"My hands are holding you..."

"I'll be
by your side
wherever you've fallen,

in the dead of night,
whenever you're calling;

please don't fight,
these Hands
that are holding you..."

It's been a long time since I've listened to Tenth Avenue North. But this morning it was their,  "By Your Side,"  that inspired me. Another mass shooting, another tragic "natural disaster," -- and my heart was reaching out for something to hold on to. And Tenth Avenue North came through with the reminder, that I don't need to hold on to God -- His hands are holding me, and mine, and all.

Sometimes, we hear a horrifying story of mayhem or loss, and we almost feel like we can't process it. It's too big. It makes us feel vulnerable and shakes our sense of personal peace. We send our love and prayers. But the human mind itself is incapable of knowing how to "think" about it all. So it doesn't. It files it away for "later."

I remember once hearing an NPR [National Public Radio] interview with a social anthropologist, one afternoon while inching my way through rush hour traffic. She was explaining the phenomenon of an entire country rallying to support a single family facing a devastating loss, while almost ignoring the plight of millions of refugee families facing famine in Africa - where thousands of children were dying of starvation each day.

She explained that this grief was too massive for the human mind to process. So it looked for something it could actually feel empowered to do something about -- a single family felt "doable." Hundreds of thousands did not. So in order to not "go mad" by the breadth of the grief, the human mind sets aside what it cannot process. I got it.

But this explanation still didn't answer my own heart-wrenching question -- how can I turn away from photos and reports of starving families? What can I do? How can I pray? It did feel like "too much," -- because it was. At least it was for the human mind.

Tenth Avenue North's song this morning was just the reminder I needed to get back on track in responding to each and every tragic report of fear, pain, lack, disaster, and loss. To see that each individual -- from the starving Syrian refugee, to the corruption-enticed Wall Street trader [who so afraid of loss that he would even consider compromises his integrity] as held by God. Held in comfort, and held in check.

Again and again, I go back to this "Daily Prayer," by Mary Baker Eddy:

"Thy kingdom come
let the reign
of divine Truth, Life, and Love
be established in me,
and rule out of me all sin,
and may Thy Word
enrich the affections
of all mankind
and govern them."

This is my prayer throughout the day. This is my prayer when I am awaken in the night. This is the prayer that springs immediately into the space of every question.  It is my prayer for myself, and for "all mankind."

I know that it was this "Daily Prayer," has been my prayer in the darkest hours of my life -- whether during an attempted assault, or facing the loss of a child. To know this prayer intimately, was to know peace.  It strengthened my core confidence in knowing that the affections of the man who had threatened my innocence were being governed by the Word of God. And that this Voice had been speaking directly to his heart, causing him to self-arrest his behavior.  

To feel this prayer in an hour of loss, was to feel the Father's love for us - and for our child. To actually feel that this love was eternal; not validated by time, or space, or form of family. Untouched by sin [separation] and established in Soul.

Because I have felt held by the Word of God -- when I least expected it - I am able to know - with all my being - that this same presence is filling the consciousness of every man, woman, child, and creature in all of creation.

Because I have felt this Love shift my behavior, guide my actions, purify my motives, and heal my wounds -- I know it is at work in each human heart. This divine presence is stilling all conflict. It speaks in every language. Wherever we are, whatever we seem to be going through - alone, or in the midst of thousands - we are held.

This prayer has been the voice of God -- holding me, healing me, correcting me, encouraging me -- and mine, and all.


offered with Love,

Cate 

"You are not alone, I am here with you..."

"Someone whispers
in my ear and says,

you are not alone,
I am here with you...”

Jason Chen's cover of Michael Jackson's,  "You Are Not Alone"  is such a gentle version of this song. A song whose melody seems to be how I hear that phrase "you are not alone," whenever it comes to mind.

I have spent most of my lifetime comforting children who feel alone. As a big sister, teacher in a state institution for children who have been made "wards of the state," school administrator, hospital chaplain, and serving at summer camps - assuring children that they are not alone.

Each child navigates that feeling of alone-ness in a different way. Some become dismissive, some distract themselves with constant movement, and others cry as if their every breath is a labor of love.

But here is what I have learned. This is not home-sickness. This is home wellness. These children have such a full and healthy sense of home and family -- even those who have never known a parent's love -- that it fills their being. I have worked with sister children who have never felt deeply settled and still there is a love for the concept of home and family that fills their being. I have taught in a state-run facility with children who had been institutionalized by their families, and still there is a hope of family and a natural inclination towards warmth, affection, and connection.

It is not something that can be taken from them. It is a deep home-wellness that crosses all socio-economic boundaries. From the autistic 4-year old in a state institution, to the privileged child of loving parents at a sleep-over summer camp, this love for home, family, and being parented by love -- is universal. And it never goes away.

This morning, as I was reading the Bible lesson, I was so moved to realize that the Scriptural precedence for addressing this claim of children feeling alone is right there in I Samuel.

Hannah, after years of barrenness is blessed with a son, whom she names Samuel. And even though she loves him with all her heart, she knows that he is destined for service to God and as a boy sends him to live with Eli the priest from whom he would learn how to love and trust the Lord.

This is where the part of the story - that is in our Bible Lesson - begin:


"And the child Samuel ministered unto the Lord before Eli.

And it came to pass at that time, when Eli was laid down in his place, [that] the lamp of God went out in the temple of the Lord, where the ark of God was, and Samuel was laid down to sleep;

That the Lord called Samuel: and he answered, Here am I. And he ran unto Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou calledst me. And he said, I called not; lie down again.

And he went and lay down. And the Lord called yet again, Samuel. And Samuel arose and went to Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou didst call me. And he answered, I called not, my son; lie down again.

Now Samuel did not yet know the Lord, neither was the word of the Lord yet revealed unto him.

And the Lord called Samuel again the third time. And he arose and went to Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou didst call me.

And Eli perceived that the Lord had called the child. Therefore Eli said unto Samuel, Go, lie down: and it shall be, if he call thee, that thou shalt say, Speak, Lord; for thy servant heareth.

So Samuel went and lay down in his place. And the Lord came, and stood, and called as at other times, Samuel, Samuel. Then Samuel answered, Speak; for thy servant heareth."

Today, this story has come alive for me in a new way. Samuel was just a boy. Just a child. He was alone in the dark. The person who was his care-giver -- not his parent -- had put him to bed and he kept getting up and asking if Eli wanted him.

Eli said, no, I didn't call you, go back to bed. Sweet persistent Samuel. He returns again and again to Eli's bedchamber. Until Eli finally realizes that God was speaking directly to Samuel in the dark. Comforting, assuring, inspiring him directly, tenderly -- by name.

My heart burst. Each and every child in the world -- whether at sleep-over camps with well-appointed cabins, or in refugee camps on hostile borders, can hear their name being called, can feel the calm comfort of that loving Voice speaking directly to them -- assuring them that they are not alone. This Voice is the voice of God, divine Love. This voice not only speaks to them of their Father-Mother God's presence, but of their own spiritual maturity and purpose.

Hannah, Samuel's mother -- who had yearned for this little boy with all her being -- must have known this presence herself. She must have known that God would reach out to her son and call him by his name -- just as he had heard her weeping, seen her own tears, and sent her a son. For she was His child too.

I will be holding this story close. It touches me deeply. For all children -- and their parents.

offered with Love,

Cate

"wanting to belong..."

"as the ruby
in the setting,
as the fruit
upon the tree;

so are you to me..”

Some habits fade slowly. Feeling the first stirrings of a post, seems, more often than not, to come with a song. It was EastMountainSouth's  "So are You to Me"  that underscored those first stirrings this morning.

Here is my confession. I want to belong. I have always wanted to belong. Yes, I have often shrugged off the importance of clubs and sororities, teams and groups, but not because I really think they are unimportant - but because I always felt like I was on the outside looking in.

This morning I watched four groups of girls welcome new members as into their world as initiates. It was heartbreakingly beautiful to watch the faces of girls - who had felt outside of an inner circle - suddenly feel welcomed in. One after the other they waited - until their name was called and their team was announced. Then, cheering, hugging, smiling. I cried. Yup, walked outside and bawled like a baby.

I wanted my name to be called. I wanted to have a forever family, a team affiliation that would follow me for the rest of my life. I wanted my children and grandchildren to feel the legacy of place.

Last night, I was talking to a dear friend who had missed the opportunity to be on one of these teams. And even though she knows that this does not define her sense of place, she also told me that some of her friends had shared with her that they just knew, that if she had been on a team, it would have been on "this" particular team. [She has given me permission to share this.] I could see that this meant something very special to her. But I understand.  I feel the same way today. When a young relative received her team "assignment" this morning, I wanted to say, "can I be one too?" So this morning, I secretly chose to join her team -- for life.

I don't know that I have anything profoundly spiritual to say about this. I am still listening for inspiration and peace. But I know this, I want to belong.  I think we all want to feel a sense of belonging.  I want to know that there is a place where when I return, they will take me in and love me. I want to know that I don't have to show up perfect to be welcomed in.  I just am.

And perhaps this is the small seed of spiritual inspiration that I can bring to this moment. When I turn within, when I enter the sanctuary of prayer, I am always welcome. God never makes me feel like I don't belong here.

This morning as I walked away from that ceremony, I could barely speak. My throat was tight, and my chest burned with unspent tears. Self-knowledge is a powerful catalyst for growth in humility. I had to face the fact that I, too, so wanted to be on a team. And this is something I don't think I could ever have admitted to myself before this morning.

So, where is this going. I have no idea. But I have a better sense of myself and the girl who I was. The girl who never belonged to anything and wanted it more than she could bear to say. Owning my name, owning my heart, owning my words, owning my mistakes, owning my feelings, owning my place in the world, owning my deep need to belong -- that seems to be the theme of this summer.

In the meantime, thank you to all the people and places who are helping me see the beauty of the things I have not always allowed myself to feel. I am so deeply grateful.

I wonder if this desire to belong to something bigger than ourselves, is one of our first natural steps out of being defined by a personal, limited sense of self. To have a sense of belonging to a more inclusive sense  of:  "I am..." Perhaps it is why Jesus' Lords Prayer reads:

"Our Father which art in heaven;

give us this day our daily bread,
and forgive us our debts
as we forgive our debtors;

and lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil...”

Could this have something to do with the success and popularity of the Harry Potter book series.  Does it hint at an innate desire for belonging -- Slytherin, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw.  Did this series speak to children who were simply hungry for the promise of belonging?  

Just some thoughts to ponder and feelings to examine in the light of Spirit.

offered with Love,

Cate

"to be the new girl..."

“to be the new girl...”

This beautiful piece of music by Paul Collier is called,  "Alone in a Crowded Room" . There are no lyrics to reference as an epigraph.  But the emotions it evokes speak as deeply as all the right words.

I was the new girl. Always the new girl. Year after year -- the new girl. The girl who never eats lunch but lives in the library. The girl who is never without a journal and pen, so that she has someone to "talk" to. Is it a wonder that when the "devil" wants to make me feel insignificant and small, it will insinuate those feelings upon moments of self-discovery, and opportunities to be made new.

Silly devil, I am on to you -- and your tricks. I have reclaimed being "the new girl," for divine Love. Yes, I am the new girl, but I am not afraid and alone anymore. I am no longer the waif sitting in the cafeteria with my nose buried in a book -- well maybe sometimes -- but now, I am there with that book because I am learning something new about myself and the world around me. I am writing in a journal because I am discovering that the world, and the people in it, are notable.

Today, I want to be the new girl. And as uncomfortable as I know it will make me, as many difficult memories as it will trigger in me -- I embrace it. I belong here.  There is a promise here, and I am going to experience it.

To be new, is not to be afraid and alone, small and over-looked -- it is to be given the opportunity to walk away from past stories and into the light of a new version of your timeless self. And because that new girl is not yet known, it often feels like I am watching her from a safe distance. I observe her steeling herself with the courage of knowing who she is at her very core. I hear her praying in the midst of a hundred voices humming like a beehive. I watch her step away, just long enough to remember her worth.  I love her.  I love her willingness to show up in that space.

A song from our hymnal says that:

"New occasions teach new duties..."

I now welcome new occasions. They not only teach me new duties, but refresh ones that I have long-loved. I love the moment that comes just as I enter a "new space," I am the new girl, filled with fresh hope, a quiet wonder, and the certain sense that God is Love -- everywhere I go.

So, if you are in a crowded room, and you are the new girl -- embrace it. Let it truly make you new.

And if you are in a crowded room, and you are quietly observant enough to notice the new girl -- make eye contact, ask her a question, smile in passing -- you may have just discovered a caterpillar becoming a butterfly.

And when she returns from her maiden flight, she will light on you.

offered with Love,

Kate

"I'm barely breathing..."

"I'm falling apart,
I'm barely breathing;
with a broken heart
that's still beating.

In Your name
I find meaning
so I'm holding on,
I'm holdin' on,
I'm holdin' on,
barely holding on to You..."

I was looking down at the delicate white scar that runs from the wrist on my left arm three inches towards my inner elbow, when Lifehouse's  "Broken"  came on my Pandora station. The coincidence took me by surprise -- but in a gentle, self-compassionate way. I wanted to hug the girl I once was.

I've had dark chapters in my life, but this was one of the darkest. I'd driven over 3,000 miles across the United States -- leaving everyone I knew, in hopes of a fresh start. But the second largest city in the country was not the land of milk and honey I'd hoped for. Hours after reaching the first outskirts of the metropolis, I finally reached my destination. I felt lost in a dystopian abyss.

Within a few months, I felt more alone than ever. I had a temporary job -- just waiting for the school year to start so that I could begin teaching again.  But everyone I met seemed obsessed with body image and partying. I was living with a roommate who seemed to bring a different "date" home every night. My commute consisted of an hour - each way - on the freeway in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Nothing felt familiar and I was lost.

But, I was a survivor -- or at least that was what I told myself.  I would persevere, I would forge on, I would not give up. On the outside I was focused and determined. On the inside I was barely breathing. When I left my academic, social, and professional roots 3,000 miles behind, I felt like I also left my spiritual lifeline.

One evening, while helping a friend prepare for a party, I was cutting strawberries, kiwis, and apples for a fruit salad when I suddenly realized that I had better get in the shower before they arrived home. I had already undressed when I remembered that I'd forgotten to add the pineapple. Since I was alone in the apartment, I walked to the kitchen and found a large butcher knife in the drawer. Holding the pineapple with my left hand, I hurriedly attempted to lop off the top of the pineapple. The knife slipped and suddenly I was standing there naked - with a butcher knife stuck deeply in my forearm. Had it really been an accident? Or had I sub-consciously intended to put a stop to the emotional pain I was in? These were the questions that flashed through my mind in the blink of an eye.

Graphic, I know. But I still remember the slow motion stillness of that moment as if it happened yesterday. My life was in such a complete shambles that I wondered whether it was even worth trying to get help. Maybe I should just sit down on the kitchen floor and let the quiet peace that had suddenly come over me,  continue to spread throughout my body.

But in an instant, I woke up from the hypnotic pull of just giving in -- and chose to live. I pulled the knife from my arm, grabbed a towel from the counter to put pressure on the wound, and walked calmly out the front door to knock on the door of a person I'd never met. Seeing me standing there - almost naked, covered in blood, she sprung into action. She found my pants on the bathroom floor, helped me into them, wrapped me in a bath towel, forced me into her car, and drove me to the very nearest hospital emergency room, only two blocks away.

Within minutes I was rushed into surgery. Because they needed for me to remain conscious - so that I could respond to questions about movement and feeling - I watched the surgeon place layers of tiny stitches in my arm, reattaching flesh, nerves, and blood vessels. I don't remember any pain.  I think I was still just so surprised by my clear choice to live.

The next months of physical recovery were a blur. As a child, I had learned to pray. I began to pray again in earnest. I amazed the surgeon, the orthopedic specialist, and the physical therapist by regaining full use of my hand and fingers within six weeks of the injury. My professional life blossomed when school started, but my emotional and spiritual life continued to free fall. I didn't know how to find my way back. I knew I wanted something real and sustainable, but it seemed as far away as the outskirts of that city's limits -- green and verdant beyond the smog and industry.

One day, while walking home from a local park, I passed a Christian Science Reading Room. I looked in the window with such longing. I wanted to go home, but I felt broken and stained. I read the marked Scriptural selection in the window with a sense of sorrow. The next Sunday morning, I walked past the Christian Science church - just as their services were starting. But I was too afraid to walk in. What if someone who knew my mother or sisters and recognized the family resemblance?  What if they asked me questions? I continued down the sidewalk with tears in my eyes.

I wasn't ready yet. But I now see that each step, taught me something. The injury taught me that I wanted to live. My calm, clears sense of peace during the surgery taught me that I really had learned something about trusting God during my childhood. My recovery showed me that I knew how to pray. My hunger for Scripture helped me see that I really did know where the answers lay. My sorrow when walking past the church showed me that I wanted spiritual nourishment and fellowship.  I just couldn't see the forest for the trees - yet.

A few months later my sister would force me to join her for a family reunion in another state. Once there, something finally broke open and I asked my mother if I could borrow her Bible and Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures that first night.  The rest is history -- and another long story.

Tonight, when I looked down at that hairline scar that runs up my forearm -- I smiled. I couldn't help but think of Mary Baker Eddy's promise in Science and Health:

"Think of this, dear reader, for it will lift the sackcloth from your eyes, and you will behold the soft-winged dove descending upon you.

The very circumstance, which your suffering sense deems wrathful and afflictive, Love can make an angel entertained unawares. Then thought gently whispers:

“Come hither! Arise from your false consciousness into the true sense of Love, and behold the Lamb’s wife, — Love wedded to its own spiritual idea."

Sometimes it takes distance to see the path that was laid out for you all along. I was never alone. I was never forsaken or hopeless. The waymarks were there -- every step of the way. I am so grateful.

offered with Love,

Kate

"make this place your home..."

"Settle down, it'll all be clear.
Don't pay no mind to the demons
they fill you with fear
The trouble, it might drag you down.
If you get lost, you can always be found.

Just know you’re not alone.
I’m going to make this place your home..."

Phillip Phillips' beautiful song, "Home," must be singing through the spiritual ether tonight.

First, I found myself thinking about its lyrics in the car this evening, then discovered that it has been referenced in a new Question of the Week, "How come I still feel lonely when I'm not alone?" on TMCYouth, and then found that another friend had posted a link on Facebook. I am not surprised. This song speaks to the universal desire to know that we are not alone.

My own thoughts, in connection with its lyrics, have been resting with Mary Baker Eddy's spiritual interpretation of the final line of David's 23rd Psalm, from Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"And I will dwell in the house,
the consciousness of Love,
forever..."

In my faith tradition, Love is another name for God. To know that I dwell in the consciousness (the Mind) of Love, of God -- forever --is my "dearest spot" on earth.  Or in heaven.  This is my one true home. This is where I know that I am always welcome, always safe, always secure. This is where I can rest my heart, and my hopes.

From as far back as I can remember, my favorite time of day has always been that moment when I first wake up in the morning. That space of time between being conscious of my thoughts, and becoming sentient -- or aware of my surroundings. Before I even feel the coolness of the sheets with the tips of my toes, or hear a bird, or open my eyes to make sure that the world is as I left it the night before, I am certain I am living. I have experienced conscious being.

I don't need to see, hear, feel, taste, or smell anything to know I am alive.  To know that I am me.  For me, this is "home."

I clearly remember a late fall day when I was 15. We'd just moved 2,500 miles across the country to a new state, a new town, a new house, and most unsettlingly, a new school.

Every day I felt like a stranger in a strange world. I felt foreign. My body was changing, I had no friends, the styles were different than "back home," and nothing made sense...except those moments before I became sentient.

I lived for them. I would try to make them last as long as possible. I would allow my sense of self to steep in the warmth of "just being" with God, Mind. I had thoughts. I had dreams and ideas. I had beautiful images, words, feelings. I was me.  I was at home in this place.  

The longer I stayed there, the better my day went. I wasn't getting up, rushing to get ready, and then waiting for the world to confirm for me who I was.  I wasn't asking it to tell me  whether I deserved to be liked, appreciated, or seen as a viable person to talk to, befriend, or even just acknowledge as a legitimate being.

From this space, I knew I was worthy.  Before the first blush of dawn I'd already connected with the "me" who was chock full of wonderful thoughts and feelings.  I'd already spent time with the "me" who had interesting ideas, thoughts that delighted me.  From this conscious place, I realized that I had questions, and those questions were ones that I could never have "made up" on my own.

I don't know that this will make much sense to anyone else, but in that place of consciousness -- of my oneness with God -- there were no strangers, no demons, no loneliness.

I still go there...now, more than ever. It is my favorite place to be. It is the home of my heart, my work, my life, my very sense of being.

It is where I can always be found...

with Love

Kate

"I'm holding on..."

"...I'm hanging on another day
Just to see what you will throw my way
And I'm hanging on to the words you say
You said that I would...would be ok

I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart that's still beating
In the pain there's the healing
In your name I find meaning
So I'm holdin' on
I'm still holdin' on,
I'm holdin' on
I'm barely holdin' on to you..."
-     Lifehouse

Yesterday was not easy...for many reasons. But there were moments of grace...moments so pure and clear...that my knees buckle in remembering them.

One came, just after I thought I couldn't navigate one more heart-wrenching detour, in an already swirling day. I was able to stay above the storm...by the grace of God alone, but there wasn't a moment when a prayer wasn't playing its song in my heart and on the growing tip of my day.

I was driving, from one appointment to another, when the phone rang. Now this, in and of itself, is nothing new...at all. But it was the gift of this call that brought me to my knees.

It was a reader of this blog, calling from another part of the world, to tell me that he/she didn't feel alone because of the "space" that these posts provide for her. I wanted to cry. But I held it together. I really wanted to be there fore her. To listen deeply to what his/her story was, and how to be "just a friend." It was a blessing on my day, to be able to "just show up," without a role, a title, an office, or a history. His story was not unlike my own...filled with moments of heartbreak, confusion, doubt, sorrow, inspiration, questions. But because of that, I also knew it was filled with joy, and opportunity, and growth, and...yes, grace.

Little did he/she know, that I needed to "not feel alone," yesterday afternoon, just as much as she did.

Thank you, dear reader, for the gift of your friendship...someone else sent me this link, to a previous post (from 2009), later in the day because it had been helpful to her. Again, it was just what I needed. Funny how God sends us His "angels" of comfort...in the voices of friends...old and new, a passage from Isaiah, the demands of motherhood, and, sometimes, through something we've written, about an experience we've already had, reminding us that precedent has already been set in our lives...we just need to remember. Here is the post my friend linked:

"In Your name I find meaning..."

The other day I felt like I was "falling apart," in much the same way that Lifehouse articulates in this lovely, plaintive song of hope, and longing, titled "Broken."  But it was also just the reminder I needed.   When I heard it, I was feeling particularly lonely in the aloneness of a moment, and it immediately brought me peace. 

I love that line, "in your name I find meaning."  And the "you" in whose name alone I "find meaning" is the great "I AM" whose presence feels as intimate to me as my own hopes and dreams, sorrows and joys...the very private thoughts I cherish in the dark silence of the night. 

When I was still a very young woman, but thought I was all grown up and more than ready to fly solo, my mother and siblings...with whom I had been living since my dad's passing...moved to another state.  In some ways one might think I would have been happy and relieved.  I'd worked two or more jobs for a few years in order to help pay for our rent, utilities, food and family expenses, and this might mean a bit of a break from those demands.  But that wasn't how I was feeling.

Yes, I was excited to be out on my own.  I'd found a Manhattan couple who'd purchased a gentleman's farm in our rural community and talked them into letting me renovate the loft of their beautiful barn into a loft apartment in exchange for rent.  And I was thrilled by the opportunity to creatively redefine the space, by their trust in my twenty-one year old chutzpah, and for my first real privacy...I'd always lived in other people's spaces and had always dreamed about my own apartment.  But there was also a sadness about living away from my mother, sisters, and brothers.

I moved my few belongings into a small storage space in the barn that was heated, had been insulated for winter, and had a tiny bathroom in the corner.  I'd cook on a hot plate and use a tiny little dorm-size refrigerator until I'd finished the renovation.  I had a twin bed pushed under the barnwood eaves and a little table with two chairs. I'd brought three small paintings I done in high school, ones that the school had had framed for an exhibit at the local library.  I used my simple cedar hope chest for storing my clothes and I'd hung my three dresses (and two waitress uniforms I needed for my second job) on a nail at the end of the room.  An antique embroidered linen pillowslip folded over a wooden dowel served as a curtain on the one small window framed by rough barnwood.  I loved way the sunrise looked through the ripply green-tinted glass each morning and vowed to make that window a centerpiece in the renovation. 

That first night after I washed my mug and bowl out in the bathroom sink, dried them with the worn blue and white checked dishtowel I'd begged my mom to let me keep with me, I brushed my teeth and climbed between the soft white sheets and under the colorful quilts that represented the entirety of my dowry.  I'd always loved vintage linens and had gathered bits and pieces over the years from my grandmother, a generous neighbor who'd shared her treasures, and a dusty antique shop in the village we'd lived in while I was in high school.

I turned off the small lamp that sat on an upturned fruit crate that served as my first bookcase and lay in the dark.  I'd grown up in a family of eight children.  I'd shared a bedroom with as many as four of my sisters, depending on the size and number of bedrooms a house had, all my life.  We'd always lived in small houses.  Houses in which our rooms were so cozy, and close to one another, that I could hear my brothers whispering in their room while I read in my bottom bunk across the hall.  I'd never, ever, heard or experienced the kind of visceral silence I was greeted by that night once I'd turned the lamp off.  It was as if someone had sucked every bit of sound out of the room.  I was aware of my heartbeat, my own thoughts, the sound of my nightgown rustling against the soft cotton of my sheets.  I was aware of the unique rhythm of my own breathing, in and out, in and out, in and out. 

This was so new to me.  New, and lonely.  Soon I was aware of more than just my breathing, and my heartbeat.  I was aware of the sound of my own crying. I was alone in the dark, I was falling apart, and I was hyper-aware of everything around me.  And more importantly, everything within me.  I discovered that if you listen closely you really can hear the sound of tears dropping from your eyelashes, rolling along your cheek and falling to the pillowcase under your face. I discovered just how much I really did miss my family.  I missed all the sounds I'd complained about throughout high school when I'd thought all I wanted was "a room of my own."  I missed my sister purring in her sleep, my mother's tapping of her fingers on the kitchen table as she enjoyed a late night cup of tea in the quiet of her own house long after midnight.  I missed the mewing of babies and the turning of more than a half dozen children in their beds while I read.

I missed them. And I was aware of missing them.  It was quiet enough that nothing distracted me from the sound of the love that was happening in my heart.  

This missing them in the silence of the dark was my first awareness of the deep intimacy we each have with our God.  In my aloneness, I discovered that I was really not alone.  There were new thoughts coming to me every moment.  I was feeling the seeping in of a new awareness of my love for my mother, appreciation for my sisters, I could feel the presence of my dreams for the future, and my hunger for meaningful love and purposeful work.  I could actually feel my desire for my sister Nancy's bony spine against mine as we slept back-to-back in the double bed we'd shared at times during childhood.

This awareness of "me", my hopes, my desires, my thoughts, my sadness and longing, was rich with being, was full of the "I AM" of conscious being...God. For me, this is what Mary Baker Eddy is talking about when in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures she refers to:

"...the conscious infinitude of existence and of all identity..."

I learned to love the silence of that small bed under the eaves, because it introduced me to myself...the self that had an inner life.  The self that was no longer being drowned out by all the hustle and bustle of being one of many voices, movements, breathing in a big family.  The self that was conscious of the infinitude of her identity and was discovering that right there, within her own conscious being, lay all the important answers she'd been looking for. 

My silent life in a drafty barn didn't last long...but I have never forgotten it in the ensuing years, as the quiet spaces started filling in with husband, children, phone calls, patients, guests, dogs, washing machines, dishwashers, computers and babies. 

And to this day, when I am feeling most alone in the world, it is not people I seek to surround myself with...even the people I love the most...it is the silence of a darkened room.  My favorite time of day, the time of day - the space - that fills me, and satisfies me most...so that I have something real to give others...are those moments just after waking, when I have not heard a sound, moved even a single finger or probed a toe seeking to feel the sheets or rustle the bedclothes. Those are the moments before I have opened my eyes to see the light of day playing on the pear colored walls of our bedroom. And it is in this timeless time that I am aware, in that profound silence, of the "great I AM" that is me, my conscious being. 

In these moments of great intimacy with my God, I am most keenly atune to the "pain" of missing loved ones...a profound love that heals.  I am most appreciative of the joys of having thoughts that are beautiful and rich with purpose...even if just to me.   I am most conscious of knowing that I am never alone...but always filled with Him...with Her...with the I AM that is the only real oneness that matters...the only I or US that all other relationships spring from.

In the silence of a my first waking thoughts, I find God...the kingdom of heaven within. And this same infinite nearness of the divine is there for each of us...all the time.

with Love, 
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"I am waiting in a silent prayer..."

"...I am waiting in a silent prayer
I am frightened
by the load I bear
In a world as cold as stone,
Must I walk this path alone?
Be with me now
Be with me now

Breath of heaven
Hold me together
Be forever near me
Breath of heaven..."

Like Kathy Matthea's "Mary Did You Know," Sara Groves' "Breath of Heaven" fills my heart whenever I think about a young girl, a gentle man, a babe of promise, and a quiet manger on a starry night. 

In her small volume, The Handmaid and the Carpenter, Elizabeth Berg writes of Mary's time in the manger:

"A hard pain came upon her. She rose up, clenched her teeth, and pulled on the rope. When the pain subsided, she lay back down and allowed herself one more moment of pity for her poor circumstances: She lay on the floor of a stranger's stable. Somewhere, water dripped. The air was foul with the scent of the animals and their droppings. Wind blew in through the cracks in the walls. She closed her eyes.  So be it."

"So be it"...

And we wonder where a young man learned to say, "Into thy hands I commit my spirit?" 

This story has no season.  This story cannot be assigned, or relegated to, a single holy day.  It is a story that serves us every day, and for me, its holds it greatest promise at night...in moments raw with the cold chill of despair, and rancid with fear, doubt, uncertainty, and pain. Moments when I must go deeper. Moments when the stillness of my inner life outweighs the drama of the ego's stories. Moments when I am aware of the profound importance of spiritual in-vironmentalism and my role as an invironmental advocate.  

I remember a night, one winter, when the snow blew under the doorjamb, the cold bit into my bones while I shoveled the walk, and tears froze to my bottom lashes - hard and sharp against my cheeks.  My heart was heavy with questions which were piling up like the heavy snow I coud barely lift, and the thoughts that pierced my peace were as relentless as the driving ice storm that had blown through earlier in the day.

Why....
Why....
Why....

Why God....

And there were no answers.  Are there ever?

But then something fluttered onto my heart as soft and perfect as a snowflake:

"Behold the handmaid of the Lord. 
Be it unto me according to Thy Word." 

And suddenly, there was nothing but the quiet of a starry night.  The clouds broke, the winds stilled, the snow still fell gently from somewhere high in a sky as black and clear as a bottomless quarry.

In the wake of surrender my new question became:

"How..."

How would You have me navigate this moment?  How can I love more like You?  How shall I behave towards others in service to You?  How should I speak to him, her, them? 

And the answers came as easily, and as sweetly, as a perfectly formed snowflake .  Love unconditionally, be impartially kind, sincere, honest, consistently gentle, be acceptingly open, be willing to adapt, listen deeply, serve humbly, give generously...judge no one.


It was no longer a question of why, but only how...how to be, moment-by-gently-falling-moment...and there was a great calm and the storm ceased...and within the environment, the invironment, of my deepest thought, there was nothing but a manger.

   ...with a breath of heaven.

living in the "how" of His love...

Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"I have a need for solitude..."

"I have a need for solitude
I'll never be safe
in crowded rooms.
I like the sound
of silence coming on..."

It surprises me that this will be the first Mary Chapin Carpenter song I have used on this blog. But perhaps it says something about how much deeper there is to go in plumbing the depths of my own spiritual journey.  MCC has sung me down many a dusty road...sobbing, driving hard and fast just to get away from the sadness, and praying for nothing more than a song that will make me feel less alone. 

Her new CD "The Age of Miracles," was borne on the winds of her own "miraculous" adventure through a critical health-related wilderness experience, one that led her into a period of what she characterized as" painful depression, fear and anxiety."  Its content is masterful, sobering, intuitive, and deeply moving.  What it takes me hundreds of words to hint at, she hammers home with three verses, married to music that makes my heart weep, sing, and soar...but never feel alone. 

There are cuts on this CD that I can't help but listen to with my eyes closed...it is almost as if I am remembering how it felt to have lived the moment that gave the song birth...only it is not my life, but hers, she is singing about. 

There is one song though, that when I simply read its title, "I have a need for solitude," I couldn't help but wonder, once again, if we weren't actually "twin daughters of different mothers."

Solitude is not just a delightful interruption from an otherwise social norm of people and events, for me.  It is my natural habitat, like salt water to a sea anemone.  I need it.  It is the oxygen I begin to gasp for after a long day of truly wonderful conversations, and deeply inspiring interactions with people who I truly love.   But it has only been by the grace of God, that I have learned to appreciate the shifting levels of aloneness in my life with acceptance and wonder.

There was a time, though, when I seemed to need solitude in a way that was almost crippling.  And I apologize for the insanity I put my family through during this very confusing chapter.  I didn't understand it either, while I was in its grip.

There were days when taking our daughters to school, or having people come into our home was terrifying.  It was as if other people's sounds, smells, their shapes slicing through the changing light, the movement of air, the rustling of atmospheric ions as they stole from room-to-room, felt like someone was sucking all of the carefully negotiated alone-ness out of my perfect space of solitude, and I couldn't breathe. 

Unfortunately, my profession as a spiritual healer seemed to give me an endless supply of "get out of jail" cards...justifications for why I needed to leave, and one great excuse after another, for demanding it from everyone close to me.  And if I didn't get it, I would seek it out at great lengths.  There was a point in this chapter, when my favorite place in the world was a three foot by five foot windowless, cedar-lined closet under the eaves of our house where I had a little chair, table, lamp and fan.  I would take my phone, and go there for hours just to take calls and pray.  I thought it was a slice of heaven.  Until it became a self-imposed tomb I didn't want to leave. 

Oh yes,  I learned to cope with the need to be "out and about" as a mother, wife, professional, and member of my community, but the ache for solitude was never far from reach.  I took it with me wherever I went, and when society became too much, I would retreat.  I would leave.  I would excuse myself and find a place to hide...a bathroom, a closet, the backseat of my car, under a quilt, into my head...all alone.  Social gatherings felt cloying, dense, and paralyzing.  Solitude was like walking into a fresh, sweet, light-filled clearing...a high meadow redolent with the scent of chamomile and pine.  But it was not freeing or liberating, because I thought I couldn't be "me" anywhere else.  It had become a prison, instead of the open space I thought it was, and I was certain I now needed in order to feel inspired, and creative.  I didn't know how I would find my way out of the labyrinth of my own creating, or if I even wanted to. 

And then something happened. On a very normal day,  while I was sitting all alone in my perfectly silent kitchen, I suddenly realized that solitude was, in all spiritual actuality,impossible.  And in that moment,  it, solitude, was no longer the "holy grail" in my life.  Just like that.  As I sat there, I found myself asking, "Why would I ever, even want something that was really never going to be true in God's eyes."   Why, it was as clear as day to me:  I couldn't be me...truly me...all alone, without you.     And not just the "you" that is my husband, my children, my friends...but all the "yous" that I am blessed to have waft through my life, like the perfect perfume of hyacinth blossoms on a warm spring day...moment by serendipitous moment.  I cannot love without you.  I cannot be generous, kind, compassionate, honest, forgiving without you.  Each of you, allows me to be who I am. God's beloved and be-loving child.

Although it's been a struggle at times to remember that I really do want to be this "best me," and not the person who seeks out closets and solitude like a drug, I now find, that even in those lovely moments when the gift of solitude does descend like a divine surprise upon my day, I am no longer more at peace then, than in a crowded room or a noisy kitchen.  Why bother seeking something spiritually unattainable, since, in Truth, we can never really be alone anyways, we live together in Christ. 

We are not "isolated, solitary ideas."  We are members of the body of Christ, the spiritual collective called "man."  We are but individual saplings, branchings from the vast root system of a spiritual organism, even larger than "the aspen grove," that stretches its arms across the Continental Divide. We are one with "the earth and the sky, one with everything in life."  And I am "as much you, as I am myself."  We are His. 

Yes, I still love my solitude, that alone time when the house is clean, the silence is golden, lavender incense swirls with each shifting breeze, and  figurative notation paper hangs in the air waiting for poetry and music to find their positions, like birds on a wire, and become a song or a prayer.   But I no longer like my life better without people in it.  I no longer think that I need soliude to be myself, to breathe, to feel peaceful, or to hear God's voice. And yet, as my friend Mary Chapin Carpenter sings, I will always like "the sound of silence coming on."  Thanks MCC...welcome back into our company we have missed you...thank you for your words, your music, your heart that sings to us of miracles...

"My sense of nature's rich glooms is,
that loneness lacks but one charm
to make it half divine — a friend,
with whom to whisper,
"Solitude is sweet."
- Mary Baker Eddy

with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

My friend, and editor, Maria has reminded me that I have actually referred to   Mary Chapin Carpenter songs in earlier posts. If you click on her name, there is a link to those posts. The first one will be this post, but if you scroll down you will find the others. Thanks, Maria xoxo


[photo credit:  Photo of Inis Mor, Aran Islands by Kesra Hoffman - artist, photographer, painter]

"Maybe I was made this way...."

"Maybe I was made this way
To think and to reason,
and to question, and to pray
And I have never prayed a lot
But maybe there's a loving God..."
- Sara Groves

Is it possible that we are, who we are, for a divine reason?  That what might concern a teacher, a counselor, a family member, or a coach...an odd behavior, a strange interest, or a puzzling disinterest...is really, the very thing makes us special?

Growing up, I was like a bookworm on speed.  I lived for books.  I loved them so much that I spent every lunch period, I could, in the school library.  Books were my friends, my home-away-from-home, my other family...books were where I lived.  I had no desire to play.  When pushed out the front door for a game of kickball, I would hide a book under my sweater and disappear into a tree or behind a bush to read, until called in for dinner. 

The school librarian was always my best friend.  I cried when the middle of May approached, and I knew that summer break was bearing down on us.  I never liked holidays or breaks.  I loved school, because school meant unlimited access to books. 

And that wasn't my only oddity.  I liked to be alone.  I liked to be in the dark.  I wanted to be a nun from the first note of "Allelujah-ah-ah..." that poured out from the convent walls in "The Sound of Music," and I ached for the silence of Audrey Hepburn's cell in "A Nun's Story."  It didn't hurt that they never had to wonder what they were going to wear each day.  And that they never had to put their hair up in rollers!

I loved the night time...hearing the house breathe was one of my favorite sounds, and could most easily fall asleep if the vacumn cleaner was running...and I wasn't the one running it.  But I also loved cleaning, doing laundry, and ironing.  I was a neat freak who thrived on simplicity, beauty and sparkly lights.

I would do my chores extra fast on Saturday mornings, so that I could watch Shirley Temple movies with the express purpose of having a good cry...it felt cleansing, and healing, after a long week of facing the social horrors of being the littlest girl in my grade.

I loved writing words and watching the ink, or pencil lead, flow onto paper like beautiful music. I loved poetry and soup, blue flowers, and butter yellow cottages.  Horses, music, art of any kind, ballet...and don't get me started on quote-gathering. The sound of the sea and the weight of old quilts...any time of year.

I adored my family and still do...all of them...the ones I grew up with, the ones I have participated in nurturing and watching unfold and grow, and the ones that continue to form and evolve through friendship, camp, school, church, community, and service.  And I am devoted to my children....all of them...without measure, or hierarchy.

As a pre-teen I practiced being blind and deaf for whole days...just in case...and I was almost excited by the possibility of endless hours of darkness and quiet. And I was at my happiest reading in our bottom bunkbed with a box of red hots at my elbow, and my sister's blanket hanging over the edge to block out noise, and light, and people. 

And although I didn't sing outloud for many years (someday I'll write more about why) I could memorize the words to every song on the radio, the first time I'd heard them.  And I loved, loved, loved just lying in the quiet  -  anywhere  - enjoying the company of my own thoughts...hanging out with God...my version of prayer.  Did I say I loved being alone in the dark?  I still do.

That's me.

These are the "affections of the heart" that have been changeless for me.  These are the things that have told me who, and what, I honestly am.  Or as Mary Baker Eddy says,

"We should examine ourselves
and learn what is the affection and purpose of the heart,
for in this way only can we learn what we honestly are."

When I heard Sara Groves' song "Maybe there's a loving God," it made me cry.  I so wish I had believed as a child, teen, and young woman, that who I was, was perfectly perfect.  That I was, as Mary Poppins said,  "practically perfect in every way!!"  I wish I had really known that I was already a perfect me, especially since all along, I was only trying to discover what it meant to be me.   I wish this for every child on earth. 

It has taken me many, many years to give myself permission to love this me.  To cherish and honor her.  To smile at her in the mirror each morning, and shake my head with baffled affection, and amazement at how remarkably wonderful she is...just the way she is. 

It has taken me too long to realize that I don't need to be a "sporty girl" or someone who loves a good party...unless it includes great heart-felt conversations and time in the kitchen with the host, or the dishes.  I don't have to be less "high maintenance" when I order my meal at a restaurant...and yet, I can always "have whatever she's having." And I never need to laugh with less abandon...never, ever!!   I don't have to be anything but who He has made me to be, and has given me an affection for being.  I am that "I am," that God has moved me to be.  From the infinite well of His abundant good, He has drawn me...with loving kindness...like a precious and rare cup of cold, refreshing water.

I am beginning to trust that if I am supposed to evolve in new ways, God will move my heart in those directions.  Not out of dissatisfaction for who I am, but with a new joy, a fresh interest, an awakening affection for an, as yet, undiscovered facet of who I am. I already know this is true, because at some point He added, "beating my husband and son...soundly...at Scrabble" to my list of affections. So, here I stand, with arms wide open waiting to embrace whatever comes next.

Till then...I am going to trust that He is a loving God who has made me exactly as He wishes me to be.  I will trust that I am, as I am, for a holy purpose...and so are you.

with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"I'm hanging by a moment here with you..."

"...I'm desperate for changing,
I'm starving for truth,
I'm closer to where I started,
I'm chasing after you.
I'm falling even more in love with you.
Letting go of all I've held on to.
I'm standing here until you make me move.
I'm hanging by a moment here with you...
I'm living for the only thing I know..."
- Lifehouse

A friend's posting of some favorite Lifehouse songs on Facebook, reminded me of this piece written soon after I first heard, "Hanging by a Moment," while sitting alone in our house, in the middle of the night, not so very long ago:

This house feels so quiet.  So empty and alone, but I have never felt so held.  So completely loved. 

My children are either at their dads, or in their own apartments.  My husband is working in a far away city, with no plans for a visit home or an end date to his assignment there. My mother, sisters, and brothers all live in distant states, and although I know a few people here, there is no one I feel like I could call in the middle of the night.   But I have never felt so safe, so sure, so loved...so secure. 

It is all about You.  It is all about You, my beloved Father-Mother God.  It is all about feeling Your encompassing love, trusting Your plan in my life, patiently waiting for Your direction, guidance, purpose in us all.

No matter how desperate I feel sometimes...desperate for a strategy to unfold, hungry for a change of course, grasping wildly for the next chapter to begin...I know that it is only in this space of "hanging by a moment here with you" that I will find real peace and happiness.  And it won't be when you make me move.  It won't be when You bring him home, or they walk back through the door, or she returns from far away, when he is doing something different, or we are in this place or that...I know that the only true living is living in this moment here with You. 

In the darkness or the light, in the sorrow or joy, in love or walking through the garden of Gethsemane, in poverty or plenty...You are there...You are here.  And I am never, ever, doing anything more wonderful or on purpose than "hanging in this moment here with You."

I am falling even more in love with you.  But it isn't happening because you have made all of my dreams come true, or because you have even met all my "needs" or the hopes and dreams of the people I love.  I love you...because you first loved me. 

I love you because when I go back to where I started...there was You.  I have always known You.  You have always been there...here, within me.  I have always sought out your touch...Love.  I have always reached for your beauty...Soul.  I have always danced with your joy...Spirit.  I have always listened for your voice...Truth. My every breath draws you in...Life.  You set the rhythm of my heart...Principle.  I wake each morning filled with your thoughts...Mind.  I have always, always, always...wanted You.  You have filled me with the knowledge of my birthright...my family name...my native language...your face is the one I seek in the mirror to remind me that I am...well, that I am...that I am Yours...and you are mine.  My Father, Mother, Creator, Husband, Counselor, King...my great Love. 

I am not waiting for something to change so that I can feel at peace and finally settle into a spiritual practice that allows me to seek you.  It is because I am..right here, and right now... "hanging in this moment here with you" that I am at peace...waiting for you to make me move....dance, sing, pray, rest in your love.

There is nothing more for me to do...I'm falling even more in love with you.

"...Forgetting all I'm lacking
Completely incomplete
I'll take your invitation
You take all of me..

"There's nothing else to lose
There's nothing else to find
There's nothing in the world
That could change my mind..."

No, there's nothing else to lose, there's nothing else to find, there's nothing in this world that could ever change my mind....I'm falling even more in love with You.

Yours,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

[within this post there are links to three different versions of this song]

"...in your name I find meaning..."

"...I'm hanging on another day
Just to see what you will throw my way
And I'm hanging on to the words you say
You said that I would...would be ok

I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart that's still beating
In the pain there's the healing
In your name I find meaning
So I'm holdin' on
I'm still holdin' on,
I'm holdin' on
I'm barely holdin' on to you..."
-     Lifehouse

The other day I felt like I was "falling apart," in much the same way that Lifehouse articulates in this lovely, plaintive song of hope, and longing, titled "Broken."  But it was also just the reminder I needed.   When I heard it, I was feeling particularly lonely in the aloneness of a moment, and it immediately brought me peace. 

I love that line, "in your name I find meaning."  And the "you" in whose name alone I "find meaning" is the great "I AM" whose presence feels as intimate to me as my own hopes and dreams, sorrows and joys...the very private thoughts I cherish in the dark silence of the night. 

When I was still a very young woman, but thought I was all grown up and more than ready to fly solo, my mother and siblings...with whom I had been living since my dad's passing...moved to another state.  In some ways one might think I would have been happy and relieved.  I'd worked two or more jobs for a few years in order to help pay for our rent, utilities, food and family expenses, and this might mean a bit of a break from those demands.  But that wasn't how I was feeling.

Yes, I was excited to be out on my own.  I'd found a Manhattan couple who'd purchased a gentleman's farm in our rural community and talked them into letting me renovate the loft of their beautiful barn into a loft apartment in exchange for rent.  And I was thrilled by the opportunity to creatively redefine the space, by their trust in my twenty-one year old chutzpah, and for my first real privacy...I'd always lived in other people's spaces and had always dreamed about my own apartment.  But there was also a sadness about living away from my mother, sisters, and brothers.

I moved my few belongings into a small storage space in the barn that was heated, had been insulated for winter, and had a tiny bathroom in the corner.  I'd cook on a hot plate and use a tiny little dorm-size refrigerator until I'd finished the renovation.  I had a twin bed pushed under the barnwood eaves and a little table with two chairs. I'd brought three small paintings I done in high school, ones that the school had had framed for an exhibit at the local library.  I used my simple cedar hope chest for storing my clothes and I'd hung my three dresses (and two waitress uniforms I needed for my second job) on a nail at the end of the room.  An antique embroidered linen pillowslip folded over a wooden dowel served as a curtain on the one small window framed by rough barnwood.  I loved way the sunrise looked through the ripply green-tinted glass each morning and vowed to make that window a centerpiece in the renovation. 

That first night after I washed my mug and bowl out in the bathroom sink, dried them with the worn blue and white checked dishtowel I'd begged my mom to let me keep with me, I brushed my teeth and climbed between the soft white sheets and under the colorful quilts that represented the entirety of my dowry.  I'd always loved vintage linens and had gathered bits and pieces over the years from my grandmother, a generous neighbor who'd shared her treasures, and a dusty antique shop in the village we'd lived in while I was in high school.

I turned off the small lamp that sat on an upturned fruit crate that served as my first bookcase and lay in the dark.  I'd grown up in a family of eight children.  I'd shared a bedroom with as many as four of my sisters, depending on the size and number of bedrooms a house had, all my life.  We'd always lived in small houses.  Houses in which our rooms were so cozy, and close to one another, that I could hear my brothers whispering in their room while I read in my bottom bunk across the hall.  I'd never, ever, heard or experienced the kind of visceral silence I was greeted by that night once I'd turned the lamp off.  It was as if someone had sucked every bit of sound out of the room.  I was aware of my heartbeat, my own thoughts, the sound of my nightgown rustling against the soft cotton of my sheets.  I was aware of the unique rhythm of my own breathing, in and out, in and out, in and out. 

This was so new to me.  New, and lonely.  Soon I was aware of more than just my breathing, and my heartbeat.  I was aware of the sound of my own crying. I was alone in the dark, I was falling apart, and I was hyper-aware of everything around me.  And more importantly, everything within me.  I discovered that if you listen closely you really can hear the sound of tears dropping from your eyelashes, rolling along your cheek and falling to the pillowcase under your face. I discovered just how much I really did miss my family.  I missed all the sounds I'd complained about throughout high school when I'd thought all I wanted was "a room of my own."  I missed my sister purring in her sleep, my mother's tapping of her fingers on the kitchen table as she enjoyed a late night cup of tea in the quiet of her own house long after midnight.  I missed the mewing of babies and the turning of more than a half dozen children in their beds while I read.

I missed them. And I was aware of missing them.  It was quiet enough that nothing distracted me from the sound of the love that was happening in my heart.  

This missing them in the silence of the dark was my first awareness of the deep intimacy we each have with our God.  In my aloneness, I discovered that I was really not alone.  There were new thoughts coming to me every moment.  I was feeling the seeping in of a new awareness of my love for my mother, appreciation for my sisters, I could feel the presence of my dreams for the future, and my hunger for meaningful love and purposeful work.  I could actually feel my desire for my sister Nancy's bony spine against mine as we slept back-to-back in the double bed we'd shared at times during childhood.

This awareness of "me", my hopes, my desires, my thoughts, my sadness and longing, was rich with being, was full of the "I AM" of conscious being...God. For me, this is what Mary Baker Eddy is talking about when in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures she refers to:

"...the conscious infinitude of existence and of all identity..."

I learned to love the silence of that small bed under the eaves, because it introduced me to myself...the self that had an inner life.  The self that was no longer being drowned out by all the hustle and bustle of being one of many voices, movements, breathing in a big family.  The self that was conscious of the infinitude of her identity and was discovering that right there, within her own conscious being, lay all the important answers she'd been looking for. 

My silent life in a drafty barn didn't last long...but I have never forgotten it in the ensuing years, as the quiet spaces started filling in with husband, children, phone calls, patients, guests, dogs, washing machines, dishwashers, computers and babies. 

And to this day, when I am feeling most alone in the world, it is not people I seek to surround myself with...even the people I love the most...it is the silence of a darkened room.  My favorite time of day, the time of day - the space - that fills me, and satisfies me most...so that I have something real to give others...are those moments just after waking, when I have not heard a sound, moved even a single finger or probed a toe seeking to feel the sheets or rustle the bedclothes. Those are the moments before I have opened my eyes to see the light of day playing on the pear colored walls of our bedroom. And it is in this timeless time that I am aware, in that profound silence, of the "great I AM" that is me, my conscious being. 

In these moments of great intimacy with my God, I am most keenly atune to the "pain" of missing loved ones...a profound love that heals.  I am most appreciative of the joys of having thoughts that are beautiful and rich with purpose...even if just to me.   I am most conscious of knowing that I am never alone...but always filled with Him...with Her...with the I AM that is the only real oneness that matters...the only I or US that all other relationships spring from.

In the silence of a my first waking thoughts, I find God...the kingdom of heaven within. And this same infinite nearness of the divine is there for each of us...all the time.

with Love, 
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS