Holiday on the farm: Part 2, Llama herding

It's been more than a week since my holiday break, and I'm slowly finding my way back to a routine. Truth be told, the old routine has been interrupted for awhile now. Regular trips to the farm have led to greater changes even than just finding a new routine. My friends, I will be buying a pick-up truck later this week. If I've left doubts in anyone's mind that I'm truly gay, this should clinch it for them. I'm beside myself with excitement. Can't you just see me driving down the road in my cute little white Toyota Tacoma truck?

But back to the regular trips to the farm.... I've spent a good bit of time there lately. And in the interest of full disclosure, I'll tell you, I'm going out there often because I'm in love. It's true. Madly in love....



....with Pascal the llama, long-necked guardian of the sheep and goats. His soft brown eyes search for understanding and draw me in with a curiosity and empathy I don't quite understand. A bit standoffish at first, he's slowly warming up to me. No doubt, the handful of feed grain I give him occasionally helps. His love for the grain knows no bounds, and by extension, the love he feels for anyone who offers it to him follows.

Pascal stays close by when I go out to the back barn to feed the animals. He watches closely, hoping that I'll open the can with the feed grain. When I fill the red bucket to pour grain into the feed trough, he follows me, hoping he'll get some to enjoy. He used to get some on a regular basis, but he's gained too much weight, so he's been put on a diet, one free of feed grain, except for the occasional handful he gets from anyone who pities him.

A couple of weeks ago, I stood at the fence along the front of the barn, about six feet away from Pascal, my chin resting on my arms in a studious pose, staring into his eyes. Neither of us moved for the longest time. His lips were slightly parted as though he were about to speak. I wondered what he would say if he could talk.

Days earlier Pascal and I had an adventure. During morning chores, I wheeled a bale of alfalfa out to the back barn. Pascal and the herd were standing at the gate when I got there. The goats and the sheep greeted me loudly, letting me know they were hungry. Their insistent pleading betrayed the fact that I had fed them grain and prairie hay the evening before. I opened the gate carefully and backed up to push the wheel barrow through, but the gate opened wider and Pascal took advantage. He darted out the gate and headed for the street.

My heart jumped into my throat. Of all the scenarios I'd considered I might encounter on the farm, an escaped llama was not one of them. There had been no drill ahead of time, no lessons on llama herding in all of the instruction I'd been given to prepare me to take care of the farm.

My mind raced. Getting the gate closed was the first priority to prevent the goats and sheep from following Pascal. I dropped the wheel barrow with the alfalfa and ran for the gate. Sadie, a beautiful black dog who was created to run like an Oklahoma wind sweeping across the prairie
, met me at the gate and passed through chasing after Pascal before I got it closed. She came flying from the back of the pasture, and her presence increased my anxiety. She's beautiful and fast and adores me, and I love her for all of those things, but she's a bully. She plays hard with the animals and causes chaos. I feared she would create more of a problem with the loose llama.

I closed the gate and turned to see where Pascal had gone. He took a right out of the gate and headed for the garden area. The fence on the front of the garden was open, a passageway for the truck to get to the back pasture. Instinctively Pascal headed for the opening, but Sadie caught up to him. I had no idea what to expect to happen next. I stood frozen, fearful, but I couldn't think of a single thing to do. Sadie raced past Pascal and headed for the opening. She stood in front of it waiting for him to come to her. As he drew closer she charged him, forcing him into the fenced part of the garden. And every time he inched back toward the opening, she ran for his feet, herding him back. Defeated, Pascal looked toward the garden and searched out the patches of green grass sprouting up around the edges of the furrowed ground.

I was amazed. With Sadie safely herding Pascal away from the street into a contained area, I closed two areas of the fence that were open and ran to the chicken coop to get some scratch, hoping to lure Pascal back to the pasture. I knew it wasn't the stuff he loves, but I was afraid to take the time to walk to the back barn and get the feed grain. With a can of scratch in hand, I walked closer to Pascal. He jumped back and darted away from me. Each time I approached him, he ran. I couldn't get him interested in the scratch for anything.

I stood in the middle of the garden watching him graze, wondering what to do. I kept glancing over at the barn, knowing that the grain was surely the key. I looked around the garden and saw Sadie a safe distance from Pascal, but close enough that she could spring into action if he headed toward the one remaining opening in the fence.

I ran to the barn, grabbed the red bucket and dropped a can full of feed grain in the bottom, then ran back to the garden. Slowly, I walked toward Pascal, and as I got closer he got more curious. Then, in a flash a knowing gaze took over his face and he started moving purposefully toward the red bucket. I let him stick his head in and get a mouthful, then pulled it away and started backing up toward the gate. He followed me, eyes fixed on the bucket, neck and head bobbing for it as he walked. In no time, I had him inside the gate, safe and sound.

Something happened to me that day. I've yet to put words to it. There's something very moving about working with a dog who instinctively helped herd an escaped llama. I was pulled by the universe to trust something I'm used to controlling, to step back and let her do what she knew to do without ever being taught. I felt connected to the world in a new way, aware of the profound interconnectedness of beings. I participated in something ancient and mysterious, something that pulled me beyond myself to a force greater than my own. I was left feeling humbled and grateful.

But when I look in Pascal's eyes now, I wonder what they are revealing to me in the depths of his soul. Maybe all I see is the deep longing of my own soul, the desire to be free, the struggle to trust those closest to me, and yet, the profound gratitude that what I love nourishes me and keeps me safe.
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The photos were taken by my good friend Jill when we took care of the farm a year and a half ago.

Holiday on the farm: Part 1, Dead possum kicking

I should be running this morning, but I'm not, so I decided to try to kick start the blog again. I've got to get past the voice in my head that says, "Don't post unless it's stellar writing," and get back in the habit of writing regularly without the editor's voice shutting me down.

I have some great stories to tell. I spent the better part of ten days taking care of the farm for my good friend Lisa who went to Seattle to be with her family for the holidays. In spite of the fact that the goats are dried up, conserving their energy to give birth in a few months, I managed to have some adventures with the animals.

For example, there was the evening when I returned to the farm at sunset to find a possum lying on the ground outside the chicken coop, curled up looking rather dead. I'm no farmer, but I quickly sized up the scenario. One possum, however dead he might appear, just feet away from the open gate to the chicken coop would likely not lead to a good outcome if I left it alone. So, I texted Lisa and asked her what to do with the possum. She called me back right away and the conversation went something like this....

Linda: I know possums play dead, and that's it not a good thing that he's so close to the coop, but I have no idea how to get him to leave. Should I poke him with a stick or something to see if he's actually dead?
Lisa: Well, um, poking him with a stick won't help. To tell if a possum's dead, you have to kick it. And by kicking, I don't mean pushing it around a little with your foot. I mean, you'll have to kick it like a football. Go back about 25 feet, run up and kick it up into the air. If it lands on its feet and runs away, it's not dead.
[Silence while I look for the Candid Camera]
Linda: Okay. So, I'm going to kick it like a football. If it runs away it's not dead. It will run away, right? It won't charge me and put those gnarly teeth in my leg, will it?
Lisa: No. But it will probably hiss at you when it lands.
Linda: OhhKAY!
Lisa: Good. Call me after you take care of it. I want to know how it turns out.
Linda: Yeah. I'll do that.

So, I hung up the phone and put it in my pocket, then stared at the curled up critter, its gnarly teeth showing as it laid in a ball on the cold ground in front of me. I debated the merits of the kick. I wondered if there was another way. Then quickly decided I just needed to get it done. I can handle this, I thought. I was the top female finisher in the Punt, Pass, and Kick competition in my hometown when I was 11 years old. Clearly, God was preparing me for this moment years before.

I stepped back and ran forward and kicked with all of my tentative might and managed to scoot the animal about six inches forward. No launching it into the air. No movement from the animal whatsoever. So I stepped back again and ran forward with greater confidence. I shifted my weight to my left leg and reached back to give that critter the best football kick I could muster. With my eyes closed, I kicked forward. Toe pointed, leg straight, I reached down first, to make sure I got under the possum to launch it into the air, and kicked forward with all of my strength. And in a split second I screamed in agony. When I looked down I saw that I'd missed the animal by a good six inches and had, in fact, kicked the cold, hard ground with my full force. My foot was throbbing. I danced around in pain, crying out for whomever could offer me sympathy. Sadie, the beautiful black dog who races around the farm at break neck speed, treeing squirrels and causing chaos, came over to check on things. Instead of offering proper sympathy, she ran over to the possum, took one sniff and dashed off to find something more interesting to investigate.

After the throbbing stopped, I stepped back again and ran forward to kick the possum, this time launching it about four feet into the air. It landed with a thud on its side. I assumed at first that it was dead, but I wondered, "Maybe this is a hearty possum, able to keep up the charade of death in spite of my best punt. Perhaps it's best to try this one more time, just to be sure." So, once more, I launched it four feet into the air. Thud, again.

Concluding that it was dead, I stood over it for a long while, gathering my courage to pick it up. Those gnarly teeth looked rather formidable. But, I reached down and grasped the tip of its tail between my thumb and forefinger, then quickly dropped it into and empty feed bag, folded the top of the bag over several times and ran to drop it in the trash.

The next morning I checked the trash to make sure it was still in there, still dead. Fortunately, it was. I have no idea what I would have done if it hadn't been.

Next up, Part 2, Llama herding.

Parsnip haiku

white carrot puree
creamy goat's milk and butter
new passion revealed

Catching up

This space feels dusty and neglected. I've chatted with some of you recently and know that the loss of blogging mojo seems to be going around. I've had some good reasons for the neglect. First, there was the time spent getting my new place ready to live in. Then, the new school year started and I embarked on a work and church schedule that resulted in only an occasional evening at home and seldom ever a weekend at home. And frankly, I hit a block on the writing front.

Over the past three months, I've taken advantage of a life coaching group to help me make some significant steps toward reaching the goals I set for myself at the beginning of the year. It has been enormously helpful, on so many levels. One area that I had identified as important to me to work on this year was the area of creativity, specifically, my practice of writing. I was frustrated when I got to the middle of the year and realized I wasn't even close to making progress in this area, so I made it a priority in the coaching process, and am delighted that I am finally working through some of the block and starting to write again. One of the most helpful things I've done is purchase the book, A Writer's Book of Days, and start using the prompts given for each day of the year to help get me started. I'm anxious to see where this kind of disciplined practice leads. And, I hope to use the blog as workspace for some of what I'm doing in the coming weeks.

So, I think that means I'm back to blogging fairly regularly. I took some time last week to look through old posts and identify some of my own favorites. I've created a list on the right-hand side of the blog that provides links to those posts. And now, brace yourself, as I said I would do in my goals for 2008, I'm going to dare to talk about my hopes and dreams for my writing. I want to work toward having some of my work published. I have no idea what or how or where, but for me to even say that's something I plan to do in a public space is progress enough for right now. I hope that putting that intention into the ether will help move me to make some more concrete plans.

So, stay tuned and wish me luck!

Introducing

If you're still reading here, and have read this blog for the last year or so, you'll likely remember that I've posted a few times about my experiences on my friend's 7-acre sustainable farm near where I live. You'll recall the time three friends and I went out to care for the animals while the owners were gone for Labor Day weekend. I wrote about our preparations for the weekend here: August 31, 2007.
And a few days later, I wrote about the weekend: September 5, 2007 Part I and September 5, 2007 Part II. Then, a couple of months later, I went out to help in the garden on a Saturday and wrote about the day: October 27, 2007.

Many of you have commented about how you enjoy reading about my visits there. Well, I've got good news. My friend, Bibi, who lives on the farm is now blogging about her life there. She just started and put up her first post today. So hurry on over and welcome her to the blogosphere and go back often to read about her work to start a goat milk dairy on her farm. You'll find her at Living on this Farm. And for some good recipes, check out the blog she keeps for her "day" job at Oklahoma State University's Seretean Wellness Center: Cowboy Bites.

Writing by hand

I write in a journal every morning. I love the way my pen feels in my hand moving across the page. There is something magical about fingers clicking keys on the computer keyboard, moving swiftly, trying to keep up with the thoughts as they come to mind. But, I prefer the slower, more deliberate work of writing by hand for my journaling. For some reason, it feels like it's more my own when it's in my own handwriting.

This morning I went to a coffee shop to journal. A man walked in front of the table where I was sitting, lost in thought and contemplating what I would write next. He startled me when he stopped one step past the table and turned back to say, "You have really nice handwriting!" I was startled not only because he pulled me out of a faraway place in my mind, but also because I have never considered my handwriting to be nice. In fact, I can still hear the daily lectures from my fourth grade teacher, Miss List, who was convinced I'd never amount to anything because my handwriting was small, and messy, and not always neatly resting on the lined page of my wide-rule notebook paper. She'd allowed the other students to shift to college-rule. I, however, had to have remedial handwriting lessons, until my mom took the extremely rare bold step of challenging one of my teachers and telling her that she wouldn't concern herself anymore with Miss List's criticisms of and concerns about my handwriting. After all, my dad's handwriting was bad, she reasoned, and he was a successful person.

The gentleman who stopped to compliment my handwriting said that he'd noticed his own had gotten worse and worse the more he'd shifted to using a computer for his correspondence. The exchange was over quickly. He hurried off to the car where his teenage daughter was waiting for him to take her to school. But, the compliment stayed with me.

After I dropped off my rental car and picked up my own, I stopped at a drug store and found a thank you card. A friend had me over for dinner last night, a beautiful fall evening out by her pool, the smell of salmon grilling over the charcoal fire, and a cool breeze bringing an occasional chill to an otherwise perfectly pleasant evening outdoors. Harry Connick, Jr., played softly in the background over the stereo, and soft warm light illumined the bar where we sat to eat. Her dog laid quietly at our feet, enjoying a pig's ear while we talked until I caught a glimpse of the time on her watch and realized we were both going to have a difficult time getting up in the morning. It was the kind of evening that will remain in my heart for some time, and it just seemed an e-mail thank you, our usual way of touching base about such things, was too impersonal for such an intimate, warm evening.

I wrote my words of thanks on the card, addressed the envelope and dropped it off at the post office on my lunch break. The card lay on my desk most of the morning, the sight of my handwriting catching my attention from time to time. I wondered what the way I write communicates to people. Does it show the beauty I wish to convey? Does it communicate the warmth I want them to know I feel when I think of them? What part of me do they recognize in the way I shape my "s" or dot my "i"? I thought about the cards and letters I've received over the years and the feelings I've had when I recognized the handwriting of someone I love or someone I loathe.

I'm not an overly sentimental person who mourns the loss of things with the increasing use of technology to communicate. I'm deeply appreciative of the enhancements such things as e-mail, instant messaging, and text messaging have brought to my communications with friends and loved ones. But it was odd to think there are people I love, whom I consider close friends, whose handwriting I would not recognize, and in some cases, I've never actually seen. I think that's why I stopped to buy the card. A small gesture, perhaps, but it just seemed important to give a little bit more of myself in the way I said thank you for that beautiful night.

Inquiring minds....

I don't put much up here anymore, but I get a bunch of hits on the blog from two specific Google searches everyday:

1. the smell of the ocean
2. my blog name, apparently because there is now another (popular) blog that uses my blog name

Why do so many people Google search on the smell of the ocean? It's fishy. It's salty. And all of that together is wonderful and good, but why do so many people do research on it?

As for those looking for the other blog, I'm sorry this isn't it. Perhaps someday I'll actually post regularly again and I won't just be using up a URL that someone else actually wants.

Releasing a balloon

I'm going to the store later today to buy a helium balloon. I don't care if it's one that wishes someone a happy birthday or declares the giver's love for the receiver. What's on the balloon really isn't the point for me. I just want to take it out in the back yard, maybe down to the river, and let it go. Buying a balloon just to let it go is my plan.

I've been spending a lot of time lately imagining how I want my life to look and feel. I've written descriptions of four areas of my life that are evocative pictures of what I want when I'm moving effortlessly through life, experiencing it the way I think it should be lived, full of the joy and passion and satisfaction that I think I'm meant to have, not because I'm anyone special or particularly worthy of the privilege of such abundance. I'm just now, at 43, getting around to actually believing that what I've long thought was meant for everyone else in the world is also actually meant for me too. There's no need to pity me for this. It's not a bad thing to discover this at age 43. I think I have some wisdom and clarity and focus that makes it all the sweeter to enjoy these things now that likely would have been lacking from my experience much earlier in my life. I'm just happy to be awake to it now.

But back to balloons and why I plan to release one today. I am finding that the abundance I seek exists somewhere in the tension of working on those things over which I have control and practicing an awareness that control is merely an illusion. I have it, and taking responsibility for that which I can influence requires far less energy and provides much greater satisfaction than hanging my hopes on the actions and desires of others. But if that sense of control isn't held in tension with a good healthy practice of detachment, I'm going to be gravely disappointed somewhere along the way. That's why I'm releasing a balloon today.

I need to let go of my attachment to a particular hope for my life. It's the next step in a long journey of detachment. This hope has taken on a sense of ultimacy that's far too confining for me. Letting go of it, allowing for the possibility that it may not be my path, frees me to see the ways in which God is seeking to offer me that which I thought only this one hopeful outcome could offer.

I've held on to that hope because I thought I was as entitled to it as anyone else. I've clung to it because I was convinced its absence from my life meant I was living in deprivation. I know now that's not true. If it never comes to me, I will be just fine. I will not be in the least deprived, as long as I keep my focus on what's provided in the moment and not get too attached to it to provide what I need or long for.

So I'm going to buy a balloon and let go and watch it float up into the sky and out of my sight. I'm going to marvel in the sense of freedom that comes in seeing the balloon carry away my attachment. And I'm going to delight with gratitude in the abundance that exists in my life today.

Anyone want to join me? Wouldn't it be great to walk outside and see someone else's balloon in the sky and know that today her/his life is a little lighter too?

On forgiving

A sermon delivered in chapel, based on Matthew 18:21-35
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Peter says, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?”

It sounds like a pretty generous offer to me, particularly when I hear his question immediately after the preceding passage, the one in which Jesus teaches the disciples that if a brother sins against them they should go to him in private and if he refuses to repent, then take along a couple of other people to confront him and if he still refuses to repent, then take it to the whole church, if he still won’t listen and repent, then they should treat him like a tax collector, like someone who isn’t one of them. That’s harsh!

And so when I hear Peter say, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” I find myself ready to pat him on the back and commend him for his generosity.

I suspect he thought he was pretty generous too. He heard the encouragement to confront the one who wronged him in the context of his Jewish upbringing which taught him that if a brother sinned against him, he should forgive him three times. So, when he offers seven instead of three, he really is being generous.

Yet, Jesus, the one who had already told them to confront the one who sinned against them and hold them accountable, says, “Not seven times, but I tell, seventy-seven times.”

His response is a challenge to us, isn’t it? Oh, we struggle with the encouragement to confront the one who wrongs us, probably because the passage holds some difficult sayings about binding and loosing, and we don’t like to think about cutting people off or treating them like tax collectors. Or maybe we struggle because we don’t like conflict, and the idea of confronting someone when we’ve been wronged is hard for us to agree to.

The truth, though, is that if we’re honest with ourselves, well…the truth is, if I’m honest with myself, that part of me that’s very oriented toward justice, working on behalf of those who have been oppressed and hurt by injustices committed by those in power, I want to yell with Jesus, “Yeah! Confront them! Call them to repentance!” And in some way that feels more satisfying than asking someone to forgive the person who’s wronged them.

It’s all a little messy for us, isn’t it? It felt really messy to me when I sat with this passage in preparation for today’s message. I sat with the passage while thoughts of people I know who have been hurt badly by senseless acts of violence or prejudice or abuse ran through my mind. Can we really ask them to forgive? I sat with the passage mindful that in a couple of days we reach the seven-year anniversary of a terrible act of violence in our country, an act of terrorism that’s affected us all deeply and I wonder, what does it mean to ask those most deeply hurt by what happened on 9-11 to forgive? I wonder, how do we call a nation, a government to forgive?

I think it’s difficult for us because forgiveness has been thrown out to us in a rather casual fashion….maybe it conjures up images like this one that it did for me, images of my tired mother, weary from all that she had going on in her life, weary of the fighting and bickering between my brother and me who often said, “I don’t want to hear it! Just kiss and make up!” My friends, no kiss was ever so bitter as the one demanded without justice first! And while in the long run forgiving my brother for irritating or annoying me may really have been as easy as kissing and making up, to glibly suggest that someone hurting from a genuine, painful offense to just kiss and make up, to tell them to just forgive is to cause harm.

That’s why I think holding the two passages together is critical. The two acts of faith that these passages point to need to be held in tension. Our justice-seeking is an act of faith that leaves us empty if it doesn’t point us toward something different, if it isn’t meant to bring about the long-hoped-for reconciliation promised in the kin-dom of God. That’s what I see happening when I hear that our nation’s response to the cries to “Never Forget” what happened on 9-11 is to take the scrap metal from the twin towers and make a battleship! Doesn’t that just lead us down a never-ending road of revenge and hatred?

Without forgiveness, reconciliation, peace, transformation cannot happen. That’s a reality we’re faced with.

And our forgiveness is shallow and meaningless if it doesn’t also name the offense committed and demand change. That, too, is a reality we’re faced with.

As people of God, we stand with those who are hurt and work for change. And as people of God, we also seek to forgive, setting ourselves free to embrace the promised transformation.

The parable Jesus told shows us how we find our way through the messiness. A king demands that a servant pay the debts he owes. The servant begs for the king’s mercy, asking him to be patient until he can pay it off. The king has mercy on him, sets him free and forgives the debt. But the servant, we’re told, immediately encounters another man who owes him money, and demands that the debt be paid. When the fellow servant says he can’t pay and begs for mercy and patience, the first servant, the one fresh from his experience of forgiveness, has the man thrown in prison. When word of what the first servant did reaches the king, he calls him wicked for not having pity on his fellow servant, particularly after having been shown mercy himself. Then he hands him over to be tortured.

Jesus concludes the parable with a difficult saying, “So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.” That difficult saying tempts us to be distracted from the point. We want to debate whether or not a loving God would actually do that to us. But, as anyone who has actually struggled to forgive can tell you, it’s really a moot point. We need not be distracted, because the reality is that when we don’t forgive, we’re holding ourselves prisoner to the anger that for awhile protected us and pointed us to the need for justice. We torture ourselves, making ourselves prisoners to the past and to the pain. And we cut ourselves off from the very work God wishes to do in our lives. Forgiveness sets us free from those things…..when we’re ready. It declares that we no longer believe the past holds such significant sway on the present and future. It declares our faith that change can happen. It takes time, there’s no question, and it is wrong for us to demand that anyone forgive. But when we keep working at this -- and I really think that’s Jesus point in saying seventy-seven times, that we keep at the work as long as there are wrongs to forgive -- then we open the door to peace and reconciliation.

And what helps us do the work? Remembering that we have been forgiven. That’s what the servant failed to do. He failed to take in the power of his experience of having his debt forgiven. So if you need a place to start in the work of forgiveness, if you find that there’s someone or a group of people that you just can’t forgive yet, then find another way to do the work of forgiveness. Don’t start with the big stuff if you aren’t ready. Asking someone to forgive the major offenses without doing the work to get there is like asking someone to run a marathon before she’s made it around the block. We can start by practicing forgiveness in our everyday lives, seeking to offer it where it’s possible. We can start by seeking to forgive ourselves. While we do what we can, we reflect on the multitude of times we have experienced forgiveness and let that move us to show mercy when the time is right. And when we struggle to believe forgiveness is possible, we can turn to people who have done the hard work and let them inspire and challenge us.

During my preparation for this sermon, I watched a documentary entitled “The Power of Forgiveness.” Near the end of the film, a Sufi Muslim man who lives in California, Azim Khamisa, is introduced. Azim’s story is extraordinary. His 20-year-old son was killed delivering a pizza to a group of young men who refused to pay. When Azim’s son, Tariq, told them they could not have the pizza, he was shot in the head in response. Azim used his faith to help him deal with his loss. He observed the prescribed period of mourning, then turn to his religious leaders for help deciding what to do next. He was told to do an act of charity, so after considerable thought, Azim, an investment banker, started a foundation in the name of his son. But he didn’t stop there. He went to the grandfather of the young man who killed his son and asked him to help him build the foundation. The two men now work together in schools and other community organizations to teach others that forgiveness is doorway to transforming the violence and hatred in their neighborhoods to peace.

Forgiveness is possible! The message of the gospel is that change can happen. Hope lies in the present and future. It’s based on the very real possibility of transformation. We demonstrate our conviction that we believe it’s possible when we act in faith and seek justice and forgive.

Who do you need to forgive today? Are ready? It’s okay if you aren’t, but I encourage you, as one who’s struggling with you, find some piece of the work of forgiveness that you can work on today, and open the door to transformation.

The unicycle

The oak tree in Tommy Weaver's front yard stood well above the roof of his ranch style home. The branches stretched with broad shoulders and long arms to shelter the expanse of the front yard; its roots exploded through the concrete sidewalk in front of their house. It was impractical really. Summer time called for games of baseball and kickball, or hours of catch with a football or frisbee, but we could never play any of those things in his front yard. But the tree was good for climbing or for standing against to count with our eyes closed tight next to arms leaning on the tree while neighborhood kids ran in the dark through scores of lightening bugs looking for a good place to hide until someone stealthily reached the driveway to kick the can.

Summer days stretched lazily from the cooler morning hours of baseball and basketball and long bike rides around town through the hot afternoons of quieter activities in the shade of the giant oak and well into the night when our families sat in cheaply made lawn chairs with flimsy aluminum frames and fraying nylon strips that tenuously held us while we ate watermelon and drank slurpees in plastic cups with pictures of baseball players from the Kansas City Royals. Our brown bodies and dirty bare feet bore the marks of summer. Chigger bites swelled under cracked layers of clear nail polish from spots on our feet and legs. We relished in the freedom of summer. The neighborhood belonged to us and our days were our own to structure and plan as we pleased.

In the summer when Tommy was eight and I was nine, he got a unicycle for his birthday, May 25, two days after school was out. We had three months to learn to ride it. Our goal was to make it around the block once by the end of the summer, a trip that would take us up and down a hill and over crumbling sidewalks. We practiced for hours, falling off with each half turn of the pedals, the cycle dropping clumsily to the ground at our feet. We were stiff and clumsy. Each move came timidly, uncertain where it would take us. There was no one to teach, no one to say, "Lean forward" or "hold your arms out to keep your balance." We were left to experiment and see what position on the bike would keep us upright and what shifts were necessary to compensate for the terrain we traversed.

Our lessons eventually shifted to the thin patch of lawn under the oak tree. The bumpy roots mimicked the crumbling concrete on the sidewalk and the opportunity to keep the tree at arm's length while we rode in circles around its trunk gave us the balance we needed to stay on the unicycle long enough for our bodies to feel where it needed to position itself to stay on. Slowly we made progress, spurned on by the competition we offered each other, yet free to enjoy the pleasure of learning something new just for the sake of learning it.

The day came when we were ready to move away from the tree. After hours of practice, we were consistently circling the tree five or six times without ever having to touch it to keep our balance. We wanted to see how far we could go. I was timid at first and the unicycle quickly fell from under me, crashing down while my feet dropped to the ground to keep me upright. My legs and arms were tight, my jaw clenched. Over and over, I tried to keep my balance, but I kept falling off. I would make it two feet on one try and five the next, then fell with the first turn of the pedals. And just as I was ready to give up, in a flurry of frustration and anger, I pushed on the pedals with greater force and groaned through the stiffness in my stomach until with each turn of the pedals, I found myself moving another foot down the sidewalk. I went over the Collins' double driveway and past their house, crossed the Schmidts' driveway and before long my own house was no longer in sight. I breathed in deeply and laughed with delight while my body took over and kept the delicate balance needed to ride all the way to the end of the block, where I had to turn to go down the hill and around the block. I stayed on the cycle until sheer exhaustion kept me from making it back up the hill on the other side of the block.

That's the feeling of summer to me...beginner's mind with no attachment to an agenda, free to learn and explore, playfully finding a new balance that my body can learn and embrace.

And if I close my eyes, I can feel the warm summer breeze in my face and the sheer pleasure of effortlessly balancing on the unicycle down the crumbling sidewalk and around the block, the sheltering oak tree in Tommy Weaver's yard saluting my freedom as I ride past.

Sweat equity

Just as a matter of record, I would like to point out that over the course of this summer, while building the one-bedroom cottage that I will be renting and moving into soon, I have acquired the following skills (with varying degrees of mastery):

• Laying Pergo
  
• Hanging sheet rock
• Mudding and taping sheet rock
• Applying structolite (like stucco)
• Painting
• Blowing insulation (eco-friendly, green insulation made of recycled newspapers!)
• Roofing

I can't wait to move in! The place is going to be amazing!

TIHTFNTINZOBTC* #2

Riding my bike to and from work a couple of times a week...

It's 10.3 miles each way, so the to and from gives me a good workout, a nice alternative to running. And I LOVE it! I swear I'm like a kid at Christmas. I love seeing the city up close and at a slower pace. I find myself connecting with it in a different way.

*Things I Have Time for Now That I'm not Zoning Out Behind the Computer

Things I have time for now that I'm not zoning out behind the computer #1

Building a rotating barrel composter with a friend....

We took two designs we found on the internet and combined them to come up with our plan, purchased the materials, including the used plastic food grade barrel from the "barrel guy" who sets up shop on the grassy median at the exit off the highway we take to get to my friend's house (where I will be moving in August).

Down for the summer

Perhaps you've noticed that there hasn't been much going on over here. I've been busy. First, there was a marathon of work-related travel. Mixed in with all of that have been days at the new home of some friends who moved out on the edge of town onto three acres of riverfront property. Personally, I think the place is a bit of heaven. Orioles and bluebirds and woodpeckers and pelicans and egrets and cranes....my, oh, my the birds! It's amazing! The place is so void of street noise and city sounds that the birdsong is amplified tenfold, and is interrupted only occasionally by the howl of a pack of huskies from the neighbor's yard next door and the longing wail of a train whistle on the other side of the river.

And....at the end of the summer I'll be moving into an apartment on their property!

My life is full of good things, and yet, I know there's still so much more waiting for me if I'll open myself up to it. I have some work to do to get there. I've known for a long time that one of the steps I'd need to take is to stop blogging, at least for awhile. I've felt guilty about "abandoning" what for awhile felt like community to me, particularly two and three years ago when my life was on the verge of some big changes and I had isolated myself from supportive people who could push me in the right direction. Many of you who still drop by here to read were a big part of giving me that boost to change. And my life is very different as a result. But, there are ways in which I still use blogging as a less than adequate substitute for the true intimacy I want, but honestly struggle to seek and receive, in the relationships I have. That's a habit I want to break. I want to quit hiding behind this brick wall here and start showing up more with the friends I have.

So, I'm dropping out of the blogosphere...for awhile anyway. I'm going to leave the blog up because I would like to return and use the space as an outlet for writing, but for the next two months, I won't be hanging around here or on Facebook.

I'm grateful to you all. I don't know where I'd be right now if I hadn't started writing here.

A marathon to end the silence

I had a chance to say something this week that I've wanted to say to someone in my family for a long time. Before the weekend is over, I will tell the rest of my family the same thing and a journey which I started a few years ago will be over. It's hard to imagine how it will feel when it's done. I feel that surge of energy a marathoner gets when the balloon arch at the finish line finally comes into sight with about a half mile to go. There's nothing to gain from that sudden kick, but now that I'm so close to the end, I just want to be done.

I've rehearsed the conversation I had this week a thousand times. Though I have known I couldn't predict how it would go, it didn't go the way I expected it would. I prepare myself for the worst most of the time when I think there's the potential for conflict, and in this case, I had good reason to believe the worst would happen. It didn't. In fact, it was far better than I dared to imagine. Not only did I get to say something I've longed to say, I heard something said in return that everyone should have the opportunity to hear said by her own flesh and blood.

I've had one lingering question ever since, "Why did it take so long?" There is an answer to that question. The answer is found in several lifetimes of learned decency and silence that was thought to keep peace, values handed down by parents who were themselves taught to keep silences to avoid offense and shame. But at what cost?

I am a person who far too often holds her words. The pain of the last few steps of this journey is the awareness of all that I've missed out on because I didn't say what I felt deeply in my heart. I've been afraid I might offend. I've feared that I would be rejected and somehow that seemed reason enough to hold back deep convictions and strongly felt words that had the power to change things, and while I rejoice that those words have been spoken and have closed some of the space that separated, I regret that it took so long. I really regret that I allowed my parents' commitment to decency to hold sway over my own values and convictions.

Silence is the torrential rain that washes out the road that separates me from others. It keeps me inside the walls built with the bricks and mortar of my fear. The longer the silence is kept, the harder it is to traverse the way to another. The obstacles are harder to overcome. It becomes easier to stay apart and not take the journey to end the separation. I convince myself it's safer that way.

I've found myself wondering what's wrong with being offensive from time to time. It's a question that has to be asked if I'm going to challenge the assumptions that keep the silence intact. Recently I was reminded of two heated conversations I've had in my life that ultimately became life changing.

In one conversation, as a 23-year-old arrogant American, I proudly proclaimed the goodness of the United States' paternalistic military policies in South Korea to a group of Korean college students. To their credit, they didn't demonstrate outside my apartment throwing bottle bombs at riot police who retaliated with pepper gas, nor did they refuse to associate with me after that. They didn't even yell, "Yankee, go home," though I'm sure I deserved to be told that. Instead, they gently challenged me, and in the course of the conversation, I became deeply, painfully aware of my arrogance, of the ridiculousness of considering an 8000+ year old culture adolescent, in need of the gentle instruction and safekeeping of the great parent democracy I thought we had in the U.S. On a rare occasion, I opened my mouth to say what I thought and I offended good people with my misguided ideas, however well-intentioned they may have been. But they didn't leave me in my ignorance. They challenged me, I listened to them, and my life was changed for the better.

A similar conversation with my step-brother and his partner years later opened the door for me to accept myself. The words had to be said out loud, my fear and ignorance revealed, in order for me to find a way to truly hear what they understood from their own experiences. The offense caused is long forgotten, replaced instead with gratitude for the life-altering new awareness and understanding gained from engaging each other in that way.

For someone so quiet and afraid to say what she thinks, I've experienced a lot of transformation in the school of awkwardness and offense. I can't get back the years lost, and some of the distance that separates because of the secrets kept may never be closed, but I find hope in these final steps of a long marathon to end the silence that has separated me from people I love that the latter half of my life will be lived out of the realization that words not said cause more regret for me than words said out of honest conviction, however misguided they may be.

Coveting and learning from my annoyances

I've been traveling a lot lately, and I'm finding that in each new place there is something I covet, something that seems just a little better than what I have at home. In some places it's the beauty of mountains or the coastline. In others, it's a more progressive mindset among the people who live there.

In Minneapolis, where I've spent the past five days, it's the food. I established a new tradition of trying, wherever and whenever possible, at least one restaurant that uses local foods. It's not always easy to find such places, but I hit the information jackpot when I walked into my hotel here. A monthly publication for tourists prominently displayed at the registration desk showed reviews of "green" restaurants. When I turned to the article, I discovered a listing of three places within easy driving distance of the area of town where the Festival of Homiletics was held this year. I carefully planned my schedule to allow time to slip out to each of these places.

The first, Cafe Brenda, was about as close to perfection as I've ever found in food. I had a dinner salad with my meal that consisted of fresh lettuce, carrots, red onion so sweet it tasted like apple, spiced pumpkin seeds, and watermelon radish. It was very gently tossed with a vinaigrette dressing that added a hint of flavor while allowing the vegetables in the salad to take center stage. Each bite was perfect, and I after two, I became firmly convinced that local, fresh, and organic is definitely better. Accompanying the salad was a plate of grilled walleye, seasoned with a blackberry ginger teriyaki glaze, and crusted with sesame seeds and almonds. The fish had light flavor that was amazing. Green beans, braised greens, and wild rice complimented the fish. I left the restaurant certain that I'd had one of the best meals of my life. I really can't explain it.

Subsequent days included trips to Red Stag Supper Club and Wilde Roast Cafe. The food at Red Stag was good, but did not compare to Cafe Brenda. The service, however, was fabulous. I sat at the bar and enjoyed the company of the bartender for the duration of my lunch. It was a slow day. I got a lot of attention, and our conversation proved to be the only truly meaningful one I've had since Tuesday. It's odd how that happens to me. I blame myself. I don't mix well in large groups, so I kept to myself a lot at the FoH.

There was much about the Festival that I enjoyed and will take back with me. I found a panel discussion with several writers to be the most helpful and challenging time of the Festival for me. Singer/songwriter Beth Nielsen Chapman was first to speak (and sing!). She used a computer/internet metaphor to talk about the creative process. I was annoyed by it. She talked about songs being in the ether and that all she had to do was download them. This struck me as extremely reductionistic. If this is how the creative process works, then why don't I have access to those songs she downloads. I still think it's too simplistic, and I suspect is an attempt at trying to explain something that seems impossible to describe. But what struck me is how quickly the others followed suit in describing their own creative processes. I expected at least one to disagree with her, but instead, they all described something similar.

I still think the metaphor and the descriptions are too simplistic. But, what I realized upon further reflection about my annoyance is that my problem isn't that I don't have access to that creativity. My problem is the I fear the process. I fear it so much that I can't sit still long enough to be inspired, to tap in and wait for the words to come, to keep wrestling with them until I understand. It's a fear of my own power, I think. There's something easy and comforting in assuming that I'm just meant to live day to day, happy and content with what I have, never wanting more.

The coveting, I believe, is an indication that I'm not nearly as content as I think I am. It's a holy discontent, I believe, and the covetousness is an expression of my laziness. I want what's out there, but I often lack the will and drive to do the hard work necessary to get it. The trick is to learn to embrace the discontent without spending too much time entertaining the self-pity coveting encourages.

I have a good life. When I think back to what I had two years ago, I can't complain about where I am now. But, I'd be lying if I said I'm satisfied. I want to be happy with what I have, but I realize now that being happy with what I have means accepting that the discontent I feel deep in my bones is part of that too. It needs to be embraced and understood and welcomed as an ally, a guide ready to show me that there is more for me than what I have now. I get trapped feeling guilty for wanting more. I have good friends who love me and accept me for who I am, who share their good fortune with me with such generosity that I'm often overwhelmed, yet at the end of the day, I go home to my quiet apartment alone. I travel to places where I know no one and a ten minute phone call to this friend or that back home helps me feel the connections I know there and seem to lose when I'm not there to be a part of the day-to-day activities we share, but it's never the voice of someone who wants to know the details of my day, who cherishes the small things I see and experience. It's not the sound of a voice I hear every night before I fall asleep that makes me long for the feel of her warmth in the bed next to me. I love my friends, but I want more. And that desire scares me.

I have a job that provides for my needs. I have opportunities to do some amazing things, but it doesn't fulfill my desire to make a meaningful, lasting difference in the world. It's important work, but it's not what I want for my life long term. I feel guilty about that too. There are people who don't have jobs. My own parents did work that neither found all that meaningful, yet they were able to grasp a deeper meaning in the way they provided for their families and worked toward providing us with opportunities for something more in our lives.

That too is a holy discontent. I am not doing what I'm called to do. The job I have now may be a means to an end. It may help keep me financially stable while I do what I need to do to be ready for that which I'm called to do. I find meaning in that, but I'm also grateful for the restlessness I feel. I can't be content with this job. The restlessness causes me to listen to the constant woos of a quiet voice inside of me that says there's more for me to do.

So I leave this place today, returning home to a life I love, but also grateful that I'm not fully satisfied. As hard as it is for me to admit, I want more for my life than what I have now. That may sound like a lack of gratitude, but I think, for me, it's an important step. I don't think I'm meant to be satisfied. Grateful, yes, but not satisfied.

Mary Oliver believes the fox has something to say

And I couldn't agree more!

Concretegodmother sent this poem to me last night. It's given me a lot to think about. It's from Mary Oliver's latest collection, Red Bird:

Straight Talk from the Fox

Listen says fox it is music to run

over the hills to lick

dew from the leaves to nose along

the edges of the ponds to smell the fat

ducks in their bright feathers but

far out, safe in their rafts of

sleep. It is like

music to visit the orchard, to find

the vole sucking the sweet of the apple, or the

rabbit with his fast-beating heart. Death itself

is a music. Nobody has ever come close to

writing it down, awake or in a dream. It cannot

be told. It is flesh and bones

changing shape and with good cause, mercy

is a little child beside such an invention. It is

music to wander the black back roads

outside of town no one awake or wondering

if anything miraculous is ever going to

happen, totally dumb to the fact of every

moment's miracle. Don't think I haven't

peeked into windows. I see you in all your seasons

making love, arguing, talking about God

as if he were an idea instead of the grass,

instead of the stars, the rabbit caught

in one good teeth-whacking hit and brought

home to the den. What I am, and I know it, is

responsible, joyful, thankful. I would not

give my life for a thousand of yours.

Fabulous day!

This day has been positively magical. It started with grilled pork chops for dinner last night and a chance to sleep in the fresh air on the sun porch at the new house some friends just bought. The house is on the river, so this morning I awoke to the sounds of birds too numerous to count.

The plan was to fish, but the river swelled after a storm on Thursday, making it impossible, so we sat and watched birds. The river right now is a stopping place for white pelicans returning to the Dakotas after a winter in Texas. Numerous other birds circled above and darted over the water in the beautiful morning sun.

But I was completely captivated by a Baltimore Oriole that must be nesting in their yard. I don't think that I've ever seen a more beautiful bird. The brilliant orange color is so striking I couldn't take my eyes off of it. I stood outside and watched it until he finally flew away.

I left around noon and returned home, eager to read about some of the things I saw. The night was busy and sleep interrupted by the dogs' fascination with the activity outside. I took a long nap this afternoon, a deep sleep that comes to me only when I'm totally relaxed. I did a few things around the house and then decided the new fishing pole had to be used. Today.

I drove out to the lake and fished for an hour and a half without a single bite, but while I was there, I saw a couple of bluebirds, the brilliance of their color matched only by a perfectly clear blue sky. At one point, I looked up and saw six vultures circling overhead. I decided not to take that as a sign of my impending doom, and chose instead to assume they had great confidence in my fishing skills. Alas, they were wrong, as I left the lake without so much as a hint that there were fish in it.

On the way home, a friend called. I was expecting her to call to tell me the homemade potato bread she was making was ready for me to taste, so it took me a minute to catch what she really said, "We have an owl on our front porch." She went on to explain that she thought, "This is the sort of thing Linda would like," but she delayed calling me thinking that by the time I got there it would have flown away. After about forty-five minutes of it sitting and staring at her, she decided to give it a try. I'm glad she did. When I arrived 15 minutes later, the owl was still there. I stayed for about 45 minutes more and there was no sign of it budging. You can see some of the pictures she got of it here and here. Don't hesitate to check out these links. You will not be sorry. The close up pictures of the owl are amazing!

Now, I'm home, relaxing while I eat a piece of still warm potato bread. The cat, not to be outdone by the rest of nature, is insisting on getting between me and the computer, trying to rest on my stomach and sleep.

It has been a most fabulous day!

The gift of a mantra

I belong to a group that meets a couple of times a month. The facilitator of the group gave each of us mantras today, ones that she spoke to her about us. She chose them from the shakti mantras. Here's mine:

Om Akulayei Namaha [Om Ah-koo-lah-yei Nahm-ah-hah]

Translation: "Om and salutations to She who, having risen to the thousand-petaled lotus at the top of the head, is referred to as 'akula', having no perceivable genesis, lineage, or qualities whatsoever."

Receiving this from her and hearing the group's feedback was a powerful experience for me. I'm anxious to see what comes of using it in my meditation.

A walk in the woods

I took a long walk in the woods today. 9-10 miles. About 4 of which were on top of snow pack deep enough that when I occasionally fell through, I sunk up to my knees. 1375' elevation change.

It's very tiring to hike like that.

It was a wonderful day. Tomorrow I head home. There will be a more substantial post in a few days, and some pictures. Now I will sleep. Very peacefully.