What if we could sit in a room
uniquely exquisite
authentic, accepting, open
Spirits

beautifully bonded together

capturing words,

apprehending silence
and

giving voice

to the inner yearning of the soul?

While some people have a venue to express themselves spiritually, and connect with other beings on a spirit level –whether it be a church bible study, a yoga class or meditation group, most don’t.

A spirituality group has the benefits of bringing members deep into their own discovery about healing, creativity, relationships and spiritual connection. On a societal level, the uniting of women in spirit is increasingly cultivating an open and fertile garden for grace and love and compassion to flourish and impact our world with beauty and acceptance.

Let’s do it.

For more information about our upcoming Women’s Winter Spirituality Circle beginning January 26th, please contact wellnessinquiries@gmail.com

Recently I came across the words of Clyde Kilby, beautiful soul and professor of English at Wheaton College from 1935 to 1981.

He was a lover of words, of nature, of beauty–and a true lover of the Creator of all things beautiful.

While he wrote down 12 suggestions for living a life of wonder and integrity, I happen to be stuck on the first one. More may come later…but for now, there is something profound about staying here, for me–and maybe for you too.

At least once each day I shall look steadily up at the sky and remember that I, a consciousness with a conscience, am on a planet traveling in space with everlasting mysterious things above and about me.

Be blessed in your wondering this week.

I want to spend some time in your wind today

listening to the whispers floating above the trees

noticing breeze brushing over skin.

I want to spend some time in your wind today

breathing in the scent of dew dampened earth…and
watching

burnished bronzed leaves

flutter and sway

as they take their

final
graceful
bow

One year ago, Aunt Lois came to visit on her way back from her annual harvesting party. When she came, she filled up my kitchen with bundles of fry pies, vegetables, and frozen creamed corn.

During that weekend visit, we ate the fry pies. She took most of the vegetables home with her to Florida. But the frozen creamed corn stayed in the freezer. Throughout the year I would pull out a packet of the cream corn from the freezer from time to time. I would add it to soup. Corn bread. Creamed Corn at Thanksgiving.

I didn’t think much of the creamed corn.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday, I sauteed onions and garlic in a pan. I poured in the chicken stock, cumin and chiles. I paused when I reached in my freezer for a packet of the frozen creamed corn, because I knew it was the last.

I opened that packet, and squeezed in the mashed corn and all of its juices into the simmering pot, and stirred.

And the corn became a part my dinner, for the last time.

And for Lois, and her bundles of produce, and the creamed corn that I would not see in this lifetime…and for all of the bundles of gifts that she bestowed on her loved ones–past and present; I cried.

Because I knew this would be the best creamed corn chowder I would ever make.

Yesterday my lost scarf just showed up.
Not that I had been looking for it. It’s too warm here to really miss a scarf. No…my scarf just showed up out of the clear blue–on a different path than usual.

As I climbed the ridge yesterday, I noticed it right away, my scarf. Tattered, weathered, and stringy. My scarf that my sister lovingly crafted–that now had brown leaves crocheted into the very body of the scarf.

It was tied to the railing.
Waiting.

When was the last time I was here? November? I couldn’t remember.
But there it was, waiting. Weathered and torn, waiting.
And it was mine.
Someone knew way back when I dropped it, that this scarf had meaning. Importance. Value. A simple scarf. Someone knew enough to pick up the scarf that had fallen onto that woodsy path on a brisk November day…and to tie it up to the rail–so it was obvious.

Waiting to be noticed.

Sometimes, God shows himself in glory. The sun streams down from heaven and hits the water. Shimmering. Blinding. If we stop for a moment…we can’t help but notice. We drink in the moment and sense the presence of the Living God revealed. In that moment of awareness–of noticing, our hearts are stirred and we come one step closer.

Other times, it’s a humble revelation. He shows up in a tattered scarf. He waits, and our job is to notice this waiting…this humble presence that deeply loves.

He waits for the company of our hands and neck again. He waits for us to notice–to wrap himself around us.

He waits for us to pluck the leaves out, now deeply embedded from the months of neglect.

He waits, longing for the chance to warm and to soothe like only a tattered scarf can do on a brisk winter day.