I have been in the Hillcrest Pastoral Care Internship since August 2nd. We have just passed October 2nd. I have delved deep into my spirit, identifying blocks which have been keeping me from being open to life, to God, to the world in general. It has been a deeply introspective and abundant time.

To be accepted unconditionally in a workplace as a matter of practice is quite unbelievable to me. I suppose chaplaincy is most definitely that, isn’t it? To be accepted unconditonally? Chaplaincy to me is simply to companion, to be present, to share whatever grief or joy is present, to talk to God for whomever is beside me to know peace for them. To be accepted is reciprocal though, because it is so easy to accept other chaplain interns, chaplain residents, and the supervisors of the department. We are all of like mind. Or should I say, we are of like heart.

Divine timing is fascinating. I have spent my entire life struggling. From my perspective, I have failed at almost everything I tried my hand at. What I didn’t realize is that in all of those perceived failures, I have learned from every one of them. I am a seasoned, wiser person today. And finally, I am chaplain material. Having survived the darkest of days – I do not say that lightly – I am able to sit with those who are currently experiencing their own. I feel as though I have emerged from an extremely long dark night of the soul.

Today, I make the decision daily to embrace life as it presents itself to me. I don’t feel my age at all and yet I know that embracing life as it arrives every day helps me to keep the notion of age in the abstract. I am no longer allowing myself to feel a particular way simply because of the age bracket I now occupy. Frankly, I turned 65 last May. I now embrace it by reminding myself: I’ve never been 65! This is turning out to be quite an adventure. Considering I expected not to survive past the age of 30, with my newfound outlook, it truly is an adventure. A very profound one at that.

It’s been a long time since I have been able to just be with myself. I now have a dedicated writing space, soft white curtains that will move with the autumn breeze once the windows can be opened again. How very fortunate I am!

Having been in Tulsa now since 2021, I sort of expected the sadness I feel about leaving Santa Rosa, California to have alleviated somewhat. It hasn’t. It seems that most of the people I know who have relocated here from California feel very much the same way. I remind myself: I enjoy a better standard of living here. I no longer feel constricted. I am able to afford the things I want. Yet, the emotional freedom I knew in California, the wide open spaces of the northern coast, the rough beauty … calls to my soul in a way I can’t ignore.

Oklahoma surely has rough beauty … somewhere. It’s not immediately accessible. It’s not right outside my front door the way it was in Santa Rosa. Yet, it exists. I know it does. I also know it’s my job to go find it.

I have been missing my chaplain work in a way I never thought I would. Thanks to Kara, my therapist, I contacted a local hospital here to explore volunteering. They have a program, 6 months long, to train to be a chaplain with the end goal to become certified. This is an amazing situation, honestly. The actual course requires a masters degree and graduate seminary work preferred. I got nothin’. I decided to approach it from a volunteer slant, hoping that I might have an opportunity to do a little work somehow. Well, no. You have to go through this program.

Long story short, I was accepted after writing a spiritual autobiography, a statement on why I wanted to get the training, 3 stories of experiences that changed my life, and a story of when I helped someone. I wrote for 2 days.

After submitting the requested work, I was invited to interview. I made a decision to show up only as myself. I wasn’t on my best behavior; I was real and vulnerable. I was honest and open. And in spite of myself, I got the call today that I was accepted into the program.

It feels right. I know the only thing for me to do is to show up. And that is what I will do. On Wednesdays, class is 8 to 4pm. There will be other commitments as well but I am not sure yet what they will be with the exception of an on call day. Is that weekly? Who knows.

The biggest feeling in this moment is one of relief, I think. It’s a relief to drop pretense. To stop pretending, hiding, avoiding. I am not going to be anything other than myself from here on out. I’m so grateful for Santa Rosa. So grateful for all my people there. It’s my heart’s home. My people who know my authentic self are there, including Teresa, with whom I moved to Tulsa. With the exception of my Florida friends Jackie (my BFF), Cami and Patti, that is.

Reading that sentence is deeply humbling. I have a lot of people who know my authentic self. How rare and beautiful. How very fortunate I am!

Hello. I’m here today, thanks to You. Thank you! Your love and care for me is all encompassing. I see it everywhere. I have shelter, transportation, movement, hearing, eyesight, the power of thought. I have love and friendship. I have support. All because of You.

Thank you for Your constant creativity. Ever moving, ever springing up, never the same. I am completely in awe as I consider the magnitude of You. You are bigger than any name, any pronoun, any inadequate descriptor or effort to understand You. The evidence of You is everywhere! You power every thought, beat every heart, created the stars and planets, nurseries for the new ones while tending to the old ones, and what exists beyond them. What is beyond the Universe You created? It is the mystery I will never know while here in this body. You created time and space, and You live inside both of those things – You live inside of all living things, and You live inside all things without heartbeat or thought. You move the invisible wind, and You *are* the invisible wind. How this is possible is beyond my comprehension, yet I am content to experience the joy of that knowing.

Thank you for the joy I feel. Thank you for the happy anticipation of the gifts You offer me daily, available to me any time I consider them. Although I still have yet to open to them all, I know (not always but when I remind myself) that I can have all that I believe I can. What a miracle it is each time I open to that; You flood me with beauty and joy. I know that it’s not about things I can have or possessions I might own, but completely about my feelings. When I picture something I think I want, I know that it’s not that thing at all, but the feeling it would give me. When I open to that feeling, it most often is one of peace, of freedom, of happiness, of joy. And those things are available to me any time I want them. Every time. Every single time.

We humans are in an unprecedented time in our history. We are challenged, we are sometimes scared, uncertain, disoriented by what is happening all around us. I wish everyone could know what I know. You! I wish everyone could know that experience I have with You. When I stop and open my heart to You, I leave this place of emotion and physicality. I am with You. The wonder and comfort of that experience is something I wish everyone could know.

In the Grand Canyon, I was with You. Disappeared right into You. The comfort, the vastness, the unimaginable Love I knew in those moments reminded me of what is True, what is Real. I touched the Truth in those moments. I’ve had them in other moments, too, like the times when I needed to be present for someone in the deepest traumatic grief of their life. I had the opportunity to be You in those moments. You gave me Grace in the Grand Canyon, and You have given me Grace in those grief filled moments with those suffering. You give me Grace each day, and I am sorry that I don’t often see it. But I see it now, I see it in this moment, and I want to express my complete and utter joy and gratitude for it.

My heart literally rises in joy when I am quiet, allowing You to become visible, allowing myself to feel Your Presence. I love You. I love You. I love You. Amen.

Because I am a spiritual being, and chosen specifically to express the characteristics of God in a unique way, I know I am held tenderly, surrounded by abundance at all times. I easily drop into the Presence and am one with the Truth.

There is one Heart which lives throughout all creation. One Presence which beats all hearts, powers all movement; It is woven through space, time, and matter. In silence and noise, darkness and light, in everything known and unknown, the Thing Itself, God, rests in holy Stillness. All things spring forth from the Creative Process, that which produces every single expression of the Divine Mind. Distant galaxies and stars within them, countless errant comets which travel endlessly through the vastness of dark, silent space, explosions at the death of a star which embody the most powerful energy in the known universe: all of these are no match for the power of the Presence which brings them forth.

As the Presence permeates all things, and is all things, It is my life, right now. I am the Poem, God is the Author. I am the Painting, and God is the Painter. I am a result of holy inspiration, chosen to be the expression of the Master Artist. Right down to the atoms which hold my DNA together, I carry God within me wherever I go, in whatever I do. I have divine Fingerprints on my heart. I am inseparable from It. This is who I am. I feel this truth in the core of my being; I wholly accept this truth with joy.

Knowing my birthright, my inheritance, the Truth of who I am, which is that I am one with the Presence, one with the perfect pattern of the harmony of the entire universe; I now speak this word about myself, my ever present, never changing abundance, and the ease in which I completely trust that my needs are met before I even speak them. Without question I trust that my highest good is already in process. I trust that the One who loves me most will provide all that I could need exactly when I need it. The word which I declare here, in this moment, reverberates throughout all creation, and takes form all around me, as ironclad fact in my present experience. The perfect action of cause and effect, of my word being acted upon as I focus on placing it in the Law, cannot be refuted. I relax into this knowing, remembering this Truth in every moment of doubt or worry. Each time the urge to worry arises, I gently lay it aside, letting it rest, deeply knowing the Truth.

I rest now, full of gratitude for the Grace I continually experience with the One who loves me most. My heart is lighter, I breathe easier, I feel deeply calm. I am solid in the knowing that all of creation has heard my declaration, and I am centered now without any concern. My heart is tender in thankfulness.

All I need to do now is to let this word rest in the Law which God created. Whatever I utter, the Law can only respond with a tender “Yes”. It can only be this way. So, I let this word go now, knowing fully that it is handled, done, and done well. And so it is. Amen.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to look at love differently. Maybe I should say, I’ve come to know love more fully. One cannot go through life without having their love tested. Through tragedy, joy, spirituality, relationships of all types – our relationships with pets are very important to include here – all of these test our love, refining and deepening it.

Lately I’ve been observing people in my life living love like the True North star. Honestly it’s the only way I can explain the beauty of this kind of love in action. I am always humbled by it.

Maybe it’s because I’m captivated by the vastness of space: galaxies, stars, planets, nebulas and novas all inexplicable, all ever constant through our experience of time. Whatever the inspiration is for my understanding, here’s the thing: True North love is constant. It shows up. It’s dependable, you can count on it. In the darkest night, it shines so brightly that you can navigate your way.

I’m blessed. I experience it by watching the people in my life. I have been given the gift of True North love countless times throughout the years. I’m blessed to be capable of being that kind of love, too. I made no mistake in my wording just now: we are love. We do love. We are love, as a noun. We are love, as a verb.

Today, you will have the opportunity to show up as True North love. Be the brightest star in the night sky for those around you. Live your truth: you are a North Star. Know the truth: the North Star is there for you, silent in your night sky, waiting for your gaze, loving you as you travel in the dark.

This is one of my favorite images. That marvelous day at the Biltmore, I was using a point and shoot Canon. I wished at that time for a better camera, not knowing the magic yet. And by the magic, I mean that as Minor White said, “Spirit always stands still long enough for the photographer It has chosen”: in pressing the shutter button, I was chosen to capture this very moment. I stuck the camera in as close as I dared, hoping not to incite the anger of this little being. Even though I was close and marveled at the sight, when I looked at the image on my camera, I was awestruck.

The world is a beautiful place, and it’s in the treasure hunt that we discover it. What we look for multiplies.

I wonder, what will you find today?

Several years ago, I visited the Biltmore House in Asheville, North Carolina. I left a piece of my heart there. I’m not sure why I felt this way. It felt like Home. The house, the grounds, Asheville, the falls, all of it. Home.

There are towns all over the South East which have churches in close proximity to one another, differing in denomination. For me, Asheville is similar to this but instead of churches, there are waterfalls that you come across in much the same way. The waterfalls were better than any church. Sacred.

More often these days, I find myself lost in reverie. I suspect that it’s my spiritual connection which bridges the divide between the earth I stand upon and the place I go to: I call it the Holy Hum. Sometimes I refer to it as the Holy Stillness. Either way, I leave the physical world even though I am very aware of my feet on the ground in those moments. The air is sweeter somehow. It doesn’t have to be something large to transport me. These flowers were my vehicle that day.

This photo was taken inside the Biltmore conservatory in May several years ago. The light was magical. Soft, diffused, almost tender, it illuminated these flowers in such a way that I stood transfixed for a few moments before remembering I had my camera in my hands. They were hanging fairly high up so I simply stuck my camera in the air, hoping for a good shot. I was not disappointed.

This is one of the reasons I love to photograph the world around me: I am able to revisit the holy moments whenever I wish. I don’t need them to visit the Stillness. Yet, when I look at my photographs, they are a shortcut to it. Instantly, I am There.

I’ve been so busy living in the good that I’ve turned away from the bad. It’s in the past. Many people find this anniversary significant. I don’t know if I would be doing this differently if I’d had to undergo chemotherapy; my approach was a little different than most. Could it be because didn’t have to suffer that? I’ll never know.

This is my fourth year cancer free. The reminder of that day is sort of a non-event, really. It’s become a story – a painful story that has lost its charge.

January 20, 2016 was the day I faced down cancer. I was diagnosed in early November 2015, just after my return from Boulder Crest Retreat.

Even before I got the biopsy results I knew my choice was to undergo a double mastectomy. The initial shock, fear, and brief moments of doubt as I explored the terrifying options lasted for a few weeks. After I made the decision, I never wavered for a moment. To this day, I have zero regrets about that decision. It allowed me to heal more quickly. My experience has left me with lingering nerve pain; there are moments when I don’t think I can bear it. I can’t imagine how much more difficult this might have been for me, had I chosen reconstruction. One of the most interesting things about this surgery has been how liberating it has been for me. Many of the women in the groups I belong to say the same thing. No more tests, no more anxiety or dread for the upcoming appointments. I am free. I like it that way.

These days, I’m busy volunteering as a chaplain. I have an upcoming interview to be accepted into Hospice training. I picked up my meditation practice again. I’m in a class learning about different spiritual practices. I’m renewing my membership to my favorite art museum in San Francisco. Life is deliciously good today. Cancer didn’t cause a revelation or change my perspective on life. What it did do is make me more mindful of what I already knew but often forgot: life is precious and the moments are fleeting. I appreciate more of the moments today, more fully than before.

I forgot my cancer-versary and I couldn’t be happier.

Although there is so much richness in the Winnie-the-Pooh stories, there is one tender moment that lives in my heart above all others. Christopher Robin says to Pooh: “Silly old bear.” Whenever I remember it, my heart softens. Sometimes, it even brings tears to my eyes.

When I am wrought with worry, uncertainty, anxiety or loneliness, I remind myself of Christopher Robin’s affectionate remark. I think of the Thing which causes stars to explode into existence where there was nothing before, the rotation of the earth and moon and their predictable waltz, how they maintain a perfect balance in their place in the galaxy; I consider the trillions of stars in the vast expanse of space which undoubtedly have their own planets and countless unseen waltzes. I think of the Creator of all that I know and all that I will never know, and hear those words which speak in my heart: silly old bear, of course you are ok, I say to myself. The One who made the stars and planets, causes the wind to move and your heart to beat, holds you tenderly even when you don’t feel it.

Sometimes, when I just can’t seem to feel the comfort of that thought, I think of Piglet and Pooh as they walked one day: “Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. ‘Pooh!’ He whispered. ‘Yes, Piglet?’ ‘Nothing,’ said Piglet, taking Pooh’s paw. ‘I just wanted to be sure of you.’”

Most often, I only need to let my heart whisper to my Everything, the one Thing, the Creator of All. When I do that, and stop to listen, I am reminded: I am loved. In fact, I remember that I *am* love. And all is well.

My maternal grandmother was German. She and my grandfather immigrated to America from Wiesbaden in the late 1920’s. They were simple people: my grandfather was a leather craftsman, and my grandmother was a seamstress.

They eventually settled in Maspeth, New York. When I was very small, my sister and I would go for overnight stays. Although my sister was too young to remember much, I was old enough to catalogue small details which have stayed with me my entire life: the smell of leather and homemade soap and fresh linen, fresh baked cookies and fruit which sat in a bowl on the table where we ate. The way the sun shined through the windows in the kitchen, and the spider plants which hung in the corner to catch the light. My Nana’s dresses, made in flowery patterns with pockets which always had a small treat waiting for us.

My Nana had a garden in the back of their row home. There were petunias, roses, pansies. I am transported back to that loving time when I catch the scent of a petunia.

In my Nana’s garden, there were metal chairs that rocked. I remember one warm spring day, she put me in her lap and sang this song: “Oh playmate, come out and play with me, climb up my apple tree, slide down my cellar door! Oh playmate, come out and play with me, and we’ll be jolly friends, forever more!”

Nana’s house meant instant comfort. One of the more tender memories I have is bedtime. After a bath, an episode of the show “Flipper” with a special bowl of ice cream, we would be shepherded upstairs. Nana would tuck us into bed, which was covered with a quilt she’d made from the remnants of dresses and other creations. It smelled fresh like the outdoors; it was soft like a breeze. My sister and I cuddled up under its warmth. A wind up clock ticked softly, lulling us to sleep. In the morning, we’d look at the quilt’s patches and wonder which dress each one came from.

I have but a few photographs of my Nana. I have something else though: I have that quilt. Whenever I’m feeling particularly lonesome, I pull it out from where it’s stored and gather it up, burying my face in it. That spring day, the song Nana sang, sunshine and petunias, existing in the safe universe of my Nana’s house, all come back to me. And I feel better.

Each Wednesday, it’s become my habit to walk to a coffee shop after my weekly therapy appointment. Brew, as it is called, is a small local shop which has great coffee concoctions and in the evenings, beer on tap. Brilliant.

A small community gathering place which is run by a lesbian couple (so California!), it’s relaxed, cozy and welcoming. You’re greeted by a chalkboard on the far wall as you walk in with this: “Our Story ~ Girl meets coffee. Other girl meets coffee. Girls fall in love. Coffee included.”

Perfect place to be after my appointment, really. Low key group of people who are totally cool with two lesbians running a great little coffee shop. Local artists have art on the walls. Local authors display their books. Community events posted.

Feeling grateful today.

This was the place I came to terms with my reality and made the decision to go ahead with knee surgery. My normal way of being is to keep my eyes on the object I want to photograph or explore … and just go. This day, I parked, got out of my car, looked at the steps which take you to the shore … and stopped. I was disheartened. I couldn’t safely navigate the steps. It was then that I realized I had a decision to make: do I continue to live like this, a half life, or choose to face the pain of this surgery? The answer was as big as my bridge.

As I suffer through the initial weeks of physical therapy, this will be the picture I keep at the forefront. This bridge is a mighty symbol to me. It will be my beacon.

I was 19 when I entered active duty. I was 20 when my knee pain began, surely a result of countless shifts standing guard at the gates of the Air Force Base I was assigned to.

Concrete slabs with shelter, we stood outside them in all types of weather, in combat boots that often fit poorly. Rarely 8 hour shifts, often more, not allowed to be seen sitting, we were always on our feet.

This was a part of my job in the Air Force from 1979 to 1983. I drove patrol cars, filled in as a Desk Sergeant, managed traffic, and … most often, was on my feet, guarding the gates. Being so young meant that I had the luxury of ignoring pain because it wasn’t chronic. It got better; it eased up when I was off my feet.

Fast forward 37 years of living, and today I am facing a knee replacement. (Falling over my cat last May was the straw that broke the camel’s back.)

Chronic, unrelenting pain has the power to change the sufferer’s personality. It changed mine, until I found a few things to ease the worst of it. (Soft tissue injuries, can I get an amen?) Until my knee replacement happens I need to wear a brace day and night. If I don’t, one false move and I see stars. The pain can literally cause my knees to buckle.

That’s the physical aspect. Here’s my spiritual spin on all of it: so far, what I’ve learned is I can use this entire situation as a spiritual practice. Just like my meditation mantra, each time I wander down the path of worry about the future, about the impending suffering (short lived, but in the moment I promise post surgical pain feels as though it will never end), the “what if this or that happens”, all the minutia that goes along with planning for a major surgery … and the random fly by of “why me?”, I can choose to return to the present moment. It’s all I have. This moment. This breath. This heartbeat.

I can choose to get wrapped up in the story of why this happened, create stress, cause myself to suffer from anxiety. In those moments wrought with suffering I often forget – I have choices. I always have choices. Instead of anxiety and worry, I can choose to be free. Moment by moment. Stay present. Feel my heartbeat. Remember to breathe deeply.

Most of the time, if I ask myself what it is that I need to know in that very moment, it is this: I need to know that I am ok. If I can remember to ask myself that, and stop long enough to hear the answer, it is always … I am ok.

My knee hurts. Time to breathe.

I’m beginning to understand that in order to be creative, I actually have to sit down and show up.

Steven Pressfield, the author of The Legend of Bagger Vance and the War of Art, gave me a picture of what might be possible for me. For many reasons, I am not a morning person. I love mornings, but my constitution is such that I’m slow to get moving. I have finally come to a place of peace over this, accepting myself, allowing myself the quiet mornings I apparently need.

Steven Pressfield described his process in the book, the War of Art, and it was eye opening to me. He sits down to write at 10:30 and writes for 4 hours. My rigid picture of what a writer is includes the Ernest Hemingway (and countless others’) routine of getting up at 5 a.m. to put pen to paper, or in my case, hands to keyboard. This idea of having coffee, making phone calls, before sitting down to write? Revolutionary.

This morning, I made the attempt. I woke up slowly, did my morning meditation, had a cup of coffee, texted my morning people. And then … I sat down, and began to write.

I believe more than ever that we all have our own rhythm: circadian, energy, sleep and waking. Finally, I am honoring my own. It’s still a discovery time for me. There’s a delightful trying out of how this can work for me. Can I really be like Steven Pressfield, and sit down most days to write after my meditation, and morning coffee?

Apparently, the answer is yes. Yes, I can start writing after my morning routine. The magic is that I have to show up. In a way, I can relate writing to meditation. When I meditate, I’m in the flow where things bubble up. When I write, it’s very possible for me to fall into the flow. Instead of harshly telling myself I have to produce something spectacular, it’s possible for me to simply open the channel so what is supposed to bubble up has the space to do so. Sometimes it’s a simple downloading from the place beyond what I know, the place of mystery where all my good exists. Sometimes I just sit and ponder. Writing down what I’m thinking often leads to profound insights. Other times though, it’s drivel. And that’s ok because like meditation, it’s the practice, not the form it takes. It’s simply showing up.