Recently stamped

INNER CHILD/pastel & paint on paper

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My memory keeps tracing and focusing on the delicate, detailed ears; miniature, but perfect, finger nails; the compact child's crouch; the huge, fluidly expressive brown eyes; doll-like diaper; and pint-sized whimper. Most of all, my heart remembers being so touched as the feisty little one, untangled from his cords and unhappy to be out of the warmth of the isolette, snuggled so completely and naturally on his father's chest. Kangarooing, they call it.

Baby Phillip arrived 10 weeks ahead of schedule, perfectly caught by his attentive mother who, in a rather shocked moment, instinctively knew what to do. And the father, my friend and former co-worker, asked me to visit the neonatal intensive care unit. I think it had something to do with my Quaker background and my sense of ministry. I am still awed and honored.

What I experienced there was God's presence: pure and simple.

God's presence in the perfection of this tiny creature.
In the father's peaceful persistence in snuggling skin to skin and just being present.
In his gentle fumbling with the teeny diaper.
His wanting so eagerly to share his new family, have it acknowledged and blessed.
Also in the mother's acceptance and gratitude in a trying situation.
Especially her ability to adapt quickly and protect her child; she began pumping breast milk only hours after his birth.
Their joy, humor, love and invitation into their intimate family smacked of Spirit.

Most of all, I felt God's presence in the grace with which they have handled the unexpected. They don't find it particularly notable, doing what they have to do, they say. But I see something more; acceptance and surrender at work.

I really don't know why I was called here, although I have been vigilant in silent prayer and asked others to join me. I have received one of the best gifts ever: glimpsing God directly at work in the lives of others.

Baby Phillip, already, is a blessing.

• When have I been graced with observing God at work?
• Why is it, sometimes, easier to see in other's lives than our own?
• Why does the purity of an infant touch my heart so?
• How does it stir my inner child?
• What models of grace have I experienced recently?


...

"Oh, it's you. I thought I remembered your number."

           "Did you get my text?"

"No, we're on vacation and my phone's not working. I have an old one."

"Well, she had the baby."

"I didn't think it was due yet."

"It wasn't, he came early and we were wondering, after you get home and settled, if you could come to the hospital and be with us, him."

that conversation jogged me
very quickly out of myself and
into something bigger


the visit to the hospital
more so


leave it to an innocent babe to deliver
so much love, recently stamped
with God's signature

God claims each of us

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Why is it that when we experience the fragility of life, we tend to regain new eyes and appreciate the everydayness with growing gratitude? I have been living in the midst of so much birth and death that I can not ignore their accompanying lessons.

Today I finished my second belly cast, completed for a niece nearing week 32 of her pregnancy. Just about a month ago, I did my first. Placing my Vaseline-coated hands directly on the mother's belly and gently spreading the layer, then, carefully affixing warm, moist plaster strips on top has such a meditative and loving quality for me. The models didn't seem to mind, gifting me with the process of documenting life. This creative act stands in stark contrast to the recent deaths of two men in my small Quaker congregation and my role in arranging one of the burials.

Just before I finished this cast, I took a call from a longtime friend whose wife delivered her own baby eight weeks early at home and on their bed. She'd done everything right and even been to the doctor that very day. She's home now and the infant will spend a number of weeks in the hospital. In the same breath I congratulated my friend and also said I was sorry. Apparently that also captured his feelings. I told him he had one heck of a strong wife and he said she's been beating herself up for not knowing this was coming. How could she, not even the doctor did? But I understand mother's guilt.

I've had a ringside seat watching my baby sister deal with 18-plus years of mothering an extremely premature baby. I know it's taken a toll on her, yet she is exactly the right mother for this child, who will graduate from high school on time next month. That in itself amazes me as does the wonderful young man this baby has grown into. At one point, he was not expected to live. There is nothing my sister has not done for her son in terms of finding the best doctors, surgeons, therapists, tutors and anything else that would assist his development. He has more than survived, he has thrived due to the loving concern and care of his parents. They don't coddle him. Through the haze of this grueling kind of parenting, my sister managed to earn a Ph.D in special education and now teaches teachers about special-needs kids! Hers has been a journey of hardship, perseverance, growth, patience, trust and love. I am certain it hasn't always looked that way to her.

This death of a dream, not delivering a healthy baby, is a cause for grief. I hope my friend's wife gets through that. It's not her fault and yet as mothers, we take everything that happens to our children so personally. I recently told my shamanic counselor that I wondered if spending a brief time in a fume-infested painting facility caused a miscarriage. It was part of my job, I was only newly pregnant and had not sprung the news publicly. It just sort of slipped out during a discussion of my unmet needs, though my mind had looped it, like a bad movie, a thousand times. My counselor responded that a pregnancy should be able to withstand that.

If that triggered my guilt, what about these mothers who have so much more to deal with? How does one overcome losing the hope of delivering a healthy baby?

My sister has had 18 years to work through it and she's still chipping away at that bundle of guilt and grief. My prayer is that she gets relief and a reaches a sense of peace. I am also praying that my friend's wife finds loving compassion for herself, though, I suspect, she'll be busy mothering the beautiful, but small, son she now has.

How can you take life for granted when you're surrounded by stories like these?

• What's my experience of mothering, whether there's a child involved?

• What dreams have I birthed?

• What guilt or grief have I experienced when these dreams died young?

• How do I share my sorrow with God?

• What's God's response been when I have?

my hands have laid

on bursting bellies,

massaging and knowing

the life beneath

my ears and heart

have taken on the

grief of other mothers,

nurturing babies

forced out too soon

my lips continue

to intercede

for the health and

welfare of

ALL children

because God,

in her infinite and loving

ways, claims each of us

as her children

The wholeness of existence

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A few short weeks ago, my hands were wet in plaster, casting the beautifully full belly of a pregnant friend. Thank goodness; she had her healthy baby three weeks early. This week took a different turn: I drove one county over to attend a memorial, prepared food for two visitations at my Quaker meetinghouse, spent last weekend on the phone ironing out burial maps and location and sloshed through a water-logged cemetery.

In the midst of these circle-of-life experiences, I am also studying Luke, reading a book on death by a Buddhist and beginning to understand archetypal astrology all in small groups. I've also begun working with a new chiropractor, whose hands and coaching have made a huge difference in my body, visited my consistently loving and wise shamanic counselor and been nurtured by my spiritual friend with a book about taming our negative thoughts by turning them into blessings. Plus, it's Lent.

Oh yeah – I almost forgot – I received word last week that I have been awarded a grant from the endowment of a wonderful Quaker couple, Clarence and Lily Pickett, for grounding my nurture work, book and art in one place: a studio in the neighborhood school, which as been re-purposed.

So many thoughts, ideas and concepts are rattling around inside of me and I know there is a message, simple and profound, working in me. What comes to mind, momentarily is:

• I am surely in the midst of so much life, creation and chaos, joy and sorrow.
• The universe sings in cycles of death and [re]birth.
• Often, we learn more about others after they have died.
• Grief can bind a community.
• Death is also a celebration of life and its gifts.
• Death is peaceful even when life is not.
• The birth of a child renews the world.
• The birth of a child and the death of grown men hold promise.
• Finding the good in everything makes all of the difference.
• We each need someone with whom we can share our deepest, darkest secrets.
• Also our deepest, sweetest joys.
• We are not designed to be islands; we need each other and we need God.
• In choosing life, we choose to trust, most especially, when it seems uncertain.
• "For nothing will be impossible with God." [Luke 1:37, one of the verses our study recommended we memorize]
• Even at 3 a.m. on an anxious awakening, treating it as a blessing can shift the troubling mind, bringing a message of love and a drifting back into sleep.
• When there seems nothing else, there is always prayer.
• Our double nature means, as human, we are imperfect. As a spark of divinity, we always have God's love and grace.
• Because I have been self reliant for so long, I don't realize I also fear trusting myself. In trusting myself, I am also trusting God.
• Tough times and situations are what make us grow and, also, what can connect us more deeply and directly to God.

So what is the central theme or message here? Trust in God because all things are possible ... especially in trying times?

• What makes me feel the swirl of life?
• What lessons do the hard circumstances hold?
• What [re]births have I experienced?
• What deaths?
• What message has been swirling in me?

the fullness of life,
the initial hollowness of death


one draws us out,
the other drives us in


it's easy to share joy,
harder to publicly wear our grief

yet, if we connect the two
by drawing a circle, we
begin to see their place
in our lives


what they have to give us,
what they have to teach


how we can respond this time
and next


and eventually recognize
the wholeness of existence


includes life and death


http://pickettendowment.quaker.org/

The moment between bars

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My week has been full of opposites, reminding me how I vacillate and that we all are works in progress.

Sunday, I spent an enriching afternoon in the company of other Quakers as we studied and grappled with death and dying. Meeting monthly, we're slowly reading a book on the subject by a Buddhist that requires self exploration. We shared our responses to what we envision as the worst death possible, then the best. The answers were wide-ranging and astounding. One Friend remarked that I am probably the minority in understanding and embracing that my death will be only me and God. And I am completely happy with that. I should confess that I have had a few mentors along the way who've shown me it's nothing to fear.

Monday gloriously opened casting the beautiful and full belly of a pregnant friend in plaster. She was radiant and I loved gently smothering her 35-week wide stomach with Vaseline, then wetting, wringing and applying the gauze strips. I smoothed each layer, working from chest to lower abdomen, side to side, capturing a wondrous shape that immediately appeared sculptural. One daughter cut strips and the younger,  wandered away. Perhaps it was too much, but for me, one who has given birth, it was a reminder of the beauty in the entire life-giving process. It was a privilege to trap this moment, this shape, reconnecting to my experience and looking ahead to those of this mother-to-be.

Tuesday, I facilitated my weekly spiritual-nurture group on one of my favorite subjects: the living water. We drank Italian sparkling water, listened to a bubbling fountain, were led through a guided meditation as we lay on the floor pretending to float, completely surrendering ourselves and, ended by washing each others' feet. It was lively, fun, moving and life affirming. Why can't we always treat each other this way? I thought. It was humbling to sooth another's feet, but even more so to be on the receiving end.

Wednesday, I was on the phone with an old family friend, listening to her describe her husband dying of Alzheimer's. I had made the call, prompted by my heart in honoring the gift of their friendship. Life was never dull when they visited or we ventured to Chicago: the New Year's their son teasingly locked us out on a second-floor porch in record-breaking low temperatures, sitting in their built-in naughty chair, hearing the story of how ancestors had a copy of the Mona Lisa crated away in a musty attic or the countless times Chris, the one dying, made us laugh ... hysterically. He has the best sense of humor of anyone I've ever known. Last weekend, when his son visited, he saluted his father and asked: "Permission to board?" It was a joke between them, but also a sign of respect as the father had been a Navyman. After two weeks of not uttering a word, Chris replied: "Permission denied" and the room cracked up. His wife confessed how difficult it is to see her spouse withering in the 112-pound frame until he smiles and transforms. She even crawled into bed and held him one night until he slept. He finds comfort when they recite the Lord's prayer together and she continually prays on the trip to visit for strength and receives it every time.

Thursday, I let one daughter play hooky. She's growing up so fast and we rarely get one-on-one time. We shopped and dined at Ikea, then slid into the city, Findlay Market to be precise, for an Indian cooking lesson, drifting to the Korean store after for spices, bumping into an old friend and ending with me quaffing a Bavarian beer in the antique bar where the friend works. It was one of those days you'll always remember as the epitome of the perfect day. Earlier my 14-year-old asked "When have you been the happiest?" Upon my hesitation, she answered herself: "You're supposed to say right now because you're with me." And she was right.

Intermingled with these are prayers for my 95-year-old aunt who, on a jaunt to Florida, ended up in the hospital for surgery, then Hospice and has made a miraculous recovery and a dedicated Quaker friend struggling with a stern diagnosis and complications.

Today, I walked to yoga, but left early and in tears because my shoulder could not handle the planks. Usually it's not an issue, but today, the pain was excruciating. So much so that I almost cancelled a meeting with my spiritual friend. Glad I didn't because it was what I needed most. She let me whine a bit, then I discussed each of the above and we got around to the fact we live many deaths and re-births. I think she was also saying that I am currently in one of those and I agree. Her advice was spot on: "Think of the circus and the person on the trapeze. When they go to reach for the next bar, they have to let go of the other and there is a moment when they are grasping nothing. I think that's where you are."

The space between life and death, death and life. The place we're supposed to trust.

• What glimpses of life have I been given recently?
• What of death?
• How can I string those together?
• What message is there?
• How have I experienced the space between?


looking back,
grasping


and also
forging ahead


wagering
weighing


trying to
hold both bars
for fear of falling


thinking it is
our job


when we must
just let go


and surrender