we are surrounded by magic.

  Thomas Merton, the hermit monk,  writes often about his visceral need for solitude, to be with the Lord in his spare hermitage. In today's reading, he talks about the pleasure of receiving letters, people writing to him because of his essays that appear now and again in magazines and I sense some guilt in that pleasure.As if he feels that all he should need is God alone.

 I wonder about that. Don't even hermits come down from their caves in the mountains to beg for food and maybe, just maybe, human appreciation in some form?

 A book that I just finished speaks to all this. "Habits of a Happy Heart" tells of the positive chemicals that are released in humans that cause happiness, however fleeting.One such chemical, serotonin, appears when we receive kudos from our peers, whoever they may be.The author suggests that one habit that might be worthy of our developing would be to savor those moments. If we bat them away or deny those moments we are missing out on that gift nature has for us.

 Speaking of batting away, I can recall my Mother, from good intentions no doubt, would be sure to bring me down a peg or two if I mentioned a victory."You must be humble", I heard."Don't be a big shot", she said.Sigh.Anyway, it's's not too late is it?

 The other day, I received a thank you note from a member of our writing group.I had sent her a small multi-colored  enamel cross with the word Joy on it. I could see it hanging near her writing desk by the window where she creates gorgeous haiku. She wrote that the colors matched her spot perfectly. Then she wrote, "Are you magic ?." Oh how I loved that small sentence. She and I and the others engage in magic every time we gather to write and share our stories.Magic, mystery and miracles are all around us.

 Despite Merton and my Mom, I called my daughter, Jessica, to share that story, savoring the serotonin and knowing she would not bat it away.

solitary moments

  A glass jar sits by  my desk. I have started to collect moments in the jar, things that happened that I want to remember. I want them to be there so that on a rainy, cold, uninspired day, I will remember. In the jar, along with the slips of paper that the moments are captured on, are three pens, purple,blue and yellow. They brighten the whole thing up.I gaze at the jar often and wonder what it would look like if I had done this for many years instead of a few months.

 One of the memories is of a few days before Christmas when the family gathered here. As a tradition, someone reads the Bible narrative of the birth of Christ, usually the oldest grandchild. This year , the oldest was away at boot camp, so we were all  a bit wistful to begin with . Then Riley, the next oldest read and as he did I was struck by the sudden depth of the silence surrounding us. It was almost like we had never heard these words before. I rested in that holy silence and surrounded by those I love, never wanting it to end.

Many memories are not in the jar and these are the wisps of happenings that will stay with me forever and have changed the way I look at life.The small white butterfly who danced around me on a hot hillside in Australia as I sat alone and miserable. It just stayed and stayed and I just knew, as inexplicable as it was, that this was a visit. I even took a picture from the spot to mark what happened.A few months later, a young man at church, who I barely know, asked it I had had an encounter with a butterfly and if so it was my Mother comforting me.

 In a small quiet chapel at a retreat house in Alabama. I feel called to leave my room, go there and kneel. On the altar is a golden monstrance with the host exposed . My head is bowed and when I glance up I hear this: "This is all that matters".I am stunned and then I think, "Yes, when you think about it, this is truth".I am grateful beyond words for this solitary moment.

Tailor sitting alone in my room in 1989. On the worn yellow rug with the door shut,  just a few minutes to pray..I said one word, " Jesus" and then it happened, an occurrence that I have no name for. I was filled with something that was so powerful, I was afraid it would lift me and carry me away. Love? I don't know what it was and I have never felt it again. I was so fearful of leaving my children that I got up and then tried to write about it.I think this phenomenon is recognized in Buddhism as well and to me it seemed like a small taste of heaven.

Without these moments of solitude, none of these things would have happen.I crave solitude because my spirit knows what can be there waiting, beyond my wildest dreams."Eye has not seen ear has not heard what God has ready for those who love Him."We sang that yesterday.

memories of a drinker part 2..

   Receiving many responses to my last post about my child hood, I feel that there is more to tell. My middle son, Kevin and I had a great chat about what I wrote that proved revealing to me as I followed the timeline of my life. His question was about how I managed to break the cycle of alcohol and abuse.

  My mind went back to a day when I left God behind like a discarded sweater as I walked over the bridge that spanned the Belt Parkway in Queens.I was headed home from St.Clare's Church, liberated from ever going to church again by something the priest had said that was the last straw. He had asked that we pray for the conversion of the North Vietnamese and my mind rebelled.When had prayer every worked, much less this one ? I floated home, free.

 Three years later, living in a posh condo in California, I woke up one day, with a chasm in my center that I could almost see. I knew what it was and said these words: "God , if you are there , help me." I wish I knew  the exact day so I could cerebrate it but the year was 1971. Nothing happened at that moment but what happened after was quite stunning. The way I was gently led to books and people whose words became a lifeline back to the One who loved me first.Words in a book from the library. I thought it was a love story but was actual the conversion story of St.Augustine. How had that book come to my hand ?.Hundreds of years later, his words stirred my heart. And on it went.

So my answer to the question is the Japanese art of kintsugi. The art of repairing and sealing the broken pieces of pottery, cups and bowls with gold.

As time went on, I began to understand the most important thing that I would ever know, that I am loved. This, which is what each human needs, and are made for. It matters not who we are, who are flawed parents were, how we have been treated, how sinful we are, we are loved. We are His children and we are loved. I have heard those words in my heart and I know where those words came from.

And so the great Kintsugi Artist, has filled in my cracks, crevices, my sores, wounds, and lacks not with dust and resin but with streams of grace.

..Today's perfect reading:...."then you shall cry for help, and he will say: "Here I am."..Isaiah 58:9.