Author and Inspired Writer

The Mister built me a wagon over the winter to use in my gardening. When it was completed, he took me for a ride around the basement in it. I don’t think I’ve hooted and hollered that much since I was six, and he offered to repeat the experience down our avenue once the snow cleared.

I demurred.

BUT it’s been an absolute godsend for gardening! It was waiting for me by the picnic table early Monday morning, filled with tiles I’d picked up over the weekend. I tried hard not to look at the plethora of tiles still lying on the ground as I fetched a basin of water from the hose and a bit of soap, rolled up my sleeves, donned a pair of latex gloves, and dived in.

I mentioned in my previous post that the weather was supposed to turn mild over that week. It didn’t. It turned gorgeous! The constant whisper of leaves overhead, the morning coolness giving way to a gentle warmth, the peaceable rhythm of washing the tiles, stacking them in drying racks (something else The Mister made for me – that guy is SO handy!), dumping the dirty water in the composter (couldn’t bear to waste it by throwing it on the lawn) and starting all over again, all of this gentled me into a meditative state of mind. But a happy state of mind. An absurdly happy state of mind.

Which is generally when my inner grouch likes to put in an appearance.

“Whatcha smilin’ at?”

“Grouchy Pants! I was wondering when you’d show up. Where you been?”

“Same place as always, Princess, right behind your eyeballs.”

“What brings ya by?”

“I want to know why you’re smiling.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“No, you’re right. More like grinning. Idiotically.”

“Nice.”

“So why are ya?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah. That never works with me. I’m not leaving until I get an answer.”

“I have no business smiling,” I admitted.

“Grinning. Idiotically. And you’re right. Up to your elbows in filthy water swarming with who knows what kinds of germs, not to mention feral cat poop…”

I froze.

“Relax, Princess, the latex’ll save ya.”

I started scrubbing again.

“Your bunions are screaming, your back is begging for mercy, and there’s a stitch burning in your side that won’t quit no matter how you change your posture, you can only look forward to days more of this same nonsense ahead, and yet here you are. Grinning. Idiotically. What gives?”

I looked up for a moment and rested my elbows on the edge of the basin.

“Well, it’s like…everything is just so…you weren’t looking for it but…and then you think…”

“You know with your gift with words, ya ever consider becoming a writer?”

“Funny.”

“Just blurt it out, for cryin’ out loud.”

“Nah. I know what you’ll say.”

“No, you don’t. Come on.”

“OK. I’m in love.”

“Shut up!”

“I knew it!”

“You’re in love. With whom, may I ask?”

“Not with. Just in.”

“Huh?”

I scrubbed away thoughtfully.

“It’s this, all of this, the breeze in the trees…”

“The ache in your knees?”

“…the billowing of my clothes…”

“The bugs up your nose?”

“I know it doesn’t make sense, but joy is stealing into my heart, and I didn’t ask for it, and I don’t know why it’s here or how long it will last, and it’s burning brighter and deeper, and I couldn’t turn it off if I wanted to. And I don’t.”

GP was thoughtful for a moment.

“But you’re the Goth, the Dark Poet. I’ve seen you darken up kids’ nursery rhymes. And not just once.”

I laughed.

“Yeah, I got a few of those published. Ah! good times. But you’re right, I’ve always been more comfortable with the dark emotions. And it’s a wee bit disconcerting to be so helpless in the face of such elation.” I placed the last tile from the pile in the drying rack. “But all I want to do right now is find The Mister and hug the stuffing outta him.”

“He’ll like that.”

“I expect he will. So is that it? Any other bon mots for me?”

“Just one. I’m happy for you, Princess.”

“Thanks, GP. See you tomorrow?”

There was no reply.

TO BE CONTINUED

Those of you who follow my wee blog know that two years ago I lost my best friend to cancer. I was felled by grief, stunned by the loss. I spoke to a dear friend (a social worker) about how difficult it was to move past the outrage and anger, and she asked, “Have you made a space for your grief?” And from that came the idea of a memorial garden for my friend, only instead of flowers, I’d make it out of tiles I had accumulated over years of yard sales.

The garden has been such a blessing. The designing of it, setting out the different pieces, rearranging, adding to, taking away from, it all gave me a chance to find expression for words I felt would devastate me if I spoke them aloud – I loved you. I miss you. Why?

Healing came slowly, but it did come. And in the years since I lost her, the garden has gone from a project to place of sanctuary and peace. This year I added a few more tiles, a meditation chair, and a gorgeous new birdbath! A graceful pedestal arching up to hold the basin, it looks positively ecclesiastical. The Mister and I have taken to calling it “the font.” Sunday mornings during my hiatus, I would wrap a shawl around my shoulders and flee to my garden. I’d start by standing at the font and make a confession of sorts, placing my faults and failings in the water as the surface rippled in the breeze and the trees swayed and swished over head. I’d watch as the sunlight crept across the ground, illuminating different areas as it progressed in dappled grace. At the end, I’d sit in my meditation chair and breathe and give thanks, and breathe and wonder, and breathe and just look, and breathe and breathe. I was always reluctant to leave, but if I tarried too long Someone would send bees to chase me off. One of them actually lighted on my arm! I called on my Supreme Being.

“Dude!” I said, “What the….?”

“Oh relax, lovey. I’m just playin’ with ya.”

“Playin’, huh?”

The summer was wearing away quickly, and at the end of August the temperature took an abrupt nosedive. We even had to turn the furnace on a couple of mornings to warm up the house. I feared an early Fall and wondered how to prepare the garden for the winter. Last year I took in the more delicate items I thought would not fare well in the cold – some little ceramic houses and plaster cast statues and such, but I left the tiles out. When I checked them in the Spring, every single one of the terracotta tiles had exploded! That’s what they looked like. Shattered from the cold. The others had survived, but I didn’t know if I should chance it again.

“I think I’m going to have to take in all the tiles for the winter,” I told The Mister.

“Yup. I think that would be best.”

I looked around at them despairingly.

“That’s going to be such a big job.”

“Oh yeah.”

“I think I can leave all the river stones out though.”

“Mmmm…”

“What?”

“The squirrels. If they scatter them into the lawn, it could make things a little dicey for Greg (our lawn cutter.)”

“So I have to put everything away?”

He gave a little “sorry” shrug.

I resolved to start on Monday, the 18th, since our local meteorologists were predicting a blissful turn toward the temperate for that entire week. They were so right! I set my alarm for half and hour earlier so I could exercise, shower, and eat before tackling the garden each day. And I found I was actually anticipating my day’s work with a certain amount of eagerness…

TO BE CONTINUED

A couple of weeks ago, a longstanding member of our church passed away after a chronic illness. As arrangements were being made for her memorial, her husband called me up and said my name appeared on one of the cards she used to outline her final wishes. He said it must have something to do with the music but there was no other information and did I have any idea what she might have wanted. I didn’t. Well, would I mind co-ordinating the music for her memorial with the minister, the funeral director, and the choir director? No problem!

He sounded so relieved.

Little did I know how much work was going to have to be done in such a short amount of time, but I like this kind of organizational stuff, and I’m good at it. The memorial was lovely, and an eighteen member choir sang her home. Apparently, it’s a rare thing for a choir to sing at the funeral home, but then, we’re quite a rare choir.

Only a few days later another longstanding member of our congregation passed and I received a call from a member of our Session asking if I would perform the service.

I gulped.

“I’ve never done a funeral,” I reminded her.

“Mm hm. But you’ve done lots of services for us. This is not so different. Our Interim Moderator can’t make it, and if we get a minister to take it, he won’t have known A. You did. I think the family would prefer someone who knew him take the service.”

“Well, if it’s OK with the family…alright.”

And I flew into organization mode once again. First, I needed an Order of Service. Our former pastor gave me an ancient Manual of Forms before he retired, which I liked for the language – all “thee’s” and “thou’s”. Surely I could find a good funeral service in its pages. Well, I found the funeral service alright, but… “Mortals born of woman are few of days and full of trouble.” And the final judgement. And sin. And more judgement. And on and on. Yeesh!

“How’s it going,” The Mister wanted to know.

“I need to find an Order of Service that doesn’t make me want to kill myself,” I replied.

“Don’t you have a minister friend in New York? Maybe she could help.”

“Yes! Yes! Yes! And just where were you two hours ago?” I asked, rushing past him to my computer.

“In the kitchen. We’re low on peanuts by the way.”

My minister friend recommended the Presbyterian Book of Common Worship. I didn’t know Presbyterians had a Book of Common Worship, (sounded more like an Anglican thing to me) but just before I put a rush order on it, I checked the internet on the off-chance some good soul had put at least some parts of it online.

Praise be! They did! I flipped to the funeral service – eternal rest, angels surrounding, saints greeting, blessedness, homecoming, joy.

“Now you’re talkin’ my language!” I wrote the Order of Service in one sitting, er, maybe two, and the sermon in a scant two days. (New personal record!) Then it was off to the funeral home for the visitation of another friend of ours, the fourth to pass in as many weeks. While I was there, I thought I’d take the opportunity to ask the director a few questions. She wasn’t available, but there were three women staff members, all of a certain age, whom I’m sure their coworkers must refer to as “the Aunties,” at least in secret if not to their faces. Gracious, kindly, and eager to help, I know they were biting their tongues not to call me “dear,” and “darling.” It was all I could do not to hug the stuffing out of them!

Before I left, one of them said, “Would you like to see A’s memorial card? I’ll get you his memorial card. Now wait right there! I’ll be back with his memorial card!”

I opened it and discovered they’d listed me as “Clergy.” But lest I’d become too puffed up over my sudden elevation in ecclesiastical status, I noticed they’d spelled my name wrong.

In two places.

Three, if you count the missing hyphen.

I folded my lips between my teeth to keep from smiling.

“Are you going to mention this tomorrow from the pulpit?” The Mister asked at breakfast the next morning.

“Yeah, I’d better. I don’t want to mislead. I won’t go into a lot of detail, I’ll just say that I’m a sometime guest preacher at St. Andrew’s…”

“No you’re not.”

“Beg pardon?”

“You’re not a guest preacher. That’s what we’ve got going now – a different face in the pulpit every week until we find a new pastor. These preachers don’t know us and won’t get to know us. You’re not a guest preacher. You’re a lay preacher and you minister at St. Andrew’s and have for years.”

I sat down slowly.

“A lay preacher,” I repeated. “I’ve never thought of myself that way. I just felt I had the words “In case of emergency,” stamped on my forehead and…”

“Oh, that’s still there. Sure, when there’s a crisis, people are more likely to call on you, but that doesn’t make you a guest in your own church. You’re a lay preacher.”

Huh. Fancy that.

For years I’ve struggled to define my role in the church. “No, I’m not clergy. Yes, I went to theological college but in a different, much different denomination. So just put me down as guest preacher.”

But now, clarity.

A family member came up to me after the service, thanked me, and gave me an envelope. It was addressed, “Minister.” When no one was looking, I crossed that out and wrote, “Lay Preacher. St. Andrew’s Church. Penny-Anne Beaudoin.”

Mind the spelling.

And don’t forget the hyphen.

God speaks to me in a multitude of ways – synchronicities, dance (watching it, not doing it), the occasional license plate, the occasional sermon, dreams – but by far the most frequent avenue used by the Divine to get a word to me is books.

A little while ago, a dear FB friend, Reverend Lori Knight Whitehouse, sent me an anthology of poetry of eastern and western saints and sages. Daniel Ladinsky, the foremost translator of the works of Hafiz and Rumi, lent his considerable skills to translating the works of St. Francis of Assisi, Kabir, St. Teresa of Avila, Tukaram, St. Catherine of Siena, Mira, St. Thomas Aquinas, Rabia, Meister Eckhart, St. John of The Cross, as well as the aforementioned Hafiz and Rumi, and compiled them all in one volume, Love Poems from God. I haven’t finished the book, and it’s not just because I’m the slowest reader on the planet. I find I keep rereading the poems of certain luminaries…and marvelling.

For instance, I had no idea the poems of St. Teresa, the great reformer of the Carmelite Order, were so unabashedly erotic.

“No one can near God unless He has
prepared a bed for
you.”

And

“When He touches me I clutch the sky’s sheets
the way other
lovers
do…”

Well now!

But even more wondrous are the back stories of these saints, two in particular.

Rabia (717 – 801) was an Islamic saint who was kidnapped and sold to a brothel in her youth where she lived until she was nearly fifty. She perceived the work she was forced to do as a path to spiritual transformation that rendered her guiltless, even precious, in the eyes of Allah. And her poetry is full of light and humour. She gently chides God that he’d better be keeping track of all the bliss he owed her, and muses on how God will worship her in the next life.

But how can she say these things? How can she even think them? She admits her “body is covered with wounds this world made,” but there is no bitterness, no fury, no righteous, justifiable outrage. She sings to me of love and pain and deep happiness as if they were all the same thing, and slays me with quotes like this – “Dear sisters, all we do in this world, whatever happens, is bringing us closer to God.”

To which I say, “Not what you endured. Not that.”

To which she replies, “Yes, sister. Even that.”

To which I say, “Shut up! No more! I cannot bear your words.”

St. John of the Cross is the other poet whose life and work mystify me. Like St. Teresa (whom he met and from whom he derived great inspiration) he committed himself to reforming the male side of the Carmelite order. But like Rabia, he was kidnapped by his confreres on his way to begin his work and imprisoned in a monastery in Toledo, Spain. His brother priests confined him to a small closet in which there was not even enough room to stand up. For nine months he endured tortures and unspeakable debasement. Suffice it to say, the closet possessed no bathroom facilities. His brothers beat him regularly, leaving him permanently disabled. And during this hell, what did John ask for? Mercy? The deliverance of death?

No. A pen and some paper. He was having visions, you see, visitations from God and the Virgin Mother, and he wanted to give them expression through poetry. It was during his imprisonment he composed the first part of his famous Spiritual Canticle.

And if he were here with me today, I’d slap his face.

“What is wrong with you?!” I’d say. “How could you just let all that go?”

Neither in the writings of Rabia nor John is there any rancour expressed towards those who harmed them. On the contrary, they were God’s instruments bringing the saints closer to the Divine, one might say, intimately closer. But I don’t want to hear that. For crying out loud, why don’t they rail against what was done to them, forced on them, taken from them? Didn’t the silence of God devastate them? Even Christ screamed from the Cross, “My God, my God, why?!” Months of beatings, decades of turning tricks should have left them embittered, furious. There is a mystery here, something about the workings of grace, and for reasons I cannot name I don’t want anything to do with it. It’s too big, too much. It will ask too great a price of me. So I’ve stopped up the ears of my heart.

There. You can’t get through. I’m not listening.

And every night, I pick up the book, and read the poems again.