Rip! Rip! Rip!

What made me suspicious was the ferocity with which I was ripping up a boxful of confidential files. All Saturday afternoon, I ripped, ripped, ripped, not stopping to drink or snack. This in itself was unusual as there is nothing like repetitive tasks to create the excuse for a snack. No, ripping, ripping, ripping, and filling a large black plastic bag with the fruits of my past labours, was occupying all my energy. That is what made me suspicious and made me ask myself the question, why the ferocity?

I was angry; very angry.

Underneath the layer of gratitude for so many things, and the societal expectation that one must age gracefully and with quiet acceptance, there was this disturbing layer of anger.

Friends and family become frail, ill and die.

The mind becomes slower and takes longer to gather itself together.

Eyes become blurred and may miss seeing a friend passing in the street.

Ears no longer hear the sound of birds or the full range of music. They may even miss a child’s whisper.

The telephone may no longer be a friend but becomes a challenge.

Teeth do not chew as well and may even break in biting a nut.

Hair keeps falling out and not growing back.

Tiredness may be relentless.

The list can grow, but underneath this layer of anger is the grief for what has been and that which cannot return.

I tie the now full and heavy black garbage bag ready for the recycling bin. Ah! That feels better, lighter, cleaner, more honest, and more in the ‘now’ moment.

I walk along the hall just in time to catch the first miracle of the day. Can my words even convey the wonder of this sunrise? The sky to the north has a subtle light barely distinguishable from the black sky. The earth is revolving on its axis. The first sun’s rays hit the window to my left and it glows golden in its brightness. The breeze shifts the clouds in ever-changing patterns of pink and soft fuchsia. The water flashes white lights. So steadily the light brightens and the colours weave their magical manoeuvres in sky, park and water. The first bird flies across the park from tree to tree. A lone pine tree stands boldly by the flagpole against a now creamy sky. The grass becomes green as it catches the sun’s strengthening rays. The deep blue of the harbour becomes silver as the sun rises and green lights twinkle along the shore.

All too soon the sun will have finished its early morning dance this winter morning, and will burst onto this stage with full and brilliant triumph. Another day has been born. Here is another chance to glory, ponder, love and laugh, share and delight at this miracle unfolding before me. I can catch its very breath, join the dance of ever-evolving life, breathe the rhythm of each passing day, and delight in its wonders and possibilities.

My heart and my head bow with the words, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you.

Clutter and Dreaming

Deep inside me lurks a very hidden dream. If I were to even whisper it to my husband, he would roll around the floor in the hysterical laughter of disbelief. My children may be more polite, but I think I would  generally be seen by my family as a messy, cluttered hoarder.

 

What is my dream then? I would dream of being a housewife who, duster and broom in hand, completes all her housework by 9.00 a.m. in the morning, ready to meet the day clean and uncluttered.

 

Where does such a dream come from? I do not know. Was it the Milly Molly Mandy stories of my childhood? Or, maybe Pollyanna who made quite an impact on me. My earliest noticing was that cleaning ladies arrived at 9.00a.m. and went about their work cheerfully and without interruption apart from the occasional chat to the lady of the house, and left at 12.00. My grandmother stayed in her apron until 4. 00 p.m. when she changed out of work clothes to be ready for my grandfather’s arrival home from work.

 

The first time housework was attached to a dream however, was in my childhood. My household chore every Saturday was to vacuum. How I hated that chore. I do remember being reminded to vacuum beneath my bed, and this became my road to freedom. I would lie on the floor with head, hand and vacuum roaring away underneath the bed. Then I would day dream. The minutes fled! Why is it taking so long my mother would ask eventually? ‘I’m just doing a good job’, I would untruthfully reply. Then I began to look forward to vacuuming, but this was Saturday afternoon and well past 9.00 a.m.

 

When I had my own home, my dream re-emerged. The trouble was that my husband was not a morning person at all. I became skilled in quiet morning activities, well away from the bedroom. But the dream lingered.

 

Along came children, five of them. Well, you can imagine what happened to my dream. A dear friend and I decided that if all our young ones were fed, washed, had a bed to sleep in, and clean clothes to put on in the morning, we had completed a successful day. No, housework was not a priority.

 

The children grew, and so did the multi-skilled tasks requiring urgent attention each day. Yet again, the dream of a calm, ordered, uncluttered household quietly dropped to the bottom of my heap of dreams yet again.

 

It resurfaced this week, oddly enough because our printer broke. To accommodate a new one we had to do some rearranging. Ah! Clutter! My eyes found the 600 cassette recordings; each one recorded with love; taking valuable space; moved from one home to the next; how many times? Hoarded!

 

I swept the balcony, the loungeroom and the hallway. Ah! It is only 9.00 a.m. That feels closer to the person I dream of being, but just look at that clutter. I set to work. Weddings, baptisms, services, sermons, broadcasts, music- all going back for at least 40 years when cassettes came in. Most were illegible; the cruelty of it!. We set to one side a precious pile of ones we would do whatever we could to save, while the rest were trashed.

 

I celebrate my many dreams (make what you will of that one!), captured in many of these cassettes. I celebrate sources of encouragement, inspiration and growth. I celebrate joys and sorrows, successes and failures as all being part of my ever-evolving spirit. They are part of me and I do not need these cassettes for confirmation of that. They have passed their use-by date. They have become clutter. I thank them profoundly and let them go.

 

Oops! The floor needs a sweep and it is nearly night time.

 

 

 

The Dance

The wind blows strongly from the south. The sun shines warmly in a cloudless blue sky. My jacket is wrapped tightly around me in the cold, and gloves warm my hands . But the invitation to dance with the waves is too strong to ignore. It has been sitting in my own inbox for a week now, and today is the day I must accept this invitation. Tomorrow will be too late.

 

I had said to my grandchildren, ‘I want to paddle in Lake Michigan before I leave’. They looked at me with astonishment. ‘But you have no boat,’ said the 6 year-old!  ‘ I won’t come,’ said the 9 year-old. Their mum and dad were too busy with their work to join this dance, this day.

 

I walk with purpose along the waterfront with just a few like-minded people. We do not speak, or if we do the wind carries the ‘Good morning’ far distant. How clean, white and engaging is the sand. ‘Come’, it whispers in the wind.

 

It holds firm and supports my purposeful feet as I stride on, wondering at my own folly. Bravely, off come the gloves, the shoes, the socks. Pants are rolled up. My feet join the dance. Oh, how those wavelets dance, darting this way with a whoosh, and that way with a plop, backward, forward, sideways, always gliding as my feet follow their lead.

 

This is not a silent dance. The waves are not the only dancers here today. I hear the seagulls, and then I see them. They too whish and whoosh themselves, to and fro, upwards and downwards in the waltz on the lake. Oh! My heart exclaims, just look at those baby gulls, with their little short legs and flapping wings, learning to dance too in the movement of the lake. How busily their wings flutter and their feet plop as they do their best to stay grouped with their parents in the face of the wind. How protected they are in the middle of that swooping, gliding, shrieking flock, teaching them to dance.

 

My feet are not cold; my heart is singing. I could be walking along the shoreline of Sydney, Australia, with a southerly blowing hard and cold, revelling in the dance of  wind, waves and sand, with sea gulls reeling and swooping. My spirit expands with joy as I sense this universal connection with sun, wind, sand, and waves the world over. And here I am, a speck on this vast lake and beach, at one with the dance that unites the spirit of every beach-lover, on every shoreline, in all nations and islands of our wondrous world.

 

‘I’ve paddled today’, I tell my grandchildren after school. My grand daughter looks at me sceptically, ‘Your hair isn’t wet’, she comments. ‘No’, it was enough just to put my feet in, like the seagulls’, I reply.

‘Was it cold?’, says my grandson.

‘ It was well worth it’, I reply. ‘My spirit enjoyed the best dance, to the best music, in the whole, wide, world’. 

A Letter of Resignation

Dear Part of my Heart,

 

It has been gradually coming to my attention that you are not pulling your weight. Our business has flourished, not necessarily in a material way, but it has occupied countless hours, many of which caused overtime, and too many sleepless nights. It has occurred to me that to dispense with your services would actually increase the firm's output, and heighten our effectiveness.

 

I do not want you to take this decision personally. You have done your best. But, consider for a moment these factors. I want you to reflect on the number of occasions you were not able to say 'No' to regular customers or prospective customers. It seems to me that you have been lacking in discernment; it is valuable to know the time when it is appropriate to withdraw from a business partnership. It is all well and good to keep on giving these customers further opportunities, but opportunities to do what? To waste your time and energy? This interrupts the development of our business potential. It has been counter-productive. I would suggest that you reflect on this quality of yours in your next job, and not repeat this mistake.

 

While I am on this subject, and I speak so frankly only for your own good I hope you understand, another area that requires improvement is your communication. When I overhear your telephone conversations, after all we work next to each other, I cannot help but notice your long silences. What is happening then? Are you being convinced of something that is only going to lead to a failed business opportunity? Or, are you just wasting business time? This also is a counter-productive habit for the development of our core assets.

 

There is one final matter that has led me to demand your resignation. Just consider the number of times you have been completely hoodwinked. It is not good enough. There are many times when a nod and a wink suffices. Sharpen up, for your own good. It is not helpful to our business development to be so honest with those who are not serious on the negotiating table. Learn the differences my heart. Find your discernment. Know when to let go. Know when mind must speak. Keep your goals in view. And then you will become an asset.

Margaret Lawton

 

The Magnolia Tree

When I arrived, early March, the tree looked dead. Its thick grey trunk emerged from the brown earth with a certain stubborn starkness, as if to say, 'I stay; this is my place you know'. From this solid base, thinner branches and, even slighter twigs, swayed dangerously as the wind howled around, in and out, as if to say, 'I'm a force here too you know'.

 

Then, one day, a squirrel darted up the trunk and ran along a branch, before it hopped onto the roof. Then another squirrel, as if to say, 'There is life here you know'.

 

The wind still blew, the trunk remained solid, and on some days the weak sun reached into the corner of the brown garden with its grey tree trunk.

 

The birds were the next to arrive. They flew even faster than the squirrels darted. They did not run and leap. They flew, pecked and twittered, looking for seeds and berries, as if to say, 'We need food too you know'.

 

The birds were the first to find life in those dry, grey twigs, as they pecked away. What my eyes could not see, they found. How did they find these treasures? Did they see, or smell, or sense, the life energy that was flowing up from the hard brown earth, into that solid trunk, and out into those waving twigs?

 

They knew of course. Slowly my eye began to see those tiny mounds, the minute cracks, that heralded the arrival of buds. Oh, how slowly and silently the energy crept up from the cold earth, in search of the freedom to blossom. Will it ever happen? I wondered and waited, watching the squirrels and birds in their bustling search.

 

The first blossom was like a miracle of affirmation. The white, the red, the fulness, the joy, the beauty! One bloom became many; so many that twigs and branches bowed under their weight. Twig upon twig, branch upon branch, waving and rejoicing in the fulness of their freedom and beauty.

 

The soft wind became a howling gale. The blossoms began to drop their petals. In scarcely a day, their beauty showered down to the green grass below. Yes, the grass too had transformed from brown to brilliant green, beckoning the leaves emerging in the magnolia tree to join the cascading joy of spring.

 

Why, oh why, is such beauty, such freedom, such richness, spreading oh so slowly from the dried earth, and ripening in all its glory, such a brief encounter? Is it the nature of all creation, I wonder, to struggle, to emerge, and to take its place in the wondrous complexity and profusion of our life cycle?

Margaret Lawton

CLUTTER AND CLEANSING

 I glance around our neighbourhood at the assembled bicycles, dolls, toys, cupboards and all that has been cleaned out of our houses and into our driveways this Spring. Ah! We say, That feels better.

My clutter is in my mind, I come to realise.  There is too much clutter in my mind. It used to be so simple. There was a Right, and there was a Wrong. That is what I was taught as a child.  

It is right to tell the truth; it is Wrong to lie.

It is Right to do your homework and chores; it is Wrong not to get your work done.

It is Right to accept what parents say; it is Wrong to argue with them.

It is Right to be kind to siblings; it is Wrong to fight with them.

 This is very clean-cut.  Forget the lies and half-truths told in the home, and the fights themselves over Right and Wrong with siblings.  Forget the struggles to define who I am as opposed to who I am told I am.  It is Right to keep it clean cut and simple.

 What would I throw out in my Spring clean? I would throw away the clutter caused by the constant defining of Right from Wrong. It is far from a simple guide-line for life.

 I have such problems with the folks who must be Right.

It is Wrong to have views about God that are not orthodox.

It is Wrong to have views about people that make them less than angels.

It is Wrong to share sadness. Keep your chin up I hear people say. It is not too bad.

It is Wrong to stop going to the church that judges you.

It is wrong to accept gay marriage.

It is wrong to believe that global warming is destroying our planet.

The list goes on, from the trivial to the essential, from the narrowest to mind clutter that confuses me. I must wade through so much fear-based dogmatism, and deny so  much of the richness and complexity of this vast universe in which I am but a speck, to make my choice.

Yes, I choose to embrace all that is life-affirming and universally true. This Spring I am cleaning out the clutter caused by the need to be Right. Just BEING and ENQUIRING seems anything but Wrong to me.

A Family Affair

Where do I begin this tale of a family affair?  Does it begin under a lamp post in Kings Cross, Sydney, where my husband asked me to marry him?  Or does it begin in a dusty, dry, sparsely-populated town in Western Australia where my first son was born, in the local hospital where he shared the nursery with an aboriginal baby?  My husband and this baby’s three sisters trudged up the hill to visit us in the shimmering heat.

 

We returned eastward to Sydney after about twelve months and our younger son joined the family. We remained in Sydney, but our West Australian experience shaped our spirits in ways we had not predicted. We crossed our vast continent idealistic and immature. We returned more self reliant, the desert and harsh environment grounding us in the realities of outback life; freer to create new patterns of open-ness and care for others within our family; more engaged with present reality and less concerned with what might be one day.

 

We did not know then that our westward trek would create a family pattern of travel, open-ness to all peoples and possibilities, and a willingness to explore the unknown.

 

I look at them now; five grown-ups, their partners and their children, scattered across the globe, exploring themselves and their talents; open, welcoming, learning and growing. The trek back east to Sydney was merely a half-way house to a pathway along which they would proceed out into the world.

 

Last night I had a dream, the like of which I had never had before.  I was naked in public. I woke up gasping. What is the meaning of this?  A seventy-five year old woman is best never seen naked, least of all in public!  I was walking with a friend who was somehow concealing me with her coat and scarf.  But then she was no longer with me, and I was within another group of people.  To my astonishment they seemed not to notice or care about my nakedness.  I was accepted as me; I fitted in.

 

My son suggested I write a blog. My daughter-in-law introduced me to Facebook.  My grandson set up my blog.  Grace-filled teachers have held my hand, and launched me into a world where it is okay just to be me.  No more, no less, and with no pretence.  Just me, a mother, wife, grandmother, and friend, open and vulnerable to you all.

 

Margaret Ó