An Altar I Didn't Know I Needed

The entryway to our home has never been an important space. A space in which I’ve wanted to linger. A space into which I’ve wanted to welcome guests. It’s simply been a space through which to pass, multiple times, as we go about our daily rounds.

I am a person to whom space matters, and yet somehow transforming this small but central space escaped my attention. Until it didn’t.

As with most things, its transformation began with one thing. A photo of the logging road that we have been hiking faithfully ever since the pandemic. It began simply as a way to build our endurance, but over the course of walking that same path, witnessed by those same trees, it has become a kind of pilgrimage. A holy trek upon ground that will faithfully bear whatever we carry, and somehow lighten, and enlighten us in the process. Next came a drawing of Mt. Adams, the mountain in whose shadow we sit, and upon whose slopes we’ve climbed with people we love. Finally, a picture capturing the partnership Tom and I have somehow managed to build, despite our many flaws and foibles, over our thirty years of loving each other. A trip to Pottery Barn for inspiration yielded just the narrow table needed, at a floor model price. Shopping our home resulted in a small lamp to shed soft light, a glass candle holder first purchased for the weddings of a couple of daughters, acorns gathered as symbols of new life to come, a tiny vial of holy oil as we are all in need of healing, and art pieces made by loving hands.

The space was completed on January 19th.

On January 20th, as we headed out to the porch for our morning coffee in the dark, I lit the candle to remind us of the light that will shine in any darkness, no matter how black. In that moment, that transformed space became an altar.

An altar I didn’t know I needed. Until I did.

The altar is now the place upon which to set my prayers. All of them. A space upon which to lay down the burdens of my sadness and grief and pain and fear, leaving them in hands much greater than mine. It is also the space upon which I place my thanks, my faith in the Love that is greater than any evil, and my gratitude for the privilege of being alive. Right now. At this exact moment in our shared history.

All left at the altar, my heart has the space to take in all the beauty, wonder, joy, and love found in the world around and within me.

All left at the altar, I can better encounter the world with a willing heart, an open mind, a ready laugh, the tears that need to be shed, and hands ready to do what is mine to do. To actively work to create a world, and a country, that I want to inhabit.

All left at the altar, I can be present to who and what are before me. To, in the words of Diana Butler Bass, go out and Love relentlessly.

I didn’t know I needed an altar.

Until I did.

Maybe you might need one too.

(Written with gratitude to Katie M for helping me bring the altar into being.)

In A Word

Sitting in the dark, lit only by a few candles and the lights on our tree, the voice leading me through an end-of-the-year reflection asked me to come up with a word that was representative of the year about to end. A word instantly came to mind, but I didn’t like it, In fact, I hated it and tried mightily to land on another one that felt less painful. Less hard. Less awful. Words like surrender, submit, give in (I know, that’s two words, but I was desperate). But try as I might, I couldn’t. The only word that rang true was loss.

Who wants a year best described by the word loss? Not this girl.

Last Thursday I went to the audiologist for my annual hearing test. She is thorough, funny, and kind, and I was having a good time with her, until I wasn’t. After coming out of the booth where I’d been sitting repeating back the words coming through my headphones, she informed me that I’d lost more hearing than she likes to see in the two years since my last test. She referred me to an ENT to make sure there wasn’t something “more nefarious” causing it than the passing of the years. (Probably not given that the loss is equal on both sides, but we’ll see.) After adjusting my hearing aids to compensate for the loss, all of which falls within the range where most speech occurs, I left her office with her words ringing in my ears that are slowly losing their hearing.

Stopping in the rest room before heading to my car, I tucked my new, favorite, been looking for them for years, fleece lined, fingerless, New Zealand wool gloves that I’d purchased in Iceland under my arm as there was no place to set them in the stall. Standing up, I turned around and reached out to flush what turned out to be an auto-flusher, and came out of the stall with only one glove. I can only guess where it is now.

Getting into my car in the parking lot, all I could do was cry. At that point, I’m not sure which I was grieving the loss of more, my hearing or those damn gloves that I’ve been looking for my whole life

My hearing is just the latest in what feels like a series of losses. Things that I might not ever be able to get back, and most of them related to the number of years I’ve been on the planet. It’s been a hard pill to swallow, and yet I’m beginning to understand that loss can be good medicine for what ails me. Loss asks the hard questions. Can I show up with love and joy even when I don’t have as much of myself to show up with? Can I be grateful for what I still have rather than angry about what I don’t? Am I able to live into the truth that giving in to something is not the same as giving up on it? Is it possible for me to shine a light on what it looks like to age with grace even when things I’ve come to count on fall away? I hope so. No, I know so.

Loss is a part of life. It begins on the day we arrive on the planet, and doesn’t stop until we find ourselves on the other side.We are meant to lose our lives by giving them away.

Who wants a year best described by the word loss? I guess I do. That’s my word and I’m sticking to it.

The Dark Night

“The first fingers of light appear on the horizon, and ever so deftly and gradually, they pull the mantle of darkness away from the world.”

John O’Donohue - Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom

There are times when life so overwhelms us with grief, pain, fear, and loss that we don’t think we will survive. Some do not, and there is no room for judgement or criticism, only mercy and compassion. I have not inhabited their hearts, only my own, and the only reference I have is my own experience of being plunged into darkness, not knowing when even the faintest glimmer of light will appear.

In those dark nights, we are alone with our own hearts. No matter how much love and support we have surrounding us, no one can make our way for us as we wait for the light to appear. Others may walk with us, but they cannot walk for us. Others may help us bear our burden, but ultimately it is ours to carry. But the treasures of our darkness belong to us. Whatever we discover in the blackness of our night has the capacity to transform us in ways only possible when we have found our way to the dawn of our new day.

In the darkness, while we find ourselves alone, we would do well to remember that we bring with us all of our hard earned resources. Any strength, wisdom, faith, grace, and love that we have accumulated thus far will be our faithful companions, and will sustain us through the night. In her book, Learning To Walk in the Dark, Barbara Brown Taylor says, “…I have learned things in the dark that I could never have learned in the light, things that have saved my life over and over again, so that there is really on one logical conclusion. I need darkness as much as I need light.”

I’ve often wondered if the power that brought the world into being knew that we would need to find hope for a return of the light on a daily basis. That there is a deeper meaning behind the daily cloaking of the world in darkness, so that once again, we can be reminded of the illuminating light that is sure to follow.

The Joy Of Sadness

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.

Psalm 30:5

Joy is not the absence of sorrow.

Sorrow, however can be a gateway to joy.

There are few of us who look forward to pain and loss, much less the deep, dark emotions that accompany us in our  grief. It can be tempting to try and shorten our times of sadness, to move through them as swiftly as we can, and even to attempt to escape them altogether through our coping mechanisms of choice. But sorrow has a purpose. It isn’t meant to break our hearts, but to break them wide open. As I wrote in BLUSH: Women & Wine, There is a cleansing that takes place when we grieve with our whole hearts. By moving through it , rather than hiding from it, we come out the other side made more whole through our willingness to be broken.

Take heart.

Be courageous.

Weeping may endure for a night.

But joy is to be found in the mourning.

Silent Witness

"Pooh!" he whispered. 

"Yes, Piglet?" 

"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you."

~ Winnie the Pooh

Everything happens for a reason.

Absolutely.

Everything happens for a reason.

Whatever happens in our life is a result of something.

Everything happens for a reason.

Whatever happens isn’t being done to us to teach us a lesson.

Everything happens for a reason.

We learn through our response to whatever happens.

Everything happens for a reason.

A little collection of words so often and so lightly thrown out there when something painful, difficult, or unwanted occurs. Simple words that try and make sense of something that can’t yet be understood, and maybe never will be.

Everything happens for a reason.

And when it does, our silent witness can be more powerful than spoken words, and our companionship more comforting than cliches.

However cliche is may sound, actions usually do speak louder than words.

Good Grief

“It becomes hard to trust yourself.
All you can depend on now is that
Sorrow will remain faithful to itself.
More than you, it knows its way
And will find the right time
To pull and pull the rope of grief
Until that coiled hill of tears
Has reduced to its last drop.”

~ John O’Donohue (Excerpt from For Grief )

Love and loss walk hand-in-hand.

Whenever we open the door to love, we open it to grief as well.

Whenever we say yes to love, we say yes to pain as well.

Whenever we open our hearts to love, our hearts will eventually be broken open by loss as well.

Right now there are people near and dear to me who, having opened their hearts to love, are now having them broken open by loss. While their losses differ, are all deeply felt, and whether it is the loss of a friend, a relationship, a career, a pet, or a dream, they are in the midst of mourning, which my friend, the poet Ann Staley, calls “that ancient form of love”.

When my mom died almost 20 years ago, the church where we held her service was overflowing. My dad had chosen to have hers be an open casket, with time for any who wanted, to pass by and wish her well. Her grandchildren were all there, and my siblings and I had talked to them about what to expect should they visit her open casket. The choice was theirs to walk up and peek in on her or not. As of the beginning of the service they hadn’t yet decided. At the end of the service, all of these young cousins gathered together in the aisle, standing close, heads together, arms around one another, tears flowing freely. Then, as one, they walked up to the coffin, and surrounded the grandmother they loved. Each one, unknown to the others, had brought something to tuck into her coffin. A tiny ceramic squirrel, in honor of those pesky creatures that robbed the bird feeders outside my parents window. Small shells collected during an annual beach trip. Small individual mementos, of the small individual moments, that had shaped the loving memory, in which they collectively held her.

No one can really teach us how to grieve, but we can learn how to do it together.

There is a cleansing that takes place when we grieve with our whole hearts. By moving through it, rather than hiding from it, we come out the other side made more whole by our willingness to be broken. It is a good grief.

And so, we mourn. That ancient form of love.

Image and Small Vases by Kristine Van Raden