Via Beatta--the Blessed Way

This may well be a two-part reflection on Christmas in my small family as it is these recent years.  It depends on whether I decide that part 2, which will probably be a bit of a rant, is publishable to the public or better left in the pages of a private journal!  We shall see. Anyway, it is now Saturday, December 28, and I can gaze out the deck doors at the pastoral Colorado scene of mountains (smaller ones as we face west, down valley a bit from the peaks of Vail), snow-covered pastures with cows and horses, and the pond that has been cleared by my eldest son for pick-up hockey games.  A bit to the left is the Eagle River that roars along in the spring but is frozen and quiet today.     The house is elder son's with his wife and my two only grandsons.  It has been a lively three days, but this morning son 2 and I are left to our own devices--along with the two elderly animals.  Son 2 and the 14-year-old chocolate lab are out clearing the pond of last night's dusting

It is a glittery, glimmery morning.  The sun shines on yesterday's pure white snow, making tiny mirrors of the crystal flakes.  All of the lawn furnishings wear matching top hats, and     powder puffs of snow fall from tree branches and dance to the hillside on the breeze.        I look in vain for signs of wildlife.  But only one set of rabbit tracks crosses the patio.  And a circle of the cat's paw prints as she made a feeble attempt to brave this winter morning!  For a beast who lived the first year or more of her life out of doors, she has certainly adjusted to domestic comforts!  Now she is curled up on a bench, gazing quietly out the window.  There are no signs of wanting to play in the snow!      What a difference a bit of sun makes!  Yesterday was drab--the sky an uninterrupted steely gray.  Ugly stalks of summer wildflowers browned, bare black trees.  The only green were the throw rugs of moss on the hillside rocks.  All of those things were the same the day befor

As one who only shops out of necessity--not as as past time or bargain-hunting adventure, I have never participated in the Black Friday madness, whether it begins early in the morning on the day after Thanksgiving, midnight of Thanksgiving evening, or even all day long on that holiday as was the much-discussed practice this year.  The closest I get is marveling at the long line of cars waiting to the toll road at the outlet mall we pass on the way home from Thanksgiving dinner.  We try to estimate the length of the backup that is now accompanied by the flashing lights of police and security vehicles.  One year we figured it was at least two miles long.  And I breathe a sigh of relief that we are simply passing by in the other direction.      So, the day after Thanksgiving is a sort of liminal space for me, poised at it is at the change of seasons that is Advent.  I am, as is usually the case on this day, in Chicago.  And since the leaves have long since left the trees, I can gaze out

Goodness....  it took me a full month to get back to this post, and complete it.  not what I'd  call the perfect autumn day, though I hope there will be some Indian summer before winter arrives.  Today, an early hint of winter with frost on the windshields and riverside park lands. And sprinkles of snow!  Though my skiing son in the Colorado mountains will probably be thrilled, I do not look forward to the difficulties of getting around in the steep hills of Galena.  So, in the meantime, back to September moments: It is a perfect autumn morning.  Gentle sun, enough breeze to make the wind chimes sing and the golden leaves falling from the trees dance.  The cat has paused from her pursuit of chipmunks and is grooming herself on the lounge chair.  And I sip another cup of coffee before launching into the week. Today ends September, and I wistfully recall the words of the old classic, "September Song."  It was my dad's showpiece--always a request at our family sing-a

I have an old engagement calendar--a "Book of Days" from 1985 that I have kept all this while because it has Emily Dickinson poems and illustrations for each week.  I found it in a desk drawer recently and discovered that the days and weeks exactly match up with 2013.  So, it is now on my desk top where I can read the poems and reflect on the appointments I recorded nearly thirty years ago!      The first thing I notice is that I was using two colors of ink, turquoise for business, purple for personal.  They were from very fine point pens—I can remember just what they looked like.  I also notice that I remember all of the people whose names are jotted there and the exact point in my career that they represent.  I traveled a lot for work in those days, so there is a note to call the company travel agency to book a flight for an upcoming meeting.  Was it the convention in Reno or the conference in Washington, D.C.?  Or maybe one of the seminars in Nashville or Albuquerque.   

My mornings here in the log cabin are quiet. Birdsong, cat complaints, the wind chimes if there is a breeze.   Then comes the coffee!   The piercing whistle of the tea kettle.   The harsh crushing of the grinder.   I try to recover from this intrusion, standing beside the press pot, breathing in that first scent of burst beans, pouring the steaming water, waiting as the flavor blossoms--four minutes of patience before pressing and then, alleluia, the first hot sip!   It is a ritual of thankfulness.   For the morning, for a new day.   A touchstone before going forth to whatever blessings and demands await.      There have been mornings without the coffee ritual.   Trips back and forth to Chicago have caused me to lose track of supplies, awaking to an empty canister, or, horror of horrors, to the experimental jar of instant.   Trips--Kenya and Guatemala, coffee growing countries where it is all exported and we are left with little straws of Nescaf é .   (At least the Starbucks st

Yes, I am a coward.  Furthermore, I always think of what I should have said a day too late.  And so it was yesterday.      We have a rather nice group of united churches here.  We meet monthly, and, more or less, do things together.  The biggest accomplishment is an active food pantry.  But we also have several combined worship services throughout the year and other opportunities for outreach.  I say "more or less" because, since there is a rather broad spectrum of theology and practice that is represented, not all churches participate in all things.  For example, there is a tradition of a combined Good Friday service, but the Catholic parishes have their own services, and I'm not sure what the non-denomina-tional churches do.      We gathered for our first meeting of the new season yesterday.  Two guest speakers presented their organization's newly formed activities in our area, encouraging all of us to involve our congregations.  I was a bit disgruntled to learn t

I have stolen this name "Via Beatta" or Way of Blessing from a group that is no more.  It was a women's chant group that sang Compline every Sunday evening.  I was part of it for 3 1/2 years, and treasured the beauty of the sung Compline liturgy, the transcendent space in which we sang surrounded by hundreds of candles, and the discipline and sheer joy of singing.        We did more than just sing the liturgy, of course.  We sang plainsong and Anglican chant, as well as hymns and anthems.  We learned some music theory and voice production as we were invited to trade off on the solo parts.  As we were a small group --usually eight or ten of us--we learned the art of blending our individual voices into a more pleasing ensemble. It was truly a rich spiritual practice that began each new week with a bit of peace and sense of well-being.  Even now, ten years later, I miss it.      The group played a large role in my formation process--my spiritual quest around my calling a