Blog

First, a story from my son, Clarke:

Struggling

OK, so I managed to pedal my way to UW a few days this week to register for another Spanish class. But motivating myself for the study it requires of me outside of class…oomph!

Good thing fabulous memories like this one pop up on Facebook to remind me why I do this. I am super-proud of my son who is a fluent Spanish speaker. I believe that even though we are privileged as native English speakers, we too are wise to learn a second language. I think we contribute to the positive evolution of humankind when we encourage communicating across differences in this way.

Still it’s hard every time I start up a new class. I’d rather shore it up immersing myself again by traveling and living with host families. There, I’ve said it. Maybe that will help…the accountability offered by a silent audience.

Bookends of Healing

They were like magnets. When I arrived at the chapel for 7 AM Eucharist, my choice was clear. I scooted to the front row to sit near the doctor and her scrub nurse.

After the service and breakfast together, Brother Paul (of the Franciscan Order) told me of when rain fell upward. Then he encouraged me to share my own Holy Land mystical experience with him. It was good for me to get used to articulating, in the words of Rumi, My Note*.

I told Paul about that time on the Temple Mount when, for a few seconds, the hum of humanity cushioned all the other sounds on the soft cloud of Goodness…the time for a few seconds I was certain my part was about the Universality of Christ.

*From a poem by Rumi

Here

The adage that it takes a day for every hour of time change in order to recover from jet lag after traveling seems about right to me. I’ve been home 10 days following a 10 hour time change. I am now sleeping soundly beside Rob again at night instead of napping, moving to the blue room in the wee hours, craziness like that.

That doesn’t mean my thoughts aren’t still crazily whirring at times. No wonder. I left part of my heart halfway around the world.

When I see photos and read about the protests in Israel over politics, I remember our guides, bus drivers, people of all stripes and proclivities. These are souls who do many things the same way I do, seeking to honor the Divine and care for themselves, their children and their neighbors.

And I weep, Lord, I weep.

*Photo by Stuart Meeks. Church of Saint Anne in Jerusalem.

In Response to a Poem by Rumi

Jerusalem, O Jerusalem…

Reminded of the first time I heard the bells of Holy Sepulchre chime during Holy Prayers to Allah.

I fell to my knees, metaphorically that is.

My hands were flat against the Wall surrounded by ancient Jewish women.

All of us fragile and wrinkled in some way, sheltered under our shawls, begging for Grace, knowing it was there. That’s why we’d come.

We had braved the young soldiers with the giant machine guns. Bared our souls and pocketbooks and bodies before the TSA-like scrutiny.

And on those ancient stones, I noticed the unending hum of humanity mingling with the gargantuan sounds of at least two worldwide traditions.

And the feeling of My Note rising from deep within:

To encourage this diversity.

And do whatever I could in my giant minuteness: To Be Loved and To Love.

And now here at home…

All fragile, in pain

Some hospitalized

Judy,

Chris,

Melissa

The healing I beg for, doubting it’s on this plane.

And yet

Hearing the stories read on the very same day, Ezekiel’s dry bones and Jesus raising Lazarus from the stench of death, no less.

Then seeing Juan,

Alan,

Pat

parade in, one after another. Who am I to doubt?

Knowing they had each been bodily to this plane’s edge.

Do they know they came back to encourage me?

Their’s is the Grace of healing I seek.

Reflecting on Sunday

The sweetest giggle yesterday was when 4-and-a-half-year-old Miriam skipped up to say, “Guess what? We’ve been reading your blobs.” My blobs, eh? Gotta love it! From the mouths of babes.

So Monday in Lent is back and I am recognizing the wisdom of those interspersed Sundays. For one thing, I don’t post. And if you’ve been reading along, you know feasting and fasting for me have little to do with food.

The fact that the community gathers on those days around God’s Table has been just down-right fun, er, with all the appropriate Lenten solemnity that is. That’s the best feast.