Healing Journey
Early last spring, as we were preparing to move, my husband, Aaron, brought me several small bags. “I found these in the freezer. Can you believe we still have bags of breast milk?! I'll just throw them out.” I grabbed the bags, highly offended. “No, YOU did not make this, you do NOT get to decide what happens to it!” I surprised even myself at my passionate response to these little bags. You see, my youngest child is now six, in first grade, and stopped nursing at age one.
But those little bags signified so much I had never dealt with. I put them back in the freezer and spent the next week trying to decide what their fate would be. Our move would take us 800 miles away, so the bags would not be traveling with us. But they represented a time in my life that had been so hard in coming; I was not willing to simply throw them away. It felt like I had a tangible connection to so much untouchable loss. I prayed, I meditated, and I waited to see what would be created from those little bags of breast milk, sitting my freezer.
I'm not sure how I arrived at my plan, but I saw a watercolor forming in my mind. I gathered blues, purples, and black paints; sea salt to represent so many tears. And I waited. It occurred to me that over the course of our ten rounds of fertility drugs, there had been ten embryos that had been created by Aaron and me. Ten. That number was astounding. Those little bags of milk represented the end of a four year struggle with infertility. They represented seven embryos that never attached. They represented the child lost through miscarriage. They represented the cherished time I nursed two amazing children. Still I waited.
One day, amid packing boxes and looming deadlines, the feeling was overwhelming. It was time. I stood at my dining room table and began to swirl the blues, the purples, the black. I left ten little spaces and while the paint was still very wet, I dropped the breast milk onto the canvas and watched as it swirled and mixed and danced with the colors on the canvas. I sprinkled salt over it all, and whispered prayers for each of those embryos, for the space they would always hold in my soul, for the healing I longed to take place there. Finally, eventually, it was finished. The power of that dance; of paint, milk, tears, salt, and prayers - was unspeakable. I had no idea how much I had needed that dance. When it was finished, I sat in silence with the painting for a long time. There was a powerful connection swirling in the air. Eventually the feeling of connection was replaced by a wide feeling of peace inside me. There was a little milk left over, and I walked outside and sprinkled it over the wild blackberries that grew in our yard, knowing it would feed someone; birds, squirrels, friends, strangers.
That was months ago, and the painting is very dear to me. It went to the book launch party with me, and hung that night in the art gallery as we celebrated. After our move, I hung it in our new home, in our bedroom, and enjoy its nearness. A couple of weeks ago, my hand brushed the bottom of the canvas as I went to turn on the light. My fingers came away damp, and I turned on the light to see streams of paint weaving down the wall. The painting was wet. Aaron said the recent high humidity had caused the salt to soak in the moisture from the air.
But why now, in January? It had not done this through the many humid months of summer in North Carolina. I counted up the months in my head, it has been dry and fine all this time. Chills raised the hairs on my neck as I realized it had been painted nine months ago. I realized it was weeping. I cannot explain the journey of this painting except to say we are connected, and in my eyes it is beautiful beyond measure.
Whatever journey you are walking, honor the connections your soul sees, and allow them to dance.
But those little bags signified so much I had never dealt with. I put them back in the freezer and spent the next week trying to decide what their fate would be. Our move would take us 800 miles away, so the bags would not be traveling with us. But they represented a time in my life that had been so hard in coming; I was not willing to simply throw them away. It felt like I had a tangible connection to so much untouchable loss. I prayed, I meditated, and I waited to see what would be created from those little bags of breast milk, sitting my freezer.
I'm not sure how I arrived at my plan, but I saw a watercolor forming in my mind. I gathered blues, purples, and black paints; sea salt to represent so many tears. And I waited. It occurred to me that over the course of our ten rounds of fertility drugs, there had been ten embryos that had been created by Aaron and me. Ten. That number was astounding. Those little bags of milk represented the end of a four year struggle with infertility. They represented seven embryos that never attached. They represented the child lost through miscarriage. They represented the cherished time I nursed two amazing children. Still I waited.
One day, amid packing boxes and looming deadlines, the feeling was overwhelming. It was time. I stood at my dining room table and began to swirl the blues, the purples, the black. I left ten little spaces and while the paint was still very wet, I dropped the breast milk onto the canvas and watched as it swirled and mixed and danced with the colors on the canvas. I sprinkled salt over it all, and whispered prayers for each of those embryos, for the space they would always hold in my soul, for the healing I longed to take place there. Finally, eventually, it was finished. The power of that dance; of paint, milk, tears, salt, and prayers - was unspeakable. I had no idea how much I had needed that dance. When it was finished, I sat in silence with the painting for a long time. There was a powerful connection swirling in the air. Eventually the feeling of connection was replaced by a wide feeling of peace inside me. There was a little milk left over, and I walked outside and sprinkled it over the wild blackberries that grew in our yard, knowing it would feed someone; birds, squirrels, friends, strangers.
That was months ago, and the painting is very dear to me. It went to the book launch party with me, and hung that night in the art gallery as we celebrated. After our move, I hung it in our new home, in our bedroom, and enjoy its nearness. A couple of weeks ago, my hand brushed the bottom of the canvas as I went to turn on the light. My fingers came away damp, and I turned on the light to see streams of paint weaving down the wall. The painting was wet. Aaron said the recent high humidity had caused the salt to soak in the moisture from the air.
But why now, in January? It had not done this through the many humid months of summer in North Carolina. I counted up the months in my head, it has been dry and fine all this time. Chills raised the hairs on my neck as I realized it had been painted nine months ago. I realized it was weeping. I cannot explain the journey of this painting except to say we are connected, and in my eyes it is beautiful beyond measure.
Whatever journey you are walking, honor the connections your soul sees, and allow them to dance.
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The Silent Singing Bowl |
The shoulds, the deadlines and the perfectionist who wants it all to look so polished, sit drowning in the list and wondering how to create when the hurricane inside her head just. won’t. stop.
The singing bowl stands silent, collecting dust and receipts and longing to sing the hurricane into peaceful water once again. Acid churns in her stomach, pushing her slowly down the list that will. not. end.
There are simply too many options for what to fit into this day to possibly make a choice and get started. There are too many mundane tasks that must be completed that hold no sense of satisfaction and therefore no allure. And yet the lights get turned off if you don’t pay the bill and no one gets dressed if you don’t do the laundry.
But the allure that lies in the large tasks, is so large it seems insurmountable. Planning a retreat for 35 amazing women, writing a sermon for the first time to a congregation that raised you and is so hopeful for your leadership, yearning for that next song to fill your soul and pour out of you, to fill and heal you and those around you.
Some days there is just too much potential in the day it is stupefying. I resent the tiny stumbling baby steps that seem to be my only mode of transportation these days. But I am also reminded that those tiny, bumbling baby steps are precisely what have brought me to this moment, in this life, and it’s actually not such a bad place to be. It’s exquisite, truth be told.
Gotta go, off to empty the dishwasher, and the singing bowl.
The singing bowl stands silent, collecting dust and receipts and longing to sing the hurricane into peaceful water once again. Acid churns in her stomach, pushing her slowly down the list that will. not. end.
There are simply too many options for what to fit into this day to possibly make a choice and get started. There are too many mundane tasks that must be completed that hold no sense of satisfaction and therefore no allure. And yet the lights get turned off if you don’t pay the bill and no one gets dressed if you don’t do the laundry.
But the allure that lies in the large tasks, is so large it seems insurmountable. Planning a retreat for 35 amazing women, writing a sermon for the first time to a congregation that raised you and is so hopeful for your leadership, yearning for that next song to fill your soul and pour out of you, to fill and heal you and those around you.
Some days there is just too much potential in the day it is stupefying. I resent the tiny stumbling baby steps that seem to be my only mode of transportation these days. But I am also reminded that those tiny, bumbling baby steps are precisely what have brought me to this moment, in this life, and it’s actually not such a bad place to be. It’s exquisite, truth be told.
Gotta go, off to empty the dishwasher, and the singing bowl.
At Your Local Bookstore!
It's been a crazy whirlwind since the book was released on June 8th. We blew threw the first fifty copies in no time, and I am happy to announce that it is now also available at The Montreat Store in Montreat NC and Liftbridge Book Shop in Brockport, NY. If your bookstore is not currently carrying it and you would like them to, just ask! I am enjoying time in Montreat as I type, directing keynote presentations for the Montreat Youth Conference with over a thousand youth and their leaders. Spirit is blowing through these mountains in amazing ways.
Whispers in the Labyrinth
I have heard certain geographical places referred to as "thin places;" those places where the divide between physical and spiritual is a little thinner, and you experience connection between the two. Tonight I got to experience that on a canvas labyrinth. We have had the joy of being part of a community meditation group in our small upstate NY village of Brockport. It has been such a gift. Buddhist, atheist, Christian, uncertain, Muslim, still searching, all come together and experience the power of shared meditation. At our last meditation before our move out of state, these are the words I found to describe my experience in community on the labyrinth:
I got to the end and thought, "Dear God this can't be over." Starting out, it felt so safe; cool flat, soft surface beneath bare feet. I didn't have to worry which direction, I knew I was going the right way. I passed a dear friend, and couldn't keep going, had to stop and hold her. Tears as our journeys led us in opposite directions. And then she was there, in the center of the labyrinth. I couldn't leave first, couldn't walk away. Then she did, with confident, intentional steps. I felt her near many times after that, as I followed my path and she hers; saw children frolic, held the hand of my lover, watched friend and stranger connect with the divine. I learned I could hold my head up and still find my way. Still I kept searching for those perfectly manicured green toenails, those beautiful feet that meant our paths were crossing yet again.
The path does not end, I think; only moves to another labyrinth.
I got to the end and thought, "Dear God this can't be over." Starting out, it felt so safe; cool flat, soft surface beneath bare feet. I didn't have to worry which direction, I knew I was going the right way. I passed a dear friend, and couldn't keep going, had to stop and hold her. Tears as our journeys led us in opposite directions. And then she was there, in the center of the labyrinth. I couldn't leave first, couldn't walk away. Then she did, with confident, intentional steps. I felt her near many times after that, as I followed my path and she hers; saw children frolic, held the hand of my lover, watched friend and stranger connect with the divine. I learned I could hold my head up and still find my way. Still I kept searching for those perfectly manicured green toenails, those beautiful feet that meant our paths were crossing yet again.
The path does not end, I think; only moves to another labyrinth.
The Spirit is breathing inclusion into the PC(USA)
I realize that many of you are of other church persuasions than the PC(USA), and many of you are happily not of a church persuasion at all. All are welcome here! My family has been Presbyterian for generations, sometimes I have been proud of that fact, and other times not so much. This year, my husband and I enjoyed watching the live stream as the General Assembly (Presbyterian governing body) met to decide the direction the church as a whole would take for the next two years, until they meet again.
Gay marriage has been an issue for years, and I assumed this year "decent and in order" would again mean that the topic stayed safely in committee under review. I am so glad I was wrong. The 221st General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church voted to allow ministers to perform marriage ceremonies for gay couples in states where it is legal, if they so choose. This means if you do not wish to perform such ceremonies, so be it. If you do, and your church does not, you may still choose to do so off church property. For too many years, the Presbyterian flavored family of God has shunned some of its members. I remember a conversation with a dear friend in college, when he confided that he had a big choice to make. He could be true to who he was created to be, and live life as a gay man; or he could use the gifts God had given him and be a leader in the church. I wept knowing what a gift the church would lose, and how alone he must have felt walking away. I know this issue will still continue to divide congregations, but I am so proud that we as a church have decided to open our arms to include ALL of God's children, not just the ones that don't make us uncomfortable.
Gay marriage has been an issue for years, and I assumed this year "decent and in order" would again mean that the topic stayed safely in committee under review. I am so glad I was wrong. The 221st General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church voted to allow ministers to perform marriage ceremonies for gay couples in states where it is legal, if they so choose. This means if you do not wish to perform such ceremonies, so be it. If you do, and your church does not, you may still choose to do so off church property. For too many years, the Presbyterian flavored family of God has shunned some of its members. I remember a conversation with a dear friend in college, when he confided that he had a big choice to make. He could be true to who he was created to be, and live life as a gay man; or he could use the gifts God had given him and be a leader in the church. I wept knowing what a gift the church would lose, and how alone he must have felt walking away. I know this issue will still continue to divide congregations, but I am so proud that we as a church have decided to open our arms to include ALL of God's children, not just the ones that don't make us uncomfortable.
