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