scared spaces

In the rush of getting to Mass this morning, I doubted that I would have time to be grateful. But the One who is inspiring these words had other plans. Churches. And so the word churches went into the journal. What have they meant in my life that spurs gratitude.

Ah, beauty, first recognized  in Catholic Churches. Bells ringing, flowers, always flowers, vestments, especially the rose colored ones, or the green ones in ordinary time that speak of growth, trees, life. Soaring arches, stained glass windows with colorful scenes.

There was a church on Long Island, I think St.Anthony's, that we would go to on Holy Thursday to see.The church was festooned in white banners with gold letters and gold trimming.White altar cloths but most memorable, canaries in white cages high up along the walls.What a sight and sound. Then, on Good Friday, the churches were stripped bare. So empty to show what life is like without Christ because on that day He is dead . No bells even, just wooden clappers.

The monastery church of the Trappists here in Georgia. Built in the 50s by hand out of cinder blocks. No fancy stained glass just windows made of  blue and pink strips of glass that paint the bare white walls with color when the sun comes and the chanting begins. And one Spring, a stunning deep blue orchid in a pot on the altar.

A church in El Salvador that had no walls just some wrought iron bars well spaced. The breeze blew through when it wanted and the Stations of the Cross were beautifully painted tan roof tiles.Light, airy, God's house.

The gorgeous Cathedral in Leon, Spain where I took my concern to prayer. My plantar fascistic was flaring and I had no idea how I could walk the rest of the 500 miles of The Way of St.James, the Camino. I knelt and just said;" help."The Voice said :"Did you think I brought you all this way without being with you 'til the end ? Stretch and stretch and all shall be well."The next day I walked and it never bothered me again.

A smaller place, a chapel in a convent in Alabama. I was resting in my room when I was urged to go to the chapel. I wanted to nap but the urge persisted. I shuffled off and then knelt before the monstrance with the Host exposed. After a few minutes, I gazed up and heard these words,"This is all that matters".Yes.

And finally Notre Dame, where I spent 20 minutes kneeling before the rose colored window and felt that Presence that others have felt and had no words for. Even non-believers. That was before. This June, my family allowed me to have my time there again. Of course, She is damaged, there is no light inside, yet, sitting on a wall praying the Lady's rosary, I felt that, nothing was lacking. Trees overhead were waving and then I felt such compassion for a lady next to me who was in pain. I held her hand and church happened outside, beyond the tall temporary fence.

For these sacred spaces and others, I give thanks.

a paean to.....

He was my first crush, this tall lanky New Englander, this saunterer who died a hundred years before my birth. He gave me permission to be different, to not feel bad that I preferred the company of trees to people. Marching to a different drummer he called it and I hugged him in my heart.

And so he would understand my gratitude this day for feet.The ones who will carry me two miles around my neighborhood this morning, that took me to the sands of Jones Beach as a child and daily, the street in front of my house.One summer my feet were so busy that the red Keds wore out on the bottom after three weeks.A new pair had to be bought; the parents were not happy. Feet. Taken for granted.

In Fall , those feet took me up the street to the bus stop, kicking a stone on the way.Parental disapproval was instant. Summer hikes at Hunter Mountain, and for 30 years these feet obeyed and served my need to jog on Georgia roads that became in a strange way, mine.A teary saunter to the rim of the Grand Canyon where my gaze caught sight of inexplicable pink among the greys and tans.

The Camino in Spain where I really knew I had feet when they screamed for mercy after 13 mile days in boots.Massage, change shoes, rest. And the next day, they again were willing for another 175 miles.They have been my ready servants to my desire to jump rope, hop, climb, amble, run, meander.

Without his strong feet we would have no Maine Woods or Walden Pond. So I offer a paean,. which is a hardy hymn of praise, to Thoreau and my feet.

what matters.

photo by C.P.Burrow

There is a scene in the movie,"The Way," where Martin Sheen is in a bar surrounded by people arguing about the Basque situation.He, being an American, is then asked his opinion.He says that he hasn't one and the men around him fall out of their chairs laughing."An American without an opinion, unheard of they chortle." We do have our opinions, we who are surrounded by news 24 hours a day. Much hysterical. This is important stuff but how do we know what really matters.The answer can come in the early morning hours when we first get out of bed.With pen and paper.

Yesterday was gracious memories, today, was here, now. "Awake, the world is out there , orderly , as it should be. Sun burning the summer grass, clay soil, hard and dry, the trees, still there, quiet, not moving. There is no hurricane or raging woods fire to take these trees away.They stand as they did yesterday, tired green, curled dried leaves below. Fall is coming as it has for all of my 70 plus years. Order. I am grateful.

Memories of lunch with a friend of the soul who inspires and a screensaver with Stanley , my youngest grandson. Smiling and perfect."

 Tucking these things in my heart through my pen and journal. Focus, appreciation. A choice.

The other day I was gifted with this beautiful haiku from a dear friend which she created at Mass last Sunday.. The writing of this unique poem tells me how she is focusing and appreciating.We remind each other:
                                                            Oak white hydrangea
                                                         small green lizard on blossom
                                                             watching church goers.......Kay Warford

there is something to this gratitude business..

For a few days now, I have had a small journal by my bedside. As soon as I wake up, I write down the things that fill me with gratitude. It does start the day better but I noticed something unusual that happened today. Instead of the near things: sleep, comfy bed, spouse etc, I was flooded with memories of my Mother's flowers. It was a trip I was taken on rather one that I chose.

I never saw my Mother garden but, sometime before I was born, the lilacs were planted. If you have never enjoyed the scent of May blooming purple lilacs, you are terribly deprived.They grew on the east side of the house and were as high as the second story. The lily of the valley almost beat the lilacs in the swooning scent contest.The azaleas, white, red ,salmon, pink were faithful every year. Dogwood, and daffodils.These are the gifts that surrounded me in the Spring on Long Island. I miss them.

Then came a different memory.I was laying on a gurney in 2010, waiting for my first colonoscopy. I was afraid and not too proud to admit it. Alone as I waited, I felt this: my beloved deceased dog Cooper was laying by my side next to my left arm.There was just enough room and I knew it was him. I was comforted beyond measure.

Ah, you say, nice memory but you conjured it to feel better. Maybe, but then there is this.When I got home and went on-line to Facebook, the most curious thing happened.On that day, a co-worker of my son's posted a picture of he and Cooper taken at the camp where they both spent the summers. He had taken it a few years before and posted it that day.

So, this was the second memory that surfaced to bless the beginning of my day. One miracle left. I wanted so much to see that picture again and had no idea how to find it. I went to Facebook and found it with ease on my son's timeline. I couldn't believe that I located that 9 year old post. God finds ways to let us know He is with us in whatever form He knows we are able to accept. Bouquets of flowers and a faithful dog. I am grateful.

a numinous moment

art by Alona Frankel

It was a bright, glorious May day, one that only those who lived through the bitter New York winter deserve. The sky that had been grey and dreary for 6 months was sparkling blue. The scent of purple lilacs danced across the green lawn. I was 5 years old and had just finished my lunch. Dashing out the back door,  I looked for my mother who was hanging sheets that were flapping in the breeze. She heard the little song I was singing and turned. I asked if I could go play with my friend up the street and she smiled with such great warmth and said: Yes, and have fun."I carried the glow of that smile with me all day.

This is not a scene one would put in a novel, just an ordinary moment in a day but I have held it close for all these years. Somewhere in my life I understood the significance of the remembering.  It was because most of the other interactions were not as graced as this one. Often, they were with a curt reply or shrill yelling. This was affirmed for me when my daughter was taking a course in child psychology at Georgia State. In passing, she said that children remember the unusual, the rare occurrence, not the ordinary. Yes, the fall in the lake when I was 4, I recall vividly the colors and the fright. And this unusual day with that smile.All these years I have painted that shiny day with a grey brush wondering why it had to be the unusual and not the usual.Why hadn't I seen that loving smile more?

They say that, to have a desire for God, one must have had a numinous moment, a moment of grace in their lives. Now, in this place in my life, I choose to believe this: I know my mother loved me, she had a hard life and she gave me this one moment and showed me the love of God. It was enough.

Do not soil the moments..New Zealand

Dancer in a Floral Forest-Natalie Buske Thomas


Today's reading in Matthew speaks of loving your enemies. How impossible is that? How do we get there? The other day, out of nowhere, a thought came that might give me a clue to understand this unreachable command.

If I believe that the Creator forged and called into being the world and everything in it, that must include time.Yes, minutes, hours, this moment, this day, all time.And if that is the case, this minute belongs to Him. And? So if this is God's minute, how would He expect me to spend it? This may not be news to anyone but me, but it has changed my thinking so much.

The other day, I was expecting someone to come for the week-end for spiritual direction.When this dear soul comes, I try to have flowers in the room she uses.There were daffodils out there and I knew she would relish the bright yellow of these spring blessings. But I wanted to do something else. Then: if in fact, this is God's time, how would He have me spend it. Off I went to pick.

And if these minutes have been His all along and I am just gifted with them, wouldn't I be grateful in each of them? Yes, grateful.

The Welsh painter Gwen John said this after her conversion: "Every moment is holy. Do not soil the moments".Yes, so profound, so worthy of belief. What else do I need to know ?Well, I would need to know Him in some fashion to know what He expects me to do with this time. His Word, a raft in the middle of the churning ocean that I can hang onto.

Now picture this. I am a hater, filled with self loathing, standing in the doorway of a mosque. Hating myself is so unbearable, I have to send this burden elsewhere so I am here with my weapon. I will take control of life for a few minutes and destroy because that is the only thing that makes me feel larger than a flea.Then, a small whisper in my ear: "These few moments are mine. I am a Creator and I want you to be as well. I love you and all those around you.I have a better plan. Follow me."The prayers continue in the mosque, I wipe my tears away and walk slowly out into the sunshine.

Flower and black sky

Flower and Black Sky-Ken Kiff


What an odd painting.Take the flower out and what do you have? Night sky, dim moon and a bare lifeless tree.Who even notices flowers at night ?If your friend has a rose garden, do you pick up a flashlight and go look as you leave? No, you rush to the car to get out of the dark. Night is frightful.

The solitary flower reminds me of a touching O'Henry story, "The Last Leaf." I can see the lonely, swollen eyed woman in her 30s whose husband has just left her. She is lamenting as she gazes out the winter window to the tree that has lost all its leaves but one at the top. In her desperation she yells to the sky;" if that leaf is still there tomorrow, I will know that all is not lost."Her elderly, white haired upstairs neighbor has heard it all and when the apartment complex is in sleep mode, he creeps out with his ladder, climbs to the top of that tree and tightly ties the last leaf to the branch.This night's wind will not blow it away.

The next morning, she looks out to the miracle, her leaf clings, she will be O.K. She will also find out later that the old man was found under tree where he had fallen to his death.

Another movie scene comes to mind: in the movie "Unbroken", we visit the story of an Olympic runner of the 1936 Olympics who winds up in the Air Force in World War 2.In 1943, His plane is shot down, he spends 47 days alone on a raft and when rescued, it is by Japanese forces who put him in a prison in Tokyo.The men there are starved, beaten and Loius Zamperini, being an American sports hero, is singled out for special cruelty. He survives unbroken. But is he ?

The movie sequel "Unbroken, Road to Redemption" shows life after he gets home: no job, anger boiling over his treatment, sleepless, nightmare filled nights and then heavy drinking.But he goes to a Billy Graham Crusade and finally, finally let's the Light in. Let's Christ into his heart.He is transformed.

In 1950, he goes back to Japan to that same camp where now his former tormentors are kneeling on the floor, heads bowed, captives themselves. In a touching moment, one of the kneeling men looks up and Louis slowly goes to him, lifts him up and says," It's O.K. It's O.K.", then another , then another until he has assured each man of his forgiveness in these simple words; "It's O.K."

To the lonely girl on the playground, It's O.K.", From a Grandma baking biscuits, the auntie giving love, the ancestors paying visits, "It's O.K."

That is what that small purple flower whispers:" It's O.K. It will always be O.K."