Sabbath #103

The fog this morning hovers, a low ceiling. Drops of rain sit ready to fall from the red Christmas balls I hung on the maple in the center of the yard. It is too quiet. Traffic diminished, I believe because no one wants to leave the comfort of their homes this Sunday morning. Is it dread? Is it collected grief of the events on Friday? The murders of little children in the school led me to think about all the children killed and maimed in the war, all the children in Africa orphaned from Aids. And I’m reading The Yellow Birds by Kevin Powers. And why not? I’m working on a talk for a Blue Christmas Service on Thursday for people suffering from loss. And now, all is colored by the lost children and teachers and the war. I was taught school is sacred space. And it is. And then I begin to think about Mental Health Care and guns. This was a family murder. It was not random. The connection was family. The killings were personal. Some unresolved grievances attached to mental illness, loss of reality. A thin line between rational and irrational, real and imaginary. For my talk, I write, I am bereaved. I list my losses. Pale against the excess of murdered children, war and ravages of illness. And today is the Sunday of Joy in Advent. How do we come to joy, not after loss but in the midst of loss. Possible only in moments of forgetfulness,remaining open hearted enough to allow slivers of light to pass through darkness. And each day this week, light diminishing, marking the turn, the beginning of Winter. As always I turn to poetry, T. S. Eliot, Rumi, Neruda, Oliver, Kunitz, Dickinson for direction, solace. The word Mercy keeps reverberating through my body. Mercy, Loving-kindness, compassion. And then Justice and Humility. We humans need help. Who lives well? I’m thinking of Mary and Bill, paddling for a living and now they’ve added yoga in the mornings on the shore. I’m thinking about Millie and David, farming for a living. I’m thinking about the rural heath care providers. I’m thinking about Dawn studying to be a social worker, her second career, her dream. I’m thinking about Gary and Charlotte and Janet who provide respite, art and good food. All members of this little community where I live. Our grief is communal. I am sick with sadness. I want to say Kaddish. I want to whisper Psalm 147: He heals the broken hearted and binds up their wounds. I want to say: Yet I turn, I turn, exulting somewhat with my will intact wherever I need to go. I want to say: This being human is a guest house. Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond. We need guides. I need to say: You do not have to be good. Tell me about despair, yours, and i’ll tell you about mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. It does and it will. I say to myself, gentle, gentle. Be gentle.With myself and others. I say, Do your best to be aware and conscious. I say, again and again, in all that you do, radiate love. I glance to the window and then back over my shoulder. The puppy asleep on his bed. The fog has not lifted or burned off. No, it has thickened. So dense that the white cross on the steeple next door can barely be seen.  

 

Sabbath #102

Gone are the days when I could spend a few hours in silence on Sunday morning. This puppy doesn’t know the meaning of quiet or stillness or silence. He is chewing on my desk chair and barking at me this minute. I moved his bed in my study with the hope that he might nap for 15-20 minutes so I could collect one thought.  The problem is that he barks to let us know that he has to go out. But he also barks when he wants to play. This morning I’m exasperated, recovering from oral surgery and of course he is a puppy and his purpose is to play. He has three chew bones, none of which he wants. Two squeak toys and two blankets. Since I began writing I’ve taken him out three times to no avail other then for him to smell around the front yard and greet the church members coming to Sunday School at the Presbyterian Church next door. When a car drives up, he sits at attention as if each person arriving is his guest. Of course, everyone greets him. And he seems to understand the definition of hospitality because he wants to share everything especially his ball. Finally at this moment he is chewing one of his sticks with his head hanging off his bed. He seems to have settled for a minute. Can I own one minute? One lesson for sure: there is no where to be but in the moment. This week while driving in the car, another moment of desperation, I stopped and ordered the book on puppies written by the monks of New Skeet. I have actually been to the New Skeet Monastery several times for Vespers. But certainly didn’t absorb anything other that the most beautiful song, and sometimes a piece of cheesecake made by the nuns. I have raised two children and have had six dogs in my previous life, so why the difficulties, the impatience. Perhaps children distracted me. Perhaps the animals blended as opposed to being center. This puppy shadows us, our every step. He goes were we go. He wants to be wherever we happen to be, from bedroom, to bathroom, to kitchen. He knows where the treats are kept. He knows where the carrots are in the fridge. He is still chewing his bone after being redirected several times least you think he has left me in peace to write. My writing time, diminished. My subject matter, now, my dog Dozer. A SPCA mix, border collie-black lab with the sweetest face. We say that he adopted us. I feel adopted by him. The house, less quite now. Less time to feel the absence of my children and three grandchildren who live across the nation. Morning kisses, all day long. Now he is lying on his back, arms folded in prayer and chewing his bone. I dare not let him see me look at him. Now he sniffs around looking for some loose piece of paper, an envelope, the corner of a beloved book. No, now back on his bed. He pauses with no movement takes a deep breath. I only have a few more minutes and now he finally has settled down for a nap.