Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 101

Feast of Pentecost and Embracing Holy Surprise ~ A love note from your online abbess

 

Dearest monks and artists,

"What is serious to men is often very trivial in the sight of God. What in God might appear to us as 'play' is perhaps what He Himself takes most seriously. At any rate the Lord plays and diverts Himself in the garden of His creation, and if we could let go of our own obsession with what we think is the meaning of it all, we might be able to hear His call and follow Him in His mysterious, cosmic dance."  ~ Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation

We live in the midst of chaotic times. As crises continue to build, we may find ourselves confused or fearful. We may want to gather in the upper room of our lives with our closest friends and close the door on a troubled world just like the disciples. Yet chaos always calls for creative response, it always beckons us to open to holy surprise.

Today is the feast of Pentecost, that glorious final day of the season of resurrection. The Apostles were together experiencing bewilderment over how to move forward when the Holy Spirit flows among them and breathes courage into their hearts. If we have stayed committed to our pilgrimage this far then we may still wonder why we have journeyed so long and still are do full of fear and unknowing.

It says that those who witnessed this event were "amazed and perplexed." Some were confused, others cynical. Peter reminds the crowds of the words the prophet Joel declared, that all will be called to dreams and visions, all will need to be attentive to signs and wonders.

The story of Pentecost asks us a question: How do I let my expectations and cynicism close my heart to the new voice rising like a fierce wind?

In Benedictine tradition, conversion is a central spiritual practice. Conversion for me essentially means making a commitment to always be surprised by God. Conversion is the recognition that we are all on a journey and always changing. God is always offering us something new within us. Conversion is a commitment to total inner transformation and a free response to the ways God is calling us and to new images of God. Eugene Peterson describes it this way: "What we must never be encouraged to do, although all of us are guilty of it over and over, is to force Scripture to fit our experience. Our experience is too small; it's like trying to put the ocean into a thimble. What we want is to fit into the world revealed by Scripture, to swim in its vast ocean."

Several years ago I was going through an intense period of discernment. I had finished graduate school and found that my desires were no longer in alignment with the path I had initially imagined for myself. I spent long periods of time in silence and solitude, engaging all of the essential techniques for discernment I had learned in my studies and previous practice. I was taking this very seriously because this was my life path I was pondering. Then one night I had a dream about koala bears trying to get a map out of my hands so they could play with me. In my reflection time that followed I discovered a playful God who was calling me to take myself and my discernment far less seriously than I had been. I love to laugh but in my longing to discover the next path, I had forgotten what Merton reminds us in the opening quote: how playfulness is woven into the heart of the universe, how sometimes what God takes most seriously is what we easily dismiss.

Pentecost demands that we listen with a willing heart, and that we open ourselves to ongoing radical transformation. We discover that the pilgrimage does not end here, instead we are called to a new one of sharing our gifts with the world. Soul work is always challenging and calls us beyond our comfort zone. Prayer isn't about baptizing the status quo, but entering into dynamic relationship with the God who always makes things new. Scripture challenges our ingrained patterns of belief, our habitual attitudes and behavior. Conversion is about maintaining what the Buddhists call "Beginner's Mind." St. Benedict speaks to this in his Rule with the call to always begin again.

To be fully human and alive is to know the tension of our dustiness, our mortality, to be called to a profoundly healthy humility where we acknowledge that we can know very little of the magnificence of the divine Source of all. The Spirit descends on those gathered together in a small room and breaks the doors wide open. We are reminded that practicing resurrection is not for ourselves alone, but on behalf of a wider community. Not only for those with whom we attend church services, but beyond to the ones who sit at the furthest margins of our awareness. Pentecost is a story of the courage that comes from breaking established boundaries.

We may limit our vision through cynicism, but equally through certainty or cleverness. Sometimes we fear doubt so much that we allow it to make our thoughts rigid, we choose certainties and then never make space for the Spirit to break those open or apart. The things we feel sure that God does not care about may be precisely the source of healing for a broken world.

Life isn't about knowing with more and more certainty. This is the invitation of our creative practice as well, to move more deeply into the mystery of things. I find that the older I get, the less sure I am about anything and the richer my life becomes as I make space for unknowing, expansiveness, and possibilities far beyond my capacity for imagining. If when Pentecost arrives you do not find yourself perplexed or amazed, consider releasing the tight grip of your certain thoughts and make space for holy surprise.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Monk in the World Guest Post: Lacy Clark Ellman

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Lacy Clark Ellman's reflection on pilgrimage. 

I first learned about Iona while in graduate school. Even though I’d spent six months studying abroad in the UK in college, I never made it up to Scotland. Instead I savored my season as a small-town-girl-turned-city-dweller, fully immersing myself in the wonders of London and the community I found there.

It was a season of autonomy for me, and I enthusiastically shed what was old like a snake leaving dead skin behind. As it was my final semester in college, it was also a threshold season—a period of transition and a pause between what had been and what was to come.

Like any liminal space, that threshold season was ripe with new awarenesses of self and new experiences of God, and as I finished my semester abroad with a summer of travel, my intrepid journeys served as a backdrop and catalyst for the transformation that was already stirring within. As time passed and the number of stamps in my passport grew, I found that my travel experiences were impacting my spirituality—both my connection to God and my True Self—and my spirituality was in turn informing my travel experiences. Though I didn’t have the language for it at the time, not only was I falling in love with the practice of pilgrimage—I was fully immersed in it.

A few years later, however, I did find the words and was able to name the practice that had guided me in such transformative ways. They came to me through the passing comments of a mentor (don’t they always?), who was heading to Egypt for a week. It was a trip she had wanted to take for a long time; it was a journey she would be making on her own; it was a pilgrimage.

This is it, I thought. This is what I have experienced, and this is the way of being—of longing, of seeking, of transformation—that I know to be true.

It didn’t take long for me to pore over Phil Cousineau’s The Art of Pilgrimage (recommended by that mentor and the textbook for any pilgrim) and change my degree program so that the practice of pilgrimage could be my focus. As is common with the archetype of pilgrimage, soon other pilgrims and sage guides began to cross my path, and it was from them that I learned of the Isle of Iona, a small island off the west coast of Scotland.

A pilgrimage destination for centuries and a sacred site since St. Columba began his ministry there nearly 1,500 years ago, Iona is commonly referred to as a “thin place”—a location where the veil between heaven and earth seems thin, and human and divine meet in extraordinary ways. Its rugged, sparse landscape inspires peace and contemplation, making it feel as if you were at the edge of the world, and its Celtic heritage highlights the many ways in which the sacred can be found in everyday life.

Even the journey to Iona mimics the journey within, as if slowly peeling away layers of the soul until you finally reach its center. The voyage requires trains, two ferries, and a drive between them until you eventually reach Iona’s shores, in the end arriving not so differently than Columba did fifteen centuries ago. I was able to make the journey five years ago with my husband, and when the time finally came for me to lead a pilgrimage of my own, Iona was where I wanted to begin.

We returned from our journey just over two months ago, and to simply say it was a meaningful experience for each of us would be an understatement. I knew I didn’t want to just take this group of pilgrims to a pilgrimage destination—I wanted to facilitate a fully immersive pilgrimage experience—and our trip to Iona allowed us to do just that.

This means that our pilgrimage didn’t begin when we boarded a plane or disembarked on Iona’s shore, but instead in the moment that we each said “yes” to the journey—when we answered the invitations of the divine and responded to the longing of our souls. It means that even though our trip was months away, we fully immersed ourselves in preparations—mind, body, and soul—asking questions that would inspire our quest, seeking out guides for the path ahead, and sharing our desires and intentions with companions who could journey with us from afar in thought and prayer. It means that we ritualized our sending, blessed our going, and made our way to the island on the first day of our journey in reverence with silence and awe.

Once we arrived on Iona, we immersed ourselves in the pilgrim experience by moving slowly, committing time to practice and presence, engaging in both rest and play, and establishing regular rhythms of reflection. The pilgrim’s journey is not simply one of retreat, however, but of traveling beyond borders and exploring foreign terrain, and so we practiced this by welcoming the stranger, greeting trials with curiosity, and courageously traversing unfamiliar landscapes, both on the island and in the soul (including a few falls in the mud in both accounts!). Much like the story of Jacob in Genesis (whose grandfather, Abraham, was the first recorded pilgrim), we wrestled with the sacred in the wilderness, and in the end, we were blessed.

The pilgrim’s journey isn’t finished, though, once the pilgrim returns home, and so even after our time on Iona came to a close, I encouraged the pilgrims to hold the journey near as the revelations of the journey continued to unfold. And in the months that have followed, though many miles (and sometimes states) stand between us, we’ve remained connected through shared memories and conversation as we honor the journey and savor what remains, each pilgrim discerning how to integrate her experience on Iona into life at home in her own way. After all, the practice of pilgrimage is only a crucible; true change must be sustained in the everyday.

Now that my first pilgrimage is in the books, I’m eager for more. My mind is on fire with sparks of inspiration for future journeys—food and monasticism in Italy; intentional community in the Alps; new faces of God on Bali, the island of a thousand temples—but I’m most excited to extend the pilgrimage experience beyond the group setting and to accompany and guide pilgrims from afar through the launch of my new program, Journey Guide.

A step-by-step pilgrimage companion for the journey of a lifetime, Journey Guide is a multimedia resource for the pilgrim who wants to infuse her travel experience with spirituality and intention. Perfect for pilgrims traveling solo or individuals on group pilgrimages alike, Journey Guide makes it easy to ensure that the impact of your journey will last long after you return home. With reflections, prompts, and worksheets to personalize your experience and pilgrim resources, audio interviews, and meditations to inspire, you’ll be fully equipped to journey with intention and return home transformed. Journey Guide even provides the opportunity to work with me one-on-one so that you have a seasoned traveler and guide to journey alongside you each step of the way

Join me, fellow pilgrim, in the practice of pilgrimage on this journey of a lifetime? Whether you set off on pilgrimage to far off lands or journey with intention right at home, may your steps be blessed and your life be changed.

Want to know more? Lacy will be sharing about Journey Guide and her recent trip to Iona via Facebook Live on her Facebook page tomorrow, June 1, at 1 pm PT. Tune in live for a chance to win a pendant made from a stone collected at Columba’s Bay!

Lacy Clark Ellman, MA, is a spiritual director and guide who speaks the language of pilgrimage and is always ready for the next adventure. She is a lover of food, books, spirituality, growing and making things, far off places and lovely spaces. Lacy writes about spirituality and intention in travels and daily life at asacredjourney.net and creates resources for the pilgrim at home and abroad, including handmade and designed items in the Journey Shop. Learn more about Journey Guide, her latest creation and pilgrim offering and a step-by-step companion for the pilgrimage of a lifetime, here.

Writing on the Wild Edges – Poems from Participants (Ann Smith)

This past April we led one of our Writing on the Wild Edges retreats on the beautiful island of Inismor off the coast of Galway. We will be sharing some of the writing which participants gave us permission to share here in the next few weeks. We continue with haiku and photos from spiritual director Ann Smith. (If you'd like to join us, we have our dates open for 2018 – August 26-September 1)

Ancient prayer grows
from the stone. Small fern speaks life
into hopeful hearts.




Warmth of holiness.
Sanctuary of silence.
Eternity speaks.





I offer my heart
on this ancient altar as
prayers seep from stones.


—Poems and photos by Ann Smith (you can visit her website here)

Feast of St. Kevin, Patron Saint of Yielding ~ A love note from your online abbess

St. Kevin and the Blackbird

(after Seamus Heaney)

Imagine being like Kevin,

your grasping fist softens,

fingers uncurl and

palms open, rest upward,

and the blackbird

weaves twigs and straw and bits of string

in the begging bowl of your hand,

you feel the delicate weight of

speckled blue orbs descend,

and her feathered warmth

settling in for a while.

How many days can you stay,

open,

waiting

for the shell

to fissure and crack,

awaiting the slow emergence

of tiny gaping mouths

and slick wings

that need time to strengthen?

Are you willing to wait and watch?

To not withdraw your

affections too soon?

Can you fall in love with the

exquisite ache in your arms

knowing the hatching it holds?

Can you stay not knowing

how broad those wings will

become, or how they will fly

awkwardly at first,

then soar above you

until you have become the sky

and all that remains is

your tiny shadow

swooping across the earth.

—Christine Valters Paintner

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

June 3rd is the feast day of St. Kevin. The story of Kevin and the Blackbird is perhaps one of my favorites of all the Celtic saints.  He would pray every day in a small hut with arms outstretched. The hut was so small though that one arm reached out the window. One day, a blackbird landed in his palm, and slowly built a nest there. Kevin realized what was happening and knew that he could not pull his hand back with this new life being hatched there. So he spent however many days or weeks it took for the eggs to be laid, and the tiny birds to hatch, and for them to ready themselves to fly away.

I love this story because it is such an image of yielding, of surrendering to something that was not in the “plans,” but instead, receiving it as gift. Instead of sitting there in agony trying to figure out how to move the bird, he enters into this moment with great love and hospitality.

How many times in our lives do we reach out our hands for a particular purpose, and something else arrives? Something that may cause discomfort, something we may want to pull away from, but in our wiser moments we know that this is a holy gift we are invited to receive.

Join us in Ireland on pilgrimage where St. Kevin is one of our wisdom guides for the journey!

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Dancing monk icon © Marcy Hall (prints available in her Etsy shop)

 

Monk in the World Guest Post: Richard Bruxvoort Colligan

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Richard Bruxvoort Colligan's reflection on a St. Francis Life.

Lord, Make Me…

You Franciscans out there will likely complete that sentence "…an instrument (or a channel) of your peace."

If you're hungry, you might finish the sentence with "… a sandwich, please."

I've been wondering recently– deeply wondering–  if such a life as St. Francis' is possible.

As his famous prayer goes:

God, make me a channel of your peace

flowing from your river.

I grew up in Minnesota, U.S.A. as part of the Lutheran Church Missouri Synod. Through various seasons of life, I've been a faithful fundamentalist, agnostic, process panentheist, progressive contemplative and other pigeonholing names. Ha! As I've felt my personal theology evolve over my 50-year lifetime, I've also noticed how the fiercely gentle, peace-centered Way of Christ has thrived. So I know in my bones that yes, such a life as St. Francis' is indeed possible.

But is it possible now? In me? In us?

Consider with me what it looks like to be this kind of monk in the world.

Where there is hate, we plant love

As news of terrorism arrives from around the world, we are shocked, outraged and disappointed at our species' capacity for violence. As many of our neighbors here in the U.S. feel vulnerable because of President Trump's policies, across the planet, people have anger and fear about a great many things. Sometimes our anger and fear find enzymes to make hatred. Sometimes for good reasons.

What does it look like to plant love in the same soil where there is not merely dislike, but hate, hostility and violence?

It looks different on all of us. We might resist hatred by being kind to the new waitress who is learning. We might protest alongside someone invisible to society or engage more deeply in citizen advocacy, making explicitly known our desire for change. We might fast from social media and news outlets for a time so bad news doesn't take root in our attention. We might recommit to the great loves of our life. We plant seeds.

Thanks to St. Francis, farmer of love for showing us what's possible.

Where there is hurt, we plant forgiveness.

I was mad at my pastor (who is also my friend) last week. Took me a few minutes to settle down and let it go. Nothing big– it was clearly my issue, not his. Forgiveness– or better, an understanding of mutual mercy between us– was planted years ago as we began to know one another and became assured that as we eased slowly out of our initial boring politeness, neither of us is perfect.

It's rare that forgiveness eclipses pain or is a magical "forgive and forget" thing. More often maybe, the generosity of pardon comes as a bewildering grace that distracts the eye of Sauron from destruction. (Nerdy Tolkien reference alert!) While we're intent on other things, a seed of forgiveness can break its stem through the soil with a Springtime song. Whether we're giving or receiving grace, every moment of forgiveness is a miracle.

Like that teensy mustard seed in Jesus' parable, what can grow is a big, bushy thing so large it becomes a home for other beings to thrive.

Where there is doubt, we plant faith.

This is a tough one because for me doubt is such a delicious, life-giving nutrient.

In fact, as often as not, my job as a musical artist is to cultivate wonder amid confidence, questions among certainties.

If I could sit down to supper with St. Francis, this might be my second question: What is this faith that is against doubt? (The first being how he feels about his likeness in garden statues). I have a feeling in response he would sing of the sun, moon, trees and butterflies all in their places, and with a smile, continue preaching to the birds and squirrels.

I wonder if he'd say it this way: Where there is isolation, we plant seeds of trust. Amid the angst of private unknowns, we intend interconnection.

And where there is despair, we plant hope.

As a survivor of clinical depression and someone who is grateful for antidepressant meds, I have great respect for despair. And an honest-to-God awe for hope.

In Jesus' parable, great, generous handfuls of seed were flung among fierce weeds, on rocky ground, near hungry birds. They were given opportunity among the circumstances of greed, overwhelm and burnout.

We proclaim evidence of hope when we leave behind a tiny thing in the soil, a word in conversation, a comment on social media, a look deep in the eyes of one you love, a song in the woods heard only by trees, insects and the creek.

Is a Francis life possible? As monks in the world, we plant seeds every moment of every season.

Shalom,

Richard

Richard Bruxvoort Colligan is a freelance psalmist in Strawberry Point, Iowa, U.S.A. His recent song, "God, Make Me a Channel" was commissioned by the Abbey and has been translated into seven languages.

Click here to listen to the audio and download the sheet music>>

Writing on the Wild Edges – Poems from Participants (Julie Mitchell)

This past April we led one of our Writing on the Wild Edges retreats on the beautiful island of Inismor off the coast of Galway. We will be sharing some of the writing which participants gave us permission to share here in the next few weeks. We begin with Julie Mitchell, who traveled from Australia to join us. (If you'd like to join us, we have our dates open for 2018 – August 26-September 1)

Accompanied by Angels

May the Angel of Imagination enable you

To stand on the true thresholds,

At ease with your ambivalence

And drawn in a new direction

Through the glow of your contradictions…

May the Angel of Wildness disturb the places

Where your life is domesticated and safe,

Take you to the territories of true otherness

Where all that is awkward in you

Can fall into its own rhythm.

(John O’Donohue)

The pilgrim walk did not begin well.

Fifty steps along the way

hail sheeted in from the east,

mocking the splash of red designer umbrella

in a landscape of deepening grey.

The graveyard offered unexpected refuge.

Limestone sentinels received the ice stones

as I drew myself into myself behind them.

I thanked my silent companion beneath for uncomplicated hospitality.

Yet, I cut a miserable pose crouching there among the dead.

Good sense spoke firmly and loudly: Go back.

But the Angel of Wildness would have none of it.

Dark grey lightened into blue enough blue and the ice was gone.

I left the road for a track,

not knowing its undulations, surfaces or destination.

Stone shelves rose to meet the lip of a cliff in the distance,

inviting my presence.

Fields deep with pasture and wildflowers, the occasional cow

and criss-crossed with gate-less stone walls,

lay between track and cliff edge.

Wildness, already over the fence and in the field

offered a hand, knowing my days of nimbleness had passed.

Too-high walls shifted shape to meet my stature –

stones dislodged softly and my body moved

with unexpected ease and grace

through threshold after threshold.

I replaced each fallen stone, restoring the mystery of the walls.

By now Imagination had joined us.

A holy trinity stepping in mutual rhythm,

we traversed the great cracked shelves

to their sheer edges.

I stood breathing in Atlantic air,

smiling at the playful fluidity of seals in the bay below,

grateful for the welcome and holding of stone, sea and sky,

light and buoyant, knowing that shackles had been shed.

Time had unfolded and necessitated return.

I noticed I was alone.

Back to the ocean, the landscape ahead was bereft of markers,

wave after wave of limestone blocks gave way to wall after wall –

grey upon grey upon grey.

My throat tightened.

‘Just step forward.’

Gentle guidance loosened my limbs.

Footfall found me on a broad, grassy path

bleeding out of the confusion of grey.

After some distance it narrowed though, faltered and dissolved,

but angel graces assured me of finding a way.

Openings in the network of stone, unseen earlier,

now drew me in zig-zags

across patchwork meadows to the track.

Drawing near again to the graveyard,

The sky lowered, darkened and great blobs of water

collided with my scalp.

This time I angled my umbrella successfully

and felt the strength of my body

moving me to meet

the uncertainty ahead.

—Poems and photos by Julie Mitchell

Do you have the soul of a pilgrim? ~ A love note from your online abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

Two years ago I published my book The Soul of a Pilgrim which developed out of my own lifelong love of journeying.

My father worked for the United Nations when I was a child and we had the privilege of traveling back to Austria where he was from, as well as other European countries and once through Asia.

As an adult, as I grew into my own spiritual practices, I discovered that pilgrimage is something that breaks me open to new discoveries each time. But I also found that because the journey is an inward one, in response to outer movement, that there were qualities and practices that could be cultivated in our daily lives. I work a lot with the creative arts and have long referred to creating as a pilgrimage as well, that journey made with intention and mindfulness and open to discovery along the way.

We might embark on pilgrimage because of illness or transition in our lives, and find that we are moving into new internal territory. The old structures no longer hold. This is the practice of hearing the call—whether it was a call we desired, or came unbidden—when we respond and assent to the journey it takes us on we become pilgrims. When life beckons we can resist at every turn, or recognize that things are changing and our invitation is to open ourselves to this.

The journey calls us to pack lightly. We discover that the old ways, habits, and patterns no longer serve us. Perhaps we feel an impulse to simplify our lives so that we have more room and resources for the new that is emerging. Travel is easier with light bags. What do we want to carry forward with us?

We then cross a threshold which is a space between. The old has fallen away and the new hasn’t yet emerged. Thresholds are sacred places in the Celtic imagination where the veil is considered thin between heaven and earth. When we open ourselves to the liminal and stop grasping at the way things were, we may discover a variety of unseen presences supporting us along the way.

Embarking on pilgrimage may tempt us to seek the well-worn path, but the essence of the true inner journey is finding our own way forward. The poet Antonio Machado says that “the way is made by walking.” We put one foot in front of the other and the next step is revealed only as we are in movement. This demands a great deal of trust from us and listening for the whispers of the divine along the way.

The root of the word pilgrim is peregrini, which means stranger. We go on pilgrimage to become strangers to all that is familiar, to break out of our routine vision of the world and discover something new. This requires that we stretch, that we travel to wild edges, and risk being uncomfortable. It is in that discomfort that we encounter new dimensions of our own capacity and new faces of the sacred.

Along the way we will encounter our own limitations again and again. We will find ourselves resisting or forgetting our spiritual practice. In the monastic tradition there is great value placed on “beginner’s mind” and honoring our humanity. When we stray too far from our own deep desires of the heart, we are issued an invitation to always begin again.

Ultimately the pilgrimage journey asks us to embrace mystery, to walk into unknowing, to relinquish our grasp on certainty and control. In that process we allow ourselves to be broken open to receive gifts far bigger than our own limited imaginations could ponder.

And finally the journey always calls us back home again with renewed awareness. Even if we never left home physically on pilgrimage, but made the deep inner journey, we discover that home is a deep abiding presence within us and we see the familiar in new ways. We return with the gifts that we were offered along the path.

These eight practices of hearing the call and responding, packing lightly, crossing the threshold, making the way by walking, being uncomfortable, beginning again, embracing the unknown, and coming home are all part of an inner pilgrimage of discovery, where we may not even travel past our own neighborhood, but by seeing our experience with new eyes we can find ourselves and God in new ways.

Might you join us in 2018 on an outer pilgrimage to Ireland or Germany?

If you are a soul care practitioner and you want to join my wonderful colleagues Betsey Beckman and Kayce Hughlett when they next lead Awakening the Creative Spirit in the Pacific Northwest (Oct 29-Nov 3, 2017) there is just one space left!

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Monk in the World Guest Post: The Rev. Mary Anne Dorner

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Rev. Mary Anne Dorner's reflection, Spiritual Strength Training.

For years, my primary way of exercising was walking outdoors in the beauty of nature.  Then I read Christine Valters Paintner’s book Eyes of the Heart: Photography as a Christian Contemplative Practice. After that, I began stopping along my path so that I could take photos of flowers and trees, ponds and woods, sunrises and sunsets.  I noticed at times that our neighborhood “crow” would wait for me and accompany me on my walk.  Other birds would often sing their songs as I passed by.  Even the winds would talk to me of impending storms or whisper in my ear with warm tropical breezes.  My walks became spiritual journeys that bring me closer to God while also providing my body with needed physical exercise.

Last summer I was challenged to bump up my routine by adding strength training to my daily and weekly exercises.  Little did I realize how much I would benefit by adding a few simple exercises before and/or after walking.  It took only a few weeks to see improvement.   By now, my body is much stronger and I feel so much better!

Strength training has also become a metaphor for my spiritual life.  For many years, the Daily Office/Prayer was my basic spiritual practice.  At times, meditation and journaling were also part of my every day routine.  For the past few years, I have added various sacred arts and crafts to my spiritual practices.

This fall I added something new to this list ~ prayer stitching.  After decades of not picking up needle and thread except for mending purposes, I was inspired by a blog post by Sibyl Dana Reynolds to start stitching my prayers.

Now, in the quiet stillness of morning, I often find myself listening to the sound of my prayer stitching.  As I place fair linen within a blessed wooden hoop, I set my intention.  It could be praying for a friend who is battling cancer, or for a family member out of work, or a circle of sisters that I hold dear.  A sharpened needle stands ready to receive the colored thread before it begins its journey to pierce the cloth time and time again.

As I hear the needle whooshing through the tiny openings in the fabric, this sacred sound blends with far away musical notes and lifts my heart to prayer.  Ancient words of hymns and prayers readily come to mind: Ave Maria . . . Salve Regina . . . Glory Be.

As I sit and stich my prayers, I feel the sacredness of my task.  I sense that I am one with circles of women across time and space who have created garments for their families and communities, who have made altar cloths and vestments for churches and chapels, and who have stitched quilts and table linens for home and hearth.  There is a holy hush that envelops us all and brings us closer to our Beloved and to one another.

My stitching has become like spiritual strength training as I know that by adding this spiritual practice my prayer life is now more focused and stronger than ever.  It has easily become a part of my being a sacred life artisan.

What new spiritual practice is strengthening your prayer life?  Perhaps it is some form of exercise or hand work, photography, writing poetry and prayers, or just sitting by the fire and listening attentively to the wind howling in the night.  By adding something new to your routine, your senses will be awakened and your spiritual life will be strengthened in ways that you cannot even begin to imagine.  Oh that we may have eyes to see and ears to hear and hearts that discover spiritual practices that will draw us ever closer to Our Beloved.

Love and Blessings, Mary Anne Dorner+

Rev. Mary Anne Dorner is an extroverted monastic theologian and church historian who loves to party. When not off traveling the world with her husband of over 50 years she enjoys hosting Camp Grandma and Grandpa for her eight grandchildren. She is a "retired" Episcopal Priest who volunteers, leads workshops and retreats, and participates in book clubs. The book Ink and Honey by Sibyl Dana Reynolds inspired her to embrace “The Way of Belle Coeur.” She is passionate about writing and you can read her work at everydayblessingsplus.wordpress.com.  Check it out!

Feast of Brendan the Navigator ~ A love note from your online abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

Tuesday, May 16th is the Feast of St. Brendan, one of my favorite of the Irish saints. His story embodies the journey of the pilgrim. Here is another excerpt from my book Illuminating the Way:

Help me to journey beyond the familiar

and into the unknown.

Give me the faith to leave old ways

and break fresh ground with You.

Christ of the mysteries, I trust You

to be stronger than each storm within me.

I will trust in the darkness and know

that my times, even now, are in Your hand.

Tune my spirit to the music of heaven,

and somehow, make my obedience count for You.

—The Prayer of St. Brendan (attributed to Brendan)

I was not that familiar with Brendan the Navigator until I moved to Ireland. Officially, he would be known as Brendan of Clonfert, and there is a Cathedral in Clonfert, Ireland bearing his name and a site said to be his grave where I have visited.

The “Navigator” or “Voyager” is his more commonly known title because his life was defined by his seven year long journey across the sea to find the Island Promised to the Saints. He would have visited the island of Inismor off the coast of County Galway to receive a blessing from St. Enda before embarking on his journey, so I relish knowing I have walked and sailed on some of the same landscape as he.

He hears the call to search for this mythical island and it is revealed in a dream, an angel says he will be with him and guide him there. He brings along a group of fellow monks for community, and searches for seven years sailing in circles, visiting many of the islands again and again. Each year he celebrates Easter Mass on the back of a whale. Each year he visits the island of the birds, where white-feathered creatures sing the Psalms with his monks. Only when his eyes are opened, does he see that this paradise he seeks is right with him.

There is, of course, the actual narrative of a physical voyage. Tim Severin, a modern sailor in the 1970’s, re-created the voyage Brendan took, rebuilding the same boat, and landed in places like Iceland and Greenland. There have been suggestions that Brendan was perhaps the first to land in North America. This is the outward geography of the journey.

There is also a deeper, archetypal layer to this journey, which resonates with our own inner pilgrim – the part of ourselves drawn to make long voyages in search of something for which we long. This is the inward geography of the journey, and one where we may physically only travel a few feet or miles but the soul moves in astronomical measure.

The Navigatio, as the text of Brendan’s voyage is known in Latin, is a story of a soul rooted deeply in a monastic tradition and culture, as well as the liturgical cycles and rhythms, in early medieval Ireland. Each of the various parts of their journey take place in 40 and 50 day increments to reflect the liturgical seasons and the rhythms of fasting. They arrive to landfall to celebrate the major feasts and always accompanied by the singing of the Divine Office and chanting of the psalms. Time is not linear on this journey. Brendan and his monks move in circles, spiraling again and again to familiar places from new perspectives.

This journey is an allegory of spiritual transformation and the soul’s seeking to live and respond to the world from an experience of inner transfiguration with themes of Brendan’s waiting, anticipation, striving, searching, and seeing from a deeper perspective. The heart of the voyage asks us, what needs to change for the Land Promised to the Saints to be recognized? What is the way required through both illuminated and shadowy interior landscapes? Are we able to stay present through moments of solace, ease, and joy, as well as the anxiety, fear, and sometimes terror that comes when we let go of all that is familiar to follow our heart’s calling? Can we see the difficult journey as a passage of initiation?

There is a great deal of waiting in this journey, so much unknowing. There are whole seasons when they feel impatient and confused about why they can’t find the place they are seeking so diligently. Yet it is the very journey through the shadows that is required to make the desired discovery. Brendan doesn’t arrive to the promised land he seeks until he has made the arduous journey within.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Dancing monk icon © Marcy Hall (prints available in her Etsy shop)

Monk in the World Guest Post: Sharon Perry

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Sharon Perry's reflection "The Imaginary Candle."

“The men in the jail want you to come and teach them how to pray” the Chaplain requested on the phone. I asked the Chaplain if the men knew that I was a woman. He answered that they did indeed know who I was, and they were waiting for me to come. He explained that, “After you taught the women in the jail how to pray, news traveled to the men, and now they want you to come and teach them.” I was amazed and deeply touched that the Lord was opening up a whole new world to me.   
 
I had spent six weeks in one of the county jails in Tennessee teaching two groups of women how to pray using “The Lord's Prayer” as a model. I was doing my dissertation on the effect of prayer on depression, anxiety, and self-esteem in women who had experienced trauma. I had five different groups of women in three cities with whom I was doing this research study. Two of the groups were with twenty women in a local county jail. I had no idea what God was going to do through these times together and that a seed was planted that was about ready to burst into a great harvest. 
 
At the beginning of each of the weekly training sessions on prayer a candle was lit followed by the reading of a Psalm and a few minutes of silence. This exercise was to help the women focus and to come to a place of calmness and quietness. I wanted to introduce to the women the act of thoughtful observation and reflection. For many of the women this was their first experience in contemplative prayer. The lighting of the candle seemed to be a positive beginning—more than I realized.  
 
I was not allowed to bring candles or any kind of flammable objects into the county jail for obvious reasons. I told the women we would have to use our imaginations as I “lit” an imaginary candle. I wondered if the women were engaged with this exercise until one of the weeks when I arrived one of the inmates reminded me to please not forget to “light the candle” for them. I understood then how present these women were during our times together. They anticipated the “lighting of the candle” every week followed by the moment of silence and reflection. It had become a time of deep peace for them.
 
I was amazed at the depth of healing that God was doing in these women during the times of contemplative prayer. I realized that some of these women had never learned how to “pause and to think” about their lives. I saw them begin to hear and wonder at the beautiful mysteries that God was speaking to their hearts. It seemed so simple of an exercise but yet God came in profound ways. I once again observed and experienced that if we “create a space” that God really will come—even in a county jail. 
 
I realized that these times of prayer would not completely take away all of these women’s problems or erase the crimes that they had committed. But I also realized that God was pouring His love upon these women and healing their hearts. They had taken a moment to pause and to receive and God showed up. 
 
The beauty and kindness of serving God is that when He touched these women He also poured into me. He was changing me in ways that I could never change in myself. Many times when I sat in the county jail teaching and praying, I would look around at the women as they poured out their hearts to God and realized that there was no other place that I would rather be than gathered together with them in worship.
 
How can I live as a monk in the world? One way for me is to demonstrate to “the least of these” the stillness and quietness of contemplative prayer. The chaplain told me that the women who were part of the training course that I had taught on prayer six months earlier were still praying together every evening in their jail cells. They begin by “lighting their imaginary candle,” and silently sitting in the presence of God.  Jesus said, “Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them” (Matthew 18:20). I am waiting in anticipation for what God will do with the men…

Sharon Perry has a DPhil from Oxford Graduate School with research in spirituality and health. With degrees in dance and theatre she desires to bring beauty and healing to the world through prayer and the arts. She spent eleven years as a missionary in Latvia. Visit her online at TheSimpleWonders.com