"Observe how the lilies of the field grow; they do not toil nor do they spin, yet I say to you that not even Solomon in all his glory clothed himself like one of these."

These June mornings are so much warmer than I would like them to be. I arose at 6:30 this morning to let the dogs out, slipped on my clothes, and sat on the patio where I read morning prayer. All the while, I was looking at the lilies in my garden and thinking about how nice the newly-mown grass looks. Today, I'm in flux between healing from a surgical procedure and wanting to get on with my summer tasks, but I find myself lacking the energy I usually have. Before I realize it, the weeks will have flown by, and it will be time to begin yet another academic year, one that holds much in the way of change and new adventures. But today, I sit and ponder the lilies.

Those lilies have a lot to teach me. Jesus was such a wise teacher, and every time I come to understand another idea that he wants his disciples to "get," I realize how blessed I am to see with the eyes of Spirit. Today, I want to be a lily, not toiling or doing "stuff" for the sake of doing it. All that does is add to the weary factor and the idea that I must be productive or I am not worthy.

But "worthy of what?" I ask myself. Why is it that life must be so full and crammed with stuff to do? I believe life offers us two approaches to doing, doing, and doing. There are those who give time and energy to tasks because they want to contribute a meaningful effort to the betterment of the world. Others do just to be doing. We find tasks to keep us busy when what we may really need is to sit in silence and admire the lilies and the green grass. 

Of course, when we fill our lives with so much doing, we are feeding our Shadow. Perhaps our productivity can lead to golden shadow--when good comes out of the negative aspects of life--but why should we wear ourselves out? Aren't we worth so much more than that? Aren't we worth the time and energy and beauty that the lilies show us? They neither toil, nor spin, and yet, they are so lovely to behold.

Sit a while today. Enjoy the blue sky, the birdsong, the color in a garden. Soak up the wonders of creation and give yourself permission to not rush off to commitments that drain us dry. Lilies neither toil not spin, and yet...

A Day in the Life of a Fisherwoman

Sitting on the polished oak floor perched on a pillow near the ceiling-high window in Brenda’s meditation area I watch her as she picks her way along the rocky path to the beach. She has a white drawstring plastic trash bag in her hand, which we have just spent the last 30-45 minutes loading with salmon chum. Brenda is wearing her orange hooded slicker as she descends the pathway from her yard to the remote, rocky, rain-soaked waterfront. I watch her from above—like the birds to which she offers food, their Eucharistic table set on stones that once might have satisfied a temptation of hunger. The ravens begin to caw and crows gather. She feeds eagles. Brenda says,

“People say you shouldn't feed eagles. But all the wild animals—eagles, bears—are so habituated around here that I have no remorse about feeding these birds. Especially in winter and spring when they’re hungry. Besides, I don’t want to lose our resident pair.”

She dumps the fish chum—renderings from our afternoon catch—on the rocks. Then she calls in a high shrill voice, an imitation of the eagle’s cry, to let them know she has left them a gift. In no time at all several kinds of midnight blue-black fowl descend on the fish renderings, but the only eagle to appear—a large beautiful one with a gorgeous white spread of tail feathers—flies over from the stretch of beach in front of the neighbor’s house. Brenda suspects Johnson has just put some halibut leftovers out, since there was a large gathering of birds there. The eagles do not seem interested, so the little folk get to feast instead.

Now we gather the fish and place most of the catch into recycled grocery bags so that I can take it home with me. I am amazed at how little repulsion I feel from the events of the day: from catching the Silver Salmon, to watching Brenda whack it on the head with a wooden club, to gutting it on the boat, to filleting the entire catch in her kitchen. Now that I've caught my first salmon and have eaten some of that very same fish, I believe I have come to understand Brenda more and more—both her passion for fishing and her life as solitary and scholar.

People in Alaska have a special relationship with the salmon. Today, I have born witness to the sacrifice of salmon, a sacrifice that in Brenda’s words “remind[s] us that the life of God permeates all creation, that we must be humble before it, serve and preserve it, because the principle that underlies the cosmos is one of sacrifice and sacrifice that is not annihilation but fulfillment.  The sacrifice to which we are called is to embrace our mortality, creating a density through which the spaciousness of salvation is brought into being.  Or, mortality becomes like the framework of a sonnet that causes our creativity to burgeon and flower into spaciousness beyond its narrow gate, a spaciousness that enhances lives that follow.”

Earlier that day, Brenda and I sailed out on The Sister Act heading out into the Bay slowly at first, then picking up speed once we’re out of the harbor. I watch her carefully trying to anticipate when she needs me to do something and when she simply needs me to move out of the way. Like centuries of people who have gone to visit hermits for advice and training, I wait and watch. When young monks went to the desert, they simply went into the cell of another monk, usually a cave, and imitated what the desert father did. One such monk was Saint Anthony of the Desert, who gave up a life of privilege to devote himself to God. Brenda has honed and focused her life, giving up prestige, family, a worldly career, and a position of power in the church—all of which could have been hers had she been willing to sell short her call to be alone in prayer.

On the boat, she asks me,

“So what have you learned about solitaries?”

“I suppose the most important thing I've learned is that there are no rules for this vocation. That there are as many kinds of solitary vocations as there are solitaries.”

“True but I’d add that a solitary is solitary first of all. One does not join groups. But, yes, each solitary vocation is unique; that’s why it’s solitary.”

And after a brief pause, she adds vehemently, “The solitary life is about giving up all crutches. Forgive me is I sound fed up; I am.”

Brenda tells me, “The psychoanalyst Gregory Zilborg very much got under Thomas Merton's skin when he told him that he wanted to be a hermit by an interstate highway with a neon sign saying ‘hermit’ over the door.”

The more we talk the more questions I seem to have, and I become convinced that when I leave Juneau and have talked with her on these several occasions that what I will most likely come away with the understanding is that the eremitical, solitary life really cannot be pinned down.

Brenda, as a solitary, is fulfilling the natural course that all of us must follow.

“The solitary life is worn both very lightly and deadly, deathly seriously. It's hidden; the reality of it is not talked about much. These days, everyone wants to be a spiritual celebrity.”

Perhaps, I have discovered that I've been asking the wrong question. In listening carefully to what she has to say about the vocation, I have come to sense that everyone is a solitary. Just as every salmon has at the heart of its life a passion to return to the place of its birth, so every person is a solitary experiencing the universal condition of solitude. Solitaries simply witness to that condition by embracing it and saying, “It's okay; don't be afraid; take your part in the spiritual struggle with principalities and powers.”

Yet somehow I just know that Brenda would say this idea is wrong, too. Like John the Solitary, a monk of the 4^th century, she would say,

How long shall I be in the world of the voice

and not in the world of the word?

For everything that is seen is voice

and is spoken with the voice

But in the invisible world there is no voice

For not even voice can utter its mystery

How long shall I be voice and not silence?

When shall I depart from the voice

No longer remaining in things which the voice proclaims

When shall I become word

In an awareness of hidden things

When shall I be raised up to silence
To something which neither voice nor word can bring?

When I push Brenda to explain her understanding of this idea, she says,

“The category we make of ‘solitary’ is an artificial one, and, I think, inapplicable. In fact, it is contradictory because the solitary life points away from itself; it is kenotic. It is the same mistake we make when we say ‘spirituality’ is the same as the search for God.”

Brenda reminds me of Simone Weil who is perhaps the greatest 20^th Century writer on this subject. Such a person won't even ask herself what her ‘spirituality’ is, or use God-language and maybe won't even think of it as a search for God. There are a lot of novelists who understand this far better than church people.”

Brenda and I have reached Paradise Island by now where she intends to troll for salmon. She caught three this morning and they are on the boat in a burlap sack under a bag of ice. She sets the kicker, the smaller engine, in the water, and turns off the large Suzuki outboard. She tells me to take the wheel and keep the depth at around 117. She is determined to make a boatwoman out of me yet.

She baits the hook and sets it to the downrigger. Then we sit and wait. There’s a sense of anticipation and on more than one occasion one or the other of us says, “Here fishy, fishy…”—as if the Silvers or Kings will listen and take the bait.

Soon the waves pick up and the current roughens, but on the monitor, we both notice large bait balls. Brenda tells me to point the boat toward the shore until I reach a depth of 100 feet. We continue to troll, and she takes the wheel. Several minutes later, a thump followed by a “swoosh,” and the scream of the reel, rouses us from our reverie. “A fish!” Brenda proclaims.

She detaches the reel from the downrigger, and I say, “Are you sure you don’t want me to watch you pull the first one in?”

Her adamant reply is, “No, you’re going to catch this fish!”

I put the end of the reel in my belly for balance, and then begin to reel in the fish. We don’t know if it’s a King or a Coho, but I reel steadily as the salmon struggles to free itself of the hook. Finally, I pull it close to the surface, and Brenda says,

“Now bring it over to this side of the boat so we can get it into the net.”

I pull the reel around and guide the fish into the net that Brenda is holding. I think to myself, “How in the world does she do this alone…especially when she’s pulling in a King?” But the thought quickly evaporates as I pull the reel and fish up over the boat along with the net. Brenda takes the hook out of the fish, and I move the reel to one side while she reaches for a small wooden club. “Now, I’ve got to subdue this fish.” I watch, nonplussed, to say the least, but noting that I’m not queasy and in fact, rather accept the fate of the fish as something that just has to be done.

Brenda tells me to go back to the wheel and make sure we’re not getting in too shallow water, and I do. I correct our course, and prepare to turn the boat since we are getting a little closer to the shore than I like. She comes in the cabin, takes a look at things, then tells me to aim for the tip of the island and keep it steady while she cleans the fish.

My first catch is a female, and she weighs about ten pounds—not huge by most standards, but certainly larger than anything I've caught so far in my life. Brenda adds the fish to the burlap sack and places the ice back on top. Our excitement subsides, but the wind and tides do not.

Brenda proclaims, “We had better go in now. The tide is getting unmanageable, and I don’t want to get stuck out here.”

“No, I think, let’s not get stuck on Auke Bay.”

We begin our return trip, and I continue to steer as she changes engines. “There’s going to be a little kick as I change the engines over. Just be aware of that. This helps clean out the carburetor.”

When she finally takes the wheel, I’m more than ready to give it to her. I stand in the middle of the boat and we are silent on the way in. When we get to the harbor, we chat about other boats that are there, and then she starts giving me instructions about what to do as she puts the boat into the slip. She has a perfect landing—something she always is apologetic about when we begin—and I tell her, “I’m impressed!”

Once we’re tied down, I go up the ramp and bring a wheelbarrow down to haul our catch and the trash up to the car and dumpster. We have about seventy pounds of fish in the burlap sack. When I get back, Brenda gives me the reel to wash, and I take it like I've been doing this chore for years. I bring it back to her clean of any debris, and then lift the wheelbarrow to take back up the ramp and she follows along shortly.

Now we go to her house to fillet the salmon. I am getting weary, and I know she must be also since our trip together was the second one out for her today. We quickly set up the space in her kitchen with newspapers and knives and before long, she is cutting the fish while I hold the trash bag and then switch to freezer bags when the fillets are cut into steaks. I observe more of the process than I participate in, but I know I am witness to something sacred: I have plunged into mystery, my hands slick with “fishness.”

We finish our chore and she goes out to feed the eagles. The day with Brenda ends as abruptly as it began. She helps me gather bags of fish which I take home to put in Sandy and Renee’s large refrigerator. The three of us take out several pieces of salmon and cook them on the stove top and sit at the table enjoying the fresh fish. We celebrate our friendship with each other, Brenda’s generosity, and the life of the salmon.

Sermon for Lent IV

Year B Lent IV, March 15, 2015

Numbers 21:4-9; Psalm 107:1-3, 17-22; Ephesians 2:1-10; John 3:14-21

          Prayer: Let us pray. Lord, open our hearts that we may hear your Word. Give us grace to journey with you through the remainder of this Lenten season and into Holy Week, and bring us to the glorious celebration of your Resurrection. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

          I cannot begin to imagine the Israelites’ horror when the snakes came. I grew up in the South Carolina Low Country, and I have experienced many times when I have thought “the only good snake is a dead snake.” Maybe some of you think that snakes are okay, and as long as they are at a safe distance, like behind the glass in a zoo, I have to admit that some can be mysteriously beautiful. To the Israelites, however, the snakes meant painful, poisonous bites and physical death.

          The snakes came because the Israelites were grumbling against God and Moses. So, here are a people who have left the only home they have ever known to follow a man to some place called the Promised Land. Like most humans, they got hungry and thirsty and weary, and when they did, God provided for them. Yet, what God provided did not seem good enough; in fact, they found the manna rather disgusting. They complained that it would have been better for them to have stayed in Egypt as slaves. After all, they had been on this journey for close to forty years, more or less, and it seemed high time to do something besides wander in the desert heat on hot sand from one place to another. But their complaints brought unexpected consequences when “the LORD sent poisonous serpents among the people, and they bit the people, so that many Israelites died.” Once again, however, God provided a way out for his people by having Moses make a bronze serpent and place it on a pole so that all who were bitten might look at the serpent and live.

          Whether we want to take this story literally or see it as an allegory, I think the snakes can readily symbolize our conscience when we are confronted with our bad behavior. In Shakespeare’s play, Hamlet, Act four, Hamlet and Horatio are talking about what happened once Hamlet left with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern for England. Hamlet describes how he took King Claudius’s letter that commanded England to behead him on his arrival, and rewrote it to say that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern should die. Horatio’s response is “What king is this?” Here we have God sending snakes to bite and kill his chosen people, and I want to say, “What God is this?” If biting, fiery snakes seems a little over the top to us, then perhaps we should remember that the people had complained before; that’s why they were getting manna to eat. These are the same people who refused to enter the Promised Land when God was ready to take them there because they were afraid. Suzanna Metz says, “Our passage from Numbers talks about a real fear of bodily harm – a fear of death in a natural way. Yet, underneath that natural fear was the darkness brought on them by cursing God. It was their sin of not believing that God would keep the promise of bringing them to a land of milk and honey” (Metz, Suzanna). “Though the people of Israel are unhappy with Moses and God, the one thing that is never in doubt is God’s presence among the people. When the people complain against God, the Lord hears. When the people repent, God hears and responds with healing and relief from suffering”. God instructs Moses to make a serpent of bronze and put it on a pole which he lifts up in front of the people. If they are bitten and look at the bronze snake, they will live. If not, they will die.

          Now let’s move to John’s Gospel where Jesus tells us that God sent his only son to save the world. John 3:16 may be the best known verse in Holy Scripture. Unlike the snakes in Numbers, John tells us that Jesus came to love us, and to show us by his own example how to treat others. Have you noticed in your reading of Scripture how Jesus is so rarely interested in the sins that others are accused of? For instance, think for a moment about the woman caught in adultery. Jesus tells the religious men gathered there “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.” When asked whether the blind man sinned or if his parents sinned, Jesus tells the disciples ³ “Neither this man nor his parents sinned, “but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him. ⁴ As long as it is day, we must do the works of him who sent me. Night is coming, when no one can work. ⁵ While I am in the world, I am the light of the world.”  

          For John, light and darkness are really important metaphors. People who live in darkness practice evil. People who live in the light are different. Most of us would not choose to live in darkness, but we read in John 1:10-11, “He was in the world, and though the world was made through him, the world did not recognize him. He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him.” When Jesus came to live among us, he came to gain new life for us. Jesus did not come to condemn us, but to offer the path to salvation. Yet, we all choose to enter that darkness of sin from time to time.

          In fact, we are all capable of doing some pretty appalling things to others. It’s those appalling things that we need to take stock of most especially in Lent. This season is not so much  about giving up or adding something more to our spiritual disciplines, but is rather a time to take a look at the darkness. Lent gives us the opportunity to hear that we are loved, that we can walk in the light of that love, and that we can be different. I think with Dr. Tara Brach, author of Nourishing Loving Relationships, that “At the end of our lives, as we look back, “what will most matter will be the moments of loving presence in our relationships.” All we need do is take a look at how God loves us. God gave us Jesus, the Son, who served others and sacrificed himself on the cross. Jesus showed us availability and vulnerability in his being lifted up so that we could see what genuine love is. “So here we learn something important about the nature of true love. Some people think they love others because of what those people do for them or how they make them feel. But God shows us that true love has nothing to do with what you can do for me, but everything to do with what I can do for you.”

          God gave us everything when he sent Jesus. When we give out of our abundance, we hardly miss what we’ve given, but when we give all we have, like the widow with her copper coins, then we are more likely to understand just how much God loves us. As Teresa of Avila said, “The important thing is not to think much, but to love much; and so do that which best stirs you to love.”

Works Cited

http://episcopaldigitalnetwork.com/stw/2012/02/26/4-lent-b-march-18-2012/

http://episcopaldigitalnetwork.com/stw/2015/02/20/bible-study-4-lent-b/)

O Thou, The Beyond of All

I was momentarily caught up in a Facebook post yesterday about the “crisis” of young people leaving the church. The Acts 8 Movement posted a blog to the effect that change (especially fast change) is a bad thing because the author believes young people will return to the church later in life, and when they do, they will want the familiar setting that they grew up in. What I took that to mean is that they will want TRADITION. The consequences of changing the scared liturgy in an attempt to draw people in could backfire, theoretically, by driving others out. The banter around the subject included one person’s adamant insight that “God hates guitar music” which raises a related thread of theological debate, and also helps me focus on my question. Here, then, is the conundrum of the institutional church. Exactly who is it, or perhaps, WHAT is it that we worship?

For a number of years, I directed a spirituality center for my parish. Part of the mission of this center was to provide “teachable moments” for people who were seeking a deeper relationship with the Holy. We offered the run of the mill quiet days and retreats, but we also had a dream group, and offered one-on-one spiritual direction. Most people who come to church want to get “it” right—this worship thing. They, however, do not realize that spirituality is basically one’s faith practice, and that attending church is only a part, at most, of the “works” part of our call to be Christ in the world. We also are called to feed hungry people and visit those who are sick and in prison. Additionally, there will always be a certain number of people in the pews on Sunday who come from a sense of duty or social obligation, though I’d dare say that number is shrinking simply because guilt no longer pervades our society in the same manner it once did.

So what is it that we worship? In my parish, we have a beautiful liturgy that follows Rite II of The Book of Common Prayer. We have a gifted organist/choir master who provides music that is uplifting and inviting. These parts of the church service are merely props, however, to the experience of worship. They are tools that we use to enter the Holy of Holies and to encounter the numinous. In many ways, the liturgy is the backdrop for what happens as our spirits commune with God. It can, though, become just rote words spoken without much conviction if one does not pay attention to the whole dramatic pageant happening in the communion of saints going on in a particular congregational setting.

That sense of communion or belonging is why being attentive during worship is so important (and rewarding). Spirituality does not come “naturally.” The door may be opened at our baptism, and the desire planted by the time we are confirmed, but we must do the work to grow to full spiritual maturity. And just why is it that the Church is so desperate to have a full contingent of young adults? Prodigality in one’s twenties or thirties may not be such a bad thing.

Yet, the liturgy is an important part of what it is we Christians participate in week after week. It is the work we do, and is the heart of our faith. When it moves beyond the mere recitation of creed and allows us to celebrate the mystery of the life of the Christ, it is a transfiguring experience. When we walk in the light spoken of in John’s Gospel, we become luminous just as the prophets did at Christ’s Transfiguration. That’s why the beauty of the liturgy works; it pulls us in like the moon tugging on the ocean tide to the place of glory. This beauty is really only possible when one is swept up in tenderness, awe, goodness, and love.

How, then, does one go about experiencing this moment of holiness? I would argue that it can only be experienced in mysterious silence. How clever is it that God gives this oxymoron, Word and Silence, as the chief means of entering into God’s luminous, holy presence. In his little book, The Silent Roots, K.M. George introduces the idea of iconosophia, the wisdom of the icons. He says, “an openness and Spirit-inspired ability to image God in the infinity of God’s own compassionate love, tenderness, goodness and freedom, and not in the image of our own distorted selves and institutional hierarchies. That God image comes to us in the silence of prayer and worship. As Bonhoeffer said, “The Word comes not to the chatterer but to him who holds his tongue. The stillness of the temple is the sign of the holy presence of God in His Word” (Life Together).

This silence that we seek, the silence that allows us to wait for the coming of God’s Word, comes only through practice. It is a spiritual practice that brings great blessing. Again, Bonhoeffer tells us that “The silence of the Christian is listening silence, humble stillness... It is silence in conjunction with the Word.” The God who meets us in this silence is a God of love and love alone. Br. Roger of Taize put it this way, “Remember this once and for all: God never imposes himself by dictates and threats. Christ never wishes anyone to suffer torment. If, for you, a life in God were to mean being afraid of God, you should think again.” Finally, I believe that Jesus came to transfigure every part of our being and that our life is a pilgrimage toward that transformation. It is in that silent prayer in the silent presence that the Word is born in our heart.

Always Stumbling; Never Falling

Today is the first day of my summer vacation. I have had perhaps the best year ever of my thirty-one years in a public school classroom; certainly one of the best five years. Last summer at this time, I was packing to travel with a group to Northumbria in the United Kingdom. This summer holds very little in the way of planned activities. I just did not want to fill up the days with doing things, but rather, my plan (or intention, if you will) is to let the days present themselves to me for whatever task needs my attention. There is a luxury in this strategy which I do not have when I wake to an alarm clock and am continually at my chosen profession’s beck-and-call.

A few years ago, I completed a process of discernment for ordination as a priest in the Episcopal Church. Since I was in my early thirties, the priestly vocation has presented itself on my dance card, and I have flirted off and on with the “what if’s” of being a priest in the institutional church perhaps too much of my life. For the most part, it seemed I was always stumbling into situations that affirmed the call to a priestly vocation.

I was invited to go forward in the process, and I began a course in Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE). While that experience is something I would like to return to after I retire from the classroom, ultimately, I said no to becoming a priest. I simply cannot know what the outcome would have been to my life had I persisted in vocational change, but somewhere in the midst of hospital visits and leading small groups at my parish, I realized that I had both my paycheck and my passion in the students with whom I shared a classroom each and every day. Would I have been an effective priest? Probably. Am I an effective teacher? Absolutely! And, yet, it has taken me a great many years to love who I am as an educator.

Deepak Chopra has this to say about the unknown:

Over the years, you have formed likes and dislikes and learned to accept certain limits. None of this is the real you. You can’t force your authentic self to emerge all at once, however. Because it is painful to strip away the thick layers of illusion, you have to allow your soul to reveal itself in its own time.

Be assured that the unknown is awaiting you – an unknown that has nothing to do with the “I” you already know. The part of you that you know is the part that flickers out all too fast. When you feel a new impulse, an uplifting thought, an insight that you have never acted upon before, embrace the unknown. Cherish it as tenderly as a newborn baby. God lives in the unknown, and when you can embrace it fully, you will be free.

What Chopra’s words mean to me is that the ego, the “I you already know” gets in the way of our soul journey far too often. It becomes the proverbial obstacle course that slows us down and causes us to stumble. Carl Jung would say it this way, “Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside awakes.” The psalmist offers additional hope in Psalm 27:34 when he says,

The valiant one whose steps are guided by the LORD,
who will delight in his way,
May stumble, but he will never fall,
for the LORD holds his hand.


When I thought I wanted to be a priest, I looked outside far too often, and even when I saw the reality of being a priest had a lot of negatives to it, I hung on to the illusion by making excuses or telling myself I could just take a small parish and be happy making a small salary. The reality is that as an older woman in the priesthood, I might not ever be called to have my own parish, but would probably work as someone’s assistant until I retired.

The truth of the matter is that I am a priest. Okay, I am not ordained in an institutional church, but I can do almost everything a priest does, and as an anamcara, or soul friend, I do a great many of those activities in the world. As a Eucharistic minister, I distribute communion to the faithful. I listen to others’ deep concerns about their journeys. I counsel my students and others about their lives. I visit the sick, pray for many, and I share my studies with others. This kind of life is the way I understand the priesthood of all believers. No, I do not wear a collar, but I am also not shackled to institutional expectations. I am free to be my authentic self, a self that does not include a profession in a hierarchical setting. Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying that all people called to professional ministry are shackled or lack authenticity. I am also fully aware that working in public education can have many frustrations with hierarchy. But one cannot happily force an outcome that is contrary to the driving force inside, deeper than the ego, that resides in Spirit.

What difference do any of these ideas make? I know for myself that I still have a lot of letting go to do. There are those rare days when I still think about a seminary education, especially now that my daughter is in discernment for the same role in life. I think that I can certainly echo the sentiments of Wayne Dyer who says, “Remember this rule: Stop taking yourself so seriously! Get your ego out of the way and connect back to kindness—that from which you came. The truth is that we are all spiritual beings. And when you see yourself as a piece of God, then you see yourself as connected to everything and everyone.” We all do a lot of stumbling, but by the grace of God, we will not fall.

For more of the ideas of Chopra, Jung, and Dyer see these websites:
http://www.drwaynedyer.com/articles/seven-secrets-of-a-joyful-life
http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/c/carl_jung.html
http://archive.chopra.com/namaste/march08/deepak

Poetry

Poem for the Poet


A poem for Cathy

April 27, 2013

Janet T. Atkins



I am infected by literature

It rolls through my mind like a nor’easter

I open the oven door and there is Sylvia

weeping for her beautiful self drowned in a mirror

and when I am in the woods, I come across a babbling

stream, but all I hear is Virginia’s voice

whose feminism gave her

the whole world for her country

and May Swenson whose religion

was poetry—

otherwise, “it seemed like a redundancy.”

But, by far, it is Rilke who teaches me that

“the only journey is the one within,”

and without literature, I would have no map,

no compass

with which to set my pace.

Then let it come, this muse, these questions,

and bathe me in the life of words.

For without stories—without the Word—there is

no life.

O Holy Night

Pep Talk #551: Yes, it’s Christmas Eve. Yes, there should be joy and happiness in the air. Yes, there should be children singing some where…or angels. And so what if it is dark and rainy outside? This evening is Christmas, for goodness sake! And, yet, here I am moping about my house, a husband in bed with a sick headache, and me with nothing to do…not really.


Earlier, I went to the market to buy some items to make soup. I usually thrive on being creative in the kitchen, but even making a new soup seemed mundane and bothersome. And the market was so crowded, I had a momentary sense of panic and hid myself in the dog treats section long enough to pull it together. I know this may not be normal behavior, but I wonder how many others are on the edge during the holidays? How often do we set ourselves up for something so magnificent as the joy of the birth of the Christ child, only to be disappointed and let down by the fol-de-rol that isn’t?

I have no children at home this night. Yes, I have an empty nest, and yes, my daughter is flying in tomorrow evening, but my son is incarcerated and will not share Christmas with us in our home for another four to five years. There are no grandchildren, and my brothers (who both have very large families) and my mother had their celebration this morning. We chose not to travel because I am serving at church tomorrow morning and we’re picking up our daughter tomorrow night. We may not even go to a service this Christmas Eve.

This afternoon, a soul friend of mine now living in Virginia sent me an email note reminding me of a favorite passage from Report to Greco by Nikos Kazantzakis. This Greek novelist is my favorite fiction writer, and along with the poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, I have been lifted over and over to places I cannot go on my own willpower. The passage is as follows:

"Stay Madam Soul," said God, "do not leave."
"What do you want of me, Lord?"
"I want you to undress, Madam Soul."
"Lord, how can you ask such a thing of me. I'm ashamed."
"Madam Soul, nothing must stand between us,
not even the most delicate of veils.
Therefore, madam, you must undress."
"Here I am, Lord. I have undressed. Take me."

It seems that I am properly chastened this evening as I think about the incredible timing of this email message. Instead of sinking into the mire of depression and despondency that is attempting to engulf me, I am invited to sit quietly with God who is mysteriously born tonight in a stable. I am invited to be with the Holy who also hurts for all the desperate children of the world—my own two children, those afraid to go to school for fear of being killed, those who live in war zones, those who are hungry and those who are abused. I am invited to be intimate with God, to be God’s lover, and to be present just as I am. That is what tonight is all about. And so, I turn my thoughts now to this approaching holy night, and go in search of the stable. I sit silently gazing beholding the holy. And I hear the angels singing.