Doors and Windows, Cows and Resistance

The playground of the school I attended from First through Third grade was adjacent to a field of cows. The rusting wire fence separating the cows and the children had been erected, no doubt, to protect the children from wandering heifers, but it was just as probable that it was there to protect the cows from curious children. Most of the time, the cows and children simply ignored one another, but on occasion, when my friends were busy on the slide, swings, or monkey bars, I’d wander over and visit with the cows. Looking into their big brown eyes, I’d tell them about all the classroom activities and confide my deepest feelings, questions, and dreams as they lay quietly in the shade of the trees that lined the fence. They weren’t the best conversationalists but were very patient when I’d stretch my wee fingers through the grate to scratch their heads, and they were exceptional listeners.

Another Bovine Friend Next to an English Footpath

I have much in common with those bovine friends. I, too, like to sit quietly and ruminate on things. I enjoy chewing on conversations well after the original participants have moved on. I chomp, gnaw, and devour an idea entirely before swallowing, spitting it out, or wandering in search of fresh clover. Sometimes, I reach a satisfying conclusion, but just as often, my pondering takes me in an entirely new direction.


On November 5th, as the election results revealed the inevitable, I could feel myself sinking into a deep funk. Determined not to continue the downward slide into the bottomless pit of hopelessness and despair and also consciously aware that joy and beauty are a form of resistance, I sought ways to bring joy back into my life, to recognize the wonder and beauty that had already manifested there, and to enjoy the breathing space between November and the January inauguration.

It was only natural that I would find comfort and pleasure at the intersection of my two favorite hobbies…travel and photography. In this age of computers, the combination of travel memories and the digital photos that documented them was right there at arm’s length on my laptop. As I drove, sailed, and urban-hiked through past adventures, I smiled at the faces of family and friends, both old and new. I remembered the awe I experienced inside grand cathedrals, standing beneath spectacular mountains, or walking beside the boundless ocean. As I reminisced, I noticed that in addition to churches and the plethora of flower pictures…they are such patient subjects…I had unconsciously created a fair collection of images of windows and doors.

Perhaps it was serendipity, synchronicity, or the machinations of some random internet algorithm, but just as I explored my collection of doors and windows, I came across a Facebook group with the clever name…wait for it… Doors and Windows. It’s a public group. Anyone can join, and everyone following the rules is invited to share.

Taking a break from my own photos, I was soon lost in a myriad of images from all over the world. The variety was captivating, and like eating peanuts or potato chips, I could not stop at just one. Scrolling through example after example, I found the distraction I sought. Before long, however, it wasn’t enough to simply admire the photos. I was curious to know more. I wasn’t satisfied with the photographer’s name or where the door or window was located; I began to ponder the very notion of windows and doors and why we are drawn to memorialize them in paintings, photography, and even songs. I thought I’d be taking a deep dive, and although many others have taken that plunge, it seemed after some contemplation to be a juxtaposition of the basic and the complicated, and that was in itself the answer.

Doors and windows are the physical manifestation of our lives’ duality. They represent the known and unknown, what is and what might be, welcoming and inviting, or a barrier against the outside world. We hang wreaths, add painted decorations, and sometimes post a sign or notice inviting us in or imploring us to Beware of the Dog. Bright layers of chipped paint, door frames no longer at right angles, and brass handles polished by the many hands that used them provided more opportunities for questions and reflection. I found the glorious color of stained glass in cathedral windows, the countless panes in a city of skyscrapers, and the cracked and broken glass in humble and neglected buildings equally fascinating.


Of course, try as I might, I could only ignore the inauguration and the firehose of executive orders for so long. I was overwhelmed by the rapid pace of edicts and proclamations, which was the intent. However, I was still determined to resist. The only way someone could conquer my resolve was if I was willing to let them.

Then I remembered another bovine friend from my childhood brought to life through Robert Lawson’s pen and ink illustrations in Ferdinand the Bull by Monro Leaf. While all the other little bulls like to run, jump, and butt heads together, Ferdinand loved to sit quietly and smell the flowers. Like the cows in Mr. Peterson’s field next to the school, he was content to sit in the shade, delight in the fragrant flowers, and lose himself in dreams of…well…whatever it is that bulls dream.

He paid little attention to the arrival of men looking for contestants…or victims… for the fights in Madrid. Ferdinand knew they would never choose him because he wasn’t interested in looking fierce and strong. He’d be fine, and the flowers were so inviting.

When Ferdinand accidentally sits on a bee and goes wild from the pain of the sting, the men from Madrid can’t help but take notice. They’d never seen anything like him.



When Ferdinand, the gentle bull who liked to sit quietly and smell the flowers, reached the bull ring in Madrid, he simply sat down—a common form of protest and what he did best. The story ends with him returning to his favorite tree to sit quietly and smell the flowers.


These times are scary as hell, but doors are waiting to be opened, and in a few months, flowers will bloom. I’m not ready to give in to despair. I will resist.

Flowers in the Window
Edinburgh, Scotland 2022

Finding Joy on Holy Ground

Evergreen trees are strapped to car roofs, colored lights are twinkling everywhere, Amy Grant has been singing carols since the week before Halloween, and the latest mood-making dusting of snow has my thoughts returning to the Christmas story again.


Bethlehem was crowded with people returning to their hometown to complete the paperwork demanded by the occupying Romans. The inns were overbooked; relatives had long ago filled guest rooms and even the couch in the den was taken. With limited options, Mary and Joseph were lucky to find shelter in a space usually reserved for livestock, and so it was there that Jesus was born among the cattle and placed in a manger bed.

The Holy Family I Made in High School
Used in the Christmas Morning Worship Service 2022

Most of the Nativity scenes I’ve seen over the years have been limited to Mary, Joseph, the Baby Jesus, and perhaps some shepherds, sheep, and the magi thrown in. On the other hand, the Nativity scene I saw at the Cathedral in Sorrento, Italy, this Spring is more like the vision playing in my head.

Nativity Scene in the Duomo di Sorrento Taken Through the Glass
April 2024
A Detail Provides a Closer Look
April 2024

This version presents a busy community, with life happening all around. Families and friends talking, laughing, eating, and working together, and right in the midst of it all was the Holy Family. In this portrayal, the shepherds and magi have arrived. Angels are still lingering overhead, but certainly not a multitude of the heavenly hosts. Most of the choir had already returned to heaven, but what a joyous, loving, and life-affirming portrait of people going about their daily lives together surrounded by the sacred. Perhaps that’s what it means to be standing on holy ground…ordinary people living their lives in friendship, love, cooperation, and peace.


Angels sang, shepherds marveled, and after their long journey, foreign visitors rejoiced. However, wise men from the East had an inkling that trouble was brewing in the seat of government. Herod was distressed…and all of Jerusalem with him…’King of the Jews’? Indeed! He began plotting and planning, but before taking action, he awaited a report from these wise seekers. Warned in a dream…not the most efficient form of communication in my estimation, but seemingly popular in this story nonetheless…not to go back to Herod, they returned to their own country via an alternate route.

Life Size Nativity in the Town Square
Mainz, Germany 2017`

I have heard this story countless times, yet I continue to find new messages in the relatively brief reports. This year, I am especially moved by the concept of finding joy despite adversity, oppression, and foreboding. Giving birth in a stable might create a lovely pastoral picture, but laboring on a bed of straw, with the stench of manure in the air and the lack of clean running water, is not that appealing. Mary and Joseph were in Bethlehem in the first place to facilitate the collection of taxes…not taxes that would build better roads, improve schools, or make life better for everyone; it was simply to line the pockets of the Romans. And then, of course, Herod lurked in the background…whether the main characters knew it or not…the danger was real. And yet, despite all this, the overarching theme of the Christmas story is joy…exceeding great joy!

Light In the Darkness
Kaiserburg, France 2017

For many of us, especially during holidays, grief and loss test our ability to feel joy. Ongoing wars, homelessness, hunger, climate change, and the apprehension of what may lie ahead in the coming year leave many of us with sadness and despair. It almost seems wrong to feel joy, happiness, or pleasure. How can we think of celebrating? On the other hand, how can we not?

A Small Section of the Nativity in the Cathedral
Strasbourg, France 2022

After relating a litany of simple pleasures in his poem, Sometimes, David Budbill continues,

“I am so happy I am afraid I might explode or disappear or somehow be taken away from all this, at those times when I feel so happy, so good, so alive, so in love with the world, with my own sensuous, beautiful life, suddenly I think about all the suffering and pain in the world, the agony and dying. I think about all those people being tortured, right now,
in my name.  But I still feel happy and good, alive and in love with the world and with my lucky, guilty, sensuous, beautiful life because, I know in the next minute or tomorrow all this may be taken from me, and therefore I’ve got to say, right now, what I feel and know and see, I’ve got to say, right now, how beautiful and sweet this world can be.”


None of us is promised a tomorrow. This is the day, the moment, that we have been given. It is up to us to appreciate our blessings, savor the richness of life, not give in prematurely to despair, and live it well.

Ancient Fragment in The Cathedral
Amalfi, Italy 2024

Seeking beauty and joy doesn’t mean surrendering to the world’s evils. We are still called to work for justice, live with kindness and generosity, and march, stand up, and speak out when necessary. The words of the poet Lynn Ungar give me comfort, courage, and, most significantly, direction.

“I hope that you remember that joy is an act of resistance. Pleasure and laughter and imagination are acts of resistance. Telling the truth, even in a whisper, is an act of resistance. We didn’t want to be the resistance…But here we are…There is not always a way forward that looks like what we want—justice and fairness and creation of the common good—and that’s a painful thing to wrap your mind around. But there is always a way forward that includes love.”

A Sunday School Project Still Hangs on My Tree
Made with love by daughter Jennifer in the 1970s

And so, in this season of peace, hope, and love, I will acknowledge the darkness as I seek the light and continue to quest for joy, beauty, and laughter. I will look with amazement, love, and tenderness at the faces of my children and grandchildren, just like the young mother who gave birth in a stable two thousand years ago. Like the shepherds, I will be open to mystery, surprise, and discovery if I’m brave enough to grasp them. I will be challenged by the example of the wise ones to move forward with determination and purpose toward justice and fairness, not allowing worry and dread for tomorrow to rob me of my delight in the pleasures of today.

Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day.” Henri Nouwen

Finding joy in dark times isn’t easy, but let’s pledge to make it our goal and defiant means of resistance. We can face an unknowable future if we lock arms and step onto the holy ground of our lives together in a spirit of love and compassion.

The Nijmegen Bridge

“After leaving Amsterdam, we spent the first full day in Nijmegen,” I replied when asked about my recent trip down the Rhine.

My friend responded with a shrug of her shoulders and a quizzical expression.

Not unexpectedly, she, like most Americans, was unfamiliar with this mid-sized city in The Netherlands. It was also unlikely that she knew what happened there during World War II…over eighty years ago. In all honesty, there were significant gaps in my understanding as well. So I decided it was time to do a little more investigating…to put the pieces I had into a usable context.

Nijmegen Rooftops in The City Center
December 2022

I have visited Nijmegen, the oldest Roman city in the country, several times in the past sixteen years, always approaching it from the Waal River, a branch of the Rhine. From the river, it is a short walk uphill to the market square. A few of the oldest buildings in the city center, destroyed by war, have been reconstructed alongside modern buildings and streets lined with popular businesses and shops.

The tall steeple of St. Stephens Church was heavily damaged during the war, but one Mother’s Day, I sat in the back and listened to the sparsely attended Sunday service.  Of course, the little Dutch I know didn’t help me understand much of what was transpiring, but it was a delight simply to be a member of the congregation. 

Nijmegen…St. Stephen’s Church Steeple
May 2019

On another occasion, my rudimentary Dutch language skills enabled me to have a friendly exchange with a young man selling Dutch street foods. We both smiled and were quite proud of ourselves as I successfully ordered a delicious oilebollen, warm and covered in powdered sugar. He, in turn, used his minimal English to complete the transaction.  And twice I have found myself near the Roman ruins that sit atop the hill overlooking the river. From this vantage point, there is a magnificent view of the Waal and the bridges that cross it.

The Waalbrug…Waal Bridge
December 2016

Today, there are several bridges from Nijmegen across the Waal, but in September1944, there were just two…a rail bridge and a vital road bridge; both were objectives in the ill-fated military operation known as Market Garden, the subject of the star-studded 1977 movie, A Bridge Too Far, based on the novel by Cornelius Ryan.

I don’t often watch war movies. Following the logistics is usually a challenge, and I find it upsetting to watch death, destruction, sadness, and pain as entertainment. I remember catching bits of this movie, though, some years later when my husband watched it on television. The focus of the film was reaching the final bridge in Arnhem. I remembered the tragic conclusion…but Nijmegen, I’m sorry to say…a challenge on the way to the goal…failed to register. Maybe, it just wasn’t one of the bits I saw. Then again…during the Battle of Nijmegen, there were only two reporters with the 82nd Airborne Division, and they were both busy covering the actions about 10 kilometers away on the Groesbeek Heights. Therefore, the contemporary British and American press did not pay much attention to what was happening in Nijmegen either.

I’ve since learned that Operation Market Garden was one of the most significant Allied operations of the Second World War. The goal was to secure the key bridges over three wide rivers in the Netherlands… the Maas, Waal, and Rhine… to outflank the heavy German defenses and to open a route into the heart of Germany. It was hoped that by controlling the bridges, the Allies could mount a swift advance toward Berlin and end the war before Christmas.

The Nijmegen Railway Bridge, the first bridge crossing the Waal, was built in 1879. An additional road bridge, the Waalbrug…Waal Bridge…was completed in 1939. At the time, it was the longest tied-arch bridge in Europe and was considered a remarkable feat of engineering. Unfortunately, when the Germans invaded The Netherlands in May of 1940, the bridge was demolished by the Dutch themselves to prevent the rapid advance of the Germans. It must have been heartbreaking to destroy this treasure. During the occupation, the Dutch were forced to rebuild the bridge, which reopened in 1943.

The Waalbrug
Photo credit: Pixabay

The occupation was hard enough, but on February 20th, 1944, due to terrible miscalculations, the Allies dropped bombs intended for the Germans on the city center of Nijmegen, killing almost 800 citizens. After years of suffering, nearly seven months to the day after the bombing disaster, the inhabitants of Nijmegen found themselves at the center of one of the war’s deadliest battles.

Nijmegen September 1944
Historic Photo Public Domain

It took nearly four days and hundreds of lives…both military and civilian, for the Allies to secure the bridge, putting the daring but tenuous plan critically behind schedule. Finally, on September 20th, twenty-six ill-equipt, collapsible canvas boats were launched in a final attempt to secure the bridge’s northern side. Due to previous delays and the imperative to take the bridge, the crossing was made in broad daylight. The smoke laid down as cover was blown away by the wind, and the men, some using only their rifle butts as oars, were sitting ducks. Of the twenty-six boats launched, sixteen made it across the river, laying phone lines and establishing communications.

Still Photo from A Bridge Too Far

Operation Market Garden is considered a colossal failure. The audacious proposal was not well thought-out, and preparations were hurried and lacking. The entire undertaking was doomed to failure from the very beginning. To make matters worse, everything that could possibly go wrong…did. The final objective…reaching and holding the bridge in Arnhem, would prove beyond reach. Given the timing, the weather, and the resources, it was simply a bridge too far. The massive loss of life and equipment made this operation one of the most costly in the war.


However, for the people in Nijmegen, Eindhoven, and the other small villages the Allies passed through on the way to Arnhem; this battle was about liberation and freedom. The Dutch celebrated these four days as joyful deliverance and continued to mark September 17th…the day of the Allies’ arrival…for many years.

How does one measure success in war? What is an acceptable cost? How many lost lives are bearable? Who can claim victory when everyone loses? Will the next generation remember the sacrifice? Will it even matter when decades hence they’re drinking beer together after a soccer match?


Brig. General James Gavin : So that's it. We're pulling them out. It was Nijmegen.
Lt. Colonel J.O.E. Vandeleur : It was the single road getting to Nijmegen.
Lt. General Horrocks : No, it was after Nijmegen.
Lt. General Frederick "Boy" Browning : And the fog, in England.
Maj. General Stanislaw Sosabowski : Doesn't matter what it was. When one man says to another, "I know what let's do today, let's play the war game."... everybody dies.

A Bridge Too Far, 1977, Conclusion of film

Last month as I walked the Waalstraat along the river, I saw nothing to indicate the lives lost during those four days in ’44. Instead, there is life… restaurants, apartments, and even a casino and pancake house line the shore…and the Waal bridge less than 500 yards away…still standing and intact, a silent witness, bravely arching across the water.


De Oversteek at Sunset
Photo credit: Pixabay

In 2013, a new bridge was opened across the Waal…‘De Oversteek Bridge…The Crossing’. The bridge is near the launch site of those canvas boats and is dedicated to the 48 American paratroopers killed in the attempt. The bridge is lined with 48 pairs of streetlights illuminated each evening at sunset, one by one at the pace of a slow march. Each night a veteran makes a silent march across the bridge in step with the lights. Others often join them following one simple rule. The march is done in silence and respect for these 48 among the thousands who gave their lives during this campaign.

If my path once again finds me in Nijmegen, I’m pretty sure I will find a way to join this silent procession.


My pacifistic beliefs are often challenged, and I admit to being very conflicted at times. I hate war…the despair, the loss, and the utter futility…but paradoxically, I also believe we need to support those fighting in Ukraine. I am rather pessimistic that we’ll ever find another way and that war and hate will be a thing of the past, but I find hope in the small everyday acts of kindness, love, compassion, and the quest for understanding as we keep trying to realize a way to peace.


Flowing Like a River

“Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.” 

Henry Van Dyke

Last December, I received two gorgeous calendars as Christmas gifts. I’m sure that each was chosen primarily for the stunningly beautiful artwork as well as for their practicality and function. I generally use the calendar on my laptop or my phone, but holding a paper calendar is an experience not equaled by a glowing screen. For in addition to the colorful prints and the monthly grid of empty squares, you literally hold in your hands the promise and potentiality of another trip around the sun…three hundred sixty-five days of possibilities. A pretty wonderful gift, I’d say. I am confident that fewer calendars are ahead of me than behind me, so I think a lot about how I’ll fill those empty squares.

The February page reminds me that my mom’s birthday is fast approaching. One of my childhood friends shared her birthdate with my mom. “Gee,” Fran exclaimed on one of those birthdays years ago. “We’re getting old. I mean, we’re pushing thirty!” That year, my mother was precisely twice her age. Mom was forty-two years, and Fran…and I… were merely twenty-one. With Fran’s mathematical logic, I suppose we are both pushing eighty this year! How quickly a lifetime has passed.

Time, flowing like a river.
Time, beckoning me.
Who knows when we shall meet again, if ever.
But time keeps flowing like a river into the sea.
-Alan Parson’s Project, Time
Flowing Like a River
Near Pitlochry, Scotland 2021

For more than two years, our lives have been ruled in one way or another by Covid-19. While the memories of the terrible isolation and loneliness I experienced during the lock-down and waiting for the vaccine are fading, I’m still wearing a mask in public and avoiding being too close to others. I also weigh the risks and benefits of activities I once took for granted. Now, for example, I consider whether the hoops of fire through which I must jump are worth the reward of travel…one of my favorite activities. Like everyone, I have a finite number of trips and adventures left on my calendar, but not knowing how many pages are left increases my desire to fill each square with meaning. At times I have wanted to whine and cry about what Covid has stolen from me, but as I grieve my losses, I know that the entire planet is filled with people who have sacrificed so much more than I. Of course, I empathize with their loss, but that doesn’t negate mine. It’s painful.

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo.”So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” 

― J.R.R.TOLKIEN, THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING
River Dochart Just Beyond the Falls
Killin, Scotland 2021

I’ve been searching for the word that best describes my Covid experience…two opposing ideas that both are seemingly true. I’m not sure if ‘paradox‘ is that word, but it comes close. Covid was and remains a callous, nondiscriminating thief of time. The list of treasures stolen is long, universal, and personal. (Universally personal…an ‘oxymoron.’ That one I know.) Graduations, weddings, even funerals became solitary events, if they occurred at all. Trips, plays, ball games, and family gatherings were put on hold or canceled outright. Connections with friends…old and new…even worship services were relegated to Zoom or Facetime. The precious time that we lost can never be regained.

If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I'd like to do
Is to save every day 'til eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you
-Jim Croce, Time in a Bottle

Yes, Covid was a robber that took that which was most precious…bits and pieces of our lives. On the other hand…this marauder left behind unexpected blessings. The virus grabbed cherished time with one hand and bestowed the gift of time with the other. Paradox?

We had quiet time to think, read, write, and simply rest in isolation. Without other obligations and distractions, family Zoom gatherings became a weekly highlight enabling us to empathize, support, laugh, and connect from across the country. With worship services on Zoom, Facebook, or Youtube, we could attend when and wherever we chose. On the second Easter of Covid, I attended a United Methodist service in South Carolina, my local Unitarian Universalist Fellowship gathering in Michigan, the service in Montpelier, Vermont, and at the UU Meeting House in Provincetown. Later in the day, when a friend on Facebook suggested I check out the message from her church in Pennsylvania, I fast-forwarded to the sermon. I’m not especially religious, but…I had the time and absolutely nothing else on my calendar. The gift of time… enjoyed with a handful of jelly beans.

Sylvan Solace on the Chippewa River
Fall 2021
"Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin' Into the future"
-Steve Miller Band Fly Like an Eagle

As the Covid situation morphs yet again into what seems like a more manageable and less devastating phase, I…like many, many others, am beginning to think about how I can add plans to those calendar pages. I’ve purchased airline tickets, booked a Christmas river cruise, selected plays I’m hoping to see, and registered for the Arts Retreat on Star Island. Will all of those adventures come to fruition? Who knows, but I’m moving forward in faith that they will.

“Do not wait: the time will never be ‘just right’. Start where you stand, and work whatever tools you may have at your command and better tools will be found as you go along.”

― Napoleon Hill
Mill Pond Park, Mt Pleasant, MI
August 2021

I remember one of my teachers trying to explain the concept of time and our perception of it. “A minute with your sweetheart goes by in a flash, while a minute on a hot stove is unbearable.” It feels as though time is picking up the pace while I’m slowing down.

The clock is ticking, and I’m crossing off boxes on my calendars at an alarming rate. With each passing day, I am reminded that this is my time…our time. In the words of Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption, “Get busy living or get busy dying.” So, I’m taking out my pen, grabbing a calendar, filling the squares with plans, and riding with the current to the sea.

Driving in the Rain with Patsy

“Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.”

Unknown
Newfound Gap Road, Great Smoky Mountains National Park
August 2021

There had been a brief shower earlier in the day, but as we entered The Great Smoky Mountain National Park we were greeted with glorious blue skies filled with brilliant, white, fluffy clouds. Scheduling conflicts, limited time, and mobility challenges kept us on the Newfound Gap Road through the park, but we enjoyed what we could see from the car and stopped briefly at the occasional scenic overlook to grab a snap or two. All in all…it was a splendid afternoon.

As we exited the park onto the streets of Gatlinburg, Tennesee, the mood of those happy clouds suddenly began to shift. A smattering of raindrops eventually became an unexpected torrent. In an instant, buckets of water were thrown against my windshield. I was forced to slow down while the wipers worked furiously to keep my field of vision open. I compensated for limited visibility by following the truck in front of me and keeping my eyes on the white line at the edge of the highway. A few drivers pulled over to the shoulder to wait for the storm to pass, but most slowly and cautiously continued. I was among those who chose to simply press on.

Rain on the Windshield
photo credit: Pixabay

In June, with COVID infections declining and vaccination rates climbing we greeted friends in person, basked in the sunshine of possibilities, and were illuminated by the light at the end of the tunnel. We were once again busy making plans and looking toward the future with joy and optimism. The sudden storm of the Delta variant coupled with vaccine hesitancy abruptly changed everything. Overnight, masks were once again being required, social distancing and limiting contacts were returning even for those fully vaccinated. Plans that we’d thought possible in the spring were being reevaluated. Would we pull over onto the shoulder and wait it out, cancel everything, and prepare for another winter of isolation, or would we…could we…move forward slowly following the safety guidelines, weighing the risk-benefit of our choices…but moving forward nevertheless

“Pandora’s box had been opened and monsters had come out. But there had been something hidden at the bottom of Pandora’s box. Something wonderful…Hope.”

Lisa Marie Rice, “Breaking Danger”

When I met Patsy, in the spring of 2020, I had no idea of just how interconnected our lives would become. One of my few outings that spring was to visit a local nursery. By the time I was brave enough to venture out, most of the plants had been picked over. “Here’s a hanging basket you might like,” suggested the proprietor. He was right. She was a beauty. At first, I thought Patsy might have been called…Bea…you know…for Begonia…but she insisted that she was Patsy.

Throughout the spring, summer, and into the fall, I admired her cheerful nature and delighted in the fact that another living thing depended on me. She gave me purpose. I’m not a gardener, but I kept her watered, fed, and deadheaded until I heard it…that dreaded word…frost! Perhaps Patsy knew that she was an ‘annual’ doomed to die at the end of the season, but I didn’t. I just couldn’t allow my companion to be killed by frost, so I welcomed her inside.

She dropped leaves, became very spindly, and seldom blossomed. I kept her safe inside and she brought me hope. We were both merely trying to hang on, and together we did. As long as Patsy kept turning her leaves to the light, I could too.

The Deck…A Very Happy Place
August 2021

“They say a person needs just three things to be truly happy in this world: something to love, something to do, and something to hope for.”

Tom Bodett…and others

Patsy made it through the winter and the chilly days of early spring to rein this summer as the queen and wise woman of my deck. Instead of her life ending last fall, we both hung on to the hope that life would get better, full of color and blossoms once again. I smile at her every day and I’m relatively sure she smiles back.

I have begun, as a matter of self-care, to limit the amount of time I spend watching the news. It doesn’t seem to be the usual pattern of ups and downs. Lately, it’s just all downs. There is fear, sadness, and loss on many fronts, but there are still reasons to be hopeful. When I have doubts…Patsy is there to remind me.

My Friend, Patsy
August 2021

“This fourth wave is really devastating,” my daughter said. “You need to prepare for the possibility of another winter of isolation. Do you have a plan?”

“I’ve thought about it,” I replied. “I’ve decided that my plan is to be…as much as possible…positive and hopeful. No matter what lies ahead I must approach it with hope. Not hope for anything specific…just expectation and anticipation of a better future.”

“Hope reduces feelings of helplessness, increases happiness, reduces stress, and improves our quality of life.

Extern.org

“Yes,” she continued. But you should still think about what worked for you before and what didn’t and prioritize what you want or need to do before the snow flies. Remember, just because you hope for something that doesn’t make it happen.”

“I am open and I am willing. To be hopeless would seem so strange. It dishonors those who go before us, so lift me up to the light of change.”

Holly Near, ” I Am Willing”

Faith can move mountains, but only if you get out there with a shovel and what Jennifer said was true. I need to at least consider the possibility of another winter of isolation. Maybe even make a plan…but perhaps that’s what hope is all about…anticipating, expecting, and visualizing a favorable outcome… and then moving in that direction.

I could pull off the road, grab some ditch-munchies from the backseat and wait for the storm to pass…a perfectly acceptable choice…cognizant that along with the possibility of sun, there is also the potential for wind and hail..or…to keep my tires on the road, hands firmly on the wheel, and imagine driving slowly out of the storm. Of course, I may be forced onto the verge at some point…the road may flood, the bridge washout, or I might simply run out of gas. I’ll deal with that if I have to, but for now, I will continue cautiously…mask at the ready…in the direction of my dreams, encouraged by Patsy and her steadfast hope for another summer in the sun.

I may not be as positive, optimistic, or brave in the coming days…but I’ll still cling steadfastly to hope until I feel those things again.

Masking Up

“Wear a mask.”

Dr. Anothny Fauci, CNN Interview, May 21, 2020
Masks Now Have Their Own Container

Almost exactly…one of my favorite oxymorons…one year ago, the entire world went into isolation. Suddenly, we could no longer visit friends and family, gather in church on Sunday morning, or cross the border into Canada. “I have a feeling we won’t be doing this for a while,” said my sister, Kelly, as we enjoyed her fabulous Friday night pizza together. That night we had no way of knowing just how prophetic her words would be. Now, just one day shy of an entire trip around the sun, we will complete the two-week wait after our second dose of the COVID-19 vaccine. We’re still anticipating more guidelines from the CDC regarding what we can and cannot do after we’re vaccinated, but we know that sharing pizza and a glass of wine will be in our future once again soon.

The First Mask…Bandana and Rubber Bands
April 3rd, 2020

” He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock, That shadows a dry thirsty land; He hideth my life in the depth of His love, And covers me there with His Hand, And covers me there with His hand.”

William James Kirpatrick and Fanny Crosby, He Hideth My Soul

I grew up in a small town in central, rural Michigan. Our neighborhood, full of kids, exemplified the post World War II Baby Boom. On warm summer evenings, it was common for a large group to join in games of Hide and Go Seek or one of its variations.  The coming darkness and the element of suspense that it provided enhanced every game. The street light on the corner of our yard was often home base.  The person who was “It” would cover their eyes and count.  5, 10, 15, 20——85, 90, 95, 100 Apple, Peaches, Pumpkin Pie. Who’s not ready holler I…Ready or not.  Here I come.  The rest of us would seek a safe place to hide…to take shelter…all the time wondering if the place we had chosen was good enough.  Could we be seen?  Would we be found out?  Could we tag home without being caught?  I don’t know when I discovered it, but I found that there was the perfect hiding spot behind the shrubs beneath my parents’ bedroom window. The way into this hidey-hole was tricky, but once there it was almost impossible to be seen.  I remember the smell of the piney branches and the damp earth as I waited for the seeker to move far enough away from the base to allow me to slip out, run, and tag myself free.  I used the protection of my sanctuary over and over with great success.  One evening however one of the younger kids…they were almost all younger kids…was in a panic. 55-60-65-70. She didn’t know where to hide.  The seeker would soon turn and discover her.  I watched…but made my decision within seconds. How could I have enjoyed the safety I’d found if I’d watched her be tagged out?  I leaned out from behind the bushes far enough to be seen as I beckoned her towards my hiding place.  Not in a cleft in the rock like the old hymn, but certainly a cleft in the shrubs. There was room for both of us…85-90-95-100.…we were both safe.  We were both free.

Tie-on Style
Thanks Bettie

“I don’t want to live in the kind of world where we don’t look out for each other. Not just the people that are close to us, but anybody who needs a helping hand. I can’t change the way anybody else thinks, or what they choose to do, but I can do my bit.” 

Charles de lint

Now that I am almost fully vaccinated the chances of me contracting the virus are small and the chances of getting serious illness and dying are almost nil, but the jury is still out regarding whether or not I can spread the disease to others. I have found my place of refuge, but many family members and friends remain unprotected. Strangers on the street or pushing carts down the aisles of the grocery store are still desperately seeking the safety that I have found. So until they can tag home without being caught I continue to wear my mask, wash, sanitize and remain socially distant.

On the Dunes at Lake Michigan
August 2020

“If you’re not making someone else’s life better, then you’re wasting your time. Your life will become better by making other lives better.” 

Will Smith

Yes, I do what I can to keep others safe, but I didn’t reach this safe harbor, where I’m presently mooring my boat, completely on my own. This past year there were unnamed others taking risks…leaning out…to keep me safe. When the threat was high, others collected and delivered groceries right to my door. The mail carrier, those who provide my WiFi service, the truck drivers for UPS and Fed Ex, the magicians that keep Zoom working, and the myriad strangers who masked-up have all made it possible for me to remain behind the lines in this battle.

Standing Up for LGBTQ and Fighting Disease…a Multitasking Mask
Thanks Jen.

For me, continuing to wear the mask is simply an act of gratitude, compassion, and reciprocity. Yet, I am often overcome with an almost overwhelming feeling of connection and grace when I see others wearing masks too. It is something we do for each other. It is truly a physical manifestation of love, hope, and kindness.

“Remember there’s no such thing as a small act of kindness. Every act creates a ripple with no logical end.”

Scott Adams

On the other hand, we’re all sick of wearing these darn things and are really ready to go maskless again, even as we acknowledge that the game’s not quite over and that this isn’t the time to give them the ol’ heave-ho. 75, 80, 85, 90. After all, no one wants to be tagged out in the final minutes of the game.

A couple years ago, on a trip with my friend, Anne, we found ourselves in a small Alsatian village often frequented by tourists…which of course we were at the time. At my suggestion, we ventured into a Kathe Wohlfahrt shop. I wanted a closer look at some of the Erzgebirge folk art I had seen in the window. Inside it was jam-packed with Christmas decorations and all things German. I suppose we could have turned around and walked back out after the first quick look from the door, but once inside it was too late. We soon discovered that the store had been set up in such a way that forced patrons to wend their way past all the displays on a winding path through the entire store. Bad choice on my part. Sorry, Anne. We could only move as fast as the people in front of us and the option of a retreat was negated by the people behind us. There was no other way out, but to go through the entire store.

“Lord, how long? As long as it takes to get me there. Going down to go up, Approaching heaven via hell, No other way. The only way out is through.”

Kathy Fuson Hurt, The Way Out

Until all of us have received the gift of hope in a syringe, the only real way out of this pandemic is to keep moving forward, moving through what lies ahead, providing safety for those still waiting, and avoiding “it” until we can all tag home together.

So…In case you were wondering, I’m still masking up.

Life in The Chrysalis

We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.

Maya Angelou

Tucked in amid the profusion of perennials that surround my sister’s house you will find a huge milkweed plant. Often relegated to roadside ditches or borders along the back-forty, milkweed is dwindling in number along with the Monarch butterflies who spend their caterpillar phase living and feasting on the host plant’s bright green leaves.  This particular milkweed did not suddenly appear in my sister Kelly’s garden unbidden and unannounced. It was planted and nurtured there with intention; an invitation to passing Monarchs looking for a place to lay their eggs. “Please, come. Land here. We want you in our neighborhood.” The hardy plant grew tall and strong, full of broad leaves, but not a single Monarch flew by to check out the menu or the accommodations.

Finally…a couple weeks ago, my sister, called to say that she had discovered a Monarch caterpillar feasting on the milkweed. “Come on out. You’ve got to see it,” she implored with great excitement. “It’s amazing.” So, with my mask in place and observing social distancing, I  went to watch this remarkable little fella sprint from the bottom of the stalk up toward the buds of the blossom at the top.  He was a voracious eater and quite the little gymnast.

The First to Arrive (Photo: Kelly Daab Green)

Then, just as suddenly as he appeared he was gone.  Apparently, Monarch caterpillars are considered a delicacy by the Orioles who nest nearby. Kelly was heartbroken as she imagined her little friend being the main course at an Oriole summer picnic. Perhaps, however,  her striped buddy had escaped the birds and traveled to find a more safe and secure place to construct his chrysalis. Monarchs will often hike as far as ten meters in search of the perfect spot, but whatever his fate…lunch or location…he was no longer present on her milkweed.

In the coming days, she searched the remaining leaves, waiting and willing another caterpillar to appear on her special plant, vowing that if she found other she’d bring it in and rear it, keeping it safe from predators. No one came.

Imagine her joy when days later, while exploring the back fields near her rural home, providence placed her right next to another milkweed where a beautiful orange and black queen of the sky rested quietly on a leaf. As she watched, the regal butterfly appeared to shudder slightly, pause and then fly quickly away leaving behind a very tiny, cream-colored egg. Once she knew where to look and what to look for, Kelly found many more of these pearl-like spheres no larger than the head of a pin.

Led by Providence (Photo: Kelly Daab Green)

Originally, Kelly had hoped to watch a single caterpillar progress from larva to pupa and then butterfly; instead, my little sister was rapidly becoming a Militant Monarch Mama caring for her tiny charges as they grew, and she learned more about how to nurture, protect, and defend her growing army of caterpillars.

Humans have always been drawn to butterflies. It is mesmerizing to watch one of the delicate, winged creatures flit from flower to flower, gathering nectar, knowing that our momentary pleasure will end too soon as they hurry off toward the next stop on some ancient instinctual travel plan. The way butterflies float and drift on the currents, alighting momentarily just beyond reach, is magical. Our eyes trace their carefree journey across the sky, and we marvel that such fragile wings can carry them about the clouds.

On the Migratory Path, Vinalhaven, Maine, October 2019

Of course, there are many dangers and obstacles that threaten our wee friends…lack of habitat, climate change, rain, dust, pesticides, and birds… but these flying Buddhists don’t worry about such things and are not troubled by thoughts of the future. Always living in the present moment, their short lives are unencumbered by responsibilities and are filled with beauty and freedom.

One early evening a few nights later, I heard the ding on my phone alerting me that I had a message. I was delighted to receive an update complete with photos. There on the screen was a close-up of a small, silky, green chrysalises and a buddy about to create one of his own. Two of Kelly’s charges were one step closer to becoming butterflies.

Caterpillar to Chrysalis (Photo: Kelly Daab Green)

Watching a lowly caterpillar snake off his jester’s garb and shimmy into a silky green changing booth only to emerge dressed in the bright orange raiment of a sovereign, it’s easy to understand why butterflies often symbolize the soul, transformation, or rebirth. Their metamorphosis is the epitome of second chances and new beginnings.

While there are many references to caterpillars and butterflies, when discussing change and transition, I find little mention of the chrysalis or the time spent within it. What’s going on in there? How does a caterpillar grow wings? Biologists have studied the changes that occur within this hidden realm, but to the casual observer…people like me…it remains mysterious and miraculous.

I wonder if the caterpillar was surprised to find that it was slowly twisting and turning itself into the strange vessel that was to be its new home. Does he have an idea of how long he’ll be hanging there or why or what he’s supposed to be doing? Does he know that he is in the world, yet secluded from it?

No. Probably not.

“The caterpillar does not become a butterfly by telling everybody it has wings. It actually buries itself in darkness and grows those wings.”

C. JoyBell C.

Lately, I have had the feeling that I, too, am living in a kind of chrysalis…isolated, waiting, expecting, and hoping for change.  How long will this last? Will I emerge better and stronger? Will I find wings with which to fly? Will my former life on the milkweed be recognizable when I reemerge into a post-COVID-19 world? Some things, when they change, never do return to the way they once were, and butterflies reassure us that that can be a good thing.

“When you find yourself cocooned in isolation and you cannot find your way out of darkness…Remember, this is similar to the place where caterpillars go to grow their wings.”

Nicole Stephens

And so…we wait.

We hope.

We remind ourselves that even life inside a chrysalis is a gift.

A few days after the first two chrysalises appeared, Kelly sent me another text message with yet another picture of her two charges. I had no idea that with time a small, silky, green chrysalis would become so amazingly beautiful.

Gold and Jewel Tones (Photo: Kelly Daab Green)

And…it would continue to change before the butterfly would break free and unfold its wings.

Almost Time to Break Free (Photo: Kelly Daab Green)

Like butterflies, we have the power to modify our own chrysalises. Yes, it’s true we’re still confined by limitations, but it is amazing the many ways we are finding to bring beauty, connection, and joy into our lives? We attend family gatherings over Zoom; we live stream theatre and comedy shows; we create virtual choirs; we visit friends at a distance of at least six feet; we spend time outdoors; and we use our eyes to smile at strangers over our masks.

Not all chrysalis hatch, you know. Sometimes they are destroyed or eaten or just don’t make it. Nothing is guaranteed. Let’s not wait for our wings. Our life is now.

Before he took flight, the first glorious Monarch to emerge landed briefly on a milkweed blossom Kelly held in her hand. He paused for a few sips of nectar and a momentary fluttering of his wings in gratitude and affection…I think. Then knowing that he could…he flew away.

“Sweet freedom whispered in my ear, you’re a butterfly. And butterflies are free to fly. Fly away. High Away. Bye. Bye”

Bernie Taupin and Elton John, “Someone Saved My Life Tonight”
And Butterfly Are Free to Fly (Photo: Steve Forsgren)

A special thank you to my sister, Kelly Daab Green, for sharing her adventure with me and for allowing me to share it with you.

Crossing The Threshold

I’m a dweller on the threshold, And I’m waiting at the door, And I’m standing in the darkness, I don’t want to wait no more…I will walk out of the darkness. And I’ll walk into the light. I will sing the song of ages, And the dawn will end the night.”

Van Morrison, from Dweller on the Threshold
Crossing the Threshold
Star Island

The entire world is standing on the threshold…the narrow place between the world as we knew it just a few months ago and the world as it is becoming.  We watch as other states rush to open and we wonder when or even if we can safely return to activities we once took for granted.  So many questions.

On St. Patrick’s Day, 2019, I was on my way to church when I slipped on the ice and broke my ankle. At the time I was living in a two-hundred-year-old, cape cod house in New England. My house had plenty of character complete with sloping floors,, small doorways, and uneven transitions between the rooms. 

I never mastered crutches, so until I could be given a walking cast my mode of transportation through the house was a knee scooter. One knee and lower leg would rest on the padded seat of the scooter, the other leg provided stability and power and I had handlebars for steering. I got pretty good at making wide turns, moving on the straightaway, and even backing up. The challenge, however, came when I needed to cross the very uneven threshold between one room and another. I really had to concentrate and plan my actions so that I moved the scooter forward without putting it or me off balance. Sometimes this also involved carefully lifting the front wheels slightly off the ground, over the wooden boards, and then setting the scooter back on the floor. Occasionally, it was necessary to rest briefly before repeating the process and moving the rear wheels over the obstacle and into the adjacent room.

Crossing a threshold…literally or figuratively… involves moving from where we are into where we will be. For now, we find ourselves sheltering in place, and much like my knee scooter, we remain directly on the threshold…waiting to make the transition from life before the virus to life after. Eventually, we will cross the space between known and unknown, until then, however, we can only guess at what lies ahead.

Waiting on the Threshold
Lower level in St Peter’s Dom, Trier

Many of us find this condition unsettling, uncomfortable and our equilibrium is off-kilter. No one enjoys being in a state of limbo, but perhaps we could consider this resting on the threshold experience as an unexpected gift. A gift of time that we can use to catch our breath from the abrupt change in our lives, plan our actions for the days ahead, evaluate what we really want to keep and what we have learned to live without.

Although we are together in this space between beginning and ending some of us have had our engines running at full speed…teachers, parents, essential workers, and those working from home have not had the benefit of a little breath-catching time. The unanswered question of when, if, and how things will return to something familiar is an unwelcome complication and an additional stress for all of us, but especially for these folks.

Moving forward…getting all our wheels on the same plane…is going to take courage, bravery, and a good deal of faith.  “Thresholds are dangerous places, “ says Alix E. Harrow. “neither here nor there, and walking across one is like stepping off the edge of a cliff in the naive faith that you’ll sprout wings halfway down. You can’t hesitate, or doubt,” he says.  You can’t fear the in-between.”

The In-between
Montreal, 2019

None of us is sure how long we’ll be staying in this in-between…it would be so much easier if we did… but already we have begun to inch our way toward the other side. Until we sprout wings lets stand on the solid ground of where we are, pull on our big kid pants, lace up our shoes and put one foot in front of the other and step out in faith toward the other side. The length of our stride isn’t important. It’s that we just take those steps and keep on moving forward.

George Harrison of the Beatles once said of Elvis Presley that although they were devoted fans and his music was a great influence on their work, The Beatles always felt sorry for him, because he was alone and they had each other. They had their mates. Everything is better with a mate or two by your side and this pandemic is no exception, but even those of us who have been sheltering in place solo are more like The Beatles than Elvis. We’re all full of trepidation as we stand on this unique threshold, but we are not standing alone. We are making this journey into the future…taking tiny steps toward the other side…with neighbors, family, friends, and many helpful strangers…supporting each other with love and walking side by side. We’ll get through this together. When we support each other we find we are supporting ourselves as well.

Walking With Grandpa
Cochem, 2019

One of my friends, said recently, that we can’t really cross a threshold until we can imagine what lies on the other side. It seems that lately when I imagine what might lie ahead the soundtrack is similar to one of those movie scenes where the intensity of the horns and strings gradually increase and you hold your breath as the suspense builds until you find yourself shouting at the screen trying to warn the protagonist…”Get away! Get away! And for God’s sake, don’t open that door!” But…sometimes imagining what’s under the bed is much worse than the dirty socks that got kicked under there in the first place.

It’s also true that sometimes amazing adventures are simply beyond our imagining. Could Lucy have imagined Narnia as she pushed her way towards the back of the wardrobe or Alice imagine the adventure at the bottom of the rabbit hole? And remember, in the movie version, it wasn’t until she landed in Oz that Dorothy found color

The Dublin-based creative agency, The Tenth Man created a moving video called The Phoenix. It offers hope and an important reminder that this crisis will not last forever. We will cross the threshold. It will end.

“When this will all end we will be reunited, so now, just for a minute, let’s imagine it. The moment you’ll hear that voice again. See that face again Feel that embrace again. And we will embrace, the old, the young the family, the friends, friendly rivals, the rival rivals those you wouldn’t have thought twice about touching before and we will cry Oh, we will cry. Fat hot wet tears will roll down our faces as we hold each other tight and for far too long because when this will all end it won’t feel right to ever let go again. And when this will all end you’ll ask me to dance and I will say yes let’s dance.  Let’s dance for the dawn of a new world, for those we love, for those we’ve lost, for another chance and you’ll put on your red shoes and dance my blues away and as we sway you’ll look In my eyes at my soul reviving, burning, arising,  And those fat hot wet tears will fall and we will never ever forget it and we will never ever let go again. And this, this will all end.”

Yes, This will all end and we will find ourselves on the other side of the threshold until then we’ll just put one foot in front of the other and move slowly toward the other side.

Originally shared with the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Central Michigan, Mt Pleasant, Michigan

May 10th, 2020

From the Inside Looking Out

“Your desire to be near to a window is your desire to be close to life!” 

― Mehmet Murat ildan
Invercargill, New Zealand

Recently messages flooded my Facebook newsfeed wishing me a Happy Easter. Three of these greetings stood out from the others and really gave me pause. One was translated from Italian, another from Dutch, and the third came in Polish. For some reason, those brief Paschal blessings sent from friends around the world suddenly made our shared condition of sheltering in place real for me. Of course, like you, I had seen pictures of the eerily empty streets of Rome, London, and New York and I understood that the world had come to a halt in the abstract, but those words of hope and rebirth came not from nameless statistics, but from people with whom I had shared hugs, meals, and laughter, people who were now, in their own countries safely ensconced in the safety of their homes. The worldwide lockdown was suddenly concrete and very real. Across the globe, people are staying inside, wearing masks and keeping a distance of six feet as we connect socially through Facetime, Facebook, and Zoom. We go out only when necessary and watch the change of season from our windows.

Throughout history, people have been forced to take refuge in confined spaces for safety. I think of my ancestor, Hugh Trueman, who made the journey from Londonderry to Philadelphia safely below deck on the barque Bradshaw in 1839; I remember too, huddling in the northwest corner of the basement for what seemed like hours as tornado sirens blared; and we know many stories of Jews who went into hiding during the Holocaust, but never has there been a time in human history when so many people are sheltering in place at the same time. This truly is a singularly extraordinary time.

Lamps in lonely windows are symbols of connection. Each lamp illumines an area of the dark, and all lamps together create the community of light, sign of the human family, casting light abroad…beaming this message: ‘We who lit these lamps are brothers and sisters!’

Kenneth L. Patton

My sister recently recommended a group on Facebook…View From My Window…where individuals in self-isolation around the globe share photos of what they see when looking out. The images are as varied as the people who post them. This morning I saw views of snowcovered mountains in Norway and sunny coral colored courtyards in Morocco. There are glorious views of oceans, lakes, and rivers and urban vistas of rooftops, metal, and sky. Some people see colorful gardens full of flowers and birds, while others view bare twisted branches that hold only the promise of blossoms and leaves. Photos come from skyscrapers in Dubai, brick-red villages in Africa, and small quintessentially American towns across the mid-west. Whether grand or humble the person posting always finds something to appreciate about the view, perhaps simply because it is home. It is where they are hunkered down, finding refuge, and comfort, marking the days as we weather the storm together.

Seeing the view from the various windows reminded me of the trip Dave and I took in 1999 from Fairbanks, Alaska south through the inside passage. Choosing which type of cabin to book for the ocean portion of our trip was a challenge. As you may know, cabins are classified by where they are on the ship and the size of the window. We knew that we wanted an outside cabin with a view and, although much less appealing, we concluded that a room with a single, small porthole probably best suited our budget at the time. Dave, in charge of making the initial deposit on the trip, headed off to the travel agent with a checkbook in hand. Upon his return, he confessed that he had upgraded our cabin to one with a much bigger window. “I just couldn’t justify being in Alaska and not being able to see it,” he said. He was right. We happily spent a bit more money and were able to enjoy the scenery without taking turns on tiptoe at the porthole.

This pandemic has made it abundantly clear that we are fellow passengers on this beautiful Blue Boat Home of ours. Yes, we’re all stuck in port on the same boat, but we are not all on the same deck. Some of us are comfortable on the upper deck, drinking our Mai Tais and wondering when we will be able to use our travel vouchers from canceled trips, whether the theatre will honor our unused tickets, or when we can stroll the aisles of garden centers, bookstores, and other small shops. Everyone is concerned about getting sick but not all of us have to worry about health insurance or whether we can pay our utility bill. There are still others on this journey whose only view is from the porthole and many, many more who have no window at all not to mention the hands sweating below deck working tirelessly to keep the ship afloat.

Between the light and darkness, we dwell, knowing both joy beyond measure and trouble beyond imagining. Keep us as we would keep each other, knowing that we belong together and that when we walk through the valley of shadows we need not do so alone.

Burton Carley, With or Without Candlelight: A Meditation Anthology
Sheltering in Place, View from my porch, Mt Pleasant, Michigan

As we hunker down and try to find equilibrium in our new normal let’s fling open our windows to the world beyond our own walls, allowing light and love to wash over us, reminding us that we are definitely not alone and until we can find the tools and precious glass to construct more windows let’s also remember with caring, compassion, and gratitude those on the decks below.

I Need a Technicolor Coat

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar”

Probably not…Sigmund Freud

As a student, I struggled with the use of symbolism. I understood the concept but just couldn’t seem to recognize it in the text. If by some miracle I did realize that the author was using that technique I seldom had a clue what it meant or what message was hidden there. How reassuring when in a master’s level seminar, after the class had spent over an hour prying all the possible symbolic meanings from The Old Man and The Sea our professor warned, “Remember don’t get too caught up in symbolism. Sometimes it’s just about a fishing trip.”

Ducks at Chip-a-Waters Park, 2020

Shortly after my mother died, I began to have a reoccurring dream. It returned night after night. In the dream, I’d grab my computer or my phone and in panic and terror, I would plead a desperate warning: “Don’t delete the program! Be careful. Don’t hit the wrong key. Don’t delete the program! Just don’t delete the program.”

If dreams are merely stories we tell our unconscious selves why did I keep repeating this one? Knowing my struggle with symbolism I surprised myself by how quickly I came to understand the message of this nighttime vision. It seemed obvious. The program I didn’t want to delete was my mother.

The dream returned when Dave died.

It came again last week.

I woke myself up in the middle of the night, grabbed my cellphone and had it in my hands trying to find which keys I needed to push when I realized that I was once again in the dream and there was nothing I could do to keep the program from self-deleting. The symbolism had changed only slightly. It was not my mother or my husband I was trying to keep from slipping away; it was my life as it had been before COVID-19 snatched it from my grasp.

I recalled the dream the next morning when I was fully awake and had to admit that in many ways I am right back in the early stages of grief. This time, of course, I’m not alone with my private pain. This time the entire world is collectively grieving. Each of us, whether we acknowledge it or not is in one of Katherine Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief…denial, anger, bargaining, depression or acceptance.

Being sequestered in my home, I see grief being manifested in the roller coaster ride of posts on social media. Friends share silly videos, humorous graphics, and uplifting messages of hope one minute and posts full of anger and frustration the next. I feel it in my own life too. I am often filled with fury and despair at the calamitous situation in which we find ourselves. At other times, I am nearly paralyzed with sadness; my eyes welling with tears and a lump in my throat that I am unable to swallow away. I am overcome with the mirrored emotions of fear and apprehension, and yet, when I notice small green shoots poking through the pebbles reaching for the sun or watch the Mourning Doves build a nest in the big pine tree I also feel a sense of calm acceptance of things as they are. Grieving is a complicated business.

“In times of grief and sorrow, I will hold you and rock you and take your grief and make it my own. When you cry I cry and when you hurt I hurt. And together we will try to hold back the floods of tears and despair and make it through the potholed street of life”

Nicolas Sparks, The Notebook

As we walk this unfamiliar valley together…at a distance of six feet…we are aware of our interdependence and connectedness. We are all in this journey together…holding each other’s sorrow, listening to each other’s story, and taking turns soothing each other’s bouts of fear and distress. Instead of bringing brownies, lasagna, or pots of soup to assist those in mourning as is our normal custom, we are supported by courageous strangers who perform the unseen but necessary tasks that keep us fed, safe, and secure. Our hearts are full when we consider all the simple kindnesses that grace our lives on a daily basis. We worry and pray together for all of those on the frontlines doing battle on our behalf. It’s such a paradox that as we hunker-down, flatten the curve, and stay inside we are alone and yet the world entire is walking the same crowded path.

Recently, the songs of the early morning birds crept into that space between dream and waking as I tried to squeeze a few more minutes of sleep from what had been a restless night. As I slipped into my dreams once again, as often happens in dreams, one of the birds began to speak to me, “Follow me”, he said in his little bird language which amazingly I had no trouble understanding. “Follow me and everything will be all right.” I watched as the wee fellow flew into a dark, narrow cave. “Don’t be afraid,” he continued to chirp. “Follow me.” I took a deep breath and began to follow. I hadn’t gone far when, although still surrounded by impenetrable darkness, I could see sunlight bouncing off the walls ahead. Then, as in any good third-grade story…I woke up.

Once again, the symbolism seemed quite clear to me. My feathered buddy was telling me that as we enter this time of tremendous uncertainty and yes, grief, we should remember that there is the promise of light up ahead. Spring is here and summer is coming and even in the midst of great sorrow, fear, and disappointment there will flowers blooming, trees leafing out, and moments of great joy.

Hey…I’m finally getting good at this symbolism stuff, however, in case the universe is wondering, I’m perfectly happy to simply savor a night of deep, peaceful uninterrupted sleep.

Please be safe, be well, and do what you can to flatten the curve.