"the woman who smiled…"

"Do I love my life
enough to brave it?
Do I love my life
enough to save it..."

Sometimes it only takes one phrase from a song to profoundly shift my perspective. Such as it was with Carrie Newcomer's beautiful new recording, "Season of Mercy."

I was feeling pretty dull. All the colors in me as washed out as the near-winter landscape below. I was traveling from here to there and couldn't seem to rouse myself from the feeling that we often feel like human cattle, being herded onto a completely packed trains, planes and buses.

That was when I remembered Carrie's new CD "The Beautiful Not Yet."  Yes, I needed her beautiful words, her turn of phrase. I wanted to immerse myself in her land of spiritual paradox.

I'd fallen in love with each of the other songs I had already heard from this collection -- a collaboration with author, educator, and activist Parker J. Palmer. I was ready for more. The next song on my playlist was "The Season of Mercy." I was immediately drawn in by the use of a banjo played like a sitar.

But it was when I heard these lines that I knew why I was listening:

"Will I be remembered
as the woman who smiled..."
 

You will have to listen to the song to understand the context, but suffice it to say that it changed that entire trip for me. It became my purpose. To be nothing -- but the woman who smiled.

And in that pondering, two other - more penetrating - questions that Carrie posited, were answered for me:

"Do I love my life
enough to brave it? 

Do I love my life
enough to save it?"
 

These may seem like obvious questions to many.  But when your whole life is shifting -- from the daily demands of being a mom, a caregiver, a significant cog in the mechanism of your family's life -- to….  Well, that was the question.  What?  And the answers to those questions seemed to loom just out of reach.

Carrie's song -- at that very moment -- was just invitation I needed to consider how I would answer them.  These were not professional questions for me.  I love my work. This was about something else.  And by the end of the weekend, I could honestly and unequivocally say, "yes, and yes." But the how?  I am still listening that forward. How will I brave this next chapter in my life? What am I willing to do, to surrender, to look at in a new way, to save it?  For me, this is a question of salvation.  The salvaging of what is essential, enduring, eternal, from what was useful, necessary, beautiful, and instructive -- however temporary.

I am starting with being the woman who smiled.  I will smile, at the dark-eyed children Carrie sings about, and at myself in the mirror.

I think, that this is a good place to start. It will take a clear-eyed commitment to unwavering kindness -- not just with those I am close to, those I meet, or those I have yet to cross paths with, but with myself. In order to smile at myself, I will need to be kind to myself.

I will need to see past the past. I will need to look deeper than skin-deep. I will need to be patient with my expectations, and expect less human perfection as I navigate new platforms of purpose, vision, and creativity.

But I can do this -- I know I can. So, here we go. I will begin to brave my life by being the woman who smiled.

I love this invitation from Carrie:

"It's the time of memory
the season of mercy.
Following out the thread,
humming the tune in my head,
just out of reach
always just out of reach..."
 

I have time to let the beautiful tune reach me. I will be patient as next steps reveal themselves to my waiting heart. I love my life. Today I am content to be the woman who smiled.

offered with Love and a smile,

Kate

"Less like scars...more like character..."

"It's been a hard year,
but I'm climbing out of the rubble.
These lessons are hard
Healing changes are subtle
But every day it's...

Less like tearing, more like building
Less like captive, more like willing
Less like breakdown, more like surrender
Less like haunting, more like remember

And I feel You here
And You're picking up the pieces
Forever faithful

It seemed out of my hands,
a bad situation
But You are able,
and in Your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars and more like...
character..."
-Sara Groves

I couldn't help but think of Sara Groves' "Less Like Scars" tonight...I think you will see why...

The following post, from this blog, was written and published originally in June of 2007.  A dear friend sent me a link to it, because it had been meaningful to her.  To be honest, I had forgotten writing it, so it was a wonderful gift to receive.  Just as wonderful, was the realization that it still rings as true for me today, as it did almost three years ago.  My purpose has not changed.  I still contribute posts to this blog for the very same reason.

My friend sent me this gift of love...tonight I am re-gifting it to you as a re-declaration of purpose...my purpose.  It is my truth, and it is more precious than gold, frankincense, or myrrh.  It is a purpose statement that has not changed...one bit.  I like that.  I like knowing that it is through my purpose...a holy, Love-inspired sense of purpose, that I find a contiguous thread of authenticity in my being.  It is helping me to see that I am becoming what I long to be...really, truly, genuinely be...a woman of my word.  I have trusted God's hand in designing my purpose statement, and am discovering that He has set His seal upon it, and impressed it firmly on my heart. What a gift to give someone.

As this decades comes to a close, and a new one is given birth, I promise to keep this spiritual purpose clearly, distinctly, precisely in focus. 

Here is the original post with the addition of this audio clip of "You are Not Alone":

"…you are not alone
_ I am here with you
_Though we're far apart
_You're always in my heart
_you are not alone…"_
- Michael Jackson

Someone asked me the other day why I write these posts twice every week.  Was I trying to teach readers something new about spirituality…no, the Bible and Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy...as well as countless other inspirational books, magazine articles, blogs and websites are lovingly dedicated to this kind of pedagogy.  Was I trying to get my writing seen by blog surfing publishers….no.  Did I have an irrepressible urge to write…yes, but this is not the reason I blog. 

I have been writing and journaling (at least two hours a day) daily for many, many years…I write a lot.  I didn't need another focus for my writing life. 

So, as I sat in front of this computer screen pondering that question: "Why do you blog?" the AOL icon at the bottom of my screen started bouncing to alert me that a new message was in my mailbox.  I shook myself from the reverie of self-examination to check the message in case there was an urgent need for attention.  This is the email that greeted me (shared with permission…all personal and identifying information deleted):

Dear Kate,

I had a difficult day and then read your web-log ("Sunrise, Sunset") and nearly burst into tears. Of all the many things I have wanted to ask you is how you bear this very thing … this changing and growing and going. I feel it as sadness and loss. I can't seem to find joy there.

My little girl, the world's very best baby, is turning (age deleted). I love to see what she is becoming, but I miss the girl she was even last year.

I have more birthday preparations and it's late. I want to thank you again for your writing and the healings on your website. I turn to it so frequently during the day.

Love, ______

In reading her message I remembered with such clarity why I post on this blog each Tuesday and Thursday…it is not to share my insights or inspirations, it is not to see my words self-published on the internet, it is not to receive notes of praise…it is for one reason…and for me, there is just one message:

"You are not alone."

Just before I sit down at my computer,  to write a piece for posting, I try to become very quiet and listen for a silent cry that speaks to my heart….I am listening for the tears of those who feel -  that in the darkness of their own private sadness or confusion - they are alone.  That somehow, they are the only ones who have ever felt this frightened, angry, hurt, hungry for compassion or kindness. 

And then I listen for my own heart.  What in me is reaching out from the posture of "experience?" What is it that might bring them honest comfort and be a beacon of faint light in their darkness?  What story can I offer?  What can I share that will assure them that someone else has been there and that there is a way out? 

I am, in each posting,  trying to say…"I will sing loudly so that you can know that you are not alone in the darkness.  I will sing to remind you that God is there…right there in your own heart… impelling you forward.

"...Just the other night
I thought I heard you cry
Asking me to come
And hold you in my arms
I can hear your prayers
Your burdens I will bear
But first I need your hand..."

To know that we are not alone...that God is there at every turn, pause...at every juncture, to take our hand and lead us into our own light...is a message so powerful that it brings me to my knees.  To know, also, that God has appointed angels of kindness in our lives...friends, sisters, mothers, brothers...to be the hand we feel, the song we listen for...this makes me weep with gratitude.

Here is my reply to my friend's email (with some minor editing):

Dear....

I burst into tears sometimes, too, when I later read the raw nakedness of what I have felt about something and have fearlessly (or naively) posted to this blog. 

These issues of motherhood, and this journey in discovering my ever-evolving indentity as a spiritual woman, living in a world that constantly invites us to want, want, want...more, more, more...are such powerful catalysts for my own spiritual development (de-envelop-ment).  They strip me clean, day-after-day, of all pride and ambition, and leave me childlike in my need for a divine Parent's embrace and care.

I often find that the ideas I have shared are actually still very new to me when I finally read them myself. It is almost as if I wrote the words, without even thinking of them...as if they poured out of my fingertips without passing through the medium of this false mind that would like to call itself sovereign in my life….memory, speculation, imagination. 

I am learning that they come from a more silent space - the heart.

But as for your question:  "how do you bear this very thing … this changing and growing and going?"

I really don't know, other than to say that I try to use each day as a Love-impelled search for God...whether it looks like a triumph, or is filled with tears...it doesn't matter.  As a mother, I realize that the best thing I can give my daughters is HONESTY about the journey.  Allowing them to think that I have it even one bit more "figured out" than I really do, is cruel, and sets them up for failure by comparison. 

So...I am staying focused on integrity in parenting my children...integrity of heart, mind, spirit, actions, words...emotions.  It is sometimes very messy and organic...but it is true...and I like truth...alot...

with love,  Kate

This is my truth.  I really don't write from a longing to be heard, I don't write from a need to say something profound or pithy....but I do write from the deep desire answer the call of  someone crying in the dark, to let them know that they are not alone.  Yes, this is my truth, and I try to follow the wise counsel, and example, of my favorite author when she says:

"I speak from experience."
- Mary Baker Eddy

Back to December 31, 2009...

What a lovely year this has been.  What a gift it has been to see, as Sara sings in "Less Like Scars" that in God's hands my life looks, and feels:

"...Less like tearing, more like building
Less like captive, more like willing
Less like breakdown, more like surrender
Less like haunting, more like remember

And I feel You here
And You're picking up the pieces
Forever faithful
It seemed out of my hands, a bad situation
But You are able
And in Your hands the pain and hurt
Look less like scars and more like
Character

Less like a prison, more like my room
It's less like a casket, more like a womb
Less like dying, more like transcending
Less like fear, less like an ending

And I feel You here
And You're picking up the pieces
Forever faithful
It seemed out of my hands, a bad situation
But You are able
And in Your hands the pain and hurt
Look less like scars

Just a little while ago
I couldn't feel the power or the hope
I couldn't cope, I couldn't feel a thing
Just a little while back
I was desperate, broken, laid out, hoping
You would come

And I need You
And I want You here
And I feel You

And I know You're here
And You're picking up the pieces
Forever faithful
It seemed out of my hands, a bad, bad situation
But You are able

And in Your hands the pain and hurt
Look less like scars
And more like character..."

Yes, less like scars...more like character.  I hope that in His hands, your life feels that way too.  On to a new decade, a new year, a new day, the next moment - with hope...

in His hands,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

[photo credit: Colleen Johnston Campbell]

"Our house...is very, very, very fine house..."

"...Come to me now
And rest your head for just five minutes
Everything is good
Such a cosy room
The windows are illuminated
By the sunshine through them
Fiery gems for you
Only for you

Our house is a very, very fine house..."
- Graham Nash

We are ready to walk
Out the door
We will soon flip the light switch and
Turn the key in the door for the last
Time

I have wept silent…and not so silent
Tears in these last few weeks
I have run my hands tenderly 
across your light-drenched window sills,
wrapped my arms around your strong newel posts
And tiptoed along your golden wide-pine floors
from my office to the kitchen in the middle of the night
staying up to wring every last moment from
these final weeks within the periwinkle and pear...
khaki and prairie grass sancutary you have
been for us...for me...

I have loved you well
You have been a retreat for my heart
When it was most lonely and
Frightened by choices
And unsettled by transitions that
Seemed impossible
Day after day after day…and
Night after night after long, long night

My daughter
Far from home in Africa
Last slept here
She knows me here
She imagines me in this kitchen with
The sun streaming through large casement window
And an old pine table holding steaming mugs of tea…
This is the last home where I made her bed or
A big bowl of Cream of Wheat
with lots of brown sugar.

This is the last house where her
Laughter bounced off photos from her childhood
And was absorbed in the softness of
Her well-loved quilts.
She will easily make the transition to a
New room in our new house just a few miles from here
When she returns home….

But I will have to wait till then
for  her perfume to linger on soft white pillow cases
Or to find her towel on the bathroom floor.

This house held the twins warm and safe
And cushioned their footsteps in the middle of the night
Her walls have heard their secrets and her
Windows have known their breath, visible on cold winter days.

This house launched our son on his journey towards
Manhood and welcomed our eldest daughter and her partner
Home from their first year out of college…

This house held her breath as I prayed and
Gave my husband a place to start anew.

This house
with her high ceilings and stained glass transoms
has been my friend, my confidante,
my shoulder to cry on….my home

This house has given me a place to learn that
I am stronger than I ever thought I could be
And that kindness is more valuable
Than gold.

This house will live in me always…
          As a home…

This house has raised me
          it has made me ready
     For our new house…
          Another home….

I have loved every moment ...
     in this house.
Kate