A Call to Be Beautiful

August – Ordinary Time

“Non bere il vino,” the usher joked as he handed my husband the cut-glass vessels of wine and water. I received the plate of unconsecrated hosts and together, my husband and I walked down the aisle to the altar where we offered these humble gifts to the priest. We attend the Italian Mass at Holy Rosary Church in Washington, D.C, so the admonition in Italian to “not drink the wine” seemed quite appropriate!

Not often, but just now and then, my husband and I have been tapped on the shoulder and asked to participate in the Presentation of the Gifts at Mass. When this happens, I feel honored. It’s like we have been given a glimpse into what it must have been like to have been with Jesus at the Last Supper. As Catholics, we experience those final moments each week in the Holy Eucharist. To participate in this awesome celebration is truly, like a dear friend noted after Mass, a “God moment.”

Sometimes I feel like the only tether on my own cobbled path through this incredibly complicated world is my faith. It seems that my grasp on those woven fibers is tested by the hateful ways I see projected on the screens I obsessively turn to from when I start scrolling in the morning until I shut off the television before going to bed. Breaking habits – even choosing to pray in the morning before turning to the news – brings with it a certain calm, but in the quiet, I become distracted by questions and doubts that arise when I juxtapose what I have been born to believe with what all around me defines reality.

Reflection, contemplation, and prayer…it’s hard work. The constructs of my religion are too often battered by frailty, stubbornness, and ego. It’s difficult to ponder anything when all I hear is the noise of humans being…human. Maybe we don’t try hard enough; maybe we try too hard.

I recently read a quotation from Thomas Merton, “It seems to me that I have a greater peace and am closer to God when I am not ‘trying to be a contemplative,’ or trying to be anything special, but simply orienting my life fully and completely towards what seems to be required of a man like me at a time like this.” (Thanks to Terry Hershey’s Sabbath Moment for including this in one of his recent newsletters: https://www.terryhershey.com/sabbath-moment/)

Being asked to carry the gifts at Mass somehow makes me feel closer to God. Something else happened recently that also resonated. As Christians, we seek opportunities to pray for each other. We say it all the time: “I’ll pray for you.” We hear it all the time: “Please pray for me.” I think we might take this gesture for granted. I worry that I have forgotten someone who asked me to pray for them and try to summarize my daily prayers with something like: “Please hold in your loving arms all those who have asked for my prayers.” Not perfect…but still trying!

So, I cannot even begin to express how touched and surprised my husband and I were when a friend texted us a copy of a card and intention for a Mass to be said in our name at Our Lady of the Rosary church in San Diego’s Little Italy neighborhood. I am used to doing this for others and am not aware of ever being on the receiving end of this gracious gesture – especially at a church we love to attend when visiting Southern California.

Nearly 2,700 miles from San Diego, my husband’s job in the wild west of the east coast in Washington, D.C. has come with unfathomable challenges that have affected not only our lives but those of our family and friends. To say the least, we are sustained and bolstered by the prayers of our community. That prayer intention from the sister of a dear friend meant so much to us.

Back to church. After Mass at Holy Rosary in D.C., we usually walk downstairs to Casa Italiana, the church hall. There, we order espresso or cappuccino and then sit for a half an hour or so to talk with friends we have made over the past five years. Children run between their parents’ legs and around the tables as young and old converse in both Italian and English. This past weekend, one of the matriarchs of the parish came over to wish us good morning. We greeted each other with a kiss on each cheek, and then I introduced her to friends visiting from out of town.

“Anna was the first person,” I explained, “to say hello to us when we began coming to Holy Rosary. We felt welcome from the very beginning.”

“You are beautiful,” she said, squeezing me into a hug and then sweeping her arms to encompass those at our table. “We are a family here, a community.”

Moments like these fill the cracks of doubt that reach into the shadowed corners of my soul where the core of my faith continues to require tender nurturing. This core, though strong, feels battered lately by a woke world that is really quite asleep, by a hurricane force political climate whose winds change every news cycle, and by a sometimes consumer-driven catechism in conflict with spiritual resilience, curiosity, and tolerance.

God moments may seem small, but for me, they are manifested in the invitation to walk to the altar, a surprise prayer intention, the bittersweet sip of espresso after Mass, and in the potential of what happens when strangers accept the opportunity to become family. “You are beautiful,” she said, conveying a most important message across the wrinkled landscape of our faces – a message not of beauty but a call to be beautiful.

Lessons of Us

(my gift to a former student)

May – Ordinary Time

I was recently blessed to spend a day with one of my former students, Samantha, during her visit to Washington, D.C. for her graduation from Catholic University of America. She is the first graduate from Catholic University’s Tucson, Arizona campus where students can earn a bachelor’s degree in business management through coursework and internships closer to their homes in the Southwest. As we discussed her future, Samantha began to express emotions that tumbled between joyful relief that she completed the program to wary nervousness about next steps. She admitted to suffering from “imposter syndrome.”

I totally understand.

The knowledge that you have the credentials to take those next steps doesn’t necessarily come with all the tools you need. With time and experience, the obtuse worry over not fitting in may go dormant, but it never really goes away as we strive to become our best selves.

I just turned the page of another year on the odyssey through my sixth decade. Despite the words of encouragement I shared with Samantha about mustering her confidence and believing in herself, I also battle the reality that even a whisper of constructive criticism or a fumble with technology during one of the training sessions I do in my consulting work…honestly, even a bad hair day or waking up with the realization that things don’t always turn out the way I planned…all of this can send me scurrying down a rabbit hole where I let myself hide in the darkness of feeling “not good enough.”

When “not good enough” settles in, I am unable to engage in activities that normally ground me like writing, exploring a new route on my frequent walks, reaching out to friends, and accepting that my hair will never look the way I want it to on a humid day! I lose sight of the rich history of my past accomplishments. But then, the sun comes up again and a glimmer of light penetrates the cozy hole where I have burrowed. I see a foothold – one I fully attribute to God. My faith most often does not present itself in obvious holy moments, but more through a life’s worth of practice and discipline. I know that even if I go through the motions, eventually the exercise of my religion will pay off (and it always does thanks to the Holy Spirit who I know lives as that gift within me that I often do not recognize until I fully surrender my stubbornness!).

Writing is what I love to do, but during vulnerable moments, I struggle to find words – not because I don’t have enough of them roaming around my mind, but I worry that IF someone reads them, they just won’t be “good enough.” Months may go by, and then my body somehow lets me know when I physically need to write. So here I am. I began a new journal the other day; however, there are still no words in it – just a Mother’s Day prayer I pasted in from our church bulletin (in Italian), and a pressed buttercup I found on a path near the Potomac River the other day.

I persevere. I start small. I make pasta. I just mixed together a batch of cavatelli for dinner. The process is pleasantly slow and the ingredients simple. Semolina, salt, and water. Each piece of pasta is formed one at a time – yet out of simplicity comes dinner!

I knit. The repetition is therapeutic and, once again, the ingredients are simple (yarn and needles) and from this process, stitch by stitch, comes a hat, a sweater, a baby blanket!

I write – one letter at a time on the canvas of my keyboard.

With this “practice” of both faith and patient accomplishment of meaningful tasks, I muster the courage to tackle bigger things. Dare I ponder the plans I had, revise them, and turn them again into goals I aspire to reach?

The lessons of me are really lessons of us. None of us are imposters – we are who we are and somehow end up where we are supposed to be. This lesson – while I am no longer in a school classroom – is one I gift to Samantha as she embarks on her next steps. I can’t wait to hear how her story unfolds!

Advent at the Airport

December – Advent

The definition of Advent denotes the arrival of a “notable person, thing, or event.” What better place to ponder this than at the airport.

“Welcome back Lynn,” is the message splayed across my phone’s screen as I sign in once again to wi-fi at the Houston Hobby Airport. How many times have I crossed the country between Tucson, Arizona and Washington, D.C. over the past four and a half years of my husband’s “temporary” employment in our nation’s capital? Long enough, I think, to have an automatic login at several airports in between!

Today, I am perched on a stool at Gate 51 in the Southwest terminal. About two hours into a nearly five-hour layover, I have had time to linger over the “All American Breakfast” at the Hubcap Bar and Grill, page through magazines at the CNBC shop, and visit the ladies’ room twice. (I like those sinks that have soap, water, and air all in one place; however, the air doesn’t work most of the time and you still have to wave your wet hands under the automatic paper towel dispensers located by the exit doors.)

As tedious as this might sound, I don’t mind long layovers. People watching remains one of my favorite pastimes. In Houston, some of the men wear real cowboy hats and it’s fun to listen to the Texas accents of the natives wearing Cowboy jerseys. During my breakfast, I was able to observe everyone around me – all while flipping through email and scrolling through breaking news. I eavesdropped on a table of businessmen enjoying morning Bloody Mary’s with their cheese omelets and discussing their days in the Army, an elderly man (in a cowboy hat) drinking a pink smoothie and reading his newspaper, a young couple in their college sweatshirts sharing a burger, and women like me, traveling alone, checking our phones, and texting family to let them know when they will land wherever their final destination takes them.

Of course, I called my husband to let him know my position on this step of the journey. Tied to his work, he will follow in my exact footsteps next week when he makes this trip home across the country for Christmas.

I got up at 3:45 a.m. EST to make my 6:05 a.m. flight. It is now 10:34 CT in Houston (11:34 in D.C. and 9:34 in Tucson MST). The clock keeps ticking. I am reminded of when I taught junior high, and my students and I were studying H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine. I so enjoyed our banter about whether time travel could even be possible. My argument – frequent flyer that I am – is that we travel through time…all the time. My time machine just happens to be a 737 Max8!

If I had to get to a point in this stream of conscious blog post, it would be to acknowledge the way time seems to expand at the airport in the sense that I have time to fill in ways that differ from everything I usually do to fill it at home. There is no laundry to do at the airport, no Zoom meeting to attend, no shopping for dinner…nothing that pulls me in the many directions of my normal days.

Here, my exercise comes from walking through terminals, and my entertainment pours freely from a book I haven’t had a chance to read since I downloaded it from the library nearly two weeks ago. I can plug my earbuds in and listen to words of wisdom from the Hallow app or learn about creative methods to cast-on yarn in a knitting podcast…all without feeling like I should be “doing” something else.

Perhaps it is because I do have time that my thoughts have found their way to contemplating Advent at the airport. I am inspired to make the connection between Advent’s literal definition of arrivals and departures to the connoted coming and going and coming and eventual coming again of Jesus. I consider this as I continue to watch people seated around me at Gate 51. There are those like me tapping at their computers and others culling through social media. There is a woman in a wheelchair, assisted to the gate by one of the guardian angels who kindly shepherd our elderly through the airports.

There is also an infant, cradled now in his grandmother’s arms, attended to by his mother who tucks a fluffy blanket around him. There are also two sibling toddlers, overjoyed at being set free from the confines of their stroller, twirling, jumping, and falling over each other like puppies while they roam under the watchful eyes of their parents.

It is in the children’s dance that I am brought back to thoughts of Advent. Their joyful laughter fills me with excitement and reminds me of the coming of Christmas. I look forward to being welcomed home by our son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren who I anticipate will be waiting when I land. We truly experience a little bit of Advent every day in the comings and goings of the notable people we encounter…even at the airport.

I have about an hour left until we board – just enough time to grab a coffee, play a Scrabble word in the ongoing virtual game I endure with my sister, and settle in to read a few chapters of that book that is probably due back to the library next week.

“The Lord is coming, always coming. When you have ears to hear and eyes to see, you will recognize him at any moment of your life. Life is Advent; life is recognizing the coming of the Lord.”

– Henri Nouwen

Family Reunion

August/September – Ordinary Time

The three of us were sniffling and sneezing through the newest wave of Covid that is trying to tarnish the final rays of this summer. Two of us had tested positive; one of us refused to test thinking that if she didn’t it wasn’t happening! On Day 3 of our isolation, while playing a board game and reaching into each other’s contagious spaces across the dining room table, my mother, my aunt, and I realized that despite this unexpected consequence of the previous weekend’s family reunion, we truly were experiencing a positive resulting from…well, positives.

Months ago, my mother had decided she was going to her family reunion. This would take place in a small town about a half hour from our native Utica, New York, at the camp the family has owned for more than 100 years. In attendance would be the eldest remaining cousins – offspring of the 13 children of my mother’s grandparents. Several months ago, I decided I would surprise my mom and simply appear at my aunt’s house in Utica the day before the reunion so I could be with her at what may be her last opportunity to attend these once in a decade gatherings.

I landed in Syracuse, secured a ride to Utica, and then nestled myself into a hanging chair on the porch of my aunt’s house. With a few quiet agreed upon instructions to my first cousin (who I had never met prior), my mom and aunt moved from the backyard where they had been sipping tea spiked with raspberry brandy to the cooler shade of the side porch. When my mom sat down, I turned my chair.

Everyone has read novels about families that have been separated over the years not only by distance but by the dramatic events that change the path of their lives forever. That is how I have always looked at the stories my mom has shared with my sisters and me. We grew up knowing that my mother’s mother (my grandmother) had died during the birth of her second child (my aunt). My mom was only six years old. This devastated my grandfather. Because he needed to care for my mother while also carrying on responsibilities in the family’s Italian bakery, the decision was made that the new baby would be raised by an aunt and uncle who the family agreed would be able to best provide for her. As a result, my mom and aunt saw each other often but knew each other more as cousins than sisters. All the while, their lives circled and intertwined with those of their many relatives. My sisters and I have seen pictures and heard tales of mom and her cousins at the camp – sleeping on cots in the big upstairs dormer, eating Aunt Josephine’s pies, playing Monopoly on the porch, and catching fireflies. Six of the eldest were at the reunion, and I will forever remember them sitting next to each other on the couch, my mom clutching the hands of her cousins. Although their bodies bear the marks of nearly 90 years, I am sure they saw themselves as kids, piling out of the family’s bakery truck and spilling into the yard of their summer camp.

A note about the reunion: There were more than 100 relatives in attendance. The camp has been lovingly restored and easily accommodated all of us in expanded inside and outside spaces. I cherish the exclamations from Mom and her cousins as they watched a video compilation of their summer escapades. And the food…Utica is known for its “chicken riggies” and spicy “greens.” I also filled my plate with sausage and peppers, a meatball, and of course, a huge slice of Italian bread!

When I was three years old, my parents moved from Utica to Maryland and began forging the adventures that would define our own little family. Over the years, we moved from Maryland to Delaware to Wisconsin and finally, to Arizona. During our summer vacations, my sisters and I would often spend time in Utica, but mostly with my father’s side of the family. I crave the taste of Italian bread soaked in olive oil and the juices of the fresh-from-the garden tomato and basil salads my grandmother made. I nurture pots of African violets in honor of those flowers that always bloomed on the windowsill of grandma’s kitchen. We grew to appreciate the Italian culture that marks the boundaries of East Utica. Occasionally, we would visit my mom’s family, but I never met her father and many of the cousins until much later in my adult life. And for sure, until this trip, I had never known my aunt’s four children – my first cousins.

About 20 years ago, my aunt visited Mom in Arizona. They still talk about the mixed emotions that had and continue to have about discovering the tiny thread of sisterhood that has tenuously bound them together without them even knowing. Not only do they look alike, but they also share many of the same mannerisms and characteristics. The recent reunion was a chance to bridge that distance one more time.

We approached our first couple of days of Covid with resignation. We drank a lot of tea (some spiked with that raspberry brandy) and I read an entire book. In between, we prayed, we dozed, and we talked. Through the fog of my clogged ears and stuffed nose, I began to see the blessings. We had never spent this much time together. Ever.

Forty-eight hours later, we woke feeling exponentially better. Mom and I would be leaving the next day and we needed to “do” something. So, we “did” everything! This included entering my aunt’s art studio (she is a very accomplished painter) and getting creative! We had so much fun splattering acrylic paints on gelli plates, imbedding textural components and rolling our prints onto fabric. (A gelli printing tutorial from YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nAAc-5Yphu8).

While making art, one of my aunt’s grandchildren (my newly discovered second cousin) spent hours with us sharing his own amazing creative gift of videography. Seated in the sanctuary of my aunt’s magical gardens, he interviewed my aunt and my mom about their lives. I felt something begin to shift in me. I knew then that my decision to attend the reunion all boiled down to these last hours of my trip. By the time my cousin had completed his gentle questioning, we were all crying, including him. The impact those years had on my mom and her sister is profound. Their story is only one brush stroke on the ever-evolving painting of our family. The result is rich, messy, and as beautiful as the abstract art we created that afternoon. It is also steeped in our Italian culture, which in all its diverse manifestations, has etched itself deep in our souls from the moments my great-grandparents came to America in the late 1800s.

The tears we shed that afternoon not only reflect the heartaches that both my mom and aunt experienced in their separation, but also the joy of having re-discovered each other at this time in their lives. My cousin finally snapped the lens cap in place over his camera just as the sun’s waning light cast peaceful shadows over all of us. We looked at each other and decided that even though we felt better, we had no energy left to cook dinner. There is a great restaurant down the street. Did someone say “chicken riggies?”

An Urgent SOS

June – Ordinary Time

I was listening to Bishop Robert Barron’s “Summer with the Psalms” on Hallow when I sensed a tap from one of my muses: “I am like a growing olive tree in the house of God…” (from Psalm 52). Diverted by that ripple in my stream of consciousness, I then scrolled through my iPhone Notes to find a potential poem starter I had inscribed a couple of years ago and up until now had not revisited:

The olive tree
Deeply rooted in the desert of my backyard
Sends an urgent SOS
To its ancestors

What is it about olives that inspires me? In addition to my passion for eating them at almost every meal, I realize I am often drawn literally and metaphorically to the olive tree and the fruit it produces. I remember being a cub reporter on the local political beat in Tucson shortly after graduating from college. One of the stories I covered was when the county board of supervisors banned the future planting of olive trees because so many are allergic to the seasonal pollen. Judging by the thousands of trees still blooming in Tucson, the success of that decree may still be up for debate. The fortitude of the single olive tree in our backyard is also testament of this when each year it drops a bushel of olives from its branches despite its advertised “non-fruit bearing” status!

Prayers among the olive trees at St. Augustine Catholic High School

I delighted in the prolific olive trees at my former school. One year, during my tenure as principal at St. Augustine Catholic High School, I carried empty buckets into the courtyard to harvest a crop of black and green olives to share with my neighbors. We scoured the Internet for methods to cure the fruit of its unyielding bitterness. After a month of brining them in saltwater baths, we preserved them in olive oil, lemon peel, and fresh herbs. So good.

During my recent trip to Israel, fellow pilgrims remarked about my meal choices while observing me fill my plate at breakfast, lunch, and dinner with a handful of those salty jewels, which I graced with a drizzle of oil, a sprinkle of Za’atar, and a side of fresh feta. I had to increase my water intake substantially during those two weeks to counteract the salt-induced swelling in my fingers.

Photo my husband took in Crete: 3,000 year old “Monumental Olive Tree of Vuves”

It is not the simple joy of eating olives that has drawn me to the Bible and back to my poem (or not) starter. I am discovering new meaning in the Psalms, and not necessarily for reasons that could be defined as holy. I feel tuned into the way the authors – David, Solomon, Moses. Asaph, and others – don’t seem afraid to say it like it is. They recognize times and people in Israel’s diverse history that were both tragic and filled with hope. While some of their words are quite colorful, critical, and harsh about the actions of their fellow man, they also express a deeply-rooted longing for what is divine and true.

I limit myself in what I express out loud about the world, its leaders, its politics, and its problems. After all, everyone is entitled to their own opinions, and I try to be very respectful of that. Those who know me often accuse me of being “too nice.” Yet, I should not have to apologize for striving to be someone who always seeks the good in others and places high expectations on herself to model that good. That is not to say, however, that my resolve does not waiver at times. For example, these lines from Psalm 73 also recently caught my attention: “How good God is to the upright, to those who are pure of heart: But, as for me, my feet had almost stumbled; my step had nearly slipped because I was envious of the arrogant, when I saw the prosperity of the wicked. For they suffer no pain, their bodies are healthy and sleek, they are free of the burdens of life, they are not afflicted like others…They say, ‘Does God really know? Does the Most High have any knowledge?’ Such then, are the wicked, always carefree.” (Asaph).

The trunk of an olive tree at a winery & olive distillery I visited in Calabria, Italy

I cannot even remember the last time I felt carefree. When I read that psalm, I do not visualize Israel. Rather, I see and hear the news broadcast from every channel on my television. I witness the incessant “breaking” updates that flash across my phone’s screen. I cringe at the arrogance and skewed statistics barked from the mouths of those we elect to be our voices as they interrogate those who have chosen to serve their country. I cannot escape what I observe. My “feet almost stumble,” my “step nearly slips.”

But then…olives.

Olives I could not resist in the Holy Land!

I reflect on the olive tree in my Arizona backyard. I see me – still green in so many ways – in this garden of God. I observe the sturdy trunk that has thickened over the years, the fragrant blossoms persistently hanging to the branches despite being battered by desert monsoons, the gnarled roots continuing their journey outward and downward. I whisper a prayer of my own design, sending words to play among wind-tossed leaves – “an SOS” to our ancestors. Like that olive tree referenced in Psalm 52, “I trust in God’s mercy forever and ever…. I will put my hope in your name – for it is good.” Thank you Asaph, David, Moses. Thank you dear ancestors.

God’s Touchdown

January – Epiphany

During his homily on the Feast of the Epiphany, our 78-year-old priest danced across the floor in front of the altar singing Herod’s offbeat version of Scripture: “So, you are the Christ, you’re the great Jesus Christ. Prove to me that you’re no fool – walk across my swimming pool.”

Laughter erupted from those who immediately harkened back to the memorable lyrics of the 1970s rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar. Smiles also tickled the faces of the younger members, entertained by the vision of their pastor singing in his Irish lilt, fanning the flame of those iconic bohemian words in his priestly robes.

Epiphany: The manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles, brought to us year after liturgical year through the story of the Magi. As many times as I have heard the annual readings, when Father came from behind the podium and into the congregation to highlight the central theme of our very human desire for signs of Christ’s presence, it caught my attention in a new way. Be it a star in the night sky, the multiplication of fish, healing the sick, or walking across the Sea of Galilee (or Herod’s “swimming pool”), we human beings take a wary approach to “belief” without having “proof.” Sometimes it takes a dancing priest to drive home that point.

My recent commitment to the Catechism of the Year program facilitated by Father Mike Schmitz and my completion of the Bible in a Year last year has fueled my hunger to continue nurturing my faith both academically and spiritually. Perhaps this focus is making me hyper aware of what I call “Epiphany moments.” This past week has been filled with them.

Anyone who gets news alerts has heard of Damar Hamlin, the Buffalo Bills football player who collapsed and who was ultimately resuscitated during Monday Night Football on January 2. As the country became aware of what was happening, time froze. Immediately, players from both teams turned to one another, fell to their knees, and began to pray. The news cameras caught it all on film.

A couple of days later, the Wall Street Journal carried an article headlined “How Damar Hamlin Drove a Nation to Pray.” Noting prevailing controversies surrounding the appropriateness of prayer at sporting events and other public places, the author wrote: “The game was suspended, and suddenly prayer was back on the list of things anybody could talk about or do on camera.” Later in the article, he added, “Suddenly prayer—the ancient activity of speaking to God in the belief that he can hear and respond—was everywhere.”

That same week, members of the U.S. House of Representatives began their history-making 15-round vote-a-thon over choosing the Speaker of the House for the 118^th Congress. Politics aside, House Chaplain, Margaret Grun Kibben opened the session on January 3 with these words: “Eternal God, You spoke and the Earth brought forth life. With a word, Your spirit breathed into humanity the essence and purpose of our very being. Speak to us now, O Lord, and breathe into the body of the 118th Congress Your word of truth and justice, compassion, and wisdom.” We can argue all day long about the separation of church and state, but the traditions of our country are deeply rooted in the faith of its founders.

The Feast of the Epiphany reminds me that I don’t need signs that pack as big a punch as the healing of a leper or the opening of a blind man’s eyes. I live the “proof” of God’s love in the giggles of my grandchildren, in the faces of former students, in the smiles of strangers, and most importantly in the ways people reach around the complicated walls of society to help each other simply to survive. Mankind’s ability to trip over itself in a myriad of good and bad ways has been recorded for ages. (Change the scenery, flip the calendars over centuries, and think about it…we bear more in common with the people of the Old Testament than we probably would like to admit.)

The Catechism of the Catholic Church states that “God communicates himself to man gradually” (CCC 53). This past week, however, we as a nation witnessed a man literally come back to life at the able hands of fellow men, bolstered by the prayers of other men. I believe God literally “walked over the water” of our souls and right into the stadium where we play our games. It certainly caught our attention.

During his Christmas Advent reflections, Dynamic Catholic leader Matthew Kelly offered these four words as a reflection – words that come into focus for me as I ponder the events of the past week and also Father’s Sunday homily. “Trust. Surrender. Believe. Receive.”

Speaking of a “receiving,” the Buffalo Bills took to the field again on January 8 while a thankfully recovering Damar Hamlin tuned in from his hospital bed. During the first play, the Bills running back, Nyheim Hines, returned the opening kickoff and ran 96 yards for a touchdown. Several news outlets quoted quarterback Josh Allen who said after the game, “I can’t remember a play that touched me like that, I don’t think in my life. It was just spiritual. I was going around to my teammates and saying, ‘God’s real.’ You can’t draw that one up or write that one up any better.”

The touchdown goes to God.

Bambinelli

December – Advent

In 1969, a mere nine years after I was born, St. John Paul II instituted the Advent “Blessing of the Bambinelli” when children are invited to bring the baby Jesus from their nativity sets to the altar for a blessing. This sweet celebration provides a visual connection, especially for our little ones, between home and church as we all prepare ourselves for one of the holiest days of the year.

Last Sunday, at the conclusion of Mass at Holy Rosary Church in Washington, D.C., the priest motioned for parishioners to participate in this very celebration. I was so touched as I watched not only children, but also many of the elder members walk toward the altar, each clutching the precious centerpiece of their family’s nativity scene.

How is it even possible that I had never witnessed this blessing before? I continue to be astonished that after six decades of life I can still be surprised by what I don’t know – especially when it comes to Catholic traditions.

Holy Rosary has become our church away from home as we continue to travel between Arizona and Washington. According to its history, Holy Rosary was established in 1913 as an “Italian” church where immigrants would be welcome to a parish that nurtured their spirituality while also keeping their Italian culture alive. To this day, one Mass each weekend is said in Italian, and the parish is home to a robust school where children and adults learn and practice the language and culture. We felt welcomed the first day we walked up the steps and into the church artfully filled with murals and statues of the Blessed Mother and Holy Family. Sun pours through stained glassed windows and into the church, which is styled in the form of a medieval Roman basilica. After Mass, we usually walk next door to Casa Italiana, the church hall, to visit with friends (and sip espresso) before going our separate ways into Sunday and a new week (https://honoringmary.cua.edu/index.html%3Fp=7121.html).

I have been to churches in Indonesia, in Canada, in Mexico, and in Italy. No matter where I am, I find deep meaning in experiencing the Eucharist even when I don’t understand the words. I am fortunate to speak enough Italian to communicate, but I certainly do not grasp every word and nuance. This forces me to listen in a more focused manner to the readings, the Gospel, and the homily. The music at Holy Rosary is spectacular, and I now feel comfortable singing along, relishing the musical syntax of the Italian language as I try to manage a host of vowels tripping across my tongue!

The manger scene at Holy Rosary Church, Washington, DC

Years ago when we were stationed in Naples, Italy, I looked forward to holiday visits to churches throughout the city where “presepi” depicted the Christmas nativity. These elaborate scenes include townspeople, shepherds, animals, magi, musicians…and of course, the Holy Family. Presepi are not limited to churches; they can be found in store windows, piazzas, and in alcoves tucked along several of Naples’s narrow, meandering streets. One of my favorite places in the world is what we Americans call “Christmas Alley” located along Via San Gregorio Armeno in Old Naples. There, craftsmen and vendors make and sell pieces for the presepi. I have several in my own Nativity set at home.

I am a believer in sacred moments. While I am a little embarrassed that I had not heard about this nativity blessing before, I think this must be the year I was meant to learn about the Bambinelli. We are spending Christmas on the east coast instead of our desert southwest. We will not be watching our grandbabies opening their gifts from Santa, and I won’t be making pounds of pasta and dozens of cookies for the family dinner (although I did make a scaled down batch of Italian butter cookies for friends here). On the other hand, my husband and I will be together and able to spend quality time with our Philadelphia family and friends. I have placed a small manger scene on a table in our Virginia apartment. On the kitchen counter, I have a rosemary plant shaped like a tree that I bought at Trader Joes! There are even a few ornaments hanging from the scented branches. I thought I would be sad, yet, with each passing day, I find myself experiencing the Advent journey toward Christmas from a fresh perspective and with a quiet joy I did not anticipate.

When we got home from church last week, I went to my computer to discover a bit more about the tradition of the Bambinelli blessing. I found Pope Francis’s blessing for this year:

“And now I will bless the ‘Bambinelli,’ the little statuettes of the Infant Jesus that you, dear boys and girls, have brought here and then, returning home, will place in the Nativity scene. I invite you to pray, before the creche, that the Nativity of the Lord will bring a ray of peace to children all over the world especially to those forced to live through the terrible days and darknesses of war, this terrible war in Ukraine that is destroying so many lives, and so many children. I wish you all a blessed Sunday and a good journey towards the Nativity of the Lord.”

Buon Natale.

Evolution of a Tree

December – Advent

Rooted securely in my mind since childhood is the maple I planted and nurtured from seed to sapling to tree in our front yard in Easton, Maryland. Up until we moved from the Eastern Shore when I was in sixth grade, that tree served as the background for what would become many of my formative memories – a favorite nesting place to read, a live scene on the set of our neighborhood skits, a second base in kickball games, a place to gather with friends to have serious pre-teen talks about growing up. No matter how many times I have moved to new states and countries, knowing that tree was there has been the foundation of my definition of “home.”

My tree is gone.

We recently had the opportunity to spend a weekend in St. Michael’s, a picture-perfect bayside town located less than a half an hour from Easton. As we drove along Route 50, my husband responded warily when I asked him to turn left at an upcoming intersection. He has this way of raising an eyebrow when I ignore the GPS and assume I know where I am going. (I call it exploring; he calls it getting lost.)

We turned onto Dutchman’s Lane, made a right at the next street, and pulled into the driveway of one of our neighbors who I knew still lived next door to our former house. While it seemed much smaller than what I remembered, our two-story Cape Cod looked beautiful. Current owners had added shutters and a rich coat of blue paint. Trimmed shrubs and summer’s faded marigolds filled the front garden – vestiges of our original landscaping. I remember the lingering smell of those pungent blossoms that our father assigned us to pluck from their stems once they had lost their golden vigor. That non-allowanced yard duty was at least a little better than picking mushrooms from the backyard that would sprout overnight after a humid rain.

When the tree (at the right of the photo) was just a few years old! Check out all those marigolds…and the station wagon in the driveway!

I looked up into the two dormer windows on the second floor and pictured shadows of my sisters and I playing in our shared rooms. How many days did I spend at my built-in desk, writing and drawing and sometimes doing homework as I daydreamed while peering out of those very same windows? I remembered my turtle, Mr. Sassafras, who lived for a while in a terrarium I kept on my desk along with various creeping charlie ivies, spider plants and other “stuff” I collected back then. I imagined the breeze that would flutter the sheer curtains bringing a welcome breath of cool air into our room as we talked and tried to settle ourselves to sleep after heated summer evenings of playing marbles and catching fireflies.

My sisters and my parents occasionally have had the opportunity to visit friends in the old neighborhood. Through photos, I saw my tree grow from its (and my adolescence) into maturity, branches reaching higher than our house, its trunk thickening almost humanlike over the years. But now, my tree is gone, a bald round patch in the grass the only sign it ever existed in the first place.

My husband stayed in the car as I walked up to our neighbor’s house and knocked on the front door, something I had done probably hundreds of times in years past when I would ask if my best friend could come out and play. I had already planned to meet her and her daughter for lunch, but I thought it would be fun to surprise her and offer a ride instead. Nearly 50 years older than we were back then, our hug transcended time. The lines between past and future dissolved. We are moms and daughters, neighbors and friends.

“What happened to my tree?”

“I think it got sick. They had to cut it down this past year. You can see how big that spot in the grass is. ”

“I am so sad.”

All I could think of as we got into the car to go to lunch was that maybe the grass would not ever cover the spot where my tree lived. Could there still exist a tiny seed of life that might push itself up through the ground again? Probably not, but that’s where my defiant thoughts went anyway.

Just a few days after we got home from our weekend trip, I chanced upon this Bible verse from 2 Corinthians Ch. 4:16, 18. Honestly, it startled me out of the contemplative funk I had been fighting about the passage of time, life, death…and trees. “So we do not lose heart. Though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed every day…for the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.” Maybe a little girl lives in our old house now. Maybe she will find a whirlybird helicopter pod one day and ask her dad if she can plant it. She will point to a perfect spot in the front yard, bury the seed, and water it every day knowing intuitively that if she believes, it will grow.

Heavenly Highlights

December – Advent

I was just about to click “purchase” when I saw the bold face message above my order advising that I had already bought this book eight years earlier in August 2014. Perplexed, I reached for my Kindle and searched my library. 2014? I had to call my mother.

“Mom,” I spluttered into the phone, “that book, the one we are supposed to read before we go on our trip to the Holy Land… I already own it. Apparently, I have also read it. I have absolutely no recollection of ever buying it, yet alone reading it. I was the Principal at St. Augustine then. Were we doing a book study? I honestly can’t remember.”

“It’s a long book,” she laughed. “You might want to get started now – again.”

My mother and I are going to Israel at the end of January. In anticipation, our Bishop, who is leading the pilgrimage from the Diocese of Tucson, suggested we read Jesus: A Pilgrimage, by Father James Martin.

I am not sure whether I feel awe or intense anxiety when something resurfaces that I have buried in a file folder deep in the back of my mind. Have I finally reached an age when I forget more than I remember? Or is this yet another reminder of my humble place in a universe that was created way out of my existential control?

So, I begin reading (re-reading). Within pages, I am startled by various highlights and notes I must have made during my first experience with this book. I tend to be compulsive about annotating text. This helps me interact with what I read, and often inspires me to deeper learning. Even in digital works, I continue to annotate while also believing I will probably never go back and see my notes. Normally I do not. Until now.

One of the first highlights I bump into comes in the second chapter in which Father Martin writes about Mary and her “yes” to a future she cannot begin to comprehend. He says, “God begins a conversation with Mary, as God does with us, breaking into our lives in unexpected ways…. And we think, why am I feeling these feelings…? This is God beginning a conversation.” I like that thought. (I highlight it again.) Maybe God is picking up the threads of a conversation He began with me eight years ago when I downloaded this book for the first time.

Mary embraced God’s request without understanding why she was chosen to do so. I had also highlighted the next sentence or so in the same chapter that mentioned teaching: “We accept a position as a teacher and our lives are changed by our students. More simply, we say yes to God and are completely transformed.” Okay, that makes sense; I had most certainly been reading the book from the perspective of an educator. And I have undoubtedly been transformed by my students in so many ways.

As I continue to read, I latch on to not only Father Martin’s spiritual and theological reflections, but also his observations as a tourist to the places he visited that are also on the agenda for our upcoming pilgrimage. I enjoy his very human response to the congested traffic, the hotels and convents where he stayed, the crowded buses, and lack of signage along the roads. I have a need to know this as I contemplate which shoes to pack, the winter weather in Jerusalem, and how many dollars to convert to shekels.

Next, I encounter this: “God meets us where we are…. In other words, God comes to us in ways that we can understand and appreciate, even if only partially or incompletely.” I wonder what compelled me to underline this before. Today, I read this phrase through the lens of eight years of hindsight. I never would have thought then that I would be where I am today as I travel back and forth between home in Tucson and my husband’s workplace in Washington, D.C. I am mostly retired. I am a grandmother. I knit hats. In addition, I recognize my tiny position in a vast global world that God sees in its entirety – a place where we have all been so weathered and affected by the pandemic, tumultuous politics, and moral issues that test our faith in so many complicated (perhaps Biblical) ways.

According to my Kindle, I am 20% into my current journey through this book. I downloaded a hard copy of my previous notes just in case I am inspired to jot down a few other thoughts along the way. While I don’t re-read books very often (there are too many others to read first), I am blessed with time to prepare for this pilgrimage, especially during Advent when all of us are called to look anew at what we have experienced before and to look ahead at what is to come through the transcendent life of Jesus.

This leads me to one more quotation from Father Martin’s book: “There is one person in a variety of times, the past informing the present. God is at work at all times.” I think about this while swiping my finger across the bottom of my Kindle to turn the page. I sense the Holy Spirit reading alongside me, nudging me to discover and welcome more “heavenly highlights” along the way.

Note: Quotes highlighted are from Jesus: A Pilgrimage by Father James Martin (Kindle edition, published March 2014)

I Wait for Rain

October – Ordinary Time

“Each night before we go to sleep, we read a book or two, say prayers, and reluctantly close our eyes to the day. Thank God, the sun comes up in the morning and we can begin again.”

-Welcome to the World Journal, September 1993

Our son had just turned four when I wrote those words at the tail end of my journal entry. How can it be that the sun has traced its pattern across the horizon more than 10,000 times since then? My four-year-old now has a wife and two precious babies. Each night, they nestle themselves on the bed with an assortment of books, say their prayers, and set a clock that shuts it eyes when the lights go off and signals a new day when it is time to “wake up” (at an appropriate hour)!

Thirty years after I tucked my baby into bed, I still say my evening prayers, always beginning the way my parents taught me when they tucked me in: “God bless mommy and daddy, grandma and grandpa and everyone else.” Sometimes, I add, “P.S. Please let it rain.”

I am a woman of the desert. My days usually begin with light creeping under the window shades that I leave partially raised so I don’t miss the dawn. I bask in the dusty pink-orange rays of promising light, whisper a prayer of thanksgiving for a new day, and make my way to the kitchen and espresso pot. I stubbornly admit there are mornings when I gather the covers around me and secretly harbor tempestuous thoughts, ones that defy the predictability of the golden star’s eternal creep through my windows and into my half-closed eyes. Perhaps this is my imperfect attempt to slow down the passage of time, a desire to settle into a soft comfort of cloudy gray – one that blankets me like an old fleece and allows me the freedom of deeper thoughts and memories.

I wait for rain.

I should have been a meteorologist. In addition to being a fan of the Weather Channel, I spend too many minutes scrolling through the MyRadar phone app searching for colorful masses that predict an elusive weather pattern. I watch for a blip on the screen that could potentially snake its way up the Baja Peninsula, across the international border, and over the craggy Sierra Nevadas as highs and lows collide, gathering energy into a cloudy fist whose only outlet will be to burst open and replenish the cells of the dehydrated saguaro and my thirsty soul.

Our family lived in Yuma, Arizona for a few years during our son’s elementary days. Yuma is cradled into the southwestern corner of Arizona and often records some of the hottest temperatures in the nation. We would escape to San Diego when we craved a more moderate climate and a sandy beach adjacent to the Pacific Ocean. When we could not leave, there were afternoons we would drive through the carwash and pretend it was raining for a few minutes as the water pelted the roof of our automobile! Our subsequent move to Tucson included a pool in the backyard where, come rain or shine, the water is always there for us and for the families of mourning doves who stop by for random sips of refreshment in “their” pond.

As I write this, I am in Virginia, miles from my desert home. I spent the morning paging through old journals for a project I am compiling. (That’s where I discovered the letter to my son and the idea for this reflection!) Needing a break from my laptop, I put on my oversized University of Arizona sweatshirt to go for a walk. I glanced out toward the patio of our apartment (our home away from home during this stage of life). It was raining, the remnants of horrible hurricane Ian whipping its tailwinds up the Atlantic seaboard on its way out to sea.

So much for lofty thoughts filled with too many adjectives. I had known it might rain; I just thought it was coming later. God always answers my prayers further prompting me to take advantage of this particular weather pattern! I tied my shoes, grabbed the umbrella, and pointed myself in the direction of the Potomac River. It might be nice to see how the geese were holding up on this unusually cool and wet day.

There weren’t too many people on the trail; however, the ones who were smiled as I passed, secretly sharing their own needs to experience a day without sunshine. Only half-trying to avoid puddles, I simply put one foot in front of the other, not really thinking of anything. That, in and of itself, proved therapeutic.

All morning, I had been pondering the passage of time (and several of the old journal entries I had decided to toss in the trashcan.) Walking, I slowly let those thoughts go. I subconsciously began to focus on my immediate landscape – leaves succumbing to autumn, fat acorns that crunched as I stepped on them, dots of vibrant color in the defiant blooms of summer’s final flowers, a turtle perched on the one rock not submerged by a rising tide. And the ducks and geese – quite impervious as they glided along the shoreline.

I silently conversed with God as I continued, experiencing peace punctuated by a darker thought as I selfishly drank in the aftermath of this hurricane, knowing how others continue to suffer the eye of that storm. I allowed myself to be a conduit of both the light and the dark.

The breeze shifted and the temperature dropped a degree or two as I turned up one of Old Town Alexandria’s cobbled streets and headed home. It was still drizzling and there was not even a tiny sliver of an opening in the dense clouds.

I wait for sunshine.

Home again and at my keyboard, I reconcile myself with the grace of this day – one that I know I will have to reluctantly close my eyes to later this evening. “Thank God, the sun comes up each morning and we can begin again.”

Chasing Metaphors

September – Ordinary Time

Today, the metaphors were pooled at my feet in a pile of unraveled yarn. I had knitted and purled this variegated project too many times – a scarf with a lace inset, no…a hat with a cable…better yet, the front panel of a sweater. All went well until I twisted a stitch, dropped a stitch, forgot a stitch. So much for trying to find a pattern to match the skein of yarn I found on sale a few weeks ago at Michaels!

I frogged the frazzled wool (for the third time) back to the cast on row. I had just spent 15 minutes that turned into two hours accomplishing absolutely nothing. Frustrated, I gathered the tangled jumble, walked to my bedroom, and stashed the entire mess into a dark corner of the closet. Mustering a surge of guilty energy, I then managed to wash the breakfast dishes, take a shower, write an email, and scrabble through the bills in record time. I was driven solely by a compulsion to have something concrete to report later when my husband and I would share details of our day over dinner (which I had not planned yet).

It’s been almost three years since I took my name off the door of the Principal’s office at St. Augustine Catholic High School in Tucson, Arizona to follow my husband’s job to Washington, D.C. As much as I have tried to define my purpose as we hopscotch between the east coast and our “real” home in Arizona, I find my unemployed retired self often feeling just as tangled as the knots now hidden in my closet.

I am untitled.

And although my epitaph will someday include daughter, wife, mother, grandma, journalist, teacher, and principal, those titles have become somewhat honorary if I am being honest. Today, my signature block simply reads “Lynn.”

After my morning of discontent, I laced my tennis shoes and headed out for a long walk from our apartment through the ever-quaint streets of Old Town Alexandria. I ultimately ended up seated at a favorite bench looking out over the Potomac River. Inserting my earbuds, I tuned into Day 269 of Father Mike Schmitz’s Bible in a Year Podcast. (I am proud of myself to committing to this endeavor!)

“For whoever has despised a day of small things shall rejoice” (Zechariah 4:10). Is it ironic or coincidental that this particular quotation trickled into my ears today?

While I am no longer tasked with doing what I consider great things like educating children and running a school, what do I really have to complain about? I berate myself for feeling selfish. Haven’t I always said, “When I retire, I will have time to read, to write, to travel, to volunteer, to study, to take afternoon walks, to knit?” (Actually, I never aspired to knit.)

When I truly reflect on it, I haven’t completely wasted my time over the past few years. I taught English to middle schoolers online during the pandemic. I work now and then training teachers in curriculum development. I have traveled to Italy with my sisters. I have time to explore the historical sights of our country’s Capital City. I am able to spend quality time in Arizona with our grand babies and also in Pennsylvania with my husband’s family. I completed a class on Jane Austen. I am going to the Holy Land with my mother early next year. I have even knitted a couple of blankets to donate to the Christ Child Society – an organization I hope to volunteer with when we finally settle back in Arizona again.

More importantly, I am re-discovering the joy of spending quality time with my husband. Nearly 40 years ago, we began our marriage in a two-bedroom apartment, and now, we share a two-bedroom apartment while living in D.C. (The first was HUD-subsidized; this one is not!) I have time to plan and cook healthy meals. It is enjoyable to market shop – three blocks to the to fish store to buy fresh scallops, just down the street to the Thursday afternoon farmers market for in-season produce. Sometimes, I take the metro and meet Joe in Georgetown for dinner at one of our new favorite restaurants. We have reconnected with colleagues from our college and Air Force days who have settled in the area. On Sundays, we go to Holy Rosary Church downtown where Mass is said in Italian. After church, we enjoy an espresso in the parish hall with new friends who have become like family over the past three years.

Despite this complicated world and all the conflicts that tend to tie me in knots both externally and internally, I realize what I already know – there are treasures to be found in the “small things.” After all, every beautiful tapestry is a collection of single stitches. It is within the patterns of small things that I am slowly discerning that it is less important to be titled and more important to focus on what is Still (Extra) Ordinary Time.

Full disclosure: On my way to the bench along the Potomac, I walked through Old Town and to my favorite knitting store. Pattern in hand (not the other way around), I purchased the yarn I would need for my next project. When I got home, I went straight to my closet, pulled out the mess I had stashed there earlier and threw it in the trash can.

Sometimes, you have to take charge of those tangled metaphors and put them where they belong.

No Excuses

Finding Restfulness in the Midst of Restlessness

Holy Week – April

It took a $38.20 charge to my PayPal account to jolt me out of my isolated lethargy of the past several weeks. I assumed WordPress would charge me for next year’s subscription close to the date it would renew, not the month before. Alas, I am in no mood to fight.

“Perhaps,” my lazy gadfly whispers, “this might be a sign for you to whack through the weeds of your creative intentions, face your pandemic of doubt, and channel your blighted energy into your unmanicured fingertips where they meet the keyboard.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I mumble (nowadays, talking to oneself is survival, not a sign of dementia). “I’m back to my blog because I hate wasting money!”

I have no excuse. I have recently discovered that 24 hours is plenty of time in a day. For years, I have been able to safely dream outside my cone of reality knowing that I would probably “never have time” to do those things I always said I would do “if I had the time.” There were always good reasons for my procrastination like raising a child, building a career, planting flowers in the spring, and pulling weeds in the summer. It’s so much easier to plan than to do.

But here I am.

I was just getting used to semi-retirement and a recent move to the eastern seaboard when the Coronavirus seeped into every area of our world’s semblance of order. I had spent the past few months searching and exploring everything from restaurants, coffee bars, and nail salons to museums and national monuments. Where I had been able to stay busy with the mechanics of settling into a new environment, I, like so many of us, now have hours and hours to fill as I experiment with the new vocabulary of isolation and social distancing. What an opportunity, right?

I will give myself some credit. I am dabbling with – not necessarily embracing – the loftier goals of my “when I have time” ventures. I signed up for an online class focused on spirituality and prayer. I bought a new journal. I ordered a few books written by authors who kept journals. I logged into a yoga channel on YouTube. I bought six skeins of yarn. I started two writing projects. I began to track my daily Weight Watchers points.

So far, I have had some success. I follow a pretty regular morning yoga ritual. I prepare healthy meals for my husband and me. And, my obsession with knitting has inspired shock and awe among my family. My mother’s unsuccessful attempts to seed my crafting abilities took more than 40 years to germinate…but now, I am out of control. To date (since October), I have knitted three scarves, a baby blanket, six hats, three potholders, and am currently more than 60 rows into an afghan!

I am challenging myself to write, but I must admit that I suffer nagging and existential doubts that test the waters of evolving authorship. On positive days, I tell myself it doesn’t matter if anyone ever wants to read my stories; on negative days, I stop writing.

I am exploring my religion. I have always tried to honor Church with sincerity and devotion. As I enter this stage of my older life, I find myself searching for ways that lead me beyond the rituals of my faith – which I deeply revere – and into a more contemplative place where my rational self doesn’t always have to get in the way. When I signed up for the online class on centering prayer, my intentions were well positioned, but I admit that I was probably looking for a template that would give me all the tools, provide the instruction, and then quiz me on my success. Obviously, it doesn’t work that way. As I diligently persisted through the modules facilitated by the late Father Thomas Keating, I also read one of the books that has been on my someday list for years – Thomas Merton’s Seven Storey Mountain. I was inspired by Merton’s journey but naively caught myself wondering how anyone other than a Trappist monk could ever have the time and space to live such a full life, study the great religious doctors, and then ultimately find a certain freedom in literally letting much of it go. For me, when I try to sit for even 20 minutes and focus on not focusing, I begin to itch – literally and figuratively. Perhaps that is what the centering prayer is all about – discovering those things in our lives that make us “itch” and then turning those irritants over to God. I’m trying.

Another book I am reading is called The Naked Now by Franciscan friar and contemporary author, Richard Rohr. If I am interpreting correctly, the ability to truly wake up spiritually is to let go of pre-conceived notions of how we view the world. There doesn’t always have to be a right way or a wrong way in prayer or politics or all those other big ideas that bog us down (what Rohr calls dualistic thinking). I mean really, if this virus is teaching us anything, it is to let go of almost everything except the common relational bond we have with each other to simply survive.

“Contemplation,” Rohr writes, “is an exercise in keeping your heart and mind spaces open long enough for the mind to see the other hidden material.” This makes sense to me. Right now, I believe I am discovering a purpose in the exercise…much like I do in working through a mindful pose in yoga, losing hours in the creative practice of writing, or mindlessly stitching the patterns of a knitting project. In the process, I am unearthing some of the hidden material in my life and starting to feel a little more restful even in the midst of my restlessness.

I also feel justified in accidentally marking the auto-renewal box of my WordPress subscription. Here’s to more than a penny for my thoughts – $38.20 to be exact!