Tag: Creation

LAST POST: A TOUCH OF HEAVEN

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.   

 

 

GALLOP IN GLORY, BEN

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, Dwelling in Presence, July 4, 2023

This past Saturday morning, Joel and I sat under a wide and glorious willow tree with a dozen or so other people. We were invited by Val and Abe to celebrate the life and mourn the death of Ben, Val’s beloved friend and Abe’s fellow horse and buddy for over 20 years.

Not having been to a memorial service for a horse before, I was curious and happy to be there for this magnificent animal – tall and brown with wild white spots on his hind end. Ben had come through for Joel and me when we were looking for another location for our children’s message during the pandemic. Not very talkative, but fully present, Ben welcomed us into his barn with our cameras and our questions. I remember there was something very soothing in being there with him and Abe. Oh yes, and with Val, who is constantly brimming over with joy in all living things.

The circle that had gathered to celebrate Ben created a most gentle energy from the very beginning. Much like the energy of the horse himself. We were all asked to bring a story about an animal we had loved. One woman rang her Tibetan cymbals three times and then I was asked to begin with prayer. So I called us to note the sacred ground we gathered on, made sacred by the love given and received in this place among all the creatures. And then the stories came, beginning with an “Ode to Ben” written by one of the men. It was sad and funny and full of obvious care.

What is it about our love for our animals that brings out the gentleness in us? Each person spoke with such devotion of a special cat or dog or horse either still with them or gone before. As for me, I am brought to great tenderness looking into the eyes of wild things – the barred owl in the tree, the staring moose across the field, the wolf/coyote who held my gaze coming out of the woods. Val’s description of life with Ben was beautiful, with none of the caveats that usually crop up when describing life with another human being. No down side, no disturbing quirks, just pure appreciation. And deep love.

Just as Joel was about to end the gathering with a closing prayer, someone said “Oh, look!” Abe, who was not visible during the service, came aroud the house and into the field next to the willow tree. He looked over the fence and took in the circle. In silence, he told his story of love and loss. It was a holy moment. The creatures who live alongside of us understand and feel so much more than we know. They have their own wild wisdom. May we watch, listen, and learn.

WILD PRAIRIE

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, June 30, 2023, Dwelling in Presence

I was worried when Joel allowed “No Mow May” to become a full “No Mow June” except for the paths that he would clear around and through the land for us to walk on. I thought the neighbors might complain. No worries, so far no complaints. At least, none we’ve heard. It certainly makes for a very different view out my writing window in front of the house. I feel as if I live on a prairie now – with grasses that sway in the breeze, giving the earth movement and texture, with patches of daisies growing unrestrained throughout the yard. It is rather wild and beautiful.

I have never been one to want her yard perfectly neat and trimmed. I like plant life to look like LIFE, free and unencumbered. I remember the contrast between our and the neighbors’ forsythia in Connecticut – theirs trimmed into perfect round bushes looking to me like overgrown tennis balls, and ours tangled and messy and reaching out every which way, a bright yellow explosion. Oh well, to each his/her own.

I’ve never had a prairie lawn before though. I find it fascinating to see the diversity of grasses that grow if they are left to do so. I thought about getting a book to try to identify them, but then why does everything growing on this earth have to have a human-made name? Can’t they just be admired for what they are? Vibrant shoots of life springing from the fertile soil?

One benefit of these wild grasses is that they let us know when the deer bed down nearby by the large flattened spot we find in the morning. I’m sure the moose I haven’t yet seen in the yard sleeps in the woods, but just in case, we have a great grass mattress for her to try! People have asked about ticks, doesn’t the long grass attract more? Honestly, we have found that the ticks are in the long grass, the short grass, in the bushes, trees, and flying in the breeze. No matter the length of the lawn, we need to be just as vigilant.

Speaking of being vigilant, attending to the landscape around the house, I’ve become a little more gentle with myself. As I seek to find ways I am meant to grow in this new phase of life, I realize that not everything needs to be neat and tied up in a box right away. If I just let things be, to percolate as long as they need to, perhaps new forms of life, new patterns, new rhythms, will sprout in the soil of my life. Considering that I like the wildness of plant life, I ought to see what is trying to rise in me before I try to prune it into shape. I’d rather be a bright explosion of color than a groomed tennis ball! Perhaps my “No Mow May” will last at least throughout the summer. Who knows what color and shape I’ll take by Autumn?

HEALING FOG

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, June 26, 2023

As I settled into my writing space this morning, the fog was deepening outside. Creeping up from the bay about a mile down the steep hill to the harbor, it makes its climb gently and surrounds me with blessing. Fog is the meteorological condition that brings me most easily and deeply into silence. It’s like being surrounded by the knitted shawl your mother made, soft and calming.

I know it can be different for those out on the water who may lose visibility and direction, but even the sound of the fog bell on the buoy off land is like a call to prayer. A reminder that we are never alone in the mist.

Admittedly, a younger me was not so thrilled with fog. It made my hair frizzy in about thirty seconds. Now that frizz is simply a sign of being touched by the soft movements of the Creator. The humidity of a cool fog is sweet on an early summer morning. I will have a halo of frizz for the rest of the day.

As I sit here with my legs straight out on the sofa, I happen to notice that my body has been doing some good work . The inch and a half wound that was to the right and under my left knee has just about healed. The unsightly initial cut has become a soft pink scar, nearly invisible. This is where one of my veins was removed to create a bypass vessel for my heart. The other was a mammary vein that the surgeon told me was “God’s gift to cardiologists” because it worked so well to provide two of the other veins needed. I liked it that he described it this way, it was an acknowledgement that not everything was up to him. The body provides what we need to heal and thrive. Yes, the medical intervention is nearly miraculous, but the body itself is always the first miracle.

And now, I am surrounded by an even thicker shroud of fog. I think I will step out on the back deck and breathe it in. Treat this body to some heavenly-sent moisture. The healing of body and soul continues…

STARE TRANSFORMED

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, Dwelling in Presence, June 10, 2023

This morning finds me back in stare mode. It took me a good hour and a half to lift up this journal and begin to write as the candle burns down beside me and the coffee has turned cold. There is a thick fog rolling in from the coast, and it seems to have clouded my brain. The birds, however, sing right through – this morning I hear cardinals, the song sparrow, chickadees, the titmouse, gold finches, and catbird. At least, those are all I can distinguish right now.

Joel is up and sits by the open window reading. It is a great sadness for him, therefore for me, that he cannot hear most of the birds. He is deficient in hearing, especially at the higher decibels. But he will spot a bird, a color, a shape, a pattern of flying, long before I do. The highlight of his week is spotting a new bird, then finding it in Sibley’s or one of our Audubon books, and reading up on it. His passion has been passed on to me.

Perhaps this is a way to break through the stare – to keep one’s senses sharp and working. Notice the fog creeping in and its dissipation, distinguish the songs of the birds and the rhythmic tapping of the woodpeckers, go for a second cup of coffee when I can no longer smell its goodness or breathe in its steam, watch the wax dripping down the candle creating pleasing shapes of their own. If I must stare, I could stare with appreciation for the life changing around me. Know that I am part of this ever-changing scene. Even if I feel stagnant, the truth is I am part of this developing tableau.

Last night, I was awakened by the call of the barred owl somewhere near my bedroom window. I awakened Joel who also loves to hear this beloved bird. I then lay there as its haunting call moved further and further away. It dawned on me as I was listening that this was more than staring into the night. The call had awakened my longing to be in relationship, reaching out for this manifestation of creation that I love. Perhaps it was reaching out to me as well and both of us were changed.

The purpose of staring mode (written in a previous post as being “blank”) has changed for me. It seems to invite us to sharpen our senses, note what moves us, calls us, invites us, to a deeper consciousness of life and beauty in order to enter a more profound relationship with them. The birds, the fog, the coffee steam, the candle wax all called to me this morning. I think Martin Buber would say that these initial “I/It” relationships were moving toward “I/Thou.” All of being inhabits a spirit we can relate to. And be changed by.

NEW EVERY MOMENT

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, June 1, 2023

It is 4:30 a.m. and the music is rising outside. Why do the birds sing with such abandon every morning? Is it because they are so fully alive in the present moment that every dawn is truly new to them? Not living in the memory of yesterday or in anticipation of tomorrow, this moment is what they have and it is utterly unprecedented. Imagine being born anew every morning to creatiton’s wonders!

What if we could live with that kind of presence, in which each point of time offered a fresh and new experience? It had never been before, offering the thrill of every “first time,” and it would never come again, immediately conferring upon it the sense of being precious. Watching in wonder the miracles unfolding around us, would we too be moved to sing our praise? Or would we be taken into a deep and silent hush?

Perhaps this kind of awareness is available to the saints and mystics among us (and they are among us!) who seek the presence of God in every breath they take. Breathing in the spirit of love and recreation, every moment and all things become sacred. And precious.

Although I long to live with this kind of consciousness, I am aware of the pain it can open a heart to. For as I may rise to birdsong, others are rising to bombs falling down on their city, to a stomach gnawing in hunger, to a harrowing existence of pain and fear. Every moment of this also new. Each point of time with its own unique suffering.

It is not possible to know one kind of awareness without the other. For as our love grows, the whole world comes spilling in. I don’t think it means we stop singing, but our song becomes more nuanced. No less beautiful, but touched by minor chords of sadness, longing, and understanding moving us to address the suffering we can and at the same time hold on to the healing grace of joy. I do not know if birds know suffering, but we can not be saints or mystics, or fully human, by keeping it at arms length. We cannot be fully present to the moment or to this world until we avail ourselves to it all.