Tend and Keep

Today, I looked outside and saw a sparrow perched in its dignified little way on the leafy branch of a river birch that I had planted in the marshy, wetland soil of our pasture a few years ago. And the feeling that sprung up inside me I can only describe as this: Shalom. The peace of the delicate bird finding rest, the health, the thriving of the tree, planted in just the right spot, the wholeness of the cyclical pattern of well-being, the rightness, and beauty, and harmony on display, the pride that I was somehow part of it all; bringing healing instead of destruction, restoration instead of ruin, a glimpse of flourishing, of how things should be: Shalom.

Sometime in the 1990s, I was in grade school and was volunteering with my mom to help serve the food at a benefit concert. There was rain, so we were lugging boxes and coolers and coffee makers into a backup location, a recreation center in the neighboring town. As we walked through the doors, both my mom and I stopped short at what we saw: men, grown men , playing basketball, in the middle of the day. I stood there, gaping, until my mom whispered at me to stop staring and keep moving. Looking back, now I know that these men were almost certainly white-collar workers who met to play sports over their lunch breaks, and there's really nothing too unusual about that, but the concept of this was so foreign to my life at the time that I could not make sense of what I was seeing. In my world, working men were sweaty, hungry, and tired at lunchtime, and they were happy to get a break to sit down and eat. After lunch, they might stretch out and take a "10-minute snooze," as my da...

My hands are swollen,  skin stretched and flushed, full of pain. I rest them in my lap, just for a moment, close my eyes, and breathe. A child's voice breaks in: Mom, can I hold your hand? I breathe in, out. Yes.  My offered hand is not worth much else,  at the moment, but it is taken gently by two smaller ones, held like a precious gift.  Suddenly a kiss lands on my palm, unexpected and lovely. A blessing, A reminder that I can hold and carry: the small, sad offering is still worth giving, like loaves and fishes, multiplied. All that is needed is yes .

I carry tomato seedlings up the stairs, their first steps out of the basement, the womb where where all their needs were met:  soil, water, light all given in sufficient measure. I place them gently in a protected place,  where the sun and wind are not too harsh. This is it: the hardening off. It is time. I hover, sipping coffee in my chair nearby, watching them struggle in the breeze, and feel sorry for the young plants. They need to be prepared, I tell myself sternly. They need to be able to survive in the Real World. The winds will break their stems, and the bugs will devour their fruit, and the sun will scald their leaves, and the rain will smash them into pulp if they are not strong. I do them no favors with my softness, my safeguarding. It is time for them to become harder, more resilient, able to overcome adversity. I am sad. I am proud. It is, as they say, tough love.

Last week, there was a sign on the side of the road vaguely announcing imminent construction work. We soon learned what the sign indicated: the bridge we travel every day was going to be closed for many months.  Suddenly, the rivers that separate here from  there  seemed to rear up and reclaim their rightful place as topographic barriers, unforgiving terrain that needed to be considered carefully as we, pioneer-like, plotted out the least inhibiting place to cross. As I drew a new squiggly-line commute, I found that I was investigating local maps in a different light, asking questions like: where exactly do those two rivers meet? And, what does that mean for the watershed of this area, including the creek that runs by my house? I then wondered how the land use changes as the topography changes, and I was led to investigate many environmental connections that I am sorry to say I had not given a good amount of consideration before this imposed inconvenience. I find this s...

So often, the most pertinent questions come in a child's voice. This morning, on the way to school, I heard from the back seat, "Mom, when will it not be January anymore?" When, indeed. This has been the Januariest of Januaries for me. I feel that I've stumbled into the new year and then, instead of recovering, fell flat on my face. The month is (finally?) almost gone and the Christmas tree is still the centerpiece of the living room. I've been sick since the holiday, coughing and sniffling and doing the bare minimum to keep functioning. What day is it? I have a vague idea. What's happening tomorrow? Uh, let me think... I have a nagging feeling of being just a bit behind on everything, that there are things I'm forgetting, and of barely staying afloat. I have said more than a few times - when will I catch up?  How can I get on top of things? I just need to find my stride! What I am really desiring can probably be narrowed down to two things, in the end: pr...