Transformation

I walked outside early this morning to check out how the garden liked yesterday's rain. It was still windy, and like a new mom, I worried for the little seeds I had sown during the week. But generally, children are supple and resilient. In fact, my own little "babies" had loved that cold rain and were doing fine.

I remember being supple and resilient myself. Not that I'm fragile these days, but working in the garden revealed a few changes. I had to stand up regularly to ease the pain in my knees; walking on the uneven ground takes just a wee bit more care than it used to; garden gloves, a big hat, sunglasses and long sleeved shirts are a must. I think the days of physical labor from early morning to late evening are behind me now.

As I stood quietly admiring our handiwork and God's prodigal design for life, I listened to the sounds made by the huge trees that surround our yard. Most are just now beginning to bud out, and together it looks like a huge wad of pale green gauze has been caught in the top of the trees. This is not primal forest, but these beauties are old by my standards — many have stood out there for at least two hundred years.

In the wind they sway slowly back and forth. And they creak loudly. They aren't fragile yet, either, but their creaking speaks of changes afoot. Little saplings don't creak in the wind. For all of life, change is the name of the game. Without it, there would be no concept of "life" at all. Existence would be dull and repetitive to the point of madness, with no way out. Change means surprise, creativity, beauty.

The "prime" of life isn't just one segment of one phase of being — it's the whole thing, from the birth of the Universe some thirteen billion years ago to this moment and beyond. Wow.

Carpenter Bees

I don't remember who it was, but years a go a neighborhood friend and I were sitting outside eating our sandwiches. All of a sudden he screamed and threw his sandwich on the ground — a bee had found its way into the egg salad and didn't take kindly to being eaten. Fortunately, my little friend wasn't allergic to bee stings.

I was young enough that this made an immediate and unshakable impression on me. I suppose I could have spent the rest of my life being terrified of egg salad sandwiches, but my child-brain settled more logically on fear of the stinging creature itself.

I've been stung myself a few times in these intervening years, and though it's not an experience anyone enjoys, it obviously didn't kill me, either. One time I stuck my bare foot into a shoe and discovered that solitary wasps can sting repeatedly. Another time a yellow jacket, dazed by chemicals sprayed into its nest a few days earlier, flew up my skirt and rudely stung the inside of my upper thigh. That one did cause a nasty reaction, though I'm not convinced it was allergic on my part; I think the poor creature just returned our toxic favor. But now I carry one of those bee-sting injection kits, just in case.

Last year I discovered carpenter bees. These are impressive fliers, since clearly their bodies are much too large for those filmy little wings to support; they are encumbered with a ponderous, shiny black rear segment that looks like armor with a rather attractive purplish or greenish patina. In spite of their hefty build, they zip around like humming birds, hovering motionless in the air for long periods of time before zooming upward or sideways or just disappearing so quickly I can't tell where they've gone. They sound like mini-helicopters to me. Impressive.

Our school/convent building was designed by a California architect, so naturally it's redwood. Boy, do the CB's like that. Just about this time each year they wake up and begin preparations for mating, which means the males scout out a nice wooden locale and then begin to bore amazingly precise 1/2" holes in it. You can actually hear them drilling. If left to their own devices for years, they can take down a building.

But I'm more impressed with the creature itself. The males protect the nesting site by hovering menacingly outside. The larger the site, the more boys hang out in the 'hood. There is usually only one female causing all the activity. The males behave as if they have testosterone poisoning — even their buzzing sounds mean and aggressive. They make a beeline (sorry) for anyone who comes too close to the nest entrance, and if you didn't know any better you'd back off in a hurry.

The problem is these guys have no stinger. Not even a little one. Lots of bark but no bite. I think the only damage they could cause would be to fly in your eye, and that's not very likely. Now the queen can cause a lot of trouble, having a quite meaningful stinger; but she only uses it if she's actually handled roughly, a feat no one is likely to try anyway.

I just love Nature, don't you? Here are all these aggressive, macho bees dive-bombing humans and skunks and anything else within reach (and pretty much scaring the daylights out of all of us) ... but they can't do anything more than look and sound dangerous. Amazing. A wee tick can make you miserable without you even knowing it has buried its head in your skin; a honker bee can chase you twenty feet in about one second, yet is capable of little more than ruffling your hair.

Wouldn't it be just grand if humans could holler up a storm, but couldn't figure out how to build bombs or what to do with an Uzi?

Our Friend Mary

This probably will sound tacky coming from a nun, but I've always wanted to do a retreat based on the bumper sticker "Shit Happens". Needless to say, the few Sisters to whom I proposed this idea when I first thought about it some fifteen years ago were not amused. But I think there is a huge truth in that sticker. Horrible things happen to people who, no matter what skeletons may lurk in their historical closets, don't deserve it.

Our Community has a wonderful friend who has visited us for years when the New York Marathon happens. She runs it. This has always fascinated me, who has run one mile once in my entire life and I still think of it as a major achievement. But our friend Mary runs twenty-six miles, and she does it every year. God knows how many miles she runs in between the marathons.

Mary is a lot more than a runner, of course. She is a physical therapist, a gentle woman, a good soul. Before I moved north I always looked forward to marathon time, just to have her quiet, solid presence in the house.

Now she is caught in medical hell betwen two diagnoses, neither of which is particularly hopeful. Both involve the degeneration of her muscles. I'm angry, and I'm sad, and I'm scared for her.

I don't believe in a God who picks and chooses people to punish or reward. And I for sure don't believe in a God who is capricious and mean. But Mary's situation seems particularly cruel to me, and I want to blame Someone.

I'll never forget the year when the weather for the race was beastly — freezing cold rain fell all day. Many runners dropped out because the conditions were so brutal, but Mary hung in there and finished. She didn't, and probably never will, come in first. Winning isn't the point at all, it is just getting it done. Trying something difficult and finding out you can do it. It is getting through the hard stuff, the hills, the sleet, the feeling that you can't take one more step.

But you do.

I guess Mary's going to need all that experience and self-knowledge over the next weeks and months. The marathon's grueling one-step-at-a-time training has become the basis for the one-day-at-a-time life she has been thrust into. The sparks of grit and determination and present moment awareness and trust that live deep within Mary will continue to guide and strengthen her.

So yes, "shit happens". It pays no attention to the person or the circumstance or anything else. It just happens. But it doesn't happen in a vacuum; it doesn't rule the day all by itself.

Thank God for Mary and for marathons and for freezing rain. Thank God for resilience and friends and hope and love.

Hope for the Flowers

"Roses", Maria Felicitas, CHS

Remember the wonderful book Hope for the Flowers — a delightful little gift we adults exchanged with each other back in the 80s? Children's literature is fabulous stuff, and I suspect moms and dads and aunts and grandpas and other adult friends buy these books as much for themselves as for gifts. Why is that?

I'm not sure, but I think the ability of a child to observe the world with eyes of wonder and hearts wide open is something we adults have just about forgotten.

But not quite. And that teeny hint of memory just might save the world.

Imagine what life would be like if we adults could once again shut out everything around us except a daddy longlegs or a hollyhock or a tire swing over the pond on a hot summer day? If following an inchworm were more valuable to us than squeezing one more task into our busy days? If we allowed ourselves to be captivated by the glory of the rest of Earth's life community for an hour or so?

The next time you get a chance to hang out with your favorite child (and if you don't have one of those, by all means go find one), give your adult self a break. Share a child's view of Life.

My, what an idea.

Plundering

I didn't sleep much last night. Just one of "those nights" where, in spite of feeling exhausted when I retired, I awakened wide-eyed and refreshed ... at 1:30 AM. Ah, well.

I did what I always do when this happens: I read, practiced relaxation meditation, roamed around in my thoughts, and petted the dog, who is extremely generous in this regard. I figure my body knows what it needs — and what it doesn't. If I'm not sleepy right now, I will be later. This I learned in my twenties, when I was plagued by insomnia, and the approach continues to serve me well as sleepless nights become more frequent in my later years. I think of it as found time and try to use it respectfully.

Part of last night's musings sprung from watching The Corporation for the second time, and from reading Genesis Farm's latest newsletter cover article. [If you're not on their mailing list, by all means sign up. And participate. And contribute.) Both sources call our culture into question.

We are a nation of plunderers.

We are certainly not alone, as nations go, but we lead the way in many of the most destructive practices in existence today. I keep telling myself we aren't bad people, we're just unconscious. But our Community facilitator constantly reminds us: "that which is unconscious is unjust". I have yet to be able to prove her statement wrong.

"Just unconscious" is not an excuse, and it's a sorry explanation. In service of our own desires, we are pushing all of Earth's life systems into steep decline. I don't mean for this blog to be a scolding, or a warning, or a judgment. I have spent most of my own fifty-plus years contributing to Earth's demise, and I know speaking from arrogance is self-serving and worse than useless.

We might try asking ourselves if there is a way to live differently.

I think we begin to make necessary changes not through action but through passion. As in Christ's passion, where Jesus submitted himself to judgment and death without seeming to stand up for his rights. He was trying to show people what it means to live differently, to step away from destructive ways of being, such as slavery, discrimination, and exclusion. Two thousand years ago, no one could possibly have imagined what is happening on Earth today. Yet Jesus tried every way he could to teach us to live with compassion and respect for all of God's creation, to love with such intensity that one would sacrifice the self in order to reveal the Self of creation and possibility. Jesus was trying to set us free.

If we were to practice passion ourselves, we would have to back off from our impress on the Earth. At this point, we'd better be backing up pretty far and pretty fast, because there really isn't much time left.

Pay attention to what you buy, what you use, what you discard and leave for others to deal with. What is your personal impress on Mother Earth? That should give you an idea where to begin in your own life, which is the only thing you can really change anyway.

We live in bondage to a life of consumerism and competition. The first steps to freedom are exciting. Take a few today.