tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72959395769353329042024-03-14T07:42:53.710-07:00Ocean Woman's JourneyUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295939576935332904.post-78619047858703432102013-10-13T11:27:00.001-07:002013-10-13T11:27:24.858-07:00Sitting in church<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I did not make it to church today, instead it came to me in the peace of early light. The parishioners gathered, as I entered and sat on my doorstep pew in the morning chill - a gentle breeze, swaying leaves talking amongst themselves, an occasional squirrel, daddy-long-legs, slender threads of golden sunlight dancing in patches on the lawn, and our dear cat Simon (though he paid little attention to the homily as dry skittering maple leaves round-danced distracting him). The choir of birds chirped and sang hymns of praise each in its own voice. I do love this church with a dome of sky for a roof, welcoming all who open their hearts and minds. The sermon was peaceful, its message spoken without words straight to my soul. I am grateful beyond measure for the blessings big and small in life, for the kindness of others, for babies and children and elders and all between, for sweet love, for sometimes tears, for laughter, for lessons learned (and learning still), for good health, and for meaningful work. The list is long, my gratitude great. Today is all ours, yesterday done and graded, tomorrow merely potential. The benediction simply to go and love one another.</span></span><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295939576935332904.post-44240701052689463322013-05-25T14:25:00.003-07:002013-11-03T08:20:59.963-08:00The Blessings of a hilltop sanctuaryEarth has risen from its slumber and donned verdant attire. The view from the hilltop both heals and inspires me. Everything is alive and busy fulfilling the opportunities presented. This is my favorite time, when the introspection of winter gives way to action. The months spent pondering need to find purpose or it will just be forgotten. The hilltop is my refuge, sanctuary, and classroom. I love this hill where I come to sit, to observe, to pray, to relax. I can see so far away... the glory of sunrises, the beauty of sunsets, the full moon rising at day's end and setting serenely at dawn, storms gathering in the distance, holiday fireworks in at least 5 towns, the natural world going about its business... it is so wonderful and enriching here. I offer tobacco, burn sage and cedar, pray and listen. Some of my father's ashes are scattered here. Just down the hill is an orchard planted when my youngest was born. The house, the creek, the memories woven through time... they are precious to me. This place is so dear to my heart. I am so grateful for the opportunity to have spent time here learning and living and finding my way along the good path. It has been a healing balm.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295939576935332904.post-28853335882341951712013-05-12T10:42:00.001-07:002013-05-12T10:42:08.241-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295939576935332904.post-7439001482673167662013-05-12T10:38:00.000-07:002013-05-12T10:38:01.551-07:00Happy Mother's Day <span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"> When
Creator chose woman to carry the future of our human race he knew she
was the best candidate for the job. He gave each one different
combinations of his most precious gifts: love, patience, foresight,
perseverance, creativity, eyes that see beyond the obvious,
compassion, resourcefulness, and much more. To those who may have seemed to get the
short end of the stick he gave them a double dose of humor to see th<span class="text_exposed_show">em
through. Creator didn't require all to give birth in order to be a
mother either, some chose their children, some even chose children
regardless of their backgrounds and loved them as their own. The line of women stretches back into the mists of time. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"> For all the
women in my life who have helped to make me who I am today and those
who believed in me even when I couldn't believe in myself I say a very
grateful thank you. You are the golden sunlight that fills my spirit,
the wind beneath my wings, the ones who taught me how to be a strong
woman, that shared of their time and talents, my lady relatives by
blood or heart, my dear friends, and the ones who fill my basket so I
could have something to give away to others - you are amazing women. I
love you all. Happy Mother's Day.</span></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295939576935332904.post-44127047374631115412012-07-15T21:06:00.000-07:002012-07-15T21:06:30.834-07:00VespersEvening prayers on the hilltop. Once the petitions, listening, and expressions of gratitude were complete I rested in the last rosy, long rays of day's end. I heard Cicadas complaining about the rising humidity that comes as twilight approaches. I was pleasantly distracted by birds cheerfully singing as they go about gathering the bugs that have hidden during the heat of day. And the grass, drying out from lack of rain, whispered hush as a milder southern breeze swayed them back and forth. This is when I hear the lessons the earth offers. Tonight it was just to rest in the beauty, to soak it in with gratitude that we have such peace right where we are if we only stop and allow ourselves to find the quiet within. Creator knows what we need and speaks to us if we are willing to listen. It is a healing time, both through prayer and by letting the chatter of the day go with the setting sun.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295939576935332904.post-51731912684131066542011-11-10T18:07:00.000-08:002011-11-10T18:08:35.970-08:00Once I was...Once I was the smallest child <br />Once I was forever under foot <br />Once I was truly a handful <br />Now I am grown <br /><br />Once I was the potato peeler <br />Once I was the dish washer <br />Once I was the laundry helper <br />Now I am a mother <br /><br />Once I was the baby rocker <br />Once I was the story reader <br />Once I was the boo-boo mender <br />Now I am a grandmother <br /><br />Once I lived near the sea <br />Once I lived near my relatives <br />Once I planned to always remain close <br />Now I am so far away )-: <br /><br /><br />Brenda 2011Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295939576935332904.post-38381083174787320202011-11-10T17:57:00.000-08:002011-11-10T18:07:31.276-08:00Where I'm FromI am from sea-washed sandy soil, from Corn Flakes and fresh, sweet raspberries. <br /><br />I am from a tiny, crowded, but happy, run down cottage. <br /><br />I am from the humble yet fragrant mayflowers that grow under the dry leaves along dirt roads in second growth woods, a mix of crow pine and red oak.<br /><br />I am from Sunday dinners followed by a family drive in the car, and generosity, from Clan Hunter, Clan Anderson, Bearse and Buck and Frost and people who didn’t feel the need for last names.<br /><br />I am from the old school recyclers who lived in a world of make-do and those who never held back when someone needed something. <br /><br />From grandparent’s loving teachings, ripe with metaphors and hand-me-down traditions, from those who wove amazing stories out of thin air. <br /><br />I am from meek Unitarian Universalists, from parishioners of the Church of Scotland, and before them from those who worshiped in a church whose members were of all nations of beings: winged and four-legged, those that swim, and those who crawl, those with roots that hold them still, and the elder stones who have watched since the beginning of time. <br /><br />I'm from Cape Cod, fresh caught fish, thick and creamy clam chowdah, and homemade oatmeal bread. <br /><br />From the Wampanoag Tribe that stood on the wintry shore watching the foreign ships approach, and the tired Pilgrims who left everything familiar and ventured forth with hope for a second chance. <br /><br />I am from the newer end of the branches of the family tree with leaf sets of my own who have their own tiny buds. I am from stories told and stories woven, from names in archives of towns settled, carved on weather worn slate headstones on hills overlooking the cold Atlantic, names included in genealogies of poets and presidents, among those names were sachems, spiritual leaders, those falsely accused of witchcraft, craftspeople, sea captains, warriors, fishermen, scrimshanders, carpenters, strong women, farmers, and those destined to wander. <br /><br />Our common histories are woven in a richly colored shawl of tradition that is mine to continue weaving and then pass down, a strand at a time in stories to eager ears caught up in the magic of our seaside heritage.<br /><br /><br />Brenda 2011Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295939576935332904.post-28687300195300838032011-11-10T17:40:00.000-08:002011-11-10T17:56:01.635-08:00I AskedI Asked<br /><br />I asked the sunrise why it was so golden<br />And it sang and sang its good morning song<br />I asked the sky why it was so blue<br />And it sighed some gentle clouds, puffy and white<br />I asked the elder maple tree why it whispered<br />And it shook its leaves in the wind as a response<br />I asked the breezes where they were going<br />And they played with my hair and made me laugh<br />I asked the gurgling creek to talk with me<br />And its unspoken words flowed directly into my spirit<br />I asked the afternoon shadows why they hurried the day along<br />And they just reached and grabbed up more sunlight<br />I pondered a while, what was the lesson?<br />And the earth said look around<br />As the rosy sun slipped into cool, starlit twilight<br />And the harvest moon rose above the darkening tree line<br />I quietly observed…<br />Everything was as it should be... perfect.<br /><br /><br />Brenda 2011Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295939576935332904.post-57616510022376514302011-08-01T15:26:00.000-07:002011-08-01T15:32:42.185-07:00Dry SpellCorn stretching its leaves,<br />Praying to the sky for rain.<br />Sun bakes the cracked soil.<br /><br />As goes the land, so go we.<br />My tears do not bring relief.<br /><br /><br /><br />* I began writing poetry in the Japanese Tonka style last winter (5-7-5, 7-7) which is similar to haiku (5-7-5). The first 3 lines are about nature and the last two are personal reflection. My goal is to write a complete Tonka collection which consists of 100 poems: 20 each in five collections -- winter, spring, summer, fall, and one on love. It is a challenge to write within such structure, but the discipline and simplicity feels good.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295939576935332904.post-78911777721028995872011-07-11T08:45:00.000-07:002011-07-11T09:28:12.868-07:00Blessings on your journey RickySixteen hundred miles away from the hilltop behind my home, my cousin Ricky's body was laid to rest today near the sea and he began his journey into the spirit world. Unable to be with family at this time, my daughter and I chose to hold a simple ceremony for him here on this perfect summer day. Facing East, the direction of our homeland, I offered sage, cedar, and prayers for his journey. I also offered prayers of comfort for those he left behind, that they may feel Creator's healing touch and know that Rick is in good hands. <br /><br />Ricky and I had a good relationship, though in the years since I have been living in Nebraska we have not seen each other much. We kind of found our own paths in life, but were still good with each other. I remember a time growing up when he came to live with us and was like a little brother to me. Sometimes mischievous, but always generous with his great sense of humor, he was good company. <br /><br />It is at times like these that I am reminded that life is sacred, that the blessings bestowed upon us should be shared and not squandered for no one knows when it will be our time to depart. To feel the could have/would have/should have when someone passes on is a lesson for us, that we should not be blinded by regret but inspired to find remedy in change. I should have visited Rick more, been better about keeping in touch. He knew I loved him, though, as those were the last words we shared when we hugged each other in his driveway years ago. The lesson given, however, is to keep in touch... to go and spend time in the company of those we love. To linger and enjoy each other in a good way. <br /><br />We live in a time when people are scattered hither and yon, not like when I was growing up and everyone lived nearby. A person was considered to live far away if they lived two towns over. This is part of my lesson that I must come to terms with. I was not able to go and sit with Rick when it would have been good for us to talk about old times. <br /><br />As I stood on the hilltop, green land stretched out as far as the eye can see below azure skies laced with summer clouds, I was with you, Rick, in spirit. The scent of cedar and sage hung in the air and we had a few moments to share while I prayed for a good journey for you. You were a good little brother, loved and admired. I will hold you in my heart forever.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295939576935332904.post-83860329748142191622010-11-26T16:42:00.000-08:002010-11-26T17:02:07.724-08:00Autumn ReverieThe untended tall field grass, stained gold in the long sunset light, swayed gently in the southern breeze as if without a care in the world. Birds flitted hither and yon in an effort to finish final errands before roosting for the night. Our collie, who ordinarily paced on well-worn trails instead lay curled up under the elder silver maple resting up for her evening rounds. This is such a peaceful time to be a spectator. It’s so effortless for my mind to slip into neutral leaving aside anything that tugged at me during the day. My spirit soars across the unobstructed vista, coasting low on the clear prairie air before turning high into the indigo zenith where twinkling stars are waiting to make their entrance. I can’t tell you how long I sat there on the weathered board stretched between two old stumps and enjoyed the reverie because time simply has no relevance. My spirit, refreshed, returned to my body as the sun slipped behind purple clouds on the horizon and left in its place a spectral band of fading color. The frosty air of late November nipped at my cheeks and toes. It was with gratitude for the experience and a sense of awe in the ever changing seasonal landscape that I descended from my vantage point to replace it with the busyness of a shared home.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295939576935332904.post-46190940612964593812010-08-22T21:46:00.000-07:002010-11-26T17:22:58.822-08:00Musing on a Hot Summer Night...Summer nights... a cacophony of cicadas and crickets fill the otherwise quiet and humid evening wherein many birds and animals, like myself seek respite. The waxing moon gives way to the nocturnal travelers that arrive on silent wing or glide on tip toe through the darkness. The air is heavy and still as the smallest of breezes tries to bring a modicum of cooling relief, but to no avail. The fan in the window makes noise but not an appreciable difference. It is just too hot to sleep. <br /><br />These are the kind of nights that make me wish for Grandma's screen porch. I would lie on top of cool, white cotton sheets on the day bed and listen to the sounds of night. Sometimes I would be lucky and the neighbor's back porch light would be turned off allowing me to watch for shooting stars or marvel at the heat lightning's luminous, yet distant, display. The scent of the sea infused those humid nights, slowly stirring the moisture rich air into a dense fog by dawn, leaving everything outdoors damp as if rained upon. Fog doesn't respect boundaries set by the screens and on those occasions I would wake early to crawl inside, where it would be dry, and finish my sleep on the couch.<br /><br />Seaside summer nights are different than those on the Midwest prairie. The dog days of August would be the climax of summer temperatures and always the heat would be at its peak by mid afternoon, followed by the on shore breezes that brought relief before the stars emerged. Even next to the sea, we had heat waves that made sleeping miserable... but they would never last for weeks on end as they do here. Temps over 100 degrees are just an expected part of summer on the prairie. <br /><br />Air conditioning is a part of everyone's life -- in the house, at work, schools, vehicles, even tractors and combines now have a/c. I could stay inside for days on end avoiding the reality of the oppressing heat, I dislike it that much. I would go out to gather mail, or take Casey to the local pool or for a play date, or run to the store -- but simply stepping outside was like walking into a sauna, the air almost too heavy to breathe. And if the steamy air itself wasn’t oppressive enough, the closed vehicles were ovens. It was our practice to open every window and door for 5 – 10 minutes before going anywhere, even though cats would rush in just to see if there was anything inside worth braving the heat. The moment we got in to go the a/c would be blasted and windows closed to keep the heat from sneaking back in. <br /><br />I remember, growing up on the Cape, when cars had no a/c and folks just rolled the windows down. Ladies, who feared ruin of their coiffed hair, would don kerchiefs or brightly colored scarves and big sunglasses. Jackie Kennedy’s influence on summer fashion was clearly evident. Children, like family the dog, would hang out of windows eyes closed and smiling as the wind blew hair back. It was great fun to put our little hands out the window to ride imaginary waves in the torrent of air. Fathers draped an arm out the window and by summer’s end had a driver’s tan – one arm darker than the other. On days too hot to lounge in the shade everyone went to the water, which was never more than 3 miles in any direction. The ice cream man jingled his way through town ever watchful of the dime raised high to get his attention. Summer seemed innocent and blissful when I was a child.<br /><br />On these torrid Midwest summer nights I think back on those days of youth and all that they have done to weave fond memories for me. I look at Casey and hope she too is weaving good memories that will keep her company in adulthood. She is as much a daughter of the prairie as I am a daughter of the sea. When I seem wistful and full of reminiscing she points out how the wind blows across the tall grass or the endless bean fields making them shimmer like waves on the open ocean. It is a shared gift that mesmerizes us both. In this way we share a common thread, wherein she has found the ocean in Nebraska where the endless sea of grass meets the azure sky.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295939576935332904.post-29480125143637670892010-04-03T14:33:00.000-07:002010-04-06T18:34:59.564-07:00IreneWhen spring breathes whisper soft on the dormant land, she awakens drowsy mayflowers from beneath the blanket of last season’s spent leaves. The tiny white blossoms shyly open to release the sweet, earthy fragrance I hold dear. It is at this very time of year that I call you, dear grandmother, back from beyond the pale so we can stroll together down the sun-dappled sandy back roads of my youth. Do you remember the annual tradition we kept? I would come early and you would be ready, dressed in a faded cotton blouse and your favorite floral apron with a wool cardigan over it to seal out the morning chill, pants pinned to fit your slender frame, and cabled knee socks slipped into worn penny loafers. Your long silvery hair would be braided and pinned up and if it were windy you would wear a blue kerchief. Your calloused hands would carry a old hand basket and the trusty, large fork to scare away any snakes that might be lurking under the leaves, not quite ready yet to scurry at the sound of our footsteps. Our mission was to gather a bunch of the first flowers of spring and place them in the tiniest, but prettiest, glass bottle we could find and place it in the position of honor on the kitchen windowsill so you might have something lovely to grace your humble life. I will always think of you when winter gives way to verdant spring and it is time for mayflowers to bloom.<br /><br /> I miss you, grandma, your gentle touch and voice as soft as rose petals. I am so grateful that I had you to go to, following the worn path that wound through the piney woods to your back gate. The sounds of my feet as I ran barefoot over the sandy way, watching to ensure I didn’t miss a bird calling or squirrel’s chatter, are as clear as if time melted away. Always you greeted me with open arms and a loving heart. You were my sacred island in a sometimes turbulent sea, a magical place where all my troubles dissolved and I was important and appreciated. From your soul, rich in contrast to your lifestyle, you offered up precious gifts of art, poetry, writing, traditional hand arts, and your ability to see the world through the heart rather than the eyes biased by society. I have nurtured those seeds you planted and have kept the garden tended in your absence. You may not recognize me now as I have outgrown my youthful appearance and into a grandmother myself, yet under the white wisps threading through the thinning dark locks, and beyond the crow’s feet I proudly wear… I am still your granddaughter. <br /><br /> I deeply desire to be a similar island to my own grandchildren. They are, however precious, scattered hither and yon around the country -- the distance too great and not a swift run down the woodsy path. I know how very lucky I was to have you those short, but sweet, eighteen years. And maybe, just maybe, when I am thinking of you then we are together again in some parallel world where memories are granted immortality.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295939576935332904.post-45563302147702036462010-02-27T20:55:00.000-08:002010-02-27T22:10:21.246-08:00When the student is ready the teacher appears...What an enchanting verse! Indeed, in my life it has happened over and over. I have needed and/or appreciated all the teachers I've had the fortune to experience. They range in age from a very premature baby, to an elderly gentleman still lucid, though deaf, at age 105. Hundreds, no thousands, perhaps millions have gifted me with insight... often by word, other times by action, and sometimes just by their presence. To all I am eternally grateful. <br /><br />Not all my teachers were two legged. I have learned much from trees about taking a stand, sheltering others, being flexible in tough times yet willing to allow for new growth when situations beyond our control prune us back. A tree does not live its life differently according to the advance of age, it just follows its original instructions and behaves like the tree it is supposed to be, nor do they feel the need to compare themselves to others. Their magnificence is obvious to us and as such they offer wisdom through their example. If we are lucky enough, they speak directly to our spirit.<br /><br />I have even learned compassion from the lowly Box Elder bug, upside down and wiggling for all its worth hoping, somehow, to right itself and move on without harm. This drama played out on the back of the sink as I prepared to spray cleaner and wipe the surfaces down. I looked at the bug and was prompted to consider times in my life when I'd been flipped over on my metaphoric back and felt rather insignificant in the scope of things. Would it make a difference if I just wiped the bug along and cast it out with the dirty paper towel? Would it weaken me to care about this bug enough to lift it up in my hand and move it outside? It says a lot about a person when they are given the opportunity to care about something or someone insignificant and rise to the occasion. Some have a word for that... sappy... while others see it as a spiritual experience.<br /><br />It is both lovely and loving that nature teaches us in so many ways. We do not live upon an inert blue ball floating through space. Quite the contrary, we are part of all that surrounds us, good and not so good. Everything touches us and we touch everything. We are students, learning according to our ability to remain open minded, and at the same time we are teachers in ways we may not even realize, to those we may not even be aware we are touching.<br /><br />I am tickled by the fact that I have arrived at the noontime of my life deeply rooted in education and finally be able to have earned the title "teacher;" bringing all I have experienced to the table and offering my humble insight to those who turn a willing ear. My story may not have the shine of fame, or the luster of a world traveler, but like every person I. too, have something to share. I still have a long way to go and much to see and experience. In contrast, my newest teachers are my students. They put up with my first year efforts (in a self contained jr. high room) to change the world through education. They let me flounder when I refuse to teach directly from textbooks and find my self using up all my available time trying to figure out how to avoid the usual command like, "please turn to page such and such, read to page such a such, and answer the questions at the end of the chapter." I want us to interact, to struggle for understanding together, to be a community within a community and care enough to help each other out. We are a patchwork quilt, each fabric different but all part of a bigger design.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7295939576935332904.post-1753727209880500112010-02-16T16:33:00.000-08:002010-02-16T19:09:42.582-08:00Winter daydreams near the cusp of spring...<span style="font-family:georgia;">I scan for signs of spring but all I behold is white, pure white as far as the eye can see with only random skeletons of dormant trees and the tallest plants and sturdiest of grasses poking above the snow as if to indicate they still remain in spite of it all... and so do I. This winter has been long and cold. I have yet to walk on the earth, and instead are kept at length by a deep, frozen barrier. I yearn to feel that gentle touch of new grass, the whisper of soft breezes, see life return after the long slumber.<br /><br />That reminds me of how I talk to children about seasons. I explain that in the fall the trees drop their leaves as they start to fall asleep, and all winter long the energy goes back into the earth and they sleep until the warmer weather wakes them up and growth returns to the land. Robert Frost knew about that return when he penned, "Spring's first green is gold." So true, as all shoots and leaves emerge golden until the sun coaxes the more verdant hue. Trees don't mind being woken, they don't complain, nor do plants whine and refuse to grow. They respect their Original Instructions and do what they are created to do.<br /><br />Hmm, if people would only take the plant world's example! We are closer to the land than we realize. Winter is our time to become dormant, to lie fallow. No wonder I feel so lazy and sluggish at times. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;">I know I will feel so energized by the advent of spring. I need to reserve my energy and allow myself to have time to mend the frazzled nerves. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;">Perhaps I should not be so hard on myself when I occasionally want to give in to the lure of winter daydreams.<br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0