Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 142

Monk in the World guest post: Lynn Domina

This week in our Monk in the World guest post series we have a reflection from fellow monk Lynn Domina. Read on for her wisdom on paying attention as a contemplative practice:

The Pleasure of Attention

Driving the route I ordinarily take from my home to the next town over, across a few hills and one mountain, around several curves always winding generally north, I pass thousands of trees. They all look alike, green in summer, red and orange in the fall, bare in winter. Many are conifers though, and so they do differ from the deciduous maple, oak, and ash. I called them all pine, even though I recognize the tree in the center of our backyard as a blue spruce and the tall narrow trees along our property line as some sort of cedar.

Then a while back, I noticed something peculiar. Along one stretch of the road, the long cones on most of the trees hung in clusters, like bunches of bananas. I enjoyed the paradox, the suggestion of tropical fruit as the days shortened and the temperature dropped in my northern climate. Then I noticed how the needles always drooped downward on these trees, like weary fingers. I learned that the name of this tree is Alaskan Weeping Cedar, and I enjoyed knowing that, for the only other weeping tree I knew was a willow. Now I see them more clearly. I see their distinctiveness, and so I also see the distinctiveness of the surrounding trees, the ones that are not Alaskan Weeping Cedars.

Some of them have branches that angle upward while the limbs of others slant downward. Their needles shade not only from light to dark but from the yellow edge of green to the blue edge. I enjoy noticing this, and so I begin to notice more. I promise myself to look at the trees as I pass by them each trip over the mountain. Some of the needles do look stiff and prickly, but others spread out from their branches, growing intricately like lace. I promise myself to see where I am rather than to hover inside the worries of the day, encased in my anxiety as fully as I am encased in my car.

While I am paying attention to the trees, I begin to notice other things also. Soon after the snow has melted, I see the short yellow flowers my friend had assured me would blossom at the edge of the field, colt’s foot. I notice that some of the wildflowers growing alongside my woodshed have petals that are actually a series of layered tinier petals, and I begin to leave the wildflowers be, growing among the perennials we’ve planted intentionally. I admit that some of them get a little too high, and some of their stems are a little bulky and their leaves are untidy, but their purple and white blossoms are so pleasant looking there among the green.

I begin to see more animals scuttling across the road too, not only squirrels and chipmunks, but a juvenile red fox and a baby woodchuck. Deer graze occasionally in cornfields, but they seem to prefer new mown hay. In early spring, they huddle together, a dozen or two nipping at the scant patches of grass, but by summer they spread themselves apart, eating leisurely. One day, a parade of geese paces off the circumference of a pond downhill from the deer, a mother and her young. The babies look like gray puffballs. They grow quickly but remain soft and downy for weeks. Then one day they’re adolescents, covered with feathers, half as large as their mother. I know that in a few more weeks, they’ll have flown off, somewhere south. When I drive by and look for them, they’ll be gone. I’ll feel a pang of loneliness. I feel that pang now, even as I remind myself that they’re still here, as am I.

This world—how abundant it is, how mystical. And I am part of it—the cedars, the spruce, the pine, the maple, the chipmunk, the geese, you, me. Giving the world attention requires active engagement, though it can seem so passive. Meditation, contemplation—they are experiences that urge me to enter creation rather than hold myself apart from it. Turning my attention outward, I receive reassurance, renew my confidence in the God who could imagine such variety into being.

Paying attention is a contemplative practice; it slows us down, requires us to move through our days at a more reverent pace. Paying attention helps us to incorporate a little bit of sabbath time into every day. Observing the trees, the wildflowers, the domesticated and undomesticated animals in all their variety reminds me of how much attention God has paid creation. In this pause, this interruption of time, I recognize myself as one held up by the gaze of God.

Lynn Domina is the author of two collections of poetry, Corporal Works and Framed in Silence, and the editor of Poets on the Psalms. She is a student at the Earlham School of Religion, where she takes courses in the Ministry of Writing and lives in the western Catskill region of New York.

Click here to read all the guest posts in the Monk in the World series>>

Sacred Rhythms Writing & Movement Retreat

In September, I traveled to beautiful Cape May, NJ to lead one of my favorite retreats: Sacred Rhythms Writing and Movement Retreat (I need to work on scheduling another one soon, perhaps in Ireland!)  An amazing group of 18 dancing monks gathered and we had a time full of joy, depth, and beauty together. We followed the monastic hours of the day with time for yoga, dance, and writing, so that we could explore what happens to our writing when we move into a more embodied place. What unfolds and flowers is always powerful!

Several dancing monks were willing to share their poems with our community and for this I am very grateful:

How to Be a Dancing Monk

Celebrate Everyday

Move Freely
Sit Silently
Offer Gentleness and Gratitude
Embody your Creativity
Connect with the Holy Spirit
Always Love, Share and Sigh often

—Jennifer Trently (poem and photo of St. Mary-by-the-Sea in Cape May, NJ above)

 

Dancing With Trees

The late summer heat

shimmers on my leaves,

my sap pulsing and throbbing

in my limbs,

Beckoning to you in the breeze,

come dance with me.

Set aside your trembling,

look deep in your heart.

I have been waiting

Standing strong for you

Feel my sacred life

in your bones.

Come dance.

—Mary Kerns, This Sacred Life (poem and image above)

 

Response to prompt: What is the boat that you are missing? (inspired by this poem)

What is the boat, what is the boat, oh my God, what is the boat? The boat is life as it unfolds, slowly, beautifully even as I rush about wanting experiences, wanting love, my dog sighs in his bed, loving the warmth of his own body heat reflected back and holding him in fuzzy flannel.

The boat is love blossoming everywhere in the obvious, in the unseen, hiding in crevices, in buzzing cicada songs, in flutters of wings and flow of willow branches, teasing in breezes and hints, in the color of pale blue climbing my split rail fence shouting glory, glory while I grab another bag to stuff full of things I might need on my journey. While I gather up supplies to ease anxiety or bring comfort, my husband’s eyes lovingly follow my movements in brown liquid wonder. While my heart aches for a sunset, a cup of hot chocolate, a cardinal, a sign that God is near….any damn sign will do in this hour of deep longing… I miss seeing how sunlight catches my friend’s hair and turns the white into strands of gold.

—Sharon Landis, Color My Soul (blog post excerpt)

 

What Do You Want to Remember from the Cape May Retreat?

The electric toothbrush, its absence mysterious

reappears next to the breakfast menu.

101 butterflies that flutter by–

monarchs framed by a single retangle of porch railing.

The lighthouse, white with a red top

that calls, here, here, here, from every direction.

The courtyand dance of chaos under Mary's watch.

A simple rocking along with the waves, just out of sight,

The flap flap flump of wild turkey, lands so close, intimate.

Two swans flare feathers, intruder bird flies.

The circle of women, writing together,

The sound of the bell. Time to stop.

—Johanna Rucker

 

A line from what each monk wants to remember

written down by Johanna

how my body felt during the 5 dance movements

the praying mantis that seemed lifeless–

what we thought dead, resurrected

the dolphins leap

three swans fly, necks stretched

the smell of salt air

the sea that caressed me all night

A bird teases me as I turn around

the escaped electric toothbrush reappears by the breakfast menu

the slamming doors raise the hair on even a dead nun's neck

lace curtains dance

the opening of sighs before dance

a great blue heron takes off, white swans lift away

the rush of autumn coming in

the clarity of the Milky Way, Sagittarius and Scorpio

the mirror dance of the lighthouse sweep

a healing from Mother Mary

Chicken Waldorf salad, two days running.

Photo by Johanna Rucker:

Group photo:

Invitation to Community Lectio Divina: Honoring Saints & Ancestors

With November we offer a new invitation for contemplation. Our focus for this month is honoring saints and ancestors. The month of November is traditionally a time when the Christian Community remembers those who have died. And so we are inviting you to welcome in the wisdom of those who have gone before us.

I invite you into a lectio divina practice with some words from the Letter to the Hebrews.

How Community Lectio Divina works:

Each month there will be a passage selected from scripture, poetry, or other sacred texts (and occasionally visio and audio divina as well with art and music).

How amazing it would be to discern together the movements of the Spirit at work in the hearts of monks around the world.

I invite you to set aside some time this week to pray with the text below. Here is a handout with a brief overview (feel free to reproduce this handout and share with others as long as you leave in the attribution at the bottom – thank you!)

Lean into silence, pray the text, listen to what shimmers, allow the images and memories to unfold, tend to the invitation, and then sit in stillness.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us rid ourselves of every burden and sin that clings to us and persevere in running the race that lies before us.

— Hebrews 12:1

After you have prayed with the text (and feel free to pray with it more than once – St. Ignatius wrote about the deep value of repetition in prayer, especially when something feels particularly rich) spend some time journaling what insights arise for you.

How is this text calling to your dancing monk heart in this moment of your life?

What does this text have to offer to your discernment journey of listening moment by moment to the invitation from the Holy?

What wisdom emerged that may be just for you, but may also be for the wider community?

Sharing Your Responses

Please share the fruits of your lectio divina practice in the comments below (at the bottom of the page) or at our Holy Disorder of Dancing Monks Facebook group which you can join here. There are over 2400 members and it is a wonderful place to find connection and community with others on this path.

You might share the word or phrase that shimmered, the invitation that arose from your prayer, or artwork you created in response. There is something powerful about naming your experience in community and then seeing what threads are woven between all of our responses.

Join the Holy Disorder of Dancing Monks Facebook group here>>

*Note: If this is your first time posting, or includes a link, your comment will need to be moderated before it appears. This is to prevent spam and should be approved within 24 hours.

Writing Songs for Monks and Mystics (guest post by David Ash)

For the last several months, we have been embarking on an exciting creative project and collaboration.  It started with choosing 12 dancing monks to be a part of the original Dancing Monk Icon series painted by Marcy Hall.  These icons were meant to depict some beloved monks and mystics in a joyful and colorful way, reminding us of our call to dance through this life. I have been following with a series of poems I am slowly writing about each of these wondrous figures, choosing moments in their stories to illuminate.

Then we had the inspiration to feature a dancing monk for each week of our Advent/Christmas and Epiphany/New Year's online retreats. In conversation with my beloved teaching partner Betsey Beckman, we started to dream of having a song composed for each one as well, which Betsey would create gesture prayers and dances to accompany them.

So we enlisted the help of some musicians we love, including David and Laura Ash. One of the great joys of the Abbey is collaborating with other artists to create resources that support the life of this community.

I asked David if he might reflect on the process of creating the three songs he and Laura were responsible for, as an insight into the creative process.

If you would like to join us for these online retreats you can find the registration info here:

Birthing the Holy: Advent & Christmas Online Retreat with Monks, Mystics, and Archetypes
Illuminating the Way: Epiphany & New Year's Online Retreat with Monks, Mystics, and Archetypes

Read on for David Ash's reflection:

How do you write songs about people you don’t know?  It’s a lot like writing a book report: read, organize, and polish.  But sometimes it’s also like creating an ad campaign: remember what you want the listener to do and don’t forget your target market.

Christine asked my wife Laura and I to compose songs for her latest retreat project with Betsey Beckman.  The songs would be used for movement and meditation during the retreat.  Each song would speak to a particular patron saint of the Abbey.  Our task was to write songs about the biblical King David, St. Brigid of Kildare (Ireland), and U.S. activist and journalist Dorothy Day.

The “ad campaign” part seemed pretty basic.  Songs that had already been selected by other composers sometimes had ostinato refrains and were of a consistent rhythm.  And as the Abbey is committed to inclusivity and mutuality, an avoidance of patriarchic vocabulary is expected.

On to the research!  My songs, with a few exceptions, are logogenic: I start with the words and come up with a melody afterwards.  Laura is more melogenic than I am, but she still usually starts with lyrics too.

To craft those, we went to the source material.  David’s life is written about extensively in 1 and 2 Samuel, and I also looked up all the Biblical references to dancing.  Dorothy Day has any number of quotes to select from her articles and speeches.

The challenge was St. Brigid.  If she wrote anything (assuming she could even write), nothing survives.  Scholarly works about her are filled with contradictions, leading some to doubt whether she existed at all.  Laura instead came up with a list of consistent attributions.

These phrases and images became the basis for her song.

Then comes selection and organization.  You can’t sum up a life in one song, and that wasn’t our assignment anyway.  We chose some aspect of their lives that was appropriate to the project.  After the text was ready, what style of music should we use?  Laura wanted a Celtic feel and modality for Brigid.  I wanted an energetic round for David’s dance.  Dorothy Day’s song took a while.  My first thought was a march in the style of “The Internationale,” but Laura suggested a gospel music feel that might sound like a labor chorus was singing it, and that’s what we went with.  Once we had chosen our rhythms, the melodies and harmonies followed.

Then comes my least favorite but most necessary part: editing.  Betsey and Christine acted as editors.  My title and oft-repeated refrain phrase “I Danced before the Lord” struck a nerve (oops, patriarchy), so it got changed to “I Danced for Adonai.”  It also went from a major key to minor and got faster as it went along (think “Hava Nagila”).

Statements in the Brigid song became questions to make it more about longing for answers and assurance than having them.  And sometimes, the songwriter can get buried too deeply in the source material.  This happened to me with the third verse of “Revolution of the Heart.”  My original lyrics were:

And so, we must fight and cry out for the rights

of the worthy and unworthy we employ.

This was based on Dorothy Day’s own words:

“And, by fighting for better conditions, by crying out unceasingly for the rights of the workers, the poor, of the destitute–the rights of the worthy and the unworthy poor, in other words–we can, to a certain extent, change the world…”

Day was writing about how the rich and powerful divide the poor into “unworthy” and “worthy” and hold up the one as reason to not help the other, a classic divide-and-conquer strategy.  I knew the context.  But the context was missing in the song!  Betsey suggested an alternative:

And so, we must fight and cry out for the rights

and the dignity of workers we employ.

Even in the studio, we tinkered.  A phrase that looked great on paper turned out to be too tricky to sing.  Oops, what are we doing for an introduction here?  Maybe a little faster would be better.  Our recording engineer, Jakael Tristam, did a masterful job of keeping us on schedule while making suggestions for improvement.

Even after these songs are printed and recorded, change will happen, just as it happens in hymns and pop songs.  What that will be, I cannot guess.  But if these songs become part of you, you will be part of the change.

David Ash received an AB in English Literature from Georgetown University and a MA in Liturgical Music with an emphasis in Music Composition from Santa Clara University.

David was a Music and/or Liturgy Director for several parishes in the Seattle Archdiocese over a span of 17 years before serving Grace Lutheran for three years, first as an accompanist and now as Music Director.  He has composed, along with his wife Laura, three albums of liturgical music, a series of music for Advent Lessons and Carols, and many other liturgical songs and psalms.  They also have composed songs published with Oregon Catholic Press and music for many dances of Betsey Beckman’s, including her The Dancing Word series.

Haiku for Catholics is one of a dozen gift books of humorous gift books that David has published.

Monk in the World guest post: Sam Troxal

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Sam Troxal's wisdom on marrying Haiku with other contemplative practices:

I searched for a lake

or some other sacred place

my own front porch

I live as a monk in the world by listening—learning to listen. Maybe I really should say I want to learn to listen, hugging the words of Thomas Merton’s prayer that even when I am off course, “the desire to please the Holy does in fact please the Holy.”

For the longest time I didn’t know that the Spirit was speaking. That’s the beauty of the Spirit: it’s always speaking, even when I’m not listening. I caught a sound here and there, not sure where it was coming from, or maybe it was my imagination. More often than not, I forgot all about it. But the Spirit keeps speaking—calling. That’s the word: calling. I think the Holy is calling me—to do, to be.

So, there I was in my usual distracted state a few years ago when I was invited to a leadership role in my congregation. Having spent most of my life as a Pentecostal until coming out of the closet, I felt unprepared for leadership in a mainline congregation where I now was. So I read. Church growth seemed the obvious place to start, but books on spirituality started falling across my path—or, as a friend asked, were they being laid there for me?!

As for the books being laid in my path, they weren’t on mainline spirituality for others, rather they were books on spirituality for me. Eventually the message got through to me, I can best serve my faith community from my own spiritual center.

rain splatters outside

grandpa watching from the door

memories

Some people seem able to hear the Spirit speaking through all the chatter of life, but listening comes harder for me. For me, that means starting and ending each day with morning and evening prayer. Much of my life I felt like I was rushing through life… but to nowhere in particular. I rushed out the door in the morning with breakfast or grabbing it on the way. I skimmed through the news, listened to NPR, as I settled into my workday. Evenings were just as hectic so I rushed from morning to night, day after day. There were weeks where I felt more machine than human.

Prayer helps me slow that down; I don’t seem capable of doing it on my own. At first I even tried to race through that, keeping to a one-month cycle of Psalms. When the Spirit pointed out that I wasn’t really savoring them I heard the call to slow down. Then slow down some more. And then just simply open my prayer with psalms—no schedule, no cycle, just begin prayer here with the psalms and move the bookmark at whatever pace the Spirit leads, but savor the words.

sitting on the porch

haiku roll across the grass

morning prayer

In the morning I need lectio divina. It’s a way of looking out at my day, what is the Spirit calling me to be aware of today? Can I listen to the Spirit’s guidance in the day ahead? I need to start here. And just maybe carry the listening into my day.

Inspired by Christine Valters Painter’s Lectio Divina – The Sacred Art: Transforming Words & Images into Heart-Centered Prayer, I started dabbling in haiku. Honestly, at least some of my interest was to find a quicker route through lectio before work. But, as I discovered—and the Spirit chuckled at my naïveté— haiku was going to be anything but quick.

Many mornings—now noon and evenings, on drives and walks, at work and throughout my day—I pore over haiku. Sometimes, all I hear is a phrase. They may linger there for the day—or days, or weeks. I’m learning to listen. I don’t get to wrap them all up neatly. Sometimes the Spirit just wants a phrase to linger in my soul.

not every haiku

gets finished or right away

to carry around

In the evening I need examen. Here, it is about looking back over my day. Where did I see—or miss—the Holy in my day? The more I do it, the more practiced and familiar I get, I start recognizing the Holy more in the moment.

One examen brought to my attention a coworker whose appearance always brought out a groan within me. If I had to talk, I talked past her. Over time—and this will clue you as to how embarrassingly far off I have been—I discovered three coworkers who caused me to groan. But I prayed them in examen: how did I see them in myself. I began to understand them and found more patience for someone I had something in common with, not to mention toning down some of my own arrogance. I started talking to them—enjoying them, even.

I’m starting to get this listening thing. The more I listen, the more I hear the Holy speaking—calling— from the moments and people in my life.

to see Christ in all

the nice and the downright rude

everyone

Sam Troxal lives in Bloomington, IN where he works as a healthcare enrollment counselor assisting the least of those among us with insurance. He is a member of First United Church where his favorite role is Sunday morning doorkeeper. He is an oblate of Our Lady of Grace Monastery in their oblate intensive which meets for one week each year. You can read his blog here.

Click here to read all the guest posts in the Monk in the World series>>

Welcoming Your Multitude + St Brendan Poem (a love note from your online Abbess)

St. Brendan and the Songbirds

Imagine the hubris, searching for the Saint-promised island,

the stubbornness to continue for seven journeys around the sun.

Each day on the rolling sea, his fellow monks

jostled and tossed by waves.

Brendan asks late one evening:

How will I know when I find what I seek?

Easter Sunday brings liturgy on the back of a whale,

but as if that weren’t miracle enough, they travel onward.

The ship is tossed onto sand and stone.

they look up to behold a broad and magnificent

oak frosted with white birds hiding the branches entirely,

downy tree limbs reaching upward.

The monks stand huddled under a blue stone sky

relieved to be on stable earth for now.

The sun descends, Vespers, rose to lavender to violet,

heralding the great night’s arrival.

They release a collective sigh of contentment, the air expands

around them as a thousand snowy birds ascend into that

newly hollowed space, and throats open together,

a human-avian chorus of shared devotion to the ancient songs and ways.

Ever eager to journey forward, Brendan still lingers for fifty days

sitting in that oak cathedral, feathers scribing their own sacred texts.

In those moments, did the relentless seeking fall away,

sliding off like the veil hiding a bride’s expectant face?

—Christine Valters Paintner

Dearest monks and artists,

I share another new poem in our dancing monk series. I love the story of St. Brendan and his long voyage. In these poems I have been seeking a moment from the stories which shimmer for me and touch my heart. Brendan and his monks land on an island where the birds sing the psalms and I love this image of them as the original monks singing the divine liturgy.

Brendan at heart is the archetype of the pilgrim, or great voyager. He calls forth our own adventuring spirit. But I was touched by this image of him pausing, resting, lingering on his way toward his goal.

On a personal note, I am basking in the tremendous love I experienced this past Sunday, as John and I went out to the island of Inismor, accompanied by a number of friends both old and new, from near and afar. We were celebrating our 20th wedding anniversary with a Celtic ritual at an ancient monastic site. Led by the wonderful Dara Malloy with song from Deirdre Ni Chinneide and Aisling Richmond, dance by Betsey Beckman, poems read by Susan Millar DuMars, Kevin Higgins, and Kayce Hughlett, anointing oil created by Tonja Reichley, our pilgrim staffs made by Laura Simmons with dozens of multi-colored blessing ribbons streaming out into the wind (many sent by you, our global community!). Then of course, just as important, the rest of the community gathered to witness our love. The evening brought live music in our living room from one of our favorite Galway bands.

It was truly more than I could have imagined. I spent most of yesterday just basking in the love I felt, in the sense of bliss and contentment over how life unfolds. This past spring and summer I had some struggles with my health, I was unsure what the autumn would bring. And it has been an utterly magical fall, from our amazing trip to the States with two fabulous retreats with even more fabulous dancing monks in attendance.

But this is the truth of our human existence – life ebbs and flows like the tide, rises and falls like the waves. In my moments of clarity, when in the midst of struggle, the greatest gift I can offer to myself are lots of deep breaths, not holding on too tightly, and welcoming in all of the tender and vulnerable parts of myself.

Likewise in these joyous seasons where I feel full and alive and connected, I breathe so as to be fully present to all the grace, I don't hold on too tightly to any one moment but savor it for the jewel it is, and I welcome in the sweet, giddy, and joyful parts of myself.

We each contain a multitude and this is at the heart of monastic hospitality – welcoming in all of the parts and recognizing that no single one defines who we are. Putting these parts into conversation with one another can bring healing and greater ease in life. These inner archetypes or energies offer us resources for embracing the full spectrum of human living.

I am reflecting more about archetypes in my latest article at Patheos:

Welcoming Your Multitude: The Monastic Way and Inner Hospitality

My husband and I have been praying lectio divina every morning together for the last several months. We also pray what is known as lectio continua, or the ancient practice of choosing a book of the scriptures and then praying through a couple of verses each day until we reach the end. It is a version of monastic stability, of staying with something through all of its ups and downs. We pray texts we might otherwise avoid. Earlier this year we worked through the Song of Songs in this way, and now we are praying the Psalms one by one.

We find ourselves in the midst of Psalm 10 currently, a difficult psalm of lament. Instead of reading all the way through to the end and finding immediate resolution in the psalmist's cry of hope to God, we have been sitting each day with two verses at a time, with haunting questions about God's presence echoing through. Even more disturbing are the images of the "enemies," the ones whose "mouths are filled with cursing, deceit, and opposition." Or those who "murder the innocent" and "stealthily watch for the helpless." The psalmist later calls out to God to "break the arm of the wicked." As I sit with these images I want to turn away and say these have nothing to do with me and my peaceful life.

Click here to continue reading>>

If you would like to explore the gift of archetypes for your own journey more deeply, consider joining us for our Advent & Christmas online retreat where we will focus on a different mystic/saint each week and the archetype they invite us to embrace.

If you will be shopping for the holidays with Amazon.com at all, we would be very grateful if you would use this link. When you shop through that link we receive a very small percentage of your purchase price and no extra cost to you. These funds help support our scholarships to those who can't afford to join our programs otherwise.

See just below for my gift to you as we enter this season of new beginnings and the remembrance of ancestors.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

www.AbbeyoftheArts.com

Photo right: St. Brendan Dancing Monk Icon by Marcy Hall

Invitation to Dance: Letting Go

We continue our theme this month of "Letting Go" which arose from our Community Lectio Divina practice with the story from the Gospel of Luke 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 "Letting Go" as the gentlest of intentions, planting a seed as you prepare to step into the dance.
Play the piece of music below ("Prayer for Peace" by John Steiner – Please visit his site to purchase the album.) 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: Mary Elyn Bahlert

This week in our Monk in the World guest post series we have a lovely reflection from fellow monk Mary Elyn Bahlert. Read on for her wisdom:

'As if the sorrows of this world could overwhelm me

now that I realize what we are.

I wish everyone could realize this.

But there is no way of telling people

they are all actually walking around shining

like the brightest sun.'

—Thomas Merton

The world was always there for me – gurgling with joy, shining like the brightest sun, fragrant-full, slippery and hard-edged, colorful beyond belief – and there I was, walking around with my head in the clouds, my eyes toward the ground.

I have a good mind, but living from that linear place didn’t work for me forever, thank God.  My best thinking brought me straight into a long and deep depression almost 20 years ago.  Life has not been the same, since.  Today, I am grateful to be alive, and every day offers new delicacies for my delight.  The gift of being a Monk in the World is that I get to enjoy what has been there all along, and I get to enjoy it as if it is new, as if it has never been witnessed before.

Many years ago, I learned to pray after reading The Christian’s Secret to a Happy Life,  by Hannah Whitall Smith (of the American Holiness Movement).  That was the beginning of a long, rich, and growing walk as a Monk in the World.  I studied theology and became a preacher, a way to offer to others the gift of knowing we are not separate, we are not alone.  I found strength and power and growing self acceptance through prayer.  After all this time, I still believe we can change the world by praying, by praying for ourselves, which grows us in Love.

I’m as inter-faith as I am Christian, knowing that the Light, the Universe, the Christ, the Mother, the Holy One, El, is in us all.  Or maybe we are swimming in this Holy One.  I struggle to find words for this life, this living.

I learned to meditate over 4 years ago, and this practice has deepened me.  My greatest joy in meditation is that I find myself more present in the moment, moment by moment, day by day.  I see things I did not see before.  I delight in the branches of the birch tree outside my city window; I watch the seasons and winds bring change to that tree. I say:  “I love that tree, and that tree loves me.”  It’s true.

When I meditate, I find the boundaries between myself and the world dissolving.  I feel the sound of a neighbor’s voice, the boom of a truck on the street, the harsh call of a jay, the wind in the eucalyptus trees, as much as I hear them.  I suppose this is being one with all of creation.  For me, it is not as clear as that, but I am beginning to understand, to know.

As a preacher, I also served a community of faith.  My work as a Monk in the world was very extraverted for this introvert!  I had the privilege of being called to be with others in their times of deepest need – learning a diagnosis that would take a beloved woman’s life, baptizing an infant who would not go home from the hospital, as she lay in the arms of her teenage mother, rushing into a hospital emergency room only minutes before the death of a vibrant woman in her 50’s, as her partner lay sobbing on top of her; I’ve sat in silence and watched the minutes tick away, waiting for surgery to end, with a frightened wife.  I’ve answered the door to find a man who has not slept in days, smelling of the street, who tells me his long and convoluted story, only to ask me for a few dollars for food.  I’ve heard many of those stories, and even though I do not understand, I have prayed with each one, knowing I have not have ever known that particular desperation.  I’ve witnessed the suffering of the mentally ill who come to Church, hoping for something; I am blessed by my own illness to be able to see the suffering person, trapped by their mind, underneath what we call “stigma.”

After 30 years of serving as “Pastor,” I am only grateful.  For whatever service I have been able to give, I am grateful.  The gift has been mine, truly, truly.

All of this is to say that I am still looking to see the light Thomas Merton, one of my spiritual mentors, must surely have seen.  The light is so ordinary, I’m sure.  I know with a keen knowing that we are all light, that we are swimming in this light.  I’ve felt it for a moment when I meditate, I’ve seen it shimmer – just a glimpse! – in the green, heart-shaped leaves of my beloved birch tree.

I am a mendicant now, begging for alms.  I am a mendicant, raising my eyes to look into the eyes of whoever crosses my path.  I am a mendicant, wanting to trust each day’s needs and gifts to the Holy One.  I am a mendicant, looking for Light.

Mary Elyn Bahlert is a poet, speaker, retreat leader, writer and lover of beauty in all forms. She has retired from active ministry in the United Methodist Church and has a coaching and spiritual direction practice in Berkeley, CA. Mary Elyn and her husband are trans-planted Midwesterners who live in a 100 year old Craftsman home on a hill in Oakland, CA.

Click here to read all the guest posts in the Monk in the World series>>

Miriam on the Shores (a love note from your online Abbess)

Miriam on the Shores

“All the women went out after her with tambourines and dancing.” –Exodus 15:20

Her skirt hangs heavy with seawater,

staccato breath after running from death.

She can still feel soldiers reaching out

to seize her blouse before the waves caved in.

Collapsing on dry earth for a moment,

the impulse to dance begins in her feet,

spreads slowly upwards like a flock of starlings

rising toward a dawn-lit sky.

So many dances in secret before,

night-stolen movements after exhausting days

heaving stones and harvest.

She finds herself now upright, weeping.

To stand here, face to the sun,

feeling an irrepressible desire to

spin

. . . tumble

sashay

. . . turn

shake

. . . twirl

Savoring freedom with her limbs

as if it were a physical presence

like a fierce wind or the breath of labor,

shackles slipping off slowly.

She couldn’t help but dance.

The story says she picked up her tambourine,

which means she had packed it among the essentials.

In fleeing for her life, she knew this would be necessary.

How many of us still live enslaved in Egypt, beholden and weary?

Do you have the courage to run across the sea parted just now for you?

Will you carry your musical instrument and dance right there on the shores?

—Christine Valters Paintner

Dearest monks and artists,

I offer you the newest poem for the dancing monk series, an honoring of the internal movement from slavery to freedom we are each called to make. Joy is the natural response to such a journey.

Life has been full here as John and I prepare for our renewal of vows ceremony this coming Sunday. Our 20th anniversary was officially in early September, but we have this ritual time planned to coincide with the arrival of several friends from the States for our next pilgrimage. A deep bow of gratitude to everyone who sent us ribbons! They are tied to our pilgrim staffs and are like wondrous colorful streamers of celebration from our beloved community. Thank you truly!  Please send some prayers for decent weather as our ritual will be outdoors on the island of Inismor at one of the sacred monastic ruins we love so much. Of course, in the west of Ireland, the weather is always unpredictable, and part of the wildness we have fallen so much in love with here.

Next Tuesday our pilgrimage begins, and as always we are so excited to welcome a new group and share the beauty and power of this place. We feel such an incredible privilege to be entrusted with inviting pilgrims across the threshold into the liminal time of this journey and the thinness of this place. Following the pilgrimage Betsey and I head to England to teach our Awakening the Creative Spirit intensive. Then comes a long period of being at home during the stillness of winter. I have so relished the opportunity to be with dancing monks in so many capacities this fall. My heart continues to be drawn toward ways to support local connections and as space opens up again for me I will continue to ponder how we might do that.

I have been feeling much kinship with Miriam, who is called Prophet in the scriptures. To imagine this arduous journey she made and to enter in viscerally to her embodied overflow of joy at tasting freedom, calls me to my own enslaved and wounded places. This fall has revealed many new layers of patterns I am called to release in service of my own growing freedom and it makes me want to dance with abandon.

How about you, dear dancing monks? What are your own places of confinement from which you might finally break free?

For some additional reflection from me, here is one of my past columns at Patheos onLuminous Wisdom of the Night:

The darkness embraces everything, / It lets me imagine  / a great presence stirring beside me. / I believe in the night.  

—Rainer Maria Rilke in Book of Hours

The Christian feasts of All Saints and All Souls on November 1st and 2nd honor the profound legacy of wisdom our ancestors have left to us and continue to offer. In some denominations, we celebrate and honor the dead for the whole month of November. In the Northern hemisphere the world is entering the dark half of the year. The ancient Celtic people believed this time was a thin space, where heaven and earth whispered to one another across a luminous veil and those who walked before us are especially accessible in these late autumn days. These moments on the great turning of the year’s wheel offer us invitations and gifts for our spiritual journeys.

Click here to continue reading>>

If you want some guidance and reflection through the month of November, the season of remembrance, our Honoring Saints and Ancestors retreat is available online as a self-study program here.

And if you have been considering joining me in the Northwest for our Coming Home to the Body retreat April 17-21, 2015, there are only 4 spaces left in double rooms. I would love to dance with you in person and this is my only planned teaching trip to the U.S. for 2015. Coming together to be with other dancing monks live is always a tremendous gift.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

www.AbbeyoftheArts.com

Photo right: Miriam Dancing Monk Icon by Marcy Hall (prints available here)

Invitation to Poetry: Letting Go

Welcome to Poetry Party #80!

I select an image (the photo above is by Alicia Dykstra) and suggest a theme/title and invite you to respond with your own poem. Scroll down and add it in the comments section below or join our Holy Disorder of Dancing Monks Facebook group and post there.

Feel free to take your poem in any direction and then post the image and invitation on your blog (if you have one), Facebook, or Twitter, and encourage others to come join the party!  (If you repost the photo, please make sure to include the credit link below it and link back to this post inviting others to join us).

We began this month with a  Community Lectio Divina practice with a story from the Gospel of Luke and followed up with our Photo Party on the theme of "letting go." (You are most welcome to still participate).  We continue this theme in our Poetry Party this month. What are you continuing to discover about letting go?

You can post your poem either in the comment section below*or you can join our Holy Disorder of Dancing Monks Facebook group (with more than 2400 members!) and post there.

*Note: If this is your first time posting, or includes a link, your comment will need to be moderated before it appears. This is to prevent spam and should be approved within 24 hours.