For the last six weeks or so I have been using a prayer site called Sacred Space, run and maintained by the Irish Jesuits, to guide my meditation as my spiritual director is away on extended leave in Germany. It has been very fruitful. The meditation follows a pattern of becoming aware of the Presence, of Freedom and Conscious of God before examining and meditating on the the Gospel for the day and flowing from that mediation into prayer.
A few days ago this was the introduction to the Freedom portion, slightly different from the usual way..
Freedom
Many countries are at this moment suffering the agonies of war.
I bow my head in thanksgiving for my freedom.
I pray for all prisoners and captives.
And found myself thinking that perhaps I didn't really grasp what the Jesuits were on about. Poking about on other sites I have become more certain of my lack of understanding. I realise that I have grown up in a country that in my lifetime began with civil war, run by a one party colonial state, where freedom of speech was distinctly limited. The situation didn't improve after independence, being still a one party state with limited freedoms of association and speech. So quite possibly I do not understand freedom as someone who lives in the First World might.
So I reflect.....
Freedom.
Freedom from what?
Freedom to do what?
Monday 17 December 2012
Thursday 13 December 2012
African Pied Wagtails
He was playing this African Pied Wagtails call and suddenly noticed that these two were getting closer and closer as their curiosity about this "bird" overcame their natural shyness. They came with in a meter or two of him but no one else could get close enough to take a good photo.
They did this any time we played the call. Small maintained that they were two lonely bachelors looking for a likely female, while my husband thought that they were defending their territory.
What ever the reason, no other birds responded in similar manner but we did have a lot of fun watching these little guys up close.
Monday 10 December 2012
Kariba
We have just been on our annual houseboat trip to Kariba. 
Here are a couple of photos of the Lake taken with my iPhone - not the best for a panoramic view of water, mountain and sky but the best I can manage.
Here are a couple of photos of the Lake taken with my iPhone - not the best for a panoramic view of water, mountain and sky but the best I can manage.
Monday 22 October 2012
Fidelity
My mothers garden is looking terrific and my amateurish photographs do not do justice to it.
It wasn't always 'her" garden though. It was planted and nurtured by Dad who was the gardener of the family. She however has taken on the challenge of learning how to care for a garden as her way of honouring his memory and two years after his death here it is flourishing. Not without some wobbles along the way but her solution to most bugs, diseases and pests is to spray with soapy water. So far it seems to work.
To me it just goes to show how important love and faithfulness is. Even plants and gardens absolutely flourish under a faithful, loving hand.
Monday 15 October 2012
First Rain
Last night we had our first rain of the season.
We were all outdoors in a flash watching the thunder and lightening storm their way across the night sky. Then came the rain. Teeming down. Welcome. Joyous in its drumming on the roof. Swirling in the storm winds. Oh the smell of rain on hot, dry tar and dirt and grass. The temptation to strip off and run about in the rain is almost overwhelming.
Up and down the road people could be heard celebrating the rain. Children went late to bed but on the night of the first rains of the season that's ok.
We were all outdoors in a flash watching the thunder and lightening storm their way across the night sky. Then came the rain. Teeming down. Welcome. Joyous in its drumming on the roof. Swirling in the storm winds. Oh the smell of rain on hot, dry tar and dirt and grass. The temptation to strip off and run about in the rain is almost overwhelming.
Up and down the road people could be heard celebrating the rain. Children went late to bed but on the night of the first rains of the season that's ok.
Sunday 14 October 2012
One hot October night
It is October. In our part of the world that means hot, still and DRY. The last time we had rain was in March. Everything wilts under the relentless heat, the grass is sere, the sky is opaque with haze even the Jacaranda trees mauve flowers blend into the sky. Only the bougainvillea give splashes of bright colour in our colourless world. We wait breathlessly for the rain.
But the evenings are wonderful and last night we spent the evening at a music concert at school. It was a wonderful evening with families picnicking before hand and plenty of space for little children to race around playing tag on the only green for miles - the cricket pitch. The crowd was incredibly varied, old and young, a mix of races, those with connections to the school and those who had none and had come for the music alone. Wowed by a range of music that included opera and pop, country and western and jazz, and choirs. Music both sacred and secular, the artists covered a range from young to old and included a young Jesuit in training brought the crowd to its feet with his magnificent voice singing music from The Mission.
I thought to myself that Ignatius would have enjoyed the inclusivity of the event. Here God was revealed in a common shared experience, by a crowd who put aside their differences for one night to share in something wonderful. And the performers offered us of their best, sharing a stage together in good humour and generosity.
But the evenings are wonderful and last night we spent the evening at a music concert at school. It was a wonderful evening with families picnicking before hand and plenty of space for little children to race around playing tag on the only green for miles - the cricket pitch. The crowd was incredibly varied, old and young, a mix of races, those with connections to the school and those who had none and had come for the music alone. Wowed by a range of music that included opera and pop, country and western and jazz, and choirs. Music both sacred and secular, the artists covered a range from young to old and included a young Jesuit in training brought the crowd to its feet with his magnificent voice singing music from The Mission.
I thought to myself that Ignatius would have enjoyed the inclusivity of the event. Here God was revealed in a common shared experience, by a crowd who put aside their differences for one night to share in something wonderful. And the performers offered us of their best, sharing a stage together in good humour and generosity.
Tuesday 9 October 2012
The Class of 2012
We are yet to do one of the other teary moments, the blessing of the Leavers in a special Leavers Service devised and led by the boys themselves.
Yesterday the Class of 2012 had its last official teaching day, and is now on study break ahead of their external Cambridge based examinations. I thought that the two and a half meter banner, hung from the tower, reflected what they had learned in six years of Jesuit based education, with a nod to Nike!
Tuesday 25 September 2012
She doesn't know.....
A friend remarked to me today as Ossie played with great vigour, roaring up and down the passage and terrorising the other cats that of course she doesn't know that she is deathly ill. I know, and I am devastated but she doesn't and so life goes on for her. She is fully engaged in the present, playing and eating and sleeping and doing what just grown cats do.
It is me who is peering uncertainly into the future, who knows what must come and that she will reach a point where she will have more bad days than good.
It is me who knows that cancer is a painful killer.
It is me who grieves and is angry and is disbeleiving for something that will happen in some as yet uncertain tomorrow.
But she doesn't know.....and so she is just present to today's joys and pleasure.
It is me who is peering uncertainly into the future, who knows what must come and that she will reach a point where she will have more bad days than good.
It is me who knows that cancer is a painful killer.
It is me who grieves and is angry and is disbeleiving for something that will happen in some as yet uncertain tomorrow.
But she doesn't know.....and so she is just present to today's joys and pleasure.
Monday 24 September 2012
Ossie
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| My dear little black cat Ossie in her favourite sleeping place |
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| Ossie and Bubble sharing - a rare moment |
Sunday 23 September 2012
Still
It is early summer, well before the rains. Today the wind has dropped and it is hot and still and humid.
Despite the heat my precious little black cat is stretched across my lap, her breathy purr faint in the silence. I reflect how much I have come to love this fluffy little cat. She was a gift just under a year ago from Small. His way of easing me into his last year at high school and preparation for his departure to University in January next year. He said that he had read in the internet that a new pet could help ease a mothers feeling of "empty nest" and is typical of his thoughtfulness.
My iPad wobbles and typing one handed is frustratingly slow, yet I am disinclined to move her, and she purrs on, content. Memory and love swirl. Her insistence on climbing on to my shoulder to be fed when she was small and had not been properly weaned. A persistence that continued so that she snuggles there each morning as I say my prayers. Her love of food and crafty raiding of the other cats food and milk. Her dislike of the cold, resulting in her curling into the crook of my legs on a cold winters night. Her lightening fast race up the passage to bounce whoever she found in the kitchen, - cat, dog or human, guest or visitor. Only for her to leap away laughing.
On Wednesday the vet told me the the lumps I felt under her skin were a malignant lymphoma.
And disbelief wars with anger.
I choose stillness and quiet to let the violent emotions bleed out into.
And I ask myself........
How will I pray without her?
Despite the heat my precious little black cat is stretched across my lap, her breathy purr faint in the silence. I reflect how much I have come to love this fluffy little cat. She was a gift just under a year ago from Small. His way of easing me into his last year at high school and preparation for his departure to University in January next year. He said that he had read in the internet that a new pet could help ease a mothers feeling of "empty nest" and is typical of his thoughtfulness.
My iPad wobbles and typing one handed is frustratingly slow, yet I am disinclined to move her, and she purrs on, content. Memory and love swirl. Her insistence on climbing on to my shoulder to be fed when she was small and had not been properly weaned. A persistence that continued so that she snuggles there each morning as I say my prayers. Her love of food and crafty raiding of the other cats food and milk. Her dislike of the cold, resulting in her curling into the crook of my legs on a cold winters night. Her lightening fast race up the passage to bounce whoever she found in the kitchen, - cat, dog or human, guest or visitor. Only for her to leap away laughing.
On Wednesday the vet told me the the lumps I felt under her skin were a malignant lymphoma.
And disbelief wars with anger.
I choose stillness and quiet to let the violent emotions bleed out into.
And I ask myself........
How will I pray without her?
Saturday 4 August 2012
Retreat
With great pleasure I am looking forward to going on a 5 day silent retreat tomorrow with the Benedictine's at their monastery in the tiny village community of Macheke.
Being Zimbabwe there will be no internet and I am looking forward to that kind of silence also.
I have the sense of something beckoning, and hope that with time to be still and silent and reflect it will come more into focus. Then again it may not, I find myself in the hands of the Holy Spirit and wait in openness and with attentiveness. And there is a deep pleasure in that waiting.
So I shall catch up with you all when I return - I shall be a away for another week after the retreat as I am going on holiday for a week afterwards. All in all quite a lot of pleasure in the immediate future.
Being Zimbabwe there will be no internet and I am looking forward to that kind of silence also.
I have the sense of something beckoning, and hope that with time to be still and silent and reflect it will come more into focus. Then again it may not, I find myself in the hands of the Holy Spirit and wait in openness and with attentiveness. And there is a deep pleasure in that waiting.
So I shall catch up with you all when I return - I shall be a away for another week after the retreat as I am going on holiday for a week afterwards. All in all quite a lot of pleasure in the immediate future.
Tuesday 31 July 2012
Happy Feast Day
I have just come from the Mass of Ignatius's Feast Day at my sons Jesuit school. Seven hundred boys sang and danced and prayed in a glorious celebration.
And so to my Jesuit friends in Zimbabwe and to the friends of St Ignatius everywhere
HAPPY FEAST DAY
And so to my Jesuit friends in Zimbabwe and to the friends of St Ignatius everywhere
HAPPY FEAST DAY
Wednesday 25 July 2012
A tale of two boys.....and their mothers...
I have today heard to quite different stories about a boy and a teenager.
In the first, related by his mother her twelve year old son asked if she would take him to the savings bank and to Bhadella's, a huge wholesaler in Harare. Curious, she agreed but he didn't elaborate so she just made time in her busy day and ferried him around. He drew $50 (we use united States dollars as currency here) a fortune of his savings - and this boy is saving every penny that comes his way determinedly for a much desired project of his own. He then purchased as many blankets as the $50 would buy. Later that evening he asked his father to drive him around the intersections where homeless people gather and there he distributed his blankets.
This is a boy who also attends my son's Jesuit school. And one who, it would seem, has learned to be a "man for others" in the Jesuit mould. His mother's pride was glorious to behold.
The other story is much darker and harder to hear. It would seem that mass shootings can occur anywhere, even here where there is very strict gun control. It turns out that a young man (well almost), after getting very drunk even though he was under age, went and collected his father's .22 calibre rifle and lay in a ditch later on the same cold and frosty night as the blankets had been distributed and shot at cars going past. On his sixteenth or seventeenth shot he hit a driver, paralysing another young man and causing an accident. He was arrested by the police who had already been advised and were on their way to stop him. Tragically, in the nature of things here he was very badly beaten by the police, who also arrested his father for failing to secure the weapon registered in his name.
So many lives needlessly ruined. I do not know his mother but I gather she has had to do a great deal, trying to sort out this mess, getting lawyers, doctors and the like. My heart aches for her, and all her collapsing dreams for her son. Many people are very angry at what he has done, and there is little compassion to be had.
One act, and there is heroism and glory or cowardice and ignominy. And a mothers life changes in a split second, and she can do nothing to change events that have unfolded.
In the first, related by his mother her twelve year old son asked if she would take him to the savings bank and to Bhadella's, a huge wholesaler in Harare. Curious, she agreed but he didn't elaborate so she just made time in her busy day and ferried him around. He drew $50 (we use united States dollars as currency here) a fortune of his savings - and this boy is saving every penny that comes his way determinedly for a much desired project of his own. He then purchased as many blankets as the $50 would buy. Later that evening he asked his father to drive him around the intersections where homeless people gather and there he distributed his blankets.
This is a boy who also attends my son's Jesuit school. And one who, it would seem, has learned to be a "man for others" in the Jesuit mould. His mother's pride was glorious to behold.
The other story is much darker and harder to hear. It would seem that mass shootings can occur anywhere, even here where there is very strict gun control. It turns out that a young man (well almost), after getting very drunk even though he was under age, went and collected his father's .22 calibre rifle and lay in a ditch later on the same cold and frosty night as the blankets had been distributed and shot at cars going past. On his sixteenth or seventeenth shot he hit a driver, paralysing another young man and causing an accident. He was arrested by the police who had already been advised and were on their way to stop him. Tragically, in the nature of things here he was very badly beaten by the police, who also arrested his father for failing to secure the weapon registered in his name.
So many lives needlessly ruined. I do not know his mother but I gather she has had to do a great deal, trying to sort out this mess, getting lawyers, doctors and the like. My heart aches for her, and all her collapsing dreams for her son. Many people are very angry at what he has done, and there is little compassion to be had.
One act, and there is heroism and glory or cowardice and ignominy. And a mothers life changes in a split second, and she can do nothing to change events that have unfolded.
Friday 29 June 2012
Morning Glory
We are experiencing a false "spring" and having been unseasonably cold it is now unseasonably warm. As ever I am wary about words like spring and cold and warm because I know how much they mean different things to different people, depending on where you live. We consider a cold winters day what an Englishman would view as a lovely warm summers day. So bearing this in mind it is lovely and warm today at around 24 deg C and no wind and it shouldn't be quite so warm in the depths of winter.
It was warm in even in the pre dawn morning. So warm that I couldn't resist going outdoors just to be outside barefoot.
And what a wonderful morning it was.
The eastern horizon was burnished orange, fading through salmon to blue. And clear in the deep blue sky hung Venus chasing Jupiter shining brilliantly and dogged by some small star I don't know the name of. All around the Hueglins Robins sang joyously and with liquid sound from their territories, joined by a chorus of chirping sparrows and the wistful notes of a thrush or two. The air was fresh and clean and tantalising as cold wine. The dry grass crunched under my feet, connecting me to the earth while the sky drew me impossibly upwards.
I was pulled out of my ordinary self into another place of possibility where misery and sadness recede and joy colours the world. And even briefly this glorious morning I was given grace to allow joy space in my sometimes tortured life.
Ah grace.......
Such a mystery.
It was warm in even in the pre dawn morning. So warm that I couldn't resist going outdoors just to be outside barefoot.
And what a wonderful morning it was.
The eastern horizon was burnished orange, fading through salmon to blue. And clear in the deep blue sky hung Venus chasing Jupiter shining brilliantly and dogged by some small star I don't know the name of. All around the Hueglins Robins sang joyously and with liquid sound from their territories, joined by a chorus of chirping sparrows and the wistful notes of a thrush or two. The air was fresh and clean and tantalising as cold wine. The dry grass crunched under my feet, connecting me to the earth while the sky drew me impossibly upwards.
I was pulled out of my ordinary self into another place of possibility where misery and sadness recede and joy colours the world. And even briefly this glorious morning I was given grace to allow joy space in my sometimes tortured life.
Ah grace.......
Such a mystery.
Thursday 21 June 2012
Small Community
Yesterday a trainee Professional Hunter got severely hurt in the bush and was air evacuated to Harare in urgent need of medical help and a blood transfusion. However there was a shortage of his slightly unusual blood type and the word went out on email and twitter and skpye and text requesting anyone with his blood type to donate blood. The response was overwhelming and many waited in line for over and hour to donate blood. Some had come, not knowing their blood type but sought to donate anyway while another offered to fly in from Zambia at his own expense.
Being a universal donor I stood in the line in car park and marvelled at the people of all races and creeds who had come and good naturedly stood in the brisk cold waiting their turn for an unknown young man.
Such is what it means to live in a small community and for that I offered a prayer of grateful thanks.
Being a universal donor I stood in the line in car park and marvelled at the people of all races and creeds who had come and good naturedly stood in the brisk cold waiting their turn for an unknown young man.
Such is what it means to live in a small community and for that I offered a prayer of grateful thanks.
Tuesday 19 June 2012
Grace and Peace
Now I know why Paul often used this greeting.
I had one of those rare half hours with nothing immediate to be done. Oh yes there was washing and supper and the like but nothing that had to be done right then. I chose instead of being busy to sit with the late afternoon sunshine streaming in on my back and a now quite large fuzzy black cat on my chest. Daydreaming almost. Meditating almost. But not quite either.
As the silence and peace deepened I pulled my old bible toward me. One I have had since a teenager and one that has travelled the world with me. Still my favourite. It fell open at a marker. Psalm 91. Words of reassurance and strength and courage and protection.
Warmed, emboldened and with joy I welcome the grace and peace that has been so absent recently
I had one of those rare half hours with nothing immediate to be done. Oh yes there was washing and supper and the like but nothing that had to be done right then. I chose instead of being busy to sit with the late afternoon sunshine streaming in on my back and a now quite large fuzzy black cat on my chest. Daydreaming almost. Meditating almost. But not quite either.
As the silence and peace deepened I pulled my old bible toward me. One I have had since a teenager and one that has travelled the world with me. Still my favourite. It fell open at a marker. Psalm 91. Words of reassurance and strength and courage and protection.
Warmed, emboldened and with joy I welcome the grace and peace that has been so absent recently
Tuesday 12 June 2012
Water lilies and blowing reeds
Today I walked with a friend at the National Botanical Gardens and was entranced to find water lilies blooming in the pond that was fringed with blowing tossing seeded reeds. Reflecting as we walked I thought that the lilies and the reeds are images of values I hold dear. Many of my friends value growth as the apex of personal development but I do not. I find in my own life that growth often comes at the hands of suffering and pain. And frankly suffering sucks. While I accept that suffering is part and parcel of living I would not court it neither do I see any need to make it palatable by using wisdom gained as compensation. It simply is and I do not like it.
The reeds and water lilies are rooted in rich, dark mud. Being a gardener I am often at my happiest playing in the mud and value rootedness and stability and sense of being nurtured that being planted gives. Perhaps this is simply so because I was adopted within my own family and have flt disconnected from parents and sister and uncles and aunts and cousins for most of my life.
Water lilies and the reeds are also adaptable and supple. Moving with the wind and water. The water level drops or rises and the water lily floats imperturbably on the surface, the reeds blow in the wind, bending without resistance to the direction of the wind. I am none of these things even though I dream of being so calm and flexible.
The reeds and water lilies are rooted in rich, dark mud. Being a gardener I am often at my happiest playing in the mud and value rootedness and stability and sense of being nurtured that being planted gives. Perhaps this is simply so because I was adopted within my own family and have flt disconnected from parents and sister and uncles and aunts and cousins for most of my life.
Water lilies and the reeds are also adaptable and supple. Moving with the wind and water. The water level drops or rises and the water lily floats imperturbably on the surface, the reeds blow in the wind, bending without resistance to the direction of the wind. I am none of these things even though I dream of being so calm and flexible.
I
love waterlily flowers. A sunburst of colour beautifully formed. Happiness. I
would like some happiness, some contentment. I would like to smile back at the
world and for that to be fully genuine. And the reeds, singing in the wind dancing
their tossing heads. Singing the song that the moving Spirit plays, easily,
merrily, softly and with joy. I would like to be smile and sing and dance, just
some of the time but this is hard to do when I feel fractured and broken.
Wednesday 6 June 2012
Lefty
Yesterday I broke a finger and it is now bound to my ring finger. People keep saying to me "well, at least it is your left hand". Would be fine, except that I AM left handed.
I have been learning to do all sorts of things right handed which is proving a little interesting and harder than expected. Some things like cleaning my teeth and typing now take conscious effort and it is not to disastrous if I get it wrong (which happens quite a lot). Other things I approach with caution - ironing and kettles are potentially very dangerous if I get it wrong and I do not wish to add burns to the sprain. It is quite sore enough.
Being conscious of unconscious actions and having to think through how I am going to do something is making me wonder how much of my spiritual life is a similar reflex, and how I might become more conscious of what I am doing (without breaking a metaphorical finger I think). Part of the answer lies in simply being more present and paying attention to my actions as I am having to do now. Astonishing how much this focus changes my perspective.
I have been learning to do all sorts of things right handed which is proving a little interesting and harder than expected. Some things like cleaning my teeth and typing now take conscious effort and it is not to disastrous if I get it wrong (which happens quite a lot). Other things I approach with caution - ironing and kettles are potentially very dangerous if I get it wrong and I do not wish to add burns to the sprain. It is quite sore enough.
Being conscious of unconscious actions and having to think through how I am going to do something is making me wonder how much of my spiritual life is a similar reflex, and how I might become more conscious of what I am doing (without breaking a metaphorical finger I think). Part of the answer lies in simply being more present and paying attention to my actions as I am having to do now. Astonishing how much this focus changes my perspective.
Tuesday 29 May 2012
Escape (The Pina Colada Song)
I heard the Pina Colada song on the radio this morning by Rupert Holmes from somewhere in the early eighties. Funny how a song can release so many memories.
For me this song comes from a time that I went to live in Dar es Salaam in Tanzania for six months, which might not look far from Harare Zimbabwe on a map but is a four hour flight and hour time zone away. The contract and the song appealed to me at the time because I was also escaping some unbloggable things going on in my life and I needed space to get my feet back on the ground. The song fitted my mood because I could go to this new place and more easily be who I remembered myself to be.
I loved Dar.
For the first time in my life I lived close to the sea. Wonderful. Marvelous. I loved running (hmmm in those days I could run too) on the beach in the early, dawning morning. I loved a peaceful walk at the end of a day, meeting the fisherman and choosing flip flopping fresh fish for supper. Glorious. Dar also had its idiosyncrasies. Early in my stay, finding that I did not like long life milk too much I enquired of the woman who cleaned my flat where fresh milk might be found. (Tanzania was at that time desperately poor and such luxuries were not freely available - indeed most food was imported and most of the wealthier residents had considerable storage space devoted to dry and canned goods). She said that she would arrange for some the next day. Sure enough, the next day a small boy arrived with a cow and calf and bucket and asked how much milk I wanted. We negotiated a price for the quantity and made an arrangement for a weekly delivery, which I duly pasteurised - thinking often as I did so that it was perhaps just as well that I had grown up on a dairy farm.
I was very sad when my contract was up.
And ever since the sound track for that wonderful six months has been the Pina Colada Song. I would post a link to You Tube if I could figure out how to do that, instead you are going to have find it your self.
For me this song comes from a time that I went to live in Dar es Salaam in Tanzania for six months, which might not look far from Harare Zimbabwe on a map but is a four hour flight and hour time zone away. The contract and the song appealed to me at the time because I was also escaping some unbloggable things going on in my life and I needed space to get my feet back on the ground. The song fitted my mood because I could go to this new place and more easily be who I remembered myself to be.
I loved Dar.
For the first time in my life I lived close to the sea. Wonderful. Marvelous. I loved running (hmmm in those days I could run too) on the beach in the early, dawning morning. I loved a peaceful walk at the end of a day, meeting the fisherman and choosing flip flopping fresh fish for supper. Glorious. Dar also had its idiosyncrasies. Early in my stay, finding that I did not like long life milk too much I enquired of the woman who cleaned my flat where fresh milk might be found. (Tanzania was at that time desperately poor and such luxuries were not freely available - indeed most food was imported and most of the wealthier residents had considerable storage space devoted to dry and canned goods). She said that she would arrange for some the next day. Sure enough, the next day a small boy arrived with a cow and calf and bucket and asked how much milk I wanted. We negotiated a price for the quantity and made an arrangement for a weekly delivery, which I duly pasteurised - thinking often as I did so that it was perhaps just as well that I had grown up on a dairy farm.
I was very sad when my contract was up.
And ever since the sound track for that wonderful six months has been the Pina Colada Song. I would post a link to You Tube if I could figure out how to do that, instead you are going to have find it your self.
Monday 28 May 2012
Damp winter
Our winters are generally dry and cool. The tropical climate affected by the altitude which makes it much colder that most people expect. Often visitors from temperate climates arrive with summer clothes only to find themselves suffering from the cold and miserable. Although winter days are usually around 18 to 20 deg C, compared to the wonderful warmth of summer, our houses are built for the heat and not the ten weeks of cold so the cold can be unpleasant. But always one can find a sunny spot out of any cool Antarctic breeze, where one can warm one's frozen toes and fingers (we are also not so good at winter clothing).
However it is unusual for our winters to be overcast and damp as this one is proving to be. It is making everyone miserable and bad tempered. La Nina in the distant Pacific has far reaching effects - even into the heart of Africa. This morning I decide that I am going to reconsider my efforts to save the planet - what else can I recycle, reuse and simply do without? How can I save on carbon emissions? Even here in one of the poorest of the poor nations of the world.
However it is unusual for our winters to be overcast and damp as this one is proving to be. It is making everyone miserable and bad tempered. La Nina in the distant Pacific has far reaching effects - even into the heart of Africa. This morning I decide that I am going to reconsider my efforts to save the planet - what else can I recycle, reuse and simply do without? How can I save on carbon emissions? Even here in one of the poorest of the poor nations of the world.
Wednesday 23 May 2012
Deep in fear
For one reason and another I have walked often in deep, dark, paralysising fear. Terrible though it may be it is often simply the fact of my life. Underneath the apparently "normal" facade churns terror, relentlessly, day in and day out. It does wax and wane like the moon, but it never entirely goes. In defence I have learned to manage the terror and most days I have more control than it does. Those days are each a victory that I cherish.
Today the hours of learning to breathe through terror so that I can think and function finally paid off. I had a client come and see me who was in a depth of terror as she finally faced the seriousness of her debt crisis. She had no idea which way to turn and what to do next. I could pass of the painfully learned lessons of managing terror and fear to someone who really needed them. And the lessons learned helped her cope.
The value of learning to function in darkness which is not something I always think worth the effort, is reinforced.
More nudging toward life. Grace again.
Wednesday 16 May 2012
Not so gentle nudging
Last week Robin wrote here a post about the horrific damage that a suicide can wreak on a wider family. She makes a moving plea that anyone considering this course of action do anything and everything to recover their health. Given my own suicidal impulses this post stayed with me more than usual. Then yesterday I read in Acts of St Paul's words to his jailer "Do not harm yourself" as he considered suicide after the earthquake that would have freed his prisoners. They seemed words spoken directly to me, such has been the bleakness of my own life recently. And this morning.......
Well, I was alone in the house and our little black half grown kitten followed me around, meowing persistently until I sat down with her. She cuddled up under my chin, sucking her paw furiously and purring vibrantly. She was deeply happy, content. I was made aware that even this little black cat would miss me if I wasn't here as she doesn't cuddle like this with anyone else.
Now of course the trick is to hold on to this knowing in the worst of moments.
Monday 14 May 2012
Different time
Recently I have found that I spend a couple of hours a week, each, with three elderly people. The youngest, my mother, is 78 and the oldest is 84. All are reasonably fit and mentally alert but they have this in common - they all move more slowly that I do. Not a little more slowly - way more slowly. It takes my mother on average twenty minutes to make coffee when I could probably do the same task in five minutes. I have learned to slow my speech and my movement to match an entirely different pace. Well, it might be more accurate to say that I am learning a whole different time.
Initially it was like be trapped like a fly in treacle slowly oozing out of a jar. Frustrating and impatient making. I would buzz futilely against something I could absolutely not change.
As the weeks have gone on I have adapted and learned to pace myself differently and my time with these people has become a sort of moving meditation from which, if I get it right, I emerge into my frenzied world refreshed and alert.
Surprised I find that in my arrogance I offered them the "gift" of my time and find instead that they give me the very considerable gift of theirs.
Initially it was like be trapped like a fly in treacle slowly oozing out of a jar. Frustrating and impatient making. I would buzz futilely against something I could absolutely not change.
As the weeks have gone on I have adapted and learned to pace myself differently and my time with these people has become a sort of moving meditation from which, if I get it right, I emerge into my frenzied world refreshed and alert.
Surprised I find that in my arrogance I offered them the "gift" of my time and find instead that they give me the very considerable gift of theirs.
Friday 4 May 2012
Melancholy
Small turned eighteen yesterday. He had a wonderful happy day, rounded out by dinner with seven of his closest friends in a good restaurant. It was a fine, fun evening. He enjoyed every moment of his day, squeezing every last morsel of pleasure out of it as he is inclined to do. I was a proud mama, watching this boy who has fought against all sorts of odds to not only survive but come up smiling and together and approaching full adulthood with enthusiasm and anticipation.
Yet today I am overcome with a strange melancholy.
Perhaps it is just the loss of my "baby boy" and the bewildering speed at which he became a man. Perhaps, it derives from the realisation that within a year he will be at University and the house will be echoingly empty. Perhaps I am simply not looking forward to this phase of family life. Well not the empty house part of it..... my husband and I are already enjoying more time to ourselves and the freedom to please ourselves that comes with adult children who are in the process of leaving home.
Yet today I am overcome with a strange melancholy.
Perhaps it is just the loss of my "baby boy" and the bewildering speed at which he became a man. Perhaps, it derives from the realisation that within a year he will be at University and the house will be echoingly empty. Perhaps I am simply not looking forward to this phase of family life. Well not the empty house part of it..... my husband and I are already enjoying more time to ourselves and the freedom to please ourselves that comes with adult children who are in the process of leaving home.
Wednesday 2 May 2012
A prayer received
I received this prayer as a "chain" letter this morning from a friend.
"God, our Father, If it is your will, walk through my house and take away all my worries and illnesses and please watch over and heal my family in Jesus name, Amen."
Now although it didn't threaten all sorts of bad luck and proffered blessings if sent on to at least twelve friends, I didn't send it on. I didn't send it on because it just didn't seem like a Christian prayer. How, I ask myself, can a Christian pray that all their worries and illnesses be removed? Never seen that happen in real life. I have seen strength given where there was weakness and courage where there was none and joy for sadness, both in my own life and in that of others. Usually I pray not for removal but for courage and strength and joy and that my needs will be met.
Have I been wrong all these years?
"God, our Father, If it is your will, walk through my house and take away all my worries and illnesses and please watch over and heal my family in Jesus name, Amen."
Now although it didn't threaten all sorts of bad luck and proffered blessings if sent on to at least twelve friends, I didn't send it on. I didn't send it on because it just didn't seem like a Christian prayer. How, I ask myself, can a Christian pray that all their worries and illnesses be removed? Never seen that happen in real life. I have seen strength given where there was weakness and courage where there was none and joy for sadness, both in my own life and in that of others. Usually I pray not for removal but for courage and strength and joy and that my needs will be met.
Have I been wrong all these years?
Sunday 29 April 2012
Evening Mists
I brought this novel in South Africa last week by Tan Twan Eng. Now I mostly don't have time to read novels and can't even say why I bought this book. It seemed like a totally impulse buy at the time and I wondered if I would ever read it. Then this weekend I smashed a finger and much of what I needed to do I could not do, so I took advantage of having the time to read and read my new novel.
And am delighted.
This is a story set in Malayasia, over the last 70 years and includes the Second World War and the Insurgency. So much of the story is familiar in the sense that it is set in a third world country that had some similar history to my own. I am finding it delightful to read this well written story that speaks so to my own experience.
And am delighted.
This is a story set in Malayasia, over the last 70 years and includes the Second World War and the Insurgency. So much of the story is familiar in the sense that it is set in a third world country that had some similar history to my own. I am finding it delightful to read this well written story that speaks so to my own experience.
Wednesday 18 April 2012
Diamonds
We are in Pretoria, South Africa for Vetboys graduation. His is a two degree programme so he still has four years to go! The ceremony is tomorrow which meant that today we were free to please ourselves. On the recommendation of the guesthouse manager we sallied forth to visit one of the biggest diamond mines in the world, not as you might think at Kimberley but at Cullinan. We were treated to a fascinating tour of the working mine, including being shown replicas of famous diamonds found there such as those found in the British crown jewels and the teardrop diamond that Richard Burton bought for Elizabeth Taylor. Later we wandered through the old town with it's period buildings transformed into shops until we found a lovely restaurant for lunch.
It is ages since my beloved and I had nothing that absolutely had to be done and in which we have been free to simply play. We took full advantage of this unexpected gift of time together and have laughed and been quiet and comfortable together sharing the fun and excitement of discovering somewhere new.
Refreshment for both our souls, even if our soles are worn out and we are sitting with our feet up and our noses in our books - well mine shall be shortly!
Sunday 15 April 2012
Peace
Everyone talked about Thomas today but I never really heard the familiar story.
I was caught, mesmerized by Jesus's greeting to the disciples
"Peace be with you"
and again
"Peace".
Perhaps it is because I have lived through some unspeakably bleak times when the
darkness descends
and reason rocks
and faith founders
that I so treasure those rare moments of peace that I receive as gifts from the Merciful Father.
Yesterday was such a day. Redolent with peace. Easy, magical, a time out of time.
Walking in a gorgeous dawning morning and breakfasting with a friend, idle shopping and lunch with my beloved husband and a visit to the local homeless animal shelter with our contributions for the month and time with some very loving cats.
Small inconsequential things in the grand scheme of things but to me the richest bouquet of gifts from the Loving God imaginable.
I was caught, mesmerized by Jesus's greeting to the disciples
"Peace be with you"
and again
"Peace".
Perhaps it is because I have lived through some unspeakably bleak times when the
darkness descends
and reason rocks
and faith founders
that I so treasure those rare moments of peace that I receive as gifts from the Merciful Father.
Yesterday was such a day. Redolent with peace. Easy, magical, a time out of time.
Walking in a gorgeous dawning morning and breakfasting with a friend, idle shopping and lunch with my beloved husband and a visit to the local homeless animal shelter with our contributions for the month and time with some very loving cats.
Small inconsequential things in the grand scheme of things but to me the richest bouquet of gifts from the Loving God imaginable.
Monday 9 April 2012
"Come and have breakfast"
Everyone seems to have their own favourite Resurrection story. Mine is this, from John.
It began for me more than thirty years ago when I was living on a kibbutz in Israel in Galilee and thought it was the coolest thing to put Galilee as the return address on my letters ..... it being the time still of snail mail. I arrived in Galilee in the autumn, which was warm and sunny and as soon as I could made my way down to edges of Lake Galilee. It happened that I was there, that first time, early in the morning and found my way to a small sandy beach surrounded by rustling reeds. There I watched and dreamed or perhaps it might be called meditation today. Back then I just imagined what it must have been like, a practice that seemed faintly blasphemous but which continued all through my year there as I visited places of pilgrimage.
That morning the sun was just rising, fiery red in a clear sky that promised heat later in the day, and the faint breeze carried the tang of fresh water on it. Sitting silently I sunk into the story which came to me, which was this.
I imagined that Peter and the other disciples had returned to Galilee as instructed, having seen the empty tomb but still not really understanding and impatient Peter had said "I am going fishing". Fishing was what he knew after all, and perhaps he thought he could go back. The others, following as so often, joined him. What a hopeless night they had of it. Casting the nets out and drawing in nothing. Frustrating and fruitless, like their lives felt perhaps. In the early dawn a man on the shore called for them to cast their nets on the other side of the boat. Once more they obeyed their Lord, albeit unknowingly. Though it seemed to me, dreaming that morning, that they weren't expecting Jesus, but had followed Him for long enough to recognise his commands even if they didn't recognise him.
As the net was hauled in full to bursting John suddenly knew who had called to them from the shore, from a spot very like where I was sitting. Pointing the Lord out to Peter, Peter leapt into the fresh, cold water desperate to pour out to his Lord the happenings in Jerusalem, his denials, the empty tomb, needing Jesus to make sense of it all and make things aright again.
The others came on with their haul of fish, some prosaic soul counted them - 153 fish. Fantastic fishing.
Jesus called them to breakfast.
Breakfast, such a menial task amongst fisherman, given to the least important of their company. Yet He said "come and have breakfast". To my very homesick self that morning, "come and have breakfast" was a phrase full of love and care - Jesus feeding my body, feeding my soul. Jesus welcoming me, comforting me. Grilled fish and hot warm bread, fresh from the ovens and the gentleness of His Presence.
Come and have breakfast.
When my Dad died, this was the Gospel I chose for his funeral, and as it was read I imagined once more Jesus calling one to of his sons. His "come and have breakfast" full of love and caring and welcome once again.
It began for me more than thirty years ago when I was living on a kibbutz in Israel in Galilee and thought it was the coolest thing to put Galilee as the return address on my letters ..... it being the time still of snail mail. I arrived in Galilee in the autumn, which was warm and sunny and as soon as I could made my way down to edges of Lake Galilee. It happened that I was there, that first time, early in the morning and found my way to a small sandy beach surrounded by rustling reeds. There I watched and dreamed or perhaps it might be called meditation today. Back then I just imagined what it must have been like, a practice that seemed faintly blasphemous but which continued all through my year there as I visited places of pilgrimage.
That morning the sun was just rising, fiery red in a clear sky that promised heat later in the day, and the faint breeze carried the tang of fresh water on it. Sitting silently I sunk into the story which came to me, which was this.
I imagined that Peter and the other disciples had returned to Galilee as instructed, having seen the empty tomb but still not really understanding and impatient Peter had said "I am going fishing". Fishing was what he knew after all, and perhaps he thought he could go back. The others, following as so often, joined him. What a hopeless night they had of it. Casting the nets out and drawing in nothing. Frustrating and fruitless, like their lives felt perhaps. In the early dawn a man on the shore called for them to cast their nets on the other side of the boat. Once more they obeyed their Lord, albeit unknowingly. Though it seemed to me, dreaming that morning, that they weren't expecting Jesus, but had followed Him for long enough to recognise his commands even if they didn't recognise him.
As the net was hauled in full to bursting John suddenly knew who had called to them from the shore, from a spot very like where I was sitting. Pointing the Lord out to Peter, Peter leapt into the fresh, cold water desperate to pour out to his Lord the happenings in Jerusalem, his denials, the empty tomb, needing Jesus to make sense of it all and make things aright again.
The others came on with their haul of fish, some prosaic soul counted them - 153 fish. Fantastic fishing.
Jesus called them to breakfast.
Breakfast, such a menial task amongst fisherman, given to the least important of their company. Yet He said "come and have breakfast". To my very homesick self that morning, "come and have breakfast" was a phrase full of love and care - Jesus feeding my body, feeding my soul. Jesus welcoming me, comforting me. Grilled fish and hot warm bread, fresh from the ovens and the gentleness of His Presence.
Come and have breakfast.
When my Dad died, this was the Gospel I chose for his funeral, and as it was read I imagined once more Jesus calling one to of his sons. His "come and have breakfast" full of love and caring and welcome once again.
Friday 6 April 2012
Judas and Peter
I find myself thinking, unoriginally, about Judas and Peter.
Both betrayed their Lord. An argument might be made, I suppose, that Peter's betrayal was not as severe as Judas's, that Judas was way more active, Peter's a reaction only. After their betrayals both seem to have realised and been crushed by their actions. Both went out and wept, Judas even attempting to give the money back in an effort to undo what he had done.
It what happens next that exercises my imagination.
Judas commits suicide. I can imagine far too vividly his sense of being blocked in, of there being no way out. He is unable to see that the Lord's love for him would reach beyond even his betrayal, and that his suicide would not hide him from God. Peter, though, does something entirely different. He runs toward the Lord, at the news of the empty tomb, when they are fishing he leaps out of the boat and flounders ashore to be with Jesus more quickly. He clings to the person of Jesus.
I see both Judas and Peter in myself but pray this day for the grace to keep running toward the Risen Lord and his re-creating love just as Peter did.
Both betrayed their Lord. An argument might be made, I suppose, that Peter's betrayal was not as severe as Judas's, that Judas was way more active, Peter's a reaction only. After their betrayals both seem to have realised and been crushed by their actions. Both went out and wept, Judas even attempting to give the money back in an effort to undo what he had done.
It what happens next that exercises my imagination.
Judas commits suicide. I can imagine far too vividly his sense of being blocked in, of there being no way out. He is unable to see that the Lord's love for him would reach beyond even his betrayal, and that his suicide would not hide him from God. Peter, though, does something entirely different. He runs toward the Lord, at the news of the empty tomb, when they are fishing he leaps out of the boat and flounders ashore to be with Jesus more quickly. He clings to the person of Jesus.
I see both Judas and Peter in myself but pray this day for the grace to keep running toward the Risen Lord and his re-creating love just as Peter did.
Wednesday 4 April 2012
That Inbetween Place
Easter is that Inbetween Place. Well at least to me.
That place when I have to drop the carefully accumulated husk of constructed religion that somehow grows like limestone coating throughout the year and stand cracked and broken in a place where the light pours in. The encapsulating darkness is smashed suddenly against the hard horror of Good Friday.
But it is not that new place where faith flourishes and grows.
Easter is Inbetween.
Maybe there is a joy is being cracked open, it lets the light in.
That place when I have to drop the carefully accumulated husk of constructed religion that somehow grows like limestone coating throughout the year and stand cracked and broken in a place where the light pours in. The encapsulating darkness is smashed suddenly against the hard horror of Good Friday.
But it is not that new place where faith flourishes and grows.
Easter is Inbetween.
Maybe there is a joy is being cracked open, it lets the light in.
Tuesday 3 April 2012
Kindness
I find myself facing Holy Week with a certain degree of trepidation. Again. My life has been chequered deep hurts and the pain and betrayal of our Lord in the final days of His earthly life are hard to bear, too vividly easy to imagine. It always seems like a time of unmitigated horror. No kindness to be found anywhere. Yet today a Buddhist friend arrived with a small beaded angel as a gift. To remind me, she said, that despite the grimness of Holy Week the angels watch, as they must have watched Him. Even when He was in darkness to deep to see them.
And I wonder how I often I miss the kindnesses shown me because I am so wrapped in my own misery.
Here was a hand that reached out to care, even in the midst of her own lack of understanding of my own recoil at what must come.
And I wonder how I often I miss the kindnesses shown me because I am so wrapped in my own misery.
Here was a hand that reached out to care, even in the midst of her own lack of understanding of my own recoil at what must come.
Monday 2 April 2012
Holy Week
Everyone in my small faith circle seems to be focused on Holy Week.
To be expected I suppose. If you are Christian then, as St Paul puts it, our faith is a folly without the Resurrection and we are to be pitied.
But to get to the Resurrection one has to get through Good Friday. The death. Unimaginable cruelty. Abandonment. The Chosen One dying just like a common criminal. Like no one special. It doesn't help that I recognise my own behaviour in that of the disciples. I don't even have the lofty moral high ground to distance me from the gasping pain of it all.
I can't hide as I am reading the narrators part for Good Friday's Gospel. I will be in the midst of it. A front row seat to the most gruesome and tragic show on earth.
Today though I have been finding small pleasures where I can. Breathing in the fragrance of magnolia, the taste of cheesecake and the hug of a son and the gentle love of my husband. Building up courage and strength for the horror to come.
To be expected I suppose. If you are Christian then, as St Paul puts it, our faith is a folly without the Resurrection and we are to be pitied.
But to get to the Resurrection one has to get through Good Friday. The death. Unimaginable cruelty. Abandonment. The Chosen One dying just like a common criminal. Like no one special. It doesn't help that I recognise my own behaviour in that of the disciples. I don't even have the lofty moral high ground to distance me from the gasping pain of it all.
I can't hide as I am reading the narrators part for Good Friday's Gospel. I will be in the midst of it. A front row seat to the most gruesome and tragic show on earth.
Today though I have been finding small pleasures where I can. Breathing in the fragrance of magnolia, the taste of cheesecake and the hug of a son and the gentle love of my husband. Building up courage and strength for the horror to come.
Sunday 25 March 2012
Hearing
It is only hearing the reading this morning that something entirely new (to me) occurred to me.
The gospel has the story of the grain of wheat dying and being buried in order to bring forth new and abundant life. This particular image has always been, to me, one of rich, dark earth nurturing the seed within it. The soil holding the moisture and regulating temperature so that the conditions are right for the seed to germinate and flourish.
Could it be that the darkness I find myself in is just rich dark soil nurturing me?
The gospel has the story of the grain of wheat dying and being buried in order to bring forth new and abundant life. This particular image has always been, to me, one of rich, dark earth nurturing the seed within it. The soil holding the moisture and regulating temperature so that the conditions are right for the seed to germinate and flourish.
Could it be that the darkness I find myself in is just rich dark soil nurturing me?
Letting go of having to know
I have spent so long walking in darkness, so long desperately wanting to walk in the light that it has not occurred to me to simply walk in the darkness. I have never considered that perhaps the One who holds me in the palm of His hand can see in the dark. Acknowledging this would mean, of course, trusting more and since trust is not one of my strengths this might be easier said than done.
My spiritual director suggests that is it simpler than I am making it, and that it is more a case of letting go of having to know. None of us really walk knowing what is happening or what will be around the next corner, so all of us walk in darkness to some degree, that the small light we are given does not really push back the greater darkness that surrounds us. He says that perhaps I should stop holding my breath against possible further awfulness and just be where I happen to be more.
The thing about this Jesuit way is that it unseats the ingrained habits of a lifetime and takes me entirely unexpected places.
Wednesday 21 March 2012
Language
I am finding that this process of finding a new perspective under Ignatius's guidance is changing the language I use to myself and to others and that is very strange.
Under the, not always so gentle, paring away of old attitudes I discover that all I really want to do is fall more and more deeply in love with the Lord. I learn that I am drawn into the Lover of my Soul and that I want so badly to cease any resistance to that drawing. But while the habit of resistance dies hard I begin to believe that in my experience of that Love. In odd moments I fall into a breathtaking continuing experience of God's expansive Love. Perhaps the words are "ever expanding Love."
These are words that might describe something that was half hidden and certainly mostly unconscious in me but is becoming more exposed. But they are certainly words I would not have used a few months ago.
Under the, not always so gentle, paring away of old attitudes I discover that all I really want to do is fall more and more deeply in love with the Lord. I learn that I am drawn into the Lover of my Soul and that I want so badly to cease any resistance to that drawing. But while the habit of resistance dies hard I begin to believe that in my experience of that Love. In odd moments I fall into a breathtaking continuing experience of God's expansive Love. Perhaps the words are "ever expanding Love."
These are words that might describe something that was half hidden and certainly mostly unconscious in me but is becoming more exposed. But they are certainly words I would not have used a few months ago.
Tuesday 20 March 2012
Bees in a bucket
Yesterday we were invaded by a swarm of wild bees who had moved (the bee man thinks) from their rural home to find water. Most likely they settled in my garden because it is organic and lacks artificial fertilizers and chemicals. The bee man came at dusk just as light drizzle set in to gather these bees and take them to one of his hives where they will be safe from extermination and allowed to live bee lives. Carefully he manoeuvred his plastic bucket up underneath them, gave the branch a smart tap and in they dropped neatly as you like.
Hastily he put the lid on as the bees hummed at being disturbed then he disappeared into the evening taking the bees to their new home on the bus.
As he left I found myself thinking that this man's passion and deep love for his bees was something very special and that I had been blessed by the bees visit and in meeting with him.
Hastily he put the lid on as the bees hummed at being disturbed then he disappeared into the evening taking the bees to their new home on the bus.
As he left I found myself thinking that this man's passion and deep love for his bees was something very special and that I had been blessed by the bees visit and in meeting with him.
Wednesday 14 March 2012
I am an accountant...maybe
I am an accountant. I say so on my sidebar and for all my working life I have been able to say this quite unequivocally. Accounts is not what I do, is is what I am. I know that I think like an accountant in many diverse areas of my life from parenting to praying. I was born to a family of accountants and soldiers, going back four or five or six generations. Sometimes the two lines even mixed when some members were quartermasters to this Imperial army or that. So you might say it's in my genes. Diner table talk in inclined to revolve around economics and finance and budgets and deeply technical aspects of our work. Something that drives Vetboy mad as no one really shares his interest in science and things veterinary.
Beyond the genetics and the family history being an accountant has always made me happy, and I have not ever really wanted to do anything else.
But I discover that if you get mixed up with them Jesuits and with Ignatius then your perspective on things begins to change. Not dramatically at this moment in time but enough for me to be aware that my longing for God is stronger and more demanding than I ever imagined it could be. I find that perhaps I am being shifted out of my happy, simple life as an accountant into something quite Other.
Only just right now I can't say what that Other might be.
Well I have learnt this much. Breathe. Wait. The Mysterious God walks with me in the Darkness, perhaps.
And the Other will reveal itself.
Beyond the genetics and the family history being an accountant has always made me happy, and I have not ever really wanted to do anything else.
But I discover that if you get mixed up with them Jesuits and with Ignatius then your perspective on things begins to change. Not dramatically at this moment in time but enough for me to be aware that my longing for God is stronger and more demanding than I ever imagined it could be. I find that perhaps I am being shifted out of my happy, simple life as an accountant into something quite Other.
Only just right now I can't say what that Other might be.
Well I have learnt this much. Breathe. Wait. The Mysterious God walks with me in the Darkness, perhaps.
And the Other will reveal itself.
Friday 9 March 2012
Doctors, vets and nurses
Isn't it odd how things bunch together?
I have had a little too much of doctors and vets and nurses this week and the whole medical go round is quite exhausting.
Originally it was only planned that my dear little black cat be spayed but it didn't turn out that way. On Monday Vetboy's large but gentle warmblood cross was taken to the horse hospital for surgery to save her eye which had become inexplicably ulcerated. At this stage the surgery seems to be successful.
Little cat was spayed yesterday and still is wandering around very gingerly but will heal.
And today Small (who only saw the surgeon yesterday) had surgery to sort out a torn cartilage in his knee. Surgery on this boy is never simple as he is diabetic and asthmatic but again he has come through it just fine.
Too much surgery for one week but a great deal of gratitude for the surgeons and nurses and hospitals that accommodated and cared for various two and four footed members of my family and that all are recovering well at this point.
I have had a little too much of doctors and vets and nurses this week and the whole medical go round is quite exhausting.
Originally it was only planned that my dear little black cat be spayed but it didn't turn out that way. On Monday Vetboy's large but gentle warmblood cross was taken to the horse hospital for surgery to save her eye which had become inexplicably ulcerated. At this stage the surgery seems to be successful.
Little cat was spayed yesterday and still is wandering around very gingerly but will heal.
And today Small (who only saw the surgeon yesterday) had surgery to sort out a torn cartilage in his knee. Surgery on this boy is never simple as he is diabetic and asthmatic but again he has come through it just fine.
Too much surgery for one week but a great deal of gratitude for the surgeons and nurses and hospitals that accommodated and cared for various two and four footed members of my family and that all are recovering well at this point.
Monday 5 March 2012
Four horses and a lost sheep
Small came home at lunch time today with several friends. They, like all eighteen year old boys were hungry, very hungry so they lounged around my kitchen as I made lunch. Not that their presence would make lunch cook any faster! They began to discuss their Religion Class this morning where they are learning about other faiths and had had a Buddhist from the local Buddhist Centre. Other than their feeling that he did not much like Christians and told them that Buddhism was a way of life rather than a religion they were intrigued with his story of the Four Horses and their response to a riding crop. In his version the
excellent horse sees the shadow of the riding crop and moves forward
good horse feels the crop on its hair and moves forward
average horse feels the crop on its skin and moves forward
and the
poor horse only moves forward when it feels the crop in its bones.
The boys all wanted to be the excellent horse, but decided that they were most likely were good or average. I thought that I was like them but in truth was more like the poor horse. And surprised myself by realising that Jesus came for the "poor horses" of this world.....judging by the stories He told. Stories of sheep that wandered off or coins that got lost or sons who returned home in shame.
Suddenly being a poor horse wasn't such a bad thing after all.
excellent horse sees the shadow of the riding crop and moves forward
good horse feels the crop on its hair and moves forward
average horse feels the crop on its skin and moves forward
and the
poor horse only moves forward when it feels the crop in its bones.
The boys all wanted to be the excellent horse, but decided that they were most likely were good or average. I thought that I was like them but in truth was more like the poor horse. And surprised myself by realising that Jesus came for the "poor horses" of this world.....judging by the stories He told. Stories of sheep that wandered off or coins that got lost or sons who returned home in shame.
Suddenly being a poor horse wasn't such a bad thing after all.
Sunday 4 March 2012
A little light
Today after Mass someone I know, but not well, came up to me and said thank you for my recent posts. I must have looked like a stunned mullet as I didn't even know she knew my full name let alone that I had a blog. Carefully I asked what about them had made such an impact. She said that she too has suffered from the same self destructive urges for years and had been deeply ashamed of how she felt. She said that she was in many respects a fortunate woman whom many would envy yet she still suffered from this bleak despair.
Then I read my comments to discover that another suffered the same way.
I had not set out to break any taboo, I am not that kind of person. Not that brave anyway. Yet one small crack has let a little light in.
Grace at work again.
Then I read my comments to discover that another suffered the same way.
I had not set out to break any taboo, I am not that kind of person. Not that brave anyway. Yet one small crack has let a little light in.
Grace at work again.
Monday 27 February 2012
Deserts
We have just spent time considering desert life in Sunday's readings. That inevitable bleak, awfulness that seems to invade everyone's life at some point. Like Jesus we are often driven into the desert but I go unwillingly and with great resistance. For this desert place of desolation is familiar to me as the hair on my head.
I reflect today that for all its familiarity, for all the well known ache of it it is not something I ever talk about.
Why?
It seems to me that if you are driven to despair by an addiction to drugs or by anorexia or by an abusive husband or cancer that these are topics that can be spoken about and which will as often as not receive a sympathetic hearing. But when your particular desert leads down the road to self destruction, well then. Perhaps not always. I am not talking about that fleeting suicidal fantasy that a person might experience but rather that well planned and carefully thought out option that is amongst the deck of cards that I hold as a response to any given situation on any given day.
I recall one deep dark night a couple of years ago searching blogs on suicide. There were remarkably few. Curious I plugged in "sexual abuse" and was overwhelmed by the mass of choice out there. By some remarkable circumstance I landed on Gannet Girl's blog "Desert Year", written about her response to the death by suicide of her beautiful son. I began to learn what suicide might do to others, not something that had occurred to me then. I learned that I am not alone in these self destructive feelings and began to chart their origin with in me, in the hopes of heading the downward slide off before it got really dangerous.
Now it occurs to me that this painful process might be made easier if I had someone else's experience to add to my own. And perhaps that I might feel less of an outcast.
I reflect today that for all its familiarity, for all the well known ache of it it is not something I ever talk about.
Why?
It seems to me that if you are driven to despair by an addiction to drugs or by anorexia or by an abusive husband or cancer that these are topics that can be spoken about and which will as often as not receive a sympathetic hearing. But when your particular desert leads down the road to self destruction, well then. Perhaps not always. I am not talking about that fleeting suicidal fantasy that a person might experience but rather that well planned and carefully thought out option that is amongst the deck of cards that I hold as a response to any given situation on any given day.
I recall one deep dark night a couple of years ago searching blogs on suicide. There were remarkably few. Curious I plugged in "sexual abuse" and was overwhelmed by the mass of choice out there. By some remarkable circumstance I landed on Gannet Girl's blog "Desert Year", written about her response to the death by suicide of her beautiful son. I began to learn what suicide might do to others, not something that had occurred to me then. I learned that I am not alone in these self destructive feelings and began to chart their origin with in me, in the hopes of heading the downward slide off before it got really dangerous.
Now it occurs to me that this painful process might be made easier if I had someone else's experience to add to my own. And perhaps that I might feel less of an outcast.
Friday 24 February 2012
That you may have Life
If I have felt unprepared and unready for Lent, well that is only me. I should have known that the Lord would be prepared and ready. All I had to do was sit in stillness and quiet and acceptance and listen. A friend gave me a small book using writings from the great Saints - Saints that include Hildegard of Bingen, Julian of Norwich, Meister Eckhart, Francis de Sales, Teresa of Avila and so on as a guide through Lent.
Lacking anything better but with little inclination I began to read and to meditate as the book suggested.
Today opened with these words from Hildegard of Bingen.
Lacking anything better but with little inclination I began to read and to meditate as the book suggested.
Today opened with these words from Hildegard of Bingen.
We are born, each of us, with a desire for good
and a lust for evil.
We are called to life
and attracted to death.
We hear "do good"
and we respond "choose pleasure"
Sometimes when God reaches out to us
we disdain him.
Finally it occurred to me to look at the title of the book I was reading and I was stopped in my tracks to discover it. "That you may have Life" was not what I was expecting, given my recent preoccupation with death.
I wonder anew and with gratitude at the Grace, the Saving Grace that enlightens my small life.
Wednesday 22 February 2012
Unprepared and unready
I am unprepared and unready for Lent.
Ash Wednesday Mass this morning was a change again from last year. Mercifully a gentle, reverent liturgy, hallowed by beautiful voices and solemn dignity. It should have set the scene for a focused, prayerful Lent. That it didn't was not in the Liturgy but more within myself.
Reflecting, I consider that perhaps it has been an uncharacteristically long and deep bout of depression these last few months that leaves me too fragile to face the symbols of Ash Wednesday. Death and sin. Sin, I am too uncomfortably aware of but death is another matter. Death is much harder to make sense of when I have been coming far too close to self inflicted death. Not of course that this suicidal impulse is new, nor sometimes does it matter that over time I have learned to manage it so that it doesn't actually result in death.
It stalks me.
Haunts me.
And I wonder what grace has kept me from such terrible self harm, when others, especially my young nephew succumbed and died of suicide.
And now I must find a way to move through Lent, and allow this saving grace to work within my life once more.
Ash Wednesday Mass this morning was a change again from last year. Mercifully a gentle, reverent liturgy, hallowed by beautiful voices and solemn dignity. It should have set the scene for a focused, prayerful Lent. That it didn't was not in the Liturgy but more within myself.
Reflecting, I consider that perhaps it has been an uncharacteristically long and deep bout of depression these last few months that leaves me too fragile to face the symbols of Ash Wednesday. Death and sin. Sin, I am too uncomfortably aware of but death is another matter. Death is much harder to make sense of when I have been coming far too close to self inflicted death. Not of course that this suicidal impulse is new, nor sometimes does it matter that over time I have learned to manage it so that it doesn't actually result in death.
It stalks me.
Haunts me.
And I wonder what grace has kept me from such terrible self harm, when others, especially my young nephew succumbed and died of suicide.
And now I must find a way to move through Lent, and allow this saving grace to work within my life once more.
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