Advent Journey Day 18 Prayer and Verbena soap.

   

 Once, many years ago, I worked in  a BellSouth office in Jonesboro. It was around Christmas and this day must have been particularly trying. One of my employees, Sue Cole, a lovely young woman with a gorgeous smile, must have sensed my tension. She quietly walked in, put a headset on my ears and started a tape player..What played has comforted me for years. The words, the words.

 I have started a prayer list and  I am being very faithful..It began with some Twitter friends who are atheists and then I added people that come in dreams,  friends and those battling diseases. It is filling fast.Today, on-line, Fr.Pavone, known for his dedication to the unborn asked for prayers for President Trump so I added this priest and our leader.

Long ago, I left the Church when a priest at Mass asked for prayers that the North Vietnamese would convert.I almost laughed out loud. I knew better. The problem with prayer is that most aren't answered immediately..I put my dime in and expect the candy to pop out. And in the color that I desire because I know what I want and what is good for me.

I am so glad to have reached this age when I can look back and see that prayers are answered. I have some journal notes about praying for an old friend that he come to believe. To even have found these notes from 12-26-'84 is amazing. While praying then,  I was told this:

 "Watch, wait and pray, keep praying every day. He is resisting because he knows his past life was fruitless-which it was .Have a friend pray also." Many years later, I found out that this friend had stopped resisting and turned toward the One who had been chasing him.

Here is something so touching and beautiful to ponder as we look for time to pray:

"Our prayer makes God glad and happy. He wants it and waits for it so that, by his grace ,he can make us as like him in condition as we were by creation...Our Lord himself is the first to receive our prayer, as I see it. He takes it, full of thanks and joy , and he sends it up above and sets it in the treasury, where it will never be lost. It is there, before God, with all his holy ones-continually heard, continually helping our needs. When we come to heaven, our prayers will be given to us as part of our reward-with endless, joyful thanks from God". Julian of Norwich.Anchorite,England 14th Century.

The tape that played that day was a song by Michael W.Smith called "All is Well.".To me these encouraging words suggest something else that Julian said :"All is well, all is well, all manner of things shall be well." We have no idea how many things God will make well.

Today, as I opened door 18 of the Advent Calendar I find Verbena soap from Provence. As I type,  I thank and pray for Sue, Julian,  Thomas Merton who reminded me of her today, my nephew Paul who gave me the Merton book and my wonderful daughter who gave me this Advent Calendar that has blessed every morning of this Advent Season.

Advent Journey Day 16-cosmic choice.

I can't recall the exact date when everything changed. We were living in a triplex in California in the early 70s. and I had all that I ever wanted, a gorgeous, good husband, two precious little children, a flower garden and the California sun. Why then did I feel this empty hole inside ? I was in the living room when I decided to throw this prayer into the wind: "God, if you are there, help me." That was it. No flashes, or drum rolls but I remember feeling better, as if I had done something positive. . I had left God behind a few years earlier. Not needed. Where is He anyway? The church goers I knew were all drunks. It was  irrelevant to my life. But that day I had indeed done something Cosmic. I had opened a door. Door opening is serious stuff in this Universe for good or for ill.

It is difficult to describe what came next unless you have experienced it. I bought a small book " The Quantity of a Hazelnut:" in a store  for a friend. Wow. This intelligent woman writer is a believer. Just excerpts of  her story of travelling with God; every word resonated. Taking home a book from the library that I thought was a love story and it turns out to be about St.Augustine's conversion. Bumping into spirit filled stories here and there. Things that I didn't get mentally, now were understood by the heart.

Lately, I have been rereading e-mails of an old friend from the neighborhood which we were blessed to share.Good kids, good fun, a great paradise that we didn't appreciate then. Ten minutes from the beach, maple trees lining every street.Very good schools.Doors unlocked at night.

Anyway, this friend had also walked away from the faith which cradled us as kids. 

In this e-mail he wrote :: ..."I did have a void in my life, yet I had no idea what was missing. It was several months after I sobered up until I started to realize what I was looking for and then not until I had started to find it.
It was God in my life. I just sort of let Him go over the years and it never occurred to me that it had happened. Kind of obvious now, but back then it was a great mystery that just eluded me.Things are different now...I do pray every night, I talk to God whenever I get the itch to and I no longer feel that hole in my soul. Things are different and definitely better. "

The Inn of our hearts.We can keep the door closed; we will be safe from His reach and then able to do whatever we wish.Or we can fling it open and embrace the story that we celebrate soon. That amazing, .unbelievable story that the Creator loves us so much , so eternally, without  limits, that he sent His Son to give us this cosmic choice, open the door to my Love or not..

Advent Journey -Day 12..

Apaquogue-Adolph Gottlieb

It is an unusual piece of modern art and I hesitated to offer it to the writing group a few years back.What a challenge.What would they see ? Each one now vividly remembers this art and we speak of it now and then.

My eyes immediately went to the pink circle and I thought, "This is Washington D.C. in the Spring." I have never viewed the wonderful explosion of pink in the Nation's Capital but I have seen pictures. Magical, light, swirling blossoms around the Tidal Basin with the Jefferson Monument in the background.The Japanese mayor of Tokyo, Yokio Osaki,   gifted the United Sates with 3000 cherry trees as a reminder of the bond between our two countries. Twenty -seven years later, they bombed our Naval Base at Pearl Harbor. Light and darkness. The black dot suggests the long wall of the Vietnam War  Monument , name after name carved in the shiny black granite. Lost in a war where the average age of the American soldier was 19.Light and darkness..

The red dot to me says that this city is the heart of us, where people serve and giants are remembered.Our history is on every street corner, in buildings, fountains and grass swathes of the cemeteries.I remember walking from tree to adorned tree one freezing January night, each one decorated to represent a state of this Union.Unique states, one Union.

The orange is the sun going down behind the city and shining on a page of a writer's book. He is Walt Whitman and this unique American is tending to the wounded of the Civil War while he writes poetry in the fading day. Light.

A visit to the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception here, years ago where I felt such love for the stranger sitting in front of me praying, that I thought I would burst. Light, just Light.

Another writer saw Nazi Concentration Camps and the trains coming in and out each day with bewildered Jews clutching their small bags. Visiting one in another time had brought such gloom to the writer that the black dot jumped out at her. Darkness.

I thought of this today because of the Cherry Blossom Hand Cream that popped out of Box 12 in my Advent Calendar. It is sliver, has pink flowers and I am smiling as I look at it. Henri Nounwen today is urging me to love the Lord with everything I have.Seek the Lord while He may be found. My whole heart,to Him.The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light.What would our world look like if each of us had this as our main focus ? What color would that be?....

What do you see in this art? Please comment.

Advent Journey Day 11-you had me at Bonjour

We are not supposed to like the French.They don't like us very much and I hear that tourists run into rude Frenchmen all the time. I have a different view which I will be glad to share as I open my French Advent Calendar for today. Ah, verbena body lotion. So sweet.

No one, not one person who saw Notre Dame burning last year was not moved to great compassion for the people who offer that holy, startling edifice to the world. I read comments on Facebook, tales of visits that have never been forgotten. My own visit, several years ago was transcendent. In the midst of the noise of shuffling feet and clicking Japanese cameras, I sat and gazed at the rose colored window and for 20 minutes, I was in God's presence. I felt Him, there, that day. And somehow in the 21st century it burned.

My daughter,daughter-in-law, granddaughter and I all went to Paris last June and the people we encountered were kind and patient as we tried to offer our broken French. A waiter who saw us weeping at our table over the imminent death of a dear friend, brought flutes of champagne for each of us and placed them down quietly, kindly and walked away.

In Nice,  the year before, I met a French boy, Clement. John and I were sitting one evening after dinner on a bench facing the Mediterranean Sea. Along came this little boy of about 4 years, blonde hair, blue eyes and a sweet smile. He hopped up on the bench and sat next to me. His mother was on her cell on the walk behind us. He smiled as I tried my stale French. Bateau? Chien? I would point and he would smile.Clement was not afraid of strangers and exuded a sweet peace, happy to be just were he was, wanting nothing else. I loved that child, little Clement. .He captured my heart in a half hour, this French boy.

And finally, my Advent companion, who I admit to not liking very much, this nun of Lisieux, Therese. I have never been able to relate to her words, her youth, her spoiled childhood but as it is in things of the spirit, eventually I come around. I finally get her. She says, "do small things with great love." I am now,thanks to her, trying. I will give an example of a small thing that shines like stars in our often cold Universe. Someone comes for spiritual direction.After the session, she walked our chilly neighborhood and then sat on the porch. My husband noticed and brought her a cup of hot tea with honey on the tray and a spoon.Later, she tells how that warmed her body and soul.

I see these small things, flutes, smiles, tea and I feel joy knowing there are places where such things happen.

Advent Journey Day 10

A very mild December day greets Georgia this morning. The grey, brown and tawny deer arrive for their corn which was originally meant to entice the squirrels from the bird feeders. Instead, other neighbors come by;  the deer,  a raccoon crowd, crows and the turkeys. They all drift out of the woods like ghosts to rummage around in the leaves.No rushing , just drifting around and eating the corn.

Recently, I met with a person in spiritual direction who said that at this time of life, her prayer is  that she immediately responds to the urging of the Spirit. That she recognizes the Voice and does what is asked. Nouwen seems to be saying the same thing in his writings in "The Spirituality of Waiting".He says that God is always waiting for our response to his love.I can see that; infinite, waiting, patience. Like a shepherd hoping that that smallest of sheep will not venture towards that yawning depth beyond the cliff, but will listen to his voice and follow to the good feed on the safe plain.

 I am not good at waiting. The clock ticks.Many times when we pray for a person we are then asked to act. Be part of the answer. Right now, I feel this strong push to write a letter to a person who walked away from God years ago and yet I hesitate, waiting for a clear sign. Don't I know by now what that push is and how God will handle the rest? As I type, I know what I must do.I ask for prayers that my words will be true and give God the glory and do the work of the One who saved me 50 years ago.Thank you.

Advent Journey Day 8

 


The people who walk in darkness have seen a great Light. That light flickers and then warms every Sunday at Mass. My encounters with Light bearers. The Body of Christ..

 John and I try to sit in the same spot every Sunday in OUR  pew.We all seem to do this, we who have been at this church for years.We look to see if Jennifer is there where she belongs.She waves, smiles and the candles burn brighter. While my eyes are closed praying, a friend comes by and leaves me a poem. A year ago, I didn't know this special woman, now she and I have a treasured connection.

In the back, behind us, is a friend for years. He who is the anchor of his family, always smiles from his spot as I come back from Communion. I count on it. He reads every story that I write and his LIKE on Facebook keeps me writing.

After Mass today,  I spent some time talking with a friend who is writing a book and we laugh over things that happened in our writing group last year. He always makes me smile with his understanding of the challenges of writing, he who has actually published a book..

 Today, the second purple candle was lit on the Advent wreath to mark the second week of this journey. And in the readings I seem to hear an awful lot about mountains. Holy mountains, safe without harm mountains, the mountains that shall yield peace for the people.


We could use this peace now, this image of a holy mountain that we all can stream towards together, where we will be embraced by the One who has loved us from eternity. But I am here, now and my Church community is the closest I will come to what I seek.

Advent Journey Day 7-lavender path.

Lavender Horizon-Maria Bertran

Today's gift from the Advent Calendar is a small lavender hand cream. The scent is subtle, sweet and delicious.It makes me think of a picture I saw once of a labyrinth in California whose path was lined with deep purple lavender plants. The color lent to the curving path left me breathless.

 For some reason most of my thoughts, prayers and guidance this Advent are connected to the deceased. Merton, St.Therese, Nouwen and Isaiah. Also, lost friends and relations.My mind travels back to a walk on a plain labyrinth in a church yard in Woodstock, New York a few years ago.I took my sister with me in my mind and on the way I learned this from the Lord:" my sister hadn't felt loved one day in her life .Not one day." The cracking of my heart echoed off the surrounding mountains.How had I contributed to that feeling over the years never understanding the depression that descended on her in her 11th year?

And so I think I will take a stroll on the lavender labyrinth right now. I stop in silence at the entrance and ask God to lead my thoughts to where He wishes they go. I notice some bright white stones on the path and pick one up to take with me. It becomes warm in my palm.

At the first turn I stop, close me eyes and say this: "You were loved and still are by a good husband, five adoring daughters and by me, your little sister.I pray you rest in the arms of Love now. "Moving on, I am circling back towards the entrance.I stop again and pray this: "May the peace of Christ which knows no boundary envelope your soul this day, my friend, Michael. And may we meet again in that holy place where you already reside."..

At one curve there is a small wooden bench so I leave the labyrinth and sit down visualizing my friend Timmy next to me.He has left fear and doubts behind and is now willing to sing with me, small hymns of praise. My heart is full as I go back to the path.

One last pause where I mention all on my prayer list by name and difficulty: loss of faith, disease, homelessness, despair, poverty, addiction and so on.In my mind, I see them surrounded by angels and bathed in the golden Love of the Creator who many have been running from for years.It's all there,I can see it enfolding them in shades of gold, pink and bright yellow.They can't escape this enveloping Love.

I am at the end of the path; it is time to walk back out. Before I do,. I place the warm white stone in the center, pick a small sprig of lavender and lay it across the stone. It represents all the love I feel for the people that had walked with me." Let it go, trusting your prayers are heard," the labyrinth says. I do.

Advent Journey Day 5

  Sometimes, before Mass, I feel called to go up and visit Our Lady of Guadalupe, a beautiful wooden carved statue to the right to the altar. Our conversations are brief. Me: "Thank you".She: "pray." Me:" Take this, I don't know what to do with this.". She: "Pray". One day, when handing her the names of some non- believers, she said: "Make a list." I never thought of that but I can do it. My list is growing and I speak the names daily and mention the need. Many are on Twitter who seem to be at the end of their ropes. Poor, homeless, despairing, all are lifted up to the heavens in a connection that cannot be understood..

 When I had lunch with my new friend, Mary, on Tuesday, she mentioned a childhood friend of mine, Timmy,  who is her uncle. We were kids on Long Island and had so many adventures. We found a grey and white kitten once and named her Shadow. We planted a dogwood, called it Fortis Arbor;  it still grows in the yard that used to be mine. Strong tree, indeed.When his father was dying of a cruel cancer, he would come to my house and watch me do homework. And we would laugh., how we would laugh. After I got married,  he went off to the seminary but came home after only 6 months.Years later, he would travel to the Catskills to attend my sister's funeral. That gesture shines like a glimpse of sunlight in my memory..

Now we come to today's reading from Henri Nouwen; " If you want to follow Jesus, you must control what you take in everyday...it is good to have a prayer on your lips wherever you go.There are so many moments when you are free to pray....."
And 1 Thessalonians 5: "Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you."

Somewhere along the way, perhaps because of many losses, my friend lost the faith that we both shared those many years ago. I would love to sit on a bench in a quiet morning with my friend him and hear about  the road he took to unbelief. When he walks his 13 miles a day, what path do his thoughts take? For now, he is on my list. Between his niece praying for him and being on my prayer list, he is being held in a Love that is indescribable. One day, he will see.

Advent day 4-with a grateful heart.

Houses on a Hill-Winslow Homer

One of the great satisfactions of my life has come very unexpectedly. A writing group. This joyful gathering of women and one man who look at a piece of art and then dip into their endless pool of creativity. to find a story. It is God's work they do, bringing beauty and truth out into the world.. We all sit amazed at the miracle that is writing.

My first written blog post dealt with the death of my sister;  writing,  processing her leaving us too early. At the time, I had one follower, a childhood friend who read everything I wrote for years. Our houses were near each other in Uniondale, NY. He passed away two years ago and I miss his place at the table of my life.

I vividly recall one of his first comments: "Sharon, I like the story but you are no Ernest Hemingway." Boom. Nevertheless, my writing continued and so did his reading and in those stories he would appear from time to time. I wanted him to know what he had meant to me for 60 years. A few years later , he wrote this: "Buckle up for here is my take on your writing: your writing continues to get better and better from where I sit. I was reading the "Maltese Falcon" this a.m. while in the doctor's office and it made me think how your writing has progressed in your ability to more fully brocade your sentences and thoughts, The are so much more alive."Nov.2011

It was only yesterday when I had lunch with his lovely grown daughter, Mary, that I was able to see that without his encouragement I would never have come to start this group of writers. Every writer needs a reader. He is not here to thank and the tears that are forming tell me how much I wish I could tell him about the part he played in the great happiness of my seventh decade.Prior to meeting with his daughter, I reread some of the e-mails I saved from our friendship.I uncovered nuggets of wisdom, small gold flashes that I missed the first time. Knowing my friend, he could never handle this kind of praise and gratitude so I thank his daughter for meeting with me.Talking to her helped me to see.

"To know someone here and there whom we accord with, who is living on with us,  even in silence-this makes our earthly ball a peopled garden."Goethe

Advent Day 3-roses.

Olga Shvartsur-Red Rose

Door number three contained a sweet smelling rose scented hand cream.

I am named for the Rose of Sharon, one of the many titles for Mary, Our Queen. Sharon being a plain in the Holy Land.She is the blooming flower of that plain. Ignored by me for decades she finally she got my attention in beautiful dreams, a vision and an encounter with a Buddhist. By saying her rosary, I hold her hand.. She wanted me to walk with her and I am. Her "yes" brought the great story into being. He is the blossom and she, the stem.

Mary and Saint Therese are often associated with roses. I have a friend who has St.Therese as a spiritual companion and the day of her young son's funeral, she came home to find the scent of roses filling her house, though none were there.

In today's Advent reading, Nouwen suggests that we need balance in our lives.We have often heard this. prayer and works. We are incomplete without both.We need the time in the desert where you can hear words like this from Isaiah:

"But a shoot shall sprout from the stem of Jesse, and from his roots a bud shall blossom.
The spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him: a spirit of wisdom and of understanding, a spirit of counsel and of strength, a spirit of knowledge and of fear of the Lord......" ..in the quiet, I can hear the story of the Savior and hold the hand of the Mother.

Advent Journey -Day 2

                 "Love comes from prayer and prayer from remaining in seclusion." Isaac of Syria

Anselm Kiefer

  This quote that I found today in my book, "A Year With Thomas Merton", recalls a conversation I had with my son the other night while we were gathered celebrating a family occasion. He was telling me about the activities that his kids are participating in.He has a 7 year old girl and a 5 year old boy and they run, swim, do Scouts; he is happy for them but yearning for a quiet minute. I get it.We had a few laughs about what introverts we and his sister are and that the favorite words of a true introvert are:" the party has been cancelled."

Which brings me to today's Advent theme which is "patience".The root word is "patior" which means to suffer. Ugh. And it relates to waiting for God in seclusion and quiet. It is not about overcoming the annoyance of robo calls. I have found a spot for seclusion in my guest room. It is in a corner by the window with the sun streaming across the pages of my journal. A small cup from Slovakia holds my favorite pens, a rosary is on the back of the old wooden straight back chair. A rooted philodendron is next to the pens. It is there that I learn about love from the scriptures, Merton, St.Therese ,Nouwen and my own journal notes.It is there that I wait on the Lord to answer prayers. Patiently. It is on that chair that I pray for my list of people that grows daily, knowing that I may never see what my prayers do for the suffering. Patience.

As I sit, a female Cardinal appears on the top of the air conditioning unit as if to say that I am not alone in my prayers.Lord, give us patience to see obstacles as doors and hindrances as something that became a way.


The second gift from the Advent Calendar is lip balm.....

                                                             windy December
                                                   may my lips speak only love
                                                              learned in seclusion

Advent Journey-Day 1

The first door of the French Advent Calendar(see previous post)  is open and there was a small hand cream produced in Provence.A sweet surprise. In practicing Abundance, it is the surprises that I notice. While walking in the new subdivision next to us, I spotted at least ten small yellow daisy-like plants growing in the bare soil.Color! Yay!.And now a small hand cream behind a little door.

This is a quote from today's Advent reading by Henri Nouwen:  "I keep expecting impressive events to convince me and others of God's saving power...Our temptation is to be distracted by looking for them.when I have no eyes for the small signs of God's Presence-the smile of a baby....words of encouragement.....gestures of love...if I only look for the gigantic, I will always remain tempted to despair."

And so I think of the small pot containing tiny black seeds of a morning glory, gathered from a plant 6 years after the first ones appeared in stunning blue color in my garden.How did they get there ? Now they pop up in such unexpected places in my yard. Each time I spot those distinctive leaves, I feel giddy.

My small act to fill the emptiness of winter was to send this same Advent booklet that I am using with Nouwen quotes to a friend for their Advent journey. I realize that Henri and I are very much on the same page. Look, notice, the signs are there.

"Come let us climb the Lord's mountain, to the House of the God of Jacob,that He may instruct us in His ways and we may walk in His paths" Isaiah 2:3

The Almond Trees of Provence Advent Calendar

 What is behind each of those 24 doors that lead up to Christmas ? This is after all a French calendar, so I am guessing something grand and sweet.It is a celebration of the Almond trees in Provence and I know nothing of this either. I am as excited as a child to see what this special gift will mean to me in this Advent season.

I have been reading stories of winter by different authors, those stuck up desolate North in 7 month winters and those in more moderate climes.I was looking for a theme for this Advent and a spiritual companion.The Church liturgical year ends this Sunday with a lighting of the purple candle of the Advent Wreath.We start a special season.It is my favorite.

 The theme that came through those readings is emptiness. Nature is emptying out her basket of colors, bright red roses, oranges tiger lilies, yellow swamp daisies.All are fleeing beneath the harsh 32 degree mornings. No more warm sun, just a dull, white, cold one.The waves crash without us.The trees are spare, bare, solid grey. Leaves are dun and brown; it is the Advent journey, the steps of winter to greater darkness.

 When I ask for a spiritual companion, they always appear and this year is no different.She who I have ignored all my life manged to push in and I embrace her finally. Her way to holiness is called the Little Way and it finally makes sense to me.Do small, unnoticed things with love.I can do this, dear St.Therese.I will leave it to the Spirit to find something each of those 24 days that I can do to fill the winter emptiness for someone else.

Perhaps those almond trees will require a visit someday but for now, I will write on the calendar those small acts of love as I await the indescribable one, the Incarnation.

a Celtic Woman's Prayer

                                               

                                                       Splashing my face
                                                      three palmfuls water
                                                 

                                                           God of Life
                                                         Christ of Love
                                                         Spirit of Peace

                                                         Triune of Grace


                                                         Kindling my fire
                                                        thrice lift the peat

                                                        God, kindle in me
                                                         a flame of love

                                                       to neighbor
                                                          foe
                                                          friend.

                                                      my kindred all

                                                          Amen. 











   th

that is no more...

There is a tall, beautiful beech tree down by the flood plain that has its roots spreading into the mud at its feet. I was never introduced to beeches when I was young on Long Island but I know they existed. I have a picture.

 My father is slim, with shiny dark hair almost in his eyes and he is holding a hand. The lady by his side is my grandmother's sister, known as Aunt Kate. She is smiling broadly, his smile is shy.They are standing under a shade tree; my mother wrote the date on the back, 1914 or 15. And then these words,"under the Beech that is no more". Those words have always saddened me.

The Beech is one of  a few  trees known as marcescent, meaning they retain their leaves in the winter. This type of shade tree keeps its leaves to protect the smooth bark that could get burned by the winter sun. I can see them, the few back in the woods. They bring some color of sorts to the dark landscape. The leaves are papery and light beige; you can't miss them as they dot the drab winter woods.I look for them every winter.

The Long Island Beech is gone as is my great Aunt Kate and my Dad.As is the mother who wrote the words.One day, the Flint River beech will be gone as well as the woman who wrote a haiku today in it's honor.

                                               Long ago, a beech
                                        roots go deep in the floodplain
                                             this one here for now.


                                                   

Have you been heard today?

All around  simple things, a basket of pine cones collected on a warm September day, strewn everywhere waiting to be picked up. The basket from a thrift store for a dollar. Dried weeds in a shiny handmade grey pot. A stone, with impossible green and pink colors, rounded by years of tossing in the Sea that holds the mystical island of Iona.

 On a shelf a green, red and beige wooden flute with an indigenous face carved on it from the thrift store. A plain brown ceramic pot sits next to it. It holds the pebble sized black morning glory seeds. In them is next year's dream of blue. Cuttings from long lived plants in water and clear glass. Catching the afternoon light, all these bring life to my desk, my writing room.

The monks that lived on Skellig Michael Island off the coast of Ireland centuries ago each had a stone beehive hut to sleep and pray in. Their life was one of meditating and deprivation. They ate small plants that they grew in the rocky soil and praised God for simple things like the sunrise. It is said that when a boat would come, the sailors who arrived would be struck silent by the joy that shone from the monk's faces.

What could account for this; those poor monks deprived of the internet, TV, waterbeds and Rap?

It is the quiet, the way they support each other, the praying, the stories they tell of God's goodness.
How they accept that each are not perfect but seek only the good. How they live in the present. But perhaps most importantly,  in that removed, simple place, they are heard, really heard by God and each other. The monks of Skellig left their island long ago but I see their faces each Wednesday in Room 200 when our writing group meets.

simple things

We are sitting and talking about simple things.

Her skin is so fragile, her eyes have clouded, and she nods off as we sit. The New Mexico sun is leaving in the West coloring the Perdanales pink and purple.Colors that are only a memory for my friend.

I have just finished telling her of small things that have brought me joy. The day I awakened to a burden, just an off feeling, a tiredness from all my obligations. Did I really want to drive 74 miles to work and back? What purpose was there in handling employee whining and customer's woes ? What I really wanted was to sit on a log and just be.That's all. Is that too much to ask? You get the drift.Then I opened the side door to my small pocket garden. There she was, Catherine Woodbury, the most delicate of  lilies, opened and almost glowing like a pale pink light. Breathtaking. With that, I was O.K.

It happened again on another day. A simple thing I would never have noticed if I hadn't walked the yard. There in the crease of a dead log, a morning glory with two leaves grew. I was amazed. How did that small black seed get there ? And then I noticed that bud at the top.Once, a Johnny Jump Up amazingly blooming in a sidewalk crack on a hot August day.

My friend's eyes flutter and I tell her how her art has brought me to life. "Picturing you looking at your mountain in the dry desert air inspires me," I whispered. I knew as if it had been written in her memoirs that she savored simple things too. Why else would she paint a singular green leaf falling in front of her patio door.

perfection is a myth

This beautiful Monet postcard reminds me of every stream or river that I have ever loved. I notice the trees with partially bare branches and tawny leaves; the slight bits of snow on the bank and rocks. The rushing sounds are almost audible.What a genius.

There is a stream in the Catskill Mountains that has always enchanted me, the Esopus. It was a warm summer day when some friends joined me for what was advertised as a Buddhist Poetry Walk. Sounds delicious? A lovely grey haired woman monk with a bright smile, handed each of us a baby food jar, cleaned and holding a snippet of a poem. Following her like a quiet gaggle of geese, we slowly walked along the banks of the Esopus. She would ring a small bell, we would stop and take out a poem. Standing silently, we would savor the words amidst the stream sounds and the scent of fir trees. All senses seemed engaged. Then we would move on.

At the end of the walk,on the rocky bank stood a small wooden tea house with timber benches. Our leader quietly passed around a cup of hot tea to each of us with a cookie. This experience of the quiet, the muted sounds of water and shuffling feet , the scent of fresh flowing water and stirring fir trees, the taste of tea and cookies has stayed with me.

The Japanese concept of Wabi Sabi is not easy to translate, but I will try. It has to do with an intuitive response to nature. It also has to do with an acceptance of the imperfect, incomplete and impermanent nature of everything. And the recognition of the gifts of slow, natural living.

That walk by the Esopus was a perfect Wabi Sabi. And what happened next closed the circle. The next Fall, Hurricane Sandy took a rare trip up the East Coast to the Catskills and flooded stream and river.The Esopus was higher than ever recorded, and in a flash the tea house and benches were washed away. Impermanence. I was so saddened to hear that.

Still, I hear the whispers of the Blue Spruce and the Esopus:

Slow down......savor....observe...note....be ready, a hurricane will come...drink from that chipped cup, it's a reminder that nothing is perfect....breathe deeply of the things around you...appreciate.  

the wisdom of Clint Eastwood..

 This is new, I don't fully understand it but at night in dreams I am being visited by someone.This happens almost every night. People from the past, the present and some more than once. I add them to my prayer list and remember them that way every day. Last night was different. Someone dropped in that has been in my life at a distance since forever. Clint Eastwood. Yes, the actor I first met in "Rawhide" years ago.

 I won't go into length about the visit, just that we were in a Western bar and I was buying a rawhide purse with tan fringe and following him around. In our conversation, I found out that he was becoming Catholic. At his age. I was curious and asked why. With big eyes and a stern face he said: "This world will go on forever." He seemed amazed at this, then he went on;," between the ages of 17 and 20, I thought I would never find my way, I was a loser, aimless, lost.". The conversation continues, " There is an invisible dance going on around this world. People holding hands, dancing with joy because they know that there is Mystery, they know that they are here for a purpose and so they swirl and clap and encourage others to join. I want that".

I could actually hear Clint's voice in those words. Maybe you can as well.

So here I am in Jonesboro,Georgia with a new name on my list. Mystery. Will I know someday what these prayers have accomplished ? I don't know. However, I am supposed to be doing this.The list grows and the Dance goes on.

"I trust in the Lord;
my soul trusts in his word.
My soul waits for the Lord 
more than sentinels wait for the dawn...
..For with the Lord is kindness
and with Him is plenteous redemption...'Psalm 130: 5-7.

it will be given back to you...

 Blues for Johanna by Ephemeral Emeralde.

From the water's depth, I see a hand. It is hers. I have been on a wooden dock with my sister; she is 9, I am 5 and I have fallen into a lake that is over my head. I see her hand still, coming down through the blue and green. She pulls me up back onto the deck. That is all I recall . She saved me, my sister.

It is 60 years later and I am in a hospital room with my sister who hasn't spoken to me in four years. She reads my e-mails but won't reply. She knows I have called but won't call back. But here we are; I am holding her hand and won't let go as she tells me of her stay in the hospital, what she is afraid of and how she wants to go home. She will not go home. She has three months to live and will be here until the end. As I leave the room, I tell her the truth: "I love you." She replies the same and on the day she passes, I say the same into a telephone held to her ear. And I say this " I will see you on the other side."

Months later, I am at the monastery, attending a writing seminar. Notebooks are provided, I pick a marbled one that has blue in the background because that was my sister's favorite color. Sometime in the sharing time of the group, I tell how raw the death of my sister is. After the session, a young woman from Florida asks if she could pray with me in the church. I agreed and she prayed a beautiful prayer and left. I began to to tell the Lord of my regret for all the years lost when we weren't communing. Then , I heard this."Those years will be given back to you."

I don't know what that means but it was so unexpected and inscrutable that I believe the words to be true.They comfort as does writing about this part of my life, my life with my dear, missed sister which will continue in another place.

"We journey through treasures every day of our lives, they are on loan so that we might learn to trust and love the Lender."

have I done enough ?

When I left for the beach a week ago, I tried to give my small spindly plant, a crown of thorns, just the right amount of water without drowning it. This little plant means so much to me. It's a connection with my beloved youngest son. There is a story there but that is for another time. One morning at the beach I awoke thinking of that plant, going over what I did for it and wondered if it was enough.

  Do we, as Christians, not wonder that all the time; am I doing enough for the Kingdom?

A few years ago, John and I started taking a man in his 50s to church every Sunday. Robert was HIV positive and had suffered for 20 years with that disease. He had had a stroke and walking was very difficult, his vision was affected as well. He could see a bit. So, we struggled to find a handicapped space every week, help him from the car and often John took him to his doctor for treatments. He was so thin, gaunt really, and weak but each Sunday he waited for us. And on the way home we would have a laugh fest.He noticed things at Mass, not holy things, I am sorry to say. Like the lady whose shoes didn't match anything she wore.Or the haircut that looked bad. On he went and we couldn't help but enjoy him. He was holy and struggled mightily to be faithful to his Lord.And how he missed dancing.

He passed away and having no family here, the church was spare in people. As I sat there viewing his casket, I thought:  "I could have done so much more for him." Once, the people who invited him for Thanksgiving phoned and canceled his visit. He called us crying. We left our family and took him dinner.We should have brought him over. I should have called him more. When his PC wouldn't work, I should have been more patient. I was thinking this with my eyes closed when I saw this: he was above the casket, dancing and then he communicated this to me: "None of that matters now.No one thinks in those terms.All is perfect joy."

I think we worry about the wrong things. Just do as you are led. A smile can heal.A note can lift. And by the way, my little sweet plant is fine. I did enough.

Follow Me

  Sometime in my twenties, I read an article in Newsweek by someone my age entitled 'Searching for Sages." I loved it , cut it out and have it still. The author, Joyce Maynard,  wrote about her generation and how they all seemed to be looking for a wise man, someone with the "answers" to life's many mysteries. How every guy she had coffee with seemed to have story about a truck driver they met who was a philosopher of sorts who imparted some nugget of wisdom that her friend hangs onto. God had been declared dead by Time magazine and so this generation, mine,  was adrift with nothing to hang onto.

 Her writing was so good she went on to publish books but her article is the one that struck me deeply. In my view, we are born with a need to know. To understand how things work, and most importantly. why we are here at all.

That generation also had travelers going to find a guru in India, famously, a Beatle, and trying Open Marriage, a way to cheat and still keep a marriage together. We became lovers of the Earth and spent our time chained to fences around nuclear sites.

In the article, Maynard describes a kid who came to show and tell in the fourth grade with rosary beads, a crucifix and spoke lovingly of God, the blood of Christ and nails. The laughter in the class was barely contained. To her and others, to speak of these things seemed almost dirty.

And so here we are,  with every abomination under the sun being exposed, things that always seem to harm women and children the most. Rudderless, we do as we please. There is nothing new under the sun; we are always trying to do it our way. I think of that brilliant poem that I only now appreciate, "The Hound of Heaven ". We know there is Someone to follow but we flee...

                               "......I fled Him down the nights and down the days,
                                 I fled him down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind
                                       and in the midst of tears, I fled from Him...

The Maynard article ends with this: "After so many unprofound facts and so much loose, undisciplined freedom,  it's comforting to have a creed to follow and a cross to bear".When the Voice says : "Follow Me." The only answer is Yes.

Life is not a race.....harmony.

There is a certain gentleness and peace about the word given today : harmony. It suggests hand holding and dancing in a circle. It may be one of my favorites although I don't quite know where to go with this. One of the definitions is agreement, another, concord. I think of the Concord Bridge in Massachusetts where the American Revolution started. Not much harmony that day except among the patriots who were tired of being ruled from miles away.

The poem Desiderata encourages this: "..as far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons." Sometimes that takes work  and forgiveness. For me, it required walking into my sister's hospital room when, for four years, she had made it clear that she didn't want to speak to me. She was very ill but alert. I didn't know how it was going to go when I walked in but my husband and niece stood outside the door in case of fireworks. When I went through the doorway she just said:  "Oh" I sat down, took her hand and we talked for a long time. I had prayed for that reconciliation and it happened. A peaceful coming together. Harmony, though quiet, requires effort.

I think the Creator of the Universe desires harmony. As the stars hum , the moon moves and the planets spin, it all works. His creatures should do no less.

Perhaps harmony is this: the placid acceptance of each other in the knowledge that we all are on the same path. That we are all made of the same God stuff and are loved equally and eternally by the same Person. Again the poem: "If you compare yourself with others you may become vain and bitter. Enjoy your own achievements as well as your plans."

I wonder if we can be in harmony with others if our interior is not in agreement with how we are living our lives. Do we reflect our own values? Balance. Are we at peace with who we are?
And this from the poem:

...."Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whether it is clear to you, the world is probably unfolding as it should. With all its sham,  drudgery and broken dreams it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy." Max Erhman

kaleidoscope love

                     

                             

                                                        Goldfinches...

.                              ...."they sing not for the sake of winning..
                                        But for sheer delight and gratitude..
                                            Believe me they say
                        It is a serious thing to be alive this fresh morning in this broken world.".
                                                                                           Mary Oliver   



The story I wrote once about the "The Goldfinch",  that 1654 piece of art above by Carel Fabritius, started out with a bit of fury, "Who would do such a horrible thing?" It was woven around the obscenity of tying a songbird to a perch for one's amusement. What a limited life the bird would have, wild as it is, fettered in a house with the ability to fly just inches. It makes me sad to think of that still.

 My story then discussed my Grandmother's limited life, she who never drove a car, also Amanda Berry, a teenager kidnapped and held captive in Cleveland for ten years, and women totally clothed who are beaten if an ankle shows. It made me appreciate how open my life is.

  Strangely, the words that came to mind as I woke up today were these two: tether-ball and kaleidoscope. I know better now than to throw my hands up and scratch my head. Tether ball involves playing with a soccer ball attached to a pole by a short rope. The ball is very limited as to how far from the pole it can go. The ball is dun colored, uninteresting to look at, although I bet the game is fun.

 And this is what I was given to understand by these two words. What we know of life, of the Creator, is about the amount of space between the pole and the ball. What God really is that our minds cannot fathom is something like a Kaleidoscope, that fascinating instrument many of us had as toys when we were children. Is there any limit to the colors, the shapes, the configurations that we can summon as we slowly, slowly turn the kaleidoscope's moving part? I can remember feeling like I was looking at another magical world so unlike my own. This , this wonder, is a glimpse of what we are to encounter when we travel back to our home. Deo Gracias

a chair and goodness

Another dream, another visitor. This time, Jean,  someone I used to work with was having her writings read aloud. Oh, how I wanted my story to be next. We writers are a vain lot. Read me, read me, and if my story makes you weepy or happy, I will love you for life. Sigh.

The word I woke with this morning was something like transparency. In Jeans' story, she was very open and vulnerable and that was it's greatness. I have trouble with that, always have. I want to be perceived as having it all together. All the time.

Maya, considered the Mother of Creation by her devotees in India is the Hindu and Buddhist Goddess of illusion. She, having brought all into existence by willing it, knows the truth of existence beyond the veils of our human perception of separateness and teaches us that we are all one.

And so, if deep within, I am that little five year old who was so afraid of making a mistake that I put a grey dot in the middle of the coloring book elephant, rather than risk going outside the lines, maybe you are too. I read on Twitter of a person that doesn't want to die but is tired of living and I pray, how I pray for grace to seep in to change that person's perception." It gets better,"; I scream inwardly and I add them to my prayer list. If he only knew how I believe God sees us.

For some reason we were talking about goodness at our last writing group meeting. I think one of the lovely participants is focusing on that word in her blog posts for this month. It brought to mind something I read about St. Therese Couderc and a vision she was gifted with that touches me deeply. She describes it this way : "

"I saw written as in letters of gold this word Goodness, which I repeated for a long while with an indescribable sweetness. I saw it even on the chair I was using as a kneeler. I understood then that all that these creatures have of good and all the services and helps that we receive from each of them is a blessing that we owe to the goodness of God, who has communicated to them something of His infinite goodness, so that we may meet it in every thing and everywhere".

If a chair is imbued with goodness from the providential Hand of God, so are we who bear His image. As Maya says: "We are all One , each of us the beautifully prismatic expression of the Divine." If only my Twitter friend knew how even a chair can speaks to us of God who we can meet in everything and everywhere.

options, butterflies and me.

Right now, outside my window is a brown and blue butterfly who is spending time on my bare, well eaten rose bush. He flits and so does my mind with this word "options". I turn to Scripture and read what is below..It stiffens my spine.It tells me to keep going even if no one reads what I write. Keep going. Get the truth out there. Be my instrument.

"I will bless the Lord who counsels me; even in the night my heart exhorts me ."Ps 16:7.

Yes, this is what is happening. At night and in the early hours I am being exhorted. To listen and never think that my words are inadequate or unnecessary.

My journal scribbles from this morning mentions the option to be kind, thoughtful, interested, things I strive to do. Minutes later I failed badly.  I was writing a thank you note to my son when my husband came in to tell me about a friend at church who just offered to pick up another older friend and bring him to Mass each Sunday. I barely paid attention, trying to achieve my goal. As he left he said : "Tim, the man who volunteered, is a good man. I finished my note and realized that I had chosen another option rather than the kind one. Sigh. Words, is that all I produce?

I went into the room where my husband was making a list and told him this: "You have offered to do that same thing repeatedly, that makes you a good man."He smiled. It is often a struggle to recognize the best thing to do and then to follow through. In reading about mindfulness,I have discovered that one can learn to control thoughts; and that there is a nanosecond between a stimulant and your reaction where you, just you , can decide the best way. Lord, led me to that place more often.

gleanings

This word attracts me. It seems bright somehow. At a glance I see the word glow. It suggests openness, an ability to let the light come in a small opening. It actually means to gather laboriously, bit by bit. Isn't that what we do in our years, sauntering through this life ? Gathering things that hold us together, that give our lives meaning. A quote here, a suggestion there. We bend over and pick up a saying by Buddha, or a Bible verse, a friend's comment and we believe. We stuff them in our souls and consider the day a good one.

I wrote these in my journal: 

......we are not alone....there is a point to our being here....no matter how grim, it does get better...the key to health is moving....writing is a special grace...what we do matters...our ancestors are somewhere...we do have guardian angels....don't stop singing show tunes...plant a garden even if it is three pots.....feed your soul with poetry and art daily and write about it..start to spend more time in nature, walk, sketch...pay attention to dreams, God can speak in that dark time.......keep a journal, back entries are amazing.....take that leap and just believe...that you are loved and that God has a plan for your life...what we can't see is so much better that what we do see...there is mystery....

Co-incidence? Yesterday was the anniversary of 9-11. I opened an old journal yesterday to find a profound dream that I had had. There I found a different entry which revealed that I had a boyfriend, the actor James Woods, who I now, 30 years later, follow on Twitter. He who was on a flight the week before with the terrorists who caused 9-11.They were acting suspiciously so he reported it to the FBI who did nothing. That was their dry run.What a co-incidence that his name should appear when I opened my old journal. He who had tried to avert a tragedy. Mystery.

Someone posted this on Twitter today.

"Faith is confident assurance concerning what we hope for and conviction about things we do not see." Hebrews 11-1.

I am grateful for all the little sticks and stubble put on my path, bits of truth that hold my life.The gleanings.

Joy

  By the time I got out of bed, the first word had left my mind but then "Joy" came and I grabbed it. Just the appearance of that word in my mind brought some speck of joy.What a word.

I only drink coffee, laced with Coffeemate Carmel Latte, twice a week as a sacrifice and I can tell you that abstaining the other days makes Wednesday and Sunday feel like a holiday with fireworks. Sweet, sweet Carmel. Today was coffee day.

It reminds me of a story I read about the monks on the solitary rock island know as Skellig Micheal off the Irish coast. They ate simply, prayed all day and had little contact with the outside world. They were so deprived that the slightest bit of beauty, a passing bird, a blooming weed filled them with intense joy. There is a lesson here.

This brought back memories of the times when my kids were young and I would head to Helen , Georgia by myself for three days. I stayed at a motel right on the Chattahoochee River; my first hour spent sitting on the small patio looking and listening to the soft river sounds. I never remember a more peaceful time.

I always went in early Spring when crowds were few. A small purple flower is pressed into my journal page dated April 10, 1989. I remember picking it, the purple so lovely against the brown leaves along the road :.... "thoughts strung together like beads, lilac scent, small purple and white violets, horses greeting me at a fence, river sounds. Discovered a lovely waterfall behind the motel. Every trip here is different. I treasure every moment."

The joy of solitude where your thoughts can go where you want and not be interrupted. A cool breeze on your face as you run by the river. No television and sleeping until you wake up. Starting the day with the Psalms open on your lap and the river at your feet. And then the joy of the four little faces that greet you when you come home, renewed.

                                                           Celtic Prayer
                                      The love and affection of the angels
                                      be with me.
                                      The love and affection of the saints
                                       be with me,
                                       The love and affection of heaven
                                       be with me.
                                      To lead me and cherish me
                                       this day.

light as a feather...

                                             

    Painting by Natalie Buske Thomas

                                                            You yourself, 
                                       as much as anybody in the entire universe, 
                                              deserve your love and affection...Buddha                                                                                                                     


The word that I awoke with this morning was "Confession." I am not sure where to go with this but I must "confess" that I am so tired of the sun and these brutal September days in my beloved Georgia. No rain, plants drooping, about to expire. One runs from car to house before being pressed and melted like an ice cream cone dropped on a sidewalk. Help.

That's not what this is about. It is telling of the relief one feels when going to the Catholic sacrament and unloading your selfishness onto the sturdy shoulders of a priest. It is about facing your shortcomings and yes, sins,  and hoping to leave them behind and start afresh, a blank slate, a new creation.

I have often heard this: why not just tell God and I get that question. My answer always relates to my time living in Denver in the 70s when I used to listen to a call-in Christian station. Many times the caller would say, "I have said I am sorry to God but I don't know if I have been forgiven, or I don't feel like I am forgiven." I would think, that is sad, because I never felt that way. The reason that has never been an issue I think is because Confession exacts a price. It is hard. To face yourself and then humbly tell another human your sins is difficult.The relief when you leave is palpable. Nothing matches it.

When my kids were young and we would go as a family to Penance , I remember them gamboling about the parking lot like new fawns having left their burdens behind. It is a great gift.

And so I recall confessions that I am sure took place with two people that I cared deeply about , my sister and my friend, Mike. They had been away from the Church for almost their whole lives but at the end, they chose to meet with a priest and tell their stories so they could move on to the next place unburdened. I makes me happy t think of them walking lightly on their way.

The scene from "The Shack" comes to mind where the sad, broken Dad walks up the path to the big house where God waits and as he walks , the dark starts to disappear, the snow melts, the trees and flowers bloom and the path is lit by the sun.That is what Confession is like, a path back to the Light.

a refection on connections...

People say that one doesn't need to go to church to worship God. I get that but then I never would have met Anna and Matthew.

It was twenty years ago that I was part of the team that welcomed people coming into the Church. The day I met Linda is etched in my mind. I sat down next to her and her husband, Joe, and admired her red hair. Just a beautiful color. She quietly told me that it was a wig but the exact color of her real hair and I could tell by her fair coloring that this was true.Thus began a friendship that was limited in time.

I don't have to say why Linda wore a wig. I will tell you of her courage. Newcomers are asked to speak at the Masses after the Easter when they are baptized and Linda volunteered. I have never forgotten her words. She told a bit about how glad she was to be a member of the Church, about her health journey and then said this : "No matter what happens, I will be alright. I belong to God."

At one of the last meetings at church,  Linda invited me to visit her at home. I was glad to do so and that is when I met her grandchildren, Anna and Matthew. I think they were 5 and 7 years old. I also eventually met their mother Lora. I don't know what happened at that visit but those children became so important to me and me to them. I think they have always associated me with their beloved Grandma.

Since then, these many years, I have been hugged, kissed, patted and loved by these children and their sister Emma, who is now 13. I have always considered it a wonderful blessing to know them. And their Mom to be a great friend.

As if this wasn't enough, after this past Sunday Mass, I got to meet Matthew's little son. He looked me in the eye and as if he knew his role as a joy giver, blessed me with the biggest smile and reached out to me. Delighted isn't the right word.

It is hard to type this final paragraph but this small story is a thank you to my friend Linda who passed in 2002. She left behind a wonderful family that loves me.

Dreams are mentors

Those title of this story was written on the top of some material I had when I was in formation to be a spiritual director. Little did I know that those words were exactly what I needed to see twenty years later. I am having so many dreams of people that I haven't seen or thought of very often for years. Why?

We have been told that dreams are just a way for the mind to satisfy it's unfulfilled desires or it's just a bit of boiled beef disturbing the stomach.(Thank you, Charles Dickens) Mostly, I think we ignore our dreams, laugh at them, or shrink from them. What if the following statement by the Psychiatrist Carl Jung is true :

"We have forgotten that age-old fact that God speaks chiefly through dreams and visions.".

Lead by a dream, I took my oldest grandson out for ice cream when he was going through a difficult time. Just he and I, to get ice cream. In the dream he had poured out his heart about the problem. I just knew I was being directed to try to have that conversation. Off we went alone, which was very unusual, and although he didn't say much, I told him I was sorry he was experiencing a hard patch and he could call me anytime if he needed help. It didn't turn out like the dream but I sensed going forward a closeness that we didn't have before.

The most profound one I had was after my sister passed away. We had been estranged for 4 years before her death and nothing I did was enough to mend the rift. So I asked my deceased Mother to fix it. Two weeks before her passing, my sister and I reconciled and I spoke to her on the phone the day she died. A week later, I had this briefest of dreams:

I walked into a bare room with only two chairs. My mother and sister sat side by side with their heads touching. I said : "It's been a long time, are you O.K ?" My mother said: "We're fine."

That was a visit. I know it.

It was a dream of his deceased father that brought the brilliant Jung to consider that maybe there is an after life. In tribal societies, dreams often comprised an alternative spiritual reality to which humans gained access only through the dream state.

Time is short, think of what we may be missing. Dreams can be mentors.