Concrete and Wings

The photo made me smile from ear to ear.
My granddaughter, laid out on a wide windowsill, blanket over her little body, pretending to sleep. Then came another.
She was sitting on that same wide windowsill, playing with gel type Halloween decorations, and the light from the window illuminated her profile in a way that showed her beauty as she embraced so simply her moments there, looking outside and hearing her own unique voice inside. A voice that said I like this spot and I want to be here.
My second grandchild, Ephram, is due on November 5th. I can't wait to meet him.

My heart feels so full lately I think it might burst.

At the start of 2015 I began a new journal, affectionately calling it My Flight Journal. This year has certainly been one of stops and starts and winged adventures in between challenges and uncertainty.

As I now approach the end of this year, I am getting ready for my final flight out of my former life, a life that was lovely and immense, intense and hard, where my primary roles of being wife and mother beguiled me and took precedence, most of the time, over my own needs.

I have no regrets. Only a heart filled with thanksgiving for what has been, and what will always remain.

Now, like my beloved granddaughter, I lay on the windowsill of my home of 13 years, but only for a little while longer. I have slept more nights here than anywhere else my entire life. And I am preparing to say goodbye.

In preparation, I have been clearing out my basement, sorting and purging, reliving moments of my own as well as of my children. It's sad at times, but mostly a joy.

There are Dale's music books and Amber's vintage fabrics and Josiah's Star Wars toys and Chad's stuffed animals and Rebekah's soccer trophies and Lisa-Noel's lunch box collection. I find myself laughing often as photos or other memorabilia remind me of the fun we have shared here.

Here has been a good place.

Here is the nest my babies flew off from.

And now, so will I.

In a card I wrote to myself back in January 2014, I called this house an unusual dispensation. A divine provision for me to strengthen my wings and believe in my wings. I am grateful more than words can convey for this physical place.

Beloved pets are buried in the back yard. Two now huge lilac bushes, gifts from my kids, will bless the next occupants. I am praying for that next family who will live here.

I've been asked this question a few times...

"Do you know where you are going?"

No. No idea...yet.

But I see and feel Concrete. My feet are on Concrete. Concrete poured in my childhood in the basement of a Mennonite church. Concrete made clear in the form of the Nicene Creed. Recently that has been the topic of our Adult Forum class at church. I love how Dr. Paul, our teacher, shared that it is often out of our murky human circumstances that something beautiful arises.

Concrete that gives me the surest foundation imaginable, and is never dependent on a physical place.

It seems ironic to talk about concrete and flight together, doesn't it? But the paradox is true. That concrete has enabled me to lift off with my wings whenever I needed to. For example:

My wings helped me reduce a tax debt from 2012 with the IRS by several hundred dollars.
My wings enabled me to provide health insurance for me and my three youngest children.
My wings helped me find a new car after mine was totaled in an accident in July. Not ironically my new car, a spiffy little black 2007 Mazda3, has as its symbol Wings!
My wings gave me courage in two courtroom situations, to plead my case- and win.

My Wings give me inner vision and crystal clear direction. The concrete enables me to stand firm.

From that concrete I will use my wings to fly to my new nest in 2016. A new season of my life begins, and my single prayer is only that God will continue to use me to share that love bursting forth from my heart..

I appreciate your prayers as I prepare for lift-off!


 I wrote this poem September 28, 2015, and wanted to share it here. The words are also written below.

October

The wind blows, cool and crisp

rustling my long brown hair

its tendrils flying high

with colorful leaves

as I traverse the bank of the river

It's raining.

Leaves,

Seed pods.

Pieces of sky.

Henny Penny- the sky is falling

Don't you see it on your head?

The hawk lands

I feel his talons

dig into my skull

electrifying my scalp

He stays. Perched. Ready.

My neck strains with his weight.

River's rushing waters call,

"Go deeper. Go deeper. Don't wait!"

The hawk sees it, exactly.

He flies up, taking clumps of my hair

Soaring

until he chooses the right moment

and the correct angle

to descend

cleanly piercing the surface 

of the water.

He astounds me. I gasp with pure delight!

Back up he flies

the water dripping from his wings

like tears upon my face

My hands are ready, cupped.

He drops his treasure.

I catch it.

One smooth black stone. 

By the way.... Did you see the smooth black stone up above???

The Sturdy Tree

I dedicate this post to women- past, present, and future- who refuse to give up, call it quits, or hide who they are, no matter what storms they face. The forest of your Sturdy Trees is a testimony.  

The tree had its beginnings like all trees do, in the form of a seed, joined with a sister seed in a whimsical green pod that looked an awful lot like wings. It was attached by the smallest of stems to the mother tree, and without even a goodbye the wind caught it one spring day, sending it pirouetting through the sky, twirling and dipping until it gently landed, eventually, in a field.

There, it waited, patiently.

The sun grew warmer, causing wildflowers to spring up all around, drying the pod to a crackly sandy brown. It disintegrated and became chaff, releasing the seed to tumble downward and land, with confidence, onto the dark brown soil called the earth. 

Many seasons came and went.

The tree grew large. The tree grew strong. The tree grew sturdy.

And a mighty wind blew against it.

Hurricane

by Mary Oliver

It didn't behave

like anything you had

ever imagined. The wind

tore at the trees, the rain

fell for days slant and hard.

the back of the hand

to everything. I watched

the trees bow and their leaves fall

and crawl back into the earth.

As though, that was that.

This was one hurricane

I lived through, the other one

was of a different sort, and

lasted longer. Then

I felt my own leaves giving up and 

falling. The back of the hand to

everything. But listen now to what happened

to the actual trees;

toward the end of the summer they

pushed new leaves from their stubbed limbs.

It was the wrong season, yes,

but they couldn't stop. They

looked like telephone poles and didn't

care. And after the leaves came 

blossoms. For some things

there are no wrong seasons.

Which is what I dream for me.

Hurricane force winds. Torrential soaking rains. Flash flood waters.

But the Sturdy Tree remained.

Steadfast yet changed.

Resolved to produce leaves again...

And produce leaves, it did.

It does. It will.

Leaves of glistening gold.

The season is never wrong. My dream, your dream, lives.

    
       Outside stands the dream...

On May 20th I celebrated my 54th birthday. Here are a few highlights:

Had an awesome vegan birthday carrot cake prepared for me by my daughter Lisa-Noel.

Went to dinner and gorged on Mexican food with my girls.

Went to Amber and John's for a "gender reveal" party, where, surrounded by family, I learned that my second grandbaby, due in November, is a boy!

Celebrated Pentecost Sunday at church, where I first caught sight of the Sturdy Tree.

Read Dale's sermon for Pentecost and had a spirited conversation with my son about the inspiring words of Romans Chapter 8. There is therefore now no condemnation...

Traded a stranger for some equipment to set up my very own black and white darkroom (coming soon- fall 2015). If you'd like to see some of my digital B&W work, please click on the link here.

And in a dream, I saw the roots of the Sturdy Tree growing deeper, even as I slept.

Those roots, four generations strong...