Finding Water

I was sitting at work when a thought struck me: I need to take a silent retreat now. It had been at least seven years since I’d last been on one and I felt dry — in need of “living water.” Plus, my potential dog sitter — my husband Rob — was leaving soon for his field season. It was now or never.
I remembered a place nearby, just a few towns south, in Albion, that my husband had heard about called The Lord’s Land. A staff member from the retreat camp had come into the mineral/fossil shop where my husband works and saw Rob’s business card. When this young man saw the name “Sula” he asked Rob if he knew a Sondra Sula.
Apparently, this man was reading my devotional book and felt a kinship with the author: me! Rob and he talked about all of us getting together at The Lord’s Land. But before we were able to, COVID-19 hit. And then I forgot all about it.
The moment I returned from work I looked up The Lord’s Land to see if they were open and had any cabins available. They were listed from most expensive to least, so I began searching from the bottom up until I found a cabin with indoor plumbing. Every date before and after the three dates I desired was booked solid. I quickly reserved Racoon Cabin.
What I neglected to read in my haste was that the bed was in a loft and I’d have to climb down a ladder should I need to get up in the middle of the night, which I always do.
I don’t have great “loft ladder karma” as I had walked off the edge in a similar situation years ago and had fallen a full story to the cement floor below.
In my hurry to book the space, I failed to notice there were 123 steps down to the cabin from the parking spot, which was a ledge next to a ravine. Definitely an emergency brake situation. But the near vertical entrance proved to be healthy exercise, especially since it required three trips to unload my car.
The interior of the cabin was quaint with all sorts of artistic touches including mosaic-tiled kitchen counters.
After I settled in, only hitting my head on the ceiling about four times while making the bed, I ventured out to find The Prayer Trail. It was lovely, but less than a mile long.
I explored the nearby cabins once I realized they were empty (I didn’t want to intrude on anyone else’s retreat experience) and found the beautiful Prayer Cabin with a lawn chair that looked out over the ridges.
But I felt like something was missing. I realized that “something” was water. I had been drawn here to refresh myself in the “living water,” which was definitely happening, but I intuitively felt there must be a creek or pond or some natural source of water nearby.
The last morning of my retreat I set off to find water. I discovered a trail that sloped downward. I kept thinking it would connect to The Prayer Trail, but it never joined up. In fact, it kept descending until it reached a large tree with a rope around it to facilitate climbing further down. Did I want to chance falling? No one knew where I was and I had a long trek back to the cabin — all uphill. Yet I realized this moment symbolized my ability to take on new challenges, and I had to move forward.
When I got to the bottom of the rope I saw it. A creek: water. I felt a sense of release. The hike back would be strenuous and steep, but I knew I had been blessed with the strength to carry on.

Photos © Sondra Sula.

Take a walk with me by reading my most recent daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.

If you’d prefer a daily river walk, Reflections on the Fox River and Beyond by Sondra Sula, might just be the book for you.

Light at the End of the Tunnel

Right now I’m lost in darkness, barely treading water. No more Gratefulness Walks, meditations, spiritual readings. Just pack, pack, pack.

I must also pack up this blog until after I move.

But there’s no need to fret. There is light at the end of the tunnel—for all of us.

Get a daily dose of inspiration by reading my latest book, Reflections on the Fox River and Beyond.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

The Big Picture

I tend to get caught up in minutia. There are times I can’t see the forest for the trees. I’m looking at life so closely, I don’t see the big picture.

Packing a lifetime’s worth of stuff is stressful. Especially for a person like me who attaches sentiment to nearly every object. Oh, here’s the old spool we made into a table for the dollhouse. And look at this—a bright red seed I collected in Florida. And yes, the paperweight my best friend’s grandmother made for me when I was seven.

When I started “losing it” today, I decided to take a five-minute detour to the Fox River on my way to the grocery store. And instead of photographing everything close up, I decided to take a broader view. That’s when I realized how different it felt to step back rather than close in on a subject.

I was forgetting to step back from the packing to see the big picture: I feel my husband and I have been called to move to this new place, this new life, and to step courageously into the unknown…

All photos © Sondra Sula.

When Things Fall Apart

There is a Carmelite Stations of the Cross I like to visit near The National Shrine of St. Thérèse. Situated in a small grove of trees, the ceramic stations were originally attached to either side of seven large stone monoliths arranged in a circle. One would travel along the outer circle, and then move inward to complete the devotion. A wonderful symbolic journey.

A number of years had passed since I had last seen the Stations, and when I arrived, the clay works of art were cracked, their turquoise, ivory and gold glazes flaking off. Very few were even attached to the stones. Once flamboyantly surrounded by gleaming teal and eggplant-hued tiles, many of the ceramic images were now nestled in the grass, leaning against their once-imposing monoliths. I found a single inch-square tile in the mud and placed it on a ledge. The Stations of the Cross were falling apart, and yet they exuded a poignant, hard-scrapple beauty.

Presently I am in the process of dismantling. I am taking apart my garden fence and breaking down bookcases into slabs of wood. I am removing precious objects, carefully arranged for maximum aesthetic impact, and packing them into dull brown cardboard boxes. My daily life is coming apart at the seams, my culling creating the disorganization that precedes organization.

Our home is a giant mess, and yet the actual packing of items into boxes feels cleansing, freeing. Right now I’m in the outer circle, towards the beginning of the process. I am not centered yet. But soon I will turn the corner and find myself in the inner circle, the place of deep calm.

The ceramic Stations of the Cross will continue to deteriorate, my house will eventually be devoid of all the objects that once rested there, comforting me. But the Carmelites have already built a new set of Stations a few acres away, and everything that appears to be falling apart in my life will be put back together in a new place, many miles away.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

Very Good Friday

Last week, I went to the Chicago neighborhood of Pilsen with my spiritual companion of thirty years to walk the “live Stations of the Cross.” This somber three-hour procession has been a tradition for nearly forty years, and my friend and I have been participating in it for about half that time. We both felt sad not only because our nun friend who normally shared this day with us had moved east, but also because I would soon be moving to the west coast.

Endings are always difficult. The Stations of the Cross are all about the end of Christ’s ministry. Easter has not yet arrived, and none of Jesus’s followers know that the stone at the entrance of his tomb will soon be rolled away. There is no way for the disciples to know that the story they are living will be told again and again, even 2,000 years later, on 18^th Street in Chicago, Illinois.

This neighborhood also used to be the home of slain journalist James Foley, and as we pass a vibrant mural dedicated to him, I can’t help but think of the many lives lost to war, crime, disease—including my friend’s sweet mother who recently died.

Another loss was the place where we always ate lunch afterwards, Nuevo Leon. A local favorite, this colorful Mexican restaurant always had a line out the door and halfway down the block on Good Friday. But it had gone up in flames. What remained was a charred interior and jagged glass-edged windows, yet the exterior still had a bright, festive feeling.

We came to the end of our journey watching Jesus taken down from the cross and hauled away on the shoulders of men dressed in robes and sandals. The end was a beginning. This I knew from hindsight. And as we passed a pair of pink and creamsicle-orange steps that led to a dark, mysterious entrance, I knew my friend and I would each find our way to fresh, new stories.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

Letting Go

“Transitions” by Sondra Sula

Autumn is a time during which I hold on tight to every glory and magnificence, reluctant to ease my grip for even a moment lest the season pass me by. Yet that is exactly what I must do: let go. I’m quick to find the last blooming dandelion in our yard, but when I draw near, I see a yellow jacket upon it, struggling due to its battered, broken wings. I could not save it even if I tried, because the worker wasps are slated to die before winter sets in. What I can do is witness its struggle, appreciate its beauty, acknowledge its purpose in the world, and then let go.

Further along my walk, I spot a paper wasp nest hidden within a juniper bush. The delicate layers look like squiggles of flattened yarn in shades of gray. I smile and reminisce about sitting in my garden, listening to paper wasps scrape the old bamboo poles that secure my tall plants during the summer. The wasps’ masticated wood pulp spittle creates these magnificent lantern-like structures. I soon realize the nest is abandoned and all the wasps have perished, save the queen who is safely tucked away elsewhere.

“Singed Clover” by Sondra Sula

“Crab Apples Clinging” by Sondra Sula

A hairy green milkweed pod brings to mind its ball of waxy mauve summer flowers. Then I imagine the fun I’ll have shaking the pods when they have browned and dried, bursting at the seams to reveal miniature petticoat seeds. I am retreating into the past and springing into the future instead of experiencing now. I must simply let go of before and after to enjoy the present.

I see a blooming clover and am beckoned by its brilliant hue. Pulled in, I notice the flaming pink tongues that form the floret are singed brown at one edge from frost. I must release my desire for an extended growing season and let nature continue her necessary cycles. I move on.

Crab apples and orange maple leaves desperately cling to now-brittle branches, but resistance is futile: it’s time to let go.

“Behold the Sugar Maple” by Sondra Sula

Embracing Transition

“Sudden Change” by Sondra Sula

There are moments in life when a realization dawns that it’s time to move on. Perhaps the move is sudden, in mid-stride, like a cicada breaking free from its wingless exoskeleton to explore a life of flying. Or it can be subtle, like an inkberry transitioning from bud to fruit along its stem, changing gradually.

“Considering Flight” by Sondra Sula

“Gradual Transition” by Sondra Sula

I fall into the sweet pea category. Everything is happening at once on the sweet pea vine: buds, blooms, beans. One part of me feels energetic and green, ready to take on the world with open-eyed wonder. Another part feels in full flower, that I am exactly who I was always meant to be. Simultaneously, I feel spent—my colors are fading, my suppleness withering.

And within this still point at which all time collides, I welcome the bean. The pod looks nothing like the flower and keeps growing beyond previous boundaries. The bean, like encapsulated wisdom, contains everything necessary to recreate itself. This fresh incarnation may mimic its predecessor, but is actually an entirely new plant.

However one chooses to move on, be it dramatically or imperceptibly, embracing the change is the surest way to fully enjoy the freedoms a new stage of growth provides.

“Welcoming the Bean” by Sondra Sula