Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 127

Monk in the World guest post: Jacqui Avery

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Jacqui Avery's reflection on the living as a monk in the world in the midst of anger:

Despite numerous attempts over the years to create a more dramatic and exciting persona, the two words most commonly used to describe me continue to be ‘nice’ and ‘calm’. Whenever it comes up in conversation with people that I am interested in contemplative prayer, or that I can think of nothing more refreshing than going on a silent retreat, or that I get up very early in the morning to journal, make art or do breathing exercises, no-one is ever surprised: it all fits in perfectly with the image they have of me as this calm, nice, kind, ‘spiritual’ type.

However, despite a life-long – almost pathological – inability to remain angry for more than a couple of seconds at a time, a situation has arisen at work this year that has me raging, furious, on fire with a burning sense of outrage and a violent, irrepressible need to speak out about what I perceive to be wrong. And I’ve been feeling like this not just for a few seconds, but virtually non-stop for five or six weeks.

It’s not appropriate for me to go into the details here, but it’s a frighteningly typical situation where managers (who have power but are not actually ‘working on the ground’) are making terrible decisions that will have far-reaching consequences for many people, most of whom are vulnerable in some way. It is blindingly obvious to ‘the workers’ that these decisions are wrong, but raising objections and making coherent, valid arguments for different ways forward are met with blank indifference, total lack of understanding and a steely determination to keep going in the wrong direction as fast as possible.

It has been an eye-opening experience for me living through this. I have had many nights being totally unable to sleep – either because I am so furious with what’s happening, or because I am rehearsing argument after argument in my mind as I hope to find a way to make others see sense.

Over these few weeks I have found it almost impossible to sit still or to focus on anything other than the ideas whizzing round my mind. I struggle to remember to breathe, or to look beyond this situation to the God who holds all things together and brings order out of chaos. The nearest I get to prayer is a kind of furious, silent, cry of despair which feels like it’s being wrenched out of me in the midst of some kind of spiritual paralysis.

There have been times when all of this has made me feel despairing. I miss being able to sit in silence, to feel still, present and at rest in my body. I still feel a sense of failure as I tell myself I should be able to move beyond my rage and remain focused on God. But increasingly I realise that this is actually a new way of being present, a new way for me to experience awareness and to be open to God. There has been something empowering in realising that I do not need to be sitting in prayer, to be feeling peaceful, or to be consciously aware of God. God is no more or less present as a result of me doing the things I have always presumed to be more holy. I am learning in a deeper way the truth of the sentence, ‘Bidden or not bidden, God is present.’

There are still moments when I am deeply uncomfortable about feeling and expressing rage, but I am also sensing something new and exciting happening in the midst of all the turmoil. It feels like some fresh capacity is being carved out in me, a new ability to hold a deeper range of emotions, to be able to express myself more fully and with greater authority. Although I couldn’t say I’m enjoying the discomfort, I know that as I age I want to become more concerned about injustice, corruption and unfairness, not just get more complacent, comfortable and resigned to things staying the way they are.

The anger remains, but I sense a growing excitement as I realise that just because I am a middle-aged woman, there is no automatic need for slowing and stagnation: growth continues as we age, and change can still be deep, surprising and dramatic.

I’m still only getting a glimpse of it, but I realise that this experience is making me more whole, more complete. The truth is that there are times living as a monk in the world when being nice and calm is not enough: sometimes the only appropriate response is fury, outrage and learning to speak truth to power.

Jacqui Avery is a writer, artist and teacher living in Kent, UK. She writes on her blog about creativity, spirituality and transformation and you would be very welcome to catch up with her there on www.jacquiavery.com

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The Practice of the Holy Pause (love note from your online abbess)

Dearest monks, artists and pilgrims,

Modern life seems to move at full speed and many of us can hardly catch our breath between the demands of earning a living, nurturing family and friendships, and the hundreds of small daily details like paying our bills, cleaning, grocery shopping. More and more we feel stretched thin by commitments and lament our busyness, but without a clear sense of the alternative. There is no space left to consider other options and the idea of heading off on a retreat to ponder new possibilities may be beyond our reach.

But there are opportunities for breathing spaces within our days. The monastic tradition invites us into the practice of stopping one thing before beginning another. It is the acknowledgment that in the space of transition and threshold is a sacred dimension, a holy pause full of possibility. What might it be like to allow just a ten-minute window to sit in silence between appointments? Or after finishing a phone call or checking your email to take just five long, slow, deep breaths before pushing on to the next thing?

We often think of these in-between times as wasted moments and inconveniences, rather than opportunities to return again and again, to awaken to the gifts right here, not the ones we imagine waiting for us beyond the next door. But what if we built in these thresholds between our daily activities, just for a few minutes to intentionally savor silence and breath?

When we pause between activities or moments in our day, we open ourselves to the possibility of discovering a new kind of presence to the "in-between times." When we rush from one thing to another, we skim over the surface of life losing that sacred attentiveness that brings forth revelations in the most ordinary of moments.

We are continually crossing thresholds in our lives, both the literal kind when moving through doorways, leaving the building, or going to another room, as well as the metaphorical thresholds, when time becomes a transition space of waiting and tending. We hope for news about a friend struggling with illness, we are longing for clarity about our own deepest dreams. This place between is a place of stillness, where we let go of what came before and prepare ourselves to enter fully into what comes next.

The holy pause calls us to a sense of reverence for slowness, for mindfulness, and for the fertile dark spaces between our goals where we can pause and center ourselves, and listen. We can open up a space within for God to work. We can become fully conscious of what we are about to do rather than mindlessly completing another task.

The holy pause can also be the space of integration and healing. How often do we rush through our lives, not allowing the time to gather the pieces of ourselves, to allow our fragmented selves the space of coming together again? When we allow rest, we awaken to the broken places that often push us to keep doing and producing and striving.

Pause right now and give yourself over to deepening your breath for five full cycles and just notice how you feel after a minute of practice. Could you offer yourself this gift of pausing before each new activity for the span of a day and just notice what happens? What do you discover when you simply stop and enter into your own experience? When we create these tiny windows and opportunities for recognition, we are able to see grace more easily moving through our lives.

Click here to read this article at Patheos and share it with others>

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The Soul of a Pilgrim NEW Printable Graphics

This beautiful graphic was created by Ave Maria Press to offer a visual summary of the eight practices in The Soul of a Pilgrim.

Printable PDF versions are available at this page in both large format and bookmark size. Feel free to print them out and share these with others!

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Monk in the World guest post: Heidi Hewett

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Heidi Hewett's reflection on the contemplative practice of doing puzzles:

I have a variety of spiritual practices I use either daily or throughout my week: lectio divina, centering prayer, creativity, silence, and walking meditation, but one thing I am adopting into my “when I need it” spiritual practice toolbox is doing puzzles.

Normally, I do not choose to do a puzzle, which is why I felt a divine nudge with this particular experience—and how it turned into an opportunity for contemplative practice. I found a beautiful puzzle six years ago, but at the time my boys were very little, and I knew doing a puzzle would bring me frustration instead of release. Since then I have looked lightly for this colorful puzzle of bookshelves filled with books that have come to life–somewhat organized by color and title and creature. This puzzle drew me in the moment I saw it, as I am an avid reader. I figured that if I ever found this puzzle, it would be the only one I’d do; not realizing it would come to me when I would need the quiet meditation the most.

My high school English teacher passed away on Christmas Eve, and I found I needed to mourn her passing. She sustained me in ways I do not think she ever knew, and she taught me lessons that I am still thankful for. She took my love of reading and gave it legs. I attribute much of my professional life choices to her. A few days after I heard the news of her passing, I stumbled upon the puzzle—the puzzle I had been searching for and did not realize how long I had been searching for it. It seemed like the perfect puzzle to celebrate the life of my teacher.

I purchased it and cleared a space on our dining room table to do this puzzle. Over the next few weeks both of my sons and my husband sat beside me at different times and talked, found pieces with me, discussed favorite books and things we have learned that have changed us, we shared our sadnesses, but mostly I did this puzzle alone. I processed my grief through the ability to sit in silence, use my hands to gather pieces, to fit them into an unfolding picture, and to not think.

The process took as long as it needed to take—both the puzzle and the tangible part of the mourning process. I was in no rush. After I traveled back home for my teacher’s memorial service in the middle of January, I gave myself time to complete the puzzle upon my return.

The puzzle was an amazing physical representation of how I felt inside as it related to the grieving process. At first it felt daunting: all of these pieces were to find a home and to form a complete picture. How would I ever do that? Next, once I had the border in place, I had a glimmer of hope that I could do this thing: both the puzzle and the grieving. I felt a little sadness as the puzzle started to take shape—knowing it would end at some point, yet I was excited for the end result, too; especially at being able to use our dining room table in its entirety again. I began to feel excitement over moving on and doing something else with my hands and heart.

I found so much solace in sorting over individual pieces, touching them, relocating them, sifting through them, organizing them. Once I was done, I had intimate knowledge of how each part added to the whole, and that healed me, too.

On a Saturday in February, I woke up knowing that that was the day to complete the puzzle. I pictured myself sitting alone with the sunlight streaming in through the window and fit the last pieces in place. What ended up happening was my children and my husband gathered around and we finished the puzzle together. What a beautiful reminder of the role of community in healing. How wonderful it was for my sons and husband to contribute to what they’d mostly watch me do for several weeks alone. What a beautiful celebration of grief.

While I was working on the puzzle, I didn’t know if I would frame it or put it back in its box. It was so freeing not to know and not to need to know. I knew that I’d figure it out once it was time. This sounds so unlike me, but I had time to sit with the not knowing and to make peace with it.

I found that the gift of putting a puzzle together is a contemplative practice that allowed me to be present and to process my sadness in such a way, that I feel more centered. I was able to slow down and allow Wisdom to sit with me and to heal me. Spiritual practices, in general, nourish me and connect me to the Creator by slowing me down and helping me to process each moment as it comes—to learn to be by being. I make peace with so many things in my life that need to be grieved and processed when I live from a place of contemplation. Living contemplatively through a puzzle was not about sadness, but about solace. It was full of redemption.

I will not hesitate to bring out this puzzle when my heart feels the pull to do so. Having a different activity waiting for me when I need a different kind of slow is just the ticket to living a full life—at least I think so. I think my family’s practice of slowing down and supporting our spiritual health has changed with the art of putting this puzzle together. I have to admit, we have opened our hearts for another puzzle, but we are patiently waiting to see which one it will be.

Heidi Hewett is a Transformational Life Coach and Women’s Circle Facilitator at *heidi at heartspace* in Athens, Georgia. She loves supporting women with finding sustainable spiritual practices. She lives with her family and two cats in a brick home that is also home to many books.

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The Sacred Art of Living (a love note from your online Abbess)

John and I are leading a pilgrimage in Ireland this week, so we offer another jewel for you from the Abbey Archives:

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

I was sitting in St. Ephrem, a small Orthodox stone church near the Sorbonne in Paris, listening to the sublime solo suites for cello by Johann Sebastian Bach. The young man playing did not have sheet music; he knew this entire piece by heart. His eyes were closed as he stretched the bow back and forth in a kind of dance, his whole body was alert and engaged in this act of offering to the gathered crowd.

I was struck there in the middle of the piece by the awareness that he had spent likely thousands of hours practicing so that this moment he could offer his gift so freely to us. At one time, there was not such ease, and he was not able to yet play by heart. Hours upon hours were spent with attentive practice, showing up to the instrument and to his own longing to let music emerge from it. His holding of the bow and drawing it across the strings, the careful placement of his fingers that had now become a kinesthetic memory, developing the proper rhythm and tempo, even his punctuated breaths at the moments of pause were in some measure learned over time, practiced.

I imagine the many events of his life that could have called his attention away from his practice. Perhaps the death of a parent, the shattering of a love relationship, his own struggle with illness, or just the daily ache of living. And somehow he kept showing up to the practice.

And then there was the moment he sat down to play and the sheet music remained closed, as did his eyes, and his entire body remembered what he had practiced again and again. He suddenly found ease and flow and no longer had to labor to get things just right, he no longer had to engage in such a painstaking and attentive way. He could lose himself in the music. He became the instrument through which the cello could sing.

Certainly the next time he learns a new piece, the process will be similar, building on the foundation of skills, he will have to live his way into the practice, showing up day after day.

And so it is with us. We set out to cultivate a spiritual practice, perhaps longing for the serenity of a monk or the peace of a wise elder we have met or known. We perhaps forget the thousands of hours of practice and discipline necessary to have learned by heart this way of being in the world. We sometimes expect our prayer to flow with ease, when first we must labor again and again to integrate this knowing into our body, to come to know by heart the stillness that is our birthright.

First we must show up to the instrument of our lives and cultivate the practice, drawing the bow of our longing across the strings, being attentive to the notes we play. Each movement and breath becomes the opportunity for our awareness, each thought that arises in service to our desire or more often, in competition with it.

When we are interrupted, overwhelmed, or unsettled do we choose to wait until the circumstances of our life are better or do we recognize that this is the practice, showing up right in the midst of distractions? Letting life itself be the focus of our attention. Are we always waiting until tomorrow or next week when this challenging period is done?

The cellist shows up to practice each day, knowing that is the only way for the fluid beauty to emerge. Every writer and artist knows this deep down. To be a writer you must write, nothing more. To be an artist you must allow time for creating. And what about us and the sacred art of living? To be a spiritual person, you must show up to the inner silence and the inner noise again and again, wherever it shows itself.

Why do we postpone the labor so as to never allow ourselves to reach the place of uninhibited grace? Of shimmering equanimity? Resolutions and good intentions are meaningless. Practice is everything. Life is the practice. When we show up again and again we may find one day that we have become the instrument through which our lives can sing.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Photo and reflection © Christine Valters Paintner

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Carl McColman reflects on The Soul of a Pilgrim

My newest book The Soul of a Pilgrim is being featured at Patheos’ Book Club for the first half of June. Carl McColman, blogger at A Contemplative Faith offers these beautiful words in reflection:

“Christine Valters Painter is one of the most creative and visionary of spiritual directors with a meaningful online presence. Her website, Abbey of the Arts, functions as a sort of “cyber-cloister,” a place of quiet presence and spiritual nurture where participants are invited to encounter God not only through the words and practices of contemplative spirituality, but also — and perhaps more significantly — through creative expression.”

Click here to read the rest of Carl’s reflection>>

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Monk in the World guest post: Kristen Kludt

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Kristen Kludt's reflection on being a Monk on the Move:

I am a millennial. I am of a generation of transplants: leaving our homes at eighteen, many of us never return outside of holidays and vacations. We are like succulent plants – able to be snapped off and replanted again and again, multiplying and spreading wide. We are adaptable, versatile and flexible, but I long for deep roots.

I am a monk on the move.

For the last eight and a half years, my husband and I have lived in California, 2,071 miles away from our family in the Midwest. Practically, that means we travel often and have frequent visitors. We want our two-year-old son to have deep relationships with his extended family. We want him to be friends with his grandparents. We want them to have the privilege of watching him grow. So, in this season, that means we travel several times a year, and we have visitors every month.

A friend of mine asked me last fall what gets in the way of my time with God – my time of stillness, of reading and reflection and art and prayer, my time of cultivating deep soul-roots. I answered immediately, “Interruptions in my regular rhythm of life.” I have daily and weekly rhythms of solitude that ground me in God’s love for me, but each time we have a visitor or go out of town I give up those practices in an effort to be fully present in the moments with our family, not wanting to miss anything. Yet, in my attempt to soak in every moment, I am giving up the moments that make me me. When I am unmoored from my rootedness I don’t bring my best self, my whole self, to my days.

I am coming to grips with the fact that my life will never be “stable” – change comes, expectedly or unexpectedly, and I cannot control that. My life will never be stable, but I can always be rooted.

Last month we went home to Wisconsin for two weeks. We went to the children’s museum and the botanical gardens, out for ice cream and to the lake to throw rocks out on the ice. We took our son sledding for the first time. We squeezed every drop of joy and laughter and togetherness from each moment with our extended family. And, for the first time, I protected time each day to spend with God. When our son went down for his nap, I snuck to a back room with my journal and my books and my Bible, and I closed the door or put in headphones. Because this was winter in Wisconsin, I often sat at a warm hearth. The hearth is the center of a home, once the seat of nourishment, a place of both solid rock and living flame. It became a symbol for me of that place I return to within me – the Heart of God, where I am warmed, sustained, impassioned.

I sat before the hearth and I was still.

In those moments, I reflected on the year and on what God was saying to me. I copied quotations that spoke to me into my journal. I drew a little bit. I paid attention to what I was feeling. I listened.

Through those times, I stayed rooted in a way I never have when we’ve traveled. I gave up precious minutes of conversation with family, and I fought back guilt over my selfishness and fear of missing out on something, but ultimately I brought a more whole self to the rest of our time. In taking some time to be away, I became more present.

When it was time to leave, I was sad. I felt again the loss, the grief that it is to live so far from our family. I realize now that this may always be a wound I carry, one that I must learn to live with well. As our plane curved over the bay, readying for landing, the sunlight cut through the layers of fog hovering over San Francisco like through a prism, covering the city in rays of golden light. It was a consecration: this place is yours, and it is mine. Stable or not, this is the place where I meet you. I am everywhere always; you are here, now. This is the place where we meet together, and where your roots will grow down deep into the soil of my marvelous love.

Now I carry my hearth with me. Yesterday I bought bright orange flowers at the Farmer’s Market, and this morning I lit candles at my table. My mom shipped me a box of rocks from my childhood, and they are scattered around our home. I fill my home with rock and flame, reminders that I am sustained everywhere I go.

I am a monk on the move. Wherever I live, wherever I travel, I am warmed by the fire of God.

A wife, mother, and Jesus-follower in the East Bay of San Francisco, Kristen writes as a spiritual guide and contemplative poet.  She is finishing a book about practice-based spiritual formation in times of difficulty, tentatively titled The Dark in the Song.  You can read more of her work at www.kristenleighkludt.com.

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Hildegard of Bingen and the Greening Power of God (new pilgrimage added) – a love note

Betsey Beckman and I are delighted to announce the addition of a new pilgrimage following in the footsteps of Hildegard of Bingen, the amazing 12th century Benedictine Abbess, mystic, and visionary. This is a reflection from our Abbey Archives to invite you into her spirit and gifts:

St. Hildegard Strolls through the Garden

Luminous morning, Hildegard gazes at

the array of blooms, holding in her heart

the young boy with a mysterious rash, the woman

reaching menopause, the newly minted widower,

and the black Abbey cat with digestive issues who wandered

in one night and stayed.  New complaints arrive each day.

She gathers bunches of dandelions, their yellow

profusion a welcome sight in the monastery garden,

red clover, nettle, fennel, sprigs of parsley to boil later in wine.

She glances to make sure none of her sisters are

peering around pillars, slips off her worn leather shoes

to relish the freshness between her toes,

face upturned to the rising sun, she sings lucida materia,

matrix of light, words to the Virgin, makes a mental

note to return to the scriptorium to write that image down.

When the church bells ring for Lauds, she hesitates just a

moment, knowing her morning praise has already begun,

wanting to linger in this space where the dew still clings.

At the end of her life, she met with a terrible obstinacy,

from the hierarchy came a ban on receiving

bread and wine and her cherished singing.

She now clips a single rose, medicine for a broken heart,

which she will sip slowly in tea, along with her favorite spelt

biscuits, and offer some to the widower

grieving for his own lost beloved,

they smile together softly at this act of holy communion

and the music rising among blades of grass.

— Christine Valters Paintner

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

In early autumn 2013, I had the great privilege of leading a pilgrimage to the landscape of Hildegard of Bingen with my dear teaching partner Betsey Beckman and the wonderful folks at Spiritual Directors International.

I had been to this place of lush greenness once before the previous autumn, and on that pilgrimage I discovered viriditas in a new way. Viriditas was Hildegard’s term for the greening power of God, sustaining life each moment, bringing newness to birth. It is a marvelous image of the divine power continuously at work in the world, juicy and fecund.

While I expected to see this greening power alive in the vineyards draping the hills, in the beauty of the Rhine river flowing through the valley like a glorious vein of life, and in the forested hill of Disibodenberg where Hildegard spent much of her early life, what I received as gift was the greening that came alive for me in the community gathered.

There is something so powerful about walking in the places that our great mystics and visionaries dwelled, and to feel the wisdom of their teaching in a fully embodied way. However, to do that with an intentional community of fellow pilgrims, each arriving with their own longing and particular love of Hildegard, was a beauty beyond my expectations.

On our pilgrimage, we created a community of modern monks. In my own work, I use the image of being a monk in the world to invite folks into an experience of integrating contemplative practice into the daily tasks of living. The beauty of the monastic mindset, of which Hildegard was deeply shaped and formed, is that it asks us to see the holy in all things, all people, and in the unfolding of time.

We would gather together in the mornings for praying the psalms, in the great monastic tradition of praying the Hours. We entered the psalms through contemporary songs which carried us into their poetry and danced.  I am certain Hildegard would have approved! Throughout our days spent back at the hotel gathering space, which we fondly dubbed our chapel and cloister, we created together through poetry, photography, mandala drawing, and dance.  We would both laugh and weep together as we touched into the wonder of our experience.

On our outings, we received the gifts of these holy sites. We listened in the silence, the way the monks of old would and the way Hildegard surely would have, for the shimmering voice within that so often goes unheard.

Kindred spirits are a gift beyond measure. When we find our tribe, we can feel like we have come home again. We experience the viriditas in our souls, which Hildegard counseled. In that safe space of being met by other pilgrims who also have a love of contemplative practice and creative expression, we are able to start to drop down to a deeper place and let a part of ourselves come alive that we may keep hidden in daily life. We can welcome in the moistening of our souls. This is the greening power of God at work. We find ourselves vital, fertile, alive and saying yes in new ways, affirmed by our fellow companions.

We also have a self-study retreat with Hildegard of Bingen which is included in your pilgrimage registration.

Please consider joining us May 29-June 6, 2016 for an immersion in the greening vision of this incredibly creative and prolific woman.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

www.AbbeyoftheArts.com

Photo: Dancing Monk Icon by Marcy Hall of Rabbit Room Arts

(you can order a book with color reproductions of the dancing monk icons series here)

 

Hildegard of Bingen and the Greening Power of God: A Pilgrimage in Germany

May 29-June 6, 2016

with Christine Valters Paintner, PhD and Betsey Beckman, MM

Join a community of pilgrims in Germany as we experience the landscapes and rhythms that nourished Hildegard of Bingen, mystic, composer, artist, poet, healer, preacher, ecological visionary, and spiritual director.  Let Hildegard become a soul guide as you immerse yourself in viriditas, the greening power of God, and embrace the legacy of her creative outpourings as gifts for our time.

Through presentations, contemplative practices in sacred spaces, community, and creative forms (including movement, music, writing, and visual art) Christine and Betsey will guide you in exploring how the paths of the monk and artist, which Hildegard so firmly embraced, can become doorways to our own soul’s deepening and the greening power of the Divine Presence in our lives.

Click here for more details and to register>>

The Soul of a Pilgrim Featured in the Patheos Book Club

The Soul of a Pilgrim is featured in the Patheos book club for the first half of June and to kick things off the lovely Deborah Arca interviewed me. I am very touched by her beautiful introduction:

"One of my very favorite writers on the spiritual life is Christine Valters Paintner, an author, Benedictine Oblate, and Abbess of the online retreat center Abbey of the Arts. When one of her emails graces my inbox, I notice my pulse slowing, and I take a deep inhale and exhale. For I know reading one of her essays inviting me to once again slow down, pay attention to my senses and the world around me and embrace the spiritual journey will stir some deep longing within, resonate with my heart and inspire a new practice. We would all do well with a daily dose of Christine VP in our lives."

To read the interview with me click here>>

To visit the Book Club page click here>>

Bruce Epperly responds to my book in his blog post Everyday Pilgrimage>>

Lisa Burgess responds to my book in her blog post Design Your Own Pilgrimage>>

Please also consider leaving a review at Amazon.com for The Soul of a Pilgrim. A deep bow of gratitude to everyone who has already taken the time to do so!