This week's storm leaves no doubt. The weather is unequivocal, with an exclamation point and a message: you can kiss your hope for an Indian summer goodbye. This is easier said than done, given the reality that in the PNW we endure on heaps of hope. Hope is the medicine that fortifies us.

I'm at my desk writing a Sabbath Moment. But the rain distracts me and my mood sours. Outside my window, the rain hammers unrelenting. It is like a tropical afternoon shower, only without the tropical. Our tall conifers are whipped and twirled like frenzied conductor batons (my guess... something Tchaikovsky wrote in his manic phase). My eyes glaze over, and then I notice, in the foreground suspended between yew and heavenly bamboo, a spider web, maybe 18-inches across, outlined by droplets of rain and exquisite in its perfection. Its architect waits at the center, Zen-like and unfazed by the storm.

The garden is being tested and I make a mental list of the cleanup required in the aftermath. And I remember another time, some years ago, when garden mending was necessary.

Behind our house is a small pond, fed by a meandering stream. I spent a good part of the morning rearranging the rocks--heaped in a pile--that once lined the stream bed.

Raccoons visit every night, and practice forms of mayhem and destruction. (I suspect it is required education for all young raccoons.)

There are days when chaos doesn't rattle my cage, but there are other days when it doesn't take much to make me feel fragile. And close to a tipping point. This is one of those days. So I stand, cursing delinquent rodents, just to hear my voice bounce around in the Fir trees behind my house. (Yes, I know that raccoons are not rodents, but they are next of kin in my book.)

I was fixing the stream bed (a true case of futility or hopefulness, given the reality that my work will be undone sometime later tonight), when Zach asks me what I'm doing.
"Fixing stuff," I tell him.
Then I add some unpleasant things about our furry visitors, cast aspersions about their species in general, grumble about how little fun I am having, how this wasn't on my agenda for the day, and how my life has been most assuredly inconvenienced.
"But dad," Zach tells me, "everybody has raccoons in their life."

Kids. Go figure.

I laugh and decide to keep rearranging rocks.

And it hits me that life is complicated enough. We don't need to add more pressure by parsing the categories. Because when we do, we live segmented.
You know, this is me, living inconvenienced.
Now this is me, really living life.
This is me, stuck in cleanup-life time.
Now this is me, in celebrate-life time.

This is me, in manage pain time.

Now this is me, in healing and moving past pain time.
It is as if we are living two different lives. If only one would end, for the other one to begin.

It is no wonder we are always looking toward tomorrow. Perhaps I am waiting to finish the inconvenienced part, in order to get on with the good stuff. As a result, I am not present for whatever my life holds today, especially the parts of life I didn't sign up for.

Sabbath Moment friends have been gracious with prayers and well wishes, and I am grateful. A few have reminded me that pain is, in fact, my teacher. I am slowly absorbing that reality. (But it doesn't stop me from wishing that the class times were shorter.)

"When I get to heaven," someone told me about finding freedom from the inconveniences in their life.
"Good luck with that," I told him. "But I'm pretty sure that if you can't celebrate life here, you'll be hard pressed to learn how to boogie there."

Or to put it another way; if we can't see God here, how will we recognize God when we are there?

Ignatian spirituality talks about "seeing God in all things."

This theory was tested just the other night in my car, driving southwest at sunset time. At one point the road offered a perfect frame for the evening pageant. The sun, as it seems to do every night, pauses just above the horizon, a kind of benediction on the day.

I have heard people say (about conversations or trips or interactions), "I may not get a chance to do (or see or enjoy) that ever again."

Okay, I tell myself, it's time to pull over on this island road and savor the sunset miracle (just because it is daily, doesn't make it less of a miracle does it?) As the sun disappears, it's as if a detonation of color is released and the western sky is satiated with shades and layers of tangerine.

No, it doesn't get any better than this. But if I 'fess up, I was tempted to file it away, treating it like any number of not-to-miss moments. We can't just take delight and let it be, can we?

Our internal scorekeeper feels compelled to have the final word. And it's no wonder that so many moments get buried, or worse, chastised for not measuring up. ("That was an okay sunset...")

When life does turn left or the raccoons plague, we give way to our segmented self, afraid to embrace the moment unless... we deserve it, or will fully utilize it, or not waste it. And if all else fails, we do our best to tidy it up and tone down the sadness. I do believe that our scorekeeper could use a week off.

I can't guess what kind of raccoons you are tussling. But I'm sure that you are. What to do? You can laugh and decide to keep rearranging rocks. Or try this solution offered by a creative islander. (Posted this week on our local version of Craigslist.) Help Needed: Remove raccoons for Dutch Apple PIE! There is a family of raccoons living in my neighbor's laurel hedge (tall) bordering my property and they are causing a ruckus all night long very near my house, getting on the roof (I think), etc. When I turn on the light I can see them peeking out of the Laurel. If someone can come trap and remove them or find another way to get rid of them, I will bake you an amazing Dutch Apple Pie (or two)!

No, we may never pass this way again. And I doubt that any of my traps will keep the racoons away for good, but I'm sure it's still worth a conversation and a bite or two of Dutch Apple Pie.