Arizona Quilting

I've been working on making a quilt, picking up some helpful tips from my mother-in-law who runs a quilting business in Arizona. The photo above is of my squares laid out as I think they will eventually look.

I started this whole venture pretty much tabula rasa. I had no clear vision of color or design. I eventually chose materials and colors on the spot in the fabric store, which was fun and a bit scary. This was not a trial run; the dollars made the stakes high enough to require significant commitment.

The first twelve or so blocks went together without my having any real picture of the final look. I got stuck as I had to make a choice: put them right up next to each other (not an easy task for a novice) or separate them with strips in between and risk having them look like floating blobs? Opinions flew among us, we tried different looks, and I eventually found myself at that "cranky point" where I know I just have to do something else--sleep on it and wait for my vision to appear.

Which it did. Naturally.

This morning it has all come together, and I'm ready to continue. I have no doubt that there will be more problems, decisions, seams to rip out and re-do, and cranky points to be gotten through. In the end, it will be done for better or worse, Mom's quilting machine will have done its magical transformation on the sometimes crooked, sometimes lumpy, sometimes wrinkled physique and character of my production, and my quilt shall dwell [in all its glory] in the house of its owners...for a good long time.

Yeah, I know I'm pushing the allegory.

Desert Blooms

Some folk think the desert is sand and cactus. Only. Well, we've seen plenty of sand and plenty of cacti. Tall and short cacti, skinny and fat cacti, cacti with short spines and long spines, and so on. What had been delightful, though, is how many flowers we've seen since we got to the desert areas of Utah and Arizona on this trip. We knew they were here, but until I made this collection for posting, I didn't realize how many blooms we've caught.
Some of them are native to the desert, and some are plants that have been planted around homes in the desert, plants that are hardy and drought resistant.
At this point I think I'll just be quiet and let the photographs speak for themselves. Enjoy!

Painted, Petrified, Petroglyphed

Painted Desert, ArizonaWell, okay, so the title doesn't really work. But I was trying to get some alliteration going about this post. On our road trip last week we dropped by the national park that has the painted desert, petroglyphs, and petrified wood. We were looking for ways to get maximum use of our national park pass we'd bought a few days earlier in Moab.

I've not been a big fan of the desert, nor of petrified wood. And petroglyphs have been only mildly interesting over the years. But this really was a worthwhile place to visit, for the variety of things to see if nothing else.
It seemed to us like there were new vistas around every corner. I was particularly intrigued by the blues, reds and greys in the painted desert. What forces layered the earth in such interesting colors? Whose paintbrush had been at work.

It was intriguing to think that this was all hidden underground, and then eroded away with time to reveal the hidden colors and treasures. It reminded me of the farewell party I attended as a child in Malaysia, where people were giving our head of nurses a lovely send-off. At the party they had a cake, and when Grandma Reynolds (the lady who was leaving) cut across the cake on one side, you could see the word "fare" embedded in the cake. Then she made a cut on the other side, where it said "well." How very clever!
On we went to see the petroglyphs. It struck me that the artists had quite a sense of humor. If you look carefully at the rock above, the ancient artist etched in a stork carrying a rather anxious looking man!
Click on the pictures to see the petroglyphs better. This one was out at a place called "newspaper point." I think the newspaper referred to all the stories etched on the rocks below the point. I wonder who "read" them over the years? In this one I rather liked the guy with the crew cut eating an ice cream cone.
And then we got to the areas where the land had eroded away, exposing wood that had turned to stone after being buried under sand and water many years ago. Some of the colors were quite lovely.
At one place you could see a whole petrified log spanning a chasm. Apparently some folk got nervous that the log would collapse over time, so they've build a supporting bridge under the stone log. Husband is standing there helpfully, to illustrate the comparative size of the log.
The sky had been threatening for some time to drop rain, with a few bursts of lightning afar off. So we hopped in the car and continued south, leaving the painted desert and petrified forest behind.

Canyon de Chelly

Antelope Ruins, Canyon del ChellyOn Monday of this week, after hiking in Arches National Park, Husband and I drove through Navajo Nation lands to Chinle, Arizona, situated at the mouth of Canyon de Chelly (pronounced, "Canyon duh Shay"). The canyon used to be the home of Anasazi people, who built their villages into the walls of the canyon or at the base of the massive walls that rise up hundreds and hundreds of feet.

Eventually the Navajo people arrived in the region and found the old Anasazi villages abandoned and crumbling. The Navajo have farmed and herded down in the canyon for centuries now. Visitors going into the canyon must have a Navajo guide, with the exception of one trail--the one Husband and I hiked down into the canyon on Tuesday morning to see the Whitehouse ruins.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. On Monday evening we arrived at the top of the canyon, looking for the viewpoint down on the Antelope ruins. Right by the parking lot was a young Navajo man working on etching a pot. His name was Albert Bia, he said. He had learned this craft in high school, where all Navajo young people learn the arts. But he'd not appreciated it until after he went to Phoenix to live for a while, and then returned to his native lands. Then he picked up his rusty skills, honed them, and now makes a living doing lovely work.

Below is a plate he made showing the bear claw, Kokopelli characters, and feathers etched in all around. I don't recall what the diamond-shaped emblems represent. We loved his detailed, beautiful work, and bought a nicely shaped pot.
I asked Albert what his last name, Bia, means. "Oh," he said. "My uncle used to work with the agency for tribal matters, and because the agency was the Bureau of Indian Affairs, they would just refer to him by those initials: 'BIA.' So Bia is our last name!"
The next morning husband and I arrived early so as to take advantage of the cool of the morning for our hike into the canyon. Thinking of the 2-1/2 miles down into the canyon with a drop in elevation of 600 feet, and then climbing back up again, I had woken up in the night and thought I must be crazy to have agreed to this hike. But I try to be a woman of my word. With the rays of the early morning sun saturating our view, we headed down the steep trail.

It was warming up rapidly, but the trail was beautiful, hugging the red rock walls with plenty of vegetation, birds and lizards to look at. We happily trotted down the switchbacks, our shoes getting a good grip on the rough stone.
Husband took lots of pictures, but since I'm just posting my photos here, you're getting my view on the hike. Husband was wearing his special desert hiking shirt, a tie-dyed t-shirt from Tubac, Arizona. Somehow it seems rather in style in places like this!
Finally we reached the bottom of the canyon, dropping into the sandy riverbed and rounding the corner from the place where the trail emerged by a little Navajo hogan and sheep pen. The canyon walls seemed to soar up above us for a mile.
And then, suddenly there we were below the Whitehouse ruins, named after one of the buildings that has kept its whitish hue over the years. It was an impressive place, still quiet in the early morning with the vendors and other visitors having not yet arrived.
It was time to head back up the trail. I was dreading it. Here's Husband just passing the hogan and the sheep pen, which "accidentally" got in my picture of him. We were not supposed to take pictures down there of the Navajos, but there seemed to be no one around.
On the way up, we spotted four goats trotting down the trail up above us. Husband wasn't interested in meeting billy goats on the trail, so we were happy to see them take off across the face of the steep sandstone cliffs. You only see three in this picture because one little guy was reluctant to strike out across the steep incline, and hung back for a while before making a run to catch up with the others.
Finally we huffed and puffed our way back over the rim of the canyon, just in time as we'd just finished drinking the water we'd taken with us. Husband visited the point for one last look over the vista. It had been a delightful visit, with plenty of food for the eyes and a good feeling of having gotten our exercise for the day.

Arches

On Monday we went for a hike in Arches National Park. The park tends to wow its visitors around every corner. On the right you see the Organ, a "fin" that was left after land eroded around it. To get a sense of the scale in this picture, check out the cars just rounding the corner.
To the left of the Organ are the Three Gossips. I was intrigued by this formation. They remind me so strongly of pictures I've seen of the three wise men bearing gifts for the Christ child, with their regal stance.
We parked at the Devil's Garden trailhead, put on our hiking shoes, grabbed our water bottles, and headed off into the morning heat. The first arch we came to was the Landscape Arch (above), a massive span of a fairly thin arch. It's the longest natural arch in the world, at 290ish feet. We were impressed!
Our destination was the Double O arch, over 2 miles from the trailhead. We kept hiking up and up and up. "I feel like an old woman," I told Husband. I was gasping for air, having to stop and rest. I felt better when he reminded me that we were up at 4200 feet, and my body was reacting to the altitude. In addition, the air was so very dry that we weren't dripping with sweat, and were constantly thirsty.
Part of the trail was along very high "fins," which could be a bit scary. You can see people coming down these, which we traveled on our way to and from the Double O arch. After you got to the top of that middle fin, you continued on the trail to another fin or two, with breathtaking drop-offs on either side.We finally reached the Double O, explored the area for a few minutes, and headed back. It was a gorgeous hike, but I was mighty glad to get back to more water and the air conditioning in the car.

And finally, just the addition of a mesa we saw in Navajo lands later in the day. I find this kind of landscape has begun to catch my eye over the years. I thought I was an island girl, and I probably still am, but there's something big and spare and open and inspirational about the desert.

Gettin' Outta Dodge

Mesas near Green River, Utah"I'm looking forward to gettin' outta Dodge," I told my colleague. Sometimes you're more than ready to get some perspective--a long drive, big sky, new vistas that make the day-to-day seem far away.

So here we are in Utah. On today's agenda: a moderate hike in Arches National Park on the Devil's Garden trail, and then a visit to Lin's Rock Shop (Lin being a distant relative of Husband's first wife). Husband is never happier than when he's in the desert, and when you add a rock shop visit to that? Well, this day has the potential for perfection.

More pictures to come.

Waiting in Face of Threat

Samuel's Reproach to Saul, Francis Cleyn circa 1582-1658 Saul, the first king of Israel, was becoming more anxious and unhappy by the minute. As the new leader of the motley tribes of Israel, he still had things to prove to his people, some of whom were not supportive of him. His mentor, the prophet Samuel, kept reminding his subjects that it was not the plan of the Lord that Saul be their leader. There was a vote of confidence!

And now his son Jonathan had walked into a hornet's nest by attacking and defeating a Philistine outpost garrison. The powerful and war-savvy Philistines were now amassing to retaliate against him and his "nation," if it could be called that in its infancy, to wipe them out. There were thirty thousand Philistine chariots gathered against Israel near Gilgal (just north of Jericho), so the intelligence reports said, and six thousand horsemen. And, the spies reported, the troops were "like the sand of the seashore in multitude."

Saul's people had gone into hiding, and many had simply fled. If there was to be any confidence at all in those who had stayed with Saul to fight, it would need to come from a sense that God was with them. At this time they didn't need a king; they needed the assurance of their prophet.

Samuel was called for, and his message back to Saul was, "Wait for seven days, and I'll be there."

Had I been Saul, I would have been supremely frustrated. Seven days? You could walk from the very south to the very north of Israel in seven days. What was the old guy up to? The Philistines weren't twiddling their thumbs over there in their camp, simply wanting to pose a far-off menace. They might attack at any time. And with every day that passed, there were more Israelites slinking off into hiding or crossing the border and running.

I can just see Saul pacing back and forth, keeping an eye on the path coming into Gilgal, watching for that familiar prophetic form. Seven long days passed, and still Samuel didn't show up. Saul had to make some kind of decision. With his anxiety reaching fever pitch, he considered the facts:

• Innumerable enemy troops were about to attack
• Israelite numbers for defending themselves were dwindling
• He'd been anointed king; he had to do something
• The prophet wasn't showing up
• If they were to succeed in battle, they must have God on their side
  

He made his decision; they had to quit waiting for the prophet to show up and get on with it. "Bring the burnt offering here to me, and the offerings of well-being," Saul said. And he offered them himself. What could he do? He didn't want to meet the Philistines without acknowledging God. It was a pragmatic, time-sensitive decision, the best he could do under the circumstances.

It was the wrong decision.

As I've mulled over this story, the disturbing thought is that I would likely have decided as Saul did. I know that familiar anxiety, that inner "push" that seeks some kind of forward movement so that we "do something" and "get it over with" in the face of threat. Waiting, especially waiting for quite some period of time, without taking action of some sort or resolving the tension, can be excruciatingly difficult for a leader.

In hindsight, Saul would have been smartest had he settled down, worked on developing a "non-anxious presence" (to quote the psychologist Edwin H. Friedman), and refused to let the looming threat push him into any precipitate action. He should have waited for the guidance and blessing of God to come in its own time.

That's very easy to say if you're looking back on history. It's not at all easy in the moment. How do you know the guidance will show up if you wait two hours longer? How do you know the guidance is coming at all? Is Saul's story an example, or is it just one incident? Is it always smarter to wait for guidance or peace before moving to deal with threat?

Book Review: An Altar in the World

I just finished reading An Altar in the World by Barbara Brown Taylor. Taylor, formerly an Episcopal priest and now a professor of religion, suggests that there are spiritual disciplines to be practiced in everyday life, right in the midst of our busy worlds. She places the reader firmly back in flesh and bone--rather than the usual spotlight on mind or spirit that I'm used to--and describes a kind of daily living that brings a sense of the sacred into the simple and mundane things of life.

That may all sound a bit ethereal and abstract, so let me give you a list of the spiritual practices she covers in her chapters:

• Waking up to God
• Paying attention
• Wearing skin (being in tune with body)
• Walking
• Getting lost
• Encountering others
• Living your vocation with purpose
• Saying no (Sabbath)
• Physical labor
• Willingness to feel pain
• Prayer
• Pronouncing blessings
  

I had not read Taylor's acclaimed earlier book, Leaving Church. It's a memoir, and I was looking for something that would enhance my spiritual walk rather than simply reading someone else's story. I found this book to be just what I was seeking: creative, spiritually refreshing, and perspective-jostling. Not that I would take everything and put it into practice tomorrow, but in quiet ways I'm putting some of the concepts to work.

I like the idea of integrating spiritual disciplines right into the stuff of one's day. I like the idea of being aware of others and of God's presence in and around oneself and others. I love the concept of seeing oneself and others through God's eyes throughout the day. I like the idea of finding rest by saying "no," and physically wandering off down a trail and wondering what the wandering will bring you, spiritually.

So, yes. I would highly recommend the book. And if you read it, may you be blessed.

Samuel the Prophet: The Legacy

What is it like to come to the end of your life's work, when you feel you've had a calling, and to reflect on how you responded to that calling? We get a glimpse with Samuel, I think, of the reluctance with which some people lay down their role, and the worries that surface as they ponder their legacy.

The people of Israel had asked Samuel for a king; they didn't appreciate the misbehavior of his sons. Although he warned them that a king would tax them and take their children as slaves, the people perceived those things as preferable to Samuel's sons...and by extension, preferable to Samuel himself. It was disappointing, and you see Samuel struggling against the tide. Saul was anointed, and was stepping up to leadership.

At this point nearly everyone was enchanted with Saul, who had proven himself as a leader in battle. It was time for Samuel to step aside. We can follow Samuel's train of thought in 1 Samuel 12 as he talks to all the people, who had gathered at his request:

"I haven't stolen anyone's stuff, I haven't cheated anyone, I haven't oppressed anyone, and I haven't taken bribes. Right?

They admitted he was right.

"God is my witness that I have not wronged you. Correct?"

They affirmed that he was correct.

"When you asked for a king instead of a judge, that was evil. God is going to send thunder and rain on your harvest to prove I'm right."

And God sent thunder and rain on their harvest. So they admitted that Samuel was right.

Samuel cared deeply about his legacy. He didn't want the people to remember him as an ineffective leader. He didn't want them to pass around stories that he had been a crook. And he didn't want them to ever say that a king was a better leader than he had been as prophet. He took pains to establish his legacy in their minds before he relinquished the leadership to Saul.

I have seen similar drivers at work in acquaintances and colleagues who are either coming up to a time of retirement and laying down their responsibilities, or who have already lain them down but are mulling over their work of the past. Some do little things to check on how you see them, what their legacy will be. Some tell stories of their triumphs in an effort to shape their legacy just in case you didn't catch it correctly the first time. Some work hard to get everything in place and procure promises in writing, so that the efforts they've made to build something don't get undone.

The truth of the matter is that no one can ensure their legacy, no more than Samuel could. Some of us build things that last, and some don't. Some of us are remembered, and some aren't. Some of us have "tribes" that endeavor to stay connected to us and our accumulated wisdom or skills as we drift on, and some don't. Some of our own stories about ourselves agree with the perceptions and memories of others, and some don't.

Only time will tell.

In the end, says the sage, we are all like the grass, which withers and dries and blows away in the wind. We will be forgotten, our work will diminish in relevance, and the legacy--good or ill--will fade.

This may sound like a "downer," but it's not meant to be. It's meant to be realistic. And it could even provide some release. At the moment that we let go of our former shreds of "power" and our desire to force some kind of lasting legacy, we find freedom. It's okay to let it go. It's okay to have value within ourselves for simply being humans, created by God. It doesn't take the work of our hands to establish us as worthwhile.

And isn't it true that a servant is happy simply to have served?

Perhaps the best way to deal with a legacy is to recognize its transience and just let go of it.

Samuel the Prophet: The Calling

I have been reading the poignant story of Samuel, prophet of Israel. As I've read, two themes in Samuel's life have become clear to me: the calling, and the legacy. Here are some reflections.

If anyone had a sense of calling in their lives, Samuel did. I envied him as a child. God spoke directly, calling Samuel when he was yet a young boy. Samuel, directed by the priest Eli, responded to God's calling, "Speak, Lord."

"Speak, for your servant is listening!" It's not a plea to "Please ask me to serve you, God!" It's a response! He started with the knowledge of being chosen, of being called upon.

As a child I used to lie in bed at night, straining my ears. I wanted to hear God calling my name. I was ready, with my response practiced and memorized: "Speak, Lord, for your servant heareth." (God spoke King James English back then.) For what seemed hours--it was probably minutes--in the dark of night, I'd lie there, listening, ... then listening harder. Surely God wanted to call me! He would have found a willing and eager servant.

The call did not come, at least in any audible way.

I think this touches on the deep desire that many of us have, those of us who have chosen to believe. We want to respond to a calling from God. We want to do something of significance. We want our lives to have meaning. We do not want to pass through this world and have left no good effect. We want to see a clear way to make the world a better place using our own particular gifts.

It's not a matter of people knowing who we are, although some of us do care about that. It's a desire to work hand-in-hand with a God who wants me. Me!

How blessed Samuel was to grow up with the sure knowledge that he was called! The Bible says, "And the boy Samuel grew up in the presence of the Lord." (1 Sam. 2:21) I can only imagine what it must be like to grow up knowing that God is present with you every day and has a special task for you to do. What must it be like to walk into a room, or out in the fields, or to play with other children and be aware that God is present with you at every moment? It had to affect who Samuel was, his sense of identity and what he believed he could accomplish.

Even on the days when things didn't go so well, when he second-guessed himself as to a decision he'd made as a judge of Israel, or when his sons were behaving badly and frustrating the people, he could still look back and say to himself, "But God called me, so something I am doing must be significant, must be making a difference in this world."

A calling is a powerful thing.

[To be continued]

Half Marathon

The half marathon is my niche, I think. Last October I walked the Portland Marathon, my very first marathon ever ... and probably my last. While I was as proud as punch to finish it (while the clock was still running and there were people at the finish line who hadn't rolled up the welcome mat), I decided that 26.2 miles is a tad bit longer than the human body was made to do with any reason.

By the way, after this picture of Husband and me at the Start line, you won't see him anymore. He's the loyal photographer, chronicling my form receding in the distance.
So after we got home from the Portland Marathon, I told Husband that I wanted to walk a half marathon. I think he was surprised. He'd done fourteen marathons--including walking the entire Portland Marathon with me--by then. I think he thought I'd stop with being proud that I'd done one. But I went online and found the North Olympic Discovery Marathon in Port Angeles, Washington, and said, "Let's go!"
Since we have friends living near Port Angeles, we had a place to stay and wonderful hosts for the weekend. Port Angeles is still cool and pleasant in June, providing perfect walking weather in the 50s and 60s (Fahrenheit, of course).
This half marathon starts out in a rural area with houses, and fields of happily munching cows, and then dives into the forest, taking full advantage of the tree cover to keep travelers cooler and shaded. I don't know who came up with the idea of making this trail, but it was brilliant. Walkers, runners, bikers and horseback riders can enjoy a satisfyingly long pathway that ends up by the seaside.
The volunteers at the aid stations always provide a pick-me-up as they congratulate walkers and runners for "doing great!" and encouraging them to "keep it up!" Our favorite aid station had set up little cafe tables by the path, with tablecloths and roses in vases. On the tables were pretzels or licorice, and the ever-present water or Heed electrolyte drink. There were a lot of kids at that station, some with chef hats on, and that made it even more fun.

We were supposed to vote for our favorite aid station at the end, but we couldn't find the place to vote, and our feet were too tired to go looking very far.
The last three miles or so of the course meandered along the coastline approaching Port Angeles. We could see Canada (Vancouver Island) across the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and ahead of us--looking deceptively close--Port Angeles itself, with ferries and ships in harbor.
After having experienced the Portland Marathon, which takes you entirely through city and suburbs, the scenery here was a real treat. And I rather liked the slightly fishy tang to the sea air.
We came across the finish line in 3 hours and 50 minutes. I had hoped to finish in under four hours, so I was a happy (but tired) walker. And now ... well, of course I'll be on the internet looking for our next half marathon. Care to join us?