Labyrinth Balm

On a Wednesday evening a couple of weeks ago, I walked out of SpiritWorks and didn't immediately feel like I needed a shower.  There was a slight breeze, and it wasn't quite as hot or humid.  Instantly I knew what I wanted to do - go to the labyrinth.  I hadn't walked it in months.  Every time I'd thought about it, I felt overwhelmed by the effort.  My heart and soul were willing, but my body just couldn't do it.  So over I drove.

I spent a bit of time gazing at the overgrown flower boxes that I have tended for the past few years.  Weeds and flowers battle for control of the soil.  I pulled at a few clumps of nut grass and attempted to dislodge some of the clover choking out the lavender, but I knew I needed gloves, clippers, and a trowel to do any serious work.  And energy.  

Next I walked over to the entrance of the labyrinth.  After taking a deep breath and closing my eyes, I reached out with my spiritual senses to connect with God.  Moving slowly along the path, I felt overwhelmed with the sweetness of once again treading the way that has brought me close to God so many times.  Mixed with that gratitude was a flood of loss.  Normally I would have been walking the labyrinth 3-4 times a week during the summer, watching the magnolias and crape myrtles as they started to bloom, watching my hawk, making friends with the sparrows, listening to the mockingbirds sing a medley of all the bird tunes.  This summer I haven't walked the labyrinth at all, and I've missed so much.   The magnolia blooms are gone.  I missed daffodils and the new growth of other plants.  I missed the breezes and bird song and communing with the deer.  All of it was there, but I was not.

On that night there were many blessings.  The crape myrtles were still blooming as they will until fall, and I saw not one, but two hawks and listened to them screeching out their greetings while I walked.  Mockingbirds and insects and swifts darted and whirred. Cloud formations showed storms in the distance and the beginning glow of the sun sinking down. A few deer grazed down the hill.

I hadn't realized how my soul had been longing for the labyrinth. A breeze brushed gently against my face, and I shuddered with the layers of emotions.  Slowly, I tread the path, savoring each step, each breath, each sound and sight and smell.  

In the center I saw that someone had placed a red rock with "hope" painted on it on one of the pavers at the entrance.  In other labyrinths I've seen gifts and offerings of stones, beads, pinecones, jewelry, and other items left along the labyrinth or in the center, but never at this labyrinth.  As I stood in the very center over the crack in the concrete that causes an echo when you stand over it and make sound, I sang, "There is a balm in Gilead."  The words and tune settled over me, a balm of their own.  

Sometimes we don't know how much we've missed something until we get it back.  In a conversation with a seminary friend recently, he mentioned that I always downplayed any illness I had while in seminary, saying things like, "Maybe I'm just making this up."  It's good to have long term friends who remind us of who we are.  All this time I've thought that I wasn't really that sick.  Compared to others, I'm so very lucky with the symptoms I've had.  Oh, the odiousness of those comparisons.  For me not to have walked the labyrinth in months...  I've been sick, not making it up.  Only when I returned could I feel the difference.  At last, I am returning to the things I love.  I am healing.  I have hope.  Things will not always be this way.  Change is coming...

Learning from the Labyrinth - There's No Right Way

Every time I lead a labyrinth walk, I always begin by saying, "There's no right way to walk the labyrinth.  There's no wrong way to walk the labyrinth.  There is only the way that you walk it today."  I say this as much to remind myself as to instruct others.  For years I didn't "get" the point of walking a labyrinth.  It was pleasant enough, but I was sure I wasn't doing it the right way. That's been true with many a spiritual practice for me.  If I don't have a powerful, tangible experience of God - and by that I mean healing occurs or a vision or an inner voice or a spiritual euphoria - then I must be doing it wrong.  Because other people have those powerful experiences and I don't.  They're right and I am wrong.  Even now, after years of walking the labyrinth and finding it to be a transforming, though often subtle practice, I still fall into the trap of thinking that if a particular walk doesn't yield definable fruit, then I haven't done it quite right.

The other day Jan Brown and I were talking about labyrinths with some other folks.  We discussed how the subtle ways of labyrinths and how they often speak through symbol and metaphor.  Everything that happens on the labyrinth can be useful.  Jan mentioned that some people can't wait to get to the center and get frustrated when the path goes near the center and then turns away.  Someone else mentioned that she didn't think she'd ever get to the center so she just gave up.  Jan asked, "And how do you see that playing out in your life?"

I've heard her ask that question many times before - I even ask that question when I'm facilitating walks.  This time, as I pondered it, I had an epiphany.  When I walk the labyrinth I'm rarely frustrated by the twisting and turning of the path. I don't worry about how long it takes to get to the center; I'm happy to be on the path. My downfall is thinking about what's supposed to be happening. Am I getting the insights I'd hoped for?  Am I listening well enough?  Did I choose the right intention or ask the right question?  Am I paying close enough attention to my breathing?  In other words, am I doing it right?  I know that when I let go and am open to the process and the walk, sometimes insights do come.  Or I'm more aware of what God is doing in creation.  Or I sink into myself more deeply and become clear on some matter simply because I'm not worrying about external factors.  I can hear my inner wisdom and sometimes I'm pretty sure I hear God.  If those things are not happening, then I'm not doing it right. Right?

How do I see that playing out in my life?  Oh, the stories I could tell.  I'm convinced that if I do everything right, then all the outcomes will be what I desire.  And when things don't turn out the way I'd hoped, then I must have done something wrong.  It can be paralyzing when trying to make decisions.  It's not like there's some clear, objective way to know how things will turn out or even if the way they turn out is the right way.  

In the past couple of weeks I've returned to a practice that I have a love/hate relationship with:  centering prayer.  As often as I've tried centering prayer and meditation, I've never been able to get it to work for me.  I'm frustrated by my clamoring thoughts and end the time feeling discouraged that I haven't found the peace that other people experience from these practices.  I've been convinced that I'm not doing it the right way, even though I know THERE IS NO RIGHT WAY.  This time, though, it's working.  I don't know how.  I don't know why.  Maybe it's finally the right time.  (But there is no right time, right? There's only now.) Maybe God has called me to it.  Maybe I'm just in a different place or I have different expectations.  What I know is that I'm showing up, consenting to God's presence in my life, returning to my sacred word when I notice my thoughts, and then going on my way when the time is up.  This time I do feel calmer in my daily life.  I do feel happier.  I'm able to laugh more at all the challenges arising around me.  I'm able to handle my stress better - just as they say will happen when we engage such practices.  

There is no right way.  There is no wrong way.  There is only the way I engage the practice today.  Tomorrow it may be different.  For today, I am grateful.

Goose Peek-a-boo

In the past ten days I have been blessed with an abundance of meaningful work.  It started on Ash Wednesday when I preached and celebrated the early morning service, spent some time at SpiritWorks, imposed ashes for a couple of hours in the Bruton Chapel, and assisted with the evening service.  The next morning I helped make a presentation on behalf of SpiritWorks and made several pastoral care visits.  That weekend I co-facilitated the Bruton Women's Lenten Retreat.  Tuesday I had the early morning service and the nursing home service and more pastoral visits plus the afternoon at SpiritWorks.  Wednesday was a relatively normal work day except for a visit to court to support a friend.  Thursday saw pastoral care visits and planning and presenting the evening Lent forum talk on Contemplative Prayer.  Yesterday I led a Women's Retreat in Norfolk on story telling.

Whew!  By yesterday afternoon, when I had made the drive back to Williamsburg, I was a walking zombie.  I laid down on the couch for "just a few minutes" before heading to dinner with Jan, and conked out for a half hour.  Following a rich dinner with homemade coconut chocolate chip pecan ice cream for dessert, I decided to walk the labyrinth just to stretch my legs a bit and to wrap up the intense few days.

Once at the labyrinth, I started slowly onto the path, trying to release the work I had done, and thanking God for all the things going well.  About a quarter of the way through the walk in, I felt agitated with exhaustion.  I don't want to do this, I thought.  I just want to go home.  I also had to pee.  You can't quit before you get to the center.  If you want to stop then, fine, but you need to go at least that far.

So I kept walking, wondering if I could keep putting one foot in front of the other when all I wanted to do was lie down.  When I got to the center, I stood there.  Okay God.  My well is dry.  I need you to fill me back up, to restore me.  I've got nothing left.  As I stood there in the heart of the labyrinth, I heard some squawking and saw two Canadian geese flying west.  When they got close to the labyrinth, they turned and started heading straight toward me.  I ducked, though they probably wouldn't have hit me, but it looked like their flight path was lined up with my head.  As I ducked they veered slightly upward and flapped over to the grass on the north side of the labyrinth where they landed.

You're not funny, God.

My mood lightened, and I decided to take the path all the way back out, instead of crossing over the lines.  I knew it would take another ten to fifteen minutes, but I thought I could make it before I keeled over or my bladder burst.  My step was a little lighter on the way out, and my shoulders felt less slumped.  The sun was heading for the horizon, while streaks of clouds began to pinked.  Golden light illuminated the upper bare branches of the sycamore tree on the south side of the labyrinth.  I hunched a bit inside my coat as the chill air started me shivering.

Squawking began again, and I noticed the two geese had approached the labyrinth.  They waddled to the other side of the eighteen inch cinder block wall between the street and the labyrinth.  The wall obstructed the lower half of their bodies, but I could see their black heads with the white neck stripes above the wall.  As I made a turn in the path, I looked over and the geese were gone!  Where did they go?  Then their heads popped back up.  I giggled.  After the next turn, I only saw one head.  I stopped to watch.  As if they were participating in some synchronized goose choreography, their heads bobbed up and down in time.  I guessed they were looking for dinner but the black and white heads disappearing and reappearing from behind the low wall tickled me until I laughed out loud.  The geese stopped squawking and both turned their heads to look right at me.

"Yes, I'm laughing at you," I replied to their curious looks.  "But it's the gentlest, kindest sort of laughter."

As I walked, they continued their funny game of peek-a-boo until I saw only one head for some minutes.  When I left the labyrinth, I had to check to make sure the other one was still there.  I kept breaking out into laughter as I walked.  When I emerged, I felt refreshed and renewed from my laughter and the delight of the bobbing geese.

Climbing into my car, I lingered, looking west at the sky that had begun to burn orange above the small herd of deer munching their evening meal of grass.  The two geese remained between the labyrinth wall and the street, no longer interested in me but curiously searching the ground for whatever geese eat.

It was only later that I thought about the bobbing goose heads and wished I'd caught them on my camera.  On the other hand, I'm glad I didn't even think of it, too present in the moment to worry about capturing it for later.

Book Update

I probably have to face the fact that from Advent through Easter, I simply don't have time to write.  Well, books and blog posts, anyway.  I write plenty of sermons, newsletter articles, letters, notes, and other correspondence, but I don't have the extra hours I need to work on more creative writing.  Perhaps if I gave up sleep.  Except I'm very partial to sleep.  I so envy those people who can rise at 4 or 5am to work on their writing or exercise or prayer or whatever wonderful things they do in those hours.  I can't.  I can't do anything before about 7am except sleep.  And yes, I often do have to get up before that for my jobs, but you may notice that I'm not quite all there until later in the morning!

All that being said, I have been working on my labyrinth book and today I completed a rewrite of chapter two.  (Please encourage me with congratulations!)  Last fall I took a class on Creative Nonfiction and Memoir from The Muse in Norfolk, and I received feedback on several chapters of my book.  So much feedback that I've completely started over on the beginning.  The class thought my last chapter might make a better first chapter.  Along with some critique from my trusted readers, I have taken the suggestions and am completely reworking my material.

Little digression here:  I wish I had an orderly writing process.  But I never have.  It may be that when I wrote my very first term paper, I followed a process where I did note cards and then created an outline and then wrote the paper from the outline.  But I think even on that paper I still ended up switching around paragraphs and not writing intros and conclusions until the rest of the paper was done.  (Something that was much more difficult before computers - and yes, I'm that old!)  All through college and seminary, I could never write a paper from an outline.  If I had to turn in an outline, I had to write the paper and then create the outline.  So, although I envy those who can work in a more methodical way, I just can't do it.  It seems that I have to wallow around in chaos for a very long time before the order starts to emerge.

I believe some order is finally emerging, and I'm grateful.  This book, if it ever gets published, will have to wait until another phase of my life, but I'm using it to practice the craft of writing, and I'm hoping more books and shorter projects will come out of it.  I'm excited to be attending a spiritual writing conference next week with two colleagues and Barbara Brown Taylor and Lauren Winner and editors and other cool people and hoping to be inspired to use a little more time to write and a little less time to sleep.

So, dear readers, I hope to be posting more content soon.  Don't give up on me!  In the meantime, enjoy this picture of a recent labyrinth walk.

Practice

I grew up in a family that loves sports and watches them fairly obsessively.  Especially college football and March Madness.  And the Braves.  And Wimbledon.  And the US Open.  And golf.  You get the picture.  As an adult, I have enjoyed a largely sports-free life. 

Except for the Olympics.

I love the Olympics.  Gymnastics has always been my favorite since I watched Nadia Comaneci in 1976 when I was a small, seven-year old girl.  Now I also enjoy watching the swimming and diving, track and field, beach volleyball, and many of the other competitions.

Like many young girls who watched Nadia, I wanted to be an Olympic gymnast.  Let me be clear that this was not a realistic dream.  But I wanted it even so.  When I was about 10 I preferred turning cartwheels to walking.  In class softball games, I always took an outfield position because I could do cartwheels instead of having to pay much attention to the game.  I took gymnastics lessons.  My dad made me a balance beam and even hung a bar between two pine trees in our backyard so that I could practice at home.

What makes the Olympic athletes so good is their practice.  As much as I loved gymnastics, I would never have been Olympic material because I would never have been willing to devote myself entirely to the practice.  Maybe to turning cartwheels everywhere I went, but not to the real gritty practice where you get rips in your hands from the uneven parallel bars and your feet are blistered and your muscles hurt most of the time.  If you want to get to the Olympics, and even more if you want to win a medal, you have to give years of your life to practice.

Even if you don't want to be a medalist in a sport, to enjoy it, you still need to practice so that you have the skills you need and so that you're ready both mentally and physically, whether it's for a fun game among friends or for some kind of competition.

Spiritual practice is not unlike the practice needed for sports.  We don't have Spiritual Olympics.  (If we did, I'm betting Desmond Tutu would get the gold!)  There's no competition in prayer.  Now way to win, and thankfully you don't have to "beat" someone else.  And yet the practice is equally important.  Because there are spiritual challenges, and they often come when you least expect them.

Regularly engaging in whatever spiritual practice we have chosen is what allows us to be ready when the challenges come.  If meditation or labyrinth walking or praying in color or lectio divina or centering prayer or the daily office or some other spiritual discipline becomes a habit for us when things are going well, then we will turn to it much more easily when the bottom drops out and we're faced with something difficult.  Whether it's a diagnosis or a loved one's death or listening to one more story of violence on the news, we will have our default practice in place so that we can stay grounded in the midst of whatever happens.

In his book, The Naked Now, Richard Rohr says, "We must move from a belief-based religion to a practice-based religion, or little will change."  Belief is certainly important, but if it doesn't influence how we act, then I'm not sure how it's helping.  If I go to church and say that Jesus is my Lord and Savior, but I don't go out and treat my neighbor with dignity and respect, then I'm not sure what good my belief is.  I'm not talking about getting into heaven.  I'm talking about being a follower of Christ.

As I think about Richard Rohr's assertion, practice seems to have two meanings to me.  First, we need the practices of our religion, those spiritual disciplines that enable us, not to earn a place in the afterlife or to win a spiritual competition, but to grow more deeply in faith and to respond to whatever comes from a place of centered maturity.  Second, a practice-based religion would be about how we live our faith rather than just what we believe. 

If we were practicing our faith more, then I believe there would be less hostility in the world.  And I don't think that's just a naive idealism. 

Ever since I have adopted walking the labyrinth regularly as one of my spiritual practices, I have noticed a change in my life.  Less anxiety.  More authenticity.  More creativity.  More love in my heart.  More ability to forgive.  It's not something that happens instantly - oh, walked the labyrinth today and all my troubles melted away.  It's the day in and day out walking, even when I don't seem to get anything out of it, that has deepened me in ways I'm not even sure I fully understand.  I walk it now when someone dies.  I walk it when I'm feeling anxious.  I walk it when big events happen whether good or bad.  I walk on behalf of others.  I walk on behalf of myself.  Over the years I have tried a variety of spiritual practices, and some I continue to use, but walking the labyrinth allows me to engage my whole body, mind, and spirit in my practice. 

The labyrinth isn't for everyone.  But whatever your practice is, (if you don't have one, I encourage you to find one,) consider this encouragement to keep going.  Keep going deeper.  Keep practicing.  Keep growing.  We have to find away to work together in our world, if we don't want it to be destroyed.  I believe that spiritual practices help. 

We may not win a gold medal, but we may help save our planet and the people who call it home.

Remembering Marlene

Sometimes I walk the labyrinth to honor a person who has died.  On Tuesday night I walked for Marlene Linz, who died from cancer last Saturday.

The first time I met Marlene (I believe) was on the weekend that Peter proposed to her.  We were at Camp Mikell, where Peter and I had met as campers and served together as counselors and summer staff.  The first week I knew Peter, I was a rising sophomore in high school, and he was a senior.  I fell head over heels in love.  Sadly for me at the time, Peter fell head over heels for another girl in my cabin.  He was kind and gentle, but he had eyes for someone else.  At the end of the summer I wrote him a letter proclaiming my love for him, and he wrote back telling me he hoped we could be friends.  We have been ever since.

Over our years together at camp we grew close.  I so admired Peter for his enormous talents.  He could sing, dance, act, lifeguard, tell stories, and play guitar.  He loved puppets and hoped to become a puppeteer.  Best of all, he loved the kids at camp like I did.  Over the years I redeveloped crushes on him, but we were always best as friends.  We commiserated with each other through broken relationships and celebrated together when things were going well.  I often caught rides with Peter to and from camp sessions.  Once Peter drove 3 hours up from Atlanta to Sewanee, where I was in college, to sit and comfort me for a couple of hours during a particularly difficult time, before driving back 3 hours so he could be at his internship at the Center for Puppetry Arts the next day.  One of my favorite things in life was sitting around a campfire while Peter played the guitar, and we all sang along.

Peter and Marlene at Guest Camp

When I met Marlene at Guest Weekend at Camp Mikell one Labor Day weekend, I knew that Peter had found the perfect woman for him.  She loved him, but she did not get pulled into the "Peter fan club" behavior that some of us had a tendency to do.  She was beautiful and down to earth.  She was creative and practical.  I heartily approved and was thrilled when I learned he was proposing to her that weekend at camp.  I was blessed to attend their wedding and have visited them on and off over the years.

Peter's dreams came true as he began working on Sesame Street and then Bear in the Big Blue House and Between the Lions.  He and Marlene moved to New York where I visited them many times.  I was always impressed with how grounded Marlene was and how devoted she was to her children.  She also had a passion for pottery.  I prayed hard for her when she had to stay on bed rest for months during her first pregnancy with twins.  I don't remember exactly what it was she did during that time, but it was something creative that she could do from her room, and I remember appreciating her determined spirit. 

I later prayed hard for her when I learned she had breast cancer and again when I learned that it had moved to her brain.  Peter says that she did not fight cancer, she lived with it, and that is true.  Oh how she lived.

Jan and I spent New Year's with Peter and Marlene and their children in 2012.  Marlene was undergoing chemo and had her head wrapped in beautiful scarves.  I wasn't sure whether she would be up to company.  Jan and I were taking someone to a treatment center about an hour from their house, and they told us to come and stay.  Marlene sat in the dining room as the whole house centered on her.  She was very practical, resting when she needed to but still directing things from her spot.  It was clear that her strength fed the whole Linz household.  She told Jan that she drank 2 glasses of water every morning.  Jan has done the same ever since, and she thinks of Marlene each morning while she drinks her water.  Marlene was talking about dreams of helping women and children in Africa, even while she was in the midst of cancer treatment.

I didn't know the cancer had gotten worse until I received a message via Facebook that Marlene had died on Saturday.  I cannot imagine how Peter and their kids must be feeling.  I am glad that Marlene is no longer in pain, but I am deeply sad for her loss.

On Tuesday night I went to the labyrinth in her honor, even though it looked like it might storm.  Dark grey clouds loomed overhead.  Raindrops plopped down on my head as I wound through the first turns of the path, and I wondered how bad it would get.  Not bad at all.  Just a few sprinkles before the wind blew the darkest clouds to the east.  A mockingbird perched in the top of a crape myrtle nearby and sang through his repetoire of tunes.  As I traversed the outer circuit of the labyrinth, I heard an inner voice say, You have to let me go, Lauren.  I didn't feel Marlene's presence in quite the same way as I have for some others, but I realized I was, indeed, hanging on to her.  I didn't want to let her go.

As I walked I kept looking to the east, hoping for a rainbow.  It would be so perfect, I thought.  A rainbow for Marlene.  It didn't come.

When I reached the center, I looked west, where the sun was descending behind some clouds.  A few rays of light streamed out from behind the clouds - it was like paintings you see that make you think of heaven.  Sunlight and clouds and blue sky in the background.  Stunning.  No rainbow, but a glimpse of heaven instead.

Still, on my way out, I kept straining to see a rainbow.  Surely it's going to come.  And then I realized that it wouldn't.  That's for you and Peter, I seemed to hear her say.  I don't need anything so dramatic.  Ever practical, even in my imagination.  She died in her own room in the house she loved, surrounded by her family.  She is at peace.

As I left the labyrinth, I took a picture of a tall sycamore, illuminated with golden light, leaves quivering in the breeze.  It reminded me of Marlene, deeply rooted, its presence offering strength and comfort.  When I see it I will remember her. 

Although I didn't know her as well as I would have liked, I am so glad I was blessed to know her at all.

Farewell, Marlene.  May you rest in peace and rise in glory, and may God bring comfort to all who grieve.  Your spirit will linger in our hearts.

Holy Tuesday

On Sunday I went to the nonviolent communication practice group that I attend once a month.  One of the members opened our session with the following poem by Langston Hughes:


Tired

I am so tired of waiting,

Aren’t you,

For the world to become good

And beautiful and kind?

Let us take a knife

And cut the world in two—

And see what worms are eating

At the rind.

It is Tuesday in Holy Week.  This morning I awoke safely in my house and, after showering and feeding the cats, went downstairs for centering prayer and morning reading.  Something caught my eye on Facebook.  "Praying for the people of Brussels."  Uh oh, I thought.  What has happened now?  I finished my prayer time and then turned on the news while eating breakfast.  There I saw why prayers are needed.  Another terrorist attack.  In Brussels.  Lord, have mercy.  May the souls of all the departed rest in peace.  Please bring comfort to their families and friends.

Yes, Langston, I am tired, too, of waiting for the world to become good, and beautiful and kind.  

Tonight I walked the labyrinth again.  This time in honor of Brussels.  I barely know where it is, and  I don't know anyone who lives there, though a dear friend lives nearby in the Netherlands.  But I remember what it was like on 9/11, and I weep for those who are devastated tonight.  "Now my soul is troubled," says Jesus in today's Gospel lesson from John.  I take it out of context, but I imagine that Jesus' soul is troubled by all the violence in our world.

What are the worms that are eating at the rind of our world?  How do we get them to stop?  

There was much beauty in my walk tonight:  delicate blooms on trees, gentle songs of birds, full moon rising opposite the setting sun.  It was hard to conceive of the tragedy happening across the ocean.  In the center I sang songs that I learned during summers at Camp Mikell - "By the waters of Babylon, we lay down and wept for thee Zion."  "Ruah Elohim."  Breath of God.  The wind was blowing, tugging tendrils of my hair out of its clip and into my face.  Tears lurked behind my eyes but did not fall.  I ended my singing with "Balm in Gilead."  Bring balm to the people of Brussels tonight, God.  

Be our strong rock, God, a castle to keep us safe.  You are our crag and our stronghold. 

Holy Monday

There's a chill in the air tonight as I walk slowly toward the labyrinth.  It's Monday in Holy Week, and I have decided to observe it at the labyrinth instead of in church.  Tonight's walk is not about exercise; it's about slowing down and connecting with God.  A contemplative walk.  My neck is in pain - I must have slept wrong last night - so I massage it as I walk.  When I get to the Easter State campus, I see a row of tall Bradford pear trees in full bloom.  I smell them, too, their not-quite-pleasant fragrance drifting my way on the wind.  When I arrive at the labyrinth, I see that the pears at three of its corners are also starting to bloom, although they are not as far along as the ones I first encountered.  The crape myrtles are still in hibernation, branches bare against the sky that is darkening into twilight.  Spring has begun, but it has not fully arrived.  Though it is chilly, I am grateful the weekend's cold rain mixed with snow has ended.

I walk counter-clockwise around the outside of the labyrinth before stopping at the entrance and bowing my head in prayer.  Take away my judgment, God.  Heal me from my judging thoughts and help me to be open and curious and compassionate.  I enter the labyrinth.  I wind my way along the path, moving closer and then further from the center, walking more slowly than usual.  Taking time.  At one point I imagine releasing my busy thoughts.  I breathe in peace.  I breathe out love.  I find myself wondering if the moon is full yet.  Easter is the first Sunday after the first full moon after the spring equinox.  It's almost as early as it can be this year, so the full moon must be soon.  The sun is headed to the horizon, but I can still feel its warmth on my face when I turn to the west. 

In the center I feel a deep stillness inside.  I stand with my eyes closed, facing the sun.  It bathes my face with tender, warm light.  Were you there when they crucified my Lord?  I start singing.  With each verse I turn to face a new direction.  I can't remember one of the verses, so I sing the first one twice.  When I am facing west again, I sing John Bell's, Take, O take me as I am, summon out what I shall be.  Set your seal upon my soul and live in me.  I decide that I want to walk the labyrinth every day this week if it is possible.  It has been my spiritual practice this past year.  What better way to connect with God?  Of course it may become difficult when it's not my day off, but for now that is my intention.

On the way back out, I notice a couple of cigarette butts in the cracks between the bricks.  I immediately begin an inner litany of judgment about why someone would even bother to walk the labyrinth while smoking and why they would choose to litter in the sacred space.  I know that several of the patients from the hospital have stashed packs of cigarettes in the concrete block walls near the labyrinth, so it really shouldn't be a surprise, but I hadn't thought that people smoked while walking.  Fairly quickly I realize how quickly I have jumped back into judging, so I try to shift my thinking to one of compassion for those who are addicted to cigarettes. 

As I follow the path I realize that I could bring a bag when I come back and pick up the cigarette butts that I see.  That could be my gift to this labyrinth that has nourished me all year.  Tending it, cleaning it, caring for it.  Just as Mary cared for Jesus by anointing his feet with oil and washing them with her hair in the reading from the lessons appointed for today. 

When I reach the entrance I pause for a moment before sealing the circle by walking clockwise around the labyrinth.  I notice other litter that I can pick up when I return.  The sun is below the trees now, and the air is getting cooler.  I pick up my jacket from where I had left it and head for home, stopping to look closely at the pear blossoms on my way.  As I am leaving the campus, I see the moon - almost full indeed.  My calendar says it will be full on the 23rd.  Maybe I can walk in the moonlight later in the week.  We'll see.  It's the beginning of Holy Week.  A good start.

Collect for Monday in Holy Week:

Almighty God, whose most dear Son went not up to joy but first he suffered pain, and entered not into glory before he was crucified: Mercifully grant that we, walking in the way of the cross, may find it none other than the way of life and peace; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Morning Prayer - Finding the Way

Church happened at St. Stephen's today because the rector can walk from his house.  He told me not to come, though, and I was fine with that.  I'm from south of Atlanta.  I am a southerner.  I do not know how to drive in the snow.  Three years in Chicago didn't teach me because the roads are plowed there, so I still didn't learn how.  When they tell me to stay off the roads, I obey.  I don't want to be a hazard.  So many people online reported reading Morning Prayer in place of going to church this morning, so I joined in.  Sitting snug in my house with the welcome sunlight streaming in. I prayed through the office, read a bit of Diana Butler Bass' Grounded, and then headed out for outdoor worship in the Creation. 

It was almost too bright to see, but I didn't want to head back in for sunglasses.  I walked around my house and then headed out into the neighborhood.  There is a pond in the back of the Mews, and I wanted to see if it was frozen.  Half way.  I was making new tracks on the path that goes around the pond - though I felt a little guilty at disturbing the smooth blanket of white.  I was surprised at how few people were out and how few birds I saw.  It looked like someone had been out walking a dog on parts of the path, but other than that, I was the pioneer.  The surface of the snow glittered in the sun, and ice cracked under my feet as I went.  Sometimes I was light enough not to break through the layer of ice, but in other places I crashed through, and my boots sunk inches deeper into slush.  Snow, sleet, freezing rain, rain, sleet, snow.  That's what had happened in the past 48 hours, and I could feel each of the layers as I walked.

When I got to the front of my neighborhood, I decided to head for the labyrinth.  Again I was surprised that no one had been out on the sidewalk I take to Eastern State Hospital.  With the sun reflecting off the snow and the wind at my back, it wasn't long before I pulled my hood down, unzipped my coat, and removed my gloves.  Though it was only 27 degrees, I was hot!  The road was reasonably clear, though slushy at intersections.  On the hospital grounds the road was wet with no slush at all.  Someone had plowed well.

The labyrinth looked very different than it had when I was there at the beginning of the storm.  I could barely see the path at all. Animal tracks cris-crossed diagonally over sections of the labyrinth.  I thought maybe they were from deer, but closer inspection looked more like paw than hoof tracks.  Dog?  Raccoon?  Fox?  I have no idea.  Whoever it was didn't feel a need to stay on the path but scampered across to the other side.  I wasn't sure if I wanted to step out onto the smooth surface, but once I was there, I couldn't resist. 

With the first step I heard the ice under my feet.  I was surprised that my boots didn't sink any further into the snow but there seemed to be a thick layer of ice that cracked with almost every step on my way to the center.  Felt kind of like walking across a frozen lake, only fortunately I didn't fall in.  After the first turn, I froze.  I couldn't see the path, and I didn't know where to go.  I took a guess, but I found myself stopping regularly on the way.  When I looked at the labyrinth facing north, I could just distinguish the path, but when I looked into the sun, I couldn't see any markings in the snow.  If I hadn't walked that labyrinth so many times, I wouldn't have stood a chance.  I guess that's why they call it a spiritual practice.  By doing it over and over, we learn the way.

Still, there were many times when I had to stop and observe for awhile.  At one point I felt like I could hear Obi Wan saying, "Use the force, Luke!"  It was very different to be forging a new path and having trouble finding the way when usually a labyrinth is so clear.  It would have been very easy to get lost.  At one point the snow was so smooth that I went a little too far and walked up on top of one of the bricks, but I realized my mistake and turned back to the path.  When I got to the center I breathed a sigh of relief.  I had made it all the way in without having to backtrack.  I turned slowly in the center, feeling a pull to the west.  "I am going to the west..."  The haunting notes of one of the songs from my Faire Celts CD ran through my head.  It was hard to look south because the sun was so bright. When I turned east, I said a prayer of blessing over the Eastern State buildings, as I often do. 
 
Heading back out, I walked in my own footsteps.  Much easier to find the way.  No cracking of the ice this direction, though.  Instead, stepping in my boot tracks, I went much deeper into the snow, often down into wet slushiness.  I guess the sun was melting the places where I had walked. It was a much faster trip out since I no longer had to pause at each turn and discern the way forward.  I smiled at the end.  I did it!  If anyone else wants to walk it in the snow, they will know the way now.  These footsteps will not disappear as quickly as the last, though in time the snow will melt and the concrete and paving bricks will emerge once more.

Friday's walk was about letting go.  Today's walk was about new beginnings.  Forging a path.  Finding a way.  We don't always know which direction to turn, but we wait and watch and listen, asking God to point us forward.  Sometimes we just stand for a bit, being faithful, until the way gets clear or until we take that step and see - is this the way?  We may need to double back or retrace steps, but we will eventually find the way.  It can be slow going, and it's hard not to panic when you cannot see the way, even harder to step out in faith when you're not certain, but each step leads you closer to the center until you find yourself resting in the presence of God.

Footsteps in the Snow

 I knew yesterday would be a snow day.  They've been predicting it for a week.  I allowed myself to sleep in, and then puttered around the house.  When I saw the first snowflakes, I threw on some clothes and headed to the grocery store to pick up a few items.  I was happy to see plenty of milk and bread, although I didn't need them.  By the time I started home, the snow was really coming down and starting to stick on the roads.  My neighborhood streets still had snow on them from last Sunday, so they were rapidly disappearing under a white blanket.  With the prediction of sleet and rain to follow the snowfall, I knew that getting out later on would probably be unpleasant, so I decided to walk over to the labyrinth before the snow got too bad.  I like walking in the snow, if it's not too windy.  The snow muffles everything and brings a sense of peace.  Bundled up in my down jacket with purple scarf wrapped around my neck and mouth, a fleece headband covering my ears. and my hood pulled up to protect my head, I felt cocooned in warmth, at least until the snow started melting on my scarf dampening it with cold moisture.  The tiny, light snowflakes easily brushed off my coat and gloves, though they were accumulating quickly on grass and sidewalk alike. 

When I got to the labyrinth, I saw a light coating of snow on the path and paving stones.  I hesitated to mar the pristine surface with my footsteps.  Pausing at the entrance I said a prayer for CNU, for discernment, for guidance.  And then I began walking.  It was hard to tell which direction the snow was coming from, but at times I turned right into it and got a face full of cold wetness.  I was glad I wore my hiking boots because my steps were sure, and I did not slip at all.  Plus, my feet were warm in a way that they wouldn't have been in my running shoes that are intentionally designed to allow my feet to breathe.  Good in summer but the feature that allows the heat out also allows the cold and damp in. 

Once in the center I could see that my footsteps closer to the entrance were already fading under the falling snow.  I didn't spend as much time as usual in the center though I did turn to face each of the four directions as is my custom.  On my journey back out, I walked in my own footsteps so as not to disturb any of the rest of the snow.  By the time I reached the opening, my earlier footsteps had completely disappeared both from the path and from the sidewalk leading to the labyrinth.  We leave our mark, and then it fades away.  How ephemeral our lives are. 
Psalm 103 says,
   "Our days are like the grass; we flourish like a flower of the field;
   When the wind goes over it, it is gone, and its place shall know it no more."  (15-16)
So too with our footsteps in the snow.  On my way back home, the snow was already much deeper.  More people had been out walking and even bicycling in the snow, but my tracks had been obliterated.

I know, though, that I was there.   And now, others do, too.  My footsteps may be buried beneath the snow, but they are there, marking my path to the center and back.  I wonder if part of my yearning to write is about leaving footsteps that will remain.  All this snow makes me reflective. Perhaps watching my footsteps disappear in the snow is a good lesson in letting go.  One that has always been hard for me.  I could have sung Elsa's theme song from Frozen when I was in the center.  "Let it go, let it go."  Please help me in the letting go, God.

Rainbows and Labyrinths - Advent Hope

God is so good.  I find this time of year hard, when the days are so short.  I thrive in the warm sun.  Ever since Advent last year I have also been struggling with some anxiety/depression that is made worse every time I turn on the news and every time I scroll through Facebook.  I despair of there being any wisdom or love in the world when I see over and over how badly we human beings treat each other.  And I find that even my to-do list can be overwhelming some days.  It has been recommended to me that when I feel one of these anxious "episodes" coming on that I get outside and walk.  When I complained to my therapist one day last January that I couldn't take a walk because it might rain, he said, "The worst thing that will happen is that you get wet."  I didn't appreciate the comment at the time, but I've come to see his point.

Today was one of those days when I was too whiny to walk.  It was chilly and so overcast that it felt like twilight inside my house all day.  I had run errands and done some house chores and was starting to move around the house aimlessly while craving sugar.  I kept telling myself that I needed to go out and walk.  When I went out for the mail, it had started to rain, and I just couldn't bring myself to be out in it.  At about 4:20 I looked outside and saw a glimmer of sunlight.  Just go, I told myself.

Out I went, bundled up, Ipod in pocket, hood up, scarf wrapped warmly around my neck.  As I walked out of my neighborhood, I could hear the sound of raindrops hitting my hood.  The air smelled of wet leaves and smoke from a wood fire.  As I turned the corner out of my neighborhood, I looked over the trees to the east and saw a rainbow.  I started laughing with delight.  "Thanks God!" I said out loud.  I took out my phone to take a few pictures.  The further I went, the brighter the rainbow got.  It lasted all the way until I got to the labyrinth.  I kept turning to look at it.  For awhile there was a double rainbow.  The bow went from horizon to horizon, arcing across the sky as the sun sank down. 

When I got to the labyrinth, I could see the sun setting in the west and the rainbow in the east.  Raindrops continued to fall on my head.  I've never walked the labyrinth when there was a rainbow before.  I walked on behalf of Presiding Bishop Michael Curry who is in the hospital with a subdural hematoma today.  I also walked for a young friend who is having a challenging experience today and for Randy, my old theatre colleague, who lost someone dear to him.  I walked for those killed in San Bernadino and for those struggling in Chicago.  I prayed for all who are in the darkness.  In the center, I offered a blessing to Eastern State Hospital as I often do.  Peace.  Healing.  Wholeness.  Compassion and patience for the caregivers.  Bless this place as a place of healing.

I know I'm an idealist and probably naive.  But the good news of the Gospel tells me that God's going to win in the end.  The rainbow is the symbol of God's promise to us.  Whenever I see one I'm filled with hope.  I don't believe I've seen one in Advent before.  It was such a wonderful reminder to me not to give in to despair.  It may suck right now in many ways.  But that is not the end.  There is always hope.  Thanks, God.

Humans of CNU

Photo by Chris Shea, Humans of CNU

Today, right as I got to the prayer station, a student came up and asked if he could sit down.  He wondered if I was familiar with Humans of New York and said that he was doing Humans of CNU and that he'd like to take a picture of me and talk to me.  I said sure.  He asked me about the prayer station and why I was doing it.  He asked me what I was passionate about and what my hobbies were.  We had a lovely conversation, and he permitted me to say a prayer before he took my picture and went on his way.  I was honored to meet him and to be the subject of one of his posts.  You can see what he posted here. 

The interview was the beginning of an afternoon of conversations and prayer requests - it might have been the most I've had in one day.  My extra chair was filled most of the time, and people would come up for prayers even while I was conversing with someone else.  One student sat and ate his lunch with me and talked about the worship ministry he helps lead on Wednesday nights.  We mused on how worshiping in a place week after week for years soaks it in prayer.  It can become almost tangible - like a monastic community.  The place where they do their Wednesday night worship is right where I sit for the prayer station.  Pretty cool how all these different ministry groups overlap.
 

 Another treat of the day was getting to watch a group of male students sing "My Girl" to a giggling, blushing female student and then present her with roses and a t-shirt.  I asked someone what was going on and learned that a fraternity will go with a member who wants to ask someone to go with him to a formal.  They all sing to her a way of asking her to go.  I had seen a similar ritual on other occasions but hadn't known what it meant.  It didn't seem formal enough to be a marriage proposal, but it also didn't seem random.  The singers today did a particularly good job. 

While I was sitting, one of the CNU employees who drives the golf carts/Gators to pick up trash, drove up behind me and walked over to hand me a sprig of bush with a perfect white blossom at the end.  I buried my nose in it and inhaled deeply - can't mistake that fragrance. 
"Do you know what it is?" she asked. 
"I do!" I said.  "It's a gardenia." 
I held it out to my lunch companion and he smelled it as well.  I thanked her, and she hopped back onto her vehicle and drove away.  I have no idea where she found a gardenia on Nov. 5, but I stuck it in my cup holder, and its scent wafted over the prayer station for the rest of the afternoon.

It was labyrinth day again, and I had feared we would be rained out.  A terrible accident with a fatality had blocked I-64 this morning, so it took me over a hour to get down to Newport News.  When I arrived, it was pouring rain.  By the time I set up the prayer station, the rain was mostly over, but I had to wait to see if the Plaza would dry enough to put the labyrinth down.  It did.  More people came to walk it, a couple of whom brought headphones and listened to music while they walked.  What a great idea. 

The young man who had asked me to pray for the people who had stolen his bicycle rode by and told me that a friend had decided to give him his bicycle, so he was back on wheels.  He thanked me for the prayers.  These students blow me away. 

I got to have a nice long chat with a Canterbury student about writing and other fun things and another Canterbury student also came by for a bit.  Today was a day of rich conversations about future plans and prayer and if it's really God's plan when bad things happen to us and how to be present to those whose loved ones have died.  I also got to join United Campus Ministry and the new Lutheran Ministry group for a short evening service in the chapel before meeting with the Episcopal Campus Ministry students.  At the ECM meeting we watched part of Bishop Curry's sermon from his installation and talked about Moses and Prince of Egypt.  It was a most excellent day.

Whenever I'm asked to measure this ministry, I have trouble quantifying it.  Thanks to you, my readers, for being witnesses to the stories that are at the heart of it.

CNU Labyrinth Walk

I took the SpiritWorks "Happy" Labyrinth to the Plaza at CNU this afternoon so that students could walk it during their midterms.  This labyrinth is also known as a Triune Labyrinth.  Turns out that the Plaza is a better location than the Chapel lawn if we want students to encounter it.  So many students came by and read the sign and stared at the labyrinth.  About 15 people walked it.  One student walked twice and another walked 4 times.  She said she had done a paper on the labyrinth but had never gotten to walk one before.  I was so pleased to be able to offer her the opportunity.

Since I began the Plaza Prayer Station, I have made the commitment that I wouldn't share the prayer requests or stories that I hear on this blog because they are personal, and I don't want anyone to find their story on the Internet, even if I don't identify the person.  But I wish I could share a few of the stories from tonight.  Suffice it to say, powerful things were going on in the labyrinth.  How privileged I am to get to hold the space for other people to encounter God.  How grateful I am for the ways that God showed up tonight.

I prayed for people as they walked.  One student practically ran along the path, as if it were a game.  She looked like she was having so much fun.  Three young men walked it together, all very slowly and prayerfully.  They called it a prayer walk.  It was mesmerizing to watch the three forms moving back and forth across the sacred circles.  Most got to the center and then just walked straight out, though I noticed that they wouldn't step on the lines.  One person rode his bike around the outside of the labyrinth a few times, not quite willing to dismount and take the walk.  A few students came up and asked me about the labyrinth but decided not to walk it.  Several clearly felt more relaxed after they had walked. 

I don't think the students get much contemplative time.  They're so busy with so many things.  What a gift some of them gave themselves today to be brave enough to come up and try something new - especially out there in front of everyone.  It was good to have the Canterbury students come and walk it, too - and especially wonderful that some of them helped me pack everything up and carry it to my car.  A group of us then went to see TheaterCNU's production of Noises Off!  I laughed so hard I cried.  I last saw that show in 1986 and had remembered it as one of the funniest plays I'd ever seen.  This cast did a great job, and the spinning set got applause, too!

What a delightful day full of love and laughter and labyrinth.  Bless them, God, as they finish this half of the semester and travel home for Fall Break.  Keep them safe as they travel and fill them with your peace.  Give them rest from their labor and the gift of laughter.

Labyrinth at Sunset

Thank you God for most this amazing sunset!  After a lovely lunch and visit earlier today with my friend and mentor, John Kerr, I decided to walk over to the labyrinth for the sunset.  God did not disappoint.  It was a perfect evening for a walk - coolish with a slight breeze, but warm enough to be comfortable in shorts.  Not too humid.  Sky full of color.  Insects and birds singing sleepy songs.  On my way over I saw a flock of Canadian geese milling around in the grass.  When I got to the labyrinth, I walked and breathed and thought about the dance of the Trinity and how marvelous God is.  In the center I sang one of my favorite John Bell songs from the Iona community:
    Take, oh, take me as I am,
    summon out what I shall be.
    Set your seal upon my heart,
    and live in me.
Arms stretched out, palms upward, offering myself to God.  I am yours, my creator - work through me. 

Not long after I finished singing, I heard a sound and looked up to see the flock of geese flying over in their classic V formation.  One goose trailed behind, finding his way into one of the lines.  The leader honked.  I could hear the whoosh of their wings beating against the air as they flew.  I smiled up at them.

A few minutes later I noticed something dark moving across the sky over my head.  At first I thought it was a giant spider.  My memory flashed to a Piers Anthony Xanth book, read when I was a teenager, that described a spider ballooning itself across vast distances on a line of spun silk.  As I looked at it longer and rational thought set in, I realized it wasn't a spider, but it might be a leaf.  Since I was in the center of the labyrinth, I couldn't imagine where the leaf had come from.  As it descended, floating gently down, a bit of light caught it, and I saw that it was a white feather, a bit of down from one of the geese, separated from its source, fluttering down to the earth. 

One of my spiritual directors used to say that in centering prayer, when we return to our sacred word, we need to do so very gently, "floating like a feather on the breath of God."  She was quoting Hildegard of Bingen.  Tonight it looked as if the feather was floating on the breath of God until it landed on in the grass at the edge of the labyrinth. 

I felt a bit like that feather this evening as I walked, carried gently on the breath of God.  In a world that grows less and less safe, where refugees flee and police folk are shot, where it's criminal to be black and the distribution of resources is completely out of whack, where mental illness and addiction are treated as crimes to be punished not diseases to be treated, where you turn off the news to keep your heart from breaking, where there is so much that is horrible that we numb ourselves to keep from weeping - in that world there is also beauty and goodness and light.  Dynamic sunsets and caressing breezes.  Geese flying and feathers floating.  Birds and insects saying good night.  The groaning of our planet and her people continues, but for a moment there is a glimpse of something else, elusive and fleeting.

Breathe your breath into us, God.  Fill us with your peace.  Hide your children under the shadow of your wings.  Bring us all safely home.

Hawk Medicine

Three days this week I have gone to Eastern State Hospital to walk the labyrinth.  Three days this week I have encountered hawks.  On Monday a hawk flew overhead while I was in the middle of my walk.  After I was done I saw the hawk again flying up to land in a pine tree across the road from the labyrinth.  I crossed over for a closer view and took the picture to the left.  When I tried to get closer for a better picture, the hawk took off with a piercing cry and soared high into a more distant tree.  I could imagine how the hawk's prey would be paralyzed by the cry.  It is so eerie and haunting to hear in the relative quiet of the early morning.  I said good-bye and went on my way, grateful for the encounter.  

On Thursday morning I went out again.  This time as I got onto the Eastern State Campus, I recognized sound of the hawk's shrill cry and smiled.  Hello, I said to her in my head.  Come and visit me.  Although I have no idea how to tell the gender of hawks, I have decided mine is female.  I heard her a few times, but I did not see her.  When I was close to finishing my labyrinth walk, I heard her again, and I froze, looking for her.  The first time I didn't see her, but when I heard her cry again, I saw her glide in to perch on another nearby pine.  After my walk I went over to pay my respects.  A cardinal sat in a nearby tree cheeping out a warning that the hawk was near.  I tried again to get a picture, but the hawk really doesn't like the camera.  As I edged closer, she descended to the ground, where she appeared to be searching for a morning snack in the grass.  I took a picture from a distance before she flew up into another tree.  This time it was almost like she was playing hide and seek in the leaves.  As I approached, I could hardly make her out behind the thick clumps of leaves that camouflaged her.  Clearly, whatever message she is bringing me, she does not intend to allow me to get too close.  When I shifted my position to try to see her better, with a scream she flew much farther away to land on top of one of the Eastern State buildings.  I bid her adieu and went on my way, though I kept looking over at her silhouetted against the sky.

I couldn't help but wonder if I'm starting to form a relationship with this bird.  Of course I have no way of knowing whether it's even the same bird as the first time.  But I did have the hope of seeing her again when I set out that morning, and she had appeared.  Now maybe it's just because I have been going for my walks much earlier in the morning.  Or maybe it's simply an active time for hawks.  I have seen them before at Eastern State, but not for a very long time. 

This morning I decided to go to the Church of the Holy Labyrinth as it is my last Sunday off for awhile.  I wondered if I would see my hawk again.  Funny how a wild bird becomes mine so quickly.  She is not a tame bird, Lauren.  This time as I started down the hill of the road that leads onto Eastern State, I began looking for her and straining to hear.  Lots of birds were calling out, and a couple of times I thought I might have heard her, but I knew it wasn't piercing enough to be the cry of a hawk.  As I turned the corner to head up the hill to the labyrinth, I noticed something in the road at the top.  A hawk.  Sitting in the middle of the road.  I stopped.  Frozen as I stared at her. 

Native Americans pay attention to the medicine that animals bring when they cross your path.  Hawks are known for being far-sighted, for seeing the big picture, for vision and wisdom, and for being messengers.  The hawk this morning looked as she was waiting for me on the road.  When I began walking again, she flew quickly to the top of a stop sign and then up into a tree.  I lost sight of her and then caught a quick glimpse of her before she flew off out of sight.  While I was trying to connect with the hawk from the road, I could hear another hawk screaming out her cries at regular intervals from further along my path.  I found her in one of the pine trees near the labyrinth and was able to get a blurry picture.  I think I really need to stop taking pictures, but it's just instinctual to want to share the sighting.  She flew away  fairly quickly, piercing the early morning with her cry as she flew.

I went on to walk the labyrinth, spending time with God and listening to the quieter sounds of other birds.  When I was done walking, however, and had decided to move on, I heard the hawk again and saw her flying from tree to tree nearby.  I decided to extend my walk and exited Eastern State from the opposite direction of where I had entered, and I heard another hawk crying out.  Hunting time, I guess.

I'm not sure yet what message or medicine the hawks are bringing me, but I am grateful for their presence.  I consider it a blessing.