Filling Holes

Holes beg to be filled.  I remember how, in years past, old tires and discarded refrigerators were routinely dumped in forest ravines - a way to fill space.

When challenges and losses dig into personal expectations to create holes, various fillers often show up: cell phone mania, television or internet diversion, recreational shopping or eating, workaholism, you name it.  Over time, growing potholes can erode to become massive inner chasms that scream for even more hyper-stimulation and over-stuffing.

Here’s the truth.  When my heart is still - and when I am reverent and worshipful - I have fewer holes, and existing ones heal. This is both tangible reality and divine mystery.

Respect.  Wonder.  Awe. Tenderness. Love.  Deference. Stillness.  Such hole-fillers cannot be taught, but rather are recovered by divine grace.

In our 21^st century world, gaping craters of neglect, crime, scandal, abuse, and terror can preoccupy us and magnify our own personal holes. We do well to respond with deep, genuine reverence and spiritual longing for God, knowing He alone can fill us.

Bounty

Each morning and evening I tend our vegetable garden.  In some respects this reminds me of feeding, watering, and otherwise caring for an adored pet.  In return, the garden rewards me with its own version of faithful loyalty - maybe even something akin to affectionate companionship - and the freshest food under-the-sun.

A couple of days ago a visiting friend described it as “lush,” which I though an apt description.  Bean vines drape luxuriously over the fence to descend with gentle curls that flaunt poufy blossoms and slender green bean fingers. Squash leaves, umbrella-like, stand high above prolific green and yellow zucchini and summer squash as if to shelter them. Tomato plants fill and tower above their cages, showing off delicate, pre-tomato, star-like yellow flowers while thrusting insistent arms in every direction, eager to tap neighboring flora.   

Striking blue-green leaves of lacinato kale, and those of red-stemmed swiss chard, seem to wave with diplomatic flair.  Low-down arugula, lettuce, and spinach grow quietly, modestly.  Silent bell peppers dangle as if ready to chime, earning their name.  Bermuda onions hide beneath the earth: flavorful red orbs. A determined, adventurous grapevine reaches far beyond its trellis.

Marigolds, nasturtiums, and zinnas quietly paint unique beauty amidst so many luxurious shades of green.

What am I to say about all of this? Just that I am richly blessed with a profusion of organic abundance that nourishes soul as well as body.

Tranquility

Cotton candy overhead

Shapes a dreamer’s story

As it passes on, passes on by.

Bunny ears and elephants

Hover for a time

Before waltzing slowly away,

Reflecting their dance below

On watery stilts,

Embracing change.

Their destiny is a mystery.

Compliant yet visionary,

They float fearlessly -

Content to become.

Summer Evening

Our quiet road is edged with a flurry of snowy white as the sun penetrates a single spot, showing off its final rays of the day.

Many times I remind myself of two words: pay attention.  And so I pay attention to this, to the peace of the moment, knowing "all shall be well."

- quote credits to Julian of Norwich

Granny-Coolness (and Humus)

This year I greeted summer’s warm days with my nose figuratively tipped in the air, resolved to nix any chance at an old-lady stereotype.  I would run hard with our pack of lake-lovers, grateful for old-lady coolness earned while working out at the gym and eating healthy meals. I’d be the tastefully showy grandmother noted for cooking and cleaning, crafting and interacting with our twelve grandkids, and slalom skiing as if still in my 20’s. And so I stepped right on into the sun-struck busyness, treasuring precious lakeside visitors and summer activities.

I’m now more-or-less halfway through the season, and hold dear so many fresh memories of priceless relationships and shared summer glory. 

But I also can say this: pride comes before the fall, and granny-coolness is highly overrated. Age-related vulnerabilities and chronic disabilities have tripped me many times in recent weeks, like untied shoelaces. I’ve stumbled (inwardly) when I couldn’t hear conversation or successfully manage noise, keep the active pace, or even get up on the ski (sad but true) – each time skinning the knees of my soul and bleeding discouragement from their torn scabs.  

And so at this stage I find myself limping out of my own idealistic way, counting copious blessings, and switching a measure of my focus from doing to being – from physical strength and capability, and that sparkly image of granny-coolness, to more profound and lasting goals: virtues like humility, contentment, hope, and mercy/compassion.

This reminds me of a quote from Anthony Bloom who speaks of humility in the context of its Latin derivative, humus. The rich, productive soil of life that supports such virtues (soil fertilized with loss, need, and trials) doesn’t require coolness.  Rather, it is all about availability and ready stillness before God, embracing the fertilizing “refuse” of struggle and change – and receptivity, willingness, and eagerness to participate in the miraculous transformation of suffering into benefit and lasting hope.

* * *

“The word humility comes from the Latin word humus which means fertile ground. Humility is not what we often make of it…but (it) is the situation of the earth.  The earth is always there…silent and accepting everything, and in a miraculous way, making out of all the refuse new richness in spite of corruption, transforming corruption itself into a power of life and a new possibility of creativeness, open to the sunshine, open to the rain, ready to receive any seed we sow and capable of bringing thirtyfold, sixtyfold, a hundredfold out of every seed." 

- Anthony Bloom