"grateful for it all…"

"All that I am,
all that I see,
all that I've been,
and all that I'll ever be..."

The other day someone asked me why I would encourage our daughters to work as camp counselors this summer -- long days, modest wages. I was stunned. I can't imagine encouraging them to do anything else. The above chorus from "Grateful: A Love Song…"  by Empty Hands Music, sprang into my heart. I hope you will take a moment -- or two -- and give it a listen.

Almost everything I am, and all that my children have become, I directly attribute to our years as campers, counselors, volunteers, and staff members at the Adventure Unlimited Ranches -- the opportunities for spiritual growth, wonderful mentors, and programs it offers. I do not say this lightly. I mean it with every ounce of my being.

Do I hope that my daughters will devote the rest of their lives to supporting and contributing to this organization and the programs that it provides for children, adults and families? Actually, yes. But, as much as I would hope that their hearts remain aligned with this extraordinary place -- one that lives in each of us -- my encouragement that they return to camp as counselors this summer embodies a larger dream for them.

It is gratitude. I dream that our children grow into global citizens that understand the gift of gratitude. Gratitude is much more than an "after the fact" feeling of thanks. It is a way of life. It is an empowering and sustaining way of being in the world.

No one -- and nothing -- can deprive us of our right to be grateful. And it is a right. A divine right. In the midst of the most trying times -- while facing poverty, homelessness, pain, disappointment -- we can become still enough to recognize that there is always something to be grateful for.

This gratitude is a upwelling power within us. When we realize that we are aware of some small measure of good in our lives -- good that we can be grateful for -- we bring that good into conscious being. And when we appreciate [are grateful for] this good, it begins to appreciate [grow in value] in our lives.

To live with this attitude of gratitude is to live in a state of conscious good -- of grace.

So back to camp. Yes, our family could find "jobs" that might let us sleep in later each morning, or that might recompense us in larger measure, but we will never -- and I mean never -- find a greater opportunity to nurture and develop the best in ourselves. To discover the full depth of our identities as grateful children of a generous Father-Mother God.

To give a summer -- or a lifetime -- to this "place" that has shown us our best - our most unselfed, and spiritually trusting - selves is the greatest gift we can give to ourselves. To wake each morning knowing that we will have countless opportunities to say, "thank you," through providing the same encouragement and support to a new generation of campers and camp colleagues, that we have experienced, is to live a life of beauty and joy.

Each morning that we rise in the semi-dark of dawn for staff inspirational, and every time I hear a knock on the door of my cabin after midnight, or see a camper and counselor praying together on their porch -- long after lights out -- I am grateful. And each time I catch a glimpse of a counselor alone in the corral caring for horses when the rest of camp is at dinner -- I am immeasurably grateful.  Not only am I grateful for what they are doing to support our horse program, but for what they are learning about their own ability to put self aside, in caring for the needs of another creature first.

Our daughters may have opportunities to pursue internships that could forward their professional careers.  They may be offered jobs that would contribute more significantly to our very modest college savings account.  But nothing will contribute more to them becoming their best selves, than a summer steeped in gratitude for what camp has done in their lives. A summer filled with appreciation for the spiritual values that have nurtured their "clear sense and calm trust," in God's love for them. A recognition that this same Love has afforded them priceless opportunities to attend camp every summer since they were big enough to sit on a horse.  And that Love is giving them another summer in which to say "thank you," to an organization that has so deeply blessed their lives.

So, why would I encourage our daughters to work at camp this summer? Because I can't imagine a job that will lead to a greater -- more fulfilling and satisfying -- life of gratitude, service, and joy. 

The friendships they will make, and foster, are friendships steeped in selflessness and spiritual strength. What more could I want for my children, my husband, myself -- the world?

Thank you Adventure Unlimited*. We are grateful. We are grateful for it all.


offered with love,



Kate

*for some families "camp" is represented by the Peace Corp, other summer camps, or the many non-profits that serve humanity in countless ways. This post celebrates the practice of selfless service to our common purpose -- the blessing of others, as we have been blessed.

"a full-orbed promise…"

"A dream is a wish your heart makes
when you're fast asleep
In dreams you lose your heartaches,
whatever you wish for, you keep.


Have faith in your dreams and someday
your rainbow will come smiling through.
No matter how your heart is grieving,
if you keep on believing,
the dream that you wish will come true..."
- David/Hoffman/Livingston

I love it when a Disney song, like Cinderella's "A dream is a wish..." speaks to me of God's redemptive, transformative love. Here's the story that goes with this song.

It was a cool, cloudy day in Boston. It had been a very long season of heartache, and I was ready for the quietness of the soft air, and less brilliant light.  I took solace in its promise. I needed time to sift through the ashes of the year, and find the gold -- the lessons I could glean from so many fiery trials. 

That year, I'd been stripped of every dream I'd ever cherished. And yet, I was still standing, still breathing, still dreaming.  I was grateful that hope was still alive in me, that there were desires I still cherished. The devastation of the year, hadn't destroyed my ability to dream.  And yet, some days were easier than others.

For the most part, I could navigate all that came in the wake of that year's deep disappointments -- as long as I kept my hand in God's, and my sights on the tasks at hand.  In truth, there was so much to be grateful for. And this space of gratitude became my resting place. Especially when I grew weary of the constant ache -- the longing for the joys of motherhood and family. 

The insidious disease that had lain waste to my body earlier that year -- was healed.  The job I'd loved -- but had given up in order to parent our son -- was mine to do, again. And although my husband and I were finding our way through some dark days, we were finding our way. Each day brought us closer to God, if not always to each other.

On this particular day, I was truly happy.  I loved my job. I was immersed in projects that stretched me professionally, I was facing challenges that made great demands on me as a spiritual thinker, which brought me immense joy. 

That morning, in the midst of negotiating a contract for outside services, I realized that I needed a signature from a member of our Board of Directors. The Executive Assistant in our office was not at her desk.  But, it was a gorgeous, blustery day in Boston. So I took her absence, as an excuse to wrap myself in a sweater and scarf, and wander across the plaza for the needed signatures myself. 

I took the elevator to the ground floor, and exited the large brass doors that stood sentinel over our building. But as I rounded the steps of the large church to my left, I caught a glimpse of something that stopped me in my tracks.

There, sitting on the curbing that hemmed a rare stretch of urban lawn, was a young family.  Mom, dad, and preschool-age daughter taking time out for a midday visit.  It was easy to see that these were adoring parents. Their hearts were devoted to this precious little girl.  And the look on her face, as she smiled up at them, was something I'd long been dreaming of. 

It stopped me cold.  In one heart-wrenching moment I went from the joy of feeling purposeful and mission-filled, to heart-broken and hopeless.  Envy flooded my being.  You aren't really happy it screamed."  "You want that!"

I did. I did want what they had. I wanted a child. I wanted to be a mommy. I wanted to be a real family -- not just two people trying to make it work. 

But I was also bone-tired. I felt like I'd been through a war -- within, and without. I was battle weary and sad. This feeling of emptiness -- this gaunt want -- just couldn't continue. It had to stop.

So I plopped myself right down on the marble steps of that church, and tried to get a grip on myself.  I was so tired of that feeling.  I was so ready to be free of baby-envy.  It had been going on for too many years.  I really didn't want to want something I couldn't have.  I wanted to be happy with my lot in life.  I was tired of this feeling and I wanted it to stop. 

In my desperation I said to God, "I am not moving from these steps until you heal me of this envy.  I'm going to stare at that family until I can look at them, and not want what they have." 

And then I just sat there watching them.  I couldn't help but notice how tender this young father was with his daughter. It was impossible to not see how devoted this mom was to her young family. 

The love in the child's eyes, the trust in her reach, the joy in her laughter -- as her daddy lifted her up in his arms -- was undeniable.  I could almost feel it from across the gray pavement where I sat perched on the cold marble steps.  

They were oblivious of me -- and of my envy.  While I sat there feeling so utterly helpless -- unable to banish my love for that image of family and parenthood sitting squarely and heavily on my heart -- the thought came with such tenderness, "If you are able to be conscious of how wonderful and good that picture is, then it is already in your consciousness. And if it is in your consciousness, you already include it -- it is already yours."  Well, I "got it" instantly. 

If I could appreciate something -- see that it was good, lovely -- and love-able -- it was already mine.  I included it.  Since, as Mary Baker Eddy says, "Consciousness constructs a better body..." The good that I was clearly conscious of, was already present within me. And it was constructing a better body of family, motherhood, life -- moment-by-moment -- in me.

No one could take - from me - what I was conscious of. Nothing could deprive me of my right to appreciate good -- in any form.  It was mine.  Everytime I saw a young family, a happy home, a satisfied professional, a charitable colleague and appreciated that "picture," I was realizing it in my consciousness. Therefore, I already included it. 

And as I appreciated (realized the value of, and was grateful for) each instance of good, that good appreciated (grew in value -- just the way money placed in an interest accruing account "appreciates") in my own life.  I could trust this law of appreciation.  I could rest my hopes upon it. 

As I unfolded myself from the cold church steps, I found that I was actually warmer than I had been in a long time.  My heart was full of appreciation for that young family -- who were now becoming a distant blur as they walked "daddy" back to his office at the far end of the plaza.

It didn't matter whether there was a young family right in front of me, or just the memory of them that I held in my heart, I already included what they represented. It was already mine and no one could take it from me. I was pregnant with the promise.

I have spent the ensuing years exercising my right to be conscious of good.  To realize that what I am conscious of, is mine. And by virtue of its presence in my thought, is already part of my experience.

For me this has been the key to having all of my dreams already come true. 

Everytime I appreciate seeing girlfriends laughing at a café table, I feel closer to my own friends -- even though they may be hundreds of miles away.  Everytime I see a mother and her teenage daughter shopping, I know that I include that unique mother-daughter joy -- even though my own daughter is now living half a world away.

Whenever I am suddenly aware that a checker at the supermarket, or a customer service representative at the other end of the phone, is happy in her work -- helping others as she carries out her job -- I feel that "job satisfaction" as part of my own work.

Mary Baker Eddy, in her short volume, Unity of Good, says:

"Everything is as real as you make it, and no more so. 
What you see, hear, feel, is a mode of consciousness,
and can have no other reality than the sense
you entertain of it….All that is beautiful and good in
your individual consciousness is permanent."

Walking through life is an amazing adventure.  I now know that what I appreciate of a husband's tenderness, a child's respect, a mother's devotion, a family's security, a home's warmth, an executive's integrity -- is all of my dream's coming true -- wherever I see it. It is mine. I am conscious of it. It is part of the body of my thinking. 

What a vastly wonderful world we live in. What promises there are for us as we walk out the door and commit to seeing, and being grateful for - appreciating - good everywhere. And when we do, we are having our part in the wholeness of impartial and universal good --Love's full-orbed promise.

offered with love,


Kate

"Dust in the wind..."

"I close my eyes,
only for a moment,
and the moment's gone

All my dreams,
pass before my eyes,
a curiosity

Dust in the wind,
all they are is dust in the wind...."

The actual sound of, and the lyrics to, Kansas' "Dust in the Wind," always make me want to cry softly in my pillow for something I can't quite put my finger on.  But, it was the first song that tiptoed across my heart when, a few weeks ago, I found this statement, by Anne Frank, scribbled on a piece of notebook paper in an old journal:

"I have one outstanding trait in my character, which must strike anyone who knows me for any length of time, and that is my knowledge of myself.

I can watch myself and my actions, just like an outsider. The Anne of every day, I can face entirely without prejudice, without making excuses for her, and watch what's good and what's bad about her.

This 'self-consciousness' haunts me, and every time I open my mouth I know as soon as I've spoken whether 'that ought to have been different' or 'that was right as it was.'

There are so many things about myself that I condemn; I couldn't begin to name them all. I understand more and more how true Daddy's words were when he said: 'All children must look after their own upbringing.'

Parents can only give good advice or put them on the right paths, but the final forming of a person's character lies in their own hands."

Anne Frank

I haven't been able to let it go.  It sits on my desk as a reminder...a haunting reminder of the inconsequence of "age" in assessing a "child's" spiritual maturity, and self-awareness. 

In 1945, Holocaust victim Annelies Marie Frank, passed on at the age of fifteen, while interred as a prisoner in the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp.  She is best known as the author of "The Diary of a Young Girl," which records her family's experience, while in hiding (before their capture, separation, and imprisonment), during the Nazi occupation of Amsterdam.  The pathos, and power, of its heart-rending honesty  have been wept over by readers of all ages since its publication in 1947.  

It's impact on my girlhood was life-altering.  I began journaling.  I felt like I had a friend in Anne.  She was a girl like me.  She found herself in a situation that often left her feeling a bit discouraged, but she never stopped dreaming about love, finding life-purpose in the simple act of recording her thoughts, and living with a heart full of hope.

In relationship to Anne, I especially remember being twelve.  In so many ways, I felt helpless.  I didn't have many friends because we moved so often.  Sometimes I was overwhelmed by my family...they were wonderful, but there were so many of them.  Mom, dad, and five siblings all cozied (or crowded) up together in one little house, after another.  And once the twins came along..some years later, we would be a family of ten.

I remember one particular Saturday when, while wandering the stacks at the public library...unable to decide on the next book to disappear into...when I came across my old friend, Anne's slim volume, tucked between two fat novels.

I'd read "The Diary of a Young Girl" a number of times before, but that particular day it was like walking down the street of a foreign city, feeling terribly lonely, unable to speak the language, and then, quite serendipitously, running into an old friend.  Every plan you have had, up till that moment, for how you might spend the day, disappears like "Dust in the Wind," and you can't imagine doing anything but sitting across from her, and listening, and listening...just catching up.

I pulled the small, slim, clothbound book, from between the broad shoulders of her beefy shelfmates, and took it to a quiet corner filled with sunlight.  There, I fell into the hidden rooms,  the whispered dinners, the unspoken fears, the closeted spaces of the Frank family...their courage, their simple joys, the sweet affection, their terrifying ordeal...through their daughter's eyes, and her musings on love and hope.  As the sun moved from east to west that day,  my family complaints...our tiny house, the cacophony of sharing a small bedroom with three sisters, a tight budget, and no privacy...all seemed so silly, petty, selfish, the annoyances of a selfish child...not the concerns of a person of character, courage, self-knowledge, and grace.  Not the concerns of someone worthy of being Anne Frank's friend.  

I read it through, completely, from cover-to-cover, before I left the library that day.  Then I carried it to the librarian's desk and checked it out.  I needed to take Anne home with me.  She would think that my family privileged,  living like American royalty.  Open windows, fresh air, full tummies, baths.  So that I wouldn't forget what I had, I would also visit her home "in hiding" again, and again, before returning her diary to the library when it was due.  Later I would buy my own copy of her diary from the dusty shelves of a used bookstore.   I think my visits with Anne's family,  changed the kind of daughter, and sister, I became...at least for a while.  It's a "place" I think I need to return to more frequently.

Mary Baker Eddy says, in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"Thou art right, immortal Shakespeare, great poet of humanity:

Sweet are the uses of adversity;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.

Trials teach mortals not to lean on a material staff, -  a broken reed, which pierces the heart. We do not half remember this in the sunshine of joy and prosperity. Sorrow is salutary. Through great tribulation we enter the kingdom. Trials are proofs of God's care. Spiritual development germinates not from seed sown in the soil of material hopes, but when these decay, Love propagates anew the higher joys of Spirit, which have no taint of earth. Each successive stage of experience unfolds new views of divine goodness and love."

I believe this is true.  I pray that my friend, Anne...that funny, smart, creative, deeply kind, ridiculously hopeful friend, Anne...found beauty, new views of divine goodness and love wherever her journey has taken her.  That she is enjoying "the higher joys of Spirit, which have no taint of earth."

It is this "taint of earth" that, like "dust in the wind" only lasts for a moment, and then, those moments...of fear, worry, doubt, plotting and planning...are gone.  But what remains has weight, substance...is good,  real, lasting, eternal, and pure.  Like Anne's thought they take root, they germinate in thoughts, they grow wild in us as deeds, and they bear rich, abundant, bountiful fruit...the fruit of lives lived humbly, joyfully, gracefully, simply in service to God, and to mankind.  

If an ordeal-free life is the goal, the measure, the outcome of a well-prayed spirirual existence, none of my heroes have succeeded.  Jesus Christ, Mary Baker Eddy, Julian of Norwich, Anne Frank, Ghandhi, Nelson Mandela, my mom,  my mentor, my best friend..none of them has passed through this human experience without a detour throught a fire, a prison, a war, a loss, a trial, persecution...or two.  But if the measure of a man, woman,...or child, is the self-knowledge, humility, love...and grace...with which he or she,  travels that journey, then my heroes...as well as each of you...are champions. Those fiery ordeals have only served to melt away the dross...the dust, the chaff, the tares...and reveal the substance...the gold...the true metal of who you are. 

Eddy, in her definition of "children," says that they are:

"not in embryo, but in maturity."

Rarely has this statement rung so true, as in the heart of Annelise Marie Frank.  I love her childlike wisdom.  I love the raw self-knowledge, humility, and love she shares with us in the passage above, that opens this post.  I just love her. 

always her friend...and yours,

Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

[lead photo credit:  St. George Island - Ryan Kingsbery 2010]

"Whatever you wish for, you keep..."

"A dream is a wish your heart makes
When you're fast asleep
In dreams you lose your heartaches
Whatever you wish for, you keep
Have faith in your dreams and someday
Your rainbow will come smiling thru
No matter how your heart is grieving
If you keep on believing
the dream that you wish will come true..."
- David/Hoffman/Livingston

I love it when a Disney song, like Cinderella's "A dream is a wish..." speaks to me of God's redemptive, transformative love. Here's the story that goes with this song.

It was a cool, cloudy day in Boston. It had been a very long season of heartache, and I was ready for the quietness of the soft air and less brilliant light.  I took solace in its promise. I needed time to sift through the ashes of the year, and find the gold -- lessons to glean after so many firy trials. 

That year, I'd been stripped of every dream I'd ever cherished. And yet, I was still standing, still breathing, still dreaming.  I was grateful that hope was still alive in me -- that there were desires I still cherished. The devastation hadn't destroyed my ability to dream.  And yet, some days were easier than others.

For the most part, I could navigate all that came in the wake of that year's deep disappointments -- as long as I kept my hand in God's, and my sights on the tasks at hand.  In truth, there was so much to be grateful for. And this space of gratitude became my resting place. Especially when I grew weary of the constant ache -- a longing for the joys of motherhood and family. 

The insidious disease that had lain waste to my body -- earlier that year -- was healed.  The job I'd loved -- but had given up in order to parent our son -- was mine again. And although my husband and I were finding our way through some dark days, we were finding our way. Each day brought us closer to God, if not to each other.

On this particular day, I was truly happy.  I loved my job. I was immersed in projects that stretched me professionally, made great demands on me as a spiritual thinker, and brought me immense joy.  That morning, in the midst of negotiating a contract for outside services, I realized that I needed a signature from a member of our Board of Directors. The Executive Assistant in our office was not at her desk.  But, it was a gorgeous, blustery day in Boston. So I took her absence, as an excuse to wrap myself in a sweater and scarf, and drift across the plaza for the needed signatures myself. 

I took the elevator to the ground floor, and exited the large brass doors that stood sentinel over our building. But as I rounded the steps of the large church to my left, I caught a glimpse of something that stopped me in my tracks.

There, sitting on the curbing that hemmed a rare stretch of urban lawn, was a young family.  Mom, dad, and preschool-age daughter taking time out for a midday visit.  It was easy to see that these were adoring parents. Their hearts were devoted to this precious little girl.  And the look on her face, as she smiled up at them, was something I'd long been dreaming of. 

It stopped me cold.  In one heart-wrenching moment I went from the joy of feeling purposeful and mission-filled, to heart-broken and hopeless.  Envy flooded my being.  You aren't really happy it screamed."  "You want that!"

I did. I did want what they had. I wanted a child. I wanted to be a mommy. I wanted to be a real family -- not just two people trying to make it work. 

But I was also bone-tired. I felt like I'd been through a war -- within, and without. I was battle weary and sad. This feeling of emptiness -- this gaunt want -- just couldn't continue. It had to stop.

So I plopped myself right down on the marble steps of that church, and tried to get a grip on myself.  I was so tired of that feeling.  I was so ready to be free of baby-envy.  It had been going on for too many years.  I really didn't want to want something I couldn't have.  I wanted to be happy with my lot in life.  I was tired of this feeling and I wanted it to stop. 

In my desperation I said to God, "I am not moving from these steps until you heal me of this envy.  I'm going to stare at that family until I can look at them, and not want what they have." 

And then I just sat there watching them.  I couldn't help but notice how tender this young father was with his daughter. It was impossible to not see how devoted this mom was to her young family. 

The love in the child's eyes, the trust in her reach, the joy in her laughter -- as her daddy lifted her up in his arms -- was undeniable.  I could almost feel it from across the gray pavement where I sat perched on the cold marble steps.  

They were oblivious of me -- and my envy.  While I sat there feeling so utterly helpless -- unable to banish my love that image of family and parenthood sitting squarely and heavily on my heart -- the thought came with such tenderness, "If you are able to be conscious of how wonderful and good that picture is, then it is already in your consciousness. And if it is in your consciousness, you already include it -- it is already yours."  I "got it" instantly. 

If I could appreciate something. That it was good, lovely -- and love-able -- it was already mine.  I included it.  Since, as Mary Baker Eddy says, "Consciousness constructs a better body..." The good that I was clearly conscious of, was already present within me. And it was constructing a better body of family, motherhood, life -- moment-by-moment -- in me. 

No one could take, from me, what I was conscious of. Nothing could deprive me of my right to appreciate good -- in any form.  It was mine.  Everytime I saw a young family, a happy home, a satisfied professional, a charitable colleague and appreciated that "picture," I was realizing it in my consciousness. Therefore, I already included it.  And as I appreciated (realized the value of, and was grateful for) each instance of good, that good appreciated (grew in value -- just the way money placed in an interest bearing account "appreciates") in my own life.  I could trust this law of appreciation.  I could rest my hopes upon it. 

As I unfolded myself from the cold church steps, I found that I was actually warmer than I had been in a long time.  My heart was full of appreciation for that young family -- who were now becoming a distant blur as they walked "daddy" back to his office at the far end of the plaza. 

It didn't matter whether there was a young family right in front of me, or just the memory of them that I held in my heart, I included what they represented. It was already mine and no one could take it from me. I was pregnant with the promise.

I have spent the ensuing years exercising my right to be conscious of good.  To realize that what I am conscious of, ismine. And by virtue of its presence in my thought, in already part of my experience. For me this has been the key to having all of my dreams already come true.  Everytime I appreciate seeing girlfriends laughing at a café table, I feel closer to my own friends -- even though they may be hundreds of miles away.  Everytime I see a mother and her teenage daughter shopping, I know that I include that unique mother-daughter joy -- even though my own daughter is now living half a world away. 

Whenever I am suddenly aware that a checker at the supermarket, or a customer service representative at the other end of the phone, is happy in her work -- helping others as she carries out her job -- I feel that "job satisfaction" as part of my own work.

Mary Baker Eddy, in her short volume, Unity of Good, says:

"Everything is as real as you make it, and no more so. 
What you see, hear, feel, is a mode of consciousness,
and can have no other reality than the sense
you entertain of it….All that is beautiful and good in
your individual consciousness is permanent."

Walking through life is an amazing adventure.  I now know that what I appreciate of a husband's tenderness, a child's respect, a mother's devotion, a family's security, a home's warmth, an executive's integrity -- is all of my dream's coming true -- wherever I see i. It is mine. I am conscious of it. It is part of the body of my thinking.  What a vastly wonderful world we live in. What promises there are for us as we walk out the door and commit to seeing good everywhere. And when we do, we are having our part in the wholeness of impartial and universal good.
Kate