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!

April is National Poetry Month. I have never known who makes these proclamations. It is not that have anything against the celebration of pretty much anything, it is that I have wondered who decides. Of course, many, myself included, think every day, every month, is a time to celebrate and lift up the gift of poetry. I am in at least two groups that use poetry as the organizing element. We gather. We read poetry. We reflect on it. It is a gentle way to spend a couple of hours. I imagine the same hours could be spent in a lot less significant ways. 

Over the last days I have been taking a moment to reread and rest in some of my favorite poems while also delving into some new to me. I came back to one by Wendell Berry that I have loved for some time. Here is the poem I love which I shared with one of the groups I mentioned the night before Easter. The actual title of the poem is Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front:

…So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion – put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Now I am not smart enough to do any analysis of this poem or to guess what Berry’s intentions were in the phrases he chose. I only know the lines that call me to myself, to question my own intentions and to marvel at the power of this often overlooked literary medium. For. that reason alone, I am thankful for April and its attribution as poetry month. I mean, how can a person not be pinned to the mat with things like “Be joyful though you have considered all the facts.” and “Love someone who doesn’t deserve it.” And most of all…”Practice resurrection.”

What does resurrection look like? And how do we practice it? Every person will answer that question differently at a variety of times in their days, in their lives. But as I shared this poem with my friends I also shared a photo of an azalea bush I was witness to in Wales last May. At that point in my travels I had seen an array of sacred places dedicated to all manner of definitions of resurrection. But this bush…this enormous, beautiful, colorful bush grown beyond imagining…was a brilliant symbol of life in its fullest form. Brought back from winter’s rest, this bush-turned-tree shone forth into the world with such beauty and vibrancy that it stopped all who saw it and called to them to come and stand in its presence. In the past someone planted an azalea bush…not a sequoia as the poet writes…yet its growing and living again and again allowed others to “put faith in the two inches of humus that will build under the trees.” Perhaps the practice comes in not only the rebirth but the noticing.

April is not only a month for poetry. It is also a time when the Earth calls to us to practice…practice resurrection in the hope that we will continue to plant and to notice each and every day of our precious lives. May it be so…

“Because even the smallest of words can be the ones to hurt you, or save you.” 
? Natsuki Takaya

There is a saying many of us were probably told when we were young either by a parent or a teacher: “Sticks and stone may break my bones but words will never hurt me.” At some point we quickly realize that, while the intention may have been admirable, the words were simply untrue. Words have the power to hurt or heal, manipulate or move, comfort or confound, soothe or scar. How we use words is so on my mind these days as our lives seem to be flooded by a near constant barrage of cavalier statements by world leaders, politicians, and others that take to the bully pulpit that social media has become. 

Recently I began to make some mental connections about all this word play while doing my gig as a volunteer at the airport. I wrote about this new pastime a couple of weeks ago. During my time there the words I say most often are: “Can I help?” This question is posed to someone standing, staring at a screen on the wall or in their hand. They look everything from confused to exhausted to frightened. When I say those three words…”Can I help?”, I have most often seen their faces relax, their shoulders drop from their ears and they give themselves over for at least a moment to receiving someone’s guidance, someone offering a quick bit of help that will move them along in their day. For me, as the one who asks the question, it becomes a quick interchange of humanity that lightens my own heart and fills me with a sense that, at least in this instance, I can do something to help a fellow Earth traveler. Of course, this kind of help does not come close to being help they may need in other parts of their lives. But for now it is a pretty good thing.

This led me to thinking about the other ways in which certain words, certain phrases, have the power to make an impact. “Welcome.” is a good place to start. Doors are flung open wide when someone offers this greeting. Who knows what could happen?  “I’m sorry.” is another that can make all the difference in the world. And then there is “I forgive you.” How many people are waiting to hear just those three little words? And, of course, there is the pinnacle of three words…”I love you.” Something we all long to hear. Over and over again.

All these words, though small and ordinary, carry the gift to shift situations, circumstances, lives. And when those words are prefaced by someone saying our name, allowing it to form and come to life on another’s tongue, that is the proverbial cherry on the sundae. Saying our name says:”I see you. I care about you. I want to connect with you.” Hearing our name spoken in a caring, compassionate voice is like honey dripping from the mouth of the Holy.

One last phrase. My dear, beloved husband who left this Earth too soon always said that all people really want to hear is:”Everything’s going to be okay.” This is what he believed children, teenagers, adults want to be told again and again. In sermons. In speeches. In classrooms. Across kitchen tables. “Everything is going to be okay.” While it may not be what we want or what we hoped for, in the big scheme of Everything, it will be some kind of okay. For those in situations around this whirling planet who are living under unimaginable terror and pain, perhaps it is up to the rest of us to work and pray and vote to make this statement come to life. The Sun and Moon will rise. The seasons will move from one to the other. Someplace in all that there is an ‘okay’ living for us to hold onto.

Over the next months there will be many moments when it may seem as if the fraying will threaten to undo us. Perhaps then is the time when we each can say to at least one other person: “Can I help?” “Welcome.” “I’m sorry.” “I forgive you.” “I see you.” “I care about you.” “I love you.” 

“Everything’s going to be okay.”

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” 
? Lao Tzu

There is a bit of the wanderlust in me. Traveling is something I seek, something I crave. It doesn’t have to be to far off places necessarily, though that is wonderful, but can be a short trip just hours away from my home. Someplace I’ve been before or someplace yet to be discovered. I know people who are contented to be in one place and who never desire to venture far from their home. In some ways I have envy for that way of being. Others still have a myriad of reasons that traveling is impossible even if their hearts are pulled toward other places. But I’m always up for a trip…to any place.

This deep nudge toward travel has been a part of me for as long as I can remember. And I have been blessed to be able to scratch that itch when it happens. I love what being able to travel has brought to my life. The chance to see how others live, how they have created beauty, what they value, the food they love, how they gather, how they worship, what infuses joy in their lives…all these have enriched my own way of seeing and being in the world. I come back from nearly every experience changed in some way. As the author Henry Miller wrote:” One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.”  And that gift of seeing with new eyes is one I am so grateful for. 

A few months ago I did training to be a volunteer at the Minneapolis/St. Paul Airport. I have always loved airports and the opportunity to spend time in this beautiful one has opened my eyes to new glimpses of the vast world that spins around me. My work is to simply be present and to help people make their way from one place to another. I answer questions, try to calm anxieties, point people toward their next flight or the car or train they need to catch. In those encounters I sometimes get to hear some of their story and then silently bless them on their way. And in some way I get to travel vicariously through them. I leave the airport at the end of my shift full of their excitement and energized with this chance to walk alongside a stranger for a short leg of their journey 

Increasingly it seems to me, the need for encountering other humans whose lives may be different than ours is in short supply. Mostly we tend to surround ourselves with those who look like us, think like us, pray like us, vote like us. At the airport all this melting pot of people gets stirred together in the lines and the gates and the baggage and the anticipation of people’s ‘what next’. “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts.” writes Mark Twain. I have found the wisdom of this American sage to be true both in my own travels and in witnessing to the travels of others. What most often rises up is kindness and a genuine hope that we are all traveling together in some way. 

Every time I go to volunteer I am reminded of the opening scene in the movie Love Actually. Do you remember it? The voice of actor Hugh Grant is heard over scenes at Heathrow Airport of people reuniting and greeting one another as they arrive from their flights. His words point out that when the Twin Towers fell the words shared by people calling family and friends were ones of love and not hate. In the film the individual scenes at the arrivals gate is multiplied over and over until there is a full screen of people expressing delight and welcome, love and joy. 

I get to see this nearly every time I volunteer. Of course there are sometimes frenzied, crabby, even exhausted people every now and then. But they are not the norm. Most people have faces reflecting anticipation of what lies before them…a vacation, an interview, a life change, a new grandchild, an adventure, a loved one, a surprise. Or at least that is how I see it. I hope  my face reflects back to each person that it has been a privilege to have my life brush against theirs for this one moment in time. I hope our encounter makes their journey just a little bit gentler. I’d like to think that they will arrive at their destination knowing that someone noticed them and felt gratitude for what we shared.

In case you have forgotten…or never saw that scene here it is…

Over the last weeks the Star Tribune has been running a series on loneliness. Statistics state there is an epidemic of it. We have been talking about this since Robert Putnam’s book Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community was published in 2001. The series has offered ways people have addressed the loneliness in their lives, a loneliness that seems to be present no matter age, gender, occupation, education or economic status  Of course, some of this has been heightened by the isolation many experienced during the pandemic and has lingered, perhaps even grown in the confusion of living into the what next.  People describe how they have searched out making friends. Friends in their neighborhoods. Friends at work. Friends that share interests.Sometimes there is success and other times not so much. 

Friends. As I have read these accounts I was reminded of the Simon and Garfunkel song from my earlier years…

Old friends, old friends
Sat on their park bench like bookends
A newspaper blown through the grass
Falls on the round toes
Of the high shoes of the old friends… 

The memory of listening to this song when I was in my twenties always brought about such a melancholy. The image of these people sitting on a park bench was outside my reality and probably something about it conjured a kind of fear in me. It might have actually been a fear of loneliness. Certainly it was a fear of what growing older might mean, might be like.

This past week I had the privilege of spending time with old friends. Friends I had known at the same time as this song was playing on turntables in bedrooms and dorm rooms, spinning sweet sentiment in the hearts of listeners. With this group of old friends, there were no park benches but there was a sense of knowing we had, by this time, lived some life with all its joys, losses, triumphs and failures and that we were there,blessedly present to one another. The melancholy was absent but the knowing and the  laughter and the gratitude was full. 

Old friends, winter companions, the old men
Lost in their overcoats, waiting for the sunset
The sounds of the city sifting through trees
Settle like dust on the shoulders of the old friends

These old friends and I had made music together in a choir when we were on the cusp of discovering what our grown up lives would be. We had traveled together and had experiences in places far away from anything any of us had known up to that point, experiences most of us had not ever imagined for ourselves. We were shaped and changed by the music making and the travel and the friendships that were forged by it all. The dust that settled on us has recently been stirred up by reunions and memories and a desire to honor what we had together. Though we all now live in different places around the country, we are drawn back to place a marker on what once was and to tip our hats to the places we now find ourselves. This coming together carries a sweetness, a sweetness that I now hear in this song, something I had missed listening with my younger ears.

Friendships come in all shapes and sizes. As the reporting on loneliness describes, it takes effort and intention to overcome. The friendships that endure from childhood and youth are rare as people are more mobile and stray farther from home. The intense friendships we had in college or early adulthood, those we thought would last forever, get interrupted by partners and growing families, by careers, by transience.  As years unfold, friendships get lost and new ones are formed and if we are lucky…or blessed…we find one or two people who are the ones we call our besties. Those that know us for who we are, warts and all, that will walk with us through the mud and mire and can laugh, hard, until we are weak from it all.

Can you imagine us years from today
Sharing a park bench quietly?
How terribly strange to be 70
Old friends, memory brushes the same years
Silently sharing the same fears.

I think back to the times when I listened to this song and felt all those conflicting feelings about these imagined characters created by the pen of Paul Simon. I know these people now. And I feel such gratitude for knowing there are people with whom I can share fears and memories and maybe even a park bench. 

****Have a listen here…https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7A76lTte8qE

‘But ask the animals, and they will teach you;
    the birds of the air, and they will tell you;
ask the plants of the earth,and they will teach you;
    and the fish of the sea will declare to you.
Who among all these does not know
    that the hand of the Holy One has done this?’
Job 12:7-9

For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated by those who have been named as Saints. Certainly, I have known many humans who I would call saint but here I am talking about those who have been named by the Church as those who have lived a life extraordinary enough to be somehow set apart a bit from the rest of us. For this Protestant this is something to admit I realize. Yet it is true. I have any number of amulets and icons scattered about my house that speak to this fascination. In the places I travel I am always on the look out for images that celebrate these sources of wisdom and devotion.

Perhaps the most well known is, of course, St. Francis of Assisi. A few years ago I was privileged to travel with a group of people to the places in Italy where he lived, walked, taught, and urged simplicity. Even writing these words brings a flood of memories and feelings that were imprinted upon my soul in those places. Walking the streets of Assisi and Gubbio which still seem to carry the essence of his simple yet profound spirit can wash over me in a flash. Somehow the people who live there carry forward the light and wisdom in his honor. Or so it seems. 

I was reminded of this last week as I was walking along Summit Avenue in Saint Paul. It was one of those crazy days we had when it was 50 degrees and the humans making their way down this historic, stately street, had the goofy look on their faces of those who did not know quite where they were…what month it was…how this temperature was even possible. In February. In Minnesota. As I passed one of the row houses built at the turn of the 20th century, I saw flittering and fluttering of the winged kind. As I got nearer, I saw that it was not only the humans who seemed ecstatic in their praise of the day, so were the birds that swooped and swarmed around a bird bath and several feeders. These feathered creatures were simply giddy with the prospect of taking a dip followed by a snack. I stood and watched and laughed out loud at their enthusiasm. What lessons were they imparting?

Watching them I remembered a dear friend who left us this year and his love of birds and the above verses from the Book of Job. The idea that we are taught by the birds of the air was the sermon he preached anytime he was given the chance. Just as St Francis did. Francis was said to have remarked “Preach the gospel at all times. If necessary, use words.” and also “While you are proclaiming peace with your lips, be careful to have it even more fully in your heart.” Watching what appeared to be a joyful sermon from those little birds brought a peace and grounding to my day. In all the turmoil of our world, these feathered teachers proclaimed a kind of peace from their very tiny hearts.

Francis was born in the tiny hilltop village of Assisi, Italy in 1182 and died in 1226. The writer and historian Coleman Barks said of him that he “was so empty of nervous haste and fear and aggression that the birds would light on him.” And when he died at twilight on October 4, 1226, it is said the larks rose up to the roof of his cell and circled it with wing beat and song. What a wonderful image!!

Teachers come to us in a variety of forms. On that particular day on a street far from Assisi, the birds and the spirit of St. Francis offered lessons. Of how to be present. Of how to be joyful. Of how to celebrate the gift of warm temperatures and blessed sunshine. And above all, how to be grateful.

****Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love. Francis of Assisi

If you search the internet for words people have spoken about expectations, you will find something to the effect of “Expect nothing and you’ll never be disappointed.” attributed to many people. It seems a tidbit of wisdom that many live by. I have been thinking of expectations over these last weeks as the temperatures in Minnesota have been very warm and what little snow we had on the ground has melted. The truth is, living in this state known for cold and ice and snow, we expect this to always be the case. A Christmas without snow? Travesty! Not being able to skate, walk, or drive your car onto the ice from sometime in December till March? Unheard of. No need to layer upon layer before headed out to shovel or dig or simply walk to the car? Crazy talk! We have expectations.

Yet our expectations have been shattered along with records for temperature, snowfall, and ice depth. Yesterday I saw people running in shorts and t-shirts. Today’s paper carried a photo of a young woman cross country skiing in shorts and a tank top. The snow had been made by a machine, no doubt the same kind of contraption that created the snow for the snow sculptures that were created for the St. Paul Winter Carnival that now lay in lumpy heaps.  Make no mistake about it this weather has made for an easier life…no digging out, no chopping ice, no spreading of salt or other compounds to melt the sidewalk. Yet, I’ve come to expect the cold and the work that winter brings. It helps to keep my life in balance…makes me appreciate the spring and warmth and eventually the summer. Talking with others we express our confusion and general sense of how to behave in any rational fashion in the face of it all. Choosing to live here means having certain expectations and certain concessions to the life we chose.

Today, February 1st, the Sun is shining and it promises to be nearly 50 degrees. This day in the Celtic calendar marks the first day of the season of Spring,called Imbolc, sitting midway between the Winter and Summer Solstices. I have always loved this. While the weather may be messing with my seasonal expectations, marking this date as this shift has always brought me a certain sense of order and hope. The fact that it is also the Feast Day of St. Brigid, one of the patron saints of Ireland, makes the day twice as sweet. 

So, this morning I made a kind of homage to the bridge of the day. I pulled out the paper white bulbs that had been resting in a brown paperbag in a closet and prepared them for what they might become. The weather outside may not be what it normally is on the first day of February but the bulbs do not know this. The Sun that will draw them to their green and white height will be their own kind of expectation. And I will get to be present to it and revel in its power. 

The wise woman and author Caitlin Matthews writes this Song of Imbolc for this day:

I am the unopened bud, and I the blossom,
I am the life-force gathering to a crest,
I am the still companion of silence, 
I am the far-flung seeker of the quest.
I am the daughter gathering in wisdom,
I am the son whose questions never cease,
I am the dawn-light searching out glad justice,
I am the center where all souls find peace.

My expectations of winter may have been dashed for the time being. But there are weeks to go in this new year and who knows what they will bring? For the time being, on this first day of Celtic spring, I will celebrate the unopened bud, the blossom, the life-force, the silence, this quest. And I will pray that my soul…and all souls…find peace.

Most people no doubt missed the celebration on Sunday, January 21st. Not to worry. It was neither a religious or a patriotic holiday. It was one that went unnoticed for most except a couple of my Facebook friends who are ‘in the know’. What was special about this past winter Sunday you ask? It was National Squirrel Appreciation Day. So there. Who knew? Who names these days continues to be a mystery to me. But on the new calendar I opened for 2024 graced by the art of someone I much admire and have followed for some time, the date is clearly marked and honored. National Squirrel Appreciation Day was lifted up by David M. Bird as a part of his whimsical images of acorns turned into human-like figures doing all manner of precious things. If you have not seen his work, I commend it to you. https://www.davidmbird.com/gallery

So it is time for confession. Squirrels are often the bane of my existence. The ways in which they get the birdseed I place in the feeders is maddening. During tulip blooming time, the way they knock the blossom off the tulip without even eating it has, on occasion, caused me to run from the house chasing them back to their safe perch on a fence or tree limb looking back at me like the crazy person I must seem. So it was a good reminder that, at least according to this calendar, there is a day to appreciate these little beings with long, fluffy tails. 

And while I may not always appreciate them, I can say I always have a certain admiration for the ways they live in the world. Watching from the deck on a summer’s day as they scurry along the wires like acrobats fills me with awe for their balance and agility. Watching them propel their gray furry bodies from wire to limb to the metal pole of the bird feeder is quite impressive to say nothing of their speed in crossing a street safely.  Gazing up at the bare winter branches and seeing their nests, their homes, gives me pause on these bitter, windy, winter days. Is this appreciation? I hope it is. Maybe there is some absolution in that. 

Of course, there is also their playful nature which is something I wish I could emulate more often. The ways in which they run and jump and chase one another brings laughter to my heart and I hope some kind of squirrel joy to them. That playful quality is echoed in a poem by the equally playful poet Bill Collins in a poem titled Palermo:

It was foolish of us to leave our room.
The empty plaza was shimmering.
The clock looked ready to melt.
The heat was a mallet striking a ball
and sending it bouncing into the nettles of summer.
Even the bees had knocked off for the day.
The only thing moving besides us
(and we had since stopped under an awning)
was a squirrel who was darting this way and that

as if he were having second thoughts
about crossing the street,
his head and tail twitching with indecision.

You were looking in a shop window
but I was watching the squirrel
who now rose up on his hind legs,

and after pausing to look in all directions,
began to sing in a beautiful voice
a melancholy aria about life and death,

his forepaws clutched against his chest,
his face full of longing and hope,
as the sun beat down
on the roofs and awnings of the city,

and the earth continued to turn
and hold in position the moon
which would appear later that night

as we sat in a cafe
and I stood up on the table
with the encouragement of the owner

and sang for you and the others
the song the squirrel had taught me how to sing.

While one could say that National Squirrel Appreciation Day has passed for this year, I suppose there is nothing to keep any of us from appreciating them any day we think of it. Appreciate and salute their agile abilities…their jumping…their leaping…their scurrying…their courage…their resilience…their  playfulness…their song.