Reflections on Nourishment

After a 24 hour Nourishment Retreat

Her true pleasure lies beyond rage…beyond sadness…beyond the things she can never change.   It requires that she feel her anger, weep her tears, accept what was, what is, let go, and forgive it all.  

This is a continuance of life work.  Important, necessary, sometimes very difficult.  May it be also joyful work.   

Her true pleasure lies in the feel of the air on her skin, nourishing water to drink, to float in, solid ground to walk upon. It travels on paths through the trees, stands on a lake shore, looks down from dizzying heights.   It requires a new kind of bread, fresh veggies, fruit and the newfound delight in food that nourishes and satisfies…it requires indulgence when the body, mind and spirit want to indulge, in dark chocolate and wine.  It requires loving touch,  a re-strengthening of the parts of her that have grown weak. 

Revisit the core.  Re-adjust daily priorities.  Reclaim parts lost, but not forever-so.

Her true pleasure is not to have to work too hard at this, but work on slight adjustments and create the space to embrace and live these pleasures.  These are small movements, really.  More and more doable as the demands from others lessen and as she learns to listen to her yes, her no and to sweet words she whispers to herself: "You do not have to be in charge",  "You can rest now", "I love you just the way you are."

Her true pleasure is in the exchange with other beings who seek pleasure and depth, the wisdom of their bodies and souls;  these are allies for the journey who, in embracing the changes in themselves, whether intentionally or unintentionally, change the atmosphere around them.

I take her true pleasure with me, this weekend.  I leave behind remnants of “can’t do that”…and enter another bend on my own spiral, seeing possibility, knowing something deep inside of me is capable of ever more generosity to myself and that this can only be good for me and for the people around me.

24 Hours on Kelley's Hill.  Thanks to Kelly and Allison and all the circles of women in my life who find nourishment in words shared and conscious community.  

BLR July 14, 2014

Endings, Happy and Sad

In my faith community, we have lost a number of beloved, indispensable member-friends in recent months. I believe I have been to eight funerals in the last six months (and have begun to understand my parents’ “resolution,” after living almost their entire lives in a mid-sized Midwestern town, to attend fewer funerals). Many of us are reeling from the passing of these extraordinary “ Greatest Generation” folks and our collective loss of their wisdom and patience and long perspectives.

Being present at so many memorials to lives well-lived has raised issues I had never adequately considered, and allowed me to think about how memorial services can be conducted, as well as how lives can be lived and remembered. I have learned that if you die shortly before your 98^th birthday, the church may not be as full as your life was, because you have outlived so many in your circles. I have learned that the sanctuary can be packed to overflowing, but the words spoken may fail to capture a life that was so much more than could be expressed, so that the gaping hole left in so many lives stands as the most powerful testimony to a life lived to the very limits of human energy. Hearing old-timey hymns I usually have little patience for, and knowing that they were chosen by my deceased friend, or their family, gives me a new appreciation for the comfort that a hymn I had dismissed may hold for others. I have thought long and hard about the demonstrated human qualities that compel friends and family to show up for a memorial service and remember their loved one.

An overwhelming realization, one I hope to carry with me more consistently in my life, is that some of the quietest, humblest people can be, deep down, the most fascinating and wise.  As a somewhat reserved person myself, I don’t tend to draw people out as much as I could, and certainly as much as I later wish I had. I so regret not asking Lou more about his transformative service as a marine in World War II, or talking with Harry about what it was like to run against Jesse Owens, among many other topics. I had no idea that Helen had a career besides that of mother long before most women did, and I wish I had learned more about what demands and indignities her bravery subjected her to. I also wish I had made the effort to learn more about the difficult time our congregation went through in becoming the first integrated church in Bloomington. We have one older member who returned to us only a few years ago, having been removed by his angry parents over this issue decades ago. I think I’ll ask him to tell me all about it next time I see him.

I’ve also had ample time to think about what we are actually grieving in our loss. Happily, people sometimes die having lived their time among us so fully, and having made such complete peace with the end of life, that it is inspiring, and in our sadness we realize that the loss is almost completely our own, that there is virtually nothing more we would wish for the deceased; our magical thinking is only for ourselves, to have had more time, or to have treasured the time we had more intentionally.

The first death that touched me deeply was that of my maternal grandmother, when I was 19. I had grown up around the block from her, and she had been a constant, patient, deeply supportive, and inspiring presence throughout my life. While my mother had been with her in her final hours of physical suffering and was grateful to see her out of her pain, my sister and I were inconsolable, and wept unceasingly throughout a triumphant celebration of her life in the home congregation in which she had married, seen her daughter and son married, and provided years of deeply musical keyboard and vocal service. We simply wanted MORE, for ourselves, more time and experience with the woman who had meant so much to us from our very beginnings.

I have much to learn about so many things surrounding the end of life, as well as the living of it. However, I am hoping for a pause in the intensity of my recent learning experiences. Enough loss, for now.

Mary for the Poplar Grove Muse