Reflections on 2012

The end of another year, and tomorrow we begin a new one. All in all, this has been a really positive year for me. Seems I’ve come home—without ever really understanding how far I had run from home. I’ve come home to my insides. I’ve come home to my spirituality. I’ve come home to everything I’ve run from…

I just remembered this poem I wrote a number of years ago, almost exactly seven years ago:

The Marathon Runner
December 13, 2005

Running

running hard and fast
not with the joy of a marathon runner
who runs for the life of running
but with fear, I run the “run away” running,
running until I can run no more.

The unholy marathon began at 4
when I began running from TrueSelf.
I ran from the friendly universe
from joy and play
from being a “Mama’s girl”
And I ran from trust—
either God or my Self.

And I continued running.
At 9 I began running from sexuality
at 10, from Christmas and the holidays
at 17 from my own choices
from adventure
from creating and “being” an artist.
At 19 I began running from marriage and commitment
At 35 I began running from this New Age,
this paradigm shift I’m destined to be a part of.

Then, at 40, something remarkable happened.
I began to slow down
and I made a turn,
albeit a small turn,
still I slowed down
and made a turn

and I began the long, hard journey home
home to God and home to my Self
home to my childhood
home to joy and play
home to the friendly universe
and home to being a “Mama’s girl”.

Am I there yet?
Am I here?

At 56, if I’m not home
at least I’m no longer running away.
I’m not even jogging anymore
I had slowed down and was walking
just walking
until I decided to hitch a ride
on an elephant.
I have climbed up on the elephant
of all my fearful running,
and now I am riding all the way home.

I wrote that when I was 56; I’m now 62. It’s been a number of years since I read that poem, but it is the story of my life, my fears, and my running. And yes, looking back at that poem, it seems I have come home this year. I have settled it within myself. I am a Christian, albeit it, a very different Christian than I was when I was 40. I don’t know quite as much anymore about everyone else. I’ve discovered that for me, the spirituality of Christianity has called me to attempt to follow Jesus more, not just to worship him. And it’s called for everything about me to change—every single cell, every microfiber. All my values and beliefs have been challenged. What’s left is mine, not what someone else taught me. I’ve learned to accept doubts (both mine and the doubts of others) as part of the equation, not to fear them or condemn them. I’ve learned to be curious, and questions are good. And I just might not ever have the answers, especially for someone else. I’ve learned more about the “wisdom tradition”, and developed more of a “panentheistic” (God IN everything) spirituality. I embrace evolutionary science, as well as evolutionary spirituality. And I know there are many, many paths home.

Finding my ground has been one of the best things about my “coming home”. The ground seems to have finally quit shaking and it seems I have found solid ground once more. My old wineskin broke, but I have a new container, and it seems flexible enough to hold all kinds of new thoughts, questions, ideas, theologies, etc. The Christianity I’ve discovered over the past few years is wide, open, big and glorious. Much thanks to my many, many teachers who’ve broadened and expanded my point of view.

Another good gift of coming home is that I didn’t have to run from the holidays this year. Something happened when my sisters in Grace Group prayed for me back in October, and the Ghost of Christmas past was set free. This has been a miraculous holiday season, with a deep sense of gratitude for all I have and all I’ve experienced. I know that might not seem as big as regaining my stable ground, but it’s huge for me.

As I look over this poem, and the past few years since I’ve written it, I am so grateful for my life, for my husband, my mother and children, for my friends, for my different communities (St. Timothy’s, 3rd Act and the Art League, my “love” ladies, Grace Group, Family Fitness, shoot, even Facebook!). Each one has added such a wonderful dimension to my life. Life is good, and every single part of it belongs.

Ceridwen, the Archetype

I love the old goddess myths and stories, especially the myths of the crone godesses. In Christian spirituality, she's the Black Madonna. In Celtic spirituality, she's Ceridwen.

I've been drawn to the Black Madonna for years, ever since I was introduced to her by Sue Monk Kidd, in her book Dance of the Dissident Daughter (gosh, has it really been 10 years???). I see her in the Christian Scriptures often; Shekinah, Sophia, and the maiden in The Song of Solomon in the Hebrew Scripture, as well as represented by Mary Magdalene in the New Testament. The Song's maiden and I have been intimately acquainted for nearly 20 years, and Mary Magdalene and I have walked together now for at least the last eight or so years.

Each of these women have an archetypal energy--and archetypal energies seek us out. We don't go looking for them, but they seek us and guide us and have a great affect on our lives.

And it seems that Ceridwen, pronounced Ker-RID-Wen, the Celtic Lady of the Lake is also a prominent archetypal energy in my life.

I discovered a wall sculpture of her a couple of years back and bought it simply because I was drawn to it. She was black and strong, her strong arms and legs encircling a great cauldron, and she was stirring the pot. Something inside of me moved when I first saw her, and I've learned to pay attention to those feelings inside.

I didn't know much about her then, and I still don't know much about her, except that her name and her story showed up on the Eve of Winter's Solstice this year--and that too caught my attention. Here's a little info I found on the internet:

* she, too, is a cauldron, which symbolizes wisdom, transformation, new birth, and creative inspiration.

* she is wise, powerful, resourceful, and she's a crone, associated with the moon, science, prophecy and poetry.

* she's past child-bearing years (a crone).

* it seems her one great weakness is interfering in her children's lives??? (o yeah???, me?, never!).

* and it seems she is the mother of Bards, Singers, Healers and Poets, in fact, one of the most honored Bards of the Middle Ages.

Since she showed up this year on the Eve of Winter's Solstice, I decided to honor her energy in my life and paint her.

It's sad that crone have been labeled "witches" and so dishonored. It's given all of us older women no place to go as we watch our lives be transformed. I'm grateful to Jung, Kidd, Bolen, Bourgeault, and so many others along the way who have taught me to welcome the crone energy, especially with it's shadow side. Their stories have taught me not to be afraid of darkness, to not be afraid of the inner journey (the journey into the abyss or the underworld), and to rest in the knowing that life changes, and to welcome those changes.

So, here's to Ceridwen, another "dark mother", who has helped me on my journey.

Blessed be.

The MaskMaker and the Shadow

Doing work with my SoulCollage® cards has been an important part of my wonderful Christmas Season this year. Christmas has been an unfavorite season for me for many years--dating all the way back to my 9th year. But the prayers of my Grace Group and the making of and dialoguing with cards has meant for me a break through this year. I'm very, very grateful. Nothing changed on the outside, but a lot has changed on the inside--maybe even a new birth.

I made this card a number of years ago, but it had a new message for me this morning. And part of that message included a new work I learned yesterday: "en-factuation". A friend of mine "made up" the word and shared it with me yesterday. It's a good word, best defined by "story".

If you'll notice in the upper right corner

...these old biddies are the "en-factorators". When one person "en-facts" another, they look at a person and cover that person with a story of their own making--they encase that person with their own "facts", and live their lives according to their own made up stories. They spoke to me this morning:

I am the "en-factorator". I am frozen in another time, another place, and another experience. I stand outside your time and space--outside your heart--and I believe my own story about your life. I have you imprisoned behind a curtain of shame. I have decided your fate, and I have whispered my story of your life to you, to myself, and to others, repeating as facts the lies I made up and calling them "true".

Then, there's the Shadow:


...and this morning she spoke to me, too:

I am the Shadow who lives behind that "curtain of shame", but what you've spoken about me, I refuse any longer to believe. I choose instead to stand on my own experience, my own knowledge and my own truth. I refuse to let your "story" about my life determine my identity any longer. I am free--free to color my own world, free to transform that curtain of shame into a window into the past, and free to be my own true Self. I am free to decide for myself who I am, and I choose to believe no longer the lies you tell about me.

And this morning, she turns her back on the MaskMaker, speaking: I will no longer put on a mask to protect myself or to please you. I choose to show my own true face and to choose my own name. And I will tell my own story based on what I know to be true.

As with dreams, I also know that each person on this card is a part of me. I am the "enfactuator"; I am the MaskMaker, and I am the Shadow, my own True Self, the really, real me, unfrozen by time and old stories, a person of color, bold and free.

I know I have "en-factuated" about others--it's hard not to look from the outside as if it's the inside and to "know" for certain I'm right about someone else. But the truth is, I can't know for certain all that's true about another, especially when I've enfactuated them from past experiences. People change--daily it seems. If I want sincere (pure) relationships, I must at least attempt to relate with people in the present moment. Seems that's part of 1 Corinthians 13's "love" chapter:

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud, it is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, IT KEEPS NO RECORD OF WRONGS. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always perseveres. Love never fails."

Someone told me a number of years ago to "chew on this Scripture for a while". And I've been chewing ever since.

If I have ever en-factuated you, I apologize, and I ask for your forgiveness. Let's attempt to see each other with Love's eyes, at least for this very moment.

Have a great 2012!

Paradox Continued...

In my spiritual reading this year the word "Eros" has come up a lot--especially in Cynthia Bourgeault's book on Mary Magdalene and 5th Way love (or self-emptying love; self as in ego). And Eros plays a big part in Pitman McGeehee's book, Paradox of Love. I've been in discussion with some special friends, and we decided that we had to re-define Eros--McGeehee does a great job of that in his book.

But as I played around on my computer trying to find pictures of Eros, I came across the story of his birth--yes, I know. My knowledge of Greek mythology is very small, so everything I find is a treasure! I didn't know that Eros's mom was Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess of Love, nor did I know that his father was Aeros, the Greek God of War (mayhem and destruction--talk about PARADOX! Eros might well be defined as a child of conflicting feelings!

Whatever! I have learned through the years that conflicting feelings CAN BE creative, that light and dark can mix, that chaos can bring great beauty. When the dark gets really dark, and the world and its wars gets really tough, with enough space, something new can be born.

Perhaps that's another meaning of Christmas.

Love Is The Paradox

Day 2, Title Page, Love is a (cross that out!) The Paradox.

Art Journaling

(Now, why is this page NOT landscape???Grrrrrr....)

I've had a hankering to start a new art journal. Our 3rd Act Circle is going to do this very thing beginnin January, 2012, but it seems I can't wait. I have dreamed the last couple of mornings about The Paradox of Love, and art journaling, so I think I'll do a journal on "love", and it's many paradoxes. I might use Pittman McGehee's little book when I need a prompt, or I might see my own paradoxes during the day and decide to journal those. Whatever, I bought the journal, and I put my name in it. That's a start, and after all, that's the name of the game: Just begin!

(Maybe this is part of the paradox of love--you can't control things! Dammit!)

SEASONAL BLAHS

This time of year is hard for so many people--there's so many expectations that seem to fall flat, and so many memories of "better times". It surprises me sometimes that we keep holding onto a tradition that no longer carries much spiritual significance, yet brings so much "yuck" to so many people.

Today is a gray day, a perfect day for SoulCollage®. I've already been run over by that damned reindeer, and The Ghost of Christmas Past has already rattled my cage, so I thought I spend time SoulCollaging the Season--I've needed to for a long time.

THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST

I am the one who longs for Love to come with the key that unlocks the chains of the Ghost of Christmas Pasts. I've tried it seems forever to unlock the chains myself, but I can't seem to find the right key, so I wait. Love will come, then I'll be free.

I'm reading Ilia Delio's The Emergent Christ, in which she writes: Jesus consistently states that nostalgia or regret will thwart the unfolding reign of God. All those who put their hand ot the plow and look back are not fit for the kingdom of God; the reign of God is before us, not behind us. Elsewhere he says that it is important to follow him, to go forward rather than to dwell in the past:'Follow me, let the dead bury their own dead.'"

When I read that, I knew that she was talking to me--or Christ is.

The holiday season has been difficult for me for a very, very long time, and it seems no matter how hard I try, I get caught up in "what used to be".

I just posted on Facebook about one of my holiday season pet peeves--wanting "Christ back in Christmas". If Christ isn't in my Christmas, it's not "their" fault (whoever they are). I think Jesus would say, "Move FORWARD...Quit wanting what used to be and move forward. Learn to love what IS today." And I think he just might say that to us a Christians who long for the "good ole days". Our country has changed, and religion has changed. It's time for us to get with the program and let the new thing come--whatever it looks like.


RUNOVER AGAIN

One of Jim's favorite Christmas songs is "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer". I hate it. It's the way I feel a lot of the Season--what just hit me!?! Most of the time it feels like a mack truck instead of a reindeer, but it always surprises me when it hits me. I'm never prepared.

I believe in the healing power of SoulCollage®, and I believe in the power of Christ to heal. So, I've done my part (and will continue to), and I'll wait for Love to come. It will. That's the promise I wait for, Advent--Light will come again.

A Poem for a Rainy November Day

LOVELY OLD CRONES

live across the creek
appearing only in the Fall,
when their clothes have fallen around their knees
and they become naked, all.

Nine old crones have dug their roots
into the leafy loam;
planted firmly on the edge, their boots
have found a home.

Refractured light of winter’s day
reveals translucent bones;
brittle, broken by decay
I hear the silent groans.

Glory gone and faded now
their youth renewed in Spring
verdant leaves will return somehow
since they’ve made this offering.

S.M. Conner
11/15/11

Poetry Retreat by the Sea, 2011

St. Timothy's Episcopal Church hosted it's 3rd annual Poetry as Prayer retreat, facilitated by Richard Osler, coming all the way from British Columbia to be with us here at Surfside, Texas.

Our theme for the week was Aching for the Roof, spiritual longing. My favorite lines from the introductory material were from Robert Bly's little poem, The Roof Nail:

A hundred boats are still looking for the shore.
There is more in my hopes than I imagined.
The tiny roof nail lies on the ground, aching for the roof.
Some little bone in our foot is longing for heaven.

I, Sheila Conner, am a "groaner"--"longing" is my middle name (you just thought it was Massey). As such, right off the bat, before the weekend started, I had a poetry prompt, and wrote:

The Other Side of the Street

(I have learned to be content with whatever I have
Philippians 4:11b)

Might I say a resounding, “Hogwash!”

It seems to me that “holy longing” has been
built into the soul of all creation.
Change doesn’t come without deep desire.
Growth doesn’t come without the groan.
Freedom doesn’t come without struggle.

Perhaps it’s not just greed that compels them to “occupy Wall Street”.
Perhaps at the root of the march is a holy longing
for justice
for “summum bonum”*
for a fair and equitable system that benefits all.

We have been promised a day of no more tears, no more sorrow
a day of healing when
the deaf will hear,
the blind will see,
and the lame will walk,

a day when “all manner of all things shall be well.”

We are reminded that all creation groans inwardly
for the revealing of the sons and daughters of God,
when we shall be like him, in all things.

A full-term infant struggles to be free of Mother’s womb.
The growing chick’s wings beat against the inside of a cramped eggshell.
A holy longing breaks forth
to expand,
to breathe.

A forgotten, beaten down race of people
mourn for freedoms lost
and the Mall is filled with a voice crying,
“I have a dream.”

The modern day lepers of society
who’ve been relegated to the closet
struggle for their coming out.

And me.
I ache, groan, and stretch,
my heart longing for the freedom to “be”
that is my holy right.

Contentment has its place,
but when it’s time to groan,
let the mournful sounds of longing begin.

S.M. Conner
11/3/11

*Latin, the highest good


The first night of our retreat (Friday evening), Richard challenged us to use metaphors and images over the weekend. That was very hard for me--I paint images, and it's hard for me to "speak" images. And his first poetry challenge to us was "to touch the winter places inside or at least the winter memories", and to "let your response become a poem" using images and few abstractions, so there I went:


November

North Wind blew in this morning
about two, unleashing its chill.

Yesterday’s warmth becomes today’s frost.
Dirge plays its familiar lament.
No fiery embers glow upon this hearth.
Only a musty dampness spreads its
net of bygone tales.

Old voices uncover bones.
Boots too large attempt new paths in fresh snow,
but instead tangle
and spiral me down
the same old slippery slope of winters past.

Each year holds out its promise
this door will open onto new colors some fairer day.
Not yet.

S.M. Conner
11/4/11

And it took me a LONG time to get here--working til midnight Friday evening, then I got up Saturday morning at 5:30 and made 3 quiches for breakfast and worked some more on that poem, then even made a couple of changes after I got to the beachouse.

I was stunned by the work done between our Friday evening session and our Saturday morning session. We uncovered lots of old bones and felt some raw emotions.

After lunch, we worked on our second challenge, to describe the undescribable, as in "God". So I tried:


Simplistic to Simplicity

It was once so simple.
You were God, Father, Jesus, Spirit,

Then came Question -
Question Mark, Period, and
Comma-in-Between.

You are White Page,
Space Between the Words,
Masterful Pause,
Great Yes,
Unlimited Potential,
Pregnant Void.

All of these,
Yet none,
for every definition herein reduces
You to metaphoric thoughts penned by this poet,
words defined by Webster.

Scientists tell us the Universe is “ever-expanding”;
And so You are,
Ever-Widening Horizon,
forever the Edge,
calling me forward into Unknown Territory,
Always New.

Yet, curiousier and curiousier,
more familiar than breath,
closer to me than my own skin,
woven into the fabric of my DNA.

Concentric Circles with lines erased.
You in me, as Me,
Me in You, as You,
unable to tell where One begins and Other ends.

Gravitational field of Love,
Magnetic Attraction,
pulling everything and everyone
into your Deep Stillness.

Friends with Job, I put my hand over my mouth
and become silent.

S.M. Conner
11/5/11


Part A of the retreat ended at 4, with several having to go home. I had signed up to continue until Sunday morning, but by this time was wondering if that had been a good idea. Writing and touching raw emotion is exhausting/exhilerating. Feelings had been stirred all over the map all day. It's wonderful how open everyone's heart was, in spite of the scars, the aches,the wounds, the fears, and the vulnurability we were all beginning to experience. We had a couple of "newbies" that had never written poetry, much less read their works out loud to others. It was incredible. I felt so honored to be with people so willing to share their lives.

Then we left for Pirates Alley for a little dinner and chit chat (a great relief by then), but we were back to work by 8, with our third and final challenge of the weekend, to write about something we didn't know we loved.

I went home a little "brain dead", so I decided to get up and write Sunday morning before I was to leave for the beach. And I decided to keep it a little lighter; this is what I wrote:


A Couple of Things I Didn’t Know I Loved

I didn’t learn to drink coffee until my 42nd year,
and my third honeymoon,
while sitting among under the green and white canopy of Café du Monde,
sipping the dark roasted with chicory.
I don’t even know whatever possessed me
to try that first cup of brew
knowing that I had decided a long time ago
I didn’t like the stuff.

Perhaps it was the idealized freshness of this new beginning,
or being in this raunchy city with its dark and steamy side.
Maybe it was the sweet sounds of jazz,
wafting in, around, and through that sidewalk cafe,
maybe it was the sight of soft white powdered sugar
covering the black shirtbacks of the waiters
that cool and windy October morning,
But for whatever reason,
when my new bridegroom ordered it for me,
I didn’t refuse.

I didn’t know I loved coffee, but I do.

And I didn’t know I was so particular about the darn cups
that would hold my morning wake-up juice, but I am.
I didn’t know I love fat cups with large plain handles,
just the right size to hold an ample amount of the rich black joe,
but I do.

I didn’t know that I loved times of quiet reflection,
not just a quick 30 minutes, but a full hour or two
simply sitting alone in my bliss station,
facing east each morning, watching the sun begin to color the day.

I didn’t know how I would wait for the first song of the mocking bird
that sits in the same spot on my angled roof every morning
greeting each new day
repeating every sound
of every type
ever heard through the night.

I didn’t know I loved mocking bird songs but I do.

I didn’t know the peace and quiet joy I could experience
each morning of my life,
if I simply took the time to sit in the silence,
with a hot cup of coffee held in both hands,
pulled to the center of my chest, warming my heart.

I didn’t even know I loved early mornings, but I do.
S. M. Conner, 11/6/11

I suspect there will be revisions before our Anthology is released. It always amazes me that we can write "to the bones", if we're challenged to go deeper than we plan.

So much heartfelt thanks to Andy Parker for risking to have a "poetry as prayer" retreat in 2009, and so much thanks to Richard Osler for midwifing our "baby poems" and for so tenderly help us bring them home. He's a wonderful mentor and has such a gift of loving us and teaching us.

Returning Home (A Poetry Prompt)

Christine Valters, of Abbey of the Arts, has issued a call for the Abbey's 53 Poetry Party. She's inviting us to send in our own poem about "returning home".

Meantime, our own local poetry group, Circle Way Poets, has had it's own challenge issued: to write a sonnet before our next meeting, on Sunday, September 25. I didn't even know what a sonnet was, so I've been doing my homework! Thank goodness for Google!

This is my sonnet, which I submitted to the Poetry Party (including the photo that Christine offered as prompt), as well as a poem I wrote in 2006, about "coming home".



The Return

In order to come home,
one simply has to leave,
but first a faint and distant gnome
penetrates space and time to serve its cleave.


Distant shores spread before me now,
and open mouth speaks out its vow.
What lies before me is only a guess,
but ‘tis my duty to acquiesce.


How long, how far a journey must one make
to stranger places still unknown
before the heart begins to ache,
before its center starts to groan.


Circling back and returning once more
finding home is my own back door.



From 2006:

“Concentric Circles”

… spoken long ago in yesterday,
between sleeping and waking,
heard again today as if brand new.
Words held out and continually repeated
as Invitation, the call to Mystery.
“Leave your comfort zone,
the safety of this place.
Move to
the next space,
the far distant shore,
the new horizon.”
Each movement
plunges me deeper into Mystery,
yet, always seems to bring me Home.

Why don't you write your "going home" poem and submit it.

Black and Beautiful

One of the first things I learned as I soaked in The Song of Songs a number of years ago is that I am beautiful to the Lover of our souls. Flat out beautiful! And so are YOU. We have so many voices speaking to our vises and our "sins"--this is sin and that is sin. If you explore this you're a sinner, if you move in that direction you're a sinner. Martin Luther's picture of our soul's being a dung hill that's simply covered by the blood of Jesus isn't a pretty one. It doesn't give us a chance unless we believe a certain way.

But that's not what I learned from those years in the Song. We are LOVELY. We are SPOTLESS. YOU may see a spot in me, but the Great Lover doesn't. I may see a plank in your eye, but Divine Love sees nothing but beauty. "There is not spot in you...only beauty." Believe it. Nothing to do, nothing to work for, nothing to say, nothing but the voice of the Beloved saying "You are all fair my love; there is no spot in you."

Sometimes It's Like Walking On Water

For the past month, I've been reading daily through Jean-Yves Leloup's The Gospel of Thomas, complete with commentary. It has been such a blessing to let these wisdom sayings drip into my heart. I am grateful to Cynthia Bourgeault for her recommendation.

I read this "Logion" (saying) this morning--similar to a very familiar passage of Scripture in the canonical Gospels, and almost skipped the commentary because of the familiarity of the saying. I'm so glad I didn't.


Logion 66

Yeshua said:

Show me the stone rejected by the builders.
That is the cornerstone.

Can a society be built without Love or, in another term, without God? Can it hold together without this cornerstone?

Such a society holds together through common interests but collapses through special interests.

Love has been excluded from our theories of economics, as well as from our educational curricula. Sometimes people even exclude it from their lives. We can exist without love, without God. But what is such an existence worth?

In our own life we must look deeply enough to examine honestly what we have habitually rejected from the edifice of our personality. Might it be a certain desire, a certain longing, or even an experience of hell?

The rejected cornerstone can be hidden in the most surprising places. Sometimes our wholeness wells up from the very heart of what we have repressed.

Nothing But Questions...

Have you ever been hamstrung in prayer?

It’s been such a long time since I’ve prayed for specifics—truth is, I don’t know the path to Ultimate Good for individuals in my life. I can quickly pray for light and truth, for goodness and mercy, for hope, for open hearts and open minds, but I find it so hard this morning to say, “God, give him his job back.”

I don’t know the future, and I don’t know the path to Ultimate Goodness for him. What if the loss of this job IS part of the path to the Ultimate Good in his life.

It’s so damn hard.

I’ve been watching the road construction around our area with a lot of interest. I dreamed a number of years ago that roads were being torn up and there was a lot of mess and chaos because a new way was being built—a new overpass was going up.

And now, here we are in the middle of the mess with almost every major road in our little area under construction. Much of my day is spent taking detours, and I often hear in my spirit what I heard all those years ago in my dream, “You can’t get there from here anymore.”

It seems much of lives, both private and public, in our homes, in our country, and in the world around us is now “under construction.” Chaos is everywhere. Many lives are in chaos. The young are dying from addiction and/or boredom, our elderly are dying from neglect and poverty, our government is hamstrung in making decisions, and I suspect at least part of the truth is that we are in uncharted waters, everywhere. The world as we knew it has passed away. There’s not much safety or predictability anymore. Working for a living and saving for a rainy day doesn’t work anymore. The rules that were applicable in our parents’ day are simply not working today.

And I don’t seem to have an answer anymore. It used to be so easy, “God will supply all our needs,” except “he” doesn’t. People who love God die from starvation with their needs unmet. “Love will find a way,” except it doesn’t seem to for a lot of people. I had someone tell me yesterday that God has cursed them. I don’t believe that for a moment, but some lives sure look it.

So back to my prayer time this morning. My plea to God, to the Universe, to the Ultimate Good – how do I pray for people in my life who are in need of prayer—how do I pray with wisdom and compassion?

Romans 8 just flashed through my thoughts: For the Spirit prays for us when we in our weakness don’t know how to pray. I want his job back. I want for her to be happy, to feel safe, to find Love. But the truth is I don’t really know much of anything. And this morning, my heart just plain ole hurts. I am grieved—not just at the loss and unhappiness around me, but I’m grieved that life is so uncertain, and the future is so unpredictable. And I’m grieved that my platitudes don’t work for people anymore. And I’m grieved I can’t say them with conviction anymore.

So, this morning I offer my grief and uncertainty to the Ultimate Good and just whisper, “Help.” “Help him, help her, even help Congress…” And I trust “help” will come—it may not look like I expected or hoped, but I still believe “Love never fails”. Love will win when it’s all said and done. I think.

The Song of Songs

I've been laboring for the last few weeks, working to give birth to a seed that was planted over 15 years ago. For a number of years in the 90's, I spent a great deal of time meditating over the passages of The Song of Songs in Scripture, contemplating the Bride and the Bridegroom and bridal love for God. A small group of "Lilies" met weekly listening to teachings and discussing what this love looked like and how we might obtain this great love for God, knowing full well that God loved us this completely.

Over the past few years, I've wanted to do something with the Scriptures from The Song, some kind of images, but didn't have a clue. Then a number of years ago I became fascinated with Mary Magdalene--yes, I saw/read The Da Vinci Code, but my interest was more than that. I was going through my own dark night. I was in a crisis of belief, and meditating on Mary's loss of Jesus, and his return to her in another form gave me hope. She became very important to me as an archetypal "wise woman"--one who had lost everything, and come through her own crisis of faith even stronger. I journaled with her, dialoged with her, prayed with her, and simply considered her love for Jesus. I pondered deeply the diverse meanings of resurrection, and what it meant to me personally. Mary got me through that dark night. She also had to lay to rest her understanding of Jesus and wait for something new to "raise from the dead". She kept me hoping that my loss, my crisis of believe, would lead me to something more of God, not less. And it did.

I've read Cynthia Bourgeault's book on Mary Magdalene twice since my sabbatical last December, and it's really moved me in a number of ways. The Lilies had a little saying all those years ago--"It makes my heart burn." Cynthia's book on Mary and The Wisdom Jesus "made my heart burn" for the first time in a very long time. And after nearly 10 years, I found myself immersed again in The Song. It's been delicious. And my creative juices have been flowing.

Many thanks to Cynthia Bourgeault, Leslie Hershberger and Jan Richardson for seeds of inspiration. I think I have enough ideas to paint for a lifetime right now--a whole series called The Lover and the Beloved. I don't know how far I'll get--I tend to run out of juice rather quickly sometimes, but as long as my heart keeps burning, I have a series of paintings swirling around inside of me just waiting to be born. This is the first one--it won't be the first of the series, but the first one finished.

Just For Fun

One of the things that's fun about a "collaborative journal" is it gives us a lot of chances to experiment and do something we've wanted to try, but never have because it might not work.

I've always wanted to work with melted wax (encaustic). So, what better time than this?? I melted crayons and dripped and poured then painted over, and just had fun. Probably won't do it again, but who knows!

The Night of Pressing

It came unexpectedly
much quicker and quieter than I was prepared for –
the black hole, the dark night
the freefall - round and round,
over and over - no ground beneath my feet
no sense to it all.
Instead of the usual certitude
doubts filled my mind
and nothing but loneliness filled every cell of my body.

Nothing was real.
Nothing was settled.
Nothing was true.
Nothing was holy.
There was no friend to walk with me,
no one coming on a white horse to rescue me,
just the senseless freefall into black nothingness.

I didn’t realize it was Gethsemane.
This was too black to be a holy place,
too empty to be so full,
too senseless to compare with His dark night.

“He began to be grieved and agitated.”

Sorrow-full,
sadness filling every pore,
a sense of loss,
regret,
disappointment,
hopelessness
finality.

And the olive sits under the weight of the press -
for how long?
For me, it was five years.
An eternity separated from my God,
lost as lost can be,
the fairy tale over,
nothing left but the falling, the darkness, the void.

Is there any oil?
Who knew half the weight of the olive is oil.
There is oil,
but sometimes it takes a long time to press an olive.


As I painted this morning, I thought of a number of friends who seem to be going through a "pressing" of their own; they are in freefall. My prayers are for you this morning. No one knows when it's coming, no one knows how they'll respond to the pressing, and no one knows when the darn thing will ever end. It feels so good to feel the earth press beneath your feet as the freefall begins coming to an end. My prayer is that you'll just hang on until you land. There will be arms to catch you.

Remembering That Night

The room was electric with the energy of a celebration,
the reliving of an important part of our history.
It was to be a great feast—
at least four cups of wine for each of us,
enough to make our faces shine
and our hearts glad.

Everything had been properly prepared,
And the table set with the finest we had to offer.
Bowls of karpas and salt water were scattered about,
along with bitter herbs to dip in a paste
of fruit, nuts, wine and spices, the charose.
And, of course, there was plenty of unleavened bread.

The men were reclining at table, as freed men do,
talking and laughing loudly,
while children’s and women’s voices
were muted in the background.
But we were all there,
for this was a family celebration,
a reliving of whole households and a nation being set free.
It wasn’t just the men who were there,
as many would have us believe.

Women were bustling about serving at table,
and I was watching, observing,
my eyes fully focused on the Master’s face
looking for signs of approval,

but instead, in the middle of all the noise and festivity,
he opened his mouth and spoke,
“Truly I tell you, this very night, one of you will betray me.”

My stomach still sinks as my heart repeats his words.
It was as if a death had been announced.
We all were frozen in our places,
not a finger moved, not a breath was breathed.

Then, as the news sank in, we all began asking, “Is it I Lord?”
Surely not me! I would never betray you.
You have taught us so faithfully,
loved us so well.
It couldn’t be me, could it Lord?

He answered, “The one who has dipped his hand into the bowl with me will betray me.”

We all looked around at each other, stunned, for all of us—
each one of us—
had dipped our hand in the bowl with him.
Is it possible that each of us would betray the Master, our friend?
Is it possible that fear might hold that much power over me?

Surely Lord, surely it can’t be me.

An Open Letter to "Skeptic"

Skeptic – thoughtful, inquiring. a person who believes in or practices philosophical skepticism, a person who habitually doubts, questions, or suspends judgment upon matters generally accepted, a person who doubts religious doctrines.

Hmmm….seems I might be defined as a skeptic, too.

A few days ago, I posted Elissa Elliott’s blog post on my Facebook page and one of my friends commented: “I couldn't agree more. I am a skeptic at heart. What she described is not only agnosticism, but true skepticism. And I hate that the word skeptic is used in such a negative manner among society. A good question to ask would be, " what kind ...of evidence would you need to believe in God?" What people don't seem to understand is that the evidence they are presenting to the atheist is purely subjective, therefore, not evidence at all to another person.”

I have come to appreciate honest skepticism—and skeptics. Didn’t use to—used to really blast the skeptics, that is until I found myself doubting it all.

A friend of mine had a dream a few years back—it was one of those dreams that I knew in my knower was for me. (Dreams can be that way you know—anyone can claim another’s dream for themself. It’s the way of dreams.) She dreamed that she found a fish, almost dead, on the bank of the creek. It was tangled up in knotted fishing line, and still had the hook in its mouth. She sat about trying to free the fish without killing it.

I just knew in my knower that I was the fish, and I was also the one trying to free the fish. In my lifetime, I have swallowed a whole lot of things hook, line, and sinker. This dream came before I entered my season of doubting, but that’s what I realized during that dark night. And I was tangled up in the knots of a lot of religion’s dogma and doctrines that no longer made any sense to me.

One of my favorite nuns at the Cenacle commented in class one day: “One of the things the Church needs to ask forgiveness for is not allowing the questions.” Amen! How the heck does anyone grow to adulthood without asking questions?

It seems that human beings were created, or are programmed, with what might be referred to as a binary operating system (Cynthia Bourgeault). And it works great for most of life. It’s what allows us to sort into categories, organize, define, and prove. But it doesn’t work well for all of life, especially the inner experiences of life. And I think that’s where some of us get all tangled up—we want proof of an experience. We want to define Something indefinable.

A couple of years ago, I realized that the doctrinal view of Trinity that I had always accepted seemed to small for what I had experienced, so I took the liberty of coming up with my own expanded view of trinity: God Beyond, God Beside, and God Within.

God Beyond – what the Buddhist describe as “nothingness”, or “no-thingness”. God before we humans defined “Him” as the old white man in the sky that moves creation around like a puppeteer. God before Michelangelo painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. God before the Big Bang. God before Adam/Eve, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.
My experience of God Beyond is like the Energy that bursts open a seed bringing it to life and causing it to grow, the cosmic Energy that flows throughout all creation, flowing in, out, around and through all things, making us all one. It’s what we live, move, and have our being in. Another friend pictured it as a wave and an ocean—the ocean can exist without the wave, but the wave cannot exist without the ocean. The ocean gives life to the wave, and the wave is an experience of the ocean. It’s the nebulous, indefinable, beyond all knowing God. Paul Smith, in his book, Integral Christianity, calls it the Infinite Face of God. This is the God my brain loves to zzzzzzt out to, as I ponder and reflect on Infinite God.

God Beside (or the Intimate Face of God) is the God most of us have experienced as Father, Mother, Sister, Brother, Jesus, Holy Spirit, Community—it’s the God I was introduced to about the age of 3. God Beside for me most clearly goes by the name of Jesus. This God is the one I talk to, walk with—it’s my Friend and Confident, my Companion. Most recently I’ve experienced this God often in the faces of members of my communities – God defined with a face, a voice, a word, and a gift. With this God, I am never alone.

God Within (or Smith’s Inner Face of God) is I suspect the God that a lot of Christians find almost blasphemous. It’s that Divine Spark within each of us—our Essence made in the image and likeness of God—it’s the Buddhist “Namaste”. I am the Light of the world, the Salt of the earth. I am the reflection of God—at my deepest core, I always have been and always will be. It’s God that speaks with my voice, and even shows up sometimes in my paintings, no matter how hard I try not to paint her there. Perhaps she’s the one I need to spend time getting to know, because for most of my life, I thought I was rotten at the core—a dung heap, sinful by my very nature. But my experience of God has taught me that I am beautiful and holy in spite of my propensity to appear different. I’m the acorn pretending to be an oak tree. Or as Meister Eckhart pointed out, “the apple seed producing an apple; a God seed growing into the fullness of God. Peter tells me that I have the Divine Seed in me, and that I partake of the Divine Nature. Paul Smith calls it “baby divinity”. That’s pretty heady stuff for a mere human to take in, but take it in, I believe we must.

So, here I am again, thinking about my “skeptic” friend—grateful for her skepticism, and even grateful for my own. That’s part of our evolutionary call. We are all spiritual beings on a human journey, and our call is to be transformed. How can we fulfill our calling if we refuse to question, if we swallow everything hook, line, and sinker, if we never live our lives beyond the Answer Man.

You know, I still haven’t proved God, but I can invite you into an experience of all that is Love, all that is Beautiful, and all that is Holy. Taste and see that the Lord is good. Mmmm….very, very good.

The Rat of My Mind - Getting off the Hamster Wheel

It’s with a grateful heart that I write this morning.

I spent time with my Engaging Scripture practice this morning. The passage was Matthew 21:1 -14, the disciples questioning Jesus about when he was coming back and what the end of time was going to look like.

It came too close on the heels of our “Rapture” guy this weekend. As I read the passage, I felt myself tensing up, contracting on the inside, being frustrated at the stupidity of it all, and frustrated with the point of view that keeps us focused on the negative and the end, instead of today. I could feel the conflict inside of me, as I rushed through today’s Practice to something else that would be more applicable to my current worldview, even a little angry at myself that I couldn’t “get” the Scripture today—surely there had to be a middle ground somewhere.

Engaging Scripture was not a blessing today, and my response was one of internal conflict, frustration, and a feeling of “going backward”.

Then I listened to my on-line class’s weekly session: The Kingdom of Heaven is Within You. As usual, it was Good News, and uplifting. Then, I found the practical application for me TODAY.

Leslie said, “If we’re journeying inside ourselves it’s helpful to know how we get in our own way.”

As she continued talking about our thought patterns and what gets “foregrounded”, it dawned on me that my old cultural worldview was what was being foregrounded as I read that passage from Matthew. And that old worldview demandsthat I get it right—that I interpret Scripture right, and that I live my life right.

There was a day not too long ago, when all I thought about was what the disciples asked Jesus that day: “When are you coming back? What will the signs be?” That’s all I lived for. That was my whole worldview only 10 short years ago. And I was so sure it was right.

But I see with a new pair of glasses today. I see Christ often now-a-days in the faces of those around me, most recently in the face of an elderly lady who sat next to me in church this past Sunday morning. All she said to me was simply, “Thank you,” but I saw Christ in her eyes, and I heard Christ in her voice. Every hair on my arms and neck stood at attention, what Leslie calls “a body buzz”, and I knew that I knew it was Christ who was thanking me, and gratitude flooded my heart as tears stung my eyes.

This new worldview helps me see goodness all around me. It keeps me focused on today, this present moment. It keeps me aware of joy, peace, goodness, beauty, truth, and everything sweet about life, instead of focused on the narrow, the ugly, the end, and everything that’s wrong with the world we live in.

But I often find that there’s still this demand inside of me that this newer worldview be the “right” one.

Today as I listened to Leslie teach, it came to me once more that every point of view is just that, only a point of view—partial and incomplete. I don’t have to figure out that passage; I don’t have to judge whether or not it’s right or wrong to live life that way. I don’t have to judge my own self for feeling frustrated, even angry that I picked up an old pair of lenses to read Scripture with. I don’t have to do anything but feel my feelings, welcome them, and surrender them to Love.

It really doesn’t matter what point of view you or I see, it only matters that we realize it’s a partial point of view. And it only matters that we surrender our demand to have “the right point of view” in the face of Good News, that we are not separated from God: “the One is already here. We are being invited to the feast. We are being invited to participate in that which is greater than ourselves. And there’s even more Good News: Grace itself loves chaos and allows for destruction—chaos and destruction always birth something new. It’s a way of getting our attention; it’s a way of seeing a higher order, an order that can hold more complexity”. (from Leslie’s talk).

It’s ok that my understanding is “messy”, and that my attention wanders, and that I don’t get “it”. It’s even ok that I get frustrated and angry when I read certain passages of Scripture. All I need to do is surrender the frustration, the anger, and the messiness to Divine Love, and relax in the knowing that I’ll never be able to see it or understand it all.

And I find myself relaxing into Love again this morning, breathing deeply and unwinding. I’ve had help catching the rat of my mind running on the hamster wheel of my demanding thoughts. And I’ve been able to stop the wheel, and get off.

Thank you Leslie, for the reminder. Thanks be to God that the Kingdom is within us, just waiting for us to learn to access it and to share it.

A Path of Conscious Love

May 12, 2011

I am currently involved in an Engaging Scripture group in my local parish. Our “Sharing Our Stories” question for next week is in two parts:

1. Please share one thing about you that has changed as a result of your intention to lead a Christian life.
2. Can you tell how something or someone has helped you in this?

I want to share my answers with you.

The biggest “one thing” that has changed as a result of my “intention” to live a Christian life is the direction of that intention.

Before 2003, the direction of my intention to live as a Christian was future oriented, goal driven. I was going to heaven someday. I was waiting for Jesus’ full and final return and his future kingdom. I was looking forward to ruling and reigning with Christ in that future kingdom (James and John don’t have anything on me!). I was preparing myself as a Bride prepares herself for her future wedding day.

In 2003, my path began to disappear, and in 2003, my one story failed. I totally lost the path. Completely. It was no more. I hadn’t gotten off the path. It simply disappeared, and I was left standing on no path. So, I began “walking” around in what felt like circles, looking for a path, any path. Perhaps it was more like a labyrinth than a circle, which has no beginning and no end, because I kept catching glimpses of a path—over there—but I couldn’t quite get there. I couldn’t quite reach that path.

Then I went on Sabbatical in December 2010. For two weeks, I drove, by myself. As I drove, I listened to Michael Dowd’s conversations on Evolutionary Christianity. And when I was still, I read several books by Cynthia Bourgeault, including The Wisdom Jesus and The Meaning of Mary Magdalene.

And In January of this year, I reset my intention to follow Jesus. This time, I would follow him on a current path, a path Cynthia calls The Path of Metanoia. Leslie Hershberger calls it “A Path of Conscious Love”.

My vision is no longer future oriented to Someday as His Bride in heaven, but vision is now focused on today, being transformed by the present moment into Love and Compassion. The Kindom is here, now, today, in this beautiful world right here, present IN me. Christ is all around me, fully present in all that has been, is, and every shall be.

This isn’t particularly new information; it’s simply a redirecting of my intention. My perspective has shifted. It is shifting, and it will continue to shift. I see from where I stand—and I’m afraid anymore to move.

I am so grateful to Cynthia Bourgeault and Michael Dowd, and currently Leslie Hershberger and my Integral Christianity classmates on-line. I am not walking this path blind with no guides. And I’m not walking this path alone. I am walking in community with others, and our ranks are swelling.

The Music Playing Behind The Door Of Despair

I am so grateful to be part of a Centering Prayer group at St. Timothy’s. For the past few months, we’ve been chewing on Martin Laird’s little book, Into The Silent Land, A Guide To The Christian Practice of Contemplation, and it’s been a delicious “chew”. I have a tendency to skim through lots and lots of books, so taking a chapter a week, sometimes only a half-chapter, has forced me to slow down, chew well, and digest. Now isn’t that a picture for a fast eater like me?!

We’re nearing the end of the book and the past couple of readings have been on our “wounds”. It’s so good: “When the student’s ready, the teacher comes.”

I’ve been thinking of someone I know, and praying for them—and wondering how to get past “the blame game”. We all get caught up in it so often—how do we get past it? How do we turn off the tapes so that transformation can seriously begin?

And this morning, Martin Laird has been my teacher.

“Sometimes…self-loathing masquerades as a compulsive need to blame others for things that go wrong…The problem is that this is just another mind game. Self-loathing is just another video we’ve learned to watch. This is actually an obstacle to the humility required to see straight through our wounds into God. For true humility is the wide open space of self-knowledge that opens onto God…Self-knowledge cannot end in the awareness of our faults and failings. It opens onto God…Perfect humility is meeting the unfathomable love of God, who is the ground of our being…In order for humility to mature it must blossom into self-forgetfulness.”

I know from experience that I blame others because I can’t stand the finger pointing at me. And I forget just how fickle “self-esteem” is.

For several years back in the 90’s, I listened to a guy named Mike Bickle who’s one-stringed guitar constantly played the tune of the Beauty of God. He didn’t encourage us to look at our sin, our guilt or our shame, but taught us instead to behold ourselves in the face of the Beloved. He taught me to see myself in God’s face. Meister Eckhart said, “The eye with which I see god is the same eye with which God sees me.” And Bickle has taught thousands that God sees us as beautiful, kind, good, complete, and whole. I will forever be grateful for his teaching.

But when I forget that teaching, I tend to blame in order not to be seen at all. We all tend to blame—it’s easier than looking through our garbage until we see the face of God—pure unbounded LOVE. And that’s where we discover the truth of ourselves.

Laird quotes part of a poem by Patrick Kavanagh, entitled, “From Failure Up”:

“O God: can a man find you when he lies with his face
downwards
And his nose in the rubble that was his achievement?
Is the music playing behind the door of despair?”

Laird confirms that silence and contemplation are precisely where we learn “to listen, not to confusing shrills of despair, but to ‘the music behind the door of despair.’”

So that’s what I pray for my friend this morning—and for all of us when we are playing the blame game—that we will stop, be quiet, and listen through all the shrill noise of self-loathing, all the way through to the other side, the music of God’s Everlasting and Always Sure Love, the very ground from which we are made.

The Harrowing of Hell

A couple of weeks ago, the conversation on our Coming Home FB page got around to the subject of hell, and a friend reminded me of Cynthia Bourgeault's discussion of hell in her book, The Wisdom Jesus.

Part of her discussion includes this exerpt from Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek:

"That something is everywhere and always amiss is part of the very stuff of creation. It is as though each clay form had baked into it, fired into it, a blue streak of non-being, a shaded emptiness like a bubble that not only shapes its very structure but that also causes it to list and ultimately explode. We could have planned things more mercifully, perhaps, but our plan would never get off the drawing board until we agreed to the very compromising terms that are the only ones that being offers.

"The world has to sign a pact with the devil; it had to. It is a covenant to which everything, even every hydrogen atom is bound. The terms are clear: if you want to live, you have to die...The world came into being with the signing of that contract."
(end of quote)

Dillard's picture of that "blue streak of non-being" set Bourgeault to thinking. She continues writing:

"It had not previously occurred to me that this irreducible brokenness might in fact be part of the givens of this realm itself. It was simply not one of the options that my classical theological training would lead me to consider. In our usual theological take on the Christian mystery, with the emphasis so much on personal sin, we lose sight of the fact that death and finitude really are collective, the backdrop against which everything else unfolds."

She takes the conversation further by writing about the Christian take on darkness and light, and tells about a woman who questioned, "How could this darkness exist? How can we remove this darkness from the planet."

Bourgeault's respnse was, "Don't you see that by judging it you only make it worse? By trying to stop the black, to make it all white, all good; by saying that this we can accept, and this we must reject, you keep empowering that cycle of polarization that creates the problem in the first place." Bourgeault continues, "I think this has always been the fatal trap in the 'God is Light' roadmap, the orientation that cleaves to the light by trying to deny or reject the shadow."

Then she began writing about The Harrowing of Hell, the idea that Jesus descended to hell before he rose from the dead. That's not found in Scripture, but it is a huge part of Christian Tradition, with the idea even being included in the Creed. So, what did Jesus do there? Tradition teaches that he preached to the unbaptized, but I do love Bourgeault's take...What was Jesus doing there?

"He was just sitting there--surrounded by the darkest, deepest, most alienated, most constricted states of pained consciousness; sitting, if we can imagine it, among all those mirroring faces of the collective false self that we encountered earlier in the crucifixion narrative: the anguish of Judas, the indecision of Pilate, the cowardice of Peter, the sanctimony of the Pharisees; sitting there in the midst of all this blackness, not judging, not fixing, just letting it be in love. And in doing so, he was allowing love to go deeper, pressing all the way to the innermost ground out of which the opposites arise and holding that to the light. A quiet, harmonizing love was infiltrating even the deepest places of darkness and blackness, in a way that didn't override them, or cancel them, but gently reconnected them to the whole."

Thanks for putting up with the long quote, but these are ideas that I've thought myself and now someone's put voice/and words to it. I've pondered Dillard's "blue streak of non-being" that's shot through the whole of creation, and I've pondered Jesus just sitting in hell with us until the light comes--I've pondered it all through Lent. I've gone through my own dark night, and Jesus sat with me. The light's coming again. And I have friends who are sitting in their own hell--their own darkness, and I know Jesus is sitting with them. They may not know it, but I know it, and I can pray it for them--that he stay with them until the light comes again for them.

This isn't one of those paintings I want hanging over my sofa. Not sure I'll ever even enter it in a show; all I know is that I had to paint it as a "Thank you" to the One who is always with us, whether we know it or not or whether we believe it or not.

This I know, True Love Wins--every time.

Ponder Jesus with you in your darkness on this Holy Saturday, then have a blessed Easter tomorrow.

Ash Witness Exhibit - My Lenten Blessing

The consolation, the dignity, the joy of life are that discouragements and lapses, depressions and darknesses, come to one only as one stands without -- I mean without the luminous paradise of art. As soon as I really re-enter it -- cross the loved threshold -- stand in the high chamber, and the gardens divine -- the whole realm widens out again before me and around me -- the air of life fills my lungs -- the light of achievement flushes over all the place, and I believe, I see, I do.

Quote from - Henry James (compliments of Rod McIver)


I love this quote. It was posted by a dear friend this morning Facebook. It perfectly expresses what painting and poetry do for me when I'm in a low place. Lent is kind of sorta that for most of us Christians--it's the depression, darkness, and discouragement before the Dawn breaks. We remember--we remember not having done it well. We remember those we've lost during the last year--especially as we remember what's said when our foreheads are marked: you came from dust; you're going back to dust. Most of us don't want to think of death. There's acutally not much appreciation for it here in the west. But as one of my favorite teachers once said, "You can't be born again without dying first." Truth.

Anyway, a lot of folks don't particularly like Lent, especially because it is our darkess before dawn, our death before resurrection period.

But this year, our pastor Liz Parker caught wind of the Spirit and heard an invitation to the parishoners of St. Timothy's to meditate on our ashes and write or draw or express in some other way what the ashes mean to us. This last Ash Wednesday was one of the most moving I've ever to, and the project of a few of us turning this vast array of photos, paintings and drawings, poetry and prose into an exhibit became one of the most intense Lenten Blessings I can imagine having.

I owe a debt of gratitude to Liz for asking me to help. And a debt of gratitude to the parishioners of St. Timothy's for participating. The Exhibit is YOURS.

Photos of the exhibit may be viewed here: St. Timothy's Ash Witness Exhibit

Life Giving Holy Dove

I actually got to stay home all day Thursday and today, so I hit the studio! Might should have cleaned house--could vacuum and mop, but I really wanted to paint. So, guess what won!?!

I loved this song when I first heard it--and sang it--Sunday:

Spirit of truth and love
life giving holy Dove
speed forth Thy light
move on the water's face
bearing the lamp of grace
and in earth's darkest place
let there be light.

I knew Sunday that I wanted to paint that verse; I'm so glad I had time this week to do it. First time I've had the watercolors out in a very very long time. Still not sure I'm through, but close. Had so much fun painting it.

CATCHING THE VIRUS

She lays in her bed late at night
nestled deep in the tranquility of her pint-sized world
attentive to conversations
around the kitchen table.
Voices,
rising and falling
with great vibrato,
contagion filling the air -

God talk.

Her 6-year old heart races as she attends their words.
O, to be like her daddy
who sits at that table.
Smart, handsome, the
very image and likeness of God -
Father.

School begins tomorrow.
He heads back to college to study more about God.
She dreams of holding his hand,
ascending infinite steps,
cracking through massive doors
to the great halls of wisdom -
her first grade class room.

Years fly by.
She continues to experience the effects of the virus,
a passion for learning and

God talk.


I've been pondering the energy around taking this on-line Integral Christianity course called Coming Home. The energy hit me Sunday morning before church, and I'm still living in it. Absolute joy at the idea of taking a course about "God". I'd rather do this than paint or even travel (my other two loves). It's what drives me, this love of learning about God and exploring the next phase of spirituality. It's a wonderful "virus" to have caught from my dad. I'm not well informed about "spiral dynamics", but that phrase has gone round and round in my for the last couple of days, as well. Perhaps it's connected? Not sure, but whatever's going on, it's juciy and alive and wonderful. An absolutely delicious feeling of LIFE!

Concentric Circles, Learning, and Coming Home

You know, I don't really have a clue where this blog post is going. I thought I knew. I had a plan. But even as I've put the photos above together and looked up the following poem I wrote a number of years ago, I didn't have "it" all. Like I said, I thought I did, but this has been a morning of synchronicities.

It started with watching the videos announcing the classes that Leslie Hershberger will begin teaching online on April 1st.

I watched those videos, and I felt a rush—pure joy. I want to take the 12-week course. I can hardly wait.

I told Mother this morning that I felt 6 again. You get to go to school when you’re 6. I could feel the same energy this morning that I felt way back then—I remembered the full skirt, the starched sash, the freshly curled hair—I can feel that familiar Big Chief tablet in one hand and that fat pencil in the other. And the excitement of that first day of school—real school!

My birthday falls on September 4—3 days past the deadline for public school in those days. And my mother panicked! What to do??? I was o so ready to go to school—and I knew 6 was THE age. ALL 6-year-olds get to go to school! Except those whose birthdays fall after September 1. But my daddy had an idea. He was going to Howard Payne Baptist College in those days, and they had a pre-school and 1st grade for students’ kids. He signed me up.

He’s probably one of the reasons I was so excited! One of my favorite memories is laying in bed at night listening to him and his friends around the kitchen table talking theology, professors, classrooms, and textbooks. O my gosh, I wanted to be like him. I wanted to go to school, and I wanted to preach, too!

I found out later that being a girl limited my capacity to preach like him, and my cultural upbringing and finances limited my ability to go to college. I never took more than a few business courses so I could go to work. But I didn’t get to go to school to learn about GOD! And that’s what my Daddy did.

I didn’t get to do that until I got a chance to go to the Cenacle in Houston. I took a 3-year spiritual direction course. Awesome! I was finally getting to do what I was created to do. Except….

And that’s where this little poem comes in:

“Concentric Circles”

… spoken long ago in yesterday,
between sleeping and waking,
heard again today as if brand new.
Words held out and continually repeated
as Invitation, the call to Mystery.
“Leave your comfort zone,
the safety of this place.
Move to
the next space,
the far distant shore,
the new horizon.”
Each movement
plunging me deeper into Mystery,
yet, always
bringing me Home.


That’s what my spiritual journey has been like—one horizon after another, always invited to move through my fears into the next place.

Kind of like Abraham, fka Abram. Andy preached Abram’s story this morning. Genesis 12:1 Now the Lord said to Abram, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.”

That’s been my story. Twenty years ago, I heard an invitation to “leave your father’s house and go someplace new.” I didn’t know then that I would re-hear the invitation a number of times, but apparently I’m hearing it again today. Too many synchronicities lining up, and this wonderful sense of adventure! And even as I finished this blog piece, it dawned on me that my poem ends with me coming home. And the title of this course is "Coming Home..." O wow!

Last Night's Ash Wednesday Witness...

The Ash Wednesday Ligurgy and St. Timothy's Ash Wednesday Witness event were so moving last night. I am incredibly grateful to be a part of this Community, and so very blessed to be a part of last night's Witness.

One of St. Timothy's core values is "Art as a pathway to knowing God." That's been my experience for the last 7 years, but I never expected to be part of a church community that valued the arts and implemented it as part of our "church experience".

A couple of months ago, Liz Parker, our Associate Pastor, heard the Spirit's whisper and felt the pull to incorporate the arts into our Ash Wednesday evening. She pulled a small team together, gave them her vision, and we were off and running.

After the Ash Wednesday Liturgy last night, 4 roomes were opened to the arts: two were used for people who wanted to write their thoughts in poetry and/or prose, one was opened for photographers to take images of our community with the imposed ashes marking their foreheads, and the Parish Hall was opened for those who wanted to make a visual image marking their experiences of Ash Wednesday. We also had a couple of "roving photographers" taking candids shots. The idea is to pull all of these creative "images" together in an exhibit to open on Palm Sunday when St. Timothy's offers the Brazosport Community an Easter Season Taize Service. After witnessing the Spirit and the Muse dancing together last night, I can only imagine how powerful that exhibit will be.

It's not often someone actually LIKES Ash Wednesday, but I do. It's only been a part of my life for the last 8 years, since coming into the catholic community. And I've had some profound Ash Wednesday experiences. Last night was no different.

Liz's emphasis on our Art event has been that Ash Wednesday is the one day of the year that the Church talks about death, the one day of the year that the world is reminded in a very visual way that death is a given. And we don't like that, especially here in the West.

All of us will die. That used to be a dreadful thought for me; I even convinced myself that I wasn't going to die, but that I would be one of those victorious overcomers of the Last Days who would be here when Jesus came back, and I would stand with him against the Antichrist...

whatever that is...

But death isn't as fearful for me anymore. Not that I want to die, but I've been given some very healthy "death instruction" over the last few years.

Painting has taught me: shadow is a necessary part of the picture--otherwise you don't see the Light. Night is as holy as Day. Centers of interest are found when Light and Darkness are most contrasted.

Science teaches me Solar systems die, planets die, nature goes through cycles of death and rebirth, Winter tells us death is coming--yet, for the most part, we don't want to talk about dying, at all, never--not our own death, nor the death of those we love.

I have a couple of friends who embrace the old women's religions. They've reminded me that death is part of the plan--and always has been.

I was recently privy to a very special blog for 4 months. Bill's wife Lilly was going through the death process, and Bill shared his experiences, fears, hopes, dreams, and pains with us. Death was discussed openly and honestly. I feel better prepared in some small way to face it when it comes knocking at my door. I so appreciate his honesty, in the face of that which seemed so cruel.

I've had friends who've had to bury their children, one of them recently. That doesn't seem fair, but that too is a part of this world's life experience.

Relationships die. Friendships end. Marriages break up. People move away. And Life goes on. That too is part of the plan.

And in the last few years I've befriended the darkness and found energy to walk into the light on numerous occasions. This isn't saying I want to experience it today, but at least I've been given glimpses into death as a part of life--not to be dreaded but accepted as part of the Original Plan.

For me, one of the most moving part of the Ash Wednesday Liturgy at St. Timothy's is probably unique to our church. Our pastors are husband and wife. I love watching them serve each other communion. But on Ash Wednesday, I watch them mark each other with ashes and tell each other, "You're going to die". And it moves me to tears every time.

As we moved forward last night, I saw in my mind's eye, millions, perhaps billions of people through the centuries moving toward the Cross to receive their ashes. This morning, as I worked on this little image, I pondered death, mortality, and with it, the hope for our tomorrows. Every closed door opens onto some new experience. It never, never ends. I firmly believe in Life after death. Not so sure how it will look--seriously doubt I'll dance on streets of gold, but who knows. All I know is whatever's on the other side is an extension of what we have here...a continuation of the journey in some other form. Like my mother says, "I'm not afraid of death. I'm not so sure about the dying part--that's pretty difficult to think about, but I know there's something more after this is gone."

And it's a pretty good thing that we allow at least one day a year to ponder our mortality. In the middle of efforts to extend life so that we don't die until we're hundreds of yeas old, in the middle of a culture where botox, plastic and dye in a bottle helps us look forever young, it's probably a pretty good thing to ponder Reality.

Now a little plug: St. Timothy's is offering all kinds of artistic processes during our Lenten Events, and you're invited to be a part of it.

Blessings...

ASH WEDNESDAY WITNESS

ASHES

(Remember, O man, that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return.)

He stands before her dressed in purple,
a sign of his priesthood and the Lenten Season,
in his hand, a small dish filled with ashes of palms
mixed with holy oil and water.
He traces his thumb in the black mixture
and marks her forehead
with the sign of the cross, reciting
ancient words meant to remind her of her mortality

but instead, like a bolt of lightning she remembers
her beginnings,
not the date of her birth,

but the origin of her material substance
billions of years ago
at the dawning of the ages.

She feels her feet rooted
in dirt
in time
in space.
She is child of Earth, as well as Spirit.

Most of her life she has been taught
her time here below is preparation for there above,
true life begins only at death -
taught

She is disconnected from the Holy One.
Creation is fallen.
Genuine joy comes only after this vale of tears.
Heaven is her real home.

But at this moment, marked with ashes,
under the sign of the Cross,
she experiences the delight of being human,
woven into the fabric of the New Creation Story,
connected with all that was and is and ever shall be,
all that has been for billions of years.
Creation is good.
So is she.

She knows -
she has been given
beauty for ashes.