Shifts for Those with Sense to See

I am always intrigued by how we can see seasons shifting, long before the calendar would tell us to expect these changes.

We have to learn to see with new eyes, eyes that focus on what's there, not what we're expecting to see. It's more of a shift of imagination than with our literal eyes, our literal sense: 

It's similar to how we can see God at work in the world--but it might mean we need to change our focus. 

Once we see it, the changing of a season, the evidence of God in the world, it's hard to ignore.

In future years, I might see this photo as evidence of a world on fire; I wouldn't be wrong, but it's early morning mist here, not smoke from fires.

One aspect I can't capture:  the way the greenness of the trees is thinning, the way I can see distant lights from roads in ways I couldn't just a month ago.

Bloom Where You Are Planted

 I dedicate this blog post to those who remain committed to a different front door holiday, even when everyone else has chosen differently:

I dedicate this blog post to those who are like this hydrangea 

which continues to bloom long after the others have given up for the season:

I dedicate this blog post to those of us who are doing our best to ripen

 but can't conform to a schedule: 

I dedicate this blog post to those of us who will not extinguish our glow, no matter what:

Mid-Autumn

 If we look closely, we can see the seasons changing, in a literal way; leaves on trees are both brighter and sparser than last week:

But also, a figurative way (the skeleton is standing on a campaign sign):

We may have visitors we didn't expect:

The decorations are finally up, and it's almost time to take them down.

Some make good use of their balconies, while others rely on festive lights:

Some of the decorations are so tired that they must take a rest.

Some of them take a rest with friends:

May we all have friends who will keep us company:

long distance shot of a man on a motorized scooter walking his dog

The Vinedresser's Greenish Thumb

This morning's readings in Phyllis Tickle's The Divine Hours included this reading from John:  

"Jesus taught us, saying: 'I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in me that bears no fruit he cuts away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes to make it bear even more. You are pruned already, by means of the word that I have spoken to you.'"     John 15:1-3

I thought about this vine that's in my office.  

A year ago, a colleague brought me this orchid, and another colleague brought in a cake.

They had heard me talking the day before on the phone, when my parents called to wish me a happy birthday.  I hadn't let my work colleagues know it was my birthday, because I didn't want anyone to feel like they had to do anything special for me.

That orchid was in full bloom then, and it has never been without flowers in the year that follows.  I don't know much about orchids, but I do know that's unusual, for orchids or for any plant.

Is it something I'm doing?  I give it some water or some cold tea (when the tea in my mug cools) once or twice a week, and that's it:  no special fertilizer, no orchid food, no compost.  

I have never thought of myself as having a green thumb--in fact, just the opposite.  But perhaps it's time that I change that narrative.  A few months ago, I noticed some almost dead plants on a windowsill that had been abandoned during one of the layoffs in the fall.  I brought them to my office and gave them some water or cold tea once a week.  Now they are flourishing:

I wish I had some before pictures.  Imagine this aloe plant, but about 2/3 less length on the spines.

This plant once had more brown leaves than green.  I trimmed them off, and look at how it's thriving:

Yes, I see the life lessons here--trimming back to facilitate growth, a small bit of care goes a long way, on and on I could go.

But I also see it as an important reminder about the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves.  For years, when people asked me if I had pets or children, I would joke, "Oh please, I can't even keep a houseplant alive."

And I believed that story I told about myself.  I believed that it was a hard thing to do, to keep a plant alive, and I believed that I was not capable.

But it turns out, I have a green thumb, or at least a greenish thumb.  I've met people with amazing abilities to nourish plants and grow things out of the most non-nourishing soil.  I'm not sure that my skills are up to that level.

But I'm not sure that they aren't--both in terms of plants and in terms of many other possibilities.

Season of Thin Spaces

We live in the season of thin spaces:

Now, more than ever, we sense the ancestors:

We sort through our projects, looking for the living among the dead:

We light the candles to ward off the gloomy spirits:

We cloak ourselves in costumes:

We sing songs in the company of all the saints:

Spiritual Scraps from Quilt Camp

The time at quilt camp did inspire me to think about quilting as metaphors for our spiritual lives.  Here are some initial ideas:

A wide variety of quilts can be made from the same medium, cloth.  

God, the ultimate quilter, can use small pieces or large swaths to create something new and more than the sum of its parts:

Quilts themselves have a variety of purposes:  to keep us warm while we sleep, to protect us from the floor, to decorate, to make us smile:

Some of us may feel that our lives are not a whole cloth, that we just have a collection of small pieces or scraps even more slender than fingers:

  

Happily, God is a talented quilter who can use every bit, no matter  how small.

You may protest that your life is shredded too small to be made into a whole cloth:

But God can create something delightful:

The Feast Day of Saint Francis in Our Plague Year

 If we made a list of the most famous saints, the ones that even the most non-religious are likely to "know," Saint Francis would be on the list, perhaps just under Saint Patrick.  Or maybe Francis is more famous, if we judge by how often he appears as a statue in our gardens or our birdbaths.

Born in 1181 or 1182, Francis didn't have to deal with bubonic plague or any of our more modern diseases.  He did work with lepers, so he had experience with contagion.

He founded an order not based in monasteries but in going out and being with the people who needed the friars most; the traveling friars would stay in church properties.  

In our current plague year, the idea of a cloistered monastery appeals to me more.

Our current pope is the only one who has chosen the name of Francis.  Francis is not a saint who is usually the favorite of those in power.  During his life, Francis did all that he could to challenge our ideas of wealth and power and who deserves riches--and what constitutes riches.

Traditionally, many churches would have a pet blessing service today.  How did Francis come to be associated with pets?  Our pets often lead more pampered lives than we do.

In a year in which we are already to Hurricane Gamma and the west coast burns, I think of Saint Francis and his commitment to the care of all creation, not just the cute pets.  We live in a society run by those determined not to see how interconnected we all are; it's a good time to return to Saint Francis.

In this plague year, I think about Francis and his fierce commitment to living an authentic life.  I think about his father, who beat him and left him bound and locked in a small storeroom.  I think about his mother who set him free.  I think about all the ones we love who so often act in baffling ways.

Here's a prayer that I wrote for today:

Creator God, we don't always take good care of your creations. Please give us the generosity of St. Francis as we wrestle with the best way to use our resources. Please open our hearts the way you opened the heart of St. Francis so that we can take care of the members of our society who are at the lowest levels. Please give us the courage to create communities which will allow the light of Christ to shine more brightly.

September Eve

 We make our way on a path once clear, but now more dimly lit:

September, once the month of settling into school and studies which now seem distant:

We know that seasons shift, each one bringing its own blessings and challenges:

We pray for grace as we continue to do the work of transformation:

We know that slow and steady can win the race:

Let us remember that we are chosen, marked as God's own forever: