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Warrior Spirit

Looking through the window of my daughter’s home, the Pacific Northwest creeps into the morning light. The snowy mountains emerge, differentiating themselves from the flat surface of the slate grey, Lake Whatcom in the foreground. So far from home I am this morning.

So close to my heart.

My present “read,” is Margaret Wheatley’s new book*, “So Far From Home – Lost and Found in Our Brave New World.” She is a writer, teacher and speaker with a global perspective and wisdom that guides one to act locally.

Wheatley’s writing has inspired me for years and her latest continues that movement. The book’s dedication is: “For all of us who aspire to be warriors for the human spirit, and for those whose needs and suffering summon us to be brave.”

It takes a lot of bravery to be a warrior for the human spirit.

Last week, back in my own home, I checked in with a friend on Facebook. Two minutes prior she posted an alarm that while walking her dog before bed, she stumbled across some individuals who just completed shoveling an enormous swastika on our neighborhood pond…the hate symbol was more than 100 feet in diameter!  She called the police.

Stunned, I posted back the following: “This is our hood. We will not stand down for hate and will stand up for peace. Tomorrow morning, I’ll bring my shovel and my granddaughter and we’ll get rid of it.” 

Almost immediately, another neighbor posted an offer to help. I was elated and then I became scared.  Really scared.  Through the power of the Net, I had not only spoken out about my unwillingness to let this bald offense exist in my neighborhood, I had informed the culprits that I would be out there shoveling in the morning. Gulp! Sleep did not come easily that night.

Daylight helps courage awaken. So does the energy of a feisty two-year old.  I bundled up my granddaughter, grabbed my shovel, and headed to the pond with her in tow on the sled. 

The pond was deserted except for the hate symbol slowing dissolving through the ice. (The police had sprinkled a de-icer on it.) 

The Facebook neighbor had other plans for the day. The hate mongers of the previous night were probably sleeping it off.  We were alone. I was relieved.

Shoveling began. My granddaughter thought it a game, chasing behind me in the circle while I slowly broke the crusty snow into a Peace symbol.  This was going to take some time!

With one eye on my young charge and the other on the emerging pattern, I reflected upon how much energy gets wasted and how hard those who spread hate have to work to scare others.

I think it is in direct correlation to how hard peacemakers throughout the globe have to work to create a world that reveals justice and compassion and an unwillingness to bend to intimidation whether its verbal, emotional, visual, or physical. 

As Wheatley says, it takes a warrior spirit to stand up for the human spirit. This is not to be mistaken for a gun in hand, rocket launcher on the shoulder warrior. It is the heart warrior; one who is armed with nothing more than heart knowledge that working for peace in our homes, our neighborhoods and our world takes courage.

And, sometimes a shovel.

 Peacebeinall,  Jane

*Find this book, and more, at Berrett-Koehler Publishers - A community dedicated to creating a world that works for all. Berrett-Koehler Publishers

Suffering Sucks ~ Transformation, Not So Much

A few weeks ago, I found myself kneeling and praying on a Sunday morning, but it was not in a church.

The previous evening at a neighborhood BBQ, I met a woman suffering from debilitating migraines . She is a beautiful, brilliant woman, yet she cannot work. Often times, she cannot parent her children or love her husband in the ways she desires due to the incessant pain. Despite all treatments and therapies, nothing works to alleviate it. 

While conversing with her, it came to my mind that I should do something to help. “But, what,” I thought? “I’m no doctor; I don’t have any secret cures.”

All I could think to do to lighten her misery was to offer her a hand and foot massage. Even though I had no clue if such an action could help her, I knew that I could offer it

She came to my house early the next morning treading so lightly as not to make her pain worse through the pressure of her own footsteps. Gentle, soothing music played on my IHome. She sat, and I poured out lavender oil on her forearms and wrapped each hand and foot in a soft, moist towel.

Soon, I was kneeling on my floor at the feet of this lovely, anguished woman. As I cradled her feet and massaged her toes with fragrant oil, I found myself thinking of the Christian scripture story found in John 12: 1-8. There is a scene where a woman gently caresses the feet of Jesus who would, in turn, wash the feet of his disciples a few days later.

I thought of this Jesus who, while knowing of his imminent arrest and probable death, patiently knelt at the feet of his disciples. I thought of how those same companions would, in turn, be the next to suffer.

I prayed that the oil and my touch and the desires of my heart could be joined in such a way to help this woman before me know how deeply she was loved in all ways, by The Creator of All.

Did my action help reduce the pain of the woman before me for very long? I do not know, and I do not believe that matters. She left my house and returned to her home. Maybe I will or maybe I will not see her again. This also does not matter.

What matters is this: Because I have been emboldened by the support of others when I have suffered, I could fearlessly offer compassion to another in hers. My Spiritual Director has said that awareness of one's own suffering creates the possibility of joining it with the suffering throughout the world. If anything has happened in my life these past years, it is the "joining". It is transforming.

For instance, when I go shopping for groceries on a Friday night, the loneliness on some of the faces I see is palpable. There are the lonely ones, the frightened ones, and the elder ones who pass their carts by mine in the aisle. They have no rings on fingers. There are no companions by their side, nether men or women.

Collectively, I know most of we Friday night shoppers are not there because we have loved ones waiting for us at home. And so, I often say a little blessing for the one idling over the choice of canned peaches…or pears. Suffering for the sake of suffering is pointless.

Transformation of suffering comes upon our own inner awareness of its unifying ability to make us all one in our humanity. Suffering changes us—if we allow it—into softer beings capable of compassionate actions towards others.

This I believe: because you are human, it is possible that your compassionate acts begot of suffering allow you to beget compassion in others.

Maybe you didn’t pray at a mosque, temple or church this weekend. Rather, you possibly were a “living prayer” while sipping a cup of java with friends and listening to the story of their mother’s Alzheimer’s.  Or, maybe you celebrated the magnificence of The Creator by cooking eggs over a campfire and feeding your hungry family. Or, maybe you sat at a Blues Fest and joined others in music that lifts spirits and creates joy.

It is by the “joining” of others that we begin the “transforming” of ourselves. This is how peace is fanned into a flame. Keep it burning. And may….

Peacebeinall, Jane

Jane Haubrich Casperson, MA, is a Certified Spiritual Director and can be reached by contacting her at Peacebeinall@gmail.com

Are You Where You Are?

In a matter of 30 minutes, I bought a new lawnmower this weekend. Coming to the actual decision to purchase the mower has taken me since the snow melted, months ago. 

True, the old mower’s missing pieces were making it a bit dangerous, and it took two people to start it. No hyperbole! But, the actual purchase of a new mower wasn’t really about grass cutting or keeping a tidy yard – though both of those things can be important in being a neighborly neighbor. 

No, my conundrum was about making a new commitment when recent life events have clearly demonstrated that commitment means very different things to different people. For me, purchasing a mower with a three-year, “guaranteed to start” warranty meant I was committing to a way of life, a way of living, and I was going to continue showing up in my little community.

My investment, which the mower most certainly was monetarily, was one of saying, "YES" to a sense of place. It was my declaration of inter-dependence.  “I’m here to stay!” roared the shiny red, 2-stroke engine as it came to life on the first pull. “I am where I am!”

And this is a good place to be.  Neighbors to the west of my home provide wise grand parenting to my 17-year old daughter. For me, they sometimes provide after work, adult conversation and a relaxing glass of wine on their deck.

Those to the east of my yard exude youth, possibilities, and the occasional pit fire at night…a wonderful spot for philosophical and political explorations. A half block away, my precious granddaughter runs down the sidewalk saying, “Go Nana’s house, Nana’s house!"

The temporality of life demonstrates that despite changes, if you can learn to be where you are, it does not matter where you are. You can commit at any time to any place and declare your own inter-dependence. From there, comes joy...and in a world that sorely lacks for joy at times, this is a very good thing. This I know.  

So, where are you? 

                                                    Peacebeinall, Jane 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~ 

Credit for this blog's title goes to a gifted local musician, Arlene Anderson. It is from a song on her CD,  Point of Departure.  The chorus goes like this:

Are you where you are?

Are you not where you are?

Go to where you are.

Life waits for you there.

Words of the chorus were adapted from a poem inlaid on the floor of the Oslo, Norway airport.  To order Arlene's CD contact:  aandersonus@yahoo.com.  

A Bed of Roses ~ Sacred Signs

My mother, Dolores, turned 85 last Saturday. A small gathering feasted on a hamburger noodle hot dish supper, finishing with rhubarb dessert and a glass of sweet wine. 

The next morning, my cousin, Polly, drove out from “the cities” accompanied by her own elderly mother. My brother and sister-in-law who live on the home place one mile east, stopped by. A feisty game of dominoes later topped off the celebratory day. It had been filled with laughter, table blessings, birthday rituals, and small talk.

Later that night after the house quieted, I reflected upon how my daily life had been immersed in rituals when I was young.  As a daughter of devout Roman Catholic parents, there was a multitude of reminders in our simple, rural life that indicated something more than what met the eye was at work there. While the church of my childhood had seven sacraments, my parents’ home held countless more.

Back then, before bolting downstairs for breakfast, the day began by dipping one's fingers in a holy-water-font. It was a tiny water bowl embossed with a cross or a haloed silhouette of Mother Mary.  Every bedroom occupied by our ten-member family had such a vessel nailed to the door frame. We kids would dip, swish, and make a cross on our forehead, shoulders, and chest even if the hot air furnace had vaporized the font's water.

At the table, no child dared eat a morsel until we blessed the food and ourselves and then said the Morning Prayer. It offered our joys, works and sorrows to God for the day. At the end of the meal, a thankful blessing for the food was given as we went off to school or chores or both.

Those table prayers were said three times each day regardless of exhaustion, hunger, or the need to hurry onto the next task.

There were other seasonal, ritual actions. For instance, spring found us kneeling in succession on the four corners of our farm. We prayed for strength, good weather, and health in the coming planting time.  We buried little palm crosses from the fronds of branches given to us on the Sunday before Easter. The crosses were reminders of the Bible story where a Rabbi named Jesus was said to have ridden into town as a hero one week only to find himself experiencing the horror of death on a cross the next.  

However, the real story--the sacrament--carried on in the sign of what we did as a family.  Kneeling together in a 25-mile an hour wind on a barren prairie field told it: stay strong, stay together, and believe in the power of Love to overcome all hurts and difficulties. That was the unstated, sacred story of the actions accompanying life.

Decades have passed since then. Citified rituals have replaced agricultural practices. Other actions have simply faded away as no longer relevant. New sacred stories continue to be written.

Mom, at 85, is not one to speak of her own death or share plans of what she might like as age continues to take its toll on her and dad…who is also 85. Gifting her is difficult, at best. But, my sister Jill, thought of gifting Mom with roses…one for each year of life. We hauled them 263 miles to the farm in the trunk of my car.

Early the next morning, we gathered vases from the cellar and filled them with baby’s breath. We cut leaves from budding lilacs and dogwoods outside the farmhouse.

Then, along with Dad and my youngest sibling Jenny, we marched into the master bedroom carrying 'sacred' vessels filled with "holy" water and aromatic roses. While singing “Happy Birthday to You, Mom!” we hoped to communicate our love to this beautiful woman who was sitting in her flannel nightgown, drinking her morning coffee in bed. 

Mom, a woman of few words at most times, could only stutter, “Well, I never.  I never!” And then she made her annual, birthday statement: “Oh, you kids shouldn’t have!”

Well, of course we should have, Mom.  We had to because you and dad taught us there is more to life than that which meets the eye. The accumulation of all those simple actions growing up affected something deep inside. They were what make us whole--and occasionally--capable of holiness.

Like you, my dear readers,  I come from an imperfect family where its own joys, works, and sufferings accompany each day.  However, what my heart tells me is this: there are many more sacraments than the codified number established by churches and temples and mosques.
Whatever actions you can do this week to pass along goodness, create new possibilities, and increase joy in your life and the life of your family is a sacramental action. 

“Everything is holy now,” as Peter Mayer sings so sweetly.

This I know.

                        Peacebeinall, Jane

                    I Met Someone Awesome

I met a man at a race last Saturday. He was blond, blue-eyed, solidly built, and full of the energy of life.

True enough, he was a little short for me, but “cute” was a word I would use to describe his face and demeanor. We met mid-way through the race and matched strides for a bit.

“How far do we have to go yet?” he said.

“I think we’re half-way done," I replied.

He smiled a disarming smile.

His missing teeth took me aback.

“See ya!” he yelled. He took off running at a pace that left me watching his backside.

Nuts! Didn’t even get his name.

I finished the race at my own steady pace and found him just across the finish line. First he fist-bumped his running buddy and then threw himself onto the soggy ground. He lay there spread-eagle, breathing hard. A look of sheer joy was on his beautiful face. I walked up to congratulate him.

Reaching down and shaking his hand I said, “Wow, you can run! You were awesome!”

“Yeah, I know I am!” he said giggling out loud. His cherubic smile showed off the empty gums of his mouth where his baby teeth had fallen out in anticipation of permanent ones.  “Yeah, I AM AWESOME!" he lisped. 

It seems to me that six-year-old, “little man”  answered the historical question of Christians who are entering the Holy Week prior to Easter: "What was Jesus' purpose in appearing on this earth?"

From where I stand, The Creator loved creation so much that a demonstration of awesomeness was needed to help us understand our belovedness. (1John 4:9)

Yet, somehow we STILL forget how AWESOME we really are. 

Somewhere between being six or sixty or even one hundred and six, we humans forget we are made in the image of God—Imago Dei—and that we are simply, humbly, gloriously loved and awesome just as we are. Missing teeth and all. 

Deal with that reality and you will be guaranteed a holy week no matter what week of the year it is for you. 

                                                                                   Peace be in all, Jane

Lost

Last week, it snowed heavily and deeply for the first time this winter. It took three hours to shovel and snow blow my driveway clear, After that, I did what northern people love to do. I threw my skis in the car, met up with a friend, and drove to a favorite trail head to enjoy two feet of pristine perfection which had fallen the night before.

As the sun came out, getting the kick wax right was a little tricky. When my friend found herself scraping and re-waxing a second time, she urged me on. "Go!  I'll catch up with you," she said."

I departed, knowing she would do just that. She is a strong skier. 

After a few minutes, a classic ski track veered off to my right. No one had skied it yet that day.  Decision time: stay on the groomed track or break the trail? It was simply too tempting to pass up! I took it, but not before using my pole basket to stamp out my galpal's name and two arrows pointing her toward the way I took. 

The white pine forest of the Brule River unfolded into a northern oak stand towering over silence and blinding brilliance.  Conditions were perfect as I followed the winding trail. I stopped, looking behind and listening for my friend's presence in the woods. Not one sound: not human nor animal. Just immense silence. 

I skied for an hour. The oxygen and adrenaline in my body combined to create a sense of awe with the patches of sun light illuminating bare, white oak boughs. I was moved into a reverent sense of deep, inner gratitude to the Creator of All. 

The classic path ended, merging into a well groomed trail.  Still no sign of my friend ahead or behind. What should be done?  She had the water, but we both left our cell phones in the car knowing it was going to be a short ski day.  I felt a little thirsty but I was confident it wouldn't be more than another 30 minutes or so before I'd be back at the parking lot and some bottled water. I also knew my friend would go ahead and meet me back at the Ranger's cabin if we didn't meet out here.  

An hour passed, and I found myself on unfamiliar track. Somehow, I had taken a wrong turn. My map was no help due to blocked trails which prevented access. 

Conditions were good, but I was tiring. Then, I became aware of small, posted signs: first 4K, then 7K, then 9K. My wrong turn had placed me on a  race course held that morning! I passed an abandoned aid station. No one was around. I skied on.

My shoulders ached. Clouds now covered the sun and shadows were deepening in the diminished afternoon light. A sense of panic began to rise in my dry throat. What if I fall? What if my dehydrated muscles, which were beginning to feel a lot like gelatin, cramped up? 

Then, I began remembering words from David Wagoner's poem entitled, Lost. "Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you are not lost...The forest knows where you are. You must let it find you."  I stood still.

 Breathing slowly,  inhaling and exhaling, my thoughts calmed. I recalled an opening line from The Rule of St. Benedict: Listen. Listen with the ear of your heart.   I listened.

"Look!" It said. "There is pure, new fallen snow all around you!"  

I scooped some into my mouth, opening my lips and breathing my own warm air to melt the crystals into drops of water on my tongue. 

"Listen!" It urged. "What do you hear?" 

I heard a faint sound of distant traffic. Somewhere to my right was the highway and that was where I needed to head. 

"Trust yourself!" It demanded.

My arms were fatigued but not my legs. I must have been poling up the rolling grade, rather than using my calves and my thighs.  I refocused my stride using those long muscles to push me forward.

One yellow sign with a right turn arrow appeared: Trailhead. Then, two men emerged from the intersecting trail. They, too, had become confused by the closed trails. We decided to head out together, energized by the presence of others facing the same challenge and in the same struggle for clarity. 

15 K, 17K, 19K.  As I skied on, I visualized my friend at the trail head cabin, warming herself. She was okay, I was certain, and would be waiting for me. It spurred me on.

I sighted the last marker: 21K! From the Ranger's cabin emerged my smiling friend with a "where the hell you been" look on her face. It had been three and one-half hours; I was hungry and thirsty, weary and a bit wobbly, but I was safe. 

Isn't life just like that? We head out on our life paths thinking we know where we are going and how to get there. Somehow along the way we forget, or get lost, or we become too tired or beaten down by life's vicissitudes to listen to the voice of the Spirit...that inner voice of wisdom that is within all of us. 

As David Wagoner's poem, Lost, says so well: Stand still. The forest knows where you are. You must let it find you. 

Even in our distress and challenges the Voice of God Within is available. Trust it, my dear friends, trust it. And you, too, will be well.

                                                                                                                                        Peace be in all, Jane

Lost by David Wagoner       (Collected Poems, 1956 - 1976)
Prologue to Rule of St. Benedict

Eat Dessert First !

Yesterday, I ate dessert first. 

Actually, that's all I ate for lunch. Dessert. I was seated at Valentini's, a locally owned, family restaurant which creates its desserts from scratch. Their cream puffs are huge, stuffed with fluffy, vanilla cream, and drizzled thickly with dark chocolate. Eating it was a blatant act of love towards... myself.

It had been a rough week: part of it was spent metaphorically circling Dante's 7th level of Inferno, interacting with the infamous Rusticucci. While on that little journey, the stomach flu visited my household for 48 hours in a manner that shall not be discussed in any public forum.  

However, back to lunch. At table were five, middle-aged women, all mothers of trans-racially adopted children. We meet monthly as a support group. Our families number from one to nine adopted and foster children of ethnicities and races that, unlike us, are not white. 

None of us would win a beauty contest. Our eyes and foreheads have lots of creases; our mouths carry deep crevasses, and our hair is mostly, as Procol Harum sang in the '70's, a "whiter shade of pale."  But oh, the inner beauty I see at that table would knock out the red carpet lights on Academy Awards night.

These are women of strength; Moms who love life so deeply they are dedicated to saving and strengthening the abandoned, abused, and throwaways that our society would like to have them believe don't really exist. And what could possibly motivate these people, you might ask? Insanity? Nope, love.

“At the end of life we will not be judged by how many diplomas we have received, how much money we have made, how many great things we have done. 

We will be judged by "I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat, I was naked and you clothed me. I was homeless, and you took me in.” 

― Mother Teresa

As I see it, each family in their own way--whether they know it or not--has taken the words of the late Mother Teresa to heart, "doing small things with great love."  

The table conversations are rarely for the faint of heart. They often leave us laughing or weeping out loud at our attempts to temper appropriate discipline with compassion for those in our care whose brains have been permanently damaged by in-utero drugs, alcohol, or post-birth trauma.

Discussions center around how to prevent children with FASD from impulsive actions that range from smearing feces on bedroom walls to compulsively eating frozen food from the freezer. Conversations flow about freedoms and limits for our older children who, because of infant/toddler sexual abuse, have no personal boundaries that intuitively tell them how to differentiate a predator from a potential friend. 

We exchange contacts of community resources, human service providers, and special programs that might help other's kids. And, we often speak wearily of having to advocate or explain over and over and over again to those who are uninitiated to issues of RAD, FASD, PTSD, ADHD just why our kids' actions--or our parental efforts to protect them--look unusual to those whose experiences are only with "normal" children.  (I smile at the myth that normal exists anywhere except on my washing machine's dial.)

Most importantly, we women are here for each other in this little battle to make a difference in the world. It is our way of making world peace in our community. Our hope is that our actions of love create space for those who, through no fault of their own, are viewed as "less than" by society. There  are few rewards for doing it...but it's a compelling reason to eat dessert first.

Peace be in all, Jane

http://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/838305.Mother_Teresa

What's Love Got To Do With It?

In the Eastern mind, the path of the spiritual journey leads to enlightenment; the path of spirituality in the Western traditions seeks personal transformation opening one to salvation. Granting all the differences of rituals, dogmas, practices, and religious texts, the end goal is the same as I see it: a journey that leads one home to one's heart and union with all of humanity. Oneness. Unity. Love.

However,  you might ask as Tina Turner once did, "What's love got to do with it?"  What does being one with all of humanity have to do with unemployment or under employment, a free school lunch, food pantries and white privilege...all of which have been in the headlines in my little corner of the world this past month?

Simply...Everything.  For nearly four decades, I worked from the farm to the corporate board room to educate myself and pull myself up to what has been considered a middle class life style. While remaining involved with my church and community, I was blessed to co-create a family with four beautiful children, educate myself to a post-graduate degree, and help build a comfortable home in a safe neighborhood. When I volunteered hundreds of hours to charitable causes and philanthropic efforts, I did so with gratitude for my health and good fortune wrought from a hard work ethic. I looked forward to retirement and a lifestyle with more choices in a couple of years--just like other baby-boomers my age.

Then a job loss hit in the wave of the recession; then a divorce hit; then a child's health needs hit. And before I knew it, I was standing in line outside a church waiting for my turn at Ruby's Pantry. And, like any writer worth her ink, I began asking questions of others in line to find out what their story was.

Here are thumbnail profiles of those who stood with me:

• Single mothers or fathers in their mid-twenties, employed in service positions that pay slightly more than minimum wage and way less than needed to provide for a young family;
• Home-schooling moms with husbands who had jobs such as postal worker or peace officer; 
• Retirees living on social security and a small pension;
• Professional (you read correctly) divorced, late middle-aged women going home from the office;
• Men dressed in their machinist work jackets or company uniform shirts.

The saying used to go, "We're all just two paychecks away from the bread line."  From what my unscientific sampling showed, "All our paychecks, pensions, or privilege won't guarantee we'll stay out of the food pantry line."

Which brings me back to being one with all humanity.  I made a couple of new acquaintances in that line,  exchanged a few recipes and shared some job networking tips. 

Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk with the Buddhist mind, had his enlightenment on the corner of 4th and Walnut streets in Kentucky. Mine was outside a neighborhood church, standing in line. 

Merton wrote, "My vocation (job or calling) does not really make me different from the rest or put me in a special category except artificially...I am still a member of the human race--and what more glorious destiny is there, since the Word was made flesh and became, too, a member of the Human Race...Thank God, thank God that I am like others, that I am only a [person] among others...It is a glorious destination..." 

                                  Oneness, Unity & Yes,  Love.     Write that on your Valentine's card. 

May Peace be in All,  Jane 

* Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander (Doubleday, 1966). 

...And Moon Danced With Venus

Two years ago, while spending a few days vacationing in Mexico, I read Brian Swimme’s book, The Universe Is A Green Dragon: A Cosmic Creation Story. The effect it had upon me was transformative: All of creation is a direct expression of the Creator; all of creation is unified in perfection, from the tiniest, deadliest spider in the Amazon hanging on the giant Kapok tree, to the distant planets spinning in reflected light of our sun. All is All.

While in Manzanillo, I sat on a sea wall, looking out into the universe appearing in the night heavens. The clarity of Earth Moon and Venus in the western sea sky was stunning. On two particular evenings, these celestial bodies appeared together. This is my reflection. May it warm your winter evening. 

And Moon Danced with Venus

Rising in an indigo sky

Holding onto the ragged shoreline,

Venus appeared on the dancing floor of the Universe,

Shyly followed by her curved mate.

On the first evening,

Earth Moon held back, barely daring to approach.

Gaining courage to draw near and light her planetary expression.

There they stood, face to face,

A finger’s width and half a galaxy’s distance separating them

While they contemplated the vastness in which they were created.

Pausing in the ochre hue, left by the breath of the electric plant.

The Stars came to attend them.

Sea sang its eternal rhythm. Coaxing, calling them out.

But, Earth Moon hastily departed leaving Venus staring into the night.

Next evening, they returned.

He, overcoming his timidity, held her at the tip of his pale crescent finger

Before the Sun God even left the sky.

Their decision was ordained in the span of time and space.

They would dance together this evening.

Blazing orange Cosmic fire lighting their backs,

Pale blue faces turned toward each other in sheer allurement to the Creator’s.

Orbits unseen, unified in stillness until…

Excusing himself with grace, he took leave in the midnight blue.

She stayed until dawn, listening to the Sea play it’s eternal refrain.

                                                        

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  

 This is a great website for night skies and this planet we call home.

Earthsky.org

Mommy, They Killed a Black Man Today

It was a quiet afternoon in an even quieter neighborhood. In a few minutes, my youngest daughter, age six, would be bounding up the walk having leapt from the bottom step of the big orange school bus. I smiled knowing she would arrive dragging her backpack in one hand, a fist full of crumpled papers in the other, with her pink and white beaded hair bouncing above her ebony forehead.

I cherished greeting Mary at the door and joining her in a snack as we unraveled her school day over a juice box and a granola bar. But, as I looked through the window towards the corner bus stop, I knew immediately something was wrong…really, really wrong this day.

Mary’s boots barely touched on the last step of the bus before she hit the cement curb, running. Her mouth was wide open, with fright twisting her usually happy face. Her almond eyes intently focused directly toward the door of our home. She cut across the snowy yard, flying up the stairs and into my arms as I opened the door.

“Mommy, they killed a black man today!” she blurted. “They killed him!”

“What? Who?” I said, quite certain I heard her incorrectly.

“They killed a black man. His name is Martin. They killed Martin because he is black. Are they going to kill me, Mommy?”

I drew her tightly against my breast, feeling her body stiff with fear. Gently, I wiped tears of terror from her beautiful brown eyes.

“Sh-h-h-, baby, it’s okay, you’re safe,” I reassured her with the tips of my white fingers stroking her thickly plaited hair.

“You are safe,” I repeated, kissing the tears from her cheeks. “No one will hurt you. Let’s have some juice and talk about it, okay?”

I rose and turned toward the refrigerator and stopped: The kitchen wall calendar said Monday, January 17, 2001: the day the United States honored Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

My little daughter, newly adopted from a foreign country, had neither the cultural background nor the maturity of age to help her comprehend that the “news” of Martin Luther King's death was American history. What her six-year-old mind told her was that simply because of the color of her skin, she was in danger in this new land.

I spoke to her of Dr. King, Jr., and how he had died years before. How he and so many others, black and white, worked tirelessly so that all people could have equality and justice, and most of all, safety wherever they lived in the United States.

Ten years later, I stood alone in front of the Reflecting Pool surrounding the tombs of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Coretta Scott King on a quiet Atlanta morning. I wept. I said a prayer of gratitude for their bravery on behalf of millions of unknown individuals like my daughter and me.

They as servant leaders, and countless others like them, were the reason I could assure my daughter with the words “you are safe,” when she was so terrified years ago. This safety is now guaranteed by our Constitution, but it can never be taken for granted.

Tomorrow, January 16, 2012, is the 26th anniversary of the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. national holiday.

Dr. King often asked his audiences, “What are you doing for others?” I repeat his question in hopes you will see how any act you do in service to others is one more step toward peacemaking and eliminating any kind of “ism” that still exists in our beautiful nation.  

Peace Be In all, Jane

15 Sunflowers, Suffering, and Grace

15 Sunflowers ~ Vincent van Gogh, 1888

“Those who have eyes to see will recognize that all light comes from the same sun.”             

Vincent van Gogh, Letters to Theo

Recently, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about suffering. What it is; what it isn’t. Usually, in the same line of thought, I end up thinking about grace. How it shows up; what it looks like when I am able to see it.

In a prosperous country with food plentiful and relative safety inhabiting our cities, words such as suffering and grace rarely, if ever, are uttered in public or polite social conversation.

 Suffering is either viewed as an archaic term in a technological age, ignored as irrelevant to one’s own personal life, or misunderstood as something belonging to other, less flourishing regions of the world.

And grace, well grace is an even more obsolete expression…a word erroneously relegated to those days where simple people sought simple answers in a chaotic universe.

Begging the pardon of my sophisticated friends: I think so many of us are walking around in unidentified suffering that we are blinded to the moments of pure grace in our lives.  The result: depression, addiction, unrelieved sadness.

Because we do not recognize or are unwilling to admit that this “just being human” opens us to the experience of unearned suffering, we also become desensitized to the similar occasions of pure grace that even more frequently come to us in ways undeserved.

Denying, minimizing, or dismissing what has happened to cause suffering in our lives, or refusing to consciously acknowledge the pain, grief and sorrow caused by that suffering—"we cannot see the light that comes from the same sun," as Van Gogh wrote to his brother, Theo.

Van Gogh was a person who knew about unmerited suffering. ¹ So too, did another Dutchman, Henri Nouwen, one of the great spiritual authors of the 20^th century.² Both also knew about the transformative power of grace in their lives.

What is this grace, you ask? Despite all the mastication of it by theologians and philosophers, it is simply this: love. Loving actions, loving thoughts, loving presence. Grace.

Grace showing up as a text message encouraging one’s day; Grace revealing itself as a neighbor clearing your driveway of snow; Grace infusing one’s body and refreshing one’s mind after a ski with friends.  A sunrise; a poem; a painting of sunflowers. Grace.

Yes, we ALL suffer. Yes, we ALL experience grace. They walk hand in hand with this being human. My hope for your 2012 is to be blessed with awareness of both in order to know the depth of love bestowed by the Creator of the Universe.
                                                                  Peace Be In All,   Jane Haubrich Casperson MA, CSD

^1. Lust for Life: The Classic Biographical Novel of Vincent Van Gogh, Irving Stone. The Penguin Group.

^2. Henri Nouwen: Following the Movements of the Spirit, Henri J. M. Nouwen with Michael J. Christensen and Rebecca J. Laird. Harper One.