I know a lot about pain, about the ways in which pain is tied to loss. But I also know something less commonly understood: that change and loss travel together. We can't have change without loss, which is why so often people say they want change but nonetheless stay exactly the same.~Lori Gottlieb (From Maybe You Should Talk To Someone)

Change. As a world, during COVID we're all dealing with imposed revisions, and still tasked to manage everyday life. 

This week I read a poem once again that we Americans all know from ninth grade English: The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost. (I write it here for your recollection):

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Sometimes I've thought that the road Frost decided to take was somehow "the better choice." But as a contemplate the poem now having lived a few decades, I understand that roads not taken are perhaps just as good, really. Maybe even easier. Or even better. Frost states the road he did not choose was "just as fair" and he longed to travel both.

We no longer need to run from present time in search of the place where we think life is really happening.~Henri Nouwen

I have this nasty habit of creating expectations for my life. It's like hearing the door bell ring and the florist handing me a dozen white roses instead of red ones. "Doesn't my love know I wanted red ones, not white?" There's no way to exchange them. There's no way to send them back. I can either place them in a vase and pine for red roses or find the beauty in the white ones.

I've had this attitude since landing in a Pandemic. This is not what I anticipated. I was supposed to get red roses. I wasn't planning on having to adjust. 

There's another related concept that I share: impermanence. Sometimes in their pain, people believe that the agony will last forever. But feelings are actually more like weather systems--they blow in and they blow out. Just because you feel sad this minute or this hour or this day doesn't mean you'll feel that way in ten minutes or this afternoon or next week. Everything you feel--anxiety, elation, anguish--blows in and out again.~Lori Gottlieb (From Maybe You Should Talk To Somebody)

I walk into the kitchen, rubbing my eyes, my hair sticking out in unattractive angles after a fitful night's sleep.

"How are you doing? asks my husband, Giovanni.

"Oh, I'm really sick of all the misery in the world. I'm so done," I say.

"Well," he says, "We're having burgers on the grill today." He smiles.

I smile back. "You're right. It's good to think about now, about today."

"Want to go for a walk?" Giovanni asks. "We could get out before it's too hot, then come home and shower and hunker down in the air conditioning." He smiles again.

I waver. Do I really want to coat myself with insect repellent? I'll be sweating like a maniac before we get home, even though it's not yet eight in the morning. My ambivalence hangs in the air, but before I can change my mind, I say, "Yes. Let's do it."

Above all, constantly echo God's intense love for one another, for love will be a canopy over a multitude of sins. Every believer has received grace gifts, so use them to serve one another as faithful stewards of the many-colored tapestry of God's grace.~I Peter 4:8,10 (The Passion Translation)

It's hard to know what to do. Seems the world just keeps getting sadder by the minute. There is a tendency to give up, give in. But somewhere deep in our hearts, we know that to remain in fear and despair is not the answer.

A few weeks ago, I wrote in a post that our hearts had been plowed by the racial unrest in our midst. I asked my readers to write to me about what they wanted to plant in the furrowed fields of their hearts. The consensus of the response was this: I will love better. I will pray for peace and justice. I will do what God calls me to in my sphere of influence. One reader provided this beautiful metaphor: "I received this vision of a smiling God holding a huge burlap bag marked GRACE in red letters. All I had to do was snip a corner and begin planting seeds in the fertile ground." 

What if we all snipped the corners of our burlap bags and began planting the seeds God has gifted us with?

ars pasifika

Craig Santos Perez

when the tide

of silence

rises

say "ocean"

then with the paddle

of your tongue

rearrange

the letters to form

"canoe"

I had the metaphor in mind before I read the poem. I imagined that during this time in history, it seemed as if I was in the middle of the ocean. The sea wasn't necessarily turbulent. Only at times. The waters felt warm on my skin. I was a strong swimmer, and I had a boat. There was no land in sight, though. I trusted that at some point I'd see the shoreline in the distance. Until then I had provisions. I could cope in the endless blue. In the uncertain geography.

Imagination led me to what I stored in my canoe...