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.

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

Love and Mercy Meet

Love and Mercy Meet
(Matthew 15.21-28)

We were tired.
We hadn’t slept much the night before, what with the storm and all;
and today, they came again.
The religious leaders with their rebukes
and once more challenged the Master.

Jesus walked a little way ahead of us, preoccupied.
We left him alone, knowing how tired he must be.
Brushes with them always seem to leave him especially burdened.
We were all distracted when the ruckus began.

Gracious, what a raucous -
she seemed to come running out of nowhere
screaming like the wild woman she was!

“Jesus, Lord, Son of David, have mercy on my daughter.”

A Canaanite of all things -
Spit!
Dogs, all of them, just dogs!
And here’s one of them, a woman no less;
how dare she yell at him.
All of them, just dogs!

“Woman, you’re nothing.
Leave him alone; can’t you see he’s tired?
And you? You’re nothing.
Jesus, tell her to leave, tell her to go away.
Put her in her place.
Make her stop bothering us;
send her away.”

He turned and looked at us, quietly telling us
what we already knew.
“I came for Israel; no one else matters, only God’s
holy people.”

Then out of no where, she burst into our space.
She came right up to us,
daring to break our small, tight circle.
She walked right up to the Master,
then knelt before him,
eyes cast down,
head and body bent,
she whispered.

“Please Lord, heal my daughter.”

We barely heard her speak.
She had been screaming like the wench she was,
but now, she barely whispered,
and tears streamed down her face.

And the Master?


The Master knelt also—right to her level.
I saw him,
the holy and righteous one,
gently tilt her tear-stained face
so that their eyes met.
And he whispered to her,
“Woman, it’s not fair
for me to give the children’s bread to the dogs.”

Such lovely words—
words which should have rebuked,
invited instead.
She seemed to hear it the same way.

“Yes Lord,” she whispered.
“I know. I understand,
but even the little dogs get crumbs from the Master’s table.”

He spoke once more, in a still soft voice,
“Woman, your faith is great.
Your love is deep.
Your daughter is well.
Go home.”

It was silent as she left.
Shouts no longer pierced the air;
no more words were spoken.
She simply left,

and we continued walking in silence,
each of us absorbed in our own thoughts.

What had we just seen? What had we witnessed?
The Gift is for them, too? Love and Mercy is theirs as well?
Even the unworthy, the lowest of the low,
His compassion extends to them, too?

Lord, have mercy on me,
the sinner.


(Image from Radio New Jerusalem website)
Revised, 3/5/11

Rainy Day Reflections

Raindrops flow in thin streams
slowly down the windowpane like
small brooklets marking the landscape.
Completing this triplet of nature,
her face reflects
like in a mirror
its own visible traces of
fear, pain, grief -
tears, each one caught in a bottle
and recorded by the Beloved.

Rivulets of raindrops
brooklets of cool water
tears of a soul
marking, cleansing, healing, renewing.

Sheila Conner
January 26, 2011 (Psalm 56)

Synchronicity At Work...

I'm considering submitting some poetry for publication, so I revisited this poem, written last September. Seems this was a synchronistic moment:

Following the Star

Do you see it?

There,

Right there,

High in the sky…
there it is!

The Star!

I’ve never seen anything quite like it.
So bright,
so beautiful,
so compelling…

I find myself longing to follow that Star.

What?
You say I’m crazy?

Maybe…may be
But,
but what if,
what if following that Star just might lead me home?

What if following that star
just might lead me to the place of peace I long for?

My heart and mind are filled with desperate “what ifs”
that make staying here, in this place,
next to impossible.

So, here I am
like a crazy fool
packing my bags
loading this camel
and heading out over this desert,
into this broad expanse of wasteland.

I have to go
I’m compelled to follow

The Star calls me home.

September 18, 2010

I even posted it here on my blog back in September, along with a picture of the same SoulCollage® card that I did also in September. In retrospect, that star seems to have been pointing toward Pine, Arizona and my time spent at Spirit Falls on Sabbatical. I simply love how Life unfolds, always toward the next thing. Generosity at its finest. This synchronistic moment this morning gives me reason to once again give thanks to the Divine Unfolding.

Sabbaths

How long does it take to make the woods?
As long as it takes to make the world.
The woods is present as the world is, the presence
of all its past and of all its time to come.
It is always finished, it is always being made, the act
of its making forever greater than the act of its destruction.
It is a part of eternity for its end and beginning
belong to the end and beginning of all things,
the beginning lost in the end, the end in the beginning.

What is the way to the woods, how do you go there?
By climbing up through the six days’ field,
kept in all the body’s years, the body’s
sorrow, weariness, and joy. By passing through
the narrow gate on the far side of that field
where the pasture grass of the body’s life gives way
to the high, original standing of the trees.
By coming into the shadow, the shadow
of the grace of the strait way’s ending,
the shadow of the mercy of light.

Why must the gate be narrow?
Because you cannot pass beyond it burdened.
To come into the woods you must leave behind
the six days’ world, all of it, all of its plans and hopes.
You must come without weapon or tool, alone,
expecting nothing, remembering nothing,
into the ease of sight, the brotherhood of eye and leaf.

~ Wendell Berry ~


(A Timbered Choir)

A ROOM OF ONE'S OWN

A ROOM OF ONE’S OWN

I invited him in
Told him this was his house
“Take off your shoes, stay awhile
make yourself at home.”

“Rearrange the furniture if you like.
You can discard whatever’s in your way,
even if it seems precious to me.”

“Here,
here in my heart,
in this space
make a room of your own
to just be.”

He came in, looked around and smiled,
then walked to the mantle in the Great Room.
He noticed something was missing.
He cleared a place,

then put Her picture there.

I was surprised. He was pleased.
He was home.

The Grasses Know

The Grasses Know

Waves

upon waves

upon waves

purple heads
float on oceans of green
and ochre grasses...

Malkatuh walks through,
and the grasses know.

She is.



My pre-dawn walk yielded little bits of poetry this morning. As I rounded the bend on my return home, the tall grasses moved in the wind. I've seen it before, but today I bowed and whispered "Namaste", and the poem came.

The first write yielded "Ruah" as her name. But as I sat with the Aramaic words of Jesus this morning, expanding on my understanding of the prayer he taught us to pray, I read these lines:

(begin quote)

"Malkuthakh" refers to a quality of rulership...that guide[s] our life toward unity. It could justifiably be translated either "kingdom" or "queendom". From the ancient roots, the word carries the image of a "fruitful arm" poised to create, or a coiled spring that is ready to unwind with all the verdant potential of the earth. It is what says "I can" within us...The word "Malkatuh", based on the same root, was a name of the Great Mother in the Middle East thousands of years before Jesus. The ancients saw in the earth and all around them a divine quality that everywhere takes responsibility and says "I can".

(end quote)

I remembered the grasses blowing in the wind just before dawn, and I remembered the sense that She was walking through them as they recognized her, and I knew they also recognized their own "I can".

That's when I knew Ruah had introduced me to Another, Malkatuh, the "I can".

It's been a happy morning.

TO UPSET THE ORDINARY

That was our challenge today while we sat in a circle in a beautiful home on Surfside Beach...13 ordinary human beings were challenged to upset the ordinary and risk becoming poets. We laughed! Last year, we wrote poems describing a bromilead...this year? This time we were thrown into the deep end, and our writing assignments were designed to challenge us and to stretch us enough to allow our unformed wings to unfurl. Richard gave us a couple of exercises. One was called, Secret Identity--we had two minutes to write about our secret identity...

My secret identity is...
I am an eagle soaring...
How high?
How wide is the sky?

Richard, our teacher and mentor graced us with "safe space" and a bag full of tools to aid us in our writing journey. As the afternoon wound down, Richard gave us all a small stone, then shared these words from Adalia Prado with us:

Once in a while God takes poetry away from me.
I look at a stone. I see a stone.

Richard challenged us to see beyond our stones and write what we saw and heard.



I wrote:

Story of a Stone
(raise up a child in the way he should go…)

The teacher explains the difference between rock and stone:
a rock is something we pick up that’s been touched only by nature;
a stone is something fashioned into use by man.

So, who decides the greater value?
What makes one decide the rock has something to offer?

A rock left to nature alone is always and only a rock.
But a rock chosen
then chiseled and tumbled until rough edges are smoothed
becomes a stone—

if we’re lucky and skilled,
a precious stone.

Perhaps value lies in what’s seen with the Unusual Eye.

We were gifted in wonderful ways this beautiful October day. We were given the joy of words and tools to use that grace our words. We were held in a safe place to spread our wings and fly, to begin living our lives as the poets we are.



Thank you Richard for coming and sharing with us. Thank you Andy for nurturing the poet in us. Thank you Sweet Spirit for flowing through us--every single one of us. Today was gift.

Poetry Retreat

It's finally here! God bless St. Timothy's, Andy Parker, and Surfside Beach for nurturing the poet in us.

Our 2nd Annual St. Timothy's Poetry as Prayer retreat got underway last evening with king ranch chicken, diner cake, coffee, Richard Osler, and 13 shiny expectant faces. And, o yes, pen and paper.

Our first assignment? Where am I from?

And this is my first poem of the weekend.

ROOTS
(In order to discover new lands, one must be willing to lose sight of the shore for a very long time. Andre Gide)

You ask me where I’m from?

Why, I’m from the Promised Land,
the land of June Cleaver and Father Knows Best,
and “Anyone north of Dallas is a damned yankee.”

I’m from the Piney Woods,
the Rose Capitol of the World,
dogwoods,
and the Azalea Trails.

I’m from that little white brick church on Front Street,
“gimme that old time religion”,
Billy Graham Crusades,
and the Great State of
“Those women libbers are nothing but trouble”.

I’m from tiny boxes,
ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,
truncated dreams,
big mouths,
and submissive wives territory.

My roots lie deep in red dirt,
playing dumb,
getting my MRS Degree,
God (forever and always only male, of course),
the American flag,
and the Republican party…

But one day...
One day I was invited to pack my bags,
and leave my father’s house in the land of Ur.
One day, the Holy One spoke, “Get out of your father’s boat and follow Me;
come sail away with Me on the bottomless sea”.

FOLLOW YOUR BLISS

Following the Star
September 18, 2010


Do you see it?

There!

Right there!

High in the sky…
there it is!

the Star!

My –

I’ve never seen anything quite like it.
It’s so bright,
so beautiful,
so compelling…

I find myself filled with longing to follow that Star?

What? You say I’m crazy?

May be…maybe –
But,
But what if,
But what if following that Star just might lead me home?
What if following that star just might lead me
to the place of peace I so long for?

My heart, and my mind, are filled with the desperate “what ifs” that make staying here,
In this place,

Next to impossible.

So, here I am,
Like a crazy fool,
Packing my bags
And loading this camel
And heading out, over this desert,
Into this broad expanse of wasteland –

I have to go
I’m compelled to follow

The Star is calling me home.
(TAEHS, Matthew 2.1-12)

6:45 a.m., Surfside Beach...

So, what am I doing here, by myself? Something’s amiss—out of kilter, and needs restoring.

What draws me to this Ocean?

Perhaps it’s the rhythm of the waves? It’s as if my own internal rhythms need to be recalibrated. My internal clock, the consistent tick, tick, tick, tick—it seems to have gotten out of whack. It’s lost its balanced rhythm.

I love the sound of the Ocean, the rhythmic ticking of a clock, and this week, the Psalms…my soul waits in silence.

“You have established yourself in secret places,
seeking out receptive hearts,
ready to enter and make your
dwelling place within.”

The secret places…
the rhythm of the waves,
the quiet ticking of a clock,
the beating of a heart,
the in and out of the breath,
the push and pull of the tide,
the rising and setting of the sun,
the waxing and waning of the moon…

the Final Cause.

Perhaps that’s what I need from this moment, from this place, from the Psalms—the gentle ever-present reminder of the Final Cause.

The gulls and the pelicans seem to know it,
time knows it,
the sun, moon, and stars know it,
the only ones who seem to wonder, doubt, and ask the questions
are us humans.

So, who/what is most evolved?

Then I notice.

Even the Ocean spends its energy beating against its boundaries, testing its limits. Even the Ocean seems to have this incessant longing for more.

Perhaps that’s my purpose.
Perhaps that’s why I’m here.
Perhaps that’s what this journey of the soul, my Ocean, is all about—

Expand
Open
Wings beating the wind
Waves lapping at the boundaries and eating up the edges

Longing for the More.
Always on the lookout for the Final Cause.

Here is my heart Beloved.
Enter and make your dwelling place within.

MAGIC BEANS...

This is what my son has called my "magic beans" page. He's written a song called "Magic Beans" about all the fairy tales we believed to be true as we grew up--and we get to mid-life and discover:

Well nothin' ever sprouted
From the spot where momma threw them on the ground.
No singing harps, no golden eggs,
No giant's feasts could ever be found.
Now the banks foreclosed the farm,
Momma's sick, and Jack ain't ever around.

....Magic Beans don't sprout...

So, perhaps this IS my protest of what I expected out of life at one time. It WAS the model presented to me of "a good life". These "magic beans" haven't sprouted for me, but what I have instead is EVER SO MUCH MORE!

From Below

One of the things I'd like to do this year is read more poetry. An easy place for me to begin is with Denise Levertov. I discovered her, well, over a year ago now, back in the Fall of 2008, when Andy was doing a Poetry as Prayer class at St. Tim's.

I read this poem yesterday, and have pondered it, simply remembering the giant redwoods of Northern California, and the lovely tall pines of the Cenacle. This photo was taken "from below" in the Redwood Forests. Remember?

I move among the ankles
of forest Elders, tread
their moist rugs of moss,
duff of their soft brown carpets.
Far above, their arms are held
open wide to each other, or waving--

what they know, what
perplexities and wisdoms they exchange,
unknown to me as were the thoughts
of grownups when in infancy I wandered
into a roofed clearing amidst
human feet and legs and the massive
carved legs of the table,

the minds of people, the minds of trees
equally remote, my attention then
filled with sensations, my attention now
caught by leaf and bark at eye level
and by thoughts of my own, but sometimes
drawn to upgazing--up and up: to wonder
about what rises
so far above me into the light.

Day 16 The ABC's of Advent, Letter P

I had already picked several P words for today, but a few days ago, I happened upon this poem written by Denise Levertov, entitled "I learned that her name was Proverb."

And the secret names

of all we meet who lead us deeper into our labyrinth

of valleys and mountains, twisting valleys

and steeper mountains--

their hidden names are always,

like Proverb, promises:

Rune, Omen, Fable, Parable,

those we meet for only

one crucial moment, gaze to gaze,

or for years know and don't recognize

but of whom later a word

sings back to us as if from high upon leaves,

still near but beyond sight

drawing us from tree to tree

towards the time and the unknown place

where we shall know

what it is to arrive.

As I read her poem, I thought of my own introduction to "Sophia"...we both were surprised when we discovered the secret names of those who led us through our personal labyrinths toward home. I too wrote a poem to Sophia, but for today, I will acknowledge Levertov's Proverb, for she has now become another guide on my journey. Whether she's called Proverb or Parable, Rune, Omen, Fable or Sophia, meeting "her" has deepened my own sense of purpose, and brought me closer this day to that lasting Place of Peace. I am grateful.

The Edge

(On one side of the path, ecstasy, on the other

dull grief... Walking)

Denise Levertov

They say there are at least two sides to every story,
two sides to the coin--

but there is a third,
the Edge,

Black, white
Joy, sorrow
Happy, sad
Knowing, not knowing
Gain, loss
Love, fear
Anger, release
Dark, light
Have, have not
Past, future

So, perhaps this is the trick?
To give up living on the Edge between
and drop into the vast space of the present moment?
The Now?
What Holy Scripture calls, "Today"?

I seem to waffle so,
and find myself wavering, tossed to and fro
like a leaf in the wind.

It seems the Edge narrows this time of year
and becomes razor thin.

Thoughts turn to prayer:

"Grant me grace enough to fall into the vast present moment of Today,
where there is room enough breathe and simply remember,

'Safe am I'."

Day 4 The ABC's of Advent - Letter D

I almost kicked myself for not doing this page yesterday, but I'm still trying to trust the Muse, who's biggest job seems to be teaching me that "timing is everything".

I've known I wanted to use Darkness for my D word, but somehow it just didn't click yesterday. With the weather teasing "snow", and the pots on the stove bubbling turkey gumbo, "darkness" just didn't fit. And I woke up this morning, knowing why.

I've learned over the years to befriend the darkness, knowing that it's the womb that gives life. I've learned not to be afraid of the darkness as much as I used to be. And I've learned that waiting is part of the "it" of befriending darkness.

But this morning, I woke up knowing that at the end of darkness comes DAWN. And part of what I'm waiting for is the beginning of something new that comes with the dawn.

The pieces of poetry on the pages are from a poem I wrote in October, entitled:

The End of Winter's Long Night.

The long night is nearly over.

The edges of morning sun's rosy dawn

creep into night's black sky,

and I am left tired to the bone.

It has been a long winter's night,

but I live.

My hip hurts,

but my heart is free.

And I limp.

I no longer stand tall with ready answers.

My hip is out of joint,

and I lean--

listing like a broken down sailboat.

What I was yesterday is only

a discolored spot on a wall,

a shadow,

a distant memory.

My feet are no longer tightly fitted

in shoes of certitude.

I walk with bare feet now.

And I lean.

But the long night is over,

and I live to see a new day.

Only one thing is certain now--

the Life Giver walks among us.

(Genesis 32.24-31 and Song of Solomon 8.5)

Intuition - The Zygogenesis of Partnership

I bless the Lord who gives me counsel in the night;

also my heart instructs me.

Psalm 16.7

Animated by something other than reason, the seed planted
becomes fully alive in the heavy soil of Night.
Consciousness breaks like Day through what appears as
Darkness and Death, fully and completely
energizing the seed, bringing same to
fruition. What has caused this apparently dead kernel to
germinate, exploding root Downward into
heavy, heaving earth?
Intoxicated with an undeniable
joy, this suddenly alive
kernel, once dead, reaches for new Life.
Limited only by its own deeply-held pattern of truth held in the
matrix of Time and Eternity, this kernel
nudges with life, also Upward, as if driven by some
olfactory sense toward the Light, breaking ground into a
profusion of form: a flower, a tree, an answer
quickly coming with no explanation. The mind and the soul finally at
rest, the heart
stilled.
Time has become a haven, the
ulterior motive of the All: to teach the patient act of seeming
vanity, simply to
wait,
xeno,
yielding only to the familiar but unseen Source of it all, the true
zygogenesis of Partnership.