Happy Halloween!

{Happy Halloween from Samson the Friendly Ghost! and the rest of the crew too!}

Park Benches

{Frank, this is my very favorite shot of yours and when I was in the park taking Christmas card photos, there it was. . .just begging me to take a shot too! Thanks for all your inspiration!}

Want Proof?

So, here's how you know irrefutably, undeniably and with certainty that you have indeed entered middle age – you sneeze. One of those all-the-way-from-the-very-tips-of-your-toes, deep down sneezes. And when you do? You pee just a little. . .

And when you realize that's what just happened you laugh at yourself. You laugh so hard that you pee just a little bit more.

I may or may not have experienced some or all of that for myself.

I'm not sayin'.

{And then, when you think about all this you wonder what in the hell you're thinking when you think about babies at your age. Or, as my good friend Nancy so sweetly pointed out – we will be planning graduation and retirement parties for the same weekend. . .}

And The Winners Are. . .

{the two best Christmas card shots for my friends Carol and Lowell (and Chance and Eddie!)}

Survivors

April 6, 2009. Cancer Survivor.

Those are the only words in my Dad's latest church newsletter that I read with anything more than a glance. They leapt out at me from the goldenrod paper and they suddenly cracked me wide open. It's been a long time since words about – or from – my father have had that effect on me but as I read his tiny column of words meant for his congregation I saw a bit of humanness in his words. And I was amazed that he recalled the date of his cancer diagnosis. April 6, 2009.

Does everyone recall the date of their diagnosis? Hearing those words while sitting in a sterile doctor's office, or hospital room, must crack every single life routine wide open. Exact phrases vary, but there are three words carry the pronouncement nobody knows how to hear – You. Have. Cancer.

And suddenly, I realized with my heart instead of my head that those words were spoken to my dad. My daddy – who I waited for every day of my preschool life by sitting on the back steps of our house on Pasedena Drive with my tiny transistor radio that was shaped like a phonograph, wiling away the time while being so excited for his return home. My daddy – who taught me to play basketball (never well, but that's on me not him), who built me a playhouse and taught me to swim. My daddy – who hid in the halls and jumped out to scare me, who came to my elementary band concerts and did pushups with me sitting on his back.

My daddy has cancer. And I don't know if he's a survivor or even if he's sick. I don't know if it's in remission or if it's spread. I don't know whether he's dying or really living.

But, thanks to his church newsletter writings I do know one thing – he remembers the exact date of his diagnosis. And, to me that communicates something very important. . . in all the ways that matter there is still a tenderness and humanity beneath the veneer of religion and ideology that have directed his every thought and action for so long.

I miss my daddy. And I know that anything – even cancer – can be redeemed if there is the healing of relationships and hearts.

His and mine.

Tiny Sacred Things • Day Seven

Tiny Sacred Things • Day Six

{outtakes}

friends asked if i would take their Christmas card photo.

we went to the park with their dogs.

i took 109 images.

about 10 photos had two people and two dogs all looking in the same direction – smiling.

the rest were kind of like the real life – little moments of honesty, distraction and humor.

don't we all put on our best faces for the world to see, all the while knowing that most of our "real" life is more like an outtake than a Kodak moment?

Tiny Sacred Things • Day Five

{a surprise box in the mail with your name on it!}

ever truly experience the kindness of a stranger? i did.

ami reads this blog and i read hers but we've never met in "real life."

we live thousands of miles apart.

she loves the calendula soap she finds in her local farmers market and wanted to share.

she shared despite just having had knee surgery.

she's that kind of person. she shares soap (and her life!) willingly and openly.

go read her blog. she's funny. and wise. and open.

and all i can say is thank you!

Tiny Sacred Things • Day Four

Tiny Sacred Things • Day Three

the quilts are coming out of storage – one by one by one.

they make their way into all the rooms where we live, ready to bring warmth on chilly nights and mornings.

these were made by the hands of my great-grandmother.

i feel her love in these stitches.

Tiny Sacred Things • Day Two

native american spirituality teaches that fall is the season of letting go.

it's the season of change and replacing the old with new.

the trees know how to do this with spectacular grace.

Tiny Sacred Things • Day One

I'm looking around me with purpose and intention to see the small things I might otherwise take for granted. I hope to document a week's worth of tiny, sacred treasures.

this is the last of the lavender that grows in our garden for the year.

i took some to work and put it on my desk where i could inhale the fragrance all day long.

it changed my day.

i am thankful.

The Open Door

Discontent. Restlessness. Doubt. Despair. Longing. Who am I? How did I get here? Where am I going?

As I was asking myself these questions the other day – as a middle aged woman – when suddenly I realized that these are also the questions of the young. They are the musings of adolescents as they try to define and refine who they are as creatures in their own right, independent of parents and those who would try to form them.

Funny how life cycles around like that, huh? If you're 45 and asking these questions, you probably don't think so.

We excuse teenagers who are going through it. We smile and nod, all along secretly knowing that "this too, shall pass." We cut them some slack and look the other way as they get cranky and angry and wrestle with themselves.

In youth these questions and reactionary responses are seen as growing pains. But when we reach our middle years of life and feel these things again we've been conditioned to see them as signs of decay.

I'm discovering how difficult the years between forty and fifty can be. Many people never climb above the plateau into a new understanding of life and their place in it. (Then again, I know some folks who never got out of their teenaged years either.) And I'm learning that these feelings of restlessness and doubt can easily cause withdrawal and departure from our purpose and relationships.

But, surely, these are growing pains too.

Growing pains are scary. Who isn't afraid of pure space – that breathlessness that comes as you stand before a door that is ready to open into the unknown? Our natural inclination is to do anything other than stand still and learn from the signs. We try to cure the pains. We attempt to silence the anxiety. We seek to exorcise the discomforts as if they were demons aiming to crack our spirits wide open, to spill out into the darkness.

But I must force myself to believe that the other side of this door holds a new stage of living where we have shed our ambitions and have the knowledge to fulfill the neglected sides of ourselves. What if the other side of the door might finally free us for spiritual and creative growth?

We have so little faith in the natural ebb and flow of life. We seek permanence. We want duration, stability and perpetuity.

Perhaps that is not God's way for us.

The stirrings that are inside me are the same rousings that came thirty years ago. I simply have to trust that security in life does not lie in looking to the past with regret. It doesn't come from looking into the future with uncertainty, but it comes from feeling the pains of growth right now and trusting in the open door ahead.

{this writing was inspired by a passage I read from Anne Morrow Lindbergh's The Gift of the Sea}

A Time for Everything

{field full of weeds • Litzenberg Woods, Findlay, Ohio • original photo here}

There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under heaven:

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance,

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

a time to search and a time to give up,

a time to keep and a time to throw away,

a time to tear and a time to mend,

a time to be silent and a time to speak,

a time to love and a time to hate,

a time for war and a time for peace.

~ Ecclesiastes 3

Irreconcilable Differences

These two things just cannot possibly exist side by side for me. . . and yet. . . I went out in the garage on Saturday night and found sweet little Delilah, who had been in the backyard for 45 minutes all alone, laying on the garage floor happily gnawing on the knee of this squirrel, who I must point out – IS BIGGER THAN SHE IS!!!

What have we done to deserve two killers in the family???

The Last Flea Market

Yesterday was the last flea market of the season in Tiffin, our favorite place to find interesting stuff. Just a few photos to commemorate the day.

{rusty old metal stars • these came home with us • there were just enough in that box to have one in every window of the downstairs of our house • it must have been fate!}

{interesting colors and textures}

{cayenne peppers fresh from the farmer's field • now they are drying slowly in my oven, ready to flavor lots of bean soup this winter!}

{loved the cabbages in the old wash buckets}

{any clues??? • my best guess was some kind of bawdy bottle opener?! • it's kind of hard to tell in the photo but her legs are sticking up in the air quite suggestively! • and no. . .this did NOT come home with us!}

Six Friday Night (and Saturday Morning!) Good Things

1. Stately Raven Bookstore, Ohio's best Independent Bookstore (that just happens to be in Findlay!) It used to be a Lutheran Church and has been restored to it's former splendor, the bookstore is full of comfy chairs, interesting murals and of course – books!

2. Going to the Stately Raven and having your girl tell you that she will buy you one book! Whatever you want! Oh the choices and decisions that life brings. . .

3. Celtic Daily Prayer: Prayers and Readings from the Northumbria Community
More than a prayer book, Celtic Daily Prayer is a gift from the Northumbria Community of northeastern England. This devout religious community, with members scattered around the world, is joined together by the teachings of traditional Celtic Christianity dating back to the sixth century. In assembling this collection of prayers, they offer Christians ancient Celtic devotional writing as well as contemporary sources of wisdom, such as Anne Morrow Lindbergh, T.S. Eliot, and even Peter Yarrow from Peter, Paul, and Mary. The focal point for this prayer book is the daily office, although the book also includes additional meditations and daily readings. It offers two complete years of reading, so it should last a while (the publisher also promises follow-up books). Although many of these prayers come from the ancient monastic tradition, they easily speak to Christians contending with everyday things like jobs, childcare, dinners, and house cleaning. In his introduction Richard J. Foster (Celebration of Discipline) claims that this prayer book is most often found "in kitchens with bread baking and tea brewing or in living rooms crammed full of that cozy lived-in feel." (from Amazon.com)

4. Taking time to be quiet, pray and breathe – just before falling asleep, first thing in the morning, at noon, and in the early evening.

5. Meditating on this verse and letting it flow into my heart and soul before falling asleep last night –

"Stand at the crossroads and look;

ask for the ancient paths,

ask where the good way is, and walk in it,

and you will find rest for your soul." ~ Jeremiah 6:16

6. Making it my intention to allow that verse to guide my Saturday steps – creatively, photographically and restfully.

Fall Treat

Apple Butter

7 cups unsweetened applesauce

2 cups apple cider

1 1/2 cups honey

1 tsp. cinnamon

1/2 tsp. ground cloves

1/2 tsp. allspice

Combine in a crock pot and cook on low for 14-15 hours.

Pack while hot into 4 hot pint jars. Process in a hot water bath for 10 minutes after the water begins to boil again. Or refrigerate unprocessed jars until needed.

This is apple butter the easy way. It's not quite as thick as I might like, but the convenience of not having to stand at the stove (or over an open fire!) and stir for 5 hours straight makes up the difference!

Bullies

I referenced the "It Gets Better" project a couple of days ago. With all the media coverage of bullying and the recent suicides of gay kids I'm so happy to hear the coverage of positive, successful people (who just happen to be gay). Then I heard this story on NPR Tuesday.

Go. Listen. I'll wait.

And it got me thinking about my own journey into being a 45 year old lesbian. And how it did, indeed, get better. And it got me thinking about bullies. And how, on one hand, I was extremely lucky. I didn't have many bullies. There were a few women in college who did what girls do – they spread rumors. They talked trash. They made it a discomfort to live in my skin.

And, as is often the case, most of them have turned out to be lesbians too.

On the other hand, I did have one bully who made me afraid. Only one person who physically threatened me. Only one person who had power and didn't hesitate to use it to dominate me, intimidate me and torment me into submission.

My only bully was my father.

Even now, there is dithering and reluctance in writing those words. "Maybe I'm remembering wrong. . . Maybe that's what he said, but not what he meant. . . Maybe bully isn't the right word. . ."

bully ¹ |ˈboŏlē|

noun ( pl. -lies)

a person who uses strength or power to harm or intimidate those who are weaker.

It was bullying.

I was 17 and didn't have a car. I worked at Burger King so every day I needed a ride. He picked me up one afternoon after work and drove around the countryside. Talking. I was locked in a moving vehicle.

You know that tornado that destroyed all the houses in our neighborhood last week? The one that just came out of nowhere and was gone in seconds? That was God trying to get your attention. God hates you and your "lifestyle." You're lucky no one was hurt or killed in that tornado. Their blood would have been on you.

Later that same summer, after getting a phone bill with long distance calls to the woman I had been in a relationship with. Again, in the car.

What will people think of me? You know, I should kill you with my own hands. I should break your neck. But you know what would happen if I did that? Your blood would be on me. God would be displeased with me. . .

Is that bullying? Someone who "uses strength or power to harm or intimidate those who are weaker." Of course it is.

But there is good news. It got better. The number one way to get rid of a bully is to simply walk away. Quit listening to their verbal assaults. Stop believing their lies and live your truth. It's common for a bully to prey on those who are strong and independent. It gives them a target for their aggression that doesn't easily fold or quit.

Just hang in there. It always gets better. Or, in my case with all those women at college, they will eventually come out too. . .

Find Your Light

This is a picture I took a couple of months ago. The original file is here. I've been fooling around with textures and color and am quickly falling in love with this new adventure.

I'm not one who can create art from nothing. I have to have a starting point and photography seems to be my calling. I hesitate to call this art, but it's as close as I have come so far.

It is speaking to my spirit and right now, that's plenty good enough. I'm thinking a framed print might look really good on the wall in our kitchen. . .

Holy Ground

{the original photo is here}

Happy NCOD!

:: Because telling the truth is important.

:: Because bringing change into the world only happens when people really talk. And listen.

:: Because harassment and hate can only flourish under the cover of darkness.

:: Because light chases away fear.

:: Because I am one little light alone, but together we are a twinkling city of hope.

:: Because, no matter how hard it seems when you're 16, It Gets Better. Trust me.

:: Because it's 2010 and you can still be fired from your job in 29 states for being lesbian, gay or bisexual.

:: Because it's 2010 and only five states plus DC recognize that love, not gender, is what matters in a marriage.

:: Because it's 2010 and more than 14,000 servicemembers have been discharged from the military under the failed "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" law.

For all these reasons and many more – It's National Coming Out Day. My story is no different than most. But my story counts too.

Missing Her

I opened up my Facebook page this morning and there was this picture, posted by my aunt. It's my Gram. I still miss her. Every. Single. Day.

The photo surprised me. In a good way.

See the sparkle? The energy? I want those things to be her gift to me too.

{And yeah. That's me and my sister in the background. It's 1979. Quit your laughing.}

A Moment

It's a weekend alone for me. Well, as alone as one can be with three dogs and a cat.

There are things my spirit craves and quiet is one of them. I relish the times when the television is off, the computer screen is black, the radio is unplugged and the only sounds I hear are my own breaths and the snores of the mutts next to me.

Last night I lit a candle and just sat.

I banished the creeping feelings of guilt about all the things that needed to be accomplished, taken care of or cleaned up. I just sat.

I ignored the questions rattling around in my head about what Delilah might be up to and tried not to worry that she might be upstairs squatting on something. (She knows enough about potty training now to be cognizant of the fact that if she's going to pee on something she should go upstairs to do it – you know, where no one can see her.)

I let my body rest and I let my brain think. And I just sat.

Eventually I indulged myself with a book. The only sounds in the house were the pages turning and me, occasionally laughing out loud. And after a while, I put the book down and sat there, in the quiet, for the longest time, thinking. Feeling almost as if I’d forgotten how. I did not have a revelation or an epiphany or even a slightly brilliant thought.

I just sat there, breathing in the quiet.

Life is made up of a million regular, boring, routine, forgettable moments. It's magic when you notice just one.

Inspired Colors

{my three favorite colors – and I love them all together –

greens, purples and golden yellows}

Leave-Taking

Last night I sat at the hospital holding the hand of my friend. He believes he's dying. He has two diseases that are both terminal. He's had HIV for more than 25 years and, if that weren't enough, he was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease a few weeks ago. His quality of life is rapidly declining.

I've been around the block enough times to know that he very well could be dying. Or he could battle through all the side effects to his medicines, he could rally his fighting spirit and he could live for another five years.

Life is like that. Unpredictable. Unknowable. And, frankly – a little bit unfair.

We sat in the corner room last night, watching the sunset out his window. He called it the hospital penthouse suite. The view was spectacular. We talked about people we knew, memories we shared and the little things that make life special. We talked about adult diapers, dignity and dry heaves. He told me stories about friends who had already walked the road ahead of us and had prepared him, bit by bit, to make his passage as well.

Some of the stories he shared were funny – hospital phone calls that embarrassed him in front of family and friends. Some of the stories were sad – of friends we had in common who left this world kicking and screaming. But all of the stories were tiny threads that tied our lives to each other.

As my friend began to tire we sat in silence and I thought about yet another of the gifts that human beings can bring to the world. Just as N. and D. had taught my friend how it is to die, he was teaching me.

When it was time for me to go, and time for him to sleep, I took my leave. As I leaned in to give him a kiss he began to cry again. This time he didn't look at me, but quietly whispered, "Good-bye." I don't think it will be the final time he says those words to me. But, for him, it was the right thing to say.

A Man In A Tie

I've always been a sucker for a man in a tie. Particularly a man who doesn't take himself too seriously and wears a tie with a sense of humor. Too many of us take ourselves entirely too seriously and when I see a necktie covered in bottles of Tabasco sauce, little Christmas lights or tiny cartoon characters I already know I'm going to like the man wearing it.

A few years ago, while I was still pastoring our little church of misfits and seekers a young man walked through the doors wearing just such a tie. It was blue and covered in Looney Tunes characters. There was Bugs, of course, along with Wil-E-Coyote, Marvin Martian, Tweety, Porky and Foghorn Leghorn. It wasn't really the characters on his tie that first caught my attention. It was that he was wearing a tie at all. . .

That, and the fact that as he stood in the doorway of the church looking as though he was about to collapse, he was swaying slightly and absolutely reeking of alcohol.

It wasn't uncommon for people attending worship with us for the first time to be afraid. Most of us had lived our whole lives believing we were on the fast track to hell. We had grown up in churches that told us there was no worse sin than homosexuality and that if we dared darken the doors the roof of the church might cave in or lightening may strike us dead on the spot. Often, people would spend the first week they visited with us sitting in their cars in the parking lot. It was too much risk to actually get out and come in.

Those of us who had been around awhile knew what to watch for. We tried to be as reassuring as possible while offering hot coffee, a smile and our own stories.

However, this young man was worse off than most.

While most of us had on jeans and t-shirts he showed up in suit and tie. One look around confirmed for him that he had made a terrible miscalculation. Not only was he gay, and scared, and drunk – horror of horrors – he was totally overdressed. And he started to panic.

He turned to leave and I raced after him, knowing that if he made it to his car we would never see him again. Not only that, he shouldn't be driving anyway.

I quickly introduced myself and looked around for other people he might know. I introduced him to some others who were there and offered him some coffee. He still looked like he might bolt and I started making small talk.

I told him that I liked his tie and suddenly the dam burst. He began to cry. We sat down in a quiet corner, and knowing there was nothing I could do or say, I just held his hand and waited.

I didn't even know his name.

Gradually he started to talk. He was terrified but he wanted to come to church. He was indeed drunk. But he was more embarrassed about being overdressed than anything else. I just kept telling him that all of us had felt exactly the same way he did the first time we worked up the courage to look for God. And that he looked great.

We sat some more. Church was supposed to start. Everyone was waiting on me.

Finally he moved. His hands reached up and he took off his tie. Handing it to me, I slipped it over my head and put it on over my sweater. Church was late and it was time to go.

He and I walked into the sanctuary together – with him feeling a little more calm and me wearing a skirt. . . and a tie. I wore it the whole night.

He came back to church once or twice more over the next five years. I can't remember if I ever knew his name. But I have a dark blue necktie covered in cartoon characters and I still pray for the young man who gave it to me.

It was one of the holiest moments of my life.

Autumn Day

{Liberty Township Road 67, Hancock County, Ohio; almost sunset; October 4, 2010}

Lord, it is time. The summer was too long.
Lay now thy shadow over the sundials,
and on the meadows let the winds blow strong.

Bid the last fruit to ripen on the vine;
allow them still two friendly southern days
to bring them to perfection and to force
the final sweetness in the heavy wine.

Who has no house now will not build him one.
Who is alone now will be long alone,
will waken, read, and write long letters
and through the barren pathways up and down
restlessly wander when dead leaves are blown.

~ Ranier Maria Rilke

Sunday Dressing

I changed clothes three times yesterday morning trying to get ready for church.

First I had on jeans. They were a tad too big and I felt sloppy. I traded them in for a pair that was a bit more fitted but still I felt as though I were going out for breakfast rather than going to church. I switched the second pair of jeans out for a pair of grey "almost jeans" and vowed to just let it be and go to worship.

See, clothes are just one more in my long list of church baggage items.

Growing up in the Baptist church I never-ever-ever wore pants to church. Not if it were blizzard-ing and 40 below. Not on Wednesday nights when we had youth group and we didn't have prayer meeting. Not even when I was seven or eight and I insisted on practicing cartwheels in the church basement. . .no sir, my mother just made me wear shorts under my dresses. You know – modesty was important. . .

There was no occasion in which it was acceptable for those of the female persuasion to wear pants to church.

And I still struggle with it. But not for the same reasons.

I don't give one whit about what someone might consider "modest" for me. I don't think that women should have to dress in a certain way in order to be considered holy or acceptable to God, or to others. I long ago gave up cartwheels in the basement so that's out of the mix. I'm quite sure that church isn't the place to show off your fashion sense or show how much money you make by the clothing you can afford. None of those things matters to me.

I changed my clothes three times this morning because I somehow still believe that I ought to offer God my best. I ought to care enough not to just roll out of bed and show up looking like something the dog drug in. I should take enough time to be respectful and reverent and actually ironing a shirt or putting on something I don't normally wear to the grocery store. And just maybe by doing that, I set myself up for something special to happen that morning.

I don't know. Maybe it's all just bullshit. Maybe I was so brainwashed from my childhood church teachings that it's all I know. I wear pants now. I could not care less what anyone else wears to church – I'm just happy that we're all there together.

But my baggy blue jeans are still relegated to Saturdays.

The Color Grey

Yesterday it was dreary and rainy and misty and foggy and everywhere I looked, there was gray.

Gray poured from the sky, for hours. I don’t think it rained steadily, all day long, even once this summer. But yesterday was that day. And along with all that questions that the color grey can bring.

Why can the world be allowed to go grey on a Saturday when all you really need to recover from a week of work is a little bit of color?

What do you do when the list before you stretches longer than your arms?

What do you do when all you really want is to curl up on the couch and read?

What do you do when the colors of fall are hidden in shrouds of mist?

What do you do when your brain feels as scattered as the raindrops?

What do you do when everything around you needs to be cleaned, cared for, put away?

I have two times a year that are difficult. The first time is February when the Ohio winter seems that it may never end. The second is what can be the endless grey, wet days of fall. Autumn is my favorite time of year, but the days of saturated color and abundant blue skies are usually outnumbered by days when the sky drips tears and grey is a bit more than just the color of the sky.

And when the wet days fall on the weekends, well, then the questions roll off my fingers faster than I can type.

So yesterday, I added watercolor washes of color to my life the only ways I knew how. I baked bread and filled the house with the scent of yeast and home. I checked some things off the to-do list and brought a tiny bit of order to my head. We had dinner with friends, old and new. We listened to music and laughed at the local coffeehouse.

They grey days will always come. I won't try to avoid them. I am just learning to be more comfortable living in the questions.

Sunset

{near Mt. Cory, Ohio • last night}

On Writing

every day i write words on a page. type them on a keyboard.
string them together like shiny beads.

what are these words? just adornment?

do they make me a better person than the one i am when
i roll out of bed in the morning, looking much the worse for wear?

i feel different when i write. i feel like the real me, but that sounds so silly because, of course, i am always the real me. i can’t be anything different.

but all of the censors that are in place when i am face to face with people disappear when i write.

all of the doubts, the insecurities, the nerves.

gone. . . when i write.

if you talk to me in person you might notice that i have difficulty coming up with specific words when i vocalize. almost like stuttering, which i did as a child.

{does childhood stuttering return with age?}

writing feels more like my natural language than speaking does.

it feels like the voice of my soul.

and i can only hear that voice when i

write.