Babysitting Carol

Last night, on the edge of sleep, I had the thought, or realization, that I do not any longer need to babysit Carol. I’ve told the story of my childhood memories of Carol many times, most recently while sitting with my husband’s relatives after his father’s death. I was wondering if any of them remembered her. Still it surprised me when that thought woke me last night, with a sensation of falling into freedom. Each time I started to drift off, this same sensation of falling into freedom thrilled me into wakefulness, joy, and expansiveness.

It felt like an invitation to follow my own path in my own time, at last. What child of 8 or 9 is expected to babysit an adult? Actually, it happens far too often, that children parent their parents, but not as many children end up parenting their adult neighbours. My small self must have continued to feel responsible for her, in some way, and responsible for others, too, such that I have spent a good part of my life trying to follow other people’s timing and other people’s paths, instead of my own.

Here is the story of Carol. When I was little, Carol and her husband, Gilbert, moved here as part of the influx of people “from away” working on the construction of Mactaquac Dam. They lived across the road from us, in the old house where my grandmother was born. Carol did not like to be alone, especially in such an old creaky house, at the end of a very long driveway. She would leave home each morning with Gilbert, who would drop her off at our house. She would spend the whole day with Mom, often falling back to sleep in our spare room, and sleeping most of the morning, if I remember correctly. The spare room was off limits to us children, but my grandmother loved Gilbert, so Carol’s presence in the house, and in the bed, was welcomed.

When I got home from school each day, Carol and I would walk to her house, so she could make supper for Gilbert. When he returned from work, I walked home – alone. Here are my memories of that time:

1. My fear of bears in the old orchard. There never were any bears, but Small Me knew that bears liked apples and were known to frequent orchards. I would approach that part of the long driveway slowly and with trepidation, then hurry past and on to the road.

2. How loud the spring peepers were, when I walked through the hollow, by the pond, the same pond where I live today. They were so loud, I had to cover my ears! I always wonder, even now, if there were more spring peepers when I was little, or if my hearing was just more acute. Perhaps both, but every spring, when the air sings with frogs, I remember Carol, and my walk through the hollow in early evening.

3. Listening to Bobby Vinton’s “Roses Are Red my Love,” on Carol’s 45 record, over and over and over. I would often remember Carol’s patience when my own kids or grandkids would do the same thing, chasing the silence away with their delight.

4. My first home perm, a Toni, applied by Carol. Here’s me in my Grade Five school photo, age nine.

5. Lobster! The first lobster I’d ever seen was on Carol’s kitchen table, as a special treat for Gilbert. I could not imagine anyone eating such a gross looking creature! I don’t think I was even aware of the existence of lobster at the time, nor the fact that they were not inherently red, or how they were prepared. Imagine my 8 year old eyes widening with astonishment.

6. Gilbert’s nickname, thanks to Grammie, was Gilligan, from Gilligan’s Island, a tv show that Grammie loved. It first aired in 1964, and ran until 1967. I have no idea why Gilbert reminded Grammie of Gilligan, but I think they were both funny, and definitely both young.

7. And lastly, I remember playing Rook with Carol, Gilbert, my parents, and grandmother, around my grandmother’s table. No, not quite so, as I was too young to play cards, but I often sat, even as a tiny child in a high chair, during their games, with my own set of cards. I remember Grammie laughing that Gilbert much have the lucky chair, as he so often won. She thought trading chairs might help. I’m not sure that it did.

So, falling into wakefulness last night, with the realization that I no longer needed to babysit Carol, fascinates me. I decided this morning to pull a card from my Wild Unknown Tarot deck for more insight into this sense of freedom. The Empress card flew out of my hands as I shuffled. This card features a dark starry night with a crescent moon, and, in the foreground, a brilliant white tree, with leaves shifting from white to pink to red, and purple, bright against that dark sky. No matter how dark is our night, the Wild is with us to renew us and keep us in beauty.

(I’ve been thinking about all the Bible stories where the Wild comes to the rescue, where the Wild shapes the recollection of history – how the Pharoah of Moses’ day suffered under a series of natural plagues, how the Red Sea drowned the Egyptian army, how a big fish rescued Jonah, how Noah’s flood changed the world for a new beginning, how brimstone poured down on Sodom to punish the inhospitable inhabitants. The other day, when I was distraught at what is going on in our world, the Wild told me that she’s got it. She, the Wild, Mother Nature, will clean up the mess we humans are making. Mother Nature will be Wild in her cleanup, but the Sacred Wild is still where we need to turn for solace in our distress.)

I often read Carrie Mallon’s insights about Wild Unknown tarot. She says this Empress is “unapologetic about taking up space.” The tree is deciduous, following the rhythm of the year, the rhythm of life. Babysitting an adult when I was 8 or 9 was not an appropriate job for a little one in the spring of life. This falling into freedom is about following my own natural rhythms, paying attention to the reality of my body, and who and what I am now. It’s about allowing myself to flow, and to live in this soft body with affection and joy.

“When the Empress appears, consider what you are nurturing,” Mallon continues. How long have I been nurturing what is not mine to nurture? How long has little 8 and 9 been care-taking? “Are you tending to yourself with as much reverence as you would give to someone you love dearly?” Mallon asks. “Step fully into your authentic nature.”

When I was 8, I believe I was a Master Conflict Avoider. Little Me knew, for example, what was upsetting adults, when the government decided to expropriate land, and flood the river valley to generate electricity. Little Me could read the paper, too, after all. But she protected the adults from her knowing and her feelings. She thought she had to deal with her own response to world and community events all by herself. The grownups had enough to deal with.

But Little Me is also grateful to Carol for time away from home. My house was full of siblings. What a treat for me to be able to play Roses Are Red My Love with no one telling me to be quiet. My daily trip with Carol across the road and along that narrow driveway gave me quiet space to fill with my authentic self. Thank you, Carol, for giving me that freedom. Thank you for the perm and the music, and even the memory of that lobster.

Love you!
Alice

Advice from the Blackberry Patch

When I’m out for a wander around the Land where I live, I almost invariably pass Blackberry bushes. This time of year, the leaves are wine red and beautiful. The other day Blackberry had a strong message for me, reminding me that I know well how to deal with prickly people. Interesting. One should deal with prickly people as if they were blackberry bushes. Here’s what they said:

Blackberry

• Prickly people, like Blackberries, can provide an abundance of sweet fruit. It’s worth the trouble (usually).
• Don’t overdo it, or get exhausted from the interaction. Pace yourself.
• Wear protective gear: a good leather glove, heavy jeans, and long sleeves. Self-protection is as important with prickly people as with prickly blackberry canes.
• Wear solid footwear. This reminds me of Ephesians 6: 15, that along with the full armor of God (the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, and the shield of faith), you should have your feet protected by the good news of peace.
• Know that the prickly person, just like Blackberries, will attempt to catch you in the brambles, to keep you from moving on your path. But preparation, like protective clothing, makes a big difference. Don’t let yourself be sticky like Velcro.
• Be prepared for stains. Don’t take your best dreams and aspirations into prickly relationships.
• Recognize that there will be injuries. You will be scratched, but scratches heal.
• Go into the patch/interaction when you are rested.
• Be open and receptive to receiving good fruit, even in prickly situations.
• Carry a grateful and expectant attitude.
• Watch for beauty all around.

A Bouquet of Stars

I wrote recently about Going to Seed, how my body isn’t recovering the way I want it to. I think my current discomfort goes back to August in the blackberry patch. I love the blackberry patch. I love blackberries. But it is a one-handed job, reaching into the brambles with my right, while holding a bowl in my left – a repeated twist and reach, for an hour or so each day.

I don’t mind sharing blackberries with all the other creatures who love them, but I want berries in my freezer for the winter. I can’t imagine ignoring an abundant crop of juicy blackberries. It makes sense, then, this unrelenting hip discomfort.

Hip troubles, for me, usually surface when I’m carrying too much. Imagine a young mom with a baby on her hip, tending to a pot on the stove while toddlers hang onto her legs – that kind of carrying too much – a burden of love that you don’t believe you can put down. But when I turned my inside eyes toward my hip the other day, I didn’t see the “baby”. Instead I found a bouquet of stars.

I’ve long realized how motivated I am by stars and stickers. I have a vague memory of getting a star on Sunday mornings for memorizing Bible verses. Stars on my school work. Praise for being a “good girl.” Good Girl does it all. Good Girl is like the Virtuous Woman in Proverbs 31, the one who gets up before dawn, the one who not only sews all the clothes, but makes the fabric from scratch. She’s a working mom, a housewife, a wise woman. She makes her husband proud. Beautiful and cheerful, she never stops.

So the “weight” I am carrying on my hip, I believe, is the weight of all the shoulds, that I should do “it” all, that I should carry the responsibility for making life tick along smoothly. At least that’s the belief my hip is carrying, a belief that looks like a bouquet of stars.

“To allow oneself to be carried away by a multitude of conflicting concerns, to surrender to too many demands, to commit oneself to too many projects, to want to help everyone in everything, is to succumb to violence.” This is what activist Valarie Kaur admits in her book, See No Stranger, after realizing her intense care for others was wearing out her own body. She could not be and do all she felt called to be and do, without self-care first. She goes on to say, “You don’t have to make yourself suffer in order to serve.”

The bouquet of stars represents what I have believed is expected of me, as well as the small joys that keep me going. I’ve been told to rest, to sleep on my back, to not walk as far, and to do some gentle stretches. So I’m resting. That’s a challenge. The greater challenge for all of us who work so hard for recognition is to release that bouquet of beliefs, to allow rest every day, to value ourselves in our Being not just in our Doing.

A Dark and Unfamiliar Road

This morning I was up and out the door at 4 am. For much of the past year, this has been my practice, regardless of what time I wake. I get up and immediately go outside, before turning on the lights. I want to be able to see as well as I can, as well as any human can, in the dark. I want to see the stars in their brilliance. I greet the day, the Sky, the Trees, the dew, the grass.

I began this practice, which has become a spiritual practice, as a way to face my fear of the dark. There was a while after my mother’s death in 1995 that I had to sleep with a light on. I don’t know how long that lasted. (Years.) Was that when my fear of the outside darkness began? Maybe someday I’ll know.

When I was a kid, I’d walk the half mile down this dark road all by myself on winter nights. I’d be on my way to 4H. My friends and their parents would pick me up at the end of the road. Daddy was busy in the barn, and Mom had a gaggle of other kids to look after. I suppose my ride would have come all the way up to get me, but I wanted to walk with Orion, my favourite constellation, good friend and companion. I wasn’t afraid, except when I’d see the tree stump that looked like a bear. But I knew it wasn’t a bear, and besides, Orion the Hunter was with me.

I remember when they turned on the lights of Mactaquac dam. I think I was ten. The night has not been dark, really dark, since then. The Milky Way is not as bright as it used to be, but now, I can’t blame it all on the dam. The lights of Fredericton brighten the sky to the east, and house after house has a dusk to dawn light. When I was a kid, I resented the one dusk to dawn light between the corner store and home. After I’d walk past that one light, the road seemed extra dark for a while.

I miss walking at night. I miss my time with the stars. Yet on the rare occasions I do walk the road at night, I hurry to get home before something notices me out there. My early morning practice is helping. Being outside in the dark, in my yard, at least, isn’t as scary anymore. (One night, watching for falling stars, I did startle a skunk who ventured to within a few feet of me. Skunk scurried away. I was not a threat.)

Northern lights, the night of the skunk

When I’m away from home, and getting outside isn’t as easy, my morning doesn’t feel quite right. I need that time, even a minute or two, to connect with the Wild. I feel for those humans whose entire outdoor experience is the short walk from the house to the car. When the car is also indoors, there’s barely a need to set foot on soil.

I’ve never been on a motorbike, but I’ve been told that the joy of it is being able to smell and hear and experience the world without being encased in metal. Why do we need to be encased? Why do we try to squeeze our spiritual lives into boxes with bells and pews? What if we are being called to go outside, even outside in the dark? What if we are being called to a new pilgrimage, to follow a new road, even if it is dark and unfamiliar.

Perhaps it isn’t a new road at all. Perhaps it’s an ancient road, lost or forgotten. People have been forgetting the way for millennia. Somewhere around 600 BC, an ancient wise one wrote: “Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls” (Jeremiah 6:16, NIV).

I had a dream once, about a fork in a road. In the dream, people had the choice of whether to take the easy road, flat along the river, or to climb the hill. I chose the hill.

Robert Frost, in his poem, The Road Not Taken, wrote about how “two roads diverged in a yellow wood.” He “took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference,” he said. Both roads in his poem were covered with autumn leaves, just like the paths I’ve walked these last few days. It makes it hard to tell which way is the path, and which way is just another way. Robert Frost had to choose, knowing that he would likely not be back to walk the other road. Nothing in the poem suggests judgement of one way over another, just choice.

I don’t think it is quite the same with the crossroad humanity is facing now. Our two paths are diverging to such an extent that it sometimes seems like we are not even living in the same world together. Much of what we thought was solid and long lasting is crumbling. The path is obscure, and we are afraid. We know we will not likely be able to come back later to walk the other road, if we choose unwisely.

Jeremiah said to look for the ancient path. If we do, we will find rest for our souls, he wrote. What path will we choose as a people? Our individual choices are part of how we, as a whole, make the larger choice. So this morning, at 4 am, I went out into the Dark Wild. There was enough light to see, even before the sliver of crescent moon rose in the east. I listened in the quiet to a distant owl. Sometimes I hear a deer. Sometimes coyotes. They too are spending time in the dark, with Creator, with Spirit, with Orion, and with the late September breeze.

Going to Seed

I had a couple of frustrating days this week, so I took my complaints out to the Land. I wandered to my Holy Hill, wondering Who would speak, Who would be the voice of the Holy Wild, who would ease my angst? I did not hear the voice of Goldenrod until later. (It was like I responded to her with an unspoken, “NO! I don’t want to talk about that!) I left the Hill almost as frustrated as I’d arrived.

But on later reflection, I saw myself in the fluffy silver of her withered flowers. Some plants were even yet in brilliant yellow bloom. Some had sprigs of blossom on their otherwise grey heads. I touched them as I passed, thinking how they were still beautiful. But I ignored them, essentially, until later, when I stopped to wonder, specifically, how the Wild spoke to me that day.

I’d chosen Goldenrod as an intentional companion for the year, to learn its ways, to recognize its faces – Canada Goldenrod, Wrinkleleaf, Grass Leaf. Goldenrod does not send pollen in the wind. It’s not the allergen people think. Its glorious gold, next to purple aster, gives late season sustenance to bees and other pollinators. I am grateful for that. But I realize I’m not so grateful for the silver wither or the seedheads.

(Left to right – Wrinkleleaf, Grass Leaf, Canada Goldenrod)

I too am a late bloomer. My 50’s and early 60’s felt like the most vibrant and healthy years of my life. But now I see and feel signs of “going to seed.” How much time and attention it takes to keep this body functioning well, and how many days I feel I’m moving toward a losing battle. It is indeed Fall, the Autumn of my life.

Goldenrod says late summer blooms are for the bees, but the seedheads are for the Goldenrod. The seed is the legacy. The seed is the future. The seed is next year’s growth, next year’s promise of green and gold. Goldenrod wonders why I fight it? Going to seed is good!

For a number of years, I’ve had a few Scarlet Runner Beans tucked away. I have no idea who gave them to me. I’d never grown them. Every spring in recent years, I’d ask myself, should I plant them? Finally, this spring, I made a teepee trellis and pushed a half dozen beans gently into the soil.

I watched the tendrils climb higher than I could reach. I marveled at the brilliant scarlet blossoms mid-summer, and the delight of hummingbirds. As the beans grew, I’d pluck a few to munch right there in the garden. Now, as September draws to a close, I am leaving a few to go to seed, to plant for next year.

Scarlet Runner Bean and Goldenrod both tell me that going to seed is good. The future depends on it. Why, they ask me, do I resent the Way of the Wild? Why do I resent and fight the seasons as they come and go?

I looked online this morning for the meaning of “going to seed”. It is ALWAYS negative! It implies leaving things untended, uncared for, and a time of lost vitality.

You see, I’d gone to the Holy Hill with my frustration that no matter what I do, my body has not been recovering the way I want it to. My frustration has been that the hours of care and tending are not enough. In a flurry of finger pointing, some inner voice scolds me for not doing what I need to do, or that I must be doing something wrong, if I have a pain that doesn’t ease, tossing in a good dose of guilt about using alternative health care resources – so much time, so much money, so much effort – and yet this body is STILL going to seed.

Goldenrod whispers, again and again, that this is the true productive time of life, that going to seed is for the sake of the future. What seeds am I producing? What future am I shaping by holding my silvering head high in the Autumn breeze?

“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these” (Matthew 6:28-29, KJV).