I believe she orchestrated the filling of two pews, just of her family members.  She was Easter.

As individuals and couples with small children arrived at Mass this morning, the joyful, smiling senior woman a few pews up from me was busy signaling select individuals and family units to join her.  Her greetings of smiles, hugs and kisses indicated her familiarity with all of them, and signaled an unabashed welcome.  When all was said and done, she had gathered around her two pews worth of family.

As the pastor delivered the homily, I thought that the woman-gatherer personified Easter—its meaning and its intention.

Easter is a new beginning—a fresh start after the labors of living.  Easter worshippers in their new clothes (less a tradition nowadays, except for the young ones) come together.  The woman-gatherer welcomed each fellow pew-sitter with warmth and joy, just as the church welcomes all with warmth and joy during this opportunity to celebrate the chance to start anew while recognizing the power of resurrection—whether personal or spiritual.

She was also the force behind the bringing together of many.  Easter is, after all, an invitation to gather in order to ponder and celebrate the day’s meaning for each of us.  A resurrection of one was a cause of celebration, salvation and gathering for uncountable numbers hence.

So, I sit in the pew, listening to prayers and recitations that I am quite familiar with, but it was the face of a woman that I have never seen in a church that I don’t frequent that reminded me of the value of the day—come together, accepted and loved, to rejoice and be rejoiced for life goes on with hope and joy.

Happy Easter everyone.

Kathy was an assistant Scoutmaster for my son’s Boy Scout troop in Albuquerque.  When she was diagnosed with cancer, she left her bad marriage, became active in Scouts and began to explore by hiking and camping.  “I intended to beat cancer, but I also decided that if I were going to die, I didn’t want to die in the life I was living so I created a new one.”  Clyde was a road warrior fundraising consultant and before I left my position at University of New Mexico, he and I had an open conversation about careers.  “My biggest fear,” he said, “is that I will die in an airport.”  We can’t choose our ending, but we can have more control on the life we are living when the end comes.

I think of people who have put off their dreams until retirement, only to be cheated of that opportunity for a variety of reasons.  I understand the logic.  In fact, I have heard that advice and consolation from my sons at times—“you’ll be able to do that when you retire”—and I know that the guidance and encouragement is well-intended.  Unfortunately, it seems that for every story I know of someone living their dream after retirement I also have a story of someone who died before retirement, was afflicted with a major health issue after retirement, or faced other circumstances that prevented the dream from coming true.

Years ago, I wrote an essay about the value of committing suicide, i.e. ending one’s life.  It had nothing to do with death; it focused on ending a life or lifestyle; it focused on the beautiful potential of living in the short time we have.  People in abusive relationships have to “kill off” that life in order to come alive themselves, for example.  Clearly, this sort of decision, just like the decisions that Kathy and Clyde were making for themselves, has to be well thought out and completed with a sense of responsibility.

Life’s potential, thanks to the gifts and blessings afforded each of us, is truly incomprehensible.  On the spectrum of possibilities, where do you want to be when the end comes?

Bring the lessons of Listen to Life to your organization, association, church group…contact me for keynotes, lunch presentations, motivational gatherings….learn…listen…to life.  booking@dionmcinnis.com

I can’t get her face out of my memory, and I feel terribly guilty.  I can’t shake it, though I have tried.

She was frail looking, old, wrinkled, weathered and obviously either homeless or close to it.  The image of her standing at the driver’s side window of my car—in her old dress, socks that sagged around her ankles and almost dripped into her battered shoes, and the white plastic bag she held with whoknowswhat in it—and looking at me.  I held up my hand in a “stop” signal and shook my head.  She walked away.  She didn’t say a word, but there have been voices in my head ever since.

“…for the least of your brethren….”

I was leaving a McDonalds in a small town on my way to the property—my Walden.  As I headed to the door from the inside, I could see her walking across the parking lot.  I did not want the encounter, and I have a hard time with all the cons who panhandle but don’t need it.  I have grown cynical and somewhat hardened these past few years—I admit it—and that goes against my nature.  I envisioned her coming forward in search of funds or assistance, and I did not want any part of that…I did not want my cynicism fed.  I hurried to the car, and as the engine started she arrived at my car’s side.

“…for the least of your brethren…”

She didn’t say a word, but her eyes spoke volumes.  When I shook my head, she merely walked away.  No drama.  No angst.

“…blessed be the meek…”

I drove down the farm-to-market road to continue my trip, the image of her face strongly in my mind, and the image of her standing 30 paces away, a diminutive woman turned down by a guy who projected his own frustrations with humanity onto her motivations.

I have shared this story since, and a friend said, “Don’t let the possibility of her being deceptive ruin your desire to help.  If you are generous, fine, and if she was not as she appeared, then that is her issue with God, not yours.”  Amen.

“…for the least of your brethren…”

I don’t imagine that the voices will leave any time soon, as well they shouldn’t.

Tick…playing tunes from the late 1960s to early 1980s, my early adult and adult-forming years.  You have your decades, too.

Tock…getting a message about a colleague’s father in-law with a life threatening emergency health issue.

Tick…lyrics take me back faster than my memory can keep up, to only remind me how fast life has moved, and continues to move.

Tock…shopping for wildflower and grass seeds for my new property, realizing it will be a year or more before they take hold and become part of my Walden’s landscape, and thinking how the best laid plans for long-term projects can go awry, and they can also provide more joy and emotion than ever expected.

Tick…tock….each moment counts.

I have fond memories of my dad going to our century old family clock to wind it each night.  It had taken years before he could afford to have it fixed, and once he did, he tended it lovingly.  He was connected to the clock and its memories, and its linkage to his own family history.  We connect to others and we connect with time, over time.  I think of the clock—tick, tock, tick, tock—and how all its movements were connected.  Gears worked because they connected; weights lowered because they were connected.

Time passes, dreams come and go.  The connections we have to others, to memories and to dreams are what make the moments count.  Don’t count them…make them count.

Amidst the holiday sounds of Salvation Army bells, Christmas Carols, traffic, and presents being unwrapped comes a sound that brings back the feeling of Christmas.  For some, it is silence; for some, it is laughter.  The sounds of the holiday season can enforce either our love of the season or our frustration with it.  It was after Christmas that I found the sound I needed.

The bad news about listening too closely to the sounds of life is that they sometimes the habit can force a person to tune out.  Certain hymns at church can break through that for me during Christmas Mass, but it was birds and coyotes that reawakened me this year.  I’m glad I was listening.

On a cold night at a campsite the other day, I heard coyotes going crazy.  They gathered and howled over and over again, breaking the stillness of a moon-less night.  My thoughts raced from wonderments of safety to enjoying the ageless sound of nature.  There were “nature” moments for me, and spiritual ones, too.  What sounds served as the background to night for the shepherds on Christmas 2000 years ago?  Gazing at the stars, listening to unseen coyotes, feeling the warmth of a dying fire…these simple things returned me to a calmer, peaceful, spiritual place.

The next morning, I walked to enjoy the venue and the sounds of birds awakening late thanks to a heavy fog.  First I noticed the chirping of the birds, and then the sound of their wings.  I stood in the clearing with coffee in one hand and my phone in the other, recording a “voice memo” that I will certainly refer to often.

Listen to life; listen to…life, of all types.  Those sounds are ageless.

I listened to my nephew Jason (www.sagebiel-music.com) perform today at Houston Museum of Fine Arts as part of its three-part series “Music and the Journey of War.”  In his introductory comments, he mentioned a letter that he wrote to a friend with a closing “I miss my music.”  The phrase led to a poem, and the poem led to…music.

For Jason, it was military service in Iraq in 2003 that drew him away.  In the “90% boredom and 10% terror” of war, there had not been the opportunity for the music his heart and soul longed for.  Circumstances afforded the opportunity for him and music to reunite.

The timing is right to call the question. (It is always right to call this question.):  “What do you miss?”  There is something that touches, or emanates from, so deeply in your heart and soul that to not have it causes you to miss it.  Deeply.  The missing is a longing, and the finding provides fulfillment.

What do you miss?  Go about finding it anew.

I used to walk around “the woods” near my house.  There, in the scrub, pines and hardwoods behind the 7-11, I could discover, adventure out, and explore.  Those were the junior grounds, and as I got older, my friends and I would explore the woods on Buffalo Bayou, Rummel Crrek and other “wilderness” areas within a mile of the house.  One of those areas is now a bird sanctuary next to a church, one is a county park with trails and easy access along a scenic part of Buffalo Bayou, and a couple of the spots are now covered by buildings and parking lots. But in those early experiences, a voice appeared in my mind calling me to the woods.

Junior high brought me an experience in East Texas near Martin Dies and on Houston County Lake with a friend, his family and his sister’s friend.  High school brought me Thoreau and Walden, college brought me Emerson. Adulthood’s desire to hold onto the thought-filled process of being “in the woods” led me to Thoreau’s essay titled Walking where he described the beauty and healing of sauntering in nature.  Experiences with my family provided essential outdoor connections that I never had with my family when growing up.  For a spell, we lived in the Piney Woods in Huntsville, Texas and then in Albuquerque, New Mexico, all providing me times in the woods.  For the past decade, however, I have not camped once.  But the voice borne in childhood has whispered patiently for five decades.

If things continue on their current pace, this holiday season I will be sauntering  around on a small parcel of land with scrub, pines and hardwoods where my family and I can discover, adventure out and explore.  It reminds me of where I walked as a kid, where I discovered in junior high, where I envisioned when reading in high school, and connects me to places where I have great memories as an adult.  I think of it as a place of hunting and gathering—gathering the family together.

Listen to life throughout your life, particularly to the voices that come emanate from your soul as they talk to your heart.

Not all scary dreams are nightmares; some are life’s dreams coming true.  And that can be scary.

Now, I don’t want to jinx things, but I am getting closer to owning a small piece of property in the piney woods.  My own little Walden, something I have thought of since I knew what Walden was.  And before that, I enjoyed traipsing around the “woods” in the areas near where I grew up.  And I have great memories of my dad and I walking property in Navasota and West Columbia, Texas.  Having a bit of land has always been a dream, and now it is scary.  This one may not pan out, but it just might.  And that is scary.

As I write this, the movie The Astronaut Farmer is playing; a story of a man and his dream.  Funny thing about dreams:  they need personal resolve and the support of others, because there are many who find joy in diminishing others’ dreams.    I am blessed to have more who support than who diminish. Dreams also come with many questions and doubts, and goodness knows I have plenty of those.

It is both blessing and curse to have many dreams.  Having them to form a horizon to approach and a North Star to guide brings as much comfort as is possible in exploring unknown territory.  Ironically, to not have dreams is to sleep through life.  Dream on and never surrender.

“Can you fit her into an appointment for grooming and cut,” I asked.  The technician at the pet grooming shop said that I was only booked for a shampoo for Lacey.  “Grooming, too….please,” I replied.  Luckily his 3:00 appointment had cancelled so there was a spot for my almost-decade old dog.

Our gentle little mostly blind dog has had a rough week, in and out of the veterinarian’s office for treatment of pancreatitis.  IVs, meds and a lot of time has helped her and renewed her appetite and improved her outlook on things.  Today we were to hear of the status of all the treatments.  Hopes ran high and I had decided this morning that the scruffy terrier mix would receive a bath and grooming so she would feel good about herself.  I swear her walk is prissier after she gets groomed and spiffed up.  So, after a long, hard week, it only made sense to include some beauty shop time for her.

The doctor’s office called while I was atop a ladder, putting the finishing touches on painting the exterior of my house.  Lacey was ready to go home early.  It only made sense—Lacey’s tail-wagging ways this morning indicated a pooch that felt much better.  I scaled down the ladder, cleaned up brushes, and then went to the doctor’s.  The assistants who now know Lacey and me quite well welcomed me when I arrived and said the doctor wanted to talk to me.  “Room one, please.  I will tell the doctor you are here.”

As I turned Lacey to the groomer, I thought of the first time we had her trimmed…well the first time after I “adopted”  her for Cameron from his mom years ago.  Lacey saw Cameron through the separation and divorce years for his mother and me.  They are buds, though he is much too busy becoming a young man to be around much what with school, work, gym and girlfriend.  Cameron and Lacey were always a team, and I recalled her with ribbons in her hair after that first grooming and a young Cameron laughing at how his “moustache dog” looked all prettied up.

The doctor said, “She looks much better and seems to be doing better.  Is that so?”  I explained how her appetite has not come back completely, but her mood is now more like the feisty, tender dog that she is.  He nodded.  Then he went on to explain how there is already yellowing in her eyes and in her gums.  He explained how the high numbers associated with liver activity does not bode well.  He explained that there are some meds we can try that may extend the time.  I have no idea why, but I felt the need to offer him a short Lacey biography.  A preemptive eulogy.  He smiled.

The technician leaned over to put a leash on Lacey to take her back for her grooming.  This likely is not just another grooming.  I sense it is her last.  I sense it is how she will look when we bury her under the fig tree in the back yard.  I sense that occurrence will be sooner than later.   I told the young man that “based on what the doctor said, this may be her last grooming, so thank you,” as we hovered over her. 

As it all settles in, I think of how gentle she is, and how well she handles her cataracts and limited sight.  I think of how she endured a bad spine last year, and how lively and happy she was again after her surgery.  Despite the challenges she has faced, she kept her graciousness.  I hope that I can face adversities as well as Lacey.

Thank you Homeowner’s Association…not for the letter about the fishing gear in the driveway, nor the letter about the cleaning that you believed my house needed, nor the letter about the garbage can that was in the driveway for longer than some unstated rule allows, nor the letter about the need to weed my rose garden.  Thank you, but not for any of that…instead, thank you for the letter telling me that I had to paint the house.  It—the painting, not the letter—has provided me a chance to sweat, relax, enjoy country music and think in a relaxed way unlike I have had in a long time.  A very long time.

Painting in a Huckleberry Finn sort of way, with a bucket of paint and a four-inch wide brush has given me a project where day-by-day I can witness my progress.  I can see what I am doing well, and I can see the places that have not met my personally set standards, and I can correct my errors along the way or safe them for another day.  I listen to a lot of great songs—stories set to lyrics—and sing to a few if I see fit.  There is no one else helping, so I don’t have to worry about conversations when I don’t want them, or snide comments about my musical choices and/or singing capabilities.  If I want a complaint, I can simply wait for another HOA letter.  Meanwhile, the effort, the process, and the mental quiet time are rewarding.

This is so good, maybe I will take so long on the painting project that the HOA will write me another letter.