During the lock down days of the pandemic I went to these words by author, farmer-poet Wendell Berry quite often:

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

The wisdom of these words grounded me, caused me to take a deep breath and to remember my place in the family of things. How there are creatures whose knowing is often richer and fuller than my human abilities. I would read them and imagine that body of water, those winged ones, the stars that are there even when I cannot see. It became a sign of the ‘grace of the world’ when grace often felt in short supply.

These last days in anticipation of this very consequential election that looms, I have been drawn back to them. And it has pushed me to envision what I can do in the next hours, days and probably weeks to rest in that kind of wisdom. I have been thinking about what I can do to relieve my anxiety and to help me rest in the grace of the world which once again seems to be a shadow on the edges of our daily lives.

So, I began to make some lists. Here goes. Every day I will remember to take deep, long breaths preferably of the fresh air outdoors in an autumn that is simply warmer and more beautiful than is usual. I have decided to make something every day…even if it is a sandwich…some act that brings to birth something that wasn’t there before and was created by my two hands. If it is music or art or a poem, even better. Reaching out to friends and making human connection will be very important so I will do that as many times a day as seems necessary. I will drink plenty of water remembering that I am made up mostly of this life-giving liquid. I will read beautiful words and listen to inspiring music. I will watch only what uplifts and brings me joy. If this includes a Hallmark movie or two or three, no judgment there. And I will recite the names of people I love and have loved and whose presence has shaped me and instilled a vision of hope in me. I will find ways to laugh, hopefully fully-body laugh, tears down your face laughter. I will spend as much time outside as possible unplugged from the media sources whose job seems to be to stir up fear and the anxiety I am fleeing. And I will walk…and walk…and walk some more holding close the Latin words “solvitur ambulando”…it is solved by walking. 

In thinking about what the next days will offer up I was also reminded of a short Colman Barks poem that always made me laugh and also rang with such truth: 

A child stood on his seat in a restaurant,
holding the railing of the chair back
as though to address a courtroom.

“Nobody knows what’s going to happen next.”

Then his turning-slide back down to his food,
relieved and proud to say the truth,
as were we to hear it.

Indeed, no one does know what will happen next and we have very little power to influence it except to vote. HAVE YOU VOTED?! Yet we do have choices about how we will traverse this time, how we will seek out the ‘grace of the world.’

What are your plans? I invite you to share them. They may help some one else which is grace in and of itself, isn’t it?

These words have been growing in me for several months yet I have not taken the time to set them down in print. For me the last months have been a time of many life events…those times that lift humans above the ordinary of laundry and shopping lists, of making dinner and vacuuming the carpet. Over the last weeks and months people in my life have celebrated significant birthdays and there are still some to be sung into a new decade. People I know have brought babies into the world with all the joy and promise that always accompanies such a miracle. And it has been a privilege to witness as two lovely young couples in my life walked down an aisle to be married as those that love them deeply and fiercely beamed the light of love and hope upon them. We often call these ‘life events’ as they become markers for a new chapter, an opening, a turning, a time of what was before and what will come after.

What has been growing in me as I have been present to all these is how each life event is certainly about what is happening in the present moment and yet carries with it so, so much more. In each of these transitioning times there is also a sense of those who may not be physically present but whose spirit hovers near. In the minds and hearts of those who are living the life event there exists the flicker of light of those who have gone before, those who inspired and supported, those who cautioned and cared. And of course, each person who walks into the room has bags fully packed with joy and sorrow, disappointment and desire, dreams realized and those dashed… all that life has thrown their way. I have come to think of it as this vast tapestry of the vulnerabilities and triumphs of humanity, a cloak that draws around whomever is the focus of the event itself, a crazy quilt of embodied love. It is a joy to behold.

Perhaps it is the season of autumn that is drawing these thoughts together for me. Looking out my window now the trees are the visual reminder of cycles etched deep in how life works.In my particular yard, many have let go their leaves while others hang on for dear life. Scattered in the nooks and crannies of my deck some of those leaves have already turned brittle and brown. They carry what they knew of their green, verdant hue while preparing to be the mulch that brings the new life that will emerge in a few months. Their beauty is perhaps no longer visible yet their ability to bring life still exists. This represents their own ‘life event.’ 

The poet Lucille Clifton wrote this about this time of the year:

the lessons of the falling leaves

the leaves believe
such letting go is love
such love is faith
such faith is grace
such grace is god
i agree with the leaves

While we mark certain times as ‘life events’ the reality is that we walk through all our days with the spirits of those who are not visible as companion, their words of encouragement urging us on. We make our way through each day flanked by people whose pain and happiness, whose grief and goodness helps fuel our next steps. And like the leaves of the trees around us we are letting go in the hopes that what falls away may give birth to a newness we have not yet imagined. Love. Faith. Grace. God. 

I agree with the leaves.

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.