Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 103

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

Join us on Pilgrimage or Retreat in 2018! ~ A love note from your online abbess

How to Be a Pilgrim

Air travel is like

ancient pilgrims walking on their

knees, flight delays and narrow seats

offer their own kind of penance.

You jettison excess baggage,

leaving behind the heavy makeup case,

knowing the rain will

wash you free of artifice.

Books you wanted to carry left too,

no more outside words needed,

then go old beliefs which keep

you taut and twisted inside.

Blistered feet stumble over rocky

fields covered with wildflowers and you

realize this is your life,

full of sharp stones and color.

Red-breasted robins call forth

the song already inside,

a hundred griefs break open under

dark clouds and downpour.

Rise and fall of elation and exhaustion,

the tides a calendar of unfolding,

a bright star rises and you remember

a loved one waiting miles away.

A new hunger is kindled by the sight of

cows nursing calves in a field,

spying a spotted pony, you forget

the weight and seriousness of things.

Salmon swim across the Atlantic,

up the River Corrib’s rapids to the

wide lake, and you wonder if you have

also been called here for death and birth.

This is why we journey:

to retrieve our lost intimacy with the world,

every creature a herald of poems

that sleep in streams and stones.

“Missing you” scrawled on a postcard sent home,

but you don't follow with

"wish you were here."

This is a voyage best made alone.

—Christine Valters Paintner

Dearest monks and artists,

We have been leading pilgrimages to the wild edges of Ireland for four years now, and the gifts and privileges it brings continue to multiply. We love standing in those sacred sites with our gathered community of kindred souls, spending time in silence listening to the wind and sea and stones, engaging in rituals to sing the places back to life again, the ways our pilgrims bond with one another so quickly and easily, seeing this beautiful land through new eyes again and again.

We have dates posted now for 2018 which includes three pilgrimage dates in Ireland, out of Galway, and one pilgrimage in Germany to follow in the footsteps of St. Hildegard. You can view these on our Calendar page.

To help you discern if this might be the right season to join us, I share with you a meditation from my book Soul of a Pilgrim: Eight Practices for the Journey Within. This meditation is also appropriate for those of you preparing for a time of inner pilgrimage, in the sanctuary of your home space.

Begin by allowing a few moments to sink into the stillness.  Deepen your breath and bring it down into your belly so that you feel your belly expanding with each inhale.  Then allow the exhale to be long and slow.  Imagine as you breathe in that you are receiving the gift of life which sustains you moment by moment even when you are completely unaware of it.  As you exhale, imagine that you are releasing, letting go of whatever is not needed for this time, anything that might be keeping you from being fully present.

Become aware of your body and notice if there are any places of tightness or holding and bring your breath to those places and see if you can soften and release.

See if you can draw your awareness with your breath from your head down to your heart center, placing a hand on your heart to make a physical connection.  Rest there a moment and just notice what you are experiencing, without trying to change it.  See if you can be with your feelings without judgment, bringing compassion to wherever you find yourself right now.  Remember what the mystics across traditions have told us about the infinite source of compassion which dwells in our hearts.  Breathe in that compassion.

In your imagination, see yourself at a doorway.  Spend some time being with the door and noticing its qualities.  What are the colors and textures?  Is it old or new?  Is it worn with time or shiny?  Is it closed or slightly ajar? See if you can be with whatever image comes to mind without trying to change it.

Imagine yourself pausing here, knowing that as you cross this threshold you enter into a liminal kind of time, kairos time as the ancients called it.  This is time outside of time, where you will encounter both challenges and grace along the way.  In threshold space you are in between, you are invited to rest into unknowing – about what the journey will bring, about even where you are going exactly.

Notice what you are carrying with you and see if there is anything you can set aside before you begin this journey.  What you are carrying might be objects and possessions, but they might also be beliefs or attitudes about yourself or life or about God.   What could you set down on the ground and leave for this time?  And what are the essentials that you want to have with you?  What feels important to carry?

When you feel ready open the door and step across the threshold.  Pause there on the other side.  What do you see?  Taste? Smell? Feel? Hear?  Allow yourself some time to just be with whatever felt experience arises.

Stand here for a while, taking in the full spectrum of what you are feeling.  Welcome in joy, excitement, fear, trepidation, anxiety, and whatever else is arising with an open heart.  Call on that compassion once again.

Offer a prayer here, at the threshold, for whatever your heart’s desire is for this time ahead.  Speak from your heart about whatever it is you long for most.  Make a commitment to continue showing up to the practice and to return ever so gently when you fall away.

Remember this place, knowing that you will be journeying forward from here into unknown territory, knowing that you have everything you need to navigate this time ahead and a community of fellow pilgrims as guides and companions.

When you feel ready gently deepen your breathing once again and bring your awareness from this inner space to the world around you once again.  Allow some time for journaling and reflection on your experience. Name the images that arose for you.

What did you discover on this inner journey?

With great and growing love,

 Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Monk in the World Guest Post: Melissa Layer

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Melissa Layer's reflection on finding the healing presence of God among the pines.

Praised be you, my Lord,

with all Your creatures,

especially Sir Brother Sun,

who is the day,

and through whom You give us light.

And he is beautiful

and radiant with great splendour;

and bears a likeness of You, Most High one.

Praised be You, my Lord,

through Sister Moon and the stars,

in heaven You formed them

clear and precious and beautiful.

Praised be You, my Lord,

through Brother Wind,

and through the air, cloudy and serene,

and every kind of weather

through which you give sustenance to your creatures.

Praised be You, my Lord,

through Sister water,

who is very useful and humble

and precious and chaste.

Praised be You, my Lord,

through Brother fire,

through whom You light the night,

and he is beautiful and playful

and robust and strong.

Praised be You, my Lord,

through our Sister Mother Earth,

who sustains and governs us,

and who produces various fruit

with coloured flowers and herbs.

from The Canticle of Creatures

(St. Francis of Assisi)

 

One might ask when a child first becomes aware of God’s presence and is called into a sacred union before words have formed.  For me it was on the warm breast of the nurturant earth.  My earliest memory is of a spring day in southern California in a baby buggy beneath a flowering orange tree.  Mom described how she stood at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, and watched me through the open window.  Whenever the breeze rustled the glossy leaves and fragrant blossoms, she could hear my peals of laughter and see the excited kicking of my legs and waving arms.  Somewhere within my mother’s description and my own embodied experience, I believe this was my baptism in God’s glorious creation – a baby monk in the world!

When I was 5 years old, my parents loaded camping gear into the station wagon and we journeyed to northern Idaho.  I have a small photo of my brother and me in our white cotton underwear, standing in a slow moving river.  It was here that I made the acquaintance of evergreen trees.  I loved the sticky, fragrant pitch and the way the wind sighed through the dancing boughs.  As we returned home to California, the evergreen trees gave way to sagebrush and a lump formed in my throat.  “Liss, why are you crying?” my mother asked as she turned to look at me in the back seat.

When I am among the trees. . .

they give off such hints of gladness,

I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves

and call out, ‘Stay awhile’. . . 

(Mary Oliver)

When I was 7 years old my father accepted a job transfer to a remote northeastern corner of Washington in the Pacific Northwest, an hour away from that Idaho campground.  I had been a sickly child, but when we moved to my beloved pine forests a healing miracle occurred in my young body.

The robin’s song calls Liss from sleep,

bare feet wet in morning dew

as she runs into the forest.

White Trillium and lavendar Lady’s Slipper

nod shyly in mossy pockets

where she crafts a fort of hemlock boughs.

She lies on her back

hidden, silent

drawn up and away into the endless blue sky

hitching a ride on a slow-moving cloud.

Her faithful dog’s head is warm beneath her palm

and her tabby cat watches from the shadows.

Later she collects purple Shooting Stars and yellow Fawn Lilies

from the banks above the green ribbon of the Pend Oreille.

She tucks herself into the old apple tree

above the gray Appaloosa

grazing belly deep in summer grass.

Cedar Creek washes her thin pale body

and rocks her to sleep in a black inner tube,

teaching her about currents and deep places

how all things grow and flow

seeking the distant sea.

The sun slips through her fingertips, west

over the old red barn

where golden shafts pierce weathered planks

and dust motes dance

over sweet hay from last summer’s mowing.

In the deepening dusk

her mother’s voice calls her to supper, asking

“Where have you been?”

And she is shy, quiet

because she cannot describe

a holy communion, so sweet and secret.

The 23rd Psalm is the first scripture that I memorized and recited in the country church I attended as a little girl.  I felt as though these verses had been written just for me:  “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.  He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters.”   And I knew with certainty that I had felt that loving warm palm in the golden heat of the sun  “. . . thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”

A luminous Mystery pulsed in the rhythm of the four seasons that encircled and carried me. I ripened and flourished in awe and reverence for the Beautiful One that had breathed form and life into earth’s body . . .  my body.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the earth,

the dirt between my toes,

the sun pours down upon my crown,

the mighty river flows.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound

of bird song in the trees,

the air is dense with fragrant scents

soft floating on the breeze.

Amazing Grace the ocean swells,

the waves break on the shore,

the moonlight rides upon the tides,

oh, who could ask for more.

(by Elizabeth Cunningham)

Melissa Layer, MA serves as a psychospiritual therapist and interfaith spiritual director from her home in the evergreen forests of Washington.  Utilizing expressive arts and curious exploration of the Great Mystery, Melissa offers her compassionate presence and deep listening via Skype, phone, e-mail, and in-person.  She is a member of the Abbey’s Wisdom Council.

Celebrate the Celtic Feast of Beltane ~ A love note from your online abbess

This is how to feel the sap rising

Walk as slowly as possible,

all the while imagining

yourself moving through

pools of honey and dancing with

snails, turtles, and caterpillars.

Turn your body in a clockwise direction

to inspire your dreams to flow upward.

Imagine the trees are your own

wise ancestors offering their emerald

leaves to you as a sacred text.

Lay yourself down across earth

and stones.  Feel the vibration of

dirt and moss, sparking a tiny

(or tremendous)

revolution in your heart

with their own great longing.

Close your eyes and forget this

border of skin. Imagine the

breeze blowing through your hair

is the breath of the forest and

your own breath joined, rising and

falling in ancient rhythms.

Open your eyes again and see it

is true, that there is no "me" and "tree"

but only One great pulsing of life,

one sap which nourishes and

enlivens all, one great nectar

bestowing trust and wonder.

Open your eyes and see that there

are no more words like beautiful,

and ugly, good and bad,

but only the shimmering presence of your

own attention to life.

Only one great miracle unfolding and

only one sacred word which is

yes.

—Christine Valters Paintner

(*originally published in Soul of a Pilgrim: Eight Practices for the Journey Within)

Dearest monks and artists,

Beltane (which means bright fire) is another of the cross-quarter days, representing the mid-point between the vernal equinox and the summer solstice and it is often experienced at the height of spring. In Ireland it is considered to be the beginning of summer and the beginning of the light half of the year. We can feel the significant shift in light at this latitude and the days are becoming significantly longer. Temperatures are warmer. Flowering has come to its fullness. Birds are singing in full chorus.

In Ireland the cuckoo birds start arriving from their winter in Africa, and there are music and walking festivals named after its return.

The power of nature’s life force returning is celebrated. Two fires were lit and the sheep and cattle were brought to the summer pastures. It is a fire festival of fertility and garlands of flowers are made up in honor of the creative abundance beginning to stream forth from the land.

This time of year celebrates the rising sap, the fruitfulness of the earth and human beings, and all in the process of ripening toward fullness. We honor the life force at work in the world around us and within us.

Beltaine is connected to the later Christian feast of Pentecost, that great celebration of the church coming alive and to full fruits. Fire and wind signal the Spirit breathing through the people and the land to inspire them in new ways.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner