The Ever Present Sun

Several days ago an acquaintance told me something awful that had happened to her. Her opening up to me about the event was a response to a question that I had innocently asked her. Never in a million years did I expect her to say what she said. My response to her statements was typical, even expected, and somewhat weak though not weakly felt on my part.

I tend to go over things in order to process them and to better understand my reactions. It has occurred to me that I missed an opportunity to be more understanding towards this person, and because of that, more fully present and human to myself. When someone tells you about a profound loss that they have suffered, you can feel completely inadequate to know how to respond: what to say, what to feel and what to do. It's the rare person I think who gets it all right the first time. And as I think about it I know that the terrible feelings I have reflect the fact that not only do I feel bad for this person (and my inability to express that) but I also know that I am not exempt from such an occurrence of tragedy myself. My time will come and then someone else will be standing with me, hearing me say something awful and that person may very well feel inadequate to help also. It's the human condition all the way round and when you come face to face with it, it is painful and somehow feels inevitable. 

As I said above, it takes me awhile to process things. The photo for this post was taken on my walk yesterday. It was wonderful to feel the sun on my face even in the midst of cloudy weather. Just to look up and know that the presence of light and warmth can be counted on even when the weather is cold. And this morning I made the connection with how it is that we comfort each other regardless of how "weak" our skills are in this department. It's the human condition, God's presence within us, that makes us want to say that not only are we sorry for someone else's loss but that we feel it keenly in every sense of the word; on every level even if we can't adequately express that. We are there and are present, just like the weak light and heat of the winter sun, regardless of how well we convey that presence.
Libby

In Praise of Visual Prayer

lake Hogan Water's Edge-Photo by Libby Fife

This week as I stood down at the water's edge at Lake Hogan, I thought about how incredible it was that I was standing there in the first place. The photo shows ground that is normally submerged under water. The drought has lowered Hogan significantly. It's going to take years of runoff and rainfall to replenish the reservoir. Just on a whim, I decided to walk all the way down the hillside to stand right next to the water, right where just a year ago I would not have been able to stand. Really incredible, at least from my point of view. 

I liken the whole experience to something that approaches religion, or religious feeling. Only, I don't really know how to describe this idea. But I know other people feel it. It's a sense of awe and wonder and the inability to put words to what you are feeling. You look around and can't believe what you are seeing: beauty, and history, and life and tons of things you can't possible understand but that you appreciate because of their very complexity and the fact that they are unknowable. You are simply grateful and overcome by the gifts around you.

This week I read an article by Omid Safi, a regular contributor to the online "magazine" On Being. (On Being is more than a collection of articles though-they have wonderful podcasts as well as incredibly sensitive writers and contributors. It worth a look.) Mr. Safi's article can be found at this link. He describes perfectly (and certainly much more elegantly) the feelings I am mentioning. It's prayer that you might find in a book only it's not the written word. It's the landscape, the images before you which are the prayer. At least that is how I took the meaning. And it helped to know that it's OK to maybe not be able to form the words right away. It's enough to look and be grateful.

Libby

In Praise of Visual Prayer

Lake Hogan-At The Water's Edge-photo by Libby Fife

This week as I stood down at the water's edge at Lake Hogan, I thought about how incredible it was that I was standing there in the first place. The photo shows ground that is normally submerged under water. The drought has lowered Hogan significantly. It's going to take years of runoff and rainfall to replenish the reservoir. Just on a whim, I decided to walk all the way down the hillside to stand right next to the water, right where just a year ago I would not have been able to stand. Really incredible, at least from my point of view. 

I liken the whole experience to something that approaches religion, or religious feeling. Only, I don't really know how to describe this idea. But I know other people feel it. It's a sense of awe and wonder and the inability to put words to what you are feeling. You look around and can't believe what you are seeing: beauty, and history, and life and tons of things you can't possible understand but that you appreciate because of their very complexity and the fact that they are unknowable. You are simply grateful and overcome by the gifts around you.

This week I read an article by Omid Safi, a regular contributor to the online "magazine" On Being. (On Being is more than a collection of articles though-they have wonderful podcasts as well as incredibly sensitive writers and contributors. It worth a look.) Mr. Safi's article can be found at this link. He describes perfectly (and certainly much more elegantly) the feelings I am mentioning. It's prayer that you might find in a book only it's not the written word. It's the landscape, the images before you which are the prayer. At least that is how I took the meaning. And it helped to know that it's OK to maybe not be able to form the words right away. It's enough to look and be grateful.

Libby

Patience, The Seasons and the Passage of Time

Lake Hogan

Yesterday as I took my walk I was treated to all sorts of new sights. It had rained steadily for most of the day on Monday and so much of the ground was still covered with puddles and other patches of standing water. Little streams of rainwater had cut their way through the gravel path and flowed slowly down towards the grassy hillside. All of the normally dry colors of the leaves, trees and rocks were made more brilliant by the water and gray skies. The entire park felt transformed.

I readily admit that I tend towards anthropomorphism. I imagine the rocks and the water and the grasses and trees as being kind of human like. Silly, but I do it. To me, they seem like they are all patiently waiting for the inevitable. Everything will cycle back around eventually. Just wait for it. But how long will it take? As I walked along, I wondered if I could learn anything from inanimate objects that knew more about being patient than I can ever hope to know.

The picture above shows the little rivulet of water that now extends from the lake back towards the original path of the river. I wondered how long it would take to once again bring this man made lake to capacity. And I thought about the passage of time and waiting for things to happen. How, as humans, we really can't ever imagine what real waiting must be like. The kind of waiting that involves centuries and millenniums. The kind of waiting that rocks and trees and the earth itself does. The kind of waiting that God must do and must know about; something we can't fathom but that leads to a continuous cycle of renewal and promise. 

So, as the days now get longer, and as I wait for time to pass, I'll do the best that I can to be patient. I'll continue to go to the park and wait for the passing of seasons: winter, spring, summer and fall. I'll continue to watch the cycle of life and death that must be all around me there though maybe not visible to my eyes. Through observing nature in all of its seasons, I will continue to watch the renewal that God provides for all living things. And I will try to be patient, just like the trees and rocks around me.

Libby

Snow, Light and Chanukkah

Big Trees State Park-Photo by Libby Fife

Last night was the first night of Chanukkah. As is so often the case on Jewish holidays, I look for a way to relate the historical or biblical aspects of the holiday to my current everyday life. The light of the candles reminds me of the many ways in which God's illuminating light is present in our everyday lives. My recent hike showed me that God's illuminating presence is both obvious and not so obvious. 

I am sharing the above photo that I took last week while out on a hike at Big Trees State Park up in Arnold. I live in the foothills of northern CA so a trip to the mountains (or close to them) is very doable. I normally go to the park during the spring and summer when it is warm. I am used to how the park looks at that time of year. Imagine my surprise when I arrived this time to find that the park had been blanketed in snow! Objects that were once familiar became a mystery to me. The snow obscured their familiar features so that I had to look very hard to figure out both where I was and what I was seeing. The walk was a real treat for me.

As I lit the Chanukkah candles last night I thought about the different ways in which God helps us to see. Specifically, I thought about how the snow brought the trees, rocks, and paths at the park into relief and caused me to see them in a new way. I felt like I was seeing something for the first time. Things were both hidden and revealed; familiar and unfamiliar. The light of the chanukkah candles is similar. It is both illustrative of a miracle but it also provides warmth and illumination during a cold and dark part of the year. God's light in our world is many faceted. And not always obvious but keep looking. It is there.

Libby

Just For Fun: Some Thoughts For Friday About Giving and Time

***This is just for fun. Prompted by an idea I had about giving someone your full attention; what that would be like. An idea about how to be expansive in what you offer to people. An idea about being gracious and giving without actually giving something of material value. Enjoy!
****And no, I don't know anything about poetry!:)
__________________________________________________________


I have time. 
Here. Sit right here. 
The sun will be warm
Tea? No, you wan't coffee right?
That's right. Milk with a little sugar.
That spoon? Thanks. It is a pretty pattern isn't it?

Tell me. What happened?
Was there a lot of traffic?
No, don't worry. 
The machine will get it. Really.
Then what happened? 
I wouldn't have guessed it.

And then what? Wow. That's long isn't it?
I am sorry. That must hurt. 
Maybe next time. 
Sooner? Not that long then.

The sun is strong isn't it?
No, here. Let me get it. 
Keep talking, I am listening. Then what?
That's too funny! 
Were you surprised? What did you think?
Me too. How funny.

Already? Wait. Just one more.
It's only been a few minutes hasn't it?
Wasn't there something else? Yes, that's right.
Now I remember. You were there? Me too.

OK, then. 
No, really. Anytime.
Here. There is plenty. 
Don't forget these too. 
It's a long way home. Be safe.
Honestly. Anytime. I have time.

Libby

Ordinary Lives

View to far backyard and beyond-sunset

Earlier this week I learned that my neighbor's husband passed away in September. He was in his late seventies and had been sick for several years. Having met him once or twice and having spoken with his wife several times, I was sad to hear about such a sudden loss. They were both expecting him to pass away at some point I suspect but I can imagine that they thought they had more time. We all do.

Coinciding with the above is this lovely article, link here. The author writes eloquently of the special intimacy between couples, of the care that they give to one another and the lengths to which they will go to support and love each other at the end. Lives intertwined and enmeshed with one another. Where does one life end and the other begin after all of that time?

I have a special love for the idea that we are all quiet witnesses to one thing or another but especially to each other. The author takes care to point this out-how important it is to notice what is happening around us; that which is manifested in the everyday activities of our friends and neighbors. Many, many of us live very ordinary lives. I can't help but believe that God's presence here in the lives of those of us just living very quietly is most important. Just as important as in the lives of those of us who do big things. It all matters. And if we just stop for a minute or two and pay attention, we can realize that we are the witness. We have a part to play too. 

Libby