It gets grey, rainy, breezy, windy. Even when it isn’t that cold, the humidity is relentless and the days raw; my knuckles ache. The unctuous red mud. That mud that is everywhere when you live in the country. That Alabama red clay is its worst self when the rains come.
All that is true and so is this: The besotting beauty, when the rain has passed and the ground fog, quietly, ever so quietly, slips in and wraps itself around my heart. I love this place.
Artwork of An Artist In Residence at Spindleworks in Maine
When I came to serve at Church of the Holy Comforter; like so many other parishes in the Episcopal Church, the world had changed out from under what had once been a large, vibrant faith community in Montgomery. Something had to be done and so much of the effort in the 90s and the first decade of this century was to try to figure out how to do what we’d always done, just better enough to bring new people in. At least for this congregation, that simply did not work well enough.
About six months after I arrived here, we began a process of discernment. I often return to the root of this word: it is derived from the Latin word for sieve or sifting. That first round of discernment had to do with figuring out what we had always done in the past, that was entrenched and taken for granted, and now mainly wore people out. As our numbers got smaller, fewer and fewer people had to do more and they were tired.
Then, towards the end of 2019, we were selected to participate in an ecumenical program that was intended to help congregations like ours find the way to leverage our facilities in support of a social enterprise of some sort. This approach saw the effort as a way to create a new revenue stream for the participating churches while working to meet a genuine social need in the community. Then, the pandemic hit and everything began to get bogged down. It just didn’t seem like exercises and activities we engaged in gave us any real clarity about the way forward. Finally in January of this year, we came to the conclusion that it was not a sustainable process for our congregation. With real regret, we bowed out.
Just because that process hadn’t worked didn’t mean we could quit trying, just wait for God to send a nicely wrapped miracle our way. First with a very small group, then with the vestry (leadership team of our church), we started a very tough conversation about the future. In a sense we had to be willing to face into the very worst-case scenario, the possibility that our church would not make it. Those early conversations were as raw and heartbreaking as any I have been a part of. And at the same time, I was so proud of the resoluteness and courage with which leadership team was so honest as it tried to discern a way forward.
In an unexpected way, the despair and sorrow that were articulated opened space for one of the leaders of our church to say that, regardless of what happened, he hoped we would not use the resources we have left to simply postpone the inevitable. Instead, he hoped we would find the way to use all the blessings we have received over time, as well as a pretty magnificent facility, differently. Would it be possible to find a way, whether we live or whether we die, so this little corner of Montgomery could still be a place of blessing to the community? All through the earlier part of the conversation, it had felt like we were sitting at the foot of the cross and then, by the grave on Holy Saturday. Now, that hope started to roll away the stone from the grave.
The conversation became much more generative as we started brainstorming what we might do with the things that we have to work with. I think we ended up with a list of six or seven different ministry possibilities. In the midst of all that, I happened to watch an episode of a fun and silly travelogue series on Netflix called “Somebody Feed Phil.” In that particular episode, Phil was in Maine, highlighting the food scene in Portland and beyond. About midway through the episode, he made a stop in a town called Brunswick about an hour away from Portland. He explained he was going to visit with a relative of his and came to a very New England looking kind of clapboard house. A woman, clearly born with Down syndrome, came out to hug on his neck with great glee and delight. She led him in to a place that I continue to find simply miraculous.
Spindleworks is a community arts center that brings together people who are cognitively and neurologically divergent to the extent that they are unable to function independently in a “mainstream” environment. During the work week, people who fall under this general category come to Spindleworks for the day. They are there as artists in residence and are joined by a variety of local artists who serve as artist mentors. The house is quite large and has an area for the textile arts, a pottery studio, a shop with the kinds of tools that allow for sculpting and woodwork, a music studio with lots of rhythm instruments so local musicians can jam with the artists in residence. I was able to visit Spindleworks on the day my vacation ended. What follows are a few pictures of that visit.
After the leadership team and I discussed this possibility extensively, and after the other ideas we had identified couldn’t quite come together, we agreed we would try to create a similar community arts center in Montgomery. A remarkable number of pieces are coming together; I tell people it feels like a warm knife cutting through soft butter. Of necessity, our program will not be identical to Spindleworks. For this to have a chance to thrive, partnerships are going to be essential. Our first partners are a small nonprofit that serves families of children with autism. Because there are so few services for people of all ages challenged by neurosensory and cognitive limitations, we are simply exploring the range of people we will be able to serve.
One of our local universities, Auburn University – Montgomery is very interested in helping us develop this into a training center for students who anticipate working with special needs individuals like the ones we will serve. I will meet with a couple of key leaders from the Montgomery School System next week because they too see an urgent need. I have not lost sight of the needs of adults. Last week, I took a course offered by the state for organizations that want to offer services to the “developmentally disabled” adults in our community. If we get certified by the state, we will be able to become providers who can be reimbursed by Medicaid for services to this part of the population. There also seem to be quite a few grant opportunities that we will pursue.
The only way forward is one small step at a time. In January, we will pilot a monthly respite program for elementary school children with autism and/or significant cognitive challenges. Will it all come together to become our own community arts center? Is it possible this is what resurrection looks like in our time and place? Time will tell. What I know for certain comes straight from the Bible: “Where there is no vision, the people perish.” May it be that the Spirit of Truth and Light will give this vision of ours joyful life…
So yeah–we thought it would take two weeks to turn half of the tack room we no longer need into new digs for our chickens. like most construction projects these days, we were a little optimistic. We are at the end of the 2nd month of work. The chicken coop, with lots and lots of repurposed materials, is getting close to being done. Outside: stained and sealed. One part of the apron of panel fencing that goes down all around it to coop to keep predators tunneling in has already been put down but we have more to do.
Inside, the painting is largely done and the nest box condo is up–although it’s coming down about 7-8 inches so the sweet hens don’t get vertigo getting in to lay their eggs. Also, I even have some paint on my eyelashes…
We designed the coop so the Mallowman is able to pull the tractor right up to the entrance so I can shovel the pine shavings into the tractor’s bucket. We will do this quite regularly to keep the coop sweet smelling and clean. Cart it off to a corner out of the way, let that stuff sit for a while so it makes awesome compost.
The bottom half of one side of the front swings open and the other full door opens too–that’s where the tractor will stop. My eternally, awesomely creative spouseman has rigged up a little door we’ll be able to bring up to let the girls out each day and close at nightfall. One day, I hope to talk him into letting me install an automatic door that you can program to open and close at daybreak and sunset. Until then, that line, “Up with the chickens” will describe my early mornings, rain or shine.
We think we’ve provided enough ventilation and can also do more if the need arises. There will be panels to cover all the windows when the weather gets really cold.
So what’s left? We are making roosts for the ladies (and I read they should all be equally high because otherwise the pecking order fusses that get stirred up are mighty). I will rake out a lot of the dirt on the bottom of the coop and we are going to cover it with pea gravel (Bubba’s Materials in Prattville sells them for a reasonable price); this helps with drainage. A five or so inch of pine shavings will cover the gravel. We keep finding spaces a snake could slither through but those are easily closed with insulation foam. And then, it will be time to set up the electric fence to keep predators away during the day. Our older ladies will go into their new space in about 2 weeks and our newest babies will follow about 5-6 weeks later.
I had ordered twelve little chicks but some did not hatch so I only got eight. I’ll wait until early spring to get another four. The bit I am most thrilled about is that in March, I am also preparing to take delivery of two goslings, I hope gray Pomeranians; you can see what they look like here. When they grow up, they will be a huge help with air predators. Plus they are just too cool for school.
A month ago today, my time of hiking and exploring in Maine had ended. I drove away from the tiny house I was staying in, go into Portland so I could catch my flight the next morning. All I had left was a stop in Brunswick for a quick visit at an arts center I’d heard about. There’ll be more to tell about that visit soon. But today, in my home office, with my girl Tuxie sprawled out next to me, and the chirps of little peeps filtering in from the Florida room right next to my office, the whole month of September feels like it happened a lifetime ago. That realization is sobering.
I think I wrote elsewhere that as my flight approached for landing in Portland, I sensed an unexpected shift inside of me, a loosening of some of the things that too easily hold me captive, including anxiety and perfectionism. It was thrilling in the days that followed to simply show up, to practice ‘disponibilité,’ making myself available to what each day might bring. I look back on the day after I got home, when the rug slipped out from under my foot and wonder: was that a metaphorical fall back to earth? I had come home so determined to return to the ordinariness of my life with the kind of freedom I’d been graced to receive in Maine .
Clergy types like I often comment that October is insane in the life of a congregation. There are all kinds of reasons for the insanity and this time around was no different. Day by day, the sense of freedom got eroded a little bit, and then a little bit more, and then again, another little bit more. I can retrace my steps over the past month and see the places I kept losing bits and pieces of that ‘lightness of being’ I was so thankful for. At the same time, I can also see the moments when I was able to stop, to breathe, when I remembered and insisted for myself that even in this most crazy of months, the freedom is still possible, is still there for the taking.
About 10 days ago we had couple of frosty nights. The kudzo is in retreat; that always pleases me. But what was really the very best, was the color that suddenly burst into flame. In the morning, when the light hits just right, you come around a curve on Old Selma Road, and I at least, just have to pull to the side. I came across a gorgeous line in a book review in the NYT this morning that says it perfectly:
“ Whoever stood there and looked at this would never want to utter even a single word; such a person would simply look, and be silent.”1
There is a large parcel of pastureland right across the road from our home. About two weeks ago the hay that had grown almost waist high was harvested; bales and bales lay scattered around the field until yesterday when some began to get hauled away. Again, it is the light, the golden light of a fall afternoon, that makes my heart calm itself into the kind of slow, steady rhythm that says, ‘you are alive. You are alive. You are alive.’
And then, of course, the cuteness overload that comes at 7 o’clock in the morning, when our lovely post office lady calls and says, “Miss Rosa, your chickens are here,” and you throw on a jacket, hop in the car and turn up the heat full blast. The box you receive is so tiny and so loud. The little ones, when you put them in their temporary brooder, are so stunned and bewildered. There’s the awe that they haven’t been alive for more than about 52 hours and yet survived a journey of hundreds of miles and are now eager to take up life in this strange new world. The forgotten delight, watching them discover water, take a small sip and then, bend back their heads, put their tiny beaks up in the air, so the water can gurgle down their throats.
Yup, October gets cra-cra with stewardship drives, Advent planning, budget planning, people getting sick, others getting their hearts shattered, with budgets and sermons. All that is true. So is the dazzled curiosity of my funny girl dog figuring out about those itty, bitty, tiny, little biddies.
Retracing my steps to September, finding even just a tiny little piece, one as small as Julian’s hazelnut, holding it in my hand as carefully as I hold the fluffy little peeps, I am reminded, freedom is still there for the choosing.
I woke up a couple of times last night; the feeling I had both times was that I was crushed under a load of bricks. The weeks since I returned from Maine have been insanely busy and every now and then, woven through the days, has been the news that there’s some real concern about another Covid-19 wave washing over the holidays. It would certainly fit with the way this has gone since 2020.
So yesterday, this person who hates shots more than just about anything, got herself to Publix and I bit the bullet—I got the new booster supposed to be more effective against omicron and since I was already getting one shot, I decided, what the heck, I’ll go ahead and get the flu shot too. The vaccines hit me hard. This morning, I feel like I managed to crawl out from under the pile of bricks and my whole body is bruised and battered. Plus, it feels like it took all night to get out from under there so I am exhausted. I may still one or the other—both viruses are pretty vicious and insidious. The hope is, the vaccines should help me get less sick if I do get infected. Even more, I am thankful for a step I could take to keep others I love in my family and my church a little safer. This PSA is simple: I hope you will get a booster. And maybe the flu shot isn’t a bad idea either…
For all intents and purposes, Sherod and I live in a food desert. The closest grocery store is 10 miles away, in Hayneville, the seat of Lowndes County. In the middle of a number of little towns with no grocery stores of their own, the A&G can get away with being quite expensive; this is supply and demand. We drive about 24 miles each way to do our regular shopping at the Publix in Prattville. At this time of the year, our pantry and freezer are also well stocked with the produce we grew and put up this summer. For some of the more exotic food we enjoy, I am always grateful for the UPS person who delivers our packages and is kind and friendly. Less and less though, does it seem right to get food delivered when I know how much it adds to our carbon footprint.
As much as we put up, sometimes, the harvest is so plentiful we struggle for space to put it all up. We continue to be more than a little apprehensive about the fragility of the Earth we call our ‘island home’ so we are planning and preparing for the season of sowing in 2023 that will come as quickly as all the seasons seem to arrive these days. If all the pieces come together, we will have so much!
While I was in Maine last month, mostly driving along country roads, I was very aware of all the little farm stands, that dotted the routes of coastal Maine. They tugged at me. Then, on the last leg of my journey, I stayed in a “Tiny House” in Sorrento, about 45 minutes away from Acadia National Park where I hiked as much as possible. To get out to the road that carried me to Acadia, I drove by a small stand quite different from others I’d seen. The sign on the side only said, “Flowers.” It had a little overhang covered in what I assume was something like “Sunbrella” fabric—bright pink with a floral print, resistant to the elements. It made the stand pop! At first, I just drove by, tickled by its existence. Finally, one day, I stopped and went up to it. There were mason jars filled with beautiful, simple arrangements, and a small sign that said, “Bouquets, $10.00.” I noticed a videocam high in one of the corners of the stand, a piece of technology to pay by credit card, and a money box bolted into another corner.
I couldn’t resist myself—I ultimately bought a bouquet for my godchild, delighted beyond all measure by a ‘shopping experience’ that was both so gracious and easy, and paradoxically, a little unsettling because I couldn’t thank the person who daily gathers and offers her flowers to folks like me.I saw a little post-it pad and pen on the shelf with the flowers and I was glad to at least get to leave a note.
I’ve been back from that glorious trip, for a little over two weeks now. I keep thinking, “I can do that.” Even more, I hear myself say, “I want to do that.”
There are layers and layers of desire mixed together in that small voice. In a week, 12 little biddies will arrive in the mail and if all goes as I hope, by the spring we will have quite a few eggs available each day, way more than Sherod and I can use. If I have learned anything in these 8 years on the farm, I have learned about the abundance of creation (including chickens and chicken poop–endles amounts of it!) My faith instructs me that abundance is for sharing, not hoarding.
There’s also that whole thing about being true to myself, all of me. My extraordinary friend C was an actor from before we started college so she took all kinds of theater courses, including one where she focused on the tech side of theater production. I remember being astounded when she talked about building sets—sawing, and drilling, and hammering, all those good things that go with construction. It was one of the first ways that my very stereotypical understanding of what it means to be a woman was shattered. Increasingly, and especially on this last trip, I have allowed myself to be surprised by all that my body is capable of. There is a deep, quiet joy that goes with the realization that this self, even past middle age and now in the beginnings of the final chapters of life, can do so much. The thought that C. and I could build a stand like the one in Sorrento is at once mind-blowing for me and also very reasonable. We’ plan to take on this project next spring.
I am intrigued by the notion of ‘honesty farm stands’ as some folks call them. My spouseman has already wondered aloud if something like an unsupervised stand can work where we live, one of the poorest counties in the whole country. In the quiet of the insomnia that usually visits a couple of times a week, I have imagined our stand serving as a ‘break-in magnet’ and felt that feather-light touch of fear that makes me hesitate and stumble. Of course, it’s entirely possible that an enterprise like this would fail. But what if we take some reasonable precautions and refuse to let fear make our choices?
Because you see, in the end, for me, this is about extending hospitality to the stranger. I can still hear my Hebrew Scriptures prof at Sewanee, Mr. Griffin, with a voice as beautiful as God’s, speak to us about the phrase, “My father was a wandering Aramean” (Deut. 26:5). Mr. Griffin explained how it reflects a fundamental truth for desert people: you don’t put down roots, you are a nomad, and not only a nomad, but a nomad in the midst of harsh and dangerous desert realities. If you know this is who you are, you also know the imperative of hospitality, perhaps especially to the stranger. You provide for that stranger because it could just as easily be you standing in need, because almost for sure, you will one day depend on the generosity and hospitality of a stranger for your very survival. I may not have lived in the desert, but I know in my bones what it means to be a wanderer.
During the season after Pentecost, the growing season (which in a liturgical church is also called “ordinary time”), we almost always have way more than we need, even if we make provision for storing food for the months when the land lies fallow and the chickens ladies feel too chilly to want to lay any eggs. I may not have a garden like the person whose flower stand brought me such joy in Maine, but there are some weeks in the late spring and early summer when the roses, the daisies, the lavender, and black-eyed susans are just breath-taking. Flowers, some eggs, some blueberries or blackberries, maybe even a few loaves of peach loaf, could bring real delight to others.
It would be nice to get a little cash for whatever I put out. But what really matters is the thought that someone will receive a gift of our land, even if they don’t have the means or will to drop a bit of change in the cashbox. This simple plan feels like a very real way of giving witness, of being grateful for, an abundance that isn’t mine to hoard.
Every Sunday, right before the start of the Eucharistic prayer, the Great Thanksgiving when, I raise the collection plates brought up by the ushers at my church. I say, “All things come of thee O Lord” and the congregation responds, “and of thine own have we given thee.” Maybe a little farmstand almost at the end of Brown Hill Road, will be a way of living that truth out in the corner of Alabama that today I call home.
I saved the most challenging hike in Acadia for my last morning there. It isn’t like a couple of other trails called “The Precipice,” and “The Beehive;” but it is a steep climb with a fair amount of scrambling over big boulders. I was super careful, not only during that climb, but during all my hikes. I was doing this solo, with a cellphone, yes, but with very intermittent connectivity. I was not going to do something stupid and get hurt. When I reached the So Bubble summit, there was dense fog rolling in but I got enough of a view of Jordan Pond to feel exhilaration and pride. There were quite a few other hikers and I was way much the oldest coot in their midst.
My trip home was marred only by a whole bunch of turbulence so, instead of getting to read, I had to keep asking God to please pay attention. And then I was home crawling into my very excellent bed.
This morning, Tux was up early, draped across me, licking my face, her little tail wagging so hard the bed shook. I had my wonderful coffee, began to unpack and settle in. And then, as I was walking by the dining room table, the rug slipped away, I lost my footing and literally, in almost cartoon-like slow motion I fell flat on my back. After I got my breath back, I realized I was basically ok, but the area around my bionic hip was hurting enough bring me to tears. Hurting enough that we left immediately to get me checked out.
The good news is nothing is broken, everything is properly aligned in there. But I have pulled and bruised muscles around my hip and it all hurts quite fiercely. I was so excited about all the things I was going to do in these last few days of my vacation! Now it is all about taking it easy so I can walk straight on Sunday morning . The good thing is, I’ll have way more time to prepare a sermon…
I am sitting in the airport in Portland, waiting for my flight to Baltimore and then Birmingham. In about 12 hours, I should be putting down my bags at home. My month-long vacation will end in two days and Sunday morning will find me back at church.
This has been extra-ordinary time. Not so much ‘time out of time’ as ordinary time I could look for and see. I’ve already written some about the earlier part of the month, when Sherod and I on the chicken coop. On a rainy day here in Maine, I started a piece for our church newsletter next week based on a hike I’d just taken the day before. Otherwise, I largely avoided writing and that was intentional. Writing allows me to reflect on my experiences and this time, I didn’t really want the distancing I have to find when I write. What mattered was that I was here, now.
The days unfolded with a strange and beautiful order that had little to do with planning or preparations. Each day felt like a page with nothing written on it yet, gleaming with possibilities within some well-defined contours. There were several days when the weather was bad—either rainy or, on Saturday, very overcast, and cold, with gale-force winds caused by Hurricane Fiona. My original intent had been to hike, and hike, and then hike some more. On the days when bad weather met my rising, I allowed them to show me the way into the day. If I sat quietly, considering what I might do, the options were exactly right for what I had yearned for on this trip.
One day, I couldn’t walk outside, but I could go to the Farnsworth Museum in Belfast. This small museum has a remarkable collection of paintings by 3 generations of Wyeths: N.C., his son, Andrew, and Jamie, Andrew’s son. The collection is stunning, and it was all the richer for me after my visit to Monhegan Island where all three Wyeths often painted. In another piece, I’ve written about how the ordinary is made holy by our work. The reverse is equally true. I have to remember that luminous, holy, paintings, so beautiful they are surely pleasing to God, are possible because of ordinary materials, like paper, and the egg tempera paints Andrew Wyeth made himself with egg yolks, vinegar, water, and pigments from vegetables and minerals.
This past Saturday, as the edges of Fiona made the trees shudder, I turned to a new friend, Tim, for advice because I knew there was no way in heck to try to hike. He pointed me to the West Quoody Lighthouse, on the eastern-most point in the United States. When I got there, I realized the islands I saw across the water from Quoody were in Nova Scotia and my watch automatically moved forward one hour to Atlantic Time, the time zone farthest east in Canada.
I am grateful that the beauty and grace of this trip were revealed as much by the days that might have been disappointing, as by the days when the water was a million stars shimmering on a crisp fall day in Maine. The question still lingered for me: why had I made this quest/pilgrimage/sabbath time? I found an answer, or at least a partial one.
It starts with the reflection by Julian of Norwich, about the hazel nut she held in her hand as the Bubonic Plague raged in Europe: “And in this he showed me a little thing, the quantity of a hazel nut, lying in the palm of my hand, as it seemed. And it was as round as any ball. I looked upon it with the eye of my understanding, and thought, ‘What may this be?’ And it was answered thus, ‘It is all that is made.’ I marveled how it might last, for I thought it might suddenly have fallen to nothing for littleness. And I was answered in my understanding: It lasts and ever shall, for God loves it.”(Revelations of Divine Love). It isn’t just that in the hollow of God’s hands, all creation is so tiny, and I am even tinier, and there is wonder in that. It isn’t just that all of creation is held in God’s hands. What shatters so many of my defenses, my false sense of control and autonomy, is a deeper understanding that in this small space, all creation is one, gathered together in love.
I was well rested. Every day, I listened to Julian’s wisdom as I prayed using this form of the Anglican Rosary created by All Saints, Omaha. I had so little to clutter my time that I noticed much more about God’s world around me. The captain of the ferry to Mohegan Island suddenly used the PA to announce a bald eagle was flying towards us. I’d never seen one and my heart just raced! I was delighted at Barred Island, when, for a little while, a robin hopped and skipped along, in front of me, on the trail I was hiking. Another time, I had to slow way down even though I was eager to get to my destination, because a gull was walking very placidly ahead of me, ignoring the sporty, bright blue lummox of a car behind her. There was one moment, when I was driving towards one of the more isolated areas of Acadia National Park, Schoodic Point, that brought this all into focus for me. Came around a curve and saw a deer standing facing in my direction by the side of the road. I stopped immediately. The deer and I made eye contact like I never had with a wild creature before; after a several breaths, the deer started walking towards me without ever looking away.
It is possible that this is a deer accustomed to being fed by park visitors; who knows, and who cares. The deer never came right up to my car and eventually, turned around and bounded away. That day, as I continued on my ride to the lighthouse far further north, I wondered why I had felt so oddly reassured by that encounter. I think it comes down to this: all my life I have been a boundary person, always wondering if I belonged. There have been times when I have felt utterly alone and lonely. That deer gifted me with a precious pearl—maybe the most precious pearl of all in God’s “kin-dom”—we don’t just share space, or, even a brief moment of eye contact, we are connected to each other in ways too deep to fathom. We are all kin. We all belong.
In just a bit, they will call us to board the flight out of Portland. I am joyful knowing I get to go back to the rest of my kin—my chicken and dog friends, my spouseman, my church, all kinds of other bits and pieces, that help make up that “tiny thing, the quantity of a hazel nut,” that Julian gazed upon with such wonder.
My most amazing friend and college roommate, C., introduced me to George Moustaki when she returned from her Junior Year Abroad in France, way back in ‘81. One of his songs, “Le Temps de Vivre” captured my angst, my hope—my innocence—as I looked ahead to the life I’d been given, that was just beginning to unfold.
It spoke reverently of time, and our capacity to seize hold of it, for the sake of living and love. I grew up in Colombia with parents who insisted we know world events. When I heard Moustaki sing about the words written on “the walls of the month of May,” I knew immediately that it was a reference to May of 1968 in France, a time of great upheaval and unrest. There are any number of ways to understand what happened in those days. I, a university student when I first heard him, believed passionately, that ‘68 was a year of profound hope that took hold in the hearts of university students there and all over the world, including Colombia.
In “Temps de Vivre,” Moustaki insists, “that change can come one day, that everything is possible, everything is allowed.” Even 12 years after ’68, I believed change could come in the social order. Not only that: this new beginning would be a mirror of the young love I so eagerly awaited and just knew would come for me as well. When it arrived, it would be endlessly available, endlessly open, endlessly focused on my beloved.
That kind of time Moustaki sings about came, and of course so much else did too: The loss of innocence. The willingness to accept more and more complexity in politics, in relationships, in just about everything around me. Love has ebbed and flowed in my marriage. So has the clarity about my vocation and work. As a mother, I have found myself on my knees begging for God’s mercy more than once, not knowing how to get through the next hour.
Now, standing on what is the ‘other side’ of the arc of my life, I am reaching the halfway point of my month-long time of vacation. As much as has been dismantled by life itself, these days have revealed a core, something so fundamental and strong, that I can look back on that song and those hopes with affection, even knowing as I do now, how often life gets “disassembled, rearranged.” They have been days remarkably free of regrets, nostalgia, planning, or anxiety about what lies ahead. They have been an invitation to inhabit now—not yesterday, not tomorrow—and to do so without the burdens of expectation and anticipation.
We have made real progress on the chicken coop and have made a few mistakes that required do-overs. Drilling into wood with 3 ½ inch screws takes way more effort than it looked like when it was Sherod holding the drill. I’ve immersed myself in learning more about keeping a larger flock of chicken and we are now creating a space that will accommodate a pair of geese to help keep the chickens safe. When the weather has permitted, Sherod and I have knocked off work early to jump in the pool for a while and I have gotten to visit a couple of friends I was missing. Stuff on my ‘to do list’ has gotten done after months of postponement.
This morning, I watched Sherod maneuver his tractor with great dexterity and skill; my heart melted, not just because of him or what he was doing so well, but because he, and he and I, are still able to do something silly, fun, and good, really good. I knew I couldn’t take for granted that we’ll have other opportunities like this, and I also had the certainty that I simply couldn’t stop, worry, grieve in anticipation, or strain to see the what and wherefore of time not yet received. All I had to do was inhabit this moment, this place, this love.
Today is half-way over and then we will have tomorrow. Early on Friday morning, Sherod will open the doors of his truck and Mo, Tux, and I, will head up to Birmingham so I can fly out to Portland. I have to allow all that to sort itself out on Friday, though. Today, we are taking Sunny to the vet to get her shots, and we’ll stop at the Ace Hardware store in Hayneville to get ‘barn red’ wood stain and the paint I need for the inside of the coop. There’s a lot of painting now.
All this allows me to say in response to Moustaki’s song: “Nous avons pris le temps d’aimer, d’être libre, mon amour.” We have taken the time to love, to be free, my love.