The Invitation

 Earlier this week I was working on the PowerPoint slides for this Sunday. PowerPoint has never been a strength of mine, and now that the arthritis in my hands is really making itself known, I find the cutting, pasting, and moving between screens difficult and frustrating. Our church office manager has kindly taken over this task, but she has been out of state visiting her father.  For two weeks I have been PowerPoint wrangling. 

As I was trying to stay composed as I was working on the slide for the hymn "Spirit Song" and the beginning words, "O let the Son of God enfold you with his Spirit and his love," I was singing them to help me keep track of where I was. An email came in, and in a moment of distraction, I paused to read it. I found the contents surprisingly rude, which of course just heightened my frustration. My already dwindling composure dissolved into an unpleasant mess.  I opted to not answer the email, but tried to return to my task and my singing, although my mood was certainly not light filled.  

 I soon realized that I was not singing the words as written, but rather "O let the love of God unfold you in his love". I paused, and then my wadded up origami heart heard the invitation to unfurl. The sun was shining, and I decided to walk away from the work and go outside.   

In the front garden is a beautiful ceanothus that I think is about three years old. I was stunned to see that it was in full bloom, and there must have been at least a hundred bees, buth honey and bumblebees, and maybe others darting from blossom to blossom. I have no idea how one would count bees in motion, so I will simply say that the activity level was so high it was audible. I, too, took in the warm, glimmering sunlight and gave thanks to God and to the young woman who helps with tending to the garden. A neighbor stopped by and we talked about neighborly things. She then went on her way, and I returned to my task with a much clearer heart and mind. It was a blessing to find a healing sanctuary in our own front yard, and it was a blessing to hear an invitation and to be present enough to say yes with gratitude.

   

The attached photograph reveals just one of the many pollen-ladened bees at work that day. Let us all plant for life. Bees need it, and so do we.

      

       

Presence of Everything

 "Silence is not the absence of something but the presence of everything.”*  
 James Crews quoting the acoustic ecologist, Gordon Hempton, "who has spent his life listening to and recording the world’s natural soundscapes."        

   
For the past couple of weeks, my faith community and I have been exploring some of the ancient names of God. I am, of course, hindered as always by my lack of knowledge of biblical Hebrew, but fortunately there are others in the world who have shared some of their knowledge. El Shaddai is currently one of my favorite names. It feels so alive  and is such a joy to say.  It makes me yearn to view God's realm from a mountaintop, stretch out my arms, and speak the name as loudly as I can, from the tip of my toes to the end of my fingers and beyond.  In other words, an embrace.  And then I would bow and even maybe even kneel. Then I just might dance.  
However, this morning while I am still in my pajamas, I read James Crews' newsletter for this month, and in it he mentions Gordon Hempton. Years ago I watched a documentary about Hempton and his quest of recording the sounds of nature around the world.  Even then he said that it was becoming difficult to find places untouched by the sound of human activity. I found the film beautiful, and I shall try to seek out some of his work again. This morning I read that at one point Mr. Hempton lost much of his hearing and the doctors said nothing could be done. According to what I read, he simply sat with the silence, and eventually (I do not know how long) his hearing returned.  There is indeed healing to be found in silence.
This morning as I sat in silence, I heard a bird begin to sing. I was stunned into that silence when I read that a group of billionaires just awarded our president with a trophy inscribed with "the undisputed champion of beautiful, clean coal.”*  After spending a couple of weeks weeping as I watched the Buddhist Monks' Walk for Peace unfold on Facebook, the contrast seemed tacky and almost laughable if it wasn't so sad and awful. Unfortunately, these billionaires, with their puppet president in tow, are determined to bring back coal production, and that is certainly far from humourous.  I am reminded of Hayao Miyazaki's beautifully animated film, "Princess Mononoke" which I also have not seen in years.  In the film, nature and humans struggle with the difficulties of trying to live next to "Iron Town".  Like all of Miyazaki's work, it is well worth watching again, and fortunately, I think it is still available on Netflix.  
The Presence of Everything is a fine name for God. As I rummaged through the internet, I came across part of a transcript by Krista Tippet of the On Being Project: " He [Gordon Hempton] defines real quiet as presence — not an absence of sound, but an absence of noise. The Earth as Gordon Hempton knows it is a 'solar-powered jukebox.'”*  "On Being" is still in existence, and I have just subscribed.   

Friends if you can, please step outside sometime today, breathe deeply, and give thanks for our glorious earth that should not be treated as a toxic production site for the ultra-wealthy. You have just seen a glance as to how I plan on spending the next few years. I will continue to write, and will, to the best of my ability, continue to look around and be a voice for this sacred planet. Our earth is more than a jukebox. Let us come together and share the threads we are following. We are being woven into a garment that is stronger than we know.   

*"The Weekly Pause", James Crews, February 13, 2026    
*"Letter from an American", Heather Cox Richardson, February 12, 2026

*https://onbeing.org    

   

         

     

 
Image was taken from the Garchen Buddhist Institute, outside of Chino Valley, AZ a few years ago. I believe this is a view of the Santa Maria Mountains.

 

Finding the Path, Learning the Way

 "The will in us to exact vengeance, which is escalatory by definition, comes down to nothing less than a drive towards death. We know cooperation and peace are how humans can survive but we more often choose the death-row exit strategies of revenge and war. The statement 'We have to fight back and protect ourselves so war is justified' is the same as 'There is no alternative to revenge.' These statements sound like war and revenge are the only plans we humans can think up. Yet we have ingenuity. We are certainly not myopic; we have gigantic vision. We are not primitive; we are better than that. We are not one-trick ponies; we are virtuosos.  We can widen the range of our moral imagination and moral courage." 

Introduction to Sweeter than Revenge, Overcoming Your Payback Mind, David Richo

 

On December 13, 2025 I attended a workshop led by author and teacher, David Richo. This workshop centered around his most recent book mentioned above. I do not know how often he has been making an annual trek to San Damiano in Danville to lead a workshop, but this was my third time to attend one of his events there. I was at first a little torn about attending just because of the timing. Looking back at my calendar, I see that December 13 was in the middle of Advent - a very good time, I learned, to explore the prevalence of revenge. Yes, even in myself. However, mostly I decided to attend because David Richo is not a young man, nor am I a young woman. There can be no assumptions made about next year being a better time. And I love his work.    

Our nation is being led by a man who spends an inordinate amount of time seeking control, one-uppance, violence, and revenge. Yes, his vision is myopic and self-focused. It is also frightening, embarrassing, and lethal. Our nation is better than what we are doling out to the world and to ourselves. However, in contrast, there is a group of Buddhist monks who have undertaken a long Peace Walk from Ft. Worth, TX to Washington D.C. They are about halfway through their journey. Yet, just to finish is, I do not believe, the goal, despite the weariness they are probably experiencing. Their goal is reached every day as people come out to witness the monks and their journey. Some come to support and give encouragement, some to express gratitude. Maybe some come because they have never witnessed a group of monks quietly walking single file through their town. Regardless, the monks are reminding us that we, too, can be people of peace. We can make our own lives a walk dedicated to peace. Not hoarding all the goodies for the benefit of a few. Not revenge when we do not get our way. Not hate, not death, but peace. The peace that happens when people try to understand and honor one another's journey.  

 The attached photograph was taken a few days ago. It is, of course, not mine, but is from the fb page, "Walk for Peace".  In both the man in the motorized chair and in the monk, I see Buddha. I see Jesus. I see no boundaries, only a deep love. I see hope for us all.  

  

       

A Lesson from a Sea Bird (Thank you, God)

 

While walking on the beach

I saw two gulls on this rock.

One was standing and casting

 its vision out over the sea.  

The other seemed to settle down

 as if to nest.  

No, that cannot be, I thought. 

This is a terrible place to raise a family. 

Too exposed, too cold,  

just too downright uncomfortable. 

If the egg actually hatched, 

how would the chick survive?

Sometimes they don't, I know, 

but if she was going to nest, 

why would she not go to the comfy trees 

that were just behind us, where a neighborly 

turkey vulture was waiting patiently

for the beach visitors to clear 

before feasting on an expired 

and well seasoned mola fish 

that had washed ashore.

That is a whole other mystery.

 I  took a picture of the gull,

a photograph that will not improve

one little bit my reputation

 as a photographer, 

 and we walked on.  

However, she has stayed 

in my mind and hopefully 

on that rock if that is really 

what she wants to do.

I have learned that gulls do indeed 

prefer to nest out in the open 

on rocks and exposed high ledges and such.  

 I think about her 

and wonder if she is ok,

and goodness, what about 

all this rain?  

Couldn't we build her a tasteful little gull hideaway?  

Okay, okay, I know

 they like to live life out in the open, 

But I swear if I knew someone 

in that small beach town 

I would call them and ask 

if  they could check on her, 

maybe I could even pay 

someone to keep watch,

 but then again 

this beach town has some

rather wealthy people 

who probably do not need my

two cents worth, and anyway 

there are a lot of gulls along the coast 

(I almost wrote our coast, 

but that seems presumptuous,

even tacky) so they seem

to have worked things out

and probably would prefer 

just to be left alone to tend 

to their own gull business.     

 

So  Holy One, you who care 

for the whole ocean as if it is yours, 

which, of course it is, thank you. 

I know we humans have kind of

made a mess of things but we 

do keep trying to stand upright 

and walk on our own two feet, 

just like we have been taught, 

and to use our brains 

for some good purpose. 

I would appreciate 

your tending 

to this gull and her beloved 

because now I have learned 

that gulls mate for life,

not hiding under some small tacky tent, 

but under your wide blue sky,

 and if left to themselves, 

can live a pretty long time.  

Holy One, I am grateful,

which is a nice way to 

start this year.  

I want this poem 

to have a happy ending, 

but I will never know.  

I do know you tend to things

in your own way which 

is usually a mystery to us; 

we are just not that far along 

that we can even understand 

that your happy ending 

just might be different enough

from anything we can conjure up 

just to keep ourselves comfortable

and death free.   

I will say, 

because I cannot help myself, 

that I really liked that

 turkey vulture, and I hope it was able 

to dine in peace on the mola fish

which looks to be a curious

creature, alive or deceased.  

What a neighborhood, Holy One.

What a blessing just to see a glimpse of it 

as we walked by.       

                

 

 image:  Stinson Beach, December 2025

Sixth Day of Christmas

 On Sunday I was able to see water returning to the sea. I paused for a moment to witness that beautiful cycle before I stepped over the small stream. This is also the rhythm of Christmas when we return to the stories again and find our place among them. Hopefully, we do not simply step over them without pausing to listen to what new understanding is waiting to be born within us. By returning to the ancient scriptures, we learn again that despite the Herods of the world, we are held in a tender heart - the heart of the universe.   

Last night I dreamed that I was in a small and beautiful library made of wood. I am not there to read, however, but to witness the marriage of my brother (In my waking life I have neither brother nor sister.) I am with a woman whom I know as Mother (not the biological mother who birthed me into this life). She is creating a sort of crown for my soon to be sister-in-law: a circular universe based on the position of the eight planets of our solar system. However, where she might have placed a planet, she is attaching a tiny red rose along a thin, transparent plastic thread that will soon be formed into a circle. The roses are made of fiber. The creator of this small universe said that the thread will dissolve, but the roses will stay in their circle and will offer protection to her daughter-in-law whenever she wears it, not just on her wedding day.  

Despite the beauty that I am seeing, in the dream I am anxious. We are in Mexico, and I do not know the language. My mother tells me not to worry; I will understand.

    

As I was writing this, I heard my phone ding letting me know I had received a text. I wondered if it might be my friend letting me know that the birth of her granddaughter had begun. Alas, it was a notice announcing a shoe sale. The baby, as far as I know, is still safe in the sea of her mother's womb. I shall have to pass on the offer of a good deal on a  pair of shoes just now.     

  

"Listen, O drop, give yourself up without regret,

and in exchange gain the ocean.
Listen, O drop, bestow upon yourself this honor,
and in the arms of the Sea be secure.
Who indeed should be so fortunate?
An Ocean wooing a drop!
In God’s name, in God’s name, sell and buy at once!
Give a drop, and take this sea full of pearls."

~ Rumi

First Sip  

     

           

           

  

     

The photograph is one I took in June, 2024. The rose, as you can see, is not red, but I think it reflects the tenderness I experienced in the dream.  

--

Fifth Day of Christmas

 Yesterday (Sunday) Tyler and I both had the day off. Tyler briefly made the suggestion that we might use the day to clean the house. I quickly vetoed that logical and very sound suggestion. We then decided to explore Marin County. The traffic was not heavy so it was a pleasant drive. Where we ended up was Stinson Beach. We fairly quickly found parking and walked down a short staircase to the ocean.  

It had been years since we were there last. The beach is wide and flat with large rocks at one end. No dogs or other pets are allowed. (I am unclear as to what other sort of pets might enjoy the beach, but I guess those in charge want to be clear that no domesticated animals would be welcome. I think horses are right out.)  Partly because of this ordinance and partly because Stinson Beach does not seem to be a rabble rouser sort of town, the beach is clean, and the sea birds do seem a little calmer.  After our explorations, we then walked back up the stairs and found a place for lunch. It was warm and sunny enough to comfortably sit outside. 

As we ate and talked, a thought came to mind  that surprised me: "I am not sure I deserve this happiness." I mentioned this to Tyler who asked me, "Why would you think that?".

 I really had no answer. 

 

This morning I think happiness is a practice. It is also something we receive, like grace. It can be fleeting. One day you are basking in the sun eating a french dip sandwich, the next morning you are despairing about the news. Happiness takes a steady hand on the rudder as we live our lives, hopefully in gratitude and in relationship with the Sacred and with others on this journey.

 In the book,  A Way To the Heart of Christmas, editor Brian Linard includes a few paragraphs written by Alfred Delp, S.J.  I was unfamiliar with Father Delp's writings, but I have now learned that he was imprisoned and eventually executed by the Nazis. Although his hands were kept bound, he was able to write and smuggle his notes out with his laundry. That means there was someone there to receive them. I think there are good reasons why his book, The Prison Meditations of Father Alfred Delp, is worth reading, and I intend to do that. Was Father Delp happy as he wrote in prison? Highly unlikely. Yet, his faith held firm. He knew his purpose, and I am grateful for the inspiration.        

   

"God is with us. That was his promise ... And that promise has become a reality in our lives, in quite a different way from what we expected, a much fuller and much simpler reality than we had thought it would be. 

We should not try to avoid God's burdens. They are the way to his blessing. If we continue faithfully to follow the hard way, bearing God's burdens, we shall discover the inner source of reality and the world will reveal itself as being not silent in a sense that is quite different from what we had imagined. The silver threads of the divine mystery of all reality will begin to gleam and sing aloud for us. Those burdens will become a blessing for us, as soon as we recognize them and bear them as God's burdens."   

Alfred Delp, S.J. 

  

I have no answers as to why there are those who seem to think of little else other than controlling, imprisoning, torturing, and killing others. These actions are cowardly and ultimately do not work. They will never have the last word. The last word will always belong to God which means truth and love will prevail. Therefore, we can indulge in experiencing our happiness when it surfaces, knowing it is a gift. I know to some that seems an oversimplification, and it probably is. However, I think Father Delp knew and trusted that simplicity. 

Brian Linard and New City Press seem a bit lax about identifying actual sources such as books, but at least we have enough to follow the thread, which I always enjoy. This quote may or may not be from his book of prison meditations, but from another book of his. It does, however, seem like a good place to start. Regardless, blessings as you follow your thread this Christmas season and always. Trust your burdens and your joy.  Please leave us a trail. We are listening for your song.           

       

  

image:  "The Way Can Get Rough, But It Is Worth It"

             Stinson Beach, December 28, 2025

Graduating with a Yeti

 This morning I woke up giggling. I  had just had a dream where I am in my grade school auditorium. I am there to help with a graduation. I do not know from what grade these students were graduating from, but the one student I saw was quite young, and was trying to go up the steps to the stage. His mother, or some other responsible adult, told him that  they would not be going on stage, but rather would be on the floor in front of the seats. I replied, "Well, of course he wants to be on the stage."  Someone then decided to open the curtains. Nothing new was revealed at that moment; it was as barren as most auditorium stages are. I then realized that it was almost time to start. I had heard that someone was coming to help us, so I decided to go to the restroom and "freshen up" as women of another time used to say. When in public my mother would ask for "the little girl's room". That phrase always made me uneasy, even when I was one. 

I walked into the very small restroom. In one of the stalls I could see large feet attached to  lower legs that were wide and covered with long white fur. I knew I was looking at a Yeti, obviously one with some sense of decorum. I said no greeting, but quickly washed my hands in preparation for spreading the news about who would be joining us.

I walked back into the auditorium. The curtains on the stage were still open, and some men and women were talking about how the day would go. I announced that I had discovered that a Yeti would be helping us. No one seemed particularly surprised.   

As I wrote this, I did a quick internet search about Yetis - and yes, Yetis is plural, but I think that the plural is seldom used. Most of us will not ever see one Yeti much less two. I capitalized the word because surely a creature so grand and so rare deserves recognition.  When I first started my internet search to investigate how to write the plural of Yeti, all that came up were pricey insulated mugs and coolers with the word "Yeti" inscribed on them. Truthfully, I find that even more disconcerting than the possibility of spotting a Yeti, either in the restroom or in the Himalayas.  

Let us not be reduced to being simply consumers. To that child in my dream and to us all, I say let us keep climbing, and keep digging.  This is the second day of Christmas. To that child who will lead us (Isaiah 11:6), I am grateful.