putting any conditions on my love? Considering my immense need for human recognition and affection, I realize that it will be a lifelong struggle. But I am also convinced that each time I step over this need and act free of my concern for return, I can trust that my life can truly bear the fruits of God’s Spirit.

Nouwen's vulnerability moves me. I know it took a lifetime for him to get to this place - a lifetime of denial, depression, prayer, silence and eventual collapse - and this offers an upside-down comfort to me. If it took brother Henri forever to move into the serenity of acceptance, if even at the end of his journey he was still encountering downs as well as ups, then I should not be so hard on myself. God's grace is sufficient. And then as if in affirmation, I have a moment of mystical joy - completely unwarranted - that settles my soul. This poem gets close to what the way these mystical blessings evoke deep rest and trust.

The Stars Fell Through My Window Tonight
by Laueretta Santarossa

The stars fell through my window tonight

Astonished
I got up

They were everywhere
Calling me

Shiny bright and brilliant
Peeping through the pines
Playing peek-a-boo with the clouds
Scattering diamonds everywhere

Such Largesse

How could I be so lucky
To be so loved by this good earth

How indeed? Last week, when I picked Louie (my grandson) up from school and

took him over to choir practice, it was bitterly frigid. Waiting for him inside the school a staff member overheard me say to the guard on duty, "I'm here to pick up Louie P." He smiled at me and said, "Are you Jesse's dad?" To which I said, "Indeed I am." He continued, "I thought so. You look just like her!" I felt so blessed in that moment to be recognized as one related to this woman. No longer was she known as my child, but rather now I was being seen in her light. The right order of things was unfolding. So when I came across this poem a few days ago, those smiles returned.

A Perfect Arc
by Laura Davies Foley

I remember the first time he dove.
He was five and we were at a swimming pool
and I said: you tip your head down as you are going in,
while your feet go up.
And then his lithe little body did it exactly right,

a perfect dive, sliding downward, arcing without a wave,
and I just stood
amazed and without words
as his blond head came up again
and today

I watched him for the longest time as he walked
firm and upright along the street,
with backpack, guitar, all he needs,
blossoming outward in a perfect arc,
a graceful turning
away from me.

All week long I've been cleaning and baking. Its my way of honoring the holy days of Candlemas, St. Brigid's Feast and the Presentation of St. Mary the Virgin. Its been earthy. Ordinary. The sun has finally returned after the polar vortex and the ice is melting. I've placed new candles all over the house, too. Later this week we'll take a short trip to start a search for a new house, one that will help us downsize as well as be present in new ways to those we love most dearly. I feel the cycle of life ripening within and beyond me - maybe even a foretaste of serenity, too.