March madness has a whole new meaning for me this year. It has nothing to do with basketball. Listening to my muse is more constructive than taking in too much news.
Even when I briefly check the day’s events, I’m listening for poetry. Rep. Becca Balint invites us to be “focused and fierce,” as we become what Sue Minter calls a “chorus of courage for democracy.”
I just finished reading Nancy Pelosi’s recent book, The Art of Power: My Story as America’s First Woman Speaker of the House. She writes on page one, “A Hebrew scholar in the third century said that because of the spark of divinity that we all have, hundreds of angels precede us when we walk. My deep commitment to honoring the spark of divinity in every person is why I turned to public service.” I turned the page to read, “The children have always been my ‘why’ in public service…” And we haven’t met—yet.
Grace is nudging me to resume my search for a publisher of my memoir, Defining Grace: Showing Up with The Gift of Divine Mischief.
At 74 with funky feet, how can I show up with the Gift of Divine Mischief?
First, I show up for myself. I start every day with meditation followed by some journaling. I hang out with my muse before checking the news. Grace is my muse--invisible, inspiring, and invitational. I renew my intention to live Grace-fully.
My first taste of the day’s news comes from Vermont Public and NPR as I have breakfast. I eat and listen with as much mindfulness as I can muster. I listen for Grace. Who is speaking up for our children, our schools, immigrant caregivers, farm workers, the hungry, the homeless, our civil servants, our seniors, scientists, and our planet?
I have a prayer list and a to-love list. Both are long. I do not keep a list of enemies. I remember my Quaker-leaning father telling me, “Thee and I are in loving disagreement.” Dad died 21 years ago. His last words to me were, “I’ll talk to you later.” His presence can be palpable in my morning meditation. I inherited Charcot Foot from him and my ability to carry a tune. We have a lot of empathy for each other now. Love is hard work.
My husband, Bill, who will be 89 in April, came for a visit with his two primary caregivers in February. He was worried that I would think he’s a “has-been.” Thanks to my muse that morning, I led with one of my favorite Bill stories. He was revered in high school as an athlete and went on to compete in the Olympics. He could have invited anyone to his senior prom. He took a classmate who had MS. She could neither walk nor dance. He carried her. Several years later, her parents tracked Bill down after their daughter passed. They wanted to thank him for the best day of her life. The four of us sat in my living room and cried.
That’s love. Thank you, Grace.