Hansen/Benson family reunion 2014

I’ve been in a period of what I refer to as the dark night.  It happens gradually, and I don’t always realize its downward spiral immediately.  It’s something I’ve grown to expect in winter--a seasonal affective disorder plus.  My energy fades, my social skills diminish, I am irritated, angry and sad.  Colors dim.  Things that normally brighten my life appear dull and gray.  But Life always returns. 

This spring and summer did not bring the usual resurrection that I expect and summer has dragged on in shades of gray, though I recognize and welcome the sunshine, beautiful days, blue skies that I know objectively are there.  I’ve felt lifeless even among family and friends—and worse yet, I’ve felt grumpy, crabby, and just plain rude—talking and not listening—focused primarily on me.  I’ve not been able to meditate or read.  Little ability to concentrate.  God seemed distant and unavailable.     

            Being sick this last five weeks was the culmination for me.  At first I only had energy to sleep and sip water and tea.  I recovered enough to attend our family reunion in Cheboygan—something I’d been looking forward to for months.  I was a fairly passive participant, taking my crabbiness and anger out on my sister the first couple of days.  I’m not good at saying “I’m sorry”, but I saw clearly what I was doing and prayed to change my attitude and enjoy as much as I could and not ruin it for others. 

As the waters of Lake Huron, the laughter and joy of grandchildren (mine and my sisters’), short walks with my sister, Carol, family time around meals and bonfires, began to work their healing power, even as my night coughing kept me awake and exhausted.  I learned again that there are some things I can’t control (my cough and exhaustion), but with awareness and grace, I can control my attitude, not always perfectly, but once aware, I can change my focus to the Love and beauty that always surrounds me when I open my eyes and heart to it.  Surrounded by love of family and nature, my depression lifted.

Back at home, I continued a bit of a rollercoaster ride, as healing took a bump I now find humorous, but was no laughing matter at the time.  According to an article one of my doctors found on Google, I may be one of a very few people in North America to have ingested a fly egg which grew into a larvae which I coughed up.  (They documented the specimen and that seems to be the end of it).  I’m undergoing many tests, checking out all systems and so far everything has returned to normal and is in fine shape.  My cough, however, persists—a puzzle and an annoyance.  My energy is returning and I am walking long walks and bike riding again.  The sky is bluer, the colors brighter, with only momentary cloudy times, as when the clouds pass over the sun.  I’ve been able to meditate again and a friend suggested a new book on the Monks of Mt. Athos—a book about pilgrimage.

Today I experienced another miracle.  Following meditation, I was reading about pilgrimage, I read, there are “Some places in this world where eternity touched the earth…” By going there some people “are able to reestablish contact with the eternal element within themselves.”  Knowing that at 76 years of age, I will not be climbing mountains nor will I be going to a hermitage,  I asked myself, “Metaphorically, what is that place for me?”.    In asking the question, the sky became bluer, my spirit lifted, and I felt a joy I had not felt in months. 

On my computer a while later, I checked e-mails and Facebook—our family’s way of staying in touch that has been even more valuable to me since our reunion.  On FB, was a post of my nephew’s wife, Jill, singing in public for the first time since recovering from throat surgery.  Tears flowed and I smiled as the joy of her beautiful soprano voice flowed over me—“You’ve got to wade in the water…God’s gonna trouble the water.”   I laughed as I remembered that I last saw Jill three weeks ago.  We waded in the waters of Lake Huron, as we celebrated our extended family, our lives, and the beauty of God’s world.   Yes, “God’s gonna trouble the water” and invites us to wade in it.  I have my answer for today, and the sun is shining bright, both inside and out.   The water is waiting.

                        

                                 

                                   RESURRECTION:  The Greening of Spring

  

                                   Walking the trails at Kensington Park, I meet

                                    a crane.  Walking side-by-side for a      

bit, he eats bugs while  I take pictures of him

eating bugs.  Bidding him farewell, I

continue on to watch red winged blackbirds

chatter in the trees.  On Aspen Trail, I see

an old farmstead marked by a slab of

cement foundation.  Rusty wheels from an

old machine decay among golden brown grasses.

At the edge of the coming-to-life creek bed

skunk cabbage bursts into life.

Thoughts dart and flit in my head like

finches and chickadees darting

to eat seeds out of children’s hands.

If I live to be one hundred, I’ve lived

three/quarters of my life already.

There’s no more time to waste.

 I want to spend the rest of my days

LIVING my passion—my LIFE.

I love walking timeless in the woods

in spring, listening to my own rhythms,

listening to birdsong, listening

to wind in the trees.

 

Life seems clearer to me now. 
My voice merges with Ueland and others

Walk, listen, experience wonder,

creatively dream.  Take time.  LIVE

Take notes, take pictures,

be spontaneous in-the-moment—

see, hear, feel, taste, touch who and what

crosses your path

living or dead

past or present.

A word here,

a song there,

a strip of black earth where a fire raged,

a wagon wheel,

words,

a poem,

the crack of a bat,

her boy is on second.

Yes!

Yes to baseball.

Yes to spring.

Yes to poetry.

Yes to green in the woods and garden.

GOING THROUGH THE MOTIONS OF LIVING: 

Drifting Through Life

Where am I when I am not conscious? 

I sometimes notice, especially now that I am meditating regularly, that there are many times when I am not present consciously.  I take a deep breath, focus on my breathing, and watch my thoughts come and go.  Suddenly I awaken to a sense of wonder—sometimes frustration—as I realize time has passed and I have no idea what I’ve been thinking about or doing in those moments.  I’m not aware of the silent peaceful place I hoped to find.  I may feel heaviness, anxiety, or have a smile on my face, but I have no sense of what was happening when I was gone.

Once when I was traveling from Cheboygan to Farmington Hills to visit my family, I “woke up” and found my surroundings familiar, but unfamiliar at the same time.  I was confused until I saw the freeway sign announcing Orchard Lake Road one mile.  I went from mild confusion to shock and awe.  My last memory was backing out of my driveway in Cordwood Point outside of Cheboygan to begin my five-hour drive. Where was I while my physical body was driving the car, stopping for gas and lunch, now soon to arrive at my destination?  Who was doing the driving?  No dents on the car, no ticket—just receipts for gas and the food that I had no memory of eating.  I’ve talked to others who experience similar times.  I believe most of us, if we were more fully conscious more of the time, would realize we also have times when our body is acting so-called normally while our mind is someplace else.  I believe we often are not even aware this is happening—until the embarrassing question of an acquaintance calls us back to the now. 

It definitely happens in conversation.  Have you ever experienced “awakening” to hear the person you’ve been engaged in conversation with asking, “What do you think?”  You realize you have no idea what has been said or even what the topic is, so you smile and say something general—maybe “I agree” or “That’s sounds good” or just “uh huh”—and leave it at that. 

Or maybe, you’ve been the one talking, sharing some exiting detail about your recent trip.  Five or ten minutes later, your friend says, “Tell me about your trip.  Did you have a good time?”  Where were they when their body was standing in front of you?  And who are we?  Our minds or our bodies?

Or maybe you’ve been doing something around the house--cleaning, building a bookcase—while your favorite CD is playing background music.  Suddenly you hear the silence, but do not remember anything but the first song—not even the whole song.  Yet the entire CD has played, your job is nearly finished, but were you actually conscious of doing the work or hearing the music? 

How much of our lives is spent living consciously?  How much of real living do we miss, because we are so often unaware?

I remember friends and family coming to visit me in my home on Lake Huron.  How often someone would sit at my table, staring out the window at the birdfeeder, the large pine and oak trees, and Lake Huron just 60 feet away, and comment, “Wow!  I couldn’t live here.  I’d never get anything done.  I’d just sit and stare out the window.  It’s so beautiful!”  That and similar comments would give me a sharp nudge as I suddenly wondered, when was the last time I really saw out the window?  When did I last hear the waves brush the shore? Or the song of the warbler?  When did I consciously feel the warm sun kiss my cheek or the wind in my hair?  How often was I—am I—going through the motions of living without truly living my life’s story?

I doubt I’ll ever know the answer to my question.  Like Rainer Maria Rilke, I prefer to “Have patience with everything unresolved in (my) heart, and try to love the questions themselves.”  I also trust that I will “someday live into the answer.”  To do that I must learn to live more consciously, live more aware of life’s little moments as well as the grand ones.  

 

 

 

I love writing—poetry, stories of my past/memoirs, essays on observations of the world around me.  With the increase in self-publishing opportunities it is reasonably easy and inexpensive to get one’s words into print.  My first book, Letters and Stories from an Up North Grandma, published in 2009 cost me a bundle and I am still sitting with a stash of unsold books.  

             In 2011, I published a book of poetry and photographs, Nature’s Voices.  Again it was an expensive proposition, but I was pleased with the result and my ego loved seeing my work in print.  This book could be printed on demand, so I don’t have box of unsold books. 

In the eyes of the world I have not been a successful author.  What is important to me is the joy I get from writing, taking the photographs and seeing the books in print.  It is a bonus to hear from those who enjoy a specific poem or picture and then tell me how it speaks to them.  I love hearing their stories and discovering the sometimes surprising connections between us.

I just published my third book, Things That Go Bump in the Night, a book based on historical facts and legends of the Straits of Mackinac that separate the Upper and Lower Pennisulas in Michigan.  Beginning with some of the legends that abound in the area, I have created stories from my own experience and imagination.  If you are interested, check it out and join me as we travel in and out of this world and the strange world just beyond.  This book can be purchased through Amazon and is available on Kindle and in paperback. 

 

LIFE ON A WIRE

 

            Dangling by fingertips from invisible wire strung between two buildings in Downtown Grand Rapids—holding tight to a sliver of hope while life passes by beneath and around. 

          Old age can feel like that. 

For me it was a sudden unexpected event (illness) and I fell from life as I knew it, grasping in a fragile finger-hold the life I had left—from living life fully to watching it go by around me. 

Even now, even when I’m participating, I find it is hard to focus on the now.  My mind strays to thoughts and worries about blood pressure and cholesterol, clots in my heart, arrhythmias and mind farts or holes in my mind.  My hips and knees don’t bend.

The enjoyable day with family at ArtPrize became embarrassing when I couldn’t maneuver climbing down and back up a three-foot wall without the help of my two teen-aged grandsons lifting me, and I lagged further behind as the day went on despite the yoga, daily walks and occasional swims I do to keep up my strength and agility. 

          “If that old lady can do it, you certainly can.”  Do I imagine the impatience in my daughter-in-law’s voice?  I want to believe she is paying me a compliment; that she and my family do not see the real me fading slowly, becoming slower physically and mentally—less able to do it all myself.  Is it my own impatience I’m witnessing?  My own chastising voice pushing me to keep moving, don’t slow down; telling me age is only a number.  Sometimes it is a number.  Sometimes also a fact of life.  Can I be honest with myself, paying attention to what I still can do and also what I can no longer do as quickly and as well?  Can I be honest without being dramatic?  Can I continue to meet changes with humor and compassion? 

          We allow trees to age gracefully and we see beauty and strength in gnarled old trees.  In old people we so often see only weakness and loss of value.  Can we, can I not see beauty in my wrinkled hands with prominent veins? In my gray hair? When did beauty spots turn to age spots, to imperfections, and meet with such derision? 

          I’m torn between appreciating Tim’s help on stairs and his hanging back with me when I slowed, and frustration that I’m the “little old lady” who needs that help.  Selfishly I want the world to slow with me, to “stop and smell the roses.” 

          Yet I remember me as a teen and young—even middle aged adult—racing ahead of my mother (and even my six-foot husband,) proud of my speed walk, impatient with those who walked too slowly for me. 

          Growing old has forced me to slow and in the process has shown me things I would have missed…an afternoon watching butterflies gather on a butterfly bush, a morning of watching wrens take turns feeding their newborn young whose faces and large beaks crowd the entrance to their nest.  One day I sat still as I felt, then watched a chipmunk take the shortcut over my shoulder, down my arm, onto my lap, down my leg, on his way from a bowl of sunflower seeds I’d left on my deck.  His mouth was crammed full when he went down a hole just beyond my foot and empty when he poked his head back up.  I sat quietly while he made the same roundtrip several times. 

          Yesterday art and people swirled around me—happy faces, happy voices, bright colors, warm sunshine and light breezes.  Interactive art and people.  Art recycled from rejected objects, recreated.  Hopeful art of love bridging the river—fragile yet sturdy—and the sculpture of a man hanging by his fingertips.  All rushing by me or me by it.  Unable to take in foreground because of the rushing forward of background.  A piece of art I focused my camera on would disappear, replaced by people walking between us.  The people became the foreground. 

          Seldom really in moment.  Seldom in the experience.  Pushed by life, by others, I long to slow down, live life fully at my own pace.  Time keeps racing by.  I grasp what I can, enjoy the moment, then let it go. 

 

Mirabai:  A Hundred Objects Close By

I know a cure for sadness:
Let your hands touch something that
makes your eyes smile.

I bet there are a hundred objects close by
that can do that.

Look at beauty’s gift to us –
her power is so great

she enlivens the earth, the sky,

our soul.                                                                   

Recently I joined a group called The Mystic Poet’s Circle, led by Alex Riegel.  I've been quickly drawn in to the wisdom of a poetry that speaks to my heart in today’s world.  Having battled depression and sadness most of my life, I've learned that the cure often comes when I “let my hands touch something that makes my eyes smile”.  I take this figuratively, because it is often my eyes that notice something.  If I stop to truly see, my sadness and depression retreats.  If I allow my perceptions to let go of the merry-go-round of preconceived negativity and focus on the beauty that is close by, my eyes and my heart begin to smile.

I think of my lowest days and the healing power of sitting alone in my living room in the dead of winter feeling only dark hopelessness.  Something dragged me outdoors on that cold sunny winter day.  I slowly and tearfully put on my snowshoes and set off down the beach.

 In the stillness, the sound of my snow shoes on ice annoyed me, and I stopped to look out at the lake of ice.  I listened to the stillness, the breeze in the trees, the water gurgling under the ice.  A feeling of beauty swept me and suddenly all sound stopped.  Though I've tried to find words, none are adequate to tell what I experienced that day.  But when the world resumed its turning, something inside of me had shifted.  The power of beauty had enlivened my soul and brought a smile to my eyes and a song to my heart.

Though the intensity of this experience passed, the gift of my enlivened soul has remained. 

A BOOK LOVER’S DILEMMA

            Looking through the fall OSHER catalogue, Bantering Bibliophiles’ Club caught my attention.  How could I not sign up for a club for book lovers taught by Deb Mukherjee?  I had at least one rational reason why not.  I’m in the midst of a spiritual quest and reading several books that are slow, thoughtful, prayerful reads, including The Upanishads, Sufism:  The Transformation of the Heart, and Prayer of the Heart in Christian and Sufi Mysticism.  For my early morning meditative reading, I’m reading from The Cloud of Unknowing.  Before bed in the evening, I read a poem or two from I Heard God Laughing, by Hafiz, a Sufi poet.  On the other hand—my mind works in paradox—perhaps that is just the reason I should take the course.  It would most surely give me some balance.              

In the past, I read a lot of fiction and looked with disdain on those who minimized fiction with a superior “I only read non-fiction”.  As I’ve switched to more non-fiction, the other has become merely an escape from the intensity of the spiritual reading I’m doing.  I’m almost embarrassed to admit that the fiction I choose is sometimes a light, quick read—often a mystery—though I have to admit that I can sometimes turn the most superficial book into an important lesson. 

I signed up, wondering about a book lover’s club where a different book was assigned each session.  We weren’t expected to have read or required to read the books, yet would be discussing the author, theme, plot, context, writing styles, etc. 

            I’ve often described myself as a person who can’t see the trees for the forest.  I see the whole more easily than the individual parts and context more easily than the individual pieces that make up the story.   The first class showed me how different my reading style was and I wondered if I could fit my style into the whole, or would I have to, for the six sessions, forsake my style of reading—learn to read all over again.    It came to me the day after class that I read with my heart/mind, not my thinking mind.  Whether fiction or non-fiction, I have to have a heart connection with the story.  Since I also believe that I am/we are each part of the whole—that each person I meet is a part of who I am, and everything I see, hear, touch, smell, taste is a part of the whole, it is not difficult to find some portion or person in a story to wrap my heart around.  How can I experience the story if I am looking for plot, history, travel, characterizations, motifs, etc.?  If I am focused on what’s plausible or not plausible, how do I feel into the story with my heart?  How do I hear the truths that may not be fact, but may, in fact, be deeper truths—or at least my truths?  How do I focus on punctuation and grammar without missing the heart of what the story has to tell me?

The week before our Bibliophiles’ class, I began rereading Peace Like a River.  I’d read it years ago.  It has currently replaced I Heard God Laughing as my bedtime reading, and I can hear God laughing at the irony.  Due to eye problems and difficulty staying awake past 10 p.m., I have not yet finished the book, but again it is touching my heart in ways that are difficult for me to talk about in the context of the agenda.  But the fear that I will lose my ability to read from my heart/mind is fading—I doubt that this class will remove that ingrained way of reading.  My hope is that in learning to read more objectively, the “trees” will come more into focus and I will emerge with a sharper experience of the rich life of the books and the individual people that surround me with their knowledge and insight.