Busy as a . . .

Pushing away Virginia creeper vines and scraping away as much soil as I could before hitting rock, I quickly added a plant, covered and watered it, repeating the process a few times. These native plants are still young so they’ll have no trouble sinking their roots between the boulders that make up my friend's yard. Wild bergamot grows along roadsides locally. Mine, which came from a friend last year, is doing so well that I thought I’d share some of it. Spotted beebalm is less common and I’d have never known about it if some hadn’t appeared in my sideyard seven years ago. Local nurseries don't sell it and it took me years to discover what it is. All I knew was that it’s a pollinator magnet with weird flowers.

I brought some to Wausau and now that it’s established, it’s the only plant on which I consistently find great black digger wasps. These shy native pollinators will fly past the other flowers to get to this favorite.

Transplanting complete, I returned to the house, socks wet and feet cold. Today is a gray day, 55° (12° C). Definitely sweater weather. I’ll miss sitting in the red camp chair by the natives bed. I’ve really enjoyed seeing what’s new there each day, especially the last two months as the plants flowered abundantly and bees were at their busiest.

Some people are nervous around bees but I’ve never had trouble with native ones. (I’m not speaking of yellowjackets, native or introduced, which I was glad not to see in my yard this year!) Yes, I’ve had my share of stings, even one from a bumblebee when I stood picking raspberries too close to the hole in the garage wall where she was nesting. Generally though, bumblebees are peaceful creatures too intent on their flowers to give humans the time of day. I can walk through their midst gently pushing plants to one side and the other, “Excuse me… Excuse me,” and they ignore me entirely. And except for a few species, bumblebees are solitary creatures.i

It’s been thrilling these last two summers to identify some bee species. Honeybees, of course, were introduced but we have many native species in North America. Sweat bees are green and quite small. Eastern bumblebees are small and prolific in late summer beds. Brown-belted bumblebees are twice as big but like their cousins are just as peaceful.

I’ve found it difficult to take clear pictures of any of them. These busy creatures are in such constant motion that the SEEK app has a tough time identifying species.ii I was really hoping to get a name for the huge one I first saw last summer. All summer I’d been watching for it and finally saw it last week. Much larger than any of the others (body length is maybe an inch and a half), its back legs as it grasps a flower remind me of those on a small grasshopper, only black. Alas, SEEK could only say it’s a bumblebee.

And why, you ask, am I going on about bees? Well, besides the fact that our lives depend upon the pollinators that we are actively exterminating and which so many unjustly fear, and besides my belief that G-d cares as much for these insects as for humankind, bumblebees please me. I’m tickled to see them so industriously going about their business.

In them, I see my old self, when I was so task-focused that I could accomplish great numbers of mundane things yet be oblivious to what else was around me. Though I can no longer do as I once did, I guess I admire it. You’ve probably heard the axiom “it takes all kinds.” I used to be that kind. Some of you were too, or still are. And if it’s healthy for you, then that’s excellent. The rest of us may be better for you doing your thing so tirelessly, so devotedly. Thank you!

These days I’m more of a watch-the-plants-and-bees kind of person. And that’s okay too, at least for now. Some days though, like last Friday, I get to practice being something in between. That day I substitute taught at the local high school and middle school. It was a great day, a busy one made busier by a shortage of substitutes. I arrived expecting to lead German classes but because a Spanish teacher called in sick at the last minute I covered a couple of her classes as well. (It was exciting to find that a couple years of German study on Duolingo had prepared me to help third-year students in that language and my experience and shorter studies in Spanish equipped me for Spanish students of the same level.iii)

Usually substitute teachers have one or more breaks beyond lunch (when the regular teacher would have preparation time) but on this day I had a bare fifteen minutes to regroup. No complaints. Being useful feels good. I returned to the house tired yet content, recalling how I used to do this every day.

And wondering how the bees do it …

i  Douglas W. Tallamy, Nature's Best Hope: A New Approach to Conservation That Starts in Your Yard. I’m really glad a friend loaned me their copy of the book. I took issue with only a couple non-technical bits this entomologist wrote (one about Lyme disease) and found it well worth my time to read.

ii  SEEK by iNaturalist is slower to identify insects than plants. Still, it’s better than the app I tried before it and has improved in the year since I installed it on my phone.

iii Duolingo is a language-learning appeared language-learning that allows users to practice vocabulary, grammar, pronunciation, and listening skills. I use the free version. It’s great though I really need to find opportunities to work on conversation.

Angry. Really?

Friday night I played a mindless game on my phone long past bedtime. Finally setting it aside, I cleaned my teeth and prepared for sleep. Since I try to avoid such traps, I wondered about having succumbing to the game's lure. “I’m angry,” came a quick answer. Really? Letting the possibility roll around in my mind, I realized that, yes, I was angry. But why?

I guess I was bothered about feeling fatigued on returning from my camping trip to see daughter Kay in Door County. It had hardly been strenuous. Gentle walks each day, plenty of sleep, a modest amount of social interaction. Why was I so tired? Instead of getting the tent and other camping gear cleaned up and arranged on the shelf in the garage, I lounged around, listening to my body. I put away a few things between extended breaks and told myself that this would do for now. Yet I felt frustrated. (One.)

While vacationing, I recycled unopened most of what arrived in my Gmail Inbox. Now back at the house, I read a perfectly fine email, a query that got me thinking about tasks I’d been avoiding either doing or thinking about. None of it is bad, just uncomfortable with a fair amount of uncertainty. Not sure how to proceed, I’ve lacked motivation and have delayed taking action. Maybe it’s time to proceed even without clarity. Sigh. (Two.)

A pervasive swirl of feelings regarding my solitary state shelters (usually) below my awareness. Most of the time, I enjoy my life and find solitude of my own choosing satisfying. But after a point, aloneness becomes excessive. (After the isolation of the early months of the Covid-19 pandemic, many of you are probably nodding in understanding.) We Homo sapiens thrive in the society of others. To be deprived of companionship can be torturous. But for me, family is far away. And I’m cautious of overwhelming a friend. 

With the returning energy of healing, I returned to substitute teaching last winter. Getting into the classroom once or twice a week and working with the youngsters there was wonderful! While I barely spoke with adults, subbing fed my need for connection. Sadly, frustratingly (there’s that word again) I noticed by spring how easily my autistic mind can become overloaded. Similarly to how someone with chronic fatigue will need to ration their physical activity, I need to ration my social activity. Even one engagement beyond my regular weekly activities and connections can put me over the edge. Again, sigh. (Three.)

There’s more, of course – mass graves in Ukraine, melting ice sheets, pets treated poorly – but this was enough for me to concede to being angry. As I lay there in the dark, I recalled a journaling exercise I’d once used. I wrote “I’m angry…” then for three minutes wrote of things that angered me, shocked at how easily I filled the page. The words just kept coming. But I was cozy in bed now so, no, not this time. Thankfully, by acknowledging my frustrations I was able to set them aside and sleep.

What bothered me about Friday’s experience was that I didn’t know I was angry. It seems I still don’t have a healthy relationship with the emotion. In my early years, I learned to pretend that anger wasn’t present. Later, a slow-simmering anger punctuated by occasional blowups pervaded my marriage. After leaving that relationship anger seemed to vanish. But while I couldn't recognize it, Kay could and I learned to trust her awareness. Now, alone, I often miss the signs.

Friday the anger snuck in unobserved. If it had spilled the tea and generally made a mess of everything, that would have been unpleasant but I’d have known. And knowing, I could have worked through my frustrations rather than employing a trick to distract myself from them. (As we all know, that works only for as long as the distraction lasts.)

Reading Richard Rohr’s devotion for Sunday reminded me to keep practicing letting go of those things I cannot change. Frustration about chronic conditions or loneliness is understandable but it does nothing for my peace of mind. Such things are a part of my life as much as shared stories and laughter with my daughter or a sense of wonder on wandering through a forested campground after dark. 

Gratitude in Everything?!

Thanks & Gratitudes, 1001-1006

What are you thankful for? Are there things for which you’re thankful but not grateful? Maybe, like me. you’ve wondered what the difference is. I tried to explain it in a sermon once but didn’t convince myself. The words mean different things to different people. There’s no consensus.

“What am I grateful for today?” is a regular part of my practice but I don’t usually talk about it until November (and then I feel guilty) so I’m writing this now. For today, thanks is what we express and feel in the moment and gratitude is when we’ve allowed ourselves to be affected, and potentially changed, by someone or something.

I’m regularly thankful for breath, food, drink, sleep, family, friends, health, house, body, clothing… That’s easy. With practice, finding things for which you’re grateful can become equally simple, at least on our better days. During a book study at the Appleton church we were encouraged to keep a gratitude journal, recording five things each day. “The rain” doesn’t really express gratitude but “The rain soothed my frayed nerves” does. Having said that, I admit to using shorthand, only seldom writing complete thoughts. I know what I mean as I write it. And I’ve moved to only recording three things.

Today though, I’d like to explore the idea of being grateful for the hard things because when we allow these experiences to affect and shape us, we become more alive to the moment. We become better versions of ourselves.

If you cannot consider the idea today, I respect that. But I want to examine it for myself, at least. I suppose the idea first took root during an e-book study a few months into my medical leave. Something one of the women said helped me realize that, in at least one way (which I’ve since forgotten) I could view the Lyme disease was a gift. If this is a gift, what else is?

A difficult marriage led me to lean on One greater than myself and, perhaps through that, to accept that I have value just as I am and to cultivate friendships with people who accept me. I learned not to focus on my weaknesses. This might have happened anyway but it came in the context of marriage. And I’m grateful.

While I would not wish my situation on anyone, this time apart has been good for me. I could probably write a small book about the negative aspects of having chronic Lyme disease and having to go on unpaid medical leave. There has been a fair amount of grief. And yet…

I’ve grown. I have time for the inner work. Stress is nearly absent. Only months into the medical leave, Kay* voiced her opinion that my job had been slowly killing me. As I’ve learned more about myself as an autistic person, I’ve come to accept that, for me, pastoral ministry – a job that doesn’t accommodate difference kindly or easily – was a perfect storm. The expectations on every level, the assumptions about how pastors behave, the hours, the people who prefer familiar ways at all costs… My blunt manner, perfectionism, sensory processing issues, need for rest, inability to read non-verbals… Add Lyme disease and it was impossible.

I’m grateful for my life as it is today. While my mind and body slowly heal, I can visit my kids, go on a Boundary Waters adventure, and refinish the 100-year-old front door of the house. I get to tutor Afghan women in English, participate in a tai chi class, and sing weekly with the Lyric Choir – none of which I’d have had the time and energy for if I was pastoring a church.

Through living with chronic illness, I’ve learned compassion at a depth I might never have known. Granted, I’m around fewer people but I’m more patient than I used to be and less likely to challenge their opinions. Believing that people are doing what they can in that moment, kindness comes more easily. My rough edges will always be present but maybe the light shines through me a little clearer now. In the “Better Person” category, I’m most grateful for this.

Yet I feel the hypocrisy. Gratitude is easy when one’s life is as good as mine. If one of my children was to die, I might be grateful for my strength but never for the loss. That a loved one might someday disappear into dementia terrifies me. Easy words fall silent here.

While I recall reading that gratitude leaves us happier, I can offer no promises. I only hope and pray that when we each face the impasse that cannot be borne, we both invite and accept the help of others until we can again smile and sleep and feel grateful.

* My daughter, not her real name

On Coloring or the Spiral of Self-Discovery

A text came, asking, “Do you ever ignore a call, like something the universe is trying to tell you?” Probably, but I do try not to…

Have you ever come to the end of a book and wanted to reread it right away? Maybe it's my choice of reading material lately but it happened again last week as I reread don Miguel Ruiz’s The Four Agreements. After describing the agreements, he explains ways to break the old agreements we accepted when we were being “domesticated.” (I love that descriptor!) Not for the first time, I wondered about my most authentic self. Who am I when I stop pretending to be the way I think “they” want me to be?

Years ago, I began this unlearning in part by collecting phrases like “stepping out of the box” and “coloring outside the lines.” Last week while processing Ruiz’s words (and painting the garage), I thought about this way of coloring and realized that I haven’t colored in years and don’t, in fact, enjoy it. 

The previous owner didn't have a tall enough ladder to paint the gable green.
My aesthetic sense suggested I keep it and even add a couple more courses of white.

Friends color. They make beautiful mandalas and other pictures. It’s meditative. They relax as they use purple here and green there. Not me. I could never color in the lines well enough to meet personal expectations – it was stressful to try – but I wasn’t able to intentionally color outside the lines either. I gave up my crayons at the earliest opportunity. I still get out the watercolor pencils occasionally. They set around for a couple months before I put them away again. Whether I keep them to torture myself about inadequacies or out of a hope that someday I’ll be able to enjoy using them, I don’t know.

What this says about me, I can’t say. But I’m guessing you’ve experienced something similar in your life at one time or another. Anyway, I have issues with coloring. Remember that and that I try not to ignore the universe’s calls.

This morning’s church service was led by four women who meet monthly to share their spiritual journeys. (Just seeing them brought a “yes” to my awareness. I missed my covenant group after moving to Wausau five years ago but the feeling faded. I forgot. It’s time to be open to another group’s pull on my heart.) In her story, one of the women mentioned coloring outside the lines and my ears perked up.

When I met with Sister Gabrielle during my retreat in July (I wrote about it here) she was excited to hear that I play piano. “How? … classically-trained … how often … oh, that’s perfect!” Seriously, she was like a kid with a new toy as she assigned me homework. Every day I was to spend fifteen minutes playing like a small child with no experience or training, ignoring the internalized voices that tell me music has to sound a certain way. “Play a note, then another. Try this, then add that. If you follow a melody or find yourself thinking c-minor or harmony, stand up, spin around three times, and start over. Set a timer and just do it.”

We spent a good while discussing this. When I asked why she wanted me to do this, she explained that I need to break myself of the things that have ruled my life for so long. Since piano is where I received my deepest training, I need to start there. She’s a classically-trained painter, she said in passing, and this saved her life.

Huh. Okay. The first time I sat at the piano, I was able to play this way for 6 ½ minutes. Then my head hurt. Through July I gradually extended the time to nine minutes but was astonished again and again at how mentally exhausting it was. I didn’t enjoy the exercise but it was homework so I did it anyway. As I did, a funny thing began to happen. Since returning from the Boundary Waters I haven’t been regular in my practice and am not using the timer, yet I notice that I’m enjoying this odd homework and looking forward to the next session. I find myself wondering what will happen next. (Interesting, since “I wonder what will happen next” is part of my mindfulness practice.) Without meaning to, and while actively working not to imitate anything, I’ve begun hearing structures in this plunking and playing that seem similar to Bartok’s simple piano pieces or to what one hears in contemporary movies.

I’d been talking with this spiritual guide about a yearning to discover who I really am, what I like and need. That’s what led to the assignment. Now it seems that everywhere I turn, I hear that I need to undo the domestication of my early years and the ways I was expected – or thought I was expected – to conform in order to fit in. It’s funny really. I thought I’d done this work. Revisiting it wasn’t part of my plan. I guess it’s like I used to tell Orville and the other 90-somethings I visited. As long as we’re still breathing, God isn’t finished with us.

When we open ourselves to the holy that’s in us and around us, well, Frodo Baggins isn’t the only one to learn that “It's a dangerous business … there is no knowing where you might be swept off to.”