Tag: Faith

Lightning

~ Linda Wright ~ 1 Comment

When my father would hear the first rumble of thunder, he would often gather us all into the car and drive to the highest point of land where we could get the best view. If it weren’t possible to chase the storm, Dad would position himself on the covered patio on the side of our garage. He would stand there, smoking his pipe, watching and listening attentively. The display of electricity as the sparks shot down from the sky and met the ground below never disappointed him.

It was with the deepest reverence and respect that I learned to watch the bursts of light cutting through the clouds. Even today, I find myself counted the seconds off between the audible jolts of sound that precede and follow the long, jagged, tentacles of sparks. It is hot meeting cold, positive crashing against negative. It is energy and brilliance being discharged so that it can be seen and heard. All the elements of wind, rain, sky and earth are present. Atmospheric scientists explain that the push of two sea breezes, one from the east and one from the west, force air upward. This is a common cause of lightning. The pressures of wind and gravity produce an enormous electrical potential.

It feels so much safer to surround myself with other people who share my values. I search for news reports that reflect opinions I already hold. I protect myself from the explosive power of opposites.

Not too long ago, I looked out the window to see two women walking towards the front door of my house. It was a cold, rainy morning. The two women were carrying pamphlets and I had a moment of panic as the doorbell rang. Should I just pretend that there is no one home and let them leave their religious tracts by my door? They looked almost as surprised as I did when instead I opened the door wide and invited them to step inside. For a moment, I felt their surprise and indecision, as I had when I saw them come walking down my path. When I risk conflict, I can feel the pressure rise. Often, I can see it rising from the other side too.

The two women chose not to be tempted by the warmth of my home. Returning to their preset agenda, they stood outside in the drizzle and offered me a pamphlet. I declined to accept their gift. We all missed the energy of the opposite forces pushing against each other. We all missed the possibility of conflict and the potential of transformation.

New Years Eve

~ Linda Wright
 

There are ghosts on New Years Eve and hobgoblins too. I am sure of it. Like All Hallows Eve and Mardi Gras, it is a night to celebrate chaos, drunkenness and the seven deadly sins: wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony. My personal favorites are sloth and gluttony, However, I wonder if righteous indignation can be counted as wrath. If so, it would be at the top of my list.

My father used to say that one can only appreciate joy to the extent that one has known sorrow. I say that one can only be thankful for health to the degree that one has experienced disease and injury. Perhaps we can only value the potential for creation in our future after we have fallen into the abyss of chaos.

When I was a child, in bed and in pain from a bruised knee or swollen ankle, my father would say, “Things will be better in the morning.” They often were. Tomorrow will be the beginning of a new calendar year. Tonight the end of the old year is calling darkness and fear. Tomorrow, I will lean towards the future, but tonight I must embrace the past.

Here We Go ‘Round The Mulberry Bush

~ Linda Wright ~ 1 Comment

“This is the way we wash our clothes
Wash our clothes, wash our clothes
This is the way we wash our clothes
So early Monday morning”

Today as I was gathering up the soiled clothes and towels, I found myself humming this old nursery rhyme that I used to sing as a child. I remembered the lyrics about the housework scheduled for each day of the week.

It’s not much work for me to do the laundry. It does not take the time my mother spent using a wringer washing machine. With that machine, each garment had to be hand fed through the rolling cylinders in order to squeeze out the water before it could be hung up to dry. My maternal grandmother set large tubs of water to boil on the wood stove in order to wash the laundry for her family. After the soiled items were sterilized, they were scrubbed against a tin washboard.


The nursery rhyme continues to name each day of the week with each task that ordered my mother’s and my grandmother’s lives: ironing on Tuesdays, mending on Wednesdays, sweeping floors on Thursdays and then scrubbing floors on Fridays. Saturday was for bread making. This work was predictable, unlike so many other things in life. It brought order, improved health and nourishment for their families. It is no surprise to me that the song ends with:

“This is the way we go to church
Go to church, go to church
This is the way we go to church
So early Sunday morning.”


Meaningful work followed by a day of Sabbath, rest and worship, makes sense to me. Work that brings organization to chaos is inspiring. Life-sustaining work should feed the body, mind and spirit. It also gives me a greater appreciation for times when I can rest, rejoice and play.

I know many people who dislike the work they do, or who are forced to hold jobs that degrade their spirit and leave them feeling angry, frustrated and diminished. Some people feel what they do is little more than circling around a mulberry bush over and over again without meaning.

A few years ago, after I had a hemorrhagic stroke, I was lucky enough to be able to retire from the work that I had done for 30 years. I am still younger than most who are retired. Many of my friends were jealous, although I have not found one who would choose to have a stroke in order to be relieved from her labors. It took me some time to recover from the stroke and my gratitude for the gift of that time away from work was profound. It gave me an opportunity to reflect on the work that I accomplished in my life and what it meant to me and for others. It was not as easy to see that when I was actually working.

There is lots of work to be done in this world, many ways to be of use. It did not take me long to discover new and different ways that I could still be useful. Now, I have learned to appreciate work for its ability to fill my spirit, not just my days.

Lift Every Voice and Sing!

~ Linda Wright ~ 1 Comment

This morning I could hear a voice outside my window. At first, I thought it was one of our young neighbors singing and happily unaware that the tune was drifting on the wind to my ears. Then, the voice became louder and more powerful. I realized that it was not a child, but an adult singing. How rare, I thought to hear a solitary and spontaneous song coming in my window. The voice came from a woman who was gardening. When I looked out the window, I could see that she was listening to tunes with a headset, unaware of the musical energy that she was creating for others to hear. Absorbed in the music as she dug into and pounded the earth, she seemed as if propelled by it. She was rejoicing in the moment and unaware of any outer or inner censor that might have told her to hush.

In my life, I have met two people who told me that they actually thought in music. One of these was a woman who often whistled or hummed songs aloud. In this way, clever listeners could actually read her mind by listening to what tunes came from her lips.

Most of the time the thoughts that drift through my head are in the form of words. Yet, often in the morning as I awaken it is with a song in my head. Music is often in harmony with my mood rather than my thoughts. When my mother was in the last weeks of her life, I heard music in my head that I had not heard for many years. The tunes were the lullabies that she had sung to me as a child and the music that had given me spiritual solace in times of pain.

When I was undergoing a strenuous medical regime a few years ago, I asked a friend to mail me a CD of healing songs. She had intended to use her own voice, yet she invited a child who was visiting her that day to participate. My friend’s songs were lovely and soft. The little girl spontaneously composed several tracks and these were tender even mournful at times. The refrain of the child’s song was, “Pretty blue sky, why are you blue?” The child, who was just reaching an age where she was becoming self-conscious, began to laugh with a mix of embarrassment and joy at her singing. The laughter was a clear note in the chords of the blues she sang.

My cousin B tells me that she believes the blues have the most meaning for her. One of her photos is inserted with this post. When I look at it, I can almost hear the music and it lifts my spirit.

The Rose

~ Linda Wright

The only time I remember speaking with my Great Uncle Midge was when I was 14 years old and he was 91. I was in Nova Scotia with my parents to visit family and someone mentioned that Midge was in a nursing home and could use a visitor.

I didn’t want to go; in fact, the thought of meeting this aged relative for the first time frightened me a bit. I went anyway. Midge had been sent to the nursing home to recuperate after falling off his hay wagon. I was also told that during the previous winter he had gotten into a fistfight with one of his neighbors. Both of the elderly men wanted to be the one to shovel out the snow from around the house of a woman who had recently been widowed. I was somewhat shocked to hear about a man who had lived 91 years still mowing hay and fighting over a woman.

The bed Uncle Midge lay on was in the sunroom of the nursing home and his face spread out a welcoming smile when I sat down beside him. “You’re Horace’s daughter, aren’t you?” he said. Until then, I’d been told that I looked more like my mother than my father. I was surprised and very impressed that by looking at me, he could so quickly identify my place in the family. Then he said, “I’m old and probably going to die soon, but I don’t mind. I’ve lived a great life.” As I recall I could think of no response.

Then he proceeded to talk about our family. “You know,” he said, “we have a lot of ministers in our family but, it’s not our fault.” I giggled at his assessment, but he seemed quite serious and continued. One by one, he named each relative who had joined the clergy. Moreover, one by one he said, “Now he wasn’t our fault. He took after his mother, you know.” Or, for several he said, “He wasn’t our fault, because he always favored his father.” In each case, he ruled out any responsibility to our lineage. It was a large family, but to my knowledge, he didn’t miss one who had been called to the ministry. By the time he was done, he seemed quite content to have offered me proof and I was barely containing my laughter.

Now, I believe that he was trying to get the reaction from me that he did. He was trying to get his teenage grandniece to giggle. Perhaps, he was also trying to get me to let go of a few stereotypes and open my heart a bit more.

As the conversation ended, he thanked me for coming and announced that his lady friend (the woman he had won that fistfight over last winter) was about to arrive. He indicated that he wanted me to go now. As I was leaving his bedside, in walked a woman with white hair, no teeth and a big smile. She was caring a single rose.