A green hill to rest our eyes upon

“I need a green hill to rest my eyes upon.” These words came from my grandpa who lived his life in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains.

Easter weekend we drove from Michigan to Middle Tennessee and watched the stages of spring unfold before our eyes. We left a mostly brown Michigan with hints of spring; through Ohio we saw Bradford Pears bloom, and Kentucky gave us unfolded leaves and the beginnings of green hillsides. Driving south this time of year is like watching time lapse photography and gives us a great glimpse into the hopes of springtime in the North, and anticipation of what we would find in the South.

My favorite part of this progressive processional of green was entering Tennessee on I-65 and resting my eyes against the green hillsides already exploded in color.

Thursday afternoon, we continued our journey of healing with sunshine on our backs, friends’ hands on our shoulders and Southern cooking in our bellies. As the community observed Maundy Thursday with communion and silence, Roger and I looked around the sanctuary and saw something much deeper than familiar faces. We experienced the power of love.

We listened to a sermon of Christ’s journey and how it relates to our own journeys of growth. I heard the minister’s words and knew deep inside he was only speaking to me as I looked out at people separated from me by miles, but joined by heart. As we exited into the warm evening air in silence, someone tugged on my elbow and whispered four simple words in my ear – “I loved your boy.” I felt her sentiment all around me as we walked across the church yard and took our familiar perch on the bench in the columbarium garden near where Roger gingerly laid his ashes six months ago.

I dreaded Good Friday for some time before its occurrence. Six months to the day prior, our son took his place in Heaven’s community. Seven readings of the Good Friday service never held so much meaning to me, as we observed the death of Mary’s young son – I could now relate to her pain so much more personally. Again, we exited the service silently in observance of the solemn occasion, and we felt the magnetic draw to Nicholas’ burial site. We don’t have the opportunity to visit often, so when we do, we spend as much time in the garden as possible. Even in the dark evening, my eyes rested on the hills in the background and reflected on the day.

As much as I dreaded Friday, it marked itself as the introduction to a joyful weekend. I awoke in the home of a dear friend, met with another for coffee, shopped in one of my favorite stores and spent the day wearing a comfortable skirt and flip flops rather than shoes, socks and a coat. My eyes gazed on the green hills and I felt joy.

Holy Saturday, I lunched with women dear to my heart as an Easter egg hunt took place all around what I call “Nick’s garden” at the church. I am told children ran and scampered and I know his heavenly heart overflowed with joy.

On Easter morning, the pastor’s sermon centered on the joy of the resurrection and that we should consider it fitting to celebrate at the place one’s physical remains are left behind. Before the services, when I took a seat alone in his garden, a little girl asked me to break off a rose from a nearby bush so she could decorate the cross. I broke off two – one for her to take to the cross and one for me to drop over the spot where we remember Nicholas.

It is ironic that we would associate a tiny spot with remembering Nicholas, because moments later, I entered the celebration of Easter Worship, and felt surrounded with his presence. The choir started and I heard him sing along almost as clearly as last Easter when he sang with the same choir. I looked around the sanctuary and my skin tingled with feeling his presence and celebrating Christ’s resurrection.

We bade good bye for now to the green hills, as we drove home to Michigan leaving spring’s progression mile-by-mile in pouring rain. I held hope as we approached our house and saw forsythia blooming and green peeking out from the floor of the woods.

Spring brings hope for new life as green pushes through the thick brown bark. This weekend, as I took the opportunity to rest my mind, soul, and eyes on the green hills, I bring back hope in this journey of healing.
Easter is so good, and I did not even get a chocolate bunny.

Spice the recipe with heart and umph

Pilates class ended in a most usual way this morning. We sat upright on our mats, my eyes affixed on the clock. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy exercise classes, but at the end of an hour of anything, I am looking at the clock. When we nodded in thanks to the instructor, Linda from the mat next to mine commented that she was really going to feel it in her abs tonight.

Curiously, I did not feel a thing in my abdominal region, and from attending other yoga and exercise classes alongside Linda, I can tell you for sure it is not because my body is more toned than hers. The problem could possibly be that she worked a tad harder than I during class. Our Pilates instructor reminds us often to keep our abdominals tight throughout the exercises, and most of the time, I listen and follow instructions.

Ever noticed that while watching a movie with a group of people, some notice nuances and humor that blows right past others? Or a book club where readers will pick up on symbolism and themes that you never noticed? I find it interesting that what we gain from all experiences in life has everything to do with the gusto we bring into the situation at that moment. If I feel sad or anxious while reading a book, it will affect me much differently from if I read the book in a light-hearted, come-what-may mood.

I have spent many seminars and Sunday sermons where I felt enlightened and moved afterward, and conversely, sat through many sermons and classes where I had a mental grocery list completed and have pictured myself up and down every aisle of Kroger. The person next to me may have gleaned valuable information while I wondered what brands of ice cream would be on special.

As humans, we are put together in quite unique ways. Each of us learns differently and at our own speeds. Some of us prefer to get our fingers smudgy from reading news the old fashioned way; others feel most comfortable learning about the world outside our windows by sliding fingers across a touch screen. Some read the book, others wait for the movie. Romance works for one, adventure for another. It is what makes us different that makes us collectively wonderful.

I think of the similarities, yet striking differences of world cultures and religions. All religions look to a higher power for strength, yet on varying paths. All cultures of the world love to celebrate occasions with loved ones and family; we just find different reasons to whoop it up and spend days on end in the kitchen. Chinese New Year is celebrated very differently from American Christmas, but all the same elements remain in place – food, food, and more food -Family, friends, decorations and gifts.

Book club discussions can be quite a bore when everyone around the room nods in agreement at each discussion starter. Politics – OK, that is a different subject, but, funny, how after a State of the Union address, each news station will give its own recap and I often wonder if they saw the same speech I watched.

As much as we celebrate our differences, I must acknowledge that we gain more from experiences as we put heart and soul into the mix. If I approach an exercise class with a ho hum attitude, I get a nice stretchy-stretch for an hour, then walk away with decidedly no gain. If I use the time as it is intended – throw whole self (along with concentration) into a project gains expand.

Hmmm. That really seems to be true in all of our wanderings.

Llamas in the living room

I walked out of a strange spare bedroom furnished with a baby crib in an alcove with floor-to-ceiling shelves of children’s books, a colorful and fanciful sofa on one end and purple curtains in the window.

Outside the room, several men carried boxes filled with my household goods and asked where to put them.

For the past several nights, I have been plagued by nightmares – emotionally disturbing dreams that left me drained, shaky, and exhausted for the day. Imagine my delight when I awoke this morning from a fanciful, Dr. Seuss meets Dr. Doolittle dream of moving into a crazy, unusual house filled with children, animals and downright goofy artwork.

I saw llamas in my living room and in a curiously narrow staircase in this dream. Somehow, I remembered the old tale about horses who cannot handle the stress of staircases and I wondered why it was so easy for the llamas. Funny, I did not seem to question their presence in my house, just the fact that they tackled the narrow wooden stairs easily.

A pudgy man with a cigar sticking out of his mouth called me out of a very funny red and white bathroom to tell me that “the boys” are about to go on strike because my new house was on top of a steep hill and it was too much work to carry in my things. As he complained about the incline, I recall looking down at two yellow feral cats rolling on the floor. Purple curtains, red bathroom, and yellow cats – I think we can determine that I dream in most vivid color.

I told the mover that I would find my husband to further discuss the issue, as I breezed back through the red bathroom. In this room was a tub level with the floor and fanciful valentine-style decorative items that looked like they were gathered from three great grandmas’ and two great aunts’ yard sales. Doilies and cute figurines packed the room in a house where I had not yet had my things delivered.

Continuing my quest to find Roger to help me with the movers wanting to go on strike situation, I came across several children sprawled on the floor of a sunroom playing various board games. This did not bother me, nor seem to cause me concern. I just stepped over them, and noticed their mothers who were sitting on furniture around the edges of my new sunroom knitting. I felt a little jealous that they had time to knit when I had to deal with the moving situation, but I did not question who they were, or why they so comfortably took up space in my new house.

I found Roger in the basement unpacking boxes. Finally! He unearthed artwork the kids had done and was trying to figure out a way to display it, so he did not have time to meet with the movers. Arghhhh. Meanwhile, several large poodle-ish dogs meandered around the house and looked exactly like Bing. Clover rode herd over the whole dog party, so I figured she would lead me to the correct salt and pepper poodle.

The best part of the dream is that none of this chaos really seemed to bother me. I did want Roger to deal with the movers, but llamas, feral cats, Bing look-a-likes, unidentified children, a house full of curiosities, and my things at the bottom of a hill did not ruffle my feathers.

I looked up the dream interpretation dictionary and did not know where to begin in sorting out this dream, so I looked up llamas. “To see a llama in your dream represents deep trust, strength and endurance. It may also mean that you are worrying too much and carrying too many problems. “

Yes, I worry too much and carry too many problems, but don’t need a llama to tell me that. I just enjoyed my little Drs. Doolittle and Seuss vacation from stress. If I get a chance, I may move to that house on a hill filled with animals, kids, strange knitters and doilies. It seemed like a great place to hang out.

Over the boulders and through the jungle

An arduous and uneven path can set us off balance and cause us to climb over obstacles, but reward comes to those who stay on the path, see beyond the obstacles and eventually restore balance and wholeness.

Some of the best hikes I have ever tackled lead to beautiful waterfalls. One hike that comes to mind meanders up the northwest coast of Kauai on the Kalalau Trail, then jets inland and ends at Hanakapi’ai Falls. This is a favorite hike for my family, who never minded “taking the road less traveled.” This hike begins on a difficult, but well maintained Hawaii State Park trail. Then, the hiker takes a turn into a path of an unmaintained river trail created by a 100-foot waterfall.

As the hiker veers from civilization to adventure, he or she finds water coursing between boulders that can be slippery. If my memory serves me correctly, after crossing the stream one of the many times, the path takes an uphill jaunt into the jungle and through the music of a bamboo forest. Bamboo stalks grow very large in this unspoiled jungle and as the wind blows them into one another, it sounds like nature’s melody.

The trail eventually leads back to the rushing mountain stream where we must cross. Crossing this river can be tricky and dangerous. A jeep with a stretcher cannot just buzz up this mountain and into the jungle.

Basically, our group would stand at the edge and discuss the routes that would be easiest and safest. We seldom agree in these cases and some of us have different levels of agility and length of stride. So, we choose the individual paths that best meet our needs and carefully crawl to dry land on the other side.

This crossing pattern continues for about two miles, and if the season is right, one can pick mangoes along the way. I distinctly recall the time we hiked through after mango season only to enjoy the gush of rotten gooey mango under our boots and swarm of fruit flies.

As always, the end of the trail promises water rushing at such speed that it is difficult to hear conversation of the person next to you. A cold swim in the mountain pool follows lunch before commencing the identical trek back to the trail head.

The first time our family hiked this trail, Elise and Nick were about sixth and eighth grade. Nick suffered a bout of asthma. Jungle humidity, combined with the climbing assured a difficult way. He pushed himself beyond what we thought he was capable and no one enjoyed swimming in the mountain pool more than he did.

When hiking a difficult trail we wish our way would straighten, the obstacles would lessen and our balance would be restored. But, in order to find the waterfall and relax in the spray of the rushing water and listen to its force, we must forge over the large rocks. We must muck through rotten mangoes, and appreciate the music of bamboo when we have the chance.

The journey of healing reminds me of the trail. We walk on uneven ground now, but the promise is ahead that we will one day walk on a level path and see the balance restored if we can only look ahead of the boulders and envision the calm that awaits on the other side.

Peace in the hearts of others - stitch by stitch

Peace. This is one of those powerful words that conjures images of global change and personal inner tranquility at the same time.

Just as strife, peace comes from as many directions as there are stars in the night sky. Peace can emerge from one’s inner self, from God, or come from others. No matter the source of peace, the very sound of the word calms and strengthens the soul. If the Earth had a heartbeat, it would come from those who give their talents to promote calm and peace.

Last week, I came across the book Knitting for Peace: Make the world a better place one stitch at a time by Betty Christiansen. This book catalogues an American history of knitters who work their fingers to donate for the greater good in this world.

While others have donated so much more than I, knitting for others is not a strange concept for me. Back in Tennessee, my church sponsored a group to knit prayer shawls for the elderly, and those affected by tragedy. The concept behind the shawls is to pray for the unknown recipient as the fibers weave through the knitters fingers, to ultimately wrap a person in need with warmth, love, and prayers – hopefully this recipe produces a measure of peace.

I have knitted prayer shawls, and never, ever envisioned myself as receiving one, but last fall I actually received two – one from my church in Tennessee, and one from the church in Michigan. They really do help. Because I know the time and care that this artistry demands, I can wrap up and feel the warmth of the hands that worked to bring me peace. To knit a shawl takes many hours with each inch of the hundreds of yards of fiber held by the crafter’s hands and pulled from the skein, between the pinky and ring fingers, then to the needle from between the middle and pointer fingers. Hand knitting is a very personal and intimate process; when a knitter donates an item, he or she gives away heart.

For generations, Americans have “knitted for the boys.” I delighted in reading the accounts of knitting circles that organized during the Civil War, then in a much more refined way, during World Wars I and II. During the Civil War, women knitted socks and hats for soldiers. For many, these donated woolens were the only they had to keep their feet protected inside their boots, and heads warm under their helmets.

I delighted in the story one told from her childhood during WWII. She shares that as a third grader, children knitted for the war effort, both at school and in Girl Scouts. She recalls size 30 crochet thread, knitted on size 1 needles, 30 stitches on double-pointed needles in garter stitch. With those instructions and materials, children knitted miles of bandages. For those who are unfamiliar with the task, size 1 needles can only be described as teen-insey, and the project, monumental. That fact that she remembered the details from almost 60 years ago certainly impresses me. I like to muse on the soldiers who lived to return home to rich lives and produced families as a result of their wounds wrapped in bandages worked through the fingers of school children.

A touching story is the ongoing mission of teddy bears sent to children with HIV in South Africa –the Mother Bear Project – . Inspiration from this project came from Europeans during the dangerous days of WWII who would send their children away for safety. They would knit this same pattern of bear with a heart sewn in so the child would know he or she is loved. Each of today’s Mother Bear toys has a heart sewn on the front.

Of the dozens of stories in this book, I will most remember the story of Esperance Nyirarusimbi, a 25-year-old Rwandan genocide survivor. She lost her entire family and was left with no form of income. She was taught to machine knit on donated knitting machines. Not only does she sell her ponchos, but she travels around her country training other survivors like herself to generate income through knitting.

Peace comes in many forms and fashions, and my heart swells with calm when I think of the many generations of knitters who have, and still do, sit together in circles, alone by hearths, beside the cradle of a sleeping baby, knitting to bring serenity, warmth and peace within others.

Oh for the strength of oatmeal

I opened the mail box today to find a note from an old friend. She told me she is proud of my strength.

Reading this gave me a sense of confidence in my strength that was unfortunately short lived, as events in my household quickly unfolded to test aforementioned strength.

About three this afternoon, I returned home and decided to take Clover and Bing for a walk. They were thrilled after waiting in their double-wide crate most of the day. Our usual routine in starting a walk is to allow the pups to romp in the woods as I walk down the long driveway, and then leash them as I get close to the street. The plan has been a good one, despite Roger’s protests that they should be leashed at the house – just in case. Just in case happened about 3:10 today, and Bing is resting safely at home now.

As she and Clover joined in their burst through the woods, Bing took off in a different direction. We live on a cul-de-sac with only six homes, so as I yelled when she bolted for the road, I did not worry terribly. She loves to run, but always returns. Unfortunately, a car entered our street just as Bing darted into it like lightning. The driver slammed on the brakes immediately and did not hit Bing, but Bing hit the side of the car, then bounced off, rolled and ran home like her fur was on fire.

She looked OK; shock can mask quite a bit of pain, but after I talked with the driver and got her inside, she collapsed onto her bed and would not move. After about an hour of not wanting a drink of water or really even lifting her head, I called the vet who wanted to see her. Now, moving this heavy dog in great pain proved to be a complicated task. Roger suggested we move the entire bed down to our basement garage, so we did not jar her. We created an interesting sight with two of us carrying in her large bed complete with Bing riding like the Queen of Sheba.

The x-rays showed no fractures, but Bing seemingly could not uncurl one of her back paws – an indication of spinal injury. Roger and I waited and worried. After that, we waited and worried. When the vet called an emergency veterinarian for a second opinion, we were able to entice Bing to get up and walk across the room. She uncurled her paw on her own. A sigh of relief descended in the basement x-ray room.

We needed good news; prayed for good news, and got good news. I held my breath for a good part of the late afternoon. Watching this naughty little creature’s bruised and mangled body is not easy, but I am so thankful her injuries are healable. And, I think there is a good chance I will heal from the vet bill.

Strength. It comes when we need it. When a situation calls for us to be strong, we rise to the occasion and crumble to pieces when the time is appropriate.

Oatmeal. I enjoy the stuff and eat it every morning whether I feel like having a strength infusion or not. I doctor my morning oats with dried cranberries, raisins, nuts and cinnamon. Love it. Sometimes in my life I feel weak - like mush - I feel as if I carry the strength of a slimy glob of cooked oatmeal. On the inside, however, where it does not show, but really matters, I suppose I carry all the powerful punch that oatmeal does when it fuels the body.

After all is said and done, Bing will heal as we all will heal. She will remember her injuries tenderly, as we all remember our injuries tenderly. That is what the strong do.

And Roger is now surveying the property for an underground fence to be installed this weekend.

The end.

Identity is more than a number

An issue arose regarding our taxes yesterday. We claimed Nicholas as a dependent, and apparently a return was already filed using his social security number. We know that there could be several explanations, but one the tax preparers suggested is that someone could have his identification information.

Identity theft is so much more than helping oneself to a social security number – if one wishes to use another’s identity, one should take on attributes as well.

We do not know how Nick’s taxes were filed, but the following is an open letter addressing the possibility someone could have filed on his behalf.
Sir, the number identification used in filing your taxes belongs to my son, a young man who passed from this life last October. We do not know any details, but if you have assumed this identity, I would like to propose you must live up to his name.

Nicholas showed genuine kindness to everyone. People write me notes and tell me stories of Nick’s kindness to them and others; that is one of the privileges in being his mother. He was a natural-born helper. Last year when he spent a semester living at home, he took over my dreaded job of grocery shopping. I really dislike grocery shopping, so one day when I complained about it, he told me to just leave a list; he did not mind the task, and he took over it each week.

During Nick’s sophomore year of college, when Roger and I lived overseas, a storm blew out screens on our porch in Tennessee. Nick gave up his spring break to come home and hang out in the house alone and fix the porch. No complaints, he just did the job because he enjoyed being helpful. I remember playing in hand bell choir with Nicholas and he was always quick to assist in setting up and taking down the bells – a necessary and undesired task at the end of a practice.

Nick loved the Earth and did diligence to care for it. An avid backpacker, Nick always followed the rule of “take only pictures; leave only footprints.” I enjoyed sharing the natural world with him because he always saw beauty around him. He could look at a budding branch and see the small intricacies of life bursting through and point out the details. On a nasty, wet day, he would remind me that we need the rain and it will bring out the green.

Nick played several instruments, and loved music both as a performer and a listener. His musical taste spanned from Celtic folk classics to something called Indy rock. One of my fondest memories from last year is listening to him sing the Requiem with the combined choirs of First Presbyterian and St. Andrew’s Lutheran Churches in Franklin, TN.

While Nick marched to the beat of his own drummer, and showed a kind heart for people, animals, and nature, he did not love everything.

Nicholas detested social injustice with great ferocity. He vehemently sought for equality of all people, regardless of race, culture, belief set, or sexual orientation. I have never known someone who stayed more current with news around the world, and the only thing that ever really raised his ire, was unfairness in society. One of our last conversations centered on the education system, and his concern for the kids who slip through the cracks based on limitations from their backgrounds.

Yes, sir – this is a mighty identity. I only ask that it be used for good in this world.

Bing's great squirrel frolic

Guest blogger, Bing just took a great big drink of water and wants to take a break from her huffs and puffs to tell you her story of chasing squirrels in the woods today:

Squirrels are great. What do I like about squirrels? Well, they are furry; they spring from here to there in the wink of an eye; they can create bucketsful of trouble without even trying, and then run to the woods to hide. Yep, I like squirrels because they are just like me.

Dad spent the entire winter trying to figure out a way to feed the birds without squirrels getting into the food. I say, just refer to the boxes as squirrel feeders and call it a day. Having them in the yard gives Clover and me something to do when we are in the house. Oh yeah, nothing like lying in the window with Clover and spotting a squirrel in the yard. We bark and bark, then run like the thunderous herd that we are to the bedroom windows where we stand in the window, push our noses into the glass and bark like crazy.

As a matter of fact, today, Mom cleaned one of the windows where Clover and I maintain squirrel patrol. I did not mind; I just pressed my nose into the other window until she finished and then went back to my favorite one.

We live on a couple acres of woods filled with squirrels, raccoons, deer, and chipmunks, yet Mom makes a federal case about us leaving the grassy yard unless she monitors. I especially like our woods to the side because they join with woods owned by other people who have very interesting fountain rock gardens and flower beds in their yards outside the woods. I love to snoop through and check them out – which also gets Mom in all kinds of a snit.

This afternoon, as a matter of fact, she arrived home and let Clover and me out in the yard to take care of business. Well, if you ask me, part of my business is taking care of the squirrels. One of my furry-tailed buddies leaped from the bird feeder and took off for the woods. What’s a Schnoodle to do? I bolted past Mom while in the distance, I heard her holler: “BING NO, BING COME” at the top of her lungs.

The squirrel got away. They always do; those buggers sure can climb trees. So, while I was out and about in the coolest place in my world, I decided to noodle around a bit. The woods smell so good, and I just don’t want to miss a sniff. I love to run among the brush and trees free as a squirrel; the woods are so quiet, with only the distant sound of Mom tramping through in her house slippers, dodging deer droppings and bellowing something about “Come, NOW.” I did not let that squawk annoy me, I just leapt over dead stumps, stuck my nose in holes, and explored until I found myself at the edge of the woods where people have cool ponds, rocks and gardens.

I had no intentions of causing any trouble, I just like the different smells of people’s yards, and I get very nosey. It is not like I knocked off a liquor store or anything, I just enjoy taking in all the natural world has to offer.

That was about when I felt the sudden jolt around my neck when “Mrs. Shout-in-the Woods” grabbed my collar and led me home. She did not have to do that; I know my way through those woods like the back of my hand.
She stretched my neck by pulling my collar all the way home where Clover waited on the porch.

I forgot about Clover – we usually travel as a pack duo, but apparently, when I made my break, she sat on her haunches in the grass, letting Mom know SHE knows how do make good choices. Well la-ti-da, my so-called partner in crime.

I was told I needed to stay in my crate until Mom was done being miffed at me, and to think about what I did, while resting. I am glad she reminded me to think about my time in the woods, because that is just what I did. I thought about the deer tracks, the snake hole, and of course, my favorite part of the woods, the squirrels. I thought, and I thought, and I thought.

Later, when Mom had pretty much forgotten about my earlier adventure, we rang the bell that hangs from the door to indicate we need outside. Yep. I did it again, and that is why I am out of breath and Mom wants a glass of wine.

I cried today

I cried today. In public. No one got hurt; as the kids would say, no harm, no foul.

Afterward, I did not even shirk from embarrassment; I just forgave myself, forged on and let the moment pass. Inspiration from a sermon I heard yesterday by the Rev. Rick Dake at Clarkston United Methodist Church http://vimeo.com/channels/cumc instigated the courage to do what I needed to do to get back on that horse and move forward.

Forgiveness serves as Lenten theme at the Clarkston church and you know it was a good morning of worship when the sermon follows you throughout the next day. We assembled in the sanctuary yesterday and noticed communion elements at the chancel. Curiously, surrounding the communion set up, were various sizes of rocks. I noticed rocks on the floor, and a great big rock – the kind you cannot pick up – right next to the pulpit. My interest piqued.

After the reading, the minister began speaking of the hurts and brokenness in our lives. Well, I have a purse-full of that, so I sat up and listened. I believe he began with road rage and driving annoyances. He picked up a small rock, then spoke about the person in a staff meeting who knows how to push people’s buttons; he picked up another small rock. Throughout our days, we carry many stones that need to be dropped. To forgive others and ourselves is like dropping a burden from our hands, while carrying it affects our walk.

Now, I really sat up and listened. He continued to describe in eloquent detail some of the heavier and more complex hurts that infect the human race: failed relationships, unfairness in the workplace, social injustice. He picked up the larger, more cumbersome rocks – the ones that cannot be hidden away in the hands. It showed in an obvious way when he carried these burdens across the chancel. As the rocks he held became too difficult, he pulled out a backpack to house them, and then carried the backpack.

Finally, the minister stood in front of a large boulder next to the pulpit– who knows how that arrived in the sanctuary. The large boulder represented that which blocks our way and we cannot move ourselves. The solidness of this rock drove home to the congregation when he pulled out a hammer to attempt breaking it down. He could not.

His point in the sermon was that forgiving others frees us to walk lighter and carry fewer burdens. He spoke of a grudge held is as poison drunk. The person for whom the grudge is held feels far less effects.

This morning, I rode a stationary bike in spinning class. Class hummed along on an imaginary hill when a song began that pulled up raw emotions within me. The bile of grief oozed up and I feared humiliation among strangers. For months, I have avoided leaving my house for fear of unexpected moments to drill up painful memories or activate my frayed nerves. Finally, I am out among people and beginning to re-assimilate – I did not want to feel embarrassed.

I quietly left the room to regroup and allow the song to expire. I sat on the floor against a wall and tried to hold my face in my hands unnoticeably. A man walked over and asked if I needed help. I told him I would be OK, but I lost a child recently and just need to be away from a song on the play list. Mysteriously, the man said he knew because he has lost a child also. He gave me a quick, sweaty side hug and disappeared back to the weight machines.

Small miracles give us the strength to proceed and let the rocks slide from our hands.

This old lady is Body Pumping

Who came up with the brilliant idea of lining every wall of exercise rooms with mirrors? Is there not such a thing as too much information?

Seriously, as much as I take issue with myself featured on four walls and in living color in the mirror-covered walls in the gym classrooms, I get a great charge out of watching the barbells arc up in Body Pump class with my measily-encumbered barbell as part of the choreography.

We have a great gym near our home here in the Great White North, and I joined soon after moving here. I have never belonged to a gym, but I noticed that when I met people upon my arrival, most – if not all – asked me if I was going to join this particular gym. I decided there was little chance that my neighbors make up the gym’s marketing department, so I decided it must be worth checking out.

Yoga classes served as my springboard. This practice benefits me from the inside out, and I attend at least a couple each week. That, combined with sessions of power walking on the treadmill, I felt justified the cost of membership. Then, I met Karen, a newly-retired teacher who makes the best of the gym environment.

Karen, a kindred spirit in knitting, and I rode together to a local knitting shop a few weeks ago when she mentioned the kickboxing class she had taken the previous evening. Kickboxing? This retired teacher did not fit into my stereotype for kickboxing, and I inquired. She assured me there was no need to feel awkward or embarrassed – “I get to the place in life where I don’t care what other people think,” she told me.

Her positive attitude inspired me, and Karen continued to tell me about weight training in Body Pump, Zumba classes, and ----- wait for it ----- spinning class! These classes were, in my mind, reserved for the young, totally toned “gym rats.” So, the next day, I met Karen bright and early in the cycle room where she showed me the ropes of the cycles and assured me that I needed to listen to my body and not try to keep up with the instructor’s pace on the first couple sessions.

With the lights low and music pumping, the instructor started out in a low gear, and then gave out RPM and gear numbers. I worked at keeping my legs moving and standing or sitting when told to do so. Even though it is really all I can do to keep up and going, I do like taking a peek in the big, nasty mirrors to see the whole class cycling in unison and to the beat of the music creating a dance. This class experience gave me the confidence to really move up in fitness world, and check out Body Pump. That is where I got my charge.

I arrived at the first Body Pump class later than I should and nervous at the awkward feeling of newbiness and not knowing how to set up the weights. Sure enough, Karen arrived earlier than me and laid the groundwork. She set up camp in the back of the room and had my weights all ready for my virgin voyage.

Music started; the fit and muscular of this class lifted their barbells overhead in unison and I felt completely part of the groove with my bar containing a five-pound weight on either side. At the instructor’s cues, bars pump up and down to the beat of the music and the mirrors actually alight with excitement.

Gone are my days where the gym is limited to a place where I watch CNN from the treadmill; I found a new energy where at the half-way point of a century, I felt too shy to look.

Thanks, Karen.