weekend people

The people at the retreat in Pennsylvania made me want to be a Christian like I haven't in a long time. Not because of their piety . . . but because they listened, and like it came from some place deep. Sherry on the way up "Peter's Mountain" where we would shiver in the fog on the rock at the top, and her husband Larry on the way down. Katie, in our small group, and in her consistent counselor's insightful prodding. Esther at meals, in the circle of chairs, and late into two nights, later than I've stayed up for a long time. Like we were supposed to, we found surprising commonalities in our experiences. I can't stop talking. I am starting to heal.

Karl Bartsch asked, "what is your burning bush?" and taught us again about centering prayer. Harvard medical researchers found that meditation lowers blood pressure and raises metabolism. Twenty minutes is the time generally accepted as most beneficial. We tried five, sitting cross-legged against the thin wall that hid the diligent clarinet student and the teenagers playing carpetball, but not their sounds. My body, more than anything, settled quickly into the familiar position, the focused breathing, missed it.

Eunice, as warm as always, stirred Sunday dinner in the oven while her roommate from Shenyang cut turnips slower than I've ever seen any Chinese person with a chopping knife. I sat on the radiator and loved their mixed language and attention to each other, and the old wood floor of the Philly flat. She and Julie guided me through traffic between them. Nearly an hour at nearly a standstill near I-495. The dullness of a nice car, the music and temperature I choose, and enjoy only so much, alone. I will return with mixed welcome and dread to the shock of the snow flurries in my face biking into town on Tuesday, the surprise of the sun when I make the turn onto Kratzer.