A push for more

This year I'm really (really) noticing how our world is changing. I fear much of the change is the result of human influence, and probably doesn't bode well for some of Earth's species—us, for example.

There's no doubt we are heading into a time of weather extremes, with massive hurricanes, monster tornados, melting glaciers, rising salt water levels, diminishing fresh water reserves, heat waves and cold snaps. The Earth also has her own weather pendulum, and whether or not we can survive at the far reaches of its movements, it may be swinging toward an ice age.

Interesting. It is said that the human ability for symbolic thought and speech developed into language around campfires inside ice caves. I wonder what we might come up with if we survive during the wild weather that may be ahead for us.

I've read that poison ivy will begin to grow larger and more potent in the years ahead. There's a pleasant thought. Here on the farm we're well acquainted with this plant's current power, and I admit I'm not inclined to think too hard about our prospects with this green neighbor.

As always, there are glorious bright spots as well. This spring we had one of the most prolific displays of flowering plants I've ever seen. The lilacs bent their branches and filled the air with their intense perfume. (Lilacs produce one of my particular "memory smells"; I played under lilac bushes as a child, and one wee sniff sends me right back to 1950's northern Indiana.)

Right now we are enjoying monarch and swallowtail butterfly displays, and it seems to me they are particularly large this year. I watched a yellow swallowtail on the anise hyssop yesterday, and it looked to be about 6" across. Have they always been this big, or am I just beginning to take note?

Carpenter bees, deer, robins, turkey vultures, click beetles, even the duck eggs ... so much seems either larger, more prolific, or both this year. I hope this isn't a last Cenozoicc gasp, though it could be.

Or maybe it's Mother Earth doing what she knows how to do: being beautiful, providing something wonderful to enjoy, giving her human offspring as much leeway as possible (though even loving parents have limits), simply delighting in the vast power of creation that blesses her existence.

"We" — a little, powerful word

The Episcopal Church (yep, that's "mine") did an amazing thing this year. It was time to elect a Presiding Bishop—not exactly a Pope equivalent, but the closest we can come. Oh-my-gosh, we elected ... a woman.

We have already been the object of intense media attention, as we elected a good man to be the bishop of New Hampshire; a good and honest man who happens to love another man. I can't believe Jesus cared about this one whit, or we'd have heard about it big time in the scriptures. We all know same-sex relationships have been around for ages, and are not limited to the human species, so if God or any of God's human manifestations had wanted to squash the idea, we'd know about it.

Then there's the fact that we decided to ordain women about a quarter of a century ago, and some furor over that step continues today. Though most parishes and dioceses at the very least can "stomach" the female priest business, more than you'd expect cry just-hold-on-one-minute when it comes to bishops. And God knows, a female primate is just out of the question, isn't it?

Nope.

The election of Katharine Jefferts-Schori as our next Presiding Bishop is causing comments from many quarters, some good and some less felicitous. I happen to know her, and she is a wise, humble, intelligent human being. I don't care if her plumbing is indoor or out; I think, if anyone can, she will be able to move the Anglican Communion toward reconciliation.

And here's why. Shortly after her election she was asked about her ability to handle male-female conflict, especially when she happened to hold the upper hand. As usual, she paused to think before answering (gee, I wish we all could do that). She then related her experience as the in-charge person on an oceanographic cruise, where the ship's captain wouldn't speak with her, just because she was female. This is what Katharine said to the audience: "That lasted about fifteen minutes. We got over it."

Not he got over it, but we did. When we are in conflict with one another, the difficult dynamic involves us all. It's never that "you" have the problem, it's that we do. It takes a bit of give and take on both sides to move past the difficulty.

Maybe it's time we all got over it—together.

A Spinning Passion

In some ways, summer is almost too intense to bear. The garden swiftly shifts from slow, little sprouts to raging, bulging harvest. Bringing in this abundance, cooking, trying to stay one step ahead of the fierce weed crop, replacing the hot water tank and the entire house-full of plumbing pipes, welcoming a new headmaster to the school ... it's all a challenge, and most of it is good.

Most of it. I could do without the hot water and plumbing thingies.

So what is the latest blip on my radar screen? Spinning. Yep, I've got the spinning bug. It may be worse than Erlichiosis (a particularly nasty tick-born disease) or even cellulitis (I've already logged my annual event). A good friend gave us some wool roving and two makeshift drop spindles, and a few days later I'm history. I've already ordered my first Kundert spindle (is there possibly any better?), and taken apart my first efforts so I could keep spinnng something—anything.

Including the dog's hair. Not just any dog, or even our dog, mind you — I used the hair of the adorable little poodle entrusted to our care by our summer intern (and fabulous blessing herself). It's entirely possible; You can actually spin dog hair. Is that amazing, or what?

Now I have my eye on Smooch, our long-haired cat.

I love all kinds of handwork—knitting, crocheting, sewing, quilting ... but this spinning business is a life unto itself. I'm a nun, and probably shouldn't be using this language, but it feels like a calling. I think I could spin all day, every day, and never be bored.

Jeez, that's scary.

I'm trying to figure out how this passion might be useful to our community. Can I learn to do it really, really well? Maybe experiment with natural dyes? Sell the stuff?

I don't know those answers yet, but I do know what it feels like to discover one of the passions we are each (yes, every one of us) endowed with when we appear on this planet. It sings you. It dances your body. It delights your heart in a thousand ways. You would give up food, sleep, maybe even sex, just so you could do it some more. That's passion, my friends.

And if each of us could connect with one or two (or, God help us, three) of those gifts, what an incredible world this would be.

Justice ... for whom?

One of our dear friends had a horrific experience last week, and it breaks my heart. She was riding her bike in a peaceful demonstration with the group called Critical Mass, a movement that promotes bicycle-riding as one solution to the rapidly dwindling availability of petroleum products, and our rather scary dependence on Earth's oil resource.

Apparently a row of police cars appeared and blocked a cross-street in front of the riders. They slowed down, and as our friend passed by one of the cars, the door flew open, knocking her off her bike. As she fell, her shoulder was broken. The officer who did this is claiming it was her fault. He did come to the hospital—not to see how she was, but to give her five tickets amounting to $150.

This is tricky. No one can prove whose fault this "accident" was, though witnesses believe the door was opened both violently and with purpose. But that's a tough thing to prove, and in our litigious environment, suing a police department has a pretty small chance of succeeding. At least, that's what the lawyer is telling her and I suspect it's right.

On the other hand, paying the tickets is tantamount to admitting guilt, strengthening the police claim to innocence. With the medical costs, the interruption to both her work and personal life, and the physical pain, to say nothing of the injustice of it all, such an act goes against the grain. I ache for her. She's been going through a rough patch in life, and this is the last thing she needs. She's a good and holy woman, who wants to participate in creating a better world for us all.

Here's what breaks my heart: we are a country crumbling under the weight of our consumer worldview and excessive lifestyles. Many of our police departments (along with churches, businesses and educational institutions, among others) are struggling to right themselves from reputations besmirched by members who have forgotten who they are and what (hopefully) led them to these occupations in the first place.

What has happened in that officer's professional and personal life that opened the door to such a cruel, needless, unfair act against someone he doesn't even know? And what continues to exist in our organizations that promotes the cooperation and tacit approval of their colleagues and superiors in such behavior? The Enron debacle has shown us how pernicious is the spread of participation in illegal, unethical, immoral behavior. And we are all cohorts in these crimes if we simply sit back and tsk-tsk about them, doing nothing to change our world.

"Terrorism" isn't a person we can shoot or a place we can bomb. It is a willingness in the heart to abandon self-respect, to forget that when we hurt anything else on Earth we hurt ourselves as well, to lose track of what it means to be a species capable of (and responsible for) compassionate behavior. The possibility for being a terrorist lives in every one of us; whether we act it out or not is a choice we must each make.

It breaks my heart that a people founded on, and quick to claim, the high ideal of "freedom and justice for all" has become the laughingstock of the world. Sadly, we continue to earn those snorts and snickers.

Marie Shirer: Quilter, Priest, Friend Extraordinaire

June 4, 2002.

She slipped away in the middle of the night, as many people do. We, her friends, family and colleagues had been sitting vigil with her for six weeks as she surrendered her Earthly life to the ravages of cancer.

We laughed and questioned and cried. We suffered and we celebrated. On this morning four years ago, we gathered one last time in her hospice room to say our final goodbyes. It was freezing in there—the hospice's attempt to preserve her body and keep the environment as safe as possible. But her room was always cold; she suffered terribly from "tumor sweats", so the rest of us wore sweaters and shawls and even used an extra blanket once in awhile to tuck around our shoulders or feet.

Marie's departure from us was an anguish, of course, and on this anniversary I find myself crying over the loss of her wild and wonderful presence as if it had happened yesterday. I miss her terribly.

And yet those days of her dying wove a holy coccoon of transformation around us all. She faced her death with the same honesty, humor, and intensity that characterized her whole, brief life. Whether she was designing a new quilt, challenging a seminary professor, entertaining her Colorado friends over a traditional Swedish Christmas dinner in her Arvada home, playing with her adorable Corgis, or sitting with a grieving family, Marie gave her entire being to the task of living.

Margaret Guenther called me at the convent to tell me that the investigation into Marie's troublesome cold had revealed a much more serious problem: stage IV liver cancer. As Marie quickly added to the diagnosis, "There is no Stage V." Everyone knew the remaining few weeks for her wouldn't include chemotherapy or radiation or any other attempt to delay her inevitable death. They would be filled instead with finding her a comfortable place to die and providing relief from her pain. (I can't say enough about Washington Home and Hospice; my sisters are going to have to cart me down there if I wind up in similar circumstances.)

Those short weeks were also filled with an amazing group of women who surrounded Marie and quickly learned to love each other with a depth that awed us all. Not one of us escaped Marie's challenge to engage in this dying as sister, comforter, companion of the heart. The day I arrived, she looked me in the eye (a classic Marie glare), and said, "OK, Sister. What really happens after death?" And she wanted a meaty answer, nothing that even hinted at platitude. Whew; I knew immediately the days ahead would prove to be an adventure typical—and worthy—of Marie.

No matter how awful a situation could be, Marie would occasionally find a way to lighten things up. She understood the healing power of humor better than anyone else I ever met. One day we suggested wheeling her bed her out to the patio to enjoy the warm sun. This was one of the first days that she knew she would never leave that bed. She was in a crabby mood, and we thought the change might ease her frustration. Suddenly she sat up, grabbed the bed railings and pasted a wild look of glee on her face. She made racing noises and rocked back and forth, just like a little boy in a pretend race car. We all burst out laughing; her Barney Oldfield impersonation had evaporated the building tension.

In late May, as I sat beside her shivering in the cold while she soaked her bed with sweat, she told me that the dying process was really boring. Our long, wonderful relationship allowed me to tell her I was finding it boring, too. I had knit enough scarves to outfit the entire crew of an oil tanker, and she could no longer engage in a book, TV or a long conversation. And we were both tired of the cruelty of cancer.

Near the end, Marie began to shift into dream-language; we often think a dying person is just "out of her head", but I believe that the same symbolism used by our dreams crosses over into our more wakeful moments, communicating important information. Days before she died, Marie awoke from one of her lengthening naps and said to me, "Sister, let's just get out of here, get in the car and head for the airport."

I hesitated as I thought about what she might be "processing" internally. Clearly her conversations had increasingly reflected a desire to move on. As I sat there she added, "But you would lose your parking space, wouldn't you?"

"Ah, yes," I finally said. "And I'm not really ready to give up my parking space yet." Marie closed her eyes, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

My last moments with Marie's body were incredibly healing. She had died with that same small smile tickling her face, and it was still there three hours later. I sat with her body as it traveled its own journey into the future, and was awed to realize that bodies don't "just stop"—they have a job to do and they do it with an elegance and beauty that stunned me. It was the opening of my own healing process.

On June 8, a large group gathered at her beloved St. Columba's Church to grieve her death and celebrate her life, and we did both. Margaret wrote the following prayer for that occasion, and I find comfort in it today as I did in those first moments when I realized that I would spend the rest of my own life without the challenging, joyful presence of my dear friend.

Loving, gracious God,Creator, Mother, Father, Look upon this weave of women! Mothers, daughters, sisters, friends; Woven together in love of you and in love of our sister Marie. Artist, creator, seamstress God, Gifted, ingenious user of scraps and pieces, big and little, look upon this patchwork quilt of women's lives, unfinished, filled with color, filled with light and filled with darkness, moving toward wholeness and stitched together in the intricate loveliness of your quilting.

Help us to be midwives. Help us to reflect your tender mother love. Help us to be fully present to the wonder of your presence. We offer you our thanksgivings. We offer you our hopes. We offer you our prayers. Help us to remember that this circle is and will be unbroken. Help us to remember that we are bound together in your love.

Marie, my dear friend, may you rest in the arms of the angels of Light. I'm sure you are entertaining them with your eternal, lively wit; may nothing ever bore you again.