Comfort in a Purl

This morning I've felt lazy. And, oddly enough, lazy often takes me to the porch with a book. But it needs to be a book that feels like it's in a different direction than where I've been going for the past week or month.

So I dug out Knit One, Purl a Prayer today, and took it to the side porch. Did you know I have two porches? Side and back.

On the back porch, I've been working hard, in so many ways. Including writing a book that feels both the same and different from what I've done in the past. Because it's fiction, it took a lot out of me. Having never written fiction before, I had to learn as I went along, and I was presuming to actually teach others how to write fiction, so it had to be good. Pressure, pressure.

Now, I always feel a sense of peace on the back porch, but I knew that had been tainted just a bit, because of all the hard work I've been doing there. So I went to the side porch, and here I am.

As you may remember, I've been aching for solitude this past year. And I've honored that ache, and it still remains.

Yet I know there will come a time. A re-entry. I've been wondering what that might look like, and I still don't have a clear picture. To that, this morning I am comforted by two things from Knit One, Purl a Prayer.

The first is a communal knitting project a woman kept in her home. It wasn't pretty; it was useful. Anyone who came into her home could practice on it, no pressure to be good. Just learn.

And so as I wonder about my solitude and my re-entry, I take this image to heart. It is okay to just knit my way, as if in the home of a generous woman with her communal knitting-piece. Did you know God might have such a piece too, somehow? I think maybe God does. We might not need to know exactly where we are going, to put our hands to growing in this life.

The second thing that comforts me from Knit One is the amazing community that apparently exists around the pastime of knitting. There are groups you can join. It's a little like church without the preaching, as some of these groups offer the chance to have spiritual connections with others not only through sharing a craft and stories but also through giving to the world.

It's almost amusing for me to think about maybe someday joining a knitting group. It's been so long since I've knitted. And maybe I won't join such a group, but I am reminded that community and the chance to give-back can be found in the most unexpected places, if we are seeking a chance to belong and bless. To this end, yes, I might even read Knitting for Peace: Make the World a Better Place One Stitch at a Time.

For now, though, I'm just sitting on the side porch. It's quiet here this morning. And, for now, that's the way I'm still knitting-my-way. Taking the quiet into my hands and holding it near.

Swallow What You Have Tasted

Gazing on God. If it sounds abstract, then perhaps we need a concrete way to come to it.

In Chapter 5 of Sanctuary of the Soul, Foster suggests three ways...

• behold in Creation
• listen to worship music
• sit in silence

If I were to put deeper words to this, I would take us to the biblical festivals that eventually informed the Church Calendar. I would take us especially to Sukkot.

During Sukkot, the people of Israel built huts outdoors. The huts were mostly open to the sky. And here they spent time eating and sleeping, the very air and its currents reminding them of Spirit breath. Tasty fruits, vegetables, song, silent nights under the stars: it was all there.

My church tradition has very little connection to such ancient festivals or even a modern Church Calendar. And many a day I think this is why we can't, as Foster quotes it, "swallow what [we] have tasted." Or maybe we can't even taste to begin with.

I've done little things with my own family, to try to recapture such concrete experiences of God. But I do wish for a wider community that could teach and support and extend such ways... to help me taste, and see, and swallow the glory of God.

Healing in My Inbox

I feel almost there.

Just a few leftover aches around the ankles. Just some minor fatigue.

What brings us to health? So many things. Eating well, sleeping, and laughing (in my case, I watched Mr. Bean every night for a few weeks straight.)

And you.

Your sweet sentiments, prayers, emails, flowers.

Yes, flowers. In my inbox. The ones you see here are from A Simple Country Girl. She had given me some advice on supplements (which I followed) and she was checking in to see how I was feeling.

And she sent me flowers. Big, big flowers. I scrolled down slowly, taking them in bit by bit. My breath caught when I reached the bottom of the picture and saw a few leaves fallen. It reminded me of how fragile we are, and how much love we need in our fragility.

Thank you all for granting me your bouquets of love.


Autumn Flowers photo by A Simple Country Girl. Used with permission.

The Gift of Coming Home

I am in my own bed.

Sometimes I forget what a beautiful thing that is.

On my bedside table are the flowers picked by my children and my "adopted daughter" (girl who I love because she is lovable... a neighbor's child who makes me laugh and who keeps my own children company). I could see from the bouquet's constitution that there had been a visit to my yard and two other neighbors' yards (one neighbor is in France, and I sincerely hope she will not mind the filching of a rose for my sake).

The rose especially fills my senses.

This is what I missed in the hospital. There, the smells were sickly, like the lingering scent of a room cleaned up after death. It clung to the sheets, so I tried to breathe through my mouth instead. I am overly sensitive to fragrances, so the smells were a special kind of unhappiness for me.

I am okay it seems. My legs hurt impossibly and I can't walk very well— a result of inflammation we never got answers about. My fever is gone and I can almost think again.

I realize I will probably never catch up with all the kind people who have left (and may still leave) comments on my blogs over the past week and a half. It's too much. I will have to let it go and hope that people understand.

While I was in a rented bed, I forgot to be afraid. I feel like that was some kind of mistake on my part. Instead, I lay listening to French music and dreaming of dancers. I talked on the phone to a few friends who made me laugh.

And I counted the hours until I could come home.


Bouquet near Hospital Bracelet photo, by L.L. Barkat.

Together in the Woods

Remember when I said I am not alone on this journey?

It's true.

This past week I found new companions, Amanda and Julie (daughter and mom poets).



And I received comfort from someone I've known on-line. Oh, but wasn't it great to see, to put our hands together, Kathleen?



Who knows where we'll keep traveling together after meeting at a conference, in the woods of California. Who knows...


Redwoods and Hands photos, by L.L. Barkat.

A Gift While I Rested

Sometimes a fellow traveler offers you a gift. She might live a mile away, or she (and her sisters) might live on the other side of a continent.




Her mother might put the gift in a little basket, cover it with a linen cloth, and set it beside you while you are taking a rest.




That's what Kathleen Overby did for me. These photos were taken by her daughter Tessa, who recently "restored" with her sisters at a rustic cabin. The photos, said Kathleen, were a gift from the girls, to "honor [my] yes."




I asked, could I share them with others, for we are not alone. And they graciously agreed.


Photos by Tessa Overby. Used with permission.

Laura in the Moss

Sometimes things come together. You don't know how, or why.

Like this. A week ago, I walked through woods, noting how the seeds on trees were hung, dry and in their various shapes... like grapes, or lady's fingers dangling.

Suddenly, at my feet, moss. Brilliant, soft. And upon the moss, a sprig of berries, red. Like accidental Christmas. Whimsy.

Tonight I sat to take it down in soft pastel. But the whimsy joined with a joy of knowing Laura. Psychologist, writer, new poet... a gift to me... as the berries to the moss, at the side of the trail, unexpected.


Laura in the Moss, in soft pastel, by L.L. Barkat.

_____

Join us in celebrating others at HighCallingBlogs...



THE 12 DAYS:
1. Mary's Advent
2. Laura in the Moss (this post)
3. Social Media Guys
4. Snow-White Butterfly Tree
5. Butterflies and Parties
6. Let Me Not Forget
7. Hey, Have I Met You?

Mary Claire's Accident

Mary Claire ripped her dress.

Or, more accurately, the chair ripped Mary Claire's dress. Mahogany wood snagged black chiffon, kissed a smooth ruffle... and...

But maybe it is not fair to blame this ruin on the wooden chair. Didn't Lydia want to know, How can a person sing like that? Wasn't she the child moved almost to tears by a song whose story she learned, but whose Italian words she couldn't even understand? Still, I was the one who called out to Mary Claire, "Come, the girls want to meet you."

With one quick movement she came. Sat next to my littlest child. Leaned in. Explained the vagaries of Carmen in gentle words the children could understand, without too much understanding. She came and asked them, "Do you like to sing?" She answered their questions. And, too, she told us how she sang in an opera before ever going to an opera. Mary Claire sat with us, with little girls, and she laughed and she whispered low and she gestured.

No, I am quite sure of it now. Mary Claire came. She came, and in coming, she ripped her dress.

Mary Claire's Dress, in soft pastel, by L.L. Barkat.

Lydia's Treasures

I am not alone.

This is quite different from my year of solitude. Solitude brings clarity, yes. Hones observation. Probes the heart. But it is lonely. Some journeys are like that; so lonely you can taste your tears long after you've left the road.

But I am not alone on this art pilgrimage.

Last night, I brought little girls with me, my two daughters and a friend. To experience 'living art'... fine Italian food, ivory napkins and silver, and an opera singer. We laughed and talked. Lydia brought forth her treasures and set them on the table. "I found this under my bed, that at the AC Moore parking lot. I can't remember where the stone came from..."

And when the last song's final notes drifted off, practically the whole restaurant singing "Climb Any Mountain" with Mary Claire the opera singer, my eldest daughter was beaming. "The end, Mommy, I was trying to write it in my head as if we were in a story. I mean, what it felt like. Mommy, it was... it was like floating." Then she leaned into me, and that too was a treasure.

I am not alone. This is a together journey.





Photos: Mary Claire Sings; Girl Hands; Lydia's Treasures by L.L. Barkat

Harvest Song

Bind us together, in
ache and space of
silence.

Together, bind us,
in tumble of words,
beginnings ever afters.

In song, bind us, in cry
and swoon, cadence
of verse, together.

Us together, bind,
in life that turns on life
and back again.

Bind. Us. Together.
Golden sheaf, fat against
the fire of dying sun.

Together, us. Bind
and lace with holy
cord, chafing grace.

This prayer was inspired by a post I did over at High Calling Blogs, called Together Road.