Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 18

Fasting and the Three Renunciations ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

This week begins our Lenten journey through the desert of our hearts. If you want to make an intentional pilgrimage with kindred spirits, we invite you to join our companion retreat to my book A Different Kind of Fast, where we explore different kinds of fasting including from speed and productivity and from craving certainty. 

This is an excerpt from the introduction of the book:

One of the early teachings of the Christian church I find helpful to understand fasting is from John Cassian who talks about three renunciations. Cassian, an early theologian in the Christian church, writes about what he calls the three renunciations.[1] Renunciations are an intentional giving up of certain patterns or ways of being in the world and one form fasting can take. 

For Cassian the first renunciation is of our former way of life and shifting our focus to our heart’s deep desire. He assumes his listeners have perhaps become too invested in pleasing others, in achievements, or other externally focused motivations for how we live. By beginning to intentionally turn our attention inward, we listen for the way the sacred pulses in our own hearts calls us to live from this holy direction. 

The second renunciation, Cassian says, is giving up our mindless thoughts. Our minds are full of chatter all the time: judgments about ourselves and others, fears and anxieties over the future, overwhelm at world issues, the stress of illness, stories we tell about our lives, regrets over the past, imagined conversations with others, and more. It can be exhausting to follow all these trails of anxiousness. 

Intentional thought and meditative practice have always been about calming the mind so that the spirit can listen to another, deeper, truer voice. In the beginning we may need to start by focusing our thoughts on an object of attention, as in centering prayer where we choose a sacred word to bring our awareness back to the divine. As we continue this practice, however, we eventually may find ourselves not needing to focus thoughts anymore, but simply listening to the heart’s wisdom. We begin by making the conscious choice to listen by quieting and clearing out the babble and prattle of our minds so that the heart’s shimmering can become the focus. 

The third renunciation I find the most powerful. We are called to renounce even our images of God so that we can meet God in the fullness of that divine reality beyond the boxes and limitations we create. So many of us have inherited harmful images of God taught by others which are not fruitful to our flourishing. Images of a judgmental God, a vending machine God, a capricious God, a prosperity God. We project our human experiences onto the divine. This is a natural impulse but our soul’s deepening depends upon our freeing ourselves from these limiting images so we might have an encounter with the face of the sacred in all of its expansiveness and possibility. We might feel called to fast from these life-denying images to open our hearts to something wider. 

We do not have to retreat to the desert or join a monastery to find this path of deepened intimacy with God. We each have the opportunity to choose this inner work of discerning what we hold onto and what we release at every season of our lives. We each have the choice to make. Sometimes this kind of radical simplicity accompanies a move, for example when downsizing from a family home to an apartment. Sometimes we are forced by circumstance to change our outer life, perhaps due to illness or taking care of a sick parent. This exterior transformation is not a necessary prerequisite for the inner transformation we are all called to seek. 

One of the beautiful aspects of the liturgical cycle is that the call to reflection and intensified spiritual practice returns again and again each year and meets us wherever we are. The purpose of these acts of letting go is always in service of love. When we fast out of a misplaced sense of competition or a diet mentality, we lose this focus and it becomes something that distorts reality rather than clarifies it. 

When we fast, we stand humbly in the presence of the sacred and admit our humanity. We allow ourselves to be fully vulnerable and ask for the support in transformation we all need. We do not fast by our own sheer will, but by seeking the ground of being which supports and nourishes us as we grow. 

Please join us! We begin our Lenten retreat journey on Wednesday. We would love to have your presence with us. 

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Image: Paid License with Canva

[1] Margaret Funk, Thoughts Matter, Liturgical Press (2013), 9

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Monk in the World guest post: Kathleen Deyer Bolduc

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Kathleen Deyer Bolduc’s reflection In My Own Backyard.

One of my most powerful contemplative practices is to ask God for a dream when I am unsure of which way to turn. God always gives me an answer, sometimes in surprising ways. 

In the midst of health challenges that include debilitating fatigue, I’ve been seeking to discern what’s next for Cloudland, the contemplative retreat center I run with my husband. It’s becoming very difficult to design and facilitate retreats as well as create  beautiful, peaceful, and inviting spaces for retreatants to meet with God in gardens, fields, barn, studio and prayer room. 

And so, I ask for a dream. 

Two dreams come immediately. Not in sleep, but as I pull a book from a crowded bookshelf. In so doing, I uncover one of my old journals, dated 2010—the year we established Cloudland. Knowing this is no coincidence, I pick up and open the journal. It falls open to a page where I had penned two dreams.  

In the first, I chased a flock of peacocks across the backyard. I wanted their iridescent blue and green tail feathers to display in my living room. 

In the second dream, I once again chased birds across the backyard, this time a flock of great blue herons. I chased them not for their feathers, but for a fledgling that struggled to keep up with her mother. I wanted to keep her for my own. 

I take the journal to the backyard, sit, and close my eyes. As I meditate on these dreams, a yawning chasm opens in my chest. It is as if my heart was calling out from all those years ago— I want! I want! I want!  

I take a deep breath and force myself to sit with the ache of wanting. Like a mouse nibbling inside a wall, it’s a gnawing, hungry feeling. Like a songbird struggling against the sides of a cage, it’s a claustrophobic feeling. Like an abandoned child crying for love, it’s a gut-wrenching feeling. 

Sit with the feelings, I remind myself. Inhale. Exhale. Feelings are messengers of God. You asked for a dream and God answered with these dreams from the year you founded Cloudland. Sit and listen.

With the sitting, uncomfortable as it is, comes an understanding. The words of Lady Wisdom rise up. Upstream is all drama. Downstream is all joy.  

For the last year or so, I’ve been paddling upstream, chasing after more—more beauty, more life, more depth for all who come to Cloudland. It gets so tiring! And all the time, if I’d only put down the paddle and let the current carry me downstream, I would have discovered that what I was looking for was right here in my own backyard.

A family of Baltimore orioles fly in and out of the buckeye tree, pops of bright orange, as they feast on buckeye blossoms. Lily of the valley perfumes the patio on which I sit. A cheeky robin performs an aria, seemingly for me alone.

I pick up my phone and search for the symbolism of peacocks and herons. I find peacocks signify beauty, new beginnings, self-expression and spiritual awakening. And great blue herons? In dreams, they also indicate spiritual awakening, as well as self-awareness.

Thirteen years ago, when God gave me these dreams, my husband and I perched on the cusp of a new beginning and deepened spiritual awakening with the establishment of Cloudland, this beautiful patch of ground that has hosted thousands of spiritually hungry and thirsty men, women and children: the chicken coop transformed into prayer room for spiritual direction; the falling-down 1880’s barn, rebuilt by my husband’s muscle to house healing services and retreats; the fields sown with wildflowers, paths cut through for retreatants to walk (and in the spring, for fawns and baby bunnies to hide in dappled sunshine). God provided all that we ever could have hoped for, and more.

But what do these dreams mean for me today, in 2023, with numerous health challenges wreaking havoc on my energy levels? I hear Lady Wisdom’s voice again: Upstream is all drama. Downstream is all joy.

Is it possible that what I am looking for is right here, right now, in my own backyard?

Perhaps it is time to put down the paddle, and let the river carry me where it will. Beauty, new beginnings, self-expression, and spiritual awakening can manifest in many ways, not only in the running of a retreat center. I’ve been dreaming of more time for writing, of spending more time with family, including my beautiful grandson, of traveling more with my husband. My heart skips a beat at Holy Spirit’s whispers.  

It’s time to say, I am hungry, and trust I will be fed. It’s time to say, free me, and trust I will be freed. It’s time to say, I need a rest, and trust that rest will be provided. 

Everything I want and need is here, now, because the Spirit of Life resides within me. All I need do is become still, every day, and open my heart to the Author of life, the One who loves me more than I love myself. All I need do is ask for what I need, trusting that God will supply me with more beauty, more life, more depth and more majesty than I ever dreamed possible.

Kathleen Deyer Bolduc is a spiritual director, author, and founder of Cloudland, a contemplative retreat center. Her books, including The Spiritual Art of Raising Children with Disabilities and Autism & Alleluias, contain faith lessons learned parenting a son with autism, and finding healing and restoration through the spiritual disciplines. KathleenBolduc.com

The post Monk in the World guest post: Kathleen Deyer Bolduc appeared first on Abbey of the Arts.

Monk in the World guest post: Kathleen Deyer Bulldog

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Kathleen Deyer Bolduc’s reflection In My Own Backyard.

One of my most powerful contemplative practices is to ask God for a dream when I am unsure of which way to turn. God always gives me an answer, sometimes in surprising ways. 

In the midst of health challenges that include debilitating fatigue, I’ve been seeking to discern what’s next for Cloudland, the contemplative retreat center I run with my husband. It’s becoming very difficult to design and facilitate retreats as well as create  beautiful, peaceful, and inviting spaces for retreatants to meet with God in gardens, fields, barn, studio and prayer room. 

And so, I ask for a dream. 

Two dreams come immediately. Not in sleep, but as I pull a book from a crowded bookshelf. In so doing, I uncover one of my old journals, dated 2010—the year we established Cloudland. Knowing this is no coincidence, I pick up and open the journal. It falls open to a page where I had penned two dreams.  

In the first, I chased a flock of peacocks across the backyard. I wanted their iridescent blue and green tail feathers to display in my living room. 

In the second dream, I once again chased birds across the backyard, this time a flock of great blue herons. I chased them not for their feathers, but for a fledgling that struggled to keep up with her mother. I wanted to keep her for my own. 

I take the journal to the backyard, sit, and close my eyes. As I meditate on these dreams, a yawning chasm opens in my chest. It is as if my heart was calling out from all those years ago— I want! I want! I want!  

I take a deep breath and force myself to sit with the ache of wanting. Like a mouse nibbling inside a wall, it’s a gnawing, hungry feeling. Like a songbird struggling against the sides of a cage, it’s a claustrophobic feeling. Like an abandoned child crying for love, it’s a gut-wrenching feeling. 

Sit with the feelings, I remind myself. Inhale. Exhale. Feelings are messengers of God. You asked for a dream and God answered with these dreams from the year you founded Cloudland. Sit and listen.

With the sitting, uncomfortable as it is, comes an understanding. The words of Lady Wisdom rise up. Upstream is all drama. Downstream is all joy.  

For the last year or so, I’ve been paddling upstream, chasing after more—more beauty, more life, more depth for all who come to Cloudland. It gets so tiring! And all the time, if I’d only put down the paddle and let the current carry me downstream, I would have discovered that what I was looking for was right here in my own backyard.

A family of Baltimore orioles fly in and out of the buckeye tree, pops of bright orange, as they feast on buckeye blossoms. Lily of the valley perfumes the patio on which I sit. A cheeky robin performs an aria, seemingly for me alone.

I pick up my phone and search for the symbolism of peacocks and herons. I find peacocks signify beauty, new beginnings, self-expression and spiritual awakening. And great blue herons? In dreams, they also indicate spiritual awakening, as well as self-awareness.

Thirteen years ago, when God gave me these dreams, my husband and I perched on the cusp of a new beginning and deepened spiritual awakening with the establishment of Cloudland, this beautiful patch of ground that has hosted thousands of spiritually hungry and thirsty men, women and children: the chicken coop transformed into prayer room for spiritual direction; the falling-down 1880’s barn, rebuilt by my husband’s muscle to house healing services and retreats; the fields sown with wildflowers, paths cut through for retreatants to walk (and in the spring, for fawns and baby bunnies to hide in dappled sunshine). God provided all that we ever could have hoped for, and more.

But what do these dreams mean for me today, in 2023, with numerous health challenges wreaking havoc on my energy levels? I hear Lady Wisdom’s voice again: Upstream is all drama. Downstream is all joy.

Is it possible that what I am looking for is right here, right now, in my own backyard?

Perhaps it is time to put down the paddle, and let the river carry me where it will. Beauty, new beginnings, self-expression, and spiritual awakening can manifest in many ways, not only in the running of a retreat center. I’ve been dreaming of more time for writing, of spending more time with family, including my beautiful grandson, of traveling more with my husband. My heart skips a beat at Holy Spirit’s whispers.  

It’s time to say, I am hungry, and trust I will be fed. It’s time to say, free me, and trust I will be freed. It’s time to say, I need a rest, and trust that rest will be provided. 

Everything I want and need is here, now, because the Spirit of Life resides within me. All I need do is become still, every day, and open my heart to the Author of life, the One who loves me more than I love myself. All I need do is ask for what I need, trusting that God will supply me with more beauty, more life, more depth and more majesty than I ever dreamed possible.

Kathleen Deyer Bolduc is a spiritual director, author, and founder of Cloudland, a contemplative retreat center. Her books, including The Spiritual Art of Raising Children with Disabilities and Autism & Alleluias, contain faith lessons learned parenting a son with autism, and finding healing and restoration through the spiritual disciplines. KathleenBolduc.com

The post Monk in the World guest post: Kathleen Deyer Bulldog appeared first on Abbey of the Arts.

A Different Kind of Fast Lent Retreat ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

We have ten days until the start of Lent. How will you consecrate that holy season in the wilderness? We are hosting an online pilgrimage with a companion retreat to my book A Different Kind of Fast. Read on for an excerpt: 

The forty days of Lent are a sacred journey through the wilderness which means there will be moments of challenge. Even if we live in the middle of the suburbs or in the heart of the city, the wilderness becomes a metaphor for those places we need to wrestle and ultimately soften toward ourselves, bring lavish compassion to the things we struggle with and listen for ancient wisdom to practice our way into a renewed way of being. 

You may wonder if a forty-day retreat is even possible for you in the midst of work commitments, family, and other things which demand your time and energy. Contemplative theologian Barbara Holmes writes that she is convinced “that contemplation can occur anywhere; stained glass windows and desert retreats are not necessary.” In fact, she continues, our times of “duress may facilitate the turn inward.”  

Often it is precisely in those seasons of life when we are stretched thin, feeling overwhelmed, and completely vulnerable that our hearts start to dig a little deeper within ourselves to encounter the loving presence of what the mystics have told us is the divine spark within each of us. 

In the second and third centuries the desert mothers and fathers sought out wilderness places for simplicity and to fast from their compulsions in service of cultivating greater love for the divine and the world. 

One of these elders, Amma Syncletica, makes it clear that it is our intention, rather than our location which makes all the difference:

“There are many who live in the mountains and behave as if they were in town, and they are wasting their time.  It is possible to be a solitary in one’s mind while living in a crowd, and it is possible for one who is a solitary to live in the crowd of his own thoughts.”  (Syncletica 19) 

The ammas and abbas of the desert knew that simply going off on retreat in silence and solitude does not automatically mean we will find inner stillness. In fact, many seek this kind of experience and yet their thoughts are filled with chatter, worry, and distraction. And similarly, those who live in the cities can cultivate a loving presence to each moment so that they find stillness no matter what is happening around them. 

We might be tempted to think that if only life could slow down and we could have a period of retreat, then we could cultivate our spiritual life. But our wisdom teachers are clear, the wilderness is right in our midst and our invitation is to practice here and now. 

In a culture that has everything available to us 24-7, it can feel like an act of deprivation to give up certain things. Yet what I keep discovering is that in a world glutted by choice, my heart feels more at peace in releasing what is not necessary and in fact weighs me down or numbs me out. 

Ultimately, the practice of fasting is about making more space within us to encounter our deepest, most radiant selves. How do we listen to the whispers of the Holy One when we constantly distract ourselves with social media and doomscrolling. How do we discover the radical abundance available to us, not of food or entertainment, but of nourishing gifts like joy, peace, love, and gratitude? How do we make room for the grief inside us which is a witness to how much we have loved if we are fighting to be strong and keep control in an unpredictable world? 

One of the issues I have always had with Lenten fasting though is that it seems to have become for many a second chance at new year’s resolutions. Fasting from chocolate is not a bad thing in itself, but if we approach it from a diet mentality or a sense of shame about eating certain foods, then we are not in the spirit of fasting as a spiritual practice. In fact, for those of us with a history of any kind of disordered eating, fasting can trigger our need to eat the “correct way” — whatever that might mean for you. This kind of fasting is merely an extension of the cultural mindset of body shame and control. 

I invite you to release the deprivation mindset as much as possible. It is not by eating as little as possible or denying ourselves that we transform and grow in holiness. Fasting is ultimately a paradox of emptying out to be filled, paring back to receive a different kind of feast, one that nourishes our true hungers. Our fast is an act of discernment of the habits which keep us from this rich feast available to us.

Please join us for Lent and our online companion retreat to the book A Different Kind of Fast.

Our contemplative prayer service is tomorrow! I am joined by Simon de Voil and Therese Taylor-Stinson! We would love to have you with us. 

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

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Monk in the World Guest Post: Eleanor Albanese

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to our Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Eleanor Albanese’s reflection Where Creativity and Spirituality Meet.

My work as a practicing artist has evolved over the decades. The deeper I enter my spiritual practices, the less separation I see between spirituality, creativity, and community. I especially notice this in the way that I engage with the community. Audiences have become participants, the stage is now a forest or park or meeting place, and stories are reciprocated between participants and performers. The projects have breathing space where kindness flourishes. 

As someone deeply connected to my ancestors, particularly my grandmothers and great-grandmothers, some of whom were rural midwives and herbalists, I have delved into herbology and folk medicine as an aspect of my spirituality. I’ve adopted my Irish and Italian cultural folk traditions including the use of salt during prayer and ceremony as well as embracing the ancient Celtic festivals. For example, on the eve of St. Brigid’s Day—January 31st—known also as Imbolc, I bake St. Brigid oatcakes as offerings, as well as hang strips of fabric outdoors. These healing “ribbons” or “St. Brigid’s Mantle” have become the focal point for many of my handcrafted items such as quilts, story ribbons, needle felting, community arts, and puppetry. I’m particularly drawn to Brigid as she represents the in-between places, the thresholds between seasons, twilight, and portals into mystical realms. It is in these luminal spaces that creativity flourishes as we’re invited to let go of rigidly held beliefs and enter new ways of seeing things. 

I also engage in the practice of observing God-in-the-everyday. What moments in my day are alive with wonder, emotion, surprise, and curiousity? Each day, I contemplate the ignited moments to see what messages and graces emerge. Yesterday, for example, a pair of geese flew above my head, honking loudly as they passed. I then tuned into the car radio to hear John Lennon singing, “And we all shine on, the moon, and the stars and the sun.” Lastly, I took on a task that made me feel queasy—that is, plucking my 94-year-old mother’s chin hairs. I then admonished myself for having those feelings. 

Hidden messages emerged from those seemingly disparate and random moments. The honking of the birds invited me to recall a poem by Mary Oliver. “Whoever you are, no matter how lonely/ the world offers itself to your imagination/ calls to you like the wild geese/ harsh and exciting/ over and over announcing your place in the family of things.” The geese, I saw, were calling me to find my place in this wondrous world. John Lennon’s lyrics reminded me that we are all eternal stardust and there is nothing to fear. Lastly, my reluctance to take on a simple task with my mother brought attention to my own fear of aging. “Who will take care of me when my eyesight fails, or I become frail?” was the question I dared not ask. 

This practice of paying attention to moments, then threading them together, is also how I approach my creative work. I gather themes, insights, and images from daily life and, in turn, use them as fodder for the next story, artwork, or theatre piece. For example, prior to designing a recent project titled “The Comfort Project,” I found myself in a place of grief and loss. Over a long period of daily prayer and reflection, messages of comfort became the backbone for the project. From there, it evolved into a multi-arts, intergenerational, inclusive community event. 

The Comfort Project involved partnerships between organizations with vastly different mandates including a group serving those with dementia and Alzheimer’s, an art gallery, a community-engaged theatre company, and a rural centre that focuses on inclusive gardening, outdoor creativity, and a weekly market. Vendors at the Willow Springs market range from an eighty-four-year-old woman selling her traditional baking to a young maker who works with natural plant dyes. Under the umbrella of one project, we found our commonality in the theme of comfort, and our inclusive practices. 

“The Comfort Project”, a three-day event, was placed in a forest setting with an accessible pathway winding through the various stations. The stations were developed, not as mere enhancements to the story, but as contributing elements. The participants integrated themselves into the story and space through their voices, their stories, and hands. They stopped to weave reeds, ribbons, and willow stems into a hanging cradle. People also wrote their own stories of comfort on silk ribbons and found a tree to attach it to.  

Over the course of the hour-long experiential “performance”, the participants were served tea from locally foraged plants, walked through a channel of bells and chimes, hung felted birds in the forest, enjoyed a story told through puppetry, all with a highly diverse and intergenerational group of participants from infants to persons in their 90’s. The music and soundtrack were developed with Gather Round Singers, a choir primarily made up of people with disabilities living in community housing. The recorded lullabies were sung in multiple languages and cultures including a Palestinian woman, an Indigenous Elder, a French-Canadian woman, an Italian Nonna, and so on.   

Ultimately, The Comfort Project was conceived from my contemplative practice as a starting point, which then expanded outwards like a five-pointed star. Hundreds of people gathered and participated, highlighting that we all give and receive comfort. And we are all storytellers at heart.

Canadian artist Eleanor Albanese has spent her life weaving story through writing, filmmaking, and community-engaged arts. Her artistic works revolve around themes of shared humanity. Recent awards include the Next Generation Indie Book Award (If Tenderness Be Gold), and Vox Popular’s People’s Choice Award (The Cradle of Fiorella.) Visit Eleanor online at EleanorAlbanese.ca.

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Imbolc and Brigid’s Mantle ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

February 1st-2nd marks a confluence of several feasts and occasions including: the Celtic feast of Imbolc, St. Brigid’s Day, Candlemas, Feast of the Presentation, and Groundhog Day in the northern hemisphere! (Imbolc is August 1st in the southern hemisphere).

Imbolc is a Celtic feast that is a cross-quarter day, meaning it is the midway point between the winter solstice and spring equinox. The sun marks the four Quarter Days of the year (the Solstices and Equinoxes) and the midpoints are the cross-quarter days.  In some cultures, like Ireland, February 2nd is the official beginning of spring.

As the days slowly lengthen in the northern hemisphere and the sun makes her way higher in the sky, the ground beneath our feet begins to thaw.  The earth softens and the seeds deep below stir in the darkness.  The word “imbolc” means “in the belly.”  The earth’s belly is beginning to awaken, new life is stirring, seeds are sprouting forth.

In many places the ground is still frozen or covered with snow, but the call now is tend to those very first signs of movement beneath the fertile ground.  What happens when you listen ever so closely in the stillness?  What do you hear beginning to emerge?

St. Brigid is said to bring the first sign of life after the long dark nights of winter. She breathes into the landscape so that it begins to awaken. Snowdrops, the first flowers of spring are one of her symbols.

On the eve of January 31st it is traditional to leave a piece of cloth or ribbon outside the house. It was believed that St Brigid’s spirit traveled across the land and left her curative powers in the brat Bride (Brigid’s Mantle or cloth). It was then used throughout the year as a healing from sickness and protection from harm.

Often in Ireland, I have heard Brigid described as a bridge between the pre-Christian and Christian traditions, between the other world and this one. She bridges the natural and human world. Brigid sees the face of Christ in all persons and creatures, and overcomes the division between rich and poor. Our practice of inner hospitality as monks in the world is essentially about healing all of places we feel fragmented, scattered, and shamed. One of her symbols is her cloak which becomes a symbol of unity. All can dwell under her mantle.

I am leading a mini-retreat on Brigid tomorrow (hosted by the Mercy Center!) Join me as we explore Brigid as patron of midwives, poets, and blacksmiths and ask where we are seeking our own birthing, creativity, and transformation! The online registration page may be closed but you can still register by emailing Karin Nobile at knobile@mercybythesea.org.

If you are in the southern hemisphere, here is a reflection on Lughnasa. 

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Dancing Monk Icon by Marcy Hall

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Monk in the World Guest Post: Nancy L. Agneberg

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Nancy L. Agneberg’s reflection “Living with a Sacred Object: The Humble Harvest Table.”

The first piece of furniture we bought when we moved to an 1800’s farmstead, Sweetwater Farm, in rural Ohio was a dining room table. A primitive, antique harvest table, similar to one where my grandmother on the family farm cleaned chickens for Sunday dinner or where the farmhands gathered mid-afternoon, between dinner and supper, for “lunch.” That table was laden with platters of egg salad sandwiches, pitchers of Kool Aid, and homemade cake or brownies. 

We found our version of that table at a favorite antique shop. Nine feet long with wide boards, a solid piece on sturdy legs. Stained and pock marked. Worn, used, loved.

On move-in day, accompanied by barn swallow song, my husband and I maneuvered the table through the Dutch doors on the front porch. Once in place the table looked as if it had always been there.

Most days a vase or pitcher of flowers rested on the harvest table. Gladiolas or sunflowers or Black-eyed Susans in the summer. Bittersweet and mums in the fall. And evergreen branches and holly in the winter. Alongside the flowers might be a basket of apples, a pumpkin or two or three, a platter of tomatoes or gingersnap cookies.

 When I baked cookies, I cooled them on the table. I addressed and signed Christmas cards at the table, stacking the completed ones on one end, still leaving room for our evening meal. I folded laundry and planned menus for parties and other gatherings; cookbooks sprawled in front of me. Sometimes I moved my laptop from my office, preparing the classes I taught.

One year, despite not being crafty, I made Valentines at that table, cutting pink and red hearts and filling envelopes with heart and cupid confetti. I wondered if the children of the table’s previous owners had glued doilies to big red hearts, as they sat at the table. I wrapped Christmas and birthday presents there; the table’s size perfect for the unwieldy wrapping paper.

When our first grandchild was born and came to visit, we lay her on towels spread on the table after her bath and soothed lotion into her unblemished skin, tickling her, making faces at her, delighting in her giggles. When she was a bit older, we pulled a highchair up to the table, for she was the guest of honor.

We ate our dinner each night at one end of the table, often by candlelight. The table was our altar, its welcoming surface a call to prayer. We didn’t always say grace, but we felt grace. We received grace.

And when my mother in Minnesota called to tell me her colon cancer had returned, I sank into a chair, my elbows on the table, one hand clutching the phone and the other covering my eyes. After that I called her every day when I wasn’t with her. I looked out over the valley beyond, gripping that table, knowing it was strong enough to receive my grief and fear. 

On Thanksgiving Days, I layered the table with a quilt in dark, rich colors, antique plates painted with turkey images, and pearl-handled flatware passed on to me by my mother. In the center pumpkins and squashes trailed almost its entire length.

The first Thanksgiving after my mother died my father drove from Minnesota, and we filled the table with dear friends to receive his loneliness. Another Thanksgiving, before our son and daughter-in-love, Cricket, were married, her parents joined us, and we caught her mother, Jane, surreptitiously turning over one of the turkey plates to see the maker. Johnson Brothers. We all got the giggles, and the ice was broken as two families merged into one, bound together by love for our children.

Little did we know that was Jane’s last Thanksgiving.

Group after group gathered at our table. We hosted parties for Bruce’s colleagues and Christmas parties for neighbors and other friends, completely covering the table with Christmas cookies and other desserts. When our church was in crisis, Sweetwater Farm became a temporary house church with potlucks after outdoor services. The day after Geof and Cricket’s wedding, our friends and family congregated at the Harvest Table for brunch and reviewed the happiness of the days.

I led retreats and convened women’s spirituality groups at the farm, and instead of meeting in the living room in front of the fireplace, we gathered at the Harvest Table. Ah, the wisdom that table absorbed, and the deep and honest sharing it seemed to inspire. 

We welcomed our children and their friends. We welcomed extended family and friends, long time ones, as well as new. I welcomed those who came to sit with me in spiritual direction and those who brought a meal as I recovered from cancer surgery. 

Each time I passed the table, whether my arms were full of towels, still warm from the dryer, or I was heading purposefully into the kitchen to start dinner, my hand lightly skimmed the surface, just one edge, unconsciously, automatically. My touchstone, a sacred object, a reminder of God’s presence in my life and a nudge to be God’s presence in the world.

The Harvest Table absorbed pain and hurts, yearnings, and questions, along with joy.  At that table we listened with the ears of our heart, and love, trust, and acceptance grew. 

Sometimes all that was needed was to come to the table. 

That humble Harvest Table.

Nancy L. Agneberg is living her sacred seventies fully and gratefully in her many roles, including mother, grandmother, spouse, friend, writer, teacher, hometender, spiritual director, church member, voracious reader, labyrinth walker. Read her perspectives on aging as spiritual practice on her blog, LivingonLifesLabyrinth.com

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Ireland’s Mermaid Saint ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

Next Saturday is the Feast of St. Muirgen, Ireland’s very own mermaid saint. Her story was written down in the 6th century and is a powerful metaphor for our own journeys of loss, descent, grief, and then finding our own sacred song. I will be leading a mini-retreat on Friday (the eve of her feast day) inviting you to explore her wisdom for your own life. 

I am blessed to live by the sea. I go often to the water to listen to her ancient rhythms and the primordial voice whispering in the waves. I go because it is exquisite medicine. 

I go because in another life I was a mermaid or a Selkie, diving beneath the dark surface of the cold water to find new worlds waiting. 

I go because this adopted home of mine is an island and the edge where sand and shore meet is always a portal. 

I go because when I sit and watch the waves roll and roil life makes sense, chatter quiets, I can drink from the well of stillness. 

Most of all I go because this vast vessel of brine holds the tears I have shed, a sign of how much I have loved this life, this world. 

The story of St. Muirgen says that her village was swallowed in a flood and she and her dog dove under the waves and found a cave. As the only survivor the cave became her temple of grieving for a full year. It was the alchemical vessel for her transformation. She became mermaid and her loyal companion became otter. Shapeshifters. Taking new form to express the new identity their journey to the underworld bestowed. 

Later she is discovered by monks because of the beauty of her singing and is pronounced a saint and given the name Muirgen (meaning of the sea). I love that the Irish tradition has such a wide sense of possibilities and holiness. 

If you ask is this story true in the sense of, did it literally happen, then you have a long way still to travel. But if you ask what truth this points you to in your own life, there you find the glimmer of yourself, your shining face reflected back in the water’s mirror. 

What are the great losses of your life? Where have been the caves calling you to enter, to rest, be, mourn, transform? How did this loss change you so profoundly you felt like your world and perspective shifted? Who companioned you during this time? What song do you long to sing?

And perhaps the cave is still calling. Maybe the floods came and stripped what you loved away and you have resisted diving under the surface of the water and are paddling frantically and choking on brine?

The cave is always waiting. There is always a portal before us. Transformation is our true nature. Dive deep my friends.

We will be diving deep together this Friday with our online Mermaid Retreat. I will be joined by Te Martin who will be offering their beautiful gift of song including a new song written specifically for this story and retreat. 

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Dancing Monk Icon © Marcy Hall Art

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Monk in the World Guest Post: Jill Ross

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series. Read on for Jill Ross’s reflection on her art as prayer and meditation.

My current prayer and meditation practice involves daily walks, observing nature, then transforming what I see into glass mosaics. My theme these past few years has been around the issue of climate justice. My pieces, although intended to be aesthetically beautiful, give testimony to what we are losing because of climate change. Specifically, my observations focus on pollinators and the flowers and fruits they pollinate. I then teach, using my artwork as an example so that others can pray, reflect and respond through the visual arts on justice themes that are important to them. The work strives to integrate reflection, which is more private, with action in the world. The viewer is invited to observe and take in the images without written commentary, letting the visual speak for itself.

Jill Ross is a visual artist, poet and spiritual director. She is a retired pastor and chaplain. Her medium is glass mosaic. Her studio is called “Making Wholeness from the Broken Bits.” She lives and creates in Napa, CA.

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Everyday Pilgrimage to Honor Saints and Ancestors ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

Tomorrow we begin our 14-week online companion journey through my book The Love of Thousands: How Angels, Saints, and Ancestors Walk With Us Toward Holiness.

This journey together in community with kindred spirits will be a kind of pilgrimage you make from home. We can also go on pilgrimage to sacred sites connected to saints or our ancestors, but sometimes the transformative path is woven into the everyday of our lives. I wanted to share a couple of examples of how we might go on a physical pilgrimage in our own neighborhoods, which can also connect us to the invisible realm of those reaching out toward us in love. 

This is an adapted excerpted from the book: 

Make a Local Pilgrimage

Chances are you live near a church or perhaps even several churches. You could choose to make a pilgrimage to your local cathedral. Using the three essential aspects, make it a sacred experience by blessing the journey there, paying attention for divine whispers along the way, and then reflecting when you return home. You might look up the Church calendar to see if there is an upcoming feast day that feels especially appropriate for your journey and let that shape your prayer.

In a more urban area, plan a walking pilgrimage from one church to another. Research the churches and map out a route. Look up the various saints they are dedicated to and write a note for each of them. Offer a prayer to each saint as you make each stop. Spend fifteen minutes in silence at each of the churches. Listen for what is offered to you. Remember that what can feel like interruptions or disruptions to your plans may contain the sparks of an encounter with the Divine.

If you live in a rural area, still try this suggestion, but you may need to drive between sites. Try keeping the car radio off to maintain an atmosphere of quiet reflection.

Begin your pilgrimage by reading of the disciples meeting Jesus on the road to Emmaus (Lk 24:13–35) as a blessing for this time. Listen along the way for how the holy is being revealed to you.

Make a Nature Pilgrimage

You might choose to make a pilgrimage to a nearby place in nature. This could be a local park that you love or even your backyard. You could locate the closest forest, river, seashore, or mountain, remembering as you do all of the holy landscapes in scripture, such as the Jordan River, the Sea of Galilee, Mount Horeb, or Mount Sinai. Or you might want to use this nature pilgrimage as a way to connect to one of the creation-centered mystics, such as Francis of Assisi.

Begin your pilgrimage by reading Psalm 104 and asking for the clarity to hear all of creation joining in an ongoing hymn of praise. As you walk, let this be a time of contemplative listening for the more-than-human voices that surround you. Spend time with things that call to you along the way, whether a pinecone in your path, a smooth stone, moss on the trees, or a flower growing. Pay attention to the birds and animals that make this place their home, and call to mind the desert and Celtic saints who saw intimacy with animals as a special sign of holiness. Find a quiet place on your journey to sit for a time in silence and simply receive the gifts being offered to you.

Peregrinatio

The ancient Irish monks and mystics had a very unique approach to pilgrimage. They would set out on a journey for Christ, often by boat without oar or rudder, and let the currents of divine love carry them to the place of their resurrection. This is the place where their gifts and the needs of the community came together and they were able to serve fruitfully. This type of pilgrimage was known as a peregrinatio.

Instead of a literal journey by boat, you can work with the spirit of this pilgrimage experience by going for a contemplative walk without destination. Begin your pilgrimage by reading the story of Abraham and Sarah being called to leave their homeland in search of a new country (Gn 12:1–2). Bless this time and release any desire for a goal or outcome. Take some deep breaths to center yourself, and then see where your feet take you. You aren’t trying to get anywhere; the goal is simply to be present moment by moment to the call of the Spirit. See where your attention is drawn, pause often, and linger. Call on a favorite saint to be with you.

Cultivating this as a regular practice helps us to open up to peregrinatio in our daily lives when we are called to release our grasp on the life we think we need and instead be open to the sacred possibilities being offered to us.

We begin tomorrow! Join us for this online journey, where together we will embark on a pilgrimage of the heart to greater connection with the angels, saints, and ancestors. I will be hosting weekly live Zoom sessions with guided meditations, there are weekly bonus guest teacher interviews, scripture reflections, visio divinapractice, and songs with gesture prayers to embody our journey! 

This Wednesday, Therese Taylor-Stinson will be hosting her monthly Centering Prayer session as well. A beautiful holy pause in the middle of the week to rest in the divine presence. 

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

P.S. While receiving a monthly treatment for my rheumatoid arthritis I was inspired to write a post in gratitude for our community, earth-bound angels, self-care, and the contemplative path. Read the blog here.

P.P.S. I wrote a follow up post on the prayer of encircling with the Love of Thousands here.

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