"all you have to do is call..."

 "you just call out my name, 

and you know wherever I am, 

I'll come running to see you again.

 

Winter, spring, summer, or fall

all you have to do is call,  

and I'll be there;

you've got a friend..." 

This Mothers' Day, I am thinking about a dear friend and mentor. I am celebrating her in my heart of hearts.  Her recent passing has been one of the hardest losses in my life.  She taught me what it meant to mother a world -- as well as daughters, sons, those who call this office for support, neighbors, and "strangers" on the street.

There were so many times over the course of our friendship when I felt very alone in the twenty-four/seven demands of this work.  There were so many Mothers' Days -- both before and after children joined our home and family -- when my heart was confused or broken, hopeless or overwhelmed -- and she was the calm voice at the other end of the phone.  

Today, I would have given anything to hear her voice.  I listened to favorite songs, hoping to find some comfort, and it was finally Carole King's "You've Got a Friend" that unlocked my heart and allowed my tears to flow freely.  

I could tell you hundreds of stories about her kindness and grace.  I can't open a page in my life's story - at least not in the past 35 years - that she hasn't touched.  And I am not exaggerating, not one bit.  Whether directly or indirectly, her voice left its soft imprint on almost every facet of my heart since we met.  

And the lovely part is, she never tried to do that.  She never asked me to give her credit -- in fact, she would have been horrified if I had.  But I am more compassionate, less self-focused, infinitely more kind and honest because of her love, example, encouragement -- and gentle rebuke.  

And in all the years of our friendship, I never felt special to her -- or even wanted to.  I felt peace.  I felt hope.  I felt seen.  I felt innocent in her heart and in her eyes. 

There was a time, many years ago, when I was so lost and frightened that I didn't know where to turn.  The situation was beyond imagining.  I was a young mother with very young children, no money, and suddenly facing homelessness -- I was paralyzed with fear. We hadn't spoken in a couple of months, but at that time things were simply wonderful.  Soon after however, our family circumstances had shifted drastically.  And I was embarrassed and overwhelmed.  No one knew how bad things were -- and I wasn't about to tell them.  In my life, I was supposed to be the one helping others - it felt beyond the pale of the ego to imagine asking anyone for help.  

Then one night, when we were at the end of our options, God said, "call her."  Oh how I wanted to.  I just wanted to hear the calm in her voice.  I wrestled for hours with: Should I? Could I? What would I say?  This was long before cell phones, and I was grateful that our temporary housing had a phone in the room.  The children were fast asleep and I was alone in the dark.  I picked up the phone and dialed her number.  

When she answered I couldn't speak at first.  I just started weeping.  For the first time in almost a month I felt not-so-alone.  Without asking any questions, she spoke to me of God's love.  She encouraged me to trust.  She said that she knew how much I loved and trusted God.  Then we hung up because it was a long-distance call and I didn't think I could pay for more than a few minutes.  

But it was like Love had switched on a lamp in the room.  I felt peaceful and calm.  I knew the answers would come.  I knew God had brought us together as a family and would sustain us. I could feel the trust that she knew was there all along. 

The next morning, a cashier's check arrived by courier.  My friend had sent enough money to give us room to breathe.  We had never talked about money the night before.  I had not shared with her our financial circumstances.  But she knew.

That same morning, I was led to a solution that completely turned our situation around.  Within days we were back on our feet, housing restored, and a path forward that only hours earlier I could not have even imagined.   It was a pivotal moment in our lives -- and it was filled with clarity, purpose, and an opportunity to serve in ways I hadn't considered before. 

I was soon able to pay my friend back the money she had so generously sent.  But, as often as I told her how grateful I was for her generosity, kindness, and compassion that dark night - she always reminded me that it was God who had moved us both towards eachother in a moment of Love's opportunity.  Her humility and grace were unbounded.  

Since her passing, I have felt every emotion I never expected to feel.  I have felt loss.  I have felt sorrow.  And, I have felt a broader sense of Life and a deeper sense of what eternity is. I have wept tears that have had no clear reason or meaning -- except that when they have dried, and my breathing returns to "normal," I feel a love that is present and substantive.  I feel as if my feet have been washed with those tears. 

I am not going to include quotes in this post. I am going to let its message pool in my heart.  

For all the ways she nurtured, and corrected, and encouraged the best in me - I am more grateful than I have words to say or write.  

offered with Love,

Kate 

"leave a tender moment alone..."

"and if that's how i feel,

then it's the best feeling 

i've ever known; 

it's undeniably real, 

leave a tender moment alone..."

 I was in a friend's waiting room this morning and Billy Joel's  "Leave a Tender Moment Alone,"  came on her office playlist. Because I didn't have a book with me, I sat back and listened to the lyrics. I hadn't heard that song in twenty years. But today, it really spoke to me.

I can't tell you how many times in my life I have felt like I had to say something -- and often, it came out so wrong -- "just to have something to say." 

If there is any one thing that I am most grateful for in this last decades of spiritual growth, it is a willingness to "leave a tender moment alone."  To be at peace with having nothing to say.  To be comfortable with a pause in the conversation so that we - regardless of who I am with -- can listen more deeply for what is right, kind -- truly worthy of saying.  

These "tender moments" are not empty -- they are filled with humility and grace.  They are not full of uncertainty, but rich with confidence. Confidence in our mutual trust -- in the other's deeper conversation with God.  In the silence that informs every next word.  

What a gift this is in a marriage, my relationship with our children, my friendships and my communities of care.  I have never felt that more peacefully than in a recent meeting with a friend.  

It had been weeks since we'd been able to sit across the table from one another.  But with the promise of a beautiful, early autumn day -- and the gift of an outdoor seating area at a nearby cafe, we were able to drop our masks and share a smile.  

We caught up on eachother's "news." We laughed over tea and shared inspiration.  And then there was that pause.  It was so filled with gratitude and love -- that we let it linger.  There was a deep, shared willingness to: 

"Leave a tender moment along..."

 When our conversation resumed, it was with the purest kind of heart-rich wonder.  That tender pause had made space for even more beautiful sharing.  

May all of your conversations today include a pause.  Even the ones that you carry on -- completely within.  As I think about it, I wonder if perhaps this is what I have learned from spending so much quiet time with our dogs.  How to listen-- and how to enjoy tender moments without the need to fill them with words.  Leaning into an interlude of grace.  Poised in the pause. 

with Love, 

Cate 

"in the quietness of now..."

"oh, abide with me,
where it's breathless and it's empty;

yes, abide with me,
and we'll pass the evening gently;

stay awake with me,
and we'll listen more intently..."

Oh, Carrie.

Carrie Newcomer's  "Abide,"  is a most perfect description of the shared silence I so value in our marriage.

There are many day -- and even more nights -- where we share the space of our small home without sharing words. And yet, I have rarely felt so completely heard, understood, and known.

It is this "quietness of now" which allows each of us to serve our communities in the ways that we are most inspired to do -- moment-by-moment. I feel loved and supported in the deep silence of this space we occupy together.

To know that the person I am with, is listening into the quiet - with me - is such a comfort.  And it brings great peace.

Mary Baker Eddy wrote in her 1898 communion message:

"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.” Certain moods of mind find an indefinable pleasure in stillness, soft, silent as the storm's sudden hush; for nature's stillness is voiced with a hum of harmony, the gentle murmur of early morn, the evening's closing vespers, and lyre of bird and brooklet.

“O sacred solitude! divine retreat!"

I have been so blessed to have a life partner, children, dogs, and a friend, who share my love for simplicity, solitude, and silence. In these relationships, I have found the most profound kind of companionship. They are my sanctuary - my home.

I feel blessed -- pure and simple. I feel so blessed.

offered with Love,

Cate 

"it's all a part of sacrament..."

"it's all a part
of sacrament,
as holy as
the day is spent..."

Oh Carrie, you never let me down. When I need a song to speak my heart, I can always find one in your catalog. Thank you for "Holy as the Day is Spent," It is perfect.

I don't know if there will eventually be a song to go with this post -- if one come, wonderful. I will have posted it above, if you are reading this.  However, this piece is not song-driven, but love-demanded. It is a post of gratitude.

Sometimes a friend's contribution to the color of our lives is profound, but deeply subtle. Her impact on me is just that -- profoundly subtle, but infinitely rich.

You see, when I met her, I was older, but she was wiser and more sophisticated in ways that I didn't even know existed. The woman I am today, wears the impress of her love for all things beautiful.

I grew up in a house without art. Or at least that is my memory. I remember there were two paintings on canvas boards that were hidden away in a box.  They were from my mother's brief exploration into the world of painting as a child. But I cannot remember any other artwork on our walls, save the refrigerator art of 8 children.

By the time I met her, my collection of artwork was limited to a few framed prints and a wooden deer that an old friend had carved from a piece of maple he'd found in the Maine woods. I didn't know, what I didn't know. And I didn't know what it meant to love -- what I'd rarely been exposed to -- original works of art in a private home.  Oh, I was very aware of museum art.  But real people didn't own paintings, they only owned prints of paintings that hung in museums.

But my friend knew that original art was accessible, and rather than make fun of my "collection," she began to introduce me to her love for the way light catches the texture of actual paint on canvas. She sowed in me a love for the rich colors found in textile antiquities.  She cultivated in my heart a hunger for original works of sculpture that could be touched and held in your hands -- rather than just look at from the other side of a velvet rope at the Museum of Fine Arts.

We never talked about it. Her cultural awareness, my naivety -- but it was always there.  This actually surprises me today.  I was shy, but I was also quite eager to learn. I think that by the time we could have discussed it, I was too embarrassed to tell her that the framed Sargent print I'd purchased at the MFA Gift shop, was the finest piece of art I'd ever owned. So, I just watched her navigate the world of real art. And I watched with the absorbed interest of an acolyte.  I wanted to know everything, and she was generous with her sharing.

I remember the first original piece of art I purchased for my own space. It was a small oil on canvas by a young artist whose work made my heart tighten -- and I loved it. From there I branched into larger pieces with a bolder confidence in my own preferences for color, subject-matter, texture.

Before I knew it, I'd discovered the joy of patronage. To find a young artist whose work delighted my soul, and to begin  collecting, or gifting, his/her original work.

I remember asking my husband once if there was anything that he had always wanted -- thinking he might describe for me a particular model of car, or a signature guitar. But he became very quiet and told me that he had always wanted to own a painting by a childhood friend who had become a fine artist. He loved his work. That sealed eternity for us in my heart. And although gifting him with that painting took a couple of years, it is still one of my favorite moments in our marriage.

Now you may think that this is a strange post for someone who writes about the intersection of the spiritual and the visceral. The collision of the inner landscape with the outward experience. But that is just what this post is about.

For me, art is a sacrament. Webster defines "sacrament" as:

“an outward and visible sign,
of an inward or spiritual grace..."
 

Yes, this is what this post is all about. It is about a woman who introduced me to the sacrament of beauty. The "beauty of holiness.:  She could have left me to my own sensibilities. But instead she shared with me her love for what had life and texture, visual pathos and poetry.  I love her.  I think of her each time I escape into the deep and sacred space of a Brooks Anderson landscape, a Melissa Miller sky, a Caitlin Heimerl vista, a Debra Myers abstract, a Nancy Pollack "equation," a Carol Carter bird-in-flight, a Lillian Sly floral, or a Duncan Martin shoreline.

Today, our few walls are lined with the paintings of artists we love -- and believe in. Some have been purchased on a "whim" and others on installment plans. While we drive old cars, and buy most other things at resale/consignment shops, we invest in art. We invest in the birth of beauty, rising from the hearts and hands of those who are boldly and courageously willing to share their inner landscape with us. 

I cannot begin to say how grateful I am for the kindness my friend showed me in taking me to her favorite galleries, lunching with me at the Museum of Fine Arts - while discussing a recent exhibit, allowing me to hang her textile fragments in my office, introducing me to Shaker simplicity, or sharing her love of texture and color with me as if I were her peer in appreciating art. It changed me.

And yes, there is now a song. You may have noticed.

offered with Love - and fathomless gratitude to you -- my dear friend,

Kate

"just call me, and I'll always be there...."

"You with the sad eyes,
don't be discouraged;
though I realize
it's hard to take courage
in a world full of people
you can lose sight of it all;

and the darkness inside,
can make you feel so small..."

Endless Summer's cover of Cyndi Lauper's "True Colors," is kind. And yes, a performance of a song can be kind. This is.

I love the message of this song. A lot. Today, as I was hiking back up a steep (for me) hill. I felt a sliver of darkness trying to creep in and make me feel small. I know that feeling of smallness. There have been times in my life when this smallness has felt like the only thing present.

I am not a perfect human. In the past, I have let fear and doubt bully me into behaviors that I am not proud of. For such a long time, those mistakes felt like the only milestones that peppered my timeline. I couldn't remember a single positive period in my life, without the gremlin of mistake poking its head in and saying, "don't bother smiling about that moment -- it was so small in light of all the mistakes you have made."

This verse from True Colors always touches me deeply:

"Show me a smile then
don't be unhappy.
I can't remember when
I last saw you laughing.

This world makes you crazy
taking all that you can bear.

Just call me up,
'cause I'll always be there...."

Every where I looked, I had reasons for self-doubt and regret. I had always wanted to be - only good. To be loved, liked, accepted -- to belong. That hunger for belonging was ravenous. If you have ever been truly hungry, you know that it is not a feeling you can just ignore. It twists and aches in you. Those who have known real hunger will tell you that there comes a point where you will eat the unthinkable, just to make it stop.

I have known that kind of social and spiritual hunger. And I would have done anything to make it stop. In some instances I did whatever it took to alleviate the ache of loneliness and the feeling of being detached from Love.

So what changed. I found someone. Someone who had realized that their life's purpose was being the one who saw the true spectrum of each person's "true colors" through the lens of Christian Science practice. And I knew from our very first conversation that no matter what horror story I told them about my "past," they would never - ever - believe it.

It was like re-telling a nightmare to your mom. She loves you, she listens, she assures you that it never happened (or would ever happen) and then she reminds you to eat your breakfast and not forget your homework.

There was never a sharp intake of breath, never a sigh of "oh my gosh," or a moving away from me -- only love. Always love. Always there. Even when I couldn't see my own worth. They did. And through their eyes, I began to understand that what was true about me, was not in contrast with what was false, -- it was all.

In their eyes, I felt seen. Through the lens of their heart I felt known -- and beautiful.  I felt like a child of God.

And in their eyes, I wasn't just the bright light of my good moments, or the darkness of my bad choices. I was also the soft blues of gentleness, the fervent reds of fierce hope, the rich greens of a verdant faith, the deep purples of earnest devotion, the brown sackcloth of self-immolation and surrender, the sunflower yellows and September golds of harvested experiences. Each one, pointing to the presence of light itself -- with its wholeness of spectrum, tone, saturation, hue.

In their eyes, I saw the fullness of my heart's deepest desire -- to be good. And it was that desire that turned even the darkest day feel like an opportunity to discover the beauty of slate blue, charcoal gray, sea green, and bleached wheat.

I am so grateful. When someone truly sees you, they don't just stand on the other side of the chasm, and tell you to cross over.  But they hold out their hand, pull in beside you, and offer to walk you forward -- that is love. Pure and simple. It is love.

offered with Love,

Cate

"Love isn't something that we find...."

"Love isn't something
that we find,
it's something that we do...”

Clint Black's 1997 love song,  "Something That We Do"  often comes to me when I am reading the gospels. It always makes me think of Jesus' life. Love wasn't in his words, it was the "how" of his living.

And even though Clint wrote this song about his marriage, it speaks to many paradigms about Love.  Love for our children, those we serve, fellow church members, work colleagues, neighbors, and yes, significant others and spouses.  Even love for our jobs, communities, employers, public servants.

Today, for me, it addresses the lie that love is waiting for the right object for its affections -- in order to fully be itself.  Waiting for the right person or situation to come along.   Or that we have a choice about whether (or not) to love, what to love, when to love, or who to love.  That we have the capacity to assesses something (or someone's) deserving and then we have the right to decide whether to extend affections. Love is not a choice. Love is not a reward to dole out.  This passage from Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy is, for me, so clarifying and assuring:

"Life is, always has been,
and ever will be independent
of matter; for Life is God..."

So, you might wonder, how does that related to Love? Well, Love and Life are synonymous [Webster: "one directly implies the other'] So to say that Life is independent of matter, also implies that Love is independent of person, place, or circumstance.

Love -- true Love -- is not dependent on anything. Love is self-existent. Love does not assess deserving, and then choose what it will bestow its affection upon. Just as the sun does not choose what to shine on. Love, like the sun, is impartial about the object of its expression. It loves, because it can do no less. Love that can be stopped, averted, decreased, or managed -- is not Love. It might be a sense of human affection or personal bestowal -- but it is not Love.

Leonard Nimoy once wrote:

"If Love can be withdrawn,
it never was."

I can't think of a truer statement about love.

Now we might -- out of love for someone -- step back from the immediacy of a relationship, and let growth occur, or we might let there be space for deeper listening, self-examination, or a shift in the shape of that love and the role we each play. We might feel Love-led to release someone from a human sense of belonging to us, for a deeper sense of trust in God's appointing and anointing. But make no mistake, Love itself cannot be withdrawn -- it is invariable and eternal. The love that once was, always will be. Love isn't something we control humanly, it is the spiritual power that controls us.

Love isn't waiting for us to find the right person, to manage it as a resource, or control it like a bank account. Love is so much more than a human emotion which we find, fall into, or fight for -- or against. Love is the ultimate power working in us. Moving us into alignment with God's purpose for us.

Love uses us. We don't use Love.  We don't apply it, or decide to repress it.  Love is more powerful than our decisions, aims, or adaptations.  Love is everything.  Or as Mary Baker Eddy tells us in her poem, "Love:"

"Love alone is Life..."

Love is not a choice, it is not a decision, it is not a reward, it is not a gift. Love is the ultimate power of God working in us - governing, guiding, impelling, silencing. Love is the great imperative. It is our Life.

offered with Love,

Cate

"at seventeen..."

"And those of us
with average faces,
lacking in the social graces;
desperately remained at home..."

My friend, Kathy, posted this gorgeous photo of a single peony [credit: Lynn Price] and it immediately took me back to being seventeen, and Janis Ian's 1970's anthem   "At Seventeen."  I would sing it to myself and hold back the tears.  At seventeen, I was very short, socially awkward, lonely, and desperate for friendship.

Our family of ten - two parents and eight children - lived in a 1,000 square foot carriage house on a large rural estate. The closest village was about two miles away and housed about 100 families at the most. I didn't make friends easily. That was my younger sister's job. I rode the school bus. Worked hard in school. Came home and did chores and homework. Baby sat my siblings, went to Sunday School, served on our Adventure Unlimited Teen Council board, and helped out at a horse farm across the street. That was my life.

If I didn't meet you on the school bus, it was unlikely you would have noticed me in the halls. I spent my lunch hours in the library -- is there any more frightening place for a "new girl" than the cafeteria, or in a gym class lineup, waiting to be chosen for a team sport.  I kept my head down and my back straight. It was unlikely that I would have had any friends at all, if it hadn't been for my popular younger sister.

Then one day, while sitting on the bus waiting for everyone who always arrived late -- as they boarded laughing and chatting with their friends -- a senior from our little town came up and sat down next to me. Her name was Patricia White. She was popular and pretty. She asked me questions about myself until we reached her stop. When she got off the bus, she said, "Save me a seat tomorrow." I was stunned. That one conversation changed everything for me.

No, it didn't' suddenly make me more confident or popular, but it no longer mattered quite as much - I had a friend. At first, when we saw each other in the halls at school, I'd look away.  I was certain that she was only being nice to me on the bus - pitying the new girl. But each time, she would call out my name and make eye contact. It meant the world to me.

Soon it was time for her prom and graduation. I was so grateful for the kindness she had shown me that year. It had lifted me out of a despair so deep I don't know if I'd have been able to sustain my fragile normalcy for long without her.

I wanted to say "thank you" to her, but I just didn't know if I had the right words - or if they would really mean anything to such a well-liked and popular girl.

Then one morning, while walking to the school bus, my hand trailed along the hedge row of peony bushes, in bloom, that lined our flagstone walkway. The fragrance was so lovely. It reminded me of Patty and the soft blush of her cheeks when she was happy, or as she climbed the steps of the school bus in the afternoon -- excited to share an anecdote from her day.

The night before graduation I went into the garden and cut a beautiful fist-sized peony blossom that was only beginning to unfurl. I took it into the kitchen and wrapped the stem in a wet paper towel and then tin-foil. I tried to make it as professional looking as I could. Then I found a hair ribbon and wrapped that around the tin-foil and tied a simple bow.

I walked the mile and a half to her house and presented her with my "corsage" for her graduation. I didn't say very much. Words just didn't come. But she knew. The next day after the graduation ceremony, Patty was wearing the large, floppy corsage I had given her. It looked heavy, and pulled at the fabric of her dress. But she wore it anyway.

I knew that my homemade corsage was awkward -- like me. But she loved it. And it made me feel beautiful to know that she cared more about our friendship than the drape of her dress. She had made seventeen feel like a prelude to something wondrous and beautiful -- rather than just another year of being the new girl.

There is not much more to this story. Patty passed away soon after graduation in a tragic accident. I learned at her memorial service that from the time she was a girl, she had made others feel just as loved, seen, and heard as she had made me feel that year. I have never forgotten how one person can turn the tide of things, from social hell to a little piece of heaven on earth. The scent of peonies will always remind me of her kindness.




offered with Love,

Kate

Here is a lovely video of Janis Ian talking about her song   "At Seventeen."  decades later.

"a voice..."

"Numbers and photographs
do not a person make.

I'm more than what
a page can say of me.

My identity is not
in my history..."

I was in the middle of writing another post when my friend, Scott - a brilliant musician - shared a new video of Kat Edmundson performing her hauntingly lovely  "A Voice,"and from that moment on, it was all I could write about.

Some songs, like Ellis' "Right Time," and Sara Groves' "Less Like Scars," stop me in my tracks and send fissures all along the fragile shell of what I think I know and feel at the moment.

This song was composure-shattering for me. First, it took my breath away -- literally. Once the last note sounded, I felt a shudder of air, and tears, and a tender tightness in my throat and chest. It took me by surprise. A good song will get stuck in your head. A great song will break your heart open so that all the world can fall in - and find hope.

I've been waiting for this moment for months now. I've tiptoed through my days like a once-broke teacup held together with flour paste and baling twine. "Don't bump into anyone who you know might see the cracks. Be the love -- don't let yourself be loved. Too much kindness and the tears might start falling and who knows if you will be able to make them stop."

I knew I was getting close to this moment when I hugged a friend goodbye on Sunday, and the warmth of her hug sent a new series of fine cracks through the veneer of my equanimity. I quickly excused myself, mentally touched up my mask of self-possession and hurried to the car. I knew I was postponing the inevitable, but at least it didn't have to happen with an audience.

Jeff is out of town. I've had wonderful days - and nights - in the office. Caring for others, holds the hounds at bay. But tonight, just when I thought I could take a deeper breath and not have it end in a sob -- Kat's song found me.

It wasn't just the words -- which are so poignantly beautiful. It is the sound of her voice -- the clear, raw honesty, her unflinching willingness to speak to the demon that "names us, and claims us, and shames us all," -- to quote James Taylor. And that demon is relentless.  It is the ego. The small "I" that screams we are not enough.

I don't know about any of you, but no matter how many wonderful people I am surrounded by, when that demon starts hissing its self-hate, the only voice that can truly silence its hideous sound, is the voice of The One that speaks from within. The Voice of divine Love. The Voice that speaks out from the fathomless depths of the kingdom of God - within us all.

It is the Voice of the Friend -- of the friendless. And it never fails to reach us when we think we are on our last leg, don't have a breath left to hold, and the rope is fraying at the edge of the abyss. It is the voice that says, "I love you, I've got you, you can do this hard thing..." And we realize -- we can.

In fact, we realize, we are. And we have. And we will.

I am so thankful for all the ways we are pointed to the Truth of this voice within. A song, a story, a hug, a beautiful sunrise -- it all reminds us that there is something within us that hears, listens, sees -- is aware of the presence God. This thanks is the marriage of divinity with humanity.

So. On an ordinary day, when the world might seem cold, unfeeling, dismissive, greedy, and sarcastic -- someone shares a song. And we listen. And we break. And through the cracks, the light shines through. And then we begin to feel the warmth of that light - the light of divine Love seeping into the darkness -- into places that, only moments before, felt cold and fragile.  And so, we go a little deeper.  And we discover a little more. We let the shell shards go.

We are humans. We sing to find the humanity in one another. And in ourselves.  And that thread of humanity leads us to our divinity -- what can't be shaken or taken.  The light within.

Thank you Scott.

offered with Love,

Kate

"i am a mental traveler..."

"A mental traveler
hasn't the need to eat or sleep..."

The experience I am sharing today includes another person's insights and words.  But this is really about my experience with what she shared. I am not attempting to interpret her experience or her conclusions.

That said,  years later I asked her if she wouldn't mind my sharing how her example had impacted me. That permission was given in hopes that it would lead to less judging of another person's experience, and a deeper trust in the presence of God. This is my best recollection of conversations that took place decades ago:

Today's inspiration isn't a song -- it is a moment from one of my favorite films of all time -- "Out of Africa." Karin is entertaining Denis Finch-Hatton and Barkley Cole, when Denis asks her about her life travels. She responds that she is  "a Mental Traveler."  I remember seeing this film for the first time in 1985 and falling in love with Isak Dineson as a writer, a woman, a dreamer -- and yes, a mental traveler.

I was madly in love with everything about this film -- especially its characterization of Karin Blixen. "Me too, me too" -- I wanted to say from my theatre seat. I, too, am a mental traveler. I, too, dream of Africa. I, too, have no need to eat or sleep -- just to dream in stories.

I didn't know how precious this insight - about mental traveling  - would be for me, until later. I'd grown up having known a beautiful active woman of my mother's generation. She was the kind of wife and mother one dreams of having or being. Hiking, riding, leading campfires -- she was someone I admired and loved. Her family called her blessed -- and so did everyone else I knew.

One day - after only having spoken by phone for years - I saw her at an event, and she was in a wheelchair. I was heartbroken for her -- and her family. I could only imagine all the things she would no longer be able to do. I also knew her as a devoted spiritual healer, and her situation seemed to scream -- to me, in my immaturity -- that there was something she had not healed.

In the meantime, I was also aware that her husband and children remained extremely active -- mountaineering, world travel, concerts, trips to see friends. I was so sad that she was not able to join them in many of these activities.

She was also someone I looked up to professionally as an experienced spiritual healer, and over the years, I had often called her to talk about our shared love for this work. One day, when we happened to find ourselves alone together, I asked how she was doing. She must have sensed my sympathy, and pressed me to be more clear about my concern. So I did.

I asked her how she was coping with being trapped in a wheelchair, and if she was disappointed that her "healing" hadn't happened yet. She looked at me as if I had absolutely lost my mind.  I could tell that my sense of her situation, was completely inconsistent with what she herself was experiencing.  When she realized what I was asking, she smiled, and then, leaning into the space between us and said, "Oh darling, I am exactly as I need to be. I love what I do, and now, no one expects me to do anything else. I get to be still, take calls, and pray all day."

I asked her if she didn't miss traveling, hiking, going places with her family. She was even more gentle with me as she explained that she was "a mental traveler," and that she prayed with her family - through every activity and adventure. She wasn't missing anything. And in this she was firm. She was content and happy. I was the one who was projecting my concerns about what I was seeing, onto the screen of her beautiful, peace-filled life.

I immediately understood that I had been mal-practicing her joy. Disappointment hadn't touched her at all. But it had distorted my own view of her situation, and what I thought happiness should mean to her. I was the one who was trapped in my version of things.  She was satisfied, free of concern, and at peace.

She would later explain to me that she had fully enjoyed her chapter as a physically active mother and wife. But that this was her current calling as a mom and life-partner -- to be completely focused on the spiritual support that she was giving to her family -- and the people who called her for that same spiritual support each day as a Christian Science healer.

I have never forgotten this conversation. What actually needed to be healed was my sense of what I was seeing -- not her sense of her experience. And I could not be manipulated by a false sense of things. I had the right  -- and the responsibility -- to see that God was with her, and that nothing had touched her ability to be true to her purpose.

In referring to Paul's epistle to the Romans, Mary Baker Eddy writes:


"It is ignorance and false belief, based on a material sense of things, which hide spiritual beauty and goodness. Understanding this, Paul said: “Neither death, nor life, . . . nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God.

This is the doctrine of Christian Science: that divine Love cannot be deprived of its manifestation, or object; that joy cannot be turned into sorrow, for sorrow is not the master of joy; that good can never produce evil; that matter can never produce mind nor life result in death. The perfect man — governed by God, his perfect Principle — is sinless and eternal.

Harmony is produced by its Principle, is controlled by it and abides with it. Divine Principle is the Life of man. Man’s happiness is not, therefore, at the disposal of physical sense."

This statement always makes me think of my friend. She taught me that nothing could have ever separated her from her right to be loving, grateful, satisfied. She taught me that it wasn't my job to assess a situation through the lens of what I believed things "should" look like, but to simply see God's hand in every moment. To trust God's all-power at every juncture in Life's beautiful, unfolding journey. To see only His love at the helm of each unfolding opportunity.  Opportunities that would serve to draw me high unto Him. And, above all, to do His will -- which we learn in I Thessalonians is:

"In everything give thanks;
for this is the will of God
in Christ Jesus concerning you."

I can do that. I can be grateful in every moment for the only thing that is true -- God is with me. I am not alone. Wherever I am, whatever my circumstances are -- God is there. For, as the Psalmist asks, "whither shall I go from Thy spirit, or whither shall I flee from Thy presence..."

I am a mental traveler -- whether that traveling is articulated in movement through geo-physical space or by leaps and bounds through the pages of sacred texts, through time zones and across continents or bridging the abyss between human hearts -- I am satisfied, complete and my life is divinely fair.

offered with Love,

Kate

"when I was fourteen..."

"Send me away 
with the words
of a love song..."

For the last year - or so, I have been hearing the first line of something -- but I haven't known what it was meant to become. A post, a poem, a conversation I needed to have with someone? Then today, I heard it in the context of the Hemingway quote that gave voice to the last, most recent post on this blog, "Write hard and clear about what hurts."

That was when I knew. That first sentence was a prompt, a reminder.  And it wasn't giving up.  It was saying, over-and-over again, "You need to write about this:

"when I was fourteen..." 

So today, I stopped and listened. And it was like a sucker punch to my heart.  I sighed deeply.  "Yes," I thought, "this is what once hurt, and needs to be written."

A few years back, there was a song, by The Band Perry, titled,"If I Die Young," It may sound self-indulgent, dramatic, and morbid, but whenever I heard it I wanted to weep for the girl I was at fourteen. Sometimes death comes to us in ways that aren't an escape - we just have to find a path through.

When I was fourteen, my life finally felt like it was becoming livable. The abuse I'd endured since the age of four had all but stopped -- when my family began to explore a deeper understanding of our individual and collective relationship with God.  We still moved houses regularly, but I had a real friend for the first time in my life. A friend that I wasn't related to.  A friend that didn't disappear when we changed neighborhoods and zip codes.

You see, even though we changed schools, we still lived in the same town and went to the same church. I was still able to participate in the same camp-based local activities. For the first time, there was continuity in my life - one that extended beyond my family.  And there was hope for a future that included my dream of having a life-long friend -- something I'd only read about in books.

I loved my new Sunday School friend.  We rode bikes, sat by the pool, went to movies, and talked about things that mattered.

And then one day, we had a family meeting. My parents told us that we were moving -- again. But this time it was going to be out-of-state and time zones away. Spontaneous phone calls, movies, sleepovers on weekends -- were over. Long-distance phone rates would make calling impossible.

Saying goodbye that last Sunday after church was one of the most painful moments of my childhood. As our parents waited, my friend and I said goodbye and promised to write letters -- every day. Later that week my family loaded up our station wagon and we were on the road to a new state, a new town, new schools, a new neighborhood, and a new church home. I saved my babysitting money, I bought pretty stationery and postage stamps. I wrote my friend almost every day. She never wrote back.

For a year I checked the mailbox daily - the minute I got home from school. If it was empty, the first question I would ask my mother as I flew through the kitchen door was, "Was there a letter today?' There never was.

You may be wondering why I feel the need to write about this tonight -- isn't it just water under the bridge? Well, besides the fact that I kept hearing that one line: "When I was fourteen..." it is because it was a great hurt that I can now write hard and clear about.  

And if I have learned anything after six decades of living in this world, it is that we are never alone in the pain we have experienced. To feel dismissible when you are doing everything to connect with another human being is heartbreaking. It can make you want to "die young" -- as it did me.  So, if there is someone out there feeling this kind of loneliness -- I need for them to know, you are not alone.

For many people, their lives are filled to the brim with continuity and connection. They grow up in loving homes, they have the same friends throughout childhood, they are embarrassed by indulgent parents, and overwhelmed by a hyper vigilant community that knows everything about them and the details of their lives. 

 If you are one of those people, I can't tell you how much I envied you -- most my life.

But for some of us, life was lonely. We dreamed of familiarity, connection, continuity of place and people. When we finally had a friend, we were willing to do anything to keep that thread intact. And sometimes we made grave mistakes. We over compensated, we gave gifts that seem too generous, we called, wrote, texted more than we should, we hesitated to say "the hard things" for fear of being rejected or dismissed, we are too easily crushed and too quickly hurt. We take things too personally. We are too grateful one minute and too needy the next.

If you have lived a life filled with family, friendship, connection, and community you are blessed. If you have a friend who has come into your life and seems too needy, or too willing, or too eager to write, call, text -- please be patient and kind. If your child has a friend who moves away and writes them a letter - please encourage them to reply. It may be the single most important thing they do for another human being. Rejection hurts.  Childhood rejection is devastating -- even when it is done without malice or rancor -- which I am absolutely certain was the case with my Sunday School friend.  She was just a girl herself.  She just had a full life.  I was simply that extra drop that flowed over the edge of the cup.

But, I still remember the name of my friend. I still think about her all the time - almost 50 years later. I wonder if she ever read my letters -- on pretty stationery spritzed with Love's Baby Soft perfume and filled with all the details of a 14 year old's life in a strange new place where she felt more alone than ever before. 

 Did she like the four-leaf clovers I found, pressed, and tucked in with the program from my new school's homecoming festivities. Did she ever even read the poem about friendship that I finally found the courage to send?  Did she ever wonder whether the boy I told her about was kind or funny?  

She was beautiful and popular.  She had many friends.  Her life didn't change when I left. I was just a small, shy girl who she meant the world to. A church friend. But to me, she was my first real friend. 

 Sometimes, I just think of what she may have missed -- a lifelong relationship with someone who thought she was very, very special. Someone for whom she was a refuge of friendship, in an unfriendly world. Someone who would have never let her down.

Mary Baker Eddy wrote in her autobiography, Retrospection and Introspection:

"There is no greater miracle
known to earth, than perfection
and an unbroken friendship."

 
I pray she knows that I would have been in her corner forever. I would have done anything to be the friend she may have needed someday - and could always turn to.

Since then I have been blessed by some amazing friendships. But being a friend is not something I am always confident about. I am often awkward in groups, I shut down if I feel insecure, I don't always know what to say, I take things too personally, I need a "job" to be at ease in social settings.  Yet I am always trying to be the friend I never had as a child, or as a teenager.

I don't think I am the only one who has ever felt "friendless."  Friendship is hard.  It requires a level of vulnerability that leaves us feeling naked in a crowd. It also requires trust in a Love that overarches those moments when we do feel alone in a world obsessed with group selfies, and accumulating "likes," on social media.  A love that can't be measured, apportioned, given, taken back, extended, or unfriended.

Elsewhere in her primary work, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy offers this encouragement to anyone who has ever felt lonely and friendless:

"Would existence without personal friends
be to you a blank? Then the time will come
when you will be solitary, left without sympathy;
but this seeming vacuum is already filled
with divine Love."

 
This statement was a promise for me as a fourteen year old girl waiting for a letter in the mail.  And tonight, as I look back at that chapter in my life, I realize God was always there in my heart.  I was filled with love and hope.  I was the one who had the courage and strength to love someone, even when there was no response.

Tonight I am writing as hard and clear as I can, about something that once hurt, but is now a memory of the sweet, shy girl I was. The girl who never stopped hoping.  I write, in hopes that it will help someone else remember how rare and remarkable it is - in this world - to be loved and believed in by another person.   And maybe - just maybe - to hold hands across the miles with someone else who feels alone.  If you write, I promise -- I will always answer.

offered with Love,

Kate

"there's a reason for the world..."

"there's a reason for the world,
You and I..."

There are days when everywhere I turn there are reports of heartache and hopelessness. As a spiritual healer, that's what I do. I am available to help others find the softest ray of hope in the middle of despair, a glimmer of light in the midst of darkness -- the presence of God, where the evidence seems contrary.

Recently a dear friend asked my a question -- one that I have heard articulated in hundreds of ways over the last three decades, "What is the reason for it all?" The question boils down to this, "If Life is spiritual, and the ultimate reality is not defined by human existence, why are we even here?"

Today, Five for Fightings's "The Riddle," gave me words that I could hang my thoughts upon. Here are the lyrics, if you would like to read them.

Mary Baker Eddy makes this statement in her primary work, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"Mortal existence is an enigma.
Every day is a mystery."  

I have read that passage as many times as I have heard the question.  And although I have always felt that there had to be an answer -- to that enigma [riddle], I have only ever glimpsed a fleeting shadow of its truth.  But today, while listening to Five for Fighting's "The Riddle," things started to fall into place for me. And I really mean "for me." I can only speak to what I am feeling about this "riddle" - and only about today's insight.

That said, for me, it is becoming clearer that our human experience is all about relationships. It is not about succeeding at a particular career, interest, or avocation. It is not about accumulating property, money, prestige, or awards. Those are only props and vehicles. I believe that the real "reason for it all" is "you and I."

The houses we dream of building, the cars we think will define us, the competitions we hope to win, the awards we accumulate, the degrees we earn, the weddings we create, the environment we save, the celebrations we host, the money we save -- or spend, the bodies we shape, and clothe, and starve and indulge -- they are not the endgame. They are simply there as props on this stage of human experience. As vehicle to get us to where we will deepen our understanding of what is important. The real goal is to stretch and strengthen our focus on what really counts -- you and I -- and how we love.

Our relationships are the place where love either happens, or is waiting to happen. It is in our relationships that we discover the deepest sense of God as Love. But how often do we let something get in the way of that discovery. 

 We might let a competition convince us that comparing ourselves with others is reasonable - and make us feel we need to distance ourselves from the "other" in order to be competitive. We may turn away from building fellowship, because of a disagreement about policy, procedure, politics, and polarization. We might allow being "right" to trump being kind. Or we let "fear of being thought ridiculous," get in the way of saying what is in our heart.

I see it everyday. Heck, I feel it everyday. I am afraid that someone will not return my affection, so I don't reach out in friendship. I hesitate. I equivocate. I let something petty get in the way of the miracle of an unbroken friendship.

There are a million stories in this naked city of my heart's failure to say, "the heck with being right, understood, or emotionally safe -- I am going to be me, and love, love, love."

I am beginning to feel that the bravest thing we will ever do is love without fear of being rejected. That the only thing that will ever make a real difference in the lives of our children, our friends, our neighbors -- and yes, our "enemies," -- is to love, especially when everything in us feels vulnerable, afraid, and insecure. To love in a way that never leaves anyone feeling alone in this world. When we love, not in spite of how our love might be received, or how we might be treated, or thought of -- but instead of. This is our real reason for existing.

How often do we judge the deserving of others to experience our love. We weigh their words, choices, or actions, and then, we allow that assessment, to determine our own words, choices, and actions. But what if we just loved. Loved because it is who we are -- not because it is what we have decided someone else deserves. We cease to be reactionary -- and become revolutionary.

We stop basing our lives on how someone else's behavior will -  or will not - gives us permission to react. We begin to live with true courage -- to act out from the fullness of that Love which operates unspent within our hearts. 

 The heart is not a measuring stick, or a sorting hat, but a lens through which we see the world as a place where we have a reason for existing -- to love. To love without regard for self. To love without an agenda. To love without reason. To love without condition of reciprocity. To love without judgment of another's deserving -- or our own.

How often have we heard that no one leaves this experience wishing they'd bought another house, or earned more money, or won another competition -- but wishing that they'd spent more time with their loved ones, done more to improve the lives of their neighbors, forgiven a long-held hurt, said what what in their hearts.

I may be wrong. I often am. As I navigate the laboratory of this human experience, I sometimes feel fragile and small. But I am getting better at giving myself permission to be all of those things -- to not get everything just right. To make mistakes. To learn how to do it differently. Because as long as I am learning more about how to love as God loves -- more consistently, more universally, more impartially, more humbly, and fearlessly -- I am living on purpose, and with intention.  When I love freely, I am free.

In her poem titled, "Love," Eddy offers this guidance as we navigate the riddle of human existence:

"for Love alone is Life;
and life most sweet,
as heart to heart
speaks kindly
when we meet and part."  

Yes, I think that this may be the reason for it all -- you and I.

offered with Love,

Kate

postscript: 

I had an insight this morning that took my breath away. I'd been up most of the night thinking about this post. I'd fallen asleep as the sun was coming up. When I woke again an hour later it was with a start. I'd always loved thinking about relationships through the metaphor of the sun and its rays.  

The sun, God, is like the circle I would draw as a child. The rays would branch out from a central circle -- in spokes. I've often thought of how if I were to put my fingers at the farthest ends of two of those rays, they only become closer when those fingers move towards the sun -- God.

But this morning, I realized that when two rays are closest to each other, they are closer to the Sun, God. My goal in life is to draw "nigh unto Him," I do this best when I am closest to you. Just a thought -- offered with Love.

"because I knew you..."

"who can say if I've been
changed for the better,
but because I knew you,
I have been changed for good..."

I was deeply moved watching Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel's final performance of "For Good." What a beautiful way to circle back, bringing sweet closure to a year that has been full of opportunities for spiritual growth -- but all, for good.

I can't help but think of the experiences and people that have touched my life. Each one has changed me -- for good. Yes, each one for good.  For good [vs. for bad] -- but also for good, meaning forever. Because of you, I will never be the same shy girl, the broken waif, the bitter teen, the confused and self-destructive young woman, I once was.

It didn't happen in a flash. But it happened. Little by little, each of you has given me an insight, an experience, a perspective that has shifted my sense of things, and these shifts in consciousness have changed me -- for good.

I noticed a significant change just the other day. I was having an online conversation with another woman. She was describing a new project she was excited about. And I was just as excited for her as I would have been if I were launching a new venture. There was no comparison, no desire to respond with my own accomplishment, none of the old feelings of failure. I was genuinely happy. Not just for her, but for the world we share -- I was happy that something new and beautiful was being born, and it didn't have to have anything to do with me.

I've been thinking a lot about this since that realization. I have noticed how content I feel with my life. All the old ambition to "become" something has melted away. All the desire for having the cutest house on the block -- is gone. I feel peaceful in a way that I can't ever remember feeling before. It's lovely.

I have been changed -- for good. There is a deep contentment in witnessing the accomplishments, successes, and achievements of others. There is peace in just showing up for my life -- my family, my friends, my community, my work -- without the need to prove anything to anyone, but God.

Recently I have been looking deeply into what Mary Baker Eddy's writings contribute to my relationship with others. There are too many profound insights to share in one post, but this long-loved statement from her autobiography, Retrospection and Introspection bears repeating:

"There are no greater miracles
known to earth than perfection
and an unbroken friendship." 

Yes, it implies the importance of sustained affection between friends. But "no greater miracle?" When I was a girl, my family moved around -- a lot. My sister was my only enduring relationship. We had our ups and downs. We shared a bedroom, clothes, friends, and interests. We fought. Because I really didn't have any other long-term relationships -- until after high school, I was ill-equipped for the comings and goings of affection in friendship. I thought everyone would be like my sister. Regardless of what we'd done, or said, to one another -- we couldn't "break up." Not so.

It took me many years to discover that my relationship with my sister was one of the most precious gifts in my life. But it also took me as many years to discover that I needed to nurture friendships beyond what was easy or even necessarily expected. If I wanted to understand the "miracle," it was incumbent upon me to invest the time, attention, affection, and forgiveness that it would take for any version of "us," to weather the ups and down of being in relationship with another human being. Over the years, I began to see the profound wisdom in Eddy's words. Each of those relationships have, and continue to, change me for good -- and that's the miracle.

But what about the other relationships in my life -- the ones that I can't file under the heading of "friend?"  What about those people who have come into my life, and for one reason or another -- or at one moment or another -- I might have had a contentious, envious, dismissive, or even just less than friendly relationship with. The people I've been hurt by -- or more tragically -- have hurt with my own words and actions. For a long time, I believed that the best thing to do was to walk away. Yes, forgive - or hope to be forgiven, but walk away. These statements - among many in Eddy's prose writings - from an article titled, "Love Your Enemies," have often called me up short:

"Who is thine enemy that thou shouldest love him?
Is it a creature or thing outside thine own creation?

We have no enemies. Whatever envy hatred, revenge,
-- the most remorseless motives that govern mortal mind --
whatever these try to do, shall "work together for
good to them that love God." 

It has taken me years to realize that by being willing to cross swords with my own sense of being a victim, or a villain, I have become less judgmental, and more compassionate, patient, and  kind. In short, it is the relationships that I once considered "less than friendly," that have changed me the most, and nurtured the qualities in myself that I most love.

This has been particularly true in relationships where I have been the one to have made mistakes in judgment. By learning to say "I'm sorry," rather than run away from a situation rife with self-reproach, I have discovered that I am bigger than my mistakes.

I believe that each person that comes into our lives, either by example or engagement, encourages us to grow in grace -- in patience, meekness, love, and good deeds.  I believe this is why our Lord's Prayer begins "Our Father..." To discover the very best in ourselves -- humility, compassion, courage, meekness -- we need each other.  I can't become my best, without you.  

No matter who you are, where our relationship started -- or stands today -- because I knew you, I have been changed for good.

with Love,

Kate