"if a picture paints a thousand words..."

"If a picture paints 

a thousand words, 

then why can't I paint you?

the words will never show,

the you i've come to know..." 

I remember the cover to this "Best of Bread" album, as if it were the face of a loved one.  I played it over and over again.  David Gates' beautiful vocals on "If," were filled with the kind of melancholy I was feeling that year. 

I was thinking about this song, recently, after my niece took a photograph of me.  

We were at a camp social and she had just received a new instamatic camera.  She quietly snapped a photo, waited for it to come out of the slot and then walked over and placed it in my shirt pocket for processing, and said, "I took a photo of you while you weren't looking."  I was in the middle of a conversation, and completely forgot about it until later that night. 

I have never liked having my photo taken.  It's hard to explain, but every photo I have ever seen of myself feels like a picture of someone I don't know.  Even photos of me, doing what I love most, feel like I am looking at someone else - a familiar face that I don't feel connected to. 

So it was strangely beautiful - when remembered my niece's photo in the pocket of my shirt - to find the perfect portrait of "the me" that I have come to know.  It wasn't a face, or a form -- it was a color.  

The entire image was a shade of blue.  A deep, achingly beautiful shade of blue.  And I felt it.  I felt so connected to that photo that I gasped, and then I cried - just a bit.  This little instagram photograph captured how I feel about myself.  It felt accurate and perceptive. It felt as if my niece had bored into my heart and discovered something hidden.  

And for the past few weeks, it has had me thinking about identity, perception, and image.  I have long-resisted identifying with a face in the mirror, the shape that I put clothing on, or the changing features that look back at me from my driver's license -- or any profile photo on Facebook or Instagram.  

Perhaps some of us aren't capable of simply being outlined by a layer of skin punctuated with features - eyes, nose, shoulders, etc.  What if we are not "that," -- whatever that is.  And what if, instead, I am best identified as a color, and you are a sound that makes birds sing, and someone else is the scent of cedar or cinnamon -- or both.  

Just as we often think that answered prayer will come in the form of words -- and so we let the deep feelings that have no words, or the sounds that cannot be described, pass through us without noting their message, while we wait for the illusive English text to float across the mental page.  In the same way, what if our faces and body shapes and hair color, are not necessarily the way we experience ourselves as God's image and likeness - most clearly.  What if it's a shade of blue, or a minor chord, or the taste of grapefruit, or the touch of a breeze, or the silence of a prayer...

In her compilation, Miscellaneous Writings 1883 - 1896, Mary Baker Eddy refers to a "fourth dimension "when she writes:  

"Christian Science translates Mind, God, to mortals.  It is the infinite calculus defining the line, plane, space, and fourth dimension of Spirit. It absolutely refutes the amalgamation, transmigration, absorption, or annihilation of individuality."  

and elsewhere she states: 

"Comeliness and grace are independent of matter.  Being possesses its qualities before they are perceived humanly. Beauty is a thing of life, which dwells forever in the eternal Mind and reflects the charms of His goodness in expression, form, outline, and color." 

What if our sense of who we are, and how we are defined to one another, that has been limited by a collectively agreed upon expectation that we are three dimensional humans form made up of lines, shapes, and features.  Or that this is the only way of experiencing and communicating our identities - our truth and beauty.  

What if deepening our color, or perfecting the pitch of our voice, or enriching the scent that we leave upon everything we touch, were as important to being known, as the cut of our hair, or the shape of our eyes, or the tilt of our head?

These are the questions I am in tonight.  In the meantime, I am so grateful that my niece was able to capture what no photographer has ever been able to do -- a photo of "the me I've come to know."  A perfect shade of blue.

Disclaimer:  if this post seems a bit abstract or out in left field -- i completely understand.  

offered with Love, 

Cate 

  

"i am not my story...."

"there is a reduction
of identity to biography..."

Krista Tippett's On Being team created this 45 second "video," to illustrate a profound point that John O'Donohue made in a recorded conversation with Krista, before his passing in 2008.

Let me make this very clear. I love this man. I love his poetry. I love his heart. I love his wisdom. There is, in me, no objectivity about his words. I love them. His books of prose and poetry some of my dearest companions.

There is not a song to keynote this post - at this moment. But, the above video plays in my heart like a song. To hear John's voice - lyrical and resonant - is a gift that sings to my heart.

As for the content of this 45 second video (which I have to admit I would have listened to even if he had only been reading of the Dublin telephone directory) takes my breath away. Not because it is something new, but because it so nails what I believe to be true at the deepest level of being.

We are not our stories. We have stories -- just like we have bodies -- but they do not define us. They are instruments of language for communicating the very listings of what we know at the deepest level -- but they are not "us."

If you have been one of those sweet faithful readers of this blog, you know that after over 750 posts since 2005, I have a bunch of stories. In fact, each of these posts is based on experience. I am not a rhetorical writer. I do not know how to speak or write from the standpoint of thesis. But I can tell you what I have experienced -- a story -- and how that experience was meaningful to me, and further awakened in my a deeper spiritual understanding.

So, to say that I am not my story -- here on this blog -- might seem a bit (or a lot) paradoxical. But it is what I know to be truer than true. And to have it in John's words and spoken by his voice is only more wonderful than i can say.

We are not our stories. Sandy Wilder once shared an exercise with me that took my breath away. It shook me -- the storyteller -- to the core. I felt that false sense of who I was shatter and crumble to the ground like a statue turning to rubble at a feather's touch.

It began with helping me see that although I had chosen the shirt that I was wearing that day, when I took that shirt off, I was still me -- I was not my shirt. And it ended with a realization that I was also not the thoughts I held, the stories I told, or the experiences that I'd carried around like self-defining badges and burdens.

I use these stories to illustrate some spiritual awakening in my heart. But I no longer think that these stories define me or are the historic construct of who I have become, or foundational to who I have yet to discover about the "I am." One that is continuously welling up from the depths of a spiritual wellspring in divine Love.

In thinking of this story-free spiritual identity, I can't help but remember that Mary Baker Eddy wrote her own autobiography, Retrospection and Introspection, in 95 pages. And that at page 54, she stops telling "her story," and the last half of her autobiography includes nothing of her human story, but is all about sharing her love for the Science she had discovered as Life itself.

In the last chapter of this autobiography, Waymarks," Eddy offers:

"Hear this saying of our Master:
"And I, if I be lifted up from earth,
will draw all me."

The ideal of God is no longer impersonated
as a waif or a wanderer..."
 

Without saying it, she says it all. Having been lifted up from her own earth-story -- by the cross of experience -- she was no longer the once-sickly child, or the homeless women who had lived in over 60 homes -- she was spiritual. Her story was "immovably fixed in Principle."

I will leave this here. I hope you feel the depth of your own spiritual identity. I hope you know -- at the very core of your being -- what is pre-existently and eternally "you" as the reflection of the "I AM," -- ever-unfolding, ever-fresh, ever-new. I hope that you can look at your stories as narrative language for sharing what you have discovered, not as an accumulation of experiences that define you.

And since I can't stop a song from scoring a post in my heart -- after I start writing -- I will share Kate Edmonson's beautiful recording of "A Voice." Perhaps our stories are simply the songs we sing to each other to say, "you are not alone."

offered with Love,

Kate

"I have called thee by thy name...."

"I have called thee
by thy name,
thou art Mine..."

Recently my friend, Laurie Benson, asked her community of readers this series of questions:

Isn't it curious that we move through the world
with a name given to us by someone else?

How many of you don't like your name?

Or feel like it doesn't suit you?

I thought these were fascinating questions. Obviously, so did others -- since she had over 60 responses. If you know me, you know that I navigated this name wilderness for over 40 years before finding peaceful place to rest.

The story that leads to my own discomfort with my "given" name is not important. Suffice it to say, it was full of drama. But here is what I learned. And what I have practiced with our children.

My parent(s) did the best they could in giving me a name that would serve my childhood. But my evolving sense of "self," was between me and God. Eventually, when God called me by "my name," I knew it to be true and I answered to it. The social and legal steps I needed to take to legitimize that shift were challenging, but every bit worth it.

So why write this post. I think it is to help other realize that:

1] if you don't feel that your name is truly yours, you are not alone. That being said, it is important to be respectful of the love that your parents put into giving that gift (of a name that they loved) to you.  But don't feel that you have to move through the world with a name that doesn't feel like your own. For me, there was no greater moment than being publicly called by the name that I knew was mine.

2] if you have a friend that is considering a change in their name, try to be respectful of their need to make that change. It is not something they are doing just to be mean to their parents or to confuse their friends and acquaintances. It is important to them. Just because you feel perfectly comfortable being called the name you were given at birth, doesn't mean that they do -- or even should.

I grew up being called a name that I never felt comfortable with. I tried ever iteration of that name possible. In my heart I always knew that I was Kate. When I had conversations with myself, I was always Kate. I loved being Kate. Actually, I loved being Cate. The first time someone called out to me as Cate -- after legally changing my name, I felt like I had come home to myself within the context of my larger community.

So why did it take so long for me to do it? Well, I was afraid. Afraid of hurting my parent's feelings. I was afraid of my professional community making fun of me -- which, by the way, they did. I was afraid that my friends would think I was a flake -- which, by the way, they made perfectly clear they did. But, after the first few snarky, sarcastic comments, I realized that each "air quote" comment about my name, was really an opportunity to stand tall as Kate.  It was a gift to be able to defend her.  I loved my name and I knew who I was.

When our daughters were younger, they each felt the need to try on a new, or different version, of their names. We not only allowed them to, we encouraged them to know themselves and feel comfortable with their name. In each case they returned to their given name after a school year. It's interesting to me that, as a society, we are perfectly at ease with using a chosen (or assigned) nicknames -- for someone we know and love, but a full-on name change seems "weird" to us.

For me, it was as necessary as growing out of a children's sized clothing into grown up sizes. I never looked back. Even when a friend from the "old days" wants to remind me that I was once someone who went by a different name, I refuse to be goaded into defending my right to be who I am. I am Kate -- and in my heart, Cate. That is the spelling that I use when signing love letters. And by the way, putting that out there in this post, feels just as naked as changing my name to begin with. Same concerns: flaky, still not settled in her identity, rebellious. Think what you may, this is the most clear and settled I have ever been.

And although I love my husband, and our marriage, and his name. I do not use it when I think of myself. When I think of myself, or sign my name, I am Cate Mullane. Why have I waited to say this?  Because again, I am afraid of the social repercussions.  Another "change" feels like walking thorough the market square naked. I haven't wanted to have someone call me flaky or silly. I am neither. I am listening for what God, the great I AM, is calling me. I am His daughter, and He has said to me:

"I have called thee
by thy name,
thou art Mine..."

There is a name that is eternal in you -- because you are eternally you. You did not start with a mortal birth. You have existed eternally. You are immortal. If your given name reflects that sense of spiritual identity, "wonderful," I can't think of anything more amazing than to feel at peace in the garment of your name. But if you haven't felt that kind of peace, and you want to try on something that might be a better spiritual fit -- I hope you will call me and tell me who you are. I will never make you feel silly. I will respect you. I promise.

with my love,

Cate Mullane

"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

"it wasn't written for you …"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sure, as James Taylor sings:

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

But why would we?

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

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

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

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


offered with love,



Kate

"According to Him, I'm beautiful..."

"According to Him
I'm beautiful,
Incredible,
He can't get me out of his head.

According to him
I'm funny,
irresistible,
everything He ever wanted..."

This is a re-posting of a piece from 2010 that I can never be reminded of often enough. The mirror is a useful tool in making sure that you haven't left the house with the baby's pablum on the front of your shirt, or blusher on only one side of your face, but it isn't a measuring stick. It has no mind and can't tell you one truth about you. Only Mind can communicate the Truth of your identity...your beauty, symmetry, loveliness, and worth. I hope you have a beautiful day....as the beautiful you He sees you to be...

"According to Him..."

I know, I know..."According to Him" is one pretty poppy pop song by Orianthi (just don't underestimate her guitar riffs, there's nothing bubble gum about them...it's pure Stevie Vaughn-style rock!).  But that said, its "hook" perfectly illustrates this experience from two decades ago. 

Bottom-line, sometimes the messages we tell ourselves in the mirror are worse than our worst critics could ever come up with...but I am getting ahead of myself.

I was sitting in church one morning, feeling rather uninspired.  The words sounded like "just words," and nothing was penetrating the fog of self-dismissal that had been gathering since dawn. 

It wasn't a new feeling.  It was an "old, old story," and it was one that had lulled me into self-sympathy for years.  And even though it was a story I really didn't love telling, or listening to...I couldn't kick it out.  It seemed like an endless loop of mental static playing in my head. "You are not worthy, you are small.  Anyone who thinks you are worth knowing...much less loving...is being fooled by your thin veneer of self-confidence.  If they really knew you, they would see that you weren't worth their time or attention."

Over and over it played.   

The Scriptural readings from the desk were beautiful words.  And I tried with all my heart to focus on their message, rather than the one that was trying to force its way into the door of my thinking, and hijack my fragile hold on peace. 

I sat in one of the creaky, red boucle'-upholstered auditorium seats in our church sanctuary, straining to hear.  The Bible passages that opened the service were from Psalms:

"What is man, that thou art mindful of Him?"

Sigh...I knew this one so well.  Too well. 

I tried to let it sink in, but it was like pouring water on the parched, wind-hardened, and impenetrable surface of a sun-baked pasture on the Colorado high plains.  It rolls right off, or evaporates under the searing heat of a mile-high summer day, before it can even reach below the dust on the surface.

I sat back into my squeaky seat, trying to disappear, even more deeply, into the background of my own life.  Perhaps I could blend into the fibers of the upholstery and never have to propel this sad, sorry "me" through space ever again. 

I know, it sounds like the ego was having a personal-drama field day...and it was.  But I didn't have a clue in those days about how the ego could, and would, take on the voice of false-humility, and coo its message of "You are unworthy..." just as easily as it would arrogantly assert, "You are the best..." if it thought it could get me to believe that I had a self-created (or destroyed) identity separate from God. 

It was a fickle whore who was more than willing to say whatever it thought would get me to believe that I was special, an originator, a creator, and thus undermine my sense of God as the All-in-all, the one and only all-powerful, loving Father-Mother...the only Cause and Creator in, and of, the universe.

But that was when God pushed Her way through the ego's over-confident space of "gotcha" and walked onto the platform in the form of an angel in a pink and aqua floral chiffon prom dress.  Really!

Our church hired students from the local university to sing an inspirational solo during each Sunday service.  Sometimes these students were familiar with the Bible and brought spiritual insight to their interpretation of a piece.  And sometimes, it seemed as if they were singing a Scriptural text with as much understanding as they would bring to an Italian opera, phonetically sounding out each syllable perfectly, but without contextual meaning. 

As she opened her black folder and the introductory notes poured from the organ, I was slipping further and further into the ego's grip. 

That was, until she sang,

     "What is man?  That Thou art Mind,  full of him."

Her freedom from a more "traditional" spacing and emphasis gave the passage a whole new meaning. And the text for this particular solo, was just a repeat of that line from Psalms...over and over again.  Rising, and rising...in pitch and volume...to a crescendo-ed message of divine promise and unfailing spiritual self-reference, then gently closing with an almost whispered, benediction of "thou art Mine."

I will never forget the feeling of awakening that poured through me like water penetrating dry ground.  I could almost feel the roots of new spiritual insights digging deeper into my being searching for the source of that refreshment.  I sensed the brittle outer covering of dormant seeds splitting and peeling away from the plump green endosperm of spiritual promise.

The next Bible verse read from the desk was like soft rain on the savanna after a drought.  Not a torrential downpour that would have eroded all the seeds awakened by those first drops of divine Love's "living waters," but a gentle wash of nourishing waters to slake the thirst of the soul.  It was a spoken repeat of the text from the solo:

"What is man, that thou art mindful of Him."

But after the solo, I knew I would never hear it, ever again, as anything but:

"What is man?  That Thou art Mind, full of him."

God wasn't something I filled my mind with, I was what God, as Mind, was filled with.  I was the beautiful images, the songs, the poetry, the stories and promises He was cherishing, nurturing, reflecting upon...all the time.  That was me!  That was my identity!  My thinking had nothing to do with creating "me." Only God's thinking mattered.  And the better I knew, and understood, His identity, His character, His name and nature, the more I would know the kind of thoughts He entertained...me.

I sat in that auditorium seat for a long time after the service was over.  I can still feel the texture of that red-boucle' upholstery fabric under my fingertips as I softly stroked cloth, while quietly pondering the emerging seeds of true identity that were springing into birth within me. 

I let the cool Colorado air...passing through the branches of the large pine trees just beyond the open windows next to me...waft across the fertile space of my heart and blow all the old, brittle, chrysalis-like seed coverings away so that something fresh and vital could grow into something...something that I didn't need to know the exact form or function of at the moment.  An aspen tree, a tomato plant, a peony bush, a blade of grass whose identity is maintained by Mind...or even a bean sprout, here today, in my sandwich tomorrow.  It didn't matter.  Whatever it was, it was good, it was of God, it was perfect...it was me.  And that was a good thing. 

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

"Mind maintains all identities,
from a blade of grass, to a star,
as distinct and eternal."

"According to Him.."  That's enough self-knowledge for me.  Whatever He thinks...that's what I am!!

with Love,
Kate

"You know me..."

"From the fall of my heart
to the resurrection of my soul
You know me, God, and You know my ways

In my rising up, and my sitting down
You see me as I am,
oh, see me as I am

As I will be in the morning
In the evening as I am
You have known me....”

There’s something about Audrey Assad’s "Known," that felt like a benediction on last week. It was a week that started out pretty rocky.

Easter Sunday, although dawning cloudless, sweet with the scent of hyacinths, and full of promise, had a very special journey in store for me. A series of small "events" shook my spiritual ground, and It didn’t take long before Easter's overarching story of prophecy, betrayal, denial, hope, redemption, and resurrection to drove me to my knees.

I wept through almost every element of an inspired and humbly-served worship gathering. Each citation of scripture, hymn, and prayer seemed to push me towards another moment of profound self-examination.

I listened on mental knees wondering, “Could I have stood beside him as he faced his accusers...or would I have denied him thrice?” “Would I have been able to watch his agony on the cross...or would I have retreated to a hidden room?” “Would I have been able to withstand the hatred of his ministry, endured the despair of rejection, overcome my own fear of arrest and crucifixion?” "Would I have turned and run at the approach of soldiers...or turned to heal my captor's wounds?" “Would I have believed the women when they ran to tell me, ‘he is risen...or denied the messengers he'd appointed, along with my Saviour?”

Something in me ached to know, to really know, if I was the kind of disciple I so hoped I would have been.

I walked through the first part of the week on tender feelings of uncertainty. I tossed and turned through long nights of self-doubt. “Would I have stayed awake at Gethsemane?” “If my role, in the greater crucifixion/resurrection story had been that of Judas, could I have faced my Father’s plan with grace...or would the ego have cried out, "not me Lord, I want to be the hero..."

Over and over again, the longing to “know” what kind of disciple I would have been, pierced the normal rhythm of my life.

Then, the other night, about four in the morning, I was led to completely stop that line of questioning, and ask, “What does God know about me, and my discipleship?” And I realized, this was the only question that ever really mattered.

My Father knows my every single thought, my every desire, hope, and longing...because they all come from Him. I am not a creator. He is. I can’t even create a wish, a dream, a prayer, or a desire. He is creating all that has meaning, and he is creating...moment-by-moment...the only truth of my life's story. He alone is writing my script, casting my role, feeding me my lines. And I can trust that what He knows about me, is exactly who I am...and, in fact, it is all that I am or ever will be. I am not capable of being a rogue character...or disciple.

I don’t have to be Peter, or John, or Judas, or Mary...they were. I just have to be me. That is enough. To be honestly, genuinely, authentically, purely me is all that He asks. It is exactly what He wants from me, and for me. My week “in the garden” was full of tears...but I did remain awake. And for this, I am deeply grateful.

It is good, to be known...by Him.

have a wonderful week.

with Love,

Kate

"This journey is my own..."

"why would I want to live for man
and pay the highest price
what does it mean to gain the whole world
only to lose my life...

So I do what I do
to make a good impression
This journey is my own
And so much of what I say
is to make myself  look better
This journey is my own..."
-     Sara Groves

With Sara Groves on my ipod, "This Journey is My Own," became my companion song as I drove through the breath-takingly beautiful Arkansas Valley yesterday.   With Antero, Harvard, Princeton, Columbia, Yale...mountain sentinels...starboard, and the river port side, I was aware that these geographical markers were keeping me on course in the same way that the equipoise of honesty and compassion, integrity and affection,  serve as navigational buoys as I move through the choppy, or calm, waters of my day.  

I've experienced many kinds of spiritually transformative moments in the last few decades, but I think the one that I am most grateful for tonight is an ongoing dissolution of the "me" that actually thinks that she needs the approval of others, more than she needs to be right with herself...especially the approval of those I love, and hope love me.

In the past, I've paid a very high price in trying to gain the appreciation, acceptance, and acknowledgment of others, only to realize that by doing so I had lost "my life" in direct proportion to my desire for gaining the whole world...and its approval.  And to tell you the truth, it is never worth it.  It leaves my heart feeling cold, and achingly empty.   If I can't be "me" and be loved...if I must be something I am not, to be accepted...what have I really gained?  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  Nada,  Zip. Zero.  If people love a version of me that is not genuine, then the genuine me is not loved at all.  And this, my friends, is a painfully sad way to live.

We each face hard choices...moment-by-moment...as we navigate our individual journeys towards spiritual self-awareness and our place in the human family.  I find that I am often asking myself critical questions like:  Do I say the thing that will make other people happy, things that will make them like me, and will assure them that I am "with the program," or do I speak, act, live out from "mine integrity,"  -- a clear conviction about God's voice, and direction, in my life?   Do I let myself be guided by a God-centered inner compass, or am I swayed by human opinions about my decisions and my choices?

This journey is my own.  I alone am accountable to God for how I traverse the steep hillside...and the narrow way.  And it is all about the "how" these days.   Am I speaking with an authentic voice?  Am I obediently following the leadings of Truth as my conscience and Love point out the way?  Am I honest?  Is my heart impartially and universally filled with affection and patience?  Do I live my convictions with humility and non-judgment? 

These are the questions that keep me up at night...and, to be honest, fill my days with purpose.  I find that when I am so engaged in my own journey, I have little time to, as Phillips Brooks once said, "direct the wanderings of [my] brothers' lives." Then, salvation...my salvation...is what holds primacy in my sense of purpose, and I can hear God's "thou art mine," with sweet clarity and peace.

The full text of Brooks' quote follows:

"God has not given us vast learning to solve all the problems, or unfailing wisdom to direct all the wanderings of our brothers’ lives; but He has given to every one of us the power to be spiritual, and by our spirituality to lift and enlarge and enlighten the lives we touch."

Mary Baker Eddy, noted in her own hand, following the appearance of this statement on a document found in her papers, "The secret to my life is in the above."

Yes, this journey is my own and I am trying, each day, to walk it in a way that I don't end up losing my life, in order to gain the whole world.  Gaining the whole world...it's just not all it's cracked up to be.  So, I think I will, as Sara sings, live, and breathe, for an audience of one..." The only One.

may your days be filled with moments of  supreme peace...

Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Keep the candle burning..."

"All it takes is one steady heart,
in a world that's turning...
Shine a light and pierce the dark.
Keep the candle burning,
keep the candle burning..."
-  Point of Grace

"Keep the Candle Burning" by Point of Grace reminds me that there is a vital year-round relationship that runs like a thread of gold, between Adventure Unlimited campers, counselors, and senior staff.  Each contact...each letter, Facebook message, phone call, and email...has encouraged, and strengthened my daughters' love for good.   Each contact keeps the "camp" candle burning in their hearts throughout the year, until June rolls around and we are driving through the gate again.

I love watching the girls' faces light up when we run into former camp counselors at school events, or after Sunday School in church.  It makes me smile to hear them Skyping with camp friends, laughing and giggling, on a Tuesday night in November, when swimming their horses in the Sky Valley lake is only a memory.

But it's the camper notes that really carry me through the year. 

At the end of each session, cabin and program counselors write personal notes to parents about their children.  These notes are filled with spiritual insights about each camper's strengths, contribution to camp, and a window on them at their best, most selfless selves.

At our house, I can be found eagerly checking the mailbox each day for the post-camp packet that comes filled with messages of gold...camper notes!  Bunkhouse camper notes are in one color, and program (waterfront, horsemanship, mountaineering, rafting, theatre-specific areas each camper chooses as their focus for the session) notes are in another color.  Each are read with relish.

I will carry the large white envelope with the red square A/U logo in the left-hand corner to the kitchen table.  I will put on the kettle to make myself a cup of tea and wait for the water to boil, the tea to steep, and pour a fragrant cup of Ginger Lemon Grass tea into my favorite hand-painted periwinkle, yellow, and white mug.  Then I will take the envelope with me, out onto the front porch, settle into an Adirondack chair, and open it carefully. 

It is a holy moment.  I will soon be reading the careful script of a counselor who has loved, nurtured, and encouraged the very best in my daughter for four of the most important weeks of her year.   I will have the sacred experience of looking at my daughter through the eyes of someone who has placed extraordinary demands upon her...to live up to her highest spiritual potential...and has seen her step up to that opportunity and discover new things about her own fathomless gifts with courage and grace.


After I've read each camper note a dozen times...or so...and shed more than a few tears of amazement  and deep gratitude, I will call the girls down, one-by-one, and read their camper notes with them.   It is a time of remembering, a time of celebration, and recalibration.  It is a time for each of us to align our home-based expectations of who she is and who she has the potential for being,  with what we both know she is capable of.

She will bounce off to tell her sister that it is her turn now. And while I wait, I will read her notes one more time before I turn my complete attention to her sister.  

For a few weeks I will leave them in a folder on my desk to revisit...often..  Then I will place them in each girl's Adventure Unlimited folder in my filing drawer. 

I have every camper note my children have ever received. 

Twenty-one years of camper notes.  I will often pull out each of my daughters' "camper notes" folder throughout the year...and just remember.  I will use them to recalibrate my own expectations, to refocus, to refresh my inner browser to the most beautiful "home page" about each of the girls.

One day last winter the girls had a bit of cabin fever and were bouncing off the walls, and into eachother, for a few days.  They were bored.  There was nothing to do.  They were prickly.   I was starting to believe this was what, and who, they really were.  They were pre-teen twins who'd really "had enough" of one another's company.  But something told me to pull out their camper notes from last summer.  So I did. 

There they were, lime green and hot pink half sheets of bordered paper covered in tiny careful script.  Thoughtfully worded reports about the genuine goodness of each of the girls.  They were joyous, cooperative, deeply caring with each other and their cabin mates, eager to be helpful, self-starters who took initiative without complaint.  Ahhh...I felt like a reformatted document.  Perspective refreshed, expectations recalibrated based on this "better lens" on my daughters' true identities.

These camper notes are always at the front of my file drawer.  I would grab them in a fire.  They are one of the most valuable "heirlooms" I will hand on to my children.  To see themselves through the eyes of counselors who expected the best from them...and always saw it.

Thank you to each counselor who has "beheld" my daughters' spiritual identity, born witness to her at her best, encouraged her to trust herself to the breadth and depth of God's abundant gifts of love, and has, with great thought and care, labored over...draft after draft...of the right words, perfectly telling us just what you have seen. 

Your role in keeping the candle burning, the flame of spiritual awareness alight, the incandescence of our highest expectations aglow throughout the year, is a most precious gift.   It reminds me of Mary Baker Eddy's statement in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"Jesus beheld in Science the perfect man, who appeared to him where sinning mortal man appears to mortals. In this perfect man the Saviour saw God's own likeness, and this correct view of man healed the sick. Thus Jesus taught that the kingdom of God is intact, universal, and that man is pure and holy."

Bearing witness to the best in eachother, whether we are campers, counselors, sisters, neighbors, or work colleagues, is the best gift we can give one another.  It is the breath of Spirit on a flame that is burning low...helping it to leap to the heights of holiness.

Thank you for seeing the best in our children...thank you for sharing your perspective, and thank you for taking the time to thoughtfully put your thoughts down for us to read, and to cherish...for a very, very long time.

More love, and gratitude, later from the porch of Crowsnest....
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

[photo credits: Ashley Bay 2009/Anna Glotzbach 2009]

"what would I be...."

"Now I'm no longer doubtful
of what I'm living for...

Cause you make me feel
you make me feel,
you make me feel,
like a natural woman...."

Last night, Jeff and I were captivated by a PBS preview of the Carole King/James Taylor Troubadour Tour that will crisscross the U.S. this summer.  When Carole started singing, "Natural Woman...," she was so very naturallly herself  --  wild,  life-whitened hair, sun-softened skin, wise blue eyes, and a body that she looked as comfortable "in her own skin" with, as the warmth in her voice made me feel  --  and suddenly, I too felt at peace with my own evolving form.  Because, pouring from every pore of her being...voice, eyes, smile, embrace with her fellow musicians...was a peace that "passed understanding."   And that peace washed over me with waters that refreshed...and the valley began to bud, and blossom, like the rose.

This is the poem that spilled itself forward onto the page: 

what would I be
if 
I
weren't
who you think I am
today,
or who I think
I ought to be
tomorrow

would I
be a tree
whose branches
reach across the sky
and tremble with hope
that maybe
just, just maybe
I could be that place
where the scarlet
taninger
chooses to
feather her nest with
downy tufts of cottonwood seed
and bits of
grass
woven
together like a small
quilt
for tiny eggs
that I could
hold in the
crook of my elbow
like a
wise old aunt...and
with each soft
breeze through my
leaves
I would coo and
sigh...
rock
and weave...
softly
softly
BE a
lullaby for
what
has yet to
poke through the
shell of
its
own birthing...

what would we be
if
all that
mattered to
the other,
was the
essence,
the sap,
the consciousness....
the soupy liquid
of our being...defining us,
to us

if form and
outline were
as
free-flowing and
unfolding
as
the shifting clouds
above us
or
the
line of salted seafoam
that ebbs and
flows
upon the sand
beneath our toes
while we
splash and
play
like children
in the
surf

what would you be
if tomorrow
what
I think you are...
or ought to be...
were
washed away
like dust
from the
leaves of the sweet
and the savory,
the
green and the purple
basil,
rosemary,
thyme...
the
tender herbs
which
wait in the
heat of noonday for
rest and drink
from
a sudden summer
shower?

go ahead...

I will watch
with
baited breath...
on tippy-toes...
at the edge of my seat...
watching,
ready to sigh
with wonder
at what
God has
done...
as you!

A few statements from the writings of Mary Baker Eddy come to mind this afternoon...I will leave you wtih them, today:

"The divine Mind maintains all identities,
from a blade of grass to a star,
as distinct and eternal."

and

"Consciousness constructs a better body
when faith in matter has been conquered."

and

"Spiritual evolution alone
is worthy of the exercise of divine power."

and 

"God is the Life, or intelligence,
which forms and preserves
the individuality and identity of animals
as well as of men."

As well as this statement also from Hafiz:

"I have learned so much from God
That I can no longer call myself
a Christian, a Hindu, a Muslim, a Buddhist, a Jew.
The Truth has shared so much of Itself with me
That I can no longer call myself
a man, a woman, an angel, or even a pure soul.
Love has...freed me
Of every concept and image my mind has ever known."

And, finally, this from "Tarjuman Al-Ashwaq" by Muhyi'ddin ibn al-'Arabi as translated by Suheil Bushrui, Professor at University of Maryland (who was, herself, born in Nazareth):

My heart is capable of every form:
A pasture for gazelles,
A monastery for monks,
An abode for idols,
And a place where the votaries of the Kaaba come.
In my heart, both the Tablets of the Torah and the Holy Qur'an are to be found.
My faith and religion is love: wherever it beckons me, I follow."

Just some things I am thinking about today....have a great weekend!

with Love,

Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

Here is a 1972 Carole King performance of "Natural Woman."

And a friend suggested that I provide this link to an earlier post, "after all, you're still you..."

"Indescribable, uncontainable..."

"Who has told every lightning bolt
where it should go?
Or seen heavenly storehouses
laden with snow?
Who imagined the sun
and gives source to its light?
Yet conceals it to bring us
the coolness of night.
None can fathom it.

Indescribable, uncontainable,
You placed the stars in the sky
and You know them by name.
You are amazing God.

All powerful, untameable,
Awestruck we fall to our knees
as we humbly proclaim,
You are amazing God.

Incomparable, unchangeable...
You see the depths of my heart,
and You love me the same.
You are amazing God.
You are amazing God..."

Chris Tomlin's song, "Indescribable," reminds me of Mary Baker Eddy's statement:

"Patience is symbolized by the tireless worm, creeping
       over lofty summits, persevering in its intent."

There is something so extraordinary about seeing the wonder, and purpose, in every blade of grass, each tiny catepillar, every molecule of stardust, every dandelion seed...every one of us.  Each of us.  You, me, us them, that...yes, everything...filled with hope, passion, gratitude, tenderness, tenacity, vigor, beauty...love.  It stuns me, it takes my breath away, leaves me pregnant with joy, on tiptoe with expectation, hovering at the edge of the horizon waiting for the sun to rise and a leaf to turn in response to the sun's shining and awaken to her own shimmering color, movement, form, and grace.  In like manner, we each turn to God, and discover our own unique, divinely appointed purpose and promise.

"Nothing is so common,
as the desire to be remarkable."

This axiom of Shakespeare's rings so true, speaks with such authenticity of voice, that it took me by surprise the first time I heard it.  I believe that we all leap towards this common hope, we lean into our collective desire to make a difference, and we rise on wings of our awakened potential in answer to the compelling call from within, gently whispering, "you might really be remarkable"...worthy of remark...in the eyes of God.

But, the ego...the only real enemy of the spiritual man...doesn't want us to answer that calling. It tries to convince us that what we really want, is to be better than someone else, more intelligent, more inspired, talented, worthy, holy, strong, wanted, deserving. The ego thrives on comparison, competition, and compliments.  But I don't think this is what we want at all.  I think what we are longing for, is to know that we have worth and purpose in God's eyes,  To know that we fit into a divine plan, that we are on the right track, and that we are fulfilling His dreams for us as His beloved children.  We want to please our divine parent.

A friend, who is an elementary school teacher, recently shared this story with me:

"So, I was sitting here today when one of my students brought a book over to me. It was a religious board book called Hermie: A Common Caterpillar by Max Lucado, but it was the story that got me.

It was about two caterpillars who kept running into other insects that, to    them, had something special that they didn't have.

The snail could carry his house on his back, the ant was super strong, and the lady bug had pretty spots.  Each time they met an animal or insect with something special, they would go to God and say, "why I am so common? Why don't I have anything special?"

God kept telling them that He loved them just they way they were, and that He wasn't finished with them yet.  He had a plan for them, and they had a purpose.

At the end of the story one of the caterpillars went to bed and prayed to God, saying, "You love me, and that makes me special."

The next morning the catepillar woke up in a chrysalis, and then he turned into a butterfly.  He and His friend then understood what God had meant.

They also understood that even though each of us is different, we are all special in our own way because God loves us."

I loved this story.  Such a simple example of how each and every instance of creation...molecule, insect, raindrop, leaf, sparrow, idean, man, woman, and child...has a divine purpose, is filled with promise, and has a spiritual identity that is designed, cherished, nurtured, and maintained by God.

There is something so pure about my friend's experience in the classroom that day.  We all find, in our moments of inner struggle for the wit and will to persevere, that the faint light of love we emit, is enough to gather angels…children who teach us, parents who love us, friends who believe in us, books and stories that inspire our hope…unawares.  Eddy, in speaking to each of us, encourages:

"The lives of great men and women are miracles of patience and perseverance.  Every luminary in the constellation of human greatness, like the stars, comes out in the darkness to shine with the reflected light of God."

Each of us is uniquely beautiful, incomparable, remarkable in His divine design.  We created with the inherit desire, a spiritual longing towards this spiritual purpose.  There is an inner compass that draws us towards our own North Star, our spiritual family homestead...the kingdom of heaven within...where we are always welcomed with joy, handed a dishtowel, and  pointed in the direction of the kitchen where we are thrilled to fill our special niche in time and eternity.  

I love the way J.G. Bennett describes this spiritual homing device within our hearts:

"Spiritual homesickness is necessary for us. 

It remains in our heart most of the time.  But sometimes, there are periods we go through when we are constantly aware of being bereft of something.  And when this feeling comes we have to watch over the purity of that desire, and not misuse it.  The feeling is, in itself, authentic. It is an indication of being near enough to something to be aware of its worth.  One doesn't really feel deprived until one is close."

To be close to our Father's house is to recognize a familiar landscape. To hear the sounds of our childhood...the way the wind whistles through the tall grass in the pasture, the call of indigenous songbirds, the whinnying of horses in paddock. We know that our Father, God, is the Patriarch of this homestead. And we know that He is waiting patiently on the porch, searching the horizon for our silouette to appear in the backlight of a risen morn. Our hearts leap, our pace increases, the past falls away behind us in the deepening blue of twilight. 

Our divine Parent is waiting to hand us our assignment and to tell us that He always knew we "had it in us." He knows that we are capable of being indescribably wonderful...of making a difference.  He is waiting to greet us, each and every day, with our unique calling in His heart, our spiritual purpose on His lips, and a fresh new task at hand.  He is waiting for us, for me and for you...to just show up. Joining Him in the harvest we become heirs of all we see. 

It's always time to come home to who we are.  To come home to the lives we have been perfectly designed to live.  In His eyes we are amazing, remarkable, indescribably wonderful, fascinating, worthy, deserving...we are beloved. We are His beloved....always.
Kate


Here is a version of Chris Tomlin's "Indescribable" without the lyrics, but with beautiful imagery.

"...but, according to Him..."

"According to Him
I'm beautiful,
Incredible,
He can't get me out of his head.

According to him
I'm funny,
irresistible,
everything He ever wanted..."

I know, I know..."According to Him" is one pretty poppity-pop pop song by Orianthi (just don't underestimate her guitar riffs, there's nothing poppity about them...it's pure rock and roll Stevie Vaughn style!).  But its "hook" so perfectly illustrates this experience, that I couldn't resist...so please bear with me.  Bottom-line, sometimes the messages we tell ourselves in the mirror, are worse, than our worst critics could ever come up with...but I am getting ahead of the story.

I was sitting in church that morning, feeling rather uninspired.  The words sounded like "just words," and nothing was penetrating the fog of self-dismissal that had been gathering since dawn. 

It wasn't a new feeling.  It was an "old, old story," and it was one that had lulled me into self-sympathy for years.  And even though it was a story I really didn't love telling, or listening to...I couldn't kick it out.  It seemed like an endless loop of mental static playing in my head. "You are not worthy, you are small.  Anyone who thinks you are worth knowing...much less loving...is being fooled by your thin veneer of self-confidence.  If they really knew you, they would see that you weren't worth their time or attention."

Over and over it played.   

The Scriptural readings from the desk were beautiful words.  And I tried with all my heart to focus on their message, rather than the one that was trying to force its way into the door of my thinking, and hijack my fragile hold on peace. 

I sat in one of the creaky, red boucle'-upholstered auditorium seats in our church sanctuary, straining to hear.  The Bible passages that opened the service were from Psalms:

"What is man, that thou art mindful of Him?"

Sigh...I knew this one so well.  Too well. 

I tried to let it sink in, but it was like pouring water on the parched, wind-hardened, and impenetrable surface of a sun-baked pasture on the Colorado high plains.  It rolls right off, or evaporates under the searing heat of a mile-high summer day, before it can even reach below the dust on the surface.

I sat back into my creaky seat, trying to disappear, even more deeply, into the background of my own life.  Perhaps I could blend into the fibers of the upholstery and never have to propel this sad, sorry "me" through space ever again. 

I know, it sounds like the ego was having a personal-drama field day...and it was.  But I didn't have a clue in those days about how the ego could, and would, take on the voice of false-humility, and coo its message of "You are unworthy..." just as easily as it would arrogantly assert, "You are the best..." if it thought it could get me to believe that I had a self-created (or destroyed) identity separate from God. 

It was a fickle whore who was more than willing to say whatever it thought would get me to believe that I was special, an originator, a creator, and thus undermine my sense of God as the All-in-all, the one and only all-powerful, loving Father-Mother...the only Cause and Creator in, and of, the universe.

But that was when God pushed Her way through the ego's over-confident space of "gotcha" and walked onto the platform in the form of an angel in a pink and aqua floral chiffon prom dress.  Really!

Our church hired students from the local university to sing an inspirational solo during each Sunday service.  Sometimes these students were familiar with the Bible and brought spiritual insight to their interpretation of a piece.  And sometimes, it seemed as if they were singing a Scriptural text with as much understanding as they would bring to an Italian opera, phonetically sounding out each syllable perfectly, but without contextual meaning. 

As she opened her black folder and the introductory notes poured from the organ, I was slipping further and further into the ego's grip. 

That was, until she sang,

     "What is man?  That Thou art Mind,  full of him."

Her freedom from a more "traditional" spacing and emphasis gave the passage a whole new meaning. And the text for this particular solo, was just a repeat of that line from Psalms...over and over again.  Rising, and rising...in pitch and volume...to a crescendo-ed message of divine promise and unfailing spiritual self-reference, then gently closing with an almost whispered, benediction of "thou art Mine."

I will never forget the feeling of awakening that poured through me like water penetrating dry ground.  I could almost feel the roots of new spiritual insights digging deeper into my being searching for the source of that refreshment.  I sensed the brittle outer covering of dormant seeds splitting and peeling away from the plump green endosperm of spiritual promise.

The next Bible verse read from the desk was like soft rain on the savanna after a drought.  Not a torrential downpour that would have eroded all the seeds awakened by those first drops of divine Love's "living waters," but a gentle wash of nourishing waters to slake the thirst of the soul.  It was a spoken repeat of the text from the solo:

"What is man, that thou art mindful of Him."

But after the solo, I knew I would never hear it, ever again, as anything but:

"What is man?  That Thou art Mind, full of him."

God wasn't something I filled my mind with, I was what God, as Mind, was filled with.  I was the beautiful images, the songs, the poetry, the stories and promises He was cherishing, nurturing, reflecting upon...all the time.  That was me!  That was my identity!  My thinking had nothing to do with creating "me." Only God's thinking mattered.  And the better I knew, and understood, His identity, His character, His name and nature, the more I would know the kind of thoughts He entertained...me.

I sat in that auditorium seat for a long time after the service was over.  I can still feel the texture of that red-boucle' upholstery fabric under my fingertips as I softly stroked cloth, while quietly pondering the emerging seeds of true identity that were springing into birth within me. 

I let the cool Colorado air...passing through the branches of the large pine trees just beyond the open windows next to me...waft across the fertile space of my heart and blow all the old, brittle, chrysalis-like seed coverings away so that something fresh and vital could grow into something...something that I didn't need to know the exact form or function of at the moment.  An aspen tree, a tomato plant, a peony bush, a blade of grass whose identity is maintained by Mind...or even a bean sprout, here today, in my sandwich tomorrow.  It didn't matter.  Whatever it was, it was good, it was of God, it was perfect...it was me.  And that was a good thing. 

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

"Mind maintains all identities,
from a blade of grass, to a star,
as distinct and eternal."

"According to Him.."  That's enough self-knowledge for me.  Whatever He thinks...that's what I am!!

with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS