Tag Archives: humanity

Day Fourteen, Blisters and Unusual

I know what the cow is, but I don’t know what the object in the crook of the tree might be or what purpose it serves. Any ideas?

Yesterday I did so much walking that I got blisters on the bottoms of my foot. I followed what the Mayo Clinic says to do and am keeping it clean, dry, and covered. It’s pretty tender to walk on, not too much, but with the distance I’ve been putting on my hoofs lately, it’s a challenge.

When I went to the museum yesterday, there was a lot to see. There is a video presentation that depicts footage from that time in history. I expected to see bombs. I expected to see guns. I expected to see violence. I mean, it’s a museum about D-Day for heck’s sake.

As a Death Doula, my calling is to make sure that people die on their terms. The setting as ideal as I can create it to be at their request. Each person I’ve helped through the transition from the breathing life has died on their back. Sometimes with loved ones nearby, sometimes a solo flier, but they died peacefully while laying in a bed.

The video I watched progressed pretty much as I’d expected until the part where the American, English, Canadian, and French soldiers marched through a mountain of rubble from destroyed buildings. On the ground, in the forefront of this footage, was a dead body laying face down in the mud.

The soldiers continued past the body as if it were a brick, or a twisted monument of violence. I couldn’t tell by the brief (maybe 5 second view) if the man who died was a soldier, a civilian, or a casualty of mistaken identity. It disturbed me enough that I’ve had to take over 24 hours to process that.

What I also didn’t expect was the immensity of the tanks, guns, transports, and even the bulldozers. I, for whatever reason, thought they were smaller. Maybe because I’ve only ever seen them in films (not documentaries) or in TV shows depicting the era. I stood next to a bulldozer on display and felt like a kid staring up at dad working as I did when I was like nine years old.

Caen was occupied by Nazi’s. On the very streets I’ve been walking and enjoying there were horrors committed against these people’s elders (then young folk). It snapped a sharp picture in my head that the history I’ve been feeling in my veins isn’t just that of William the Conqueror, but that of a city that has fought to survive.

June 6, 1944, D-Day, the Normandy Invasion

320,000 German soldiers became gravestones.

135,000 Americans didn’t watch another sunrise.

65,000 United Kingdom soldiers didn’t return home to waiting families.

18,000 Canadians didn’t get to watch/play hockey again.

12,200 French soldiers didn’t get to eat another baguette.

Over half a million people lost their lives during the Normandy Invasion. That would be like wiping out the entire population of Tuscon, Arizona. (Beautiful city, would recommend a visit). Gone. Extinguished.

The immensity of the loss of life has been downplayed in history classes I’ve taken. It’s just a number, right? It’s like trying to figure out how rich you’d have to be to not worry about what something cost. It’s all speculative numbers. Until you actually consider that those deaths meant more than just a number. They were people like you and me. They had loved ones they wanted to return to. There were birthdays they would never again celebrate. They were humans.

There was grief and mourning that couldn’t take place because D-Day wasn’t just one day. Operation Overlord didn’t complete until the 19th of August 1944 when the Germans retreated back over the river Seine. That’s 74 days of intense fighting.

Tomorrow I’m going to go to the Caen Memorial and pay homage to those souls that fought for the liberation of their way of life. My mom asked me to say a prayer for them. I will honor that request. I feel it’s the least I can do.

Day Thirteen, Countryside

Aloha! Welcome! Today was a pretty great day overall. My left foot has two big blisters on it from walking so much, but it was totally worth it. I saw so much that it’s difficult to process. What I’m sitting here debating with myself is whether I want to share the beauty or the horribly necessary violence. Beauty it is!

This is a bit of beauty that I experienced today. To hear the birds sing in “French”, make sure you have your volume adjusted.

I visited here today with my clients. I’m still processing the immense loss of life, the violence committed, the size of the weapons used to destroy everyday life for a cause of justice, liberty, and freedom.

Where I’m staying was occupied by the German forces. There were big campaigns rallied to drive out the oppression but success took a few attempts and an incredible loss of life, destruction of homes, businesses, families.

It’s humbling.

Day Twelve

I have failed to take pictures today. I thought I did, or maybe I thought the pictures in my head, but I didn’t document anything today. You’ll have to deal with my storytelling of which I’m not sorry.

I was up shortly before 9AM (3AM EDT). I sat on my bed deciding what I wanted to do for the day. When I went to the laundromat yesterday, I saw a shop with beautiful things in its window. I visited an organic shop where they actually had oatmilk, on the shelf. Apparently this is common and also why I couldn’t find it at the larger grocery. Shelf-stable milk is a thing here.

I promised my return after work which I’m sure that shopkeeper hears all the time, but dude, seriously, oatmilk. Cow’s milk doesn’t taste the way it did when I was younger. Even my excitement at getting cream on the milk didn’t make it any more palatable. I was excited to get what I’m accustomed to back home.

I rode the bus out to my stop, but almost missed it because I was engaged in a book by the author, Frieda McFadden. I recently read two of her books, The Housemaid and The Housemaid’s Secret which were really good books in that they were entertaining with some plot twists that were satisfying. The book I’m reading now is called, Never Lie. I’m pretty sure I’ve figured this one out already, but I’m going to keep reading to see if I’m right or not.

I walked through the countryside aware of the flowers clinging to brightness, the ones who had passed their prime, the smell of the grass and cow flops, the sound of the cars passing me, the taste of the cool water that I refreshed myself with, the air not moving in my damndably hot pants that look so nifty. The stone that got caught in the bottom of my boot annoyed me enough for me to pry it out of the sole. I didn’t take the way my GPS told me, I took the road that passes the horses instead.

On my way to that road, I happened upon a sign that read: Oefs frais biologiques (Fresh organic eggs). My curiousity got the better of me and I wandered up to the small shed that had an open door. The left wall (nearest the road) was filled with decorative hay bales that had a price marked in chalk on the wall above them. On the back wall there was a locked mailbox that said Peiement (Payment). There was an open slot on the top. In chalk on a board were written the prices for the goods layed out on the shelf farthest from the road. There were dozens of eggs, cartons, and pressed oil made on the farm. Above each item, written on the wooden walls in chalk were the prices that were on the chalkboard.

Knowing that my client was having company for the next several days, I decided to bring them a gift. I selected and packaged a fresh dozen of brown eggs. I dug out my handy folded bag and packaged the purchase. I pondered and decided the oil was a good idea too. I put the Euros in the box as requested and returned to my trek.

As I turned down the road that would become the street they live on, I noted that the sides of the narrow road rose up steeply on one side, but were relatively level on the side I was walking on. The shade from the trees granted me relief from the sun, despite the cooling air.

As I was turning the corner, three houses from theirs, I recieved a message asking if I’d work Tuesday and Wednesday. I replied with “Uh, I’m actually at your gate right now. If you don’t need me, may I please use the restroom before I return to the city.” Instead of replying, she opened the gate and welcomed me with a warm hug.

Last week, I worked Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday because I’d just arrived in Caen and she wanted me to get acclimated to my neighborhood. This week, and each week after, I’m supposed to work the three days, more if required. I conveyed that understanding to her and the lightbulb came on over her head (not literally). Ironed out the wrinkles and we have a schedule and a plan.

They asked me if I’d be willing to go with them to a museum called Le musee de la bataille de Normandie. They want to go while their grandchildren are in school since they show little interest in the history of where they’re currently living. We set a time and I will make sure my client is safe, steady, and comfortable.

What I didn’t expect was the conversation after she asked me if I’d been to the Caen Memorial yet. No, I admitted. I went to the Abbey d’ Homme instead. I told her of the things I learned about William the Conqueror. Her eyes lit up. She asked if I wanted to hear a story. Of course I do!

She told me how William’s wife, Matilda of Flanders, came to be wed to him. It was a great story with rejection, acceptance, and love. Then she asked if I wanted to know why William, in his youth, was called William the Bastard. My eyes got big and I encouraged her to continue. I already knew he was called that, but I wasn’t sure why.

The gossipy version of the story told of a young Duke of Normandie living in the Chateau de Normandie with a bunch of his knights. He was in his late teens at the time. One day he was looking out his window toward the river when a group of village girls showed up to wash clothes in the water. One girl caught his eye in a big way.

So much did this beauty capture his imagination that he sent his knights to discover who she was (A Tanner’s only daughter and only child) and to tell her to come to the castle at his request. The knights set out to do their Lord’s bidding.

When they found her father, they asked him to tell his daughter to come to the castle. He said, “That’s really up to Herleva. You’ll have to see what she wants to do.” So they did.

The peasant girl, Herleva, said the only way she’d visit is if there were certain criteria met. First, no sneaking through back doors, she was to cross the drawbridge like a lady. Second, she was to be provided a horse to ride because she wasn’t going to show up all sweaty to this meeting, and finally, Robert I, the Duke, had to personally invite her to his home. The dubious knights returned to the castle with the requirements for the young woman’s visit.

To their surprise, Robert I readily agreed and offered an official invitation, provided a horse, and lowered the drawbridge. They met and talked for several days. Duke Robert I was smitten, and apparently she was too. Shortly after the visit began, she sent word back to her father that she was going to stay in the castle.

Several months after that, William was born out of wedlock to the Duke and Herleva. He was considered a bastard because it wasn’t possible, because of their different stations in life, for them to marry.

That didn’t stop Duke Robert from taking good care of his son. But the weight of his sin, of having a child out of wedlock, bore heavy on his soul. He went to Herleva and told her that he was seeking redemption from his sin. The only way he could see that happening was if he participated in the Second Crusade. She objected because it was basically a death sentence that many didn’t return from. He reassured her that he would return.

To make sure that his son remained cared for, he enlisted his most trusted friends to insure that William would not only be protected at all costs, but that if anything should happen to the Duke, William, as his only son and rightful heir, would be given the title of Duke. His friends agreed.

Ironically, the Duke Robert I was returning from the crusades when he died. His friends had protected the young William and fulfilled their promise to Robert. It nearly caused a civil war because many didn’t want the bastard to be put in a position of power, while the other camp kept vigilant. History tells us, the friends won the battle and William the bastard became William the Conqueror.

My client’s wife ended her story with a flourish. She was delighted that she could share the knowledge with me. Me too, really. When history is told in stories, making the names in history books come to life, to be human, it really gets it for me. I mean, who doesn’t want to learn the stories that make boring dates and names come to life again? Okay, anyone? Is it just me?

Tomorrow there will be pictures, I promise. Thank you for indulging my fascination with this part of the world by following my adventures. It really means a lot to me to see when people read what I’ve written. It motivates me to continue to share what I’m learning, experiencing, and witnessing.

P.S. My mom is still in the hospital because she can’t eat anything. Liquids seem to be okay, but that’s not good for long term. They’re putting her on high powered antacids in hopes of getting whatever is pissed off and causing her pain when she eats to settle down and behave. She sounds irritated that she’s still incarcerated in the hospital (HA!) but she seems to accept that until they understand why she can’t eat, it’s just how it is.

Go in peace.

Day Eleven

Don’t worry, kids. This post is going to be shorter than the others because I didn’t really do anything today except go to church at ORUUC on zoom and laundry. There is plenty going on back home with my mother being admitted to the hospital for kidney failure due to dehydration. At this writing she is sounding much better and the doctors are cautiously optimistic about her recovery.

Church is one of my favorite activities on Sunday. The people who attend the church I do have given me such a gift of their support, kindness, and love that I have integrated into the mesh of the congregation. It’s THIS church that I belong to. It’s THIS church I support as I’m able. It works for me. It doesn’t have to for anybody else, but I’m glad it works so well for so many stellar people.

Okay, laundry. It’s my custom to do my laundry on Sunday afternoon while spending time at my Beastie Diane’s house. We talk, watch crime dramas, share worries and concerns, and generally enjoy one another’s company. With me being so far away, that’s not possible right now. She IS taking care of my little dog Phoenix while I’m here. Diane’s top hat all across the board.

My beautiful Phoenix (Phoe)

First I had to find the place which wasn’t too difficult. I’m getting used to navigating this city now. I’m not an expert, but I’m learning new things every day. I found the Laverie automatique (Laundromat) on this corner with a hopping cafe across the way.

I’ve used laundromats before. You put in the coins, push the slider in, and your laundry begins. Not so in this place.

First you put your clothes in the desired machine along with soap (which I nearly forgot). Then you go to a console on the wall that gives directions in French how to use the machines. You punch in the number of the machine you want to use then hit the V button for enter. Then you deposit 4E50 ($4.50) into the slot, or you can use coins, or you can pay by credit/debit card. That feature was an unexpectedly pleasant surprise. Once done, you go push start on your machine and it works.

The place was small but clean. Everyone in there was courteous to one another. The guys using the dryer 11 put a comforter in it which blew up and filled the drum with fluffy bits of polyfiber. When they went to take it out and realized what happened, I learned some new cuss words in French!

I helped a young man figure out how to use the machines after I had to be shown. He spoke broken English but was grateful when his dryer started to run since he admitted it was his first time here. I nodded sympathetically, “Me, too.” He thanked me and wandered out into the street.

Learning how to adult the French way has been quite the painful learning curve for me. But, with every challenge, I’ve eventually figured it out. I suppose that’s what adulting really is, keep trying things until it works or breaks. I am truly enjoying the experience of being somewhere with “new air” as my friend Melissa Kay likes to say.

Despite the issues happening at home in the States, I’m grateful for this life. I’m grateful for this opportunity. I’m so glad I was asked to come work here with my client.

Day Ten

Today started off as a humdinger when I walked out of the bathroom and the lens of my glasses clacked to the floor. I wear bifocals, so trying to find that itty-bitty screw on the wooden floor was not something I could accomplish easily. I wasn’t upset, frustrated, but not upset.

Lucky for me, a short walk from the apartment I’d noticed an optician’s shop. I discovered the gentleman who worked there spoke English and was able to get my glasses repaired, gratuit (Free of charge)!

How lucky am I to be paying attention to the world I’m experiencing right now?

This is the place where I find myself commonly indulging in a double espresso each morning. The people are friendly and I haven’t tasted anything that wasn’t total top hat.

I decided I’d had enough of the stringy ends of my hair. I visited a salon called L’instant Chic Coiffure Feminin-Masculin. The Artist that agreed to my transformation was named Aurelie. She was a bit younger than me and had been doing hair for 30 years!

BEFORE
DURING
Also DURING
Nectar of the Gods!
The artist and her medium.

Aurelie is the talented artist that brought my crowning glory back to life. While in the shampoo chair, I got a massage which was incredibly relaxing. 100% recommend!

AFTER!

One of my besties told me that to go back to the apartment would be a waste of a million bucks (Since that’s what I told her I felt like), and my reply was, as it always is when she’s right, “Stop talking sense!”

Although it looked like it was going to rain, I braved the cool air to go to the Abbey de Homme. I’ve posted pictures of the exterior a few times, but I’m about to give you a video tour of William the Conqueror’s final resting place. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a church this large and ornate in person. I hope you enjoy the bits I can share with you.

Every day at noon, this is what I’ve been hearing. It rings every hour until 10PM.
I tried to give you the feeling of the vastness of this space. I don’t think I could possibly do it justice. It was extremely reverent to the point where I didn’t feel like I should speak at all. In fact, nobody that I observed seemed to be speaking either. There were stations where you could purchase prayer candles to make requests of the saints honored within the walls. I got one of St. Joan of Arc.
Saint Nicholas
Saint Therese
Saint Joan of Arc
Jesus of the Sacred Heart
His mom, Mary
And Pops, Joseph

The tomb of William the Conqueror

September 9, 1087, age 59

(Natural Causes)

He was born in 1028.

As originally posted in French.
The translation to English

Oh Mary,

Queen of Peace

May through your intercession

bring the reconciliation between

peoples

The directional sign.

Day Nine Conclusion

This is an induction cooktop. In the United States I’ve either used a campstove, a gas stove, or an electric stove. I’d never seen anything like this. I gave up trying this morning with a vow to master it this evening having stored all the ready to go ingredients in the fridge.

The Oracle has spoken. I had no idea what I was doing until watching this informative video.
SUCCESS! I learned how to use an induction stove! I’m giving myself a gold star on my forehead for this accomplishment!
A portico.
Note: the handle looks like a pull, not a push.
This was by the bus stop I used today. The corners of the building are rounded which I thought was pretty cool.
These are pretty common to see in random places. I’ve noticed them primarily on roundabouts.
This is a bakery in Cairon. The displays are lovely, the people are kind, and the treats that can be found here are fantastic! I made my selection.
They packaged it in a very pretty little box. Even in my bag it didn’t damage the contents.
That is a lemon meringue tartlette. I was in heaven when I had it for dessert at dinner time.

Today was a good day. My client has made a dramatic improvement in three exercise sessions. We even took a walk down the rural road to see the white horse that lives there. We played ball together, counting to 100 in French and 30 in Spanish before he tired. His lifts from his chair were stronger and faster without as much support. He’s just plain wonderful and I love him in a familial way.

I think, in order to do what I do as a caregiver, I have to be willing to fall in love with my clients. Not romantically at all, but to see them as a human who is doing the best they can with what they have to work with. It allows me to grant grace, and even sometimes mercy, when things don’t work out like they want them to and they get frustrated.

I love my vocation. I love what I do. I love being love in a service type of way. It’s so deeply enriching to my life that I honestly don’t know what else I’d do that would create such a great degree of satisfaction.

I extend that into my daily life as well. It is good to be needed. It feels good to know I can help. It is empowering to know that something I do, say, or offer is putting more love out into the world. It’s easier now for me to accept that same love that’s given to me by so many beautiful souls. I sometimes can’t believe this is my life.

But, it is. I’m living the life I always dreamed about. I’m doing things I thought weren’t even possible. I’m learning (albeit with a shockingly painful curve) every day to do new things. I wouldn’t trade this life for anything!

Day nine note

The other day when I went to the grocery, I picked up some delicious things. My plan was to cook for myself, but I kept putting it off. This morning, I got ambitious.

I took out the spinach and put it in the colander and poured boiling water over it. I cut up potatoes into tiny little pieces. I chopped up an onion and put it in the pan with what was sure to be a gastronomic pleasure. I popped in some vegan butter, and tried to turn on the stove.

I was pushing buttons like it was a typewriter, and nothing happened. Nothing. I tried turning it off and turning it on again, but to no avail. I tried for a good 15 minutes to figure out how to work the stove, but no.

The stove was smarter than I and I ended up going to my favorite place for breakfast. They make better coffee than I do anyway.

Day Eight, Caen Botanical Gardens

I woke up late because yesterday I drank too much caffeine and so I was still wide awake this morning at 5AM! That’s only 11PM in East Tennessee, but still. I wishy-washed about what to do and finally decided I’d start with a double espresso (Will I ever learn?!) and some breakfast. I went to the spot where the man speaks enough English to take my order.

It feels sort of sub-human not to be able to do much but grunt and point. I have mastered the order for espresso, so that’s a plus. Bon Jour is common, Merci’, Desole (Diz-ole’) which means Sorry, Au revoir. So far I’ve been able to skate by with those small phrases, but if anyone asks me something in French, I just stare blankly at them, point to my chest, and say American. Most of them laugh at me, which, truly, I deserve.

While enjoying the atmosphere of the restaurant, I decided to look for a park.

I asked Google maps for the nearest parks. I sorted them by distance, selected a Botanical garden and set off. Now, before I go any farther in this story, let me explain something Google didn’t get. When I asked for a garden or park, I didn’t mean the street name. I arrived at the destination only to find that it was a street. MAOU!

Looking at the map, however, I noted that the Caen Botanical Garden wasn’t far away, so I adjusted my sails and set off again.

The little car was painted like the Love Bug Herbie. It was cute and the woman who owned it was an older woman with dyed dark hair. When I put up my camera, she smiled radiantly and laughed.

The screeching I could hear echoing off the building walls turned out to be this handsome seagull. Skyrats I’ve heard them called, but he was none to happy to be hanging out in the neighborhood.

The next picture is a shot down the street where Google sent me to the wrong place. It felt a bit overwhelming with all the details involved in the shot, but the street, itself, was quiet.

The last picture in this set reflects the height, the gothic style, and the detailing of the old homes. Each house on the street had a different, although similar, style. Some had carparks, others had on street parking. I recognize some of the car brands, but there are many I don’t.

At the end of the street, I turned left and walked a good length of block. At the nearby roundabout, there were people bustling about their day. Many of them seemed to be about 65+, carrying groceries, and dressed conservatively.

This is a sign. No, really. I understand the basic words, but I had to use Google translate to really understand. I didn’t bother with the names of the plants because they are carefully curated, marked, and I wanted to enjoy the time I had.

Yes, that’s me. A face with the name. Mare Martell.

Noel Bernard (1874-1911) demonstrated in this greenhouse the symbiosis or fungi in tuberous roots of orchids.

The scent of the earth in the garden was so rich with alien fragrances that it made it hard to breathe…breathtaking. Even in early Autumn, the flowers and plants were holding true to their lives. The temperature was 64 degrees, partly sunny, a breeze blowing but the redolence cleansed my spirit.

Several groups of French schoolchildren were being ushered through the phytology. The teacher attempting to hold their attention was chattering to them as much as they were chittering to each other.

I sat on a bench for a bit to engage my senses with my surroundings. Other than the children in the distance, it was peaceful. Hidden birds in the trees sang praises to the sky. Life is good.

The music of water called to me. I heeded the melody to an eight foot tall cascade tumbling languidly into a shallow pond. I wanted to sit and watch the waterfall, but the carved log bench across from it had been knocked off its base and was resting in an awkward angle removing that possibility.

To the left of the waterfall were some rough stone steps. I climbed up them to the top. The first picture in the above series was my reward. The third picture shows an odd growth pattern. It stretched across the ground for about nine feet before reaching its trunk to the sky. The last picture is a water garden feature. On the bottom right, you can see where it meanders into a stream. The lily pads were growing as if an artist had chosen that precise spot to place them. I sat on a bench and drank in the beauty for a while.

And then there were the sculptures scattered among the natural features. These were a bit more contemporary, but the following statues follow a more traditional sense of aesthetic.

The neatly trimmed hedges that give background to these was being trimmed by a man on a very tall ladder. They are precisely cut to 90 degree angles at the top, forming a box-like structure to them.

An interesting trellis.
The ceiling in the bistro.
A fiery flower near the trellis.

As I made my way back to the apartment where I’m staying, I reflected on the sensory contentment I experienced. It’s like history pumping through my veins in such a magical way that I’ve been absorbed into the world. The architecture is so beautiful that even though things are close together, even touching or seamless, there is a sense of spaciousness. A liberation of the senses that I’d equate to a dream-like state that I don’t want to wake up from any time soon.

My spirit is happy. My heart is full. My body, although cranky, is grateful for the vigor in which I’m engaging with the city. My guidance is to travel as often and as far as possible. Although I’ve traveled quite a bit of the United States, experiencing the uncertainty of the unfamiliar has been extraordinary. And to think, if it weren’t for my clients, I wouldn’t be here! Peace be with you.

Day Four so far…

I took a bus/train combo according to Google maps. I arrived too late to catch the morning bus to Caen. Surprisingly the trains and the bus were clean although a bit crowded with my luggage in tow. The evening bus leaves at 4:55pm Paris time.
L’arcouest is a quiet neighborhood bar near the bus stop. The bartender didn’t speak a lick of English but I was able to order a double espresso.
This was deeply good. Served with water which I drank separately. People watching glory!

The wheel on my brand new luggage suffered the same fate as my first bag. And man do the French love their steps! I walked down two flights of about 30 steps each to access the correct train. What goes down must go up which made me lift my 50lb suitcase and my 20lb carryon up about 40 steps. Many people helped me with them which was surprising and helpful.

Traveling lesson learned, make sure you have sturdy all-terrain wheels on your luggage. You don’t need everything you think you will. Pack lighter than you think.

More to come…

The Joy of Water

This is the message I wrote for the Water Communion Ceremony at my Unitarian Universalist Church.

The Joy of Water

Good morning and bright blessings to you all. Today we are celebrating our shared commitment and community with the intermingling of water.

“The need for connection and community is primal, as fundamental as the need for air, water, and food.”- Dean Ornish.

The joys and sorrows of our friends and families are brought together in this significant ceremony that honors our most primal need, our fundamental need to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. Ryunosuke Satoro said “Individually, we are one drop. Together, we are an ocean.” They aren’t wrong. As we unite our vision, we flow like water, gentle and soft, yet determined to ripple into the smallest nooks and crannies of those we interact with.

As individuals we can find joy in the absolute absurdity of the flow of our lives. We can also sit in stagnant pools, forgetting our purpose, our direction. What we share today is our complex history, our integration into each other’s lives of this; our bless-ed home.

What we’ve given to each other today isn’t just water, it is a legacy promise to allow ourselves to be buoyant life preservers, the purveyors of goodwill, the people of a responsible and joyous citizenry to one another and to the “church” outside these walls.

My personal relationship with water is unique and has affected my spiritual existence since I was a young human.

I grew up in West Michigan, 35 minutes from the shores of Lake Michigan. My Gram lived much closer in Grand Haven, 10 minutes away from the lakefront on VanWagoner Road. When I was lucky enough to get to visit her, it was nearly always punctuated by a trip to the water, a long walk on the pier that stretches out from the shores to a lighthouse at the end.

I’d spend hours climbing up and over great sand dunes to overlook the water. Once I was good and worn out and maybe had a Ray’s burger (Still delicious as of a few years ago) for supper, I’d walk over to the waterfront to anxiously await the start of the Musical Fountain.

The voice would boom over the loudspeaker as a single spout of water shooting upwards lit by a white light would “talk” to the gathered crowd.

“Good evening, and welcome to the Grand Haven Musical Fountain.”

The voice would continue with the particulars of that night’s program which, as a child, I disregarded because the best was yet to come. As the music began through tinny speakers (Now since upgraded), the real show began.

Sprays of water enhanced by multi-colored lights would dance the hillside across the waterway. Fans of brightly colored sprays, tall and short straight shots into the night sky, a helix shape, swaying rotations lit in time to the music. It was exciting, beautiful, and one of my favorite childhood memories.

The harbor of Grand Haven called to me in a familiar way, as if it understood my need for connection, my sense of belonging wasn’t questioned by its shores. I was accepted unquestionably by its vastness.

When I was ten years old, I went with South Congregational Church to the shores of Lake Michigan where they had a retreat. We stayed in cabins, did activities together, sang, and spent our free time doing whatever we wanted to.

I found myself walking to the outdoor chapel that had rocks for benches, pine trees as the altar, and the edgeless view of the Great Lake. As I sat in solitude, staring out over the water, taking in the beauty of nature, I heard a voice.

It wasn’t male or female. It was outside of my body, yet, somehow, so close I thought someone had snuck up behind me. Alarmed, I looked around. I was still alone. The birds were singing, the not-so-distant waves were washing the sandy shores, and the cool breeze brushed my skin ever so lightly.

The voice said, “I am with you.”

I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t worried. It was a deeply comforting reassurance. I tried to describe it later to Rev. Richard Rowlands, but he was inadvertently both dismissive and skeptical. I didn’t tell anyone else because of that, holding onto that secret until now.

Fast forward several years in my life.

I was living in Northern Indiana at the time. I had set up the perfect bath. I had vanilla scented candles lit. I had hot water with lavender bubbles. On my boombox I had a cassette of whale songs playing.

As I relaxed in the luxurious bath, I closed my eyes and found myself drifting into what seemed like a different dimension. When I opened my eyes, I could hear the water that encompassed me. I could taste the sunlight that poured in through the window, warm and honey-like in flavor.

I eased myself up out of the water, maintaining my receptiveness and tied my bathrobe around my waist. Every bit of contact I had with the external world brought me a different level of understanding. As I stepped out my front door to witness the tree that shaded my front yard, the leaves were singing like chimes. The grass gave off a scent of satisfaction so aromatic that it deluged my nostrils with its perfume.

I heard the voice again. “I am with you.”

I don’t know exactly how it happened, but I understood things at that moment that I’d never known before then. I “got it.” I heard a language so ancient that it resonated with my spirit even today.

I heard the voice again. “I am with you.”

It didn’t last long, maybe fifteen minutes or so before I left that state. I kept that secret too, until now.

I became enthralled by nature. I felt the call of the wild. I embraced the natural world as if religion could only be found in the shells on a beach, the sandy shores of the state from which I was born or the Ponderosa Pine Forest on the Mogollon Rim with spring waters filling the streams with icy cold run-off.

I heard the trees telling stories of what they’d witnessed throughout the decades of their knowing. I felt the coalescing of my spirit with the earth where I planted my flowers and herbs. I became a devotee of Mother Earth.

I moved to Tennessee when I heard that voice again. It said, “Go now,” and showed me a picture in my mind of the exterior of the old church, I had no intention of ever setting foot inside a church as a congregant. But the voice seemed far more confident than I felt.

As each tradition of the Unitarian Universalist became revealed through my attendance, I fell into depths of pure spiritual joy. I found and cultivated relationships as deep as any I’d ever experienced.

My favorite song, written by Singer/Songwriter Peter Mayer, “Holy Now,” sings:

“When holy water was rare at best

It barely wet my fingertips.

Now I have to hold my breath

Like I’m swimmin’ in a sea of it.

It used to be a world half there,

Heaven’s second-rate hand me down.

Now I walk it with a reverent air,

‘Cause ev’rything is holy now.”

As we share our water together, there is not only a sense of unity but one of devout joy, knowing that we Are, together. Knowing that we can be filled with sustainable joy through our common communion with one another.

A smarter feller than myself once said:

“The power of water is a reminder of the power of community, and the strength that can come from working together towards a common goal. It is a symbol of life, flowing through everything and connecting us all.”

“Water flowing is a reminder to stay in harmony with nature and honor the vital role that water plays in sustaining all life on Earth. The beauty of water flowing is that it is a reminder of the power and mystery of the natural world, and our interconnectedness with it.”

See you further on up the trail. Blessed Be!