A Few Good Things #7

Shhh. I'm resting.

“There is virtue in work and there is virtue in rest. Use both and overlook neither.”

~ Alan Cohen

There are several reflections brewing in the back of my mind right now, but they are barely simmering, still lukewarm. I can’t seem to turn up the heat to get them to a boil.

Compared to a lot of jobs, mine includes some amazing and unusual activities: Service trips to Mexicali and Hopi, song leading for a monthly vespers service, storytelling almost every Sunday, a hunt for justice Easter egg hunt, blessing pets for a Blessing of the Animals, among many other creative and churchy things. I’m lucky to love my job as much as I L-O-V-E my job. Not everyone gets that kind of joy from their place of employment. I don’t take it for granted.

But I’m also tired. Like many of us, it’s not just the goings on in my own life that are tiring; it’s the dark cloud hovering over all of us - the weight of the world resting a little heavier on our shoulders - that’s wearing me out. Ordinary things, even good things, are feeling heavy. Last week my Spiritual Director said she had never seen me look so tired. We ended our session early. I took a nap. It may be the height of spring, with life insisting on emerging and blooming all around me, but I need rest.

Mostly I I need mental rest. Yesterday I spent a few hours working in the yard, not really thinking about anything, and that felt really good. Engaging my body in something physical felt good. Cleaning up the yard felt satisfying. Shushing my mind felt great.

So I’m gonna shush my mind for awhile and just let those reflections keep simmering on the back burner. When they’re ready, I’ll write about them. In the meantime, I can always find a few good things to share.

I shared a picture of a caterpillar from my yard in my last Good Things post. Here’s what he became! Those dark spots on the lower half of the wings tell me this is a male Monarch. He is still drying his wings here, resting and gathering strength for flight.

A good friend of mine recently lost her sister, suddenly and unexpectedly. The beach is where she finds rest and renewal. A group of us met her there after work one night, to listen and just be together. There was a lot of driftwood on the beach, just begging to be made into art projects. While we were there, we watched a man quietly create one balancing driftwood sculpture after another. They were the perfect metaphor for the impermanence and beauty in life: A prayer without words.

My step father passed away in February. He requested his ashes be scattered on the Obern Bike Trail, so we are scouting around for a good spot. He and my mother rode this bike path hundreds of times during their cycling years. I like to imagine them still riding, taking the Obern Trail further than they ever thought possible.

These pots were made by a Hopi potter whose land I had the privilege of camping on (with a great group of people) last month. Some of the reflections I’ve got simmering are about that far-from-ordinary trip. These two pots did not survive the firing process, but they are none-the-less filled with stories and love. And in their brokenness they are a reminder to hold all things lightly and with gratitude. Another visual meditation on beauty and impermanence.

This is a place I often walk. Imagine my surprise when my husband and I came across a flock of a few hundred sheep and goats, along with their trusty protector, just nibbling away on spring grasses. Using sheep and goats to help with fire suppression is nothing new, but it’s the first time it’s been done in this spot. Coming across these guys was pure delight!

Another delight from a recent walk with my husband: Royal Terns hanging out with the Pelicans, Cormorants, Gulls, and Snowy Plovers that frequent the beach by our house. My husband logged them on his birding app “life list.” We’re starting to wonder if everyone over a certain age becomes a birder.

Yesterday was the one year anniversary of my mother’s death. My step father passed away just this past February. I suspect grief is a factor in my tiredness. I still can’t quite believe they are both gone.

Before I started writing this Substack, I spent Mondays with my mom. We would go out for smoothies and walks. For awhile she used a hiking stick, then a walker. In her final months she was in a wheelchair. Every time she got in the car she commented on the sky, the clouds, and the mountains as if she were appreciating them for the first time. We had many lovely afternoons together. Sometimes I read to her. Sometimes she napped. Sometimes we both did. Once we spent a long time watching whales from the bluffs. Sometimes we listened to music. One time we sang along with Peter, Paul and Mary. She knew all the words to all the songs. Alzheimer’s had not taken that from her. We thought we sounded pretty good!

There were plenty of hard things during those last couple of years, but when she passed away, so did my anxiety about what might happen next (another fall, another infection, another hospitalization, more memory loss). She let go when it was time, not fighting the inevitable. Hers was a peaceful death. And that is a gift because now I am free to visit her in happy memories, like afternoons spent quietly watching whales or singing along with Peter, Paul and Mary.

Beauty, impermanence, grief, and gratitude for it all.

“Instructions for life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”

~ Mary Oliver