Category Archives: Awake to Mystery

What Is Hidden

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gray day photo, snow covered ground, dark green bird feeder on pole, bush branches nearby, faintly visible tracks in the snow

At 4 a.m. this morning, I woke in the dark of the night to pee. On the way back to bed, I saw a shadow outside the window. It was a bright night, with white snow on the ground, and a clouded sky backlit by a full moon. I opened the curtain and saw that the shadow was a small deer by the bird feeder. It was investigating the seeds on the ground below, and perhaps the water in the heated bird bath. Then it walked toward me and made its way through the orchard, passing over to the side of the house and then toward the road.

So beautiful. Things that are hidden, and then revealed. I had seen deer tracks since the snow fell a few days ago, but we rarely see the creatures themselves as they pass through our yard. What a thing to be awake at 4, and gazing toward the windows. As I lay back down in bed, I wanted to remember the blessing of the moment, not lose it to sleep. So I fed phrases to my mind, like “that which is hidden” and made associations, like, “I should pull up the small green fence around the licorice patch, so the deer won’t get caught in it if the snow covers it.” I took this photo this morning. Of course, the deer is gone, hidden again. But some tracks remain, reminding me of all that I cannot see.

All of this also made me think of a photo I recently discovered, that I had never seen before. One of my relatives had posted it. It is a picture of my grandmother Yvonne (née Tremblay), with grandfather John Hochreiter and their two oldest children, about 1921. I had seen a photo of Yvonne when she married, in 1916, and a photo when she was holding me as a baby, sometime before she died in June of 1954. But this one brought to life a young woman in her early twenties, surrounding by her family. So much of her life was hidden from me, not by any conscious decision by anyone. My mother was the youngest of eight children, so perhaps this time before her birth was hidden from her as well. What a gift to get a small glimpse into their lives, over one hundred years ago now.

sepia toned photo of young woman and man seated on a park bench, holding two boys, one next to woman on the bench, and one on man's lap.

Last night before I fell asleep I prayed to the Spirits I have known. The moon, the cardinals, the frogs, mother Earth. Is seeing the deer a sign of connection? That my prayers are heard? Spirits, thank you for the gift of seeing that which is usually hidden. May we always remember that so much is hidden.

Living lying down

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mussed up light blue sheet with two cat paws peeking out, black and white fur

I’ve been trying to figure out what it all means. I mean my life these days. What does it mean to be ill, to be mostly fatigued, to be compelled to rest most of the hours of my days? I wasn’t sure what photo could go with this question, and then I happened to see this photo of Billie from five years ago, her body hidden under a sheet on the bed, just her little paws sticking out. Somehow that fits. These days I am mostly hidden, lying down somewhere, sometimes under a sheet, and just a tiny part of me emerging into the world now and then.

I used to admire the elders who were out on the picket lines into their eighties and nineties. It makes me sad, but I don’t think that can be me. I still care about the things I used to care about. I hunger for justice, for human rights, for kindness, for peace. I still rage against cruelty, oppression, violence, and genocide. I scroll on Facebook and try to bear witness to all that is happening out there. I share posts that document the atrocities, in the hope that bearing witness is better than silence. I share posts that document the resistance, in order to foster hope in the face of so much despair. But is that diminished activism what my life now is meant to be about? Is it what it means?

Spoon theory is a method of managing energy for many people with disabilities and/or chronic illness–if we only have so many spoonfuls of energy, we have to ration our activities to match the spoons we have. Lately I am always running out of spoons before I can finish the tasks of daily living. I am lucky if I can keep up with the dishes in the kitchen sink, keep up with cleaning out the litter box for the cats, keep up with watering the vegetables I was so bold to plant. Are these tasks of daily living what my life means now? Do I need to cultivate that Zen approach to being fully present in each moment, however mundane?

Meanwhile, I spend many hours lying on the couch watching tv shows on Roku. Sometimes I have to manage my energy for that too. I can’t handle too much drama. British mysteries are about right, especially if I have seen them before and they are well done. Nature shows are usually okay, unless there is too much about how we are destroying it. Sometimes I nap during the shows. Lately, I’ve been watching “Would I lie to you?” on Britbox for laughs. It all feels rather pathetic actually, but this is the unvarnished truth.

I don’t have the answers to my questions. I don’t know what it all means. But I feel like I have to wrestle with this reality I am living in, wrestle with the meaning, because that is also still who I am, a wrestler-with-meaning. I can look out on the world, but I must also look into this intimate space under the covers. I believe that each human being has inherent dignity, each life has ultimate value. I believe that we are all connected. So how do I find the ultimate value in this life of mine, right now, not based on what I have done or who I have been, but right now. Still able to write sometimes, but about to lie down for the rest of the day.

Despair

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Almost every day I walk down to Capisic Brook, and most days, all through the winter, I saw a pair of ducks who lived in the water there. I saw them today too. My whole body felt heavy as I walked this morning, and I almost turned back before I reached the brook. I feel such a crushing sense of sadness and despair. I feel for the people who are suffering and dying in a genocide in Gaza. I feel for the foreign students and others who have been detained without warning or due process. I feel for the thousands hurt by the dismantling of government programs that feed people, and in conjunct with that, support farmers. And so much more. So much more is being broken and destroyed by the regime in Washington.

To be an activist has been an empowering thread throughout my life. I followed the advice of Audre Lorde: “Use what power you have to work for what you believe in.” When I feel powerless, I still search around for some small work I might do for what I believe in. And yet, the destruction continues.

As I cast about for some hope to cling to, some antidote to this despair, I find myself remembering the life of Jesus. He lived in a time and place under oppression by an empire that cared little for his life and the lives of any of the people around him. He had no power to change that evil regime, (or if he did, he did not use it–that was one of the temptations he rejected, as described in the gospels). Somehow, he lived his entire prophetic life in the shadow of this evil empire, and taught and healed nonetheless, usually with the most marginalized and the outsiders.

I get especially angry by the people who promote “Christian nationalism.” Jesus preached the opposite of nationalism. He often contrasted the divine “kingdom” with earthly kingdoms. Perhaps there is no story with more clarity about this than the story of the final judgment at the end of the world. According to the book of Matthew, (chapter 25) the divine king said to those judged as righteous: 35 “for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, 36 I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.’ 37 Then the righteous will answer him, ‘…when did we see thee hungry and feed thee, or thirsty and give thee drink? 38 And when did we see thee a stranger and welcome thee, or naked and clothe thee? 39 And when did we see thee sick or in prison and visit thee?’ 40 And He will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me.’”

The divine is with the least of these. And what this means to me is that the divine is in the torture prison in El Salvador with the gay Venezuelan barber. The divine is under the rubble with the emergency medical workers in Gaza. The divine is with the HIV patients in Africa who longer have medicine. The divine is lined up at the food bank. The divine is waiting with the woman miscarrying in Texas unable to receive medical help. The divine is with the sick person feeling isolated at home.

And maybe sometimes that is me, too, feeling the isolation and powerlessness of chronic illness, maybe the divine is here with me in my despair for the world.

Revealing the hidden

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deer tracks in snow

One thing I love about snow is the way it reveals all sorts of hidden activities. We haven’t seen any deer on our land for quite a long time, but after the snow storms of the last weeks, we found their tracks making a path through the yard. The deer have been quietly passing through in the dark. They have come to drink the water that we keep thawed for the birds, and come to eat the sunflower seeds scattered near the bird feeder. They have nibbled the yew bushes in front of our windows.

There is so much that is hidden that is only revealed through storms. There is so much that we cannot see, and may never know. In the face of all that is coming undone in our country, in the face of all that is being destroyed, this gives me a kind of hope. Not optimism or naivety. I know that there is a coup happening right now against the ideals of democracy we have cherished, ideals we have tried to expand and perfect. Human dignity, diversity, equity, inclusion. Compassion for the vulnerable. I feel anxiety and rage in the face of the dangers that hang over us.

But as Rebecca Solnit says, “Hope locates itself in the premises that we don’t know what will happen and that in the spaciousness of uncertainty is room to act.” The deer tracks remind me that, in truth, we don’t even know what is happening right now, right outside our windows in the dark. We don’t know what may be happening that will change the trajectory of the future.

The deer tracks remind me that we are not alone in our yard, our home is the home of many other beings, those we can see, and those who are invisible to us. And just so, we are not alone in our struggles. In ways that we cannot begin to understand, we are all connected. That interconnection means that even our small actions of love and kindness may have beautiful consequences, and there are others unknown to us whose actions may bring liberation to all. May it be so!

The Earth is Strong

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So the inauguration happened and everything is as horrific as we expected it to be, and on course to keep getting worse. I was feeling very discouraged by it all and brought all my feelings on my walk this morning. But here is the prayer that came into my heart.

Those greedy devils in power are stronger than I am, but they are not stronger than the Earth. As I walk along, I touch the Earth with every step. The Earth is strong, and I am part of the Earth.

Those hateful devils in power are strong, but they are not stronger than the Sun. As I walk along, I feel the warmth and brightness of the Sun reaching my face. The Sun is strong, and I am loved by the Sun.

Those lying devils in power are strong, but they are not stronger than the Wind. As I walk along, I feel the Wind stirring up the tree branches all along my street. The Wind is both strong and gentle, and I am blessed in its movement.

Those cruel devils in power are strong, but they are not stronger than the Spirit. As I walk along, the Spirit whispers in my heart. The Spirit is strong, and I am one with the Spirit no matter what happens.

Be like the crows

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Crow on the top of bare branches of a tree against a blue sky
[A crow is perched high in the bare branches of a tree outside my house. This photo is not from yesterday, but reminds me of the crow I saw yesterday in a similar perch.]

After blogging yesterday morning about Listening for Spirit, I bundled up in warm clothes to take a walk in the cold. As I stepped off the back porch, I heard the raucous calling of crows, and looked up to see a crow high in the branches of a tree. Then I saw two others, all of them agitated and calling. They flew over our back yard and kept calling and scolding.

I walked down the driveway, turned right onto the street, went past our neighbor’s house and then around the corner, on my usual route for a morning walk. I could still hear those crows! Then I saw the cause for the crows’ alarm–it looked like a huge hawk up in a tree near another neighbor’s house. I could see the white feathers of its belly as it perched and I crossed the street to confirm its identity. Then it suddenly flew off, obviously bothered by the relentless scolding of the crows. They didn’t stop, but kept after it until it was gone.

Then Spirit said, so clearly, “Be like the crows! Keep calling out to alert everyone to the presence of a huge predator! Keep calling out together.”

I was reminded of the line in a song that I have been singing and translating. “Even as the hour grows bleaker, be the singer and the speaker.” [from The Lost Words Blessing] In Passamaquoddy, verbs are more fundamental than nouns, so the end of that line became, “…ahtolint on ktahtolewestun” “…keep singing and keep speaking.”

I have watched people talking about facing encroaching fascism by deleting their public presence on social media, by using encrypted forms of communication like Signal, by using extreme caution about what is said and what is shared. And there are situations that definitely warrant those precautions. Definitely. But I believe that there are also reasons to keep speaking and keep sharing. Keep naming our values, keep claiming our experiences, keep identifying what we witness.

If we are called to that. And not alone, but in groups, even groups of three. Three crows can annoy a hawk enough to make it leave. I felt the presence of Spirit so strongly in those crows that it gave me courage to say, I can do that. I can keep speaking here, as long as I can.

Listening for Spirit

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Dawn colors and clouds, pink and blue over trees and shadow of a house

Our house isn’t best situated for seeing the beauty of sunrise or sunset. Too many trees and buildings. But the other morning, when I opened the blinds in my room, I saw this outside my window. Dawn magic.

Yesterday I was so sleepy and almost napping on the couch when I happened upon a documentary on PBS about Howard Thurman, Backs Against the Wall. I knew of Dr. Thurman but I don’t remember if I knew so much about him as was shared in this film. African American theologian, author, and teacher, he was deeply spiritual, became dedicated to nonviolent activism, and was the mentor to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and other civil rights leaders. The film stirred something in my soul.

First of all, I found myself feeling a bit of envy–my old sin. I always wanted to “be somebody.” You know, one of those people you heard about, a saint, a well-loved thinker and author, an influential leader, recognized by the world. And I wasn’t that, except, to be fair, in the most local context. I was, for a while, a local spiritual leader. I saw something in Dr. Thurman that reminded me of myself, except writ large.

Most importantly, he reminded me of my own mysticism, my own deep connection to spirit. And I asked myself, am I listening to the voice of the spirit within me, am I paying attention to what the spirit is telling me right now, in this time? The truth is, illness dampens the energy of the body, but it also dampens the energy of the soul. It has been harder to hear the voice of spirit since my retirement due to chronic illness. I remember at first, spirit said, Rest and Joy, let that be your guide. And I did rest, and chose activities that linked to joy in me.

But I still wrestle with questions all the time. What is this chapter of my life all about? What can I do in the face of the brokenness of our world, in the face of war and oppression? If I can’t resist by marching in the streets, how can I resist such evils as the genocide in Gaza, the rising hatred toward immigrants in our own country, the demonization of trans and queer people by those coming into power?

At different times in my life, I was guided by an evolving sense of purpose. When I was in college, my friends and I would ask, “How would Jesus live in our times?” A few years later, I found the Catholic Worker movement, and to live and serve in houses of hospitality for people without homes–that felt like the embodiment of that purpose. When I woke up to the oppression of women in the church and in society, when I began to form community with other women waking up, I voiced this desire, this intention: “We mean to incarnate the goddess!” When I came out as a lesbian, I felt a deep sense of purpose in loving and affirming all of our beauty as women, as lesbians, to find the goddess in ourselves and each other.

There was always this pattern for me, listening and following the spirit as I was led into new understandings and new ways of living a purpose in the world. Following the distant voice of my ancestors into solidarity work with Indigenous peoples. Finding a home in Unitarian Universalist ministry, and serving in congregations as I was called, bringing together wider understandings of spirituality, and commitment to the work of justice activism in community. Coming to a deeper understanding of interconnection with all of life, and permaculture gardening, and a spiritual journey into earth community.

I see how lucky I have been, to be able to follow an inner stirring, to live and work from a sense of calling and purpose. Whether known or unknown. But I am still wrestling with questions now. What is my calling now? Can I hear the voice of spirit to guide me now? Here is something Dr. Thurman wrote about all this:

“How good it is to center down!
To sit quietly and see one’s self pass by!
The streets of our minds seethe with endless traffic;
Our spirits resound with clashings, with noisy silences,
While something deep within hungers and thirsts for the still
moment and the resting lull.…
The questions persist: what are we doing with our lives?—
what are the motives that order our days?
What is the end of our doings? Where are we trying to go?…
Over and over the questions beat in upon the waiting moment.
As we listen, floating up through all the jangling echoes
of our turbulence, there is a sound of another kind—
A deeper note which only the stillness of the heart
makes clear.
It moves directly to the core of our being. Our questions are
answered,
Our spirits refreshed, and we move back into the traffic of
our daily round
With the peace of the Eternal in our step.
How good it is to center down!”

I guess that is what I am trying to do, even now, to center down, to hear the deeper note. To let the questions come into that stillness. Even when it feels empty and dark, before the dawn has come.

What the garden does with us

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Monarch caterpillar on milkweed

While on my morning walk, I suddenly saw a monarch caterpillar on a milkweed that had planted itself in our roadside strip. The next day (today), I saw three more. All we did with the milkweed was let it keep growing where it showed up on its own. There are two plants by the road, and three or four more in a patch out back near the pond. But the monarchs found them all the same.

I have been feeling discouraged lately about my ability to garden. First of all there is the challenge of chronic fatigue that limits my energy such that even one small project outside in the morning can wipe me out for the rest of the day. But then there is the limitation of my own knowledge about the green growing beings. Right now, it is the cherry trees that are struggling with some disease. I am thankful to Aaron Parker of Edgewood Nursery who suggested, after seeing photos, that they are most likely dealing with Cherry Leaf Spot.

The possible answer is to clean up all the infected leaves on the ground and on the tree, and use an organic probiotic “Monterey complete disease control.” But even so, it might not work. Another website suggests natural remedies such as neem oil, potassium bicarbonate, and copper fungicides, which can be used to manage fungal infections like leaf spot. This season, I hadn’t done any holistic sprays because the sprayer takes a lot of personal energy to use. So I feel sad about the cherry trees, and even though I ordered some of the Monterey remedy, I feel discouraged about how much more work I’ve made for myself. Will it even help?

But in the midst of this discouragement, the caterpillars showed up on their own. And meanwhile, a turkey mom and her three babies have wandered through the yard a few times. Here we see them scooting under our canopy where we sit outside in some shade.

Meanwhile, the front raised bed that we didn’t plant decided to grow evening primrose on its own, and today I saw a gold finch happily checking out the yellow flowers. He was too quick to get into the photo. So I guess as a wildlife habitat, we are doing okay!

Then I saw this quote on Facebook this morning, posted by a colleague, and it was a good reminder that it isn’t really about how well we can garden. Something more magical is going on, and I must remember that.

“There was one thing I suddenly knew with absolute certainty: magic is not just something you do or make, it is something the universe does with you. It is our relationship to the Divine. There is nothing more magical than the presence of the sacred in one’s life. It changes everything. … It isn’t something one does to the universe; it’s what a living universe does with us once we have awakened to its Divinity.” Phyllis Curott in Book of Shadows

And maybe, it’s what the garden does with us once we have awakened to its Divinity.

Sacred Fire

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Fire in the wood stove during the April storm.

In the midst of a 55-hour power outage, before I knew how long it would actually be, I was sitting in front of the wood stove which had kept us warm for the last couple days. I was thinking about how fire is one of the sacred elements, and yet, I hadn’t been close to a fire recently except during our prior power outage and this one. (Yes, we have now had two power outages in the last two weeks! The first lasted 40 hours.) These power outages are exhausting for us, with our chronic fatigue anyway. But we are so lucky to have the wood stove which heats our house well, and on which we can even cook food, with our tiny cast iron pan or hot water kettle.

Tending the stove is a constant process, kindling a fire in the morning, adding wood, adjusting the flue, adding another log each hour or so. We were running out of wood, except for some poorly seasoned crabapple wood from when our tree fell during a storm last year. But our neighbor kindly said we could have some of his. I am grateful for our neighbors. That was a gift from this storm. The April nor’easter covered all the trees and branches with heavy wet snow that apparently caused over 300,000 outages across Maine, which is why it took so long for power to be restored. Still, it was beautiful outside.

We were without electricity, television, internet, all the usual ways we connect with the world. My phone has limited data (all used up) so I couldn’t use it to connect except for texts and phone calls. We have an old landline phone that we pull out to use because it doesn’t need electricity like our regular landline phone. I even had a great conversation with an old friend on that landline phone. But I realized how much I rely on the internet for connecting with people, for seeing news, for entertainment. Being without power was tiring, just to keep ourselves warm and fed, but being without the internet was so boring.

As I was sitting in front of the fire, on the third morning, I tried to be present to the day, to stop wishing for the power to come back, to accept the day on its own terms. It was then that I thought about fire, about the fires I had sat around, and even danced around in prior times. I thought about the rituals we had done in our own back yard around our own fire circle. Neglected fire circle now. We didn’t light it all last summer. The weeds have grown up around it. It takes some energy to light and tend a fire. I know I haven’t had much energy during the past years. But now I was, by necessity, tending a fire, and by gratitude and intention, remembering that fire is sacred, is beautiful.

When I consider it, it seems like electricity has taken the place of fire in my everyday life. I imagine that electricity might also be considered sacred, although it is more invisible. It heats our home, cooks our food, keeps our food preserved, washes our clothing, heats our water. It also enables these far away connections for which I have much gratitude. It brings stories and news and laughter. I was relieved and happy when the electricity came back on.

But I am also grateful for the quiet days of the storm that brought me back to appreciating sacred fire.

Halloween Frost

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Frost on flower

Today is Halloween, that wild holiday of ghosts and ancestors and gifts of sweets. Some say the veil between the worlds is thin during these days. Celtic Samhain, Mexican Dia de Muertos. The day midway between autumn equinox and winter solstice. This morning I woke to our first frost of the season. It is later than usual for Maine, but also earlier this week than I had expected. Still, it drew me out to walk in the dawn’s first light.

I harvested the last of the (now frozen) raspberries. We often don’t get any in the fall because they don’t get enough sun to ripen before the frosts. So we’ve been grateful for several little bonus treats over the last few weeks. I also cut some (frozen) chives, and quickly chopped them up small and put back into a frozen state for use during the winter.

On October 16th, I had dug up the licorice plant, to harvest the roots–they make my favorite herbal remedy–such an energy boost iced as tea with lemon in the summer garden work. I cut off several large roots near the main plant, and all the long extension roots to new plants. After that, I replanted the original plant, and mulched with wood chips all around. Then, and I haven’t yet finished, I wash them with a scrub brush, and cut into small pieces to dry in the herb dryer. It takes quite a bit of my energy, so I can only do small batches at a time. Here is the latest:

licorice root as dug
licorice root washed and cut

So the end of the harvesting is in sight. No more zucchini. Still more kale–that keeps going after the frost. Still some carrots in the front yard beds. Leaves are still falling. Margy did some final mowing and some not-final raking. Much of our back lawn is moss mixed with wild strawberry, clover, grass, and weeds. We love the moss. On more mechanical themes, our garage door was fixed today! (It has been broken since the end of September.) We’ve also had a broken clothes dryer. Appointment scheduled for Friday. I guess these are part of our preparations for winter.

But today, mostly I think about the ancestors, those I loved who have died, and those I never knew who are the roots in my family tree. I had a new thought about my mom’s father, whom we called “Papa.” He was born “Johann” in Austria in 1884, but was “John” in the United States. He left his country with a few friends, who all worked as waiters to pay their way traveling across France, England, Canada, and finally Detroit, Michigan. None of his family of origin were on this side of the Atlantic. He remained friends with those men to the end of his life. He died when I was a young teen, so I don’t have too many memories except of a very quiet, very short man. Even though he lived with our family for a while. But when I look at my own life, I too left the place of my family, and bonded with friends who have been like another family in my life. So maybe we have that in common.

Really, there is so much we don’t know about the lives of our ancestors. All we can do is wonder. During this past year, since last Halloween, my friend Estelle joined the company of the ancestors. She was a true spirit sister. So I honor her today along with those others in my life whom I loved, and who loved me. In that, I have much for which to be thankful.