Tumblings

An excerpt from my morning pages today:

Let go of the leaving and embrace the receiving.

I think I’ve always read/heard Psalm 23 as being written for the person dying. Today I hear it as being written for those left behind. Hmmm…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o9fzWq-d8jU

Time to remember and hold the gift given instead of staring at torn, crumpled wrapping paper on the floor, united ribbon, and a squashed bow. It is easy to become so dismayed, so heartbroken over the wrappings lying on the floor that I forget to remember the gift given, and received.
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The sun is shining today, casting brightness over the lawns and waters. Most definately a day to wander the beach with Lucy when the tide's a bit lower. On Thursday Lucy and I spent 2 to 3 hours at the beach. We returned to the South Jetty Beach of Newport, where we had been on Sunday. It was a postcard-perfect day with deep blue skies, warm sunshine, and waves cresting white. As I sat watching the waves curl, and reaching toward the shoreline, seemingly so gentle and fluid in their rolling over back into the ocean, I saw sprays of white mist sparkle above. It reminded me of the snow tails you see behind a skier traversing the hill. Water droplets in both scenes, catching the light and wind of action.
There is a brief moment, a split second, when the wave curls, reaching to its height before folding over, that the light on a sunny day exposes the aqua marine colour that is like green glass. A bit like the the veil between 'here and there' that would dissolve in our hands if we could even begin to touch it. I never tire of watching for that colour, that thin place, as the ocean waves give and receive.

Judgement or Forgiveness?

I think of The Shack and the section on judgement, and how easily we all rush in to sit judgement on others, eager to shine the light on poor choices, and at the ready with how we would have done things differently. Easy to sit in that chair, but not so easy to measure the ‘punishment’. How much for an indiscretion; what’s the fee on a lie? Where to for hurting someone, even if it was an accident, or unintentional? How long for harbouring ill wishes on someone? What’s the penalty for doing something that ultimately changes another person’s life? How do we decide the cost on stealing, cheating, lying? What purpose will our ‘sentence’ serve? Who will it serve – us, or them? Or neither? And how about when we aren’t in the judgement chair, but in front of it, being judged?  Doesn’t it all change somehow, and we have reasons for choices, for actions? We were younger, or foolish, or not thinking, or made a bad choice, but surely we aren’t going to ‘sentenced’ for this, now?

Sometimes I think it’s about learning from our poor choices/mistakes, and how might the learning serve me. But what if it doesn’t? What if I make the same (poor) choice more than once? Then what? Does this then justify the punishment? So, how many ‘strikes’ do I get? How many do I offer to another? Do unto others . . .

Judging and sentencing is a scary seat. I think perhaps reflection and forgiveness, and moving forward are easier actions.

Food for Thought

Yesterdays musings about folded hands into prayers sent me on a search this morning. The following are the three, of many, answers that resonated most deeply with me. 

 

1. When I was a child I was told that we could whisper our deepest thoughts into our empty hands and they would follow to where our fingers were pointed - straight up to heaven.

2. Religious historians trace the gesture back to the act of shackling a prisoner’s hands with vine or rope: joined hands came to symbolize submission. In ancient Rome, a captured soldier could avoid immediate death by joining the hands together. Just as waving a white flag today, the message was clear. “I surrender",".

 

3. One hand represents the higher, spiritual nature, while the other represents the worldly self. By combining the two, the person making the gesture is attempting to rise above their differences with others, and connect themself to the person they bow to. The bow is a symbolic bow of love and respect.

Choices

My thoughts are truly random this morning as I continue to think about choices and an email conversation about Deuteronomy 30: 15-20 (http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Deuteronomy+30%3A15-20&version=NIV). Life is about choices on every level, and then the results, or consequences of my choices. I think we tend to see/hear consequence as a negative word; it is not. It is the result of an action.
I ponder again the words of Viktor Frankl. "Frankl concludes that the meaning of life is found in every moment of living; life never ceases to have meaning, even in suffering and death.  . . .  Frankl concludes from his experience that a prisoner's psychological reactions are not solely the result of the conditions of his life, but also from the freedom of choice he always has even in severe suffering. The inner hold a prisoner has on his spiritual self relies on having a faith in the future . . ." (Wikipedia)

Suffice to say I have reflected a lot on the meaning of life these past few years, and continue to do so, even as I consider the myriad choices and possibilities available to me.

Some days feel (too) ordinary to me, and then I remember a woman interviewed on TV about Schindler's List. She was a holocaust survivor and she said that all she reached for/dreamed of during her days and night in the camps was an ordinary evening at home. How easily we tire of the ordinary days, and how many around us dream of them. It brings Sarah to mind: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Urv7tyeJ7qE

I consider prayers and hands folded - not that I think you have to have your hands folded to pray - and wonder if clapping is a series of tiny prayers . . .

Beach Bums

On a whim, I stopped with Lucy at a different beach than I had planned today - one I haven't seen yet over the 17 years I've been trekking to the Oregon Coast. The state park, which is also a campground and would be fabulous in camping weather, has a multitude of trails that wander through the grassy dunes that are between Hwy 101 and the ever-changing Pacific Ocean. Lucy and I walked for about a half mile before cresting above the ocean and a view that never fails to inspire me. Crashing waves rolling in, like lines of rushing white stallions with manes whipping in the wind, racing for the firmer sands, followed always by yet another stampede.
The mist dampened my face and hair as we walked, me throwing the ball for Lucy and watching for ocean treasures. When we first hit the beach there were about a dozen other people that I could see on a stretch that must have been at least two miles in length. Within an hour we and two others far down the beach were the only ones left. By that time the mist had strengthened to a drizzle, and by the time we returned to the car, it was simply raining, and we were both soaked. It was great! Easy to say when you know you're getting into a car with a good heater.

Driving home from the beach, with the heater on and warming us, the radio cranked to R&R from the 70's, the wide expanse of Oregon Coast to my right, I smiled. Not a bad picture as I wind into the last quarter of my 53rd year. Truly, the only piece missing was Rita. She would have loved the beach, the rains, the dog play, the tunes. . . it was a most perfect Sunday afternoon. And she was with me, as she always is.

Daffodils and time

Yesterday I saw a few clumps of daffodils readying to unfurl their blossoms and greet the Spring. I doubt I will ever see daffodils without bringing Rita to mind. On what I would call her last 'good' day, she told me that during her morning meditations the daffodils had been singing to her. I was struck then, and continue to be, by what an amazing exchange that was for her, and how peaceful it seemed to be for her. A bit like transcending earthly constraints and connecting with all life force.
As I walk by daffodils, I wonder if they are singing and I just can't hear them. . .yet. Perhaps all flowers sing.

Fifty-two weeks ago Rita and I were here on the Oregon Coast, having arrived yesterday after a fun sleep-over at the Ace Hotel in Portland, recommended by her radiologist, Dr. Lim. And 42 weeks ago Rita died. It is still hard for me to grasp all that has unfolded these past few years, and what it means for me.

I was reminded  this morning in an email exchange of this woman who spoke at the first Affirm Conference I attended in Ottawa in 2002. A great speaker that inspired me; http://www.leannetigert.com/index.html

Sandy days

Lucy and I stretched our legs for two hours this afternoon, feet and paws crunching on gravelled walks, sinking into soft, spongy grasses, and finally stepping out onto miles of sandy beaches. They say, as my Grandmother would say, that you can walk from Yachats to Waldport along the beaches. Of course, the tide would have to be in your favour, and you'd need to be in decent shape since it is a few miles. Eight miles as the crow flies, or seagull.

As we walked past the Adobe Resort, along the path gravelled with what appears to be crushed rock from the rocky beaches right in that area, I noticed that a flower memorial has been started for the two young high-school seniors that died there last Saturday. They had been playing catch with a football and must have not noticed a sneaker wave come in. The surf was high and the winter ocean rough last Saturday, and there was a small craft advisory out. They got caught by a wave, were pulled out to sea, and both drowned. Both bodies were recovered; one within a half hour and the other early the next morning after a local out for a walk spotted the body. A tragic story that puts me on alert with wee Lucy, and myself. I love being by the ocean and walking the beaches and trails, and I try to keep an eye on the water at all times.

Wikipedia states: A Sneaker wave is a popular term used to describe disproportionately large coastal waves that can often appear in a wave train without warning.
Because they are much larger than preceding waves, sneaker waves can catch unwary swimmers, washing them out to sea. It is not uncommon for people walking or standing on beaches and ocean jetties to also be washed into the sea.

This afternoon I enjoyed a half hour in the local Lions Thrift store, securing 3 family-style videos (no blood, no car chases, no guns), a Colleen McCullough book, The Touch, a coloured oil/water 'toy' that changes shapes between two small sheets of plexiglass, and a fine  brushed cotton shirt in my favourite colour. What's not to like about that? Oh, all of that? Cost me five bucks.

I am living across the street from the local county fire department and ambulance hall, which in and of itself is rather reassuring. I've noticed a pair of goats tied up outside the hall during the day - yes, I wrote goats. In early evening they are in the back of a canopied pick-up, complete with an appropriate cage, hay on the outside of the cage which they tug at, as they should. In the window of the fire-hall door - the small entrance door, not the bay doors - there is a sign posted that reads, Eggs: $3/dozen. As I walked by the hall today after my wee shopping spree at the thrift store, I saw the goats tied up, and a woman was there giving them a bit of hay. I stopped and said I was curious about the goats, and why they were there. The woman looks to be in late fifties, graying hair pulled back away from her face, well worn and clean jeans, a blue checked flannel work shirt, and glasses. She smiles at me and says they are hers and they come to work with her every day. She has other goats on her farm, and they wander about, but these two Pygmy Goats will have nothing to do with her regular goats, and whine all day if they don't come with her. So she packs them up in the truck and along they come. If it's raining in town, she leaves them in the back of the truck, thus the well set-up area where they can eat and rest. I ask her about the eggs. Somehow I know they are going to be hers. Yes, they are hers, and she has some available. It's an honour system. Just tuck myself inside the bay door, turn to the left, and go a few feet down the hall. There's an ice cooler there with eggs and an envelope for my three dollars - make change from the envelope as I need. I confirm, again hardly needing to, that they are free-range eggs. She smiles and nods. I'm sure I've just been pegged as someone from the city, which I am not. Why did I even ask that? She asks if I might return the carton when I'm done with it; of course. She takes up a broom and starts to sweep the cement floors; I figure she is employed as a custodian of the fire-hall.

When I get home I look at the varied sized eggs; white eggs, brown eggs, and what appears to be a few light green eggs. Those ones should be interesting! I did grow up on a farm but I admit I've never seen egg shells that colour.

Later this afternoon as I am looking out the window across the street I see a man seated at the front of one of the two bay doors of the hall, a plastic sheet draped around him, and the Goat Woman, as I am now calling her, is cutting his hair. Somehow it doesn't surprise me that she cuts hair too. Maybe she'll cut mine in a few weeks when I need a trim!