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Most years it takes me a few days in early January to compile a list of potential words and choose my word for the year. For 2021 though, it was easy; I chose the first word that popped in my mind: Jubilada. Thanks to Latin etymology of many Spanish and English cognates—20,000+ they say—this word is my current favorite. For the last decade or so, when reviewing the past year and looking forward, I’ve chosen one word to accompany me into the new year.

“Jubilada” is the feminine version of a Spanish adjective that means “retired.” Linguistically its false friend (similar roots, different meaning) in English is “jubilant.” Since I am shouting for joy, a.k.a. jubilant, due to my retirement, the relationship of these two words seems closer to a true cognate (similar roots, same meaning).

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed working on behalf of children and families in hospitals and schools for all those years. But when I was 62, the same age Rob was when he retired, I got envious. He’s five years older than me so he has given me a close-in example of how fun it can be to call one’s own shots. So, I put together a glide slope—part-time work, academic leave and COBRA—easing down until I finally reached that magic age of 65 in November 2020. Mine is definitely an example of privilege because I was in a position to plow through the challenging maze to Medicare with options.

Of course, you’ll still find me reading books on the porch to preschoolers whenever I get the chance. Or taking cookies to my baby grandniece and her family. I can sniff out those young parents who might appreciate my encouragement; I hope they realize the encouragement is mutual. I see how well they are doing the most important work in the world—raising children.  And these days, parenting during a pandemic is new territory.

Sometimes I get restless considering what I’m going to do for the rest of my life especially as most of the opportunities for travel and volunteering are still in lockdown. But that is nothing new for me, truth be told. The inner work of Being has often gotten short shrift to Doing from me. In this new world of physically-distant retirement, one of the things I like most is that I no longer report to anyone but God. This simple realization makes me jubilant a lot of the time. Not what I was expecting in 2021, my first full year of official retirement, but better.

Before “Jubilada” (another post that is begging to be written) spills out, I must address the reality of loss. I follow the example set by our new President who chose to recognize, honor and cry over the losses of 2020 before the festival of Inauguration Day. On the evening of January 19th, he led us in ceremony beside the reflecting pool, remembering the 400,000+ persons we have lost to COVID. I was moved to tears. The next morning, after he was sworn in, President Biden, crossed himself as he and Vice President Harris laid a wreathe at the tomb of the unknown soldier, acknowledging the pain of those whose loved ones died in combat. Biden knows personal loss, having buried his parents, his first wife and two of his children. He knows, and said as much, that to heal, we must grieve no matter how much it hurts. Collective grief can be especially restorative. We are all in this together, after all.

I startle when someone asks if I know people who have had COVID. I try not to tighten in judgment as I consider, “Don’t we all?” The list is long and includes my aunt, my sister, my cousin who was hospitalized, family friends who have died.

I’ve almost become accustomed to a bevy of pandemic-related losses—no travel, no restaurants, so little touch, no holding babies or attending funerals. What I lament most though is Mom’s passing memory. I miss Rob’s bladder and how his body once functioned. I too am aging with several new ailments in this crazy year: vertigo, a ganglion cyst, hip bursitis plus more arthritis.

There is no denying our collective sins—institutional racism and violence. Much has been laid bare. We brace for more violence; armed guards stand ready.

Yes, at times I weep.

And I soothe myself as I name the losses. My heart opens to the sorrows of others. I begin to rock slightly and hum. Ever so gradually I summon the courage to hope again, finally knowing, in the words of Richard Wagamese (Embers, 2016):   

“You can’t test courage timidly. You have to run through the fire, arms waving, legs pumping and heart beating wildly with the effort of reclaiming something vital, lost, laid aside or just plain forgotten. When you do that, you discover that we shine most brightly in community, the whole bedraggled, worn, frayed and tattered lot of us, bound together forever by a shared courage, a family forged in the heat of earnest struggle.”

So here I Am. In the Episcopal tradition we have a season of Christmas, a.k.a. The Twelve Days of Christmas, not just one day. This is a super handy understanding when it comes to writing annual holiday letters. For me, addressing cards has become a welcome task beside the fire at the beach cabin. Today rain is pelting on the picture windows to one side of me. And the wind is howling out there. Here inside though, we are cozy and warm. Talk about privilege. We have two houses, each offering a safe change of scenery during the worldwide pandemic.

This time last year, we were planning a trip to Southeast Asia, the last step in Rob’s recovery from major surgery. Clarke was moving in with his girlfriend, Jannet. Carolina was relocating to Capitol Hill to be closer to culinary school. Who knew that we’d go to Palm Springs instead, returning to Corona Central on March 17th…that Clarke would land on the other side of the West Seattle Bridge right before it was declared unsafe and closed to traffic…and that Carolina would live within a couple of blocks of the famed CHOP/CHAZ after George Floyd was murdered? What a year!

As 2020 draws to a close, we are proud of our young people. Employed as teacher and grocer, they are making their way through the chaos. We are fortunate they live nearby during this stretch. Mom lives close too. And even though we haven’t been able to hug each other for way too long, we have created The Anchorhold (our bungalow’s front porch in the Ravenna neighborhood), The Grotto (at Carolina’s) and Backyard (at Clarke and Jannet’s) and now as of last night, The Cave (on the edge of the garage here at the beach), all open and ready for outside visiting at a moment’s notice. We have our ways.

This year I finally and officially and completely retired. The first payment lands in our account today. People ask me what I’m going to do now that I am no longer going to work. The first thing I am not going to do is report to anyone else. Well, I do report to God. And I tell Rob what I’m up to. Like, I intentionally exercised for at least 30 minutes every day in 2020—practiced yoga in two classes per week, cycled an average of 14 miles per week on Her Purpleness, walked a lot, kayaked some or swam laps a few times (but way-too-few for this mermaid) each of the 366 days in this God-forsaken year. I have also read a book a week and am finishing my theology class, “Education for Ministry.” I am almost back to a respectable level of Spanish study—enjoyed a quarter of Casa Latina’s “Somos Vecinos” class as well as weekly morning prayer with my bilingual friend. For me, it’s about trimming those lamps and being ready. Sometimes I still strive and struggle. But mostly I simply love spending a lot of time in the blue room, reading and writing contemplatively.

I cannot tell you how grateful I am that Rob is well. He is wonderful company. This man runs a couple of miles every other day like he has for the 40-plus years I’ve known him. Raises bees. Makes music. Rob is a gentle peacemaker who is leading in his reserved and dry-wit way.

I am also grateful beyond measure for my sisters. We encourage each other in our love for Mom. She is good sweet company even though we haven’t been able to spend nearly enough time with her physically in 2020. Yes, her 92 years have taken their toll. After Dad died, her intent was to move closer to us and then make friends before she became dependent on staff and others. It’s inspiring to realize she’s doing that. Our Bernie reads the newspaper every morning and zooms with us, puzzling and chatting along. She is neighborly to all, where neighborliness is suspect due to contagion-fear.

I know I take my life in my hands when I admit how basically content I am. I do love that we have created ways to safely connect with others even in the cold wet darkness of winter. I scared myself about how lonely I might feel at this point. Instead there is a part of me that recognizes this too as vocation. I treasure the inside monastery-like home we have created along with how we reach out and welcome. I wonder how I can maintain this inner stillness when the CV19-lockdown measures lift.

As vaccinations begin to spread out around us, I am optimistic about the health and goodness they promise. I hope, when this global experience is behind us and even now, we can acknowledge how we are one, all the same Dear One in fact—connected, interdependent and part of the whole. The warm vaccine blanket will tuck us all in eventually regardless of how we each individually choose to respond. We, dear one, will be on to the next blessing and challenge. That’s my take at least.

Happy Christmas and a Hopeful, Healthy New Year to Everyone, Everywhere!

Before Facebook has a chance to tell you, I will: November is my birth month. It’s a special one too: 65.

I am only the Beatles’ proverbial “When I’m 64” a few more days. Because I’m not quite 65 yet, I could go in-person on All Saints’ Day to Saint Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral in Seattle, Washington, USA. I served as the lay reader. I joined the skeleton of others—sound engineer, videographer, presider, preacher, organist and four-part quartet—who have been blessedly creating, with God’s help, our online service each Sunday for almost eight months.

It used to be, before Coronatide, we thought of ourselves according to the Eucharist we attended on Sunday mornings. We were 8 o’clockers, 9 o’clockers and 11 o’clockers. Now we are Zoom O’clockers.

Yes, there is clear serendipity in worshipping together at the time that the service is actually livestreamed. I have experienced it many times in community simultaneously, usually clad in my pajamas.

Some say getting dressed for the day, having the service leaflet printed or available on a screen for reference helps one to focus. I know watching the hymn review provided by our fabulous musicians the Thursday before also helps.

Now, after Election Day, in the liminal space of waiting, I am getting around to posting. Yesterday my old computer was decidedly on the brink. So was I. Now I am looking for ways to soothe myself; I know writing and sharing helps. Plus the little-laptop-that-could is cooperating. Back to my reflections from the beginning of the week, seemingly eons ago.

Regarding the value of virtual church:

I have found the ability to organically watch the service (or even parts of the service—the sermon, for instance) means I never miss it. And since I usually stream from home, worship with others in my community has become my day-to-day reality. If I need to, I can also help my mother tap into FaceTime with her siblings around the country and from coast-to-coast—they gather at 2 PM East Coast Time, precisely the start time of our main livestream. So, I help her, chat with my aunts, uncles and cousins and then come back to the service later. I can even watch a football game, I don’t mind saying, when the Seahawks draw the early start time. And I can recommend the service to others anywhere in the world to watch during their awake time. That said, the archived version is always available even in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep.

On the Feast of All Saints, I saw how the oh-so-delicious service sausage is made, starting with the health sign-in questions. Some of the ingredients were obvious beforehand. I knew I would be reading from Revelation, the fanciful prophecy about All Evolving into Spirit. Thanks to our tradition of reading from the lectionary, we read the same passage that is recited in many Christian churches around the globe. I knew it would be paired with the Beatitudes from Matthew’s Gospel. I knew the offertory music would be Aaron Copland’s adaptation of Lowry’s “At the River” because Rob and I had submitted our bass and alto contributions for the virtual choir rendition.

After softening into scripture and listening to an exquisite homily–the priest told us the readings have the same message–I read the intercessory prayers authored by my new friend. I inserted the names of my aunt and my first cousin who are healing from COVID19 as well as many others who are suffering and who have died. I felt then that one can pray quietly to God in public held in the container of a cathedral balanced on glacial till, land borrowed from the Duwamish. I learned I can hold tears on the brink of falling and only choke slightly when reading “By Your grace may they come into Your peace knowing Your welcome, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant.’ ”

Unlike those trying to watch, I hadn’t realized until the service ended that the livestream broadcast had failed. Disappointment hung in the air when we debriefed together in a wide circle held in the nave. I was glad to know we could lean into zoom o’clock in all her glory because, as usual, the service would be uploaded and archived. All was not lost. I learned that some of these musicians, priests and electronic wizards would be attending, recording, livestreaming and uploading five services throughout the day. The schedule was grueling and not unlike what some amongst us do for our high holidays like Advent, Christmas, Holy Week and Easter.

As a result and Thanks be to God, I have a different service to watch every day this week, if I add the ones from the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C. and Misa Guadalupe at St. Luke’s Episcopal in Renton. By then, Election Day will pass and we’ll see what’s next. And soon enough, we’ll be back to Sunday and the next round of zoom o’clock services will start all over again.

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!