In my high school days I watched a soap opera whose tag line was “like sand through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.” Watching the lives of those portrayed in the 30 minutes of television that housed the program, it was clear to me that the sand flowing through the lives of these  characters was much more dramatic and interesting than mine. The stories allowed me, for a small commitment of time, to glimpse complicated, complex, edgy lives, people with incredible clothes and mind bending relationships. It was fantasy and a welcome respite from an ordinary, small town,teenage life.

I thought of that quote a few weeks ago in an unlikely place. Having been bombarded by the usual noise of the day that is so prevalent right now, I headed to the Minneapolis Institute of Art to observe a group of Tibetan nuns creating a mandala with sand. Walking into one of the rotundas at the museum, I walked toward the center to see women leaning over an elevated table. Just near them were two other tables…one with their supplies of small bowls of colorful sand and the metal tubes they used to move the sand into place. Another was adorned with flowers and other things that constituted what I assumed to be a shrine of sorts. This defined the space for their work. Their movements were slow, smooth, nearly balletic in nature. Somehow the shaking of the metal tubes allowed just the right amount of sand to find its place in the beautiful, intricate pattern of the mandala. They did not speak to one another but seemed to, in some intuitive way, know what their role was in the creation of this art. Other people watched from one floor up, peering over the balcony. Others walked along the outside of the invisible circle the nuns had created and filled with the intensity of their work. 

The whole experience moved through me creating a sense of calm and peace. Somehow by being witness to their work I felt part of it. The noise and clatter of all I listened to on the radio or read in the paper melted away. For a short time it was like being transported to a time and place where the grains of sand reflected the wisdom that had been a part of time eternal. These women who have dedicated their lives in ways that are mysterious to me exuded the message that even in the midst of what often feels like chaos and uncertainty, it is possible to take something as elemental and small as grains of sand and use them for beauty, for good. 

As I stood there watching their work, I wondered what was going through their minds. Was there worry about the future …the kind that has been gripping my brain these days? Were they thinking about the many places in the world erupting into violence daily? The lives that have been lost with no end in sight? Were they lamenting our warming climate? Were they thinking about what those of us watching were thinking about them? Did their minds travel to what they were going to do that evening after their creating had come to an end? Were they thinking about supper? These questions say more about me and them I’m sure.

It is probably true that their meditation life is so deep that the ability to be fully, fully present is all that is needed. They were most likely focused on the grains of sand, their brilliant colors and the steadiness of their hands as the sand was added to the patterns. Though it is from a different tradition, a writer in the Hebrew scriptures in the book of 1 Kings writes about king Solomon:”And God gave Solomon wisdom and understanding exceeding much, and largeness of heart, even as the sand that is on the sea shore.” Perhaps that same fullness of wisdom and understanding and largeness of heart lived within these women as they did the work they were called to do.

Standing to the side of their workspace a young woman  quietly answered questions. Though I knew the answer to the question about the ‘what next?’ of the mandala, I asked anyway. Yes, it would remain in the museum for a week for people to enjoy. Then it would be dismantled and for those who wanted sand it would be placed in small vials for people to take. And what was left? It would be poured into the Mississippi River so “its gifts could continue flowing.”

Crossing that mighty river as I do nearly every day, I am imagining the wisdom, the largeness of heart and the peaceful calm that was created and exhibited by these small, dedicated women. The work they do has been done for centuries and will continue after all the chaos and uncertainty passes over us. Like sands…flowing down a river…so are the days of our lives.

It’s over. And I had meant to share this little gift of a poem much earlier that was left on a table at the Hamline Dining Hall at the Minnesota State Fair. Over the course of the seven days I volunteered there I cleaned trays and plates from tables over and over again. It is a messy job and you have the chance to clear lots of strange things, lots of surprising things. But a poem? That was a first. Because I needed to move quickly I glanced at it and stuck it in my pocket. There was no poet/author just a title, Get-Together, and #statefairpoetry. Coming across it today I thought that, even though the Fair is over, it is still worth sending out into the Universe.

Current wisdom and tired cliches
Say we are divided. Polarized
Like opposite ends of magnets
Leaping away the closer we come.
Young/old, Black/white,
Blue/red, left/right.

We cannot talk, share, see
Why any would believe the unbelievable.
Yet here we are. All in one place
If only for a few short days, hundreds of
Thousands lining the streets,
Sharing the shade, tasting the sweets
We dreamed all year to eat again.

We watch the same parade,
Hear the same shows,
Stare down the slow fish circling
The same old pond. We will never be singular,
Always many. But herein lies our hope
And beauty: the power to be more than us.

What could be greater
Than the chance to come together
And remember we cannot do this much alone,
Never gather magic in this wonderland
Of spinning possibilities? Today we might
Try to smile, not scowl, hold the door,
watch for those on wheels, offer a hand,
laugh with a stranger, wait with patience.
You could not make this on your own.

Now I know that the Great Minnesota Get Together is not everyone’e cup of tea…or all you can drink milk. But it has always been a highlight of the year for me and for my family. When pressed by the sceptics as to my undying love of those 12 days that herald the end of summer, I always reply that, for me, the whole experience is about possibility, the human possibility of creativity, the amazing possibility that coming together with people who are alike and also very different which provides a canvas on which to have my eyes opened, my heart stirred.

This happens when I walk through the Creative Activities building and see the countless objects people make…sweaters, stained glass, quilts, wood carvings, handmade kayaks, cookies, cakes, pies, jar after jar of pickled vegetables and colorful jams. Or when I walk through the Fine Arts Building and see the amazing expressions of art offered by artists from around the state. And don’t even get me started on the 4H Variety Show that never ceases to bring me to tears with their earnest, enthusiastic songs and dances capped off with the final song: “Our State Fair is a Great State Fair!” All this says nothing of the many animals raised and shown by young people, all their hard work and dedication held in pride by their families and communities. 

Yes, it’s about all the possibility that we as humans can muster when we put our minds to it. Even the various political parties manage to coexist with a certain decorum despite questionable t-shirt slogans and points of view that present a tugging at the seams. Walking among them all I am always reminded to be a little more open to the ideas and experience of others whose lives I simply do not understand but who on that particular day is eating a chocolate chip cookie and drinking a malt with the same enjoyment I am.

Yes, it’s over this Get-Together. Now we go on to the school year and an election that is shrouded in so, so much. Yet like the poet says: Try to smile, not scowl, hold the door, watch for those on wheels, offer a hand, laugh with a stranger, wait with patience. You…we …cannot make this on our own. Herein lies our hope and beauty: the power to be more than us.

***A special thanks to the unknown poet!

You’ve probably seen them. People wearing t-shirts that say some form of “Be a Good Person.” Or another version “Just be a Good Human.” Or, “If you can be anything, be kind.” Each time I encounter someone wearing this adorning their chest it lifts my spirits and reminds me once again that, mostly, people really want to put their best selves into the world. And they want to encourage others to do the same. Though what we read or see in the news accounts of our daily walk is often to the contrary, there are people walking around who have made it their mission to say, “Hey, wait a minute. There’s another way.”

I thought about this message when reading about Joe Mauer, a favorite player for the Minnesota Twins who was recently inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. For those who have followed him and like to wave their Minnesota pride at any opportunity, Mauer is a St. Paul boy who played his whole career for his hometown team, and this honor seemed so deserved.. I remember seeing him play once when he came back after an injury that had sidelined him for a long time. When he walked onto the field the crowd went ballistic as he came to the plate. He did not disappoint as he hit a home run first thing. I can still get a little emotional thinking about that moment. 

But what struck me in the newspaper account of his career was that his Mother, who has always been a significant influence in his life, always told him two things: Be a good competitor but first be a good person. From what I read and hear about him, he has embodied that message and sends that goodness into the world. Well done, Mom.

Last week I was sitting having lunch in a favorite cafe. I was reading a book that was really engaging and eating a sandwich, drinking an iced tea. I was pretty engrossed in my reading and not paying full attention as I sat my glass down on the edge of a tray. It tipped sending tea and ice onto the table, the opposite chair and the floor. Before I could even get to my feet to begin clean up, a young woman who had been sitting nearby jumped up, grabbed extra napkins and started mopping up my mess. All the time I was thanking her she was saying”It’s okay. It’s okay.” We both righted the situation and sat back to finish our lunch as I looked around at all the other folks who had also witnessed my faux-pas. Perhaps one of them would have joined in to help me but this young woman had acted so quickly in her effort to be a good person that they didn’t have the chance. Needless to say, my sense of the goodness of humans was lifted high that day.

Later that day as I was cleaning and organizing some papers, I came across this poem I had kept from a journal of my college alma mater. It is titled “The Whole Shebang Up for Debate” by Laura M. Andre:

Today I gave a guy a ride,
caught in a cloudburst
jogging down East Mill Street.
Skinny, backpacked, newspaper
a makeshift shield, unsafe
under any circumstances.
I don’t know what possessed me.

I make bad decisions, am forgetful,
cling to structure and routine
like static electricity to polyester,
a. predicament of living under
the facade I always add to myself.

Said he needed to catch a GoBus,
shaking off droplets before climbing in.
He gabbed about Thanksgiving plans,
his mom’s cider basted turkey,
grandma’s pecan crusted pumpkin pie.

It was a quick masked ride.
Bless you, he said, unfolding himself
from the car. No awkward goodbyes,
no what do I owe you? Just Bless you
and a backward wave.

At the stop sign, my fingers stroked
the dampness where he sat minutes before.

Sometimes life embraces you
so unconditionally, it shifts
your body from shadow
into a full flung lotus of light.

We could argue at the wisdom of such an encounter yet what is clear in this story is that the writer chose not only to see the goodness in another but also to send goodness into the world. The young woman who helped clean up a mess I had created chose, quickly I might add, to act out of goodness. In a time when competition can lead people to not only use hurtful, unkind words and actions, may we all err on the side of being good humans, shifting our bodies…and perhaps the whole world… from shadow into a ‘full flung lotus of light.’

Breathing in, I know that I am breathing in.
Breathing out, I know that I am breathing out.
Breathing in, I see myself as a flower.
Breathing out, I feel flesh.
Breathing in, I see myself as a mountain.
Breathing out, I feel solid.
Breathing in, I see myself as still water.
Breathing out, I reflect things as they are.
Breathing in, I see myself as space.
Breathing out, I feel free.
~Thich Nhat Hahn

It is taking a lot to breathe these days Or at least it is taking intentional effort on my part to do so. With the world whirling so fast and in such a chaotic fashion, I find myself actually holding my breath quite often. Never a good thing. Which may be the reason that this poem by the beloved Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hahn, floated to the surface of my consciousness earlier today. I actually didn’t remember whose words they were but knew that I had to find them to see if they were speaking to me as I thought they might be. A quick scan of my book shelves unearthed this gem. Ahhhh…

These words along with a particular image have been bringing some solace to my days. I shared the image below with some friends on Friday saying how it seems to represent how I feel., how I am trying to be in the face of it all. The image is of a statue found in Savannah, Georgia one of my favorite cities. The statue gained fame for being on the cover of a book later made into a movie: Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt. At one point it stood in a cemetery there and featured prominently in the movie. It had to be removed and placed in a museum after the movie as it was feared it would be damaged by over-interested visitors. Its original title is simply Bird Girl and the way she holds out her arms, two vessels balanced by her straight body and ever so slightly tilted head seems to create the posture I find myself wanting to take. 

Breathing in, I hold all the turmoil that swarms around. Breathing out, I gaze out at the beauty of my summer garden. Breathing in, I wonder at what seems to me the drive to divide people into categories that are dehumanizing, are not only unkind but also unjust. Breathing out, I marvel at the kindness that I encounter ever day from friends, family, neighbors, strangers. Breathing in, I grapple with despair and fear for what seems to be happening to our country, our world. Breathing out, I look with awe at the faces of the babies, the toddlers, the children that weave in and out of my life. Breathing in, I read or hear words that are mean and cutting and even cruel. Breathing out, I read poems and stories so filled with beauty and inspiration that my spirit is given to floating above my body.

Bird Girl reminds me that I, that we, live in a both/and world and that to live wisely, sanely, means to hold all the beauty and the terror in our outstretched hands…every day…every moment…with every breath. When I gaze on her slightly bent head I imagine what that bend means. “Really?” she might be saying. Or “Look at this.” Or even “Please.” My need to create a story for her is pretty strong.

Perhaps all that bent head is portraying is the truth that holding that balance is difficult work. Sometimes sorrowful work. Almost always courageous work. And then just when it all seems too much to bear, a tiny bird lands on one bowl and sings there a song so beautiful, so pure that hearts are broken open at the miracle of it. 

Breathing in…breathing out. Both. And. So it goes. So it goes.  

Intention. I have been thinking about intention over the last weeks. How to live intentionally, kindly, sanely, in the midst of all that is churning in every direction in our country and the world. I have been trying to come to some inner understanding of how it is best for me to be aware of what is going on without giving in to despair and fear with the uncertainty that grips us.The word intention keeps coming to my mind as if placed there by an outer force and I have decided to pay attention to it. 

Mulling over this word, intention, I was reminded of the author and poet Ross Gay who wrote a book of essays called The Book of Delights. One year on his birthday he decided that he would write a short essay every day for the next year about something that delighted him during the day. He is a writing professor and set this intention for himself amongst all the other writing and teaching that must have filled his life. Krista Tippett has interviewed him and he talks about how the intention he set…to watch for and experience delights…seemed to actually give rise to even greater delights. Sounds like a pretty good thing to me. He has since published another book, The Book of More Delights. It seems that delight must breed delight!

During April which is National Poetry Month, I set an intention to write a poem a day. I stayed pretty loyal to the daily practice though some days I wrote only a haiku. Still a poem, right? And though none of the poems were good, what I found was that the intention had me thinking more poetically. I would notice something…a flower or the smile on someone’s face…and short, descriptive phrases would pop into my mind, a snippet of a poem. It brought a kind of gentle lilt to my day and made my mood lighter.

A true poet, Molly Fisk, wrote this lovely reminder entitled ‘Against Panic’:
You recall those times, I know you do, when the sun
lifted its weight over a small rise to warm your face,
when a parched day finally broke open, real rain,
sluicing down the sidewalk, rattling city maples
and you so sure the end was here, life a house of cards
tipped over, falling, hope’s last breath extinguished
in a bitter wind. Oh, friend, search your memory again –
beauty and relief are still there, only sleeping.

Reading her words and Ross Gay’s reflections on delight have instilled in me the intention to pay more attention to those experiences of gentleness and beauty that are the gift of every day. As I did one morning this past week when I sat at my local coffee shop and watched the sunlight pour into the window illuminating the lovingly planted flowers that were waking up again and directing their faces toward the new day. What lessons were they holding out to me?

There is much in our world over which we have little control. We do what we can…contribute, have conversation, contact those in office, learn as much as we can, make our voices heard, vote, and, if you are praying person, pray. I do not want to give myself to the intention of despair. Instead I want wake every day and set an intention to search for what brings beauty and relief to a fractured, hurting world. Perhaps if we all search our memories we can wake that spirit of hope together. 

“You belong to the world, animal. Deal with it.”
~Carrie Fountain

Last week William Anders, died, and left this Earth. He had actually left the planet before but as an astronaut on Apollo 8. Anders was the photographer of the photo we now call ‘Earthrise’, the first color image of our home…the place on which we live, travel, work, disagree, war, create, reproduce. The photo was shot on December 24, 1968, a day when those who celebrate would have been knee deep in Christmas preparations. Yet, this photo stopped many of us in our tracks and we paused amidst the baking and the wrapping to glimpse the beauty of this whirling blue sphere floating in space.

In listening to people talk about the experience of seeing this photo for the first time, someone said it was a time that changed how we saw the Earth. This is true, of course. But still others, myself included, would say it changed how we saw ourselves. As humans. As those hurtling through the Universe. As those who are so tiny in the grand scheme of things. As those who are sharing this place…no one more, no one less, all vulnerable, all connected by the very fact that we swim together in this amazing blueness.

The year the photo was taken was 1968, and though I was just a young one, I knew that we were living in troubled times. Our country was embroiled in a far-away war that was tearing our country apart. Protests raged on college campuses and at town centers. Robert F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. were assassinated. The Civil Rights movement was at the forefront of headlines that, thankfully, resulted in the Civil Rights Act. Families disagreed about all this, my own included. The Viet Nam War remains the only thing my father and I ever argued about. There was distrust and turmoil everywhere. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

And into all this arrived this photo which reminded us that we are all in this together, connected by land and water and gravity that holds us all from floating into the skies. It provided, for those with eyes to see, a profound lesson in humility, in compassion, in reverence, in awe. Some say it helped to strengthen the young environmental movement and gave birth to Earth Day. Yet its lessons continued and continue, to elude us. The blindness to human connection and the threat that division brings is still rife on this beautiful planet. As people we so easily forget or choose to live in denial of all that binds us together. 

Anders death precipitated this amazing image being in the many places we now receive news. Like it did in 1968, it was sandwiched in between the many ways we struggle and are prone to chaos. I was reminded of a poem written by poet Carrie Fountain. It begins:

You belong to the world
as do your children, as does your husband.
It’s strange even now to understand that
you are a mother and a wife, that these gifts
were given to you and that you received them,
fond as you’ve always been of declining
invitations. You belong to the world. The hands
that put a peach tree into the earth exactly
where the last one died in the freeze belong
to the world and will someday feed it again,
differently, your body will become food again
for something, just as it did so humorously
when you became a mother, hungry beings
clamoring at your breast, born as they’d been
with the bodily passion for survival that is
our kinds’ one common feature. You belong
to the world, animal. Deal with it…

Seeing that floating Blue Marble once again gave me pause to ask myself how I was dealing with it. Do I take my gravitational walk each day with an awareness of all those others grounded by the same force? Do I send them compassion? Do I hold all those fractured places, those equally fractured people, near and far in my heart? Do I do everything I am able to honor those invisible lines of connection that I share with my fellow Earth travelers? Do I guard our one common feature…survival? It is the work we’ve been given and mostly I fail but endeavor to try.

You belong to the world. I belong to the world. Blessed be the memory of William Anders who showed us how precious our Earth home is. May we deal with it with as much care as we would offer our children, our grandchildren, the children and grandchildren of all our fellow travelers. And to all those with whom we walk this day, may we spin more graciously as if the very world depends on it. Because it does. 

“Every fragile beauty, every perfect forgotten sentence,
you grieve their going away, but that is not how it is.
Where they come from never goes dry.
It is an always flowing spring.”
~ Rumi

Fragility. Lately, I have been thinking a lot about the fragility. It may have started with the daffodils and the tulips. Watching them do the work that must be so difficult…waiting, pushing, reaching, blooming to welcome the springtime. Then there’s the lily-of-the valley in their tiny, whiteness sending the sweetest smell, the first true smell of what will be, into the days of May. And yet, now, for the most part they are all gone. Their fragile beauty is so fleeting. They have been replaced by the brilliant purple and yellow irises who demand our attention with color that dazzles the eye and fills my heart with a reminder of how fragile life is. Each of these blooms have been batted about by the rains that seem to be a daily occurrence and the accompanying winds. And in a few short days, these harbingers of the season will also be gone. Their delicate petals will fade and fall away. It seems a terribly fragile existence.

This rumination on fragility may have started with the flowers. Yet it didn’t take long before the thoughts of how easily things can be broken, can be lost, moved quickly to the human ones we all know and those we hear about across our world. It seems there are so many fragile places, so many broken people that are calling out for hope and compassion, near and far. It is difficult not to become despairing or, worse, retreat to a place of choosing not to see, not wanting to be confronted by it all. The wars that rage across the world, the children wounded, killed, displaced. The abuse of power by the few aimed at the weaker tears at everything it means to be human. How to hold it all?

Of course, even those of us who do not live in war zones also know this fragile nature that weaves our living together. An illness arrives. An accident happens. A dream is shattered. A mistake is made. A senseless act is committed that alters everything. Our lives can change, as they say, on a dime, with no warning, placing the tragedy of surprise in our lap. We would do well to walk around with the message:” Fragile. Handle with Care.” emblazoned on our foreheads.

Fragility is part and parcel of us all. In the face of this, we would do well to savor each moment, each breath, each encounter with another, each glimpse of the glory of Creation that is offered every day. In saying this I am preaching a sermon to myself.  With such knowledge, I want to be comforted by the words of the 13th century poet, Rumi. Perhaps his own life was being visited by turmoil when he wrote: “Every fragile beauty, every perfect forgotten sentence, you grieve their going away, but that is not how it is. Where they come from never goes dry. It is an always flowing spring.” Perhaps Rumi was also preaching a sermon to himself.

In the days ahead, I want to hold onto his words with all my might and do this until I believe it down to my core. Fragile beauty, yes. Grief that comes with loss and brokenness, yes. Yet a heart-deep knowing that there is a river that runs below and within it all that never goes dry and offers an ever-flowing stream of the hope that is spring. 

May it be so.

There are places that can surprise you even in your own backyard. Last weekend I attended an event that I had no idea existed. The Shepherd’s Harvest, held at the Washington County Fairgrounds, was a ‘harvest’ of all things sheep. There was sheep shearing. There was sheep herding with the amazing sheepherding dog that followed verbal commands of his owner that were unintelligible to my human ears. There were spinners and carders and row after row of people whose true love was clearly wool. Colorful bags of brightly dyed wool waited patiently to be purchased and spun. For those who did not want to exert that effort there was equally brilliant yarn begging to become a sweater for winter’s chill. People…lots of people…roamed the aisles looking, touching, searching for the perfect weight and color to call to their creative heart. 

If you were lucky enough to be there on a warm and sunny Saturday morning, I was the person roaming around with the look of wonder on my face. The questions rolled around in my head. Who knew so many people in this part of the country raised sheep? Who knew so many people were drawn to all the arts associated with wool? How have I not known about this event, these people before? Over and over, I saw women standing and knitting as they talked to interested folk never seeming to miss a beat or a stitch. As someone who has tried over and over again to knit, this seemed impossible to me and I was in awe of them. 

The fact is over the last many years I have been fascinated with sheep. I have a love of the places where I have mostly encountered them: the fields and pastures of England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland. I have no idea how I came to this heartspace. Their gentleness and their contemplative presence seems to draw me in and bring a calmness in me that I treasure. To find people closer to where I actually live whose days are filled with the presence of these wooly creatures created such joy. Watching the skill and strength it takes to shear a 200 pound sheep makes my head spin. (Pun intended.) And watching women, young and not so young, sit quietly behind a spinning wheel pedaling and forming yarn from fluffy wool nearly made me weep.

Since that Saturday I have thought often about all the opportunities to be witness to things you had no idea were just around the corner. If I hadn’t heard this event advertised on public radio I would not have known that somewhere…someplace…there is a community of people who come together to join one another is the celebration of what are really ancient arts. They have chosen to continue what people have done since they first realized that the fluff that covers that four legged one can become something more. And it took off from there. Sheep. Wool. Yarn. Clothing. Creativity. As with so many of the things we see as ordinary, things we take for granted, there is a connection that goes deeper and can transcend time. 

For awhile that morning I slipped into a world that was unfamiliar to me. Walking among the people and the animals I found myself allowing the news that had sounded from my radio on the way there to fall away. Instead I felt connected to something kinder, gentler, something that seemed to speak of a greater truth, a deeper wisdom of how the world really is. It was a blessing of sorts to be there and to imagine a time when the whole of the world could be more like that. 

The ancient Scots in the collection of blessings and hymns, Carmina Gadelica, offered these words for those who shepherded the sheep:

May the herding of Columba
Encompass you going and returning,
Encompass you in strath and on ridge
And on the edge of each rough region;

May it keep you from pit and from mire,
Keep you from hill and from crag,
Keep you from loch and downfall,
Each evening and each darkling;

The peace of Columba be yours in the grazing,
The peace of Brigit be yours in the grazing,
The peace of Mary be yours in the grazing,
And may you return home safe-guarded.

Yes…like the sheep and the shepherd may we all return home safe-guarded.

“We sat in silence, letting the green in the air heal what it could.” 
? Erica Bauermeister, The Scent Keeper

Green. It is, hands down,my favorite color. All the many shades and hues of it. I think it has always been my favorite. I have probably one too many green coats and I am always drawn to any sweater whose threads create a green warmth. And in my part of the world the amount of rain we have received has given rise to greenness everywhere they eye lands. On a drive along the Wisconsin side of the river over the weekend, I could have been lured into believing I was in Ireland if there had only been more sheep and stone fences. My eyes were very, very happy! I am sure the farmers are also happy as they have been enduring a severe drought over the last springs.

The color green spells such promise…of beauty, of growth, of the longed for summer days that will be here before we know it. Green heralds the bounty of our gardens and of the Midwestern fields that will soon be sporting stalks of corn and rows of soybeans. I have been watching as the trees in my neighborhood begin to leaf and I marvel at the varying greens that each one offers to the world. Driving across the Mississippi River as I do every day, I focus my eyes on the ever increasing palette of green that paints and frames the now burgeoning water. From chartreuse to kelly and on to deep, forest green, the picture unfolds.

Every Sunday I sit in the sanctuary of the church I attend and look up at the stained glass windows that tell stories of faith of the Christian household. I love this community and this church building for a myriad of reasons but one is that each week I am graced by the looming presence of a green faced Jesus. It is one of the first things I noticed about this church when I began attending. This central figure in the front of the sanctuary has a green face, green hands and green feet. It is subtle but green nonetheless. I love this for so many reasons. For one, I am reminded of my Celtic ancestry and the Green Man that plays a central role as a harbinger of the season of spring and the rebirth of all things. Like my green coats, I probably also have too many of these wild, leafy-faced fellows gracing my walls. While I do not know the intention of the artist who created this window, I love this green faced Jesus because he reminds me that this faith household that I have chosen and who has chosen me when I have been unable to choose it is an ever-unfolding, ever-growing pursuit to make meaning of what it means to be human.A pursuit that spans the ages with all its changes and complexities 

This pursuit walked into the spotlight over the last weeks. The church I have loved since I was a teenager chose to give itself to that unfolding, that growing. The church I was drawn to as a young person because it stood for justice for all people and worked for peace and solidarity during the Civil Rights movement and the Viet Nam War, finally opened the doors to  officially include all people. By removing harmful language and practices toward our LGBTQIA siblings, the United Methodist Church opened its heart and its doors to the greening power of love. And while this does not mean that all people are in total agreement, the process has allowed for there to be enough room, enough light, and enough nurturance for new things to grow. 

The medieval mystic Hildegard of Bingen wrote of ‘viriditas’, the greening power of the Divine. In a cautionary note she also wrote, “Now in the people that were meant to be green there is no more life of any kind.” Writing for her time about situations I know nothing about but were holding her heart captive, she called out to the people of faith to open themselves to the greening power of the Universe.

The people who were meant to be green. It seem to me that each spring the Earth harnesses that ‘viriditas’, that greening power of the Divine and we once again see the rebirth of all that was dead and dormant. And every now and then the people who were meant to be green make the choice to be just that…green and growing…green and unfolding…green and open to the promise of new life. All change is difficult and making large, systemic steps toward a new way, a new life is almost always full of pain and uncertainty. 

Yet that urging toward greening is at the heart of who we are as people and at the heart of how the world moves. The green-faced Jesus looking out at me reminds me of this every Sunday and I vow once again to try as best I can to be a part of it. As Hildegard also said:” The Word is living, being, spirit, all verdant greening, all creativity. This Word manifests itself in every creature.”

And so we move on…

Not long ago my older son said something that has stuck with me and I have been mulling over. Holding up a card I had received he said: “Mom, you do know that there is going to come a time when people are not going to be able to read this.” He was referring to the words written in cursive that covered the paper. He then told me that there were times when he struggled a bit with cards or letters I sent him written in my own hand…in a pattern taught by my elementary school teachers…in what I later came to know as the Palmer method.As a pint sized version of myself, I remember looking up at the letters that scrolled along the blackboard, their fully formed alphabet in uppercase and lowercase. As a young reader and writer they seemed a goal to attain, a mark of growing up, of being on my way to higher learning. Being a child who wanted to not only write but who was drawn to the beautiful I sought to write like that with loops and swirls that made ordinary letters soar above towards something larger.

Cursive has fallen out of favor these days. Neither of my children learned it and only now use it for their signatures. Printing is the way of writing and computers are the instrument of stories and papers handed into teachers. I am not saying this is a bad thing. There is a clarity in those boxy words for sure. But I was very heartened by a story I read a few weeks ago in the Minneapolis Star Tribune about two students from greater Minnesota who had won prizes in a cursive writing contest. Zaner-Bloser, an Ohio based company that markets curriculum to elementary schools hosts a national handwriting contest. Reading about the winners made my heart swell! 

Last year while volunteering at the local elementary school helping students with reading and some writing skills, one of the children asked me:” Would you teach me how to write fancy?” It took a minute to register what she was asking. Cursive!She wanted to learn to write in cursive. Of course, I was elated to do this since we had some extra time and we continued the practice after our regular lessons were finished. I loved that, at least to her, cursive was fancy.

As a young child I would spend spare time simply practicing ‘writing fancy’. I would pretend to address envelopes in my ever-evolving script. The pinnacle came when I discovered my Mother’s books on shorthand and a whole new world opened to me. I would hunch over the kitchen table copying jots and tittles whose meaning was lost on me. I just liked making this other kind of ‘fancy’ writing.

Recently a friend was at my house and we were making some plans for a project we were creating together. She is someone who does mixed-media art and she showed me this page from an old diary. On the page the writer had written in lovely cursive and then…just in case someone had found the diary…had switched to shorthand for the juicy bits. Seeing this on one page was so satisfying. 

I have no idea what the ultimate fate of cursive is. Many things that once were out of fashion return. I can hope. But for now, I salute Caden Baun, a fourth-grader from Lamberton, Minnesota who is headed to the National Handwriting Contest. And also,10-year-old Zita Miller of St. Anne’s Academy in White Bear Lake who took a top prize. 

Thank you for your hard work and perseverance and congratulations on keeping ‘fancy’ in the world!