Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 134

Monk in the World guest post: Sherri Hansen, MD, OlbSB

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Sherri Hansen's reflections about her Benedictine bracelet:

I’ve been a Benedictine oblate for five years which has been the most profoundly grounding practice to me spiritually. Oblates, for those who may not be familiar with them, are drawn to the 1500 year Rule of St. Benedict and strive to live out its principles of obedience, stability, and conversion of faith in their daily modern lives. Other core values include hospitality and balance in work and prayer life. It is relatively easy to honor these sacred principles while immersed in the daily contemplative life of a monastery, but it becomes much more difficult while out in the busy, hurried world we live in. The challenge becomes to take time out to be with God, and practice stillness while faced with work deadlines, traffic jams, family demands, and the unpredictable needs that direct our attention away from being present in each moment and with God.

Last spring, I came across a bracelet created by the company, “My Saint, My Hero.” It is a corded bracelet that features tiny metal beads imprinted with the medal of St. Benedict. I was drawn to it as a way to remind me of my spiritual practices each day. I purchased it, put it on and haven’t taken it off since.

Despite the minute size, the medal is rich with detailed symbolism. The front of the medal shows St. Benedict holding his rule in his left hand and the cross in his right. Encircling it are the Latin words “Eius in obit nester presenter muniamur” (May we be strengthened by his presence in the hour of our death!).

On the back, Benedict’s cross is inscribed with the first letters of a rhyming Latin prayer “Crus sacra sit mihi lux! Noncom draco sit mini dux” (May the holy cross be my light! May the dragon never be my guide!). The letters C S P B in the angles of the cross stand for “Crux Sancti Patris Benedicti” (The cross of our holy father Benedict). At the top is the Latin word for peace “Pax,” and around the perimeter the letters V R S N S M V – S M Q L I V B, which are the first letters in the words of an ancient Latin prayer of exorcism against Satan and evil. I don’t wear it however as a magical charm for spiritual protection, good luck, or good health.

For me, the bracelet is a constant reminder of who I am and gently reminds me of my values and the Rule that I have studied and strive to live out on a daily basis. I am reminded to take time to complete one task or thought before starting another. I am reminded to be as present as I can in everything I do, from the most simple, mundane tasks of washing dishes, or paying bills, shoveling unending piles of snow in Wisconsin, to weeding and digging vegetables in my garden.

In my profession of a psychiatrist, I am reminded to practice patience and see the face of Christ in every patient I see, no matter how difficult and challenging. I have found myself fingering the metal imprints on the bracelet while sitting with a patient several times reminding me to pause and reflect before speaking or reacting quickly. I see the metal gleam the medals on my wrist as my hands move across my piano keyboard and I am reminded how my music is a prayer to God. I feel the bracelet’s nylon cords with the beaded ends gently brush across my wrist as I do a forward fold on my yoga mat and am reminded again and again to gently exhale. Every action then becomes a silent prayer and an offering.

The bracelet has held up well to showers, sweat, swimming, and clothing snags. Knowing the impermanence of things, I suspect that time and elements will eventually wear the nylon cord away. I hope though, by then, the values will be ingrained upon my heart and soul.

Sherri Hansen, MD, OblSB, is a psychiatrist in private practice, a Benedictine Oblate, a church musician and composer, and a yoga instructor and passionate gardener in Madison, Wisconsin. To learn more about Sherri and her music visit: www.sherrihansencomposer.com

Holy Saturday: The Space Between

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For the next few weeks I will be offering you some gems from the Abbey archives as I create the space I need to finish several writing projects and prepare for spring's teaching:

Don't surrender your loneliness so quickly.

Let it cut more deep.

Let it ferment and season you as few human

Or even divine ingredients can.

Something missing in my heart tonight

Has made my eyes so soft,

My voice so tender,

My need of God

Absolutely clear. —Hafiz

Holy Week invites us into a world full of betrayal, abandonment, mockery, violence, and ultimately death. The Triduum, those three sacred days which constitute one unfolding liturgy, call us to experience communion, loss, and the border spaces of unknowing. Holy Saturday is an invitation to make a conscious passage through the liminal realm of in-between.

I love the wide space of Holy Saturday that lingers between the suffering and death of Jesus on Friday and the vigil Saturday night proclaiming the return of the Easter fire. For me, Holy Saturday evokes much about the human condition—the ways we are called to let go of things or people, identities or securities and then wonder what will rise up out of the ashes of our lives. The suffering that we experience because of pain or grief or great sorrow and we don't know if we will ever grasp joy again. Much of our lives rest in that space between loss and hope. Our lives are full of Holy Saturday experiences.

In their book The Last Week: What the Gospels Really Teach About Jesus's Final Days in Jerusalem, Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan write:

Easter completes the archetypal pattern at the center of the Christian life: death and resurrection, crucifixion and vindication. Both parts of this pattern are essential: death and resurrection, crucifixion and vindication. When one is emphasized over the other distortion is the result. The two must be affirmed equally.

Before we rush to resurrection we must dwell fully in the space of unknowing, of holding death and life in tension with each other, to experience that liminal place so that we become familiar with its landscape and one day might accompany others who find themselves there and similarly disoriented. The wisdom of the Triduum is that we must be fully present to both the starkness of Friday and to the Saturday space between, before we can really experience the resurrection. We must know the terrible experience of loss wrought again and again in our world so that when the promise of new life dawns we can let it enter into us fully in the space carved by loss. As the great poet of Hafiz reminds us, we must let our loneliness "cut more deep" and "season" us, so that we are reminded of our absolute dependence on the Source of all.

When I first moved to the Pacific Northwest United States in 2003 I fell in love with trails that run along the border spaces between forest and ocean. Walking these paths is like walking along the edges where two wild places meet, and in that space I encounter the wilderness within me. This landscape of earth and sea pressed against each other, wild against wild, speaks to something deep within me—that place where God's voice often whispers and sometimes roars. It reflects the landscape of my soul in a way that no other place had until I moved to Ireland and found a new landscape of wild edges. I somehow feel very much at home in this place of borders. We often try to domesticate God and to make spirituality about happiness or feeling good. We try and tie things up in neat packages. The spiritual journey is about none of these. It demands something of us and calls us to stand in uncomfortable places while the deserts of our lives strip away ego and power and identity. It calls us to embrace the God of wild borderlands.

This Lent has been in part for me about dwelling in the border spaces of my life and recognizing those places and experiences that do not offer me easy answers, those fierce edges of life where things are not as clear-cut as I hope for them to be. There is beauty in the border spaces, those places of ambiguity and mystery. In Esther de Waal's rich little book To Pause at the Threshold: Reflections on Living on the Border, she writes that the ability to live with uncertainty requires courage and the need to ask questions over finding answers. I am called to hold the space for mystery within me.

In Living on the Border of the Holy: Renewing the Priesthood of All[image error], William Countryman writes that this border country is one we all carry within us. There is a fault line running down the middle of our lives that connects our ordinary reality with its deeper roots. The border country, he argues, is what gives our lives meaning:

This border country is a place of intense vitality. It does not so much draw us away from the everyday world as it plunges us deeper into a reality of which the everyday world is like the surface . . . To live there for a while is like having the veils pulled away.

Threshold space opens us up to life that is vital, intense, and filled with unknowns. Borders and edges are the places of transformation, transformation that makes demands of us. Jesus' journey in the desert was a willingness to dwell in the border space of that landscape and the walk toward Holy Week often fills me with more questions than answers.

Much of our lives are spent in Holy Saturday places but we spend so much energy resisting, longing for resolution and closure. Our practice this day is to really enter into the liminal zone, to be present to it with every cell of our being.

Make some time on Holy Saturday to sit with all of the paradoxes of life. Bring yourself as fully present as you can to the discomfort of the experience. Rest in the space of waiting and unknowing and resist trying to come up with neat answers or resolutions. Imagine yourself on a wild border or standing on a threshold, knowing that you cannot fully embrace what is on the other side until you have let this place shape and form your heart. When you notice your attention drifting or your mind starting to analyze, return to your breath and the present moment. Allow yourself to feel whatever arises in this space. Honor the mystery.

A few extra notes:

In celebration of my newest book being released in May – The Soul of a Pilgrim: Eight Practices for the Journey Within – I am offering a free mini-retreat for the Easter season to help you practice resurrection in your own lives.
If you will be anywhere near Seattle on Friday, April 24th, I would love for you to join me for a one-day workshop I am offering at the Ignatian Spirituality Center . All are welcome!
We have one space available for our September 22-30, 2015 pilgrimage in Ireland . See the details here and let me know if you would like to join us!
Click the links for details of our newest offering – Praying with Monks and Mystics (a book with full-color reproductions of the dancing monk icons by Marcy Hall, poems by Christine, and song sheets) and Singing with Monks and Mystics (a CD of 13 songs inspired by our dancing monks)

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE, OblSB

Photo: Labyrinth at Glendalough, Ireland by Christine

One Space Available in September 22-30, 2015 pilgrimage

Please join us this autumn for our Monk in the World pilgrimage out of Galway, Ireland. One space has opened up, please contact christine@abbeyofthearts.com if you are interested in joining us.

Click here for details>

Monk in the World guest post: Beth Booram

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Beth Booram's reflections about the spiritual practice of hospitality:

Hospitality and Hugs

I was hugging someone goodbye recently when she commented, “Oooh, you’re a good hugger. Thank you!” Her comment seemed genuine and encouraged me because of my awareness that this “good hug” was given with intention. It’s part of what it means for me to offer hospitality. Ever since my husband, David, and I moved into our retreat center and home and began welcoming guests, we’ve been students of how best to receive them into sacred and nourishing space. Our approach has developed over time as we’ve learned and experimented. Almost always, unless a guest conveys otherwise, our hospitality includes a warm and hearty hug.

Friends, family and retreatants who come to us often make the comment, even as they step through the front door, that they feel peace—shalom—upon entering. We hear them speak of how their lives are chaotic and disordered, including the space in which they live. Many parents come for day or overnight retreats just to get away from the constant commotion of children. Pastors and ministry leaders express gratefulness to have a quiet and serene place to tuck into and disconnect from the demands of ministry. And many guests take the time to tell us how soothing it is to be enveloped by an environment that is calm, peaceful, beautiful and well-ordered.

I feel tremendous joy when I hear affirmations like these. A good part of my daily work as a spiritual director, writer and retreat facilitator employs my mind, mouth and ears. In preparing our space to be hospitable, I use my hands to scrub, cook, create and set in place. It’s all for the purpose of preparing a haven of rest and safety for those who come; who need to find respite from their pressure-filled lives and cluttered homes.

When David and I moved from our suburban home into this urban home that houses Sustainable Faith Indy, we began to develop a number of consistent practices to set the table for our guests to feel welcomed. First off, we made sure that our aesthetics were serene and minimal. In our first floor public space where small groups and teams gather, we carefully chose soothing paint colors and well-placed but scant decorations. In our guest rooms, we did the same. A simple Celtic cross hangs on the wall with modest furnishings including a comfortable bed, chair and desk.

Never before have we been as consistent in maintaining a clean home that is in good working order as we are now. We experience this manual labor as part of our sacred work, formation and growth. When I cook and clean, I’m often aware that I’m doing so for someone who will need to be nourished by it. David, as well, would tell you that he’s grown in his own responsibility and thoughtfulness as he changes furnace filters each month and shovels snow off the walk. We are happy—really happy—to put our hands to the task of welcoming our visitors with great care.

When guests arrive they will notice quiet, contemplative music echoing throughout the entry and stairway toward the second and third floors. It’s music that was also chosen very intentionally. Whether Gregorian Chants, classical instrumental music or a beautiful film score, our hope is that each person will feel calmed and quieted by what they hear. Once visitors are welcomed, a cup of hot tea or coffee is offered, as well as a pass by the buffet in the dining room where fresh fruit, nuts and chocolate abound.

Beyond the physical labor to prepare the space there is important work to be done behind the scenes in our own souls. When our guests remark that our place is “full of something” that helps them rest and feel the presence of God, we know that it’s not just the tangible environment. Each morning, David and I enter the day slowly with time to de-clutter our own minds and hearts. How we come to our day and our work, at rest and settled, open and available, is also part of our hospitable intentions. We sense that the prayers we pray linger in us as well as within the walls of our dwelling, offering the Spirit’s presence and peace to those who walk through its front door.

Most recently when guests are arriving or leaving, I’ve felt prompted to give a hug—a good hug—to those who seem comfortable and responsive to one. This physical gesture makes me think of a recent article from the Wall Street Journal that someone showed me. It’s about a growing personal service being offered in cities around our country—cuddling! In this service, you receive up to an hour or even an overnight of cuddles, tickles and snuggling from a professional cuddler—nothing beyond that allowed! (The going rate, by the way, is $80 per hour.) The article confirmed my sense that many people are starved for human touch and connection.

As I live out my calling as a monk in the world, I’m devoted to providing hallowed space and time for individuals and groups to experience healing and repair. I pray that our hospitality and hugs will be for them an entrée into the rest of God and support them in becoming harbingers of Christ’s peace on earth.

Beth Booram is the co-founder and director of Sustainable Faith Indy, an urban retreat center in Indianapolis, where she leads The School of Spiritual Direction and offers individual and group spiritual direction. Beth has authored several books, including her upcoming book called Starting Something New: Spiritual Direction for Your God-given Dream. (Intervarsity Press, May/2015) 

Praying with Monks and Mystics book now available for purchase!

We are delighted to announce that we are publishing a series of materials inspired by our 12 dancing monk icons. The book contains poems, reflections, icons and song sheets to celebrate 12 significant Monks and Mystics through the ages including Benedict of Nursia, Hildegard of Bingen, Brigid of Kildare, Thomas Merton, Francis of Assisi and more! Full color reproductions of the gorgeous dancing monk icons painted by artist Marcy Hall, with poems by Christine Valters Paintner, and the song sheets to accompany the 12 songs we commissioned for each monk and mystic (song recordings will be available on CD shortly, as well as a DVD of dance and gesture prayers).

Click here to order>>

The Holy Pause: Spiritual Practices for a Time-Obsessed Culture

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For the next few weeks I will be offering you some gems from the Abbey archives as I create the space I need to finish several writing projects and prepare for spring's teaching:

Time is the measure of things that come to an end, but where time itself ends, eternity begins . . . . In the end, there is no end. The ends of time are near the roots of eternity, and the ends of the Earth touch on the other world or the world behind the world.

–Michael Meade

When I lived in Seattle, I was driving to my yoga class one morning, and a race was blocking all of the cross streets I usually travel. I finally found my way around it, but at that point I was close to being late and so started to feel a bit agitated with stoplights and slow drivers in front of me. I could hear the voices start in my mind: "Hurry up, if you don't get there early . . ."

"What?" I interrupted myself. "I won't get my favorite spot in the room? They'll lock the door when class begins and I won't get in?" While those both may be true, the irony of my rushing impatiently to yoga class sank in, and I took a deep breath and let the spaciousness of the moment fill me. Worrying wasn't going to get me to class any faster, and I would be more likely to get into an accident.

I would like to say that this kind of scene plays itself out very rarely in my life, but I would be trying to convince you that I am not susceptible to being very human. The same thing happens when I have too many deadlines and I feel the pressure of too many things to do in too little time. And while I find myself caught in the inner dialogue about time often, I have become more adept at catching myself in these moments.

How many of us wish there were more hours in the day to get things done? As if twenty-six hour days would somehow solve our problems with feeling so rushed and busy all the time. We think that by hurrying we will somehow catch up, but that is the great illusion.

We are all suffering from time poverty in a culture that worships productivity and accomplishments. We become hostage to our calendars. In his book Time Wars, Jeremy Rifkin says, "We have surrounded ourselves with time-saving technological gadgetry, only to be overwhelmed by plans that cannot be carried out, appointments that cannot be honored, schedules that cannot be fulfilled, and deadlines that cannot be met." What is the purpose of managing our days more efficiently if we don't understand the meaning of our days?

Five years ago, I had an experience of confronting my own mortality in a very intimate way. It was profound for me to walk away alive but knowing it could so very easily have been otherwise. I was humbled. And profoundly grateful. As with many others who have had near-death experiences, the days since have indeed cultivated in me an even deeper cherishing of my moments. And yet the irony is that while I am keenly aware of the preciousness of my days and even my hours, overall I don't generally feel more rushed in my life or more compelled to get things done faster. Instead, I inhabit my days more fully so that each one feels more like a wide expanse and an open field of possibility rather than a narrow tunnel nearing its end.

Despite all of our time-saving tools and gadgets, the truth is we need less and less conscious attention to complete the tasks of our day. If anything, we are tempted to multi-task to get as much done as possible at one time so we are never truly present to anything we are doing. Jacob Needleman, in his book Time and the Soul, writes that most of us are like what the Tibetans call "hungry ghosts"—not really existing, not present to life, obsessed with hurrying and doing things right away: "But right away is the opposite of now-the opposite of the lived present moment in which the passing of time no longer tyrannizes us. " He goes on to say that the "hungry ghosts" continue to starve by hungering only after a false illusion of more hours and more days, when what we really hunger for is the present moment. I recognize that I could live a thousand years, but if I am not present to it I will still feel the dissatisfaction and absence of meaning to the end of my days.

When we feel trapped by "no time," we have lost touch with the eternal. The larger culture reinforces this by perpetuating a story that we are nearing the End of Time. Apocalyptic predictions are a part of this larger narrative. We feel victimized by our lengthy "to do" lists and day planners. Clearly, we are living in a period of chaos and decay. When we view time from a linear perspective, we feel as though we are hurtling toward our own untimely ends.

Organic time, on the other hand, is cyclical and sees periods of destruction as making the way for new growth and possibility. Autumn and winter always lead to springtime. When religious traditions write about life after death being eternal, they don't mean that we will live as we do now, only with an endless numbers of days. Instead, we will be immersed in the Now. The purpose of most spiritual practices is to simply arrive right Here, right Now. And for many of us, it will be the longest journey we ever take.

Practices

We begin by stopping for a moment and breathing. It seems so simply and yet is profoundly challenging. How many of us make time to pause? Breathing helps us to enter fully to the moment. We expand physically, which has an effect on our perspective on things.
On a retreat with Brother David Steindl-Rast, he invited us to consider taking a pause as we begin each activity and as we end it. I thought of my yoga practice and how even in the practice of it I can feel rushed, and how things shift when I take three deep breaths at the start and finish of each pose to call myself fully present.
I had some sabbatical time last summer to be away from calendars and email demands. I set up an auto-responder with the subject line, "Holy Pause." I had several people comment how much they appreciated those words as a reminder that they had the choice to take their own holy pause. Give yourself to several small holy pauses during the day and see what you notice. Consider a longer one for a day or more.
Say "no" more often. While being more fully present to my life goes a long way to relieving the anxiety which builds from having too much to do, the more present I am to my life, the more I am able to recognize when adding another commitment would not be healthy for me. Saying no requires that I embrace a healthy sense of humility and knowing that I can't do everything offered to me.

We move so quickly that we forget that there is another deeper layer to reality, one that can only be seen by stopping and arriving here. This is what the mystics write about. We don't need more hours in the day. We need to shift our relationship to those hours. We need to say "no" more often. We need holy pauses. The more we touch the eternal, the more we feel a sense that there is more than enough.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Invitation to Dance: Kinship with Creation – How might you nourish an Earth-cherishing consciousness?

We continue our theme this month of "Kinship with Creation" which arose from our Community Lectio Divina practice with the passage from Psalm 104 and continued with this month's Photo Party and Poetry Party.

I invite you into a movement practice.  Allow yourself just 5 minutes this day to pause and listen and savor what arises.

Begin with a full minute of slow and deep breathing.  Let your breath bring your awareness down into your body.  When thoughts come up, just let them go and return to your breath. Hold this image of "Kinship with Creation" as the gentlest of intentions, planting a seed as you prepare to step into the dance.
Play the piece of music below ("Serenade" from the album Pachelbel in the Garden, arranged by Dan Gibson) and let your body move in response, without needing to guide the movements. Listen to how your body wants to move through space in response to your breath. Remember that this is a prayer, an act of deep listening. Pause at any time and rest in stillness again.
After the music has finished, sit for another minute in silence, connecting again to your breath. Just notice your energy and any images rising up.
Is there a word or image that could express what you encountered in this time?  (You can share about your experience, or even just a single word in the comments section below or join our Holy Disorder of Dancing Monks Facebook group and post there.)
If you have time, spend another five minutes journaling in a free-writing form, just to give some space for what you are discovering.
To extend this practice, sit longer in the silence before and after and feel free to play the song through a second time. Often repetition brings a new depth.

Monk in the World guest post: Stephanie Jenkins

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Stephanie Jenkins' reflections about spiritual direction and the contemplative life:

Disrobe

The wide expanse of sky

echoes your heart’s desire

and you glimpse for

a clear moment

the wings of your own soul soaring.

It is time to stop

tinkering with borrowed dreams

that you wear like an

ill-fitting dress—

stiff-collared, pleated skirt,

your arms limited

by taffeta sleeves.

It is time to shed the layers

and slip into

your own luminous skin.

Tentatively, at first,

you begin to disrobe.

Cantankerous voices mutter

your behavior is offensive,

oblique. As you persist

in your unraveling

of thread and fiber,

buttons and lace

the rumble turns to shouting:

Should!

Must!

Don’t!

Do!

Angry venom bubbles over,

poison eyes, clenched fists.

But you are fully naked now,

not a shred of the old dress left.

The voices are lost in the rush of wind,

and you realize

you are flying.

Sometimes we choose to disrobe and sometimes life strips us bare amidst our loud protests and bitter wailing.

Infertility. That was the diagnosis that caused my own life’s unraveling.  My husband and I, young and in love, had plans for a large and happy family, fulfilling the biblical imperative to “be fruitful and multiply.” But after years of trying, of tests and treatments, we had produced nothing but bitter tears and broken dreams. Life was not going according to plan.

I was devastated.

All my life I have more or less gotten what I wanted—or at least what I was taught to want. I faithfully marched along to the persistent beat of social norms and expectations.  I have (almost) always been a good girl, an A student, a productive citizen, a church leader, a perfect daughter, a model teacher, a faithful friend, a doting wife.

And for most of my life, this had meant that things worked out pretty well for me overall. I did the right things, and I got the results I was supposed to get. I was a good little girl all year long, and Santa Claus brought me lovely gifts on Christmas Day. This made me feel pretty good about myself. I knew the game, and I could play it well. I was winning!

Infertility.  Like a punch in the stomach, it hit me hard. Infertility stripped away my perceived order of things. Infertility forced me to realize that life isn’t like those math tests I used to ace—if I just prepared well, tried hard—no biggie. Infertility taught me life is messy and frightfully painful, that I am not in control, and that God is nothing like Santa Claus.

And for those lessons, I am deeply grateful. In the painful wilderness of grief and depression, I was laid bare. Everything I thought I could count on, everything I thought defined me, was suddenly and completely stripped away. I was entirely naked and vulnerable.

In my fear, as I dangled over the chasm of this grief, I desperately tried to pull myself out or at least hang on. I was terrified of falling.

But somewhere, in the terrible darkness, I heard God say, “Surrender.” I heard God tell me, “Let go.” I heard God speak to me, “Stop trying to make your own light, and just fall.”

And I did. I learned to let go, to free-fall into the darkness. And I learned that falling, as it stripped away the things that hinder, could sometimes feel like flying, and that both flying and falling were drawing me deeper into Love.  Love is bigger than the darkness. Love is greater than the pain.

Over the last few years, through tender care and intentional practices, through learning to hold both my own goodness and my brokenness before the One who loves me, I have largely healed from the grief of infertility. The wound is tender still, but it no longer throbs and bleeds as it once did. This is evidence of Love at work.

I am no longer freefalling into grief. But now in this spacious place of health, I look at my life—which doesn’t look at all like what I’d planned—and I sometimes think, “Now what?” It’s tempting for me to fall back into the old pattern and look for Plan B. “What am I supposed to do? I’ll do that.”  However, I know now, this is no longer my way.

As a monk in the world, I am called to live authentically into who I am at the core. Infertility stripped off the false pretense of perfectionism and control and made me see that Love is bigger.  And I am called to choose Love each day. I am called to strip off the demands, the deadlines, the pressure to perform and conform. I am called to live in to and out of my heart.

My sacred symbols have become the feather and the leaf. Whether I am flying like the feather or falling like the leaf, I am surrendered to God who is greater than I.

I am loved. I am Beloved. That is more than enough. It is in this great Love that I am naked and unashamed.

 

As a Southern California native, I love the warm sunshine, beautiful beaches, and colorful sunsets this slice of the world has to offer. I live with my wonderful husband of twelve years in Los Angeles, where we both teach in the public schools. Though teaching middle school English is a sacred work that I enjoy, I am learning that my true vocation is the spiritual life–discovering the pulsing Beauty that shimmers in all things. On this journey towards ever deepening Love, I have been enriched through my practices of yoga, art, and silent times in nature.

Welcome to Liz and Melinda

It takes a lot of work to keep an online monastery running smoothly. We have been in need of admin support for a while now and finally are able to welcome in the help we need. We are delighted to introduce Liz Rasmussen and Melinda Thomas Hansen. Liz will be helping reply to some of the emails which come through and Melinda will be working behind the scenes to get blog posts up and the email newsletter sent out.

Melinda Thomas Hansen practices living as a monk in the world through meditation, writing, art, yoga, and engaging in relationship. A long time yoga teacher Melinda blends ancient wisdom with modern understanding to guide others from feeling stuck, disconnected or uninspired to a vibrant, creative and nourishing daily experience of Life. She lives in North Carolina with her husband, one year old son and their cat. Visit her at www.thehouseholderspath.com.

 

Alizabeth Rasmussen is a freelance writer, photographer and baseball-mom whose work has appeared in damselfly press, Wild Violet and Mused: The Bella Online Literary Review, among others.  After the stroke (June 2013), she has been focusing on her healing, which includes a lot of slowing down (or she's trying, it's a practice!).  She volunteers at the hospital for the stroke group, and the chaplaincy program. She's training to be a Spiritual Director at the Franciscan Center in Portland, OR.   She blogs regularly at Write Click (www.writeclick.me)

The Grace of Flowering

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This is not a poem

but a rain-soaked day keeping me inside

with you and you loving me like a storm.

This is not a poem but a record of a hundred mornings

when the sun lifted above the stone hills outside my window.

This is time for boiling water poured into the chipped cup

holding elderflower, hawthorn, mugwort.

This is not a poem but me standing perfectly still on the edge of the lake

in autumn, watching a hundred starlings like prayer flags fluttering.

This is my face buried in May’s first pink peony,

petals just now parting, eyes closed, inhaling.

This is not a poem but the field beyond thought and judgment

and the ways I tear myself apart on too many fine days.

This is the place where clocks no longer matter unless

it is the dusty gold watch which belonged to my grandfather.

This is not a poem but me standing desolate in a parade

of white gravestones, when a single bluebird lands and sings.

This is the bunch of Gerbera daisies you handed to me one foggy

February afternoon, pale yellow like the long-forgotten sun.

This is the first bite of bread after too many hungry days,

this is my grandmother whispering her secrets to me after dusk.

This is not a poem, but me taking off my clothes

and stepping eagerly into the cold mid-December sea.

This is the silence between breaths and in that stillness

this is me saying yes and yes and yes.

—Christine Valters Paintner

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

In the northern hemisphere the earth turns toward the growing light and the call to flower forth into the world, while the southern hemisphere is moving toward the healing darkness and a call to lie fallow for a time. I love seasonal wisdom, and especially knowing that these complementary energies are embracing the earth at the same time. In the monastic tradition, praying the Hours means honoring this move into the gifts of both light and darkness with each day, so we can become more in tune with the rise and fall, fullness and emptiness of earth's cycles.

The poem I share above is one inspired by the poet Rainer Maria Rilke who is part of our dancing monk icon series. I love this image that life itself is the poem and we are called as monks in the world to cherish and savor moments. In spring this might mean making time to be among the profusion of flowers as they begin to appear on your corner of the earth. My favorites are the peonies which will show up soon at our local farmer's market. (Very soon we will have a book with the icons printed in full color accompanied by my poems available, along with a CD with songs for each monk/mystic, and a DVD with dance prayers. . . stay tuned for more flowering!)

I have been feeling spring energies keenly alive in my own soul's being these last couple of months. This past season has been a rigorous one of identifying deep attachments and places of grasping and then slowly letting them go. The inner journey is always demanding but full of grace when we are willing to do the hard work. I am feeling such a sense of springtime within right now.

I love that the Abbey has its own rhythm following the seasons as well. Our winter has been a quiet one of offering online retreats and working on our own writing projects. We are now moving into our live teaching season, with a pilgrimage starting Wednesday in beautiful Glendalough, Ireland. Please send some blessings for our wondrous pilgrims who are preparing and traveling right this very moment.

Here is a bonus reflection for you from the Abbey archives on beginning again now that we are midway through Lent. Has your Lenten commitment fallen away? Take heart and know that the path of the monk is not to berate ourselves, but to humbly begin again.

Part of the spring flowering is our move finally to bring in some more administrative help to support all that happens here at the Abbey. Please welcome Melinda Thomas Hansen and Liz Rasmussen. You can read a bit more about them below. I am so grateful for both of them and you may be hearing from them on occasion when you contact the Abbey.

I have just finished creating the Spring Equinox mini-retreat for our Sacred Seasons 2015 program. This is our yearlong journey through the Celtic Wheel of the Year and began with Imbolc and a free preview of the kind of material available as part of the program. There is even an optional secret Facebook group for conversation and reflection. Join us now to dive into the Spring Equinox and commit to a slow-paced journey in tune with the seasons over the next several months.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Photo by Christine: St. Kevin sculpture in Glendalough