School ends and summer jobs  begin.  Spring fever ends and poison ivy begins to creep into our lives.  Spring greens fade from the garden and tomato plants need stakes to support their growth.

I believe in,  and practice present moment living.  I am actually pretty good…not perfect…but pretty good at it. So I find myself here at Blue Heron Farm,  ending a season of  change and growth,   and exiting to unfold in a new place…the spring of Sadie’s Place.  Sadie’s Place is a whole month behind the frost date of Blue Heron Farm.  A different soil, weather pattern, and relationship with the land.  I say good-bye to  an army of double iris and hello to bee balm. Good-bye to chickweed pesto (growing just outside my door at BHF) and hello to basil and summer tomatoes  (growing ,just outside my door at Sadie’s Place).  I say good-bye to cozy blankets and fleece and hello to cool summer-cotton sheets.

I hum, to everything there is  a season…..

Wherever I go I take this with me. It is good and full and complete. And it is short and sweet and temporary. In the blink of an eye it  changes.  It’s all good. ( e’ tutu bene)

As I leave the farm for this season, I celebrate with my friend Norma as we tout our wares in the garden. Jewelry and baskets against a back drop of blue sky, grassy field, and  golden pond. We sit for a moment with friends to sip sweet wine and breathe deeply the moment as it passes. Join us if you can. Gallery In The Garden…two Wednesdays in May and then, in the blink of an eye….gone. 

Enjoy each moment, it is so worth the pausing.

I believe in this easy progression of here then gone. I find myself quite often at ease with, and  comfortable  in the passing of my days. Just seems natural to me. Nature is a good teacher. But I do relish the  pause and intention with which I gaze upon the exchange. The giving up of the known as it passes into the becoming. Ahhhh, sweetness.

So here we are…unable to keep our eyes wide open. Blinking is natural and necessary. I guess it’s just good to practice re-focusing our vision after the blink. What beautiful new vision awaits?

Yes, the Love of Christmas has shone all around Mallard Ridge these last few weeks in obvious and subtle ways…..as residents sang carols  in the parlor, or joined families together for an enormous Christmas party, or nurses and aids carried bed pans and medications and many other small comforts to those who cannot always attend to their own  basic needs.

This is a small, but not insignificant Christmas Tale. It has been said that a culture can be judged by the way it cares for its’ elders. I am generally saddened by the ways we fall short on the care and esteem of the older adults in our midst. (I won’t even start-in with health care) There is much that is not right with the world. But there are those who help nudge the world toward that place it ought to be. This year I send words of gratitude to all of those who make space in their busy lives and generous hearts for Mom and all of those other wise, cranky, forgetful childlike spirits in aging bodies.

Bless you!

There are many days I lament my lack of time for artistic endeavors. I want to curl up by the fire and write. I look longingly at stacks of reed and oak handles and imagine the basket, I want to dust off my guitar and play until my fingers are calloused. But truthfully my most consistent art these days is found in the poetry of living. I have to confess. I am more and more appreciative of the piece I’m sculpting.

I rolled out of bed  early this morning. My sleep was disturbed off-and-on for hours by a dream that finally got my attention.  The first image I remembered was reaching into my Mother’s lap, taking her hands and helping her to stand. I turned to my son and said, “I’ll need your help.” I was guiding my Mom down a long hallway. There were several doors. My son would hold each door open so I could easily pass through while supporting Mom.  The feeling in the dream was warm. She wore a cozy robe, my son smiled as we walked through each door, I held Mom gently and close to my body.  I felt the softness of her skin and hair.

It was a beautiful dream and yet I kept waking up feeling disturbed. This is not really  surprising since last week  I spent several  nights in my Mom’s hospital room. Waiting for test results, dealing with side effects from medications, answering her repeated questions about the many confusions. I think last night’s dream was offering me the opportunity to re-enter the poetry of life. To affirm again the cycle of birth and death, beginnings and endings, gain and loss. This is the third in a series of dreams I’ve had about my Mom’s passing. The first was many years ago. I dreamed that Mom and I were both lying face down in deep, rich mud.  Our hands were touching. Mom asked, “What’s happening Debbie?” I replied, “We’re dieing, Mom.”  She was upset because she didn’t think her child should be experiencing death. In the dream I sensed her sadness and said, “Don’t worry, it’s fine. It’s natural to return to the earth. It’s just a part of me that goes with you. And a part of you stays with me.”  A few weeks later I told Mom about the dream and she laughed. After a few minutes she told me she wasn’t too happy about being in the mud. Life as art in hospital rooms and assisted living.

A few weeks ago I sat with my spiritual formation group in the familiar circle we’ve kept weekly for over 15 years.  I need to sit with these dear friends without words at times. With their love and energy. With the memories and blessings of their stories and the treasures of our shared story. We have journeyed together through so many life changes and deepening of soul. This circle. This sacred space. This is where I’ve practiced my art. I’ve cried and laughed and wondered and hung-in-there with these folks, week-in and week-out. There are precious few things I’ve held so consistently. Life as art in gemeinschaft.

And so, it is the season of gifts.  There are no boxes to hold my art. It feels to me that as if by magic or miracle, the time of year that usually has folks running frantically from place-to-place has somehow slowed me down.  In this quieter space…the hospital room or the circle… what I need, and what is needed of me in each moment is simply delivered. Present, if I can recognize it.

This week I hope to see each person I encounter as art and gift. And smile.

Settled in Old Money town when learning number 5,  (me)  on the way.    I am from a crib in the living room….          looking up at 4 teenage siblings.   Their baby doll…adored and dressed-up.

I am from my seat high in the maple tree or the swing beneath its’ shade.                                                                                               I am from creeks and damns and crawdaddies.                                                                                                                                                 From the yellow of springtime jonquils and pink of dogwood,                                                                                                                 Summer June bugs flown on a thread .                                                                                                                                                                    Hide ‘n Seek friends….young peacemaker.

I am from Autumn leaves and Autumn losses.                                                                                                                                                     I am from 1963….when in 3 months at age 9…..   my father died young…my hero president was shot down….                       my goldfish family was scalded…burned….buried at sea.

I am from music:  Big Band, Jazz, Radio Top 40….concerts and backstage passes… Rock ‘n Roll.

I am from soup beans and cornbread and apple pie with ice-cream…meatloaf and mountains of mashed potatoes….fried chicken & deviled-egg picnics in the park.

I am from large family gone solo…nights home alone paralyzed by threatening male phone calls.

I am from cheerleader mascot to cheerleader life,,,,rah-rah….Go Team!

I am from long hair, hippie, blue jean baby….dancer with the band.

I am mostly from lyrics and poems,  and partly from earth and water.

I am the cancer-crab….carrying her home on her back wherever she goes.

I am from yawning mornings…awakened by three wide-eyed, grinning boys.

I am from every age and stage and joy and fear and hope and dream that burdens and gifts and teaches Mother.

I am daughter….now Mother for my Mother.

I am from women who taught me, held me, encouraged me.

I am from work, work, work…and walking down cobblestone streets to raise my kids in an age-old spiritual community. Time measured by bell tower.

I am from a mountain-top of summers….community built on shared belief:  In  essentials, unity. In non-essentials, liberty. In all things,  love.

I am from awe and wonder and joy….sadness, loss and hopelessness. I am from stress so deep my body rebelled.

I am from “you’re blind.”

I am from the hammock that held me and helped heal my body and soul and made space for new life.

I am from stars and star dust.

I am from love found on a dance floor….leading to an amazing, quirky, loving, adventuresome marriage…..    Growing…. in a trusted space that exists somewhere between

fact and fantasy     process and acceptance    scarcity and abundance    known and unknown                                               please hold me and please hear me.

I am from there’s alway enough….pull up another chair.

I am from sooooo much more……words are never enough.

I am from somewhere I’ve never been but know it lives in me.

I am………….

I am this and you are this and we are this and this is all there is….so I always wonder….where did you come from?

People often ask how we found this amazing cottage. But I really have to say that Sadie’s Place found us in a which- came -first-the- chicken- or- the- egg kind of dream. I’ll explain

A few years ago while riding bikes along Peak Creek Church Road, Steve and I spied a small “for sale” sign near a somewhat weary 1930′s farmhouse.  Since this was the only house nearby we guessed  it must be the one  that belonged to the  sign. Finding the house empty and no one around we decided to rest on the front steps. We were struck by the quiet simplicity and found ourselves stopping frequently in the weeks to come. First we just sat on the front steps. Then we walked along the creek that fronted the property. Then we ventured into the woods of the Blue Ridge Parkway behind the house. Resting there was always nurturing and a bit magical. We began to make-up stories about the families who lived by the creek and ate apples from the aging trees or grapes from the vines twined in the alders.

One day as we walked along the creek we found an old slab of concrete among the rocks. There were names and a date scratched into the surface.  The date of the inscription read, July 7th…my birthday. We were surprised and thought “Ooooh. maybe it’s a sign. Maybe we should think about buying this house.”  Now you have to remember  there’s something really nice about a pretty place to rest where you don’t have to mow, clean, or make payments. So the idea didn’t take hold immediately. Until………and this is why I value dreams……

A week or so after finding the rock of the birth date I had a vivid and colorful dream.  In the dream I was calmly telling my employer that I would be leaving my work because we were buying Sadie’s Place and it had seven chairs that I needed to fill with seven women. These seven women would be sitting together to envision healing for the world. In the dream the women were accompanied by our cat, Sadie.

So this is the chicken or the egg part. We didn’t have a cat. I hadn’t planned to leave my work, and I wasn’t too sure about the seven chairs part. After pondering the dream  I realized that the house (which was for sale as-is, and was steeped in is-ness…this is the dead car on the lawn, this is the toilet that won’t flush, this is the old wiring, etc.)  did indeed have exactly 7 seats. They were all  1940′s vintage metal porch furniture. A glider which I count as three seats and four rockers. They were rusty but sturdy and I loved them. Borrowing from the famous scene in the movie “Contact”:  This Means Something!

It gets better. A week or so after the dream I took our dog to the vet for her yearly check-up. I mentioned to the vet that someday down the road we might be interested in adopting a kitten. (Amazing since I have never liked cats.) She says wait a minute and leaves the room. She returns with a small, white furry thing in the hood of her sweatshirt. I’m in love and to make a short story shorter. Sadie, who was abandoned at 3 weeks of age comes home in the hood of my sweatshirt at the ripe old age of 6 weeks. I’m now the Mom and our miniature schnauser is her reluctant siibling.

So how do these things come into being? Was Sadie out there waiting for a home. Was the empty cottage waiting for us? It’s sweet mystery. Is it just a dream? I’ve left my hectic work life and now find my life’s work often involves sitting with others in the seven seats of Sadie’s Place. Rockiing, sometimes quietly  and sometimes with laughter or music or tears.Visitors will tell you that Sadie is sure that it’s her place. She probably knows a lot more but she’s not talking. She just lounges peacefully in my lap. Purring sweet dreams.

Love at first sight as I generally think of it, is a precious gift and memory. But today I’m looking more deeply into the idea of “first sight”. Or what it means to see something or someone as if for the first time.  I seem to be naturally gifted at seeing the world this way, and for this I am grateful. Even so, there are times when I’ve almost missed the opportunity to fall in love and I’m sure, way too many times I’ve completely missed what was right in front of me.

The first week of February we drove up to D.C. to spend a few days with Adam & Kat. It was enough just  enjoying their company and remembering how much fun it is to get an all day metro pass and go this way and that, without much of a plan. We saw Julia Child’s kitchen at the Museum of American History as well as Michelle Obama’s portrait, freshly hung. Lovely! We went to the top of the Washington Monument on an unusually clear day that had me humming “on a clear day you can see forever.” We ate hotdogs from a street vendor and took a nap under a tree on the mall. We went to a Farmer’s Market before attending All Souls Church and spent an afternoon at the National Arboretum. Lest I forget, we made chili and screamed at the wretched outcome of the Super Bowl. None of us are big Super Bowl enthusiasts, but it seemed like a good idea. The chili was magnificent! Yes, all this would have been plenty, but the icing on the cake came on our last day. And this is the kind of love at first sight I’ve been thinking  about.

As our Christmas gift Adam & Kat had purchased tickets for Alvin Ailey’s American Dance Theater’s 50th Anniversary performance at the Kennedy Center. Opening night would also feature Sweet Honey in the Rock. Can it get any better? Well, it did! I had not been in the Kennedy Center for years. I have fond memories of times there as a young girl, but as we took our seats I saw it as if for the first time. Such beauty and excitement. The ceiling shone like an exquisite brooch. Intricate and dainty and vibrating light. The colors of walls and carpet were deep and rich. But the greatest  beauty belonged to the gathering crowd. There was an energy of celebration, almost like  inaugural festivities were moving into the next phase. Families like us were dressed up and ready to go. It was a windy, below-freezing walk from even the closest  parking space, so even the people in furs looked perfectly readied for the evening. I saw all of this with  new eyes. I saw the people and the light and the color. I saw a dream coming true, a hope emerging, a potential for life together. I watched a mother with her young daughter, whispering bits of information to help the child understand the meaning beneath the movement of the dancers. There are simply no words that convey what it’s like to watch these dancers interpret the story of a people. Of all people of faith who struggle and endure and emerge.  I saw lace-edged handkerchiefs dab small, slow tears. Love at first, 0pen-hearted, wide-eyed sight!

For those of you who think on these things, I found one of my entries here. It’s a great book and calls us to think about what the good life, past or present, really means and what it will “cost” us. Let me know what you think.

I forgot to feed the birds. I gave away my hot chocolate last week. My work plans will have to change.

I’m putting on a pot of soup beans. Making cornbread. Pulling ham slices from the freezer. Pouring a hot cup of coffee.

Pulling the rocking chair up to the wood stove. Snuggling in my fleece.  Throwing on an extra log. Warming my cozy-socked feet.

Glancing out the window…repeatedly. It’s still falling. I think it’s falling harder than at last glance.

I stand at the window and trace snowflakes and hearts and my name on frosty panes. I consider the weight of a snowflake on pine bough.

I read poetry by the fire. Watch Steve snooze. Stir the soup beans. Make mental pictures of this good life.

I cuddle in the corner of the couch and daydream and journal and imagine the baskets I’ll weave and garden I’ll plant. Ummmm, tomato sandwiches.

I return to the window. I trace my hand. I calculate the depth of snow on the picnic table. I spot Sadie (the cat) chasing snowflakes and making what must be a cat’s version of snow angels.

I want to make snow angels!

I find boots and gloves and long underwear and scarves and all manner of things hidden in the backs of closets.

It’s a perfect snow. A perfect day.

I come in from the cold. I am warmed again by the fire and by the friends gathered to celebrate a new day. Inauguration day.

I plan to celebrate with all the hope, awe, wonder  and trust of a child. Please join me.

Yesterday morning he offered this quote from Naomi Shihab Nye, “Older now, you find holiness in anything that continues” then posed this question. “What is oldest in you?”

I like to remember that as a child I would sit in the maple tree and, well.. just sit. I listened and watched. But mostly I just sat in the crooked seat where branches crossed paths on their journey toward the sky. I marveled at the simple. I felt the connection of all life. I imagined myself the sap moving through the tree.

These days I find myself leaning forward with excitement into conversations about small shifts in cultural perceptions and random evidence of a world turning toward its spiritual center. Some days it feels like I was born to wait for this time in human history. So it is not new to me, this awareness. The desire to revel in the slow, methodical ways of the Universe. It is old in me.

I don’t remember, but I guess my Mom gave me the skills to reach my maple tree chair. I do remember how she taught each of my boys to climb. First the orange tree in the backyard and then the magnolia tree out front. The first branches were only a foot or so above the ground, but the boys delighted in their freedom and the way the world looked from their new heights. Eventually each would quietly find a way to visit the tree alone. If we were patient Mom and I could witness this miracle from the window. It’s not easy to watch your child climb and slip and stretch so far and reach so high and sometimes fall and wait breathlessly as they wipe the dirt from their sweet little hands and try again. It’s not easy, but oh what a gift!

I once overheard Rusty repeating and mimicking my Mom’s instructions. “First you hold a branch with this hand. Don’t let go until you hold another branch with this hand. Put your foot on this branch. Put your other foot very close. Stop. Look around. Never take both hands off while you’re climbing. When you find a good place wrap your arm around the branch. Hug the tree and sit down.”

I am grateful for the instruction. And I am grateful to have found many places to wrap my arms around a branch and sit down. In those places I enjoy asking Mark’s question. What is oldest in me? I guess it’s my heartbeat. In it s pulsing I feel the rhythm of all time. I know the continual, ancient, ancestral birthing. I remember where I came from and what I’m here for. And I can enjoy the mystery of where I’m going.

My earliest memories are these.

Before i was even old enough to go to school, I would be lifted up and placed on a table beside the record player and given the supreme responsibility of changing the records while my teenage sisters and their friends danced sock-hop style across the living room floor. I memorized the songs by the labels on the 45′s (perhaps a foreign term, but what we called single records). This is the stuff of Happy Days…and they were.

Another memory so vivid it could have been yesterday…I sat on the piano while my Dad’s band rehearsed. Occasionally I would get to tag along when the band played at the Hanes High School prom or a dinner club. I thought the view from the top of the piano must be the best seat in the whole wide world.

Good and important memories.

Things change. My Dad died suddenly when I was nine-years-old. He actually died as his music was being replayed following a gig at a jazz festival in Charleston. I think he liked that. But I feel that at the tender age of nine I lost more than a father, I lost the musical advocate for a girl growing up in the post- 50′s South. i wanted to play organ and skip the piano lessons. No was the answer…that’s not how it’s done. Okay, I want to play drums in the junior high school band. No was the answer. That’s not the way it’s done. Girls don’t play drums. I caved. I played clarinet and later guitar. But I do wonder what it would have been like to have a father who advocated for the choices I wanted to make.

So here’s what I mean about what music remembers. Many years later I am a single mom with three teenage boys. They play guitar and flute and drums and banjo and a little bit of whatever is around. They have friends and girlfriends who play trumpet and cello and bass and harmonica and spoons. Our house is often an open jam and a place where passers-by feel comfortable walking through the front door and joining the music-making.

It’s not lost on me that I missed out on having a musician father yet received three musician sons and a whole herd of musical teenagers along the way. Life has a way of filling in the holes if we’re patient and willing to accept the gifts of the moment. Like this:

One night I dragged myself into the kitchen after a long day at work. I heard the beautiful sound of a saxophone. The instrument I most loved to hear my Dad play. I knew immediately, somehow that it was my Dad’s saxophone I was hearing. I walked into the living room and saw my son’s hands before I saw his face. What I saw were my Dad’s long, beautiful fingers. I remembered my Dad’s hands…Adam’s hands. I didn’t even know that my body had stored the memory of my Dad’s hands. The smell of the saxophone case…the sounds of the instrument…the beauty of the hand-scored music sheets worked together to unleash amazing memory.

Those hand-scored sheets of music magically survived many moves and changes and came to rest in our living room along with all of the instruments and other more contemporary music books. So check this out.

Same living room where I remembered my Dad’s hands, but a few weeks later. We were hosting several members of a German acapella boys choir. After the performance we all made our way home…a few friends in tow. I went to the kitchen to make some snacks for the assembled group of hungry kids. I began to hear incredible big band style music. I thought they had decided to play one of the tapes of my Dad’s band. I wandered into the living room to find the kids, who did not share a common language, communicating beautifully through my Dad’s sheet music. They were playing together, then changing off who would play which instrument, laughing at their mistakes, improvising improvements. I know with everything within me that the music remembered for them what their language barrier couldn’t produce. Music is a powerful language and carries the memory of all history.

I sometimes forget who I am and where I come from.

Music restores my memory and reminds my soul.

For this I am grateful.