A few months ago I signed up to take part in what I might call a spiritual support group -- a group of people who gather to support each other in their spiritual journeys. The first gathering of the group was to be a half-day retreat on sabbath time yesterday. I was very much looking forward to it, as a time to meet other spiritual seekers and to nurture myself. I felt I really needed it.
Then, two days before the retreat, my brother asked me to help move our father into a residence for people with memory loss. I'd known the move was coming -- had visited the two residences that had been recommended to my brother -- and certainly have known for some time that Dad had dementia. But the move had to coincide with this day I'd been looking forward to and promising myself, when I was going to give myself a little extra care.
There was nothing for it. It simply had to be then. My brother had arranged to borrow his neighbor's truck, and he wasn't going to be available the next weekend to do the move. When I mentioned I had something else planned, he told me he and my sister-in-law and nephew could probably manage without me. But I knew he wanted my support, as much as my help in packing up Dad's clothes and driving them the few miles to the new residence.
My brother has done so much to take care of our father, largely because he was the one who lived closest. No one could have been more devoted, more tireless, taking Dad to every doctor's appointment, taking calls from the assisted living facility where Dad lived, making this arrangement and that arrangement, having Dad over to his house, taking Dad to get a haircut. If children owe an enormous debt to their parents for nurturing and caring for them until they are grown, my brother has paid back a very large share of his debt through the care he has given Dad.
And then there's Dad himself. There aren't adequate words for his kindness, his love and support, given to me and my brothers over the years. Now he has virtually no short-term memory, but he knows enough to know that his life stinks without my mother, who died two years ago. He also remembers a frightening number of old baseball scores, and a staggering amount of English literature, which he taught for 30-odd years.
So I went. I helped pack some of Dad's clothes and drove them to the new place. I talked to Dad about why he was there and what I thought might be good about it (he will get more help with activities of daily living, and there are at least a few people there who are nearly as intellectually intact as he is), and stood by my brother to take my share of the blame for the decision to move Dad to this new and frightening place.
It is terrifying and sad to see my father, on whom I have relied for nearly all of my life for moral and emotional support, for a certain kind of steadiness, for humor, for love, become another person, one who sometimes resembles the father I knew and sometimes seems like a cruel caricature of him. It seems so unfair that on top of all of the losses that go along with old age, his disease has robbed him of his dignity as well.
I love him. So, even though I didn't want -- for a range of reasons -- to be there yesterday, I'm glad I was. Perhaps that's what growing up is all about.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
A film about the power of compassion
Last night I saw a movie that, for the first time, gave me a sense of hope about Americans' response to the Sept. 11, 2001, tragedy. In general, I think we as a nation have failed to meet the challenge of that day to broaden our understanding of people in other cultures and to cultivate compassion.
But last night my church showed the film "Beyond Belief," directed by Beth Murphy. It tells the story of two Wellesley, Mass., women, Susan Retik and Patti Quigley, both of whom lost their husbands when the planes flew into the World Trade Center towers. Both women happened to be pregnant at the time, and through friends they met each other and had an immediate sense of connection. From supporting each other, they soon moved to wanting to help other widows -- in Afghanistan.
They started with an idea that they could each help one widow in Afghanistan, which has thousands of widows, because it has been at war for 23 years. It wasn't long before they realized that because Afghanistan is such a poor country, their money would go far enough to help many more than just two widows. Then they decided to have a fundraiser on the anniversary of 9/11 where Susan, Patti and others would ride bicycles from Ground Zero to Boston. The first event raised $100,000, and they were off and running.
They made a grant to a CARE program to give chickens and incubators to Afghan widows so they could have an income, as well as having some eggs for their own table. Most of these women were the sole providers for their children.
Eventually the pair visited Afghanistan to meet some of the women they had helped. It took them a few years to be ready to make this trip, both because of the dangerous conditions there and because, since they were single parents, they were reluctant to take the risk that they might not return. Finally, they were both ready to go, and the connection they made with the Afghan women (through an interpreter) was very moving. It was touching to hear one of the Afghan women said the Taliban was bad for what it had done to Americans and that "God will punish them four times more." Of course, the Taliban has been no friend at all to women, least of all to women not attached to a man.
All in all, the film was hopeful and inspiring, a real testament to the power of compassion and human connection. I can't imagine anyone not being deeply affected by it.
By the way, Susan and Patti started a nonprofit called "Beyond the 11th" if you want to support their efforts.
But last night my church showed the film "Beyond Belief," directed by Beth Murphy. It tells the story of two Wellesley, Mass., women, Susan Retik and Patti Quigley, both of whom lost their husbands when the planes flew into the World Trade Center towers. Both women happened to be pregnant at the time, and through friends they met each other and had an immediate sense of connection. From supporting each other, they soon moved to wanting to help other widows -- in Afghanistan.
They started with an idea that they could each help one widow in Afghanistan, which has thousands of widows, because it has been at war for 23 years. It wasn't long before they realized that because Afghanistan is such a poor country, their money would go far enough to help many more than just two widows. Then they decided to have a fundraiser on the anniversary of 9/11 where Susan, Patti and others would ride bicycles from Ground Zero to Boston. The first event raised $100,000, and they were off and running.
They made a grant to a CARE program to give chickens and incubators to Afghan widows so they could have an income, as well as having some eggs for their own table. Most of these women were the sole providers for their children.
Eventually the pair visited Afghanistan to meet some of the women they had helped. It took them a few years to be ready to make this trip, both because of the dangerous conditions there and because, since they were single parents, they were reluctant to take the risk that they might not return. Finally, they were both ready to go, and the connection they made with the Afghan women (through an interpreter) was very moving. It was touching to hear one of the Afghan women said the Taliban was bad for what it had done to Americans and that "God will punish them four times more." Of course, the Taliban has been no friend at all to women, least of all to women not attached to a man.
All in all, the film was hopeful and inspiring, a real testament to the power of compassion and human connection. I can't imagine anyone not being deeply affected by it.
By the way, Susan and Patti started a nonprofit called "Beyond the 11th" if you want to support their efforts.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
A little rant about religion vs. spirituality
I was at a meeting last week where the conversation turned to how to attract younger adults to a church event. And someone said young adults were "not religious, but spiritual." Now, I think I have some idea of what she meant, but somehow the comment really bothered me.
Part of it's the buzzword factor. These days "religious" too often equals some combination of "fanatical, boring, straitlaced, excessively pious,and/or narrow-minded," while "spiritual" means one or more of "deep, personally meaningful, good, cool, new age and/or affirming of one's own beliefs.
Another thing that bothered me is the sense that being religious entails following, or at least acknowledging, a lot of boring, restrictive rules: the "thou shalt not's" of Old Testament fame, plus maybe a few more. And then there are the "thou shalt's." Thou shalt share with others through charitable contributions to the church and other organizations; thou shalt treat other people with the kindness and respect you would like to receive, whether or not you actually do receive it. Thou shalt give of thy time to benefit the community. All that religious stuff -- what a pain!
Whereas, if one is spiritual, one may enjoy profound personal experiences without any obligation to anyone. There are no rules governing what you have to do in order to be spiritual, no requirement to care for others or contribute to something larger than yourself.
I don't really think the religious and the spiritual are so opposed: I think in their best expressions the two go together. The experience of Mystery and the ineffable grows out of serving others and, in its turn, supports our efforts to live an ethical life. Religion and spirituality are two sides of the same coin, and it is only when we try to separate them, or hold them opposed to one another, that we reduce them to caricatures. In the process, we reduce our own experience as well.
Part of it's the buzzword factor. These days "religious" too often equals some combination of "fanatical, boring, straitlaced, excessively pious,and/or narrow-minded," while "spiritual" means one or more of "deep, personally meaningful, good, cool, new age and/or affirming of one's own beliefs.
Another thing that bothered me is the sense that being religious entails following, or at least acknowledging, a lot of boring, restrictive rules: the "thou shalt not's" of Old Testament fame, plus maybe a few more. And then there are the "thou shalt's." Thou shalt share with others through charitable contributions to the church and other organizations; thou shalt treat other people with the kindness and respect you would like to receive, whether or not you actually do receive it. Thou shalt give of thy time to benefit the community. All that religious stuff -- what a pain!
Whereas, if one is spiritual, one may enjoy profound personal experiences without any obligation to anyone. There are no rules governing what you have to do in order to be spiritual, no requirement to care for others or contribute to something larger than yourself.
I don't really think the religious and the spiritual are so opposed: I think in their best expressions the two go together. The experience of Mystery and the ineffable grows out of serving others and, in its turn, supports our efforts to live an ethical life. Religion and spirituality are two sides of the same coin, and it is only when we try to separate them, or hold them opposed to one another, that we reduce them to caricatures. In the process, we reduce our own experience as well.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
What is home?
Two weeks ago, I bought a house. That is, I actually purchased a house. I mean to say, I presented an absolutely enormous bank check to an attorney and signed a lot of papers and now I (and Bank of America) own a house. In a town about 20 miles west of Worcester, Mass.
So here I am, at 57, learning how to be a homeowner. I hope I do OK at it.
I still have not really gotten my emotional mind (as opposed to my intellectual mind) around this colossal fact. It's a nice house, faintly reminiscent of the one my parents owned when I was in high school, college and for many years after that. It has a yard with trees in the front and flowers in back, and a deck and two stories. Well, probably more stories than that, but only two you can see.
The house is starting to feel a little bit like home. It has my stuff in it, and I've slept here for two weeks now, and the dog already takes it for granted that this is his place. But still it's strange. I've never owned a house before, and it feels like a huge change in my life, and rather a daunting one. I don't know much about taking care of a car, either, but I know where to take it to find someone who does. With a house, there is no one "house mechanic," you've got to find a whole retinue of persons to do this, that and this other, and first you have to know that those things need to be done. Daunting.
But it's a much better place for my sweetie to visit, and so far it's been a pleasant place to be. But there is one obvious major lack -- my sweetie. She visits, but she doesn't live here. I am impatient for her to move in, but our other house must either be sold or rented, and that hasn't happened yet. So we have to just visit.
I have met a friendly neighbor who actually left me a plant on the front stoop the day I moved in. She has also promised to bring over extra veggies from her garden and warned me of coyotes in the neighborhood. A good reason to continue my practice of keeping the pup on his leash and not letting him out by himself.
We walk in the morning, when I get home from work, and after dinner, usually going a little less than half a mile each time. It's quiet here, and pretty. It will be a good home for us when my sweetie's house sells.
Right now, "home" is a bit elusive for me. The other house is still comfortable and familiar, but it's not home any longer. And the new house doesn't really completely feel like home yet, either. I don't think it will really feel like home until we're living together again. I have found that "home" isn't always a place. Sometimes it's a person, or people, or even words. I have experienced a sense of home in the words of the Episcopal prayer book, and in other books that are special to me.
I guess it's a sense of safety and belonging -- of being in your own place. Maybe of knowing that others' caring is with you even when they are absent.
So here I am, at 57, learning how to be a homeowner. I hope I do OK at it.
I still have not really gotten my emotional mind (as opposed to my intellectual mind) around this colossal fact. It's a nice house, faintly reminiscent of the one my parents owned when I was in high school, college and for many years after that. It has a yard with trees in the front and flowers in back, and a deck and two stories. Well, probably more stories than that, but only two you can see.
The house is starting to feel a little bit like home. It has my stuff in it, and I've slept here for two weeks now, and the dog already takes it for granted that this is his place. But still it's strange. I've never owned a house before, and it feels like a huge change in my life, and rather a daunting one. I don't know much about taking care of a car, either, but I know where to take it to find someone who does. With a house, there is no one "house mechanic," you've got to find a whole retinue of persons to do this, that and this other, and first you have to know that those things need to be done. Daunting.
But it's a much better place for my sweetie to visit, and so far it's been a pleasant place to be. But there is one obvious major lack -- my sweetie. She visits, but she doesn't live here. I am impatient for her to move in, but our other house must either be sold or rented, and that hasn't happened yet. So we have to just visit.
I have met a friendly neighbor who actually left me a plant on the front stoop the day I moved in. She has also promised to bring over extra veggies from her garden and warned me of coyotes in the neighborhood. A good reason to continue my practice of keeping the pup on his leash and not letting him out by himself.
We walk in the morning, when I get home from work, and after dinner, usually going a little less than half a mile each time. It's quiet here, and pretty. It will be a good home for us when my sweetie's house sells.
Right now, "home" is a bit elusive for me. The other house is still comfortable and familiar, but it's not home any longer. And the new house doesn't really completely feel like home yet, either. I don't think it will really feel like home until we're living together again. I have found that "home" isn't always a place. Sometimes it's a person, or people, or even words. I have experienced a sense of home in the words of the Episcopal prayer book, and in other books that are special to me.
I guess it's a sense of safety and belonging -- of being in your own place. Maybe of knowing that others' caring is with you even when they are absent.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
On why I hang my hat here
I'm reading Mary Gordon's "Reading Jesus: A Writer's Encounter with the Gospels." Gordon, of course, is a Catholic writer, known for her novels memoirs and literary criticism. "Reading Jesus" applies a novelist's sensibilities to the gospels, and in particular, to their portrait of Jesus. In it, she says "the holy is inseparable, not only from matter, but from the narrative of our lives."
Let me run that by you again, "the holy is inseparable, not only from matter, but from the narrative of our lives." This, to me, was like when you hear something and say, "Oh, of course. I knew it all along." Only I didn't know I knew it. It made me realize that the reason religion/theology/the spiritual life means so much to me is this very sacralizing of narrative.That everybody's story, your, mine and ours together, is holy. That what makes the Bible itself sacred literature is that it is the story of a people and their struggle to be faithful.
It is not a sacred text because of the few small successes of individuals at actually being faithful, nor the recorded acts of God, nor the do's and don'ts offered for the people's edification. It is because of the ongoing struggle, the preservation of the stories, the falling away and the returning, the seeking to know God and to serve God that hallows the story -- the stories -- of the Hebrew people and eventually of the followers of Jesus.
I would also say that the narratives of Buddha's life, of Krishna's, Mohammed's -- of all religious exemplars and their followers -- are holy.
Indeed, all of our stories are holy, if they contain the truth of our lives, if they convey the essence of our being, if they speak to what it is to be in the world. As long as we can tell our story, there is no such thing as a life without meaning.
But it takes the genius of a novelist to notice, to celebrate that meaning and to enable the rest of us to be enriched by participating in it.
Let me run that by you again, "the holy is inseparable, not only from matter, but from the narrative of our lives." This, to me, was like when you hear something and say, "Oh, of course. I knew it all along." Only I didn't know I knew it. It made me realize that the reason religion/theology/the spiritual life means so much to me is this very sacralizing of narrative.That everybody's story, your, mine and ours together, is holy. That what makes the Bible itself sacred literature is that it is the story of a people and their struggle to be faithful.
It is not a sacred text because of the few small successes of individuals at actually being faithful, nor the recorded acts of God, nor the do's and don'ts offered for the people's edification. It is because of the ongoing struggle, the preservation of the stories, the falling away and the returning, the seeking to know God and to serve God that hallows the story -- the stories -- of the Hebrew people and eventually of the followers of Jesus.
I would also say that the narratives of Buddha's life, of Krishna's, Mohammed's -- of all religious exemplars and their followers -- are holy.
Indeed, all of our stories are holy, if they contain the truth of our lives, if they convey the essence of our being, if they speak to what it is to be in the world. As long as we can tell our story, there is no such thing as a life without meaning.
But it takes the genius of a novelist to notice, to celebrate that meaning and to enable the rest of us to be enriched by participating in it.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
On belonging and identity
One of the things I have always struggled with is connection with other people. I am both introverted and (sometimes) shy, and for reasons connected with my particular psyche, I am ambivalent about being part of a group. Part of me wants to belong, like any normal person, and part of me is wants to stay aloof, hanging out on the fringes. This part is suspicious of group-think, of the political correctness that can be imposed by belonging; I'm also wary of the demands on my time that may come with group membership, and of losing my individuality in the group.
With time, I have become aware, in a way I wasn't when I was younger, of my need for belonging and connection with a group. I've also learned that I can belong and still set my own boundaries.But the ambivalence, which set in when I was quite young, has remained.
It is reinforced when I lose touch with friends, family and the groups (primarily church) that are important to me. The less I'm around others, the more ambivalent I feel about being around them. The more I'm around others (up to a point), the more I look forward to connecting.
I haven't been to church since Easter, and I feel it. I need to go to church, to be part of that group of people, most of whom I know only slightly, with whom I share a bond of faith and a roughly similar approach to the spiritual journey.
In fact, connecting with other people is the second-most-important reason I go to church. The first is to connect with God and to be reminded that it is to God that I most deeply belong. The two really are intertwined: because all of us belong, on the deepest level, to God, connecting with others is connecting with God and vice versa. Because God is the true home of each one of us, we are ultimately connected with one another, involved in one another and obligated to one another.
It's much harder to live than to say, and I'm not good at it. But I try (pace Yoda), in my fitful way.
Lying in bed the other morning, these words came to me, accompanied by a simple tune:
Breath of God, breathe in me,
Heart of God, beat in me,
Love of God, flow in me,
Life of God, show in me.
Peace of God, rest in me,
Power of God, move in me,
Joy of God, grow in me,
Light of God, glow in me.
May the love of the One who holds us all draw us ever closer to each other. As the beloved of God, may we know deeply our unique contribution to the whole, and the particular gifts that belonging nurtures in us.
With time, I have become aware, in a way I wasn't when I was younger, of my need for belonging and connection with a group. I've also learned that I can belong and still set my own boundaries.But the ambivalence, which set in when I was quite young, has remained.
It is reinforced when I lose touch with friends, family and the groups (primarily church) that are important to me. The less I'm around others, the more ambivalent I feel about being around them. The more I'm around others (up to a point), the more I look forward to connecting.
I haven't been to church since Easter, and I feel it. I need to go to church, to be part of that group of people, most of whom I know only slightly, with whom I share a bond of faith and a roughly similar approach to the spiritual journey.
In fact, connecting with other people is the second-most-important reason I go to church. The first is to connect with God and to be reminded that it is to God that I most deeply belong. The two really are intertwined: because all of us belong, on the deepest level, to God, connecting with others is connecting with God and vice versa. Because God is the true home of each one of us, we are ultimately connected with one another, involved in one another and obligated to one another.
It's much harder to live than to say, and I'm not good at it. But I try (pace Yoda), in my fitful way.
Lying in bed the other morning, these words came to me, accompanied by a simple tune:
Breath of God, breathe in me,
Heart of God, beat in me,
Love of God, flow in me,
Life of God, show in me.
Peace of God, rest in me,
Power of God, move in me,
Joy of God, grow in me,
Light of God, glow in me.
May the love of the One who holds us all draw us ever closer to each other. As the beloved of God, may we know deeply our unique contribution to the whole, and the particular gifts that belonging nurtures in us.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
On finally making a commitment
Unlike the rounds from Sunday to Saturday in Garrison Keillor's Lake Woebegone, it has not been a quiet week here in Worcester. Not for me, at least. It began with my spotting an ad online for a job working for my old employer in the state where I used to live. I jumped at the idea, thinking, "That's it! They'll be happy to have me back and I can just go back with my sweetie and pretend none of this ever happened." At first my emotions soared at the prospect.
But after a while, I sobered up and thought, "Do I really want to 1) run out on the commitment I've made to my employer here; 2) take a huge pay cut to work for an editor I've never met at a paper that tends to get short shrift among the properties owned by my former employer; 3) cut the ties I've just renewed with people here I like a lot, all because I'm lonely? I decided maybe it wasn't such a great idea after all.
It came to me that the best way to be happy where I am and to make the change I've undertaken work out is to regard it as a settled thing. Not that I couldn't ever change my mind if that really seemed like the best thing to do, but I have to stop waffling about whether I'm really committed to being here and really intending to stay. I had good reasons for coming here, I now have a good job and connections to people I care about here, and I'm committed to making this move work out. And I accept that it may take longer than I want it to before that happens (if I'm honest I'd have to admit that it already has taken longer than I wanted it to).
So great, I learned something about myself and I moved to a healthier way of thinking. Then Wednesday I went to my first Mindfulness Stress Reduction class. I mostly enjoyed the class, but when we went around the room and everyone said why they were there, I was struck by the amount of pain carried by everyone in the room, and the sense of inadequacy most carried because they had such pain. It brought to mind Thoreau's remark that "the majority of men lead lives of quiet desperation." I guess the good thing for those of us in the room was that we had all decided to do something about the desperation we felt and try to find a better way to live with it.
It was amazing to hear people, just regular folks who seemed pretty much like me, talk about the physical and psychic burdens they carry and know that not only was I not alone, I hadn't been through half what some of them had. People bear incredible burdens with great stoicism a lot of the time, believing that they have no other choice.
And Thursday morning I was walking my dog in the backyard behind my house, and he got caught on some barbed wire lying serpentlike in the leaves. The next thing I knew he was frantically struggling to free himself. The wire was caught in his ear, and as I tried to help him, he screamed (that's a blood-freezing sound if the animal is yours). After trying unsuccessfully to free him for a few moments, I decided I'd better go see if any of my neighbors had wire cutters, because I was afraid the wire was in the flesh of my dog's ear. (He's a poodle-cocker spaniel mix and has floppy cocker ears).
As I was running for the street, my next-door neighbor ran over and asked what was going on, having heard my dog crying. I told him breathlessly that Riley was caught by his ear on the barbed wire and that I was going to see if anyone had wire cutters. He didn't have any, but said he'd try to help the dog.
In the time it took me to pound on two doors across the street, Rick, the neighbor who had come to help, got Riley free and brought him over to me on his leash. I thanked Rick profusely for freeing Riley and he ran back to his house.
Luckily, the wire was caught mostly in the hair on Riley's ear and had just nicked the flesh a little bit. We saw the vet later that morning and he was pronounced to be in good shape.
And then last night I went to a friend's house for dinner, the first time we'd seen each other in about eight years. From her welcoming hug to her goodbye hug she was so warm, and really went all-out to be hospitable. I felt so special, and like it really meant a lot to her to see me. We talked nonstop for about four hours, catching up on a lot of what had happened since we last saw each other, laughing and renewing our friendship. It was really wonderful.
Maybe I came back here for more reasons than I know. In fact, believing in Providence as I do, I'm almost certain that's true.
The reasons we give ourselves for doing things are usually rational, and sometimes even true. But they are seldom, if ever, the whole story. There is a force, call it God, love, mystery, the universe, or life itself, that touches and shapes our lives, moving us toward greater wholeness and fullness of life. It never stops, never abandons us, but is infinitely adaptable and patient. We can choose to fight it or work with it, but it is always there. It calls us to allow ourselves to be loved more deeply and to open our arms and our hearts wider to the life around us.
But after a while, I sobered up and thought, "Do I really want to 1) run out on the commitment I've made to my employer here; 2) take a huge pay cut to work for an editor I've never met at a paper that tends to get short shrift among the properties owned by my former employer; 3) cut the ties I've just renewed with people here I like a lot, all because I'm lonely? I decided maybe it wasn't such a great idea after all.
It came to me that the best way to be happy where I am and to make the change I've undertaken work out is to regard it as a settled thing. Not that I couldn't ever change my mind if that really seemed like the best thing to do, but I have to stop waffling about whether I'm really committed to being here and really intending to stay. I had good reasons for coming here, I now have a good job and connections to people I care about here, and I'm committed to making this move work out. And I accept that it may take longer than I want it to before that happens (if I'm honest I'd have to admit that it already has taken longer than I wanted it to).
So great, I learned something about myself and I moved to a healthier way of thinking. Then Wednesday I went to my first Mindfulness Stress Reduction class. I mostly enjoyed the class, but when we went around the room and everyone said why they were there, I was struck by the amount of pain carried by everyone in the room, and the sense of inadequacy most carried because they had such pain. It brought to mind Thoreau's remark that "the majority of men lead lives of quiet desperation." I guess the good thing for those of us in the room was that we had all decided to do something about the desperation we felt and try to find a better way to live with it.
It was amazing to hear people, just regular folks who seemed pretty much like me, talk about the physical and psychic burdens they carry and know that not only was I not alone, I hadn't been through half what some of them had. People bear incredible burdens with great stoicism a lot of the time, believing that they have no other choice.
And Thursday morning I was walking my dog in the backyard behind my house, and he got caught on some barbed wire lying serpentlike in the leaves. The next thing I knew he was frantically struggling to free himself. The wire was caught in his ear, and as I tried to help him, he screamed (that's a blood-freezing sound if the animal is yours). After trying unsuccessfully to free him for a few moments, I decided I'd better go see if any of my neighbors had wire cutters, because I was afraid the wire was in the flesh of my dog's ear. (He's a poodle-cocker spaniel mix and has floppy cocker ears).
As I was running for the street, my next-door neighbor ran over and asked what was going on, having heard my dog crying. I told him breathlessly that Riley was caught by his ear on the barbed wire and that I was going to see if anyone had wire cutters. He didn't have any, but said he'd try to help the dog.
In the time it took me to pound on two doors across the street, Rick, the neighbor who had come to help, got Riley free and brought him over to me on his leash. I thanked Rick profusely for freeing Riley and he ran back to his house.
Luckily, the wire was caught mostly in the hair on Riley's ear and had just nicked the flesh a little bit. We saw the vet later that morning and he was pronounced to be in good shape.
And then last night I went to a friend's house for dinner, the first time we'd seen each other in about eight years. From her welcoming hug to her goodbye hug she was so warm, and really went all-out to be hospitable. I felt so special, and like it really meant a lot to her to see me. We talked nonstop for about four hours, catching up on a lot of what had happened since we last saw each other, laughing and renewing our friendship. It was really wonderful.
Maybe I came back here for more reasons than I know. In fact, believing in Providence as I do, I'm almost certain that's true.
The reasons we give ourselves for doing things are usually rational, and sometimes even true. But they are seldom, if ever, the whole story. There is a force, call it God, love, mystery, the universe, or life itself, that touches and shapes our lives, moving us toward greater wholeness and fullness of life. It never stops, never abandons us, but is infinitely adaptable and patient. We can choose to fight it or work with it, but it is always there. It calls us to allow ourselves to be loved more deeply and to open our arms and our hearts wider to the life around us.
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