Spiritual Thursday: On Community

Hello, all! I am hosting Spiritual Thursday this month. I appreciate Denise Krebs for connecting me with this thoughtful writing circle and I hope you enjoy my post - and that you leave a comment with a link to your blog post below. Thank you!

“Community is society with a human face,

the place where we know we are not alone.” 

- Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

As a preschool teacher, the goal of building community in my classroom was near and dear to my heart every September. I was constantly thinking, how might I help these young children see themselves as part of the larger group, a community? How might I encourage them to share their individual voices and stories, and, also, to listen and welcome those of others? How might I help them see that this is our classroom, and that we work together to create this loving and beautiful shared space? 

I suppose this is why I chose the word “community” as a theme for September’s Spiritual Journey. Of course, many months have passed since I signed up to host and my thoughts about community today have led me far from the classroom…let me take you there….

On our summer trip out west, Tony and I were driving along this gorgeous shaded road in Oregon. All these enormous tall Douglas fir evergreens dwarfed the road, providing this dark, magical surround with just a sliver of blue sky breaking through. We were all smiles when we stopped at an overlook of the Rogue River Gorge, and this - like so many other places we visited this summer - took our breath away with its beauty. It was very early in the morning and we were the only people there; I have no doubt this aloneness added a sense of treasure to the view. 

The Rogue River Gorge

At this overlook, there was this incredible narrow chasm, with the river plunging down, sending water rushing, breaking over large rocks, sending up wild waves and the vibrant sound of rushing water. A sign at the overlook stated that “enough water (410,000 gallons) flows beneath your feet each minute to fill an Olympic-size pool.” The wonder! 

Right alongside this chasm was a thick forest of Douglas firs, much like we had witnessed on the drive. The trees stood together, tall, straight, strong, just beautiful, with their criss-cross patterned bark and branches of evergreen needles bending, bowing, enveloping one another. In the midst of these, there was a thick, hearty stump, with an informational sign posted nearby:

The Living Stump

Here on the flat surface of the lava flow, away from the Gorge wall,

the trees live as a group rather than as individuals. The roots of these

Douglas firs have grown together, providing each other with nutrients and water. 

Before it was cut, the roots of this tree had grafted onto those of a neighbor. 

Because of this, the stump continues to live.

Douglas firs and the living stump at Rogue River Gorge

The stump was not decayed, broken, insect-ridden, as one might expect. Instead, it was covered with bark, much like our own cuts and scrapes form scabs, and seemed to be thriving.

I hope to hold onto the image of this forest, these trees encircling and caring for one another, always and forever. I love how instinctive and natural it is for trees to simply reach out towards one another. This experience continues to fill me with contemplation -

How might I be more like these trees?

How do others help me live fully?

    How might my own actions help build a more loving human community?

What is my role? 

    Am I truly there for others?

Am I reaching out to those around me, even those I don’t know very well? 

    What blocks me from being open to others?

How do I nurture the “we”? 

    What does it mean to live in community with one another?

How do we help each other live fully?

How might I be more like these trees?

"What I try to tell young people is that if you come together with a mission, and

it is grounded with love and and a sense of community,

you can make the impossible possible."

- John Lewis

In closing, let me share a poem I wrote about this wonder.

innate wisdom 

along the Rogue River Gorge

with my own eyes 

I witnessed 

a living stump

a Douglas fir 

cut down 

severed 

yet

healed 

thriving

what I didn’t know before is

this is true for many trees

roots of neighbors

lovingly reach out 

nurturing the depleted 

trees 

let each other know

when they are stressed

trees

live as community

together

rather than 

solitary 

trees

instinctively

take care of one another

a giving co-living 

innate wisdom 

What binds me?

 

(Yes, I know it is Friday. I'm a day late!) 

Karen Eastland offered today's writing inspiration/prompt - to think about 'what we bind ourselves to' in our spiritual journeys. Check out her thoughtful reflections on this theme, and read the comments for links to other writers and their responses.

bind -
     to tie or fasten tightly

This prompt is so expansive...and a bit of a riddle, really. 

I wonder, 
am I bound spiritually? 
Tied up? 
Unable to believe in new ways? 
What anchors me?

Yes, my meditation on this theme has taken me in a zillion different directions and left me untethered (pun, yes?). 

Ultimately, for this post, I have landed in grief. Let me try to explain - 

A short while back, my sister-in-law died unexpectedly; she was very, very dear to my husband and me. She was his baby sister, and, with him being only two years her elder, she was someone who has always been a part of his world. Certainly, she has always been a part of my world with him; she was one of the very first family members I met, when he and I started dating. So, this is one of those tough deaths that feel 'unfair,' 'too soon,' 'more was possible.' It is painful. 

I decided to simply hone in on one small sliver of my spiritual understanding of the word "bind," which is to ask - 

what anchors me when a loved one dies? 

I offer a poem.

as I grieve

what am I to think 
of the turkey vulture
watching  
from our very roof
when
tears 
stain our cheeks 
welt our eyes
tremor our bodies
with the news 
of your death,
you,
our forager?

then
in the days
that passed
in the mournful
after
there are so many woodpeckers
working
hunting
finding

these are an easier happier perkier beauty
lively little birds
percussive shouts
pauses
further taps
as if
to say
HEY! 
LOOK UP! 
LOOK HERE! 
LOOK NOW!

which is you
which is you
which is you

every woodpecker
reminds
I feel
remember
hold you
in my heart
softly

nature 
mysterious and beautiful
little heavenly embraces 
offering light

as I grieve 

the sun telescopes through a dark gray sky 
a cardinal suddenly appears in the dogwood tree 
lenten roses stretch their freckled ruffled heads and genuflect
a wandering cat lingers on my driveway to greet me
the doe pauses as she crosses the street, looks right at me, 
tilts her head ever so gently
as I grieve 

each of these healing finds

a connection
to someone I hold dear
bridging is and was

a liminal touch

nature holds me wraps me binds me
as I grieve

the drumbeat of the woodpecker echoes my heart
as I grieve

where is my heart

On the first Thursday of each month, I write as part of a community of writers exploring spirituality - and you are invited to read what everyone else is writing, too. (Thank you, Denise Krebs, for connecting me with this writing circle.) Linda Mitchell is our February host and she poses the thought-provoking question -

Where is your heart in your journey these days?  

----------

In her memoir Poet Warrior, Joy Harjo includes the poem "Silêncio Geuerreiro" by Márcia Wayna Kambeba, with these two (English translation) lines:

You must grow quiet

To hear with the heart

I read these two lines for the first time (and many times since, over and over) just this week, and I am struck by the synchronicity of reading/finding these precious words with the prompt by Linda today. They are worth repeating -

You must grow quiet

To hear with the heart

Aren't they beautiful, insightful, wise? 

I think - I hear - how important it is to be in community with others, to be quiet with myself, to listen deeply, to put my needs, my wants, myself aside, and listen, 

to hear with my heart.

Where is my heart in my journey these days? To think of my heart is to think of love in its many meanings and paths. The two are inseparable - heart and love. With this in mind, a poem came to heart:

two years now

two years now
and longer 

my heart

overflowing and full

my goodness, we talked for over an hour 

phone calls with family and friends afar love

trail-running nutritious-cooking healthier love

merry tumbling Skidamarink grandchildren love

rubbing-lotion-on-my-back tender marriage love

dig-in-dirt listen-to-bird smell-the-air mother nature love

pen paint poetry journal writing thought-making love

two years now
and longer 

my heart

overflowing and full

breaking aching sad

spiraling pandemic pain fear mistrust unrest death 

family neighbors city nation world

never-ending atrocities, numbingly nonexistent nadir

mourning grieving hoping praying

two years now
and longer 

my heart

overflowing and full

holding at once

blessed bounteous joy

abiding agonizing hurt

taking care

seeking light

two years now
and longer 

We teach each other always

 

New to me in 2022, I am joining a community of writers who offer a little window into their spiritual lives on the first Thursday of every month. (Thank you, Denise Krebs, for connecting me with this writing circle.) Margaret Simon kicks off this year of writing with a post about 'one little word' that will guide her in the days to come; her post provides links to other writers' words. Here's my post this first Thursday of January 2022 . . .

Today finds me lost in thought, with one small yet wonderful 'trigger' memory; let me share:

Mom took one look at the bland-looking, soft, pureed pile of novelty that I had set out on an appetizer tray with some crackers and vegetables, and wrinkled her nose a bit, as if debating whether or not to try it. She saw me glance her way and then quietly commented, "Well, if Maureen put it out, then it must be good, so I'll try it."

This was circa 1990, when my mother dared to taste hummus for the first time, at a get-together at my house. I don't recall whether she liked it - it certainly wasn't anything she purchased at the grocery store ever, even once, but I do remember being so amused by her self-talk that day. As if I had ever convinced her of anything! I figured she was trying to "save face" in front of her young grandchildren, to do the right thing - eat what was served.

What did I teach my parents? Seriously, I wonder. 

When I was teaching, I learned amazing things from the children. 

Those preschoolers - oh my, they taught me 

all about having confidence and how good it is to take risks, 

how dancing makes you feel better, 

how if you are feeling it so strongly, then let your feelings out!

When I am with my granddaughters, I have a new lens on their father, my son. It makes me smile to see how they are changing him, in both subtle and clear ways. I'm not surprised to see him pitch in, to be a true partner in the work of raising children - he always likes to be busy, to do stuff, to get things done. He's always been very organized. I think I'm surprised by how the children bring him out of his quiet reverie. He's a very introspective person; yet, with the girls, he is laughing and chatting, seemingly at their beck and call. To see him be so present, to be playful and to guide them, honestly this is not the little guy I raised. He was the center of our universe (for 2 1/2 years, before the universe expanded, hahaha) and we did our best to be 'present' with him, but not necessarily vice versa. When he was growing up, he was always lost in thought, thinking about other things, 'on a mission' to figure something out. Those girls are changing him, I have no doubt - they are his mission now.

I think about how my boys changed me. 

I think they helped me to speak up in times of conflict. I learned to do it under their watch, because speaking up was not a welcome trait when I was growing up. I most certainly did not debate or argue with my parents. With my boys, I wanted a different style of parenting - and they certainly gave me lots of practice on resolving conflicts with more of a give and take, both parties discussing the problem. They most definitely kept me playful. They taught me to see things more broadly, more diversely - three kids, a spouse, oh my, there were always at least SIX perspectives, right? One more than the number we were?

They definitely taught me to treasure my quiet alone time. (I'm a lot like my son, I like to have time to be lost in thought every day.)

I don't know what made me think of this today. I hope my Mom learned about more than hummus from me - ha! I wonder what my Dad learned from me? 

I know learning is often presented as something the younger, less experienced person receives from the older, more experienced. Teachers know it doesn't always work that way. We are always learning from our students. We know - we learn -  the more challenging the student, the more eye-opening the learning. 

We affect each other, all the time. 

Every moment. Every word. Every step. 

What are people teaching me today?

What are others learning from me?