Finding Guidance, pt. 1

Last week, I wrote (here) that I’d be visiting Sister Gabe while on retreat at the Christine Center. I was seeking input regarding my existential questions, among them… What does a meaningful life look like for me now? and… Will this transition time ever end?

Arriving Friday, my waking hours until our Saturday afternoon meeting were spent in contemplation, hoping to find a thread which, if tugged, would bring clarity to my mind’s chaos. I pulled lots of threads but none untangled the knot of confusion and dis-ease. Saturday morning, I walked and walked. At one point, not enjoying the aptly named Water trail, I asked myself, “How is this trail like my life?”

An elevated pair of boards is not my route but the “path” next to it is all high grasses and other plants. And standing water. I need to watch my feet and can’t appreciate what’s around me. When I forget, I nearly miss the board. As I round a bend I look ahead, hoping to see the boardwalk giving way to a green path yet each turning reveals more of the same. Given the limited choice, I prefer walking on the 2x8s rather than the 2x6es but the 2x8 sections are short and rare. Some of the boards seem soft, sagging under my weight. One audibly cracked as I stepped on it.

My life is not as I had planned. These past two years have been difficult and I’ve had to choose ways of living that I never would have done in other circumstances. I’ve needed to be cautious of distraction and to focus on all that would, or might, contribute to healing these tick-borne illnesses. When I’ve gotten caught up with other things, I soon noticed it in my body and mind. Healing will happen in its own time. While I can slow the process through poor choices, I cannot speed it up to suit me.

Phone calls and texts with my mother or my kids are gifts. So too the visits with a friend, the occasional outings, and the home improvement projects. I’d do well to see each one as the treasure that it is, not expecting too much of any one of them, but welcoming each for the delight it brings.

Eventually, the Water trail ended and I returned to the campsite, drank some water, and listened to the birds – lots of different birds.

It was hot as I walked to our meeting place. When I entered, the studio (she’s also resident artist) felt like the inside of a refrigerator. She said something about needing to have someone fix the air conditioner and led me to her house where ours would be the first such conversation since the room was converted to an office. I admired the green roof. “It’s different each year,” she explained, depending on rain and seeds and other conditions. After greeting her greyhound, we entered a cool but not frigid round room with a tree post at its center and natural wood supports at intervals along the ceiling and wall, everything arranged intentionally to create a space for spiritual conversation.

My hours of reflection probably helped since Gabrielle seemed to recognizewhat was troubling me. She spoke of natural intelligence, saying that my instinct in early July – “What would it be like if I gave myself priority this month?” – was part-answer to what I needed and suggested that I add each morning, “What does Jayneann need today?” It might be a task, a connection I’d like to make, the taste of a certain food, anything really. And then I’m supposed to make it happen. The object is to rediscover my preferences – what I liked before life’s shoulds intruded – and to expand upon them. She laughed at learning that I’m autistic. “All the autistic people I know either blog or paint.” (Yes, I’d told her about the blog.) When I said I’d gotten back into substitute teaching and still loved it, she asked how I might expand on that. Could I blog about teaching?

There’s more (although I’ve forgotten more than I’d like) but I’ll stop for now. I’ll tell you about my piano assignment another time.

Thought for this week…

When you look at your life, don’t push away the bad stuff.

Ask yourself what it has to teach you.

This sculpture “Lotus” was just up the hill from my tent. I thought it was flames.

I think I need some Guidance

I know little about the spiritual beyond an awareness that I need more of it. When, years ago, a District Committee on Ministry instructed me to work with a spiritual director, I first had to find out what a spiritual director is. Turns out, I wasn’t alone in my ignorance. Most Methodists would have been puzzled. Until recently, Catholics – who had kept the tradition alive through the centuries – were advanced far beyond Protestants who had only recently shown interest (after which they’d been learning from the Catholics). In asking around, I learned of a Benedictine community in the area with sisters trained in spiritual direction and made an appointment.

I confess that I did not find my sessions with Sister Ruth helpful. Maybe we were not a good match. Maybe it was that, in not knowing what I was doing, I didn’t know to direct our conversion or what questions to ask. I was doing what I’d been told to do by a group committed to helping folks like me begin our paths in ministry. I’m sure the committee meant well but, looking back, I wonder if the members were assigning me something that they now realized might have helped them in their faith journeys – without really knowing what it was about.

After that lukewarm introduction into spiritual guidance, my family moved and moved again. I went to seminary and earned an M.Div. I began pastoring congregations. My young daughter became a teenager. I ended my marriage. Life continued as, all the while, the seeds planted during those few sessions with Sr. Ruth germinated. Maybe that was the point.

When I returned to the Fox Valley area to serve another congregation, I was ready. And as we sat together in a meeting, I asked my colleagues for spiritual director recommendations. One person offered one name yet it turned out to be a good fit. Until just before her death four years later, I visited Connie regularly. I don’t know if we’re ever aware of spiritual growth as it happens yet I’m confident that it did. Though her training and experience was in psychiatry, Connie was a good listener. She asked good questions. I could bring any topic to our monthly conversations.

Since her death, I’ve been without again. Life continued with all its good and bad – friendship, illness, rejection, pandemic, healing… I’ve been wanting, needing, someone to accompany me spiritually but the timing has seemed terrible. Still, the feeling had grown more insistent until, finally, I called the retreat center recommended to me by a counselor I saw as I was preparing to transition out of ministry and into healing-mode. Tomorrow afternoon I will drive there. pitch my tent, take quiet walks, meditate and I know not what. On Saturday I’ll meet with Sister Gabe.

I’m hoping for good things but I don’t know what will come of this. I’m leery of over-planning which could lead me to miss synchronicities. Holy moments. So except for trip-taking organization, I’ve made few preparations. Is this a wise choice? I don’t know. My meditation and prayer times this week have set out the intention that I will be open to what will present. I’ve been thinking of topics of interest:

• What does leading a meaningful life look like for me, here and now?
• I’d assumed that times of transition eventually end but I’ve been floating in a netherworld for a long time now. What am I missing?
• Who am I, living alone in my 101-year-old fixer-upper, with no career and a very small circle around me? How can I matter?
• How can I practice accepting what I cannot change?

Four days away is not likely to change my life yet I confess to a hope that I’ll return, not simply renewed but also more ready for either the samenesses or the changes that will follow.

It's about Power

“So we’re doing some 4th of July crafts…”

Jay and his spouse, preparing to participate in a protest last week.

Friday morning, June 24th, my sister and her family – visiting from Pennsylvania that week – and I were just sitting down to breakfast when Kay’s text arrived.

“There goes Roe.”

Not a surprise but still, Oh no. I can’t guess how many people were angry that day, are still angry, but there were a few of us around that table.

I don’t want to talk about my own anger or about never having to decide whether to have an abortion. I don’t feel qualified to talk about the sexism that women face in the workforce. (My sister did some of that over our meal.) But I do know something about control. And while some people (most of them, white so-called Christians) say that the fall of Roe is pro-life, it’s really all about control. If it was about life, all children would have quality medical care and education. And, of course, we’d do something about the gun violence. But they don’t and we haven’t.

My mind keeps returning to a piece by church historian Diana Butler Bass describing the Southern Baptist Church’s only decades-old move to become a male-dominated denomination. (I can no longer access it because I’m not a paid subscriber and my emailed copy disappeared after thirty days in the Trash bin. Maybe you can, as a visitor.) As I recall, two white male Southern Baptist leaders put their minds together maybe fifty years ago and came up with a way to keep themselves and those like them in charge. What was surprising was that the women of the denomination – many of them in positions of power or authority – went along with it.

Why? How were they brought to understand that their subservience was more godly than their strength and leadership? I can only speak of my own experience, of surrendering power in a mistaken belief that it would foster unity and peace in my home. Hearing from fundamentalists in the extended family that it was God's way for women, I yielded my “self” to the greater good and to a future greater glory. (What a crock!)

I know better now. The world needs me – and you and her and him and them – to live as fully and completely as ourselves as we are able. The world needs the uniquenesses we each bring to the table. Maybe that’s naive (autistic people can be naive). Maybe it’s too close to saying God made me this way, which suggests that God made this other person poor (which I don’t believe). But I really, truly believe that we need to avoid surrendering our unique personhood to even the best causes. And I say it every chance I get in case someone else needs to hear it.

Which brings me back to Roe. A whole lot of people, most of them women, know themselves partly through the freedom that Roe once afforded them. They’re angry. They’re asking themselves, “Who am I if Roe isn’t law?” Some of them are whole enough, courageous, daring, and/or obstinate enough to stand up and say, “No!” And I’m proud that this afternoon right here in downtown Wausau I got to stand and march with almost a thousand of them.

Many of them carried signs, many didn’t. The signs all seemed to reference reproductive anatomy and choice, the Supreme Court, or pregnancy safety and health care. Those attending were mostly young adults but persons of all ages and genders were present. From care providers and survivors, we heard stories of rape and incest. One woman offered statistics about the horrific mortality rate for black women giving birth in the U.S., sharing the story of a healthy, active black woman who went in for a C-section and bled out before anyone at the hospital beyond her family took her reports of pain seriously. We were motivated to register to vote and, of course, to vote. And we were cautioned not to engage with the conservative Christians loudly praying the Hail Mary as we passed them to begin our 1-mile march across the river and back through the heart of a Sunday-afternoon-quiet Midwestern small town. A reporter and a camera person from a local television station were present. (I may have to look for their clip.)

As we marched, people took up call and response chants. Mostly “My body, my choice” but some others as well. Only as we turned the last corner did I hear, “It’s not about life… It’s about power.” Glad to hear it, I still pondered that the sentiment was mostly absent.

Don't get me wrong. Whatever motivates people to exercise their right to practice free speech in this moment is good. Reproductive health and healthcare are essential. What has happened is not okay. But, dare I say it, this is about so much more than access to safe abortions. 

The few have found a way to exert control over any group which lives counter to their beliefs. Especially with Justice Thomas’ concurring opinion, our lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer neighbors are more worried than they were last year – and many of them weren’t feeling safe then! Thomas wants to put contraception on the block. If his wife wasn’t white, he would probably want to end the right to marriage between “races” too. A year ago, I wouldn’t have thought it possible.

The United States is a scary place right now. Our conference’s Korean bishop says that callers from home regularly ask him, “Are you safe?”

After sending his placard pictures Monday afternoon, Jay texted:

“Headed to a protest tonight. I am going to write your number on my arm on the off chance I get arrested or something… I figure just having someone supportive on the outside to call would be ideal… Is that alright?”

“Yes, of course, it’s fine.”

At present, I’m not doing much for my siblings who are in pain because some religious zealots have too much power. But what I can do, I’m doing.

My son’s first initial is J. My daughter’s is K.
All photos used with permission.

An Early-Morning Illusion

Birds are great! I’ve always enjoyed watching and listening to them. Last week, at the Airbnb my sister rented in Menasha for her family’s vacation, we all watched with delight whenever the adult robin dropped off food for their young and then, a few days later, when the youngsters fledged. Without birds the world would be a sadder place. That said, I’ve never taken the time to learn much about these small, flying neighbors. Oh, I recognize some but I don’t know the calls of even these few.

The Friends of Rib Mountain group has hosted Birding Walks for at least the last few years. In June I finally made it to one. I’m a nature nut so walking in the woods was a joy, even if it was a quieter experience than most group walks. My goal is to learn a few bird songs and calls so after the group leader finished his welcome, I asked what app he or the other birders recommended. He mentioned a few that he favored and directed us to a free app from The Cornell Lab that includes visual and aural identification. Before we had entered the state park a few of us had already loaded the app onto our phones.

At some point during  the walk, someone (me?) mentioned the 4:00 a.m. summertime songfest that we hear outside our bedroom windows.

“Robins.”

Just robins? Really? I’d been listening to these twenty-minute serenades on (thankfully) rare, early wakings since at least my teen years. In my imagination, all the birds of the neighborhood would start singing, knowing that the day was near, celebrating that they were alive and had made it through the dangers of another night. Sparrows, finches, woodpeckers, starlings, wrens, vireos, nuthatches, cardinals, sapsuckers, jays… I’d held this image for fifty years. It gave me joy, maybe even helped shape my mindset. It never occurred to me that robins were the only ones singing.

Since that walk on the back side of Rib Mountain, I’ve been using the Merlin Bird ID to become familiar with local bird calls. (The cardinal has more if them than I’d ever realized!) And I’ve come to accept that, yes, those predawn songs are usually entirely from robins. Who knew?! My illusion has been reshaped by knowledge. 

But that’s okay. That even one species does this is still a marvel. And having spent more time observing robins and other feathered neighbors recently, I have renewed my commitment to celebrate each new waking. Yesterday, after rising even before the robins (yuck!), I lifted the muslin panel from the east window and sat in the wing chair with a pint of steaming chamomile tea, watching and listening to a still-sleeping world. I got to notice how early the sky begins to lighten in this season. Even watching fairly attentively, I was caught by surprise when the house across the street and the plastic skeleton hanging from that porch were easily seen.

A commitment, even one as small as finding joy on waking to a new day, can be hard though. I’ll admit, I’m struggling with all the stuff around, and even within, me. How are you doing?

In my illusion, the birds face death every night (and day). Somehow they know that nothing is certain except for this moment. Matthew’s Jesus knows this too. He calls us to observe the birds and to remember that they don’t fuss about what might happen tomorrow, or even this afternoon (Matthew 6:25-27). This text is not about a holy rescuer, G-d in a red cape flying in to save the day. Rather it's about the life that can be too easily missed amid the 3:00 a.m. wake-ups, foreclosures, diseases, fires, death, corruption and greed… (you get the idea).

We humans have beset this world with challenges possibly beyond its (or even our) capacity to rectify. We have reason to be angry, anxious, stressed and fearful. We know the work that’s required of us. Yet our power and agency continue to be undermined. Contacting elected officials seems futile this week. Joining protests and volunteering, while they can leave us feeling good, are such small acts. Practicing self-care and love-in-action even for the people we don’t even like is also needed, yes. But none of this is easy! I'd be lying if I said otherwise. Trying to be more like a robin might help. Maybe. It can't hurt. What might help you?

For this moment, I'll be like the robin.