Brother Curtis Almquist

Last month, during dinner after seeing Slumdog, Whitney (my wonderful, smart, real, vulnerable young priest) told me to mark my calendar for February 27 for a retreat with an Anglican monk from the Society of St. John the Evangelist. So I did.

Br. Curtis Almquist is the Superior of this monastery in Cambridge Mass, and his conversation with us was full of loving silences that allowed the grace and depth of his words to resonate. We were invited to retreat, he said, which is the opposite of advancing. If you are always leaning into what's next , you only see life from one perspective. It's like traveling on an interstate highway. You see scenery flashing by you have no time to focus because the next vista is always presenting itself to you.

Let the eyes of our heart be light (Ephesians). Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path (Psalm 139). But think of the lamp as an oil lamp, one that lights your next step, as opposed to an airport runway light which projects for many yards. By illuminating only our next step, we stay in the present, where are are. The only thing that is certain: now.
He taught us these things:

• Pray your questions to God. Since God provides mostly questions rather than answers, let those be our prayers.

• Love the emptiness. Don't multitask. If you are drinking tea, drink tea. If you are walking, walk. Be at peace.

• God knows what you do not know and God knows that you do not know. Trust God.
  

• Pray a truce within your soul. Don't let waring factions wage within yourself. Be at peace. Know that God loves - adores - you as you are.

Br. Almquist told a story about going scuba diving with a friend in a Michigan lake. It was a beautiful fall day and they each had 45 minutes of air in their tanks. Together, they explored the plants, fish and caves at the bottom of the lake, transfixed by the beauty and quiet. Yet, when they surfaced, the first thing they talked about was not their experience but the dramatic change in the weather. The sun was gone and rain poured down in blustery sheets. If you go deep in your soul and connect to God, you can listen to God's voice within you and not be distracted by the winds and weather on the surface of like. Plumb the depths.

You have done this, and you can do this, he said. Rest in the confidence that God knows what you can bear.

"Under the shadow of your wings I will rejoice."

Maggie Wingfield, RIP

I was walking out of a gallery on First Fridays, in full solo wander mode. Lots of people. Interesting art. No one to wait for or catch up to. I saw an old college friend, Linda. 30 years ago we had lived in back to back apartments on West Grace Street. Our kitchen sinks were on either side of the wall, and we would signal each other with water patterns. She was from exotic Northern Virginia, very urban with a German B grade movie star mother and a sweet daddy. She was friends with a real junkie, a fascinating alcoholic, a very handsome and brilliant man, a talented woman with Lupus, and a wild woman who went for two terms with the Peace Corps to Patagonia. We tried to stay in touch, but our child bearing was not synced. I started early, long before anyone I knew. Then Linda married a man who was climbing the corporate ladder, and they moved to the suburbs to raise children. Heck, she still has children in high school. Cripes.

So she sees me and turns to me with a solemn look. After the brief exchange of pleasantries, she asks if I saw the December VCU Alumni magazine. I hadn't.

She said, Suzanne, Maggie died. She was in San Francisco and she died. It didn't say how. I knew you needed to know.

I loved Maggie Wingfield. She was brilliant and wild and full of creative passion when we were both 19. Maggie had a mean streak and loved to make jokes about people who had flaws. But I loved to sit on the front porch with Maggie and call out to our friends on the street. She liked my painting, which I was at the time, for some reason, doing in my apartment instead of the studio. She was from Virginia, deep Southside, I think. She talked about her sister Maria (pronounced Ma.rai.ah) and her daddy, whom she loved. I think her mother was dead. Maggie was funny and smart and particularly admired Susan Sontag.

Maggie and me, making faces

Maggie was sexually ambiguous. She had an affair with a married professor and also with a woman in our building. I think she ended up preferring women, but we lost touch so I don't know. I also don't know anyone who knew her after she left town. I only saw her once, when I was working at the museum and she came to see some friends. She was incredibly thin and nervous. She told me that she was on a special diet and no longer had periods, because her body didn't need them, or something like that. She had on a fur coat.

I want to do something special to mourn Maggie. She flamed out, that girl. I hope she left plenty of provocative art and some great stories. I am sure I'm not the only one left standing in her wake, still watching.

Perhaps your soul is now at peace, Maggie. You were worth it all, and totally unforgettable. I love you still.

Love Story: Suzanne Hall and Joe Willis

It was December and my old Volvo needed some work. As I left it at with my mechanic, his wife introduced me to a dreamy man with a handsome old BMW. As I was leaving, I overheard her say to him, "She's nice, you should ask her out."

But nothing happened.

In January I was an usher at my church, St. James's Episcopal Church, and assigned each week to the same aisle. Every Sunday, this new dreamy visitor would come in and sit alone in the same place at the back of the church. Every Sunday, I would think of some casual thing to say after church, but he always left during the last hymn. I didn’t realize that he was in real estate and had open houses to coordinate.

Toward the end of the month he needed a date for a Saturday night ball game and couldn’t remember my name. He called the mechanic’s wife and she gave him my number. When I answered he said,” Hi, this is Joe Willis. I don’t know if you remember me.” I replied, “I’ve been taking your money every Sunday for three weeks!”

I already had plans that Saturday, but the next Sunday, I got a twenty in the collection plate!

After that, we had coffee. Next, we had lunch. And then he called to see if I wanted to “play” on Saturday. He picked me up and asked me where I’d like to go. “Let’s go find snow,” I replied. So we drove on Virginia back roads, along the Blue Ridge Park Parkway and ended up at the Peaks of Otter for a pot of tea in front a roaring fire with snow flurries outside! That lovely BMW served us well that day, although it had no heat. Fortunately, Joe had a lap robe and we forgave the mechanic. We came back through Charlottesville, had a romantic dinner and continued what our friends called the date that never ended!

Stuff

Sometimes, I feel like my stuff is a ball and chain. We have a beautiful home and lots of wonderful things from our families, as well as art, made and collected. The kitchen is full of esoteric equipment for the preparation of exotic food. Orchids, specimen plants and pots of herbs, boxwoods, hostas, elephant ears and heirloom graining fill the garden. Ours is a city house with a small front yard and a lovely oasis of a back garden, with a pond and carriage house porch. The carriage house porch has a swing and chairs and a table full of games and reading material for summer evenings.

Talk about stuff. The second floor of the carriage house stores my husband's growing habit of exterior Christmas lights and decorations (we've been tasteful long enough!) and detrius from each of our four children's childhoods and more. Blended now 12 years, we still each have boxes of stuff from former lives, and I have several looms, a spinning wheel and lots of weaving equipment that I might need, should Joe go on an odyssey, or if there's ever a grandbaby that needs a very special blankie.

My son McKendree is living at home after graduating from college. Yesterday, he began cleaning out a closet that has for years been a repository for everyone's castoffs. As a result, he lacked sufficient space for his career clothes. Scuba gear, trashbags of shoes, boxes of who knows what, all those suitcases that need to be stored somewhere. Shoe racks, down comforters, a spare dresser. Things you might need someday. Two of our daughters have been in retail, and that exponentially increases the volume of clothing that we have.

At this point, McKendree is ahead of me. My summer and winter clothes are all mixed together, since the few closets in this 105 year old house are crammed with bridesmaid's dresses, out of season clothes belonging to people not even living here, and quite a few extraordinary creations that will come in handy for Halloween, Mardi Gras, a Beaux Arts Ball or some other go to hell event.

Mama says that throwing things out is an act of faith, that more will come your way if you need it. I like her spiritual philosophy on cleaning. And she really lives it. Her closet has room between each garment, and I don't' think I've ever heard her mourn the loss of anything she's pitched. I keep thinking it might come back into fashion, but could I find it? Surely this posting will give me the extra push to dive into the chaos. Just don't let me put it all neatly in Rubbermaid containers. That's not the point.

This is Sad

My new blog. I just wrote a lovely piece about my garden, but can't seem to find it. It didn't make it to the blog and is somehow lost in the drafts folder. I'm posting this so I have something up. But it's too pretty to stay inside any longer.