Looking Back on 2023

What worked in 2023: 

Building a Community of Believers
God has answered this prayer of mine for community in the most interesting way. The Mission Church drew me back here and I accepted the call. Then came Lorraine, then Nancy, then Paul. And the parade continues. As summer turned to fall of 2023, it seemed that with each passing week, a new friend or acquaintance appeared in the seats around me. The call seemed to have gone out to each of us in the form of a thirst or hunger that is difficult to put into words. And whatever it is, the Jesuits of SCU are quenching it.

Retirement 2.0
The jokes and jabs of my second retirement are finally subsiding as the year comes to a close. Yes, this second time around, I am making it work. I have learned how to sleep better and rise slower. No appointments before 10. Take time for a morning walk every day but Sunday. Take each day as it comes and celebrate as it ends.

Putting Friends First
This is closely aligned with the previous topic. I have committed to saying yes to all invitations. Lunch? Breakfast? Walk the trail? Walk the labyrinth? Coffee? Movie? The answer is always yes. I am learning to trust that despite a particular day's busy schedule, it will all balance out. And with that balance comes a beautiful memory of time well-spent.

Amy
Amy, my beautiful, amazing half sister that is more like a sister and a half! We have known each other for a year and a half and yet she knows things about me that no one else knows. She has brought a feeling of safety to my soul that I have never felt with another person. My vulnerabilities seem to fall away in her presence. She somehow embodies God's complete mercy and understanding; "You can tell me anything and I will still love you."

Service
It's happening! Service opportunities have come calling. My prayer kept telling me to wait, it will come to you and it has. I have my gig at the Nativity library twice a week, and I am back to serving as a Eucharistic Minister, and feeding the homeless once a month. It feels like the perfect mix; I feel useful but it has not overwhelmed the relaxed mode I am enjoying in retirement.

Leaning into a Future
Perhaps the thing that worked best in 2023 was allowing myself to lean into what was next for me. I am currently a participant in the Pierre Favre program at El Retiro and am in the process of becoming a guide for the Spiritual Exercises. The latest word is that it will eventually lead into becoming a Spiritual Guide. This is the work that God had waiting for me; this becomes more clear with each passing month.

What didn't work in 2023:

Taking Sickness and Death in Stride
I know no one is ever ready for this stage in life but it seemed that 2023 packed a wallop. A dear friend was diagnosed with bladder cancer, my aunt and uncle moved into long term care/assisted living, and another of my Top 5 had a series of strokes and passed away. We are all far too young for this or maybe I just wasn't prepared. As I step out of my 69th year and into 70, it is clear that these events will become more common. I promise to keep showing up for my friends as was listed above. It has also been the stark reminder to say whatever it is you have to say whenever you have the opportunity to say it.

Listening to my gut when it says Go!
If I have any one regret from this year, it is that I didn't fly to New York to see Tessa perform in her Christmas show. I thought about it and then sat back and just assumed it would be live streamed like it was last year. So, 2024 will be the year where even though I have traveled in August, October, and November, I hope to be able to say yes to a December trip to NYC.

My commitment to "This is my last move."
One never knows when you make statements that include absolutes what might happen to change your mind. My move to Willard Ave was clearly not the last. It all turned out well in the end but this move in December was definitely one of my more challenging. It has become clear that my body simply doesn't have the strength or resilience it once had. So I will just say, I'm hoping this was my last...

Again, it's a Writing Schedule
A year ago, I said what hadn't work was coming up with a writing schedule. This is still true. However, I did make progress with some actual writing. I attended a spiritual writing retreat and have done several classes on-line. So perhaps the goal is misaligned. Let's do more writing and find our comfort zone before we criticize ourselves for not having it on the weekly schedule.

Looking Ahead
As I look into the horizon I see only blurry images of what is to come. I am hopeful that it includes much of what is contained on my list of what worked in 2023. One thing is for certain; there will be unimagined joys and painful sorrows. I only pray that I can retain the image of them walking side by side on the path, each one making the other better for having made the journey together.

Margie Bennett

 Margie Bennett was my friend, my co-worker and my traveling partner on so many journeys of life. It was my honor to have her walk beside me in the halls of three different schools but she and I would always say that our best work was done at Nativity, bar none.  It was the school from which she would at long last retire. But that was not the end of her teaching career.  She continued subbing for several years and could not have been happier just to be in conversation with adolescents and guiding middle school students on their academic path.  It is rare to find a teacher who stays in it beyond the 4th decade just for the fun of it and to be in relationship with kids.  

Margie was one of the strongest women I have ever known. She stood up for herself, her staff, and her students no matter the outcome. She was always willing to stand in the breach to do what was right and suffer the consequences, come what may .  When the benefit of her students was at stake, she went head to head with fellow teachers, principals, presidents, pastors and even this vice principal. She knew our friendship could withstand it and it grew stronger because of her honestly and forthrightness. No one ever had to worry about what Margie would say behind your back; she said it all face to face. She promoted social justice from her first day in the classroom with the "No uvas" movement until her last with her fight for our DACA students and interns.  Sometimes the lesson plan took a flying leap out the window in deference to her preaching on racial or gender injustice.  You had to be ready for anything when walking into Margie's classroom; you would either encounter a hands-on math or science lesson or a deep conversation on civil rights.  

Her faith was a driving force in her life and she easily shared it with all she encountered. She called herself a "retired Catholic" but she never stopped living as Jesus modeled in the gospels and expecting the same in her students. As much as she wanted to leave the Church behind, it appeared to have been inborn. Her love for Notre Dame and Mother Mary guided her throughout her life.  Some would refer to her as irreverent but you could never argue that she was wrong about her stance on clerical abuse of children or even the sin of poor homilies.  More than anything, I will miss her witty quips about the Church.  

Visiting Margie after her stokes was one of the more difficult things I have ever done.  The person sitting before me in the wheel chair seemed only to be an image of who she had been; more like a vague memory than this actual human person.  Margie never lost her sense of humor.  I don't think that I ever laughed harder than the first time I saw her in rehab.  I was out of her line of vision and she queried, "Is Miss Allen still smiling?  If Miss Allen is still smiling we're OK." Oh yes, Margie, I'm still smiling.  With every visit she would begin our conversation with the demand, "Tell me a story.  What's been happening?" There was nothing she loved more than a good story of juvenile antics in or out of the classroom. 

It is the laughing I will miss the most.  We were never in each other's presence when we didn't laugh together and sometimes we shouldn't have been.  Faculty meetings are not always fun but she could bring levity to almost any presentation or difficult conversation.  I will miss our Happy Hours, our monthly breakfasts, her updates on graduates and the pride that we shared in the work we did together.  I will miss her irreverence and her spunk.  I pray that I will always hear her laugh ringing in my head and remember the good times we shared together.  Our friendship was a true blessing and I will carry these memories forth with love and devotion for Margie, my dear and loyal friend.   

In Thanksgiving

 From the beginning, Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. Even as a child, stepping into the warmth of my grandmother's kitchen was better than endless candy at Halloween and even ranked above Christmas presents from Santa. Thanksgiving was the only day of the year that the Allen Family and any other wayward souls came together to celebrate the abundance of our lives. As a whole, our family was not especially religious, but this day, apart from all others, definitely felt like the most profound of rituals.

My grandmother was an amazing cook; many of my memories settle on the sights and smells of the dishes that seemed to appear out of thin air from her tiny oven. It was like a miracle each time I witnessed the process even though I clearly knew what was coming. The menu was always the same: turkey, two kinds of stuffings (sage and oyster), mashed potatoes and gravy, two or three vegetables, cranberry sauce, and at least two kinds of pie. And somehow, each dish was cooked perfectly. The hardest day I ever had was Thanksgiving of 1972 when I was unable to go home from college for the holiday. It was my first Thanksgiving away from Grandma's kitchen. The next few didn't get much better either. I remember very few Thanksgivings that did not end with tears of missing the Thanksgivings of my childhood. One thing that Ralph and the kids could always count on was the best Thanksgiving dinner I could replicate and a bittersweet wife and mother. I never stopped missing Grandma's kitchen and the memories it held.

Time has passed and Thanksgiving continues to take on a variety of permutations with each passing year. I easily handed over the reigns to Maria long ago, knowing that she had grown up bathed in the importance of thanksgiving and creating and sustaining family traditions. There were a few years of alternating locations between the Carter-Giannini home, Half Moon Bay, and Lake Tahoe. Then I found myself flying back from Washington and Florida until I was back home in California again. Each of these holidays had its own beauty to it. But the Thanksgiving of 2021 now ranks high on the list of memorable holidays because of the addition of our beloved Tessa. We all descended upon Dave's house for the weekend and commandeered his entire kitchen, no holds barred. I still marvel at how patient he was with all of us; no utensil or appliance was off limits. "Help yourself" was his word of the day. Dinner was amazing but the dessert with Tessa was definitely the icing on the cake. For the first time I sensed a feeling of completeness and wholeness to our family. Dave had at long last found his great love, and within minutes we had fallen deeply in love with her as well. Last year Dave and Tessa made the trip west and committed to making plans for the annual family tradition. So as I joyfully anticipated Thanksgiving 2023, it was with a feeling of contentment and anticipation, knowing that our family would once again gather around the table giving thanks for one another and the blessings that brought us together.

So this year, I again give thanks for my many happy memories of Thanksgivings past while looking forward to those that lie ahead. I have been deeply blessed with a grandmother who taught me the joy of gratitude and have been able to pass on that same commitment to my children. In the end, this is what matters: come together as family, enjoy the food and drink with which we have been blessed, laugh, love. 

Pilgrim by David Whyte

 PILGRIM is a word that accurately describes the average human being; someone on their way somewhere else, but someone never quite knowing whether the destination or the path stands first in importance; someone who underneath it all doesn't quite understand from whence or from where their next bite of bread will come, someone dependent on help from absolute strangers and from those who travel with them. Most of all, a pilgrim is someone abroad in a world of impending revelation where something is about to happen, including, most fearfully, and as part of their eventual arrival, their own disappearance. 

The great measure of human maturation is the increasing understanding that we move through life in the blink of an eye; that we are not long with the privilege of having eyes to see, ears to hear, a voice with which to speak and arms to put round a loved one; that we are simply passing through. We are creatures made real through contact, meeting and then moving on; creatures who, strangely, never get to choose one above the other. Human life is contact; getting to know, and a moving beyond which is forever changing, from the transformations that enlarge and strengthen us to the ones that turn us from consuming to being consumed, from seeing to being semi-blind, from speaking in one voice to hearing in another. 

The defining experience at the diamond-hard center of reality is eternal movement as beautiful and fearful invitation; a beckoning dynamic asking us to move from this to that. The courageous life is the life that is equal to this unceasing tidal and seasonal becoming: and strangely beneath all, stillness being the only proper physical preparation for joining the breathing autonomic exchange of existence. We are so much made of movement that we speak of the destination being both inside us and beyond us; we sense we are the journey along the way, the one who makes it and the one who has already arrived. We are still running round the house packing our bags and we have already gone and come back, even in our preparations; we are alone in the journey and we are just about to meet the people we have known for years. 

But if we are all movement, exchange and getting to know, where a refusal to move on makes us unreal, we are also journeymen and journeywomen, with an unstoppable need to bring our skills and experience, our voice and our presence to good use in the eternal now we visit along the way. We want to belong as we travel. We are creatures of movement, but we have something immutable in the flow: an elemental, essential nature that gives a person a name and a voice and a character as they flow on. We take our first bubbling source and our broad, subsequent confluences and grow in the conversation between them, all the way to our dissolution in the sea. 

We give ourselves to that final destination as an ultimate initiation into vulnerability and arrival, not ever truly knowing what lies on the other side of the transition, or if we survive it in any recognizable form. Strangely, our arrival at that last transition along the way is exactly where we have the opportunity to understand who made the journey and to appreciate the privilege of having existed as a particularity, an immutable person; a trajectory whole and of itself. 

In that perspective it might be that faith, reliability, responsibility and being true to something unspeakable are possible even if we are travelers, and that we are made better, more faithful companions, and indeed pilgrims on the astonishing, never to be repeated journey by combining the precious memory of the then with the astonishing, but taken for granted experience of the now, and both with the unbelievable, and hardly possible just about to happen. 

Whyte, David. Consolations

This Season of life - More of the Challenges of being 70

 No matter how I look at the numbers I can't help but find myself in the winter of my life. This season has presented very few personal challenges to me but it certainly has made them apparent to those with whom I accompany.  I have moved beyond hospital visits to my parents' and grandparents' generations and the decline of the elderly is now looking me square in the face. Just this year, I have watched two dear friends suffer the effects of cancer and now a stroke.  I have to say that now following my first visit to see the stroke victim, if given a choice, I would opt for cancer, organ removal and chemo therapy.  I know that neither is optimal but nausea and exhaustion would win out over being keenly aware that you are no longer making sense.

As we age, the experience of being placed in Rehab appears to be the great equalizer.  All of us who have prided ourselves on regular hair cuts, daily makeup regimens and exercise to keep us "healthy" are in for a terrible shock. Given the state of our medical system, it is very likely that we will once again be relegated to the space of our college dorm room during rehab. Your friends will struggle to recognize the new longer hair length you're sporting or the freckles that have always lay hidden beneath a thin coat of ivory beige foundation. But the greater challenge is simply caring on a conversation about the simplest of things.  

So, what is all this preparation for the golden years about?  Everywhere we are told to take vitamins and supplements, stay fit, challenge yourself with puzzles to keep your brain alert.  And then somewhere along the line, you are blindsided with disease and disorder of a serious magnitude.  The stroke is especially debilitating.  It can take out an entire side of your body, your voice and any coherent thought you may ever again have.  It is like the insides of your brain have been broken into pieces and it is now up to you and your therapy team to put the puzzle back together again, one piece at a time.  

My recent changed mantra of "It doesn't matter" may take on a more pleasant, "Let's have dessert." If the end is uncertain and we never know when the unforeseen may take us down, let's find ways to enjoy this moment that we do have and all that it holds.  Let's take the time to be with our friends and family for as long as possible. Let's linger together for just a bit longer. 

Suprises Along the Way

 As I ever so slowly enter the world of the septuagenarians, I am encountering a new plane of existence; that of illness and physical disorders. Many years ago my aunt Arma Jo gave me some sage words of advice. She said, "I wish someone had told me to enjoy my 60s. After that, things seem to go wrong." As always, she was correct.

In the last few months alone I have had a dear friend suffer from a fast growing bladder cancer, et. al., and a second suffer a severe stroke. It definitely feels like I am entering into a new way of being in the world. I virtually journey with my friends one by one into the world of medical centers, hospitals, skilled nursing facilities, etc. The question resonates, is this what we do now? We stand as witnesses to whatever malady befalls our community of aging women and try our hardest to remain erect and ask the right questions so when we retell the story it makes some sort of sense - even though none of it does or can. We are somehow always surprised that this terrible thing has happened. Despite the fact that we are all approaching or way over the age of 70 and all of these things are to be expected, we don't expect them. None of them are out of the ordinary and yet we are surprised. I am discovering that it is one thing to prepare ourselves for the shock of our own physical decline; it is quite something else to come to the realization that we will also be watching with the same sense of helplessness the demise of each and every one of our friends experience the same downward spiral. It is like watching some sort of weird domino construction collapse in slow motion one by one by one.

We sit alongside the comfy chair of our friends; we listen, taking it all in and try to build them up saying, "You can do this," when all the while we have no idea if they can or not and what it is that is theirs to do. We have tracked their progress from ICU or surgery to the Step Down Ward or recovery and onto rehab or the regular wing of the hospital until they can finally return home. Yes, finally we can "do" something. We bring coffee and lively conversation, we leave dinner on the porch, and always, always we pray. We comment on the text chain or comment on CaringBridge and somehow are relieved to know that we have a community of worriers and pray-ers; that we are not alone.

Added to this struggle to be present for our friends is the realization that their life, whatever it was the day before, just got put on a shelf to be taken down later or perhaps not at all again. Stroke victims don't usually return to the life of a substitute teacher. Cancer patients take up to a year to once again feel "normal." Much like a death, it can be a whiplash-like experience to realize how quickly the world will go on without you in it. There will be no waiting for you to get better. This, too, is no surprise. Human bodies are temporary and life is extremely fragile but still, we are surprised by it. And again, the grand epiphany is that this too will also be our own experience. As important as we think we are, the world, our world, will barely skip a beat on the first day we don't show up to volunteer or attend a Zoom book club meeting.

With each of these events comes the nudge to reevaluate our own plan for the future. What are the preparations for my own decline? Granted, not knowing what mystery danger will take me by surprise makes the planning and preparing challenging. But once again, we want to "do" something. So we begin the search for multiple levels of care from independent to assisted to long term care waiting for the someday that we or our children can put the plan into action. We want to be ready, be proactive, DO something.

Lurking beyond these concerns of illness, medical care, and the world not caring is the notion that one day the call will come to inform us of something even worse. One of these notifications of a disease or disorder is going to end in announcing a friend's death, a leaving. As shocking as it is to adjust to our community afflicted by pain and worry, the thought of saying a final goodbye is something we are never ready for. Once again we are inexplicably surprised. We know people who have died: grandparents, parents, even those who have passed by tragic accidents of illnesses decades earlier. But yet, we aren't prepared when it happens to you or you or you. Each person is a distinct relationship and one we do not care to consider living without. So yes, this too will come as a surprise over and over again.

It is reassuring to know that just like any other new thing in life, we too adjust to this feeling of change and loss. With each passing day I adjust to my friends' suffering and do all that I can to open my mind to what is possible for me to lose; memory, mobility, and yes, life. In place of the surprise, the shock of disease and disorder, appears gratitude. I give thanks each day that I have woken to a new day, that my friends are still here with me, and that we can continue to grow in the love of one another's presence on the planet no matter what form it takes.  

Time

As I re-embrace this state of retirement, my mind consistently returns to the concept of time and how it is used in the world.  Everyone I've ever known who has had the privilege of being retired will say the same thing, "I don't know how I ever had time to work."  Yes, the days just seem to fill themselves over and over again.  You awake with the question of what this day will bring and before you know it, you are entering into the quiet of the evening.

Having done this before, I definitely knew what to expect this time around but in many ways, this experience has been very different and it's all about the time.  Retiring to a new state brings with it an excitement and sense of exploration that doesn't exist when you simply leave the work world and go home. Much of my planning for the day in both Washington and Florida centered on destinations; things to see, places to go. The planning phase of my days here are on the doing of life; praying, walking, reading, writing, thinking.  From day to day the chunks of time vary depending on other obligations and the activity is chosen according to the time available.  Everything feels negotiable and doable.  If it doesn't happen today, maybe it will tomorrow.  And if it doesn't happen tomorrow, maybe it's just not that important.  This is extremely counter cultural. In the capitalistic fast-paced society that governs most lives there is a feeling of the imperative; things must be done right here right now or in the time that is set aside for them.  This is especially true in the academic world that is purposefully divided into semesters, weeks, days and periods. A 10:00 meeting on Tuesday moved to Wednesday is a cumbersome task at best. The freedom that I now enjoy is something unheard of for others in our success driven planet Earth.

Personally, it has required a transplant of the phrase "all will be well" with "it doesn't matter."   I no longer need to console myself that when things run late or don't go according to plan, I will make up the time somewhere else.  No, time now seems to be an infinite resource (although I know that ultimately is far from true.). Time is that lavish gift, generously given by God for us to use as we see fit.  If I can't fall asleep or wake up during the night for no reason, it doesn't matter; I'll sleep in tomorrow.  If I go over a projected plan of reading or writing, it doesn't matter; I'll do what didn't get done another time. If I'm not in the mood to repot the plants this afternoon, it doesn't matter; there's always tomorrow. In this transitional period while I am recalibrating my focus on time, I feel utter joy and freedom while I once again tell myself that it doesn't matter.  I am completely present to whatever project which currently has my focus and that is a sublime gift in itself. But it bears asking, what if I could have seem time as this seemingly boundless commodity decades ago when I was racing through life?  There is no looking back but I definitely have my eyes here and now, open to all this sense of freedom brings along for the ride.  

Corporate Responsibility

 My recent air travel to Omaha and on to Lexington through Charlotte turned out to be a life lesson. It demanded that I utilize all my skills of decision making, patience, and being present to the moment.  After several delays and plane changes leaving Charlotte, we somehow ended up flying right into a storm just outside of Lexington.  The pilot was first asked to begin his descent early and then was diverted to Louisville.  This was only the beginning of the problems that would arise as Louisville is so close to Lexington that there is no flight plan between the two cities. As things slowly revealed themselves, there seemed to be three options: trust American Airlines to do what was right for the 100 customers stranded 80 miles from their purchased destination, accept my son's offer to drive those 80 miles to pick me up and back again, or Uber there on my own.  As the minutes and hours ticked away, I realized that something had grown inside of me alongside of the patience that has always been my hallmark; trust.  Trust that a multinational corporation would do the right thing, trust that the assigned customer service representatives would look deep into the faces hovering around the gate and know these people must all somehow be returned to their loved ones tonight.  At the time, I was naming it corporate responsibility; American Airlines had a duty to get me to Lexington.  That was our transaction; I give you my credit card and you in turn promise to put me in the loving arms of my son and daughter-in-law.  That is the deal we made.  Money for love, a love that can not be valued.  So I chose trust, trust that American Airlines would do exactly that.  As I looked back on the events of this seemingly endless night, I became keenly aware of all the ways that age and wisdom are changing me.  I believed that the corporation would do the right thing and that belief was so strong that I was willing to keep my money in my pocket. I know for a fact that 5 years ago nothing would have kept me in that Louisville airport.  I would only have put my trust in my wallet and an Uber car to take me where I wanted to go.  I was in charge of my destiny, not American Airlines, not a pilot or a customer service representative.  Yes, I am learning to let go, to put my ego aside, and to let others control the events that are truly out of my hands. The time with my son and daughter-in-law was indeed beyond measure and perhaps even more so because of the hours that our first beloved hug was delayed. Thank you American Airlines for getting us to Lexington but more importantly, for doing the right thing.  

An Alternative Me

 I believe in God's plan and I also believe in the gift of free will.  Just as Jesus was wholly human and wholly divine, both things can be true. Yes, and. Perhaps God's leading trait is also curiosity and wonders what would happen if...?  So we are put on this path (born into a family and place) and then given the power to choose a direction and then re-choose and then choose again.  It happens over and over again until finally in our later years we can look back and see where the path led, where the changes in directions moved us and those around us.  

I have two recurring thoughts as I look back and ponder on an alternative scenario.  The first is what if I had been born Catholic.  Would I have been more deeply spiritual sooner in life? Catholicism offers so much to hold on to: the bells and smells, stories of saints, its own educational system, murals, and statues.  And this always leads to the next question: if I had grown up in this world, would I have joined a religious order?  In my heart of hearts, I am doubtful, as just like most other 16 year old girls, I fell head over heels in love and if allowed to would have married that cute boy and lived happily ever after. Catholicism would have needed to do a lot of ringing and incensing to substitute that romance for the love of Jesus.  But nonetheless, I deeply enjoy going into this "what if" rabbit hole.  

The second scenario I wonder about is what if I had grown up in a family of campers and grew into a semi-resident of the forest.  I have a deep love for the woods and dive into them as often as I can.  But camping or experimenting with another way of staying there long term has always been a challenge for me. It's one of those things that sounds good but as I imagine myself cold, sleep deprived, and in desperate need of a warm shower, I turn back to embrace this civilized urban life I have adopted. Thoreau was my first hero as an adolescent and Walden was and still is a favorite read. I love following people on social media who are living some form of the Walden Pond existence.  Just as the idea of living in a religious order's time has passed so has this idea of cabin dwelling.  But it does not keep me from dreaming and finding ways to insert both of these alternative me's into my current identification.  

Missing Molly

 Sister Molly came into my life a little less than a year ago.  She had been recommended to me as a perfect spiritual guide match by two people who I deeply respected but when I did the search for her online, my first reaction was "But she is so old."  This is not me being hyperbolic.  Molly joined the Sisters of Holy Names of Jesus and Mary in 1955, the year after I was born! I later learned that she joined at the age of 17 and had just celebrated her Jubilee - 70th anniversary. I searched a bit more but kept coming back to her photo and figured, what the heck; I'll give her a shot.  We chatted on the phone and even over the phone lines all that came through was love; love for you, love of Jesus, and love just to be alive.  Our first meeting only accentuated that reaction.  The shock for me was that so much love could reside and exude but this tiny woman. We shared a love of Catholic education and midwest roots and that was all that was needed for our conversation starter. Our one hour scheduled meetings were always one and a half and we could have easily gone longer. 

 I quickly embraced all the benefits of having an older spiritual companion.  She had seen and heard a lot. There was nothing I could say that would surprise her as I breezed through my life story. She wept with me through the hard parts and laughed with joy at my triumphs.  Each meeting would end with a blessing, prayer, or assignment and I always left feeling whole and complete. I had the feeling that she was as much a therapist as a spiritual companion. She never failed to challenge me for more; she was not Jesuit but she definitely had a handle on the Magis.  She led me through the work challenges of last year and prepared me as no one else could have for the pitfalls and grandeur of the Camino Ignaciano.  

I always knew that I was loved by Molly and hence by Jesus and all the other saints with whom she was clearly in deep relationship with.   I would throw out a quote and she would immediately call out his/her name and give me a new snippet of the saint's life story. She was a goldmine of information and never seemed to be at a loss for words or ways to guide me forward. She gave me great strategies for discerning what was next for me in life and seemed almost as curious as how my story would go as I was. She was looking forward to my next steps in starting the Pierre Favre program next month and my trip to the Holy Land in May.  

The one thing that neither of us anticipated last week as we scheduled our next appointment after my first Pierre Favre class is that she wouldn't be here.  My heart shattered as I slowly absorbed the news of her impending passing.  I immediately felt untethered and could not imagine my next steps without her cheering me on from the sidelines. But in ways that only Sister Molly could, I felt again the showering of her love of me and of Jesus and of all that is waiting for me. I am eternally grateful for the time we had together.  I learned better how to use prayer in discernment, started to get a grasp of the Trinity, and openly shared with her my devotion to the Eucharist.  I will miss her terribly but there is no one better that I can carry in my heart as God leads me forward to the next right thing. Thank you, Sister Molly.  

Protecting the Stillness

 I have been home from Spain for more than a month and one of the greatest gifts that it is still giving is finding comfort in the stillness.  Quiet is never something that I backed away from but this feels different.  I have not only accepted the stillness when it occurs but made space for it in my daily life.  It is unfortunate that retirement is the only time this is even possible in on modern society.  The phrase "carving out" space or time for quiet is apropos.  It does feel like a physical cutting away of something else that would be in its place. My days are frequently filled with thoughts of "I'm just going to sit here," or "I'll stay a few minutes longer."  Those moments used to be moments for prayer and sometimes they still are but not always.  Sometimes it is just an opportunity to be, to sit, to empty my head and heart.  I sit in that void and nothing takes up the space until I rejoin thoughts of the day. It may be the reason that I am finally able to write.  There has to be a space between life and the telling of it.  The emptiness is a necessary ingredient so that when I'm ready to process thoughts and feelings nothing else is pushing up against them.  They have their own space and then the words can follow.  

In Spain, the stillness was most palpable in Montserrat and Manresa.  In the former I was encased by mountains and in the latter a cave.  I often note the feeling of being enclosed or held in my prayer chair these days.  The chair has not been changed, only my perception of it.  I go to the "cave" and feel myself enveloped by the stillness and know only that I am deeply loved.  I am exactly where I am supposed to be; alone in space and time. 

I am moving through the world now knowing that each day must have time set aside to be still and know.  I turn down offers to get together with people if it feels like it will bring too much weight to the day, I eliminate daily news that takes me into darker spaces, I say no to volunteer activities. I wait in the stillness.  I somehow know that the right time for each thing will reveal itself to me and its place in my life.  The quiet brings with it the opportunity for discernment and clearly knowing the next right thing. 

Breathe In

The summer is winding down; actually summer is just a season on the calendar for my loved ones who have already started back to school this week.  But as the retirement slogans go, I am in the midst of my "endless summer."  However, it was only this week that I felt like I could begin the implementation of my retirement weekly schedule.  I was finally back in some sort of routine after my trip to Spain followed by my birthday and all that entails.  It seems that August sets in and reality returns.  Wednesdays on my current weekly schedule call for a "field trip."  In my dream world that might mean a trip to a local museum, a trip to the beach or a local spot in the Bay Area.  But this week (and last week) it meant a walk in the woods.  Today I set off for a spot in Henry Cowell State Park that went somewhat according to plan.  After all, once you're in the redwoods, what else matters?  But I actually had started on my final route back to the car when I happened upon the sign, "Redwood Grove."  I did try to stay focused on the schedule but I just couldn't resist.  The Redwood Grove at Henry Cowell and I have a long, long history.  

As an Iowa native, the redwoods have always held a special place in my heart.  There's nothing like them in Iowa or even outside of California and Oregon.  One of our first family trips was to Redwoods National Park but that was after I had discovered that there is a miniature version of that park less than 40 miles from home.  My first visit was a stunning experience.  My head was constantly thrust back to attempt to see the tops of each and every tree.  The Redwood Grove was kind of ordinary to Ralph; I'm sure he had been hundreds of times and thought little of it until he took me there.  It's just a jog off of state highway 17 to Santa Cruz and it quickly became a regular stop for us.  "Any place you want to go?" was often answered with, "The redwoods?" From the very beginning, I knew that my desire to be there was unusual so I never expected yes for an answer but whenever the car took that turn off of the highway, there was a feeling of great joy and delight in my heart.  The Redwood Grove was the best of all possible places for us to be.  It is an .8 mile walk with 15 points of interest along the path.  So Ralph and I could walk it at his pace, I could take my kids in or out of strollers, and even my father when they came for my master's graduation in 1995.  

My desire to be in that grove has never waned.  I went for a final visit before I moved to Washington, I have fond memories of sharing it with my grandchildren, and it was one of the first places I visited upon my return last year.  So when that sign appeared on my field of vision today, there was no denying it.  Yes, that would be a lovely finish to my walk in the woods today. I made my way from the River Trail and the minute I walked onto the path I noticed a change - there was something in the smell of the air that had been altered  If you could identify a smell as that of motherhood, that's what it was. I was completely transported back to 1985 or there abouts.  I brought our kids here a LOT.  We would go to Santa Cruz several times during the summer and on most trips home, we would take a detour to the redwoods.  Often the kids had no idea that I had made the turn. I would pull up into the parking lot and they would tumble out of the car. I think they must have just amused me, knowing it was a short walk so they would endure it and then Mom would be content to drive home. So, today, once again I walked that path with my head tilted back, searching for the tops of the trees and feeling extremely small.  As the memories came flooding back with the smell of the redwoods, I missed chasing down a child or grandchild along the path, stopping for photos, or cajoling one of them out of a dark, burned out tree trunk. But my happy memories were more than enough to sustain me as I followed the trail back to the car and on to the highway back home.  I am deeply blessed to live in this amazing place of beauty and memories of love.  

 

Birthdays

 Today I celebrate my 69th birthday, that is to say the 69th anniversary of my birth. So what we really mean is that my 69th year is now complete not just beginning. What is beginning is my 70s. According to everyone I know who has passed this threshold, things start to happen in your 70s and they are usually not the things to which we look forward. They are the effects of age creeping in and slowing everything down. They are disease and death. I'm not in any way trying to be morbid, just prepared. I am on watch. I am on watch for faulty joints, for an increased slowness in my morning walks, for wayward cells that my white blood cells can no longer fight off.  So as I look toward this next trip around the sun, my goals are not about finances, they are about longevity.  I still have much to do so planet earth needs to maintain its hold on me for a bit longer. As I step into year number 70, I plan to eat right, exercise, get plenty of rest, take my pills, and greet each new day with joy and appreciation. Along with that, I plan to take the time for self care - for me that means to hold on to the stillness of morning prayer throughout the day, monitor the daily schedule and keep the pace slow. And much like I spent today, I want to take advantage of the beauty that surrounds me and go into the woods as often as I can.  

Retirement 2.0

 I have been retired (for the second time) now for 2 weeks.  Nothing is ever for sure but I have certainly entered into this version easier than the first.  Two good signs are that I haven't made plans to move and I am rearranging furniture inside and out to embrace my hobbies.  Perhaps the worst of it is enduring everyone's jokes about whether or not I will stay retired.  

The more I ponder the difference between this time and 6 years ago, the more I come to understand all the pieces of making these transitions in life more or less successful.  It definitely helped to return to my prior job even part time to realize all the reasons I left it before.  Energy is first on the list.  I was tired almost every day and sometimes I would feel tired just thinking about what I had to do.  A close second is the challenge of working with adults - definitely not my forte.  But the most profound reason is despite all my preparations, I don't think I was ready to retire last time.  I did all the right things, discernment and all, but in retrospect I think my initial move away was fear of not knowing how to create a life of leisure in a place where I had only worked.  It's easy to recreate a new life in a new place but not so easy to do in the place where you already live.  You must combat everyone's opinion of what you should be doing in retirement even though none of them has done it - volunteer, substitute, find a part time job outside of education - as well as dream up who and what you are without work.  Add on to that the fear of being able to make ends meet financially in one of the most expensive places in the country.  I just couldn't imagine I could ever do that; any of it.  It was really so much easier to move and justify to myself and others that it was a financial decision as well as familial; I would be living within a few miles of my sister.  I don't regret any of it.  Life is all about learning.  I learned lots about cold temperatures and a little snow - not a problem - and about sunlight exposure as you move north - BIG PROBLEM for someone who had been in sunny California for 40 years.  

So now it is finally time to confront the issues of being unemployed in the place where you were defined by your work.  Financially, I have all my tiny pots of money in place; Social Security, two pensions, and my savings.  Socially, I now have a few friends who are retired and have blazed the trail ahead of me. Familial, I am blessed to be living 2 blocks from my daughter and her family. Spiritually, I continue to work on the call to serve.  Professionally, yes, I will be volunteering at the school I left to fulfill part of that question.  But no thank you to the substitute or part time job options.  

I have begun work on a weekly schedule to make use of the larger blocks of time I have to work with so I won't "just read" or find out what's up next on Netflix.  It definitely helps to have done this before.  Monday is laundry day, Tuesday is still a cheap day at the movie theaters and always a good day to grocery shop.  Wednesday will be my field trip day so that I can continue to enjoy everything the Bay Area has to offer but without the crowds.  Thursday will be my appointment day so I don't chop the rest of the week into pieces.  In between are blocks of time set aside to read, write, and garden.  It all looks great on paper.  And here is evidence that it can work.  It's Monday and the laundry is in the dryer and I wrote this!

The Pilgrim Returns

 A few days ago I returned from 12 days in Spain and a pilgrimage from Azpeitia to Barcelona following the journey of Ignatius of Loyola.  I went into this adventure with anticipated views of a dirt or rock path and little else.  So I was certainly unprepared for the beauty of the mountains and valleys of the northern provinces of Spain.  I also assumed that all would be revealed to me while walking the path of the Camino.  Granted, there were thoughts and images that brought many questions to a close but I certainly did not receive any answers to the big questions: What do I do next?  Which direction do I follow?  

So what was it all about?

Gifts of the pilgrimage:

• God is with me. Traversing the mountain from Arantzazu was definitely a challenge and as I struggled to breathe and walk simultaneously I called on God (something I have struggled to do in real time of challenges). As I attempted to put one foot in front of the other I repeatedly told myself, God is here, God is with me, I am not alone.
• I am human with physical limitations.  The last 3 miles down the mountain brought back to me the pain of my running years and the tightening of my IT Band.  My only consolation was that if I could keep my knee from bending, I was pain free so I knew it wasn't anything serious.  I was humbled to come to terms with the fact that I would not be walking the entire pilgrimage.  I am grateful that experiences with half marathons taught me that every body has a tipping point and you just can't push past the pain without creating much more serious problems.  "No!" rings through the air.  
• Being in the same space of a man I have respected for years, 500 years later was quite overwhelming.  I was breathing the air Iñigo breathed, I stood in his family kitchen, I stood beside his death mask and sat with him in the cave in Manresa where he too wrote his thoughts.  I felt his spirit everywhere and struggled to leave behind each of those spaces.  
• My plan of getting a simple tattoo before I left has grown into a much more complex design.  I fear that no longer will it fit on my wrist where I would see it daily.  I'm trusting that with Tessa's help, "all will be well."
• I can't explain how I know it, but I was reassured that my invitation to the Pierre Favre program in September is exactly where I need to be.  The feeling that you are at least heading in the right direction is enough to know that this is the call.  
• Being invited into the stillness.  The quiet reflection of the pilgrimage has continued as I have returned home and attempt to find my place in the world again.  I step slowly into my life once more.  Returning home as retired is extremely helpful to my prayer practice.  It is day 3 and I remain significantly outside the world.  I am reconnecting with family and friends that I know will attempt to understand this experience or at least nod their heads knowing that whatever it is I experienced was something beyond language and was all good.  

When people ask me about the pilgrimage, I just say Spain is beautiful.  There is little else I can say about a pilgrimage that is supposedly a trek up and down a mountain and through the valleys toward the docks of Barcelona but in actuality mostly takes place in your inner being.  So I slowly, ever so slowly reenter life extremely aware that God is guiding my steps if only I take the time to wait, ponder, and reflect.  

Me as Pilgrim

Within a matter of a few days, I will be retired once again and be boarding a plane bound for Spain. Upon my arrival I will be following in the footsteps of St. Ignatius as I pray my way from Loyola to Manresa.  I have no doubt that God has led me to this place in this precise time.  I am embracing the label pilgrim but it has been something I have had to define for myself.  Today I am sharing an unedited/unrevised entry from my journal.   

As I continue to prepare mentally for the Camino, I am coming to terms with my understanding of a pilgrim and a pilgrimage.  This journey is becoming a symbol of my life here on earth.  I am a traveler learning and growing as I go through the weeks, months, and years of my life moving ever closer to God and the person I was created to be.  There have already been beautiful vistas to enjoy as well as the desolate deserts.  But in all of the times of my life, God has been beside me calling me nearer to the path that was created for me.  To be a pilgrim is to enter into the unknown, trusting that all will be well.  It means being present to your surroundings and learning to see the environment as part of the call forth - "Come and see."  This, all of this is for you to experience.  It is all laid out for you to either enjoy and be awestruck by or to learn from.  Part of the journey is to be present to the place, the people, knowing it is all part of the pilgrimage.  I want to take it all in and appreciate this liminal space and time that has been set aside to move through the transition into the next phase of my life.  To be a pilgrim is to be open to the unknown of what lies ahead.  It is to be courageous as you enter into this new frontier of what God has waiting for you.  It is to trust.  

A Year Later

 A year ago, the most amazing thing happened in the most ordinary of places. I was just going through emails at the end of the day and a message appeared from Ancestry.com. Fast forward 365 days and all I can do is give thanks. I give thanks to Sarah who entered into the most tenuous of situations and asked the hard question to Mike and I, "Could my mom be your sister?" I give thanks to Amy who is the sister and friend that I didn't know I was waiting for and who in some strange and unexplainable way has completed me, completed my definition of family, and what it means to be a sibling. In the year that has passed I have been in her physical company in 2 different time periods and the only way to describe it is to say that I just can't get enough of her. We meet for breakfast and then gather again for a family dinner or meet for breakfast and then again the next day to hang out in the Gardens.   Our conversations no longer entail the childhood that we each experienced but have moved through time and space into the spiritual realms that we each have embraced and look toward our next phase of life.  We grow and learn from each other; we enter into each other's holy places and ask questions because we want to know more.  We want to know each other more deeply and we want to know the paths that have brought each of us to these places of God's love.  She is truly a gift that I never knew I was craving.  And now that she is here in my life, I keep finding ways to be in her presence.  I said it before, I can't get enough of her.  

Forgiveness

 I am currently involved in an ongoing workshop on spiritual accompaniment.  A better title would be "Learning to Listen."  Last week we were given a homework assignment; tell the story of a moment that surprised you with an unexpected flood of feeling and how it has affected you.   Here it is.

The moments that come to me initially are the big ones:  seeing my daughter hold her first born stands out above all the rest.  When I first saw them in the hospital, I thought "there is my baby holding her baby."  But this awareness digs itself down deep somehow and I am no longer able to look at a mother and baby or watch a birth experience on TV or a movie with out tearing up and sobbing.  I ask my friends how long this will last; no one has an answer for me but I now know it goes on for years. 

Then the moments of graduations and deaths come to me.  The moments of saying goodbye to my grandfather and then my father and now my mother and of holding it for just a moment longer while I think that this may be the last time.  It reminds me that every moment matters, every moment I have the privilege to be in the presence of my elders matters.  All they want and all I have to give is my time, my touch, my understanding.  And now as I age ever closer to this stage in life, I come to understand that this too will be all I ever long for from my own children and grandchildren.

But the moment that resides in my heart, that still creates that flood of feeling, came in a room with my adult children and their partners just a few months ago.  My son's journey was a difficult one at times and our relationship took on its cracks that we filled with gold like a kinsugi bowl.  The cracks are still visible but they gleam in the light and we give thanks for the beauty that is left in their path.  Over the past few years he has frequently shared with me his apologies for the pain that his maturing into the amazing man he became had caused, and I graciously accepted them thinking that he has now received his penance and reconciliation.  But recently in a casual family conversation reliving the teen years that ended in laughter from everyone, the apology came again and so did my tears when I finally came to realize that this is something that for now he  needs to return to again and again until he understands that he has been cleansed.  He has apologized, I have forgiven him but yet his pain still rests between us.  I will continue to forgive my beloved son until he himself knows and feels the unconditional love that I have and have always had for him.  So what remains is the awareness that, as humans, we cannot imagine that our sins can be forgiven, that mercy can be so generously extended and that we can be loved so completely.  

Discernment is Ongoing

 The question remains; what is the next right thing?  I made the decision and then the decision changed.  Sometimes discernment is me looking at life and making a choice based on what has happened.  And sometimes discernment is the events changing me and I realize immediately that this reality must stop.  And that is what has happened over the last few weeks.  Work is work but at times it takes on a life of its own and I just ride along.  But every time the roller coaster hits the peak, I have a moment to look out at the horizon and what I see scares me.  In that fear comes the realization that this is not what I signed up for and I no longer have the skills necessary to do the work.  When work invades my personal life and as I count the days since I have seen my children or grandchildren, I move past my ten fingers, something must change.  I am hit in the face with the knowledge that the decision you made just a few weeks ago is no longer valid.  No, this decision is not to be placed at the feet of my principal; it is mine to make.  As much as I want to say yes, this one is a no.  I choose life beyond the school walls.  I choose the role of grandmother over administrator.  I choose time - time to pray, time to write, time to be a friend and daughter/sister/mom/grandma.  I, once again, choose retirement.   

What is the Work That is Mine to Do?

This story begins about a year ago.  As I was praying my way through the 19th Annotation of  the Ignatian Spiritual Exercises, it became clear that I was being called back to work with the students of Sacred Heart Nativity Schools.  My gifts as a reading and special education teacher could definitely be put to good use.  As I was ending my career as vice principal this was the dream; retire and then come back and tutor as a volunteer.  Five years later, that’s what was on the agenda - tutor one-on-one with kids who could use an extra push to get over the finish line.  Fast forward a few months…  I offered my services to tutor and one thing led to another.  The tutoring offer led to some summer school homework club supervision and then to taking over a couple summer school art classes and finally to returning to the vice principalship on a part time basis in September.  I didn’t see any of these things coming but the Spirit kept encouraging me to say yes.  I was thrilled to be back at Nativity.  My concerns of re-defining the job under a new principal gradually faded away.  I was happy to again be supporting the person in charge.  Day by day turned into weeks and a bit of malaise began to set in.  When I sat down to reflect on it, I realized it was a challenge that had been self-created.  I only knew how to be a full time principal.  How do I fit the work that I wanted to do in half the time?  Many solutions went through my mind.  I need to change my schedule from 10-2 to 9 to 1.  That will keep me from the temptation of staying until the school day is over.  I’ll resign in July; I will have gotten them through the hard first year of a new principalship.  I’m in the wrong job - I should have been hired as the reading intervention teacher not the vice principal.  

So I changed my schedule and I somewhat decided it was a one-year gig.  But as time went on, the kids at Nativity did what they are adept at doing; they wind their way into your heart and you can’t imagine walking away from them.  Then came Thanksgiving break quickly followed by Christmas break and it all felt doable again.  But the seed of being the reading intervention teacher kept coming back to haunt my thoughts of staying on as vice principal.  So I took the discernment process to my spiritual guide and we settled on trying a little experiment called “Act As IF.”  The assignment was to act as if you were coming back as Vice Principal for a week; reflect on it.  Then act as if you are walking away from the vice principalship but are committing to being a reading tutor or reading intervention teacher.  Side note:  Within three days of our meeting, I came to the understanding that this actually was not my dilemma to work through.  This decision belonged to the principal.  He had already seen me in action for four months, this was his decision to make.  This is the true definition of Ignatian Indifference.  I bring everything I have to the work and leave it up to God where my gifts can best be put into action.  I could continue on as vice principal, knowing that I am deeply respected and appreciated in that role or take on a more personal role with the students and give everything I have to developing successful readers.  Either way was fine with me.  

I returned from Christmas break ready to follow through on the role playing assignment, Act As If.  I was interested to see what the Spirit had in store for me.  The first week back, I confronted dilemma after dilemma as vice principal and took them all in stride.  I was physically and mentally present to every event.  By Thursday, as I reflected on the day, my most prevalent thought was, “I am really important to the work of this community.”  I went home every night feeling good about the work that l was doing.  I was making a difference and not once did I entertain the notion that I was in the wrong job.  

Then phase 2 of Act As If was put into action.  I came into the week with serious concerns about the current intervention program that had been put in place in September.  I took the time to process about it and set up a meeting with one of the tutors.  My focus for the week was completely on reading but I was able to carry on with my vice principal duties without a misstep.  By Tuesday afternoon, the principal called to talk about the intervention program and by Thursday it had been put on hold and was placed ever so gently in my lap.  This did not in the least feel like a burden.  It felt more like a generous gift.  This is my great love of teaching - opening the doors to literacy for students.  

So what I thought was a choice to be made was a grave error.  I didn’t need to choose between being vice principal and directing a reading program - I had just been given the opportunity to do both.  Yes, and.  I do not hold out any thoughts that this will be easy or that I can pull it off without a hitch but I am excited to get to work.  

I carry on without concern for next year.   I continue to lay the decision at the feet of the principal. I am happy to come back as part time principal knowing that we will be building on all that we have accomplished this year.  And I would be just as pleased to build a reading assistance program that would support our struggling students.  As always, I will follow the path that has been placed in front of me knowing that all I have is meant for God’s use.

Take Lord, receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will, all I have and call my own.  You have give all to me.  To you, Lord, I return it.  Everything is yours; do with it what you will.  Give me only your love and your grace, that is enough for me.