“Lessons Landing”

         Okay, I know this isn’t popular to reveal, but I’m not a fan of Balloon Fiesta. Used to be, but that was early in my Albuquerque life. Now, since I live about a mile from the field, this week in October is full of hassles. Traffic prohibits me from getting out of the driveway easily; the fireworks wreak havoc for our sensitive Labrador Retriever; and then there are the renegades.

         Renegades, for those of you unaware of what happens in the neighborhoods and dirt roads around the acequias near the balloon field, are the balloonists going up from other places with the expectation it offers advantages in the daily competitions. In the area my dog and I run every morning, they line up to sail away. There are balloons and baskets and cars and vans and hordes of people, just standing around. In the way. And though I am embarrassed to admit it, I see them all huddled around the path and I become a cranky old woman.

         And then, I have to get to work. On myself.

         Monday, I came home all bothered and pinched and I journaled about what it is that annoys me. I read the spiritual classics to try and align my soul with the good things, the higher things; and I prepared myself for the next morning, this morning, to try to be better, do better.

          I decided to go with, “the God in me greets the God in you,” approach. And today, as I jogged through the back gate, I was prepared. I felt as if I learned my great spiritual lesson of hospitality and grace. Imagine then, my great surprise, when I turned the corner to find they weren’t there. Not a one. The wind was blowing the balloons south, so taking off from the acequias near the Sandia Pueblo offered no advantage. Taking off from here was not helpful to win the competition. And I just shook my head in disbelief and kept running.

         Isn’t it funny that when we get it, when the lesson is learned, the “aha” happens, that the trial suddenly goes away? We are no longer bothered; maybe even we’re looking forward to showing off our growth and then we don’t get to do so.

         Is that the way lessons are? Must we keep running into the same trouble, continue to be annoyed by the same pinch, find ourselves in the same repeated patterns of surliness until we sit down with ourselves and ask, “what am I missing here?” Until we take a long look at ourselves and say, “You know, this may be about you.”

         I don’t know. I only know that I will wrestle an angel or a demon for nights on end and finally stop and invite him to sit down with me, have a cup of tea and get to know her, understand him, find another way to communicate other than a fight, and the next thing I know, they’re gone. No more visits. No more matches, even as I have stretched and gotten ready for them. They don’t show up.

         Now, trust me when I say, I am not naïve. The lessons are never done. I know I don’t graduate from the school of spiritual growth until after my last breath is exhaled from this body. There are always more angels waiting at the door to wrestle; and there will be another one, maybe even one I know and thought I had whipped,  showing up to surprise me.

         But it is nice to know that in every struggle, every wrestling bout, we are offered the gift of growth. We are called to take another look at ourselves and ask, “is it possible this might be about you?”

         Lessons, like balloons, fly in and out of our lives, taking off and landing where they will. And I, figuring out how not to be so cranky when they crowd my path, will somehow learn to welcome them.

You are the light of the world.

Yours,

Lynne