"time after time..."

"if you're lost
and you look,
you will find me,
time after time..."

If this post had no other purpose than sharing my sister-in-law, Lisa Redfern's gorgeous recording of Cyndi Lauper's timeless "Time After Time," it would be enough. I hope you will listen to it in a quiet space -- when you want to feel something deeper than time.

I first heard Lisa share -- to say "perform," would cheapen what she gave us that day -- this beautiful ballad during a loved friend's celebration of life. I can't speak for anyone else who heard it, but for me, it was transcendent.

All sense of time and space receded. All that existed was our friend and her love for each of us -- and ours for her. I felt like only my skin itself was holding me in shape. For all that I knew, and all that I loved, was dancing in the air, like dust motes in the sunshine, with our friend and her friends -- and humanity itself.

Humanity felt like a verb, rather than a noun -- a collection of bodies with independent minds and stories. The dance was one of complete unity - and a dissolution of personal sense. There was not one being who had completed a "life cycle" and had passed on, and the rest of us still bumping around in skin-contained bodies -- we were all released from things of time and space. We were spiritual. And I felt it.

Later on in the celebration, we danced as a collective -- and the singing prayer, that we prayed as we danced, left me feeling cleansed, and healed, and full of childlike hope for each of us and the human mechanism we would each return to, when we folded ourselves back into skin, and clothes, and cars, and planes -- for the trip "back home."

Ram Dass once wrote:

“We are all
just walking
each other
home."
 

I've never felt the truth of that statement more clearly than during our Lisa's celebration of life and especially during Lisa Redfern's singing of "Time after Time."

I still feel it. Every day. The clock ticks, but it tells us nothing about the eternality of Life. The immortality of all beauty, and love, and grace.

We traverse space. We count steps. We measure the mass we take up. We drive miles and fly kilometers. We own acres, and build square footage. But do we? Is this all part of the distortion that says we are isolated, solitary ideas with stuff that we have accumulated -- and will one day leave behind?

Lisa's singing of "Time after Time," left me with a much different feeling. I glimpsed the substance of it all. All of those dust motes of consciousness that dance and swirl -- are simply gathering and coalescing in moments of purpose. We are not isolated solitary ideas with personal minds that control a limited number of those dust motes under a membrane of skin.

We are so much more -- and we are, "one with the earth and the sky" -- and each other. We are constantly shifting like water molecules that become visible as a cloud or rain -- but then invisible as steam and mist. One form no less - or more - substantive and real than another. We are not static, but ever-evolving. We are not born into a shape, defined by a mind that accumulates stories and stuff -- starting with a birth story and continuing with a false narrative of mistakes and accomplishments, successes, accidents, surprises, and failures. We are so much more, than what appears to be.

Through love, we are drawn into, and released from, limited and limiting forms -- existing only in shifting shapes of purpose. But we exist eternally as spiritual substance -- changeless, infinite in scope, as eternal as Love itself.  We are as irrevocable as a molecule of water's capacity to be drawn into purpose as steam, mist, rain, river, sea, breath for a fish, sacred for a Savior's last lesson, humble in falling, exalted as a prism for revealing a bow of promise.

I have, as a friend would say, "gone off the rails." I could write about what this feels like -- at the depth of my heart and soul --  for hours and hours.  Listening to Lisa singing again this morning brought it immediately into focus. But I will leave this here. If it's something you would love to ponder together -- give me a call. Or text. Or email. Or just sit quietly in a sunny corner, listen to it again -- we will hear it together. And we will dance, like dust motes in the gathering space.

Thank you Lisa.

offered with Love,

Kate

"yesterday, came suddenly..."

"yesterday,
came suddenly..."

If you are "of a generation" that grew up loving four boys from Liverpool, and haven't seen Danny Boyle's new film  "Yesterday," -- trust me, you must. And that said, you might want to stop reading here. I am going to reveal two moments from the film that took me apart. In an empty theater.  In rural New England.

Suffice it to say, I loved this movie. It was such a surprise for me. Not just the brilliant performances, the surprising plot, the sweet love story, and the absolutely remarkable music - but the way it affected me.

As I said, it took me apart, and put me back together. Spoiler alert: this is where, if you haven't see the film, and you don't want to know what - for me -- were the heart-shattering and hope restarting moments you should stop reading.  Now.

There are two scenes. And they are related. The premise of the film is that there has been a global black-out, and during those twelve seconds, a young man is hit by a bus. When he recovers from his injuries, he seems to be the only person on earth who remembers The Beatles, or their music. He begins - reluctantly at first -- performing those songs. And he becomes an instant global phenomenon -- as everyone thinks that he is the world's greatest songwriter.

And just as he is starting to feel the depth of his ethical dilemma, he is approached by two other people who "remember." He thinks that they will expose him for the fraud that he is, but, -- and here is my first "lose it" moment -- they embrace him. They are just so very grateful that he remembers the Beatles and their songs, and that he is re-sharing those songs with the world.  Since neither of them is able to sing. At one point, one of them says:

"A world without the Beatles'
is a world that is infinitely worse..."

Yup. Totally lost it.

I had been feeling this way. Just sad.  Sad about a number of things that seemed to have been taken from us, or were fading from society's memory. This film reminded me that I have known a world with Beatles in it -- with happy, poignant, deeply moving songs that I have taught my children on long road trips with the "One" CD playing in an endless loop.  That I have known a world in which a respected person of color could become the President of the United States. I have known a world where "Love is love is love."  And I could never be made to forget.

The second paradigm shattering moment in this film (for me) is one that you - if you were a person of a certain generation - truly must see - not just read about. And if you haven't seen it, you really do want to stop reading here.  Please.  Do not ruin this moment for yourself.

At the height of his moral dilemma, Jack is given a slip of paper with an address on it -- by the two other people who "remember." Where he finds himself on the threshold of a small beach cottage along the English coast. He knocks on the door and when it opens, there is John. Yes, John Lennon. And this is where my heart broke wide open. Into ugly sobbing. In an empty movie theater. On a weekday afternoon.

I don't just mean a lump in my throat.  Or a few tears coursing down my cheeks. No. I mean chest aching, breath-taking, gasping sobs.

It took me by surprise.  Not just the moment in the film, but my response to it.  The actor who portrays John is so good, and looks so much like him, that for a moment I thought it was real. That they had actually found John. It was all a ploy.  A way to get John out of the public eye.  A way for him to be able to have a peaceful life. No, he hadn't been murdered outside the Dakota on a cold December night over forty years ago.

And that was when I saw that I wanted it to be real. I wanted it so badly. I hadn't realized how much -- until that moment. John's passing hadn't just been the passing of a controversial rock star for me. At the time, it felt as profoundly world-altering as the assassination of John F. Kennedy or a November "morning after" - not so long ago.

John represented bold hope and fierce love for me.  I think his love-rebellion was defining for a generation that had lived through the Viet Nam war, Kent State, Selma, and Watergate. His assassination shattered dreams. And not just our dreams of a future Beatles' reunion, but for a world that could "imagine all the people, living life in peace."

So, for the first time in forty years, I let myself grieve. I sat in that empty theater - while the film rushed on to its beautiful conclusion - and wept. I have spent the past week reminding myself that if it - the presence of good - has ever been, it can never be taken. John was the symbol, though not the substance, of all that he represented for me.  But that hope, those dreams, a fierce love -- those are alive in me.

Today, I will go back to the theater, and watch the last thirty minutes of the film through clearer eyes. I will be grateful that I have lived in a post-Beatles world where songs like "Blackbird," and "Imagine," -- and scores of other beautiful songs -- still exist.

And I will never forget that moment in an empty theater where, for a moment, time stood still and the impossible felt so possible. As if I had woken from a dream where John had been assassinated, to a world where he is living on the coast of England in a small cottage, advising celebrities and world leaders on the importance of caring about the things that really matter -- love, family, peace, honesty, commitment, promises, hope, compassion.

You may say that I'm a dreamer -- but now, I see, that I'm not the only one.  Thank you, Danny Boyle, for this brilliant film. Perhaps you have intuited what Mary Baker Eddy writes about in her tribute to the life of one of her most remarkable students, Edward Kimball -- who had passed on earlier that year:

"My beloved Edward A. Kimball, whose clear, correct teaching of Christian Science has been and is an inspiration to the whole field, is here now as veritably as when he visited me a year ago. If we would awaken to this recognition, we should see him here and realize that he never died; thus demonstrating the fundamental truth of Christian Science.

And elsewhere she further assures us in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"We must hold forever
the consciousness of existence."

This is not a suggestion, but a promise. The promise that all we have known and loved -- cannot be taken from us. We must hold forever the consciousness of its existence.  Forever.  We have the right to remember.

offered with Love,

Cate 

"the place where the lost things go..."

"Time to close your eyes
so sleep can come around;
for when you dream you'll find,
all that's lost is found.

Maybe on the moon
or maybe somewhere new,
maybe all you're missing
lives inside of you..."

This morning, Lisa - my sister-in-law once removed, suggested that I might want to listen to the lullaby,  "The Place Where the Lost Things Go" from the new film, Mary Poppins Returns. We live in a mountain town without a movie theater anywhere within the radius of an hour and a half. In the winter -- movies mean navigating snowy passes. So we just don't see anything new until the snow melts.  Thank goodness for the internet!

I went right to Youtube, and within a few moments I was weeping. Oh my, what a song!  Lisa couldn't have shared it with me at a more perfect moment.

Earlier this morning, in the half-light of dawn -- that inbetween time of  timeless space between sleeping and waking -- I dreamed. And in my dreaming, the girls -- all three of my daughters -- were with me on the Cape. We swam in the ocean like dolphins and picked up shells and alabaster stones on the beach.

Afterwards, as we were changing into dry clothes I realized that Emma and Clara were about 4 years old. I felt like I had been given the greatest gift. Their little bodies were sun-kissed and soft. They were silly and eager.  I could hear them singing The Beatles, "Eight Days a Week," as clearly as if they were sitting behind me in their carseats as we drove along the sandy Cape Cod roads.

It was such a sweet return to the place where a happy moment lived. And it was fully alive for me. I was completely aware that I was "dreaming," and yet, there was nothing lost in the past, about this experience. I was fully conscious. I was happily cherishing the gift of being with their little girl selves again.

I woke remembering every second of it. I woke with the happiest feeling in my heart and tears on my cheeks. I wasn't remembering a lost moment from the past. I was experiencing the "now" of my love for them.

This may not seem like a particularly metaphysical post. But it is - for me. It is all about Life. It is not filled with quotes or insights. Just love. A love, that alone, is Life. And because, as Mary Baker Eddy writes, "Love alone is Life,"  Love is always present, always alive -- never in the past. And sometimes, this Love fills us so full -- that it bubbles over in our moments of deepest stillness and becomes visceral -- experiential. It is a gift that comes with such deep tenderness.

I will listen to this lullaby many times today. And maybe tomorrow too. Thank you Lisa for thinking of me when you heard it. That means more to me than you know.

Perhaps you will sing it for me one day.

offered with Love,

Kate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In quietness and confidence
shall be your strength;

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

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

"Lo, I am with you alway...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And I still love you...”

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

offered with Love,

Kate

"between here, and gone…"

"Now I'm just wondering
how we know where we belong.
In a song that's left behind
in the dream I couldn't wake from.

Could I have felt the brush
of a soul that's passing on,
Somewhere in between
here and gone..."

For the past year or so, I've sought quiet moments alone, allowing myself to feel the passing of a friend.  When my family was off doing what they love, and I would companion with precious memories. Putting on Mary Chapin Carpenter's "Between Here and Gone," I'd give myself permission to shed a few tears of gratitude, love -- and yes, sorrow.

For such a long time, I didn't know how to do this. I'd bottle those feelings up in a shroud of guilt.  I felt guilty for my sadness. I thought that my sorrow was an admittance of failure. Failure to understand what it means that "there is no death."

My dance with the concept of death came early. A much loved puppy was hit by a car when I was 10. My dad was killed when I was 19.  At 21, a dear young friend passed suddenly. And so it went -- year after year.

No more -- or less, I have discovered -- than most of us. We all face the loss of loved ones. It is not something any of us can escape. But I believe that it's how we navigate this life lesson, that makes all the difference.

Do we see passing as death -- ending, oblivion, a dark nothingness? Or do we see it as simply a transition.  Entering a new laboratory in which we learn something new about love and trust. One classroom leading to another -- new classmates, new lessons, new discoveries.

Does this mean that I do not cherish every moment shared with someone who has gone on? Not at all. 

I remember being a young girl. I was graduating from Kindergarten.  I'd delighted in every day at our little schoolhouse in rural Iowa. I loved my teacher, Mrs. Kearns. I loved books, and learning, and her gentle hand on the top of my head as she stopped beside my desk to examine carefully printed alphabet letters.

I wanted to stay in Kindergarten with Mrs. Kearns for the rest of my life.  That was, until I learned that I couldn't check  out books from the school library -- by myself -- until I was in First Grade. I loved books. I longed to be able to go in and choose my own favorites.  To walk up to the libarian's desk, hand her my card, and carry away a stack of adventures that would inform, entertain, and comfort me in the night.

For a while I felt torn -- as if I even had a choice! Stay in Kindergarten where everything was familiar, or go on to First Grade where I had access to a library full of books - just waiting for me to choose them and take them home. I remember that summer as one of great inner conflict. And then one day, it broke. I knew it was time to become a first grader. I cried for the loss of Mrs. Kearns' daily comfort.  But I was so excited about my new relationship with the school librarian, Mrs. Abernathy.

I think of that summer often, especially when life's transitions seem to shift from the familiar to the unknown. But, I ask myself, would you deprive yourself - or a loved one - of a library card.  Would you want anyone to miss out on a new understanding of eternality, or a long-awaited reconnection with a loved one who had gone on before them?

Today I don't so much wonder "where do I belong…" I trust that question to God. I am here. That is the truth. I am spiritual and eternal. That is the Truth. I cherish my memories with great affection and gratitude. I hold them dear and look forward to seeing my friend again.  I look forward to our sharing new stories. I weep.  But mostly they are tears of joy and gratitude.  And, sometimes longing -- I wish I could laugh with him, I am grateful that I ever did, and I realize that I love him -- still. Nothing can change this enduring truth.

These feelings have taught me compassion for others,  and patience with myself. I love that Mary Chapin Carpenter sings:

"I thought a light went out,
but now the candle shines.
I thought my tears wouldn't stop,
then I dried my eyes.
And after all of this,
the truth that holds me here,
Is that this emptiness
is something not to fear."  

Ah, the emptiness, that is not empty at all.  Yes, sometimes it is a cavernous feeling.  But it not empty.  It is the removal of something intractable -- the false concepts of life as limited and material.  It reveals the expansive wonder of life defined spiritually.  For me, it is an "emptiness" that represents my willingness to discover that Life is not defined by the solidness of the flesh, but the irrepressible boldness of Spirit -- of the Love that cannot be stifled or destroyed.

Today, I've taken some time to let the memories draw close. To let them blossom with a new charm.  To laugh and cry with them. To let them dance a two-step with me, and smirkingly reprove me for my left-leaning optimism. I love my friend. I look forward to seeing him again. But we are both where we belong. I am grateful for the sweet brush of his memory -- across my heart.


offered with Love,

Kate

"He will not let go…"

"what lies ahead,
I'm not sure I know.
But the hands that holds,
this flailing soul,
He will not let go..."

Blinding pain ripped through my body like a bolt of lightning. In that moment, I didn't know what to think, or how to think. When it retreated, and darkness came again, it was like slipping beneath the surface of a cool dark pond. And I surrendered.

Until it came again. A screaming. A crashing. Something sharp and raw that shattered me into a million shards of pain and fear. All I wanted to do was let go and slip into oblivion. "Yes, that's right. Go ahead, and just let go," it whispered in a taunting hiss. And I considered it.  That was until I realized that even if I were to completely give up, give in, and let go, "He Will Not Let Go." of me.

I love this beautiful song by one of my favorite inspirational recording artists, Laura Story. Her music is so honest and simple that it takes my breath away.

There have been moments in my life when I've felt like giving up on my own ability to hold on. Times when the hurt was so deep, or the hopelessness so unfathomable, that looking beyond a single step felt impossible.

I remember that night - quite a few years ago now -- when the above-referenced pain was unbearable. Living with it seemed too much to bear.  Each minute felt like an eternity. Each tick of the bedside clock was torturous. As I lay there, it occurred to me that I could just give up, let go, and slip away. It would be so easy. The thought of it was so tempting.

But it was at this very moment, that I felt the presence of something profoundly clear. The thought came, "As if! As if your willingness to let go, would change the fact that I love you, and that I am holding on to you. You are the very manifestation of Me, as Life. I will not let go."

This single thought woke me up from the lie of self-determinism. It wrested from my grip, the false notion that I was in charge of my life. That it was mine to sustain, to choose, or to throw away. I realized that I had absolutely no power to make that choice. God had all the power, and He was holding on to me. He would never let go.

With the realization that I was powerless to give up, the pain began to retreat. It no longer had the authority I'd given it.  I no longer believed it could inform me about whether to hold on, or to give up and let go.  It was a decision that I'd always thought was mine to make. But the fact was, I was here, I was conscious. I still loved my children. I could still be grateful. I was still able to appreciate beauty.  Suddenly, I was no longer paralyzed by the pain and fear.  I was enveloped in an undeniable truth -- Life was insisting Itself as conscious existence - as me.

I asked myself, "In all your life, have you ever actually been aware of being unconscious?" I had to admit, I'd never experienced the kind of deep blackness.  I'd never existed without an awareness of "I AM" -- which was the very thing that I was so fearful of.  It was what I thought pain was a precursor to.  But in fact, every night I'd peacefully yielded to sleep -- without any fear of never waking up again or being relegated to a dark mental abyss. And every day, I woke up feeling a sense of uninterrupted being.

I had always been held -- deeply and inextricably held -- intact, in perfection, in grace, in consciousness. Life had never let go of me. And whether I was holding on or not, I was being held.

The pain that had terrorized me, lost its power to inform or alarm me when I realized that it could not carry out its threat. My life was in the hands of God.  My awareness of being was under the sovereignty of Mind. My right to love, to be grateful, to pray and to bless was intact.

I've been grateful for two statements - in particular - from the writings of Mary Baker Eddy, when acute or chronic pain has threatened to hold a deeper, darker meaning:

"No evidence before the material senses
can close my eyes to the scientific proof
that God, good, is supreme."

"Spirit’s senses are without pain,
and they are forever at peace.
Nothing can hide from them
the harmony of all things
and the might and permanence of Truth." 

Nothing can hide from me an awareness of God's tender hold on my life. Nothing can close my eyes to the love of my divine Parent. He will never let go.

While searching for a photo to illustrate this piece, I came across dozens of photos of us holding our daughters when they were babies.  And an online search turned up hundreds of photos of mothers and fathers holding their infants. They all looked so beautiful -- so full of tenderness, strength, and love.

Then I looked at the same photos, but imagined the parent out of the picture. The babies looked vulnerable, their positions awkward, their bodies small and fragile. It was exactly how I felt that night -- like a flailing, unsupported naked being exposed to the unknown.  Knowing that God was always there, holding me, changed everything that night -- from paralyzing fear to feeling that I was nestled in my Father's arms.  Held in a deep and abiding relationship with my divine Parent.

Whatever you might be facing, you are not facing it alone. God is holding you in perfect peace, in eternal Life, in tender love. He will not let go.

offered with Love,

Kate

"And Life most sweet...."

"The first time ever I saw your face...
I felt the earth turn in my hand
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird
That was there at Your command, my Love..."
- Roberta Flack

This weekend I was with an extraordinary family of spiritual thinkers who are committed to exploring the power of grace in their lives. A conversation came up about the value of listening deeply to the wisdom found in nature. We considered the lessons we learned while communing with other creatures...than humans. Turtles, puppies, fish, horses...and, this story about my encounter with a hummingbird. I'm re-posting it today because it's been so present in my thought this weekend. I offer it with love...

I hope you will understand why Roberta Flack's "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face," leapt into my heart, when I began to write about this experience. In it, a tiny conscious being, leaves a very large imprint on my heart.

One of my favorite camp activities are the theme-inspired dinner dances that have been introduced by our extraordinary Lodge Manager, Eddie Cox.  Let me take a moment here to go on record as saying that Eddie is amazing…really.  He has taken what is, without question, one of the most challenging jobs at camp, and turned it into a platform for sharing his ebullient joy, awe-inspiring grace (on the dance floor and in his every interaction with campers, parents, and fellow counselors), pure love, and breath-taking humility. 

The CITs (Counselors-in-Training) may have learned more about servant-leadership from working shoulder-to-shoulder and broom-to-broom with Eddie Cox, than on a Peace Corp mission in Kenya, or any Noles course in Patagonia.

Okay…now that I’ve honored a really great guy, let me continue with the real story here…

Sidenote: This post was originally published in 2007. This is 2012, and this summer Eddie will be one of the Camp Directors. I'm so grateful for his willingness to accept this post.

It was mid-session after the campers returned from their three-day trips, and Eddie and his chain gang of CITs had worked furiously to create a feeling of New York dinner club elegance in the middle of a pine log lodge.  And they had succeeded admirably.  Everyone had been encouraged to wear their Sunday (or Friday night) best for 40s-style swing dancing during dinner.  Long rectangular and large round tables bordered an open space that was carved out for dancing.  Once dinner had been served, the music filled the lodge, swirling through the rafters as dancers left their plates for a turn, or two, at imitating Fred and Ginger.

Eddie hosted as our resident “Fred,” and we watched and twirled right next to him while our dinners cooled on abandoned plates.

I had just returned to my place at the table to catch my breath when Amy, a counselor and long-time friend, approached..  She asked me to come outside as there was an urgent need for spiritual care. 

I was really at camp for only one reason--I am a Christian Science practitioner.  Our campers come from families who live and practice Christian Science, and rely on its teachings for health care, life guidance, and to discover more about their relationship to God.  I am very accustomed to being called away from dinner, sleep, shower….you name it. It's always a privilege to prayerfully support a counselor, camper…or horse…in need. 

The sound of the music, the clatter of dishes, the squeals of joy from the dance floor, the grumbling of my tummy, receded into a hazy muffle of white noise as I mentally descended into a space of conscious stillness. A conscientious awareness of God’s All-in-allness-- one that I have learned to completely surrender to.

I followed Amy to the deck just outside the dining room.  There sitting on the rock wall banked with wildflowers was Ryan with something very small cupped in his large, calloused, rock-climber hands.   His face was as tender as a child’s, and his eyes looked up imploring me to “do something”.  I reached him quickly and discovered that a tiny hummingbird was lying limply in his palm.  He extended his hand to me and I took “her” into my own, much smaller hand, gently.  She was unresponsive and felt as soft and broken as a small silken sack of loose flax seeds. 

As I held her, I turned to God with my whole heart.  I had spent years of summers on my cabin porch with these vibrant creatures darting and hovering…weaving their way between the bird feeders swinging from porch rafters, and the profusion of colorful wildflowers that pepper the flowerbeds, clay pots, and hanging planters around camp.  This gentle creature was His...God’s. It was clear to me that only He could combine such intricate beauty, strength, speed, tenderness, and grace in such a tiny form.

I turned to Amy, and there were tears streaming down her face.  She shared with me that while eating dinner she noticed something skirt across the wooden floor of the dining room. It had looked like a hockey puck, being kicked back and forth by the unwitting dancers.  By the time she realized that it was this tiny hummingbird, and picked it up, it was unresponsive.  The bird had somehow found its way into the lodge earlier that morning, and had spent the day trying to get out through the tall windows, as the CITs worked on preparing the lodge for the dance.  They had tried to help her find her freedom, but had not been successful. She would just fly higher, and higher, into the pitched ceiling of the lodge.

It was obvious that she had become exhausted, and had finally fallen to the floor of the dining room. 

Amy finished her story by looking up at Ryan, who had been listening carefully.  With a shy gulp she said,

“We named her Life…”

So, that was where I started: what did I know about Life?  Life is God.  Life is good.   Life was not vulnerable.  Life, synonymous with Love, asserted itself as the only real power in the universe.  As Mary Baker Eddy asserts in her poem “Love”:

“Love alone is Life.”

So then, as I further reasoned, with mathematical certainty that, if Love alone is life, then Life alone is Love…and Love doesn’t make you weak, tired, vulnerable or fragile. These were ideas that I had been clinging to all week as I'd prayed for an indomitable sense of conscious being.  Love as life is a divine promise of invulnerability, strength, clarity and assurance. In fact, it is a clear, that when we are love, we are living.Alive and safely sheltered in Love’s encircling care.   It was clear to me that this hummingbird, because she was a hummingbird, loved the sunlight. She was one with the rich beauty and color of her surroundings...the fresh mountain air, the scent of pines, the sound of a the river.  Her efforts to reach what she loved could not have made her weak, but could have only made her strong. 

The campers and counselors loved one another. And they loved this hummingbird. They loved the beauty of the mountains. They loved the lessons they were learning from the birds, rocks, water, trees, creatures around them.  Therefore they were safe from being placed in a situation where they could be harmed, or cause her harm.

I looked down on her small broken form, and it was clear that any brokenness was incongruent with renewed my sense of “Life.” ”Life” was more than this small -- however exquisitely beautiful -- form could ever fully express. Life, God, was what this little bird’s body was only a tender whispering of. And yet I knew that each mental molecule of Life's expression of itself, had to be in consonance with the integrity of the overarching character of Life. It was a self-enforcing law.

It was clear to me that we needed to, as Eddy says:

“act as possessing all power
(to be kind, compassionate, caring and nurturing)
from Him (Love) in whom [we] have our being.”

I asked Amy to get me a small saucer of sugar water, the same solution we put in the hummingbird feeders around camp.  At first I just put a little of the water on my finger and put my finger near her long slender beak, lying on the palm of my hand.  Within a moment or two her eye flickered, and her beak parted ever so slightly. But it was obvious that she was struggling, and felt too weak to take the water into her mouth.

I closed my eyes in prayer.  The image came to me of a hummingbird hovering in front of a flower with her beak dipped into the mouth of the blossom.  So I put a spoonful of the water into my own mouth.  Then I made my lips into a pursed opening…imitating, as best I could, the opening of a flower. I then lifted my hand to my face, and placed the end of her beak into the opening of my lips filled with the sugar water solution. 

I was shocked to feel a tiny hair-like tongue darting in and out across my lips.  I opened my eyes, and there, looking into my face with all the spiritual maturity of a Ghandhi or a wise child, were the eyes of this extraordinary creature.  She locked her eyes with mine, and shuddered into full conscious being. 

When I felt her no longer drinking greedily, I pulled her away from my face and looked down at her lying in my palm. Her little body began to “purr” with life.  As we watched, our little girl hummingbird, became a boy hummingbird. Her dull brown feathers pulsing into an iridescent green that caused us to gasp with delight.  Her throat throbbed a ruby color I hadn't imagined possible. 

Within a few moments, the three of us together held her, fed her, loved her.

She would “rev” (the only word I can think of to describe the feeling in my hand when her body would begin to buzz, just before her wings would start to flutter), and attempt to fly out from my hand over and over again. 

Each time we celebrated her freedom.  She'd fly a few feet, and then fluttered to the ground where I'd pick her up. After resting in my hand for a minute or two, she'd try again.  A small group of campers and counselors emerged from the dining room, and she continued to make her flight attempts in front of a loving, but concerned audience.  Since it was time for the evening program to start, I took her up to my cabin and sat quietly with her on the porch. 

A young counselor followed me, carrying the saucer of sugar water.  She sat next to me as I held our little friend.  This young woman and I had already spent a lot of time on my porch that summer.  One of her best friends from home had been killed, just after she had arrived at camp, and she had been haunted with questions about life and death.  We had talked well into the night about what we were both learning about God’s love for humanity. But her heart was still not fully at peace. 

As we sat there with “Life” I realized that all our talking was nothing compared to what we were witnessing that evening of God’s expression of Himself as Life...as conscious being...through this small creature.

Once again, “Life” attempted a flight and this time she succeeded in making it onto a branch in one of the large pine tree that canopies my cabin.  The counselor watched as "Life" made one attempt, after another, to fly from branch-to-branch, and then tree-to-tree, until she was no longer visible.  We continued to sit and talk...the sky moving from evening into twilight...when suddenly out of the blue (literally), “Life” returned to the porch and landed on my knee.  She sat there for a moment or two before I picked her up and held her. And a few moments later, she took off again.

At some point, my friend decided she should go down and join the rest of the camp community for the evening program.  After praying for a little while longer, in gratitude for what God had shown me of Himself as Life that evening, I too went to join the others at the campfire.

On my way down I ran into Amy and another counselor, Peter, sitting on the rock wall just above the fire ring where everyone was gathered for a campfire sing.  I sat down to let Amy know what had happened to “Life,” and to share together our gratitude for the experience, when “Life” herself (himself...only males are supposed to have ruby throats…although I don’t know that I will ever think of her that way) flitted into view and landed on top of my foot.  I reached down and picked her up and held her.   I petted her beautiful tiny iridescent green feathers, and stroked her ruby throat until she started to whirr into pre-flight again.  When she lifted off and flew into the lavender dusk sky I was so happy to see how strong and sure she appeared. 

Amy and I finished our conversation with Peter, and I'd walked down to the pines behind the benches surrounding the fire-ring, when suddenly I felt something at the nape of my neck, moving the hairs that had escaped from my ponytail. 

For a few moments, “Life” was on my shoulder without the slightest movement.  I turned my head and she again stared into my eyes. There was such apparent intelligence, wisdom and gratitude pouring from her heart.  I could see her desire to communicate her love, as clearly as I could see it in my daughter’s eyes each night as we lay in her little bed snuggling before she fell asleep...neither of us saying a word while we listened to her daddy singing hymns. 

“Life’s” eyes held all the awareness of love and affection, gratitude and goodness that my daughter’s did.  There was no lesser intelligence, no lesser life.

When “Life” flew off this time into the branches of countless pine and aspen trees above us, gently swaying against the background of a cobalt night sky filled with stars, I knew she was ready to let me go.  She had told me all that I needed to know to stop being concerned for her.

Over the course of the next weeks a single hummingbird would hover around the Adirondack chair on my porch whenever I sat there to pray or study. Every now and then she would light on the arm of one of the chairs as I sat quietly  In the weeks following this experience, a handful of hummingbirds decided that the flowers in hanging baskets and pots on my porch were the most tasty at camp.  

And one day, soon after we'd returned home to St. Louis at the end of camp, I discovered that my window boxes, filled with pale coral geraniums, deep blue gentien and lobelia, were where a half dozen hummingbirds would gather to feed, while I worked at the kitchen sink. And when I was sitting at my desk near the back deck, they'd relocate to just outside the nearby windows where pots overflowed with fragrant lavender and waterfalls of petunias as soft and pink as a sunrise over the Rockies.

I offer no interpretation of these experiences….I just extend them as a gift of Life, and Love.

"And Life most sweet as heart to heart,
Speaks kindly when we meet and part."
- Mary Baker Eddy

Kate

I'll love you for a thousand more..."

"darling,
don't be afraid...
i have loved you
for a thousand years,
I'll love you for a thousand more..."

In many ways, this post...and the over-arching insight shared...unfolded like a flash of light, in its entirety, within a moment. And in other ways, it has been growing and evolving for about two decades...experience-upon-experience. Almost as if Love, starting with one drop of color, layer-by-layer, gently placing one brushstroke upon another, until a painting took form. And suddenly, there is depth, texture, beauty, and vision.

I don't know that this image is fully layered, and ready for framing...but I do know that it is my truth...today. I am sharing it because it is where I am at this juncture in my understanding of Life. I don't claim it to be true for anyone else. But, since this blog is where I chronicle my evolving sense of spiritual being, I am writing it down. If you're interested, here's one more chapter of my story:

I was driving the River Road some weeks ago, when Christina Perri's "A Thousand Years" came on the radio. It's message seemed to weave the colors I'd been gathering for many years, into an image that felt deeply true.

I don't know that it's important to relate all the specific experiences that have contributed to this image...or if, to be honest, I really can. But it's the image, itself, that means so much to me.

A fragment of a sentence from Mary Baker Eddy's Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, has been lodged in my heart for 20 years, or so. I've had remarkable insight from pondering it. And others have come like a flash of light. But, unlike other insights that have inspired and instructed, this one feels like it is indelibly written on the code of my spiritual DNA. And this encoding feel unlocked in a new way today. I don't think it will be a surprise to regular readers that the phrase is:

"As a drop of water is one with the ocean..."

As I said, I was driving home along the River Road, thinking about dear friends who'd been married for decades and a recent conversation I'd had with one of them. There was such a sense of peace about the time when one (or the other) of them would pass on.

His sense of Love's eternality was so clear, strong, and confident. And that evening, as I thought about our conversation, I was just so grateful for each lesson about marriage, love, constancy, persistence, and grace, I'd learned from my relationship with them as a couple.

The sun was setting in the west, and there were storm clouds in the distance. I could see the streaks of rain falling. And because it was a warm evening, there was a layer of fog beginning to lift from the surface of an eddy across the river's breadth.

Suddenly it became so clear that the river, the clouds, the fog, the humidity in the air, the falling rain are, all, one. The only thing that insinuates they are different, are their "forms," and all that defines those forms is level of density. They are all made up of water. And more importantly, I began to see that the essential elements which constitute water...hydrogen and oxygen...when bonded, and experienced as water - river, rain, cloud, steam, fog, ice, even my body (which is 91% water)... is never altered by the form of their expression.

Water is always water. Steam is not different from rain in its make up. Whether the water is visible (as ice) or invisible (as humidity in the air) it is still water. It is still H2O. And water, is in a constant cycle of changed form. Condensation, visibility, release, evaporation, condensation are the rhythm of its being. Water evaporates. Water condenses. And at each state, or stage of its life, it has function, usefulness, purpose. It's form may change, but never it's purity, or identity. A molecule of water appearing as a cloud, then rain, then river, is still a molecule of water whether it is flowing through the Midwest and carrying barges as the mighty Mississippi, or being skated on by a graceful athlete.

My friend's relationship to his wife was never defined as a relationship between two "ice" molecules, and dependent on that form to be mutually experienced. Their relationship is that of simply two water molecules, each completely whole, as the full and infinite expression of the conscious essence of the Godhead, bodily expressed. Because one might be visible in any given moment as "physical", and the other not as condensed - or visible in form, that doesn't alter the fullness of each one's identity as the present manifestation of God's being...Principle, Mind, Soul, Spirit, Life, Truth, and Love...expressed as conscious being in countless spiritual forms.

And the lovely part about water, in its constant cycle of condensation and evaporation, is that even when the water seems to be embedded in mud, sludge, or even pouring from the lips of a golden fountain in the king's palace, when it evaporates it doesn't take any of the silt, sewerage, dust, food coloring, toxic waste, or gold dust with it...it continues on its cycle of being as pure water, clear water, only water, still...never-the-less...water. This makes me feel a bit more fearless about the challenges I face. They will not cling to me as I evaporate. I will leave behind the dust, or embellishments, of personal sense, just as water, that evaporates from mud, orholy water, leaves behind anything but it's purest, most-essential, self...H2O.

This was so clear to me the other day when I ran into a friend who'd attended the school my girls attend, only 35 years earlier. He was reminiscing about how, when he was in high school, he and his friends would fish in the little pond near the school. His affection for Laskey pond was so genuine. But as I listened to him, I realized that there is nothing about what now represents the pond, that is the same as when he was here. The water has evaporated and been replaced countless times. The boundary banks have eroded and shifted over the years. All that remains are his memories of a small body of water steps from the school.

His affection for "Laskey Pond" is for his memories, not the pond that currently sits near the headmaster's house. This is not any different from what I can "me." Even without metaphor, our bodies are water...but even more, every cell of our bodies are completely recycled every 7 years. The "you" you remember from childhood, has nothing in common..physically...with the you you see in the mirror today. So what is carrying a scar, a beauty mark, a skin tone forward. It is thought...memory.

If this is the case, why would I ever want look back towards the image of my younger self...with all it's history...for a model of who I should be, today. I just need to be me, the reflection of the one, and only, I AM, right now. Pure, clear, fresh, new...never old...always new. Not younger, or returning to a better version, but new.

For me, there is so much more to this metaphor, and it's unfolding wisdom. It speaks to my awakening heart. And today, it is helping me understand something new about the eternality of being, as never contained by, or limited to, a particular form. I am seeing that being is defined only by its indissoluble relationship to its Essence. Water is always water...H2O. I am always man...the unalterable, infinitely expressed "I AM" of being. And each spiritual "I AM" molecule represents, for me, the unbroken bonding of all the divine elements...Principle, Mind, Soul, Spirit, Life, Truth, and Love...always to the infinite measure.

Whether I am visible, or not, is of no consequence to my being...I will condense, and evaporate, in infinite cycles of usefulness. But my consciousness of Love...the purest form of relationship I can have...will be alive, within me, for eternity.

In the light of this insight, I will never, everfear, or even "see death" again.

with Love...

Kate

"Even dynamite can purr..."

"When you hear the sound from
far enough away
even dynamite can purr..."
-     David Wilcox

Those who know me, know that I love quotes.  I love the feeling of relationship/friendship I find in a shared love for ideas...and for that writer's succinct articulation of those ideas.

I also love the connections, the synapses made between seemingly disparate ideas when they move through the corridors of my heart.  That happened for me today on a number of fronts. 

It started when I came upon a tiny scrippity scrap of notebook paper on which I'd written the following quote one wintery afternoon, a couple of years ago. 

"She liked unfinished.  She liked process.
She liked moving things -- rivers, clouds, heartbeats."
-  Alice Hoffman  (The Third Angel)

The quote struck me immediately the first time I read it...and it did again this morning when I found my scribblings, in the leaves of Hoffman's book. It resonates with how I feel about things.  I like process...I am not at all eager for things to be "done."  I like the feeling of Life (vitality, creation, surprise) flowing through our lives like a river...changing and shifting its outline and form moment-by-moment. 

And by reciprocity, the river has a transformative effect on the landscape.  The "ground" which gives the river its surprisingly beautiful undulating and meandering boundaries, is changed by the river's course.  It alters those same banks...molecule-by-molecule... moment-by-moment as it carves and sculpts its host landscape.  There is something so organic and alive about things that are pulsing with process.  There is a relationship that cannot be one-sided. 

So, this morning, as I was reading this quote, I started thinking about rivers and couldn't help but start humming, "Just Around The River Bend," from Disney's Pocahontas. 

"What I love most about rivers is
You can't step in the same river twice
The water's always changing
always flowing..."

"Yes," I thought, "it all fits."  That serendipitous sense of Life in which we allow one moment to flow into another.  When we surrender to a divine surprise.  When we are more in love with the process, than a product. 

And then I caught my friend Randall's posting of a David Wilcox house concert performance of his song, "Dynamite in the Distance" on Facebook. 

In his opening remarks David gives words to what I feel, in my heart, about the process of writing, praying, living.  He says:

"I have loved the process of writing for a long time...not the product, so much, but the process.  It's my way of finding the elements of my story that I don't want to miss, before it's too late.  

"It's about finding places in my heart that have been covered and buried, and locked in storage, and getting them back so I can be more alive. 

"So, it is bewildering for people who come, when I teach songwriting, because they are expecting me to tell them how to make a song sound like a song, how it ought to sound...how to fill out the form.  

"But I don't want to fill out the form,
I want to be informed.

"I want the song to tell me what it knows, I don't want to make it do anything.  If I start out with a guitar riff, or a little phrase, and it moves me, I trust that it moves me because it's coming from a place that I am going.

"And my heart catches a point of view as if it's a vista that I haven't even hiked to yet.  But it's a way of seeing.  It's almost as if I could see from the point of view of who I could become.  Wow...now that saved my life.

"I need music.  I need it to remind me."

"Wow," I thought, "just wow..."

Then I remembered the writings of the late Celtic sage - poet, philosopher, and spiritual luminary - John O'Donahue.  I have been swimming, floating, drowning in his words for the past few weeks. His quotes have been the thoughts I've wrapped myself up in...like the old quilts hanging on walls, and folded in piles and cupboards throughout our home.  Here are two, that are like snipped pieces of fabric from favorite old dresses.   They are so softened by wear that I often find myself stroking them whenever I am snuggled under the weight of his words:

"As water takes whatever shape it is in,
So free may you be about who you become."

"I would love to live like a river flows,
carried by the surprise of its own unfolding."

So, I don't know that this post has a punchline.  Tonight there really is no clear "message" or "product."  Just some thoughts to let flow through the landscape of your heart.  If they carve a new bank, or just eddy for a while...wonderful.  I hope you enjoy the sound of this river's song...

with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Parents are people..."

"...Parents are people
People with children
When parents were little, they used to be kids
Like all of you, but then they grew
And now parents are grown-ups
Grown-ups with children
Busy with children, and things that they do
There are a lot of things a lot of mommies
And a lot of daddies,
and a lot of parents can do..."
-     Carol Hall

I was barely out of high school when my dad suddenly passed on (following a road collision) that left my 39 year old mom widowed with 8 children under the age of 19.  I am still ashamed to admit that although I was heartbroken for our family, and devastated by the way his passing turned our lives upside down socially, financially and emotionally, I was not as deeply concerned about my mom losing her husband and companion, as I should have been.  I thought, "they were old anyway".  Horrible, huh!?!?  But honest.  I was so immature.  The world of "adults over 30" was filled with senior citizens in my eyes.    I couldn't imagine that my mom still had the capacity to feel romance...or be in love.   She was old, she had eight children to raise, she'd had her day in the sun…right! 

Wrong....so sadly wrong...

My mom was, and still is, a vital, loving, hope-filled and gloriously alive woman….and always has been.  But it took me decades, following my dad's passing, to realize this fact. 

It finally dawned on my when one of my dearest friends, and her husband, had been in a tragically fatal automobile accident.  I had been with her in the hospital, day in and day out, for over a week while she was being treated in their critical care/trauma unit.  The day that she passed on I felt sad, and empty, and helpless in making sense of how a mother (and her husband who had passed on the day before) could be taken from their children at such a young age.  It was wrong and wasteful.  She was so vital and alive with promise.  "She was in the prime of her life, " I thought as I drove to another friend's house from the  hospital that day.  She was about my age for goodness sake, and I was only….37….

I literally stopped in my tracks.  I was driving through a suburban neighborhood…thank goodness…because my entire body stopped operating that 3,000 pound vehicle.   My foot came up off the gas pedal and I drifted to the side of the road where my car came to a stop.  In anguished horror I immediately thought of my mom. She was only been 39 when my dad  passed on and I had thought of her as "over the hill", beyond falling in love and having dreams.  My heart broke open wide for my mom…and my friend…in that surreal moment of suburban normalcy.  I KNEW how much I loved life, I KNEW how many dreams I had yet to even begin realizing, I KNEW how deeply I longed to be loved and in love…every day of my life. I KNEW how young I felt inside and how terrifying the thought of being widowed with eight children would be to me at that moment…heck, the thought of being widowed with one child was more than I could comprehend.  How would I go on?  How would I be able to even function in the context of the grief and despair of losing my husband, much less be able to work and provide for my child. 

As I sat there with my face in my hands…parked haphazardly in front of a someone's perfectly manicured suburban lawn…I wept for my friend, her husband, and their young daughters.  I wept for my own parents and our family.  I wept for my mom and all the years I thought she was too old to still need love and romance and companionship in her life.  I wept for my own insensitivity as a teenager.  

There were no cell phones in those days so I couldn't call my mom from the privacy of my car.  I had to wait for a few hours after arriving at my friend's house, when things had settled down and I could excuse myself.  However, when I did I told her all that was in my heart.  I told her that I was sorry I had never understood how young and dynamic she was and how alive her desires were.  I told her that I now understood that she was still a young woman inside and that I wanted to help her resurrect any dreams that she might have let the world…and us kids…convince her she was too old to still cherish and nurture.  I have tried to do just that.  I've tried to help her remember that she can still go to college,  start a new life by the ocean, climb a 14,000 foot mountain, or fall in love.

Whenever I begin to forget that we are all ageless children of God, I remember that moment in my friend's neighborhood.  I try to remember how, at 37, I felt just as alive to love and hope, and cherished dreams…as I had at 17.  The me who loved snuggling under the covers with a book for a great read on a rainy day at 11 is just as hungry for the perfect quilt-and-tea book today.  The me who sang at the top of her lungs on road trips alone behind the wheel flying across Kansas does the same thing on her way to camp every summer….much to the chagrin of her daughters.  The me who wakes up each morning with a heart eager to try something new…is the same me who just knew that she could do anything she set her mind to at 18.   And the me whose heart broke with every not-so-wise choice at 16, still lies awake at night praying for forgiveness and redemption at 53.

A few years ago I had a Sunday School student who came to class concerned that his mom was "going off the deep end" because she was wanting to make some drastic changes in her career.  Then in the next sentence he complained that she didn't give him enough freedom, as a new college student, to explore a number of different options that were of interest to him.  "Doesn't she know that this is what I am supposed to be allowed to do at my age?" he asked.  "Don't you know that's what she needs to be allowed, by you, to do as well?'  I countered.   "Are you giving her as much freedom to grow and evolve and change as you expect to give you?" I then asked gently.

I continue to learn, each day, that "Parents are People"…people who, in God's eye, are just children.  Children who are learning each day more of what they are capable of as His heir, children who grow in grace, learn from their choices, and never stop hoping, dreaming, evolving within the circle of His arms.

His child,
Kate

"Who knows how long I've loved you..."

"Who knows how long I've loved you
You know I love you still
Will I wait a lonely life time
If you want me to I will

For if I ever saw you
I didn't catch your name
But it never really mattered
I will always feel the same

Love you forever and forever
Love you with all my heart
Love you whenever we're together
Love you when we are apart…"
- Lennon/McCartney

I have always felt this way about my children…and my husband.  It is as if I have always known them.  And when I say "always" I don't mean as far back as their birth…or mine…but to, and from, "infinity and beyond". 

"Meeting" each of the people I love has been more of an "oh, I remember you" than a "nice to meet you" (for the first time) moment.

There is always something vaguely familiar poking at the edges my heart, like a memory, when we are together.  It is almost as if I've seen them somewhere before, just as they turned a corner on a crowded street, but then the memory of where and when is gone.  The shade of green in my eldest daughter's eyes, or the way my sister's fingers feel slender and cool in my hand while we talk. A girlfriend's mannerisms when she's nervous, my mother's sharp intake of breath if she's startled. The sound of my younger daughter's voice singing from behind my seat in the car – something she will do only if she thinks I'm not listening..  And the way her sister's eyes cloud up when she is moved to tears by the thought of a homeless puppy, waiting for adoption, at the neighborhood Petsmart.  The color of the African veld at sunset. All these things feel as timeless, and familiar, as the strains of an ancient lullaby.

I have often written about my confidence in the eternality of life...in the face of a loved one's passing…but I don't think I have related it to how powerful those same insights have been in thinking about  my children's birth, meeting a new friend, or discovering love after decades of freindship.  

Carly Simon sings in "Life is Eternal":

"Life is eternal
And Love is immortal
And death [birth] is only a horizon
And the horizon
Is nothing save
The limit of our sight..."

I believe that the horizon we call "birth" is nothing but the limit of what we remember.  I am so certain that this "timeline," of measured moments between birth and death which we call "life (and then try to extend as long as possible)...is just one chapter, in a very long book. Or to stay with the "horizon" metaphor…just one more expanse of prairie between mountain ranges.  It is simply the stretch of landscape we can see, but not the end…or the beginning…of the journey. 

Memory, our own...or that of someone who claims to have "been there,"…seems to define the beginning of each chapter.  But what if those moments when we recognize something familiar…in someone we are meeting for the first time…is just a glimpse beyond the horizon behind us.

I know that when my husband laughs, I feel as if I have heard that sound longer than I have known my name…or his.  I know that his hand in the small of my back, as he gently steers me out of harms way, is as familiar as my own hand against my cheek in sleep.

It gives me great pause to think that none of us are really meeting for the first time, but perhaps are just reconnecting on this side of the last horizon.

"…And when at last I find you
Your song will fill the air
Sing it loud so I can hear you
Make it easy to be near you
For the things you do endear you to me
And you know I will
I will…"

[here is a link is to my favorite recording of
I will…" by Alison Krauss]

always...and again,
Kate