Spring Sweetness

From my chair on the deck I can look here . . .

or just a few inches to the left . . .

or to the right . . .

and I am enveloped by such heartsqueezing beauty.

Squirming at the edges of thought wriggle so many wonderings: should I ____? can I afford to _____? what will happen if I don't ____? will I ever be able to ____?

But then I lift my face, and all those worrisome thoughts, skyward . . . toward sun . . . and feel Your Light. Your Love. Your effortless grace.


And I remember . . .

ah, yes: bless this garden . . . bless this life . . . bless this holy sweet moment. Bless all of us, dear Love.

May you feel Love's tender touch today. May your squirmy worries relax in the comfort of His presence.

May you, beloved of Love, be loved today.

Sunshine

Had to find some shine inside me today. Not easy to wake to One More Gray Cold Day, when it's June. Yes, I'm grateful to be alive, to be breathing, of course. To have a sturdy roof over my head and foot to eat. I don't dismiss that, when so many people struggle with basic elements of life. But gratitude for that was not enough today to lift my heart. I made sure my prayers for myself also reached out to others and their needs. But still . . . I brewed fragrant herbal tea. Lit a mandarin orange candle.

Then, reaching out to my sweet FatherMotherGod, I was led to the simplest thing, a practice that has become more and more part of my praying, my rejoicing, my wondering: art journaling.

Nothing earthshaking. Just the simplest turning toward color, toward YES!, with thoughts and images that express what lies beyond my words sometimes, beneath the yearning.

May you find your own Grace-led ways today to sink deep into steady sturdy joy.

Well . . . hello there :)

"Hello," she says, softly re-entering a world she left a year ago.

Who knows what tickle, deep inside, led me to the computer early this morning, and to my blog. I grinned at seeing the date on the "most recent" post: exactly one year ago today. Who knows what other tickle led me to spend the next several hours traveling backwards through the past 4 1/2 years, courtesy of reading every single one of over 150 posts. [and who knows what tickle leads me to drop in pictures of artjournaling pages done recently]

Miracle #1: Reviewing those posts and the landscape of life they traversed, I didn't cry, not even once. Didn't even choke back tears, even after reading of so much heartbreak. So much walking/falling/struggling/falling again/and walking, again.

Miracle #2: I fell in love, all over again, with sweet Maureen (sub-miracle #2A: I feel almost okay with posting that here, publicly.) Bless her dear raggedystrong heart, she is soooooooooo committed to love. She just never gives up, even when it might be wiser to do so. Even when being committed to loving brings her way too close to needing to be committed. (I think that was a joke.)

Miracle #3: Oh, so much beauty captured in those posts . . . in that life. Through photos of gardens planted and tended, of forays out into the larger world. Through painting word pictures. Through painting without words, when words weren't enough.

Miracle #unnumberable: I read snippets from these past 4 years, telling of such brave beginnings and continuings of Projects designed to free my house, my life, my soul from a crippling past. Many of the sentences written years ago, outlining oh-so-determined efforts to unclutter, to heal, to progress, sound as if they describe my now.  For half a breath I am tempted to crash in despair, to the tune of "Good grief, have I made NO progress at all??" But that scant half-a-breath is nothing compared to the deeply deep inhale/exhale of "Oh my precious beloved Maureen, you have stepped out of that story. The mud of The Past no longer clumps over your feet, weighting every step. You are living in the radiant presence of Infinite Love, in the endless embrace of the God Who breathes you into fresh vibrance every moment of every blessed day."

Today, as yet one more day of gray rain rejuices my town while my heart yearns for sun's warmth, I celebrate the bright and glowing knowing that I have indeed been reborn. I have traded history for His Story. Past mortal events no longer define me. Neither does all The Stuff around me that I am still sorting through. Yes, I still dream of, hope for, and work toward a time when my physical space is all bright and new and supportive, free of obstacles to living characterized by light and love. 

But under it all, and separate from my surroundings, I know more surely than ever before, that I am God's dearly beloved. Have always been. Will always be.

And so are you, my dear friend. So are you.

You and me, God

This day--this unique gift from God--is holding me so gently. Just after sunrise, I snuggle in bed with prayer and daily Bible study. Then I pray some more, asking God about the morning bike ride. My two biking buddies had called in, unable to ride today, and I 'm not at all sure about going out on my own.

"Sweet daughter, you are never on your own. I am ever with you."

Oh, God . . . thank You for that reminder. And off I go, into a town washed clean by several days of rain, down a bike path often within eye-and-ear-sight of one of the most beautiful creeks I've ever seen.

Back home, I take time to notice the flowers in my yard making their presence known, completely forgiving of the fact that I haven't given them any gardening love yet, and weeds would try to choke them out . . but weeds fail. Blossoming beauty is just too strong, too insistent . . . as is mine.

This precious awareness of God's with-me-ness--and my beauty in His sight--continues to wrap me in comfort, this very moment.

In just a few minutes, my son and a friend will be here to take away this king-sized bed . . . the family bed . . . the one I've been alone in these past 8 years. This Sunshine room will become my sewing room, as a love of working with fabrics resurges after years of dormancy.

Later this afternoon, a brandnew, full-sized bed will be delivered, destined for the Kiwi room. Soon, this place will be my new bedroom, dressed and decorated in a way that shows my soul is at home here.

I am so deeply grateful for a growing, sturdy sense of being complete in God . . . of being whole and loved and needed by my heavenly Parent.

May you, too, feel the beauty of your child-of-God-ness unfolding from deep within you.

Cracking Open

In the previous post I made reference to "years and years of hardshell hurt cracking open." The past few weeks have been gloriously, painfully, messily, joyfully more of that same newbirthing.

These precious tulips, right outside my front door, open up to the sun, just like I've been doing.

Here's what's left of my heirloom peony bush in its original space. Because of needed repairs to my house, it has to be relocated to another part of the yard. Last fall I excavated as much as I could, but this clump remained, its heartroot exposed all winter.

And yet despite all my rough shoveling and an inhospitable winter, nothing stops its persistent growth.

In just a few weeks, these homely stubby shoots will bear the weight of the most glorious blossoms, a fushcia and marigold explosion of joy.








These sturdy flowers will have to survive more transition, though. Their home for nearly 20 years needs to be relocated. So in this spring warmth, I will go out and dig as deeply as I can, yet as gently as I am able, and move them to another garden.

I have no doubt that they, too, will find a way to survive . . . to blossom . . . to thrive.

Well, hello there . . .

Here I am again, after a nearly 7-month silence. My last posting, titled "Room to Grow," may have been prescient. Some dear family members went through some upheavals and I was deeply involved in their resettling and finding new stability. I have no clue, though, why that resulted in my absence from this blog, which I love.

So what brought me back, you ask? Why, this . . . .

And what is this, you continue to ask?

There it is again, against my luscious peachy front door.

Still puzzled? Okay . . this should explain it . .

Yep, that's me, in my brand-new, favorite-of-all-time, bathrobe. We won't mention that it is 1 in the afternoon . . .or that I'm still unshowered . . . Let's draw attention, instead, to the post-it note captured in the photo, which reads, "Ah . . . you never give up." I'm proud to be able to claim that as a truth.

Okay, let's get real. Why, with all the struggles in the world, am I writing about a bathrobe? And why in the world would that be the reason for me to finally start posting again here on my blog, after more than half a year away from it?

Well, if you expected some high-flown, straight-from-a-Zen-mountaintop answer, you need to look elsewhere :) . I'm as surprised as the next person, to find myself downstairs, at the computer, posting this message. It was absolutely nowhere in my conscious thoughts.

Ah . . . but underneath the surface of those everyday, usually rational thoughts, now teems a whole ecosystem of fresh hope, burgeoning joy, renewed faith. As if years upon years of hardshell hurt is cracking open. As if the real and pure child-of-God me is finally finding her way into the light of day. Not just peeking into the light, but moving out into the glorious center of it.

Thanks to my dear daughter's keen eye, I bought the pink robe yesterday at a quarter of its original price. Snuggled in it last night. Laid it near my pillow and played with its luxuriant softness during wakeful times in the night. Drew its comfort across bare shoulders in the pre-dawn chill of those last few hours of sleep. Got up and zipped myself into its embrace and have cuddled in it all morning.

I can't effect world peace. I can't undo decades of heartsore aches and pains for myself or others. I can only greet the day with child-like trust in my Creator. I can pray with a heart and soul open to possibility of healing. And I can give thanks for the sweet and simple joy of a raspberryluscious, cuddlywarm robe, wrapping me in the remembrance that we are all deeply, deeply loved.

Room to Grow

Over the past several years,  this tree has grown from a spindly random sprout into a giant, towering over my home. Countless hours have been spent in its shade, semi-secluded from neighbors, thinking, writing, reading, laughing, praying, crying, eating, wondering.

A few springs ago, I woke to a freak May snowstorm that had dumped a foot of heavy wet snow over everything newly green. My dear tree, my shelter from life's storms, had split down the middle.

A tree-fixer person gave me a plan to save it, which a friend executed. This tree has done much for me over the past several years as I've been learning to live alone. I will do much for it in return, to help it survive its own battles with whatever would threaten its existence.  

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This afternoon, I got out my saw and removed chunks of the 18-year-old bench that had been installed a decade before this tree even dreamed of sprouting. Two other times I'd taken a sliver out of the bench, but recent growth had the tree beginning to dislodge the planks. As my saw bit through the final inch of lumber,

I swear I heard the tree sigh in relief.

My tree taught me that sometimes things need to be cut away, in order to give room to grow.

What in your life is squeezing too tightly?