Category Archives: God’s Creation

A Deeper Surrender 3 – Stroke and Glide

I grew up across the street from a huge city swimming pool, so I took a lot of swim lessons. For years, though, I was afraid to spend much time underwater. Treading water for long periods of time was a favorite assignment of my teachers. I frantically paddled hard enough to always keep my head above water, quickly becoming exhausted. Ditto with swimming laps. So I was never completely at home in the water, unlike many of my friends who swam like fish. Was I just a weakling or did they know something I didn’t?

Living in New Hampshire at the foot of Highland Lake, I would swim in the clear, shallow water regularly. It was so peaceful that I let go of my anxiety, spending more and more time gliding through the water with my head and face below the surface. I got lost in limbo between earth, water, and sky, a welcome meditation. Later, several of us would swim after dark in remote Center Pond. I’d picture creatures lurking below the surface waiting to grab me and pull me down to unspeakable depths. But then I’d look up at the stars and the silent pine trees ringing the shore and lose myself again in that magical limbo world.

Finally, when I was teaching my daycare kiddies to swim, a professional swim teacher turned on the final light bulb. We all float and can just fully relax in the water; it’s just that most of us only reach that point when we’re completely underwater! Once we accept that, we can swim for hours if need be. Just try to float lower in the water than your body naturally wants to go – you can’t do it without real effort. The trick is to pair breathing in with a swim stroke that lifts our heads above water, then submerge, find our flotation point, and fully relax while we glide and exhale slowly through our noses.

The glide portion lasts two or three times longer than the stroke. Oddly, until we know better, we focus on the stroke since it’s the action part and necessary for moving forward. But as I mastered this swim style, I also came to appreciate the power of the glide. If I fully relaxed in the water, trusted the power of the previous stroke, and exhaled in a long, controlled breath, I could go on and on. And I found that I never sank very far in the water, no matter how much I relaxed. When I moved into an apartment complex with a large indoor pool, I could swim laps for surprising distances, racking up a half mile, then a mile. It was liberating and exhilarating to overcome those childhood fears and limitations.

I find that relating to my emotional, creative, and spiritual highs and lows is a lot like swimming laps. I appreciate the power of the glide here as well. The rest and reflection that my burned-out body force on me bear great fruit, perhaps as great as my bursts of energy and productivity. I sit in my comfortable chair, watching flocks of birds at my feeder, the “wall of green” beyond my patio undulating in the breeze, and new insights come to me that fuel the next “stroke” or push in life. And I find that the Lord never lets me sink below my spiritual “flotation” point as long as I’m truly reaching for Him.

I recently hit an emotional wall, feeling overly isolated, frustrated, and creatively constrained. But instead of frantically “swimming” against this downward force, I let myself glide through the underwater of my soul, checking out what I was really feeling and why, as well as what my many options for response were. I received insightful advice, solved a persistent sign-in problem on a web forum for like-minded people, and read a Guideposts story about its publisher’s stack of prayer requests that he turns to in odd moments – a good example of how I could serve even in tired moments. Doors started to open in my soul and in my life.

Living from my spiritual and creative “flotation point” has been both empowering and humbling. It’s allowed God into my soul. Next time you find yourself in a pickle, try a long glide under your conscious mind and see what surfaces.

The Tip of the Plow

I just finished a historical novel I absolutely loved, The Invention of Wings, by Sue Monk Kidd (author of The Secret Life of Bees). She writes about real-life sisters Sarah and Angelina Grimké from a slave-owning upper class family in Charlotte, North Carolina. They both detested slavery and were pioneers in both the Abolitionist and Women’s Movements in the early 1800’s. Ms Kidd writes an imagined inner life for Sarah and her personal slave Handful that is beautifully drawn and fairly faithful to the facts. Their passionate dedication required intense personal sacrifice but they never compromised their principles.

This story reminded me of a phrase voiced by a former real estate broker discussing levels of risk in property investment.  Land is riskiest and developers are at the tip of the plow. They must invest a huge amount of money, time, and vision before they earn a single dollar. One wrong decision and they could lose it all. Certainly Sarah and Angelina were at the tip of their plow in both movements, and suffered greatly in the process.

It’s a vivid image: I picture the pioneer plow biting into tough prairie sod and the stress on it, the abrasion of stones and roots wearing the blade down quickly. The people behind the plow had to be equally tough. Others also come to mind: explorers, inventors, entrepreneurs, saints and martyrs. But are we, more ordinary people, ever at the tip of the plow? I know I have been and I have the emotional scars to prove it!

In the 1990’s I bought into a condo complex, recently converted from an apartment building. 48 different homeowners took over an aging building, electing seven of us to the first Board of Directors. We faced arcing electricity in the utility room, defective boilers and roof, plus thousands of bats under that bad roof! We buckled down, got legal advice, and solved those problems one at a time, first winning a settlement from the developers. I was treasurer and legal liaison, so many, many nights my stomach would be in knots about how to make these people accountable, how to sell extra assessments to our fellow owners so we could replace the roof, and how to unseat a volatile HOA President.

After five years, we triumphed over all these difficulties. Those of us in the vanguard were worn out and others were elected to carry on. They only had to deal with issues like enforcing the rule on uniform window coverings, kids running in the halls, and which lawn care company to use. I don’t regret my experience as it gave me the confidence I needed to tackle real estate at age 59 when I needed a change from teaching learning-disabled teenagers.

I reflected many times on the early scouts and pioneers who conquered the tough Midwestern prairie, harsh weather, and unfriendly native Americans. They were followed by the settlers who came in and built it up, in relative security. My Kent ancestors were settlers, not pioneers, building up Davenport, Iowa; opening a drugstore in nearby DeWitt; or starting the Photographic Dept. at the University of Iowa. I hope they appreciated those who came before and plowed the ground for them.

Where in your life are you at the tip of the plow? I see valiant friends stand for principle in their families, integrity in their work, or courage in the face of horrible adversity. Perhaps that’s our frontier today, where our own plow blade bites into the heart of experience.

Plowing by Carl Larsson Courtesy WikiArt.org, in public domain

Plowing, by Carl Larsson
Courtesy WikiArt.org, in public domain

 

Ye Shall Also Reap

Today I went with friends to pick plums for free in a neglected orchard. We all got enough to dry and make into plum jam or plum butter (yum!). I was reminded again of the abundance of nature. One plum seed grew into a large tree with hundreds of plums, which could seed a whole orchard, and from which thousands of plums could be harvested!  I’ll give some away, dry some, can some plum butter for winter breakfasts and Christmas gifts, and just enjoy eating them fresh.

But those plums didn’t just grow without help. The original farmer had to plant the seed, nurture the seedling, then the young tree, prune it, prevent pests, and finally harvest them properly before fruit meets taste buds. The same is true of any project or job we undertake. We had a saying in education about managing student behavior: Get what you want before you give the student what they want. Well, life demands the same: we have to sow and cultivate before we reap the harvest.

I get a lot of joy from my adult children and teenage grandchildren, but there was a price to be paid: hundreds, probably thousands of diapers; late night feedings; whining in stores; and endless meals and snacks. Sure they were fun as children, but they also created what sometimes seemed like thankless work.

I’m currently working on converting my booklet on managing children’s behavior into an ebook. Since it was originally typed on a word processor, I have to retype it, study the Kindle formatting guidelines, and find a cover designer. Then I’ll still have to promote it online and hope it sells – weeks to produce and months til we have a harvest. It’s a bigger project to find a publisher for my phonics readers, written in the 1980s and distributed only minimally since phonics weren’t in vogue then.

We can have a harvest in our characters as well. Quote is from Ralph Waldo Emerson:

Sow a thought and you reap an action;
Sow an act and you reap a habit;
Sow a habit and you reap a character;
Sow a character and you reap a destiny.

As I look at my pantry with jars of soup, jam, and chicken broth and remind myself that the harvest is coming on my current projects. I believe there’s a harvest for my writing that will benefit both reader and author, and make the effort worthwhile. I can look for opportunities to say the kind word, not the nasty one, and hope for a better character. And I believe those plums will soon be nestled in jars and bags waiting to delight my taste buds this winter. Then I take heart for another day of cultivating my personal garden.

Fear not to do good, my sons, for whatsoever ye sow, that shall ye also reap;
therefore, if ye sow good ye shall also reap good for your reward.
(LDS Doctrine & Covenants 6:33)

Book Review:  When my kids were little, I came across a delightful book that I think I enjoyed even more than they did: The Carrot Seed by Ruth Krauss.  It’s about a little boy  who plants a carrot seed, and his whole family tells him that “it won’t come up.” But the little boy continues to care for his seed anyway, believing that it will. All you gardeners out there know that carrot seeds are tiny and notoriously slow to germinate. Even though it’s very short, The Carrot Seed packs a real punch, especially if you’re down and don’t feel like the projects you’re nurturing will ever bear fruit!

The Carrot Seed Book Cover Author's Image of Own Book

The Carrot Seed Book Cover
Author’s Image of Own Book

 

 

Lessons from Plants

This year I decided to splurge on flowers, so I bought lots of “wave” pansies that did very well this spring on my back patio. Then I bought three gorgeous hanging baskets dominated by varying shades of purple, accented with white.  I put two of them side-by-side in a metal “half barrel” planter which was an unbridled success. But the prize goes to the third basket hanging from the corner of my carport for all to enjoy.

This basket came in the usual plastic pot with its own hanger. I knew from experience that it would dry out quickly in its small pot, and need once or even twice daily watering.  So I took it down before the heat hit full force and gingerly removed it from its pot. I lost a few small branches but not too serious.  Then I struggled to get it out of the old pot and replant in a larger one which I filled with extra rich potting soil and lots of organic compost. I lost even more greenery.  Then came the real challenge: placing the pot in my sturdy metal basket with real chains without more damage. After an annoying struggle with the chains trying to position the plant, I was ready to hang my prize.

The pot by this time was heavier than I wanted to lift, plus you have to get on a step stool to reach the hook.  No one was around to help me and I was impatient.  I thought I could hold my creation on the handle of my step stool with one hand while reaching up for the wire hanger, but disaster struck:  The pot escaped the hanger, fell, and landed on the cement – heartbreak!  I started all over to rescue my darling: unhooking the chains again, tenderly righting the plant, scooping soil back in the pot, and replanting the now bedraggled plants. I called a neighbor to help hold the pot high enough to reach the hook. Success finally came, but my plant was a sorry sight. I trimmed, watered, and apologized to the poor thing, then hoped nature would heal my crimes against it.

It took a while but it’s back giving pleasure to all, except for one gap that reminds me of life’s fragility, the need to respect all the steps, and not take shortcuts. Fortunately, nature is forgiving and the plant is more lush than ever. (See my photo below.) I’m like this plant, a little battered but still surviving life’s bumps and knocks.

I’ve learned lots of lessons from plants over the years. Here are a few more:

  • This same basket still needs to be watered daily, and twice if the temperature gets above about 98°.  Remorse has made me take extra care of this plant, so I’ve gotten into the habit of “dead heading” it during my morning watering. I’m amazed at how many dead and wilted blooms I remove each day. Last week I observed that this process is a lot like self-improvement. As an adult discovering Christianity, I found I had lots of bad habits that needed dead-heading too. So as I pluck wilted flowers, I think about the unworthy thoughts and actions I need to pluck out of me.
  • Plants, like people, can become “root bound” – stuck in our comfort zones and missing opportunities for positive change. In plants, the roots gradually absorb much of the soil or crowd it out, then grow in tight circles around the sides and bottom of their pot. The plant suffers, producing fewer flowers and not growing. Then it just needs to be tapped out of the old pot, the root ball loosened and put in a larger pot with fresh soil. Loosening the intertwined roots often tears them, and I imagine I hear them complaining, “How could you do this to us?” – just like we complain to God when faced with a major life transition. But sometimes it’s the only way to get increased growth and productivity, in us and in plants.
  • Finally, “. . .whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap” (Galatians 6:7). I’ve tried just putting a commercial hanging basket out and was always disappointed when the flowers drooped in the heat no matter how much you watered, their colors faded, or they just failed to thrive. This year, my basket got the royal treatment: larger pot; better, richly fertilized soil; plenty of sun and water; and finally dead heading the spent blooms to encourage maximum growth. The result is pretty spectacular – truly “joy in the harvest.”

What are you planting or nurturing?  Is life repotting you?  Remember you’ll bloom again!

Hanging Basket by Author

 

Life’s Magic

In the movie Sleepless in Seattle, the lead character’s mother described her first meeting with her father  …. It was magic.  Then Tom Hanks’ character describes taking his dead wife’s hand for the first time : It was magic! Meg Ryan’s character realized she didn’t have that with her fiance and decided she didn’t want to live without it. Neither do I, and I expect no one does.

I think we can all recall times of magic in our lives. Time stands still, a new emotional and spiritual reality envelopes us, and a peak experience emerges. As I get older (happening mighty fast!), I like to look back on some of my magical experiences.

The summer after high school graduation, I worked as a waitress at a summer resort in Wisconsin. A guest named Mike, a law student from Northwestern University, dated me the week he was there. We went to Leibkins and ate ice cream in the afternoons, drove to a corn roast after dinner wrapped in a blanket in a convertible with our friends. Then we ended up at 1:00 in the morning sitting on deck chairs, holding hands, watching moonlight on the water, and discussing our philosophies of life. He was smart, funny, and a complete gentleman. For those few days, we lived in a small world of our own – carefree, interesting and magical.

Pete and I moved to New Hampshire after graduate school following an exploratory visit. During our very first drive up Highway 123 between Peterborough and Stoddard, we were suddenly captivated by the leafy forest overhead and the filtered sunlight, creating a yellow green world very like being underwater.  It was enchanting, and the magic descended. Our friends Peter and Peggy put us up while we looked at houses and the guys built fences. We lived there three years, had two children, then divorced. Pete never left.

As a single mom during the next three years, still in New England, I discovered English country dancing, held in local town halls and churches. My friends and I carpooled each weekend along winding wooded roads, scurrying into the hall right at 8:30, like leaves blowing off the trees. We danced until midnight to centuries-old fiddle, concertina, and penny whistle music:  reels, contra dancing, and occasional round dances. No alcohol, no drugs, but we were high on movement, music, and the shadow of colonial history you could still feel. Absolute magic. Have a listen on CD Baby.

One of those winters, a boyfriend took me on his snowmobile into inaccessible woods and lakes. We passed waterfalls that froze in colors: blue, green, pink, and yellow because of the abundant minerals the water washed out of the rocky hillsides.  A white, frozen world where one could fantasize about figure skating alone on Center Pond at midnight under an archetypal night sky, all mauve, gray and pearly white.  More magic.

Later, entering the world of my children through late night walks in summer, watching our shadows grow longer and longer, talking about anything and everything. Starting the PBS miniseries, Middlemarch, at 11 pm with daughter Amanda on another summer evening years later, not ending until 4:00 am, and then going out for a walk to reflect on a great story. Picking Peter up from the dude ranch where he worked right after high school and listening to his stories of riding horses (I only landed on my head twice!) and playing with bull snakes in the hay fields.

Finally, I’ve been blessed with many magical experiences communing with the divine. Just this morning early, a pool of golden light – reflected through a small window opposite – appeared on my family photos and the picture of the Salt Lake Temple skyline at sunset right above them. It only lasted a few minutes but it seemed to be a direct message about the eternal nature of my family and the promises found in our temples. This is a magic that will never end.

Please post any of your special memories for us all to enjoy.

Frozen Waterfall Courtesy PublicDomainPictures.net Image 11480

Frozen Waterfall
Courtesy PublicDomainPictures.net Image 11480

Moms and Sparrows

Bird feeders are a tradition in my family.  My grandfather was an expert on the birds of eastern Iowa.  We had a feeder right outside the kitchen window growing up and delighted in watching cardinals, blue jays, chickadees and sparrows come to feed.  My daughter gave me the feeder she could no longer use, and I hung it above my back patio.  I enjoy the dapper juncos who come only in the winter and the sparrows, wrens and mourning doves who come in the warm months with their lively chatter and carefree life.

Last July I noticed something new.  While perched on the feeder, some of the sparrows were putting seeds directly into the mouths of the birds next to them.  Then I realized that those were their fledgling babies, and they were teaching them how to find and eat their own food.  What a treat to witness this annual event – and what a testament to devoted motherhood.

© Sander van der Wel 2010 Courtesy of Flickr.com

© Sander van der Wel 2010
Courtesy of Flickr.com

On Mother’s Day, I remembered those sparrows and then my own departed Mom. I was thankful for the many wonderful meals and good talks we shared.

I was asked to speak in church for this occasion, so I rolled out a favorite fictional woman: Dorothea Brooks, a frustrated idealist who never had any great achievements.  She was a lead character in Middlemarch, an English novel set in the 1800’s and then a PBS Masterpiece Classic.  The narrator ended by saying:

Dorothea had no dreams of being praised above other women, feeling that there was always something better that she might have done if she’d only been better and known better.  Her full nature spent itself in deeds which left no great name on the earth but the effect of her being on those around her was incalculable.  For the growing good of the world is partly dependent on un-historic acts and all those Dorotheas who live faithfully their hidden lives and rest in unvisited tombs . . . . 

My mother was the opposite, a celebrated portrait artist whose hundreds of paintings graced many homes and public buildings, blessing countless lives. But her children don’t remember all those paintings nearly as much as her vibrant spirit, high standards, and great heart. She truly was the heart and center of our home. Right after her funeral when the family was gathered with Dad at their house, God’s Spirit suddenly opened my mind. I could actually see her vibrant energy literally living on in all of us as well as our children, each in our own way.

I think most of us leave very little mark on the outer world and are more like the humble sparrow feeding her babies one seed at a time.  But I also think we leave indelible hand prints on the lives and hearts of our descendants and thereby make a very real contribution to “the growing good of the world.”

Just “Bozos on the Bus”

Lately, I let anxiety about the future creep into my thoughts – in spite of much preparation and reassurance from God that I’ll be cared for. Additionally, I was worried for my family.  It was a lot like the old saying, “The right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing.”  In this case, I consciously thought I was exercising faith and feeling serenity but actually I wasn’t watching worries build up in my subconscious until they spilled over to overwhelm that faith and my daily effectiveness.

After days of trying to exert my own mental powers and failing to change course, I decided – duh! – to ask for a priesthood blessing from my home teachers.  They patiently listened to my concerns, then proceeded to lay their hands on my head and give me inspired counsel:  I would be cared for, be physically and spiritually safe, and my family’s spiritual path was safely in His hands – I could let go and trust Him.  It felt like unseen fingers reached into my brain and rearranged my thoughts, like the direction to “correct the seasoning” at the end of many recipes.  It was gentle, deep, and very reassuring.

The next day I remembered a saying:

 “We are all bozos on the bus, so we might as well sit back and enjoy the ride.”

I looked it up and found that Wavy Gravy said it at Woodstock in 1969, then Elizabeth Lesser commented on it in her book Broken Open which is where I originally read it.  That made me think of The Muppet Movie which is on my list of favorites – goofy guys bumping along the road of life. I needed to be more like them, more childlike:

 And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them, And said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.  (Matthew 18:2-3)

To drive the point home, Heavenly Father sent the following experience.  Monday night was a lovely balmy evening and I was sitting in my living room with the windows open, reading.  I suddenly became aware of the echoing of bird song through the trees, the scent of my newly picked lilacs, and an intense recollection of being a child exploring my grandparents’ yard and the ravine beyond it.  I loved exploring the lush greenery.  There were lilies of the valley in the shade along the garage wall and masses of phlox along the edge of the yard.  The ravine hid many other treasures:  lacy ferns, dainty white anemone, and the mysterious Jack-in-the-Pulpit shyly hiding in the shade. Owls and toads lived there.

Jack-in-the-Pulpit Courtesy Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center

Jack-in-the-Pulpit
Courtesy Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center

This was more than a memory, I actually re-experienced being a carefree child.  Shrunk to child height, I felt the original wonder of first seeing these treasures, with their haunting fragrance, and enjoyed again my grandparents sleeping porch, listening to the owls in their towering oak trees. What a wonderful way to bring home the advice given in my blessing.  It lasted about an hour and sealed this lesson in my soul.

Now when I go out for walks, I notice the plants and birds more, and my own thoughts less.  I don’t know one iota more about the future than I did, but since I’ve done all I can to prepare, I don’t need to know. I’m too busy enjoying the present.

The Gems Within

I started this blog as the result of a prayer saying, “Lord, I need something new in my life.”  Almost immediately, these words echoed in my head:  “Think about writing a blog.”  It struck me that this was a seamless way to ease back into freelance writing, something I’d put on the shelf in the 1980’s.

But right away, doubts assailed me.  So I started jotting down ideas to see if there was enough raw material swirling about in my brain to make this fly.  In 15 minutes, I filled a whole page and thought, “Okay, I can do this.”

The next day, instead of watching the noon news, I flipped through my PBS channels and happened upon Great Conversations featuring Elizabeth Gilbert (author of Eat, Pray, Love) talking about the process of writing, sadly no longer available to view online but check out her other interviews on YouTube.  Two ideas jumped out at me which I summarize from memory:

  • If you don’t write it, you may have the unpleasant experience of seeing your idea show up in print by someone else and think, “That should have been me.”
  • She had observed an intelligence or spirit in the universe that wants expression.  It may knock on your door and if you don’t let it in, it will move on to someone who will respond.

I’d had the first experience writing a set of phonics readers. I ran into serious publishing obstacles, put it on the shelf and, over time, saw other similar programs appear in print. Aargh!

I’d experienced the second, while my daycare kiddies napped, when a sudden burst of inspiration literally picked me up off my sofa and parked me in front of my typewriter.  I poured out my attempts to fully participate in my church programs in spite of being a struggling divorced mother.  The article literally wrote itself and was published later that year in our LDS magazine, The Ensign (“When You’re Mom and Dad,” April 1985).  Evidently, the Lord wanted this message told and I’m sure that if I hadn’t responded to the call, He would have moved right on to someone else.  What a great experience, both humbling and exciting.

Then I meditated on how our wonderful earth pushes up small miracles from God’s physical creation and remembered an abandoned rose quartz quarry in New Hampshire.  A friend and I had bumped up a neglected dirt road to find the biggest and loveliest rock as a house-warming present for her boyfriend’s new yurt.  It sat on his front step catching the light and welcoming visitors with a soft, shimmering, and mysterious rose light.

Rose Quartz Courtesy R.Weller/Cochise College

Rose Quartz
Courtesy R.Weller/Cochise College

I wondered what geological processes created this lovely rock, what minerals caused its unique pink color, and what feelings it would evoke in visitors to Bill’s new home.  When I write, my current thoughts are illuminated by sudden flashes of memory, forgotten layers in my soul. They recombine in an exciting new form, trailing insights in their wake, glittering like gems.  I feel another consciousness also participating in this process.  It’s a thrilling partnership, equaled only by someone telling me they’re affected by my writing.

What is pushing up in you, wanting expression?  No one else can exactly create what is unique in you, so start digging out your own gems of creativity!