Radical Sanctuary

Sabbath #24

ewmcf — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 21:05:49 +0000

It’s mid-afternoon. The temperature reads ten degrees. Vermont mid-winter. The last sunlight beacons me to the window. My last day before returning to Virginia where the temperature reads thirty three degrees. I’m eager to return. Yet, I’m savoring the short story in One Story lent by Allison. Before she let me borrow the small volume, she read aloud …I am my own housewife, my own breadwinner. I make lunches and change light bulbs. I kiss bruises and kill copperheads from the backyard creek with a steel hoe. Her friend wrote the story. I promised to return this coveted copy. My single bed, covered with the quilt I only use while here. I covered myself with the soft blanket I brought from home to remind me of home. I read the story and it hit my heart with the lost voice of a mother. Earlier this week I had walked in the dark searching for my own mother’s voice. It’s true. Even if our relationships with our mothers were troubled, we still need their voices. What comes to us in stories? Remembrances. Moments when we recognize what we lived. Beauty in the written word. Comfort in the imagined, the known. Tomorrow I will board the plane, fly home.

Sabbath #22

ewmcf — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 14:21:31 +0000

Yesterday, a Christmas wedding. The church: candle light and poinsettias. The bridesmaids wore black. The bride in white with red roses for her bouquet. Her sister, the maid of honor, entered tearful. And then the bride pausing at the back of the church. Then walking slowly down the long aisle, alone. Finally, the groom walked to meet her. Planned or not. For me, the married made at that moment. The covenant of marriage:meeting someone where they are and walking with them safely home. The vows were repeated and the bride broke down at the word “death.” ” Until death do up part.” Perhaps the black gowns were chosen so that they might be worn again. Perhaps. This wedding was about beginning a new and going on. The unexpected, tragic death of a father. Present in his absence. Remembered, longed for, mourned. Everyone did their best. Celebratory and festive. Good food, toasts and dancing. The wedding cake, delicious.

Sabbath #20

ewmcf — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 14:00:02 +0000

The winter season is upon us and for the first time ever I will not be with my children for Christmas. Yesterday I unpacked the Christmas bells, collected each year in my previous marriage. They stop with the year 2002. The last few years are missing and I have no idea where they are stored. Like the last few years of the marriage…missing.

And this year I bought a new bell for the small tree in the living room. Newly remarried, I decided to begin the tradition again. It was always the most coveted gift, the only one cared about. Another year, another day. And now beginning again, new. In a new place. A small town where you are recognized, greeted warmly on the street. Welcomed. Recorded Christmas Carols sounds on the sidewalk outside the jewelers, a town tradition.The churches display advent colors on wreaths, deep purples. We use Christmas dishes my husband bought for himself when first separated from his wife. Traditional. Conventional. And something sweet. I’ve started Christmas boxes to be mailed after the baking of favorite treats, the past baked into the fresh goods. And a few books and of course, the Christmas Bell with the year engraved.

Thanksgiving

ewmcf — Sat, 26 Nov 2011 02:41:06 +0000

Family gathered in Outer Banks. Good food, good spirits.

Sabbath #25

ewmcf — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 14:15:48 +0000

It is necessary this morning to take a deep breath. The red maple in the front yard has lost all its top leaves. The gardenia bush in the backyard has small white flowers blooming abundantly. The season of Thanksgiving,today. I need to slow down. Awake at five this morning unnecessarily, waiting for the sun to rise,waiting for the day to take hold rather than allowing it to unfold. I am quick to judge, feeling the busyness of a full day, a full week. The need for order, organization. Can I stop myself? Yesterday was the last day to catch crabs. The blue enamel steamer is full to the brim. Old bay and onions. The evening, far away. I must read a few lines by Woolf. Traveling back and forth across the bay to work, then home again In my lovely study, my books behind me. I’ve restarted my book once again. The crabs won’t be cooked until after eight tonight. Miriam has lost two of her brothers since July, both parents. Last week this time we were in California caring for our little ones. Yes,it is necessary to take a breath. Be easy with myself and others. Let the day unfold, the week unfold. Walk to the creek at sunset. Steam the crabs. Let the house be overtaken with the scent. It is the last of one season, the beginning of another.

Sabbath # 24

ewmcf — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 13:52:42 +0000

The week ahead: a full moon and travel to the “other shore.” Constantly traveling, making pilgrimages from one place to another. Breathe in, Breathe out. Smile. This morning I read, faith evolves every day. This past week I looked deeply into my son’s eyes, held his embrace long after we departed. I could hear the ocean from my bedroom. Yesterday, I listened intently to my daughter’s voice over the distance. The circle widens with newness. “The other shore is this very shore.” I cut the apple in sections, left on the skin. In a minute I will walk down the street and join my husband who left the house earlier. We are surrounded by water. We move from shore to shore. First this place, then this place. Pass over, pass under. “The other shore is this very shore.” Can I remember?

Sabbath # 23

ewmcf — Sun, 30 Oct 2011 12:47:14 +0000

This morning I’m reading the difference between devotion and practice in Thich Nhat Hanh’s Living Budda, Living Christ. This week I began again the practice of Haiku, three a day. Copy them from one notebook to another. Ten years ago my friend, Lila and I sent each other a weekly postcard with a new haiku for one year. Our devotion and practice. The Holy Spirit. Buddha. Mindfulness. Prayer. Taking refuge in a moment: stillness of Autumn air, smell of apples baking with cinnamon, stem rising from a cup of tea, bells ringing from the steeple of the Presbyterian Church next door, my granddaughter’s voice three thousand miles away, saying when are you coming over here? Practice and devotion. Knowing when to take my pen in hand and write. Trusting the silence of the blank page. Trusting the blue-black ink that forms the letters: yellow rose booming / the last of the season / firewood stacked.

Sabbath #22

ewmcf — Sun, 23 Oct 2011 12:54:11 +0000

My father placed his hand on mine. The conversation no longer mattered. Words spoken could be any words. His body leaned into me. My breathing, easy, his less. I arrived not needing anything. That was the difference. Now, he needed something from me: Comfort, forgiveness. I gave both freely without hesitation. It mattered that I had just come from the funeral of a friend’s mother, spoken to his ninety-one year old father, left alone on the farm. Her butter beans, corn and peaches fresh in the freezer. Summer passed quickly. We have entered fall and approach the time when the veil is the thinnest between living and dead. My father, alive today; hopefully, finding peace and not afraid.

Sabbath #21

ewmcf — Sun, 09 Oct 2011 12:59:11 +0000

We woke rather tired from all the preparations for guests. Skipped our reading at the table, skipped conversation. Hard boiled eggs, toast, lightly buttered. Today, early morning fog. Mist. Earlier, before sunrise, I stood at the bedroom window, opened. Looked into the backyard. Marveled at the quiet, not a sound. No wind. No traffic. Not even birdsong. Slipped back under the covers. New sheets sounds. Breathe sounds. Deep sleep sounds. Now, a sigh. Love sounds.

Sabbath #20

ewmcf — Sun, 02 Oct 2011 13:09:24 +0000

This morning Burnt Norton at breakfast. One peach, sliced. Glancing out the window, two yellow roses. Yesterday at Assateague we walked three miles: one bald eagle, four small white-tailed deer, egrets, sand fiddlers, a wild pony. Solace in the salt marsh. So that today before sunrise while I slept, you sat at the dining table with your notes, renewed. Rest, important. Quiet, vital. My second copy of Four Quartets. Your first reading. Time present and time past... At the still point of the turning world… we gathered ourselves. We vowed to return. A place so near and timeless. In silence we inhabit this world, our world. Only seven miles between sea and sound.