My Inner Voice: Tuesday's Reflection

This summer I have added five chapters to all the other chapters 

My Writing Notebooks

 already written for the spiritual memoir I am writing, and I hope to write two or three more this month. I am pleased with the accumulation of words and pages, but I am also aware I have much more to do to meet my goal of finishing the first draft by the end of this year. Periodically, however, I question why I am spending so much time pursuing this goal.

In fact, the other day as I pulled a book off my shelves, looking for a quote I knew would fit the material I was currently writing, I felt the air in my garret change. I stopped and stood very still. I waited, but for what I didn't know. In the quiet I sensed a voice saying, "Nancy, how will you feel if your book is never published?"

The question is not theoretical, for the publishing business in all its mysterious ways is vague at best and seems designed to shake loose all one's self-doubts. Clearly, however, the question coming from my inner voice, my spiritual radar, is not about the publishing process. 

The question is about my call to write. This is not the first time I have been nudged to answer this question, and I recognize I will be asked to answer this question again and again.

"Nancy, is this still what you are suppose to do? How will you feel if your book is not published, if no one ever holds a book with your name on the cover in their hands?"

Ok, voice, I will spend time with you. I put down the book I was holding. I closed my laptop. I set aside pen and paper. I moved into centering prayer, quieting myself, resting in God, allowing paragraphs, sentences, words to float away. I attempted to rest in my own being without expectation of answers. I rested.

Later, when I prepared our evening meal, chopping green beans, washing lettuce, I felt The Voice once again. Yes, not just heard the voice, but felt its presence and this time instead of prodding with questions, I received answers. Affirmations. Direction.
      "Nancy, listen carefully and repeat after me: 
            I write because in the writing I change.
            I write because in the writing I uncover whom I was created to be.
            I write because through the writing I live and move in the world more authentically.
            I write because in the writing I meet God.
            I write because the writing, published or not, read or not, creates change in the world.
             I write because when I write, I respond in a more healing, whole way to all I meet, even those whose eyes I meet for an unrecognizable moment. 
             I write because I have to. 
             
Yes, of course, I hope my book will be published eventually, and I promise to do all I can to make that happen and still be true to what I've written, but no matter what, I will write. 

An Invitation
This is the most important part of this post, for this post is not just about me. In fact, it isn't really about me at all. It is about you. 
What is your inner voice asking you, inviting you to do? What is your inner voice insisting you do? And how are you responding? I would love to know. 
           

Coveting Time: Thursday's Reflection

My Father and Two of My Aunts

I think about time a lot. In fact, I covet time. How best to use my time. How not to waste time. What can I do to gain more time? How can I use my time more efficiently? Will I have time to do this or that? How much time will it take me to get there and will I be on time? (I really dislike being late.)

More and more I am aware of time running out--of having more sand in the bottom of my life's hourglass than at the top and frankly, what remains in the top seems to be draining into the bottom faster and faster. 

For the most part I am a productive person, and I pack quite a bit into a day, a week. I make my list at the beginning of the week and plot my writing time, as well as time needed for other obligations and for planned events. I am quite good at prioritizing and sticking to a schedule. None of that is new for me. 

What is new, however, is not having all the energy I need for all I want to do. By evening I am tired and have little energy to do any of the tasks which in my younger years I could have done after the dinner hour. In that way I feel constrained and even more aware of the passing of time and the boundaries of time. More and more I need to balance rest and relaxation with productivity. 

And yet there is so much more I want to do. 

Remember summers that used to stretch out in front of you full of lazy days? Remember how as a child you thought Christmas would never come or how could your birthday still be 10 more months away? Oh how those feelings have changed. Now, everything seems to melt into the next moment like a chocolate bar held in a warm hand. 

Here's what Joan Chittister has to say in her book The Gift of Years, Growing Older Gracefully, 
                
               Time is a wondrous thing, if only I fill it well.
                If I do not allow the passing of time to diminish 
                my spirit but, instead, see it as a call to live life
                to the dregs--being my best and developing and 
                life-loving self to the end. Then time is my friend,
                not my enemy. It gives me a heightened sense of
                life. It urges me on to discover it all. It marks the
                fullness of life; its mellowing, and it releases in me
                the self that has been coming into existence from
                the beginning. It is a new kind of life. p. 121
               

I am now 68. My father turns 93 in a few days and yesterday I was with two aunts (one nearly 80 and the other almost 85) and my godmother who is months away from 94. I am grateful for the healthy longevity that seems to be in my family, but that is certainly no guarantee that my days on the earth will be long. 

I don't feel depressed about that fact of life. Instead, my hope is to be more conscious of doing what I most want to do and spending time with those I love and care about. I am more determined to use my gifts, to continue to stretch and grow and to live a life that responds to the vision God had for me when I was created. I am still trying to figure out exactly what that means, but I give thanks for each day of ongoing exploration. And I intend to live my days as wisely and lovingly as I can. 

An Invitation
What is your relationship with time? I would love to know. 

Making Pesto: Tuesday's Reflection

I have been making pesto the last couple days. Six batches, but only five made it to the freezer, for we have had pesto and linguini for dinner two nights in a row. Bruce tells me I could fix this every night and he would be satisfied. If that were the case I wouldn't have any left for a below freezing, snowed-in night when we need a reminder of summer harvest time. Nor would I have any to share for a company dinner. 

Something about making pesto brings me closer to the person I was created to be, I think. I don't sew. I don't knit. I don't paint or make furniture. I'm not even much of a baker, although I do enjoy baking cookies or other goodies occasionally. In late summer, however, I make pesto, and I feel creative and calm and contemplative. 

I'm not sure when I first made pesto, but my best memories of doing so date from our days at Sweetwater Farm, where I had a large herb garden, which included a variety of basil plants. Mainly sweet basil, but also globe and Thai and lemon and purple ruffles.  On more than one August morning I filled my gathering basket with basil and then washed it all thoroughly in a large graniteware basin before plucking off the leaves and arranging them on vintage white embroidered dish towels spread on the harvest table. 

On the counter --I had only one, but standing there I could look out the window to the gardens and the fenced meadow where our animals grazed--I assembled all my ingredients and utensils, including a green Depression glass measuring cup for the oils. A pesto-making marathon. How satisfying to see the growing pile of plastic bags full of rich green pesto ready for the freezer. And oh, the aroma--a slightly peppery smell, earthy and pungent and not quite what one would expect in a Midwestern farmhouse. Perhaps I had time travelled to another lifetime in Tuscany. 

Now I only have a few basil plants which Bruce planted in a pot-enough for a mere two batches of pesto, but Sunday I bought four big batches from a farmer who sells produce between services at church.  Only $1.00 a bunch. I intend to buy more next week. 

I no longer have a harvest table and instead of looking out upon our farm vista, I look into a wall of open shelving, but the aroma is the same. The fresh, almost other-wordly taste is the same, and for an hour or so I am free of concerns or plans. I think of times I have lit candles and poured wine and served pesto to friends and family. 

Pesto inspires conversation full of connection and laughter and shared memories. I know there will be more of those. 

Making pesto is a contemplative practice for me, reminding me of the basics. Giving thanks to the earth. Feeding and nurturing others. Doing something that involves my heart and body and not just my mind. Being mindful of the present moment. Finding the sacred, the holy in ordinary acts. 

There are other kitchen moments when I feel this same sense of the Divine--when I bake cherry walnut bread at Christmas time or when I plan the menu for a special gathering or when I prepare a meal for someone recovering from surgery or cancer treatment. Sometimes I am even open and full of gratitude at the most ordinary of times, such as fixing our grandson a ham and cheese sandwich or making a list for yet another trip to the grocery store. 

What a blessed life I have.

An Invitation

Do you experience any contemplative kitchen moments? I would love to know. 

Nancy's Pesto

2 cups fresh basil leaves, washed and dried

6 garlic cloves

1 cup pecan or walnuts

1/2 cup olive oil mixed with 1/2 cup vegetable oil

1 cup grated Parmesan cheese

1/4 cup grated Romano cheese

Salt and pepper

Combine basil, nuts, and garlic in a food processor and chop coarsely.

With motor running add oils in slow, steady stream.

Shut motor off and add cheeses, and salt and pepper to taste.

Process briefly. 

If you want to freeze, you can either store in freezer bags flat in the freezer or you can spoon into ice cube trays and use the pesto one cube at a time. 

Makes about 2 cups. 

Waking Up White: Thursday's Reflection

Yes, at times reading Waking Up White And Finding Myself in

the Story of Race by Debby Irving felt like an assignment. More than once when I slotted time for reading, I first turned to a novel selected for pleasure and when I did pick up my "assignment," I could only read two or three chapters in one sitting. The problem wasn't long chapters nor was the problem that the book isn't well-written. It is not only well-written, but it is profoundly thought-provoking, and that was the problem. 

Did I really want to uncover all the ways I have lived so unconsciously in my bubble of privilege? (It's a BIG bubble, by the way.) Do I really want to work hard to change the way I think and interact? Do I really want to engage in such massive and long-lived problems and run the risk of offending others and more than likely embarrass myself? Truth be told, not so much. 

Reading this book became a "should" in my life. A "should" just at the chapter in my life when I am letting go of any number of "shoulds" I have imposed on myself. 

Our congregation selected this book as its "Summer Read," and a number of groups are meeting throughout the summer to discuss it, as they continue reading it. I opted not to do that, not wanting another obligation, I told myself. But really I didn't want to work so hard and the kind of learning and conversations about this kind of learning is work. And takes courage. Opportunities to discuss the book will continue into the fall, so it's not too late, and I intend to participate. 

Now that I have finally finished reading it, I feel as if I need to turn to page one and begin reading it all over again. My first reading awakened me to my white privilege--something I have previously only understood as a vague concept out there, but I am beginning to understand how I have been wrapped in that privilege all my life. I am beginning to listen differently, to see differently, but trust me, this is a process, and I have a long way to go to change how I have always understood the way of the world. 

I could quote many lines and share many stories from this book, but instead I implore you to read this book yourself--to discover yourself in this book. (Interestingly, I just realize my assumption that my audience is white. Now what do I do about that?) And when you have finished it, encourage someone else to read it and then have a conversation about it. 

This morning I read an article, "Waking Up to Whiteness" by a Zen Buddhist priest Gary Snyder and he gave me a way to begin to integrate what I am uncovering in myself and my white world.
                    
                   When we notice our minds assuming anything
                    about anyone based on race, we can stop doing
                    whatever we are doing, note that the thought has
                    occurred, and allow the realization that our mind
                    is conditioned racially to fully sink in before 
                    moving on. It is important to keep in mind that
                    taking responsibility here looks like upright
                    resolve, not self condemnation.

Slowing down, waking up, noticing and being aware is a good place to start. 

An Invitation
Read this book. I would love to know what rises within you. 

Resources
Waking Up White by Debby Irving
Gloria Dei Summer Read
Waking Up to Whiteness by Gary Snyder 

Strength: Tuesday's Reflection

One weekend this spring Bruce's sister, who lives in Omaha, visited us. Her hobby is photography, and one of her favorite subjects is birds. We decided to take her to the National Eagle Center in Wabasha and invited our eight year old grandson Peter to go with us. When we picked him up for the day's excursion, he was all prepared. In his backpack he had his binoculars, a notebook, pen, and a guidebook about raptors, which I bought him a couple years ago when we went to the University of Minnesota Raptor Center. He had decided, by the way, all on his own what he wanted to bring with him.

As we drove to the center, which is located on the Mississippi River a couple hours away, Peter shared some facts about raptors. Facts such as their size and how long they typically live and what they eat and how their numbers have greatly increased in North America in recent years. He also told us that his favorite species of eagle is the golden eagle, and he hoped to see one at the center. He wondered if there are species other than the golden and the bald in North America, and we encouraged him to ask one of the center's volunteers that question. He did just that and we learned no, there are only two in our part of the world, but there are about 60 species throughout the whole world. None of us knew that, nor did any of us even know to ask that question. 

At one point Papa asked Peter a question about eagles. I'm sorry I don't remember the question, but that's not really important anyway.  

I could hear Peter sigh. A long, deep sigh, and then he said very clearly, very deliberately, "Papa, raptors are NOT my strength." 

Of course, we then asked him to name his strength for us and without hesitation he said, "Wolves." That's true, for he knows nearly all there is to know about wolves.

I love this story and have told it many times since, for while it reveals a great deal about Peter, it is also a story that begs for a deep inner response from the listener. This is a spiritual story.  

Do you know what is not your strength and may even be a weakness? Are you willing to admit that? And what are you doing about a part of yourself that is not your strength? Are you like Peter studying a guidebook and asking questions, hoping to learn more and add to what you already know? 

Do you know your strength and are you willing to name that or are you carrying around false modesty in your backpack? What good is your strength doing hidden away? 

What experiences in your life have helped you develop your strength? When have you been called upon to use your strength, to live your strength? In what ways have you deliberately chosen to exercise your strength? 

And here's another question to consider: Has there ever been a time when your strength has been a detriment? Remember there is a shadow side to everything. Peter was more than willing to share his knowledge with us, but he did so without making us feel stupid for not knowing what he knew, nor was he showing off. His curiosity and interest led him to learn about raptors and wolves. His strength operates in the light. 

Part of becoming the person we were created to be is being able to identify our strengths and our weaknesses and to understand how they function and guide the way we live in the world.  

An Invitation
What are your strengths? What are you weaknesses? I would love to know. 

Convention Distraction: Thursday's Post

I can't recall the last time I watched the Republican National Convention, but this year I decided I need to hear firsthand what was said, instead of relying on day after reports.

Part of this decision was recalling how often there is a rallying cry to ban a specific book without first reading the book. I need to "read" this convention. 

I knew, however, it would be hard to listen and watch without raising my blood pressure. I knew I would be tempted to talk back to what I was hearing, so I planned ahead. I thought about what I could do to maintain calm and be present to the speeches and commentary. 

I got out my big set of colored pencils and a new coloring book, The Inspired Home, pages of home decor sketches, and settled in with PBS for the long haul. 

I forced myself to keep coloring when I heard the mother of the Navy Seal who had died in the line of duty demand to see Hillary in stripes or to join in the chant "Hillary for Prison." I tried to send her compassion for her deep loss and to acknowledge the pain she feels. I kept coloring as speaker after speaker raised their voices "against" rather than "for."

I found I could listen if I focused on choosing a color and then slowly and deliberately filling in a blank space. I could listen if I didn't have to look at the speakers who seem like ordinary people, but at the same time seem to harbor such hate and fear. I admit I almost gave up during Governor Chris Christie's speech as he encouraged the crowd's response, "Lock her up," to his litany of unfactual crimes. How is that helpful? How does that "Make American Great" again? 

I am grateful for the measured and insightful words, questions and historical perspectives of Judy Woodruff, Gwen Iffil, David Brooks, Amy Walter, Mark Shields, and others. And they managed to do all that without a coloring book for calming distraction.  

I don't often write about current events in this blog, especially political events, and I know I risk offending some of my readers. If that is the case, I hope you will be willing to watch the Democratic National Convention from beginning to end. Coloring helps!

I am writing this on Wednesday before the evening coverage begins. I need to convince myself to stay the course. Tonight maybe I will iron, instead of color, but the intention will be the same. To listen and become informed. To send compassion when I can. To try to understand. To open to ways I can respond. 

An Invitation
In what ways can watching the conventions be a spiritual practice? I would love to know. 

Driving Home: Tuesday's Reflection

When my husband was in medical school at St Louis University in

!973: Bruce and I during our St Louis Years

the early 70's, I taught English at Webster Groves High School, an inner ring suburb of St Louis. Those were good years, the first years of our marriage and a chance to grow together away from home. And a chance to broaden our horizons and experience something beyond our all-white, Scandinavian based culture. 

I no longer recall what percentage of Webster's students were African American, but today the school would be labelled "diverse." For the most part I had a good relationship with my African American students, and I enjoyed learning about them and their life and in many cases their struggles beyond the normal adolescent ones. But I also know I brought into the classroom my white expectations and my white views --and my white fears. 

Lately, I have been thinking about an experience I had then that could have turned out quite differently if it happened today. 

I left school later than usual, and because it was winter, it was already dark. The parking lot was almost empty when I got into my car to head back to our apartment about twenty minutes away. We lived near Washington University, a neighborhood in the city of St Louis with mainly old apartment buildings, an integrated neighborhood, which we enjoyed. 

When I made the first turn once out of the parking lot, I noticed a car behind me, but didn't think anything about it until I realized each time I turned the driver in the car made the same turn. The driver was a Black man, as was his passenger. I became increasingly nervous the further away I was from Webster Groves and the closer I got to our apartment. 

I turned. He turned. I sped up, so did he. I was sure I was being followed, and I tried not to think about why, but I was nervous. 

I devised a plan. I would leave my books and purse in the car and make a run for it when I got to our block. I had a whistle on my key chain for such emergencies, and I would use it. 

Amazingly, when I got home, there was a parking spot right across the street from the three-floor flat where we lived. I pulled in and prepared to dash when the car that had been following me pulled up right next to me, and the passenger rolled down his window and motioned to me. 

The car was close enough to mine that I couldn't open my door. I considered sliding over to my passenger side and getting out that way, but instead, for whatever reason, I rolled down my window, too. 

"Hi, Ms A. We saw you leave school, and we know you live in a tough neighborhood. We decided to make sure you got home ok."

Yes, these two "scary" black men were actually two of my students. I thanked them for the escort and said I would see them in school the next day and told them to go home and do their homework. 

Recently, I have thought about how their generous concern for me could have turned out differently today.  In the 70's we didn't have cellphones or car phones, but today if I thought I was being followed, I would use my phone to call 911. The police would have come and these two youths would have been questioned at best and at worst….. I shudder to think about what could have happened based on my assumptions. And my fear. 

Those boys, if they are still alive, are men not that much younger than me, and I wonder where they are now. What has been their life experience since then? I wonder how they are reacting to all the recent events and what they are saying to their children and grandchildren. 

I was their teacher, but they were mine as well. 

An Invitation
When have your fears turned out to be unnecessary and even based on false assumptions? I would love to know.