Dear Friends,
The Yearly Meeting staff had a one night retreat at Woolman Hill last week. It took a fair amount of prep and conversation so that we could be pretty safe. The eight of us were vaccinated, got tested ahead of time, slept in separate rooms, did as much as we could outside, opened windows and sat farther apart when we were inside, didn’t sing, and gave far fewer hugs. But, yes, we did it. And it was wonderful.
Inexplicably, I was caught off guard by how emotional I was. Upon arriving, noticing that it’s way easier to back into the little driveway without the trailer in tow, I got out of the car— and started to cry. I spent most of the day doing a two-step with grief and gratitude: breathing in sadness for how much I have missed our JYM and JHYM communities being in person, then being flooded with images, sounds, smells, and memories of those communities, causing me to exhale enormous gratitude. So much gratitude.
The 3rd weekend of September has been the fall JYM Retreat for at least 20 years. I know this season: the peaking goldenrod, insistent yellow jackets, ripe apple crop, misty mornings, and the lushness of everything.
It was a wonderful warm and windy fall day. While we were gathered in worship underneath the old apple tree, I peeled off my sandals to get my feet firmly on the ground. Could I feel children’s footsteps? Did the ridge still vibrate with their energy? Does the energy of the Hill still resonate in the soles of their feet wherever they are? I don’t know. What I do know is that the Hill, especially the little swatch of ridge between the apple tree and the old, grandpa-maple-now-stump on the side of the main house, is holy ground. The children know it, too. Like a magnetic pull, they sprawl, play, chat, and read along that bit of land every retreat. They take something home with them.
Early in the morning, I went out early to sit on that grandpa-maple stump and soak up a bit of that energy for myself. I exhaled deeply, thinking I’m here. Within three breaths, my mind wandered into wondering how much more peaceful I’d be if I lived here, surrounded by THIS all of the time. I pulled myself back into the moment and listened. I delighted in the sound of the residual raindrops dripping like pinballs through the leaves of the trees … and then heard a child in the house down the road protest unhappily about something happening (or not) with their family. I sipped strong, warm coffee … and noticed several mosquitos happily drinking from me. I watched the mist rise up from the valley ... and saw how the poison ivy near my feet was creeping up the stump. I giggled. Such good reminders of resilience, patience, interdependence, parenting, and children. And, yet again, loving encouragement to Carry On.
THIS is everywhere. It may be harder to hear, see or feel in the busyness, the challenges, the fatigue, the stress, and the noise of our lives. But the reminders I needed to receive that morning—to look for beauty, embrace imperfection, practice patience, honor interdependence, ask for help—rose in both lovely and ordinary ways. They are still pulsing through my feet. I heard that what I most need in order to carry on is to work on my moment-to-moment practice of looking for today’s manna, for that of God. Trust that it’s here—it may just look like a weed.
Much love,
Gretchen