"Old things have passed away...."

As my mom goes through mountains of papers, photos, and memorabilia, she feels she is discarding important parts of her life. Somehow the memories are hard to extract from the tangible objects. It's probably helpful for her to talk about each slip of paper, each trip they took, each bit of life recalled by what she handles or sees. It's really hard on me as I try to remain a patient listener while I look past her toward the waiting collection that needs to be handed down the attic stairs.

We will get through this eventually, but it is an exhausting job in the heat of a muggy August afternoon. I have begun counting the days until I return to my own home in CO--a place with my own memories and things to pass "down the attic stairs" to discard. I hope I keep this fresh resolve to do so!

We are between houses still--the new which has become fuller and more familiar with each load, and the old which is still full of cast-aways piling up for the estate sale. Looking worn and forlorn, it is kind of gut-wrenching to re-visit, empty the closets more and more and begin to clean. It looks so dingy and dated as if the clock stopped about 25 years ago. Outside, the yard, usually immaculate has weed-filled daylily beds and a tired vegetable garden. The last cucumber looks more like a pumpkin or a hard orange gourd. The zenias are overly tall and leggy, heads drooped, but giving some color to the corner. A lovely sunset-hued hibiscus calls "hello" and "goodbye" as our cars pass the edge of the driveway. "Hello" and "Goodbye." "Hello" and "Goodbye."

While helping my mom go through the attic to unload junk and pack boxes to keep for her move, I've come across trash and treasures. I can't believe some of the finds. These bottles must be circa '68, complete with a photo of Bobby Sherman (my fave crush.) At least as early as 9th grade, I was creating collage bottles, cans, boxes, and more. Most of my source material then was from Seventeen magazine. I have a few more things to photograph before they get recycled. Kind of a fun experience to have unexpected little memories bubble up.

This entry was recently posted on the refuge blog and may repeat parts of the journey you already know.

I am drawn to the contemplative writers. Contemplatives (since early Christian times) generally are given to periods of deep silent prayer, meditation, and may even live a life devoted to prayer in a monastery or convent. They carve out quiet spaces in order to experience the soul's union with God. Many contemplatives also often seek a balance between work and prayer. I recently set aside a lengthy time from my schedule for finding some balance and restoration for the health of my body, mind, and spirit. I was carving out my own quiet space. I thought of it as my "soul sabbatical." I couldn't wait for this time of meaningful solitude.

The first 2 weeks away (in GA) would be for helping my mom. The first week my husband would be there, too. After that I would stay at the lake house 45 minutes from her home and be available if she should need me. This was a time to assess her long term needs in a more realistic way than I could from my home in CO. Meanwhile, I could have a time of solitude and reflection and enter into the process of actively listening to the Holy Spirit.

I sort of divided my day into blocks for reading, praying, working (cleaning, gardening, etc.), creative expression and relaxing  I took along a small library of books for my reading times. I got a new camera to give serious attention to re-developing my long-time love of photography. I packed my sun hat, sun shirt and sunblock for working outdoors. I took my iPod and speakers, my journals and pastels. I planned for everything I might need, including my favorite spices to cook with.

There were some specific requests I had for my time alone with God. There are some things I have considered irreconcilable, and I wanted to understand how to live my life with what can be reconciled and to recognize what can't. Ultimately I wanted to remember who I am, so I asked God, "Remind me who I am."

In all my planning I didn't count on the series of mishaps, severe weather, and unexpected battles with creepy creatures that happened. But most of all I didn't plan on people. I felt the silence and trickery of God (and I say this in the most loving way!) Except for a few small sightings, I didn't think God was speaking. I didn't have much chance to hear him because people kept showing up to interrupt my solitude.

People from my past came out of the woodwork.  We spent time together and reconnected.  They told me stories I had forgotten. There were God stories and funny stories of crazy stuff we did. One by one they described my impact on their life. And it was...gulp...positive! They updated me on people we both knew that I haven't seen in 35 years! They shared their own stories with me and listened to mine. There is no way I could have orchestrated getting in contact with two of the people that God brought around. That's right, I said, "God brought around", because that's how I see it now.

In my desire to reconnect with God and myself, I had no desire to connect with people. I did want to hear the Holy Spirit, but was surprised that he chose to use people to speak to me. People I knew, who knew me--not just writers whose profound words I could reflect upon. I am a big proponent of community, but ironically, I didn't expect community to be a way God would answer my prayer.

I got very little time alone or time to rest on my "soul sabbatical." I did get to see the entire spring season in GA with all of its glorious beauty which helped to restore my soul. And I was reminded of who I am, in a most unlikely way. I've found that it's hard to really know who I am outside of the context of community and relationships--who I am with people. I believe we are put here to remind each other of who we really are. That began to happen for me on my trip.

Has it happened for you?
Have you reminded anyone else lately?

Home from my time away, I'm now tending to my perennial garden, planting annuals, cleaning house, sorting mail, and catching up in general. This time of year calls for tree pruning, fountain set-up...lots of maintenance tasks to move into summer. At the least, our house needs exterior painting and interior repair. If it sounds like work, it is. But it feels lots lighter than what my "sabbatical" provided. And in the rhythm of life some manual labor fits right in and can become holy, depending upon how we go about our day. It feels kind of good, like prayer lifted up as steadily as breathing.

It was not that way the past few months. I quickly ran out of gas down south. Expecting a time of restoration (i.e. rest and rejuvenation) I kept hoping after a few weeks the weather (constant severe thunderstorms) would let up and I would move into my little hideaway and get into the zen zone. The zone eluded me. The library of hand-selected books waiting on the table mocked me. The mice, snakes, and roaches haunted me day and night. Local stories about thieves and possible intruders unnerved me when I stayed alone. Did I say alone?? Why was I constantly with people? Why couldn't I just get a week or so--even a few days--without calamity and interruption?

I felt a bit tricked, tired, anxious, depleted. I was thinking, "Here I am God. Here you are. Here we are. Let's talk!" All I heard was thunder, dogs barking, birds singing (I liked the birds), and people's voices. Always people's voices. So many people.

I had set some goals, or rather specific requests, of my time alone with God. What happened with one of those requests surprised me. In the next entry I'll try to work backwards to explain.