Into the Mystic…

landscape photo of pathway between green leaf trees
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It has been a reflective summer for me, the first since 1970 I have not spent these precious weeks anticipating the coming school year, either as a student or as a teacher. I have had time to pull weeds and plant flowers in the beds Edward built for me twenty-four years ago. I have taken many morning walks accompanied by bird-song and lake breezes. I started playing tennis with  a very gracious group of ladies and gentlemen who have played forty or more years and who have been quite patient and encouraging with this beginner. I’ve had time to work in my vegetable garden, even though the deer have pillaged it twice.

My professional career as a teacher is ended and although I miss my students, my curriculum and the teachers I worked with, I am grateful for reduced stress, increased rest, and a healing sense of my own worth after feeling like an exhausted, cracking cog in the relentless testing machine (that used to be public education) for too long.

Our oldest daughter is learning my husband’s trade and looking to the future as a self-employed business owner while making forever plans with her boyfriend. Our middle daughter graduated college in May, has made several road trips with friends, moved out of our home and in with her older sister, and recently signed her first teaching contract. Our youngest daughter has completed high-school and will leave in one month for university life. Several times when we were the only ones in the house for a couple of hours, she and I have made a gigantic bowl of salty, buttery popcorn, iced down a large Coca-Cola, and put on a movie to watch, chattering through it as friends will do, enjoying each other’s air-conditioned company in these last long, lazy, hot days before she leaves.

So what now? I am in an area I don’t have a map for, no lesson plans, no papers to grade, no meetings to attend, no testing or technology trainings, no continuing education credits to earn, no certifications to renew, nothing on the horizon, no goals I am accountable for to any supervisor or administrator. The pavement has ended. There are no more street lights. No road signs. I’m not even sure there is a road. And still I am moving forward, into a murky unknown, wondering what the future will reveal to Edward and me and our girls.

And I’m okay with that.

There are things I want to do, things I am doing. Places I want to go. People I want to spend time with. I have never cared for the idea of a bucket-list, so I’m not making lists, nor am I anticipating kicking the bucket, although undoubtedly that is part of the misty future. Squared that away six years ago with a cancer diagnosis, and as my friend Kim says, “If that’s what gets me, at least I know how I went!”

My goals now would never appear in a Personal Development Plan like the ones I had to fill out and submit for approval every year of my professional life nor would they be acceptable if they did. They are not measurable by any test, and they don’t tie in to any standards except those of my own making. They can’t be bubbled in or scanned, nor are they observable to the infrequent clip-board or laptop-bearing visitor. They are:

Share joy. Seek hope. Pursue peace. Lift light.

It is so hard to not anticipate, when I have spent my whole life looking forward. Planning. Knowing in detail what was coming next, what was on the calendar. But this time is for the moment. The now. The future will come of its own and too quickly be the past. I like the way Van Morrison describes it in his 1970 recording, “Into the Mystic” :

Hark, now hear the sailors cry, smell the sea and feel the sky,

Let your soul and spirit fly, into the mystic…

Wishing you unexpected joy, unquenchable hope, peace that passes understanding, and reflective light for the murky places you may encounter on your own path.

 

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grayscale photo of candle
Photo by Alyona Dlusskaya on Pexels.com

As a preschooler, my biggest goal was to be grown-up, a fantasy enjoyed by most youngsters I imagine. Once, when I was four, one of the men my father worked with came by the house one afternoon. When I heard his voice I picked up a couple of my storybooks, walked carefully down the stairs to where S.L. was, flashed him a smile, held up my books so he could see them, and informed him it was time for me to study. Later I asked my mother if she thought he might have mistaken me for “a college girl.” Oh, how I practiced being “big.” I would hang around the adults at church, at the grocery with my mother, at family gatherings, and try to make witty or informative additions to each conversation. I’m pretty sure I was the most annoying child in the room at any point. And how it crushed me to be placed at the “children’s table” at holidays and at church meals or to be sent to the nursery if I was disruptive to Sunday worship.

When I started school my father promised that if I could sit quietly through Sunday services, I would be allowed to attend the annual Candlelight Christmas Cantata. This was huge in my little world because it meant that I would get to enter through evening twilight into that holy, dimly-lit sanctuary the Sunday evening before Christmas, and listen to the choir tell the story of Mary and Joseph and Jesus, of sheep, donkey and shepherds, of Bethlehem and Herod and “no room in the inn,” of a star and angels in the sky bringing news of “peace on Earth and good will to men.” To my way of thinking, the choir in their flowing white robes were the Heavenly host, and were merely reenacting that first Christmas night so long ago, through their anthems and carols. At the conclusion of the story, each participant, including me, would receive a slender white candle with a paper collar around it.  We would light those candles, passing the flame one to another, and lift them toward the Heavens as we sang “Silent Night, Holy Night,” and “Joy to the World.” To that five-year old, it was the most wonderful night of the year.

The words proud and privileged only begin to touch on the feelings that welled up inside me as I tilted my wick to light it off the candle my father extended toward me. I had been allowed to enter the mystical adult world of darkness and flame, of trust and responsibility, of sacred song.

And then the first drip of melting wax hit my hand. The shock and pain that followed made me think instantly that perhaps I didn’t want to be part of the “grown-up” community I had only just entered. Tears welled in my eyes as my skin reddened and blistered where I peeled off the wax. What should have been my triumphant entry into maturity only made me feel more childish. Why did I suddenly need my mother’s comforting touch? Why was my joy extinguished and my peace snuffed out with the light of my candle?

Life is so often like that. We think we have arrived, but all our great expectations come with unpleasant surprises of their own, and our anticipation turns to dread.  We are afraid to pursue joy again because of the disappointment of last time’s pursuit. We are hesitant to hope, and we coast along complacently in order to avoid another heartbreak. We neglect tending our own light because there is always a cold, cruel winter wind threatening to extinguish the first tenuous sparks. We grow weary of this adult independence that promised so much and looked so appealing when we were children and only wished to be “big.”

So what then? Rest and reflection are good places to start. When we’ve shed all the tears we need to in order to cleanse our eyes, we are again ready to look for the light. When we’ve grown weary of embracing the sadness, we once again reach out to hope. When disappointment becomes a disappointment, rekindling joy is our new aim. And so the cycle of life continues, and again we look to the future, to a time when our newest wisdom and most recent experiences will guide us into the next stage of growth, of life. Where I live winter is ending and we are seeing the first hints of spring. But extreme cold is predicted in the coming week. So at least one more week we will hunker down and wait, anticipating blue skies, warm sunshine, transparent new leaves and budding flowers. Our world is ever-changing from one stage to the next. Always has been, always will be. Anticipate the coming spring with me, in hope, in joy, at peace, lifting our eyes to the light of life. Here it comes! Can you see it?

It’s gonna be big!

 

 

 

The Unexpected Stop

This past Saturday I attended a memorial service for a former student who took his life one week into the New Year. His mother told me he had Facetimed her the day before and they shared a three-hour conversation that basically boiled down to, “If I happened to die angry at God will I go to Hell?” She gave him all the comfort she could, explaining that God can handle our anger and He loves us no matter what we do or say or feel and that he could still go to Heaven just the same, no matter how he died and no matter how he was feeling at the time. He thanked her, closed the conversation with all the usuals, and ended the call.

The next morning he got up, washed and dried his laundry, rolled up all his clothes and tucked them neatly into drawers, took his father’s gun, went out in the woods behind his father’s house, sat down, and pulled the trigger. In the note he left his mom he explained that he was happy and that nothing anyone said would have changed the decision he had made, that he loved her and she had helped him have peace in his heart.

And for the rest of her life, she will hold onto those words of encouragement, cherishing them as a final gift from a broken son, who sought refuge in the thoughts and views of his now-broken-hearted mother. She, and he, are why I am starting 52 to a Brighter View.

Behavioral research scientists tell us we can break, or establish, a habit in thirty consecutive days of effort. I don’t know what habits this young man had. I have not seen him in five years. I know he enjoyed music, skateboarding and time with friends. To all appearances he seemed to be enjoying a ride many sixteen-year-olds would envy. I know a new habit his mom will have, and for many more than thirty days. She will question herself and her own choices in ways she never has, and reflect on her relationship with her two sons, with both ecstasy and agony.

I have to reflect too. When he was a student in my Social Studies class in sixth grade was there anything I said that put despair in his heart? Was there anything I said that caused him to lose hope? Did I encourage him in any way? Perhaps he hung on longer than he would have if we had never met. Just maybe I said something that lightened his load even briefly. Or maybe something I said was one of the proverbial straws that drove him to call out, “Stop!” before he reached his destination. There’s no way to know. He got off before I could find out. But I do know this. Words have power, and I want to use my words to encourage.

So. I hope you and I have thirty days in which to establish a habit of encouragement. I hope we have thirty weeks, maybe even thirty years. Let’s start with this year. Fifty-two weeks, each one the opportunity for a fresh start. I’ve lived long enough to know that they won’t all be happy or cheery or delightful. No rose-colored shades here. But I’ve also lived enough to know that we can feel joy as tears stream down our faces. We can experience hope in the midst of devastation. We can make peace when the world seems to be burning down around us. And we can find light in endless, darkest night.

Please join me each week, in pursuit of joy, hope, peace and light, as we encourage each other to A Brighter View in 52.