A Place of Love

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I currently have a lot of time to explore new authors and books, music and poetry, recipes and art. In exploring a topic for this blog I came across a TED TALK by Valerie Kaur, link here: Revolutionary Love . Her words brought me hope, some tears, excitement and courage. This, I thought to myself, THIS is what I want to write about this week.

The quote above from Parker Palmer popped up next and voila! I had a solid theme for a blog post.

The fundamental premise is to look around and ask yourself “Who have we not yet tried to love?” What are each person’s individual stories that we need to hear because those the are stories can help us see there is no stranger among anyone we meet.  

One of the greatest gifts I have been offered/given in my life has been the opportunity to travel and even live in places all over the world. Some of the time I traveled with friends, my father, my husband, and most recently my children. But some of the time I traveled alone. Taken out of the comfort zone of what I was familiar with I found myself experiencing some worry and anxiety. Some of this arrived at my door step even before I began the adventure. What would happen if….? How do I…….? Is there…..? Who will……..? Questions based on uncertainty and a little bit of fear and worry. I was entering a realm of the unfamiliar, even the unknown. I would be my own source of comfort, courage and ingenuity. I would be in places and situations where I did not speak the language that might have been required for me to ask for help or direction. Off I went! First I traveled to India and Nepal. My father, an Episcopal minister had been asked to be part of the team traveling with a group of college students. He was able to make arrangements for me to go with him. After that we were off to Belgium for The Second World Conference on Religion and Peace. Before going to Belgium we stopped in Denmark where I stayed with a Danish family for almost a week. I no longer remember what my father was up to! With in this same trip I went to Iceland, Norway, Switzerland, France and Germany with my father.

Years later I traveled with my dear friend AnaLisa to attend a 6 week college session in England, and then I traveled to Corfu, Greece before meeting her again in Athens where we made arrangements to live in Iraklion, Crete. Years later, married, I found myself traveling to Japan with another friend and her young son. Eventually my husband would come and join me and we would remain in Kyoto for another 6 months. In each and every place there were people who reached out with their heart and hand when there was no shared spoken language. Yet there was love, care, respect, help and trust.

It’s true, as Parker Palmer writes, we all have places of fear. Right next door are places of hope, trust and faith. They are just a step away from the place of fear, yet the first step to leaving fear behind sometimes seems like such a huge, wide one and we falter and pause, wondering if we can get across the chasm. if we would but only take a moment to look up instead of towards our feet, chances are we would find another on the other side reaching out to lend a hand. We are guided and supported by probably hundred of people through out our lives. Those who will reach out to us offering the very best of our humanness. If by some chance we still stumble or fall they are still there to pick us up and dust us off.

As I have been on this journey of healing and recovery I have stood at the edge of that chasm. Frozen by the unknown and fear. It has been a mind game of sorts, and a tug of war with my sense of pride as controlled by ego. Voices in my head yell “You shouldn’t need the help and support of others. Take care of yourself for heaven’s sake.” The dreaded “shouldn’t s”. BUT, if as Parker says I am able to instead, begin from a place of promise, a place of hopefulness, I will head in a direction not so scary and uncertain. And maybe, I will not travel alone. Perhaps now that the foundation is more stable perhaps others will follow me towards a more trustworthy, more hopeful, more faithful way of being in the world.

I can remain stuck in the quagmire of self pity, uncertainty, cynical thoughts and feel all the accompanying feelings and emotions which may only add proof that I am in fact stuck here forever. Or I can gather myself up and step just next door to faith, hope and trust. From this place stepping forward is not so intimidating, so impossible looking.

Sitting here, having walked through a door I never even saw (the aneurysm) and finding myself frozen in disbelief and fear, I am humbled. Humbled by what I now understand is a kind of strength, promise and hopefulness. It comes from deep inside of me, upheld by the foundation built from the love of others. There is no weakness or shame in reaching out to others. It may just be that they are in fact the bridge that connects us, me, to a more trustworthy , more hopeful, more faithful way of being in the world. A place where we heal, grow, love, share, offer, receive, nurture, trust and discover and gain the strength to reach out to others in return.

I put a lot of time into thinking about all this because it is my path to healing and regaining pieces of my life. I am not blind to the goings on of our world. There is much pain and suffering. There is divisiveness and mistrust, anger and fear. When I am quiet in my heart I understand some of this mistrust, anger and fear because, for a moment I am able to put myself in the proverbial shoes of the “Other”.

I am in a place where I feel out of control of the situation, at the mercy of things I cannot control, scared and worried, unsure and uncertain of the future, and sad. When I can understand the situations others are in that may cause them the same feelings and reactions, I am able to feel connected to them, as if I am standing next to them rather than against them. It is possible we may look at each other in recognition of this and reach out towards each other, helping one another.

It’s been difficult to see the silver lining of the past six months, but it is there. It is the cloak of hope and love. Both hold a guiding lantern up to the perceived darkness of not knowing and soften the fear, the uncertainty as they guide us to our place in the world were the light shines on trustworthiness, hopefulness and faith. And it is in this place, understanding there are no strangers, we rest in the arms of others, where we may find comfort, pause, healing and growth. We will discover the one we have not yet tried to love is not so different from us. We need only to care enough to listen to their story with an open heart and then reach out to them with compassion and empathy.

So, this Sunday I contemplate my own way of Being in this world. What guides me and sustains me?

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The Treasure Map

Good morning!! As I continue to heal it is ironic that I have ordered a dozen books to read, but still struggle to read because of short term memory failings. As soon as I turn a page in a book I have to go back because I have forgotten what I just read.

Yet, here I am using a quote from a book I am reading because it struck a chord that held long enough for me to remember it!! The book is: “Magic In Plain Sight–When acceptance is the healing” by Patricia Heavren.

“Waiting, hoping, (listening) for the “map” to reveal itself. The human narrative, etched by the soul, never fails to tip its hand by exploring a kind of treasure map, a place where “X” marks the spot where something of value is buried. It isn’t the kind of map used to plot a path from one place to another. It’s more the type found behind smooth glass in kiosks stationed at a mall entrance where “X” has an accompanying message;”

“You are here.”

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I AM here!! Friends we hadn’t seen in years stopped by yesterday and it was wonderful. Joanie had recently had a similar experience with a cerebral hemorrhage. As I answered the questions she had for me, I saw the switch of complete understanding click on behind her eyes. I wasn’t going to have to go into babbling depth about what I was experiencing. She had experienced it herself and understood exactly what I was describing.

As I wander around what does kind of  feel like the mall of my life, big and little compartments of various experiences and memories, I do sometimes get lost. I don’t seem to be able to get back to the place I want to be. It makes me frazzled until I find the “guide” and stand  rigid in front of it almost demanding that it do it’s thing and get me to where I want to be.

I take a small step back as the words next to the “X” scream out at me: “YOU ARE HERE”.

Lights flash and bells whistle in my mind. Of course I am “here”. And suddenly, understanding where I actually am, that frustration and fear fall back. I am here. I am ok. I will be able to get back to the treasure…..where I will be healthy and healed. I understand there are “Maps” that will help guide me: therapy, will power, family, friends and doctors. But, I have to, at least for now, have a shared, agreed upon safe spot where we can meet if we become separated or lost. That place is the place marked by an “X”,”You are here.” I can only go forward from where I am.

Just like that mall guide I stood demandingly in front of, waiting for it to tell me how to get “there”, it instead told me where I was, “HERE”. And that was the map. I had to understand where I was in order to figure out how to get where I wanted to be otherwise I might stay lost, wandering, searching. Knowing where I am (recovery) is the first step in reading the map to get to where I want to be (healed).

I get tripped up sometimes and take a wrong turn here and there, but I’ll get to where I want to be! For now I am here. Looking around I can see in all directions. I know if I stay grounded in being “Here” that I can get to “There”.

So many of you help by lining up along the path waving me forward in the right direction. You are beacons for me, holding me true to the way, making sure that I always remember that to get to the finish line I must know the route. I’ll get there thanks to your guidance!

The Opposite Of What We Want

I’ve been out of the hospital and home now for a little over two months and I really want to be able to say that things are going well, but honestly I have to work on making myself believe this on a daily basis. This is not intended to be a pity party, just a snapshot of what my recovery is like. Not surprisingly, it is hard work physically, mentally and emotionally. And while there has been progress and improvement, each day is filled with therapists, doctors, exercises, tiredness, frustration, aches and pains and way too many medications. While I do improve and get stronger, I still have a feeling of “stuck-ness.” I can’t drive. I’m not allowed to cook alone. Can read but do not remember what I just read when I turn the page, can draw and, if someone is around, play board games.

I have lost a certain kind of freedom and I miss it. I feel as if my body has failed me, or if that is too strong, at a minimum it has left me feeling let down and disappointed.

As I search for some comfort and reassurance to cradle me while I try to patiently regain my perceived “being-ness” and independence, I grab on tightly to the love of my family and friends and sometimes the sentences and thoughts in the books I try to read. Reading is now a slow, uncomfortable process, but I read and search for threads of hope and healing and do find comfort on occasion in the words and thoughts of others.

Today this jumped off the page and into my ruminating thought process: ” The wisdom that took longer for me to acquire, through direct experience rather than being told so by someone else, was never to assume that trust always lines up with desire. The offerings of the holy are often the opposite of what we want. They don’t sort for our willingness to receive them. They’re abundantly bestowed, like them or not.” (Magic in Plain Sight by Patricia Heavren.)

I interpreted this to mean is this: I was being “offered” something ‘holy’. Within that however, is the message that the universe is not concerned with what I might want or desire (health, strength, trust). There is no concern as to whether I would like to have an aneurysm. Rather, it was “bestowed” upon me with no concern for my thoughts. The “Holy” saw things differently than I did and had determined I needed to be presented with something I had to work on unwrapping patiently in order to figure out what it was.

“On a fundamental level, everyone plays with the swing of seeming opposites. Advancing and returning comprise an ageless dance with infinite expressions. Everything emanates out and eventually returns home again. It’s the breath and essence of all life, an ever-flowing, sacred change of direction by the One.” (Magic In Plain Sight) So, was I being called to move towards some ‘sacred’ change of direction or something else? Geeze…..this is a lot to process, to ponder. Why on Earth would this be so? All of this would seemingly be the opposite of what I wanted in my life!

There was no place for me to go but inwards.  The only path before me was to try to see, in the quiet spaces of my heart and mind, my true Being. To see what was there, even if it appeared to be hiding or a little bit out of focus. As I kept reading, Patricia revealed a piece of the puzzle, the magic and value of ordinary things: “….one of the early clues that vast intelligence and enormous heart are ever-present in ordinary things, a kind of living wisdom that can take a lifetime to recognize and appreciate, if ever.”

‘Living wisdom’ concerning ‘ordinary things’. I am in no way suggesting that an aneurysm is an ordinary thing. It is scary and serious and dangerous. Perhaps what is ‘ordinary’ for me in this bumpy, restless, time of my life is understanding that my body and spirit are held together by a desire to live. Held together by the threads of unfailing love that cradles and comforts me. Was/is this a call for a sacred change? For me? For my loved ones, my friends and family? What was the living wisdom I was experiencing? How was I to understand what this was and turn it from something I resented to something I could appreciate and value?

There have been teasingly small glimmers of understanding, but like the child blowing on the fluffy seeds of a dandelion flower, scattering them into the air, these glimmers just danced away like sun sparkles on water and the scattered dandelion seeds. Pretty and awe inspiring, but gone quickly. Never to be regained or held on to. Ever fleeting and temporary.

So now I am trying to give positive meaning to something scary. Why? Because I have “lost” so much time. I have missed making beautiful memories and instead have frightening memories and emotions. I am not able to just let all this “be”. I have to find a way to make sense out of some thing that is medically cold and straight forward, and shift it towards some thing that has value and purpose. Otherwise these months will remain “just” lost time. Ultimately the outcome will be determined by the path I take and the destination I choose to pursue. Of course things will appear that I haven’t foreseen or planned for, like an aneurysm, but what else can I do? Stop? Stand where I am, not moving? No thanks. I’ve successfully climbed too many personal mountains to give up or doubt I can get through this.

In quieter moments when the view is not clouded with sorrow and worry, I do see a open path towards healing and growth. Along this path are turn outs where I can pause and refuel and take time to be aware of the “living wisdom” of “ordinary things.” As I gaze  ahead I sometimes feel I am walking among those “ordinary things” and they come into view and focus. The sacredness of the “living wisdom” is always before me with its hand held out and open. Illuminated in the glow and softness of hope and trust. For me, hope is soft because it has to be pliant and pliable, not hard and anchored. Ordinary and sacred might not seem like they go together, but really they do.

As I sit here writing there is a cat in front of me making those little cat cooing sounds that I interpret as sighs of contentment. The snow is dripping off the roof and has become the background music for the dance of the birds that flutter and vie for positions at the feeders. These are ordinary things during the days here on Turkey Hill Rd., and to me they are sacred events. This is how I see life in the days I am living. This is what “living wisdom” is for me…..taking the leap and creating a space and the time to see sacredness in the ordinary. And my path now is to walk this path of recovery and maneuver around the bumpy parts of discomfort and frustration, fear and loss, seeing those things as part of the sacredness. The sacredness that highlights the path so that I can see it more clearly and step with more confidence and determination. A sacredness that gives space for understanding some things may appear to be the opposite of what I believe I want/need.

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I may discover as I meander this path that the end ebbs and flows in front of me. First near and then further away. Maybe there is an end to the path, maybe not. Where would the “end” be? Maybe I’ll just come to a fork in the path and just continue to meander along in a different direction. This continuation might just be an invitation to see more expressions of the sacredness in the ordinary, and not just be a longer way that delays the arrival to somewhere I think I need or want to be. Just allowing the paths/journey to be the experience. The trail signs with arrows along the way direct me to “Be here now”.

I have not always enjoyed this part of the journey. There has been confusion, pain, loss and resentment. I lay my head on the pillow at night and silently lament “why is this happening?” I hear several  answers. “The medical reason is….blah, blah, blah” That reason offers no comfort. Another response is fierce love from family and friends that almost yanks me awake while wrapping me a tenderness and certainty that has no room for faltering or failing. The other response is softer and highlights the question to Mary Oliver’s offering: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” Within that question is also the answer.
Mary Oliver links

So here I sit fingers tapping the keys, gazing out the window upon the grayness of the season. I am here. This moment is sacred to me. And I will continue to try to find the ways to honor the sacredness, understanding that I am being offered many keys to many doors. It is no concern where the doors lead but rather if I can discover which key opens which door. It is about walking through one ‘ordinary’ door after another with eyes wide open, curiosity pulsing through me, anticipating a meeting with sacredness.

So many of you reading this are part of this sacredness. With you by my side and in my life,you are the sacredness in my life. Your friendship and love illuminate my days allowing me see the sacredness in the ordinary, making my life and life experiences extraordinary. My family, husband, children, siblings, in laws, nieces and nephews, friends, all tether me to what matters, to what is sacred in this life. Your love and kindness nourishes me, sustains me, heals me.

Now I’ll close and move on to my physical therapy exercises and try to give space to allowing them to be the keys that just might open another door to something extraordinary. You never know!

Thank you for being the sacred parts of my ordinary life.

Your Life, Your Journey

” Do Shaol, Do Thuras”

The Irish phrase “Do Shaol, Do Thuras” means “Your Life, Your Journey.”

Many years ago I was handed a box by my step mother. My father had recently passed and she was transferring this box of family photos, history and information on to me. I was to become the keeper of this information. Inside there was the history of our coat of arms, copies of patents, invitations to award dinners and events, wedding invitations, old telegrams, newspaper clippings, strange piles of marketing flyers…..some things I knew what they were. Other things, I had not a clue. Pictures of people were mysteries….no names, no places listed, no dates. No connection to be made. Just faces looking back at me.

I realized I could either throw the box and it’s contents out, or get the information organized and keep it safe. I made a decision to protect the information and unwittingly dove head first into the world of genealogy.

This past Christmas my daughter began talking about a family trip to Ireland. We had been talking about doing a “big” trip somewhere. My now decades old foray into genealogy saw Ireland as a solid contender as a destination. Northern Ireland in particular was at the top of the list. And a sleepy town in County Down called Portaferry became one of the highlight destinations.

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Portaferry, Co. Down, Northern Ireland. June 2017. Photo by me.

The venture into genealogy has been a true journey for me. Past history has become living history. I have felt at times as if my ancestors were walking by my side on this journey.  Each story uncovered about these family members put them in a spotlight for me. As I have gained perspective on their lives, my life has gained some perspective too.

Your life. Your Journey. My Life. My Journey.

“Walking. I am listening to a deeper way.
Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me.
Be still, they say. Watch and listen.
You are the result of the love of thousands.”
~Linda Hogan

Genealogy is sometimes fickle. Information exists sometimes, but not always. Oral history is sometimes proven, but not always. People with the good-intentioned desire to make connections sometimes make them up, ignoring dates, places and more. Brick walls are at every corner. Angels appear out of nowhere with a missing piece of the puzzle. Genealogy really is not a single person’s journey, but a collective effort at finding and piecing the puzzle pieces together. DNA testing helps but only if there is a living male descendant.

Exploring the past, I have been able to get as far back as the mid to late 1700’s in Portaferry. This was the first place I could connect my maternal 4x great-grandfather, James Vance, to.

There is no DNA proof. There are no birth or census records yet found in Ireland that connect him to Portaferry. The church he most likely was affiliated with there was destroyed in a massive storm, along with any records. There are Revolutionary War records where he indicated he “was from” Portaferry, Ireland. There are American records that record Portaferry as his “home”. There is only one place in the world called Portaferry.

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Scots-Irish history supports the reason for his family’s journey from Scotland to Ireland in the 1600’s, and then eventually to Pennsylvania in the mid 1770’s. Oral history from family supports this also.

So Portaferry became a family destination. (And I am ever so grateful my family agreed to this)

We are bound to our ancestors and to those who made us,
whether we want to be or not.
What matters is what we make of what we are.”
– Kate Elliott

Upon arrival in America both sides of my family eventually settled in parts of Pennsylvania. My son lives there now and when we go to visit I find myself looking out the car window, watching the scenery fly past. Questions loop around as thoughts: What thoughts did they have leaving Ireland? Did they know where they were going…have relatives here already? How many family members did they say good-bye to? What few things did they bring with them? What was it like for them to see the Monongahela River and the rolling hills of PA? Did it look like home?

Those questions arose again as I walked on the ground and streets where this Scots-Irish ancestor of mine most likely walked, Portaferry. In talking to a town historian there he said, “Portaferry wouldn’t have looked too much different land wise…it’s the same now as then. What you see now is what he saw then.”

 

 

There was great power in that summation for me. A connection to the past. My eyes saw what he saw. The water. The hill. The windmill. The castle. The tower across the water. The forceful tide flowing in and out through the Narrows everyday. The Irish Sea in the distance. All that was the same, then, as now.

I was looking at what he saw everyday.
I saw what he saw.
I was standing where he stood.
I was walking where he walked.
It almost felt like we could walk together and reminisce.
Share a memory.

Political and religious persecution were no doubt the motivating forces in James Vance leaving Ireland. He was part of the last of the five large waves of Scots-Irish to leave Northern Ireland for America in the 1700’s. Up to a quarter of a million Scots-Irish were estimated to have emigrated across the Atlantic from the north of Ireland through the 18th century (with an even greater amount following in the 19th century). Shortly after he landed in Philadelphia he enlisted in the fight against the British in the Revolutionary War. His grave in Greensboro PA has the Rev War marker next to it. He served under Captain Reading and Col. Chambers and fought in the battles of Germantown and Monmouth. He was with Washington and Lafayette in Valley Forge.

 

 

After the war James joined with a group of German immigrants in a business endeavor with Albert Gallatin (who later became Secretary of the Treasury under Jefferson and Madison) establishing the first “Glassworks” in New Geneva PA. The name Albert and Gallatin, as well as the German given and surnames of the glassblowers (seen on the marker below), became intermingled with the Vance family as friendships developed and marriages took place. Thinking back to when we visited Gallatin’s home, Friendship Hill near Port Marion PA, I realize I had many of the same thoughts and emotions I experienced in Northern Ireland. At Friendship Hill I saw the same things James would have seen. I walked the same path James would have walked on. I stood in a room James would have stood in, looking at he same furniture he sat on. I could imagine him greeting his friend Gallatin. Family history tells of Lafayette and James embracing warmly in Gallatin’s living room.

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Statue of Gallatin, his home, James grave and marker from the Glassworks where James worked.

Eventually James married and settled down to raise a family. Two of James’ sons became well known potters in a flourishing pottery trade in New Geneva PA. When his sons moved to Cincinnati they continued with their pottery work. Their sons, James’ grandsons, lived there and designed and built steam powered paddle boats in Cincy that ran up and down the Ohio River. Their children, James’ great grandchildren, grew up to build buildings that are still standing in Columbus Ohio.

These individuals left a mark on history.

Several years ago my family visited what was my great-grandfather Vance’s farm in Columbus Ohio. Now part of Highbanks Park, only the land remains. The buildings of the farm, then state of the art, and the house, with greenhouses and a swimming pool, are gone. Still, we walked the trails. We walked on land my mom walked and played on. The same land her father walked on. And the same land her grandfather walked on. We saw what they saw. My children stood on the banks of the Olentangy River. The same river their grandmother, great-grandparents and great great grandparents stood by.

 

 

Genealogy isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. I never would have imagined I would spend decades searching for little clues of history that would weave together a rich tapestry of stories and adventures. I never would have imagined the information would lead me to a small, sleepy town near the Irish Sea in Northern Ireland.

“Do Shaol, Do Thuras”. “Your Life, Your Journey.”

It was James Vance’s life. It was his journey. And it is my life. But my journey includes his journey.

Do Shaol, Do Thuras”

Each one of us are the result of the love of thousands.

What matters is what we make of who we are.”

All this is infused into the making who we are. Whether we know all the history or not, we are the result of the love, the joys, the struggles and sacrifices of our ancestors. Of course it is our life and our journey. It also is our life given to us through the life and journey of others.

What matters is what we make of who are—-drawing on and respecting all the snippets, remnants, blood and DNA of those who came before us. Add to that all the combined experiences we’ve had, with all that is at this moment. Standing here. Now. It has made us who we are.

All of this grounds me somehow. What written history I can find about my ancestors on both sides of my family is that they gave to others. They lifted others up. They adopted orphans. They worked hard. They were teachers and ministers. They bailed people out of Depression era debt. They literally raised churches. They built boats that aided commerce and travel. They built stores that served people and communities. They tanned hides and sewed shoes. Some built furniture while others were self taught itinerant doctors who knew the how to combine medicinal plants into elixirs and ointments with healing properties. They built carriages and forged horse shoes. They grew flax and wove linen cloth. They were council members in the towns they lived in. They supported Women’s Suffrage. They carried bodies off of battlefields. They fought in wars and they resisted wars and fought for peace. They were regular people.

Of course there are a few characters too! We all have a couple. We have pirates, disposed ministers and a witch!

I am a richer person for knowing my family’s history. I feel a kind of connection to some of my ancestors.

It’s all a journey. A personal journey most certainly. But also a journey that began before we were born. A journey of others that led to us being born.

I’ve been fortunate to get to know James Vance as intimately as I have. To have stood where he stood. To have walked where he walked. To have seen the same views he saw. To have been in rooms where he sat.

“Walking. I am listening to a deeper way.
Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me.
Be still, they say. Watch and listen.
You are the result of the love of thousands.”

Be still. Watch and Listen.

**Check out what I’ve been reading This Week

 

 

 

 

At the Top of the Tree

In a few weeks my family is going to Ireland. The “homeland”. The place of my ancestors.

Decades ago I was quietly nudged into the world of genealogy. My parents passed on and I became the keeper of the stories, pictures and documents that made up the branches of our family tree.

My tree is obviously unique because of the people in it. Except, as Robert Louis Stevenson points out,

Each has his own tree of ancestors,
but at the top of all sits Probably Arboreal.”

As Sagan’s beings of star-dust, we all of us go back to the same place. In the beginning.

We share DNA that goes back a long, long ways. Our “pre- human” ancestors looked very similar. Relatively small groups of individuals on the edge of survival gave way to the massive population of the planet.

A few weeks ago we went to Pittsburgh to visit our son. While there we stopped by a very old, very beautiful cemetery, to see the graves of my husband’s ancestors who came over from Wales.

There is meaning for me in the grave stones of my ancestors. Some are simple, some ornate. Some have Revolutionary War markers, some are uncared for and unreadable. Many are simply missing and all that remains is green grass on the lawn of a fenced in area that was once full of grave stones and memorials. Many plots have generations of family side by side. Some say “Mother” or “Father”, others have the name carved into the granite. There are carved willow branches on some, hands clasped on others. A few inform the world that might stop by to look, that this person was “beloved”. This person mattered very much to others.

And, as in the case of John and Anna Moore Evans, they are at rest far from their parents and siblings. Far from the place on earth that welcomed them into the world and provided them a home and food and a place to grow.

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Our Family Tree….crooked, but hey!!

 

The stories of my family’s ancestors are the stories of us all. The names and places are different, but the triumphs and struggles, the courage and weakness, the joys and sorrows are the same. Many choices led these people to board ships crossing the Atlantic, leaving nearly everything behind. Some carried Bibles, some carried pots and pans. Some paid for passage, some were indentured for ten years upon arrival. Some where running away, while some were running to something. Some fought in the Revolutionary and Civil wars, some did not. Some succeed and some failed. There are documented records and stories of some, and memories passed on only as stories for others.

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My “Irish” ancestors were “sent” to Ireland from Scotland to shore up the Protestant cause. They fought in battles and grew and wove flax. Some had titles and estates, others owned nothing free and clear. A few had a formal education. All were educated by life.

Conflict, fear, possession and control seem to be things that are ageless. I know my ancestors, and my husband’s, faced discrimination and persecution when they arrived here. They were “outsiders.” Immigrants. Some were the wrong religion in a country founded on religious freedom.  Few had the financial means to live well upon arrival. Many had lost loved ones on the boat crossing the Atlantic. A few had sponsors, while others were “owned” as indentured servants for awhile.  Some where killed by Native Americans, others by disease or disaster. Some were ministers, one was believed to have been a witch in the small town called Salem. A couple were pirates.

There were those who led the way to the future. My ancestors built horse buggies that gave way to cars. Another worked with glass and those roots are now found in the Pittsburgh Glass Company. There are buildings with their names still on them, and banks that still safe guard the working person’s money. Paper bags and rolling garage doors were the innovative visions for some. Believers in the importance of higher education, colleges and universities list their names as Founders. Steam boats that ferried people and goods up and down the Ohio River came from the creative minds of others.

So, we are going to Ireland to walk on the ground our ancestors knew so well. We will look at the same views of the ocean and hills that they saw every day. Hopefully we will know gratitude in our hearts for those who came before us, allowing us to return and wonder at their decision to leave Ireland behind.

And I hope too, to remember our common ancestor,that binds us always together:

Probably Arboreal

If you’re interested in some of my family’s stories, here is the link to my other blog. (I haven’t added anything in a while.) It is a combination of stories from my family, my husband’s family and my brother in law’s family. Under the “categories” tab on the right you can read about my family, Beggs.  A Cup of Tea

There is a lot to read  This Week

 

 

 

 

Counting to 12

Settling in. Settling down. Close your eyes and count to 12. Take a deep breath. In and out.

easter blog2

For many people around the world this is a season of religious importance. For me it is Spring. Rebirth comes in many forms. Literal. Spiritual. Let us pause for a moment and just be, in stillness and silence.

Keeping Still

Now we will count to twelve 
and we will keep still.

For once on the face of the earth
let’s not speak in any language,
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines,
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victory with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

~Pablo Neruda

What does happen when our thoughts are slowed? No rush or worry.

It never could happen, but, what if, for a moment, the people of the world could stop. And just be? Be together. In silence and stillness. No spoken language as a barrier. No arm waving flurry of activity. No going or getting. No having or wanting.

What if we could collectively experience unity as human beings as well as unity with Nature, with all other living things?

What if we stopped hurting each other in this moment? What if we just tried, with our hearts, to understand each other? What if people forgot to hold each other down, forgot to hurt or oppress others? What if those struggling and in pain forgot their pain, for just a moment? What if for a moment we became united?

What if we tended to Nature as our own child? What if we protected Earth as if it mattered. As if it was a life or death choice? What if war was obsolete and we walked side by side, doing no harm, causing no violence?

What if we just had a moment of silence to think about what it means to be alive.  Not to worry about death and salvation, but to be alive. To survive. To thrive. To love. To heal.

Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive

It is spring. What slept as if dead is awakening. Rebirth. Nature can teach us.

Count to 12 and be still.

Readings This Week

Wisdom Dreams

I once dreamt I was telling stories and felt someone patting my foot in encouragement.
I looked down and saw that I was standing on the shoulders of an older woman
who was steadying my ankles and smiling up at me.
I said to her, “no no come stand on my shoulders,
For you are old and I am Young.”

“No no” she insisted, “this is the way it is supposed to be.”
I saw that she stood on the shoulders of a woman far older than she,
who stood on the shoulders of a woman even older,
who stood on the shoulders of a woman in robes,
who stood on the shoulders of another soul, who stood on the shoulders…

~Clarissa Pinkola Estés

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sunrise this morning

I admit it. I am a firm believer that some dreams are messages that I need to pay attention to. For me, they can be a processing tool, a problem solving tool, or sometimes, even a window into the future. There are times when my dreams are like an encyclopedia that has blown open to a page of facts, truths, possibilities that I need to know.

Most religions discuss the interpretation of dreams. Theologians, psychologists, therapists, musicians, poets, people who pay attention to dreams, see them as a connection, a nexus between the body, mind and spirit. There is a universal understanding that dreams connect us to something greater than ourselves. They provoke a sense of wonder and awe that by their nature are the essence of mystical experiences.

That which the dream shows is the shadow of such wisdom as exists in man,
even if during his waking state he may know nothing about it….
We do not know it because we are fooling away our time with outward and perishing things,
and are asleep in regard to that which is real within our self.

~Paracelsus

So, if you’ve been following this blog, you know I am an admirer of Clarissa Pinkola Estés. When I read the above quote the proverbial light bulb of understanding lit up. As a Jungian psychologist and story teller Pinkola Estés’ dream integrated the ideas of messages found in dreams and the importance of each person being a story teller.

In our world today I believe that both of these things are important. I think we have become disoriented and separated from spirituality and our connectedness. We no longer know our own stories of where we came from, who we are, what matters to us, what our connections are, how we are related and connected to each other. We have become impatient or disinterested in hearing the stories others cry out for us to hear. There is a restlessness, an uneasiness in me that worries that we have lost the connection to and understanding of a compelling gift: dreams.

Pinkola Estés not only reminds us to allow and pay attention to the dreams that arise during sleep, but to remember we are standing on, supported by, encouraged and emboldened by those who have come before us. The falterings, the successes, the hopes and dreams of others are the foundation on which we stand.

Those pillars of known and unknown persons in the past gently tap us with encouragement and with a reminder that we must give voice to our own story as well as give witness to the stories of others.

We are the dreamers. We are the story tellers. We are the pillars for those still to come.

“Sometimes dreams are wiser than waking.”~ Black Elk

“A dream which is not interpreted is like a letter which is not read.’
~The Talmud

Dreams are illustrations… from the book your soul is writing about you.”
~Marsha Norman

“Dreams say what they mean, but they don’t say it in daytime language.”
~Gail Godwin