Orchids

My usual morning fog was abruptly burned away today.
No wall of protection from my first cup of coffee when I read the news.
I'd not been invited.
They'd had a family gathering without mentioning it to me.
Facebook.  I found out on Facebook.

As the coffee begins to brew, I start my daily routine.
Put away the dishes - did they discuss inviting me?
Sweep up the floor - did they forget to invite me?
Start a load of dark clothes- did they decide not to invite me?
Pour my coffee and sip - do they know anything about my life?  About me?

As I sip, I pick up the tin pig watering can and fill it with water and Orchid food.
The six smooth streams of water pour from the snout to the Orchids in their pots.
I can feel their gratitude, I can imagine their roots being quenched.
The blooms and buds on the stalks quiver as the water is poured over the leaves.
My tears release as I take in the beauty (and think of my family).

Orchids.  My relationship with them works.
I water and fertilize them when I am not too busy,
Too busy with work, and making ends meet, and Molly.
My Orchids don't cry and call me selfish when I state the obvious.
They don't withhold their blooms because I disappoint them.

Oh, the Orchids (and my family) know a different side of this story.
There is validity (in their words) that they are not my first priority.
Why can't I commit to water (call or visit) them on a regular basis?
Could I just quit blaming them for not blooming (being there) for me every day?
Would it kill me to act like the Orchids (my family) were  always perfect?

The last sip of coffee reminds me it's time to get busy.
I put the empty pig on the shelf until I will fill it again to quench the Orchids' thirst.
Will that be next Friday?  Ten days from now? Tomorrow?
It will be when I can not resist the beckoning of their blooms.
My family could learn a lot from my Orchids.  Me too.

©  <llen 2013

Today is a good day because . . . .

1.  It's great to be alive.  I realized that as I was walking for the 15th day in a row, breathing in the crisp air in this amazing little Midwest city.  There are great trails in the great parts.  Ah - breathe in,  breathe out . . . . repeat.

2.  The plumber is here.  Ever since I moved in, the tub and shower in the guest bathroom have been a challenge.  The outdated two-handle faucet had no stopping or staring point.  One had to guess when  the faucets were fully opened or closed.  And recently, I could not get them to a point where there was enough water pressure to divert the faucet stream to the showerhead.  My goal was to limp along with the plumbing in this state until I had the funds saved to redo the entire bath - it's an old yellow fiberglass tub and three piece surround.  I would love tile and a white porcelain tub.  But, it's not been an option yet.  With family coming for a week, I felt compelled to have a decent shower for them.  So - I've opted for a "get by work around" that includes new handles, faucet, and shower head.  I won't have to apologize for the wimpy water pressure or do orientation sessions for people wanting to shower when they stay here.  Thanks Huff Mechanical.

3.  Ian is subbing for the Ames Public School District.  He graduated from ISU in December and is now a teacher.  Hopefully he'll find a full time teaching position for next fall, but for now he's getting a lot of calls to work as a sub in Ames.  Yeah Ian and his family.  Heather is well and writing more and more research articles all the time, and the girls are growing up so fast, becoming real little people with distinct personalities.

4.  Mallary and her family are coming to Ames on Saturday!  They're spending their spring break in Ames.  What a great plan.  Another child I am so proud of, and excited for their future.  Yeah Mallary and her family.  Doc is writing Mine Craft pages on FB and teaching at SIU.  Mallary is finishing her dissertation at SIU.  Mica talks to me while she lays in bed at night - I understand her mostly.  And Victor dictates a grocery list to me for their visit.  He laughs when I ask him questions like - how many cans of spagettios?  25 or 100?  He chooses 100.  More personalities evolving here.

5.  Molly.  Well, gee.  Just Molly.  She keeps me real.  We're going to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde tomorrow.  It stars one of the past "idols."  We're excited.  Thanks for the tickets, Kent.

6.  Me.  I love my life.  There are parts that could use some shoring up, but I'm liking the present, aware of future needs, and assimilating the past.  What more is there?  Oh, and I love my job.  Who else gets to remind middle schoolers that they're made of stardust?  Yeah.  It's amazing.

7.  Friends and family.  You're the mirrors that remind me to comb my hair, and wear a little make-up.  Or not.  What else is there to say?

That's it.  For now.  These are the reasons I think today is a good day.

WALK - DAY 2

If we tend to things at their deepest level, our repair will be so much a part of who we are that there will be no scar. - Mark Nepo. 

The cold, strong wind made conversation difficult so we mostly walked in silence today.  Above the wind we could hear the groaning of the shallow river as the ice stretched and claimed more purchase of the flowing waters.

I could hear my companion's breathing singing a dissonant chord with the river.  Just as the river groaned at the discomfort of water turning to ice, so did her body protest in puffs at the lungs' request for more oxygen.  I imagined the dark blue carbon dioxide laden cells waiting impatiently in a cue to receive more oxygen as she breathes in.  When the oxygen arrives, they drop the carbon dioxide, grab the oxygen, and head out the door to find their way to the heart to learn where they will be sent.

The body is an amazing machine.  I am always so awed when I remember that even though we all are very different in size and appearance, our insides all look and work pretty much the same.  Breath in, breath out.  Heart beats, beats, beats, beats, beats, beats.  Repeat.  When parts of the body don't work as they're intended to, we have solutions for that.  Broken bones get set, hormones can be administered to alter or support organ function, surgery can remove organs that we don't have use for or that are causing problems for us.  The functions and cures of the physical body can be planned and mapped in very similar ways for everyone.

Then there is the non-physical part of us - emotional, spiritual, mental - all the aspects of us that are as prone to disease and breakage as the physical body, but lacking the clearly prescribed treatments for physical healing and physical wholeness.  These obscure and less easily mapped parts of us come already assembled inside our amazing physical self when we arrive on the planet as infants.  We have instincts as well as nurturers to help us grow into beings who can take care of our own physical and non-physical selves.  But oh my!  The experiences we have and messages we get before (if ever) we learn to be our own care-takers and nurturers . . . . . . fill in your own story here. 

I have spent great amounts of time working on healing and growing past some of my early experiences.  In my honest assessment of my life, I also acknowledge that my children, now adults, spend time working to heal and grow past some of their experiences handed to them by me in their early years.  There will always be scars of one sort or another on my body, in my mind; on their bodies, in their minds.  My goal for me, whether scars can be seen or not by others, is to see the scars as a part of the beautiful landscape that is my body, my soul.  The scars, regardless of how faint or pronounced, are part of my landscape. Under them all is that wholeness I arrived on the planet with all those years ago.

My friend's breathing and the river's groaning was not the only labor I was aware of this morning on our walk.   I noticed that trees with limbs broken in this year's storms worked to keep their movements in check so they'd incur no more loss; the ground had frozen scars to protect any remaining plant life where wheels and feet peeled away turf; large and small stones, like well trained sentinels, stood their ground to hold the whole landscape down so it would not blow away; and me, I consciously worked to transform thoughts in my mind to feelings in my body. Every one of us called out our greetings.  "Hang in there," we all said.  "Don't let the cold overcome you.  Hold each other however you are able to hold and be held."

All the while, I thought the annoying wind was trying to drown out our collective voices when really,  groaning like the rest of us, she was trying to get our attention.  "Notice me," she blasted.  "I am a part of all of you.  I want to be held, too."  Then she ran ahead of us, waiting to demand tribute at our next turn.

Done!

We think that accomplishing things will complete us, when it is experiencing life that will.  - Mark Nepo

This morning I woke a bit earlier than usual to meet a friend for a walk in a nearby park.  The idea for a daily morning walk percolated into my mind after having my 1,359,032nd lifetime conversation about health, weight, or exercise.  It was about the 456th conversation with this particular friend.  What I realize as these conversations continue to seep into my life most days, is that they are changing.  The conversations I used to have about exercise and weight (I rarely used to involve health) were all about how many pounds I wanted to lose and what size jeans I wanted to fit into.  I would begin a fitness program with enthusiasm, not only anticipating the size 6 jeans, but also imaging an ideal weight that would translate into ideal hair, accessories, intelligence, personality, and my life situation in general. All these things became the positive side effects of losing weight.  That had to be how it worked since I named my excess weight the cause of all that I did not like in my life.  (Self-loathing: strong feelings of worthlessness or guilt; harsh criticism of perceived faults and mistakes.)

I have a few regrets that I put so much energy into the goal of losing weight . . . . since I was a teen.  The preoccupation with the possibility of life being lived at an optimal weight has been my constant companion.  This preoccupation, like a codependent partner, fools me into thinking from time to time that it has my best interest at heart.  Instead of encouraging me to take risks and pay attention to the stirring of my heart and soul, the preoccupation just kept pointing out that what I was wearing made me look fat.  So much of the beauty and joy that was, has always been, standing right beside me each day of my life was unseen and unrealized because I was trying to get a glimpse of my thinner life that was neatly folded and waiting for me with the size 6 jeans in the back of my closet. 

I tell myself, that's all changing.  And most days it is.   I won't lie - I'll always dream about smaller jeans,  But, today, I woke a bit earlier than usual to meet a friend for a walk in a nearby park.  Today, my goal was not to start another bid for weight loss, not to improve my health, not really even to exercise.  Today my goal was to get outside and be part of the larger community of life that I am part of.  Done.

Winter Tales = Winter Fails

Well, not really a fail, more like a cancellation because of an ice storm.  Today I was to "shepherd" the service at the UUFA, but as you must know by now, it was cancelled.   Because I think stories are sacred and incredible tools for learning and growth, it was going to be a service of stories.  Children from the UUFA and their teachers - along with our Sunday Program Facilitators and a Guest Story Teller were on the program.  I decided that since we all missed these incredible tales, and since we probably won't get a make-up day, I will post the full order of service here, complete with all but one story, and of course, sans the music.  All the songs are our old favorites.  As you're reading, take a break and sing out loud when you come to a hymn.  Enjoy!

Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Ames

January 27, 2013

Winter Tales

Welcome 9:15 Jamie Gurganus; 11:00 Ralph Gandy - Oh sadness . . . . along with welcoming you all the the service, they would have invited you to stay for our chili cook-off. . . . we'll get back to you if there is a new date for this.

Growing Our Spiritual Home, A Reflection Dave Sly (I read Dave's reflection.  I don't have a copy, but it was SO touching.  He talked about how much this community has come to mean to him and his family - his life Melissa and daughters Morgan and Madison.  He only wish?  That they'd joined the UUFA a few years earlier.  I'm glad you're here now, Dave.)

Opening Words     Why We Tell Stories - Lori Allen  Of course, I give an intro to the service :-)

Buddhist tradition says that the big stories—the stories worth telling and retelling, the ones in which you may find the meaning of your life—are forever tracking the right teller, stalking and watching, waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce and turn the listeners into the tellers. It is amazing and holy to watch the children, and adults, in this community turn from listeners to tellers of stories. Our stories we share today are from the Buddhist tradition the children have been learning about in January and the experiences of living and surviving in winter. We hope our stories and our telling will inspire you to be tellers of your own stories.

Chalice Lighting . . . . . Imagine these voices welcoming you to join us in our sacred listening as they light our common chalice . . . . . and go ahead, light a candle or chalice while you read these stories!

9:15 Luke Schmidt & Hayden Pritchard; 11:00 Ralph Gandy & Sarah Carlson

Crow's Advice to Weasel, Barry Lopez

“If you should have the good fortune of being in a possession of fire, care for it, do not neglect it. But learn to give it away to those who need it. Follow this same advice for the stories you may come to own.” Today we light our chalice, giving away the fire of our community to those who need it.

• Song #000 Enter, Rejoice, and Come In

The Mustard Seed Story Grade 4-5-6 Class - Imagine these youthful voices . . . .

9:15 Ana Denison, Aliya Gurganus, Aleca Coffman, Caylee Fuqua and Ian Coffman

11:00 Mark Witherspoon, Latifah Faisal, Amyra Faisal

Reader 1 - The Buddha was walking on a dusty road one day when he stopped at the edge of  a river to splash cooling water on his face.  When he finished washing, he looked up and saw an old woman kneeling beside him.  Her clothes were ragged and her face was worn. 

Reader 2 - Oh, master.  I suffer so.  Please help me.

Reader 3 - What troubles you?

Reader 1 - The Buddha had compassion in her heart and in his eyes.  He wanted to hear what the woman was so sad about.

 Reader 2 - Look at me!  See my sad lot?  I am poor, my clothes are torn, I am ill.  Once I was prosperous, with a farm.  Now I am old and have only a bowl of rice to eat.  Please heal me and bring back my riches.

Reader 3 - Dear woman, you have described life as it is.  We are all born to suffering.

Reader 2 - No, no.  I won’t listen to you.  I was not born to suffer.

Reader 1 - The Buddha saw that the woman did not understand what he was telling her, but he knew of a way she could learn.

Reader 3 - Very well.  I will help you, but you must do as I say.

Reader 2 - Anything, anything.  What shall I do?

Reader 3 - Bring me a mustard seed.  And not just any mustard seed, it must come from a house that has never known suffering, trouble, or sorrow.  I will take the seed you bring me and use it to banish all your misery.

Reader 1 - The old woman was confused, but she did not question how this plan would work.  She hurried away to find the mustard seed from a house that had never known suffering, trouble, or sorrow.  The Buddha continued down the road.  Several weeks later, the Buddha was passing back along the same road.  He saw the old woman scrubbing clothes in the river and humming a song.  She seemed very happy.

Reader 3 - Greetings my friend.  Have your found the mustard seed? 

Reader 2 - Oh no, blessed Buddha, I have not. 

Reader 3 - You seem so happy.  Are you still seeking the mustard seed?

Reader 2 - I’ll do that later.  I have met so many people who are less fortunate than me.  Right now I’m doing laundry for a family with sick children.

Reader 1 - The old woman went back to her work of washing clothes and humming.  She looked as though the work was the most joyful task in the world.   And as the Buddha traveled on down the road, he thought to himself.

Reader 3 - She no longer needs the mustard seed.  Helping others is a great virtue.  She is on the road to becoming a Buddha herself.

Reader 4 - What color is the wind?

Reader 5 - What is the scent of sunshine?

Reader 4 - What is the most beautiful thing in the world?

Reader 5 - What is the right thing to do?

Reader 4 - What is the right thing to not do?

Reader 5 - Is the glass empty or full?

Reader 3 - The answers are all within you.

Reader 2 - The answers are within me.

Reader 4 - The answers are within me.

Reader 5 - The answers are within me.

Reader 1 - The answers are within you.

Milestones  - Think of what is in your heart today.  Take a moment before reading further to hold that emotion and know that we all hear you and send you affirmation and love.

Special Music 9:15 Only Grade 7-8  - While we most likely won't be finding a new time to share the stories, we will be finding a service for the Middle School students to share this inspired, original piece!

2'33”, by the Middle School Students

A Story in Poetry Ralph Gandy - Imagine Ralph reading this with some gentle music in the background from Jen Coppoc.  There's a link at the bottom of this document that you can click on to hear Robert Bly reading the poem.  Close your eyes - you'll swear you're listening to Ralph!

Last Night as I was Sleeping by Antonio Machado

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.

Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart. 

Offertory with Special Music - Fellowship Voices Joined by Children and Teachers in the RE Program.  This was going to be so good!  The children are such great vocalists . . . .

Over My Head, trad African American, arr by Jim Scott

(Bethesda Food Pantry is missing out on our offering today . . . .)

A Winter Story  by Shelli Pitner - I do not have a text for this story, but we know it was going to be drawn from Shelli's personal experience and it was going to be wonderful . . .

* Song #000 Spirit of Life

The Fire That Would Not Burn  - Sarah Carlson  - hear Sarah's soothing voice as she tells a story of generosity first told by The Buddha.

There was great trouble in the temple that was situated deep in the forest. The huge fire that had burned in the temple kitchen for years had suddenly gone out, and no one seemed to be able to light it again.

It was deep winter outside. The forest and hills were white with snow (AND ICE!), and the fountains in the temple gardens looked like tall ladies dressed in white cloaks. From the simple sloped lines of temple roof there hung long icicles, and inside the temple, where the walls and the floor were made all of stone, it was so cold that every one was blowing on their fingers and saying that something must be done at once about starting the fire in the temple kitchen.

The fire in the temple kitchen had been the warmest and the most useful fire in the temple, always bright and glowing and cheerful. It made the big kettle sing, and it cooked the food and painted pictures in the fireplace for all the monks who sat in front of it before they went to bed. Some said that the fire needed a special kind of fuel to keep it burning, and others said that it had gone out because it was such a hard, cold winter. Still others said that the monks were quarreling so that they made the atmosphere of the temple too cold for any fire to burn.

The Master sent two monks who worked in the kitchen out in the bitter cold (AND ICE!) to find coals from a nearby home to re-light the fire in the temple kitchen. As they ran along the road, out of the forest, up hill and down, they shouted, “Fire for the temple kitchen, share your fire with the temple kitchen.”

A great many people heard their calls. Everyone wanted to have a share in lighting the fire at the temple. Most wanted to help because they had all heard great tales of hidden gold, jewels, and treasures at the temple. Some thought that to share their fire with the temple would bring them rewards and riches.

"Here are glowing coals for you," said a wood cutter; "and tell the Master that I want as many gold pieces and blessings as there are lumps of coal in return, and some extra ones if he will add them."

So the monks, using their metal tongs, put the woodcutter's red coals inside his lantern. They had gone only a few steps, though, when coals turned cold and gray. They did not burn, so they had to throw them beside the road and search farther.

A bright light shone from the fire in the weaver's house. She wove cloth for the monks to sew into robes. When she heard the monk's call, she opened the door and asked them to come in. "Fill your lantern with my coals," the weaver said, "and they will surely light the fire in the temple. Tell the master though, that in return for the coals, he must never buy anyone's cloth but mine for as long as I am a weaver."

The monks took the coals and started back to the temple. They had gone but a little way when they saw that the coals from the weaver's fire were no longer burning. They had turned to gray ashes. So they emptied them out in the snow (AND ICE!) and went on down the road. The search was a hard one and cold task. None of the coals that the monks were given would burn, because no one wanted to give coals freely, without expectation for payment in return.

They were about to give up when came to a tiny bleak house on the side of a hill. The wind blew down through the old chimney, and the frost crept in through the cracks in the wall. The door opened at once when they knocked, and inside they found a young woman, stirring porridge over a small fire.

"A light for the temple fire?" she repeated when the monks told her what they wanted. "You may have as many coals as you like, although we have few large ones. I am my mother's and my father's helper. I tend this small fire so that the kitchen may be comfortable for them when they come home from work. I am cooking their supper, too," she said. "But do sit down and warm yourself, and have a bowl of warm supper before you start out in the cold again. Then you may have half of our coals for the temple fire."

The monks did as the young woman bade them, and then they lifted one small, bright coal from the fire, and put it in the lantern. "It will never burn all the way back to the castle," one monk said to the other. But with each step the coal grew brighter. It cast pink shadows on the snow as if the spring were sending wild roses up through the ground. It made the dark road in front of the monks as bright as if the sun were shining, and it warmed them like the summer time. When they came to the temple, the coal still burned and glowed. As soon the coal was touched to the gray logs in the fireplace, they burst into flames. The temple fire was kindled again.

Everyone wondered why the new fire made the kettle sing so much more sweetly than it had ever sung before? This new fire also seemed to warn the hearts of the monks so  -they forgot to quarrel! When these matters were discussed with the master, they decided that it was because love and generosity had come from the embers and coal of the cottage fire. They believed that same love and generosity continued to burn in the fire in the temple kitchen. And soon they learned, the fire burned brighter and warmer when the air in the temple was filled with love and generosity for everyone present. If you go to that temple today, you will feel the air of love and generosity the moment you walk through the great door, even before you find the fire in the kitchen that was started with the tiny coal from the young girl's hearth. May all your fires burn as the temple fire still does to this day.

• Song #000 This Little Light of Mine

Remembering the Strength in Our Stories - Lori Allen  - (If there is time, Lori tells a story that she's adapted from several wisdom tales with the same them.  This story is sometimes told as "The Rate Princess;" "The Woodcutter;" "The Best Listener;" and probably a thousand other titles.  But really, it's all about you - yes, you!)

Today, I hope you have found a bit of wisdom and whimsy in our stories. I hope that you have decided to become a teller of stories as well as a listener to stories. What's that? You think you can't tell stories well? You think only those with the gift for telling stories can do so? Guess what?  You have that gift. You, today, just as you are, have an incredible gift for telling stories. That gift might be the spoken word, a song or a painting. It could also be a hug, a handshake, a helping hand. Really – these are all ways we tell our stories. You still don't believe you have the gift for sharing stories? Well, let me tell you one last story to help you see that you are, in fact, a storyteller . . .

There once was a stone cutter. He worked very hard and was paid very little for his efforts, but he was able to keep food on his family's table and a roof over their heads. One day, he was working to carve an stone arch for an entrance to a nobleman's home. He peered into the house as he worked. Oh, how he wished he was that nobleman. He watched as servants were putting out food for a party in the great hall with all the paintings, tapestries, and fine furniture. Oh! How he wished he was . . . . the nobleman?

Oh my goodness, with that wish, he became the nobleman! How wonderful. He ate and danced and had a grand time – until he noticed the queen had arrived. There she was in her leather sedan, you know, the chair that's carried by four footman. They took her where ever she wanted to go. She did not have to move a muscle or walk a step. Man, he thought – I wish I was the queen . . . .

Then poof! He was the queen. So he ordered the footmen to take him back to the palace. He was going to live in a palace!  But on the way there, the sun shone very hot and bright and made him quite uncomfortable in the queen's leather chair. He looked up at the sun. Wow – I wish I were the sun, for it is the most powerful thing in the Universe.  As you might suspect . . . .

Shazam! He was now the sun! Glorious! He looked down on all the people on the earth - beaming and glowing.  Oh what power - the people must be SO impressed with the power!   What's that? They're shaking their hands and cursing the sun? Just because the sun dried up all the rivers and burnt their crops? Yikes.  The sun didn't  mean to be so cruel.  The sun can't help that it is the most powerful thing in the . . . .wait, what's this? A single storm cloud is trying to obstruct the mighty sun? And the people are cheering for the raincloud?  And now it is totally blocking the sun and providing welcome moisture to the earth?  Oh no!  If only I could be the rain cloud, even more powerful than the sun. Then nothing could make me happier! I want to be a rain cloud said the . . . 

Zowie! Now, as you're coming to expect, he was changed again.  This time into a rain cloud!  And the people loved that rain cloud! Look at them splashing about. The rivers are flowing again, and the earth turning greener with every drop. Ah, forever, I'll be a powerful rain cloud . . .  Hold it, what's that? Who's pushing me around? The wind? Wait, the wind is greater than a big rain cloud? That is not fair! I want to be most powerful. Now I wish I was the . . . .

Wind! Yes, I must be the wind!  (Blowing noises) Yes, I've been transformed again. Phew . . . . .feel my power!  I can blow for miles and miles. Nothing can stop me now (More blowing noise)  Ouch! Who's that? A pillar of stone? Outside a nobleman gate? How dare you stop me?!  I am the wind, the most powerful thing in the Universe!  (Strained blowing noise.)  I can't believe this, I need another wish!  I need to be transformed into stone, the most powerful element in the world, the universe. Okay, last time, make me into the . . . . .

Stone pillar. Yes! Oh my yes! I can feel my strength – stronger than the sun that beats down on me, stronger still than the rain that washes down me during storms, more powerful than the wind that tries to move me. Especially more powerful than the nobleman that walks into me when he is coming home late at night. Even more powerful than the queen whose orders for me to bow down before her, I ignore. Even more powerful than . . . . hey, what's that? Who's chipping away at me? Who is it that is more powerful than all these things? So powerful that they can chip me into pieces? Hey, I think I know him . . . . it's the stone cutter who thinks he is so meek and powerless. I must go back to him, I must let him know, he is more powerful, more brave, more necessary than anything else in the universe. I want to be . . . .

Zap! Whoa! The stone cutter. I want to be just who I am, for I have all the power and resources I need, just as I am.  Just as we all do.

May you go in peace, telling your story, just as you are.

Extinguishing the Flame - Hey - if you lit a chalice or candle, time to blow it out!  As you do, send love peace and love to your UUFA friends.  

* Please rise in body or spirit

If you are able, please help put away chairs after the service.

Presenter: Lori Allen & All Her Band of UU Story Helpers

Ushers and Offeratory Helpers: Grade 1-2-3 Students and Teachers

Accompanist: (for offertory and songs unless otherwise noted above)

Facilitators: Ralph Gandy, Sarah Carlson

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mNfSKMlNquE   Here is a Youtube site to hear the poem Ralph was going to read.

Thanks for all who were here in spirit together today and always.  See you when the ice melts!

Lori

In the Beginning . . . .

Tonight I read an essay of mine that was published in a collection of essays written by women, titled "Spring."  The reading was at Beaverdale Books in Des Moines, Iowa.  My good friends, the three Ds came along and showered me with words of praise and adulation that I probably do not deserve, but for which I am thankful.  At our celebratory dinner at the Drake Diner, my friends shared with the waitress that she was in the presence of a published author.  I am not sure if the young woman who served us was impressed or if she felt that the accomplishment was not so special given our dress, our ages, and the place chosen for celebration.  Whatever she thought, she was a good sport and rewarded me with a free slice of devil's food cake.  These simple gifts - friends and cake - have made me decide to continue in my pursuit of writing great stories.  Here is the one I read tonight:

OMNIPRESENT SPRING

Spring has been abundant in my life.    There is the planet’s spring every year when all of life is renewed, and my internal spring when wisdom I’ve ignored or forgotten sprouts up, infusing me with renewed life. 

One profound spring was when I was trying to understand my three-year-old son’s fear, rather terror, of dogs.  I could remember no incident in my son’s life as a genesis of this terror.   To get to the source of the fear I asked my son about it.  Holding him I asked, “Honey, can you tell me why you’re so frightened of dogs?  Did one ever bite you?

My son’s eyes widened in disbelief.  His breathing told me the question was more that startling to him.  Slowly, as if to assure I was paying attention, he reached out his arms, took my cheeks in his chubby little hands and asked calmly and quietly, “Don’t you remember?” 

“No, I don’t,” I replied.  I assumed he was referring to something in his three-year old life.  I encouraged him, “Can you tell mommy what happened?  Who was with you?”

His wide eyes filled with tears.  “You were with me mamma.  Remember?” he whispered.

My brain did not remember.   “Oh honey,” came my standard mommy platitude, “Mama would never let a anything hurt you.” 

The next thing my son said changed my world forever.  Still holding my cheeks and shaking his head he said softly, “but you weren’t the mom then.”   Hearing his words, I knew that he had access to something that I did not.  Despite my doubt, I was led to listen with belief to his story.  His detailed story of the two of us, children at the time and left in an unsafe place, unfolded.  Mean dogs hurt us so bad we couldn’t wake up.  That is, we could not wake up in that place anymore. His older sister was there, but she did wake up, she stayed in that place.  Later, I asked him if he could remind me why he was afraid of dogs.  He repeated the story, verbatim. 

My entire being was changed with his story.  Despite teachings of heaven and hell when growing up, hearing this concept of reincarnation from my toddler seemed very real.  His words rang honest and sure as he spoke, just as true and sacred as the scripture I learned as a child.

As I listened to his story, my body was flooded with warmth and bliss.  It was as if my senses, my heart, my mind – all the parts of me that that were becoming frozen by adulthood and my evolving fears relating to life, death, and especially the unknown - was thawed by a joy that transcends words.  I felt seeds of wisdom inherent in humanness begin to sprout.  I claimed an understanding that diverse explorations of life’s questions and mysteries is not turning away from God, but rather seeking ways to define and experience God.  In this seeking, I have found an omnipresent spring in my heart.

Lori Allen  ©   2012    This is the book -

September 20th, 2012

The new Tending Your Inner Garden book, Spring: Inspiration for the Season of  Hope and New Beginnings,releases Thursday, Sept. 27. We’re delighted to introduce this second in our series of four seasonal books, all made possible thanks to the submissions of essays and poems from around the country and other parts of the world.

This is a book to keep by your bedside or your favorite chair–and to pick up and savor whenever you feel the stirrings of new possibilities in your life.
It includes stories about finding your own space, transforming your life, moving into new stages of motherhood, accepting unexpected transitions, growing on a soul level and so much more. And it provides just the right hope and inspiration when you’re nurturing new beginnings in your life.
Transformational author and change agent Margaret Wheatley offers this endorsement of the book:
“Each offering invites you into the mind and heart of the writer, promising a rich, reflective experience that both stays with you and moves you forward.”
In the central Iowa area? Join us for a book-signing Thursday, Sept. 27 at Beaverdale Books from 5:30 to 7:30 p.m. Or pre-order your copy now at a special price: www.tendingyourinnergarden.com/bookstore/

After a one year self-imposed sabbatical from blogging, I'm back.

The Love Shack

The smell of mold from the open cellar door permeated every square millimeter of the Love Shack.  I followed close behind Nan as we moved from room to room.  I thought that besides mold, I might also be smelling the musk of a wild animal in this closed up house.   In the downstairs bedroom I leaned away from Nan to peer into the doorless closet.  I was not really interested in investigating the closet situation in the Love Shack, but I was curious to  confirm that I was seeing a white wire closet organizer in there.  Just as I stepped close to the doorless frame I heard a scratching noise on the wall inside.  I stepped back with a snap, close to Nan.  But not too close.  I didn't want this earth goddess crone type woman who's recently become my friend to think I'd be scared of one of nature's animals in her Love Shack.  I had, after all, asked to have a tour of the inside of the crusty old farmhouse that I drove by each time I visited her new eco-friendly home across the road.   The Love Shack has very little in common with her new home, a home proud enough to be open to the public as a retreat center.  She named the home she lives in now The Centering Porch because of it's great shaded porch on the west side of the house.  You can sit out there all day watching hundreds of colorful birds feeding as you gaze past the feeders, through a grove, and onto a small pond.

All the Love Shack boasts as a porch is an uneven cement slab, poured in pieces to extend to both doors.  There's no possibility of enjoying the afternoon sitting on that slab of cement.  If you could find a level spot for a chair, you'd be annoyed by all the dust that billows up off the road every time a car speeds by from the Ledges State Park just down the road.  Nan was smart with her new house, it's directly across the road, but about a quarter mile back.  No traffic noise, no dust.  Nan named this place the Love Shack because she says, you gotta be crazy deep in love to live in this place.  So in love that you are oblivious to your physical surroundings. She and Don lived in the Love Shack for seven years before moving into their swank new place.

"Was that you?" Nan asked, referring to the scratching noise coming from the closet.  It surprised me to see the lightly veiled fear in her eyes.

"No," I breathed softly.  To add emphasis I bit my teeth hard together and sort of made a sucking noise.

"Okay, we're outa here."  Nan did an about face and headed to the kitchen and toward the open door.  I tried not to step on her heels as I followed.  Her fear dissipated as she stopped abruptly in front of the closed door that led upstairs.  "Well, you can't leave without seeing the upstairs.  Let's see if anybody's home."  With that she began banging on the door and slapping the wall next to it.  She was demanding that anyone who was up there reveal themselves.  

Nan is like that.  She talks to animals the same way I talk to people.  She demands they do what she says, or at least respond to her.  Witness her demanding any unknown, unseen, critters to come out of hiding.  She often requests that her dog follow her directions.  "Toby," she'll say, "Can you quit begging from Lori?"  Then, if the dog does anything, like make a move or let out a sigh, she'll say, "thank you" as if it replied positvely.  When she does this, you don't think of her as being wacky or eccentric, it just occurs to you that she gives the same esteem to all living creatures.  I've even heard her talking to trees and plants in a similar manner.  While it makes me feel no less important when she does this in my presence, it does remind me that I am no more important, either.  

As she continued banging on the wall, I caught something in my left peripheral field of vision skittering across the kitchen floor.  It was brown, or grey, and had a long tail.  I am not sure if it was a bushy tail or not.  I was delighted to see there was a small hole in the corner where the floor and wall met on the far side of the room.  The critter was headed right for that and I could see it would be an easy entry into the hole.  Whatever it was would not have to run around the room panicking as it looked for an escape. It could scamper right into the hole and save me from screaming like a banshie.  Nan did not see it, but she heard me suck in a large moldy breath.  

"There it is," came out of my mouth in such a calm metered statement that I thought someone else might be in the room using my voice.  I was astonished to know I could talk in that calm sort of voice when in the same room with a varmint.   You would have thought I engaged in this kind of conversation on a regular basis.

"What was it?" she asked.

Hesitating for a moment, but a very brief moment so as to not let my naivete about abandoned farmhouse vermin betray me to Nan, I said, "a chipmunk."

"Ah," Nan said with a sense of relief.  "That is an okay occupant for this place."  Then she opened the door to the stairs and headed to the second floor.

Now, I didn't know if that critter was a chipmunk, mole, or rat.  I was proud that I'd chosen an answer that pleased Nan.  It seemed to put her at ease to think it was a chipmunk, a happy Disney-type creature, that was merely visiting the Love Shack.  Earlier, when Nan was unlocking the door, she turned to me and told me, as a warning or perhaps as a chance to decline a tour of the Love Shack, that every time she unlocked this door she imagined badgers, raccoons, skunks, and hedgehogs sitting around in a circle on the old patio furniture inside, studying their hands of poker.  As they heard the key in lock, they all returned the furniture to it's original position and dove for cover.  Or, in her worst case scenario, there was not time for them to dive for cover so they'd all pounce on her.  I don't think the animal I saw was large enough to be one of the animals she listed as the lock turned, but I can not say with any level of certainty that it was a chipmunk.  It was just the first thing that came to my mind or out of my mouth - I am not sure which.  

I hurried to catch up with her on the stairs.  I'd stared at the hole the animal went into long enough - two or three seconds - to make certain it was not coming back out.  My feet got good traction on the stairs considering they were covered with a dull green carpet that was so old, matted, and moldy that it was slick.  I commented to Nan how much the house reminded me of the house I grew up in back in South Dakota.  And it did.  The area at the top of the steps, not really a room, was large enough for a double bed.  Beyond that, a small room with a plywood wall in place to make a closet.   We commented on the wallpaper and the pine paneling then descended the steps, slowing at the bottom to see if the critter was in the kitchen.  It was not.  We headed back outside.

I'd asked for a tour of the Love Shack after a familiar exchange with Nan back at her real house.  "So," I'd ask, trying to sound like I could not think of another topic of conversation and not at all like I was cooking up plans in my mind to one day own the property with the Love Shack on it, "how are things coming along with the young couple who hope to buy your property across the road?"

"Oh," Nan groaned.  "So much (big emphasis on the much) has to happen for them to buy it.  They have to sell their house that they're in, and we just found out the valuation of the property is going down."  As she spoke she held her head back, feigning a pain that originated deep in her body.  It was just the reaction I always hoped for.  I know that once this couple is really ready to buy the place, my opportunity will be past.  I don't wish for Nan and Don to have to suffer in anticipation of whether anyone will buy the property or not, but each inquiry that is answered in this way is like a deeper prod from the Universe to me to take a chance.  

After the inside tour of the Love Shack, Nan and I embarked on the property tour.  We toured the crumbling out buildings, standing nearly stripped of their once bright red paint.  I commented on the windmill that has been non-functional so long that it serves as a giant topiary for the massive vines that have claimed it as their own.  And then, off down the gravel road we hiked, all the way around to the other side of the "round forty" that is for sale.  I tried to broach the topic of price politely.  "So, do you and Don have a price in mind for this property."  Nan wasn't having it.  I'd come out to accompany her to a Taize service in Boone.  We'd gotten distracted talking and eating a light supper and missed Taize. That's when I suggested a tour of the Love Shack.  She was not going to turn what was supposed to be an evening of spiritual deepening into a real estate open house.

"Assessed value is on the web," she retorted.  "Anyone can look it up."  She kept walking.  She pointed out the ravine where Don played as a boy and the difficulty involved in fencing that part of the property to keep cattle in. We walked on in silence for a few meters.  "You'd need a lot of sheep to pay for this," she mused.  Well, she didn't really muse, I'd told her earlier that I had an idea I might want to buy an acreage and raise some sheep and write stories.  She knew I was talking about the Love Shack acreage.  There's no fooling Nan.

"I know," I said, even though I didn't really.  The rest of the walk, all the way to the end of the forty acres and back, we engaged in easy conversation.  The words and phases that came out of my mouth were minute compared to the spacious thoughts that were fighting for equal attention in my mind.  Now I was getting eager to get home and look up the assessed value of the property and put together some numbers.  Not real numbers, probably, but numbers that would fit into my plan.

The plan.  It's pretty simple, actually.  I sell my house, make a boat-load of money (this is not a fantasy, I have a lot invested in my house and a good idea of what it would sell for), buy the Love Shack property, build a tiny house on the property after demolishing the Love Shack, and become a writer.  I know I could be a writer, I've even been solicited to submit my writing for guaranteed publication in an anthology and a magazine.  What I don't have is an interesting, even romantic, venue to write from, to be inspired by.  

Sometimes, I imagine that all I need is the right setting, the right house, the right pets - something like that, to be endearing to readers who are yet to discover my work.  Isn't that how it happened with the writers I adore?  Kathleen Norris moved to Lemmon, South Dakota from New York when she inherited her grandparent's house.  Instant writing success - in my mind, at least.   Those monks at the monastery helped a bit, too.  Anne Lamott raised a baby as a single mother and struggled with addiction - great writing prompts.  Fredrick Manfred built a house into the stone hills of the blue mounds of southern Minnesota for his home and writing retreat.  He even had a bird's nest office for writing from which he could see Minnesota, South Dakota, and Iowa on a clear day.  Louise Erdrich runs a small bookstore in northern Minnesota these days, writing in the back room as shoppers linger over books, I'm sure.  And Bill Holm, he lived in tiny Minneota, Minnesota interacting with all the people who did not have the skills or motivation to leave his small ancestral town.  By writing about their eccentricities and weird ways, he elevated himself as local anthropologist and world famous author.   Each of these authors had amusive surroundings, fueling their creative energies.   

Me, I live in Ames, Iowa, on a street that is so self-absorbed that has it's own parade independent of the town's larger parade on July 4th.  I have a house that is too big for me except when my children come for extended visits.  To me, and I am sure to many others who know me in superficial ways, the setting in which I write is not interesting and quirky enough to produce good fiction and poetry.  The Love Shack could be my Lemmon, South Dakota, my drug addiction, my bird's nest studio, my bookstore, or even my Minneota.  I worry that becoming a successful author is like winning the lottery, or being struck by lightening.  If that is the case, I'm screwed.  Jane Smiley lived in Ames and you know what they say, lightening never strikes twice in the same place.  I do not know myself well enough yet to know if these thoughts are part of a paranoia, an elaborate ruse for constructing and maintaing excuses, or really a message from the Universe.     

Do I need the Love Shack?  Or do I just need to devote plenty of time to writing millions of words until they fall into place in pleasing rhythms and descriptions of events real and imagined?  What do you think . . .