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Month: August 2021

WATCH YOUR STEP! (ON THE PEACE PATH)

WATCH YOUR STEP! (ON THE PEACE PATH)

Seventy miles southwest of Lexington, Kentucky, tucked within a working farm, lives the Loretto community. It was once an active convent that now cares for retired nuns, tends pollinator gardens, and displays magnificent sculptures for starters. https://www.lorettocommunity.org/about/motherhouse/  A few historic buildings (the Motherhouse, Knobs Haven) and half a dozen 2-room cabins are available for anyone seeking some quiet reflection; for groups on retreats; even for middle-aged women in spiritual slumps – all are welcome.

I’m grateful to say Loretto is one of my homes-away-from-home, and has been for over thirty years. It never fails to teach me something important or reveal an unexpected picture of God – like the time I pushed open the heavy chapel door, only to find a traditionally dressed nun wearing camouflage muck boots. She carried a bucket, a hoe, and a kick-butt attitude about weeds. Yep, I can always count on instructive surprises at Loretto.

This summer I enjoyed a couple days in the “Grace” cabin. Thankfully, sister Susan didn’t assign me to the Hope or Joy dwellings – I wasn’t capable of either at the moment. But grace, well, that was something I was eager to receive. Winding around the cedar chip prayer labyrinth, I tossed branches out of my way. “Of course there’s debris on the prayer path.” I even snapped a photo to capture the irony.

Next to the labyrinth was a wooden sign announcing “Peace Path.” The wind in the fir trees and bird songs created the perfect setting for a lovely walk . . . for the first hour. But now I was out of water, sweating like a horse, and had no clue where I was in relation to, well, to anything. “Blasted peace path; this is a joke. They should mark the trail better, post distances, and set up a food truck at the half-way point.”  Yes, I was saying these things out loud in a tone that was less than serene.

It’s no secret that anxiety takes a person’s focus off of present reality and on to imaginary horrors, like going more than 5 hours without chocolate or being eaten by a bear on a working farm populated with nuns who wear muck boots. Those boots would have come in handy, since my next step landed my left foot in, well, in something that shared several qualities with quicksand. I lost my tennis shoe (with custom-made orthotics, mind you) AND my balance. In that slow-motion moment, I actually yelled to myself, “It’s okay, you’ve going to be okay.” I was walking on a trail called the Peace Path, retreating in the GRACE Cabin, at a CONVENT, ON A SPIRITUAL RETREAT, FOR CRYIN’ OUT LOUD – what could possibly go wrong?!?

Two days later, I’m sitting in an Urgent Treatment Center room, waiting for the (absurdly young-looking) nurse practitioner to return with my X-Ray results. “You’re going to have to wear this thing for a while. How did you manage to fracture your ankle, anyway?” Strapping on the dreaded boot of shame, and grabbing my purse, I seriously considered lying. But why make something up when the truth is unbelievable?

“I fell while walking on the Peace Path; true story.”

The Shift

The Shift

As a rule, Marmons (family on my dad’s side) don’t want their picture taken. At Thanksgiving my Uncle Kenny would sneak up on unsuspecting relatives and capture moments with his polaroid camera. Waiting three minutes felt more like thirty, but the image finally came into focus, and we’d laugh at our faces in various stages of surprise. There was another rule in play, however; every five years we lifted the photograph ban for one event only – you guessed it – the family reunion (at a park, in July, with no shade, not even a sprinkler).

The predictability factor ran absurdly high at these things. We devoured all fourteen casseroles (mostly from the starch food group), one token salad, and at least five fruit and cream pies. Then, like cows heading for the barn, each generation shuffled over to the staged area and took its place in the customary lineup. First, the grandparents sat down in the woven green and white lawn chairs, you know, the ones with blazing hot metal arm rests. The adult children and spouses stood directly behind those chairs, in close proximity to their parents. Finally, the kids would plop down in front of their grandparents. Sitting cross-legged on itchy crab grass and anthills, the “young people” begged for no more than three tries with the camera timer. Truth be told, that’s all any of us could stand – then it was back to the picnic tables to scour for leftovers, ice down the grandparents’ scorched forearms, and head home.

One unforgettable year, my cousin lined up the lawn chairs – as always, we waited for the elders to take their place. Nobody moved, so we waited a tad longer. Awkward silence, a communal shifting of weight from one foot to the other – these were unfamiliar practices in a normally familiar routine. Without warning or expectation, something indescribably deep shifted – and all the adults knew it. Aunt Louise startled us out of our disbelief: “Oh my God, we’re the old people!” Just like that, our parents were now the grands and greats.

Exchanging knowing glances, our parents took their new place in the old green and white lawn chairs, and in our family. My sister, cousins, spouses and I slowly lined up behind our elders. The children sat down front, blissfully unaware of the seismic, generational transition in process. To ease the tension, Mom turned toward the back row and joked, “Don’t worry, you’ll be standing behind these chairs for a long time!” Everyone chuckled, but the expressions on the faces of rows two and three in that year’s photo looked more surprised than one of Uncle Kenny’s sneak-attack polaroid pictures.

I’m not saying where I fit in the family line-up now, but I am happy to report that we finally threw away those hideous lawn chairs 🙂

Here goes something!

Here goes something!

So lately (ok, for the last 9-10 years), I keep finding myself in the middle of things. Like, for instance, being in the middle of a conversation and forgetting my topic; or standing in the middle of a room wondering why I’m there; or, my personal favorite, wondering in the middle of a class I’m teaching if I put on deodorant that morning. Midlife is filled with unique quirks and questions; it’s a curious season offering big doses of hilarity and heartache, oftentimes all in the same day.

I know you’re busy, but it sure would be fun (and meaningful) to explore this crazy midlife together. A more respectable-sized blog will be coming your way this weekend. I’ll be ready to go just a soon as I find my car keys.