There’s something really lovely…

about singing old camp songs at an Epiphany bonfire, with a gaggle of hippies.

I’m too tired to give context, much—I stood for longer than I have in six months, because the ground was mucky. I’m stiff already—but it was completely worth it.

It’s a Ranch extended-family thing; they’ve been doing it since the program director’s son was an infant, and he’s 12 now. They used to do it at the beach, but fires are illegal all over the Sonoma coast (to protect snowy plover habitat). So people brought their desiccated Christmas trees here, and we burned them, and sang old songs, and read Rumi. And ate. Bread, cheese, soup, wine. Mmmm.

I’ve been to Solstice bonfires. Hell, I lived in Olympia. Doing it for Epiphany, makes my inner Christian and pagan both happy.

This is a good life.

Speaking of endurance events... I've been thinking of doing the Relay for Life, to celebrate when I'm done with treatment. This summer would be a ridiculous time to add pledge-gathering to my plate, however. I still want to do it, but I can wait several months or a year.

I could celebrate earlier, by quietly walking to the river up here. You can see it from all the hills facing that direction, but I've never been. A friend told me it's about a 45-minute hike. She always moved faster than I do.

And I can do that whenever it strikes me. A call saying, "Hey, can I come up tomorrow," is enough advance planning. I love it here.

So much of my life is urban, and I really love it. But being up here feeds my soul, in ways I can't explain. My whole system was resetting, today. It wasn't just that I was tired, though I was. Or that it was a sick day, though it was. I couldn't stop sleeping. When awake, I breathed more deeply. I know I'm here for longer than a weekend--I think I'm settling back into the soil.

Mmm. Groundedness.

The best not-quite-job ever

I’m up at the Ranch this week, working the Advent silent days. I’m hosting the odd lunch or dinner, and checking people in during the afternoons. Right now, I’m watching the wind and rain outside, and waiting for more arrivals. I can’t escape the brothers, even (or especially) here—and some of them are coming up today. I will shortly be hugged by three sopping wet monks.

And I’m wearing wool. Oh, well.

I love blustery weather! And I love hot soup on cold, wet days. I was blissed out over my lunch—and that’s big news, for someone who hasn’t eaten sufficiently since June. (It was miso soup w/ veggies, salad, bread and cheese, and a bulghur-artichoke concoction. Yum.)

My leftover homework is still with me, and my brain is still gone—but my body feels so much better up here. I’m still tired to the bone—but I’m not so relentlessly miserable.

I’ll be here until Friday. I’m going back to the city for a street retreat with the Faithful Fools on Saturday. To A’s house for Christmas, early next week. And I’ll be between there, here, and the Bay Area through January.

Note to Margaret, Paul, and anyone else who loves the place: The current newsletter (not on the website yet) mentions necessary upkeep on the treehouse. If you want to help, contact Sean.

Communion

Do you know what it’s like to look into a bowl of sorbet, garnished with a raspberry and a mint leaf, and know it’s likely the last raspberry you’ll have for a year?

I do. This was me last night, at dinner. My prediction isn’t turning out to be strictly true; I asked for more raspberries this weekend, and I’ll get them. (I could eat a box in two grabs, if I’m not mindful.) But as soon as my white count goes down again—and it will—I can’t have another. Or a fresh salad. Or any raw, unpeeled fruit or vegetable.

I can’t describe the taste of a raspberry; you’ll have to go and eat one. They’re a summer treat, anyway. Friends in my hometown have a raspberry patch. I used to pick them whenever I wanted, but only in July. I never grieved them when they were gone; blackberries came on their heels. Where I came from, those grew everywhere, in every ditch and abandoned patch of yard.

I worked (volunteer and paid) at the food co-op in Olympia, WA, for nine years. Once, and only once, we had organic peaches from France. I think the staff got tired of all of us teasing. Other than bananas, it’s a local-food operation. You eat what’s available. I didn’t shop anywhere else, because I always had a working-member discount. If I wanted berries on my granola in the winter, I shook them out of a frozen bag.

I live in California now. There’s no such thing as seasonal food. Everything’s available, all the time. I think I’ve bought fresh raspberries in November, to make cranberry-raspberry sauce for Thanksgiving.* It would never occur to me to buy some just to eat them, in winter—they’re too expensive.

Summer fruit belongs to summer. I can still have a peach, if it’s peeled. But knowing that my body and my doctors won’t allow me to eat whatever I want out of a garden, raspberries and fresh greens and tree fruits are all I want. Forced asceticism changed my desires, fast.

And I’m not remotely a “foodie.” I like to eat well, but I don’t cook, ever, and I’ve barely ever bought groceries since I moved into the seminary dorm. I’m happy when I chance into a handful of raspberries, or fresh pesto, or portobellos—but it’s not an experience I ever make happen for myself.

I think this line of thought has to do with coming back into my body, temporary though I know that is. I’ve been feeling better every day, and stronger. I’m noticing sensory things.

At the Ranch last Saturday, we had Eucharist in the pavilion. Both bishops were here, as were more than 200 others. The wine was local; the bread baked literally in the next building over, the refectory kitchen. It wasn’t random pita bread, and it certainly wasn’t “fish food;” it was simple, well-practiced, and exquisitely good.

My liturgics teacher told us a story, last fall, about being in Africa. I don’t remember the country; I’m sure he told us. They don’t have wine there. The water’s dicey. So they used Coke for communion. Not because they could get it from any random vending machine, but because they couldn’t. It was special to them.

The elements stood out for me last Saturday not because they were rare. Local wine flows like water here; I can look across the valley and see grape vines on both sides of the Russian River. The kitchen staff bakes bread all the time. They were special to me because I don’t eat this way often. And because I know I’m healing. Also, God was present in the extended Ranch family: some had worked here; many had retreated here, the kids had come to camp here. This place has given to all of us. Many of us knew each other. I’d met lots of people, living here for a summer and hosting odd retreats through the year. There were people I didn’t know, too. We came together, in community.

I’m thinking of becoming a third-order Franciscan. I’m sorting through reasons why I would and wouldn’t do it, and seeing what makes sense to me now. The things that hold me back are mostly financial details, small things that can probably be worked out. I like the idea of a structured rule, and a global community. I love the whole idea of giving yourself completely to serve the world. Loving without question. “My God, my All.”

We’re supposed to be Christ for each other; that’s part of every Christian’s call. I am of the subset, Episcopalian. Every time I say the Baptismal Covenant (Book of Common Prayer, 304-5) I reaffirm my promise to “seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving my neighbor as myself.”

That’s huge. Intimidating, really. I go weeks without thinking about it; I forget to do it, daily, in the world. But I’ve been thinking about fresh fruit, and bread, and how a friend’s particular embrace healed me.

I get tons of touch, in my daily life. Less so now because I’m around less people; but in general, people can hardly walk by me without touching me. It’s a cancer thing; I think that my living that out in community made life more real for many people. I get a lot of hugs, and I get a lot of love. S. was different because he crossed a room to do it, and because he took time. I think he saw that I was, in that moment while B. sang about resurrection, moving from victim to survivor. He supported me through that motion.

I don’t know how to be Christ for others. I think that’s a lofty aspiration. I do know how to honor the God within another person, if I remember to do it. And I know that if I take the time to look, not just at someone but into them, with respect and love for all that is holy and broken, I can give gifts that are as common as bread—and as rare as raspberries.

The trick, is looking where I don’t want to.

*Easy recipe: 1 pkg cranberries; equal raspberries; water to cook in, and sugar to taste.

Resurrection

… and yes, Margaret, the tree house is still there. :-)

I’ve been feeling so much better. This past weekend transformed me. A week off of treatment, gradually getting my body back, has been wonderful. Hanging out in the city, and at the Ranch, healed me spiritually. I have some things I’m still working on—but I’m back in touch with joy.

My blood test came back Sunday with my liver enzymes still elevated. In the long term, two weeks off of treatment is not good news. I want my body to tolerate this; I don't ever want to have to deal with cancer again. In the short term, I'm both sick enough and well enough to do what I want. I get a break, and a taste of summer.

I got to see a friend make her life vows as a Franciscan, at St. Aidan's last Thursday. It was her day—and the order’s—not mine. But I hadn’t been home in a month. It felt so good to see people. Friends of my friend are willing to help, out here, but I don’t have a community. (There’s no topography, either.) I got to be surrounded by so much love.

The service was beautiful. Sr. Lynne looked so happy. She was vowing poverty, chastity, and obedience forever—but there was absolutely no element of withdrawing from the world. It was the opposite. Living in monastic community is not my call—but I got it. She made this choice, precisely so she could serve. The more I think about it, the more I respect it, and her for following that path.

There was a potluck after. I was six days out from treatment, and I finally could eat a decent dinner. (I had no appetite, most of the week.) I didn’t eat a lot, but I almost finished the food on my plate. I had lots of good conversations, and I got lots of great hugs. I’ll have to be gone for the coming academic year, for field ed. I’ve only been a part of this parish for three years—but they have become my home. Reconnecting was healing for me—and really good for all of us.

I slept that night in Berkeley, at the home of classmates who had come to the liturgy. I hadn’t been expecting to see them. They had just come back from a month away, and still were fine with a last-second houseguest. Their bodies were still on Central time, and I wake with the light in the summer, so we all staggered awake around 7 and had breakfast together. We talked about their trip, my health, books we’re reading. Just a random seminarian conversation, with lots of laughing.

They also have the coolest shower head ever—it’s huge, round, and drops water straight down on you. It’s like washing in your own personal (warm) rainstorm.

They went to a parade in Alameda after breakfast on Friday (the 4th), and I drove up to the Ranch. Again, it was so good to be home. I hadn’t been there since before my diagnosis. I don’t remember when the last weekend I’d hosted was; I think in early April. The core staff all knew what was up with me. Family camp was finishing, and I had friends there from last year.

“How are you?”
“Um. Well. They found a melanoma on me in April. I’m both sick enough and well enough to be here.”

People met me on a real level. Sympathy, yes, but more. When they told me they’d pray for me, I knew that in that promise, they already were. They knew how life-shaking my news was—and they looked me in the eyes, present and strong.

Family Camp had a talent show, the night I got there. I was sitting on the balcony in the pavilion, listening to a friend (camp colleague from last year) sing “Alleluia, the Great Storm is Over.” You can imagine what that song means to me, now. I caught a friend’s eye; I think he’d just come in from outside. He came over and hugged me, closely, for the rest of the song. We barely spoke; we didn’t need to. I was almost in tears. It was grace, more of the random love that kept being tossed to me over and over and over.

I’d gone up so I could work the big event on Saturday. After it was over, I felt like my body would never move again—but it was wonderful. I really didn’t do that much work, per se; I sold raffle tickets for maybe a total of an hour. But being up there, being awake, alive, and loving the Ranch as much as I do, counts for PR.

My bishop’s wife invited me to share their picnic blanket. I still don’t know how she knows me—she recognized me at CDSP graduation—but she has an amazing gift for people, and she’s interested in everything. She wanted to hear my story. She asked real questions. Both of them listened. We talked a little bit about Lambeth, too, and camp, and whatever. It wasn’t an official type of anything; I didn’t need to impress them (read, him). It was a social visit. How often do any of us get to do that?

The Swifts took two of us who were staying over, out to dinner. Have you ever heard of fries with truffle oil and pecorino? You can get ‘em in Healdsburg. We didn’t try those; I still want to. But the food we got was good, and I had my appetite back.

I drove back here Sunday, had lunch at home, and my friend went to the stabbery (Kaiser lab) with me. My results came back improved, but elevated; I get another week to do what I want. I’d offered Sean three days of work this week, if I could do it. I can, and I’m going up today so I can host all day tomorrow through Friday. I love Benedictine week. They’re peaceful, sweet people. Mealtimes are taken in prayerful, Quakerlike silence. My own spirituality is more Franciscan; I’m much more the activist. But I love them.

Pray for the monks at New Camaldoli in Big Sur. They were evacuated from their home, and sheltered by Franciscans. I won’t see them this week; they’re hanging out with their hosts.

I'm perversely hoping that my numbers stay wacky long enough for me to work BREAD camp, which starts in a week. They’ve improved enough that I wouldn’t be surprised if I have to go back to the infusion center Monday, though. I still have a few symptoms, but nothing like they were.

I’m reconnecting with joy, and that's a good thing. I still have two weeks of infusions; I'll take half-doses when my numbers recede to normal. Then the self-injections, 3x/wk for a year. But right now, I'm feeling energetic and alive.

I realized in the car, driving to the city on Thursday, that I'm not afraid anymore. I was scared witless for three months. I think what did it was a conversation between A. and me. I think it was I who said something about dangerous things to die of. I don’t remember how she responded. I realized, they're only dangerous as long as we're alive.

We know where we’re ultimately going. Sickness can be painful and uncomfortable, sure. Injuries and accidents happen. I realize that I’m speaking from privilege: I have the most optimistic prognosis there is. But I know that nothing ever can threaten me again.

I don't recoil from my scar anymore. I touch it now as a sign of strength. I'm starting to reconnect with God again, too. I always knew God was in my community; I couldn't pray for myself. I still can't ask outright, "heal me," (though spiritually that's happening), but I can say, "thank you for life." I spent an hour at the peace pole on Friday, praying just that. And praying to re-learn how to pray, with all of me.

I'm still thinking about what Carol taught me. “God will either heal you, or change your heart so you don’t need it anymore.” I don’t have any idea what is or isn’t in my body. But I am not afraid. I’m getting myself back: different, but clearly me. I know things now, that I can’t articulate yet—but that I’d been needing to learn for a very long time.

I would love to know that I’m healthy forever. But none of us have that assurance. And I really don’t think I’d trade any of this.

Alleluia, the great storm is over.

About Ranch cookbooks

From Sean at the Ranch:

Hi Kirstin,

The cookbooks are $35.00 plus tax. They are hardbound, with a binding that lays flat to be helpful on a kitchen counter.

The can be purchased at the Cathedral bookstore, at Levin and Co. in Healdsburg, at Copperfields Books in Petaluma, Santa Rosa and Sebastopol and at the Ranch.

At the Ranch we charge $40.00 which includes the tax, because we can't make change. If someone wants us to mail a book to them it costs $45.00 to cover the postage.
***

The Ranch address is:

The Bishop's Ranch
5297 Westside Rd.
Healdsburg CA 95448

(Put "cookbook" on the envelope; it will get to the right person.)

Back in Berkeley

…and exhausted. I woke up way earlier than I needed to, this morning, and couldn’t go back to sleep. (I’d been thinking of going on a sunrise hike, but it was way foggy until after lunch.)

What I’ve done today:

• Hosted breakfast
• Packed my stuff and cleaned my room
• Went to lunch (wasn’t hosting)
• Wandered for close to two hours through the creekbed, Gina’s Orchard, and what I think of as the back way to the peace pole—it wouldn’t really take that long, but I walked slow and stopped a lot, both praying and taking pictures of October
• Said bye to the staff until next month; I have to coordinate my rota and syllabi to see when works best to go back
• Drove for two hours; first past the wineries and through Sebastopol (thank you Sean), and then in bumper-to-bumper traffic all the way through Marin
• Called "Calabash family" to tell them I was safe (they worry about my car, with reason) and to ask when I'm serving at church; laughed when I realized it'll still be October, and I already knew I wasn't scheduled
  
• Picked at dinner; I miss real food too much
• Found missing church rota, in a pile on my floor; picked it up
  
• Put my suitcase on my bed, intending to unpack it—which I will do before I crawl in
• Checked e-mail and messed around some more with Firefox

I need to organize myself for tomorrow; I have reading that I never got to, and I’m going into the city to march for peace with my bishop. That’s really why I came back today.

I’m academically behind now, but no more than usual, and it’s not insurmountable. I did the soul-work I needed to last week, and I don’t regret any of it. If anything, I ought to have walked more. Every time I opened myself, something amazing happened. God and that place are a powerful combination.

Do I still have snags? Yeah. But I understand them better now. And I know what I need to do, when they come up.

Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.

Gifts

I had an absolutely amazing experience at the peace pole yesterday. I tried to write it down afterward, but I may as well have been struck mute. I functioned perfectly well during dinner, but when I got back to my room last night, I couldn’t even hold a simple phone conversation. I woke from a dream in the middle of the night, and I’m thinking about all of this, now.

I’m walking a lot, this week, on purpose, and I’m making a point of going to my holy places often. I went for a walk before dinner, because I’d just taken a nap and needed to clear the cobwebs out of my head. I started from the creek trailhead; I love the creekbed, and though the trees are completely different, it feels like walking in the woods at home. (This is a kind of home, but I mean where my roots are.) The creek is still dry, but you can feel the groundwater coming up and cooling the earth. The air was cool; it felt wonderful.

I came up out of the shade and onto the hill, and as I climbed higher, a strange thing happened. It wasn’t like walking in the sun on a hot summer day; the temperature was only in the 70s. In some places, the heat stopped me in my tracks. I could feel, and smell, the warm, living, breathing Earth. I felt sort of sweaty, but that wasn’t coming from me—I think it was the moisture in the ground, evaporating. (It hasn’t rained since Friday, but the ground is damp.) I kept having to stop, and breathe it in.

I kept walking, and had strange thoughts of climbing Mt. Sinai. I mostly sort of ignored them; I was also mindful of having to do this and get back, to host dinner. I didn’t have a ton of time.

I got to the peace pole, and I did what I’ve been doing: let the peace descend on me, and find the prayers I left last summer. I had tied them next to each other, about a week apart. One was thanksgiving for love, family, community; the other was for Rob’s soul. I realized, “I knew then, what I’ve been fighting to recover now. I was swimming in that sort of confidence.” [When I say "family," I nearly always mean close friends, adopted as such.] I also found a prayer that family-friends had shown me, that a friend of theirs had left for them. I don’t remember the words; it was basically for happiness and health. It struck me as incredibly loving.

I stood there feeling this, and thinking about all of it, and about all I know to be true of these friends. It came to me, as it came out of me: “Teach me to love like that: freely, openly, joyfully. Teach me not to grasp.”

Click.

I’d been wrestling for just that, for… is it a month, now? I hadn’t had the words to ask for it. And in the asking, I was ready to receive. I know it’s not going to be the same kind of struggle. From here, it’s just practice. I don’t think I’ll have to prove myself to the people I’m thinking of; they’re more tolerant of me than I am. I will need to practice it—both because I need to know I know it, and because circumstances will make me. And that is—completely—okay. Good, even.

I walked with this all the way back down the hill, and I felt God physically with me. It was one of those times when God says, “You got this, and I’ve got you.” It felt like hands on me. If I falter—and I’m human, I will—I know what to remember. That’s the piece I still can’t put into words, but I remember what it felt like, and the words it gave me, and and what I know, and knew.

My best friend let me grab onto her for as long as I needed to. I don’t need to, anymore—but it took two years before I stopped falling to pieces in the middle of the night. These friends don’t let me do that, and it’s appropriate that they don’t; both for them and for me. They’re still patient with me, more than I am with myself. I’m going to be loosed on the world again, really soon. I need my community’s support—and I need to find my own strength. I need to learn to trust that I have enough love to survive, and trust myself, and trust God. I’m beginning to get there.

I got down the hill with ten minutes to spare. I was standing there, just-post-epiphany and not sure what to do with myself, when one of the guests walked up to me and asked when dinner was. I told him, and he got talking. I didn’t say a word about where I’d been or what I’d just come from. I don’t know why he did it, but he told me his story. He asked me not to repeat it, so I certainly won’t here. It was his own tale of resurrection, and truly a gift.

The dream I woke from, two hours ago, was about Confession. Not in the sense I experienced when I needed it so badly; this was about confession in community, but it was a community I barely knew. The difference was the text: it was longer than what we have, and all I clearly remember is the beginning: something alluding to Jeremiah (not sure why) and the words, “You see us.” The sense was, you love us, and you know we fall short. There was an absolution, but it was also implied in the confession itself.

I woke feeling curiously comforted. And—obviously—I had words, again.

What’s striking me about all of this, is how gentle God is. I wrestle with myself so damn hard. Sometimes it works; usually it doesn’t. God has shown me my task—and it is a task, not an impossible mountain—through a deeper realization of what love is, and then immediately a chance to give it to someone I barely know, by listening to him. Then, this completely sensible, non-surreal dream, saying, “Yes, I see you; yes, I love you.”

This is why I’m wide awake, at 2:41 in the morning. Alleluia.

POSTSCRIPT, one day later:
There was a page number referenced in the dream I had, 491. I knew it was nowhere near where the Confession was supposed to be, and I'd been meaning to look it up. I just did.

BCP 491 is the beginning of Burial of the Dead, Rite II.

There is no way I would have known this, anywhere in my subconscious. I've never needed to use that rite.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that God's playing Tarot cards with me. But, there is no deeper change, than death.

I think it's clear, what I'm burying.

Reconnection

I am having a fantastic time here. Busy, yes—doing things I love. Being outside, meeting people, sharing this place with them.

I was walking out of the refectory after dinner, on my way to run some errand for somebody, when I realized I’d forgotten how happy I am. I was momentarily startled by the verb tense—then realized it was spot on. This place, this work, these people bring me back to… if not who I am, then a place in me that I haven’t been visiting enough.

I feel really, deeply drawn to mission work, calling-wise. But if I could do this forever, I would.

There has to be a way to weave them together, or to do that with this spirit. I can feel myself glowing. That’s being alive.

You have to pay attention, to what gives you joy. :-)

Water of life

I’m back at the Ranch, most likely until next Friday. It is so beautiful here.

I’ve been reminded (thank you) that this is my grounding place. I have a week now, to work, read, write, and breathe. The only thing really pressing on me is filling out CPE applications. I haven’t even looked at the website yet, but… reflective writing? That I can do.

Hosting is easy, with most groups; it mostly boils down to being friendly and available, and knowing where things are. I did it all summer, and I loved it. I didn’t have to worry about lightswitches or fireplaces, but it’s October, and the misty darkness sighs coziness to me. I love it.

Work, study, breathing, prayer… they can and do blend, here. I feel like I’m making incremental progress on the personal stuff—but that is, still, progress. The best thing for me now is to pray and breathe, and stop driving myself to figure everything out, for awhile.

I bailed from Berkeley immediately after my Liturgics midterm. (It’s not brilliant, but I do think he’ll pass me.) It was misting when I got here, which turned to rain soon after. I got myself settled, put on raincoat and duck shoes, and went for a walk. I discovered just how ineffective my raincoat is; it was given to me sometime around 1999, and I rather need a new one. This October day felt like June in Olympia, only gentler: it was wet, but warm, and utterly enticing to walk in. I wandered down to the creekbed, and back around again to the peace pole, soaked, beaming. The leaves are changing, and the trails are green from the rain. It smelled wonderful.

Then I changed into drier clothes, and met with Sean to talk about tomorrow, when he’ll be at DioCon. There are new hosting procedures, and fall details I’d never had to think about. We went over those, and walked around outside, giving me a tour of—yes—lightswitches and fireplaces. I met some of the people who are staying here right now. Nice groups.

Turned on the outside light in the chapel, and came back to my room. I have a hot bath waiting for me. :-)

My feet are filthy again

Just came back from two days at the Ranch; I helped staff clergy conference. That's still happening, until tomorrow afternoon--but I have class in the morning. I came back late this afternoon so I could study. Guess how well that's going?

One of my classmates calls the Ranch his cathedral. It is for me, also. Imagine how odd it is, to be in your holy place... doing Systematic Theology homework. I was sitting at a picnic table outside, studying, and one of the priests I worked with last summer (she's fantastic) came by and commiserated with me. A friend who graduated two years ago said it appealed to him. Different strokes, clearly.

I didn't get to go hiking; I was busy and it was really hot. But I still got to be there. I love that place, and those people, so much. Even though I was either working hard at being Ranch staff or studying, and didn't get to just catch my breath much, there's a peace about the place that is deeply healing.

The gathering was big, noisy--and strikingly friendly and open. I caught up with a few friends whom I hadn't seen since they graduated (a year, or two, ago). One of the recently retired priests from St. Gregory's brought me greetings from Olympia, via Honolulu. (We have a mutual friend in Oly; they bumped into each other at some art thing in Hawaii.) I met some neat people, too, over Social Hour when I was supposed to be something like a barmaid. They're new to me, but we run in similar circles, and it was good to get to talk with them. The work they're doing incorporates what I want, and in some cases have been tapped, to do. I'm excited about all of it.

Have to get back to Systematics, though. My sunburned scalp, dirty feet, and I have a quiz tomorrow. I'll be back up there again over Reading Week, in late October.

In other news, MadPriest linked to me! I'm a big kid now.

In other news...

I left the Ranch eight days ago. I've taken showers every day since. My toes are still dirty.

I love that!

I am...

Hot. Sweaty. Hungry. I'm in the middle of moving and I haven't had dinner. I miss the Ranch. My room is a wreck.

And I'm more deeply, organically happy and relaxed than I have ever been, in Berkeley or anywhere. That's how good this summer was for me.

***
I just left that message, pretty much verbatim, on a friend's voice mail. It's worth shouting.

Sean, Jack, Sarah, Shannon, and everybody else at the Ranch--thank you.

A strangely gentle sadness

We’ve had sightings of mountain lions around the Ranch. A friend from St. A’s, who accepts me as an adopted daughter, made me promise not to hike alone. I know she loves me, and doesn’t want me to get eaten—I think we both knew I’d break that promise. I kept it for about a week. Yesterday, I took a fresh batch of flags to the peace pole. I left a prayer for Rob. It felt right; I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. It is a quiet, calm, deeply peaceful, prayerful place. I held his memory, and my community, in my heart as I wrote on a strip of yellow fabric with a Sharpie, tied it to the pole among years’ worth of many people’s prayers, and watched it flutter in the wind.

I’d left a prayer there a week before, at the close of our parish weekend, out on a wander with these same friends. I remember bursting with thanksgiving for all the blessings of this summer at the Ranch, this community in the city, this sweet, sweet life.

I e-mailed a friend on Sunday, another member of the East Bay contingent. Knowing she wasn’t feeling well, I asked her for coffee when I get back to Berkeley. She told me she understood about family time.

That’s love. And this is us. Rob’s last gift to me is a real appreciation for this church. I’m redefining community, family, home. I think we’re all appreciating each other more. I’m realizing how deeply I belong here. These people who have loved me, encouraged me, laughed with me, and held me while I cried on them—have meant every bit of it. And I mean it right back. All last week, while living and working in a place so close to heaven, all I could think of was, “My family’s in San Francisco, and I want to be with them.”

Rob was always there, unless he wasn’t well enough. His presence was light, gentle, generous, and mischievous. He had an air of, “I know what you’re up to”—and we always knew he loved us. I will miss him in a thousand little ways. A bunch of us meet for coffee at Creighton’s before church; last week, I couldn’t steal his extra napkins. I couldn’t hear him make some little comment, barely above a whisper, that would leave the rest of us roaring.

We told stories on Sunday, in place of a sermon. We shared his memory among us. His presence was there with us—but I’m still not used to the idea that he will not be.

I know that Rob's okay now; I know he is surrounded by Love and limitlessness. I know it was his time. I know all the saints are dancing.

I still miss him. We, still miss him. And we will for a long time.

Healing and truth, and the power of story

To my parish community, the Bishop's Ranch, and to God, all I can say is thank you.

Parish Weekend was a homecoming for me, in ways deeper than words. I’ve been working at the Ranch all summer; being part of this gathering felt like my whole family had come to see me. I got real time with people I’m particularly close to. I got closer to people I’ve respected for a long time. And I got to see for myself, how far I’ve come.

The theme of the weekend was "journeys." We did an exercise Saturday morning, using the metaphor of rocks in our shoes. I asked to be one of the storytellers that night, because the idea didn’t terrify me. I’ve struggled with speaking clearly since I was a teenager; my brain goes faster than my mouth, when I’m excited or nervous, and I almost always have to repeat myself. I knew that I could do this, and I really wanted to. I stood up, in this circle of love in the Ranch House living room, and spoke my truth in total assurance. I knew as I was speaking that I was slow enough; knew that I was loud enough. I didn’t get stuck, and I didn’t get lost. I never once tripped over my mouth. I hadn’t had any prep time, but I didn’t need it. I wasn’t trying to read the words in my head. I just, simply, spoke them.

Are you getting the idea yet, that this is huge ? Because it is. It’s the equivalent of climbing a mountain without ropes, trusting that your hands and feet will grip the rock—and then being proven right, with every fluid motion. I felt completely supported by the community. I also felt completely capable. Part of that assurance comes from being at the Ranch all summer. This is a place of unfathomable healing. The land and the people are good for the soul; joy and justice live and grow here, and I've learned how to breathe. Part of it is the intentional work I’ve done, and that some in the community have helped me with. I cannot minimize the gift of this community—the power in knowing that everything offered is received, in love. Questions and critiques come later. The first gift we give one another is appreciation. I’ve witnessed this for two years, and it is palpable.

Here, then, is my story, more or less the way it came in the telling. I had detailed the event in the post just following, and my reflections there took me to a slightly different place. I'm still learning how to tell this story; I'm still learning how to live it. It happened a little more than two weeks ago.

The rocks I carry with me have never hurt my feet. The rocks I carry with me are liberating.

I’ve been up at the Ranch all summer, working. I’d been needing an ocean fix. Two weeks ago Friday, when I had a day off, I drove out to Goat Rock, to walk around in infinity for awhile. I needed to pray—and I often do that best when I’m moving.

There are signs up everywhere saying, “Stay out of the water.” The “safe” area is more-or-less flat; the danger zone slopes steeply toward the ocean. I was there at high tide; the water came almost to the lip. It was so socked-in that I couldn’t see very far; this was kind of like looking down at a huge, unpredictably roiling bathtub.

I walked toward the rock, slowly, barefooted over sand and gravel. The beach is fairly narrow at high tide, and bounded on the dry side by rusty, windswept cliffs. Something more than curiosity told me to go check them out. I found myself standing, my back pressed to the edge of California, feet thrust into shifting sand, face toward the water and the wind. I was thinking of plate tectonics, how the cliff I was leaning on was slowly pushing toward the ocean.

And I heard, or felt, God, saying, “Go.” Not literally, “jump into these riptides and drown,” but, “Go be in my ocean. Live with and love my people.” The voice inside me was the rock at my back. The water was all life, all possibility, all adventure, all love.

I don’t know how long I stood there, just being with all of this. I walked back slowly, watching where I was going. I noticed a rock at my feet. It was pale grey-blue, light and porous, shaped like a flat egg, barely denser than pumice. It was wet and shiny; the color caught my eye. I picked it up. It was small, flat; I would have skipped it across the water without thinking, had the ocean not been so rough. As it was, I held it for awhile, turned it over and looked at it, then tossed it back onto the ground. But… it seemed to want to come with me. I felt like, if I had the right kind of ears I could hear what it was saying. So I picked it up again, and walked on, watching the ground, trying not to walk on gravel.

The same thing happened two more times. I carried three small, flat, nearly identical rocks home in my pocket. I carry them with me now. Again, I wish I could hear better. I don’t know really what the rocks are about. But what I take from them is this: Listen. Remember. And be present.

Rocks, water, light, listening, and love

I’m not sure I know how to tell this story yet. Bear with me.

I’d been needing an ocean fix. I had a day off last Friday, so I drove out to Goat Rock. I was craving a good, long walk on the beach. I needed to pray—and I often do that best when I’m moving.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to play in the water, and I was right. There are signs up everywhere with diagrams of hapless drowning victims, reading, “This is one of the most dangerous beaches in California. Here’s a picture of a sleeper wave. Stay out of the surf.” The “safe” area is more-or-less flat; the danger zone slopes steeply toward the ocean. I was there at high tide; the water came almost to the lip. It was so socked-in that I couldn’t see very far; this was kind of like looking down at a huge, unpredictably roiling bathtub.

I walked toward the rock, slowly, barefooted over sand and gravel. The beach is fairly narrow at high tide, and bounded on the dry side by rusty, windswept cliffs. Something told me to go check them out. I found myself standing, my back pressed to the dry, solid edge of California, feet thrust into shifting sand, face toward the wind and water. I was thinking of plate tectonics, how the cliff I was leaning on was slowly pushing toward the ocean.

And I felt God saying, “Go.” Not literally, “jump into these lethal currents,” but, “Dive into my ocean, swim with me, live with and love my people.” The voice inside me was the rock at my back: warm, supportive, relentless. The water was all life, all possibility, all adventure, all love.

When I pay attention… wow.

I don’t know how long I stood there, just being with all of this. Then I went and perched on the jetty for awhile, watching the water, listening. Walking back, I noticed a rock at my feet. It was pale grey-blue, light and porous, a flat outline of an egg, barely denser than pumice. I don’t know what it’s actually made of. It reminded me of the volcanic rock from Mt. St. Helens, when I hiked there with friends at home. It was about the diameter of a fifty-cent piece; I would have skipped it across the water without thinking, had I been at the edge of the Sound. As it was, I held it for awhile, turned it over and looked at it, then tossed it back onto the ground. But… I’m not that pagan, but something gave me pause. It seemed to want to come with me. So I picked it up again, and walked on, watching the ground because the gravel hurt my feet.

The same thing happened two more times. I carried three small, flat, nearly identical rocks home in my pocket. I’m holding them now, pausing as I type this. I don’t want to say something totally blasphemous, but… three. Hmmm. As I hold them, I can hear the wind, feel the spray in my face. I know I am to be present. To remember, and to listen.

Lots of people, despite the fog and the signs posted, were frolicking in the water. I thought they were idiots; I also was envious of them. I wanted to get my feet wet. I watched the waves until I knew where they ended, and I ran toward one. It wasn't cold like I expected; it felt warm, like the water kissed my feet. That was enough, though; I didn't go even as deep as my ankles, and I only did it once.

My sort of pre-discernment prayer group met after church last Sunday. We sat together in silence for half an hour. I didn’t have these rocks with me, but I imagined that I held them, and I sat with this experience. I sat with the wonder, the excitement, the tension of being in a place I love now, and knowing it is only for now. I love being at the Ranch; love the people, enjoy the work. It’s another family. There couldn’t be a better summer set-up for me. But while I say that I’d stay here forever if I could, I know that isn’t really true. I can come back odd weekends and host, and I will. But I have other work to do. I’m going back to school in less than a month. Back to NOLA in January. My deepest calling is working with forgotten people. Bearing witness and reconciling is my passion, and what everything in me wants to do. But I’m still unfolding and figuring out so much.

I talked about all of this after our silent time. I said, “I don’t know what kind of fish I am.” I need to jump into the water, riptides and all, and find out. This is and has been a wonderful, safe place. It will be a home for me as long as I need and want it to be. But another life also calls me.

Something else was poking at me, sitting and praying in this circle. My mentor from my first year of seminary, good friend ever since, was at church on Sunday. It had maybe been a month since we’d seen each other; she gave me a hug like she hadn’t seen me in a year. She tells me the damnedest things sometimes, really amazing affirmations, but she’s about the least gushy person I know. And she kept telling me how glad she was to see me.

She is one of my rocks, and she knows it. She helped me through a very dark time. I’m giving something to her now, just by existing. We all have this light within us. We shine it unconsciously, and we have no idea of the effect we have on other people.

I keep coming back to the question I was asked as part of a group affirmations game, at the close of a domestic-violence volunteer training, March 1992: “How do you want to love the world?”

How do you love the world, right now? What do you need to dig up, get rid of, pray through, or whatever, to love the world the way you’re most deeply called to?

I'm good, lj, thanks for asking.

I'm sorry, anyone that I've worried. I've been busy with camps and stuff, and haven't really felt like writing. I'll give a better update later.

Two days off this week; I went to see the Harry Potter movie yesterday, and it made me actually nostalgic for wool sweaters. It's a cold-ish, foggy morning right now. I went to breakfast in my pajamas, and when I get my act together, I'm going to the beach.

A long walk in infinity will do me a world of good, I think.

Jetlagged, and joyful

I am at my home for the rest of the summer, at the Bishop's Ranch. I got here last night about 10:30, and the first thing I noticed was the stars in the sky. We are definitely out of the city. They have me ensconced in a staff apartment that's really, really nice--and it has a bathtub. I also get to sleep on a futon again, after two years of awful dorm beds and the air-bed I got because the last dorm mattress was intolerable.

I never really adjusted to East Coast time, and I'm not sure what time my body thinks it is right now, but it's quarter past five here and I'm still exhausted. Happy, tired, and here. I'll probably find out today exactly what it is I'm supposed to be doing; the directors and I had a conversation about possibilities in April.

I will write more about last week's conference, later. I'm going to try going back to sleep.

Summer job

Look where I get to be this summer! I'm really excited.

I met the director's daughter two years ago, at the food co-op in Olympia, when I was volunteer-cashiering and she came through my line. (She's at Evergreen; I'm an alum.) Apparently neither of us knows how we got talking, but we did. I was on my way to CDSP. She told me to write to her dad for a job, when I got to California. I didn't do it last year, because I was missing the Northwest. I ended up interning at a parish in Seattle, and I had a great time there. But then I went to the Ranch with my parish last October, and saw how beautiful it is. I spent yesterday and Friday walking in the rain and talking with the people who run the place, and got an e-mail this morning inviting me to work there.

I don't know anything about dates or compensation or actual tasks yet, but I'm thrilled about this. It's wonderful when the things you want, want you.