Thoughts from 10,000 feet in the air

Some reflections on life, where I'm going and a timely poem. Pour yourself a cuppa, this is a long one.

San Jose California from the air

My glance out the window reveals a bank of white clouds as far as the eye can see. Blue covers the edge of the far Western horizon, a promise of sunshine and clearing, a welcoming sight.

The temperature in the airplane's cabin seems chillier than the morning I left behind when I stepped outside my Seattle front door.

I hope they turn up the heat soon.

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Writers and people who love them have had a common practice for years of choosing a word to guide them through the days after January first dawns. My piece in that word-choosing puzzle was never intentional, beseeching God to give me a word, but more like a prophetic process. It felt each year as if God was telling me ahead of time what I might expect, speaking through a particular line in the book I was reading, a Sunday morning message and most importantly, the whisper of the Holy Spirit. Words would percolate to the surface and I’d sense a theme for the year—’abide’, ‘listen’, ‘fit’ and other words pencilled inside my journals, where I’ve been keeping a list since 2012.

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By the time I sat with my journal a week into this new year, a theme tiptoed its way into my consciousness, appearing on the pages of my art table work and I had a glimpse into what God might be speaking.

I started painting with acrylics as an experiment last year after dabbling in watercolors for a good long while. The consistency is odd, a medium not spreading with the ease of watercolors, but more like streaking on the page, adhering to the surface where it first lands. I probably won't paint with them again; however, I wanted to keep a record of my attempt at creating a bit of beauty, my practice in scribbling aside.

My experimental creation sat amid the jumble in my artspace for weeks while I pondered what single word might embody the painting I’d created. Several weeks after looking repeatedly at the blue, white and green smudged across the page, I landed on a picture of blustery winds carrying leaves on the breeze, falling from the trees in late autumn on the cusp of a new season. With my fine tipped art pens I outlined several leaves, added wisps of imaginary wind and felt like the image was complete.

I wrote a single word at the bottom of the page, change.

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Change is good, you go first.

I turned 71 this year, and I've been walking with Jesus for a long long time. That journey has been one of constant change and growth, a refining framed by a mantra that I greet most difficulties with, especially when they are personal. It's one thing to commit our plans and intentions to a journal or planner, but quite another to actually live them out.

Attitudes, habits, ways of being are all much harder to deal with when we face them. But at this age, what are the alternatives? Forward movement is the only movement that matters in our journey with God. When facing a challenge in my habits or practices, especially when they hit close to home, I hear my sister-in-law’s voice in my head. “Change or die,” she likes to joke.

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Change. Hmmmm…

Late autumn brought a slow pivot to my writing life, a focus of intention bringing a refined effort to my words and message through the medium of poetry. Writing and sharing my own, but also a desire to help other people make friends with poetry…particularly writing it.

Underneath the surface of my days has also been a family-wide concern for a sister whose husband is battling cancer. While we navigated with my siblings who might best offer the comfort and support she sister needed, as the word “hospice” had surfaced, I sensed a tug to offer my time and attention, should she ask.

That ask came last week. Adding to the uncertainty and difficulty she's already dealing with, she faced the agonizing decision made, with very little planning or preparation, to have her dear, dear dog put down just days ago. It has been heartwrenching.

Through the year she and her husband have had, Odie has been her constant companion; three walks a day, a boy that understands the tears, wags his tail when he sees her, and senses the sadness she carries. The loss of her dog was just all too much, especially prior to the coming loss of her husband.

We spent a good long while sobbing together on the phone the other day. She said she feels like there's a hole in her soul. Then she asked me if I would come be with her.

So I packed my bags, made reservations to fly from Seattle to Southern California and now here I am with my view out the airplane window—light scudding clouds and a faint cobalt line etched at the edge of sky.

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I don't know how things will change for me this year, but the movement has started, rippling out from the center of family and the connection that always call us.

I'm grateful to live a portable life, afforded by the luxury of laptops, a bank account with some wiggle room, and an understanding husband who told me to take the time I need for whatever lays ahead.

All we can ever offer each other, should we have it ourselves, is the comfort that Jesus offers amid the shaking. Plan as we might, the year ahead will probably unfold differently than anything we've put on paper, words or pictures alike.

This closing poem in my newest collection Mining the Bright Birds seems an appropriate reflection right now.

Storyteller

“You are a storyteller, too. Which stories are serving your life and freedom? Which ones will you keep telling?”

-Christa Wells

I am counting words on pages

in the chapters of this book that’s my life.

I want to read the ending, long for a sneak

peek at the finish, ignore the slow reveal, the

unwind of line upon line, cover to cover.

My Editor reminds me the pen is not mine

to hold while this story is told. Instead

I offer my blank spaces to Him,

surrender grand ideas and lean

into the love between the lines

as He spells my tale one single letter

at a time, punctuating my days.

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Hear Ye Hear Ye! MBBBC ANNOUNCEMENT

Book Club is still happening around my book Mining the Bright Birds:Poems of Longing for Home.

I'm so excited for those of you that have already signed up, and want to assure you regardless of whether I'm in California or Washington, thanks to the magic of Zoom, we will still be meeting. For those of you who are interested in joining us here are the details:

We’ll be taking four Mondays to discuss poems in each of the sections of Mining the Bright Birds:

Waiting Spaces January 29th

Tuning February 5th

Seasons February 12th

Wayfinding February 19th

Whether you can only join us for one Monday or all four, you’re invited! Zoom meetings are FREE to all subscribers and the only requirement is to buy a copy of Mining the Bright Birds (here’s a link with more ordering info). And to those who’ve already said how much they enjoy the poems, thank you!

If you’d like to join the Mining the Bright Birds Book Club, simply fill out this Google form via the link provided and I’ll be in touch via email.

If you encounter any glitches, please feel free to email me: heyjode70(at) yahoo dot com.

There could be glitches aplenty, as I am typing on my Google pixel phone, hovering in the sky while I glimpse at the water thousands of feet below me. And people say they don't believe in miracles…

-Jody

We are Better Together