Thursday, September 20, 2007
Thursday, July 12, 2007
My wedding ring must come off. And, then I eventually put it back on. This is not a mind trip, or an indication of a failing marriage. In fact, it’s oddly about my exercise routine, which includes getting in the pool to swim laps a couple times per week.
What I have come to realize, however, is that the act of removing the ring (and then putting it back on my finger) has become a ritual of sorts. I say, “of sorts” because I am – unfortunately - not the type of person who exercises with the regularity I ought. Thus, the act is only as ritualistic as my actual time spent in the pool. Still, over the course of the last two years of swimming, I have gone through this act enough times to think about what the ring means to me.
Coming out of the pool, I am usually invigorated. Whether it’s the middle of a hot summer, or the third Thursday of shitty snowfall in March when I can barely stand the sight of snow, a swim will completely alter my psyche… and only in the best of ways. I am almost always invigorated after a swim. Even if it’s nearly impossible to get to the pool, I feel better once I’m done with my swim. That is simply the effect water has on me. So when I emerge from the pool, with more energy than when I arrived, I am in an altered state. This place, or state of mind, is what contributes to the energy I feel when putting my wedding ring back on to my ring finger.
I am, in that moment, a better version of me. My heart beats strong. My lungs feel expanded. Since I have taken a warm shower, followed by an application of Lavender lotion (applied in the sauna during the winter months), I also feel that “ready to start my day” feeling that typically accompanies such a routine. I also feel like giving myself a little pat on the back for having gotten myself into the pool in the first place; I suppose there is some sense of pride in the completion of my swimming routine.
At some point, I began to associate all of these feelings with not only the completion of a swim, but with the placement of that ring on my finger. And of course, it wasn’t long before the ritual of putting on my ring reminded me of how good it is to be alive – not only after a swim, but in general.
And so, it is in all of the acts which are part of a seemingly mundane swimming routine, that I have adopted a ritual – one that renews my physical self, and that also renews my spiritual self. I never realized that stripping away such a beautiful symbol would actually come to reify its symbology in my life, and to ultimately make me the (better) person I am becoming.
What I have come to realize, however, is that the act of removing the ring (and then putting it back on my finger) has become a ritual of sorts. I say, “of sorts” because I am – unfortunately - not the type of person who exercises with the regularity I ought. Thus, the act is only as ritualistic as my actual time spent in the pool. Still, over the course of the last two years of swimming, I have gone through this act enough times to think about what the ring means to me.
Coming out of the pool, I am usually invigorated. Whether it’s the middle of a hot summer, or the third Thursday of shitty snowfall in March when I can barely stand the sight of snow, a swim will completely alter my psyche… and only in the best of ways. I am almost always invigorated after a swim. Even if it’s nearly impossible to get to the pool, I feel better once I’m done with my swim. That is simply the effect water has on me. So when I emerge from the pool, with more energy than when I arrived, I am in an altered state. This place, or state of mind, is what contributes to the energy I feel when putting my wedding ring back on to my ring finger.
I am, in that moment, a better version of me. My heart beats strong. My lungs feel expanded. Since I have taken a warm shower, followed by an application of Lavender lotion (applied in the sauna during the winter months), I also feel that “ready to start my day” feeling that typically accompanies such a routine. I also feel like giving myself a little pat on the back for having gotten myself into the pool in the first place; I suppose there is some sense of pride in the completion of my swimming routine.
At some point, I began to associate all of these feelings with not only the completion of a swim, but with the placement of that ring on my finger. And of course, it wasn’t long before the ritual of putting on my ring reminded me of how good it is to be alive – not only after a swim, but in general.
And so, it is in all of the acts which are part of a seemingly mundane swimming routine, that I have adopted a ritual – one that renews my physical self, and that also renews my spiritual self. I never realized that stripping away such a beautiful symbol would actually come to reify its symbology in my life, and to ultimately make me the (better) person I am becoming.
Being
There's no doubt about it. When presented with the choice of "being" or "doing," I know deep down I want to choose "being." I want to be (there's that word again!) the sort of person who "be"s naturally. (How's that for a twist of grammar?) Truth-telling now, though. I'm a doer, through and through. I'm the sort of person who hears the story of Mary and Martha--of Mary celebrated for sitting attentively at Jesus' side while Martha hustled her way through dinner preparations--and gets angry that Jesus reinforces Mary for "doing nothing." While I know how good it is to sit with a Mary at my side, I am still consumed with the question of how all the tasks at hand were completed to allow her to be there. As I said recently to my counselor/spiritual director, "How can I relax and still get the vacuuming done?" It seems I only imagine myself effective when there's a cloud of activity and stress surrounding me. Oh Martha, Martha, Martha--I hear you, sister.
This morning I woke early when Matt left for his morning basketball league. I've been working long days Monday-Thursday in hopes of having a bonus day with the kids on Friday. My hat is off to the many women and men who work hard labor jobs with long shifts or, more difficult still, work more than one job. A few ten hour days in a row and I'm ready to crash. By this morning, my body was craving an extra few minutes of sleep--but my spirit was craving something more. I crawled out of bed, raised the blinds, and climbed back into bed to sit and meditate. Silence. Birds calling and singing. No children's footsteps. No spouse's grunts and groans at too much early-morning sunlight. I kept resetting the alarm, imagining I might still squeeze in those few minutes on the snooze bar. But my spirit continued to ask for time.
I dressed, made a cup of coffee (to counteract the lack of added sleep!), filled my cereal bowl and headed for our back deck. With travels to Boston for our anniversary (last week) and to New York for the funeral of my oldest friend's father (this week), I feel distant at best from my yard. With long days at work, I'm contributing little to the woodchuck/weed hunting consuming Matt's days as he struggles to feed us, rather than the animals, with the garden. Sitting in the midst of the stunningly tall trees, following the flight patterns of the birds from branch to branch, I felt truly home. I was rewarded instantly for showing up, staying silent, and being attentive. I glanced at our clothesline, and there was our hummingbird flying in for a visit. She looked like a Martha, of course--all business, buzzing up to that feeder as though there was no time to waste with a visit or attention to me. But I, for once, felt like Mary--laundry still in the washer, kids still sound asleep in their beds, fully present for the moment before me.
This morning I woke early when Matt left for his morning basketball league. I've been working long days Monday-Thursday in hopes of having a bonus day with the kids on Friday. My hat is off to the many women and men who work hard labor jobs with long shifts or, more difficult still, work more than one job. A few ten hour days in a row and I'm ready to crash. By this morning, my body was craving an extra few minutes of sleep--but my spirit was craving something more. I crawled out of bed, raised the blinds, and climbed back into bed to sit and meditate. Silence. Birds calling and singing. No children's footsteps. No spouse's grunts and groans at too much early-morning sunlight. I kept resetting the alarm, imagining I might still squeeze in those few minutes on the snooze bar. But my spirit continued to ask for time.
I dressed, made a cup of coffee (to counteract the lack of added sleep!), filled my cereal bowl and headed for our back deck. With travels to Boston for our anniversary (last week) and to New York for the funeral of my oldest friend's father (this week), I feel distant at best from my yard. With long days at work, I'm contributing little to the woodchuck/weed hunting consuming Matt's days as he struggles to feed us, rather than the animals, with the garden. Sitting in the midst of the stunningly tall trees, following the flight patterns of the birds from branch to branch, I felt truly home. I was rewarded instantly for showing up, staying silent, and being attentive. I glanced at our clothesline, and there was our hummingbird flying in for a visit. She looked like a Martha, of course--all business, buzzing up to that feeder as though there was no time to waste with a visit or attention to me. But I, for once, felt like Mary--laundry still in the washer, kids still sound asleep in their beds, fully present for the moment before me.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Called by God
I remember a humorous conversation I had with Matt just a few years ago in which I described why I was most certainly "doomed" to be called as a pastor. I provided the succinct, overarching statements that might grace the header of my resume or pastoral profile: passion for connecting people across differences through dialogue, love of theological thought and exploration, skilled public speaker, seasoned writer (with a love for devotional writing, in particular!), pianist and singer, beginning guitar player, capable administrator with years of relevant experience in a comparable field, and a desire to relate to the deepest longings of people and communities. With a self-satisfied nod, I said, "Can't you see it? I'm marked! It's inevitable!"
If you can read that these statements were said without real joy--a distinct emotion from humor--you might well have been in the room with us. As the child of a pastor and grandchild of two, I felt, quite literally, the fear of God each time I imagined serving in the world as I saw them serve. I watched my father and grandfathers come of age in mostly rural protestant churches where clergy members did everything: shovel snow, CHECK; mow the church and parsonage lawn, CHECK; prepare Sunday's sermon, CHECK; serve as hospital chaplain, CHECK; bake bread for communion, CHECK; answer the phone and door at all hours of the day or night, literally taking money from personal bank account to help parishioners and strangers meet financial needs, CHECK; baptize, marry, counsel through divorce, bury, CHECK. I could go on and on. Without strong personal boundaries, or seminary training to establish these, their churches took over their lives. I grew up bearing the consequences of an often unhealthy model of servitude. It was not a call I was in any way prepared to answer. If the phone was ringing, I was most decidedly unavailable.
My childhood and adolescent dread shifted into the bemused, but doomed mentality depicted by my conversation with Matt. And then, it shifted again. During the Maundy Thursday service just over a year ago, I watched as the pastor and associate pastor of my church broke bread for communion and raised the cup into the air, and I experienced a palpable, dramatic shift inside. Planted in me was not dread, but a sense of the honor of their role--the gift of their service. I considered the many pastors I had encountered personally, and the gifts each had offered to me. I thought about Tom, the chaplain who married us and who regularly extended himself as a listener and wise questioner as we sought to adapt to the changes in one another and in our relationship. He might have saved our marriage with some critical, well-considered pieces of advice....he certainly empowered us to save it for ourselves. I thought about John, and the meditation group he initiated--the regularity and sacredness of which created space for me to discover some profound truths about myself and who I have been created to be. I thought about Marlene, serving our church as a volunteer associate pastor after a debilitating accident. Her astute observations about faith were formative in my life, and the selflessness of her service was truly inspiring.
The shifting continues still, as I casually wade my way through seminary courses, exploring what it feels like to be in that environment. I am certainly curious more days than I am fearful, and this openness will yield something rich to my life even if I don't seek to pastor a church one day. In a recent conversation with a woman who is, for me, part therapist and part spiritual director, I was describing the evolution of my thinking over all these years. Looking up, hoping against hope once again that she would respond with some sort of answer, I saw her wry grin as her eyes said to me that she would again respond to me with questions--I would not walk home with the tidy package I came seeking. After she asked me to respond to a series of forced choice questions (e.g., now or not now? being or doing? inside or outside?), she spoke to me words of my true calling. She said, "You will never make any choice, have any role, pursue any study that will make you more the essence of God than you are right now. This is who you are called to be--Jennifer. Fully Jennifer, here and now." Days later, my current pastor reiterated the same essential message in an email to our church community in which he commented on his morning inhaling of the sweet lilac bush outside his home. "A lilac being a lilac--this is the Divine Essence."
Will I someday be called as a pastor? Perhaps. Have I already--in fact, always--been called by God? Indeed. And I'm relaxing, breathing, inhaling and exhaling my way into a full answer to Her call.
If you can read that these statements were said without real joy--a distinct emotion from humor--you might well have been in the room with us. As the child of a pastor and grandchild of two, I felt, quite literally, the fear of God each time I imagined serving in the world as I saw them serve. I watched my father and grandfathers come of age in mostly rural protestant churches where clergy members did everything: shovel snow, CHECK; mow the church and parsonage lawn, CHECK; prepare Sunday's sermon, CHECK; serve as hospital chaplain, CHECK; bake bread for communion, CHECK; answer the phone and door at all hours of the day or night, literally taking money from personal bank account to help parishioners and strangers meet financial needs, CHECK; baptize, marry, counsel through divorce, bury, CHECK. I could go on and on. Without strong personal boundaries, or seminary training to establish these, their churches took over their lives. I grew up bearing the consequences of an often unhealthy model of servitude. It was not a call I was in any way prepared to answer. If the phone was ringing, I was most decidedly unavailable.
My childhood and adolescent dread shifted into the bemused, but doomed mentality depicted by my conversation with Matt. And then, it shifted again. During the Maundy Thursday service just over a year ago, I watched as the pastor and associate pastor of my church broke bread for communion and raised the cup into the air, and I experienced a palpable, dramatic shift inside. Planted in me was not dread, but a sense of the honor of their role--the gift of their service. I considered the many pastors I had encountered personally, and the gifts each had offered to me. I thought about Tom, the chaplain who married us and who regularly extended himself as a listener and wise questioner as we sought to adapt to the changes in one another and in our relationship. He might have saved our marriage with some critical, well-considered pieces of advice....he certainly empowered us to save it for ourselves. I thought about John, and the meditation group he initiated--the regularity and sacredness of which created space for me to discover some profound truths about myself and who I have been created to be. I thought about Marlene, serving our church as a volunteer associate pastor after a debilitating accident. Her astute observations about faith were formative in my life, and the selflessness of her service was truly inspiring.
The shifting continues still, as I casually wade my way through seminary courses, exploring what it feels like to be in that environment. I am certainly curious more days than I am fearful, and this openness will yield something rich to my life even if I don't seek to pastor a church one day. In a recent conversation with a woman who is, for me, part therapist and part spiritual director, I was describing the evolution of my thinking over all these years. Looking up, hoping against hope once again that she would respond with some sort of answer, I saw her wry grin as her eyes said to me that she would again respond to me with questions--I would not walk home with the tidy package I came seeking. After she asked me to respond to a series of forced choice questions (e.g., now or not now? being or doing? inside or outside?), she spoke to me words of my true calling. She said, "You will never make any choice, have any role, pursue any study that will make you more the essence of God than you are right now. This is who you are called to be--Jennifer. Fully Jennifer, here and now." Days later, my current pastor reiterated the same essential message in an email to our church community in which he commented on his morning inhaling of the sweet lilac bush outside his home. "A lilac being a lilac--this is the Divine Essence."
Will I someday be called as a pastor? Perhaps. Have I already--in fact, always--been called by God? Indeed. And I'm relaxing, breathing, inhaling and exhaling my way into a full answer to Her call.
Monday, May 7, 2007
Veiled Community
For the past nine months I've been part of an intentionally formed and crafted group of women exploring feminist spirituality. When every chair in the circle is filled, we're 35 or so women, drawn from the greater Northeast region (at least at this moment in our lives), but otherwise representing every walk of life. We are oldish (late 60s) and youngish (early 20s), fattish and thinish, whitish and blackish, and lesbian, bisexual and transgender. Most intriguing, however, is how this previous set of identities intersects with our religious identities, for we are Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, and Jewish-curious, to begin with just the short list of how we likely name our faith.
To create more meaningful, engaged encounters with one another, the entire group is divided into wisdom circles. While chosen at random (a word that has new meaning in the quantum universe in which we dwell), the circles are actually quite representative of the whole, providing each of us with up-close and personal encounters with nearly all the faith identities sitting in the circle of the whole. These wisdom circles create a manageable space to reflect on the readings, but the most public expression of our grouping is the creation and implementation of rituals for the entire group during one of our gatherings of the year. In addition to designing the act of ritual, the wisdom circles craft visual complements to the weekend's theme.
Month after month, the mandalas positioned at the center of our circle have become more and more elaborate, and the rituals have extended past a simple litany and song to become sermons, choruses, seed plantings, champagne toasts (fit for a queen, with crowns upon our heads!)....I could go on and on. As our group was designated for the final month of circle-created rituals, we had entirely too much time to both generate our own ideas, and compare our in-our-mind creations with the groups before us. When our weekend finally arrived, I think it is safe to say we were all ready to be done. Email planning, personality co-mingling, and that strange tiredness that comes with shaking off winter and throwing ourselves headlong into spring had left us more in a state of stress than joy.
The rituals themselves were delightful, and the garden scene created by our most passionate visual artist was enough to convince me that indoors and outdoors had switched. But I felt disconnected, a state brought on by the final stresses of our collaboration and a personal encounter with the sometimes closed nature of our typically open circle. The feelings weren't washed away as I pushed my sunflower seed deep into the moist, black soil and asked God if She would make me more forgiving and open, ready to fully engage once again. When we separated into wisdom circles to further explore projects of leadership we had undertaken in the year (the source of my personal encounter with closed thinking in an open space), I was more than happy to suggest we retreat to the home of the Muslim member of our circle, certain that meeting her children and touring her apartment would distract us from the conversation.
As we giggled our way through her home, curious about whether taking off our shoes was religious or cultural (she's Turkish), whether her children spoke Turkish, Arabic or English, or whether this outspoken, veiled woman used her same sharp humor and wit at home, we began to find one another once again. We piled into her bedroom and, quite spontaneously, she selected and adorned each of us with a hijab. We had known her head only by the elaborate, decorative scarves that shaped her beauty, and yet here she was before us, short-haired, out of her hijab as she placed one upon each of us. In full color and splendor, we retreated to her kitchen table and simply spoke about our lives....current challenges, requests for prayer, compliments and playful jabs. We were once again wise in our togetherness.
We crossed the small lawn from her home to our classroom and delighted in the expressions of surprise from some of the other participants. We were converted not to Islam, but to the space of true togetherness. While she had crossed over to us in many forms at many times, we had taken a small, symbolic gesture to cross to her and honor her tradition. And for the first time in some time, I sat fully present in the wider circle. The gift of her veil returned to me my voice.
God's voice comes in light and dark, in community and solitude, from our full revealing and from a moment under a veil. Sometimes, if we're present, we hear and we truly listen.
To create more meaningful, engaged encounters with one another, the entire group is divided into wisdom circles. While chosen at random (a word that has new meaning in the quantum universe in which we dwell), the circles are actually quite representative of the whole, providing each of us with up-close and personal encounters with nearly all the faith identities sitting in the circle of the whole. These wisdom circles create a manageable space to reflect on the readings, but the most public expression of our grouping is the creation and implementation of rituals for the entire group during one of our gatherings of the year. In addition to designing the act of ritual, the wisdom circles craft visual complements to the weekend's theme.
Month after month, the mandalas positioned at the center of our circle have become more and more elaborate, and the rituals have extended past a simple litany and song to become sermons, choruses, seed plantings, champagne toasts (fit for a queen, with crowns upon our heads!)....I could go on and on. As our group was designated for the final month of circle-created rituals, we had entirely too much time to both generate our own ideas, and compare our in-our-mind creations with the groups before us. When our weekend finally arrived, I think it is safe to say we were all ready to be done. Email planning, personality co-mingling, and that strange tiredness that comes with shaking off winter and throwing ourselves headlong into spring had left us more in a state of stress than joy.
The rituals themselves were delightful, and the garden scene created by our most passionate visual artist was enough to convince me that indoors and outdoors had switched. But I felt disconnected, a state brought on by the final stresses of our collaboration and a personal encounter with the sometimes closed nature of our typically open circle. The feelings weren't washed away as I pushed my sunflower seed deep into the moist, black soil and asked God if She would make me more forgiving and open, ready to fully engage once again. When we separated into wisdom circles to further explore projects of leadership we had undertaken in the year (the source of my personal encounter with closed thinking in an open space), I was more than happy to suggest we retreat to the home of the Muslim member of our circle, certain that meeting her children and touring her apartment would distract us from the conversation.
As we giggled our way through her home, curious about whether taking off our shoes was religious or cultural (she's Turkish), whether her children spoke Turkish, Arabic or English, or whether this outspoken, veiled woman used her same sharp humor and wit at home, we began to find one another once again. We piled into her bedroom and, quite spontaneously, she selected and adorned each of us with a hijab. We had known her head only by the elaborate, decorative scarves that shaped her beauty, and yet here she was before us, short-haired, out of her hijab as she placed one upon each of us. In full color and splendor, we retreated to her kitchen table and simply spoke about our lives....current challenges, requests for prayer, compliments and playful jabs. We were once again wise in our togetherness.
We crossed the small lawn from her home to our classroom and delighted in the expressions of surprise from some of the other participants. We were converted not to Islam, but to the space of true togetherness. While she had crossed over to us in many forms at many times, we had taken a small, symbolic gesture to cross to her and honor her tradition. And for the first time in some time, I sat fully present in the wider circle. The gift of her veil returned to me my voice.
God's voice comes in light and dark, in community and solitude, from our full revealing and from a moment under a veil. Sometimes, if we're present, we hear and we truly listen.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Musing about Messiness
As we experiment with our new life as a one-income family, we've become mildly addicted to Freecycle and the free section on Craigslist. A week and a half ago I stooped to what Matt regarded as a new low (despite his participation!). We drove across town to collect frozen entrees from a woman who had tried one but hadn't been satisfied. As we splashed our way through the rain to collect our still-frozen treasures, Matt questioned if it just might be possible for us to live fully off of freecycle for any length of time. We haven't yet attempted the experiment, but in the week and a half since, we have happily collected a set of shelves for the garage, a smaller set for the screened-in porch, and tennis rackets for me and the kids. Treasures surface continually.
One such treasure is the book The Sisterhood: The True Story Behind the Women's Movement by Marcia Cohen. Offered at the same address as size 34-34 men's Old Navy pants on craigslist, I decided to claim both....the pants for Matt, the book for me. I've been shuffling through over the past couple of months, fascinated by a read that only benefits from its datedness. Published in the late 1980s, The Sisterhood lacks the unifying gloss of some later accounts of the women's movement, focusing often on the flaws and faultlines within "the movement" and the individuals comprising it.
While I have been well-acquainted with accusations that the primary voices of the women's movement neglected women of color and lesbians, I have never before had a front row seat on the sheer messiness of the conflicts. In striving for a palatable "center"--a set of beliefs and demands that could be embraced by a majority--anyone seemingly on the margins was typically further marginalized by a movement that, in theory, should have represented all. The lesson? We are all simultaneously oppressed and oppressor, silencing some even as we attempt to break silence with and for others. The still photographs depicting women united in seeking abortion rights or equal pay for equal work in no way capture the full picture of that time, just as no movement can fully capture the nuanced expressions of a shared message when it takes root in individuals of such varied identities.
Progress is not a clear, straight-ahead path. And few of us, if we claim our full truth, fit neatly into a community, a movement, or a church. In recent months, I've encountered this messiness in many circles. Dynamic and fascinating when read in a text, the experience of feeling marginalized and "outside the circle" is disconcerting at best, and sometimes quite painful. While it is natural to gravitate toward like-minded communities, and all of us need circles in which we are welcomed fully and whole, there is also something true in sitting on a set of pews that can barely hold together under the weight of our difference and division. We feel the pain. We sit there anyway.
One such treasure is the book The Sisterhood: The True Story Behind the Women's Movement by Marcia Cohen. Offered at the same address as size 34-34 men's Old Navy pants on craigslist, I decided to claim both....the pants for Matt, the book for me. I've been shuffling through over the past couple of months, fascinated by a read that only benefits from its datedness. Published in the late 1980s, The Sisterhood lacks the unifying gloss of some later accounts of the women's movement, focusing often on the flaws and faultlines within "the movement" and the individuals comprising it.
While I have been well-acquainted with accusations that the primary voices of the women's movement neglected women of color and lesbians, I have never before had a front row seat on the sheer messiness of the conflicts. In striving for a palatable "center"--a set of beliefs and demands that could be embraced by a majority--anyone seemingly on the margins was typically further marginalized by a movement that, in theory, should have represented all. The lesson? We are all simultaneously oppressed and oppressor, silencing some even as we attempt to break silence with and for others. The still photographs depicting women united in seeking abortion rights or equal pay for equal work in no way capture the full picture of that time, just as no movement can fully capture the nuanced expressions of a shared message when it takes root in individuals of such varied identities.
Progress is not a clear, straight-ahead path. And few of us, if we claim our full truth, fit neatly into a community, a movement, or a church. In recent months, I've encountered this messiness in many circles. Dynamic and fascinating when read in a text, the experience of feeling marginalized and "outside the circle" is disconcerting at best, and sometimes quite painful. While it is natural to gravitate toward like-minded communities, and all of us need circles in which we are welcomed fully and whole, there is also something true in sitting on a set of pews that can barely hold together under the weight of our difference and division. We feel the pain. We sit there anyway.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Easing my way back in....
After a week's vacation at home with my family, it's always a transition to come back to work--even if I love the role and the institution. Are we unique in imagining that we could craft a perfectly good life with all four of us at home? I suppose not....but the shared nature of the experience means no less impact. I actually cried last night as I kissed the kids while they slept in their beds. A week with them was a reminder of all I miss each day as I drive over the mountain to work. And health insurance and mortgage payments aside, I do actually believe we could have a blissful life riding our mountain bikes around the yard and cooking colorful, thoughtfully-prepared meals. And blogging....of course there would have to be blogging!
Recognizing that I was dragging my feet a bit today, driving in on a brilliantly bright and sunny day but living elsewhere in my mind, I decided I should start my day with gratitude. So after changing my voicemail and email to say I've checked back in, here I am.
Thank you, God of breath and creation and light....this is surely a day brought into being by You. Remind me that every day is a gift from You, and that I am a being created by choice and with choices. I can view my responsibilities as opportunities, and the conversations I'll have today as a chance to serve as light to the world. I can pause and breathe and look out my window. I can feel my feet on the earth and lower my shoulders, easing out the tension I hold, both imagined and real. I can see You in every encounter.
I am thankful for....
....my clever, courageous daughter who was weaving her way through a playground thick with bigger kids than she to make her way back to school after her own vacation.
....my usual parking lot being closed this morning. Parking across campus gave me an opportunity to say hello to a dear friend, and to enjoy more of the outside air on my way to the office.
....the gentleman who cleans my building. His wide smile each and every day is a continual reminder that I choose who I am, how I feel and what I present to the world.
....coffee. Enough said.
....all that awaits me at home this evening, made all the more precious by my time away today.
....now, the present, this moment.
Recognizing that I was dragging my feet a bit today, driving in on a brilliantly bright and sunny day but living elsewhere in my mind, I decided I should start my day with gratitude. So after changing my voicemail and email to say I've checked back in, here I am.
Thank you, God of breath and creation and light....this is surely a day brought into being by You. Remind me that every day is a gift from You, and that I am a being created by choice and with choices. I can view my responsibilities as opportunities, and the conversations I'll have today as a chance to serve as light to the world. I can pause and breathe and look out my window. I can feel my feet on the earth and lower my shoulders, easing out the tension I hold, both imagined and real. I can see You in every encounter.
I am thankful for....
....my clever, courageous daughter who was weaving her way through a playground thick with bigger kids than she to make her way back to school after her own vacation.
....my usual parking lot being closed this morning. Parking across campus gave me an opportunity to say hello to a dear friend, and to enjoy more of the outside air on my way to the office.
....the gentleman who cleans my building. His wide smile each and every day is a continual reminder that I choose who I am, how I feel and what I present to the world.
....coffee. Enough said.
....all that awaits me at home this evening, made all the more precious by my time away today.
....now, the present, this moment.
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