It has been a long, hard day. The reasons why are not nearly as important as the lessons those reasons have reinforced:
Each of us is responsible for our own health and happiness - our own well-being. We are responsible for our life. We need to fight for our dreams with the same tenacity as those Olympic athletes who lay it all on the line and leave it all on the field, or on the court, or in the pool, or wherever they compete.
I need to fight for my dreams, my health, happiness and well-being. Period.
One of my favorite little devotional books is "When I Loved Myself Enough" by Kim McMillen. I haven't read it in years, but I took it out last night and opened to page one, which only contained this one sentence: "When I loved myself enough, I quit settling for too little."
Game on!
Back on my feet,
Kim
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Sunday, July 22, 2012
That, not What
I spent part of Friday under a loom tying up treadles, and part of Saturday denting a reed with 1400 fussy soft cotton threads. This may not sound like news, but for me it was a breakthrough. I've had this loom since 2007, and this is the first time I've prepared it for weaving.
Each of my looms has a personality. The Glimakra 50 shaft drawloom is huge, but airy and light, with soft pine beams and miles of texsolv string. I love to weave fine linen on this loom, but it has been 2007 since it has been dressed for weaving. It waits for for a warp and some company. My Leclerc counterbalance is my production workhorse, and is dressed with lovely wool for Scottish Wedding Blankets. October was the last time a shuttle passed through the warp, and it waits patiently for me to spend some hours bringing it back to life. Its action is light and swift - weaving with it is like dancing.
Its cousin is my Leclerc Gobelin Tapestry loom, dressed and ready for an Advent Tapestry celebrating the transformation found in embracing the darkness. But I can't settle on the image of the embrace, so it, too, waits patiently for me to work through my artistic block and bring the many colored wools to the loom. Weaving on the Gobelin is like painting - it is a very different feel from the other looms.
But on Friday and Saturday I chose the Macomber, which has been waiting for me to finally bring it to life. I first saw a Macomber Loom in the 90's, at the studio of the weaver under whom I apprenticed. I fell in love with its strength instantly - heavy woods and wrought iron made it a battleship of looms - whereas the other looms were lighter, the Macomber was the fixture around which you settled whatever room it was in. My first loom was a Macomber, bought second hand from a weaver in Connecticut who had upgraded to an even bigger Macomber (once a Macomber owner, always a Macomber owner). The looms are hand made in a small shop in Maine - made to order for the weaver. You can wait a very long time for your Macomber loom. I left my first loom in Scotland - seeing that an up and coming weaver had the tool she needed to continue her craft. When I returned to the States in '07, I took delivery of a new Macomber - falling in love with its strength and beauty.
And there it sat, first in WNY, and then in Boise. But Friday I crawled under it, and began the process of tying it up for its first warp - cutting my fingers and bruising my hands in the process (a Macomber is not a dainty loom). I had forgotten how much strength it took to depress s treadle that was tied up with 8 heavy metal shafts - the quad machines at the gym have nothing on a Macomber. By Saturday afternoon the warp was tied up as were the treadles, and the first shuttle was being thrown in the shed. And I was weaving. On my strong, rugged and beautiful loom with all its iron, steel and maple I was creating light and airy cloth. And growing stronger with each pick.
Why did I start weaving on Friday? Friday my heart was in a knot. It had been another week of chaos at church (thank you, mice and bats), and my mind was distracted with the millions of unfinished details of parish life plus emails and phone calls...I stayed home, but my mind and heart were at work. Then there was the mass shooting in Aurora - the place where I had done my chaplaincy many years ago. A large part of my heart is still back there, and yet another tragedy (involving gun violence) sickened me to the core. My mind tries, in vain, to understand how rational people can justify the need for legal access to assault rifles - I wish the damn things were banned and consider it obscene that this sick human being was able to legally obtain these weapons. My heart and head were racing a million miles a second...
...so I went to my heavy and strong loom, and prepared it for weaving. The tools felt like extensions of my hands, and my legs were able to depress the treadles. Throwing the shuttle through the shed was second nature to me - my rhythm was slow, but deliberate. My breathing slowed down, as did my racing mind. And I did what I do best at the loom - I prayed. Sometime during my time with Macomber, I re-membered a very important lesson: It doesn't matter what I weave, but that I weave. Weaving connects me with the great Tejedor, and I slip into that nonordinary realtiy of grace.
The strength and rugged beauty of the Macomber strengthens me, the scratches on my hands signs of my struggle to stay focused while engaging in my craft. That I pray best when dancing at the loom is a a great mystery to me - it would be more convenient if I most easily entered grace at my work desk instead of at the loom. Can I allow myself more time weaving with the Tejedor? Will I let myself settle into the loom music and dance this blessed dance of grace?
Where do you go and what do you do to quiet your mind, open your heart, and settle into God's presence? What proportion of your time is spend steeping in grace?
Looking forward to my next dance at the loom -
Kim
Each of my looms has a personality. The Glimakra 50 shaft drawloom is huge, but airy and light, with soft pine beams and miles of texsolv string. I love to weave fine linen on this loom, but it has been 2007 since it has been dressed for weaving. It waits for for a warp and some company. My Leclerc counterbalance is my production workhorse, and is dressed with lovely wool for Scottish Wedding Blankets. October was the last time a shuttle passed through the warp, and it waits patiently for me to spend some hours bringing it back to life. Its action is light and swift - weaving with it is like dancing.
Its cousin is my Leclerc Gobelin Tapestry loom, dressed and ready for an Advent Tapestry celebrating the transformation found in embracing the darkness. But I can't settle on the image of the embrace, so it, too, waits patiently for me to work through my artistic block and bring the many colored wools to the loom. Weaving on the Gobelin is like painting - it is a very different feel from the other looms.
But on Friday and Saturday I chose the Macomber, which has been waiting for me to finally bring it to life. I first saw a Macomber Loom in the 90's, at the studio of the weaver under whom I apprenticed. I fell in love with its strength instantly - heavy woods and wrought iron made it a battleship of looms - whereas the other looms were lighter, the Macomber was the fixture around which you settled whatever room it was in. My first loom was a Macomber, bought second hand from a weaver in Connecticut who had upgraded to an even bigger Macomber (once a Macomber owner, always a Macomber owner). The looms are hand made in a small shop in Maine - made to order for the weaver. You can wait a very long time for your Macomber loom. I left my first loom in Scotland - seeing that an up and coming weaver had the tool she needed to continue her craft. When I returned to the States in '07, I took delivery of a new Macomber - falling in love with its strength and beauty.
And there it sat, first in WNY, and then in Boise. But Friday I crawled under it, and began the process of tying it up for its first warp - cutting my fingers and bruising my hands in the process (a Macomber is not a dainty loom). I had forgotten how much strength it took to depress s treadle that was tied up with 8 heavy metal shafts - the quad machines at the gym have nothing on a Macomber. By Saturday afternoon the warp was tied up as were the treadles, and the first shuttle was being thrown in the shed. And I was weaving. On my strong, rugged and beautiful loom with all its iron, steel and maple I was creating light and airy cloth. And growing stronger with each pick.
Why did I start weaving on Friday? Friday my heart was in a knot. It had been another week of chaos at church (thank you, mice and bats), and my mind was distracted with the millions of unfinished details of parish life plus emails and phone calls...I stayed home, but my mind and heart were at work. Then there was the mass shooting in Aurora - the place where I had done my chaplaincy many years ago. A large part of my heart is still back there, and yet another tragedy (involving gun violence) sickened me to the core. My mind tries, in vain, to understand how rational people can justify the need for legal access to assault rifles - I wish the damn things were banned and consider it obscene that this sick human being was able to legally obtain these weapons. My heart and head were racing a million miles a second...
...so I went to my heavy and strong loom, and prepared it for weaving. The tools felt like extensions of my hands, and my legs were able to depress the treadles. Throwing the shuttle through the shed was second nature to me - my rhythm was slow, but deliberate. My breathing slowed down, as did my racing mind. And I did what I do best at the loom - I prayed. Sometime during my time with Macomber, I re-membered a very important lesson: It doesn't matter what I weave, but that I weave. Weaving connects me with the great Tejedor, and I slip into that nonordinary realtiy of grace.
The strength and rugged beauty of the Macomber strengthens me, the scratches on my hands signs of my struggle to stay focused while engaging in my craft. That I pray best when dancing at the loom is a a great mystery to me - it would be more convenient if I most easily entered grace at my work desk instead of at the loom. Can I allow myself more time weaving with the Tejedor? Will I let myself settle into the loom music and dance this blessed dance of grace?
Where do you go and what do you do to quiet your mind, open your heart, and settle into God's presence? What proportion of your time is spend steeping in grace?
Looking forward to my next dance at the loom -
Kim
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Rope Swings, Jeeps, and Loving the Journey
In my mind it is the early '90s and I'm the new associate minister in climate that reminds me of Boise. I'm 32, and according to one of my youth groups, I am very cool. My entire job is education and youth ministry and I am loving it. Three youth groups, a big Sunday School, adult ed, and free-lancing on Sunday night running a combined group for two churches of another denomination. We go camping - have lock ins - we plan mission trips. We go on retreat up into the Sierras at a non-denominational camp that has breathtaking vistas and a rope swing that would never ever pass today's risk assessment exercise. Actually, I'm not sure the winter camping trip would have passed the risk assessment exercise. But we didn't do those things back then...at least not to the degree we do now. Although I wasn't supposed to have favorite groups, I loved the young adult group. This group had a rocky relationship with the church, and so they decided to call themselves "Friends United" - because the acronym said it all. I loved them like they were my own - and they knew it.
The torch passes, and today I got to watch a 32 year old representative of late Gen X or early Millennial generation show us what ministry can look like under their direction, and it is a nice mix of wise and cool. Very cool. It is a blessing to see that the church is in good hands. The next gen, be it X or Y, has us covered.
I have a colleague who re-invents himself every 10 years, a process that usually involves that "little box of hair color" and a new form of transportation. The motorcycle with the leathers was received fairly well by his congregation. The later Mohawk with just a shade of tinting - not so well (some say it was bright pink, but I thought it was more of a subtle cotton candy color...). It brought out the blue in his eyes, but didn't work so well at the graveside funeral services. People misunderstood his intentions and felt he was being disrespectful. He was genuinely surprised by this - "I just want to stay relevant" was his answer. But then he said what was really on his heart: "I don't want to be left behind."
It is tempting to fear being left behind as the world around us shifts and changes at breakneck pace. Aging requires flexibility in order to stay relevant - which, at its root, means continuing to be appropriate for our purpose. And what is our purpose?
To love. And to grow into a greater awareness of our union with God. Which causes us to love.
Each day, the challenge and opportunity is to find new and creative ways to love based on who we are and what we can bring to the experience. The differences in how we love is part of what makes the tapestry so rich...and beautiful...and strong - the many different threads of love woven together by the master Tejedor who values each unique thread.
So...today I was reminded that I am not 32 anymore. Instead, I am a very happy 53, who is not in danger of running into that "little box of hair color" nor of buying a motorcycle. But a two door soft top Jeep Wrangler...well...that may be another story. If Fr. Richard Rohr is right about the second half of life (as described in his wise book "Falling Upward") then my journey into the greater reality will not require a new ride...but the adventure may be enhanced with the top down!
Loving the journey,
Kim
The torch passes, and today I got to watch a 32 year old representative of late Gen X or early Millennial generation show us what ministry can look like under their direction, and it is a nice mix of wise and cool. Very cool. It is a blessing to see that the church is in good hands. The next gen, be it X or Y, has us covered.
I have a colleague who re-invents himself every 10 years, a process that usually involves that "little box of hair color" and a new form of transportation. The motorcycle with the leathers was received fairly well by his congregation. The later Mohawk with just a shade of tinting - not so well (some say it was bright pink, but I thought it was more of a subtle cotton candy color...). It brought out the blue in his eyes, but didn't work so well at the graveside funeral services. People misunderstood his intentions and felt he was being disrespectful. He was genuinely surprised by this - "I just want to stay relevant" was his answer. But then he said what was really on his heart: "I don't want to be left behind."
It is tempting to fear being left behind as the world around us shifts and changes at breakneck pace. Aging requires flexibility in order to stay relevant - which, at its root, means continuing to be appropriate for our purpose. And what is our purpose?
To love. And to grow into a greater awareness of our union with God. Which causes us to love.
Each day, the challenge and opportunity is to find new and creative ways to love based on who we are and what we can bring to the experience. The differences in how we love is part of what makes the tapestry so rich...and beautiful...and strong - the many different threads of love woven together by the master Tejedor who values each unique thread.
So...today I was reminded that I am not 32 anymore. Instead, I am a very happy 53, who is not in danger of running into that "little box of hair color" nor of buying a motorcycle. But a two door soft top Jeep Wrangler...well...that may be another story. If Fr. Richard Rohr is right about the second half of life (as described in his wise book "Falling Upward") then my journey into the greater reality will not require a new ride...but the adventure may be enhanced with the top down!
Loving the journey,
Kim
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Fresh x2
Back in the '70s and '80s the Episcopal Ad Project helped pave the way for churches to advertise using clever eye-catching copy (mostly posters). Some messages clearly "preached to the choir," while others were meant to attract the unchurched. The first poster I saw spoke volumes to clergy: "Jesus told us to feed the sheep, not count them." I have always remembered the message, especially during the summer months, when worship attendance is down.
Today I was reminded that it is not the quantity of people in the sanctuary that matters but the quality of their interactions. When all was said and done I was able to step back and watch as people ministered to each other in a compassionate, sensitive way. Instead of finishing the morning tense and drained of energy, I felt refreshed and centered. Nice - very nice.
Even on a hot day in July, community felt fresh and alive - what a wonderful feeling!
This evening I'm sitting with a new book recommended by a new friend - Robert Alter's The Book of Psalms. Alter's translation of the Psalms startles me with its beauty and freshness - the Psalms are old, familiar friends, yet I feel like I am encountering them anew. Like very fine chocolate, this new rendering of the Psalms is meant to be savored, one delicious bite at a time.
The old becomes new again - fresh again - surprisingly vital again. The familiar Sunday morning experience and words I've read a thousand times - known and yet now new.
Isn't grace an amazing gift....
Savoring the moment,
Kim
Thursday, July 5, 2012
The Problem with the Serenity Prayer...
Stanley, Part 2
I didn't cope with the altitude - not at all. I couldn't breathe, and my heart issue was aggravated in a way that made it unsafe for me to stay in Stanley any longer than was necessary to fulfill my obligations. It didn't take me long to realize what was happening, and the awareness that I could not be at altitude not only aggravated my heart, but it also broke it. The mountains are my home, and I can't be there right now. Not in my second favorite place in the world, and most certainly not in my most favorite and sacred place in the world. I cannot go "home" - not like this.
This realization unsettled me to the core. In times of great joy and tragedy I have returned to the mountains for strength and solace. I have found courage there, and inspiration, and hope. And love - I have been enveloped by love and acceptance in the mountains in a way that defies explanation. There are places that know me by name, and welcome me home.
But not now - not as things are. And I feel strangely orphaned. Adrift. Isolated. Alone.
I close my eyes and step out of my car in the car park of the East Inlet Trail and start walking up to the trailhead. Soon I am deep in the forest where once I almost collided with a Moose that had little interest in sharing the trail with me. I begin the gentle climb up to "steps" that lead past the turn off to Adams Falls. I few more steep steps and there is a small clearing where I can watch the rapids from a rock where I rest in front of a small pine that, for the past twenty-four years, has enjoyed a drink from my water bottle. We chat about the previous winter, and I head along the narrow trail until descending into the first meadow, and my thoughtful spot. There I sit on my favorite rock and gaze at old Baldy. God has touched me in that meadow - it is the very definition of liminal space. I sit there and watch the sun come up - in my mind - and rest until it is time to climb back down again. It is a joyous walk - even with two bad knees. But I can only walk it in my memory.
And I cry - and wonder - is this one of those times in life where I fight to regain what has been lost, or do I accept and adapt? I don't mind the desert, and am fond of the ocean - perhaps this is one of those times of letting go. Or maybe it is a time to fight. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
The trouble with the Serenity Prayer is that the events of life do not come clearly labelled: this one is something I can change, but this one over here is something I cannot change. And the wisdom that is called for is also not always obvious...
... unless wisdom is that space of not knowing ... where you wait instead of react and allow time to unfold the story more fully... so that memory, mind and heart can discern what requires acceptance, and what calls forth the warrior's response.
I cannot go home to the mountains - not now. May God help me to listen as I rest in this waiting space ... my heart broken wide open ...
Blessings,
Kim
Sunday, July 1, 2012
After the fire... Veriditas!
The American West is on fire, and the images are heartbreaking. Every region of America has some weather/climate/natural feature that provokes fear, and here in Idaho it isn't hurricanes or earthquakes (unless you live in Challis, and then earthquakes are not off the radar). Here it is fire.
This weekend I was up in Stanley preaching at the Sawtooth Meditation Chapel - a once a year gig that I thoroughly love. Truth be told, I could stand up there and read the phone book for the sermon, because immediately behind me is a wall of windows that looks out at a breathtaking vista of the Sawtooths. God has already done all the heavy lifting for Sunday worship - I just give a nudge or two and then try to get out of the way.
Stanley is my second favorite place in all of creation, and I savor every opportunity to head to the hills. As much as I love all places of natural beauty, I love the mountains most of all. It is there that God's voice is clearest and brightest - and easiest for me to hear. I am a mountain lass, through and through.
The drive up Highway 55 to The Banks Lowman Highway to ID 21 to Stanley is beautiful beyond words (except in bad weather, when it can be a wee bit dicey). But we had bright sunshine both going and coming back, and I was the passenger not the driver, so I could drink in the beauty. There are spots along the drive that are marred by fire - whole hillsides burned through, with the charred remains of dead trees a painful reminder of what once was. In the past I've felt great sorrow when looking at those silent witnesses to tragedy - I've felt my heart sink and saw the scene as anything but beautiful. But today I noticed something different...
...I saw all the green that surrounded those dead trees. Bright, life-infused growth flourished all along those hillsides. New young pines, lots of ground cover - a transformation of what was once a scene of utter devastation into a vista of new life.
Hildegard of Bingen spoke of a similar spiritual phenomenon which she called - Veriditas - the greening power of God. After the fire, there is new life. This reality does not take away the tragedy faced by all whose dreams are charred by the fires, but it does provide hope that new life can emerge from even the deepest, darkest pile of ashes and soot.
Such a beautiful lesson in hope, taught today by the wisdom of God's creation.
May we remember all those who stand in the ashes of their dreams, and face the devastation of the fires of life. May we cradle them in our hearts, and help them to survive the fires. May we remember those brave souls who give their time, energy and risk their lives to fight the fires of life - running towards the pain and danger in the hope of bringing aid and assistance. They are the angels who help Veriditas to emerge.
Come, Veriditas, Come!
Kim
This weekend I was up in Stanley preaching at the Sawtooth Meditation Chapel - a once a year gig that I thoroughly love. Truth be told, I could stand up there and read the phone book for the sermon, because immediately behind me is a wall of windows that looks out at a breathtaking vista of the Sawtooths. God has already done all the heavy lifting for Sunday worship - I just give a nudge or two and then try to get out of the way.
Stanley is my second favorite place in all of creation, and I savor every opportunity to head to the hills. As much as I love all places of natural beauty, I love the mountains most of all. It is there that God's voice is clearest and brightest - and easiest for me to hear. I am a mountain lass, through and through.
The drive up Highway 55 to The Banks Lowman Highway to ID 21 to Stanley is beautiful beyond words (except in bad weather, when it can be a wee bit dicey). But we had bright sunshine both going and coming back, and I was the passenger not the driver, so I could drink in the beauty. There are spots along the drive that are marred by fire - whole hillsides burned through, with the charred remains of dead trees a painful reminder of what once was. In the past I've felt great sorrow when looking at those silent witnesses to tragedy - I've felt my heart sink and saw the scene as anything but beautiful. But today I noticed something different...
...I saw all the green that surrounded those dead trees. Bright, life-infused growth flourished all along those hillsides. New young pines, lots of ground cover - a transformation of what was once a scene of utter devastation into a vista of new life.
Hildegard of Bingen spoke of a similar spiritual phenomenon which she called - Veriditas - the greening power of God. After the fire, there is new life. This reality does not take away the tragedy faced by all whose dreams are charred by the fires, but it does provide hope that new life can emerge from even the deepest, darkest pile of ashes and soot.
Such a beautiful lesson in hope, taught today by the wisdom of God's creation.
May we remember all those who stand in the ashes of their dreams, and face the devastation of the fires of life. May we cradle them in our hearts, and help them to survive the fires. May we remember those brave souls who give their time, energy and risk their lives to fight the fires of life - running towards the pain and danger in the hope of bringing aid and assistance. They are the angels who help Veriditas to emerge.
Come, Veriditas, Come!
Kim
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