All of my life, there has been a voice inside of me that is always demanding that I do more, be more, be a leader, for heaven's sakes.  Don't slack!  Can't you see this life is a competition?  You're not going anywhere if you don't step it up!  I've tried to appease that voice.  I've tried to follow the patterns and platitudes of what it means to be accomplished, but it rarely fills me.  
This morning, as I made my breakfast, a quiet voice said, "You were born for simplicity."  And with that, I have decided to claim my birthright in my 60th year of life and to yield to what makes me alive.  I will lay down the wrestling of all that I am not and welcome my own beauty in the calling of simplicity.  Let the shrouds of over accomplishment be lifted.  Let the meek sing.

As October turns to November,
Delilah and I roam where the quiet
rests with ease
and the glorious pencil-legged heron
moves at tai chi speed.
We smell the summer wildflowers
(some that still fiercely bloom and some already gone to seed)
so that our senses can hold tight to
light and warmth in the dark days to come.

What we cannot change, we cannot change.
Our hearts are heavy with awarenesses
of the the inhumanities of humans and the toll
life’s harsh edges can take on a soul.

So, we walk to calm down, to let go,
to unteather ourselves from the
unhelpful side of struggle, sorrow, and pain
so we might find ouselves strong enough
and tender enough
to return to the work of kindness.

We walk.  We pray.  We laugh.  We sing.
We look, 
and in looking,
we are renewed by the lessons
and beauty all around us.

When we return home,
we gather a bouquet of marigolds still
dazzling in their orange and gold attire.
We fill the bird feeders.
We light candles, and
we give thanks...
that God provides,
that God is present in all and through all
as we watch the autumn leaves turn and tumble
and the morning sunlight fill the sky.

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Soul sick from way too much late night RNC, this morning I fixed a cup of tea and headed to my art room.  Before entering, I just said, "God, please meet me here."  Eager to lose and find myself in my morning meditations, I sat down to clear my art table for what Spirit might have to offer.  As usual, there were birds at the feeder outside of the windowl... about three when I first sat down.  Two flew away and one lingered.  She sat on the edge of the feeder perfectly still, and she continued to sit there without feeding.  It was a bit odd, so I watched her.  It was then that I realized she was sleeping.  Perfectly at ease, she slept on the edge of that feeder for about five minutes.  No other birds came to feed.  She had no disruptions and she slept in utter peace.
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I took her photo and continued to marvel at her peace.  The tender part of me worried that she was ill, but in time, her little friends returned and she woke to join them in their morning breakfast.  Before I knew it, she took flight refreshed and full of dew kissed seeds. 
Since that sweet encounter, I've been humming, "His Eye is on the Sparrow."  I am on an edge these days.  My heart is tight, and my soul is weary.  I don't have assurances that all will be well, but this morning, God has assured me that we are not alone, that when we seek God (and even when we don't seek) God waits for us with the purest of love.  I stand amazed and thankful that God's care is present and true.
"Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come,
Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heaven and home,
When Jesus is my portion? My constant Friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me."

My art room has been a space of solace during these pandemic days.  As I live alone and now work from home, I sometimes get too much in my head.  There’s so much to think about and pray about these days.  There’a a laundry list of things I worry about.  So, when I need to come out from under the weight of thinking, I go to my art room.  I’m often there first thing in the morning and at the very end of the day.  Sometimes, I just walk into this space to look, to grow calm, or to become more steady.  It is a haven in these times..

I’ve positioned my art table so that I can look outside as I create.  I have a good view of the mountains and sky and neighborhood trees that always seem to be reaching towards both.  I love seeing kids on their bikes and new moms strolling their babies in the fresh air and dogs walking their people.  I put a bird feeder right outside of the window, and that has it’s own share of delight.  Sparrows.  Doves.  Cardinals.  Wren.  The feeder is their local  diner where they swap stories, learn to share, and receive sustenance.

On my windowsill, I have a collection of treasures that also catch my eye and soothe my spirit.  Seashells, feathers, a Native American rattle, and a little angel from my brother.  Back in the fall, I was shopping with friends in a thrift store, when I found this ceramic figurine of the Virgin Mary.  I brought her home with me, and added her to the windowsill.   She watches over me as I invite God’s spirit to be with me as I stir the creative waters and seek the peace that passes all understanding.

An unexpected joy has also come to this window during the pandemic.  There are two volunteer sunflowers cheerfully blooming in the flower bed outside of the art room window.   I like to think that the warmth that rises from all the love in my art room spilled out on the seeds and encouraged these sweet friends to rise up.  They stand there each day as reminders that possibilities abound and goodness keeps on flowing even on the hardest of days.

Today, I noticed how sweetly the sunflowers seemed to cup Mary.  They encircled her with their warm glow… so much so that I had to grab my camera and kneel down to take the photo.  So, there I was in this dear sacred space kneeling with Mary and the sunflowers, when low and behold, a goldfinch arrived.  He perched on the stalk of the sunflower and nodded to all that was holy in that moment… and there was so much that was holy.  The distance between heaven and earth eased, and I could feel God’s assurance embracing me with love and care.

I am reminded today that while this pandemic is awful, rending our minds and bodies and spirits, it is also creating spaces that invite us to lean our heads on God’s heart and rest easy in that love.  So much is beyond our control and so much is within our reach.  Let the veils be lifted.  Let the downhearted, sing.

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Before you put your weary
soul to bed each night,
open the window.
Let the hush of the day
blanket your rest.
Let the night light of stars
and moon
rest easy on your
day-lit thoughts.
Now is the time for rest,
for abandon,
for the cool balm of quiet
to mend you.
And come morning,
come the blue of dawn rising up
out of the dark of night,
let the bird songs anoint you,
moist and hopeful.
Let their innocent joy
seep into your waking
so that as you rise,
you rise 
in wonder,
in peace,
and in gratitude.
Open the window,
and welcome this anointing
so fresh
from the arms of God.

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