Yesterday, between grading stacks of tests and reflection papers, I took a walk around the neighborhood. The sky was October blue, and the stunning orange sugar maple leaves brought me to a stop. Overwhelming beauty moved my heart to reverence and thanksgiving for such gifts. Perhaps this prayerful interlude made the intrusion of tacky plastic Halloween decoration more jarring than they would have been if I had come upon them first.

House after house displayed an array of “decorations.” Strings of plastic ghosts and pumpkins that light up at night strung over bushes, along porch overhangs, and between branches; a variety of creatures looking as if they were struggling to emerge from their graves; headstones, gauzy fake cobwebs in a variety of colors; witches and ghosts swinging from trees.

I was reminded of a similar blight on the landscape while driving thougth a small town. A giant inflatable spider hovered over an assortment of ghosts, zombies, and skeletons. On the left of the yard was a small pool and fountain of questionable taste at its best. For Halloween the water is died red and gushes out of a skull’s mouth.

What happened to Halloween? Is it card companies or manufacturers of cheap plastic throwaways that drive this excess? Occasionally, between “Halloweened houses” a porch would be decorated with pumpkins or gourds, nature’s contribution to the season. But on the street I walked, natural displays were the exception.

I am reminded of a professor who taught education courses when I was studying to become an elementary teacher. She had been a British Headmistress of an infant school in London. She was always amazed at the American fascination with holiday decorations and themed work she observed in our schools.

“Every year, turkeys, hearts, ghosts and witches,” she would muse. “Why? There is no ‘meat’ in them for study. Year after year students can count on doing the same thing.” She shook her head. “Only in America.”

A victim of breast cancer, she passed away a number of years ago. She would have shared my dismay at the trend of draping one’s home with plastic and lights, in your face tacky that distracts from the true beauty of the season.

Why not take time to marvel with a child at the exquisite artistry of a spider web or the wonder of changing leaves? Why are we such eager consumers, willing to buy the silliest things that will end up in a landfill in a week or two? It is easy. It is fast. Faster than making homemade costumes, carving jack-o-lanterns, reading stories and poems, or taking walks through a pumpkin patch.

We are a drive-through consumeristic society and gullible enough to think supporting more disposable junk somehow makes a holiday more fun and exciting. We are on clutter overload and so are the children. Enough plastic lights and headstones and no one takes notice.

What if the money spent across this nation on holiday gewgaw was spent instead on food, schools, or dare I say it…taxes…that might make a positive difference for someone? The thought entered my mind but left as I turned a corner to see yet another Frankenstein emerging from someone’s lawn.

With positioning desk, table, file cabinet, and bookshelves, the metamorphosis is complete; the freshly painted “bedroom” has become my office. Despite a long day moving, I woke up ready to work. Just standing in the hallway and looking into the new space was energizing. Spaces where we live and work have such power.

While I was in Minnesota last year, I had the opportunity to create my own space for the first time in many years. In the past our family created the spaces in our home. That is how it should be. We had places for art projects, “inventions,” and science experiments. An old van der Graff machine sat in the dining room, and an upright piano rescued from a bar squeezed into our living room making music lessons possible.

We were a creative bunch and kept a couple boxes of dress up clothes handy for impromptu dramas. Juggling balls and pins mixed with favorite stuffed animals and a handmade dollhouse that sometimes held little people and other times was populated with small woodland animals. The house spaces changed as we all did.

In the midst of this, a space for writing was difficult to find. At first, a comfortable chair was my “place.” After everyone went to bed I curled up in the chair with a journal and pen and wrote away. Eventually I moved into the dining room where first the table and later a small desk moved into the corner served the purpose.

One Christmas my husband cleaned out a small room off the living room that had been a storage place for stuff that had no other place to be. It was a wonderful Christmas present: it even had a door I could close.

Finally, at the Collegeville Institute, I had an apartment and an office to arrange. Housework is not high on my priority list, and I surprised myself with how I enjoyed keeping the rooms neat. I had brought a few things from home to make the apartment “my own:” Shells and stones from Cape Cod and interesting fossils that sat on window ledges, photographs of family and friends, books, two throw pillows, and an afghan.

It was a quiet place where I could work as well as a place to share tea and conversation or an impromptu dinner with friends.

Moving into the transformed bedroom at my Dad’s house imparts a similar feeling: I am surrounded by carefully chosen things that have become part of my life: a monk bowl from Thailand, a modern soapstone carving of someone lost in reflection, an ivy plant started with cuttings from a plant at the Institute, an Ethiopian cestrum. A light blue crock that has held pens and pencils since I was in high school and a new pen holder made by a retired photographer from the Catholic Times. And of course, lots of books.

I have a special place for my Bible and a candle, and this morning I resumed Lectio Divina, something neglected in the upheaval of settling in to a new way of life.

Sacred Spaces can be anywhere; An office, a kitchen table, a comfortable coffee shop, or park bench. They allow us to more easily open ourselves to receive the Presence that is always being poured out. I am thankful for this space and for the people who helped make it a reality.

October has traded her blue skies and sunshine for grey clouds and rain. Driving down the highway I noticed tree limbs soaked black holding up their orange, yellow, and salmon crowns as if challenging the elements to quench the flaming foliage. It hung on with surprising strength, surrendering few leaves to the cold wind.

Colors have a depth and saturation on wet, grey days that they lack at other times. I enjoyed seeing bleached grasses and weeds running along the top of a grassy green strip and against the wire fence threaded through with remains of trumpet vine and poison ivy.

Beyond the fence in a low-lying field, a splattering of white Queen Anne’s lace blooms mingled with purple New England asters. Further in the distance red and orange sugar maples dotted nappy hills that remained predominately green.

I passed the small white shed of a roadside stand. Its eves were hung with bunches of Indian corn and bittersweet. Between the shed and farmhouse, orange pumpkins of every size lined up, shiny and wet.

Even in the rain, I love October days.

While driving I have to keep an eye on the speedometer since my foot is heavy on the pedal. It wasn’t heavy enough for some this morning, though. Waiting for a car to pass in the opposite lane before I turned left raised the ire of two drivers behind me. One passed on the right, gunning his engine and giving me a hard look.

“He must be in a hurry I thought,” keeping my eyes on the approaching car. After it passed, I turned into the church parking lot, but not before hearing an angry voice shout at me from the other car: “Get moving, old woman!” she yelled.

I felt sick, but not because she called me “old woman.” While I don’t consider fifty-nine worthy of the “old woman” tag, I know age is relative. What disturbed me was the tone in her voice: anger, almost rage. I wrote about shared responsibility for bringing peace into the world as I reflected on Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize, but how can the world know peace when so many people are filled with hostility?

A couple of weeks ago I heard peace activist John Dear S.J. speak about contemplation and living peace. He quoted Vietnamese Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh: Peace in every step. Peace in every breath. We must respond to others with peace in our hearts.

I thought of that when the woman screamed at me this morning. What in her life made her quick to react with hostility to such an insignificant wait? What pain or hurt has she endured? I thought of others around the globe: young people trained to hate “the enemy,” bigots afraid of anyone different than them. I thought of those who have a right to be angry: people suffering discrimination merely for being who they are; those enduring physical and mental abuse, innocent people living in fear and watching loved ones die in war torn countries, the starving, and those impoverished in the midst of plenty?

As I entered church and found a seat, the list had become overwhelming. Peace must start in the heart, I thought. Who can follow a leader calling for peace when their hearts are filled with anger and hate? Jesus knew that was impossible. So did Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr. They both insisted on nonviolence and love in response to brutality. Many thought these two men of peace were crazy to confront oppression with no weapons but nonviolence and trust in innate ability of the human soul to eventually recognize evil and choose good instead.

I looked at the altar. Jesus lived peace. He promised to help us do the same. I prayed for the woman in the car, and hoped wherever she was going, someone would meet her with a heart filled with peace.

LINKS:
2009 Nobel Peace Prize Citation Obama’s remarks: Christian Science Monitor “Common Misconceptions about the Nobel Peace Prize” “Gasps as Obama awarded Nobel Peace Prize” AP article by Ritter and Moore President Obama’s UN Speech

News of President Obama receiving the Nobel Peace Prize energized me for the day. “Hope” is the word I would use to describe my reaction, hope for the possibility of change in the political climate of the world, and in this country. Hope for “the common good” becoming a guiding principle in policy and decisions.

In the citation awarding the prize (see link), the spokesperson for the Nobel Committee said Obama was chosen in part “…for his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples.” He was also recognized for creating “…a new climate in international politics,” and his call to those who listened to his U.N. speech in April (see link) that “Now is the time for all of us to take our share of responsibility for a global response to global problems.”

Some people are saying that this is too early in Obama’s presidency to award him such an honor. “He hasn’t done anything yet,” they say. Others think the Nobel Committee’s choice cheapens the prize. “It is usually given to a person who has achieved something concrete,” they say. In an article by the Associated Press, Geir Lundestad, the secretary of the Nobel Committee, said that is not true, and that more often, it is given to encourage the recipient to continue their work, sometimes at “critical moments.” (see link: Common Misconceptions)

Surely, this is a critical moment at home and abroad. The issues we face are momentous: arms control, climate change, wars, terrorism, poverty, and genocide, to name some. As Obama has said, these challenges cannot be met by a single person or nation. They require the cooperation of all nations, of all peoples.

That is what I found hopeful about the Nobel Committee’s choice of President Obama. They have put the prestige and international stature of the prize behind Obama’s efforts to rally leaders of nations and ordinary citizens to accept responsibility and become involved in making a difference in our world. The committee members see the promise in Obama’s vision. Awarding this prize to the one they see as “the world’s leading spokesman”(see link, Citation) for such an approach, sends a message to the world: This is possible. Let us put aside differences, see what binds us together, and move forward to bring peace and justice.

A surprised and humble Obama said as much when he spoke to reporters in the Rose Garden this morning: “I will accept this award as a call to action, a call for all nations to confront the challenges of the 21st century…Let me be clear, I do not view it as a recognition of my own accomplishments, but rather as an affirmation of American leadership on behalf of aspirations held by people in all nations.”

I send my congratulations to President Obama for engendering hope and providing leadership in the worldwide search for peace. My prayer is that people of this country and the world will be encouraged anew to work for peace in their hearts, their families, their cities. Peace is a “bottom up” endeavor. It ripples out from individual efforts no matter how small, and makes a difference. Such efforts, multiplied millions of times over, will be what enable Obama and world leaders to achieve this goal. In the end, they represent us and our commitment to justice and peace.

Neither detractors nor supporters of Obama and his policies can sit back and wait to see whether he succeeds or fails. That would be an abdication of responsibility. As the chairman of the Norwegian Nobel Committe, Thorbjoern Jangland, said, “If everything goes wrong, then one cannot say that this was because of Barack Obama. It could be that it is because of all of us, all the others, that did not respond.” (see link, Gasps…)

The possibility for the success of Obama’s call for cooperation and action based on shared human values lies not only in his hands and the hands those in positions of power, but also in the hearts of ordinary people in the United States and around the world who make known by word and action their desire for it.

“I think October is a month of reminiscing,” a friend of mine said yesterday after we shared some laughter over memories of a backpacking trip I had taken across western Europe. I wasn’t sure how the topic had come up and said so.
“There is something about this time of year that leads us to sit back and remember. I don’t know what it is, but I do believe that.”

I think she is right. Perhaps the October tendency to muse out loud has to do with our agrarian past. After the harvest had been gathered and winter cold was yet to come, our ancestors could savor the fruits of their hard work.

Then there are smells. They can transport us in an instant to an experience from the past, Fall air carries its own set: decaying plants, fallen leaves, and smoke from burning wood; sweet aromas of apples, hot chocolate, and cider; the smell of new books, packed lunches, and newly sharpened pencils.

Or could the tilt of the earth and its path around our fiery star that bathe everything in autumn’s softer light encourage our eyes to linger and our thoughts to wander?

Maybe the clear, dark skies that show off stars and the bright, white moon at night make those who gaze into it thoughtful as they become aware again of their small footprint in the vastness of creation.

Even in a world far removed from one in which people used position of heavenly bodies rather than digital readouts to tell the time and order their days, nature’s deep, enduring power seeps through barriers of glass and steel, and overloaded schedules. It stirs our souls and sends memories floating to consciousness.

October is a delicious time to savor. And that reminds me of making pies from butternut squash we grew in the garden instead of pumpkin that comes in a can.

I walked downstairs this morning and saw today’s newspaper laying on the dining room table. The headline and photo arrested my attention: “WHICH IS MORE HUMANE?” The photo showed the death house at an Ohio prison that held both an electric chair and a gurney used when giving a lethal injection.

Together the photo and headline seemed an oxymoron. How could putting someone to death possibly be humane, no matter how it is done? The question was raised as the result of the inability of a team of emergency medical technicians in Ohio to execute a prisoner by lethal injection. They tried for almost two hours and could not find a suitable vein for the IV. Gov. Ted Strickland finally called a halt to the prolonged attempt. The inmate’s lawyers are appealing, and at the moment the man convicted of abducting, raping, and murdering a fourteen year old girl has no execution date set.

Many Ohioans are outraged. “Why worry about being humane to a cold-blooded murderer?” they ask. His heinous crime gives permission to treat him as less than a human being, or so some people are saying.

In the Catholic Church October is “Respect Life Month.” Many church-goers will hear sermons on the need to end abortions. Life is a gift. True. But life is a gift from its beginning to its end. I am struck by the apparent ease with which some who are adamantly opposed to abortion change their “respect life” stance when the death penalty is involved.

Emotionally, supporting the right of an innocent unborn baby to be born is much easier that holding out for the right of a convicted killer to live his or her life to its natural end. The desire for vengeance is strong.

Once while driving home from work, I heard a NPR program featuring people who had put prisoners to death sharing memories of the executions they had participated in. I couldn’t listen to the entire program; my stomach was sick.

As long as a person has life, he or she has the possibility of transformation. Jesus did not give up on the those who crucified him or the criminal who hung beside him. Redemption is God’s gift. Judging anyone irredeemable is not our right.

Years ago in Texas, a woman who had murdered her husband was executed despite her transformation. She had become a model prisoner and was praised by guards for helping other inmates. She had become a Christian, and her faith which had moved her to serve others where she was, strengthened her as she faced death that came despite appeals from around the world to spare her life. Even the Pope had pleaded for her, recognizing the good work she was doing.

Why was she murdered? She was a wonderful example of rehabilitation that worked. The system would not forgive.

I hope that in this “Respect Life Month” we will look at all life, even the most corrupted and repugnant, and realize that we have no right to take it away. Instead we should pray for the sinners, for their victims and their victims’ families and leave the end of life to the One that began it.

How much easier to tackle a project like painting a room when others share the work! A friend has helped me with preparing and painting the wood trim. I am actually looking forward to finishing it! My daughter agreed to paint the ceiling. This little “office” will be bright and ready to hold bookshelves, desks, and a computer before I know it.

Happy St. Francis Day!

This was a feast day I celebrated with my children by baking animal-shaped sugar cookies or buying a big bag of animal crackers! Even when they were away in college, I sent animal cookies. This year I did not think about the feast until it was almost here, too late to send anything. I conveyed my greetings over email or cell phone, but that is not the same.

Of course, my adult children did not need the animal crackers. There is just something about keeping traditions, no matter how small, that connect our present to the past and the future. Traditions are a constant in a world that is always changing. Traditions bring the warm comfort of memories, especially appreciated when the present is cold and harsh. Next year I will try not to forget.

Today will be a gift to myself: I am painting a small bedroom that will become my office. It has been sitting empty, waiting. Weeks ago, my brother prepared the walls, filling in cracks and repairing a little water damage, not much for a ninety-year-old home. Why have I waited so long to pick up where he left off? Doing something for myself often is more difficult than doing something for others.

This may be a “mother’s syndrome.” Attuned to needs of our families from the moment we wake to cradle a crying infant, we buy clothes, pack lunches, and organize impossible schedules. We dry tears, cheer at games, and help with homework. We listen, hold, and make our house a home.

These are good things, but sometimes in the process, I forget the necessity of doing something for “me.” Painting my office does not seem as important as meeting with concerned students, being with my father, celebrating a daughter’s entrance into grad school, or riding along as she makes a last minute run for computer parts. (Those errands are always more fun when done with someone else.)

The hours spent for others, especially my children, are treasures I would not trade for any amount of time or money. Relationships are most important: God, family, and those who people my life. Still, how easy to forget the relationship with self, the need to nurture one’s spirit so it does not wither. I can tell when mine is drying up: I resent others and their needs. I want to go away, read a book, or watch a movie, anything that does not demand attentiveness.

What wilts my spirit ? Lack of sleep. Constant activity. Neglect of prayer. Not being able to say “no.” Stress. Bad eating habits. Nothing new. What we all know, but often ignore.

I would like to claim all of the above as reasons for not painting the room, but to be honest, I have to throw in a bit of procrastination. That being said, I am taking this day and making a beautiful space for myself. As I work, I will remember that God wants me to have what I need. After all, she is a mother, too.