It is early morning, and I have returned from a walk. For the first time in weeks we slept with the windows open, and I woke to the sounds of neighborhood birds, instead of the alarm. I have decided to write before I take a shower and before I attend to morning routines. No showings are scheduled for the house today, but one never knows what the day will bring. Yesterday, for example, there were two showings.
Obviously, we have no idea what life will bring us either. I think about those who are dealing with major challenges of illness or loss of spouse through death or divorce or perhaps even indifference. I think about those whose retirement is not quite as planned. The energy isn't there or the motivation or the money. The question is what will we do with what life has delivered?
We are asked, I think, to do the best that we can. How often have we used that phrase? So often it is used in reference to our parents as we look back at the mistakes they may have made in raising us. "They did the best they could." Now with grown children, I can apply that to myself. Or can you recall your child as he learned to tie his shoe or struggled with a math problem or a new piano piece, saying, "I'm doing the best I can" in an exasperated tone?
The tricky part is knowing what "the best" is. Doing the best we can takes reflection and self-awareness. It takes being open to spiritual growth and listening to our inner voice as it urges us to live our essence. Doing our best requires being honest with ourselves and knowing when we are just getting by. It means asking for help--perhaps more often than we want to. None of this is easy when we are faced with a life we didn't anticipate and certainly didn't ask for, but that's why it is crucial to live fully right now when perhaps our very best isn't needed so much. That's why I write in my journal and take a morning walk and meditate and practice centering prayer. That's why I try to live my life in honor of the Divine. It's for today, yes, but it is also for all the days when life brings what is not expected and least wanted. The days when I am at my worst. Developing one's spiritual gifts is not an insurance policy for "when bad things happen to good people," but it is the groundwork for "doing one's best."
I am coming to realize in these later years of spiritual formation that it is my job to turn the challenges into blessings. I don't mean to minimize or deny the realities of the challenges, and I don't mean to imply that this process happens right away. Certainly not. What I mean is that we are asked to remember and re-form to all we have been created to be, and how could that be anything but a blessing.
Our house is on the market and has been all summer. We continue to have lots of showings. Lots, and I am grateful, but it is hard to hear negative comments about the house, including ones about the view from the deck. However, we know how fortunate we are not to have to sell the house. Still, we have a plan and are eager to move that plan forward, but who knows what life has in store for us.
In the meantime, I will do the best I can, and I happen to love the view from here.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Miscellaneous Thoughts on a Rainy Day, a post by Nancy L. Agneberg
I didn't sleep well last night. Yes, it was warm and perhaps that was a factor. In fact, when we came out of a restaurant at 10 after a long, leisurely dinner with friends, the air was thick and heavy. Not an ounce of refreshment in the air. Perhaps I was a bit overly stimulated, thanks to our wonderful, many topics explored conversation. I often get a second wind after 10, but last night I was tired, and I didn't want to prolong the day. Instead, I wanted the next day to come.
My sleeplessness was one of anticipation. This often happens to me, as perhaps it does to you, the night before we leave on a trip or have a big event scheduled the next day. I enter the next day before the next day arrives, and I am unable to sleep. The next day, today, however, has no special starred event. Nothing is listed on my calendar. My list of activities for the day is entirely of my own making. Exercise. Laundry. Emails. Post office and grocery store.
My anticipation, it seems, is far more open ended.
Last week we had 6 showings of our home to prospective buyers. Six showings in 8 days. Surely, that means something is going to happen. More showings perhaps or even an offer. I wanted the day to come so I would know. Will there be a showing today or will I get a call scheduling a showing for later in the week? Will there be an offer? I want something to happen and how can it happen if I am asleep!
What I need to remember is that even when nothing seems to be happening; even when I feel stuck and there is no apparent movement in the desired direction, change is occurring. I just can't see it yet. I just don't recognize it yet. Change is hovering, but it still looks similar to the way it has always been.
My job is to rest when it is time to rest. Be awake and attentive when it is time to be awake. My job is to free myself from preoccupation with the future and be present.
Eventually, I fell asleep, turning the hours over to the rhythm of night into day. And in the morning I offered this prayer by Philip Newell:
A Prayer for Presence
In the gift of this new day.
in the gift of the present moment,
in the gift of time and eternity intertwined,
let me be thankful
let me be attentive
let me be open to what has never happened before,
in the gift of this new day,
in the gift of the present moment,
in the gift of time and eternity intertwined.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
What We Talk About When We Talk About the Weather, posted by Nancy L. Agneberg,
Finally, it rained. I wondered when rain finally came if people would come pouring out of their homes, interrupting whatever they were doing at the moment--wooden spoon or fresh laundry from the dryer or the morning newspaper in hand. Would we take photos with our iPhone and send them immediately to everyone we know? "Guess what, it's raining! Praise the Lord."
Praise the Lord!
We have been waiting and waiting and even though this morning's rain didn't last very long, it raises hope. It reminds us that there is an end to everything, even draught.
Oh, how thirsty all the yards and gardens are in the neighborhood. Each lovely home is surrounded by a moat of crackly straw. The pond in the wetland is dry to the last drop, and I wonder about all the life that pond normally supports. The critters who called the pond home truly know what it means to be thirsty.
Summer vs Winter
Maybe I should pretend it's winter. I love winter and find the coziness of staying inside during the winter to be a productive and creative time for me. With a shawl wrapped around my shoulders I delight in doing the next thing or nothing. Either way is a choice. However, the summer heat encourages neither productivity or creativity in me, only apathy. I am restless, but lack energy to find direction. In the winter I relish the indoor time, but in these days of scorching, breath-taking heat, I resent the closed windows, the fake coolness (even as I am grateful for it!), and I want porch time restored. I want relief from the draught.
What would satisfy my thirst and end my inner draught?
Can I move from a state of emptiness and inertia to Sabbath time?
Ending the Inner Draught
I just finished reading a book called Chasing Matisse, A Year in France Living My Dream by James Morgan (www.chasingmatisse.com) in which the author lists his desires. "Read. Write. Paint. Think. Travel." So clear and clean. He unveiled his thirsts and even though, as he adds, "Not that it's ever as simple as that," he has found a way to live his desires.
I practiced a list in my head almost unwilling to commit my yearnings to writing, for what would it mean if I stated them so directly and clearly? What excuses would I have to overcome? How would I have to live in spite of the draught?
If that exercise seems too hard, Alice D. Doar, author of Live a Little! offers another opportunity in the August O, The Oprah Magazine. Complete the following statements, but don't think too long about any of them.
Any surprises? What do your responses reveal? Are there any changes you want or need to make in your life in order to live more authentically? Is there anything you are thirsting for that can be fulfilled even in times of summer dryness?
Here are my answers:
Read. Write. Spend time with family and friends. Pray. Teach.
Any season is the right time to connect with your essence. Any weather is the perfect time to do what nurtures your soul and gives life to who you were created to be.
Praise the Lord!
We have been waiting and waiting and even though this morning's rain didn't last very long, it raises hope. It reminds us that there is an end to everything, even draught.
Oh, how thirsty all the yards and gardens are in the neighborhood. Each lovely home is surrounded by a moat of crackly straw. The pond in the wetland is dry to the last drop, and I wonder about all the life that pond normally supports. The critters who called the pond home truly know what it means to be thirsty.
Summer vs Winter
Maybe I should pretend it's winter. I love winter and find the coziness of staying inside during the winter to be a productive and creative time for me. With a shawl wrapped around my shoulders I delight in doing the next thing or nothing. Either way is a choice. However, the summer heat encourages neither productivity or creativity in me, only apathy. I am restless, but lack energy to find direction. In the winter I relish the indoor time, but in these days of scorching, breath-taking heat, I resent the closed windows, the fake coolness (even as I am grateful for it!), and I want porch time restored. I want relief from the draught.
What would satisfy my thirst and end my inner draught?
Can I move from a state of emptiness and inertia to Sabbath time?
Ending the Inner Draught
I just finished reading a book called Chasing Matisse, A Year in France Living My Dream by James Morgan (www.chasingmatisse.com) in which the author lists his desires. "Read. Write. Paint. Think. Travel." So clear and clean. He unveiled his thirsts and even though, as he adds, "Not that it's ever as simple as that," he has found a way to live his desires.
I practiced a list in my head almost unwilling to commit my yearnings to writing, for what would it mean if I stated them so directly and clearly? What excuses would I have to overcome? How would I have to live in spite of the draught?
If that exercise seems too hard, Alice D. Doar, author of Live a Little! offers another opportunity in the August O, The Oprah Magazine. Complete the following statements, but don't think too long about any of them.
I could blow an entire rainy afternoon___________________
When I was a kid, I used to love________________________
I've always wanted to become really good at______________
If I could do one thing every day of my life, it would be_____
I can lose track of time when I'm________________________
Nothing clears my head like____________________________
When I'm feeling drained, all I want to do is_______________
I feel most connected to my body when I'm________________
In my daydreams, I imagine myself______________________
I get a shot of energy when I___________________________
Any surprises? What do your responses reveal? Are there any changes you want or need to make in your life in order to live more authentically? Is there anything you are thirsting for that can be fulfilled even in times of summer dryness?
Here are my answers:
I could blow an entire rainy afternoon reading.
When I was a kid, I used to love to ride my bike.
I've always wanted to become really good at singing.
If I could do one thing every day of my life, it would be to write and to hug my grandchildren.
I can lose track of time when I'm writing.
Nothing clears my head like making a list and writing in my journal.
When I'm feeling drained, all I want to do is eat and read.
I feel most connected to my body when I'm doing T'ai Chi.
In my daydreams, I imagine myself thin and a published author.
I get a shot of energy when I complete all or a part of a writing project or when I am in the midst of a substantial conversation.
Reading my answers I notice ways I can easily enhance my life and choices I can make that will help me balance Body, Mind, and Spirit. Furthermore, none of my responses, except perhaps riding a bike, is related to the weather at all! Nor is my list of desires, which I finally dare to write down. Read. Write. Spend time with family and friends. Pray. Teach.
Any season is the right time to connect with your essence. Any weather is the perfect time to do what nurtures your soul and gives life to who you were created to be.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Polishing the Silver Before Vacation, a post by Nancy L. Agneberg
Some of us hearth goddesses have an extreme need to leave our homes in perfect condition when we are going to be gone for awhile. I knew a woman who vacuumed herself out the front door as she was leaving and left her vacuum cleaner in the garage. I'm not that bad. Ok, maybe I am. I hate leaving dirty laundry in the hamper or dishes in the dishwasher. When I come home, I want only to unpack, not clear a mess from days or weeks before. This time the need was a bit more intense since our home is for sale, and there was going to be an open house while we were gone and, I hoped, some showings as well. That still didn't explain the desire to polish silver.
I remembered the short story by Tillie Olsen, "I Stand Here Ironing," in which the main character thinks about the circumstances of parenting her first child. It has been a long time since I have read that story, but, if I recall correctly, the mother in the story reviews her life and some of its difficult decisions as she irons, smoothing out wrinkles.
As I stood there polishing silver, I banished tarnish, rubbing slowly and deliberately, and I thought about my Grandma Hansen who always polished my mother's silver when she came to stay with us. I thought about people I have gone antiquing with over the years and the pleasures and treasures of those days. I remembered the delight of finding a napkin ring engraved with the word "Aggie." Our son's school nickname was "Aggie." Who was this "Aggie?" Another napkin ring is engraved with "David," and how happy I am that occasionally there is a David at our dinner table.
I breathed in the view from my kitchen window, a rooftop view I happen to love, even though a recent potential buyer was negative about that view. To each his own. I will miss this view, but I wonder what I will see from my next kitchen window.
I polished the silver and I slowed down, resting in the time out from the real list for the day. Polishing the silver--not much time or effort for so much pleasure.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
I Met a Willow Tree, a post by Nancy L. Agneberg
One never knows whom one will meet on a retreat. I met a Willow Tree. Recently, I attended a retreat at Holy Wisdom Monastery here in Middleton led by Anne Hillman who wrote the book Awakening the Energies of Love, Discovering Fire for the Second Time, a book that has become a touchstone in my life. What a privilege to have three days for intentional reflection. I loved meeting Anne and the other participants on the retreat, but who knew I would make a new friend and develop a new relationship? Who knew I would open to a new spiritual guide, a new teacher?
I met a Willow Tree.
At Sweetwater Farm a willow tree was the resident sage in the wetland on our land, and such a presence that tree was. The last tree to lose its leaves as the season moved from fall to winter. The most distinctive citrus yellow green in the springtime, standing out from all other greens. The welcome greetings of branches swaying in the breeze and sweeping the earth gently, lightly. And often, quite often, a resting place for a red-tail hawk. I can feel my heart lift as I recall the beauty of that sight.
Perhaps this willow tree is a distant relative of the one I loved at Sweetwater Farm. My intention is to get to know this tree better, but initially, I kept my distance, preferring to observe and to listen before introducing myself. The days of the retreat were the epitome of June days: warm, but not too; the sun hiding occasionally behind playful clouds, and a breeze dancing through prairie grasses and trees dressed for summer days. This willow tree (Do I dare call it "my" willow tree?) swayed, swirled, swooped, swept, sashayed--did everything but swagger down the trail closer to the pond. I sat on a deck nearby and spent time with my new acquaintance.
I was captivated by one branch that arched over open space, forming a portal, a passageway, a natural arbor, a threshold. Lately, I have realized that these years in Madison are transition years for me -- preparation years for the next stage of life. I am making myself ready. For exactly what, I am not sure, but it is time to prepare my body, mind, and spirit. I am on a threshold, but this is not yet the time to walk through, to cross over, to look back at where I have just been. Being on this retreat and spending time with the willow tree, I realize, however, now is the time to live with deeper attention, to move from thought to awareness, to listen to my deepest yearnings, to be present.
Later during the retreat Anne led us in T'ai Chi, and I became the willow tree: grounded and yet supple and flexible, lifting my arms to the sky and letting them softly drift back to my side. I danced as the willow tree dances. The willow tree has more to teach me, and I will return to its sacred space. Someday I will accept its invitation to cross the threshold and stroll underneath its supple branches, and to feel the touch of its feathery leaves.
Matthew Fox says, "Everything is a word of God."
Even willow trees.
Selected Resources from my Bookshelves
Sacred Trees, Spirituality, Wisdom and Well-Being by Nathaniel Altman
The Healing Energies of Trees by Patrice Bouchardon
I met a Willow Tree.
At Sweetwater Farm a willow tree was the resident sage in the wetland on our land, and such a presence that tree was. The last tree to lose its leaves as the season moved from fall to winter. The most distinctive citrus yellow green in the springtime, standing out from all other greens. The welcome greetings of branches swaying in the breeze and sweeping the earth gently, lightly. And often, quite often, a resting place for a red-tail hawk. I can feel my heart lift as I recall the beauty of that sight.
Perhaps this willow tree is a distant relative of the one I loved at Sweetwater Farm. My intention is to get to know this tree better, but initially, I kept my distance, preferring to observe and to listen before introducing myself. The days of the retreat were the epitome of June days: warm, but not too; the sun hiding occasionally behind playful clouds, and a breeze dancing through prairie grasses and trees dressed for summer days. This willow tree (Do I dare call it "my" willow tree?) swayed, swirled, swooped, swept, sashayed--did everything but swagger down the trail closer to the pond. I sat on a deck nearby and spent time with my new acquaintance.
I was captivated by one branch that arched over open space, forming a portal, a passageway, a natural arbor, a threshold. Lately, I have realized that these years in Madison are transition years for me -- preparation years for the next stage of life. I am making myself ready. For exactly what, I am not sure, but it is time to prepare my body, mind, and spirit. I am on a threshold, but this is not yet the time to walk through, to cross over, to look back at where I have just been. Being on this retreat and spending time with the willow tree, I realize, however, now is the time to live with deeper attention, to move from thought to awareness, to listen to my deepest yearnings, to be present.
Later during the retreat Anne led us in T'ai Chi, and I became the willow tree: grounded and yet supple and flexible, lifting my arms to the sky and letting them softly drift back to my side. I danced as the willow tree dances. The willow tree has more to teach me, and I will return to its sacred space. Someday I will accept its invitation to cross the threshold and stroll underneath its supple branches, and to feel the touch of its feathery leaves.
Matthew Fox says, "Everything is a word of God."
Even willow trees.
Selected Resources from my Bookshelves
Sacred Trees, Spirituality, Wisdom and Well-Being by Nathaniel Altman
The Healing Energies of Trees by Patrice Bouchardon
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Silence: Lost and Regained, posted by Nancy L. Agneberg
Part of my preferred morning routine is to sit in silence for 20 minutes or so. Sometimes I label it meditation and sometimes centering prayer, and sometimes, I confess, I doze more than meditate, even after a good night's rest. I may sit in the living room on one of the wingback chairs or on the front porch, although I risk being interrupted by a greeting from a passing neighbor. I may choose the deck off the dining room, but the sun doesn't bathe that area till lunchtime and often it is just too cool to sit there first thing in the morning. Lately, I have enjoyed reflection time on the screen porch, which is on the lower level of the house between my office and the garage, the back of the house. Private and quiet. Usually. But not lately. In fact, silence is not to be found these days.
Several homes are being constructed on the ridge across from our house. We still have a barrier of woods and green space to give the illusion of privacy, but the tap, tap tapping of hammers, the beehive buzz of saws, the beeping, rumbling, rattling of trucks, the shouting of the worker guys and their occasional country western music, the pounding, the pulsing, the percussion of the building process bombard me. From early morning until into the evening.
The last draw was an extremely upset Mama robin who swooped as close to the porch screens as possible, furiously alerting me to her frustration that I have invaded her space. Apparently, I am too close to her nest. This is her sanctuary and what am I doing there? What am I am doing there? Well, I am certainly not meditating.
Quiet Days
My days normally are quite quiet. True, I enjoy listening to NPR when I am in the car, and I like having the TV as my companion when I am cooking, but most of the time when I am working in my office or reading or writing, I do so in silence. I love the 5 minutes of silence at the end of a session with my spiritual director. I walk in the mornings unaccompanied by headset. I am comfortable when time with my husband or other good friend eases into a shared connection of silence. I welcome the time before drifting off to sleep when I close my eyes and settle into silence, reflecting on the day.
Gifts of Silence
I not only am not afraid of silence, I treasure and embrace silence. It is in the silence that I hear who I am and who I have been created to be. Don't get me wrong--I love deep levels of conversation and the ease of laughter and silliness in my life, but what sustains me is a shawl of silence and stillness and solitude. Silence both calms me and energizes me. In silence I strain what is not necessary or worthy or nourishing. I focus and rejuvenate. I allow essence to live. And, of course, as with everything of value it seems paradox emerges. "By wrapping myself in a cocoon of silence, I was in some way engaging more fully with life rather than withdrawing from it." (Anne D. LeClaire)
Yes, I could leave the house and find a place that is more quiet, but I suspect there is a challenge, an opportunity here. Can I create a place of silence within myself even as the world around me is vibrating with noise? How interesting--I have barely noticed the competing sounds from the construction zone as I have engaged with my heart and written this post. So yes, the answer is yes, I can create a place of silence within myself even as the world around me is vibrating with noise.
Selected Resources from my Bookshelves
One Square Inch of Silence, One Man's Search for Natural Silence in a Noisy World by Gordon Hempton
Listening Below the Noise, A Meditation on the Practice of Silence by Anne D. LeClaire
Stillness, Daily Gifts of Solitude by Richard Mahler
A Book of Silence by Sara Maitland
Several homes are being constructed on the ridge across from our house. We still have a barrier of woods and green space to give the illusion of privacy, but the tap, tap tapping of hammers, the beehive buzz of saws, the beeping, rumbling, rattling of trucks, the shouting of the worker guys and their occasional country western music, the pounding, the pulsing, the percussion of the building process bombard me. From early morning until into the evening.
The last draw was an extremely upset Mama robin who swooped as close to the porch screens as possible, furiously alerting me to her frustration that I have invaded her space. Apparently, I am too close to her nest. This is her sanctuary and what am I doing there? What am I am doing there? Well, I am certainly not meditating.
Quiet Days
My days normally are quite quiet. True, I enjoy listening to NPR when I am in the car, and I like having the TV as my companion when I am cooking, but most of the time when I am working in my office or reading or writing, I do so in silence. I love the 5 minutes of silence at the end of a session with my spiritual director. I walk in the mornings unaccompanied by headset. I am comfortable when time with my husband or other good friend eases into a shared connection of silence. I welcome the time before drifting off to sleep when I close my eyes and settle into silence, reflecting on the day.
Gifts of Silence
I not only am not afraid of silence, I treasure and embrace silence. It is in the silence that I hear who I am and who I have been created to be. Don't get me wrong--I love deep levels of conversation and the ease of laughter and silliness in my life, but what sustains me is a shawl of silence and stillness and solitude. Silence both calms me and energizes me. In silence I strain what is not necessary or worthy or nourishing. I focus and rejuvenate. I allow essence to live. And, of course, as with everything of value it seems paradox emerges. "By wrapping myself in a cocoon of silence, I was in some way engaging more fully with life rather than withdrawing from it." (Anne D. LeClaire)
Yes, I could leave the house and find a place that is more quiet, but I suspect there is a challenge, an opportunity here. Can I create a place of silence within myself even as the world around me is vibrating with noise? How interesting--I have barely noticed the competing sounds from the construction zone as I have engaged with my heart and written this post. So yes, the answer is yes, I can create a place of silence within myself even as the world around me is vibrating with noise.
Selected Resources from my Bookshelves
One Square Inch of Silence, One Man's Search for Natural Silence in a Noisy World by Gordon Hempton
Listening Below the Noise, A Meditation on the Practice of Silence by Anne D. LeClaire
Stillness, Daily Gifts of Solitude by Richard Mahler
A Book of Silence by Sara Maitland
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
The Basics: Sweeping the Front Porch, posted by Nancy L. Agneberg
I am not fond of vacuuming. To be honest, I hate vacuuming, and lately, in anticipation of showings of our house, I have needed to vacuum frequently. Also, dust and keep surfaces clear of clutter and do laundry daily and, and, and ...... Along with meditating and writing in my journal, my current morning routine with its list of home tending tasks to complete often seems to extend into the afternoon. I am more than willing to perform these tasks, for it is something I can do to welcome potential new owners to this home.
Even if this house weren't for sale, however, I would still greet the freshness of the morning by sweeping the front porch, for there is something so basic, almost old-fashioned about sweeping, especially a front porch.
I imagine myself as a housewife of the 30's or 40's or even 50's, wearing a housedress and full apron, standing outside the front door with broom in hand. I survey this world in front of me and wonder who will come up the walk and cross this threshold today. Sweeping is convivial, for unlike washing windows, it is interruptible and encourages pausing for a casual conversation with the neighbor pushing a stroller or walking a dog. I listen to the birds chitter chattering, hoping for a piece of discarded thread or a fragment of lint for a nest in process. I think ahead to the end of the day when my husband and I will have dinner on the porch, sharing our day's in's and out's and perhaps later will sit in quiet companionship reading until daylight disappears.
I remember the front porch on the house where we raised our children. That front porch had a swing. The rhythm of the swing seemed to match the cadence of whatever I read to our young son. Our daughter and her boyfriend, now husband, posed for prom pictures while sitting on that swing. This porch should have a swing and a young family, too. Maybe it will someday.
I begin to sweep and sense how the sweeping signals moving on, not clinging to anything, except the present moment. Sweeping clears the space. Sweeping says, "This house is cared for." The Shakers believe that their daily work, even something as basic as sweeping the front porch, is a personal expression of worship. Gunilla Norris in her book of poetry, Being Home, says, "Prayer and housekeeping--they go together. They have always gone together. We simply know that our daily round is how we live. When we clean and order our homes, we are somehow also cleaning and ordering ourselves."
In cleaning and ordering ourselves, we become more open to the extraordinary in the ordinary and the grace of everyday life. Now, if I only felt this way about vacuuming!
Even if this house weren't for sale, however, I would still greet the freshness of the morning by sweeping the front porch, for there is something so basic, almost old-fashioned about sweeping, especially a front porch.
I imagine myself as a housewife of the 30's or 40's or even 50's, wearing a housedress and full apron, standing outside the front door with broom in hand. I survey this world in front of me and wonder who will come up the walk and cross this threshold today. Sweeping is convivial, for unlike washing windows, it is interruptible and encourages pausing for a casual conversation with the neighbor pushing a stroller or walking a dog. I listen to the birds chitter chattering, hoping for a piece of discarded thread or a fragment of lint for a nest in process. I think ahead to the end of the day when my husband and I will have dinner on the porch, sharing our day's in's and out's and perhaps later will sit in quiet companionship reading until daylight disappears.
I remember the front porch on the house where we raised our children. That front porch had a swing. The rhythm of the swing seemed to match the cadence of whatever I read to our young son. Our daughter and her boyfriend, now husband, posed for prom pictures while sitting on that swing. This porch should have a swing and a young family, too. Maybe it will someday.
I begin to sweep and sense how the sweeping signals moving on, not clinging to anything, except the present moment. Sweeping clears the space. Sweeping says, "This house is cared for." The Shakers believe that their daily work, even something as basic as sweeping the front porch, is a personal expression of worship. Gunilla Norris in her book of poetry, Being Home, says, "Prayer and housekeeping--they go together. They have always gone together. We simply know that our daily round is how we live. When we clean and order our homes, we are somehow also cleaning and ordering ourselves."
In cleaning and ordering ourselves, we become more open to the extraordinary in the ordinary and the grace of everyday life. Now, if I only felt this way about vacuuming!
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