bathing in dust

Mud bathing in the Dead Sea in 1996 was a sticky and rather odd experience but I still found it fun; milk bathing might have been a mark of high rank for Cleopatra and others but if the milk were a bit 'off' then 'rank' could be more about the smell than being the queen of all she surveyed!

But dust bathing?

I was out walking on New Year's Day - yesterday - and let my mind wander as you do at this time of the year. No longer do I make resolutions; nowadays life's more about  discerning what is mine to do among competing worthwhile options.  So my mind was open and present to what was around me, rather than what had been or what might or might not come to pass.

And then I noticed three sparrows 'dustering' and dappling in the warm dry sand near the beach path. I don't think it was too anthropomorphic to say that they seemed to be enjoying themselves as they nestled in little sparrow-shaped hollows, flapped and flung dust over their wings, dipped beak and head into the tiny grains until they spilled between feathers and brought cleansing in the absence of water, and relief from irritants. All this vigorous activity was capped off by patient preening until they were ready for whatever the rest of the day had to offer.

I was reminded of a time in 2006 when, on a desperate walk, I'd noticed a dove preening. My husband was in hospital about to have quadruple heart bypass  surgery - and the Spirit used the bird's meticulous and patient attention to its own needs to remind me that, in the midst of everyone doing their utmost for my beloved, it was important that I took the time to care for myself too.

In the 12 years between these two feathery reminders I've struggled to take good care of my self. So often the needs of others have taken precedence and I've pushed my own refreshment time to the bottom of the day's 'to do' list.  But now as I age, I realise I cannot do what I've always done, particularly in terms of quality of pastoral or personal presence, or in accessing that balanced state of creativity when ideas bubble up and words flow and the smallest thing can mediate the Christ.

And so it's time to 'bathe in the dust'.

For me that means prioritising  contemplative practice, anchoring the day in prayer, bidding the day goodnight with gratitude, being open to spiritual conversations [ and what conversation isn't fundamentally spiritual?],  resisting trying to second guess what's best for those I love, and saying 'no' more often. Others may find my choices difficult, but the sparrow's reminder is the Blessed Trinity's gift to me at the start of 2019 .

I know myself well enough to accept that some days the gift will linger on the shelf unopened, that there may be times when it even gathers dust, but I pray that grace will enable me to cherish my God-given true self more as the year unfolds and, as a result, whatever I do will truly be done in the name of Jesus.

What is God's gift to you at the start of this new year?

the flowers of the field

It started out an ordinary walk on a calm day in the sun. 

The first flowers I picked were like pink forget-me-nots - how apt as I lean into the loss of two dear men - one a spiritual father and wise mentor, the other a brother in Christ, friend and colleague over many many years.

Tomorrow and the next day we'll gather  to farewell them ... and we'll try to paint as full a picture as possible of their lives and influence; we'll try to honour them with our stories, our tears, our thanksgiving and our love. 
And as people of faith, we'll be reinforcing what is already a reality for these two, dear contemplative souls ... death is not the end, but a stepping over a threshold into Light, and a new way of being, beyond our knowing.

This little bunch of flowers, holds bright buttercups with their buttery-chin memories, smelly onion weeds  that rarely find their way into our good books, and dainty daisies full of questions - Love me, love me not?   

For a brief time they bloom and bring the fullness of their uniqueness to add beauty to the earth. 

And so do we.

And that's okay.

Open Day

OPEN DAY 

We walk or drive down the road and see the sign on the new business or the house that's for sale. 
Open days  or open houses are intended to appeal, to engage, to offer a glimpse into another opportunity that we might want to explore ... and they challenge us - do we go in out of sheer nosiness with no intention of buying or getting involved  - or do we pass by and let the next distraction draw us to another thought and another and another until the day dies ... only for the treadmill to continue in our dreams and re-start  with the morning.

But this morning as I sat after quiet prayer, I suddenly realised that today is an 'open day' for me - nothing is planned, nothing 'has to be done', there is no list, there are no deadlines and the realisation was a delight.

For a long time I've only managed life with lists - you may know the feeling  - writing down what has to be done today, transferring leftovers from one day to the next, adding more tasks, wondering how to fit everything in, working late, rising early, getting tired and losing things as concentration and energy wear thin. 

It's not sustainable. 
It has to stop.

Today's 'open day' invites me to be present to what is bubbling up within - the joy in being with family and the joy in writing - and to delight in what is around me : the birdsong at dawn, the sun's warmth, the freshness of the air and the simple things of life that so often go unattended.

No pressure of list-ticking or time-passing. 
No deadlines to meet.

Just letting things unfold. 
For now.

Join me.

Searching

Searching 

Someone a couple of houses away is calling my name, but I'm not lost - I am hanging out the washing, appreciating the blue sky and birdsong after days of rain and wind.

The calling continues for my namesake - a missing puppy - her owner's increasingly anxious voice gradually receding  as her family spreads out and moves down to the stream and into the bush to search for their little brown bundle. I make  a quick prayer for her safe return and find my thoughts moving to the wider world where so many people are 'missing' - wrested from their loved ones and homes through no fault of their own ...  soon my prayers for help are added to those already being offered by countless others - little bursts of love-energy sent across the miles at the speed of light, to make a difference, however small.

I continue to hang out the washing.

Within the hour there is another search : our neighbour's young labrador has gone 'walkabout'  and isn't responding to his impressive,urgent whistle - and so I join in the search and we cover the likely places before the lanky pup is finally found with some new 'friends' a few houses away. We smile with relief!

We all know this lost/search/hopefully find scenario well.
We see it played out on our screens in countless dramas and even programmes searching for lost family members through DNA detective work!
We too have stories to tell of losing someone or something precious  -
We too have stories to tell of searching and hopefully finding.
But for some there is no resolution, only ongoing unknowing and the frustration of living with a question that may never be answered.

What loss or search or finding is part of your life at this present moment?

Are you calling out to someone you love, hoping against hope they will respond and come home?

Having two instances of losing and searching this morning made me think about God's continuous call to us through the natural world, through circumstances, through music and scripture and art and books and people and in structured and unstructured gatherings of faith communities.

God who is Love is committed to reclaiming our attention from the contemporary world's distractions of screens and stress and struggles.
Those arms into which the prodigal son [or daughter] runs in Luke 15 remain wide open to you and to me and a homecoming banquet is guaranteed!

Happy New Year

WAITING ...

Advent  -  that season in the Christian church's calendar marking the four weeks of waiting and preparation before the birth of the infant Jesus  - coincides in the southern hemisphere with the start of the monarch butterfly's active cycle. It's a telling parallel - a visible reminder of the value of waiting in a world that has become so desperately impatient.

I went to town today to do some banking ... there were lots of people queuing - a few waiting with good humour but most others with impatient looks and much shuffling of papers or exasperated sighs. When my transaction had been completed, I walked to the stairs taking me back to my car, and saw a young father, toddler at hand, walking slowly down the stairs. Waiting for the little one to navigate each step, he patiently encouraged his child's tentative progress without a hint of annoyance or rushing. No wonder the little boy was full of smiles when they reached the bottom of the stairs.

Waiting is not popular in our wild western world - we are hurry sick - we want everything 'now' -  smart phones to connect us instantly with anyone, anywhere; we expect immediate aid when disaster strikes, or central or local government is blamed; we speak more quickly and eat 'fast food', get involved in 'road rage' and seek high speed air or train travel; and, ironically, we marvel at how quickly the months are passing, as if somehow time has changed its pace and we have no say in the matter.

Is it surprising then that, coupled with our fast-paced life and impatience with anything that stops us doing what we want to do as soon as we want to do it, we are seeing a decrease in mental health and overall well-being. Are we so out of touch with the natural rhythms of creation that we fail to see the virtue of waiting?

And is it surprising that a 'push-back' is emerging - people opting for 'slow food' and a quieter lifestyle, yearning for simplicity and putting quality time into building relationships with others, with themselves, with the land and environment, and for many, with something or someone they might consider 'sacred'?

So it's back to the monarch butterflies - a newly-hatched monarch butterfly emerges from its cocoon wet and wrinkly. It can take hours for the wings to dry, gently unfurl, plump up and gather strength ready for the miracle of flight. If we try to hurry this waiting process by 'helping' the butterfly untangle itself, irreparable harm is done - and all that time in the cocoon will come to
nothing but damage and death.

Each year in the season of Advent we are reminded of the value of waiting, of anticipating, of letting ourselves hope and yearn and look forward. And for those who follow the Way of Christ, waiting brings into sharper focus the coming of God into the world in a form we can all embrace - a tiny child  - Jesus -  through whom the vulnerability and power of  Love could be expressed in the context of an ordinary human life  - just like yours and mine.

That's worth waiting for!

Making space

Perched peacefully on the lamp post in the early light, the portly wood pigeon was sunning his white belly, his small head pulled into his body, dreaming, dozing ...
What a lovely sight to start the day I thought, until, out of the sky flew a large black-backed gull.
And the reverie  - the pigeon's and mine  -was ruined.
There was no kerfuffle; the  pigeon didn't stop to fight for his ground but jumped into the air's embrace and let it carry him away as the stronger intruder perfectly mastered a post-top landing, and, without a feather ruffled, claimed the desired space.

Sometimes it seems as if all over the world, in all sorts of contexts, a similar exchange is playing out - individuals, groups, organisations, regions, even whole countries struggling to claim, grab or retain what they believe is their 'space'. What conflict is not fired by competition for space and what that space means : security, resources, tradition, power, a future?

Even in our own lives, when we reflect on it, we can be space-protective:  sitting in a particular chair in the staff room or pew in a church, booking the same caravan site at the holiday park,  unconsciously guarding 'our patch', and rarely letting anyone into that most secret of spaces - our inner thought-life with its mixture of darkness and light, familiar and forbidden places.

It could be easy to think that stealing, coveting or protecting space motivated all human interaction - on a micro or macro scale. But that's not the whole story.

Later that same day my mate and I ambled downtown to attend a piano recital - we found our seats and smiled at a few people we knew around us before the concert quickly got underway. It soon became apparent that, while his view of the pianist and the wonder of hands doing the beautifully impossible, was unimpeded, mine was not. I spent the first movement of the Tchaikovsky First Piano Concerto wriggling my head first to one side of the back of the woman in front's head, and then to the other side, seeing two hands flashing at one end of the keyboard and then at the other end until my neck got sore and I sat back and closed my eyes and just listened, resigning myself to the reality of our location.

But in that sometimes awkward pause between movements, when the uninitiated or very enthusiastic start to clap, my mate tapped my knee and quietly slipped to his feet, so that I could take his space. And so I did -  with surprise and gratitude for his awareness and generosity. For the remainder of that magnificent composition, I sat  in awe as the passion and sheer brilliance of the pianist unfolded, until the music brought tears to my eyes and I glimpsed the mystical marriage of contemplation and action.

I was blessed that evening - not just by witnessing the glory of God in the  pianist fully alive, but by that simplest of gestures - the selfless sharing of space, as my mate saw my need and responded in love. He made a space for me and I got to thinking that the Loving Presence does that for us too.

Whenever we feel excluded, God welcomes us in.
Whenever things crowd in on us and we feel overwhelmed, Jesus offers us rest and refreshment.
Whenever we are wondering about the uncertainties of the future and the regrets of the past, the Holy Spirit within, reminds us to live fully in the present moment, that space in which we can meet God and ourselves, that space we too often avoid because of the challenge of intimacy it presents.

Just as God makes a space for us in all sorts of ways,
may we make space for others,
and for ourselves.

Simplicity

We went to a 'silent auction' yesterday.

For those of you who cannot imagine how an auction can function without someone with a gavel, a loud voice, several spotters for crowd bids, several others to monitor online hopefuls and a gaggle of
potential purchasers waiting for their defining moment, let me assure you that it can and does work, just differently.

The hall was set up with a range of desirable items each with its own list on which bidders could write their offer. Over the next couple of hours,  we milled around, caught up with friends, had cups of tea and delicious cake and periodically checked to see if someone else had bid more than we had on our items of desire. At the end of the allotted viewing time, the bids were collated and the person with the top bid for each item was notified - in person if present and by phone / text if not. Simple.

JFK's rocking chair 

I sat - several times - in a vintage wooden rocking chair a bit like the one pictured - testing the angle between seat and back,the degree of rock, and whether my feet could touch the floor - a perennial problem as I am quite short.
I remembered my first and only rocking chair - used over thirty years ago when I was nursing my son.
Happy memories of night feeds and snuggling, of that distinctive milky baby smell; memories too of the anxieties and not knowing and the joys of emerging motherhood.

My partner in crime set his eyes on a coal scuttle and fire-tools, even though we already had both at home. There was a discussion.

We agreed to bid on a picnic basket, an evening bag in better condition than the one I had at home, some plants, a vintage car model piggy bank, an uninhabited cat basket with cloth mouse, and a few other odds and ends - none of which we needed- but not the rocking chair. Not this time.

With house already cluttered we'd actually donated stuff to the auction as part of our 'move it on policy' so what were we doing, subverting our own strategy???

Well it was just fun - simple, convivial  fund-raising fun and we enjoyed it.

For a couple of hours we could leave behind the horrors of terrorism destroying lives and tormenting our screens; we could briefly forget about elections, politics, natural disasters, death and dying, house affordability, and our children's well-being; we could escape the routines of our live, lived largely within the confines of our home; and we could shelve life decisions such as wills and whether  - or when  - to move as we and our house grow more decrepit with age.

We could just take a break from it all ... just for a little while.

And when the end of the auction came and we found ourselves with things we didn't need, we just smiled at each other, and paid the money to the good cause. It was worth it.