Today, Dear Friends, I'm Grateful For...

Facebook, February 17, 2015, 8:14 a.m.:

"Today, I am grateful for...

Patrick. Being bathed in blinding sunlight. Creativity. Scoring the best pair of winter boots at the Goodwill in Delaware. A job that means something. What are you grateful for today? Let's chat!"

If hope is the thing with feathers, then gratitude must be the thing with roots. Have you ever expressed your thanks to someone, for something, and felt like you hadn't completely exhausted your vocabulary, even reached into other languages to find the most form-fitting word or phrase to let that someone know just how deeply grateful you were?

Happens to me all the time. Almost daily. And I'm not even bilingual. I know enough Spanish to order a meal and find the town square, and a handful of American Sign Language. Still, the roots of my gratefulness remain just below the unexpressed surface. Perhaps it's my life's work, to explore just how many ways I can say "thank you". Cool. I can do that.

And so I started, back in February of 2015. Not prompted by any particular event, or scientific research on the health benefits of a thankful heart. I was new to Facebook (again, late to every party. Facebook started...when? 2004?), hesitant to put too much of myself out there due to my wrapped-tight private nature, and I'd read somewhere that folks were keeping gratitude journals, writing five things they were grateful for on a daily basis. I suspect the number was arbitrary, and I liked that I could offer up a handful of thanks each day, and still keep the other hand on the steering wheel.

So I let thoughts come to me rather randomly, from my perch on the couch, with my laptop resting comfortable on my, well, lap, the sun yet to make its appearance over the tree line past the 17-acre old cornfield. Patrick. Yep, definitely grateful for him. Being bathed in blinding sunlight. Hey, sunlight in February? You bet your britches I was grateful for that. Creativity. Check. To my right at the time was a studio filled with all manner of crafting implements, from fabric and thread to book board and handmade paper, with jars of beads almost too colorful and numerous to count. When a day ended heavy and unfinished on my mind, I could come home and sink into my supplies until I emerged with a completed item in my thankful hands.

Scoring the best pair of winter boots from the Goodwill in Delaware. Timberlands. For all I could tell, barely, if ever, worn, and a perfect fit (hard to find for this 6 1/2 size gal). I still have them, and do they ever look loved. They are.

A job that means something. I've been in volunteer resources management for going on 36 years now--pretty much all my professional life (with the exception of one brief stint at a health club, folding towels in the women's locker room. It lasted three days. When I caught a glimpse of a former neighbor in a state of undress, it was time to go. I'm still not ready to talk about it yet). In the simplest of descriptions, I connect people who want to help with people or causes that need help. I've done that work in a variety of settings, from parochial schools to faith communities, to national organizations. At the time I included that in the February 17 Facebook post, I was in a hospice setting, working with surviving family members and others in the community who wanted, from the depths of their grateful hearts, to comfort someone else as they themselves had been comforted, in their poignant time of need and vulnerability. What an honor, to stand in that middle place, between gratitude and grief, appreciation and exhaustion, and make the introductions. I direct the traffic of selflessness.

Those five "things" came to me rather easily that February morning at 8:14, and I've kept that List of Five going since then, missing only one day (October 8. 2015. I'll explain in a future post), and, get this--not repeating anything. Sure, I've been grateful for Patrick's many different qualities in subsequent posts, and have included enough food and meal descriptions to publish a cookbook, but...I've found something different to give thanks for each and every day since February 17, 2015. Forgive me if this sounds a bit self-congratulatory, but I think that's pretty cool. I have no plans to stop. Quite frankly, I don't think I could. Through the simple morning ritual of sharing a short list of "grateful for's" in a rather public place, I've learned that gratitude is as necessary as inhaling and exhaling always have been.

Sometimes, I suspect folks may draw conclusions about my life or my outlook, as they read through these daily five. Of course, what others think of me is none of my business, but I do feel compelled to make the point that my life is as filled with struggle and pain as anyone else's. The List of Five isn't a denial of those experiences. If you only knew, and if I were courageous enough to spill the backstories to some of those posts, I would hope you'd nod in understanding that life is a both/and proposition, and that I've chosen the thankful approach to guide me through my days. Gratitude has no chance trying to grow in an either/or mindset. Indeed, gratitude has its deepest roots below the layers of hardship, when we pushed through the gut-wrenching and the unimaginable-turned-real, carrying a small flame of "thank God we have each other", or whatever we're thankful for in the moment, to light the way to the other side. However worn and well-used, gratefulness is a sturdy, enduring tool in our traveling set of coping skills. It's wise to keep it oiled and ready to hand.

It's not always easy to call these five up. And I will admit that not having listed any item more than once, I'm now driven to maintain that self-imposed standard (I'm fairly certain I'm the only one tracking that, the only one who cares). Some days, I have to pull myself back from needing the words to be arranged most poetically and just say it like it is. In those posts, you'll see the end result of that struggle: I'm grateful for dental floss, a window fan, or being able to flex my toes. Simple things still speak the loudest.

But when I return from my daily walk with the land, it's just as challenging to keep the list to five (another self-imposed standard that is quite practical. I could keep going beyond five things, and then I'd be late for work). Waves of gratitude wash over me as I move through the meadow to the open field to the dark woods. Seriously. I can barely catch it all, much less put it into words. The bird calls, the always-different cloud formations at sunrise, a mysterious absence of mosquitoes and no-see-ums...if I stood still for too long, I might drown in the wonder of it all. I gather what I can and let the remaining steps back to the house become a rhythmic companion to how the words form in my head. That's where the poetry comes from.  

There's been plenty written about the helpfulness of developing a daily gratitude practice, and it's mostly good and well-researched, so I'll leave you to find that on your own. However you come to your thankfulness, I encourage you to start. Or continue. It's simultaneously personal and portable, a great way to sharpen your wordsmith-ing abilities, and good nourishment for your supportive relationships, starting with yourself.

Look closely, and deeply, at the life you've gathered around you. Surely there are at least five aspects, elements, comforts that have eased a burden, given you a spritz of spiritual Bactine for your skinned soul. Start with those. Then, go through the rest of your day and collect some more.

Most days, it's simple.

Gather. List. Repeat.

You're most welcome to check out my Facebook page, where the daily List of Five appears, usually before 8:00a.m. Later on the weekends.

And if you feel so moved, please share in your comments for this blog post what you're grateful for today. I'd love to read them, and celebrate them with you.

How Bad Do You Want It?

It's a delicious 75 breezy degrees, at the end of a long work day, sun shining around and through the bright, brand-new spring green leaves of every tree I pass as I drive responsibly home. I've been in a windowless office for 9+ hours, my head filled with the echoes of discussions from meetings, and some rather emotionally intense conversations with volunteer applicants. I've used every accessible part of my brain to plan, to actively listen, to synthesize ideas. I've sent print jobs to the copier repeatedly and retrieved them, loaded my car with supplies and interoffice mail to take to Columbus, and restocked bins in the storage room. Foot on the gas pedal, a persistent thought pulls me forward: Get to the woods. Get to the Hill.  I can easily picture in my mind how that sun looks as it dapples its way through the black walnuts and cherry saplings that line the path up the Hill to the west...all cool and ready to soak up the day's tension with different shades of green, a noisy mish-mashed chorus of robins and catbirds to take the image over the top.

But I'm really tired, bones and limbs aching for a good lie-down and no thinking at all. If I want what awaits me on that Hill, I've gotta walk about 2000 FitBit steps to get there. It seems as far away as it is beautiful. I push away the new contrasting thought that has popped up like an annoying Whack-A-Mole, competing for my attention: A nap sure sounds good, doesn't it, honey? Just you and the recliner, bingeing on Frasier via Netflix. C'mon, you can walk later. Talk about a battle for my soul. I roll down the car window as the front tires meet the gravel-y edge of our driveway and let the breeze make the decision for me--little tired feet, we're walkin'.

What needs to happen next is clear: open the door to the house, keep my head down and don't look at the socks that landed where Patrick peeled them off his tired little feet last night, and sure as heck don't go into the kitchen to put away those dishes in the drainer. Just head right to the bathroom, change into your after-work leggings and t-shirt from off the hook on the back of the door, slip on socks and your chicken boots, and keep moving out the door to the mudroom. Oh, and stop by the potting shed to get the lopers--if we're gonna walk to the Hill, might as well cut back those multiflora rose stalks that laughed at me the last time we had a trimming session. I'm out the door and greeting the chickens pecking ticks out of the grass where Patrick was just splitting wood two days ago. Whew--that was close.

Walking down the wide path towards the woods, I can feel the day's meetings and critical thinking evaporate, surrendering to the early evening sunlight. I'm still tired, but less so, both mentally and in my muscles as the Hill gets closer and Excel spreadsheets get farther away. Two thousand steps later, I stand on the path in the middle of the sacred grove of mockingbirds, and exhale.

Anything good and worth having requires us to work for it.

This isn't new. I know from experience the rewards that await me when I fold the footrest of the recliner back into place, and cross the distance between the living room carpet and line of trees to the west. The view through our front screen door is charmingly framed, and beckons every day, most enticingly. Half of the mulberry tree is visible, a vintage camper birdhouse hanging from one of the delicate branches. Behind that is the next row of black walnuts, then even taller sycamores (I know the creek is down there somewhere), and finally the infinite blue sky. When I choose the wide expanse of that sky over the comfort of the recliner, I'm glad, every single time, and a bit sheepish--how could I have even struggled with such a choice? The fresh breeze combing each strand of my hair, silken threads of spider webbing lightly stretched across the tips of grass blades beneath my bare feet. How could any seat in the house compare to this?

But compare and compete they do, and so the sometimes brief, sometimes prolonged back and forth debate continues: inside or outside? Certainly, the weather influences what option I pick. I've got too many winter coats, scarves, pairs of boots, and thick gloves. I'd be well-insulated if I ventured out on cold days. And draped there on the arm of the couch is the most buttery of flannel quilts, and I cave. One quilt is easier to put on and take off than all of thrift store-acquired L.L. Bean gear that almost match each other. The framed view from the front door will be fine. After all, I've also got two front windows with bird feeders in clear sight. I'll suit up and be out in it tomorrow, I promise. Tomorrow never comes, though, does it?

For me, the choice has deeper impact than just comfort. Each day here is an unrepeatable carnival of movement, color, and evolution, as the seasons slide seamlessly into one another. 19 years later, we've collected indelible images of nature at its best (the only time nature is truly at its worst is when it inconveniences us, right? Viewed without that bias, nature is glorious always), and I know, intimately, the difference in my soul when I choose to be a participant rather than a spectator. I understand there's a cost--convenience vs. quality. Once-in-a-lifetime views vs. regret. The computer will most likely outlive the meadow. And the land will never look this way again. I'm a fool when I forget that.

I can't recall now, as I write this, the weight of that 9+ hour day. It's gone, and I take off my chicken boots in the mudroom, pulling together the list of ingredients for tonight's dinner. Resisting the siren call of Frasier reruns and footrest has cleared a path for other important thoughts, even those as simple as food, and I feel lighter in spirit, not tired, calmer.

Meanwhile, on the path by the woods, there's a patch of wild strawberries growing bravely among the poison ivy. In a few weeks, I'll teeter briefly on the sharp edge of decision, empty yogurt container in my gloved hands.

Stay tuned.

The Shape of a Creek

Dear readers,

That last post took the wind out of me. Thanks for your patience.

We've had so much rain lately, my morning routine now includes putting lifejackets on the cats before I head to work. They're not put off by water, but...cat-fish they ain't.

It's not the same as it used to be, the land. I could say that every day, if I'm paying attention, because a range of epic and subtle shifts occur around the clock (sun?) here: dead black walnut and mulberry branches in the driveway, a new mole hill or gopher den right where I'm walking, fresh footprints in the fudgy loam. But attuned as we are to noticing these things, I still expect that the Big Stuff (towering sycamores that line the creek, the old rickety potting shed out back, the bridge that let's us come and go as we please) will remain the same.

The first time we saw the creek break its banks was about four years after we moved here. We were eager to grow our own food on a larger scale than the 5-gallon buckets we were accustomed to in the suburbs, so we paced off and tilled an area in the meadow, wonderfully and dangerously close to the creek, about 70 x 90 feet, and transplanted 165 cherry tomato seedlings (ask Patrick  the next time you see him, "why so many??"), Moon & Stars watermelons, Purple Dragon beans, snow peas, pink banana squash, eight-ball zucchini, Cherokee and Black Krim tomatoes, and more tomatoes. We used 7' t-posts to mark the rows, and weeded by hand like our lives depended on it. I still remember the feeling of satisfaction after scooting down a long row of those cherry tomato plants, one section at a time, on my bum, pulling the tiny sprouts of purslane and catmint until the ground beneath each plant was nothing but beautiful bare brown soil. I'd do this for hours, losing track of time and surroundings. Then I'd mulch with straw and grass clippings, and trudge up the slope to the house for tuna salad on wheat toast with illegally-sharp white cheddar cheese, and corn chips (not every hard-won accomplishment requires a coronation).

Then, late that summer, the rains came down. In a matter of hours, we watched those Moon & Stars melons tumble downstream, bobbing in the rushing water, and had no idea where the cherry tomatoes finally landed. The creek climbed up those 7' t-posts until only the last foot remained visible above water. Our once-grassy meadow was now turbulent and raging. The spectacle silenced us, as it dawned on us that we would not be bookending the hard work of planting and weeding in the spring with the equally hard work of harvesting and canning in the fall. We trudged up the slope to the house and waited for the waters to recede. Thank goodness for local farmers who showed up every Saturday in the town square with their produce, their gardens well-above flood stage all summer. We still ate locally-grown food, including cherry tomatoes. Just not grown by our own hands.

In the thirteen years that followed the first Great Flood (the garden found a new home in the field behind the house), the creek has had a merry bubbling run to it, and also seasons where it was dry right down to it's rocky bed. Time, and tending to other land matters, lulled us into the illusion of "creek business as usual". We'd take our visiting friends' children "creeking", walking right in the same spot where the flood waters raged, and tell the story about the floating watermelons. Patrick even rebuilt the bridge, with our brother Kevin's help, adding to my list of Things That Will Remain The Same No Matter What. We'd walk the meadow, notice the familiar path of the creek as it wound its way through the cottonwoods and quaking aspens, delicate willow saplings and dangling grapevines, and let our eyes land on the curves and bends of its reliable banks. All was as it should be; all was as we'd seen it for years.

A weekend last fall was all it took to strip away our complacency. The sand and the creek banks once again had no choice as the rains fell, in buckets, for days. Dirt, branches, old tires and anything else  that called the creek "home" went rushing through the meadow's once-grassy slopes and flat places. The creek rose again, calling up the ghosts of watermelons and tomato plants from the Great Flood, and eclipsed that event beyond our imaginings. The planks of the re-built bridge now submerged, we were "trapped" on the north side of the driveway, wondering what would be left behind when the waters receded. We put on our tall muck boots and walked through the soggy grass to the edge of all that drama , once again silenced by the power of water. Just seeing it changed us.

And, when the water finally did recede, we saw it had moved the banks of the creek to new places. One entire section to the north had been rerouted past a lovely stand of willows, shifting the banks inward now, and creating a small sandbar right between two flowing tributaries. We would now be able to hop across that section, when the creek ran shallow, and cross to the other side, barely getting our feet wet. Those dry feet of ours hadn't ever touched the ground on the other side of that section of the creek. Wow.

How can we not let the metaphor wash over us? What powers reshape us and the directions of our souls, by chance or by choice? I am not the same person I was before we moved here. I'm not the same person I was before my parents died, or since I took the recycling down the road last week to those large dumpster-like bins that the township put in place more than 6 years ago. It's not about just the big moments, the floods, and the rains. Sure, those are the most memorable from the perspective of scale and magnitude, but...a light bubbly run of water in a creek still carves out new banks, eventually.

I think what matters, dear readers, is what we notice, and how we receive those moments of "hey, this is different". I'm still happily startled by how much greener the trees that line the driveway are at the end of the day than they were in the morning, going about their own work while I did mine, tucked into a window-less office for eight or nine hours. So I slow down the truck in the last few feet of my evening commute, to notice, and to thank them.

The shape of our creek has changed in the last 18 years. So have our lives and our hearts. I say bring on the rushing waters.

For Jeannie...

She had hospitality of spirit that knew no strangers; her life embodied her values of humor, kindness, inclusive and nonjudgmental openheartedness.

When someone dear and beloved to us dies, grief sometimes insists that we try to impress upon others the importance of that person in our lives. I've been on the privileged listening side of a friend's or co-worker's stories of the one she's missing, as waves of urgent detail comes rushing toward me like a dam's water unleashed. If I'm decent and compassionate, I allow myself to be drenched and remain silent while she tries to cross the great gap between memory and the newly-vacant place at the table.

And so, here I am in the unenviable position, once again, of needing to tell stories about someone I loved quite a lot, who died nearly two summers ago. I know already that the words won't stretch far enough, or root deeply enough to match the friendship we shared, but I'm going for it anyway. Some things you just have to do for yourself.

We met in college, in a theology class. I had just changed my major from Accounting/Finance to Theology/Philosophy, and was looking for kindred spirits with whom to celebrate the transition. I found one in her. Our common ground was rich: social justice, silliness, bunnies, creation spirituality, working at a health food store called The Raisin Rack, and writing limericks. As I write this, I can't recall the details of our early conversations, but evidently, one led to another and many more. We were inseparable.

My parents and siblings claimed her as a new member of the family rather quickly, and she became tucked into all those great family jokes and mannerisms that any large family tends to create and cherish. I recall one New Year's Eve at my parents' place. We lit candles at midnight, stood on the sidewalk in front of the house, and sang joyfully into the cold darkness.

 After I graduated and moved back to Columbus, she followed a year later, and we decided to share an apartment just a few blocks from where I grew up. We stocked the pantry with way too much pasta and rice cakes, and the freezer always--always--had ice cream. I introduced her to her former husband and sang at their wedding. When the twins were born, Anthony and Andrew (one on March 1, the other on March 2. How cool is that??), I accepted the invitation to become Andrew's godmother, and of course claimed Anthony as well. Then Rebecca was born, not quite two years later, on my 30th birthday, because Jeannie's due date was just two days before, and I asked her if she'd mind waiting. Only a powerful and content soul would agree to such impertinence from a childless friend and giggling partner. Rebecca's middle name is Elizabeth; a bonus birthday gift I still get to treasure.

The years and our friendship unfolded around our life experiences, growing deeper roots, ebbing and flowing, always connected. We talked a lot about the Important things--love, playfulness, the vastness of the Creator and the universe, Andrew, Anthony, and Rebecca. When Patrick and I were married, she led me to the altar with the beat of a single drum as my parents smiled on either side of me. And every time we talked, she always understood. I remember most of our conversations closed with laughter.

A breast cancer diagnosis in her 30's didn't claim her; she pushed through it with a startling self-compassion and love, setting aside the customary "warrior-and-battle" approach, insisting that she couldn't fight any aspect of herself, and enjoyed life cancer-free for several years after her final treatment. When it returned nearly a decade later as metastatic breast cancer, she embraced it once more (from her obituary), "as a challenge in the adventure of life, engaging it with compassion, optimism, and a student's mind." It never occurred to me that she would die.

There's more to say, as there usually is with a friendship such as ours, and I realize that this blog post will "end" with lots of unfinished business. That's ok. It wasn't ever my goal to tell the entire story, probably because it's not over yet. Jeannie is deep into learning new things on the Other Side, and I try to listen for her voice in my life. Sometimes I hear it as I meander my way around some dip in my self-confidence, or shop the "Manager's Special!!" section at Kroger's (I swear, it would have been really cool at her memorial service to have had a blank roll of those stickers to use as nametags. She shopped for bargains with an unparalleled passion, I can tell you). I haven't written any limericks since 2016, but when I do, she'll be my muse, I know it.

Until then, I will continue to want you, and so many others, to know the depth of what she meant to me. 34 years is a long time to know someone, and, to let yourself be known as the circumstances of your life change and evolve. She was there for all of them, a hospitable spirit who knew no strangers. If you'd have met, she would have loved you too. Of that, I am certain. I wrote to her on Christmas Eve, 2016, in a cabin not far from these acres...

Dear friend,

I miss you.

I feel like I took more than I gave where you and I were concerned, and even as I write this, I can hear you saying, "Oh Liz, of course not". And I agree. If it was that uneven a relationship, you wouldn't have hung around as long as you did.

Thirty four years.

34.

How'd we do it?

I recall your eyes, your voice, when you said goodbye, that I didn't know was goodbye, remarking on the remarkable nature of our friendship. How incredible it was that we remained friends for so long. How unique it was--our words, our shared interests, our mutual respect for and silliness with each other. You used the word "rare".

And I got it. I understood.

And then you hugged me from your command post of a bed, where you made your final "on this side" decisions and shared your "don't forget this" feelings and thoughts with others.

And you didn't let go. For a long time.

Later, Andrew would tell me in an email that watching us say goodbye was the saddest thing he'd ever seen.

You just kept on giving, right up until our final moments together on this side.

How can I possibly thank you for that?

Here's how:

I will continue to love your children. Andrew. Anthony. Rebecca.

I will dance and be silly in your memory and your honor.

I will take risks that help me grow.

I will pry open the cage around my heart and let others in.

I will hug more.

I will cheer people on in their efforts to be good and decent and fun.

I will not let go. For a long time. I will join hands with the people who share this planet with me, and all God's Critters who have a Place in the Choir.

I will sing out loud with my own voice.

I will laugh deeply--throw my head back and let it out.

I will love deeply--throw my arms open wide and gather in all those who are broken and unsure like me, and all those who are confident and happy, like me.

And have wine with dinner.

And pumpkin cake with a thick blanket of cream cheese icing.

And eat all of it.

May her way of being in the world inspire your own growth, creativity, and kindness toward others. Jeannie would be delighted to know she encouraged you in this way.