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Healing Journey

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, May 22, 2023

I shake my head as I check this week’s calendar. On tomorrow’s space, May 23rd, I had written “Breaking Silence.” Never had I made a plan that had run so far off the rails as this one. I was longing for silence and what it would teach me when the universe decided there was another kind of journey I needed to take.

Instead of mystics and hermits, I was led into it by cardiologists and hematologists, the high priests of medicine. No matter how much I wanted to protest, I knew it would be to my own peril. So I had to give myself over – body, mind, and spirit.

The first few days after surgery are kind of lost to a maze of faces and medications. Fortunately, the most constant face was of my beloved Joel who kept telling me that I was alright. Most of the faces were kind, but none could anchor me like his, could remind me that I was still me in this very unfamiliar place, perhaps a bit lost, but still able to be found.

So, tomorrow I was meant to break my three month silence but instead I am going to see my surgeon for our sugical follow-up. Perhaps he will discharge me out of the hallowed halls of Maine Med back to life as I knew it, with some cardiac rehab on the side.

Will I then pursue my initial plan of silence? I think I need to begin with what I am needing now. I did not expect to be on such an intense healing journey. And I kid not when I say this journey is one step forward and two steps back. Well, maybe it is not that precise. There are also steps of side to side and times of simply standing in place. I knew this was true of emotional healing, but now I know that the body’s is not linear as well. And damn, this can be frustrating!

BLANK

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, Monday, May 15, 2023

I locate my journal and pull out a pen. Am I wishful thinking? Is there something in me to share this morning? And if there is, do I have the presence and clarity of mind to coax it out? This is all new to me. I named my blog “Dwelling in Presence” with the desire to simply be attentive to life and its colors, all of its various shades and moments. This is a new shade for me. If I had to name it, I think I would call it “Blank”. I can spend hours just sitting and staring. Cups of coffee sit cooling and undrunk. No inspiration there. I am vaguely aware of the birdsong outside. Mom’s owl hasn’t been back since we came home from the hospital, or perhaps I have just not heard it. Yes. Blank.

The visiting nurse is coming this morning. Maybe I need a visiting poet or a visiting shaman to restore the wonder I seem to have misplaced right now. They could speak an incantation over me, and my broken open heart might start working again.

Joel keeps telling me that I am doing much more than I think I am, that my whole body is involved in healing itself. Some of it is visible on the outside where wounds are starting to scab over. Most of it is happening on the inside where a major bone was broken and wired together, vessels were rearranged, and someone elses blood was poured in to keep me strong. I survived for a while on a heart-lung machine while my heart of flesh was getting important upgrades.

Now I sit here looking and feeling essentially blank. With all that has happened, you would think my mind would be firing on all cylinders. My feelings popping. My cup runnething over. But no. My body’s wisdom has caused a certain numbness while I begin to own what happened to me. Of all things I expected to experince after a successful surgery, grief wasn’t one of them. What is my body trying to make conscious in me? What, indeed, have I lost?

There is nothing else to do. Just be.

Dull Moon

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, Friday, May 12, 2023

The quarter moon is high in the sky this morning, but it is not shining. Its light is muted and dull, appearing as if it has lost some important source of energy. If I had not heard yesterday that wild fire smoke in Canada is casting shadows across Maine skies, I would be convinced that the moon is displaying empathy for me. A dull, heavy light seems to be about all I am capable of right now.

Yes, in the past week I experienced some of the most amazing miracles of modern medicine, and I know my gratitude will surface at some point. But we forget that great suffering often accompanies these miracles. I had a front row seat to that of my own as well as to the deep pain of others. It leaves its mark. Most of all, I am aware that as I am back at home surrounded by the colors of spring, the same drama and trauma is being played out minute by minute down on the cardiac wing of Maine Med. The CNAs and other caregivers are for me right now the surest signs of God’s presence on earth.

I don’t where where it will go from here. But I cannot really force any meaning out of it right now. I am tired. These, I guess, are the days of the dull moon. I didn’t even know there was such a thing. I hope I can learn from it.

Gratitude

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, May 3, 2023

I haven’t written in a few days. Well, that’s not quite true, I’ve written two posts that I just couldn’t publish. Why? Is there something called too much honesty? Of course not! But I think I felt too exposed by my words.

The first one was primarily written to thank all of you who have read these words I’m sending out. You have rewoven a kind of community for me when I most needed one after retiring from my ministry calling. Your words have been encouraging and supportive (most of these posted on Facebook, but also a few here). And I have loved reconnecting with people from far away and long ago! I’ve been telling myself I want to establish a writing ministry, but truth be told, I have always needed a circle of beloveds with open hearts. People who always prove to me what my teacher Henri Nowwen used to say – “What is most personal, is most universal.” Which totally argues against what I said above about being too exposed! Forgive me, my anxiety has risen in these days as we head to Portland this morning and I’m not thinking very clearly. But I feel deep gratitude for all of you.

The second was about the connection of body and spirit. I was asking what happens to the spirit when the body is rearranged? Which is what is going to happen during this surgery – veins from my leg and my chest being used to feed the heart more sufficiently, my heart stopped and started again after the breaking of my sternum.

My theology has always been deeply incarnational. I believe that God speaks through our bodies, something I learned from my childhood lessons on Jesus. I don’t expect to die, and I know I am not Jesus, but it’s hard to imagine that the spirit will flow through me and in me in quite the same way as before. What will this teach me? And, as I have written before, one of my biggest challenges in life is letting go – giving myself over to something that I cannot control. This will certainly be a major lesson. So, who will I be when I wake up? What will have changed? I pray I get to write about it on the other side.

Finally, I thank you for all your prayers and good thoughts this week. I feel them. I also feel my mother’s presence as her Christmas cactus is fully blooming this morning as if she is sending me flowers! And, of course, spring is blooming all around us. It is a sure reminder that life keeps being born again in new forms, in beautiful ways, in vibrant color. All is gift.

Next?

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, Wed., April 26, 2023

I told Joel last night over a pizza at the local sports bar that I think I want to go back to school. Instead of crying out and shaking his head in disbelief, he simply said, “I think you should.” No matter that we have just paid off all our school loans a couple of years ago. He has known me long enough to realize that I am happiest and most myself when I am studying.

It has been a long time since I have had one of my “Aha!” moments when something new clicked inside my heart and head and I was so excited that I couldn’t sit still! I remember dancing around the library stacks at Northwestern because some unexpected insight set my heart beating and my mind buzzing. No, I don’t remember exactly what that insight was, but I do remember a nearby church bell ringing and I was in the process of writing. It is probably so much a part of me now that it feels like nothing special. But then, it was life changing.

It’s not that I haven’t learned anything lately. You learn a lot in decades of teaching and ministry. But there is something about focusing your whole self on a field of study that is intriguing and coming up with something of significance that is exhilarating. And then having the opportunity to talk about it with people who are just as interested. A number of my friends have told me that I have a tendency to start every conversation whether by phone or in person with “I have a question.” It’s kind of my nature. Some want to run the other way. One just rolls her eyes. I guess not everyone is always up for mental gymnastics.

But to be clear, my desire is not simply to study for study’s sake, or this time, to get a degree. I have realized that having the structure of a program is good for me. It focuses me. And right now I want to focus on mystical experience and faith development in elderhood. Well, at any age really. I have a sense that the connective experience that accompanies contemplation has been ignored by institutional faih communities and most programs of religious or theological education. This allows us to go on seeing “others” in a damaging way, a way that leads to violence. I certainly believe with others that what is needed is an evolution in human consciousness, and that it is time we begin to nurture this change.

Wake Up Call

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters

Saturday, April 22nd

The call of the owl was comforting on Tuesday, a sign of the ongoing presence of my mother during unsettling times. This morning, however, she seems to be sending a wake up call. I literally slept all day yesterday, not rising until 4:30 in the afternoon, a full twelve and a half hours later than usual. When upon waking this morning, I immediately began to think that I was supposed to be in Portland hooked up to all sorts of medical machinery, when the call came through my open window, sounding not soothing but rather impatient. “Listen up,” she seemed to say, “shouldn’t you be feeling gratitude? You are alive, you are free, it’s a beautiful day. Get out of that bed and live!”

The owl channeling my mother is wise. It’s true I’ve been spending too much time in bed lately. Not all of that time can be attributed to my heart condition. I am, after all, newly retired. The medical diagnosis has given me a convenient excuse not to deal with what that really means to me. It has put off my planned period of silence and anything else I had hoped to do in this time. The owl calls once again. (I swear it can read my mind.) “Get out of that bed!”

So, here I am, up and writing. Perhaps these two weeks of delay is not only disappointment, but a gift. I can be dealing with something else I’ve been putting off so that when I get out of the hospital, it won’t all just be sitting here waiting for me. Perhaps I can at least find a way to move forward.

I need to turn my work office at home into what I am calling my “hermitage.” I want a room in the house that calls me to prayer, reflection, silence, and writing. Joel and I used to go yearly to a cabin that did these things for me in Rangeley, Maine (yes, the land of the moose!). I was in a whole different mindspace when I got to that cabin. I attribute a large part of that to the simplicity and sparseness of the space itself – it held nothing more than the essentials for daily living. It had a tiny kitchen, a sofa and chair, a bed and bath, a table to write on, and a screened in porch upon which to take in the sunrise. I felt a deeper contentment there than I had anywhere else on earth. That is what I am hoping for in my hermitage.

The biggest challenge is not in setting up the room, just this week we had one of the small windows replaced with a large screened one. It seems to take the whole backyard including the woods inside. I love it. The hardest part is that the rest of the rooms holds my whole life in boxes! Books that I have loved and have changed me from grad school and seminary. At least three decades of liturgical writing – sermons, services, and hymns. Pictures and other objects from my parents’ home after my mother died. What to save? What to let go?

It is not as simple as getting rid of the “clutter” as all the books say. I think it has more to do with figuring out who I am now and what am I about? What is essential to me at this stage in my life? Having had no children, having let go of my church family, having siblings living in other states all with their own children and grandchildren, it is not an easy question for me to answer. I feel untethered, really. What and who am I to serve? This is the question that is calling me to my hermitage. Now that I have gotten out of bed.

Nighttime Serenade

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters

I bolted straight up in bed last night, awakened by the distinct sound of a barred owl just outside the window. Joel asked, “Do you hear something?” My first thought was how could he not hear it? But then I remembered two things – first, his fairly serious hearing loss, and second, I think my hearing is especially tuned in to this particular sound from this particular bird. After all, this is the way my mother has communicated with me since her death in 2016.

I shouldn’t have been surprised that we were serenaded last night. Yesterday was full of disappointment. I was packed and emotionally ready to head toward Portland tomorrow for my pre-op appointment before Friday’s surgery. Yes, I know you must be as tired hearing about this as I am writing about it. Well, I got a call in the late afternoon from Kim, my surgeon’s nurse. She told me that they are postponing my surgery for another two weeks to May 4th because of too many other urgent cases they need to handle. My immediate response was “But, I’m ready! Waiting is hard!” But then I fully took in her words and realzed that I am blessed not to be one of those urgent cases. Now, my cardiologist in Belfast told me not to wait too long, but he isn’t handling the surgical schedule at Maine Med.

Both Joel and I felt quite deflated. It has been over a month now that we have known of the need for this bypass. We haven’t spent these days a lot differently than we otherwise would have, though I do notice him asking how I am doing more frequently. There is a deeper awareness in the day-to-day of what we mean to one another. Another blessing.

Now there is also the owl. Actually, I think there were two or three owls surrounding our house last night. Mom brought some friends. They did sing to us, even loud enough for Joel to hear. For those who haven’t heard my owl story, I will just share that ever since my father had a heart attack, a barred owl took to watching over my mother from the woods that surrounded her home in Conneticut. It showed up whenever there was a need. One time when I visited them from Wisconsin, I went out to the deck and whispered a thanks into the trees, asking the owl if I could see her. Within seconds, she flew down to the branch closest to me (I exaggerate not) and stared at me with her beautiful brown eyes. I was awed. There is much more to this story, but I’ll end with saying that I hadn’t heard a barred owl’s call after moving to Maine until the morning of my mother’s birthday the year that she died. I cried happy tears.

So, of course, we were serenaded last night. My mom sensed a need, and sent her angels to fill it. In this case, her angel is an owl. And now, it is mine as well.

TMI

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters

Spoiler Alert! I am about to write about undergarments, so if this is too intimate a topic to come from someone who may be your former pastor or spiritual guide, skip this post. It is what is on my mind, and as you know by now, I always start where I am.

Yesterday, I broke my first retirement promise to myself. I had vowed that I would never wear a bra again! I have hated them ever since my first purchase in adolescence. The feel of anything tight or restricting on any part of my body has always given me a sinking feeling as if I were being punished for something I did not do. Made to sit in the corner, when I longed to run around. People have often asked me why I always wear loose and flowing clothing. No, it has had nothing to do with wanting to hide my body. I just wanted for this body to feel easy and free!

So, what happened yesterday? I was following instructions. The nurses in cardiac care said that women who have bypass would need to bring a front closure bra with good support to aide in healing after surgery. So I went to “City Drawers,” the trendy little lingerie shop in downtown Belfast. At 67, I had my first real bra fitting! First, I was shocked by the actual size I was (now that really would be too much information), and then by the garment I was brought. It had so many eyes and hooks down the front and the back, it looked like an instrument of torture. (No offense to “City Drawers,” the rest of the merchandise looks just lovely!) It took me forever to put it on. The very sweet saleswoman came to check on me. “Perfect” she said. So I left the store with this beige contraption that looked as if it came from my greatgrandmother’s underwear drawer.

When I got home, I took it 0ut of its cute little bag and wondered if this thing was truly going to help me heal. Even looking at it, I feel old and depressed. Luckily, I did order from Amazon two cute nightshirts that button up the front as we were instructed to have. I will not be able to put anything over my head for a while. I do feel like myself in them with lots of room to breathe.

We head down to Portland the day after tomorrow for surgery prep with the operation on Friday. I have been assured that friends will be looking after Joel, who though he never shows it, is a huge worrier, and that I will be accompanied by a boatload of prayers. I have an excellent surgeon and good insurance. So, I guess it is a blessing that my biggest worry this morning is whether I will really have to wear that bra. I will be fighting it with all the strength I will have…

Changes

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters

It is a lovely spring day here on the midcoast. The air is cool, the sun bright, and the bugs have yet to show up. At least, most of them. So I grabbed my coffee, my journal, and my hunter green wide-brimmed hat I bought last year for our “Camp Sunday” in church and went out to our back deck. I spent a little time watching Joel clearing out some brush in front of our woods. He wants to be able to see deeper into the trees, always on the lookout for the wildlife he loves.

I sat down at the round glass table I use as a desk outside. Upon opening my journal, I happened to glance back at the house. I was taken aback. What did I see but an aged woman in a plaid flannel shirt, baggy jeans, and a hat pulled down over her face in the door window. A bit shocked, I asked myself when did I turn into an old Mainer?

I flashed back to our trip out here nearly twenty years ago, sitting at an Italian restaurant talking about our new life adventure. I remember clearly that I had my long hair tied up in a ponytail and was full of youthful energy and excitement. We were moving to Maine!

Where did all the time go? My hair is now about shoulder length with too much grey to be able to call them highlights. Joel is starting to get his Claus beard. We’ve done a lot of living in these years, explored the wonders of Maine from the ocean to the mountains to the coastal and farm towns. We invested our whole hearts in our congregation, celebrated baptisms, weddings, and way too many funerals. Made good friends. Surprisingly, I do not think I’ve picked up the distinctive Maine accent, though I do enjoy hearing a good one in the conversation of the old-timers. But those old-timers seem to now live in me – I look just like them!

Though somewhat shocked by my appearance in the glass door, I am not sorry that I am looking older. Not surprisingly, as I navigate the mid-sixties, I am becoming more and more interested in what it means to get old. To be old, yet fully alive and still growing.

In my graduate school years, I did much of my work studying human development. I was especially interested in work that sprang from Jean Piaget’s discoveries in cognitive development, particularly James Fowler’s stages of faith development. Then, in my twenties and thirties, I was fairly satisfied with Fowler’s take on how faith grows and changes over the early human lifespan. Now, however, I am more convinced of what I only suspected then, that later in life there is something that either goes beyond or deepens his final “Universalizing” stage. And I think it has something to do with our human opportunity to heal the dark night of the soul this world is suffering.

I may be retired from active congregational ministry, but as I see myself in the glass door, I know I am not finished with doing my part to heal ths earth and its creatures. And that I have more to offer.

Is Our Angel Coming?

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters

Years ago someone shared with me an Easter sermon that made a big impression on her. The preacher had been in a deep depression for months and when the day came for the trumpets to sound and joyful expressions of “Alleluia!,” all he could do was stand behind the pulpit and say “I have to be honest. I am still in the deep and dark tomb…but I know my angel is coming!” And he sat down.

This was as powerful an Easter proclamation as I have ever heard, an expression of deep faith born of having lived the resurrection story. From darkness, surely shall spring the light. But I have to admit, I was a bit relieved not to have to preach this Easter Sunday. Not because of any personal depression, but how would I offer a message of hope to a world that seems to be stuck in the dark? Would my “Alleluia! Christ is Risen!” sound authentic when we are circled by death all around?

Mass shootings have become almost a daily occurrence in schools, places of employment, houses of worship, in the city and country streets. Faces of the victims haunt me. The war in Ukraine is a slaughterhouse, as well as the deep famine threatening whole populations in Africa. The global climate crisis is showing up in real time in many ways. Just this week I was in northern Maine. I asked a shop owner about the health of the moose population. She looked grieved as she told me that it is hardly what it used to be. The warmer temperatures have caused numbers of ticks to explode. They suck the blood right out of the young calves killing them in the process. These majestic animals that gave Joel and me so much joy when we first moved here in the not so distant past are now in danger. I am sure that every region has its own canary in the coal mine. Perhaps many.

So on this Easter week, how does one proclaim with conviction that new life springs from death? That the tomb is empty? At least in a way that does not contradict one’s own experience? For me, deep theological truths are based in enfleshed experience. Yes, the daffodils are blooming, and yes the sun is warming, but how is this addressing gun proliferation, growing hatred, white supremacy, anti-semitism, heterosexism, all the isms of our time. Does Christianity and its faith experience have anything to say to our world today? Does religion writ large have any answers for us? Does it offer a path out of the darkness that we are in? Can we still say “our angel is coming?”

I hope to say more, but until then, let us seek signs of hope and life around and within us. We certainly need to share them with one another.