Friday, March 15, 2024

A Walk in the Park

 Last Saturday, Tyler and I decided to go for a walk in part of the East Bay Regional Park that is not very far from our house. When we got out of the truck, we could hear a whistle coming from the far side of the crowded parking lot. We noticed a group was gathering, and we were both pretty sure what we were hearing  was a child blowing a toy whistle. We really did not think too much about it, other than take it as a sign that we needed to get on our way. We walked for a while, and then we began to hear not one, but several toy whistles coming from behind us. We turned and saw a fairly large group coming in our direction. We paused on a small side trail to let them pass. Every child had a whistle, and each seemed quite engaged with blowing it as loudly as possible. One of the male leaders was singing to Jesus in full, but slightly off key voice. He would periodically pause and enthusiastically voice encouragement to both adults and children to keep going. As more children equipped with whistles passed by, Tyler mentioned that we probably would not be able to do our usual full loop due to recent storm damage. We decided to turn around for fear that the rest of the hike would be accompanied by a cacophony of sound that neither one of us found particularly endearing. 

 
 We have had enough rain that the trail was muddy, and we often had to maneuver around puddles, sticky mud, and streaming water. I now hike using two poles, and I walk carefully. However, I was intrigued as I watched a young girl pass us. She was actually dancing around the puddles and over the streams. Her mother, who was a little out of breath and not quite so light on her feet, looked at me and we smiled in acknowledgement that such ease of movement was beyond both of us. As I remember the child's (probably a pre-teen) absorption in her dance, I realize that the difference between her actions and the actions of the rest of the children was that she was actually interacting with the environment as she lightly moved through. She was fascinating to watch. 
    
Yet, walking slowly has its advantages, and I believe my current pace allows me to notice more of the beauty around me. I took only a couple of photographs that day, but I am grateful for this picture of a mushroom I spotted along the way. I was initially drawn to its color, and I did not notice the spores. However, I realize now it is a picture of a cycle of life that is quiet, at least to a human's ear, and often out of our sight.    
       
This poem reminds me we are all knitted together in this life whether we are a mushroom, a young dancer, or one who is simply pausing by the side of the road to look around and hopefully take note. 

    
"Your Moment to Shine"
  
The moment is here,
the moment you step
forward from fear
into light, the moment
that your soul takes flight.

Burrow no more in darkness
and despair. Dare to show
your radiant self,
the miracle of awakened
energy giving you wings
and the courage to be
human and divine
at the same time.

With this breath, you are
initiated into the depths
of freedom and love,
into the peril and perfection
of the moment as it truly is,
and you are right with it,
open, refusing to close down
or cower no matter what
challenges find you inside
or outside. This is your
moment to shine.

~ Danna Faulds




image: March 2024

Monday, March 4, 2024

Spring in the Neighborhood

My morning schedule opened up because my flute teacher needed to cancel our time together.  Both Covid and our recent rain storms disrupted my walking schedule, so this morning seemed to be a good time to step out. Several people were out in their yards, including one soft spoken man who told me he was from Boston."We are not used to seeing flowers so early in the year." I think he told me that last year as well, but it is true; flowers are erupting everywhere, and people in general were in friendly moods.  
I then walked on and passed a house with a driveway full of children's bicycles and one aluminum boat. A young girl came out. I said hello and asked which bicycle was hers. She pointed to the pink one and then added, just in case I might be confused, that the boat belonged to her dad. Her mom called to her from the front door, so I peeked around the corner, waved and said hello. My mother-in-law lived in that house for a couple of years. In that house the front door and the back door by the kitchen are almost in complete alignment, and on many days, if the doors are open, a cool breeze blows through. I know very little about feng shui, but that design must surely be in good feng shui alignment. We have air conditioning, and I am glad, but I think I will remember that breeze long after I have forgotten about our Carrier heating and air conditioning unit. 
A house a few doors down has the largest ceanothus I think I have ever seen. It is as tall as the house, and covers almost half of it. The bush is right now full of blossoms and is abuzz with bumble and honey bees. I find the sound of bees encouraging.  I am out of practice with photographing bees, but it seemed worth a try. They are definitely doing their work. I then came home to discover that one of the purple lupines in our yard is blooming. 

Neighborhoods, like churches, can be places of healing and connection. I am grateful for where I find myself today. I think Jesus would appreciate both, and yes, I try to make it known that he is always welcome. Even when a sales person comes to the door. Yes, that just happened. Life is a curious thing and I think Jesus has more of a sense of humor than we hear about.    

     



San Leandro, March 2024

Thursday, February 29, 2024

Calm Mind, Calm World

I first came across this poem last year, and was grateful to see it come up again in my email. Learning to befriend all is a worthy endeavor to begin in Lent and to continue for as long as we live - maybe even longer.  I particularly like the phrase, "make the mind your friend."  There really is no other way to calm the mind without first befriending it.  A calm mind can help everyone and everything around us be a little calmer.  And then calmness can continue on its beautiful journey.  
Fear cannot lead us home. It does not know the way.     


"Full of trust you left home,
and soon learned to walk the Path—
making yourself a friend to everyone
and making everyone a friend.

When the whole world is your friend,
fear will find no place to call home.

And when you make the mind your friend,
you’ll know what trust
really means.

Listen.

I have followed this Path of friendship to
its end.

And I can say with absolute certainty—
it will lead you home."

~ Mitta

From The First Free Women: Poems of the Early Buddhist Nuns




   

image:  Lake Chabot   

Thursday, February 22, 2024

Revisiting

 On Wednesday, I was poking around one of my bookcases again, in search of a poem. Every Wednesday, two friends and I gather. I read a poem, and we then meditate for about 20 minutes, and then I read the poem again. The discussion that follows is always enriching.  

In yesterday's search, I came across a small publication, Sacred Journey, The Journal of Fellowship in Prayer, Spring 2011, vol. 62, no. 2.  I pulled it out, and noticed a bookmark. As I opened the marked page, I remembered that I had a poem published in that publication. I was re-discovering my own poem.    

As I read it, I smiled. The same question I was pondering then, I am still pondering.  What I wrote then I could write today.  I remember writing it in the predawn. I was sitting in the same place I am now. I am writing this not quite as early in the day. I am moving more slowly because of  a case of Covid. This morning there is no rain; the sun is shining. Yet the question remains after all these years. 

I know I shared this poem after I wrote it because first of all that is what I do, and secondly, I remember a friend's written one word response. Her physical health had deteriorated considerably by then, and her one word then, and now seems generous. Her "Wow" still reverberates through the stillness of time. 

*** 

By what name do I call God? Neither this question nor the poem may be completed in my lifetime. This morning it is enough just to love the beautiful light.  
  
This morning I call God Essence
and I call God Rain  
and I call God Coffee, 
strong dark and fortifying 
and Apple, 
the sweet harvest.  
   
I call God Candle, 
that lights my way 
from slumber. 
  
I call God the Book of Meditations 
that calls my heart to the 
Heart that yearns to call us Home. 
   
As I wonder what to call God this morning, 
I hear the answer, 
   
Everywhere. 

***  





   
image was taken in San Leandro, August 2023
   
If you are interested in joining us for Wednesday's lectio, please send me a message.

Friday, February 16, 2024

Grounded

 I came across the poem below in my Facebook memories. It is definitely worth reading again, especially in a week when I have not felt particularly well, even to the point of losing my voice. Losing my voice happens once or twice a year, and by now I can simply take it as a sign to rest. There was a time when I would panic. "What if my voice never comes back?"  Well, yes, that could happen. However, one of the things I appreciate about preaching in my 70's is that I am aware that my preaching time is finite, even if I never lose my voice again.  

This week the San Lorenzo church joined the Eden UCC Church for Ash Wednesday in Eden's Pioneer Chapel that we rent from them for our Sunday services. For me, it was a rich time of connection to those who approached me for private prayers, as well as to the anthem that the San Lorenzo church sang. I also found myself giving thanks for my singing friend who suggested that when tears threaten to interfere with my singing to simply smile. I used that strategy through most of the anthem, and I made it through without a complete collapse.  
It is a blessing to sing in that small chapel. It has beautiful acoustics, and gives me the sense that our choir is larger than we appear. I attribute that to not only thoughtful architecture (it was built in 1867), but to angels and others who happen to pass by.  I try to leave the door open when we are there on Sunday mornings. I would not want to miss anyone. Yes, it does get a little noisy sometimes, but the tree across the street tells me to know deep in my being that we are all connected. In that message is the encouragement to stand firm and let my roots grow.      
 

"It Is Enough"
To know that the atoms
of my body
will remain
to think of them rising
through the roots of a great oak
to live in
leaves, branches, twigs
perhaps to feed the
crimson peony
the blue iris
the broccoli
or rest on water
freeze and thaw
with the seasons
some atoms might become a
bit of fluff on the wing
of a chickadee
to feel the breeze
know the support of air
and some might drift
up and up into space
star dust returning from
whence it came
it is enough to know that
as long as there is a universe
I am a part of it.

~ Anne Alexander Bingham
First Sip    






  
image:  This is not the tree across the street from the chapel. I believe this photograph was taken a few years ago during a hike in the Morgan Territory outside of Livermore. 

Tuesday, February 13, 2024

Heart o the Matter

 I have mentioned before how grateful I am for the book Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer. Kimmerer's book has taught me to walk a little more gently and leave things as I found them. (In other words, don't turn everything I can pick up into a personal souvenir.) She also has taught me about lichen, something I have never paid much attention to. I have learned that they are not a plant, but rather a combination of an algae and a fungus. Here in Northern CA, if our air is healthy (clean air critical for lichens) we often see them on rocks or tree bark. They do no harm to either, but they provide food for many creatures, including humans. I have no interest in eating lichens; I munch my way through the world enough as it is. Yet, what I love about them is when we see them we have reason to celebrate. Lichens are not alone in requiring clean air, so when we see a nice healthy patch we can gratefully take a deep breath in. While I was cropping the attached photograph, I realized that the shape of a heart was appearing. I feel like I am passing on a message from the lichens reminding us to love this world.

Another thoughtfully written book has come into my hands, The Comfort of Crows, a Backyard Year by Margaret Renkl, wonderfully illustrated by Bill Renkl, her brother. Even the paper is beautiful. The book contains a devotion for every week of the year. In her devotion for week 2, Renkl advises that according to birding traditions, the first bird you see on the first day of the new year sets "the tone" for the next twelve months. While I can't remember the first bird I saw that day, more than likely it was either a house sparrow, crow, or a scrub jay. They tend to be out early. I will just go with the trio since seeing and hearing those birds are everyday occurrences that gives me delight.
We are in Week 8 of this year. Tomorrow is not only Valentine's Day, it is also Ash Wednesday.  Neither is mentioned in Renkl's devotional. I am okay with that. There is no shortage of writings dedicated to them both. Today I find myself yearning for another viewpoint. Fortunately, life seems to always be willing to provide just that as long as we are willing to try to learn how to both look and see. 
   
"We were never cast out of Eden. We merely turned from it and shut our eyes. To return and be welcomed, cleansed and redeemed, we are only obliged to look."  
Margaret Renkl  





 
Image is from the Huckleberry Botanic Regional Preserve Trail in Oakland, a truly wonderful place that has been lovingly tended to.  A valentine for us all. February, 2024
    
   
      

Not a Book Review

 


"Creaking to the post office 
on my rusty bike 
I saw one purple iris 
wild in the wet green 
of the rice field. 
I wanted to send it to you. 
I can only tell you 
it was there.  
 
Maura O'Hlloran 
  

This poem is from the epilogue of one of the most captivating books I have read in quite some time: Pure Heart, Enlightened Mind, The Zen Journal and Letters of Maura "Soshin" O'Halloran.  While traveling in 1979, this young Irish-American woman found her way (or the way found her) to a Buddhist monastery in Tokyo. In the three years she was there, she received the transmission of her roshi. Six months later, on a circuitous route to return to the West, she died in a bus accident in Thailand. I believe she was still in her late 20's.    
  
I have not yet finished reading this book. So many thoughts keep coming up, and I am not quite ready to try to form something cohesive. Yet, this morning, I decided to read the epilogue, and this poem is indeed the last word of Patricia Dai-En Bennage's afterward.  She also wrote, "Maura's practice was formed from both these halves - of zazen and Bodhisattva Way, meditation and sacrifice. Her journals are a poignant record of this practice and will make Maura's unique understanding available for the benefit of others. The Buddhadarma as lived by an Irish American female monk is now a part of modern Zen history." As I reread these lines, I am filled again with gratitude for Maura's writings. They are honest, moving and inspiring, even if one is not Buddhist. In her journal she wrote, "I want to be a Zen master." And she became one, even in a male Japanese speaking monastery with no other women. She was, and is much loved. 
  
This eloquent afterward, which I read in the pre-dawn hours, brought tears to my eyes. I was reminded of the importance of paying attention to our journeys, trusting who we are, and for me, the importance of writing. I do not believe it is a coincidence that after reading Bennage's words, I set the book down and walked outside. In the clear dark sky I could view the waning crescent moon. When the sky is clear, one can see not only the sparkling crescent, but also the faint outline of the new moon, or I often call it, "the moon that is coming." 
  
This book has changed my way of thinking about my own struggles with fear and discipline. I now realize that these struggles are universal, even for Zen masters. Standing in the clear darkness this morning, I knew that at the end of my own story, fear would not have the last word. Until that last word is known, I shall keep writing. I hear Jesus' words from last week's  lectionary text: "That is why I have come (Mark 1:38)." 
    
I am grateful for Maura Soshin's words, and for those who decided to share those words with the wider world. Thank you.  
        
image:  No, not from a rice field, but from my neighbor's fence where flowers have been planted every year since sometime in the 50's when Sally and Dean moved into their house down the street. They both have passed on, but a daughter keeps the tradition of greeting those walking by with flowers along the fence.   
  
I am grateful for it all.       

      




image:  No, not from a rice field, but from my neighbor's fence where flowers have been planted every year since sometime in the 50's when Sally and Dean moved into their house down the street. They both have passed on, but a daughter keeps the tradition of greeting those walking by with flowers along the fence.   
  
I am grateful for it all.