Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, “Dwelling in Presence,” February 9, 2024
A shooting star greeted me as I opened the back door to the deck this very early morning. First, I took in a quick breath of surprise and wonder. Taken unawares, I experienced beauty and blessing. Second, when my brain started to engage, I realized that in that flash of a moment with the tiny trail of light, I actually accomplished what makes me, and all of us, most human. Out of this random encounter, I made meaning.
Think about it. I don’t know where the light came from or what it actually was. It could have been a tiny speck flung from a meteor across the galaxy. It could also have been a piece of space junk falling down to earth, entering our atmosphere. But what do we commonly call these things? Falling stars, shooting stars, signs of good luck. Some of us make wishes on them, feeling an unusual power in the sighting. Some simply stare in awe, waiting for another touch of heaven to descend. In any case, this is an event that does not go unnoticed and unmarked, but somehow changes us at the same time that we make our own meaning of it.
As for me, I felt my heart fill with light and gratitude. It was a sign of something that I’ve learned more surely as I have written this blog in my first year of retirement. Staying present, or “dwelling in presence,” brings not only meaning, but joy to our nights and days, dawns and twilights. To know blessing, we must be ready to receive it, open and aware, even in the midst of triple bypasses and pain. Every bit of life is precious. In every second is meaning to be found. We only need to open doors to the darkness, feel the cold air on our skin, and catch the falling star. Amen.
Note: This is the last post for “Dwelling in Presence.”I will seek another way to connect with myself and you!Thank you for taking this year-long journey with me.
Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, “Dwelling in Presence,” January 2, 2024
We have skylights in our house, two in the dining room and one in the kitchen. Aside from the brightness they add, my favorite thing about them is walking in the darkness before dawn into the the kitchen when my eyes are suddenly flooded with moonlight. I didn’t know how powerful the light of the moon was until it came laser-like through the ceiling the first night I slept in this house. That time it was a full moon taking me totally off-guard. This morning it is a half moon shining in the window of my hermitage room bright enough to help me write in my journal.
Dwelling in presence as I am wont to do, especially in the early morning hours, the world outside tends to whisper to me. Sometimes it is just the whisper of silence. I bow to 16th century priest and mystic John of the Cross who said that “Silence is God’s first language.” It is deep, unfathomable, and full of mystery. It can also be soft, comforting, and full of peace. On days of inner turmoil, silence seems to cover me like a calming blanket.
This morning, the winter birds break that silence with familiar voices. First it was the cardinals, who seem to get up almost as early as I do. Now it is the doves, the finches, and chickadees. Often the crows arrive by about now, but they must be sleeping in. That’s okay with me for their whispers are not nearly as pleasant, often sounding like a big rambunctious family in the middle of a squabble.
Then there is the distinct whisper of the air. No matter how cold it is, I always crack my window open to meet the day. It makes me feel closer to my outdoor kin, even though my right shoulder freezes a little bit. Sometimes the air blows in with a “whoosh” and other times it creeps in silently, caressing me with the lightest of touches. It feels like a quiet blessing, that silent God speaking.
The moonlight has just been overtaken by the sun rising on the opposite side of the house. With it, the squirrels have come to pester the birds on the apple tree feeder. The mourning doves, nine of them in all, are unmoved and continue their breakfast activity beneath. I notice that with the sun, there is a different quantity and quality of sound outside. Two seagulls are flying over calling to one another and the doves just took off as one with their particular noisy flap of feathers. Less whisper now. Ah, and here come the crows!
I had a thought this morning that I don’t fully understand. As I read and reflect more about aging these days, I am feeling a stronger connection with the moon. Something about being struck by the moonlight on the way to morning coffee feels different than being jarred awake by the sun. Aging has a very different kind of radiance than the growing up years. If anyone has any thoughts about this, I’d love to read them. Until then I’ll be writing every morning in my journal by the moon, listening to creation’s whispers.
Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, “Dwelling in Presence,” November 5, 2023
It is November. I don’t need to look at the calendar to know this. I can feel this month coming from the inside of me. Maybe it is the loss of the vibrantly colored leaves or the hue of the sky and dwindling light, or perhaps it is a physical remembrance of a divorce that was finalized the Tuesday before Thanksgiving so many years ago, for many years this month has been a time of melancholy for me. Just as sounds and sights are revving up for holiday celebrations, inside I feel a kind of revving down, a desire to be silent and alone. At this point, I expect the sadness to sink in and stay for a while.
I used to run from it. I made lots of plans, keeping myself busy and connected. But I have learned over the years that this is just exhausting. It makes more sense and does more good to honor those feelings. Be with them. Now, to be sure, melancholy is not clinical depression. It does not bring me to a place of hopelessness and despair. It does not need to be treated. Neither should it be ignored. I have found that feelings, especially those with no immediate apparent cause, teach a good deal about life, our own lives in particular.
On Saturday, Joel and I were supposed to go to a Fall Sunrise Association meeting with other clergy and lay participants. But my November heart wasn’t in it. So after Joel left, I made up my nest next to the window. As a few leaves flew by, I felt in sync with the autumn scene outside. I too am in a phase of loss. I thought about going out, lying flat on the ground, and sharing this cyclical grief with the earth. But I confess my fear of late season tics kept me inside.
I wondered how I could facilitate whatever it was I was needing to let go. After an hour or so of silence, I knew what I had to do. I turned to the other side of the room and took in the piles of boxes and files full of papers, sermons, presentations, class preparations, retreat plans along with all the books I’ve collected in years of learning and teaching. It is a bit disturbing to see one’s whole life stuffed into cardboard containers. I knew that it was time to begin the sorting, the difficult and time-consuming process of deciding what goes back up on shelves, what can be given to others, and what needs to be donated somewhere or simply tossed.
This room, one half with its fine new shelves and window seat, represents the stage in my life following retirement. I can feel the other side totally weighing me down. It is certainly a major contributor to my melancholy, reminding me of a past I don’t want to forget, but I don’t want to be held back by. Besides, it is time to finishing painting the room, get rid of that “bagel” for “azurite blue”, decide what stays and what goes up on the walls, if anything. This is meant to be the simple hermitage that I’ve been longing for my whole life.
And so, let the emptying begin. I expect it will provide times of sadness as well as moments of great joy. Just a few posts ago, I was beginning a geographical life review on our trip from Maine to Wisconsin and back. Perhaps this will take me on an extended journey of my intellectual development. It helps to think of it that way because I know there is much more ahead, this time more focused on my heart. When I was about twelve, I remember saying that what I wanted to do was to “think more deeply into God than anyone else had ever done!” How is that for adolescent hubris? Well, all these years later, I’ve learned we don’t really “think” our way into God. All those academic programs taught me that. But we are all already in God. What I want to do in this phase of life is deepen that knowing and pass it on. For that I will need to keep preparing my soul and opening my heart. Perhaps November melancholy will transfigure into December joy.
Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, “Dwelling in Presence,” October 22, 2023
As I take my place in my window seat nook at 4 a.m., I hear one loud and haunting call through the open window. I don’t know if it is an owl or a coyote. I know we have both in the woods, but this one, and only one, sounded different. Perhaps it is a great horned instead of our usual barred owl. In any case, I used it instead of my usual meditation bell to start my silent practice. I began in silent wonder.
Besides the call, there is a steady sound of light rain this morning. A sweet blessing to begin the day. It brings me back to those scenes of healing that met me on the way out of anesthesia, brooks, streams, waves, flowing water on the hospital room television. The producers need not have added the music, the water sounds were more than adequate. Even now they bring me life. (Well, just heard the call again – I would guess it is a great horned owl. Great grey? It is loud and musical.)
I left off the last post recounting the trip Joel and I took to his home state of Wisconsin with the surprising realizatiton that my first home state of New York was still in my blood, wooing me as we drove. After bypassing Buffalo, we headed south through wine country, western New York, northeastern Pennsylivania, getting glimpses of Lake Erie. It was lovely, grape vines lined up for miles, but it did not have the same kind of tug on my heart. We drove through Cleveland, headquarters of our United Church of Christ national church and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. We did not stop until we reached Maumee, Ohio, south of Toledo where I taught a few years at Mercy College.
Northwest Ohio was a healing place for me. We went there after an amazing and somewhat traumatic time in Madison, Wisconsin. In the early to mid-nineties, I worked at St. Paul’s, the University Catholic Center, as the “Woman Chaplain.” This position gave me the opportunity to preach the Word and to co-preside worship servics as well as do programming for the students. As a Roman Catholic woman, I didn’ t think there was any other posititon in the country quite like it. I couldn’t believe it when I was getting calls from public media to ask what I though about the pope’s latest statement, usually on women in the church. I knew I was in a rare situation. It was a challenging job I loved, alongside a staff of priests and other lay people who I loved.
I had to leave there after six years because a new bishop was appointed to Madison who did not appreciate what St. Paul’s was doing there. I and the priest pastor were put in an untenable posititon which resulted in my beginning a panic disorder. But this is a story that needs to be told another time for it might take volumes.
In any case, Joel and I moved to Haskins, Ohio, a farm town with a population of 500, south of Toledo where I taught. I loved it. The sky was big and wide enough for me to breathe in while Madision seemed to close in on me. Although it wasn’t the best place for Joel. An ordained minister, he too was suffering a painful break with the United Methodist Church that treated him as poorly as the Madison bishop treated me, and it was hard for him to know where he belonged. My teaching religious studies and ethics to primarily nursing students at the college helped me to find new purpose.
When we drove through the Haskins area, the sky still enabled me to breathe deeply. All that was left was our drive through Chicago before we reached the state and our beloved people in Wisconsin. This is taking longer than I thought, but since I am sixty-seven, a geographical life-review might be expeced to take time. As does a drive from the coast of Maine to Wisconsin…
Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, “Dwelling in Presence,” August 30, 2023
As the chickadee stares at me from the edge of the birdbath for longer than I thought she would, I am reminded that I have not once tried to feed her this summer out of my hand. Or from the hat on top of my head. Is she wondering if I’ve given up on her? “No, little one,” I say. “I have just been sulking on the sofa.” She flies into the lilac bush and begins to sing her usual song. “I hear you. I never thought you would miss me out on this deck. But maybe you do.” And in this moment, I fall in love all over again. She’s been my favorite since my beloved grandfather taught me how to feed sunflower seeds to the chickadees many years ago from the deck in Connecticut.
Oh, who’s here now? Whoever it is, perhaps the song sparrow, there are wings splashing water all over. He leaves and two goldfinches take his place, one a dull green and the other neon yellow. By the time I look up again from my journal, they are replaced by two hummingbirds on the feeder hung over the bath. It feels like rush hour on the back deck! Perhaps it is like this at 5 p.m. every day in this spot. Or, could it be that they all want me to know that I’ve been missed? I can feel my gratitude flow out from me. Can they feel it as it glances their feathers and moves out into the trees?
A thought strikes me as the chatter of the goldfinches rises…oh wait…the chickadee is back and has joined one of the hummingbirds on the feeder. Yes, she is sipping the sugar water. Her usual chickadee-dee-dee-dee call has gentled, as if she does not want to disturb the hummer. I have not heard this particular call from this particular bird before. It’s actually melodic. More soothing. Perhaps it is her peace offering for getting a share at the hummingbird’s table.
Okay, back to the striking thought. I have spent many an hour over the years on this backyard deck looking for a connection with the wildlife, especially the birds. But could it be that what I yearn for, a deep relationship even unity with them, is already there? Are we not already a part of one another through living on this miraculous earth? We are made of the same stuff. We have the same source. We need the same things. I was warned over time not to “anthropomorphize” the creatures, not to assume they think or feel like I do. However, is it possible that in our fear of anthropmorphizing, we have built a deep chasm between them and ourselves. It may be that we do share some of the same yearnings, to feel the profound connections among and between one another.
These beautiful and wild creatures approach me as I approach them, with caution and care. We all want to know that we are safe and secure with one another. After all, we have all been created by the same love.
Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, “Dwelling in Presence,” August 9, 2023
I was determined to use this early morning to read my new book or write my next blog post. But after I made my coffee and went to the living room, I heard the leaves singing the breeze through the trees outside. I felt the cool flow of air on my face and bare legs and settled down to take it all in. To enjoy it. My book and journal remained untouched for over an hour as these gifts of the earth touched my senses and soothed my soul. Joel emerged from the bedroom expecting me to be lost in a book, but instread I was lost in the pleasure of the wind, the song of the trees, and the scent of high summer.
I am sensing changes occurring in me. Yesterday I was reading an article about the numerous natural springs located throughout Maine. I was reminded of a single spring that we used to visit in the summer in Putnam County, New York, when I was a child. It was piped out of a rock configuration and it was sheer joy to cup our hands and drink straight from it, the water crystal clear and freezing cold! I asked Joel if we could journey to visit these springs in their various settings in the Maine countryside. This was an unusual request to come from me, the nearly agoraphobic homebody of late. I am usually asking him to accompany me to a new bookstore or a coffee shop. I think he, my nature man, was happy with this new venture.
I can sense a yearning to have these waters splash all over me. Now, where did that come from? The desire to cool off in that freezing spray? The more that I think about it, I think it is connected to my longing for healing. Inner and outer.
When I was in the hospital, not long after coming out of anaesthesia, the television set was on a channel of music and nature scenes, mostly water – ocean waves, babbling brooks, flowing streams, cascading waterfalls. I remember imagining all that water flowing over me when I was not really conscious of anything else. It soothed me. Touched me in a way that the soft breeze is caressing me this morning. I think the healing nature and feel of water was planted in my brain when I was barely aware of what was going on.
Unfortunately, when I got home, I was terrified of taking a shower because of having to deal with the fresh incision. But now that my scar and I are on much friendlier terms, I am actually considering shopping for a bathing suit even though I have not put one on in years! I am longing for the water. It is calling me like the morning wind song.
The earth is a healer. I want to learn to touch and heal her in return.
Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, “Dwelling in Presence,” August 3, 2023
The prairie lives on! No Mow May slipped into No Mow June, became No Mow July, and, lo and behold, it is August! Seas of grasses surround our house, and “seas” is the right word as the surface of the wild growth often reminds me of choppy waters in a storm. Nothing placid about them.
I am glad that Joel has continued to mow walking paths around the grasses giving a bit of shape and edge to the overgrown fields. Otherwise it might seem as if the whole house was sinking under all the turbulent life thriving around it. Also, the paths allow the various patches of garden that he has planted over the years to be seen. They are worth seeing – blue salvia, yellow and orange day lilies, deep rose coneflower, blue and purple delphinium, blackeyed susans, bright fuchsia phlox, holly, winterberry, and azalea bushes, foxglove, columbine, watermelon and blue hydrangea, brilliant orange nasturtium, and errant sunflowers planted by the birds.
Perhaps inspired by the unfettered growth around them, the milkweed and Joe pye weed plants have sprouted all over the grounds, strong and healthy. But sadly, we have seen very few monarch butterflies this year. Yesterday, we spied our third. We used to have two or three daily. Joel did follow this one and was able to witness it laying her eggs on the leaves of a milkweed. In years past, he collected the tiny caterpillars and fed them until they formed the chrysalis and then released the butterflies a few weeks later. But honestly, I think he is busier now than when he was working. He is designing and building a window seat to put under my new “hermitage” window and then building some bookshelves around it. He is starting up his pottery business and is often in his back garage studio kneading, throwing, carving, firing, glazing, and finishing his pieces. The yard and garden still take a good deal of his attention. And, of course, he took really good care of me while I was convalescing. I am blessed with an extraordinary partner. Tonight I plan to cook the eggplant parmesan he has been craving. I have to do my part now, and food is one of Joel’s favorite things! I might even add a blueberry cheesecake pie.
There are so many stories of couples who go crazy in retirement because they have way too much time on their hands, together. That’s not our story, at least so far. My idea of a perfect day is to get up at dawn and bring my pen, a journal, a book or two, and lots of coffee into solitude. Joel goes out a little later for his morning walk downtown where he will run into numerous people, talk to almost every one of them, then return to tell me all about it! I will spend hourse with nature, not so much out in it, but taking in the views from the windows or on the back deck. Joel will put on his hiking bootts, make his own path through the woods, find new birds and insects to study, take numerous pictures, bringing his whole body and soul into the surroundings. We seem to see and experience things in different ways – he with all his bodily senses, me with some kind of inner awareness and intuition. We are both enriched as we bring these gifts to one another.
No, it’s hardly perfect. You can imagine that our differences can become points of contention. He gets lots of energy when surrounded by people. I can only interact for so long before I need to withdraw. How in the world did I stay in ministry for over thirty years? And we stay married for almost thirty? I think it may be that introverted and extroverted energy can both be employed in serving and loving the people. Because we both did and do. Just as we employ them in caring for and loving one another.
I end with another glimpse of the seas of grasses outside my writing desk window. There is no wind today. The waters are calm. I will sit here for a little longer to see what they will teach me. At least until Joel returns from his walk with tales of life from out little city!
Dwelling in Presence 