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.