Just Who Are YOU?

Regular readers of my blog will quickly discern that I am on a John Philip Newell kick these days. I just bought four new books by this inspirational teacher on Celtic spirituality, and I am deeply immersed in attempting to understand his work and how it relates to other writers and theologians who have preserved this remarkable Christian tradition for us. One thread that has recently caught my attention is woven into the writing of Pelagius, the first great Celtic theologian—and a man condemned as heretic by the Roman church of the time. That thread is the idea of all of creation being a theophony or a manifestation of God. Celtic spirituality believed that creation came forth creatio ex Deo, and as such is a showing forth of the goodness of God. In fact, some Celtic theologians go so far as to believe it is possible to live a perfectly good and sinless life. Because we are part of the divine word, we have encoded in our spiritual DNA, if you will, a blueprint for holiness and righteousness that excludes the necessity of human depravity and original sin.

This past week, my husband and I celebrated twenty-eight years of marriage by driving to one of our favorite spots, checking into a local B & B, and spending most of the time outside. We’ve chosen to give up tent camping, but we still enjoy being in places that bear the imprint of wilderness on them. Pisgah Forest is a personal haven and holds wonderful childhood memories for me. Michael and I have often taken a Saturday and driven up Wagon Gap Road to Mount Pisgah, and we especially love the part of the drive from Brevard to the Blue Ridge Parkway. We’ve had the opportunity after many trips to discover some hidden spots including “our” own swimming hole, a favorite place to picnic, and several trails that lead to outstanding views both of the mountains and of the flora and fauna that inhabit these mountains. During this past trip, we drove into Pisgah Forest to eat sandwiches at a roadside table in the early evening. The stream was gurgling, and birds were calling to each other in preparation to end the day. I could not help but be struck by the smoky shafts of sunlight piercing the heavy forest canopy—heaven no longer separated from earth. That image has stuck in my memory as a visceral reminder that God is everywhere—inside, outside, and alongside me. In fact I, too, am a theophony because I am created in the spirit and image of God who said, “Let us create humankind in our image, according to our likeness” (Genesis 1:26).

The trip to celebrate our married life reinforced for me the sense of closeness and immanence between the natural and supernatural. God is present in the forests and gardens that we preserve and create. I am present to God in those places as well because I am created and re-created in such a setting. Celtic practitioners speak of thin places, and I do believe such places exist especially when one is out-of-doors in the beauty that was not unlike the first home of our first parents.

Being aware of God’s presence in nature and each other helps us to reach a place of healing and deep peace. May you experience that deep peace as you continue your journey to awareness of who you are in the God of All.

Glendalough in Wind and Rain

I'm in the throes of preparing to lead a retreat on Celtic spirituality, and my mind has drifted to my two visits to one of the key sites of Celtic monasticism. That site, Glendalough, is the village built by St. Kevin in the 6th century. In 2007, my husband and I visited Glendalough on a day trip by train from Dublin. As with any Irish day, the weather was very unpredictable, and while the sun was shining at Connolly Station in Dublin, it was certainly not shining in the Wicklow Mountains. We were semi-prepared for rain—at least we had wind breakers and hats—but there were occasional downpours and we were walking the two mile trail from the lough (pronounced 'lock'—Celtic for lake) down to the monastic village. There was a sense of wildness in that walk. Lashed by the driven rain, I had a difficult time keeping up a good pace, and there was a growing sense of self-pity because I was quickly becoming weary of what appeared to be more of a physical challenge than the perfect holiday.

This past June, I returned to Glendalough with my mother in tow. This time, I was most certainly on a 'tour,' and while I enjoyed the historical features pointed out by our guide, I missed the wildness that I had experienced the first time I visited. Glendalough somehow seemed almost tame under the experienced hand of the guide who took us through the various buildings explaining their functions while commenting on the life of the Celts who dwelled there. I tried to imagine the people milling about, much like we tourists were milling about, on their way to the market, or to choir offices, or out to the fields to plow, but this Glendalough did not give the same sense of mystery by showing forth the power of the elements that I experienced in Glendalough when I was soaked to the skin with rain.

I think it's that wildness that called up the Celtic spirit in me on the first trip. At first, I thought the trip had been a wash—literally—that we hadn't seen the real Glendalough, but when I returned the second time, I realized that we had, indeed, experienced Glendalough as a holy Celtic site, a place of elemental force and a stage for the power of the natural world.

John Philip Newell gives credence to the wildness of creation by connecting it to our inner stirrings. In The Book of Creation, he says, "A roaring fire under open sky with the wind catching its flames high into the air makes a profound impression on us, and can release a sense of identification with the elements" (21). He goes on to connect those inner stirrings with "desires, emotions and creative urges [that] surge up from our depths like whirlwinds" (21).

This unsettled feeling gives birth to creativity, just as the driven rain gives birth to roiling streams and lush green spaces. Newell also states that "The Celtic tradition deeply affirms the unbounded side of life" (22). As holy people, we have to let go of the fear of the wild places—the unchartered seas—and be willing to sail even beyond the end of the known world. It's in these wild, untamed places that God's gracious spirit blesses us with creative insight and power to heal ourselves and others.

When I think about the possibility of a third trip to Glendalough, I know that I will want it to be the wild and tempestuous experience it was the first time I journeyed there, and that I will be cognizant of the power of storm, rain, and wind as a metaphor for the mystery of God that lies at the root of all that is holy, creative and positive in this life.

For the Well-being of the World

John Philip Newell has a new book out called Praying with the Earth: a Prayerbook for Peace. The book is a book of liturgical prayers, and as such, is meant to be prayed instead of simply read. We'll use this book on August 5-7, 2011 when we gather for a Celtic Retreat at Roads End Retreat Center near Boone, N.C. I invite you to join us if you feel led to celebrate Celtic spirituality, to learn more about it, or simply to enjoy the out-of-doors that prompted so much of the Celtic way of being.

On a recent trip to Ireland, I noticed more than anything how moved I was by the landscape. Ireland is known for its lushness and green, yet there seem to be few forested areas. Instead, the Island is a mystical collection of fertile grasslands punctuated by lakes, seashore, streams, rivers--and sheep. To travel around the countryside means to meander the inlets of the sea that hugs the land. It means to wander through villages, to confront mountains and valleys, and to pass through rain, fog, and a few bright days as well. All the while, my eyes could not get enough of the natural beauty that has been preserved in a land that has been inhabited since long before the Anglo-Saxons invaded Britain.

The landscape holds sacred secrets not unlike our own inner depths. I believe we have an inner landscape that is punctuated by the promptings of our wiser selves, that speaks to us in our dreams and in the very essence of our breathing. When we grasp the concept of our Christ self or true consciousness, we become like the landscape that is full of greenspace, flowering plants, and water that in due season becomes fully evolved. It is also incumbent on us to protect that deeper space that exists below the "public" eye, to keep it safe and private from the collective until it's the right time to use our potential--our creative energy.

The Celtic people were in tune with nature and with human nature. May God help us to be so like-minded.

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If you would like more information on our Celtic Retreat at Roads End, please visit http://anamcarasmantle.org/celticretreat.html. Also, John Philip Newell will be in North Carolina at Lutheridge in Hendersonville, N.C. in December 2011. For more information, visit http://www.awakeningsoulpresents.org/.

My Garden

This is the season of fledglings. There are no less than eight birds’ nests around our home, and I have delighted in watching (from a distance) the little birds craning their necks upward, mouths wide open as they wait for mama bird to return with some tasty ground up worm or bug.


When we first moved here, our gardens didn’t exist. The houses in the subdivision were built on land that was once an orchard, but in the haste to create homes during the bubble, the land was denuded and what topsoil there was washed away. We have more than once complained of having to toil as Adam and Eve must have had to toil once they were cast from their paradise, but we have managed to create a bit of spacious beauty on our almost acre of land. Even though I always thought of myself as having a green thumb, I realized rather quickly that when it came to creating a garden I was certainly a neophyte, not unlike my little bird friends living in the trees that my husband and I planted six years ago. Of course, we’ve endured at least three summers of severe drought, and the red, rocky clay makes it all the more difficult for anything to thrive. I don’t think I’m likely to give up, however.

I’ve tended plants, pruned shrubs, pulled weeds, and watched my prized irises burst forth in color each spring. Last fall, I tried my hand at a rose bush. I’ve succeeded somewhat in producing blooms in the spring and fall, but the summer heat distracts it from much growth. There’s always something to do in the garden. As the birds in the nests build their strength and will soon take flight, I am going to begin to lay a path in the back garden. I’ve put down straw to mark my way, and I’m going to connect the bed with the fig tree to the new flower bed that was the vegetable garden last year. I want an English garden look, and the soil we have there must be good since we had a bounty of green beans, squash, and tomatoes this time last year. Being away for two European trips caused me to not be able to do much with that plot already this year. I’m hoping sunflowers will grow there; maybe I'll begin with zinnias and lavender. I think we’ll have to put in some azaleas up near the fig tree and perhaps some Adirondack chairs. Yes, I like that idea. Oh, and don’t forget the bird feeders. I want to encourage the chicks to hang around once they are on their own.

Whatever activity we find ourselves engaged in, we must recognize that there is always that neophyte stage when we don’t feel like we know much of anything. It’s then that we rely on others, our own insight, and the graciousness of the Universe to guide and direct our journey. In the words of poet, Mary Oliver,

“And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?

And have you changed your life?”

May we tread lightly, learn wisely, and give generously as we explore the world outside.

Rewriting My Life

When studying at The Bread Loaf School of English (Middlebury College) at its New Mexico campus in 2003, I took a course called Rewriting a Life. Tilly Warnock, a genius of a writing teacher, created the course which has become a "must take" among Bread Loaf students who consider themselves serious writers. That particular summer, Tilly focused on the writings of Tim O'Brien, but we also read Leslie Marmon Silko and Reynolds Price. I wrote more that summer than ever before about myself, my understanding of my journey, and the world as I saw it.

More importantly, I have adopted that title to describe places on my journey as I continue to explore this life that has been given me. I'm in one of those places of rewriting right now.

I consider myself a "serious" Christian, but one who for many years has also been a serious churchwoman. By serious, I mean disciplined—disciplined by prayer, sacred reading, study, and service. That serious Christianity, thankfully, for a time dovetailed into my serious church membership as well. Or at least I thought it did.

For over six years, my main work in the local church involved designing and offering spirituality programs, and I thought my "mission" was to call people to their inner selves, their roots, their connectors to God for sustenance and nourishment before going out to minister to others. Much like the yin-yang, I wanted to provide the dark, feminine prayer and contemplation for people who would merge into the white light of masculine service and ministry to others.

For a while, the ministry worked.

But ministry is a far more comprehensive activity than what the institution normally conceives. Now that I have stepped back from running the Center for Spiritual Development, I have a sense of freedom that I have not had since more and more control from others was placed on the programs. I have discovered that participation in ministry is to participate in what God is doing and desires done, and the institution, the Church, as it now stands cannot conceive such a relationship between what Jesus named as Kingdom and what we have tended to identify as “the church.” In the Sunday liturgy, that which most church-goers tend to identify as Christianity, we might keep that dangerous and creative memory alive, here and there, now and then, but hardly ever consistently. And once one enters the domain of institutions, that creative and fragile vision of the Kingdom is at risk of being co-opted, coerced, and commercialized.

As I rewrite my life once again, I find I am no longer bound to the institution, and instead, I see before me an amazing opportunity to explore the Kingdom. I think this means a number of changes for me—by no longer being tied to the trivialities of the institution, I rely rather on Jesus as the model for becoming Christ-like and free. If there is nothing else to see in the life of Jesus, it is the freedom he modeled, and that concept is one that very few of his followers have ever gotten right.

It seems to me that my new mantra will be, “Love God and do what pleases you” (St. Augustine). In ancient times, the prophet Micah said it this way,

“He has told you, O mortal, what is good;
and what does the LORD require of you
but to do justice, and to love kindness,
and to walk humbly with your God?
Micah 6:8

The rewriting process is sweet, indeed.

My Holy Week Experience

"Once more the wind of embarkment blew across my mind. How long would it continue to do so? God grant until my death! What joy to cast off from dry land and depart! To snip the string which ties us to certitude and depart! To look behind us and see the men and mountains we love receding into the distance!"

Nikos Katzanzakis Report to Greco

Here it is now, the mid-point of Easter Week, and I am remembering so very fondly my Holy Week experience. I was blessed to be in Italy for the first part of the week: Rome and The Vatican City, Assisi on Palm Sunday where we went to Mass at St. Clare's, visited her shrine in the crypt, and received olive branches to take home with us as tokens of our devotion. Assisi was among the favorite stops for the young adults I took on tour with me. We arrived in Florence for the next few days, then traveled on to Venice where we were surrounded by a party atmosphere that took me right back to Mardi Gras. Finally, we wended our way toward Milan stopping in Verona to visit the "famed" balcony of Juliet Capulet, the market in the town square and Dante's statue.


Dante Alighieri, famed poet of The Divine Comedy, was an exile in Italy. His wanderings were not for the sake of pleasure or sightseeing or even to visit new and interesting places. He was forced to leave his beloved city of Florence to preserve his life. How unlike Katzanzakis this great poet was! Katzanzakis had the freedom of "exile" while Dante was constricted by a life of wandering. Since these two writers rank in the top five of my favorites, I find the contrast between their circumstances very intriguing.


In June, once again I will embark for Europe. This time I will travel to Ireland, the land of at least some of my ancestors. I will be taking my mother, who has never gone abroad, with me. Together we will explore the sights, smells, sounds, and textures of a country that is filled with legends and the people of the Fay. I long to "snip the string which ties us to certitude and depart!"


What would all of life be like if we were able to "snip the string of certitude"? If we didn't insist on having our future planned and laid out neatly in days and months and years? If we could let the calendars, Blackberries, and datebooks we carry simply disappear from our lives? I often feel that in our journeys, we are more in exile than in adventure. We have an innate drive to plan our lives, to schedule our own days and months, and in the process to schedule others so they fit into our lives. Simply "being," observing, wandering, and even resting have become obsolete—or when they do come our way, it is because we've made time in our schedule for them. Such a life seems unworthy of creatures who were made in the image of the Holy.


May God grant us a deeper sense of the freedom to embark, to cast off, and to leave the need for certitude (and control) to someone greater and more capable than our own frail selves.

The Birth of Anam Cara's Mantle

I've always heard that a closed door leads to new opportunities. There is a wistfulness about such a statement, evoking a "what if" or "what now" mood. This past week, at my initiative, the Saint James Center for Spiritual Development Board of Directors advised me to end that ministry in its present form. It became clear to me from the level of participation in the programs we offered recently that the Center needed to lay fallow for the present moment... to follow the ancient Israeli practice of the seven year Sabbath. The Center came into being in 2004, so it is appropriate to think of the Sabbath coming now. We will officially end our programs when we return from the trip to Ireland on June 16, 2011.

But what of new opportunities? Knowing it is best not to run from one frenzied set of activities to another, I am also aware that I want to keep my practice of being an anam cara, a spiritual friend, open to those who choose to join me on the journey to be Christ in this world. To that end, I have posted a webpage specifically for the work that most attracts me: being a teacher and soul friend. This work includes leading retreats and quiet days, and I am willing to talk with you if you find my work interesting. 

I do sense a peeling away of layers. Like Longfellow's Arab, I am folding my tent and quietly slipping away. Let there be more of you God and less of me as I continue the journey with you. Help me to accept with grace the changes that come as part of life and to turn and turn again to your face.