Author: alwaysbridging

Seemingly eons ago, one of my daughter Carolina’s godmothers, Susan, gave me John O’Donohue’s book about spiritual friendship. She said I was an anam cara for her, one of her spiritual friends. In September, I will travel with Susan to FarmAid40, a giant concert, where Carolina will be working. Together, we will honor farmers, those who dedicate themselves to nourishing the lives of plants and animals from birth to harvest through the seasons, every year.

During this sad season, I am learning to garden from my chosen anam cara, my husband, Rob. At first, I panicked when I thought he would die soon and take away with him all his wonderful understanding of the first Bible, Nature. I have watched him turn our simple grassed yard into an oasis. Most recently, I have asked him to teach me. First, we asked for help, from the professional haircutters, and paid them lots of money to make it possible for me to imagine going forward later without Rob. And then just yesterday, I sowed a salad of veggie starts in the planters under our welcome arbor. Who knew that I would ever be interested enough and learn enough from Rob to do that?

During this past Fall and Winter, the harvest and slumber seasons, my pod of anam caras has expanded to these “vegetable box people,” my CSA group. In this case, the letters stand for the Center for Spirituality and Action, not the more common acronym of Community Supported Agriculture. We are a circle of 13, a group of seekers, dedicated to the practices of contemplation and now, by God’s grace, to each other.

It feels so right to me, learning to tend my CSA garden as well as the earth. As the poet explained, one’s anam cara tends to be a single being…so close they share dreams, even breath. Even long ago when I initially heard this Irish notion, I couldn’t quite imagine the singularity of such a friendship. That BFF moniker never quite fit for me anyway. After all, there’s her (that friend who comes to mind) and him and that dear one too. There are my sisters too, for Heaven’s sake. Their names all tumble out in my prayers. We have witnessed sparkles of Glory together. How could I ever judge one more worthy than the other?

Thus I am learning as I consider our CSA baker’s dozen. My heart has the capacity to expand, with God’s help, across continents and oceans as well as the small space between the two of us. Everyone in this web is precious to me, including the one who in this moment is walking past our house with his dogs, greeting the day on the other side of our front yard.

This garden of friendship I am embracing is rich in variety including the simplicity of a blade of grass alongside the depth of a rose. All is gracious. All is blessed. I am open to enjoying it all, a living dance of spirituality and action.

As per my spiritual director, “Your mother already has one foot in heaven.” Sometimes she shares what it’s like with everyone in her orbit and beyond. This week the hospice harpist offered us a concert in the living room of Mom’s adult family home. While she snoozed, we meditated and watched the muted TV. The white smoke billowed and the choice of Pope Leo XIV was unveiled halfway around the world. Divine. Surreal.

On these days, I still have to face a chore or two like Martha did (see Luke 10:38) but more often I am shifting and leaning in with Mary-energy. My sisters are encouraging me as they handle some of the practical heavy lifting from afar and I weep and anoint as best I can, remembering my hospice prayer:

Holy One,

In your mercy, grant Mom comfort and ease, and shower comfort and ease on all those who love and care for her.

In Jesus name,

Amen.

We are in the throws of closing down after Moisture Festival and anticipate major withdrawal as our favorite chef moves on to bigger and better things. Let me explain.

Our daughter Carolina has been visiting while she fed the performers and volunteers who’ve created 29 cabaret-like variety shows downtown over 17 nights. We have loved being in her orbit even as Rob has faced the beginning of treatment for a recurrence of cancer. Such joyous life! Every day she leaves here in a different costume and returns with fabulous left-overs to feed us.

Our humble kitchen practically shivers in anticipation of her energy. It happily helps chop and bake and refrigerate her creations. And now in the aftermath, plastic bags having been cleaned for reuse, hang everywhere. Our center of nourishment settles and waits patiently for the next time she rolls through. Fortunately, she has taught me a few tricks but, Lord, the relative peace and quiet is tangible.

We’re on leave from choir so this is my first spring Sunday of journaling on the porch under a down comforter while the boys snooze. Hopefully we’ll actually go to short contemplative Eucharist service tonight – St Mark’s Cathedral in Seattle at 7 pm – where friend Mel Butler is the guest musician.

“Aunt Tater” – brand new nickname conceived during yesterday’s pop-up March Madness birthday party – surprised me with breakfast including lu-ma-mi (LUnes MArdes MIércoles, aka leftovers) of fruit salad and tits, oo I mean tots; bread pudding freshly created by my favorite chef for the morning crew at MF, aka Moisture Festival; PLUS whole cream in my coffee.

What could be better? OK, OK, we know what could be better.

Yes, I know I am behind. For the past four years I have posted every day in Lent, starting with an ashes photo.

This year though, Ash Wednesday fell between the days of Chemo Care Class and Rob’s first treatment for recurrence of bladder cancer. That and the reality that my mother turns 97 soon (with all the meaning that entails) makes it clear I will not be writing every day.

That doesn’t mean I am not observing Lent. As it turns out, the juxtaposition of these events, not to mention the darkness of our political scene, appears to be a way God is getting my attention about this holy season as never before.

I am grateful to have guest authors who may post here over these 40 days. May their presence here and in this world be a blessing to you as it is to me.