On the most excellent way: Rocks and remaining

Two small sections of my dreams remained with me when I woke up this morning, and I was somehow reminded of them by the slow and rhythmic swing of the hammock this afternoon. The one I will reflect on today was of a large rock that I was unable to move despite my best efforts. On waking, the familiar words “If I have faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing” joined this dream picture; so later, on my sunny hammock, I turned to 1 Corinthians 13, that passage beloved of weddings and quote books, to be reminded...

Love: The most excellent way. Also the most challenging way: often so difficult to truly find, then fraught with pain and failure and disappointment, and oh-so-hard to remain on and walk well.

But, I reflected today, could this most excellent way be so hard largely because it is so simple and so unrewarding in the ways I desire to be rewarded? I have no great longing to move real mountains with my faith or my prayers, but there are plenty of metaphorical mountains I would like to see completely out of the picture. It is so easy to believe – somewhere deep inside, though often not consciously – that it is the removal of certain situations, challenges, imperfections, sadnesses or deficiencies that would finally complete my life, making me utterly happy and fulfilled. Another angle on this metaphor is that moving a mountain or a rock has a certain thrill and triumph about it; its removal (or moval?!)  is a concrete, measurable, noticeable achievement. And who doesn’t love those?  Thus it is also easy to believe that experiences of achievement and accomplishment are what I am lacking and need to pursue.

Yet, in my dream, the rock I was trying and failing to move remained, and the challenge was issued – is constantly and wordlessly issued – despite and in place of this failure: to make love my goal and my priority. In other words, this dream task I was focussed on and failing at was not really the needful, important task at all. The task I’ve been called to, and that all of us have surely been called to in different ways and contexts, is simply (and challengingly) to love. Though maybe the way of love has the potential to be less challenging if I really make it the focus of my desires, energies and priorities; if I turn my back for a moment on the rock that calls me so urgently and ask instead what it would mean to love, just to love – here and now.

And so, today, I faced a whole day with nothing in my diary; no appointments, no great tasks, no worthy achievements awaited me. But what I did have was a family I love and who I am lucky enough to be loved by in return (as if this love began with me!); and a home to tend and create for them, a task that often seems so small and yet so never-ending and thankless. Such an apparently thankless and endless task begs the pointed question: what, in fact, makes me ‘something’? And what makes me ‘nothing’? 

To (try to) move mountains without love, I continue to learn, is what makes me nothing. But to turn my focus away from the mountains – either the great challenges and imperfections, or achievements and glories – and bend down to love, even after I have failed at this task twenty times already today? This is the most excellent way.

 

This is how I learn to remain in his love, and I have discovered too long and slow that apart from this love I can do nothing.

So, today, the rock I turned my eyes from was my ‘To Do’ list, and the tyranny of the computer, and the ego demands of ‘productivity’ with associated recriminations of ‘uselessness’; and the bending down and reaching up to love took the form of tidying my kitchen, preparing a simple summer lunch to share over conversation with my husband in the garden, hanging laundry in the sun, walking to pick up my daughter from school, and giving her space of time and heart to talk out her eight-year-old worries. And here’s the unsurprising surprise: it was precious, and priceless, and simple, and satisfying. No doubt there will be days to turn love towards the moving of mountains (can the two not come together?), but not today.

You can't contain a child

You can't contain a child

Let one loose in a field

And she will run, fly

Too much life in the limbs to walk

Always the full charge

All this waiting life calls for dash and tear

Tearing to open this moment’s present

To be present to it all

Not so simple simple things?

Nothing very profound to say, but just something I’ve been mulling over today. As I walked barefoot down the length of the lawn today to hang the laundry out on our clothesline slung between two tall trees, surrounded by lush green, it was one of those satisfying moments when I was very grateful for what I see as a ‘simple thing’. Then I got to thinking that I have not always had these privileges: a lawn of my own, trees surrounding my home, or even an outside space to hang my clothes. And there have also been times in my life where I’ve had no washing machine and have had to lug loads of dirty (and then clean!) laundry around. So today’s activity is a ‘simple thing’ for me at this point in my life, and I’m happy when I’m grateful for it, because I often simply take it for granted. But for ‘former me’s’, and for countless other people in this world, my ‘simple things’ are far from simple; in fact, they would be luxuries. It reminds me of something our friends Walter and Carol Thiessen have said before about a time in their life when they did not have much money: that being poor is far from ‘the simple life’; it is very complicated, and extremely hard work, and exhausting. I have experienced little tastes of this reality, and I watch others experience it still; I hate how utterly soul-destroying and strength-sapping the simple struggle to survive can become. I wish it was not the case for anyone, especially not those I know and love, and I long to know if and how I can be part of changing this.

Another little example of what has sparked these reflections… Earlier this week, hours before a hoard of wonderful friends were due to join us for an evening BBQ, and minutes before Jeremy planned to set in to wash the latest mountain of dishes, the tap to our house water snapped off in his hands while he was trying to turn it off to mend something. Panic! How can we do the dishes, make iced tea, put flowers in a vase, shower off the sweat of the humid day… without water?! But… we live in Canada and have a phone, and we can call and get an emergency guy from the town to come out within minutes and mend the tap, and we are fortunate enough to be able to pay him, and the day’s plans went on, and the party went off without a hitch. Our panic was unnecessary, no back-breaking labour or complicated problem-solving ensued, and we were not even inconvenienced. Our life is simple because we are, in relative terms, rich.

So… I know these thoughts are the clichéd reflections of one of the privileged few, but they are genuine nonetheless. And at least they leave me aware that I am privileged, and desiring to be grateful more often and to learn to be more generous, wise, just and open-handed with what I have.

Ten reasons I love my hammock

My hammock is one of my relatively new loves, though certainly a highly seasonal one. My Mum and Dad gave me a cheerful red hammock with multi-coloured stripes years ago, but we could never use it in our rental house in England. So when we came here and bought a house with a big ‘back yard’, I was disproportionately excited to have somewhere to hang it at last. It is slung between two trees in one of the far corners of our plot, and I love walking down the length of the lawn to reach it. When we got it out this season, we couldn’t work out why it didn’t feel as relaxing as it did last year. Was this just in our heads? Then we realised that, sadly, it had shrunk a bit because we’d left it out in the rain a few times, and so Jeremy – aware of this other love of mine – thoughtfully gave me a wonderful new double hammock for my birthday. I can fully stretch my arms and legs out in it, a luxury I don’t get sharing a Queen sized bed with another six-foot adult! But it’s too difficult for kids to get into, so we’ll keep, and sometimes hang, the old one for them. You know, maybe my excitement about finally being able to hang a hammock wasn’t disproportionate at all; I mean, I found TEN things that I love about it. That’s a lot of love! I’m hoping I can spread a little of this amour du hamac around and convince some people to get one themselves! Here are my ten things:

1) My hammock gets me outside even if it’s a little too hot or a little too cold; on the first sort of day, my hammock is pleasantly sheltered by dappled shade from tall trees, and on the second I can take out a blanket with me and wrap myself in it snugly. In fact, it’s one of the first ways I can enjoy being outside when the snow has all melted and the grass is just green, but there are still hardly any leaves on the trees, as you can see in this photo (the hammock - with my daughter in it - is the red splodge in the distance!):

2) I don’t feel guilty about sitting or lying down in it for a quick rest – it somehow feels like an event, an activity, rather than just the lack of… It’s also easier to relax outside because I’m not surrounded by all the tasks I need to do and messes I need to clear up. Even if I only have ten minutes, a little rest in the hammock leaves me feeling remarkably refreshed.

3) Ordinary activities somehow become more special when they take place in a hammock: reading a book, sharing an afternoon snack or ice lolly, sitting down for a chat… I even slept the night in my parents’ hammock one balmy summer night many moons ago; it was wonderful to watch the stars as I fell asleep, and be rocked as I slumbered, but I don’t know how the sailors did it, because my back complained in the morning!

4) I can watch the seasons changing by looking up at the trees overhead. In the spring, when I first lie looking up, there isn’t a single leaf on the trees, but slowly the green appears and soon there’s a veritable canopy above my head, and only glimpses of blue sky peaking through. Then in the autumn, the greens gradually change to fire – a treat for the senses.

5) Naps are far better in a hammock – the motion lulls you to sleep like a mother rocking a cradle. I hate napping in bed, and don’t mind a couch, but the hammock is my siesta-site of choice, and is conducive to the only-just-drifting-off kind of snooze that I prefer.

6) I feel more aware of and connected to the trees and the wind, especially when the wind blows and the trees bend and move the hammock. I understand why those free-standing metal frames for hammocks exist – it’s a good idea if you don’t have any trees – but I do think you’d miss out on one rather glorious aspect of real hammocking.

7) Although at first I wished there were trees closer to the house that I could hang the hammock on, I am now very glad that it’s at the bottom of the garden. I can survey my ‘territory’ from afar, and get perspective on my life and my faraway house, which helps me go back into the fray more grateful and more centered.

8) It’s a great place to pray because I feel instantly ‘treated’ and more relaxed when I climb into the hammock. This means I’m more likely to approach prayer as the treat and joy that it is – relaxing into being known, loved and delighted in – rather than with anxiety, duty or too much effort.

9) I have the most wonderful conversations with my daughter Amélie in the hammock. It’s usually difficult to get her to stay still for very long, but perhaps it’s the motion of the hammock that allows her to stop and rest with me for a moment. The hammock is the place where we’ll often talk about important things, or where she’ll tell or ask me things that might not have come up in the busyness of everyday life.

10) For kids, a hammock is like a communal swing, and how much more fun could there be?! Amélie can sit and swing in our hammock with three little friends, or lie flat in it with one friend and claim to be a stripy banana, or be pushed until she screams (an ambiguous pleasure!). Alone, she can swing and sing, or hide from me, or torture the cat. Yes, the hammock is probably as much of a joy for her as it is for me. In fact, she wanted to write a few lines in a Word document today, and this is what she chose to write:

"Me and my family just got a new hammock.

Soon I hav to get a filleng"

I love the chance to hear what is on my daughter’s mind and rocking her world. Right now, my hammock is rocking mine – the reclamation of a simple, physical, childlike pleasure.

What about you? I’d love to hear if you have a hammock. If so, what do you love about it? And if not, why not?!

Simple pleasures: shelling peas (with photos!!!)

Amelie and I sat out in the garden with the pea pods I'd bought at the Calais Farmers' Market, and learnt to shell them together, with a little online instruction and some experimentation of our own, which involved flying peas for a while! And, as promised, I have also learnt to upload and post PHOTOS!! *cheers and applause*
I think I'm hooked now!

Uncovering the green jewels

Amelie becoming an expert pea-sheller!

We ate the peas raw for lunch - they were sweet and almost creamy - with simple, crispy quesadillas fried in my new cast iron skillet: plain cheese for Amelie; and for Jeremy and me, some with tomato bruschetta mix and cheese, and others with cheese, salsa and green onions. I made them on teff/millet wraps this time, to try something gluten-free for a change, and it worked well. Yum!


Look how wonderful and green our garden is in the summer! It takes my breath away all the time. And behind Jeremy in the distance is our vegetable plot with seven tomato plants and some fiery 'companion' marigolds coming along very nicely. Ah, the joys of the season...

This little piggy went to market...

Well, almost. That is, I did go to market today, but I’m not technically a piggy. In any case, can I tell you about my spree? It was to Calais Farmers’ Market, in our ‘twin town’ just across the border, which only happens in the summer months and so is a rare and wonderful treat. I actually never made it last year, but have been spurred on in the intervening twelve months by a growing commitment to seasonal, local produce, combined with a modest increase in financial resources. I now feel very aware of what a rare and wonderful treat it is to be able to simply throw wallet and passport into my jaunty red Hessian bag, trip over the bridge (now I really am sounding like a little piggy!) into the good ol’ U.S. of A., and be able to choose from a wonderful range of luscious fresh produce from local growers.

So that is what I did today. I was running a little later than I had hoped and planned, and so noticed once in the land of the free and the brave (having very impatiently waited to show my passport at immigration) that my stomach was tied in knots from wishing I was at the market already, being annoyed I wasn’t, and rushing to arrive as soon as I could. But something about seeing the sign for the Calais Waterfront Walk ahead of me, which I rarely get to stroll along in a leisurely fashion, stopped me short and reminded me what a privilege it was to have the time and freedom to wander to market in the sun beside the St Croix River. Thus gratitude unraveled the knots, leaving me consciously present to the still-dewy grass beneath my sandalled feet, the sparkle of sun on water, and the smell of freshly mown lawns mingled with that unmistakable estuary tang. I reflected on how often I am robbed of similar gift-moments, and of being truly present to them, by clinging to some arbitrary timescale I have decided on for equally inconsequential reasons. So the best produce is there for the taking only by the early birds? So what?! Is it really worth developing a peptic ulcer over? I mean, if it were a matter of true significance – whether we ate that evening or not, for example – I would sure as heck have made certain I was there on time! No, on this journey of learning to savour, I would much rather relish my riverside promenade, stop my stomach acids from overproducing, and be thankful for the goods that remain on my happy arrival.

So that is what I did. My first stop was, of course, my friend Karen’s stall, someone whose ways with plants could just (but not quite!) force me to entertain the possibility of a green-fingered gift. With a fairly glistening bunch of her ruby-red beetroots and the lushest young spinach you’ve ever laid your eyes on stashed in my bag, I moved on to another stall where fresh peas and a frilly head of cabbage caught my fancy. As I asked somewhat hesitantly whether it was alright to pay with Canadian dollars, the jovial gent informed me that he would accept them on par since, given a year, the exchange rate would be reversed and (with a glint in his eye) “You’ll be back to buy from me again then, won’t you?!” I assured him with a smile that I would and moved on to peruse the home-baked goods, finally selecting a delicious looking focaccia and some molasses crinkle cookies. Ah, this will make the little piggy that stayed at home very happy! I left the bustling green laden with the fruit of the fertile Maine earth, and also with plans that almost made me want to run (wee, wee, wee!) all the way home: tomorrow, shelling the sugary peas with Amélie in the garden, followed by a meal involving those we manage not to eat in the process, along with delectable roasted beetroot; and today, a rustled-up picnic featuring focaccia and cookies, along with seasalted butter and ‘Seriously Sharp’ Vermont cheddar, fresh green salad, and sliced tomatoes with basil and balsamic vinegar. We could take the picnic to Todd’s Point nature park, lay out our blanket in the shade of the big old silver birches, within earshot of the waves, and eat overlooking the glistening bay.

So that is what we did.

Savour

Now to post yesterday's facebook thread that prompted this sudden decision and the blog title (which I'm not utterly sure about, but am fine with for now). So this was me last night at 8.06pm:

Rachael Dugmore Barham is going downstairs to feed her sourdough starter, rinse the broccoli sprouts, marvel at the green outside the window and dance and sing a little while doing some dishes, walk through dewy grass to get the laundry in, and perhaps have a sit and swing in the hammock while watching the bat flit in the dusky sky. Ahh...

After a response from Gwen that made me smile, about how I made evening chores sound romantic and ethereal, I posted the following:

"Glad they sounded romantic - that was the aim! ;-)
Because so often I do them grudgingly (or not at all!), and recently always with an eye on everything I HAVEN'T achieved.
But tonight some gratitude rose in me - that despite the fact that my procrastination (as well as my relationship-orientation, of course!) means I'm well behind target on so many tasks, today I got to: give Amelie a homemade smoothie that she loved; sit and pray and journal in the hot morning sun; edit two more chapters of a great thesis project; spontaneously share lunch with friends; finally have Amelie's and my teeth checked and cleaned after a two year interval; (ironically) eat loads of free chocolates and chocolate-coated Covered Bridge chips (surprisingly GOOD!) at the Ganong Chocolate Museum open house; eat a delicious, nourishing outside supper with more friends; practise my Bollywood moves to Aradhna in the kitchen ;-); get a call from a friend offering a share in her organic veggies this summer; sit and drink a thimble-full of chocolate raspberry port in the gloaming with Jeremy; help (i.e. watch, plus a little digging!) Jeremy rotavate our garden plots with the Thiessens' mighty mini-machine (thanks, travellers!)... and now a warm shower and to bed!
These little things are really not so little at all, but I lose sight of that too often. Not tonight..."

I really enjoyed the responses to this from Heidi and Marjanna, and then came this from Jeremy Wiebe (who, since he posted it publicly on facebook will surely not mind it being 'immortalized' here!):

"I'm skimming an interesting book on the psychology of savoring and your post made me think of it as you do know how to savor. Four kinds of savoring processes with their associated positive feelings are: thanksgiving (gratitude), marveling (awe), basking (pride), luxuriating (physical pleasure).

I think savoring the so-called small (yet precious) things of life leads to a happy and full life.

Source: Savoring by Fred Bryant and Joseph Veroff (Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 2007), p. 137. http://www.amazon.com/Savoring-New-Model-Positive-Experience/dp/0805851208/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1276779969&sr=8-1

(end quote) (note: this book sounds like a must-read)

So here ends the blog post which began its humble existence as a facebook status that drew the generous and interesting response of friends. And here begins a blog desiring to chart my attempts in everyday life to cultivate a life that 'savours' in the very best sense of the word, and doesn't miss or belittle the small and infinitely valuable gifts that are mine.