Eyes to see

This gangly geranium is SO me! All the life and color and joy in me, pressed against the window of winter and wondering if I just imagined last week's warmth.











My little garden buddy says, "No, you didn't imagine sitting on the deck last week, taking a sun bath. But neither are you imagining this fresh layer of snow. Be patient, my friend . . . this snow will melt and water all that is busy underground, gathering strength."












If I close my eyes, look with my heart, I can see this brave tuft of grass spreading all over the front yard, waving in sunshine.












I can see water in this pond shooting skyward, sparkling in the light.















I can see this blade of green at the base of a shockingly red tulip, opening up to show its yellow and black center.










Ah . . . see how the heat generated by this insistent growth is already melting the snow. This tiny field of daffodils can already see itself laughing in the wind.











And here come our newcomers . . . transplanted hybrid iris from a friend's yard last year. I once cut a bouquet of them while they lived in her yard that was so magnificently tall and gorgeous that it kept tipping the vase over. How will they do in MY yard? Will they be shy their first year? or will I see what I remember them to be: waist high, with stalks like broomsticks, and blooms of lavender/blue beauty bigger than my hand?






My eyes are open again, and yes, I see yesterday's snow and today's heavy obscuring fog. But I can also see, from deep within, the beauty about to blossom. I just have to know where to look.

Yes, YES, Y. E. S. !!

Like so many, I've trudged through a long winter this year. Snow and ice have brought their own unique beauty, but my heart has longed for nourishing warmth, for the freedom to be outdoors without the confinement of coats, mufflers, boots, and gloves. Like this scraggly persistent geranium, I too lean toward the light and press my face against the glass.


I can get so mired in my own difficulties. To offset that, I pray daily, often hourly, for God to keep my heart and soul tender towards others and their journeys. I ask God to help me fulfill what Jesus presented as the two great commandments: to love God with all our heart and soul and mind, and to love our neighbor as ourselves.

The people in Haiti. In Japan. A friend whose husband and life-long dance partner just passed away. A mother who cares for grandchildren because their daddy--her son--is in prison. I ask God to help me pray for all these people. And I ask Him to help me have the courage to do whatever it takes to see healing in my own life, to keep hope alive when progress seems measured in 100 steps forward and 99 steps back. Help me, God, to cherish that one step forward.

God answered those prayers this morning by nudging me out the front door, to inspect my gardens. Here, after just a little elbow grease (well, maybe more than just a little), fresh flowing water will sparkle and bubble.












Here the sun has kept watch all through the winter and tells me to turn him around, so that he can bring a fresh smile.




















Here, just out of sight underground, extravagantly fuchsia peonies are gathering themselves, ready to spring skyward and burst into glorious bloom.











Here, daffodils and tulips, lilies and irises, all quiver with new life and listen for their time to emerge.

And here, oh wonder of wonders, at the far end of the garden, in the spot nearest the sun, poised to get the most warmth and light of all, tiny blades of hope show their face and make me almost cry with joy.

Spring doesn't "begin" just when the growth shows. It lives inside us during any long winter of the soul, out of sight perhaps, but ever growing, through cycles of blossom and rest, renewal and flowering. We must never give up hope. Never give up believing. The day will arrive when the growth finally shows above ground and we can glory in the visible beauty. But until that day comes, the whole world needs us to keep believing. Believe in what we can't yet see, but what our heart tells us is still alive, still growing, deep inside us.

Winds of Change

I'm one month into a three-month self-assigned project. It started on Valentine's Day, and will stretch to mid-May. In a nutshell, the task involves going through every box/tub/shelf in my house and sorting it all, with a core intention of discovering what is in each box.

As I expected, the work has been tumultuous, as I uncover all sorts of my writings, from published pieces to barely decipherable scribbles on faded paper scraps. Photos, travel plans, printed out emails, magazines, newspapers, all sorts of stuff deemed Very Important at one time, all "saved" in boxes and tubs, as I would change around the different rooms of the house, sleeping here and having an office there, and then later, switching all over again. All the expected shifting as a family of 5, homeschooled until college, grows within the home. And then all the unexpected shifting, as the children mature and leave, and then the husband leaves as well.

I've been in tremendous transition since spring of 2004, since I first began living alone. As it turns out, this project of mine, named the ButterFly project, is scheduled to end 7 years, almost to the day, that I became the sole inhabitant of this house.


One month into the project, a couple days ago, was my birthday. Daughter and son-in-law came by with a potted plant of spring beauty . . . . later in the day, I hit a huge emotional roadblock when I got some news. Right as I was shaking from overwhelming sobs, a friend came to my front door with homemade rolls and yet another plant of yet more liquid sunshine. Surrounded by such love, I was steady again by morning.







It has been a very very long 7 years. But oh, I see so much growth. And I feel such hope. I have absolutely no idea what life will be like once this house is purged of painful past, and is home to just me, living in the present. And honestly, the prospect scares me at times. As hurtful as much of my past has been, it is still what I know. But that huge unknown stretching before me is already inhabited by the God who has sustained me all of my life. And She has only good for me.





So here's to spring. To growth. To flowers--and lives--that glow with joy and possibility.

New Views

What a lovely lunch I had the other day.


Shredded the last bits of a 22 lb turkey. Sliced some celery. Diced the last few sweet pickles. Sprinkled in some raspberry vinaigrette. Stirred in a little Miracle Whip. I've never eaten a fuchsia-tinged turkey salad before.










I perched on the end of the twin bed in my living room. It's serving as my sofa until I find a new one, one without memories. Sold the other one to my son.









After so many years in this house, I'm actually getting a different view out my beloved picture window.













I'm well into my 18th year of living in this house. That simple fact astounds me at times. I spent the first 17 years of my life in one house and then after that, I moved every year or two or three.

It's a whole new feeling to live in one "building" for that many years. Maybe not for other people, but definitely for me.

At one point, two grown-ups, three children, one dog and one cat lived here. One by one they all left except for me. And I labor every day to set this house free from sad memories, and let it be a place of fresh joy and vibrant life. That means a lot of physical work, clearing away outgrown items, repainting, pulling out old carpet.




But it also means fresh thought. New views. Seeing old rooms with new eyes. Using familiar objects for unfamiliar purposes.

















Life can sparkle, can't it?















(P. S. Over to the right of this entry, you can click on the BearLodge emblem and see my new front page essay . . . )

Snow, snow, and more snow

Like much of the US, I've been deep in snow and cold for quite a bit this winter. There's no point in complaining, since that won't bring warm days and green grass even one day or minute closer. But I did dream the other day.


A recent sunset drew me outdoors with my camera, even though I had to boot up and suit up against the bitter cold. I mince my way down the driveway, which was packed with icy residue of countless snow and ice storms, and look back at my house. I remember why I painted that sassy sun several years ago, so that I could have sunshine, no matter how cold or dark the day.

Around back, the setting sun catches the hilltop across the highway.


Just to the left of center, can you see the picnic table and chairs? That's next to my creek (other people call it an irrigation ditch)--one of my favorite places in the summer.




And what looks like a double garage is actually where I dream of having an art studio. I also dream of painting a tropical scene on the outside, there to the left . . . but I haven't braved it yet . . concerned about neighbors' reactions . .


If I turn around, I can look in my bedroom window, up there above the single garage.

And there hangs the demon drainpipe, which the roofers forgot to re-attach . . . and which smacks and bangs with disturbing irregularity in a windstorm, which occurs all too often this stormy winter. Three phone calls to the company have elicited an "I'll swing by and fix that" promise, with no action attached as yet.

Yep, that furniture is right where I left it, after our last campfire and barbecue, last fall. The night was so lovely that I couldn't bear to take our food inside as we'd planned. We ended up eating at that table (snow-covered now), lit by a dozen candles.




Just down below are the stumps I'll have to figure out how to remove. I had two lovely trees growing in my back yard, but unfortunately, they were also growing kinda-sorta in and out of the house foundation. Last summer, a son and son-in-law and daughter tackled the trees, with just a hand saw, and got most of them sawed into chunks we could burn in my little fire pit.



I wander around front to the porch as the sun sinks out of sight. I'm warmed by memories of spring days and summer nights, of floating in my little backyard pool, of flowers and grass to cut, my creek to sit by, of meals cooked outdoors, of laughter with my children, with friends.

Snow still covers the ground, and will for weeks to come. But sweet and lovely warm times lie just underneath, sleeping, waiting.



I send out a silent welcome.

How Sweetly . . .

"How sweetly this day nourishes and inspires."

That's the quote for today on my daily calendar. And here's the picture that accompanies, both art and words courtesy of the artist Robin Pickens.

Isn't that just a luscious image? And don't her words leave you feeling thoroughly hugged? I hope so, since that's the effect they have on me--as though the Creator of this one-of-a-kind day has handed me (Her one-of-a-kind Maureen) a gift (which She has), and I've just unwrapped it and am in the midst of a happy sigh of acceptance and gratitude.



Perhaps somewhere in the world, right now, people are experiencing temperature warmth and garden beauty, as hinted at in that calendar artwork pictured above. For me, I'm standing at my front door in my jammies, shivering, taking some pictures. Here's a view of down the street and up onto Crow Peak, my personal mountain.












Slightly to the left, here's a view of where I sit when weather allows, under my willow.













The chair I curl up in is around the corner, blown there by the last winter storm, or two, or three. The chair pillow is up and over the deck, buried in the last snowfall, or two, or three. Right near my knees is the outdoor thermometer, proclaiming 9 degrees at mid morning, and the high today is supposed to still be in the single digits.



And if I turn just slightly more to my left, here's a current view of my living room.












Yes, Virginia, while there may be a Santa Claus, there are definitely NOT Christmas elves who come along after and clean up all your gift-making mess while you sleep. And yes, folks, I am well aware that it is over two weeks since Christmas. And perhaps by someone else's definition, any self-respecting person would most certainly have restored order to their home by now.




Yeah. Well. To that I say . . . (I can't spell out the sound for blowing raspberries so I'll have to substitute.) . . . phooey. My last two weeks, which from a calendar point-of-view bridged last year and this new year, have been wonderfully full of spiritual growth (see previous post). God has taken me on some incredible journeys of the soul, which haven't left much time for much else. And believe me, if you ask me to choose between traveling with God, and cleaning up my house, it takes less than a heartbeat to decide to grab His hand and hold on for the ride.



Here's one joyful benefit that I'm finding comes from standing ready, each moment, to follow God: the other stuff gets taken care of, too. Last night I kinda reached a saturation point with the mess in the house. I had new projects to start, and my house wasn't functional for them, since it was covered (literally :)) with the aftermath of some wonderful Christmas holiday art/gift-making. Well, tonight is the time I have invited my kids over to "receive" one of their Christmas gifts from me: a pizza party. Handmade-to-order personal pan pizzas, some munchies, some desserts. Not our usual potluck gatherings, but all made by me, for them.


Since we will be gathering in the living room--yes, that room I just showed you a photo of--I will definitely be spending some time today not only baking and cooking, but tidying. So by tomorrow, I'll have memories of a lovely time with my kids, and I'll also have a home ready for new growth, fresh exploration.

I wish each of you a day overflowing with His grace and joy.

And if you feel so inclined, leave me a comment.

I truly love seeing evidence that you've visited my blog--that you and I

have "chatted" for a while.

I'm gonna close with what opened this post:

that warm and lovely,

tender and luscious photo and thought.

Hello, 2011

It's almost 1am, and long past any sensible bedtime for me. So if you ask me why I'm staying up even later to post here, I'm not sure I could come up with an answer other than . . . . "because."

"Because? That's it?"

Yep, pretty much. I last posted early in December . . . had a dozen great ideas for posts since then, but none of them actually came to fruition. The end of last year, and the beginning of this new year, have been kind of smooshed full of emotion for me. A recent awareness of tremendous growth during 2010 has left me, at times, breathless with gratitude. But it has also left me sort of dizzy, if that makes any sense.

I've been sad for so long. Healing has been taking place over several years, but much of it has been like the bamboo plant, with growth underground, invisible. Now that tender green shoots are poking up here and there, I am glad beyond belief. But it's so different. Wonderful, but different.

Don't get me wrong. I still have mountains to climb just about every day. But I look around me. I touch the formerly broken and bruised parts of my life and the horrible pain is gone. Really gone. Faithful prayer over countless days and nights has brought me, inch by microscopic inch, finally to this place where I can see joy. Feel joy. Believe in joy.

As I mentioned, over these past few weeks some terrific ideas for "wonderful, inspiring" posts have flooded my thought, but not quite made it into print. So I'm not at all sure why I am writing NOW. Nothing unusual has happened to finally prompt me to post.

Except maybe this quiet, very quiet, whisper that is saying: Maureen, don't let one single more day go by without saying, in some public way, that your days of mourning are over. Really over.

Yep. That's it. That's the "because."

And as much as I adore having photos in my posts, I can't think of a single image that would be adequate to express whatever it is that I'm trying to say here. I can barely find words for it. As I said, I'm in unfamiliar territory now. The land of joy.

Unfamiliar, yes. But not for very long. Because this is my home now.