Nature of Words | Nature of Words | The musings and mutterings of a nature lover in the middle of life

Into the desert

Posted on January 23, 2012 by Deborah Carr

“We do not go into the desert to escape people but to learn how to find them;
we do not leave them in order to have nothing more to do with them,
but to find out the way to do them the most good.”

~Thomas Merton

A number of years ago, we made several trips to Arizona, New Mexico and Utah. We spent our time visiting historic sites and national parks, hiking through slot canyons, across unfamiliar desert landscapes. Somehow, I felt drawn to these arid plains, with their wide open spaces, unusual formations and hidden canyons.

I remember one evening, driving to a place where we could walk out into the desert and watch the light of the day slide behind the mountains. I felt a need to know her better. To understand the ways in which dusk fell upon the sand.

I felt a strange kinship with this desert landscape with its remarkable land formations shaped by a millennia of time and wind and water.

There is a sense of desolation to a desert – one that pries open a woman’s heart and peels back the edges.

And I felt this each time we visited… like I’d been laid bare. It was dry and cracked, like me; aging, yet I felt its mother wisdom and deep reverence for the continuance and mystery of life. The wind blows, the sand shifts and something hidden is revealed. Or something that appears so bold and beautiful, slips gently away, like it never was.

I’ve thought often about these places…in recent years, wistfully, as we’ve not been able to return. And always, I wondered what it was that so earnestly reached into the heart of this child of forest and stream. Indeed, on our first visit there, after several weeks, we drove to the top of Mt. Lemmon in Tucson where we hiked amidst the trees, feeling refreshed…like we needed to taste something familiar. But then we were back again, among the cactus, eyes wide open.

Lately, I’ve been reading some about the spirituality of the Desert Fathers and Mothers who lived in the Egyptian desert in the 4th and 5th centuries. I wonder, sometimes, if we are called to barren places to enable us to see more clearly how to live amongst the trees; if we are called to aloneness to discover how we might best live in community; if we are called to silence, to teach us the value of words.

Now, in the looking back, I see these visits as precursor of my own inner journey that would come, where I have walked the canyons of my heart, touching the stories etched on these hidden walls, tracing the cracks and sorrows, the splashes of light, watching for what lies hidden beneath the shifting sand.

” For your sake, I hurry over land and water:
For your sake, I cross the desert and split the mountain in two,
And turn my face from all things,
Until the time I reach the place
Where I am alone with You.”

~Al Hallaj, To Reach God

Categories: change, connection to place, earth, landscape, nature, seasons, thoughts, writing | Tags: desert fathers, mystery of life, nature, reverence, spirit, thomas merton, wide open spaces, wind and water | 4 Comments

On being a writer

Posted on January 17, 2012 by Deborah Carr

“Get to work. Your work is to keep cranking the flywheel that turns the gears
that spin the belt in the engine of belief that keeps you and your desk in midair.”
~Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

Once winter hits and the cold wind blows, if you are anything like me, all you want to do is put your big fuzzy slippered feet up, crank back the Lazy Boy a notch or two, grab a mug of sweet Chai tea and some comfort food, then settle in with a good book while the world outside whirls its manic, social-media-crazed way without you.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

But. If you are also like me and call yourself a ‘writer’, then….well….there is a certain degree of writing that is required to live up to it.

Writers. Must. Write.

And when I don’t have a serious project with built-in deadlines underway, well then…forcing myself to scrabble words on the page can be brutal. When external motivation is absent, I have to dig deep.

When I am teaching, one of the most common comments I hear is the quietly apologetic, “Well…I’m not a REAL writer…”. Those who know me know that I have something to say to that.

A number of years ago, I decided to run a marathon. I was not much of a runner at the time, so I knew it would require time, tears, physical endurance and emotional commitment. Trust me when I say that crossing the finish line did not make me a marathoner. The inner commitment required to drag my butt for over 1000 rugged kilometres in 20-odd weeks made me a marathoner. Training my body to run a distance of 42 km made me a marathoner, not the medal I received at the end.

Public recognition and affirmation doesn’t make a writer in my mind. What makes a true writer are all the solitary hours put into practicing and honing the craft.

The willingness to sacrifice time, learn from others, to push personal limits and take chances. To study.

What makes a writer are the many hours we spend connecting with ourselves and our own minds. Of discovering what we think about and how we feel about it and how we see our world. The stacks of journals and notebooks, tenderly and honestly filled. Of the painstaking research and writing and rewriting required to craft the words others may want to read.

Whether your work is published is really irrelevant to defining yourself. What you believe in your heart is what matters.

So, if you are serious about writing (or any other pursuit), you must have a good heart-to-heart talk with yourself. The first question to ask is, “Is this important enough to me to become a priority in my life?” Because writing asks for and expects sacrifice.

There are dozens of methods to motivate ourselves to write, but each one starts with the heart. First and foremost, be honest. We live in a world that glorifies ‘Easy’. How committed are you, really? And are you willing to pay the cost? If not right now, that’s okay. Your time will come.

But if so, then for heaven’s sake, just get on with it and start cranking. Be the writer you are in your heart.

And if you still need some external motivation, and you live in my neighbourhood, then check out my February Writing Workshop Series. It might be just the boost you need.

Categories: All Workshop & Book Events, change, courage, creativity, writing | 5 Comments

What’s in a name?

Posted on January 15, 2012 by Deborah Carr

It showed up in my Inbox one morning last week…a Google alert left over from the days when I was promoting my book and watching for mentions of my name or the book’s title in the media. This time, though, the alert was a sombre announcement. Apparently, I had died and was to be cremated in the coming days.

Fortunately, I am still upright and breathing; no disrespect to the dear lady with my name who is not.

Although it is a rather unsettling feeling to see my name on an online obituary, I’m getting a bit used to this alter-life. In recent years, I’ve given talks and written books and articles on mother-daughter relationships, bereavement and aging, harangued city council on garbage removal policies or pet by-laws, directed a church musical production, produced a documentary and sold real estate. I’ve been horribly beaten and set afire once and today, I stand in sister-solidarity with my namesake who had the courage to face her vicious attacker and see him sent to prison. I would like to meet her someday and give her a hug. I would like to tell her that when I read her story, I imagined her in my mind; that I prayed a spirit of courage into her heart from mine.

Interestingly enough, though, a number of me are writers, artists and educators (and some of us even look a little alike). I hold degrees in sociology, business, urban education and ‘organ performance’ (the last one I don’t publicize or like to talk about…or even think about, actually).

There were well over 100 of me on Facebook when I stopped counting and if you Google me, you can wade through some 78,400 results. I’ve even had my own dance ensemble, which is quite a joke, as I’m notoriously klutzy.

Sometimes, I feel like a name-stalker online, but it fascinates me. Often, I have found the names of my friends to be an accurate reflection of their character or their appearance, so all this causes me to wonder…is there strength or self-fulfilling prophecy in a name?

Historically, families gave their children names that had special meaning. Sometimes they reflected the situations surrounding the birth, or the family lineage. Some waited days before naming to ensure they bestowed one that was appropriate for the child.

I can claim no such considerations. My mother named me after her favourite actress, Debbie Reynolds; however, once I married, my name was most associated with another actress…Deborah Kerr, who lay writhing shamelessly on a beach with Burt Lancaster in From Here to Eternity in the years when shameless writhing in public was frowned upon.

All glamour and fame aside, I actually refer to the Women of the Bible when in need of an inspirational namesake. Deborah was a judge, prophetess and a warrior, which was quite an accomplishment for a woman back then.

Interestingly enough for me the writer, Debora is taken to be a diminutive of the Hebrew dabar, meaning “word”. As a prophetess, Deborah would have been a wise listener and prolific speaker. Certainly, if she led an army, she had influence.

I like this, because I’ve always been a bit of a defender of the underdog (although I rarely speak up for myself), and I do have a soft spot of admiration for women who break the rules. I hope that I, too, have within me the character and courage to fight for what I believe in.

The most common meaning of Deborah, though, is “honey bee”, which terribly disappointed me as a child. Do you blame me? What little girl would want a name meaning “bee” when she could be a “princess” (Sara) or “lovable” (Amanda)?

Sorry....this is the closest I could come to a honeybee. I believe it is some sort of hornet.

But, as time passed, I gained heart with the realization that bees are great community activists. They are industrious, steadfast, very clean, and work together for a common good. In a bee colony, the female is the worker; she gathers the pollen, constructs the comb, tends to the queen and the young, and defends the hive. (Alas, the male drones are kept only for reproductive purposes.)

All this actually ties in rather nicely with the qualities of Deborah the Judge, who tended to the needs of her people, shared her strengths with them and led them to victory. There have been times in my life, when I found encouragement or affirmation in the meaning of my name…almost as if it gave me something solid to live up to.

It’s all quite enlightening, I must say…and certainly worth a little research, to see if you are living up to all your name implies. Tell me…what is in your name?

“Before I was born the Lord called me;
from my mother’s womb he has spoken my name.”
~Isaiah 49:1

Categories: relationships, thoughts, writing | 4 Comments

Letting Go

Posted on January 11, 2012 by Deborah Carr

While researching an article on lighthouses recently, the phrase ‘letting go’ kept rising in my mind. A strange thought it was…not one I normally associated with lighthouses.

For sure, these stalwart, old guardians are more about clinging…clinging to the land or rock upon which they sit, clinging to safety, clinging to the past, clinging to hope.

The story idea came to me this summer after a trip to Grand Manan Island. On the ferry ride to the smaller White Head Island – part of the archipelago – we passed the derelict Grand Harbour Lighthouse. Despite the obvious neglect and deterioration, it possessed a pensive, haunting beauty that stayed with me long after the trip was over and in thinking of this, I realized I had many memories associated with lighthouses.

One of my fondest is an overnight stay in 2001 at the Lighthouse Inn on the deserted Quirpon Island in Newfoundland’s Iceberg Alley. Only a smattering of structures remain on the windswept island – the stately lighthouse, the keeper’s home (turned inn) and a second dwelling, a utility building or two. The rest is barren bog, heath and rock.

I remember standing on the dock in the tiny settlement of Quirpon proper, awaiting the boat that would transport us to the island. We could see the mound of rock across the harbour that was the island. Although the water looked relatively calm, we understood Hubert, our guide, was assessing the sea state on the windward side of the island to determine the safest landing location. Presently he arrived in a small open dory-type craft with an outboard motor on the stern and a 3-sided boxed in shelter at the bow. (They use a much larger boat now.)

I stared at the craft with some misgiving. I was expecting something, well…sturdier.

However, we had come a long way and were not about to turn back now. We stowed our overnight bags, donned slickers and sat on the open benches.

As we left the safety of solid ground, I realized that the one thing an adventure asks of us is that we let go of what is safe, and have faith in what is to come.

We motored to the island without incident, but as soon as we rounded the headland to open water, the waves began to batter us about. My eyes raked over the towering rock cliffs of the island. I could see the tip of the lighthouse around the point.

Although we were not far from shore, should the boat swamp, I could see no place amenable to scrambling, even if we could swim to land. I glanced at Hubert, who stood easy at the stern, his hand on the outboard. He appeared calm, his eyes scanning the waves.

I had to trust that our guide knew the way. That he knew what he was doing.

He did.

And as he navigated us to safe harbour once again, I felt the exhilaration that follows danger. That night, we watched for whales and icebergs, listened to the wind and dined on the best pan-fried cod in the world.

The next day, we left in bright skies and even rougher seas; but this time, we enjoyed riding the waves, confident in Hubert’s skill.

Each time a sailor steers his face to the sea he lets go of his ties to the land and its safe harbour. He turns his back to the light and its steady direction. He leaves all that is past in the safe keeping of those who remain on shore and trusts his future to fate.

He depends upon what he has learned, the instincts he has carefully cultivated, and the vision of where he wants to go. He places his faith in something far greater than himself.

He enters a place of chance. A place of courage. A place where adventure is born.

But we cannot get there, unless we first let go.

Do you have an idea, a vision, a dream that is calling to you this year? What must you let go of to pursue it?

Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old.
Behold, I am doing a new thing;
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?
I will make a way in the wilderness,
and rivers in the desert.

Isaiah 43:18-19

Categories: change, courage, faith, fear, hope | 9 Comments

Finding Common Ground

Posted on January 7, 2012 by Deborah Carr

Few weeks ago, we helped prepare and serve a meal at a local homeless shelter. This was new territory for me, like visiting a strange country.

Truthfully, my own life of wealth left me feeling lacking. What did I know of their days; of the choice and challenge they faced in each one of them?

I neither knew what it was like to be homeless, or to be hungry. I’ve not suffered an addiction, nor have I endured the anxiety of mental illness. I have not felt the sting of society’s rejection, or the pain of being overlooked.

What must it be like to face uncertainty every day? How could I understand suffering when I have not suffered?

So I went, not with the heart of a servant, but with the heart of a student.

I went, not to make a difference, but to find common ground.

To face my own poverty. Compassion, after all, means a willingness to suffer with; to find the ways in which we are the same. As one of the organizers pointed out, ‘The only thing that separates them and us, or them and our own child, is one bad decision.”

After setting out trays of squares and cake, I stood alone, feeling unsure of myself.

I observed a man who paced without ceasing. A young woman who talked to herself and made faces. She visited the desert table three times, seemingly delighted with the chocolate cake. I watched her licking her fingers, savouring every crumb.

Presently, a fellow approached and began talking about how best to mingle sweets…to pair contrasting flavours and textures in order to excite the tongue; to enliven sensation and taste. We agreed that peanut butter and chocolate combinations were sublime…particularly when combined with a crunch.

In a corner, another young man quietly drew and re-drew designs on an etch-a-sketch. When I asked if he liked to draw, he smiled shyly and shrugged his shoulders, “I’m not very good at it.”

Some remained alone, while others gravitated to clusters. Was the group with children a family? Or a family created from community? One young couple sat patiently by themselves. Although they hardly touched, their body language echoed love.

From the kitchen, I loaded plates with homemade beans and sausages and warm cornbread. Some accepted second plates, but only when asked if they’d like more.

When the meal was over, most cleaned up their garbage and stopped by the kitchen with smiles and a word of thanks. A few hung around for a bit to chat and in those small pockets of conversation, there was no ‘we’ and ‘they’… it was ‘you’ and ‘me’.

Instead of seeing these men and women in the shadow of their choices, I saw them in the light of their present moment.

And also in this room, I saw snapshots of myself. I remembered my teenager self and her need to be loved. I saw my discomfort in new situations and how a single conversation can bring ease. I saw my inner loneliness and how I gravitate to the familiar for comfort. I saw my own anxiety and how I pace when I am jumpy. I saw how I mutter aloud to encourage myself or to help me remember. How I, too, have been lost in utter delight. I watched myself playing shyly with my own creativity, not realizing its value.

As I was cleaning up, a teenager with tattoos and piercings gathered leftover sweets on a paper plate. “May I take these for my roommate?” she asked. “He’s sick and can’t come. But when I was sick last week, he looked after me.”

“Here,” said the student. “Take more. Isn’t that what this is all about?”

Finally, all of you, be like-minded,
be sympathetic, love one another,
be compassionate and humble.
~1Peter 3:8

Categories: community, courage, fear, Matters of the Heart, relationships | 11 Comments

Post-Christmas reflections

Posted on December 29, 2011 by Deborah Carr

When I allow my mind to touch on the Christmas memories from my childhood, I can still see the piles of presents beneath the tree. We were never a wealthy family, but my parents splurged at Christmas. I know it brought them great joy, to be able to give me something that excited me. Regretfully, my gratitude was short-lived. As soon as I’d ripped off all the gift wrap, I’d race to the phone and call my friends; the first words from my mouth, “What’d ya get?” Clearly, I missed the point that the joy is from the giving, not the receiving.

This year, as mutually promised, we bought each other only one small gift each. We’ve been working toward this for awhile, but never quite made it until this year. I have to admit, it was a choice that came with its own share of guilt. At breakfast, my husband actually apologized for sticking to our promise. Of course, it’s natural to want to give gifts to those we love.

As hard as it was for us to break from the ingrained habits of buying too many presents, my parents still needed a wee bit more convincing. When I objected to the gifts they gave, my dad wrapped me in a big bear hug and said, “You are our only daughter…we love you and we want to give you these things.”

How could I tell him that he was filling his own needs, not mine? How could I tell him that I don’t need them to buy me anything…that the most precious gift they can give me – that they have ever given me – was time and love?

By eliminating stress of shopping trips, I can better appreciate how Christmas is much more than the gifts beneath the tree. I don’t want to go back.

When I think of what my parents have given me over the years, I never dwell on the many toys of my childhood. What comes to mind are the lessons they taught me. My mom demonstrated the irreplaceable values of faith and honesty. She encouraged my artistic endeavours and taught me to cook and sew. I can remember the two of us kneeling on the floor, cutting out the pieces for a dress that she helped me sew for a prom.

My dad taught me to build a snowman, ride a bike, drive a car and mow the lawn. My fondest memories are the times we spent together: family camping trips in summer and snowmobiling in winter.

I remember the time dad raced to my home after I called to say I was sick and had passed out – he didn’t know what to do with me, but at least I was not alone. And the times he lugged furniture and heavy boxes during the many moves of my young adult years, or selflessly ran errands when I was too busy. During one move, mom spent hours scrubbing the floors and baseboards of the new place from top to bottom. I remember the many times she made lunches for us to take on road trips or had a complete supper prepared for us to bring home to our empty kitchen after a long vacation. And the many times they kept Callie-dog when we could not take her along.

In the moment, I didn’t have the words to explain to him how precious it is to me to know in my heart that when I need my parents most, they would be there for me. That having family with us at Christmas means more to me than any wrapped gift beneath the tree.

But, I hope somehow, he knows all these things…even if I find it hard to speak the words.

Categories: Matters of the Heart, memories, relationships | 3 Comments

A season of peace

Posted on December 23, 2011 by Deborah Carr

“I will teach all your children, and they will enjoy great peace.”
Isaiah 54:13

It is two days before Christmas and I’m watching flakes gently falling. Outside, all is quiet, limbs limp beneath a covering of snow, the pine tree a portrait of tatted lace. Gentle music flows wistful beneath the hot breath of orange cranberry bread cooling in the kitchen.

Tonight, we will snuggle in front of the Christmas tree, watching a movie by firelight and nibbling cheese. Tomorrow, a morning trip to market just to enjoy the energy, then a church service in the evening. Perhaps a bit of revelry.

There are three simple gifts beneath the tree – one for each of the special people I will be spending Christmas with. That, and our stocking stuffers (my favourite), will be enough.

Like many others, I have reclaimed my Christmas as a season of peace. A season of giving presence, not presents.

I recall Callie’s final months, when the only thing she wanted was to be with her people. She would lie where she could watch both of us at the same time. She no longer wanted to walk, but still loved to accompany us in the car. When I was outside in the garden, she followed me as I moved around the yard. She taught us a valuable lesson about the gift of joy our simple presence can bring.

And so this Christmas, I chose to give time to friends, to neighbours, to family. Afternoon hikes or neighbourhood walks, coffee chats, a movie, a phone call, evenings with simple pleasures, lunch with mom. Nothing frantic, nothing pressing. No malls or shopping sprees. For the first time in a long time,Christmas seems as it should.

And today, my reward is a peace that may not be the world’s peace, but an inner sense of calm. Of rightness. Of contentment. Despite the poverty of our spirit. We are still missing the golden girl who taught us more about being human than any human being. Emptiness still reigns in our hearts.

But still.

It’s Christmas.

How else should we celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace?

“Peace is a gift from God,
often hidden from the wise and wealthy
and revealed to those who feel empty,
inarticulate and poor.”
Henri J. Nouwen.

Wishing you all a season of presence and peace.

Love,
Deborah

Categories: Matters of the Heart, memories, relationships, seasons | 8 Comments

In the stillness

Posted on December 16, 2011 by Deborah Carr

“Somewhere we know that without silence words lose their meaning, that without listening speaking no longer heals, that without distance closeness cannot cure.”

~Henri J. M. Nouwen~

It is early morning and over my left shoulder, the sky begins to blush with splashes of seashell pink behind the spruce peaks. While I cannot see it from here, I know that below the house, the marsh lies silent and still. I know that down by the river, the sun is pulling itself over the banks. The river will be flowing westward now, emptying neon sky into the bay. In a few hours, it will reverse course…filling its banks to the brim.

Empty, full, empty, full.

I sit in silence, eyes and heart open. Ready to receive. Empty, full.

At the window feeder, a chickadee’s hammer head bobs with determination, nailing the hard crust of a sunflower. Tap-tap-tap.

In the gloom, a grey squirrel clings to the pale skin of a birch tree, tail twitching as he eyes another feeder. He adjusts his position, leaps, misses, races up the tree again. I know he will keep trying until he hits his mark…or tires of the effort.

I know all these things, yet I feel I am exploring a place I’ve not been before. In the beginning, like the squirrel, my mind leapt again and again, grasping at thoughts, inventing tasks, tempting me with ideas, luring me away. But, gradually, I learned to let go of ambition. To release the need for doing into the need for being.

Gradually, I have learned to wait.

“A waiting person is a patient person. The word patience means the willingness to stay where we are
and live the situation out to the full in the belief that something hidden there
will manifest itself to us.”

~Henri J. M. Nouwen~

Now when I sit quietly, the smallest of sounds informs me. I understand the stillness. The emptiness. I’m realizing that this is God’s way of teaching me to see. To remove my expectation of what should be – or what I want it to be – and raise me to awareness of what is.

To appreciate how although He feels distant, He is in All Things.

At the feeder, the chickadee finally cracks the outer shell and retrieves the morsel within.

Empty. Full.