What the future will bring

I learned to sew in Home Economics class when I was eleven years old, and I continued to sew for the next 40 years—until I got a job that required travel more than half of the year. When I was at home, I had too much catching up to do to sit and sew.

For me, sewing requires dedicated time and a certain state of mind. I need to be able to focus on what I am making. Sewing gives me the most pleasure when I can spend an hour or two (or more) at my sewing machine.

Knitting has taken up some of the space I would have devoted to sewing; gardening has taken up some as well. They are both creative outlets for me, but they are not sewing.

Sewing was spiritual for me. I thought it was almost miraculous that I could take a rectangular piece of fabric and in as little as a half hour, turn that piece of fabric into a skirt. The idea of something being transformed into something else spoke to me of God’s creating from nothing and of God’s being able to reshape us (I love the image of God as a potter, creating something from a lump of clay).

I have other hobbies I can do while doing something else (I can knit while watching television, for example, or read a book while I am in a waiting room) but sewing requires its own space and time without distractions.

By the time my friend Jim got brain cancer, I hadn’t done any serious sewing for about ten years. We had not talked about my sewing, so I was surprised when, a few days before he died, he said, “I hope you sew again.” It seemed to come out of left field, but when I reflect on it now, I can see what he saw—my life was fuller when I sewed. I was more myself with that creative outlet.

But since he died ten years ago, I still have not started sewing again.

Then one day in France three months ago, I had the thought, “I want to sew.” A few days later, I was in a baby shop looking at hand-sewn bibs, and again I thought, “I want to sew.”

Ironically, that morning at prayer, two Scriptures had spoken to me:

Isaiah 43:16-17: Remember not the events of the past, the things of long ago consider not; see I am doing something new, and

Philippians 3:14: Just one thing, forgetting what lies behind but straining forward to what lies ahead….

Sewing is from my past; could it also be in my future?

Is it time for me to return to this hobby of old, even to see if it is still something that brings me joy?

Do you have a hobby from your youth that still calls to you? That still engages your imagination and fosters a sense of creativity?

Through the door

I walk unsteadily,

like a toddler finding my center of gravity,

arms out for balance,

taking one wobbly step after another,

crossing the threshold into a life I have never known.

A flicker of familiarity encourages me

(I don’t have to leave everything behind)

and the known calms my uncertainty.

Is the light coming from ahead to guide my steps or

from the experiences of my past,

encouraging me onward

to step through the door and

begin this journey into

the next chapter of my life.

The lodger

A lodger moved in a few weeks ago

and every day I watch her comings and goings.

Most of the time she sits,

but occasionally she flits away to get something to eat.

When I walk by,

she darts to the other side of the yard,

perches on the fence

and waits for me to go inside,

as though she is startled by my presence,

as though she has forgotten that I live here too.

Each time she leaves, her mate swoops in and

stands on the edge of the nest,

hovering but never sitting,

waiting for her return,

standing guard over their unborn.

Long life

To live a long life can be a blessing,

if we choose to see with God’s eyes and

to love with God’s heart,

to be open to the possibility of life and

content with what life brings.

Pain and suffering come to everyone

(whether we want it or not),

each hurt offering an invitation to shift a bit

so that we see from a different angle,

get a different perspective.

Every day offers a fresh start,  

a chance to be more loving and forgiving

and generous and grateful.

I want to live with abandon,

to risk love and forgiveness,

and at the end of my long life,

I hope my final words will be words of gratitude.

Creating a new life

Do not worry…, Jesus tells us in Matthew 6:25, but I find myself worrying more now than ever before.

Some of my higher levels of anxiety are connected to my mother’s health, but the pandemic has added layers of uncertainty.

Most everything has been disrupted—my daily routines, work schedules and social life are not what they once were. Even my dreams are filled with anxiety—late for a meeting, lost in a maze, missing a plane, etc.

Worry, like fear, is useless—what is needed in trust; but how can I trust our situation will get better when it just keeps getting worse?

It seems that every time someone tries to return to what life was like before the pandemic, there is another spike in new coronavirus cases.

We live in a new reality, and wishing and hoping for what once was is futile. We need to let go of how things used to be in order to move forward.

People who have had unexpected, life-altering events probably grasp this truth more easily.

I work at a cancer support center and have talked with many people about their “new normal,” a phrase people use for the time after they have moved beyond the shock of the diagnosis and settle into a world of medical jargon and treatment facilities.

Losing one’s hair because of chemotherapy is one part of the physical changes that cancer treatment brings, but there are many others, including fatigue, pain and weight loss or gain. People don’t ask for cancer or choose it, but they have to accept this new reality to survive.

How someone used to be before cancer is not how they are after, and grieving all that is lost because of cancer is an important part of the healing process.

I imagine the losses from the pandemic are similar, and we need to grieve what has been lost rather than wishing and hoping for things to go back to how they were.

Accepting the situation and moving through grief is the way forward. New life happens when we let go of what once was and create a “new normal” for our current situation.

We know the stories about how something needs to die in order for new life to happen—babies leave the security of the womb, seeds drop from pods to become flowers, etc. The pandemic seems to be inviting us into this same kind of transformation, asking us (or perhaps, demanding) that we let go of what once was and build something new.

Some of that is already taking place. Working from home has become the norm for many people who used to go to offices every day. We are driving less, cooking more and spending more time outdoors. Empty office buildings and vast parking lots have become memorials to a way of life that no longer exists.

How are you dealing with what you have lost? What are you grieving? What new routines have you created that will continue post-pandemic?

Sunflowers

Sunflower seedlings were to

grow five feet tall

along the back of my garden.

Seeds planted indoors in early spring and

carefully transplanted when the ground warmed,

took root and

grew stronger and taller every day.

And then my dog died.

She, who was part terrier and

very good at patrolling the perimeter of our yard,

keeping at bay any animals who might think of

taking up residence or even stopping by for a visit.

She, who chased away every squirrel, cat, rabbit and bird.

She, who barked at the occasional opossum.

In the days after her death,

squirrels were the first to take tentative steps across the lawn.

They were soon joined by birds digging for worms, and

then a baby rabbit appeared.

Every morning, she peeked out from under the salvia,

nibbling on the dried grass attached to overturned clods of dirt.

And then, sitting on her haunches,

she nibbled the leaves of my young sunflowers.

How well she looks after herself,

finding what she needs to be nourished,

showing me the way.

Cocoon

Stay in your bubble, wise voices tell us.

Stay apart.

Stay.

Safe in my bubble,

like a chrysalis,

encased in a cocoon,

comfortable in the form-fitting closeness,

I have stayed

apart,

between two worlds,

that which was and

that which is yet to be,

bumping up against the boundaries

of this space.

Eventually every butterfly

outgrows confinement and

breaks free.

Cradling joy

The image that came to me the other day during my morning prayer was that I was cradling joy—holding something small and vulnerable in my arms like an infant child, something that is dependent on me to care for and nurture.

Perhaps that image came to me this week because I had planted some flower seeds in starter pots, and every day I water them and watch for signs of growth. I am anxious to see something sprout.

Or maybe it is because I have been watching a duck sit on her eggs in the nest she built in my mother’s garden, anticipating the day ducklings will hatch.

Or perhaps it came to me because as the time of isolation wears on, holding onto something positive seems to be more challenging. I feel more on edge, more impatient—my nerves are getting frayed. I am tired of the old and crave something new.

Tomorrow, I was scheduled to go on vacation, but my flights were cancelled. I had been looking forward to this trip for the past six months, and I grieve the loss. Where I once held anticipation for my vacation, there is now an empty space.

Maybe that, too, connects with the image of cradling joy, of wanting to hold hope for the future and a time when I can make plans again.

My reflection that morning reminded me that I have a choice and a responsibility to nurture the tiny sparks of joy and hope that I notice around me—like the seeds in my starter plants and the duck sitting on her eggs—trusting that new life will come in its own time.

My heart sings

Transition and getting to know new people and places, making connections, trying to find where I belong.

I work to create a space for myself.

And then, a gathering.

I am recognized.

My heart sings.

Moving on

Celebrating the Sacrament of Reconciliation is a regular part of my spiritual life. Reviewing my thoughts, words and actions, looking at where I need to make changes and admitting my shortcomings to another human being helps me live more intentionally.

One transgression I don’t ever remember confessing is envy—because I tend to be quite content with my life.

Recently, though, I heard myself saying words I regretted the moment they out of my mouth. I knew I needed to apologize, but before I did, I wanted to understand what had prompted this comment.

I prayed for insight.

Pondering the situation, I realized I envied the woman I had spoken to; I was envious of a part of her life that reminded me of what I used to have but have lost.

Five years ago, I moved “home” after having lived away for almost forty years. That move changed my proximity to some friends and the things we used to do together. I hadn’t realized how much I missed that part of my old life until I heard this woman talking about a trip she had recently taken with her friends.

I was happy for her and the fun she had, but a week later—and not even thinking or talking about her trip—I said something totally irrelevant and rude. I was speaking out of the past, a past I have lost and apparently still mourn.Understanding doesn’t change or fix what is wrong, but it helps me to apologize sincerely and to figure out what adjustments I need to make to act differently in the future.

In this situation, my words led me to reflect on developing more friends in my new home—or perhaps initiating more with my family and the friends I do have.

When I moved home, I decided that I would not expect people to accommodate me—to make space for me in their lives—because I did not want to have unrealistic expectations. I knew that their lives had gone on without me while I chose to live away.

Developing realistic expectations can be tricky because expectations that are too high can lead to disappointment and expectations that are too low can lead to—well, I think in this situation, loneliness.

I realized that a fear of disappointment or rejection led me to develop extremely low expectations.

As I look back on the five years since my move, I can see that some of my attempts at initiating have been rejected and I have been disappointed on occasion. But more often, family and friends have embraced me and responded positively to my suggested activities.

Building a new life has been a challenge, and even though I am deeply grateful to be living near my family, my rude comment tells me that I still have a ways to go before I am totally content with my new life. Admitting that is the first step toward changing it. Letting go of what was also helps.