"hold them up..."

"hold them up, 

hold them up, 

never to let them go..."

Walking back up the hill from Newfound -- to Owatonna -- this morning, I was pondering a few things.  One, my gratitude for the beauty of this place - lush with love and filtered light.  Two, an upcoming wedding - that I had just heard about from a friend.  Three, God.  And not in any order -- but more about how these three things coincided in my heart.

And as I continued up the hill, a favorite James Taylor song, "Never Die Young"  came to mind.  It's always been a reminder that we have a spiritual responsibility to wrap our mental arms around every relationship, and hold them close -- hold them in hope, hold them up. 

Just before I reach the top of the hill, I looked to my right and saw the above image.  It made me cry.  I had to ask myself: do I twine myself around every couple I know and hold them that dearly and tenderly in my heart?  Do I uphold the highest sense of partnership, friendship, marriage, family - when I think of them?  

I remember when my husband and I were first married. There were so many people that questioned our union.  Too soon?  Too many opinions to overcome?  Too old to start over?  

I remember one person lamenting that I'd never reach a 50th anniversary, starting over at "this point in your life." As if time -- measured by a number of years -- validated love.  

Rather than feeling like our community was wrapping its arms around us, it felt like an axe hacking away at our prospects. But rather than letting it put distance between us, we leaned in closer and grew stronger.  After that, I swore I would model a different kind of response to hearing about someone else's "new love."  Have I been consistently faithful to this vow? I hope I have.  I pray I have.  I am sure I can do better. 

Coming upon those two trees wrapped in a single vine was a most profound reminder for me.  To love God, is to love what He loves -- His child, His children, His plan.  We are each planted by our divine Parent to grow in proximity to those whose lives we will bless and be blessed by -- whether it is for a moment, a season, or a full life chapter.  

Some relationships will be like trees with roots entwined so deeply, that they hold eachother up in a storm.  Couples whose branches are so interlaced -- as they reach for the sun, day-after-day -- that you cannot tell where one stops, and the other starts. 

Other trees are not root-tied, but provide shelter to one another during tender growing years.  And others are like an aspen grove that covers the side of a mountain -- a single organism that only appears to be ten thousand individual trees.

And when we twine our loving prayers around those who are in loving relationship, we are included -- as encircling vines -- in that tenderness, collaboration, joy, unity, and affection. We are no longer looking at something from a perspective outside of the goodness it represents.  But are, in fact, actually - now - part of that beautiful love, because we are embracing it within us.   

It is not our job to figure out how, or why, individuals find their way to one another.  It is our job to trust the divine to plant each of us in a place, and within an ecosystem, that it will bless us -- and that we will be blessed by -- for however long it takes to learn and grow in partnership, fellowship, community -- Love.  

It is our privilege to wrap every relationship in the purest expectation for each blessed union.   Since: 

"our expectation is from Him." 

Today, I am sending each parent and child, mother and daughter, husband and wife, boyfriend and girlfriend, sisters, brothers, partners, colleagues, friends -- so very much love.  

Mary Baker Eddy assures us that: 

"all nature teaches God's love to man..." 

Today, nature is reminding me to hold them up, and hold them close -- all of the "thems."  

offered with Love, 

Cate

"let us pause..."

"let us pause
in life's pleasures
and count its many tears;
while we all sup sorrow
with the poor..."

This James Taylor and YoYo Ma recording of Bob Dylan's "Hard Times," speaks to me on so many levels today. We are all being asked to pause from life's pleasure. We are being asked to sup sorrow with the poor -- to understand the isolation and uncertainty that they face, while we who have so much, move past with dry eyes and light hearts. I just love it.

One has to sit with the poor, to understand the depth of their hunger. And it is a hunger. A hunger that goes beyond the need for basic food, shelter, warmth and a sense of belonging. It is a hunger for peace. A hunger for freedom from worry and doubt. A hunger for a sense of one's self, that feels worthy of kindness, respect, dignity.

These are "hard times" for so many. Those of us who live in secure housing, and are blessed to have enough money to stock a pantry - have little idea of what it is like to watch your paycheck-to-paycheck resources dwindle - while the days of quarantine, and suspended work, turns into weeks. As our empathy for others increases, it might seem hard to stay awake to our collective spiritual reality.

My friend, Nancy, shared a story with me from her trip to the the grocery store early this morning:

“My husband and I ventured out to our neighborhood grocery store early today. When we first walked in, the atmosphere was so solemn. It was very busy, but No one was talking. It was almost zombie like.

I tried to make eye contact with other shoppers so as to greet them and give them a smile. But for the first 5 or 10 minutes, no one would even look at me.

Then the Father said, “love them”. So as I moved thru the aisles from there forward, and as I came to another shopper, I first thanked God for His dear child, and felt God’s love for that dear one.

The atmosphere quickly changed. I began hearing people greeting people they knew. Shoppers returned my smile. A lady who [we know] said, "Hi," and asked how I was. And when we got in line to check out, a gentleman who lives on our block came up behind us, and we had a wonderful opportunity to catch up."
 

I loved this story -- so much. It might have been hypnotic to walk into that grocery store. It might have easily felt like it all made sense in the context of this global crisis. "Why of course people are afraid, defensive, moving through their days with the weight of an unknown threat hanging like a storm in the air."

But no. Nancy did what Mary Baker Eddy encourages us to do in her textbook on spiritual healing, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

“Beholding the infinite tasks of truth,
we pause, — wait on God.

Then we push onward, until boundless thought
walks enraptured, and conception unconfined
is winged to reach the divine glory."
 

It is all in that pause. We can become so zombie-like ourselves. Just pushing through the hypnotic fog of despair and "well, this is just how it is for a while..."

But Nancy didn't do that. She paused. She waited on God. And to wait on God, is very different than waiting for God. Both are required. And Nancy did both. She waited for God to take hold of her thoughts, and direct her heart. But she also waited on God -- serving His purpose with the attention of the most skilled waitstaff, in the most posh restaurant. She was alert, awake, ready. And the effect of that alertness was deeply felt.

Which brings me to another point taken from this story. Nancy's willingness to pause and question what she was experiencing.  The tasks we face seem infinite.  How do we reach a global community? But the infinite tasks are not ours, but the tasks of truth -- and Truth has infinite resources for addressing them.

Nancy's willingness to pause, reminds me of another experience.  One that a friend shared some years ago during a Wednesday evening testimony meeting. She said that she had woken one morning feeling a bit "off." She decided to push through it, and go for a run. But somewhere along the trail, she started feeling worse.

She decided to take a moment to pray for herself and sat down on a log. It came to her that, even though she was up and running, she was not fully awake. In fact, if she could feel anything but the full presence of God, she was actually still asleep -- she was sleep-walking, or in this case sleep-running. She realized she needed to fully wake up. She claimed her right to be more fully alert to God's power and presence -- and soon she was feeling completely well.

This has been such a powerful example for me. Each morning -- and throughout the day -- I claim that I am fully awake, alert, and conscious of the Truth about everyone and everything. If I am seeing, accepting, feeling something that is inconsistent with my right to know the fullness of God's presence and power, I am sleepwalking and I need to wake up.

I can do this dozens of times a day. And I do. This is what Nancy did this morning in the grocery store. She experienced something that didn't align with her clear sense of God's omnipotent love. She paused, waited on God. Then she "pushed onward until boundless thought walked [through that store] enraptured" with love for God's beloved community.

If we are feeling unsettled by what we are seeing in the grocery store, hearing on the news, or experiencing in our communities -- or our bodies, we can pause, ask God to help us wake up more fully -- and then walk enraptured with love for our neighbor.

Thank you Nancy, for refusing to sleep-shop.  Thank you for sharing your story, and for being willing to pause...

offered with Love,

Kate

"it's all right..."

"you can close
your eyes,
it's alright..."

There are so many version of this JT classic on YouTube. This morning I got lost while watching covers of it, by artists like Sting, Linda Ronstadt, and others -- but it's James Taylor and Carly Simon's version of "You Can Close Your Eyes," that I always come back to. It brings me such peace.

I have been thinking a lot about how naturally we trust God -- without even realizing it. We lie down at the end of a long day, close our eyes, and surrender the mechanism of the human mind's whirring, to the peace of conscious knowing. We watch our children and grandchildren drift off to sleep, without a concern that they will not wake up. We release ourselves from worry, and rest our hopes, concerns, uncertainty on the presence of Something unseen.

There is grace in this level of trust. It is not something we earn. It is not something we have to work at. It comes so naturally to us. We know it from birth. As a mother, I would lay my tiny infant daughters down for a nap, and the go take a short nap myself. There was no "what if," in the complete surrender I felt, to the rest that I knew would come. I trusted.

This week's Bible study is all about Who and What we trust. It is all about God, and His love for each of us. It is about the grace that doesn't demand some kind of intellectual understanding about the "why" of our trusting.  It is all about the inherent trust that comes from being a child, in the arms of his/her divine Parent.

I remember some years ago feeling like I was in an uncomfortable position -- physically and socially. My body hurt, and my heart hurt even more. Everything felt twisted and upside down. I prayed to feel right-side-up and in control.

That was when I came upon a photograph of a father holding his infant. The baby was being held in what is sometimes referred to as a "football hold."  The baby's head was in the palm of the dad's hand, with her arms and legs draped on each side of his arm. His other hand was supporting both his own arm, and the infant. The child was upside down, and her eyes were closed and her face couldn't have been more peaceful.

I looked at that photo, and for a split second, I could see the baby without the dad in the photo. "Wow, what an awkward position," I thought. It looked as if the baby was hanging upside down in mid air, with no visible means of support. I immediately "got it."

My Father's love for me was just as attentive, tender, and firmly supportive as that infant's. And He loved, not only me, but our children, grandchildren, global neighbors, strangers, and friends -- with the same kind of tender care. I could close my eyes and rest in the constancy of that love. My life might seem awkward and I might feel as though I am hanging in mid-air -- arms and legs dangling -- but I am not. None of us are. And, at the deepest level, we know it.

We can close our eyes -- and its alright.

Whether you are feeling under-supported, or you just aren't seeing how it will all work out, remember that in the deepest part of yourself, you do trust that there is Something or Someone that will hold you while you rest. At the deepest level, you know that you can:

“close your eyes,
it's alright..."
 

Rest your heart here.

offered with Love,

Kate

"you can close your eyes, it's alright..."

"Well the sun
is surely sinking down,
but the moon
is slowly rising.

And this old world
must still be
spinning 'round;
and I still
love you..."

I've always loved James Taylor and Carly Simon's, "Close Your Eyes."  It feels like a lullaby from divine Love.

The fact that most nights we close our eyes and surrender control of our lives to the Unseen, is such profound evidence of our trust in something Divine.

Remembering how peaceful it felt to watch my new babies drift off to sleep -- without any concern that they would not wake in the morning (or later in the night) -- is still something that takes my breath away.

Perhaps, without realizing it as a young mother, I was witnessing in myself an innate trust in God as the Source and substance of all life. I can honestly say that I never worried that my daughters would take their next breath. I watched the rise and fall of their little chests with such an unwavering trust in Life carrying itself out -- breath-by-breath.

This week I read a passage from Scripture that brought this trust into clearer focus:

"In quietness and confidence
shall be your strength;

Ye shall have a song,
as in the night
when a holy solemnity
is kept...”

It is this trust in the presence of God as Life, that feels like a holy solemnity to me. A promise made and kept between a Mother and her child:

"Lo, I am with you alway...”

We are never alone.  Not in our waking and not in our sleeping.  Elsewhere in Scripture we are assured:

"When thou liest down,
thou shalt not be afraid;
yea, thou shalt lie down,
and thy sleep shall be sweet.”

This promise doesn't need to be read from sacred texts to be known. Every child knows that he/she can lie down and closer his/her eyes - surrendering, without fear, to the presence of something felt, but not seen.

As children everywhere seem to be facing so much -- violence in war-torn countries, family separations in immigration detention centers, economic uncertainty, educational inequity -- this one thing brings me peace and provides a springboard for my prayers. No matter what my child may be facing, he/she knows that she can close her eyes and trust that morning will come, the sun will rise, her consciousness of being -- simply being -- will greet her when she wakes from sleep.

Nothing can touch this quiet confidence. Nothing can shake the presence of "I am..." from the core of her being. Tonight I will sing this precious lullaby from our balcony, into the vast velvet of a Colorado night sky.

"Close your eyes,
you can close your eyes,
it's alright.”

And I will pray. I will listen for the peace that passes all understanding. The peace that each of us can rest upon. The peace that fills the "I am..." in every man, woman, and child -- regardless of gender, socio-economic privilege, nationality or geo-physical location. This deeper peace is based on God's presence.  A divine Voice that reaches us in the darkness of a warm bed or under an aluminum blanket on a concrete floor.  A voice that silently sings the song of songs:

"And I still love you...”

May we each feel this promise, and our rest be sweet.

offered with Love,

Kate

"there are ties between us..."

"let us recognize
that there are ties between us,
ties of hope and love,
sister and brotherhood..." 

This morning, Facebook provided a perfect storm.  James Taylor's performance of "Shed a Little Light", another friend's posting of Jane Elliott's social experiment on discrimination with her third grade class in the 1960s, and a FB reminder - from last year - of my posting of this Marcus Aurelius quote: 

"Never forget that the universe
is a single living organism
possessed of one Substance and one Soul,
holding all things suspended in
a single consciousness and creating
all things with a single purpose
that they might work together,
spinning, and weaving, and knotting
whatever comes to pass."

It was what I needed.  If you can watch the Jane Elliott video without feeling a tension in your chest -- you are a stronger person than I am.


Discrimination comes in many forms.  Men and women of color don't have the luxury of deciding whether to let their differences be known.  But some of us can live with the things that make us feel small, while keeping them hidden. We think they are harmless there in the closet of secrecy.  But hidden in the dark, they fester -- becoming a hot pain of humiliation and shame.  

For me, that hidden "difference" was poverty.  My fear of being seen as poor was debilitating.  

When I was in grade school we learned that there was once a period - in the history of this country - when only those who owned property were allowed to vote.  At the same time we were learning about the extraordinary privilege and societal value of voting.  

Earlier that year, my parents had fallen into dire financial circumstances after two hospitalizations.  As the oldest child in a family of six children, I was privy to more information about our finances than I was prepared to process.  When we lost our home and had to move into a rental that was subsidized by a local philanthropy -- I was terrified.  

My skin color may have been as Irish-pale as a Kennedy, but I was a "renter," and this frightened me more than I could say -- for decades.  

After my dad's sudden passing, and our family's deep dive into survival mode, I stepped back from indulging in any dreams.  I didn't have the luxury of regretting our housing status. At that point, it was simply a miracle that anyone was willing to rent to a widow, her almost adult daughter, and their seven younger dependents.  

But it was never very far from my heart.  I felt that, as long as I was a renter, I was somehow less.  It made me feel small and vulnerable.  As a wife and mother -- my confidence ebbed and flowed based on home ownership.  I would say that it didn't matter -- but it always did.  How often do you think people have the nerve to boldly ask if you own or rent your home?  Well, as someone who was very sensitive to this question, I can tell you -- a lot.

For me, renting meant "poor," and poor translated into all kinds of negative self-speak.  "You have failed.  You have failed to "demonstrate" supply, provide a secure sense of home for your children, overcome your childhood, take back all the potential that you had before your dad was killed. Without property ownership you really have no voice, no right to a vote."

In my head, it didn't matter that I had been a faithful daughter, a hard-working wife and mother, a professional who was available to her clients 24/7 - 365 days a year.  If I didn't own my own home - I was less.  Whenever my husband and I were able to  own our own home, I felt better. When we rented, I felt as if I had failed to rise out of the poverty of my childhood.  There was always an unreasonable fear, a niggling in the back of my mind, that if legislators ever decided to return to the policies of the past -- I might lose my right to vote.

One afternoon I was caught off guard.  We were leasing a small house in an upscale suburb.  Our landlord's son was our contact, and he was respectful and kind.  But he was out of town, and his mother's husband came by to check on a fallen tree after a storm.

I went out to offer him a glass of something cold to drink and we got to talking.  He asked me why such a smart woman would be renting.  He said, "I just don't have any respect for losers who don't work hard enough to get themselves out of this situation."  And yes, he did say this to my face.  With a smirk.

I didn't try to defend my current situation, but I explained to him how, as a young woman, my dad had been killed and that my mom and I had had to find housing for 9 people - over, and over again.  I told him how grateful we were for every landlord who had entrusted us with their property -- property that we had always tried to improve and make beautiful through our collective hardwork and creativity.

His response was "that doesn't change anything, those who don't own property, should have no vote in how our country is run, or how our tax money is spent."  I was stunned.  I was hurt.  I was humiliated.  I had been in the public practice of spiritual healing for over 25 years at that time.  I knew how to detect rank hatred and impersonalize it.  I knew how to pray to diffuse its false sting.  But all I wanted to do was run into the house and weep.

The truth of my hidden shame had been exposed.  I felt so small and discriminated against.  It was clear that nothing could have convinced that man that I was worthy of his respect -- or had any worth as a fellow citizen.  I had to claim it for myself.

Later that day, I was sitting in my office when the line: "can't get no light from a dollar bill" - from James Taylor's "Shed a Little Light" whispered itself into my heart.  I started to heal.  Light was what I wanted to be in the world.  And light didn't seek to own the object of its illuminating.  It was a beginning.  And I have prayed with this sense of illuminating every space I am in vs. owing my own space -- ever since.

Not long ago, I was at a meeting where it had long been assumed, by my neighbors, that I was invested in solving an important issue, because I was a fellow homeowner.  But I was not a fellow homeowner.  I was a renter who loved her neighbors and her neighborhood.  I had participated in the discussions and worked tirelessly towards finding a solution for over three years. It was an issue that had reached a tipping point, and needed resolution. I had been best suited to navigate the terrain of  working with state and local agencies to find answers that would have the least impact on the homeowners.

At the meeting there came a moment when an important vote was being called for, and I had to recuse myself from weighing in because I was not a "legitimate property owner."  I did so without shame.  That was a step.  When one of the more self-sure owners made a disparaging remark - under his breath, I navigated the moment with grace -- and without tears.  That was a leap.  Writing this post -- this is quantum mechanics.

Discrimination is not just about skin color or eye color.  It is an ugly practice that is not limited to the measuring of another's value or worth - based what are obvious differences.  Sometimes it is based on educational achievement or job title; home ownership or rental status; religious acceptability justified by geography and symbology, or marginalization of those who wear a hijab and carry a prayer rug; the kind of car you drive, or the texture of your hair.  Whether Spanish is your first language, or the cool language you are fluent in for the purpose of international travel and business.  And discrimination is not just about the way others see and treat us.  It is about the way we see and treat ourselves.  I was my worst discriminator.  

It was perplexing, because I had been a fierce opponent of discrimination when it came to others.  But I had been taught to accept a false paradigm about my own worth, and I hadn't been brave enough to challenge its premise or conclusion in my own life.

We are all "enough" just the way we are.  I don't care who you are, you are enough for me. You are beautiful.  Your life is a triumph of hope -- every day. Your desire to make the lives of others - even just a little less sad, difficult, humiliating, scary, small -- is noble, and decent, and deserving of honor.

The world of the ego -- individually and collectively -- has an obsessive need to feel that it is higher on the scale of being than someone else.  Persons, organizations, schools, neighborhoods, nations - none are immune.  I call it the "best dentist" theory.  Try it.  Call someone and ask them if they would recommend their dentist.  Most people will say that they have "the best dentist" in the whole town or city.

It makes perfect sense in a world defined by hierarchies of separation, ambition, and comparison.  Who wants to think that they have a mediocre dentist?  But for me, the more important question is, why would anyone ever want to think that someone else had a mediocre dentist? That is a line of thinking that makes no spiritual sense.  Only the ego would defend that kind of thinking.

This egoic need to be better than someone else -- to have more than someone else -- well, that's just what egos do.  But we aren't egos, we are spiritual ideas.  And as Aurelius suggests (above) we are one single living organism.  We are not separate trees on a hillside.  We are one tree with a billion branches that we call individual trees, only because we cannot fathom the connection. When in fact, we are all connected -- beneath the surface -- by one, invisible root system.

I had a teacher once who would never let us forget that when we point a finger at someone else, there are three more pointing back at us.  Our discriminatory practices only point out our own smallness of heart and narrowness of view about our place in the vast oneness of spiritual being.

Just think -- what if tomorrow, the measure of our worth becomes the size of our feet or the tiny-ness of our house -- instead of its massive footprint.  What if the person who lovingly cares for the most animals is seen as the most important member in a community?  Or the person who lives with the least "stuff" is the richest?   Then who would we be.  In that social construct, how would the cards fall in assigning wisdom, value, worth.

I have discovered that I have to be the first one to tell me that my worth is not defined by having my name on a deed.  I have to be the one to remember that I am defined by my heart's commitment to seeing and calling attention to the good in others.  When I am doing this most consistently, I am able to fiercely defend the value of others more effectively.  I am standing up for the merit of our individual and collective humanity in the broader global community.

As James Taylor sings, "let us recognize that there are ties between us, ties of hope and love; sister and brotherhood. Jesus said that "the kingdom of God is within you." Within us all. And this kingdom of God within us, is not religious, cultural, or national -- it is the Love that Mary Baker Eddy assures us is, "impartial and universal in its adaptation and bestowals." 

Racial, gender, religious, economic, political, or color blindness is not something that someone else can give us.  It is something we hold within ourselves.  For me, the lesson in all this has been that home is not a place to be owned -- it is something that I carry within me. And it is something that I now realize I have brought to every house I have lived in -- whether we owned that house or not.

We are bound together -- we are bound and we are bound.  The imperative is upon us to actually live this oneness. To treat one another as we would wish to be treated. To refuse to sort each other into wealthy and poor, persons of color and what-- no color? Right and left, right and wrong.  We are bound together.  We are not separate. My abundance shall supply your want -- for we are of one body.  Without your want, I have no place to give my abundance of love, of joy, of silence when you need to be heard.  There are ties, not fences, between us.  

offered in oneness - and with humble love,

Kate

"i was never the same…"

"the sun's not so hot
in the sky today,
and I can see summertime
slipping away..."

James Taylor's "September Grass," takes me to a time long before it was even written. A time when JT's voice was the soundtrack of my heart. September 1971 -- Sweet Baby James, a boy who played football, and a town as quaint as a Gilmore Girls episode.

Only I was the thing that didn't fit in. I was not the confident, charming teenager living in a quaint village.  I was a misfit character from all the shows that weren't even being written in those days. Stories about self-doubt, tears that fell in rivers, and feelings that were choked back in silence.

I didn't know that things could be different for me.  I was the girl who lived in a secret.  Until one day God dropped me into the arms of a sweet town and a lovely boy.  The town was a small village that I grew to love.  And the boy was kind.  He gave me hope.   Hope that someday I might actually be a normal girl.  A girl with a family that laughed loudly and fought openly. Because he was a normal boy.  He was all about fishing and football, olds car and hands that were strong and capable and fixed things. He was safe. And believe me, safe was everything to me.

Our family had only moved to the area that spring of 1970.  We lived in a small carriage house on an old estate just outside of town. I had attended the local high school for two months before we broke for summer.  Since then I'd endured three months of babysitting younger siblings, canning endless bushels of tomatoes, pickles, and beets, and searching for places to hide and read. My mother was ripe with twins, so I became her arms, legs, hands and feet. I would make breakfast, do dishes, hang laundry on the line, take it down, fold it, and put it away. Dinner, baths, bedtime stories. The next morning it started all over again.

I had circled the Tuesday after Labor Day on a calendar that hung on the wall next to my bed. The first day of school. I would be free of it all -- small children, and mind-numbing chores, the smell of tomatoes waiting to be canned, and the weight of wet laundry.

The first week of school was glorious. I was learning to type, my english teacher was young and eager, our civics class was interesting, and I wasn't new. I'd been at the school for two months in the spring and I actually knew a few other kids. This was a rare for me.  We moved constantly when I was growing up. That first weekend there was the promise of a youth group gathering at the local community center. Basketball, records, dancing, board games, and s'mores.

My dad agreed to let me go if I took my younger sister. That was easy. She was outgoing and popular. I was neither. But entering any social gathering on the trail of her Love's Baby Soft perfume had become my mode of operation in high school. I didn't mind. If I was going to be associated with anyone, my sister was the perfect companion.  In her company I had a chance of being included.

We'd gone to the opening football game of the season that afternoon and our team had won. The air was crisp and spirits were high when we arrived at the community center that evening. There was a group of guys shooting baskets in the gym, girls on the periphery talking, and other kids playing twister and monopoly on the raised stage at one end of the long room that was used as a combined gym, theater, and town meeting hall.

The music was loud and there were as many kids playing on the swings and playground equipment outside as there were inside. I stayed in my sister's orbit as she gravitated towards a group of girls she knew. They were nice girls. I knew some of them from classes we shared. When the conversation stalled I excused myself and went to the stage where a boy was waiting for someone to play chess. That would be me -- the game geek. Scrabble, chess, backgammon, Yahtzee -- I loved them all.

Some time later -- time filled with intense strategic concentration -- I noticed that the lights had been lowered and half of the kids had gone home. Those who remained were dancing on the basketball court. These were nice kids, I liked them. I wanted to be one of them. I left the game area on the raised stage and joined my sister on the sidelines. It was a sweet moment.

Then a boy I knew from our English Literature class came up and asked me to dance. The song was James Taylor's "Fire and Rain." I was sure he was talking to my sister. But no, he was asking me. I remember the clean scent of laundry detergent on his red and green plaid flannel shirt. I remember that he was a good foot taller than I was. I remember feeling something I'd never felt before -- at home.

We became friends.  Later, we were a couple within the safe context of a larger group of kids that spent Friday nights together at the local Methodist Church -- playing games, talking, and eating pizza. He was kind. He was gentle and quiet. He had a big family that laughed and fought and took me under their wing. His mom would scold me when I needed it. His dad would give me advise on all measure of issues from applying for jobs to changing the oil in my car. His brothers teased me and his sisters were my allies.

This isn't a particularly inspired or poignant post. But for me, this moment in my life was magical. For the first time, I felt like I belonged somewhere. Home felt like crisp September air. It tasted like apples and it smelled like woodsmoke and laundry detergent on a flannel shirt beneath my cheek. Home was a community center in the middle of a small town where my sister and I stood together without our parent or siblings -- and I wasn't afraid. Home was the promise of friendship and belonging.

So even now, when September sweeps in on the cool breath of autumn's promise, I feel safe. I am in the arms of a tall boy with kind eyes. I have just discovered what it might feel like to belong, and I never want to leave. I have a glimpse of my sister and I as whole people -- not just one tenth of a family. I have begun to realize that there is more to life than being small and scared -- the new girl who is awkward and bookish.

September is my reminder of that feeling.  It says, remember that you belong. Remember that you are not small and afraid of what you cannot see, or control, or understand. You know what home feels like. You know what it means to belong -- not to a place or a person - although those are lovely -- but to something so infinite and kind that it gave you the gift of a September evening in 1970.  It let you feel the promise of something you didn't even know you were aching for.

I believe that these moments of spiritual serendipity imprint themselves on our hearts.  They never leave us and they are always there to remind us to have hope, to persist, to be patient, and to trust. September does that for me. September is not a 30 day span on the calendar. September is a promise. A promise of home, and belonging, and discovering something you hadn't even known to hope for. 

We all have opportunities to make this kind of a difference in another person's life.  It doesn't always happen in big ways.  Sometimes it is the smallest act of acceptance that leaves the most enduring imprint on the heart.  That evening a boy simply asked a girl to dance.


offered with Love,

Kate

"it wasn't written for you …"

"You can play the game,
you can act out the part,
though you know
it wasn't written for you..."

All week long, these lyrics from James Taylor's beautiful, "Shower the People," acted as a reminder for me to "check the script." It's a practice I started some years ago when I found myself caught up in cycles of drama that threatened to suck the life out of a cherished friendship. And since then, I've found it useful in arresting all kinds of stories that I know weren't written for me -- at least not by God.

Here's how it goes -- I will catch myself holding a script for a story that I haven't agreed to be cast in. The oldest child, the tired mom, the introvert, the organizer, the victim. It's not that these roles are -- in and of themselves -- bad. That's not the point. It's that I find myself reading lines - or in conversation, feeding someone else lines - that are not healthy, consistent with my sense of spiritual purpose, or in line with an accurate sense of my true identity.

Take for instance, a conversation I found myself in a week ago. It was steeped in the past -- an outgrown version of myself that I no longer have any attachment to, or relationship with. The character who's story I was being asked to "act out,"believed she was a victim of tragic circumstances.  And of course, if that was my character's backstory, then an invitation to talk about it would soon devolve into emotional fragility and grief.  That's how the script was written. 

For about five minutes, I read the lines.  I was so into it. Wow, I knew this character. I could play her with authenticity and great feeling. And then, the questions came gently but firmly, "Is this a part you are really willing to audition for? Is this a script you believe will tell a healing story?" The answer was immediate, "No."

I knew it was time to drop the script and refuse the role. I wasn't going to read the lines that were written, or feed the next line to my companion for her response - a response that would only forward that sad, sorry storyline -- again.

Whether the script is one of a broken heart, an inflated ego, or victimization -- we can drop it without even reading the first line. If the character description says: "obsessively neat, older sister, a bit of a control freak" -- well, I'm throwing that script across the room. 

Sometimes, we can actually refuse a script based on the screenwriter. If I know that a particular writer's repertoire is filled with heart-breaking story lines played out by pathetic characters, and I don't want to take on those roles, I'm not going to look at anything he/she has written.

This happened to me a few weeks ago. I was sitting at my desk when the thought came, "what if you had never…" I knew that "voice." It was the work of "what if…" and his scripts never play out in stories that are beautiful and healing. So, I dropped it.

These days I'm looking for script that are filled with hope, affection, honesty, humanity. I am eager to take on those roles. I know the Writer. I trust Her work. Her name is Love. Her stories bring out the best in her characters. Her plot development includes humility, attentiveness, meekness, redemption, healing. She leads her characters towards paths of peace. Sure, Her stories may not be filled with drama, villains, or chase scenes, but these are the roles I'm meant for.  These are the kinds of roles I've studied.  Her stories include character development and redemption. These are the stories I want to participate in telling.

Sure, as James Taylor sings:

"You can play the game,
you can act out the part,
though you know
it wasn't written for you.."
 

But why would we?

One of the things I imagine myself doing -- when I feel like I am standing there, script in hand, reading lines for a story I don't want to participate in producing -- is to turn to the casting director and say, "Are you kidding me, I am much too good for this role." And then, tossing the script in his face, I turn on my heels and walk off the stage.

Because I am.  We all are. We are all too good for roles that debase us. Roles that ask us to play out characters that are selfish, frustrated, tired, sick, sad, angry, gossipy, controlling -- you get the picture.

Practice dropping scripts that are not in line with stories you wish to participate in telling. Even if you have read for that part in the past. Even if you once played it with great meaning and pathos. If it is no longer your highest sense of your story you can say, "no," and leave the stage.

You won't be without a good part.  God has a perfect role that is just right for you. It is consistent with His nature. It is vital to the telling of His story. And you deserve to play it with confidence, meaning, purpose, and joy. You deserve to forward a story that will bless and heal. We all do.


offered with love,



Kate

"Low, sad and sweet…"

"O'er waiting harpstrings
of the mind
there sweeps a strain
low, sad, and sweet,
whose measures bind
the power of pain..."

I love music. I love songs that evoke deep feelings. I love that they break me open, shatter my fragile shell of self-comportment, and leave me borne again in a new, softer form.

One such song is James Taylor's version of "In the Bleak Midwinter." It stops me in my tracks and takes me apart. It's like a good cry -- I am better for having felt that deeply.

The other day someone asked me if I thought it was okay to be sad. I didn't have to think very long. Eddy's lyric (quoted above) came to me instantly. "Yes," I said, without hesitation. But I really didn't have anything very inspiring to say after that. I just knew it was true.

I thought about the woman who wrote that poem. I considered the depth of her own sadness. Widowed as a young pregnant bride, separated from her young son by her father and second husband, betrayed by loved ones, rejected, sued by trusted friends and family members, crucified in the press, maligned by those she'd helped and healed, and then widowed again.

One account shares, that following the passing of her third, and beloved husband, Asa, she went into isolation and wasn't sure she would be able to return to her work -- work that was drawing people to her writings by the thousands.  Work that left her held in such high esteem that she would eventually be recognized as one of the most famous women of her time.

So, when this woman says that measured strains of sad, sweet music bind the power of pain, I trust that she is speaking from experience.  And the next line from that same poem:

"and wake a white-winged angel throng
of thoughts illumined by faith
and breathed in raptured song…"  

is such a holy promise. I have rested my hopes upon its encouragement countless times.

Some years ago I was navigating a heart-breaking life-chapter. I'd decided that I would do it with joy. Whatever sadness I felt I would "just not feel it."  I would not let myself descend into the depths of despair that loomed like a vast dark hole. I would not walk towards the edge of that abyss, and fall into a sea of tears.

I was doing pretty good. I was proud of my resolve. Then one afternoon I was sitting in a local coffeehouse when James Taylor's "In the Bleak Midwinter" came floating through the air on a cloud of freshly roasted coffee beans.

It wasn't the words that did it. It was the music itself - the sound of his voice, the poignancy of his interpretation. At first I refused to "give in." That was, until I heard the lines:

"what then can I give Him,
empty as I am,
if I were a shepherd,
I would bring a lamb.

If I were a wise man,
I would know my part.

What then can I give Him,
I must give my heart..."  

It was too much to bear.  Suddenly there was the realization that my emptiness was a legitimate spiritual feeling that I needed to fully experience. And more importantly, that my very, very empty heart was a gift -- and I was holding it back from Him -- well, it broke something wide open in me. I wasn't giving Him my honest feelings.

I'd been so sure that joy was the only reasonable gift of devotion and worship. But that song sent the first fissures of honest emotions through my fragile resolve.  And in the shattering, I gave myself permission to actually feel my sadness. I allowed myself to "go there," and to weep.

And through the lens of my tears I began to see that I wasn't actually empty at all. I was full of hope. I overflowing with deep feelings of love. The sorrow I'd been feeling wasn't because I was empty, but because I was full of yearning, longing to be understood, and accepted.

A white-winged angel throng of thoughts were released from where I'd held them prisoner behind a bulwark of pretense. My tears had melted those walls.

Sometimes, those measures "sad and sweet," can dissolve the very walls that would deprive us of seeing beyond a painful experience. Our tears provide a lens in which we discover something yet unseen about the experience itself. Perhaps through it, we have grown in humility, compassion, grace. Often we can find that we are less judgmental, or we realize that we have loved and been loved very deeply.

So, is it okay to be sad? I can only speak for myself. I welcome anything that reminds me that I have a heart, that I care, and that I feel deeply. I embrace those measures -- low, sad, and sweet -- that bind the power of pain and wake within me, a throng of angels to comfort, instruct, guide, and lead me home.

offered with Love,

Kate

"never to let them fall…"

"they were true love,
written in stone,
they were never alone,
they were never that far apart…"
- James Taylor

This is the relationship I dreamed about, prayed for, gave my all to. And, I believe, it is the one that we all hope we will find, love our way into, grow up with, and be known for.

I first heard the lyrics to JT's,"Never Die Young," in 1988, and I just knew they were about "us." I thought we were that couple. I thought we could overcome anything. I thought we would be those cute little old people walking hand-in-hand, through town, at sunset.

But we weren't. And we aren't -- at least not with each other.  But I believe we are both a testament to the power of love and hope.  But I digress.  This isn't a post about our divorce. This is a post about Taylor's admonition to "hold them up, hold them up, never to let them fall…" This is an open letter to the residents of every "tough town" he is singing about. This is my plea, and my prayer.

A relationship is not a reality show, playing itself out in real time. It isn't meant to be subject to community Nielsen ratings. It shouldn't be the subject of Siskel and Ebert-like thumbs up/thumbs down assessments. A relationship -- whether it is a marriage, a domestic partnership, or a very good friendship -- is not there for our entertainment. No one is asking for our vote of confidence.

Sometimes, in the midst of the day-to-day, it is hard to separate what is our own reality, from the stories that are being projected onto us.  And sometimes, it is just plain hard.  It is especially difficult to navigate, when we begin to feel the weight of human opinions, speculation, or just the boredom-based chatter that happens when people aren't engaged in the kind of life-expansive charity, social-advocacy, and unselfed community service that keeps them from the chocolate cupboard of gossip.

As I sit here today - listening to this much-loved song - my heart cries out for social self-restraint. For an end to the practice of "everyone used to run them down: 'they're a little too sweet, they're a little too tight…"

Please, please, please -- let's just stop it. Instead let's:

"Hold them up,
hold them up,
never to let them fall
prey to the rust, and the dust,
and the ruin that names us,
and claims us, and shames us
and ruins us all..." 

Because it does you know. When we participate in knocking down someone's relationship or marriage with the kind of so-called harmless comments, speculation, criticism, sarcasm that reality TV promotes as entertaining conversation, we name ourselves as unkind, we claim our sense of ourselves as small-minded, we shame ourselves with gossip and mischief-making, and we ruin our sense of identity as a loving, supportive community -- place to grow and thrive in.

It's time to stop looking for the first crack in a person's spiritual poise, the first fissure in a relationship, the first (or second) mistake -- and jump on it. It's time to stop saying -- to ourselves and others, "see, I told you so." It's time to stop celebrating the widening of relational fault lines with self-congratulatory silent (or audible) surprise, and disdain.

This is not an easy journey. We are all doing it, with as much grace, love, trust, and courage as we know how. The last thing anyone needs is to have the acid of gossip, speculation, and "i knew it all the time…" thrown in.

The Golden Rule is precious and practical. It keeps us safe from becoming another character in a reality TV show of our own making. When we think, speak, do unto (and about) others the way we would want them to think, speak, and do unto (or about) us -- and our partner, spouse, children, family, home, business, we are on safe, holy ground. 

 And in the course of living this Golden Rule, we may just find that leaving other people's relationships alone -- or supporting them by trusting them to Love's wise guidance and protection -- we improve our own relationships, foster new ones, and strengthen our ties to the source of all love.

I love this brief statement from Mary Baker Eddy's last published work, The First Church of Christ, Scientist and Miscellany:

"No mortal is infallible, 
— hence the Scripture,
“Judge no man.” 

We're all a work in progress. And, we are all in this together. We are all trying to find, and live, the kind of love that is a little too sweet, and not too tough. The kind of love that rises from among the detritus of human drama like a big balloon and soars over it with grace. I know I do. I want my relationships to inspire, not entertain.

offered with all my Love -- and prayers,

Kate

"Don't try so hard..."

"God gives you grace,
and you can't earn it.
Don't think that you
don't deserve it..."

Sometimes a song comes along that says exactly what is in your heart. Amy Grant's new song "Don't Try So Hard" featuring James Taylor, is the perfect coalescence of message -- and messengers -- for me. It "had me" at hello.

I clearly remember the moment -- as a child -- when I began to think that my life depended on pleasing everyone around me. Perfect grades, an immaculate room, sparkling dishes, seen - but not heard, obedient, every hair in place -- were the key to survival. It was my job to earn respect, love, acceptance, approval, tolerance.

I also remember the day -- as a woman -- when I began to consider a different truth. Grace -- the unearned love of God,  my divine Parent, my Maker - who is my Husband, the Friend of the friendless. It was the day I began to trust the power and presence of grace operating as an active agent in the collective heart of universal humanity.

Webster defines grace as "the divine influence on the heart, and its reflection on the life." Amy's sense of grace as unearned and irresistible, has taken an even deeper hold in my heart.

When I hear her song I can't help but think of the older brother in Jesus' story of The Prodigal son. He thinks he has had to earn his father's love, acceptance, gifts -- the reward of the faithful. But it was always all his...and his brother's.

Their father's love wasn't proffered (or held back) as a reaction to their good (or bad) behavior. His love was part and parcel to his very nature as their father. He wasn't asking them to prove their right to his love, thereby giving him permission to love them. It was just who he was and what a father does. And it is just who God is -- and what He does. God is Love.

I will let Amy's song, "Don't Try So Hard" be my prayer of grace -- for each of us today.

shared with Love,

Kate

"Hold them up..."

"Hold them up, hold them up,
never to let them fall prey
to the dust, and the rust. and ruin
that names us and claims us
and shames us all..."

James Taylor's "Never Die Young" is one of the most sobering songs I've ever felt.  And yes, I really do mean "felt," rather than heard.  This song reaches me in a place that is tender and hopeful and sad all at once.

I used to feel that we were all just a bit like the people in this song: 

"...a little too sweet, a little too tight 

Not enough tough for this tough town.

Couldn't touch 'em with a ten foot pole

No, they didn't seem rattled at all. 

They were fused together body and soul. 

That much more 

with their backs up against the wall."

The bottom line is, that none of us feels immune to the kind of tearing down that these "tough towns" are sometimes so thoughtlessly engaged in.  And it can be so subtle that even when we passively participate -- just by listening -- we think it's harmless...or even deserved.

But it never is.

As part of his Thanksgiving Proclamation for this years (2012), President Barack Obama had this to say about how we might consider treating one another: 

"On Thanksgiving Day, individuals from all walks of life come together to celebrate this most American tradition, grateful for the blessings of family, community, and country. Let us spend this day by lifting up those we love, mindful of the grace bestowed upon us by God and by all who have made our lives richer with their presence."

I've been thinking about this portion of his proclamation, since hearing it in church that day.  And I can't think of any other one thing that would make a bigger difference in the lives of others.

I love the tradition of Hora.  An Israeli (among other cultures) custom often performed  at bar/bat mitzvahs and weddings, in which the honoree(s) are lifted up on chairs during a congregational dance.

Its symbology is similar to the western tradition of asking the wedding guest to vow their ongoing support of the couple --as they make their way in the world as a new family -- by replying, "we do."

But these symbols, traditions, and customs are only as good as our conscientious effort to follow through on these pledges.  

Gossip, rumors, talking about others behind their back -- picking away at the details of someone's personal decisions and choices --  never lifts up those we love, care about.  It never elevates our concept of man.  It never blesses those we are in relationship with as friends, family, neighbors, colleagues or even as fellow citizens of a global community.   And it always leads to tearing someone down.

Even when it is done in the circumspection of our own silent reverie, those negative thoughts about others, begin to tear down our sense of ourselves -- as loving, generous, merciful beings.

I believe that it is especially critical that we "hold up" those who are working so hard to be "in relationship."  Mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, siblings, fathers and sons, neighbors, colleagues, sisters, friends, in-laws, blended families.

These relationships have the potential for being the most amazing laboratories for demonstrating the consistent, enduring, persistent kind of love that seems miraculous to society these days.  This is where unselfishness breeds, where unconditional love blossoms, where forgiveness is given wings.

We can never -- ever -- know what others are facing in the sanctuary of their relationships.  But we can refuse to speculate, wonder, or imagine.   We can walk away from the mental invitation to "be concerned."  We can turn away from society's desire to "know the details." We can hold them up to the sunlight of God's warming Love.  We can hold up -- in our own heart, and to everyone around us -- the best in our fellow beings.  That gentle glimmer of grace, a shimmering slice of something sublimely sweet. 

And we can gently, but firmly, "hang up" when someone is sharing of another person's news.  Wouldn't you rather hear it from them anyway. 

As my friend Carol once said, "I don't share other people's news, it's not mine to share, it's theirs."  Refreshing isn't it!

Holding one another up.  This could just be the best Christmas gift we give eachother this year!

with Love...always,  

Kate