The Empty Classroom

 The classroom is empty now

Walls hold children’s excited voices

The floor absorbs their final breaths.

All is silent.

Outside, wind whispers in trees stripped bare.

Inside homes holiday joy is banished by grief.

Hearts are broken…yet…

Spirits are strong.

Throughout the country—the world,

People look into the faces of children and see:

Charlotte, Daniel, Olivia,

Josephine, Ana, Dylan, Chase

Jesse, Emilie, Jack, Noah,

Caroline, Jessica, Benjamin,

Allison, Madeleine, James,

Catherine, Grace, and Avielle,

Their earth voices stilled.

Their angel voices sing in our hearts.

Churches are filled.

God weeps with us.

Held together by an invisible thread,

We will learn to live, laugh, and love again.

The Persian poet, Hafiz, writes,

Come Dance with me…

And so we dance our sorrow; our rage,

We dance our way out of despair

Into Hope,

Into Courage to go on

Into Joy.

            I was sitting at the computer trying to compose my annual Christmas letter.  The song, “Love Came Down At Christmas” kept running through my head.  My thoughts turned to the conflicts that surround us at every turn.  I wonder if instead of focusing on the conflicts, allowing them to draw us in, feeling we need to take sides, what would happen if we focused as strongly on love and understanding.

            Today Love came down to me as I listened to NPR’s Krista Tippet’s interview with Robi Damelin, mother of David, who was killed in the Israeli/Palestine conflict and Ali Abu Awwad whose brother was also killed.  Together they have chosen to face their grief and pain not by turning to violence, but by getting to know and understand the other side.  Today I heard their shared story and the story of a network of survivors who share their pain and their humanity and explore their ideas for lasting peace.  They are more interested in being honest than in being right.  I’m looking forward to watching their story in the Documentary Film, “Encounter Point” which I’ve put on my Netflix list. 

Robi shared a personal experience.  Someone she met had told her she felt the need to go overseas to work for peace.  Robi suggested she could work for peace wherever she was.  There is conflict everywhere.  Standing next to this white woman were three black women.  They turned and looked at each other and one spoke up, “Would you like to get together?”  And so they began in their corner of the world.

Just recently here in Centennial Farm, a quiet, beautiful, peaceful community where I live, discord has reared its ugly head.  Sides have been drawn.  Voices raised in anger—neighbor against neighbor.  I feel drawn into the conflict, yet I wonder…Could I get to KNOW those on the other side?  Could I listen to their concerns with an open mind, not preconceived judgment?  Could I take seriously their concerns, their fears?  Could I strive to understand their perspective?  I recognize I have far to go.  I am prone to arguing my side of things and someone opposing me only intensifies my need to control and “win”.  What if I thought more about being honest, than being right?  What if I truly loved them in my heart and it showed through?  I believe Love is the answer, easy to say but difficult to put into practice. 

                       

Love teaches us

to love our enemies

to listen with our hearts

to not let our differences separate us.

to connect through our common humanity.  

Fall Morning Musings

            On this cool fall morning I am part of a group attending a Nature Write class at Indian Springs MetroPark.  It is my second class.  After some discussion of the readings, our assignment is to take a half hour or so to walk out into nature, choose a path or let a path choose us, find a place that speaks to us, ask permission to be there observing, listening, watching—just being.  Be quiet in our space and let it speak to us, whatever its voice. 

            I’m feeling shy and uncertain today.  Self-consciously I turn from the group and begin to walk away.  Most often drawn to the cover of the woods, today I am drawn to a grassy hill, specifically to the lone bench sitting empty at the top.   I follow a path keeping the bench in my sight, but also scanning the grasses alongside me.  A tiny pink aster peeks around a blade of grass, seems to nod to another lone flower, this one a yellow daisy.  A gentle breeze blows and the daisy turns its back.  A fly buzzes.  Ahead of me is a stone wall—beyond the wall a garden, its summer colors fading and dry, golden brown taking over—and beyond the garden the hill.  I stop, lean on the wall and silently ask for permission to come into this space, to listen and observe—to learn with my heart.  Closing my eyes, I wait for an answer.  Opening my eyes, I’m drawn again to the lone bench sitting against the background of blue sky, waiting.  Two lone geese fly overhead, leaving some space in their togetherness.  A silver plane drones across the broad nearly cloudless sky.  I breathe the freshness of the morning air; stop to marvel at the sparkle of dewdrops on patches of grass.  A spider web glistens. 

I have my answer as I’m led on a path around the side of the hill to another wall, a circular stone wall.  Beyond the wall, a pond.  Not to the woods, not to the hill, not to the pond.  Enter the circle.  Be quiet.  Watch.  Wait.   I enter, sit on the wall, close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun on my face and chest.  A cool breeze caresses my back and shoulders.  I open my eyes and again notice the bench at the top of the hill, the cluster of small trees part way down the hill, and at my feet a stone circle in the center of the larger circular wall.  Wild flowers, some might call them weeds, emerge from the cracks in the stone.  How strong and courageous they are to grow in such a place, merging their green life with a life of dry fragile sticks and hard stones. 

            Again my gaze looks up at the bench at the top of the hill.  I’m tempted to climb, but there’s not enough time, I think.  The time for climbing is past.  The time for following steep, winding paths to see what’s on the other side holds less attraction for me these days.  Today my explorations take me closer to home.  I have often chosen the path less traveled.  Today I again chose a path less traveled as I move inward toward my heart

I walk in the early morning, the air, cool, refreshing following the 100 degree heat.  Birds sing quietly.  White clouds float lazily in the blue sky.  I meet no one.  All is still.  A gentle breeze blows, caresses me, enters my soul.

            Back home, I check the morning news while drinking my morning tea…

Aurora, Colorado              14 dead in massacre at a theater               Dark Knight           

I turn off the TV,  pray for the inured, the dead, the shooter…for all those who love and those who hate that they may find love to soften their hearts.  I pick up Thirst by Mary Oliver and read:

Praying

It doesn’t have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones; just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try

to make them elaborate, this isn’t

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

Another voice reminds me of beauty.  In the midst of chaos, of suffering, God helps me pay attention not only to the dark shadows, but also the beauty of dawn.

FRIENDSHIPS

Alone after a week of company in two parts—friends from past years when we were raising our families in Detroit.  I realized as the weekend drew to a close how very blessed I am with friends and family.   Life has not always been easy or pleasant, and these women have seen me through the worst spots, even when we were not physically close.  They have listened to me bitch and complain and cry and they have also shared my joys and accomplishments. 

My friend, Barbara, was here at the beginning of the week   Besides a lot of general catching up, we share a deep passion for spiritual things as well as our families and are both writers.  She shared a chapter from the book she is currently writing and our discussion filled me with new insights and new questions.  We were also invited to lunch with a neighbor couple who I have grown to love and appreciate and who wanted to talk to Barbara about her religious journey.  Coming from very different backgrounds and experiences, our lunchtime experience fed all of us, both our bodies and our spirits.  I love it when my new friends meet my old friends and something immediately clicks and connects at a level beyond the everyday chit-chat. 

On Friday three friends, also from Detroit child-raising days, met for our fourth annual get together weekend.   Saturday we took a nostalgic tour of our old neighborhood—Rosedale Park, Grandmont area, taking pictures of our old homes, buying again the still delicious almond coffee cake at Knudsen’s Bakery on Six Mile, talking a bit with the delightful woman who waited on us and two customers who seemed fascinated with the “little old ladies” who were doing the nostalgia bit in their neighborhood.  Outside the store one of our group was having her own conversation with an assertive Jehovah’s Witness.  Nothing much has changed there.  The neighborhood is still very well maintained and my old home looked the same as it did when I left in 1981—Blue shutters and bright blue door have obviously been painted and still look bright and welcoming.   Our stomachs said lunchtime, so we stopped in at George’s, formerly the IHOP we had all frequented on occasion.  We met and talked to George’s son now sole owner and had a wonderful lunch of BLTs with bacon, fried crisp just the way we liked it.   Leaving there, we went on to the Redford Theater that has been restored to its former Japanese style.  We listened to the amazing organ recital prior to the showing of “American Graffiti”. ..a trip back in time.

           Home again my sons and their families met us.  They had prepared and were grilling our dinner for us at our beach/picnic area.  Such fun for friends to see the “kids” who were teenagers when last seen, and meet their children who are now teenagers (one nine year old).   The kids and dads went swimming.  The evening ended about 9 p.m. as we said our goodbyes to family.   My mistake…not yet ended.  One of my friends asked about the softball tournament my granddaughters (they’d met the night before) were playing in not too far away.  Before we knew it we had piled in the car and were off to the game—got there during the third inning.  Beautiful evening for softball under the lights, a cool breeze, lots of good energy and they won 10 to 1.   We were four tired friends who talked a bit before calling it a night just after midnight.   I had a last swallow of wine, and fell into bed; slept soundly until morning. 

         I’ve been thinking about my week and about friendships.  Wherever I have gone throughout my life, I have made friends, some of them have stayed with me when I or they have moved on to new places.   With some we have lost our connection for a time, then reconnected later.  Our friendships have grown and changed, and I have been richer for their presence in my life.  I hope they can say the same about me.  I’ve been in South Lyon for not quite three years now.  I was warned that it would not be so easy—at my age—to meet people and make true friends, but again I find I have made some very special friends here.  I can never replace the friends who I’ve left behind or lost through death (they remain in my heart),  but I can add to my prosperity and the fullness of my life with new acquaintances who gift me with their friendship and presence in my life. 

A Walk in the Park

It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon and I decide to take a hike at nearby Kensington Metropark.  I leave my car in the nearly full parking lot and walk down the old wooden stairs to the fork of Aspen and Wild Wing trails. 

I haven’t walked far when I see a mother and daughter standing silently, hands held out filled with sunflower seeds.  A downy woodpecker swoops down, followed by a chickadee, then another, seemingly oblivious to the humans who gather.  Walking slowly and silently around them I see a sand hill crane strutting in the grass and hear a little girl ask, “Where are the babies?”  “Nearby”, responds her mother.  “The mother never lets her babies get far.”  I hope that is true and predators have not harmed them.  Soon we spots them tagging along in the tall grass.  “See?” Mom says.  I breathe a sigh of relief and watch the little crane family out for a stroll.  Even the spoken words are bathed in woodland quiet. 

Farther on I encounter two male turkeys ahead of me on the path.  Camera in hand, I walk a bit faster and nearly catch up with them.  As I’m ready to shoot the picture, a third turkey, not to be left out, rustles quickly from the grass onto the path to join them.

I listen to the silent sounds of rustling leaves.  A small rustle in the grass suggests a mouse, or perhaps a chipmunk scurrying about her business. 

The sound of firearms intrudes on my quiet space.  I’m suddenly aware of gunshots coming from the nearby State Park where there is a firing range.  I heard that turkeys are In Season now.  I cringe with each shot.  Kill!  Kill!  Kill the silence!  I breathe deeply… listen as peace confronts noise.  In time, quiet overcomes noise.  Again I learn I can choose what to let into my space.  Today it is the silent sounds of the woodlands.  I return to my center.  I listen to birdsong and the rustling of chipmunks and squirrels, the soft voices of children learning of the wonders of nature from parents and grandparents.  I feel gentle breezes touch my face.  The woodland holds secrets—secrets beyond words. 

I invite you to take a walk in the woods…listen to the silence and learn.

On Quiet

Paradox – Illogical truth; a seemingly contradictory statement that may nonetheless be true; exhibiting inexplicable or contradictory aspects.

I live often in the center of paradox.  Today our pastor preached on the importance of words.  He talked about the importance of words and how our lives, our relationships are founded on words, especially the two words Joy and Friendship.  My mind immediately went back an hour to the NPR program I was listening to on Sound and Spirit, an interview with Gordon Hempton on The Joy of Quiet.  The foundation, the voice in my head inserted itself, is quiet, not words.  Sometimes I think there are too many words.  And yet?  I forced myself to listen and sort it out later.  It all made sense to me—the importance of true friendship, of choosing our friends, choosing people who bring out the best in us, people who love us and who we love in spite of everything we are and do.  And Joy!  I look for, long for life-giving joy.  Yes, Friendship and Joy are two foundational words.  Yet, so is quiet.

     The importance of quiet is making its voice heard.  Gordon Hempton suggests that quiet is not the absence of sound, but the absence of noise.  I listened to his meditation on “One Square inch of Silence” in which he has staked out a square inch in the forest where for the most part noise (the noise of jets overhead, of a rumbling train or traffic does not penetrate); where in the silence you can hear for twenty-five miles or more songs of many birds, flowing waters of a river, gentle breezes in the trees, scurrying small animals on the ground, a distant rumble of thunder.  If you really listen closely you can hear an insect land on a leaf, the quiet creaking of trees.  Within these sounds of silence lie also the sounds within. 

     Since I moved to South Lyon from the outside Cheboygan, MI, I have missed the sounds of silence.  Not quite such a purist as Hempton, silence for me included peaceful voices of neighbors around a campfire, an occasional softly strummed guitar, foghorns and the low rumble of freighters passing by on Lake Huron.  I loved sitting on my meditation bench overlooking the lake in the early morning watching the orange-pink sunrise in the east, listening to the first birds awakening, joined by more birds until there was a virtual symphony of joyful sound celebrating another new day.  Whether up sitting on my bench or lying in bed listening, this growing symphony was the foundation, the joy of my day.  Here in South Lyon I still lie in bed listening as the birds begin their morning serenade.  I listen until I hear noise—a dog barking, car motors, and on Mondays come the lawnmowers with their intrusive noise and smells.  But I can still, if I work at it, move to the silence within—to my quiet center, my still point.  Today I awakened early, left the house for a walk, and was greeted to the sight of six sandhill cranes moseying about the field across from my condo.  I watched a while in silence and moved on.  Midway in my walk I stopped to greet a neighbor who has created a nature haven in and around his yard.  We sat in silence on his bench and listened and watched red-bellied woodpeckers, Baltimore orioles, house wrens, and others feed.  The sounds of silence included the joy of another day.

Lake Huron Shore

Listen!

Brushed by water and wind, the stones of Lake Huron whisper.  Their voices color my ideas, shape my thoughts, pattern my days.  On bright days, they pulse with sun energy.  Moon energy has a different voice.

Hear them. 

Stones really do talk.

The Pendant

THE PENDANT

I looked at the silver-gold rings as I handed them to the jeweler.  I held back my tears as I remembered the vows David had made to love and be faithful as he placed the ring on my finger binding me to him in marriage.  The marriage was long over—the rings a painful reminder of failure.  I could not get rid of them, nor did I want them to languish forever in my jewelry box. 

I saw the sign in the jewelry store window suggesting a new piece of “nugget” jewelry could be made from old gold jewelry and the idea took hold—something I could wear as a symbol of my transition to a new life.

The rings leaned against each other melting

Silver-gold liquid released drops like hot tears that

spread, merged, separated,

merged again in new patterns, some

not so pleasing, some

beautiful to my eyes, solidifying

my past within my present and future.   

With help from the jeweler a bridge

arched over what looked to me like a figure

standing on its head holding a tiny circle.

How perfect! 

I was a gymnast once, I thought…

The circle, a suggestion of unity,

 The finished piece pleased me.  I wore it reverently around my neck…a symbol of my life in process.  The diamond hung beside it on the chain.  Occasionally painful memories still surfaced, but mostly the pendant was a symbol of strength and hope. 

 For years I wore the pendant—often at first, then less and less.  The pendant and the diamond need to be together I thought and wondered if it were possible.  One day, I brought the pieces to the local jeweler and asked him if it were possible to put the diamond in the pendant.  His excitement surprised me as he picked up the diamond and said, “Beautiful!  I’d put it right here.”  He placed it off center, not where I’d expected it to go.  My heart sang.  It was perfect! 

Two weeks later, I picked up the necklace and put it gently around my neck.  The diamond sparkled brightly enjoying its place in the whole.  More than just a piece of jewelry, this was a symbol of my life.  It had been broken, nearly destroyed.  It had been molded and shaped by circumstances, by choices I had made, by mistakes that turned into opportunities, and by a Love that held me and gave me strength.  Now I was becoming whole.  I had learned a secret.  Unity and Love come not from the outside, but from within.