I suppose I’m a church geek. Maybe it comes from having written liturgy, designing a worship service, or being in a church choir. I’ll often browse the hymnal looking at inclusive language (not exclusively male pronouns for God), or hymns that I haven’t met before. Way in the back of the book where the indices are is my go-to spot. There’s the song titles, tune titles, first lines, metrical indices. The New Century Hymnal that my home church uses has an index by the revised common lectionary, a three year pattern of scripture readings for every Sunday and hymns that are thematically connected.

I was at a memorial mass for a former colleague from work earlier this week, and there’s a part in the mass where non-Catholics have time to look around. I pulled the hymnal out and started to browse the topical index. You might remember that I’m going to preach a sermon in March on the topic of forgiveness. So I was looking for a hymn or two about forgiveness. First pass through the ‘F’s’ and I couldn’t find forgiveness. Second pass through and I couldn’t find it. I was looking for a larger section, as forgiveness is rather a large part of Christianity. But there it was: Forgiveness — see Mercy, Reconciliation.

That’s been playing in my head this week ever since. Forgiveness — see Mercy.

Oh, I did find find a new tune: A Taizé song called God is Forgiveness.

But Forgiveness — see Mercy, that was a priceless find.

I receive therapy for my mental health. I’m way better than I was two years ago, and it’s been a really long time since I’ve felt this good. And still, I see my therapist.

The other day, I spent a lot of time in the car driving around picking up things for my work. I was thinking of this question: Why therapy? There are too many catalytic events that can cause mental illness to list. I think about mental health quite a bit. When I look back over the times when I’ve been severely depressed, I can pick out circumstances or triggers. This caused that. Simple. Except it’s not. This is why I have this theory of catalytic mental illness. Like a catalyst in a chemical reaction, it’s often just a little thing that can have a huge effect. Sometimes, a lot of littler things, but still it adds up.

Epoxy is a resin combined with a hardener. The resin is this goopy sticky stuff that stays goopy until you add a tiny amount of the catalyst that sets off a reaction that turns the resin into a solid. It’s magical in a way, but it’s really just chemistry. A good bit of mental illness is just chemistry. Neurochemistry. I take some drugs that alter my neurochemistry, and I do things like getting out into nature, writing and going to therapy that also alter my neurochemistry.

Most people who will read this gets it. You’ll have also journeyed through depression and so you can relate to what I’m saying here. To put this another way, take a look at your hands. You’ve probably scraped them on something in your past. Maybe you’ve had a cut, or a splinter, or that tiny whisker of a wire that you can barely see that sticks out just enough to cause pain. Or that split in your skin right by a fingernail. Sticking out like a sore thumb is an idiom that’s grounded in the protective mechanism that we all use. Gash your hand really bad and you’ll rush to the emergency department for medical care. Splinters and what not can often be dealt with by yourself, but sometimes they get infected and you need to resort to medications to help the healing along. Occasionally, some scar tissue or a cyst will form around a wound from long ago, and only an expert can help remove it.

I feel like I use my hands a lot. I can get pretty cut up over time. On occasion, I can wear gloves to protect my hands, but often they just get in the way. Maybe, if you never used your hands they’d never get hurt. Maybe, if you always wore gloves they’d never get hurt. Maybe.

I’m really fortunate to have someone that help heal my hands when things get stuck in them, or they get infected. At some point, in a few months or a year from now, I’ll see my therapist much less often. Or something else will happen and plans will change. The future is the now that hasn’t happened yet.

I am rather liking this feeling good, while still being sensitive enough to feel pain. I am taking better care of myself these days, and I’m pretty certain that getting to that place is partially due to store-bought chemistry. And therapy, because I want to stay feeling good enough to stay.

Up around six this morning, the cottage dark and still. Quietly, I switch on the light over the sink as dimly as it can be. I wrap the coffee grinder in three towels, and hold it tightly to my body to make it as quiet as it can be. Filter in the basket, ground coffee in the filter, water into the reservoir, I switch on the coffee maker. I take a seat on the sofa and look out towards the lake. Too dark to see anything other than pierhead lights blinking every six seconds six miles away. Too dark to see the tree trunks a few feet away from me. Too dark to see the waves that I hear crashing into shore.

Coffee finished, I pour a cup, and put half a scone on a plate and return to the sofa to resume the morning vigil. A sip of coffee, a nibble of scone and thirty minutes go by until the faint light makes the tree trunks visible. Still too dark to make out the sky, or the lake on beyond the trees. On the last sip of coffee in the cup, I can just see the line forming on the horizon separating the lake from the sky.

House still silent, everyone else still tucked in their beds, this is a time to be lost in my thoughts. This morning, though, I have no thoughts other than I really enjoy sitting here carefully observing the subtle minute-by-minute changes as the night transforms to dawn. My mind and cup are empty. It’s time to refill the cup.

Fuzzy shapes begin to show near the trunks are all I can make out of the branches that I know are there, barely visible in this pre-dawn illumination. The treehouse appears out of the darkness, and three distinct shades of grey, the snow on the bluff, the dark grey of the lake, and the lighter shade of the sky are my backdrop for trees in the foreground.

Variations of grey in the sky appear as I hear the soft padding of feet in my bedroom. Shortly, I hear a cupboard opened, and a mug set on the counter in front of the coffee pot. The refrigerator opens and I hear the sound of half-and-half being poured, followed by coffee.

Silently, she sits next to me on the sofa as two people now maintain the morning vigil. Twigs and grasses can be seen now, and the sky reveals that it’s cloudy again. The faint patterns of the waves can be seen now as we talk as quiet as we can as to not wake up the others.

In just minutes, this spell will be broken and the day will begin.

This is the first Christmas season for this blog. My eldest son’s birthday is just ten days before Christmas, and I clearly remember that first Christmas when our family became larger. The baby’s first Christmas ornaments on the tree. Our exhaustion and fatigue that carried over from moving in to our first house just five weeks before into a level of feeling barely competent to care for this little human being. The Advent and Christmas stories, the waiting for the birth of our Christopher and waiting for the birth once-again of Jesus, changed that year for us. Christmas changes when you have children, as you retell the old stories and see the season through a young person eyes.

‘More ‘ights, more ‘ights,’ was the cry of the two year old as he grieved the end of Christmas, when the light displays were switched off, the decorations put away, and the bleak mid-winter regained its hold. Not yet ready to slip back to the darkness of winter, his call of ‘‘more ‘ights, more ‘ights” continued through to the end of January.

As we have steadily moved in our orbit around the sun, and the sun apparently dips to its lowest zenith of the year, I, too, cry out for more light. November and December are tough months here. Less than one third of the daylight hours are sunny. It’s when I have to bring out the artificial sunshine to help displace the gloom. Seasonal affective disorder or SAD is what they call it. I call it the normal adaptation of mammals to the winter season when our bodies say it’s time to hibernate.

I feel good going into these darker days. Better by far than two years back when seemingly all of the audacity of hope was sucked away.

I went to a Blue Christmas service this past Sunday. Not so much for me this time, as I’m in a better place. There were the mothers and wives grieving the deaths by suicide. The sister grieving her sister’s family lost over Lockerbie thirty years ago. And perhaps more tragic than all, the young woman that lost her family this year, disowned by her family because of who she is. She’s a courageous woman that just found a new family in the church.

Finally, if you haven’t already put the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline number in your phone: (800) 273-8255 — please do so. You or someone you love may need it. And in your Christmas and New Year’s gatherings, perhaps you can share it with just one other person.

I don’t know how to write. I think writers must have these words and phrases all figured out in their heads before they sit down with their notebook or laptop. Words and phrases just waiting to be spilled out onto paper. Only rarely do I have the words. Most of the time, I have a picture, an image, maybe a little dream fragment that lingers and these are what I try to describe with words.

I have a part-time job that I drive to on a weekly basis. It’s seventy five miles away. On a good day, it’s an hour and fifteen. When the traffic is horrendous, it’s two hours. I find myself, lately, driving in silence for at least the first hour. In the past, I’d have the radio on for company, but nowadays I use the time to think.

I written before about bicycling, and how ‘inner truths’ come into my mind whilst the rational brain part is focused on all the details of bicycling. I think I’m doing the same thing now when driving. Most of the time, my driving is automatic and everything is being handled without intervention. It’s then when the inner truth telling begins.

I know exactly why the image came to be in my dream. A strange image of ‘then now’ and ‘now now’ rolled together without any passing of time. I’m sure it was because I looked through my photo library over the past ten years, collecting photos for a project. The dream image was of me picking up glass from a framed photo that I had knocked to the floor. The glass pieces were super sharp and all of my fingers were cut, blood dripping onto the floor, the glass, the photo. I was thinking about picking up the photo and sliding the glass pieces into the bin, but I was certain that the glass would slash through the photo and ruin it in the ‘then now’. I get a metallic taste in my mouth when I’m bleeding, and this dream image was complete with the taste of blood. And in the same moment, in the dream state, my now healed fingers were gently picking up the pieces of glass, placing the shattered glass in the garbage.

I’m left with this broken picture frame, a slightly cut and blood spattered photo, and questions. Should I try to repair the frame? Throw it all out and let it go, to try to forget any of it happened? Tuck the photo into a box and hold onto it for some as-yet-unknown reason?

I suppose part of the way I’m feeling is from doing my current job: repairing old things. Like I can go back in time and fix the problems that I created. In some way, if I did the best I could at the time, if I can take it a little less personally, if I can give myself the gift of love, of self-forgiveness, it’ll be better.

 

Our twenty year old washing machine broke over three weeks ago. In the past, I would ordered a refurbished control board, possibly a new water pump, and for a third of the price of a new machine we’d be back in business in about a week. The design of our old washer made it very easy to repair. Alas, it’s too old now, and parts were unavailable. A new washer was ordered of the same make.

It took some time for the machine to arrive from the distributor to the warehouse. Enough time that I had to make a laundry run over to our church where, after a recent remodeling, a washer and dryer had been installed. I did a couple of loads there to tide us over.

After our hopes were dashed a week ago when the hoped-for washer didn’t arrive on the truck at the warehouse, we were quite ready for the new one to arrive yesterday. The twin peaks, the overflowing mountains of laundry, the clothes that had been deemed dirty, but not too dirty, the towels and sheets that really needed a good washing, all of these moved downstairs queued in front of the washer.

As I moved load after load into the washer, the dryer, then folded, hung up, or otherwise put away, I kept having these thoughts: my family is really fortunate. Yes, it was inconvenient to do without a washer for nearly a month’s time. But, we were fortunate to have enough clothing for a couple of weeks of wear. Fortunate to have a place we could go to wash clothing for no cost. Fortunate to be able to absorb the cost of a new machine without going without food, utilities or medicine.

This is a season where Madison Avenue preaches the sermon of need and greed. ‘You need more stuff’; ‘You need new stuff’; ‘Give stuff to people so they know you care’

It is the season of Advent in the Christian church. The season of waiting for a new life to be born in a manger, and, indeed, in each of us.

It was sunny today in Lansing, and it’s been about a week since the last sunny day.
This pretty much normal for winter in Michigan. I was sitting in the waiting room at my therapist’s office yesterday thinking about my answers to the usual questions: How’s my mood been lately? Have I been sleeping okay?

November has been really cloudy, and it’s reflected in my mood. Yes, I spend an hour with my artificial sunshine every day, and yes, I’m taking vitamin D. The thought came to me as I was sitting: I better schedule some unscheduled time for myself. I haven’t been doing my best with self-care and I’m feeling it these gloomy days. Other things come up and my unscheduled unscheduled time gets filled with some other thing that needs to be done. So, just like I have scheduled therapy sessions through to the end of the year, I’m scheduling time to take care of myself. Time away into what passes for silence in an urban setting. Quiet time for observations, reflections, some writing and some time to take photos.

I hadn’t noticed if the weather forecast was calling for sunshine today, but I seized the afternoon after grocery shopping. It was a bit icy on the river trail but I got almost an hour of real sunshine and nearly ten miles of bicycling. That was my unscheduled scheduled unscheduled time, and it really helped.

I’ve decided to re-frame how I think about my bicycling. For the past couple of years, I have felt disappointed that I hadn’t ridden more, certainly not as much as I am able to ride. I ride more than once a week, and I usually ride more than ten miles when I do – why be disappointed with that?

I noticed I didn’t give you answers to the usual questions. I’m holding on for the winter solstice and longer days. And I could probably sleep from dusk to dawn, but I don’t because my back wouldn’t like all that laying around.

I’m starting work on a sermon that I will deliver in about four months. I can’t even imagine how pastors can write and deliver sermons week after week. The topic that I was given was forgiveness.

I, of course, started by entering forgiveness into the Google search engine. I was delighted by the number of articles, books and resources available. I discovered the International Forgiveness Institute.

It didn’t take me long to realize that I’m better at forgiving others than forgiving myself. So, my main point will focus on self-forgiveness. I chatted with a couple of people at church and found that staying forgiven is a problem for them as well. You see, we forgive ourselves for something, and it sticks for awhile, and then some part of my brain reaches up to pull it all down again, and I go through the process again. And again. And again.

Maya Angelou has helped me out for the past couple of days. Such a brilliant, sensitive, person is Maya Angelou. Quote #1: Forgiveness is a gift that you give yourself. Quote #2 is similar: You can ask forgiveness of others, but in the end the real forgiveness is in one’s own self.

Now, and my assignment that I will also pass along to you so you can help me: I’m looking for illustrations in literature and scriptures that name someone being forgiven. I won’t promise that I’ll include your ideas, or even if my current idea will be my final draft.

Put them in the comments or email them to me. I’ve got time to make about forty drafts of this sermon, and I’ll share it with you once it’s finished.

I’m grateful for my reader/listener/supporters – YOU. Thanks for taking the time to read my periodical musings.

Harold

All the leaves are brown and the sky is grey. There’s snow coming this weekend, I’m sad to say. It was sunny and in the 80’s by the bay. Not even close here today.

We been back in Michigan for about a week, and I think I’ve only seen the sun for a few hours. In Mountain View, it was only cloudy for a few hours in the nine days we were there. It was a delightful break to the impending winter in Michigan. The cool mornings passed into warm to even hot afternoons. I was surprised to see some trees changing color. I anticipated seeing the brown landscape. Flying over the Sierra Nevada’s, you could see the snow at the higher elevations, but mainly it was brown. The first morning in California, we traveled to the San José Museum of Art.
To my Michigan eyes, the landscape was parched. This was an adjustment, as were the palm trees. Our body clocks shifted dramatically that night as we went a tech. rehearsal for Caberet in Sunnyvale. An amazingly smooth rehearsal for the first rehearsal on stage with orchestra. That said, we got home around midnight local time (3am Michigan time). The cast was excellent, and I hope the show is well attended.

The tall redwood trees in Big Basin the next day were also astonishing. I felt so incredibly young and very small in comparison. These trees have stood for centuries. I’m so glad they have been preserved in a state park.

We borrowed bicycles and went for a nice ride on our Friday in California along the western shore of the bay. In the marshes, the wildlife and birds were amazing. The paths we took felt like a real network for commuting and recreation.

Saturday, we stayed closer to home, having lunch and a museum tour with dear friends, visited Andrea’s cider house in San Carlos and had an early evening. We sang on Sunday with our son’s church choir, and went for an afternoon bike ride for ice cream.

Monday, we headed north over the Golden Gate Bridge, along the coast and into wine country to pick up a case of wine. Tuesday, a train ride to San Francisco for an early lunch and play at the Exploratorium. Wednesday, we traveled to Santa Cruz, spending time in the tidal pools, with the monarch butterflies, picked up lunch and sat on the Davenport Bluffs to eat it. In the distance, humpback whales surfaced to breathe.

It was a delightful trip, spending time with Chris and Andrea, eating well with all of the fresh foods in season (when in Michigan, we have potatoes and apples at the farmer’s market). The pace was slower than our first trip five years ago and that was really good. Having warmth and sunshine deep into October is almost a culture shock, and I could sense how my mood had raised up being there.

Naturally, our arrival in Michigan was in darkness and damp. So, we’ll hunker down, and persevere until Spring comes next April. Using artificial light to hold off the gloom, it’s only six months until sailing season.

And we will dream of our next visit to family and friends in the big and beautiful state of California. (Not five years away, I hope.)

Sailing season has ended for me. It’s altogether too brief in Michigan. If one is lucky, the boat is ready by the middle of May. By the middle of October, it’s time. The trees near the lake have only a hint of fall color, as the warmish water postpones the colors seen inland. It’s cold. It’s windy. The daylight is hours shorter than mid-Summer.

In Spring, there’s anxiety. A date has been set for launch, not in stone, but fairly firmly. Can we get everything that must be done ‘on the hard’ (out of the water) before launch. Most often, yes. This past year we had to delay it a few days because we weren’t ready.

In the Autumn, the sailing days are less frequent. The best days feel like I’m stealing something from the season. I had that day early in October when I sailed six hours with Mari. The worst days are the ones where I feel like the boat should have been hauled out two weeks earlier. It is a season of sadness and regret. Regret for those sailing promises made in the Spring, but not kept. Sadness because there’s seven months before I can be on the water again. This year, haul out day was miserable. Wind gusting 40 knots, rain and snow mixed. 39º F. Marcia sprained her right ankle.

Sadness because the days are short, the sunlight dim. My seasonal affective adaptation comes into play. I want to stay in bed. I want to be warm. I want to hibernate. My very bright light comes out onto the breakfast table. More vitamin D is taken. I make plans for next year so I have a goal to work towards. Without something to look forward to, winter would last forever.

But onward we go, projects will be planned and parts acquired. I’ll visit Arcturus every month or so, try to find the best days to work on things. Hope for a mild winter, and a pleasant March to get her ready as soon as possible.