Category: Attentiveness

Winter Ramble with a nod to J.R.R.Tolkien

12/1/2018

(All bolded lines and phrases are from JRR Tolkien's book The Hobbit.)

Ice is nice...and not muddy!

I need to ramble along the creek. It’s the best part of this otherwise walk-deterring cold snap: all the muddy places are nicely frozen, and my feet can make it-
there and back again-
without getting filthy (or at least staying mostly dry.)

I walk out my (back) door, in search of I know not what...

The Road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began.

It’s December now, and a creek ramble in the Shire is a different thing altogether than it was midsummer. The birds are mostly still, mostly absent. I hear a lone chickadee, and one furtive song sparrow darts silently from thorn bush to brush pile.
Trees stand stark against a sky that seems to have forgotten the color blue. Most of the weed grasses are tawny and bowed toward the earth. Even the thistles have had their spines and spirits broken by the harsh wind and freezing temperatures of the past week.

Now far ahead the Road has gone, and I must follow, if I can.

The lights aren't on, but that doesn't mean nobody's home!

I find the well-worn paths of small creatures. Squirrels, chipmunks, skunks, groundhogs, muskrats, these are the dwellers in tree root tunnels and small dens and holes that I’ve seen other days.

But not today.

No shining eyes appear from deep shadows, no tail slips out of sight like a fading shadow.

I can almost hear the creek singing.

By some measures, this ramble isn’t much of a success, but I’m not so concerned with succeeding as with seeing, with listening, with paying attention, because I’m learning:

“There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something…
And it’s true again today.
Abruptly I realize that the silence around me is, in fact, not silent.

The creek is chuckling along, rippling just like it did on warm spring afternoons when birds sang and twittered along the brambled banks.

Water music burbles beside me, and I’m smiling. When the creek banks taper inward, and the stream is forced through narrow straits, and I hear a crescendo of melody. A rock looms large, and the water swirls around it, ever singing.

The place where the children played that last warm autumn day, building a dam near the fallen tree- right there, the babbling water laughs and tumbles and throws tiny droplets to form a delicate ice sculpture nearby.

This is how the meadow stream decorates itself for winter.

Overhanging branches reach down, and the stream splashes them with crystal beauty.

And look, here at my feet, the colorful blooms of winter.

"You certainly usually find something, if you look,
but it is not always quite the something you were after.”

Today I found creek songs writ full of lessons about...
persevering,
choosing the melody of joy,
listening through the quiet,
watching for fragile beauty in hidden places.

Not all who wander are lost...

HumminB

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Reading messages in the...sky?!

10/27/2018

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One evening recently, I hurried out the door for my walk just as the evening sun dipped below the horizon.
I was worried that I was too late,
disappointed that sunset had already happened,
certain I had missed the day’s sky splendor.

But I also knew I needed the exercise, because as I recently learned, anxiety is energy that needs to go somewhere, and I definitely needed to go somewhere!

My jumbled thoughts and scrambling feet rushed down the road, past the cemetery. I walked directly toward the spot where the sun had disappeared. The skyscape before me wasn’t spectacular, but it was nice, and I could feel my perspective shifting, broadening beyond my tiny (in-my-head) world.

I breathed in deep draughts of the chill evening air, pausing just a moment to inhale the peace that surrounded me.

And then I glanced over my shoulder;
behind me,
to the northeast,
the sky was a show of fancy pink and gentle blue.

Oh.

I watched the post-sunset color show lighting up the sky, and I pondered the message written there.

I surveyed the cows, the horses, grazing, heads down, every one of them unaware of what was spreading above them like a flood of glory.

I wondered how often I have been just like them.
Head down.
Tunnel vision.
Nose to the ground.
Focused only on what was in front of me, and completely oblivious to what was very near if only I had shifted my perspective to take it in.

The color crept west and stained every cloud fragment magenta or steely blue.

And then everything went pinkest pink...

It took me awhile to get home that evening, walking frontwards, backwards, circling, trying to read the handwriting on the canvas spread above me. In Psalm 19:1, David wrote: “The heavens are telling the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims His handiwork.” (Psalm 19:1) Tonight, the heavens were telling and I was listening, and here's what I heard:

Don’t give up too soon. Even when you think it's too late, God has a way of showing up.

Watch for God's glory in unexpected places.

Look east at sunset.
Or north!

What have you heard the heavens proclaim?

HumminB

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Weekend! Out the door- Behold, the small!

5/19/2018

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I need to tell you something. When I write these “Out-the-Door” posts, I’m writing first to myself, because I need the reminders, the not so subtle nudges just as much as you do. Maybe more.

In Frederick Buechner’s Secrets in the Dark: A Life in Sermons his Innkeeper puts it like this:

"Do you know what it is like to run an inn- to run a business, a family, to run anything in this world for that matter, even your own life?

It is like being lost in a forest of a million trees, and each tree is a thing to be done.

Is there fresh linen on all the beds? Did the children put on their coats before they went out? Has the letter been written, the book read? Is there money enough left in the bank...

A million trees. A million things. Until finally we have eyes for nothing else, and whatever we see turns into a thing. The sparrow lying in the dust at your feet- just a thing to be kicked out of the way, not the mystery of death. The calling of children outside your window - just a distraction, an irrelevance, not life, not the wildest miracle of them all."

And that is how, of course, the Innkeeper missed something - or Someone - very small and very important. “I was lost in the forest somewhere, the unenchanted forest of a million trees.” (Buechner, p.11) He was understandable busy, but inexcusably blind to the greatest moment in history, happening right under his distracted nose.

I don’t want to be too hard on him, because it happens to all of us. But it is also why “out the door” has become so important to my easily lost-in-the-forest soul. Those million tree things-to-do can overtake my perspective and crowd out what is truly important to me faster than I can put on my walking shoes. Even “take a walk” becomes just a thing to be done some days, and yet, somehow choosing to do it causes my perspective to shift ever so slightly.

I put down The List...

And that is the beginning.
Of discovery.

Of another adventure in going nowhere.

Of connection with the One who saw all that was made – small bits too –
and behold – see! –
it was very good. (Genesis 1:31)

So, out the door I go, out the door you go.
Slow down.
Look around.
Behold it all, behold the small.
Especially the small.

Tell me, what small and wonderful thing did you behold when you went out-the-door?

Me? Oh, just some dandelions...after rain.

Dandelions after rain...

I'm probably never going to say "just a dandelion" again! Happy Weekend! HumminB

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It's the weekend - Out you go!! (And when you get out, be there!!)

5/5/2018

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Today, "out the door" looked like work: planting work, weed work, pull-out-6793-maple-seedlings work. I was humming hard, hashing over a conversation I'd read on Facebook concerning a topic I'd promised myself I'd never brooch in that format. Yet here I was, mulling over a fitting retort, clenching my jaw; I might even have been muttering to myself. I was "out the door," but I was far from the peace of pause. Mindfulness was in the bottom of the bucket, covered with dirt.

But eventually I heard myself, grinding over that same old tune, and I realized I wasn't listening to anything, wasn't smelling the sweetness of grape hyacinth floating over the garden, wasn't hearing the fuss and twitter (REAL twitter!) of graceful tree swallows overhead, wasn't feeling the damp soil in my hands.

I was having trouble taking my own advice - "wherever you are, be all there." I tried talking to myself (really,) but before I'd emptied my bucket, I was back formulating a response that I realized I would never send. I wasn't sure I could get to "quiet." from here. Finally, I took off my gloves and headed for the house to find my camera. That viewfinder is a tool that helps me adjust my perspective. Here's what I found.

Grape hyacinths - deeply blue, deeply fragrant.

Radish sprouts, tiny but present. Those seeds were planted three days ago!

Dogwood- this morning, the freshly opened blooms were a soft buttery yellow! Now, look at them!

Virginia Bluebells- the pink buds open to become delicate blue blooms. Every year I think - how extravagant!

Red veined Sorrel - It's a perennial? I didn't know that when I planted it last year. Time to look for some recipes!

Getting out the door doesn't have to involve an event, and being mindful can happen right in the middle of your mundane chores. But you're going to have to figure out how to "be there," all there, even if it's just for a few minutes. What helps you to hit the pause button, even when you're doing chores, pulling weeds, mowing grass? How do you move from business and distraction to mindfulness and pause? How do you stay present?

Adventures in going nowhere again! (What did YOU discover?)

HumminB

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This is what weekends are for - get yourself out the door!

4/14/2018

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Go ahead, find some shoes and go out the door. You don't have to be gone long, just go. Ten minutes out, ten minutes back if that's all you can "afford" to invest today. But when you're out there, be all there! Be mindful of what you see and hear in your world.. Start listening with your eyes. You never know what you might discover. And if you won't take my word for it, here's a quote to get you motivated!

Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher." William Wordsworth

Spring is coming to the Shire...we live between the already, and the not yet.

Every day, the treetops change.

What a surprise!! Great horned owl having a late, late breakfast!! (Shouldn't you be sleeping now?)

Breakfast debris. Beauty in the dying...

Standing among the great ones...good place for adjusting my perspecticals.

Small is lovely too - colts foot looks like little drops of sunshine.

Always remember to look up...and don't forget to say, "Thanks."

What are you waiting for? The weekend is whispering your name..."Come. Pause. Listen." Yes. You. Out.the.door.

HumminB

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Learning to listen with my eyes...an almost-Spring ramble.

4/13/2018

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A wise man recently told me – you need to learn to hear with your eyes (oh, Moshe Kempinski, the conversations I’ve been having with you in my head) so I decide to do that today. I wonder what will I see, what I will hear? I am choosing to be intentional about looking...

but I don’t really know what I am looking for...(and life is a lot like that, most days.)

I am walking in the most ordinary of places today, unlike my recent adventures in the intense and varied land of Israel. Oh, such a place, such a place. I’ll never forget the wonder of exploring Hippos...was that just three weeks ago?

To stand atop that mountain, with a bit of breeze lifting my hair, taking in a splendid view, wandering with friends or alone on a cardo (Main Street) that was centuries...no, millennia old?

Seeing where the columns fell in a row, here, here, here, when an earthquake shook the city... It is like a dream...thinking about it right now, I feel wistful, full of longing to walk there again. (Hippos was in my top two “wow” moments in Israel, along with Gethsemane.)

But I am not in Hippos anymore, I am back here in my rather drab spring-isn’t-quite-here-yet world, where I’ve walked hundreds of times. What can there possibly be to see, I wonder?

I don’t know what I’m looking for, I’m just looking, eyes wide open, ears too.

How many shades of brown can there be? Yes, bits of green are emerging, but overall, the landscape is underwhelming.

I notice the barbed wire fence needs repair near the creek...which means I have no trouble at all scrambling through to the interesting side. (Last time, the fence looked much better, and I looked much worse after I snagged my pants and ripped a red angry scratch in my leg.)

It’s the season of mud, just now, wedged here between winter that will not give up and spring that can’t find it’s mettle. The water along the creek is finally receding after recent rain and heavy snow raised the banks to overflowing.

I’m listening with my eyes, and I can hear the busy-ness scramble of life along the creek banks when I'm not here. Lots of small creatures, coming and going, stretching to reach the creek for a drink, creating little tracks through the grass, highways and byways leading to hidden burrows and holes beneath giant gnarled tree roots. Groundhog, squirrel, chipmunk, a skunk, right here, a few weeks ago, creeping across the frozen span.

Around the far side of an enormous stump, a startled muskrat hustles herself straight into the water and disappears. As I pause, birds flit from brush pile to the thorny hedge that is the perfect cover for song sparrows and nest building cardinals. Overhead, two red-wing blackbirds seem to be gossiping about me, pink hooded intruder; robin fuss tells everyone I’m here.

A flash of white grabs my attention...pure white feather resting in the mud.

I’m pleased with myself for noticing...but when I bend down, a bit of movement surprises me:

a honey bee, stopping for some water.

The creek is too fast for her tiny form, so she’s grateful for mud...me, not so much.

I take a few more steps, and the story of the white feather unfolds before my eyes. I'm hearing the scream of the hawk, the muffled piping of the lovely pigeon who became dinner. Now as the wind scatters feathers, I know the tree swallows will gather whiteness to soften their nests in a few weeks.

I climb up the bank and wander along the edge of the cemetery. I wonder about this enormous rock which I have never noticed before.

It’s probably eight feet by six feet, and I’m sure it’s always been here, but I wasn’t listening for its story until today. Why is it uncovered, all weathered and worn, right here in the middle of a grassy area just south of the grave stones.

And who etched this cross along the side?

I clamber through another broken down fence, and stooping, I spot the tiny blue brightness of corn speedwell.

Yes, it’s a weed, but it’s hard to argue with this kind of blueness.

A tree stump
with a half dozen gnarled roots reaching into the stream
is the perfect spot to pause
and let my soul finally
catch up to the rest of me.

I sit for a long time.

I realize I have missed this ordinary place in the weeks I’ve been “seeing the world,”
missed the opportunity to ramble at my own (slow) pace,
missed these familiar sounds -
creek rush
and horses clip-clopping along the road
and wind whispering, "Welcome home..."

I whisper back, "It’s good to be home."

It's time to get back to the house now; neighbors rumble by in their carriage, waving. I pause once more, looking up through the branches of my favorite meadow tree. I don’t see it from this angle very often.

This is a tree whose stories I would love to hear. I’m certain this ancient oak predates all the European settlers who traveled to this area in the mid-1700’s. The first church in the valley stood right here in the meadow, and this tree probably stood in or near the church yard, hearing the preaching and the visiting and the laughter of children and the singing. Today it only heard the wind. And humming.

And what did I hear today, with my eyes?
I read the music,
and I heard the song of home.

This sweet and lonesome melody,
with interludes of long silence, stanzas of joy and lament -
it is my song.
And so, I sing.

HumminB (is home!)

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Monday Moments. Taking a moment to look around...

2/26/2018

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Here's what I was thinking about today, a quote from my daily "Simplicity" calendar, "inspiration for a simpler life:"

Leave the beaten track behind occasionally and dive into the woods.
You will be certain to find something you have never seen before...
Alexander Graham Bell

I didn't dive into the woods, but I did wander a bit. I wasn't sure what I was looking for - but here's what I found! (Thanks for the challenge, Mr. Bell!)

The sporophytes are bursting forth...can spring be far behind?!

Even without color, the woods offers scenes of beauty. Has any one ever stood right here, and seen this particular view? (And is it just me, or does that mossy clump look like a sleeping hedgehog?)

Across the way, I caught a glimpse of this reminder to live loved. I needed it.

The waxing gibbous moon is framed by pines and bare branches, And I'm the only one (in the entire world!) who had this particular view.

What were you looking for today? What did you find?

HumminB

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A Wonder-full weekday wander.

2/23/2018

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Time for a wonder-full walk. Want to come along? With temperatures soaring to the 70’s - 30 or 40 degrees warmer than normal!!- we won’t even need our sweatshirts! (As you can tell, our walk happened a few days ago, since today is a rainy "high of 47 degrees" day!! I guess this makes our wonder-full walk even more of a treasure!)

Let’s wander along Hickory Lane and Cemetery Road; the sky is a canvas of cloud splendor, and it might take us forever to walk a mile...I keep stopping to look up, to turn fully around and look again, gaping at the shifting magic overhead. The scene changes, reframes, comes into focus, fades, and changes again. I can't seem to find any words but Wow! And thanks!

facing north east at 4:19pm

facing south west at 4:22pm

In the flooded meadow, the puddles are full of clouds, it’s Longfellow’s “Infinite meadows of heaven” reflected in slop, and I think, “This is my life.” (Yours too?) Still, it’s puddle-wonderful. (Thanks, e e cummings.)

My life in five words: Heaven reflected in the mess.

My heart is so full I can barely breathe. For three days, that one new worship song has filled my mind, my heart; now it overflows, and I’m singing truth loud and scaring the birds.

Your deep, deep love
Washes over me
Your deep, deep love
Fills my every need
How I long to hear Your voice call out my name
It draws me to Your deep, deep love...
(You can learn it and sing along right here!)

I adapt it and sing it again -
"How I love to hear Your voice call out my name,
it draws me to Your deep deep love..."

The creek sings too, its own water music, lavishly splashing the full greenness of spring across a dead log.

Willows wave promises, and I wave back.

Overhead, a robin prances in the tree tops...(but won't perch for a clear photo!)
Bluebird call notes make my heart race; a cardinal sings in the underbrush.
And look! In the thorn thicket, a perky Carolina wren announces himself.

Not all the sounds are music. Near the still-frozen pond, geese are loudly out-of-sorts. Probably, they wanted to take a float; their complaints rasp the air like rusty gate racket. But I still love them. They make me smile.

And over everything, sky wonder. More extravagant than you would ever imagine seeing in this long valley in the drab of February. The skyscape is full of glory, clouds of all sorts gather and disband, little windows of azure open and close, and I wonder what’s coming next...Jesus? A cold front? Both?

4:57 pm

5:07pm

This vision of sky beauty and the smell of wet earth and the robin song of hope swell up inside of me and I’m sure if I don’t sing I’ll break wide open...

Were the whole realm of nature mine. (Wait...isn’t it all mine for the seeing and hearing and feeling touching and even tasting, because it’s all His and so am I, and it’s all gift?)

That were an offering... (a present, this present moment, my heart clear full, my vision fully clear for this glimpse of enough and glory, mud and clouds)

Far too small – (and yet it’s all I have to offer, my small presence, my small gifts, my small full soul, broken, mended, filling, spilling joy.)

Love so amazing, so divine demands my soul, my life, my all. It’s small, but it’s my all...

and I fling it heavenward like a handful of feathers and of course it comes back all over me,
joyful thanks pouring grace back over me.
I’m walking on a cloud of His enoughness, and it carries me.

Maybe tonight in my dreams, I’ll be flying.

5:19pm

5:20pm

5:36pm Praying Hands.

5:44pm

5:49pm

Hummin(flyin!)B

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Weekends are for wandering...wondering too. Oh, and gratitude!

2/18/2018

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For every beauty there is an eye somewhere to see it.
Ivan Panin

A half dozen gratitudes for the commonplace bits of beauty my eye has seen on a mild winter day...

1. Sunrise glowing like this, just for a few minutes...

2. Bluebirds calling and singing, as if they didn't notice the snow.

3. Soft spring-promise green shining on the meadow willow.

4. Late winter afternoon sun sparkling on a chattering creek...

5. Momentary parhelion shimmering along the mountain just before sunset...
from the guest room window.
And I almost missed it.
Almost.

6. A delicately beautiful sunset streaked with every shade of blue.

For most of these bits of beauty, the space between seeing and not seeing was moments...
a glance, and then a second glance. The briefest pause...and oh!

How many times do I miss the opportunity to see and to give thanks because I'm in too much of a hurry to notice, moving too fast to catch the glimpses of glory?

That's why I need to wander and wonder. Because if Ivan Pavin is right, and "for every beauty there is an eye to see it," I want to be that eye.

Let me be singing when the evening comes...or at least humming. HumminB.

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Be still - further adventures in going nowhere.

1/24/2018

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All this month, we've been talking about stillness, the Resolution Revolution - Resolving to do more nothing. It's not always easy, sitting in the silence, but it's always good. Here's what happened to me one day when I finally sat down to pause midday. ("Just sit here and be still," I said to my busy, chattering soul, "for five minutes.") Here's what happened.

Clouds stretch along the far side of Stone Mountain like quilt batting, hinting of a transient mountain ridge beyond what we know.

As I stare, the ephemeral beauty glides slowly left - east - across my view. I’m pleased to have detected the incremental drift, and then something else grabs my attention.

Although sunrise glow happened hours ago, I perceive soft colors in the clouds –
back lit patches of delicate aqua,
deep blue-sky background,
distinctly pink shading,
dashes of golden yellow that look surprisingly warm, considering the wind chill is five degrees.

I wonder if this is a special phenomenon -“Midday Cloud Colors,” or have I never before noticed because I am generally just glancing instead of gazing? I realize again

how good it is to pause,

how hard it is to pause.

Breathing helps. Pulling in long, deep draughts, and thinking...grace, all is grace – the breath, the opportunity to pause, the eyes to see clouds.

Breathing in grace, and it’s You again, Jesus, grace of Presence, presence of grace. I comprehend for a moment, for this moment, that it’s always You, always present.

Although I forget and forget and forget, yet once again it's – grace - here You are!

Breathing out, praise.
Praise for pause,
deep gratitude for the utterly steadfast nature of Your love,
appreciation for Your Abiding Presence.

Breathing in grace; although I am at times faithless – yet – You are faithful.
Breathing out thanks for hope – for Your promises fulfilled, in progress, yet to come.

Today again, I say Yes to the deep peace of pause.

In the adventure of going nowhere, I have once again found You.