"as i write this letter..."

 

"as I write this letter,

send my love to you, 

remember that i'll always 

be in Love with you..." 

People often ask me how many children we have.  For many, this would be an easy question.  For me, it is a balancing act between what is true in my heart, and who would appear at an immediate family reunion.  

There are the three daughters that my former husband and I became family with through adoption, and the son and daughter that my husband brought into my heart through marriage.  So, the somewhat easy answer is five.  

But that is not really true.  It leaves out the son who we were adopting - many years ago - before his first mom decided to parent him herself. And it doesn't acknowledge the daughter I carried, but who passed before her birth.  It also doesn't take into account all of the children that my heart has loved as nieces, nephews, students, campers, counselors, neighbors, our children's friends, and the "third twin" who always made Emma and Clara's childhood more of a joy than I can say.

Today, I am holding our daughter, Jane, tenderly in my heart.  She passed before her birth, but there is not a day that goes by that I don't pray for her spiritual growth and journey in grace, as her mom -- as one who has loved her dearly and deeply.  She is the one that makes me hesitate - most viscerally - when asked how many children I have.

As I thought about her this morning in prayer, it occurred to me that, unlike her sisters and brother,  she is not "of an age," in my heart.  She just is.  I no longer speak to her with any sense of how many years it has been since her passing.  I write to her as an equal.  As a child of God.  Not a child of Kate -- or any other person.  Loving her has taught me so much about shedding a personal, or proprietary, sense of motherhood.  I pray each day that she is with someone who mothers and cherishes her as much as I do.  

This is also something I have learned as an adoptive mother.  I have never known what it feels like to think that I am someone's "only mother" -- I share each of the children in my life with other mothers.  Birth mothers, step mothers, grandmothers, camp moms, corral moms, mother-in-laws.  So this sense of release comes without the heartache of "but I am her only -- her real mom..." 

Somedays, I find myself writing letters to these beautiful children in my heart, on paper, and in the wind.  This morning it was a letter to Jane that prompted this post.  The song that came with it was the Beatles' classic, "p.s., i love you..." I know this song was probably written as a romantic love letter, but for me it is all about the love we feel for those we don't see everyday, but who live and breathe in our hearts.  

dear jane, 

this morning i am thinking about you, and the beautiful strong women that i am absolutely certain God has brought into your experience.  Women for you to e cherished by -- and to learn and grow with.  i pray you know, that from where i am, i hold you close each day -- and, i let you go.  

this always feels like breathing.  drawing my sense of you close -- to cherish each of your remarkable spiritual qualities, then releasing you -- to bless and be blessed -- over, and over, and over again. 

i am at camp -- again.  this is often where i see you in a timeless, ageless flow of spiritual maturity.  I can feel your innocence and your wisdom.  Your playfulness and your purpose -- all around me.  I try not to wonder or speculate about what you would have enjoyed here -- horses like your sisters, or water skiing like your dad.  I find the most peace when i allow myself to just love it all -- and you, in the midst of it.  

it is time to go do what I do here.  be with the children of other mothers.  this, too, makes me think of the moms who have always nurtured you where you are.  it makes me deeply grateful for their care for you -- and it makes me more devoted to my life here at camp. 

with all my love... 

As i write this letter - sharing it with you - i hope you see what sustains and strengthens my heart each day -- loving the children that i have been entrusted to love.  Ageless children of one divine Parent.  

offered with Love, 

Cate

"sun-burned, or sun-blessed..."

"here comes the sun,
here comes the sun,
and I say,
it's all right..."

Could there be a better keynote some for this post than the Beatles' classic: "Here Comes the Sun?" I think not.

It happens every summer. Someone arrives at the door of my cabin to talk about sunburns, sunscreen, and extended exposure to the sun. I can never help myself from gazing off towards the flower beds, that hug Valerie Lodge and remember...

It was more years ago than I can remember. That summer mid-July days in Colorado had been particularly hot and dry. And although late afternoon storms offered respite -- dark clouds, strong winds, heavy downpours, it was only for a few minutes. Then back to bluebird skies and bright sun. The cycle was dependable.

Earlier that summer - before staff and campers arrived - a crew of volunteers had turned the weedy flower beds into a riot of texture and color. By late July, all that work had paid off. There were columbine, pansies, lupine, iris, bleeding heart, and my favorites - poppies.  And the poppies were thriving. I love them all - icelandic, oriental, California, Flanders. My favorite though were the pale blush petals of the Helen Elizabeth palaver poppies [shown above] that dance on their tall stems with every breeze.

This particular day - like many of the staff and campers that summer - my shoulders were particularly tender from a long day in the sun. As I listened to the young woman on my porch - concerned about her sun-burned face - I watched a lovely pale-petaled poppy swaying to the changing direction of the breeze. And in an instant I saw what would alter my sense of things - forever.

There was the most delicate flower in the garden, reaching her face towards the sun. It was a very, very hot day, and the sun was blindingly bright. But she wasn't turning away or seeking to hide behind the shade of a neighboring flower's shadow. She was actually seeking the sun. Turning - ever so gradually as she followed the sun's trajectory from east to west across a bluebird Colorado sky.

Her delicate pale peach petals were not singed or brittle from the heat. In fact, they were even more beautiful. More lovely. How were my shoulders -- or that camper's precious, freckled, up-turned nose -- any different. Any less protected by our love for the sun.

I was immediately flooded with this passage from Psalms:

“The sun shall not
smite thee by day,
nor the moon by night..."
 

I got it. It was suddenly so clear to me. We are all made of the same spiritual substance -- from a blade of grass to a star. There is only the substance of Soul. The substance of beauty. 

Mary Baker Eddy tells us that "All nature teaches God's love to man." If that lovely, graceful poppy could stand in the bright sun -- hour-after-hour without her delicate petals being burned -- so could I. And so could that beautiful camper. 

Immediately on the heels of that realization, this definition of "sun" from the Glossary in Eddy's  Science and Health came to mind:

“SUN.  The symbol of Soul
governing man, — of Truth,
Life, and Love."
 

Suddenly it seemed ludicrous that the Sun -- the symbol of Soul governing man -- could be harmful, pain-inducing, or destructive. The stinging in my shoulders completely abated. I was free. And not only was I free of the negative effects of a long, lovely day in the sun, so was the camper.

The sun - the symbol of Soul governing man - can no more injure us than it can harm the delicate petals of a poppy. Elsewhere in Science and Health, Eddy says:

"The sunlight glints
from the church-dome,
glances into the prison-cell,
glides into the sick-chamber,
brightens the flower,
beautifies the landscape,
blesses the earth." 

We can only be sun-blessed.

offered with Love,

Kate

"yesterday, came suddenly..."

"yesterday,
came suddenly..."

If you are "of a generation" that grew up loving four boys from Liverpool, and haven't seen Danny Boyle's new film  "Yesterday," -- trust me, you must. And that said, you might want to stop reading here. I am going to reveal two moments from the film that took me apart. In an empty theater.  In rural New England.

Suffice it to say, I loved this movie. It was such a surprise for me. Not just the brilliant performances, the surprising plot, the sweet love story, and the absolutely remarkable music - but the way it affected me.

As I said, it took me apart, and put me back together. Spoiler alert: this is where, if you haven't see the film, and you don't want to know what - for me -- were the heart-shattering and hope restarting moments you should stop reading.  Now.

There are two scenes. And they are related. The premise of the film is that there has been a global black-out, and during those twelve seconds, a young man is hit by a bus. When he recovers from his injuries, he seems to be the only person on earth who remembers The Beatles, or their music. He begins - reluctantly at first -- performing those songs. And he becomes an instant global phenomenon -- as everyone thinks that he is the world's greatest songwriter.

And just as he is starting to feel the depth of his ethical dilemma, he is approached by two other people who "remember." He thinks that they will expose him for the fraud that he is, but, -- and here is my first "lose it" moment -- they embrace him. They are just so very grateful that he remembers the Beatles and their songs, and that he is re-sharing those songs with the world.  Since neither of them is able to sing. At one point, one of them says:

"A world without the Beatles'
is a world that is infinitely worse..."

Yup. Totally lost it.

I had been feeling this way. Just sad.  Sad about a number of things that seemed to have been taken from us, or were fading from society's memory. This film reminded me that I have known a world with Beatles in it -- with happy, poignant, deeply moving songs that I have taught my children on long road trips with the "One" CD playing in an endless loop.  That I have known a world in which a respected person of color could become the President of the United States. I have known a world where "Love is love is love."  And I could never be made to forget.

The second paradigm shattering moment in this film (for me) is one that you - if you were a person of a certain generation - truly must see - not just read about. And if you haven't seen it, you really do want to stop reading here.  Please.  Do not ruin this moment for yourself.

At the height of his moral dilemma, Jack is given a slip of paper with an address on it -- by the two other people who "remember." Where he finds himself on the threshold of a small beach cottage along the English coast. He knocks on the door and when it opens, there is John. Yes, John Lennon. And this is where my heart broke wide open. Into ugly sobbing. In an empty movie theater. On a weekday afternoon.

I don't just mean a lump in my throat.  Or a few tears coursing down my cheeks. No. I mean chest aching, breath-taking, gasping sobs.

It took me by surprise.  Not just the moment in the film, but my response to it.  The actor who portrays John is so good, and looks so much like him, that for a moment I thought it was real. That they had actually found John. It was all a ploy.  A way to get John out of the public eye.  A way for him to be able to have a peaceful life. No, he hadn't been murdered outside the Dakota on a cold December night over forty years ago.

And that was when I saw that I wanted it to be real. I wanted it so badly. I hadn't realized how much -- until that moment. John's passing hadn't just been the passing of a controversial rock star for me. At the time, it felt as profoundly world-altering as the assassination of John F. Kennedy or a November "morning after" - not so long ago.

John represented bold hope and fierce love for me.  I think his love-rebellion was defining for a generation that had lived through the Viet Nam war, Kent State, Selma, and Watergate. His assassination shattered dreams. And not just our dreams of a future Beatles' reunion, but for a world that could "imagine all the people, living life in peace."

So, for the first time in forty years, I let myself grieve. I sat in that empty theater - while the film rushed on to its beautiful conclusion - and wept. I have spent the past week reminding myself that if it - the presence of good - has ever been, it can never be taken. John was the symbol, though not the substance, of all that he represented for me.  But that hope, those dreams, a fierce love -- those are alive in me.

Today, I will go back to the theater, and watch the last thirty minutes of the film through clearer eyes. I will be grateful that I have lived in a post-Beatles world where songs like "Blackbird," and "Imagine," -- and scores of other beautiful songs -- still exist.

And I will never forget that moment in an empty theater where, for a moment, time stood still and the impossible felt so possible. As if I had woken from a dream where John had been assassinated, to a world where he is living on the coast of England in a small cottage, advising celebrities and world leaders on the importance of caring about the things that really matter -- love, family, peace, honesty, commitment, promises, hope, compassion.

You may say that I'm a dreamer -- but now, I see, that I'm not the only one.  Thank you, Danny Boyle, for this brilliant film. Perhaps you have intuited what Mary Baker Eddy writes about in her tribute to the life of one of her most remarkable students, Edward Kimball -- who had passed on earlier that year:

"My beloved Edward A. Kimball, whose clear, correct teaching of Christian Science has been and is an inspiration to the whole field, is here now as veritably as when he visited me a year ago. If we would awaken to this recognition, we should see him here and realize that he never died; thus demonstrating the fundamental truth of Christian Science.

And elsewhere she further assures us in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"We must hold forever
the consciousness of existence."

This is not a suggestion, but a promise. The promise that all we have known and loved -- cannot be taken from us. We must hold forever the consciousness of its existence.  Forever.  We have the right to remember.

offered with Love,

Cate 

"I, me, mine..."

"All through the day:
I, me, mine,
I, me, mine,
I, me, mine.

All through the night:
I, me, mine,
I, me, mine,
I, me, mine.

Now they're frightened
of leaving it,
everyone's weaving it;
coming on strong all the time:
I, me, mine,
I, me, mine,
I, me, mine..."

Someone once asked me why George Harrison was my favorite Beatle. There are many reasons - most of them quite spiritual. But, I think it is his writing of,  "I, Me, Mine,"  that still catches my breath, 50 years after its first recording.

It is not a particularly lyrical song. But the message is deeply spiritual. When asked about the message behind the song, Harrison once replied:

""It is about the ego,
the eternal problem."

Wow. In the video linked above, George expands, briefly, on this eternal problem.

The ego -- a false sense of self that is defined by an encapsulating layer of skin - that is the eternal problem. We believe that everything inside of that layer of skin is "me," and everything beyond it, is "other." 

We feel an inherently spiritual impulsion to expand our understanding of what infinite being includes, but we go about it in all the wrong way.

Rather than the dissolution of those self-boundaries, and an expansion into the all-oneness of spiritual identity, we seek to possess more -- to include more.  To stuff our sense of  "self" with more.  We pursue what leads to a bloated sense of being. My house, my children, my favorite Beatle, that great idea -- well, it is mine. And on and on it goes.  Mine, mine, mine.

George sings,

"Now they're frightened of leaving it,
everyone's weaving it,
coming on strong all the time..."

And we are. We are taught from earliest childhood to accumulate. Accumulate friends, information, toys, awards. We have been told that control over this accumulated self-sense is the ultimate goal. I manage my time. I am in charge of my finances. This idea is mine - mine to claim. This particular image that I hold of myself - it is my favorite. 

When we lose control of this self-important version of who we are -- we feel small. When we think that we have less "mine" than someone else, we feel like a failure - by comparison.  It is this separateness from one another - and therefore, the Source of all Being - that defines "sin" -- a word that comes from the same root as the word, "sunder -- to separate."

But this is also the root of our greatest fears. I fear that my thinking is creating my reality. I worry that my beliefs are leading to my health issues in my body.  I am concerned that my limited sense of things is creating lack in my life -- or in my children's lives.

I remember an experience that I had more than three decades ago. I was working at my desk. I'd been struggling with a painful headache for days. I felt like a failure. Who did I think I was? How could I sit there and take calls from patients who were asking for help, when I hadn't been able to heal myself.

While I berated myself for all that I didn't understand about God's power -- for why else would I not be healed -- my office phone rang. I answered it and the person at the other end of the line was, in fact, someone asking me to pray with them. They went on to describe the physical symptoms they were facing. And yes, they were exactly the same ones that I was struggling with.

On the one hand, I was so honored that she was led to call me. I had long-felt that if a call came to my office, God had well-prepared me to take it. I agreed to pray for her, and hung up.

As I sat there listening for what was spiritually true about this dear person, it occurred to me that I believed that there were two different personalities needing healing.  There was "my challenge," - based on my beliefs, and "her challenge," - based on what she was believing.  

When in fact, there was just one all-inclusive Truth-based sense of being.  What was true, was true for both of us. In fact, all of us. It was so clear to me. The illusion of two separate skin-encapsulated beings, stuffed in their own membranes of genetic history and personal narratives, with personal minds that could believe something on their own -- was ludicrous.

"Why," I asked myself, "was I honored when a patient called me for help, but felt like a failure when facing the same symptoms "in" my own body?" It was the false perception that each of us was defined by a layer of skin, and that everything inside of my skin was me. And therefore, it was my mind that was responsible for my experience.  And she, for hers.  Silly ego.  

The lie of separation -- personal sense -- when dissolved in the solution of spiritual oneness, disappears within the truth of our common "wholeness" -- which is the root of the word "health." This oneness leaves no room for comparisons. It refutes any sense of hierarchy -- of personal privilege or specialness.

This lie -- of egoic thinking -- that suggests itself to us day and night is insidious.  It is what Mary Baker Eddy is referring to in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures when she writes:

"Mortals are egotists.
They believe themselves to be
independent workers, personal authors,
and even privileged originators..."

They also believe themselves to be owners, possessors, the parents [and children] of one another, the accumulators of personal wealth, ideas, solutions, prayers, bodies -- lives.

This personal sense of existence is so contrary to an understanding of true individuality -- a word that has its root in the concept of un-divided-ness. We are not the apportioned personalities -- pieces of divinity. We are not divided from the wholeness of universal good.  We are not subject to personal success or failure.

In We Knew Mary Baker Eddy - Expanded Edition, William Rathvon shares his memories of conversations he had with Mrs. Eddy. I am especially reminded of these two brief statements from late 1910:

"Depersonalize self.
To personalize thought,
limits spiritual growth."

and

"What you need 
more than self-forgetfulness,
is self-nothingness." 

It reminds me of Eddy's own self-published statement from page 282 of Miscellaneous Writings 1883 - 1896:

"Remember, it is personality,
and the sense of personality
in God or man, that limits man."

I think that George Harrison and Mary Baker Eddy might have enjoyed one another's company. I have certainly been blessed by both of them.



offered with Love,

Kate

"Mary, did you know..."

"Mary, did you know
that your baby boy,
would someday walk on water?
Mary, did you know
your baby boy would
save our sons and daughters..."
- Mark Lowry

It wouldn't really be Christmas, if Kathy Matthea's  "Mary, did you know?" didn't begin to sing itself through my heart like a lullaby of grace.    And, I think, she did know. I believe that Jesus' mom knew the promise of peace her son was.  The promise of goodwill.  The promise of healing and redemtion.

  Nothing he did to ignore her, nothing he said to deter her, nowhere he went to escape her...could hurt her.   She was his mommy.  

The young girl in the manger, was also the woman who was "last at the cross."  She was there when the angels sang of his wonder,  she was there when shepherd kneeled in holy benediction on a frozen earth, she was there when the cattle lowed a humble lullaby.  She was there when lame men lept, when the blind saw men as trees walking, the leper was cleansed, when kings wept...and she was there with spices, for anointing, at the tomb. 

I forgot this message for a while.  I forgot the power of love that his mother's story prophesies.   It all got lost in a fuzzy sort of abstraction that separated the divinity of the Christ message, from humanity of Jesus and his story. But Mary Baker Eddy encourages us to "take the Bible as our sufficient guide to eternal life," and states that "the divinity of the Christ was made manifest in the humanity of Jesus." So how did I get so lost. The Bible I love so much, and do take as my sufficient guide, is full of the Christ message as told through the stories of Jesus' humanity. Countless stories of his very human, unconditionally loving behavior. Well, where do I think he learned how to love like this...with an affection that is unreasonable to the human mind and goes beyond the boundaries of what seems deserving.  I believe it was from a woman who never forgot what she knew. 

I have seen (and felt from my own mom) this kind of relentless, persistent, unflappable love in action...and it takes my breath away.  It always has, and it always will.

I have a very good friend.  Over a decade ago, her child decided that it was no longer importan to have a close relationship with his mother.  He was a man now, and no longer needed a mom.  She had raised him -- and according to him, not as well as he would have wished.

She had bathed, fed, supported, and believed in him for over 20 years, but he felt that she'd let him down financially. After his father's passing, he'd had to pay his own way through college.  His friends hadn't.  He felt that she should have made better long-term financial decisions.  He blamed her for his college loan debt.  And, he later explained, felt that if he had to work extra long hours at work to pay it down, reclaiming that time by not spending time calling, or visiting, with her, was the price she had to pay. 

Sure, he'd show up for holidays and family gatherings, but he wasn't going to make the same mistakes she'd made and put so much attention on these family relationships at the expense of his financial security.  He was going to be a success.  Anyway, she had church friends and neighbors, couldn't they call her on weekends.

And although her friends would say that this beloved son had been the apple of her eye, in his eyes she just hadn't done it right enough.  Couldn't she have just been a bit more...well, you name it...loving, strict, kind, affectionate, alert, trusting, prudent, generous.  But even that didn't matter now, he was an adult.  No need for mom to concern herself any longer, he was his own person.

I'd remembered this loved son as young boy.  He was sweet, gentle, and adored.  But when I met him next, he was a grown man with a chip on his shoulder. 

"Imagine," he said to me when we ran into each other,  "my mom wants me to come home for the holidays.  Can you believe it?"  He explained, hoping for an ally, that he had a life to live, a purpose to fulfill, a woman to meet, lives to touch with the genuine wonder of his deep spiritual commitment to God.  "And anyway," he said to me that afternoon on a park bench, "didn't Jesus say..." and then he paraphrased this section of scripture from Luke:

"There came then his [Jesus'] brethren and his mother, and, standing without, sent unto him, calling him.  And the multitude sat about him, and they said unto him, Behold, thy mother and thy brethren without seek for thee.

And he answered them, saying, "Who is my mother, or my brethren?"

And he looked round about on them which sat about him, and said, "Behold my mother and my brethren!  For whosoever shall do the will of God, the same is my brother, and my sister, and mother."

Okay.  Can I say here that if I hadn't know him as a sweet, gentle boy, I might have shaken him silly.  But I loved his mom...and she loved him...so...I prayed.

And that was when it occurred to me, that his seeming disregard for his mother's role in his life, was not going to change her love for him.  Her love for him was unconditional.  Her love for him was "without question."  He was still her little boy.  He was still the child that his mother (this same woman he was so quick to dismiss as irrelevant) had loved, cherished, cared for, believed in, and adored.  He was still the precious child she believed could do anything he set his heart to. 

So I took a deep breath, and in the space of that breath, I remembered my own earlier years of immaturity...and dismissiveness...with my mother.  It was such a clarion call to compassion and meekness.

And, I knew that this once precious little boy, was now a deeply spiritual young man.  We shared a love for God, a love for the Bible, and a genuine hunger for spiritual answers. So together, in the gentle, informal way that friends share inspiration, right there on the park bench, we explored the complete story of Jesus' relationship with his mom, Mary.  My young friend and I went to the master for answers. As contemporary disciples, we truly wanted to understand the role that parents play in the lives of their children - and vice versa. And together, we were led to that precious moment of redemption at the foot of the cross, when a boy looks down at his own mother and says:

"Woman behold thy son."

And then, I believe he says, to himself...in front of his disciple, John, and not to him:

"Behold, thy mother."

As we sat there thinking about his words, we couldn't help but remember Jesus the boy, who at 12, leaves his parents without telling them where he was going, during a family trip, to sit and chat with rabbis and lawyers in the temple.  We are a bit shocked by the young man of thirty, who rebukes his mother at the wedding they are attending together in Cana.  And then later, we watch on as this much sought after spiritual teacher, dismisses her in the story above. 

But, it is at Calvary, in the shadow of the cross, with only two companions and his mother - who has always loved and believed in him - standing by when all others have fled, that he finally acknowledges his mother's role in his life, and makes provision for her care after his passing.  And in doing so, he attends to her heart, and gives us a model for human behavior.  

Mary, did you know?  Yes, I think she knew   She knew who her son was and the promise his life held, for a waiting world.  I think all mothers know this very thing about their sons and daughters. We know the promise our children offer to a world hungry for innocence, strength, intelligence, beauty, grace, courage, integrity.  We know the truth of all that they can be...and we bear witness to that promise every day.

In Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy writes:

"A mother's affection cannot be weaned from her child, because the mother-love includes purity and constancy, both of which are immortal. Therefore maternal affection lives on under whatever difficulties."

What a promise!  No interruption in the eternally flowing affection of mother-love in the lives of either the parent, or the child...now, or ever.

The story of Jesus' relationship with his own mom is a gift to each of us.
 
My friend's son and I both "got it" that crisp autumn day in the park.   And when Christmas rolled around, we were both with our moms.

My friend has been so blessed by her son's willingness to be led into a deeper affection for his mother. She enjoys spending many of her holidays with a loving, kind, deeply spiritual and attentive son who never misses an opportunity to include his mom in his life.  And I am blessed by his friendship, by the lesson we learned together that day in the park, and by his willingness to let me share this story.

warmly....

Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"...a bow of promise on the cloud..."

"Little darlin'
It's been a long, cold, lonely winter.
Little darlin'
It seems like years since it's been here.
Here comes the sun,
Here comes the sun,
and I say,
It's al right...."
- George Harrison

Since there is not (at least not one that I could find) a recorded version of my first choice song for this post, "Love," by Mary Baker Eddy,  I am going to lead with this hauntingly lovely James Taylor and Yo Yo Ma version of "Here comes the Sun," written by The Beatles' brilliant George Harrison.  But the story is still the same. 

It was almost twenty years ago, but I can still feel that sudden shift, a recalibration in the weight of my mental "air," whenever I think about that Sunday morning service in Valerie Lodge.  I'd been in my cabin all night wrestling with demons...and angels. I'd gotten a phone call, in the middle of the night, that threatened to take me so far down into a chasm of depression, that I wasn't sure I'd be able continue my work at camp that summer.  My heart was in shreds, and I could barely breathe.  I'd been caught in the middle of an emotional battleground all night.  One minute the angels of Love and peace were winning...and the next minute I'd become a ricocheting crossfire of anger, hurt, and regret. 

If you were to have painted a picture of my mental sky, it would have been as grey as slate, and as black as a battalion of thunderheads creeping over the western slopes of the Collegiate Peaks, on a late summer afternoon. 

I wasn't surprised the next morning, when I finally did leave my cabin, that it was actually overcast, and that heavy raindrops were beginning to splatter...darkening the pale, sun-bleached cedar decking that apron-ed Valerie Lodge.  I'd already missed breakfast, but I couldn't miss Sunday School. 

We gathered in the Lodge, while one of the campers played a prelude, and we moved chairs from the dining room, passed out hymnals, and got everyone settled.  The Sunday School superintendent announced that we'd be singing Mary Baker Eddy's poem, titled, "Love."  It barely registered on the landscape of my dark thoughts.  Then she read the poem, the pianist played through the melody, and then we stood to sing. 

I did not feel like singing.  I was not at peace.  I was in pain.  I hoped that I could get by with just listening to the rest of the congregation sing.  I thought that, perhaps, I could find some comfort in the sound of their voices.  And so,  while quietly wiping at my tears, and...hopefully...without notice, I stood in a cocoon of mixed sorrow and hope.  But, before long, I found myself singing along as if each word were the sacred building blocks of a prayer.   And, not surprisingly, I was finding comfort...and hope. 

But it wasn't the comfort I found in its words that shook me to my core, it was the promise, the hope that I found in this line:

'Twas Love whose finger traced aloud
a bow of promise on the cloud..."

Love wasn't going to paint a rainbow of promise on a clear, cloudless blue sky...but on a cloud.  Love was going to use my cloudy moments as a canvas for painting a promise...full of color, dimension, beauty.  I could count on it.  Without the cloud, love wouldn't have the droplets of water...my tears...to bounce and refract light off of.

My tears were going to color my life with beauty and texture.   I could count on it.

And, it wasn't just the words from the poem that gave me strength, but it was the poet herself.  Mary Baker Eddy had lived through so many days that were heavy with clouds of darkness and despair.  She had borne sorrow, rejection, disdain, and regret with grace.  She had suffered and survived, hoped and persevered, wept, worked, watched, and prayed.

If anyone knew how to navigate a personal storm, it was Mary Baker Eddy.  If anyone had the "street cred" necessary to inspire, encourage, and "call forth" the kind of inner resolve that, alone, could weather the seething sea of human crisis, it was Mary Baker Eddy. 

And I trusted her.  I trusted her honesty.  I knew that her poetry was wept with the purity of the Magdalene's tears, and written with meekness of the our Master's courage.

For almost two decades now, this simple statement:

'Twas Love whose finger traced aloud,
a bow of promise on the cloud..."

has given me a lens through which my darkest days have portended the greatest opportunity for Love's light to shine through my heart and become a multi-hued rainbow of promise. 

I did not leave camp early that summer.  Instead I discovered how beautiful life can be when love passes through the prism of our tears and paints the world with light, and color, and grace.

I hope that if you are feeling the lowering of clouds, you can find promise in Eddy's words.  Words she poured out in tears, to give each of us fresh hope.

with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

Here is the link, for those of  you who might prefer the more classic Beatles version of "Here Comes the Sun."

And for a rare performance by George Harrison, Ringo Starr, Eric Clapton, and Phil Collins here is another version of "Here Comes the Sun." 

"I'm looking through you..."

"I'm looking through you,
where did you go
I thought I knew you,
what did I know
You don't look different,
but you have changed
I'm looking thorugh you
You're not the same..."
-     Beatles

I love this version of the Beatles classic, "I'm Looking Through You," by the Wallflowers.  It always reminds me of a moment in 1994 that stopped me in my tracks and changed the way I would look at others...and myself.

It was a bright beautiful, clear blue-sky, Colorado day in early autumn and I'd spent the morning at Just Baked, a wonderful downtown bagel shop where I often scheduled "office" appointments with patients who preferred talking over tea, to sitting in my office.  My last appointment of the morning had left for class and I was enjoying taking in the warmth of the bakery before heading home to check phone messages, before picking our daughter up from half-day Kindergarten.

It didn't take me long to notice the young man at the counter.  He was signing (American Sign Language) to the girl behind the counter, but she was not understanding him.  The University in our town was a leader in the field Sign Language Interpretation, and Speech Pathology, and it was not unusual to see sign language used in stores and restaurants.  I was a fluent signer, so I stepped up to the counter to offer assistance.  The young man "told" me his order and I gave it to the waitress.  Within minutes he'd made his purchase, thanked me for my help, and was out the door.

A few days later we ran into one another again at the same bagel shop.  But this time I was thrilled to see him sitting at a table, signing with a woman I had recently seen act as the sign language interpreter at a Wynona Judd concert.  I had been unable to take my eyes off her hands.  They danced in the air like a pair of ballerinas interpreting the music in graceful, subtle movements that made American Sign Language look like an art form.

I walked over to their table and the young man immediately recognized me,  rose from his chair, and thanked me again for helping him earlier in the week.  Then he turned to his companion and before he could make introductions, I gushed my admiration for her performance at the Judd concert.  She accepted my compliments graciously, but the look on her face betrayed her bafflement.  I chalked it up to modesty and excused myself. 

Before long it was time for me to gather up my books and journal and leave for home.  I noticed that the young man and his companion were also moving towards the door.  I waved a quick goodbye, found my car, and drove the four blocks to park on the street in front of our house. 

As I began to walk from the car to the front gate, and through the pale yellow rose arbor in the picket fence, I noticed that my neighbor about four doors down was also pulling into her driveway.  Sarah and her husband were young newlyweds who'd moved into the neighborhood about six month earlier.  We'd spoken briefly when I'd delivered an apple pie as a housewarming gift, but since then I'd only waved from afar whenever we were in our yards or going to and from our cars. 

As I saw her little red car pull into her driveway, I robotically smiled and raised a hand in hello...until I noticed that there was a man getting out of the car on the passenger side nearest me.  And he was the same young man I had just seen with the sign language interpreter at the bagel shop.  I was perplexed.  It hadn't even been three minutes since I'd left them and here he was getting out of my neighbor, Sarah's, car. 

Then I took a better look at Sarah.  She was the same woman I'd just seen him with.

I literally did a double, then a triple take. 

And then it dawned on me.  I had never really looked at Sarah.  I had already compartmentalized her as my young newlywed neighbor who was a student at the University.  I had assumed she was an undergrad studying something I didn't have time to care about.  In the context of our university neighborhood, she was, in my eyes (I am horrified and embarrassed to admit) just another pretty coed.

But in the bagel shop, in the context of seeing her sign with the young man, and recognizing, not her face, but the beautiful dance of her hands...something I had studied, tried to master, and was deeply interested in...she was special, a celebrity, someone to be impressed by, and honored to be in the company of.

No wonder she was so baffled when I gushed on and on about her signing at the Judd concert, as if I'd never met her before.  I was mortified.  I left my purse and books on the walk inside the gate and walked towards them. 

I apologized for myself.  Sarah was gracious enough to invite me in and the three of us talked until I had to leave to pick our daughter up from Kindergarten.

I learned a very important lesson that day.  I learned that I needed to be willing to really open my eyes, and see each and every person I met as if they were truly important, intriguing, remarkable, interesting, fascinating...because they are!  I had to stop looking through people, categorizing and then dismissing them based on what I did or didn't know about their lives, and be willing to ask questions, listen deeply, and discover what was unique, and beautiful and wonderful about them. 

I have never forgotten this lesson.  The following story was shared with me recently by my friend Nancy.  I think it perfectly illustrates the importance of taking the time...and the heart...to listen for what we should never dismiss...the divinity in eachother's humanity.  Enjoy this story...

------------------------------------

He was standing in the Washington DC Metro Station on a cold January morning in 2007. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time approximately 2 thousand people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.

After 3 minutes, a middle aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds...and then hurried to meet his schedule.  After four minutes, the violinist received his first dollar.  A woman threw the money in the till and, without stopping, continued on her way.  After six minutes had passed, a young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.

Ten minutes into his playing, a three year old boy stopped to listen to the violinist, his mother tugged at him, but the toddler lingered looking at the violinist.  Finally the mother pulled harder, and the child continued to walk, turning his head toward the musician all the while.  This same interest was repeated by several other children.  Every parent, without exception, forced them to move on.  Forty-five minutes had passed, and the musician played.  Only six people stopped and stayed for a while.  About twenty people gave him money, but continued to walk at their normal pace.

He collected thirty-two dollars. When one hour had passed, he finished playing and let the silence take over. No one noticed.  No one applauded, nor was there any recognition that he had played...or stopped.

No one who passed through the metro station that day knew it, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the finest violinists in the world. He'd played one of the most difficult and intricate pieces ever written for the violin.  He was playing a violin worth $3.5 million dollars.

Two days before his morning in the metro station,  Joshua Bell had sold out a theater in Boston where the average price of each seat was $100.

This is a true story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people's priorities.

The questions raised were: in a common-place environment, at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it?  Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context? 

One possible conclusion, reached from this experiment could be: If we don't have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made...

How many other things are we missing?

--------------------------------------------

A friend once told me that one of his favorite prayers, for himself, each day included putting  the words of the prophet Elisha in the first person:

"Lord, I pray Thee,
open Thou mine eyes that I may see..."

Something to think about...have a great weekend...
with open eyes, listening for beauty in unexpected places...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Limitless undying love which shines around me..."

"...Sounds of laughter, shades of life
are ringing through my open ears
exciting and inviting me

Limitless undying love which
shines around me like a million suns
It calls me on and on
across the universe..."
- The Beatles
"Across the Universe"

At the time, I wasn't really sure why this song spoke to me tonight but it did.  I was outside in the yard with Mollie when suddenly the sky grew dark, the wind began to blow, and the tiny white blossoms from the towering black locust trees rained down on me...and around us...like a benediction.  

I suddenly felt so at one with everything around me.  My skin did not define where I stopped and the rest of the world began...it was just a frame for one of the images I included in consciousness, but was not the sum total of my being.  I was as much the locust blossoms as I was my hand...no more...no less.  I was one with every single molecule of each idea, concept, and image I was experiencing.

I threw my arms wide and spun around while the blossoms swirled around me and caught in my hair, the wind ruffled the hem of my skirt, and the grass kissed the arches of my feet.  Every movement of my body was a molecular dance of intention shifting space within and around me.  Choreographed by a divinely intelligent Creator, painting the space I shared with trees and blossoms and grass and air in broad strokes of color, movement, texture, and form. 

I could see with such clarity that each and every molecule in the universe existed at the behest of God.  Each expressed conscious alignment within Mind's direction.  Each enjoyed the peace of knowing it was being divinely guided every moment, and could enjoy the dance that the winds of Spirit (Pneuma) carried them on as they fulfilled their purposes as the manifestation of Love.  A collaborative effort of molecules that coalesced as a body for helping a stranger, a plate of food for feeding the hungry, a tree for giving shade to the weary, pages of a book for inspiring the reader searching for insights. 

Each molecule a divine idea...the expression of the All-in-allness of God's being.  Each molecule fully capable of being whatever Love needed it to be at any given moment, so that in uniting with other divinely purposed molecules a world of wonder, delight, joy, affection, beauty, peace...could be painted on the canvas of being.

As I raised my face to the sky...catching petals from locust blossoms on my tongue...I felt as though I was taking communion from a divine hand.  And when the rain started...drop by drop falling on my face, streaming down my temples, washing thorugh my hair...that water turned into the wine of baptism, brotherhood, benediction.  I felt oneness with, and "across the universe".  

I couldn't help but remember something Mary Baker Eddy writes in Pulpit and Press:

"Is not a man metaphysically and mathematically number one, a unit, and therefore whole number, governed and protected by his divine Principle, God? You have simply to preserve a scientific, positive sense of unity with your divine source, and daily demonstrate this. Then you will find that one is as important a factor as duodecillion in being and doing right, and thus demonstrating deific Principle. A dewdrop reflects the sun.  Each of Christ' little ones reflects the infinite One, and therefore is the seer's declaration true, that 'one on God's side is a majority.' A single drop of water may help to hide the stars, or crown the tree with blossoms.  Who lives in good, lives also in God, — lives in all Life, through all space."

or as Kenny Loggins sings in Conviction of the Heart, "one with the earth, with the sky, one with everything in life...."

Enjoy both songs tonight...and feel the breath of God whispered against your cheek with each soft breeze...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"There are places I remember...."

"There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever, [some] for better
Some have gone and some remain..."
-Lennon/McCartney

There are people and places that bring out the best in us.  And there are moments and events that provide the setting for this very best self to shine.  And then there are times when an unexpected moment between two people provides the opportunity for something rare and exquisite to occur. 

Yesterday afternoon I was reminded of two such instances among many. 

While preparing dinner for our family – a simple quiche and a fresh grapefruit, raspberry and pear salad –  I was stopped in my tracks by two memories.  Each taught me something about unexpected, and simple, gifts.

The first experience happened about 16 years ago. A dear friend who was my spiritual mentor and teacher had been through, what I assumed was, a very difficult time.  I called him to schedule an appointment that I hoped would allow me to show my support and express my gratitude for all he had taught me.  I arrived at his home late one afternoon expecting that we would go to his office for our visit and was sweetly surprised when he led me to their kitchen.  It was obvious that he was in the middle of preparing he and his wife a modest dinner of soup and fruit salad.  As we stood there talking he took the time to teach me how to section a grapefruit without wasting any of the fruit.  I was so moved by the precision and grace he expressed as he parted each segment of succulent pink fruit from the surrounding membrane.  I was struck by how he never missed a beat…answering the phone, responding to my questions, stirring the soup, pausing to pray, setting the dinner table he had generously invited me to share with them.  There was a sure peace, a confident poise, a humble grace in his movements and his sense of place.  It was a delight to see that his "office" had changed from an elegant suite high above the city, to a corner of their kitchen counter where a small easel, canvas, and paints sat next to his phone and a set of the books he turned to for inspiration and guidance in his busy healing practice.  Oil painting had taken the place of approving budgets and signing correspondence between calls from patients…and it was clear he had never lost his rhythm in keeping focused on the things most essential…as Mary Baker Eddy encourages in Pulpit and Press:

"You have simply to preserve a scientific,
positive sense of unity with your divine source,
and daily demonstrate this."

Standing there at the kitchen sink watching this man who was, and is, a spiritual giant in my life gently sectioning grapefruit as he shared what had excited him about some fresh inspiration he had gained through his Bible study that day…I was humbled by his purity and grace.  I still am. Everytime I cut grapefruit I think of that afternoon in his kitchen classroom and the fruit feels sacred in my hands.

The other instance also happened nearly twenty years ago.  A young woman had come to stay with us while she recorded some original compositions in our recording studio. 

We were all living quite modestly in those days…our guest included.  Our meals were always simple and there were very few "treats".  One afternoon our guest asked if she could prepare the evening's meal.  I was happy to have her go through the cupboard to find the ingredients she might use.  By dinnertime a lovely aroma was filling our home.  We arrived in the kitchen for dinner  to find a simple quiche and a beautifully set table with wildflowers and candles in jelly jars. 

It was a wonderful meal.  The quiche was delicious.  We sat for hours talking and laughing long after the candles had flickered out.  When our guest left later that month I found the recipe for the quiche on the kitchen counter.  I have used that recipe a hundred times since then.  I have it memorized, but still take out the recipe card written in our guest's careful script each time.  That quiche recipe and the memory of that simple meal has lived on long after chocolates, flowers, or a dinner "out" might have.  That well-worn recipe card is a reminder to me that sometimes the gifts that leave the biggest wake are the ones that we pour the most of ourselves into.

Last night as we sat at the kitchen table eating our dinner I shared these stories with my family.  The girls said, "cool", as they finished their last bites of quiche, asked to be excused, and ran off to start their homework.  My husband was attentive and thoughtful.  I couldn't help but wonder if I have done enough to honor the lessons these gifts (and their givers) have taught me.  Today I will do better…I hope.

"...Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love them all..."

Gratefully,
Kate

"Across the Universe..."

"Words are flowing out
Like endless rain into a paper cup,
They slither while they pass,
They slip away across the universe.
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy
Are drifting through my opened mind,
Possessing and caressing me.
- John Lennon

I thought today that I might post, with permission, the substance of an email I received from a dear friend who was a camper at Adventure Unlimited for a number years before becoming a C.I.T. (Counselor-in-Training) last summer, Cassidy.  Cassidy is…well, Cassidy!  There is no one and nothing like her in my experience.  She is an original.  She loves…period.

Although she has yet to graduate from high school, I never find myself thinking of Cassidy in terms of being a teenager, a child, or woman…I think of Cassidy as my friend, a trusted colleague, a wonderful co-conspirator, someone whose thoughts I value.  Cassidy has taught me much about personal integrity…being true to oneself with unflinching courage.  She is creative, kind, refreshing, quirky, strong, flexible, deep, funny, inspiring, and beautiful.  I wouldn't mind being like Cassidy when I grow up...someone authentic and true to who God has made me to be.

Here are the words that flowed out from her heart "like rain into a paper cup" recently.  She has graciously…and generously…given me permission to post it here.  I think her thoughts stand alone,  so I will copy them below without comment:

"I was reading Eat, Pray, Love [Elizabeth Gilbert] like it was my only breathing apparatus in the vacuum of what was my Christmas vacation. It is so refreshing to read or hear about spirituality and the ideas, dwellings and experiences of those who have nothing to do with Christian Science.

This author writes volumes on meditation and fervent prayer. Meditation is a form of quieting the self and not exuding anything but your ability to stick a funnel in your forehead and say to God 'I'm here, You're here too', and listen and let it come to you.

I believe that Cap Andrews (the founder of Adventure Unlimited) had these meditations in that submarine, and what better place to find quiet than three miles underwater?  I believe that Christian Science is a grand mixture of the best parts of all religions. Except maybe the Davidians and other radical rituals like cannibalism and the like.

Prayer is always healing. Self-realization -- at all times, at every time knowing who and where you are in the huge fabric of this quilt we all make up…down to the stitches inside you -- is essential.

I feel so oriented now, Kate. I want to make Christian Science, Prayer, so accessible and natural that falling into the absolute mantra of perfection is the all, the only…Our timekeeper, our mentor, our friend, our lover, our teacher, our bridges our mountains!

To Love, to See Completeness, to Know Completeness, to Heal. I am in Love with this concept! I am in Love with Love! Hooray! YES!

Thank you!
I Love You!!
Cassidy"

Thanks Cassidy…I love you too…
Kate