beautiful and terrible

It's a lovely wintry afternoon. The snow swirled down this morning, just long enough to lay a thin covering over the mud and brown grass. Though I hope for more, soon, today that fine white dusting is enough. A little bit of snow, a little bit of grace.

My uncle is dying. He is riddled with cancer, stomach and esophagus and bones. It was very unexpected, has happened very quickly. His 65th birthday is in March, when he planned to retire. But his work, and life, are ending sooner than anyone thought. 

He is surrounded by many people who love him, family and friends and the people from his church, where he's been the pastor for nearly a decade. Today most of the people from his congregation filled his home, singing hymns to lift him, encourage him, be light to him and his family. Be a little bit of grace to go with him on his way. I look through the pictures and posts on Facebook, experiencing it all from a distance: Montana is my home, but it is very far away from most of my family. Right now it feels too far.

One of my friends attends my uncle's church and was part of the service at his home today. She told me it was a "beautiful and terrible moment all wrapped together." 

Cancer is terrible. Death is terrible. Lives ending are terrible. But the grace in all of this is that somehow, despite the awfulness, there is beauty, too. This is beauty: my Uncle Archie being surrounded by people who love him, people who are gladly ministering to him after all his years of ministering to them. Though he wished for more years, more time, Archie says he is at peace.

As these hard days pass I find all the little pieces of my daily life taking up more space. The steam rising from a cup of hot tea wafts slowly through the air, shimmers in the shaft of sunlight coming through the window. The four white swans on the icy pond at the wildlife refuge seem magical, otherworldly, as they spread their bright wings in the sunshine. The barest sliver of new moon hanging in the blue-green twilight glows more radiantly than I would have thought possible.

On Friday I walked to work while listening to an On Being podcast with Carrie Newcomer, a wonderful folk singer-songwriter. She talked about light, and about darkness. She talked about thresholds, being in that liminal zone between old and new. And she sang several songs, including one called A Light in the Window. As I walked and listened, the thick fog that lay settled in the valley began to lift, and golden sunbeams sliced through, sharp and bright.

Standing here on a new threshold, 
I can see a light, 
There's a light in the window. 

And the world is made of stone, 
And the world is made of glass. 
And the world is made of light, 
And it's moving very fast. 

We pass from mystery to mystery 
So I won't lie 
I don't know what happens 
When people die. 
But I hope that I see you walking slow, 
Smiling wide as a sunrise grows, 
Drop my map with a thousand folds, 
In the distance I see it glow, 
There's a light, there's a light 
There's a light in the window.

I will miss my Uncle Archie's laugh.
I will miss his jokes, his quicker-than-lightning wit, his presence. He is a big person--not only in physical size but in personality, in heart, in spirit.
I will miss his kindness, his thoughtfulness, his intelligence.
I will miss his bear hugs and the ever-present twinkle in his eye, his booming voice, and his way of seeing the world that pushes beyond what is immediately before us to the depth and complexity that lies beneath.

He is on the threshold, about to embark on the next mystery.

I hope that I see him walking slow,
Smiling wide as the sunrise grows.

In the distance I see it glow,
There's a light, there's a light
There's a light in the window.

lift up your hearts

I've been taking a yoga class for the past several months--nearly a year, now. I've had a home yoga practice for years, but it's been a long time since I've participated in a class, and I was a little nervous about it. But it's been lovely. I go once a week, on Monday mornings, and it's been a calming, centering beginning to my day and my workweek.

In my home practice, meditation can be difficult. I find myself constantly looking at the clock, checking how much time has passed. Sometimes staying in one position for seven or eleven minutes gets uncomfortable. I have a hard time clearing my mind--somehow, when I try to quiet it, all these niggling thoughts well up, fighting to be heard. But in class, meditation becomes easier. I feel no need to look at the clock, because Harriet will let us know when to stop. She encourages us to let those distracting thoughts well up, to acknowledge that they're there, and then to simply let them go. I am learning.

Since my first experience with yoga nine years ago, I've considered it to be one of my spiritual practices, even committing to practicing it daily for Lent a few years ago. So up until this past fall, it's mostly been a solo practice. But since I've begun attending this class, I have rediscovered the delight of a communal practice, and as the months pass, the more I come to see--and appreciate--the similarities between my yoga class and the services at my little church.

Part of the liturgy in our church services goes like this:

Pastor:  Lift up your hearts.
Congregation:  We lift them to the Lord.

It is a spiritual lifting, a lifting of heart-as-soul, heart-as-self, opening our souls/selves to God (or so I always think it to be).

In my yoga class, Harriet uses the same phrase. We are doing a pose--one of the warrior poses, perhaps, or eagle pose, or triangle pose--and she will say, "Lift up your hearts."

It is a physical lifting:  we lift our chests, our physical hearts, breathing deeply, expanding our lungs, opening up all that space inside our ribcage.

And yet.

As I physically lift my heart, standing, quiveringly balancing, in the yoga studio, I feel a spiritual lifting, too, a centering, a lightening.

And as I spiritually lift up my heart, standing in the pew at Our Savior's Lutheran Church, I find myself physically lifting my heart, breathing deeply, expanding my ribcage.

Pondering all this, I remember anew that we cannot divide physical from spiritual. Physical acts are spiritual. Spiritual acts are physical. Perhaps it is easier to see this in a place like a yoga class or a church service. Communion, for example--so obviously both physical and spiritual. Meditation, too--a quieting of both body and spirit.

But what about the rest of our lives? I wonder how we would act differently if we had in mind, at all times, that our physical actions have spiritual repercussions. That eating is a spiritual act. That watching television, going to work, driving a car, are spiritual acts. That things like meditation and prayer--and self-criticism, and anger--affect our physical health. That all our actions are multi-faceted.

This all seems so obvious, yet I know I too often forget the truth of it.

Perhaps that is part of the beauty of spiritual practices, be it yoga or church or salat or walking in the woods: they remind us of the inextricable connection between body and spirit. They help us reconnect spirit and body...and in so doing help us become more fully ourselves.

At the end of each service, Pastor Jean stands at the back of the church and calls out, "Go in peace and serve the Lord!" and we all respond, "Thanks be to God!" and file out, renewed.

At the end of each yoga class, we all sit quietly, heads bowed, palms pressed together in front of our breastbones, and Harriet says, "We share the benefits of our practice today with all beings everywhere, and send them peace. Namaste." And we all repeat, "Namaste." ...and go into our day, renewed.

impressions of Uganda

Colors: red-brown and all shades of green. Green of banana leaves, grass, corn. Mango and papaya and avocado trees, their leaves deep and lush. The green of a landscape that does not have winter, of trees whose leaves fall from dryness, not cold. Green that dazzles eyes accustomed to wintry grey and brown, a rainbow of verdant shades in all directions.

The green overlays red-brown earth, a deep and perfect complement. The clayey soil yields itself up to be shaped into bricks, stacked into walls, covered with tin or thatch, and low homes scatter themselves along every road. Wherever the lush growth has been cleared away, rust-colored earth shows beneath, in yards, on hillsides, in the unpaved roads bumping every which way over the land.

Bright flashes of flowers gleam from the green--trumpet flowers, bougainvillea, enormous purple penstemon, bright white frangipanis with their butter-yellow centers, and hundreds I can't name. And the people, too, are bright flowers moving among the green, along the ruddy earth, dressed in yellows and purples and reds. Women walk along the dusty roadside, wearing bright stiff fabric that shimmers in the sunlight. Soccer jerseys abound, in red and yellow and black, as do crisp white or blue or grey button-downs. Many buildings are left their natural red-brown, but others are painted in vivid hues, and I understand the myriad billboards (and buildings, and walls) promoting Sadolin Paints: Colour Your World.

Smells: the acrid aroma of burning trash, of diesel engines running . . . but beyond the cities and roads, the scent of rich, humid air, humus, green things growing and decaying back into the red earth. Breezes that smell of water, the freshness of air swiftly moving above the vastness of Lake Victoria. The scent of cooked meat, chapatis frying, a panoply of foods.

Sounds: in the city, a cacophony of horns, tires screeching, large trunks bu-bumping over speed humps and potholes, music blaring from clubs and cars. Away from the masses of humanity, the humming buzz of insects underlies all other sound. Hadada ibises squawk their name raucously: "HaDAda! HaDAda!" Red-tailed monkeys chatter in the trees, leaping from branch to branch, causing the limbs to sway, dip low, then spring wildly up again with a loud rustling of leaves. In the distance, a dog barks, or a bass beat thrums. 

In the jungly forest preserves, silence reigns at first, but for slight rustlings here and there as birds flutter down to land on high branches, or insects click their way along. Cool shade lingers beneath the canopy, and our footsteps crackle leaves and twigs. Tracking chimpanzees, we pause for long minutes, hoping to hear their calls, but the jungle is hushed and dim, the only sounds our quiet breathing in the humid air. We are in a deep green womb, listening to our hearts thrumming, sensing the hidden life all around us. We walk the paths slowly, listening, listening. Suddenly, wild chattering bursts out only a few dozen yards away, and we walk quickly along the path to where a family of chimps argues loudly high in the trees, leaping from branch to branch, sending leaves swirling down to where we stand below. Their raucous calls fill the air, and I can hardly believe that all was silence just a few moments before.

costumes and face paint

October 31st:
Rain today, only the second rainfall we've gotten this month. Grey clouds roll across the sky, and drops splash against my window, darken the asphalt. When the clouds lift, the mountains are pale with a new sprinkling of snow. In the afternoon, sunlight flashes golden beneath the clouds, brightening the swirls of leaves on yards and streets. I run through the dappled sunlight up Mount Sentinel, whose tawny grasses gleam copper. Beneath me, the city stretches out, streets dotted with bare-branched trees, though some yellow leaves still brighten the landscape. My shadow falls black against the gilded hillside, chasing me as I run back down the mountain.

In the neighborhoods, families are already beginning to make the rounds. Small children dressed as pumpkins and princesses, superheroes and celebrities, carry bags, buckets, or pillowcases, their parents standing back on the sidewalk as the children run forward to ring one doorbell after another. At one house, a father kneels down on his front steps, matches in hand, lighting candles for the jack-o-lanterns. I pass houses with spiderwebs tangled in tree branches, skeletons hanging on the door, or gravestones in the front yard, hear delighted shrieks and laughter, watch the streets come alive. I wonder at this strange holiday, when so many of us wander through our neighborhoods, reveling in our and each other's creativity, putting on another identity for an evening, knocking on the doors of people we don't know, receiving gifts. I wish we did this more often.

November 1st:
It's First Friday in Missoula, which means that hundreds (thousands?) of people are out and about downtown, exploring galleries, admiring art work, drinking free wine. We decide to dress up (it's still practically Halloween, after all), and wander on down. It's still early in the evening, and we are nearly the only ones dressed up, but people are appreciative, especially of my father-in-law Bill, who is wearing a spectacular Gandalf costume. A little girl dressed as a ladybug points at us and laughs. A group of college students hoot and holler from across the street, and one young man runs across to us, shouting, "Thank you for saving Middle Earth!" and urges malted milk balls on us in gratitude. A bus full of costumed people drives by, and they reach out their hands to give us high fives. One couple is convinced that Bill is Jesus, despite his long, white-haired wig and beard and tall, pointed hat. At the Naturalist's Mercantile I get my face painted--flowers and green curlicues and leaves and glitter--and leave feeling like an elf or a wood nymph.

November 2nd:
We walk downtown because it's el Día de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, and it's one of Missoula's best parades. Dusk falls as we walk up Higgins, and I can hear a band starting to play at the far end. While we wait, I watch the streetlights change from green to yellow to red, over and over again, casting their shifting light over the warmly-bundled crowds lining the streets. Then, appearing out of the night, come huge black-and-white painted banners, raised high, of skeletons and spiders and roses. Then three gradeschool girls whirling glow-in-the-dark hula hoops around their middles as they walk slowly down the street. Jugglers tossing glowing clubs. A huge metal cart with six-foot-high wheels with white roses on the spokes, pulled by a man dressed as some black bird of prey with a wicked curved beak, and sitting atop the cart, a woman in a flowing dress, holding a long stick that she uses to teasingly prod the cart-puller as the crowd laughs.

It begins to rain, a drizzle at first, then harder, and umbrellas bloom up and down the street, but the parade continues without hesitation: a Chinese dragon, with a huge, brightly-colored papier-mâché head and a dozen or more bright papier-mâché body segments, snaking its way back and forth down the street. A large group of dancing, snazzily-dressed men and women--top hats, black suits, flowing black gowns--their faces painted like skulls, white and black and red. They carry a sign: the Dead Debutantes. School groups come by, with children of all ages holding large circles of paper decorated with colorful, painted pictures. One father holds the paper circle over his child, shielding her from the rain. A couple of women pass out blood-red carnations to the crowd; a man gives out soft white bakery rolls in crinkling paper bags; later, a girl hands out small white sugar skulls. A high school band moves into view, all the students dressed in white shirts and dark pants, with painted-skull faces, the paint smearing a little in the rain. The music stops; they pause in front of us, and in the silence the several rows of students ahead of the marching band begin a synchronized dance: back and forth, side to side, jump! Swing the hips, turn around, sway, feet shuffling and tapping against the asphalt. Pause. Breathe.  As we begin to clap a rousing march sounds from the band, the brasses playing out triumphantly, and the tapping feet move forward and away.

The rain glints beneath the streetlights, and I feel a few drops trickling down my collar. To the west, the sky is clearing, and the last hint of light paints the horizon a deep blue-green. As the marching band, the last act, moves down the street toward the dance party in Caras Park, the crowd begins to disperse; we say goodbye to our friends as the rain lightens, lightens, and stops, and we walk home through the cool damp air, hearing the continued celebration and revelry in the distance.

first frost, morning run

I hear the rain pattering on the roof during the night, know I will wake up to a grey fall morning. When my alarm buzzes me awake, I venture from my warm bed and shiver into my running gear, opting for the full-length leggings, as well as headband and gloves, then step out my back door into the chilly damp air. The rain has stopped, and there are hints of blue sky in the northwest, though fog has settled in the valley’s crevices. We had our first fall frost last night, but our backyard, protected on all sides by fences or plants, is a little micro-climate—the air near the ground stayed just above freezing, and even our heat-loving pepper plants made it through the night. But our most enthusiastic squash plant, the one that climbed up and over the lilac bushes and dragged them down with the weight of its tea-kettle-sized fruits, did not fare so well; its huge leaves are drooping and withered.

I run my now-familiar route—east down our alley, across Park Street, down the alley behind the fire station, instinctively avoiding the larger stones underfoot and the rain-laden bushes that reach out, dripping water. My breath condenses in the air. East on Burlington. South on Thames, east down the alley that comes out behind Dairy Queen. Long lines of traffic roll down Higgins, but the cars stop for me almost instantly today, and I barely have to pause before dashing across, faster than my usual pace. By now I’ve settled into my breathing pattern—breathe in, one-two, breathe out, one-two, breathe in . . . breathe out . . . . This has become my favorite (and hardest-won) part of running, this ability to breathe easily, not gasping, my lungs smoothly drawing the air in and out as my legs propel me forward.

I continue zigzagging my way east and south, down streets and through alleys, hearing the occasional staccato bark of a dog defending its territory, leaping over a puddle here, around a muddy patch there. I turn east once more, onto Sussex, running down a block that lacks boulevard trees and reminds me of the wide streets in the town of my childhood. Just a few blocks ahead rises Mount Sentinel, its outline barely emerging from the swirling pale fog. Its shape darkens, solidifies, as I run closer, and I am, as always, surprised by how high it looms above me, the strength of its presence.

South again, across South Avenue, and up the Sentinel trail above the golf course. It’s steep, and I slow to a brisk walk, pulling the air deep into my lungs, feeling the stretch of calves and quads and hamstrings. When I reach the gate that marks the end of the private land, I pause, as always, to look out over the city. Thick fog pours into the valley from Hellgate Canyon, covering most of the university neighborhood and trickling west, though most of Missoula is clear. Up the slope to the horizon, the tawny autumn grasses are covered with a fuzzy layer of frost. To the west, Lolo peak is invisible behind low blue-grey clouds. My eyes are drawn by a beam of morning light to the south that suddenly gilds a house set high on the hillside. For a brief, radiant moment, I am held by the fog, the frost, the sunlight.

Then the sun rises farther and the light falls past the house to the hills beyond, and I feel a drop of sweat trickle down my cheek and the cool-wet air against my skin. I turn, slowly, and the gravel crunches beneath my feet as I run back down the hill, descending into the fog.