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Anchorhold

Early during the pandemic, I learned more about unordained Julian of Norwich and her anchorhold. I began to recognize the covered porch that stretches across our bungalow in Ravenna as my anchorhold. On one side of the porch is our quiet and now-closed-to-others, four-walled home. It harbors my blue room and altar, my books and writing utensils, as well as Rob’s grand piano, adequate sound system and our zooming computers.

On the other side of the porch, beyond the front garden that Rob lovingly tends, is the sidewalk. It leads to the park and ravine south of us. Especially early in the lockdown this pathway carried scads of people, a surprising variety of them, some known and some heretofore unknown to us. Often I rock on the porch and visit with the passersby. Or not. Sometimes I hide behind a giant juniper bush and watch. It has been so easy to love the others this way. When conversations develop, they have been rich and full. At some point I began to realize I could offer what might be needed simply by being here, watching and loving. I can be a secure firm hold in a rocky sea from my perch on the porch, encouraging the parents, accepting small gifts from the little ones, laughing, crying along too.

God prepared me for this work from my anchorhold. Last summer when Rob was slowly recovering from surgery, while his prognosis was bleak, we rocked together on the porch and welcomed many friends and family members. They came with their gifts of nourishment and prayers for fond well-being.

This summer, Thank God, Rob is cancer-free, still working on his digestion issues but essentially well—gardening, music-making and bee-keeping. Occasionally he still rocks with me.

Amazingly, during this wild summer, we have finally replaced the front walkway, refurbished the porch, and created a welcome tree and arbor. Today new railings were installed. It’s been a long time coming. Seven years ago, when the piano was being delivered, its leg punched a hole in the old walkway. Since then we have covered the breach with an indoor-outdoor carpet square and let the ant farm below develop. It’s miraculous that this would finally be the summer of full restoration. I am reminded that Rob’s bladder is gone and so is the ant farm we harbored. We have added a hammock I bought in Nicaragua as well as a small solar-powered fountain. We purchased a propane fire circle to use as cold and darkness descends.

It is now time for me to get clearer about what I will be during my retirement. For one like me, it will always be a challenge to resist doing and achieving. My prayer is to embrace my porch anchorhold, the literal one that now has a new and sturdy path connecting me to the world. As I place my hands together in the middle of my chest, I pray that this anchorhold for welcoming and rocking here in my heart will be accessible too. I know this calm center will flourish given intentional steady breath all day long. For this, I am firmly resolved. İOjala!

September, After All

From the very moment I arrived here, I felt a deep full vibrating (yet masked, of course) smile. Happy, gloriously happy to be me, with these two, my jewels.

Being aware of the endless connections. Noticing: Reciprocal Reflections of Light.

How do I describe this joy briefly? Being cared for, held.

This wind, the gusts, the varying hum. And yet, in it I am warm from the inside out. I have many tools, including friends, to help.

It is time to go see the children, to take a few books. No big planning or obligations. I am enough. We will love each other and encourage the parents.

It is September, after all.

Bridging with Birdsong

Chirps

In the City

When it became spring again, we began sleeping with our windows flung open with abandon to the fresh air. Alongside a mile-long ravine smack in the city, sometimes I woke up in the dead of night and heard an owl hoot. Or I’d wake a few hours later but still very early around 430 when the first birds were starting to warm up. Or maybe my first peek would be 30 or 45 minutes later when the cacophony had become orchestral. At some point in those earlier days of Covidtide, I decided that God was talking with me. If I stayed right on the edge of consciousness, trying to remember my dreams and not frustrating myself with the early hour, I could start—just barely—to make sense of things.

Then later in the morning perched on our covered porch in front—my anchorhold—cradling a mug of steaming coffee and curled under a down blanket, I could almost close my eyes to slits and begin to hear the tiny descant-like voices of the preschoolers who live near us. They are not always content, of course, but especially early in the day, they utter kind things to each other and their mother calls them, “My love.” Quietly and secretly, I begin to fold the syllables of their dialogue in amongst the birdsong. I pick up the soundwaves of God’s avian cantatas with human peeps and twitters folded in.

I delight when my neighbor across the street opens his home-office windows and I catch a syllable or two of French as he zooms with his business-mates through the airwaves across the sea. The pulses rise to operatic when Spanish syllables of the nearby workers join in along with the barking dogs and the tinkling sounds of our garden fountain. What could be better?

How about the magic at dusk when most of the birds have gone to rest? Then I marvel when I hear Rob call the young owls and they land on the telephone wires outside our open bedroom window. He has learned to exchange long whistles and draw them close to us.

 

At the Shore

Today we are at the beach house. I am perched among my feathered friends because the best living spaces for humans are on the second floor; our deck reaches out into the scrubby trees around us. I can see five feeders from here—two are flat; one’s a suet cage; there’s a small red-roofed swinging contraption and a sugar hummingbird feeder. The chirps and caws have settled a bit because it’s after noon now. The related sounds I notice are the flutters as the finches and ruby-throated hummers whir around me. Their tiny claws click as they grab the wire mesh. Cracks of seed come from their beaks. The little person across the canal from us adds her before-naptime complaints to the symphony. The progress of construction projects, drilling and hammering, punctuates the air.

This morning I was the first human being up and was situated under a celestial blue sky. Writing, listening, praying, and glancing up occasionally at sunshine glistening on the water nearby. Just in time to identify the white-tailed deer when I heard her prancing through the yard below me. Usually our good and quiet friends are the only people nearby when we’re here. This time though a jolly troop of mostly young adults is camping in the vacant lot between us. As they began to rise and stagger out of their tents and an abrasive-sounding motorcycle revved up, I wasted about 60 seconds lamenting and wondering, “Where has the peace-and-quiet gone?”

Then I shifted. After all, these snippets too are sounds of life—the giggles, greetings, commentary of relaxation and contentment, bacon sizzling. Around 11 o’clock, a reassuring “Daylight in the camp!” rang forth from the patriarch/new owner we are getting to know. This mixed in with grunts from the slugabeds and guffaws in response.

Again, it occurred to me. Amidst the steady birdsong, God was speaking with me. All these sounds could be encouraging. I realized this is all evidence of connection. Clearly also worthy of enjoyment, curiosity. I can be peaceful in this fun marching-band-like hoorah too. The air we share is packed with a variety of sound waves, gentle and loud too.

That’s when a little chickadee chirped close to me. I looked up to see a smaller and more-fluffy-than-usual, black-capped fledgling. About three feet from my face. The challenge was not to move and still remember the next stroke of my pen. Maybe he’d hop across those three feet to glance at the story I was writing. Or maybe not. Regardless more evidence, confirmation of the web.

We are one in song, be it percussion, melody, voice. We create an exquisite ballad sometimes accompanied, like today, by the wind chimes over there. Even more distantly, the rhythmic hum of giant waves. With certainty, the Pacific Ocean purrs underneath the other music as she rocks and cradles us all.

 

 

Trying Dialogue

WriteORama

I started with Gestalt chat. He said that two characters were easiest.

“Ok then,” said me to myself, “Use Poo-phoria and Hershey Kiss.”

I’ll spare you the details.

***

One sunny-ish Seattle afternoon, hidden on Zoom. My first foray with Hugo House, a local nonprofit for writers.

Mid-afternoon, I crafted an exchange, the beginning of a fight between Art and Vida—one that sorely needs to happen. I’ll keep that one to myself too…except from him.

Five classes later, I grabbed some middle names and started writing about Jane. Realized if I make him Black, she can be “white girl” like she already is. I can resurrect them as needed and bring a myriad of conversations to the surface. Mostly I’m recording the snippet here and now so I can see my progress six months, a year from now. At the next Write-O-Rama. Maybe it’s the beginning of a novel?

***

DIALOGUE PROMPT – “There’s blood everywhere.”

“There’s blood everywhere,” she whispered to Roderick over the phone.

“Janie, what do you mean ‘everywhere’?” Roderick murmured back to his pubescent stepdaughter.

“It’s on my white skirt. Right smack in the middle. The one with the pink roses,” she said. “Can you come get me?”

“Honey, I’m in the middle of a rehearsal. Can’t the nurse help you?”

“I’m already in her office. I just wish Mom was still here.”

“Understatement. Me too.”

“Whatever, Roderick.”

The dial tone along with the hush of three long syllables thundered in his ear.

“Damn!” he thought, “Missed another chance.”

It was always easier when she shortened his name to Rod, knowing they might never share the Dad endearment. At least not like they shared feelings of loneliness now.

 

 

 

June 2020

BLM on bike

While I have written more this month than usual, nothing has been clear enough to post. Yes, there is much to be grateful for.  I became a double great aunt. Rob learned he is cancer-free a year after diagnosis. The bees are thriving. My sister Susan turned 60. I can safely visit at Mom’s place again. I created accountability towards improving my Spanish, thanks to the native-speaking postulant in my life.  Rob has been calling the baby barred owls at dusk. And, a wee bird landed on my pajama-clad knee this morning. She preened herself before she realized where she was—just too close to big me—and flitted away in a nanosecond.

I am glad I promised myself a few years ago that I would post something at least once a month. I would find a photo to illustrate the main theme and then officially publish a few words or paragraphs, sometimes an essay.

Perhaps if I try starting with a photo, the words will jell. After all l, June is about Gay Pride! Especially glad to flaunt my helmet this month.

The real gist of June though…

About two weeks ago, early in the day, during zoom Morning Prayer, I remember freezing in my tracks. Someone mentioned something dubbed CHAZ—Capital Hill Autonomous Zone—an area in Seattle that had been blocked off overnight as a base of operations by protesters. The police had left their nearby precinct.

All of my life, on some level, I have been waiting, preparing, praying for this Transformation. Albeit in my own chicken-shit way. Especially over the last decade my life experiences have coalesced to convince me a revolution would most likely be necessary. History has shown us this, over and over again. When the discrepancies are this great, the disenfranchised rise up. Then enough of us who are white and wealthy and privileged finally GET IT. We are holed up at home and we watch those gruesome nine minutes of George Floyd’s murder. We see the statistics of who lives, who dies. And we simply know we will not be able to live with ourselves unless we join in…march, fund, amplify, listen, applaud, influence. Of course it is the right thing to do. Many have known this intellectually but the consistent boldness it requires shames me.

How clear can I be? How long can I maintain this certainty?

My fear that morning was for Carolina, my daughter. She lives a few blocks from CHOP (name changed to Capital Hill Organized Protest). For the love of her, I allowed myself to get too scared that morning. Not unlike what Black mothers live with every day on some level of consciousness. That’s it. The tears came. The empathy. Past all that intellectualizing of discerning how to join in. Just crying, shivering with Mother Love.

From here in my prayer chair in the blue room, my anchor-hold, I will continue sobbing in my grief about this predicament we have inherited and continue to protect through the status quo. Then I will conjure up memories of boldness I’ve witnessed. I will imagine change and eventual justice and peace for all. Blessed Peace for all God’s children, and their mothers, knowing today it’s Black Lives that Matter. I will do my part to undo institutional racism.