Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 46

Monk in the World Guest Post: Pat Butler

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Pat Butler’s reflection “Microbursts.”

Rejoice in the Lord always. Again I say, rejoice.—Philippians 4:4 

Until I sat with my sister on a couch for five minutes, I thought of celebration as a rowdy birthday party, an extravagant wedding, or a solemn liturgy. Weddings, holidays, a newborn, or a new job—all are causes for celebration, but occasional.

As a monk in the world, I needed to rejoice more frequently—always, Scripture says. How could I inject celebration into my daily life as a discipline? What did the spiritual discipline of celebration look like? 

Enter my sister. The married driver-activist in this sisterhood, bound for life to me—her single contemplative sister monk. (Our compatibility is reason to celebrate in itself.) 

During one of our rare visits when I lived overseas, I accompanied her on a day full of errands. She was in manic-Mom-in-an-SUV mode, monk sister in tow. We whirred through the errands, on our way to one last chore: grocery shopping. And we had a deadline: the 3 p.m. school bus, when her two kids would return from school.

We whirled with the best of them, shopping, hauling, and carting groceries home, arriving minutes before 3. We piled bags in the living room, hallway, and kitchen. After quick trips to the bathroom, we collapsed on the couch, panting. The kids would be home momentarily, when we’d switch gears to dinner preps, emails (for me), and perhaps a load of laundry.  

We didn’t have a second to waste. I sat up, knowing my sister’s see-the-hill-take-the-hill approach to chores. “The groceries. . . ”

“Let them wait,” my sister interrupted, not moving. “We need to breathe.”

Her uncharacteristic pause startled me. Normally, I was the one proposing a break, but I flopped back down.

“Agreed,” I nodded. “A good job well done”—quoting our mother and grandmother. We laughed and gratitude seeped into my bones. Although we only had minutes before the school bus screeched to a halt outside the door, it was enough. A holy pause. Then the kids burst in. 

We bolted from the couch. Before they could discard coats, hats, and mittens, we stowed, wrapped, and froze food, stuffing empty bags in the cupboard. My sister poured the milk and slid a plate of cookies onto the kitchen table as two little hungry ones bounded up the stairs. While they jibber-jabbered, she put the coffee pot on and checked homework assignments and permission slips. 

We yakked till the kids scattered and the coffee was ready. While my sister poured, I threw in some laundry. We sat five more minutes, savoring the dark roast, the kids chatter, a still point in the day. Then it was time to start dinner.  

Without those two holy pauses, the domestic grind might have pushed us into spiritual exhaustion. Instead, we felt re-humanized and ready for the final leg of the day. We didn’t accomplish everything, but is the glass half empty or half full?

I brought the phrase forward and still use it. It snaps me out of the performance trap. Maybe I don’t get all my work done, but when I finish a respectable chunk, I pause. Time to celebrate, rejoice, and give thanks. The glass is half full.

If we can’t celebrate the small tasks accomplished, how will we celebrate the greater ones? Will we rejoice over a newborn or view it as an inconvenience? Will we celebrate the offer of a new job, an exciting move forward in our career, or fear the risk of inadequacy? 

The significant celebrations of a wedding, a birth, or retirement may go askew. If we tamp down our human desire to rejoice, we may soothe it with too much work, drink, food, entertainment, or consumerism. I suddenly saw the value of the spiritual discipline of celebration—of rejoicing always.

Celebration doesn’t require elaborate planning and expense. In minutes, seconds, or the time it takes to inhale deeply, we can take a holy pause and simply celebrate a good job well done. Enjoy the sunshine. Listen to the mockingbird. I began to practice the microburst of celebration—a quick praise, thanks, or fresh cup of coffee. The work wouldn’t disappear. But I might if I don’t break a manic rhythm. 

As I practice the discipline, I find something to celebrate every day, usually before breakfast. I can celebrate a good night’s sleep, a warm slice of my sister’s treacle bread, and every spectacular cloud formation that attracts my gaze. I acknowledge the good, bow to the sacred, reframe the common to the holy.

Otherwise, life reduces to the dull and perfunctory. I collapse into the inhumanity of performance, workaholism, drivenness. I become a spiritual slob. Microbursts of celebration change me from a grump to a monk.

In the intimacy of family, where I first learned to celebrate, I remember the Trinity—another community. I invoke the strength and joy of the Threeness as I practice microbursts of celebration, awakening wonder in my soul.

Pat Butler is an author, poet, and Artist@Large with Inspiro Arts Alliance. Serving artists internationally through social media, writing, training, and mentoring, Pat has worked in twenty-four countries, lived in three, and now walks with cranes in South Florida. Current project: Collision, A Journey into Healing (Redemption Press). 

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Monk in the World: Moving with Mystery ~ Dancing Retreat with Betsey Beckman

February 5, 2022

9am-12pm Pacific

with Betsey Beckman, hosted by St. Placid Priory

$45, Partial scholarships available. Please contact the Priory for more information.

What would it be like to be a Dancing Monk?  How might a practice of Moving with Mystery help us navigate these trying times?  Come spend a morning dancing your way through the Monk Manifesto*, a set of 8 principles for contemplative, creative, and compassionate living.  At Abbey of the Arts, we have created dances for each of the 8 Monk practices, and you will have a chance to learn and embody some of our favorite dances as you reflect on these movements in your own life.  Explore Silence and Solitude, Hospitality, Community, Kinship with Creation, Work, Sabbath, Conversion, and Creative Joy.

*The Monk Manifesto was written by Christine Valters Paintner and is the Rule of Life for the Holy Disorder of Dancing Monks at Abbey of the Arts. Preview the dances below.

Click here for details and registration information.

Betsey Beckman, MM is the founder of The Dancing Word, a ministry of dance, storytelling, spiritual direction, retreats and video artistry.  She directs the Movement Ministry at her home parish, St. Patrick in Seattle, and works closely with Abbey of the Arts to create contemplative embodiment resources. Betsey is also a member of the Abbey’s Wisdom Council.

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Slowing Down to See: Epiphany Blessings

Illuminated

I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened —Ephesians 1:18

The window fills with sky
one half pewter,
laden with drops that splash
the cold concrete

the other half brilliant blue
sunlight pours
sidewalk glimmers

in that midday dazzle
you feel like it could
be the first day of creation
or the last
and you know this moment
will not persist

you know you will forget
later in the drudgery
of evening, but for now

you remember how
rain and sun
conspire to show
you everything you need
to carry on to the end of day.

-Christine Valters Paintner, Dreaming of Stones

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

The word “epiphany” means sudden revelation or insight. Who of us hasn’t had a moment when everything becomes clear for a moment? When beauty breaks through the ordinary events of our lives? Those moments can feel slippery – like waking from a dream. When we know that something important just shifted inside of us but that shift is also fragile and can easily get lost in the rush of our days.

Our world is starving for new revelation, new insight, new dreams and visions. Really the only way these arrive to us is through a commitment to slow down and to see more deeply. 

The contemplative life is never just for its own sake. When we cultivate ways of being that are slower, more spacious, more attentive, more compassionate, we open up portals into these moments of epiphany. 

I think of this beautiful ancient story of the magi following a star, trusting in their intuitions and the cosmic map ushering them forward. They carry gifts in their arms, knowing that these are on behalf of One who receives them with joy. They make the long journey in the unknowing of night’s embrace. 

We each have treasures we carry. Gifts we were imprinted with at the moment we were breathed into by the Source of all life and all gifts. These treasures are ours to give away freely and generously. We will never discover their purpose by holding them close in our tight grip. We can only unwrap them by sending them out into the world and in this way they multiply. 

As we begin a new calendar year, consider making a commitment to slowing down in the coming months to receive the epiphanies that offer themselves so freely to your open heart and your sacred vision. Dedicate yourself to sharing your treasures with a world so in need of generosity, abundance, and grace. 

If you’d like to mark this sacred moment of the year and join with kindred spirits we have two offerings for Epiphany this week: Contemplative Prayer Service (Simon de Voil and me) and Epiphany Retreat: What Treasures Do You Bring?  (I am co-leading with Mark Burrows again and Simon will be offering the gift of music). These events will both be distinct offerings and would make a beautiful doorway into the year ahead.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD

Image © Christine Valters Paintner

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Monk in the World Guest Post: Laurie Klein

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Laurie Klein’s reflection titled “Alphabet of Presence.”

I keep sensing, maybe as an amateur mystic, 
that the whole world is every moment saying the name of God. —Li Young Lee

After my father died, ragged bereavement steamrolled my days. Journaling, therapy, and medication helped. I also took up calligraphy. A focused return to the ABCs might reawaken curiosity, make me feel less numb, more present. 

Cautiously hopeful, I tackled Uncial, an uppercase medieval script historically used by monks. Ancient texts often featured a versal, or large embellished letter, now known as a drop cap. The gilded letterform’s interior spaces and surrounding area might showcase painted lilies, stars, or vines. Saints. Angels. A fiendish imp. 

I soon learned clinical depression saps concentration. Even dexterity wavers. Despite penciled guide lines, my plodding rows of rookie “A’s” resembled a windblown beach fence. 

Fine. I would become a disciple of “B”—which suggested my father’s funhouse signature: the bulbous, lurching capital, our surname’s ten letters sardined within. Before long, my downstrokes reliably commandeered the practice page; loops, not so much. More immersion, then. More practice. Breath, synced with motion. Eventually, the entire arm learns to trust restful, repetitive cadence. 

Here was something I could control. 

Then I’d muff the next letter, give in to gloom. Always we begin again, St. Benedict wrote. As the weeks passed, rendering letterforms felt akin to prayer. An alphabet of presence. I sensed God’s pleasure, a serene nearness that rekindled hope via the flow of ink, the angled nib, the breath-held flick when adding a flourish.

Single words became islands, afloat yet connecting across spaces eloquent as a mindful pause. Picture slipstreams of soap bubbles wafting over a balcony railing. Passersby pause, necks craning upward. The scribe waves back, her pen, a small plastic wand. 

How often over this past year have you wanted to wave a magic wand? Assailed by viral mayhem, beset by global grief, I’ve tumbled down too many virtual rabbit holes, overwhelmed by jangling news and cutthroat opinion. Come January 2021, I wondered what fresh spiritual practice might jump-start delight. I’d not yet felt chosen by a guiding word. 

What if I picked a letter instead, used corresponding words to spur renewed devotion?

Is it any surprise I chose “B”?

Three months later, my imagination and spirit remain attuned to one generous majuscule and its tacit music. 

Breath of All Being, I murmur, help me begin. And in response, over time, I . . . 

… bend in prayer: Beckoning Brightness, illumine the way

… contemplate the Beatitudes: Beautiful Savior, rebalance my life

… try to daily embody the word Behold

… donate honeybees: Benevolent God, champion beekeepers everywhere

… peruse black poets and writers: Bringer of Breakthrough, establish justice with mercy

… welcome returning bluebirds: Bard of the Seasons, birth new life through me

… savor breath prayers: (inhale) Be near me, Beloved; (exhale) help me believe

… spice entrees with fresh bay leaf, basil, or borage: Abiding Bounty, fine-tune my taste

… harness signage for prayer: Prosper Mr. Barbieri’s business

… run an herbal bath, then soak-and-soul-search: What blessed me today? Who blindsided me? Where am I broken? What might yet be born . . . and what must I bury? 

On a recent walk I blended an essential Navajo ideal with St. Patrick’s breastplate prayer, creating new lyrics for “Morning Has Broken”:

Beauty before me, Beauty behind me, bridging our spirits, bountiful Lord;
Brimming within me, moving beside me, timelessly guide me, forevermore.

Books are also timeless guides. I love to read, but occasional guilt overtakes me: Shouldn’t I focus more on the Bible? 

Thank heavens for the Abbey’s inspired reading selection, God Alone Is Enough. Author Claudia Mair Burney quotes Teresa of Avila: “Without a book my soul felt dry and my thoughts wandered. With one, I could collect my thoughts. [Books] were the bait that lured my mind back to awareness of God.”

Fellow celebrants, might you befriend a letter? Then, another. And another . . . 

Gently now, begin with a bow . . . 

Laurie Klein is the author of Where the Sky Opens and Bodies of Water, Bodies of Flesh. She blogs monthly at LaurieKleinScribe.com

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Winter Solstice and Christmas Blessings ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

I love the quiet invitation of this time of year to descend into stillness. I will be leading an event on the Winter Solstice with my wonderful friends Deirdre Ni Chinneide and Aisling Richmond who both live in Ireland as well and are deeply enriched by the Celtic imagination and spirit. We will be honoring the ancient invitation to listen for the call in the heart of the fertile darkness. Imagine the ancient Irish – over 5000 years ago – constructing Newgrange and many other stone monuments aligned with the solstices and equinoxes. It is powerful to feel our connection to them by pausing and listening for the gifts this time of year brings. 

This reflection is excerpted from our Sacred Seasons online retreat for the Celtic Wheel of the Year:

The Winter Solstice is another profound moment of pause and turning in the great cycle of the year. In Galway our apartment windows face east and south, so one of the great gifts I experience through the seasons is watching the sun make her pilgrimage across the horizon from summer solstice to winter solstice. It is quite a long journey, and on December 21st she will rest at her point furthest south, appearing to stand still for three days before making the return journey again in the long walk toward summer.  It is a rhythm of journey, pause, and return, again and again. It reminds me a great deal of walking a labyrinth and the way I follow the path inward, pause and receive the gifts at the center, and then begin to move more fully out into the world carrying the light that is growing.

I love winter, especially Irish winters which are so rainy and grey, so conducive to lighting candles and making a cup of tea.  I adore the bare branches that reach up to the sky, their stark beauty, the way they reveal the basics.  I love the quietness of winter, fewer people outside.

When we recognize that spring and summer always lead to autumn and winter, in our own lives we will perhaps resist the times of releasing and resting that come to us.

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.
-Wendell Berry

This poem speaks to me most pointedly about what embracing the darkness means. It does not mean carrying a light into the dark, it means walking right into the darkness and exploring its landscape so that our other senses become heightened and attuned to the sound of seeds jostling deep beneath the black soil, to hear the slow in and out breath of animals in hibernation, to feel our own heartbeats and the heartbeats of those we love, to experience the pulsing of womb-sounds within us just before the water gets ready to break.

Winter invites me to rest and contemplation, to making time for quiet walks in the few hours of light.  The God of winter invites me into a healing rhythm of rest and renewal, of deep listening in the midst of stillness, of trusting the seeds sprouting deep within that have been planted.  There is a harshness to this winter God as well, winter speaks to me of loss, it is the landscape of my grief in all its beauty and sorrow.

The God of winter is also the God of breaking through into the heart of that dark season with the glorious illumination of the Christ child. We too are invited to ponder what is incubating within us and how we are bringing the holy to birth in our lives. 

We are taking a break from our daily email newsletters starting December 22nd until January 1st to honor this time of slowing and descent. We encourage you to allow some time for slowing down, listening, and being in the midst of what is so often a stressful time fraught with demands and emotional triggers. Be ever so gentle with yourself. Make time in the cave of your heart and be held by the One who wants nothing more than to be in our presence. 

Advent and Christmas blessings!

Consider joining us in the new year for our Contemplative Prayer Service (Simon and me) and Epiphany Retreat: What Treasures Do You Bring? (I am co-leading with Mark Burrows again and Simon will be offering the gift of music). 

If you’re in the southern hemisphere you can find a reflection on Summer Solstice here. 

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE 

PS – I was interviewed on the Presence and Practice podcast about my Breath Prayer book. You can also read a lovely review of Breath Prayer at Spirituality & Practice.

Image Credit: © Christine Valters Paintner

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Christine Around the Web

I have been featured in numerous articles, poems and podcasts podcasts in recent weeks. Pour a cup of tea and enjoy these resources.

Breath Prayer article at US Catholic magazine

A conversation on Breath Prayer at Ruah Space podcast

A conversation on Breath Prayer (includes a short practice) at Podcast with Presence & Practice

Waning and Waxing (a poem) at Bearings online journal

Three poems at Impspired online journal

Also . . . you can pre-order my next book Birthing the Holy: Wisdom from Mary to Nurture Creativity and Renewal (coming in April 2022!)

Breath Prayer: An Ancient Practice for the Everyday Sacred is available to order now.

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Monk in the World Guest Post: Hillel Brandes

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World Guest Post series from the community. Read on for Hillel Brandes’s reflection, “Sound of Snowfall”.

” . . . The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep . . .”
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

Stopping by woods on a snowy evening…well, not evening at the moment, but late afternoon. The silence of the winter woods is real, is grounding, and is wondrous. I could call it magical, and so it is. But most of all I’m convinced silence is the language of Mystery. I know it, not intellectually, but in my inner Self. There is nothing else that draws me into the cave of my Being, like the silence of the winter woods — the snowy winter woods. And that’s maybe the biggest reason I so connect to the snowy winter woodlands. There are other reasons, but I think they’re all interrelated, not isolated from each other, but all manifestations of the same thing. The snowy winter landscape is still, quiet, sparse, and bare. ‘All metaphor for the deepest interior connections to Mystery. ‘To where Mystery, or better, Divine Mystery, dwells within. ‘To the core of where I can be one with Mystery. We are each created with Divine Mystery embedded at the “center of the truth of the image you were born with” [David Whyte]. That idea isn’t mine. It’s corroborated from sacred texts from various faith traditions. It’s universal. But it’s not about assertions and corroborations. It’s personal. It’s a personal knowing, or better yet, an unknowing — that which is known in the heart or center of one’s being, for which any rational explanation is inadequate, or impossible. It’s the external dressing which is stripped away, that is symbolic for a clearer, unimpeded connection to Mystery: thus stillness, quietness, sparseness, bareness.

It’s in the winter stillness and quiet that the connection to Mystery (Divine Mystery) seems to occur naturally. To connect to the Divine Mystery that pervades all of the natural world, the Earth, and all of the Cosmos. It’s sinking into the ultimate reality of that Mystery. Darkness too, is symbolic of the interior realm of our own being, of soul. And so I also greatly appreciate the darkness of this season. So too, the theme of waiting is very fitting. The attentive awareness to what Mystery is speaking. Am I still and quiet enough to hear what Mystery would reveal?

When outdoors in the winter woodland, when surrounded by stillness and quiet, and it’s snowing, I wonder if I’m hearing the snow fall. It can seem like it. What am I hearing? Or is that an appealing imagination. Other than the snow landing or hitting my jacket, maybe I’m not hearing anything. Maybe I’m hearing silence. Regardless, it’s another experience of wonder. What I’ve learned about that question, doesn’t take away from the experience, only maybe making it feel magical.

There are at least a few reasons why the snowy landscape can be considerably quieter than what we experience otherwise. First, a cover of snow is highly porous and as such is very effective in absorbing sound. I don’t know the relationship between how much sound is absorbed and the depth of the snow cover, but the scientist in me can’t help but ask the question. I’m thinking of inches vs a foot or more. The second impact of cold weather on muffling sounds, is less obvious. Cold air is denser than warm air, thus soundwaves will travel faster in cold air than warm air; and so the soundwaves in fact curve upward away from the warmer ground surface. Thus, another reason for the hushed snow-covered winter landscape. Lastly, falling snow does scatter soundwaves, but the impact is comparatively very small. As for a sound of snowfall, yes there is, but the frequency is much higher than the limits of human hearing. For creatures that are able to hear it (including birds), it’s rather noisy and so they generally retreat to shelter. Have you ever thought you noticed how birds will feast before a coming snowstorm? I wonder how far away they can hear the snowfall. Could it be maybe, that’s what clues them into eating more while they can, before the snowstorm arrives and they seek shelter?

The science of snowy landscapes muffling sounds sure is fascinating, but that’s not what the wonder and draw of being in such places is about.  Rather it almost makes it more magical. It’s all so marvelous and wonder-full. 

Wonder and Mystery are a matter of my awareness. Am I present to these realities?

It’s the quiet, stillness, and beauty that settles, grounds, and centers me, bringing a greater awareness of Mystery that surrounds me and is within me. I become immersed in Mystery in an intimate way that dissolves any sense of separateness from it. I am moved to be present to it and rest in it. And thus, I may even stay for the night.

“Still, still, still,
One can hear the falling snow.
For all is hushed,
The world is sleeping,
Holy Star, its vigil keeping.
Still, still, still,
One can hear the falling snow.”

Hillel Brandes is a scientist by means, and otherwise one who always connected to Mystery through his experience in, and love of Nature. That is in fact, how his curiosities took him into studies of the natural sciences. As his search of soul discovery took him further away from the institutional church, he found connections with Celtic spirituality, and it is in that juncture that he learned of Abbey of the Arts. He continues to participate with and receive the gifts that Christine and her colleagues bring into this world.  His creative outlet is photography, which is a conduit for the expression of his response to the flow of Mystery in the natural world. He will be putting together a website to share his delight and offering for others, but for now, his artwork is best viewed by following him on Facebook.

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Mary as Mystical Rose Invites Us to Bloom ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

Today is the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe and this is an excerpt from my forthcoming book Birthing the Holy: Wisdom from Mary to Nurture Creativity and Renewal (which will be published April 2022). It contains reflections on 31 names and titles of Mary including Mary as the Mystical Rose.

In December 1531 Our Lady of Guadalupe appeared to Juan Diego, a Mexican peasant, four times. She spoke to him in his native language and asked him to erect a church on that site in her honor. He went to speak to the Archbishop but was told to ask for a sign from her, but he is delayed because his uncle becomes ill. On his return, he encounters her again and she tells him “Am I not here, I who am your mother?” She also says his uncle is now healed and Diego should go to the summit of the hill which would normally be barren in December and gather flowers. There he found roses blooming. 

Mary instructs Juan Diego to gather a large armful of roses to bring as a sign. He returns to the Archbishop with flowers gathered in his cloak. When he opens his mantle they fall to the floor and reveal an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe on the fabric. The shrine was built where Mary requested. 

The rose is a symbol often connected to stories of Mary’s apparitions. Mary is often depicted surrounded by roses or bearing roses on her breast. In the earliest days of the Church, Christians regarded this flower as a metaphor of both martyrdom and paradise.

Cardinal John Henry Newman, a 19th century Anglican priest and poet who later converted to Catholicism, once explained: “How did Mary become the Rosa Mystica, the choice, delicate, perfect flower of God’s spiritual creation? It was by being born, nurtured and sheltered in the mystical garden or Paradise of God.” I love this connection of the rose and Mary to that transcendent place we long for. In connecting to Mary as Mystical Rose, we are connecting ourselves to Paradise. 

Newman goes on to write, “Mary is the most beautiful flower ever seen in the spiritual world. It is by the power of God’s grace that from this barren and desolate earth there ever sprung up at all flowers of holiness and glory; and Mary is the Queen of them. She is the Queen of spiritual flowers; and therefore, is called the Rose, for the rose is called of all flowers the most beautiful. But, moreover, she is the Mystical or Hidden Rose, for mystical means hidden.” The rose evokes her quality of unfolding and slow revelation which connects us mystically to the divine. When we open up our inner mystical vision, we can see the sacred beneath the surfaces of things. The rose is an emblem of the natural world and its beauty. 

St. Bernard of Clairvaux, a 12th century Cistercian monk in France wrote: “In Mary we see a rose, soothing everybody’s hurts, giving the destiny of salvation back to all.” Many of the Cistercian and Benedictine monasteries of Europe had a special devotion to Mary. There are many stories of monks wandering in the forest or wilderness and Mary appears to them right where they are to found a new community. 

Mary points us to the archetypal rose we each have within us. The place of eternal blooming and unfolding, a source of perpetual delight. Our own mystical rose is the inner flower that holds the mysteries of our blossoming into the world. 

Mary as Mystical Rose can be our companion in times when we want to hold fast to a linear path. She can remind us that the rose invites us to the spiral way. To gaze at the petals of a rose as they unfold is to draw us into the mysteries of blossoming and blooming which never move in a straight line. The rose also reminds us to let our journeys be organic, “no forcing or holding back” as the poet Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote. What would it mean to allow my path forward to emerge organically? To tend to what is ripening, rather than holding onto an artificial goal? We would never try to force open a rosebud to reveal the flower within before its time. It wouldn’t work and yet we often try to do the same to ourselves or to a project we might be working on. We want the answers, to know where things are heading. 

Search for a version of the song “Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming” (this link is to a version by Gesualdo Six which I love) online and play it through twice, listening with the ear of your heart. What are the longings kindled by this image? How does Mary as Mystical Rose meet your inner Rose? What is she calling forth? Music can be a way to dwell in the space of non-linear awareness and be held. After sitting with the song take five minutes to mindfully draw a circle in your journal and then draw any images that arise from the music within the mandala form or journal with words to express what you discovered. 

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

PS – Marcy Hall of Rabbit Room Arts is having a sale on prints of all of her dancing monk and other saint icons until December 14th. 10% off and free shipping at her Etsy shop.

Image credit: © Kreg Yingst – Prints available at his 

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Monk in the World Guest Post: Jane Thorley Roeschley

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Jane Thorley Roeschley’s reflection “Give Me a Word.”

I was introduced to the practice of choosing a “word of the year” by spiritual directees and others who were saying things like, “My word this year is ‘unfurl’” or “hope” or “surrender.” I didn’t immediately have interest, though I was intrigued by how the directees’ comments about their words suggested that they had found their words to provide a sort of framework for spiritual reflection. I also needed to let some inner-resistance melt.

Seeking a word — as a tool for spiritual transformation — has deep roots in ancient Christianity.  Christine Valters Paintner, of Abbey of the Arts, explains that in the desert tradition, when women and men fled into the wilderness to be more fully present with God, a common request these ammas (mothers) and abbas (fathers) received was for a word. This word or phrase would be something to ponder — for weeks, months, even years — for journeying deeper in their spiritual lives.  “The practice is connected to lectio divina, where we approach sacred texts with the same request — ‘give me a word,’ we ask — something to nourish me, challenge me, a word I can wrestle with and grow into,” says Paintner.

When Abbey of the Arts announced by email last December that it could provide a 12-day email guide for choosing a word for the year, I decided to receive the emails and see what happened. I entered into it as an experiment and kept my expectations quite low.

I consider this post a status report of sorts — a reflection at a point about one-third of the way into the year, to see what I am noticing about this spiritual practice. How is it working? How is embracing the practice of a word of the year drawing me deeper with God?

1. Discovering my word of the year.

The 12 free daily emails that the Abbey of the Arts provided last December offered tremendous guidance on becoming acquainted with this practice and entering into the discernment process — even with hesitation. Each email included a beautiful photo evocative of thresholds, a quote from Scripture or a poet or spiritual writer, and a suggestion for one activity to engage in that could assist with choosing — or being chosen by — a word. The activities included lectio divina, a contemplative walk, listening to dreams, an embodied examen and breath prayer.

Paintner’s guidance was to be gentle and open while pondering and waiting to see if a word is made known. I found myself jotting down possible words, but at first, I could not discern any one word as the word. Paintner would counsel not to grasp or clench.

However, to my surprise, near the end of the series, a word did begin to “shimmer” (a favorite term Paintner uses to describe the spiritual energy of a word, phrase or image). My word of the year came: receive.

2. The word as a touchstone of trust.

The way the word ”receive” shimmered for me was as a counter-weight to how I had been frantically expending energy during 2020, as COVID-19 first began to develop worldwide and put many of us into anxious places, as well as upending our routines and relationships.

As someone who had planned to co-lead two Celtic Pilgrimages during 2020, I found myself on overdrive, constantly digesting the news and scanning the horizon for what was coming at us and how it would impact the travel plans of the 30 pilgrims I was responsible for. I was compulsively running toward the news and information, trying to understand and figure out how to be safe and what smart decisions looked like for myself and others.

Out of that swirl, the word ”receive” emerged and offered an invitation to unhook from the compulsive scanning. It invited me into the “now” that is God. It whispered a spirit-promise that I could “do” less and “be” more. It hinted that I could rely on God and be in reception mode. It has seemed to be an invitation to renew my trust in moving and living and having my being in God.

3. Fruit thus far.

Anything that enhances the journey of trust in the divine is something for which to be grateful.  Additionally, putting myself in a less-responsible posture — more trusting of what arises, what comes, what surprises and trusting that these are of God or with  God — has been re-orienting and refreshing. It has helped me climb off of a self-inflicted roller coaster of tension and practice more waiting and calm. It has also helped me to pay more attention to things — both from within myself and from outside myself — that arise and are worthy of my time and energy.

I don’t view my word “receive” as a blank pass that anything goes. What to do with what comes is always a task of discernment. But it has been enormously refreshing to allow this word of the year to remind me of something that is very wise to always remember: God and I are in this together, and it can be healthier for me to allow God’s energy more space in my life.

Jane Thorley Roeschley, MACF is currently continuing to settle into early retirement, which is overlapping with COVID-19. She sees spiritual directees via Zoom, is grateful to be part of spiritual gatherings and seminars remotely, and enjoys sacred reading and going outside for contemplative walks in a nearby woods.  She served on the pastoral team of Mennonite Church of Normal (Illinois) for 19 years.

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Give Me a Word ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

In ancient times, wise men and women fled out into the desert to find a place where they could be fully present to the divine and to their own inner struggles at work within them. The desert became a place to enter into the refiner’s fire and be stripped down to one’s holy essence. The desert was a threshold place where you emerged different than when you entered.

Many people followed these ammas and abbas, seeking their wisdom and guidance for a meaningful life. One tradition was to ask for a word – this word or phrase would be something on which to ponder for many days, weeks, months, sometimes a whole lifetime. This practice is connected to lectio divina, where we approach the sacred texts with the same request – “give me a word” we ask – something to nourish me, challenge me, a word I can wrestle with and grow into. The word which chooses us has the potential to transform us.

As in past years, we are offering all Abbey newsletter subscribers a gift: a free 12-day online mini-retreat with a suggested practice for each day to help your word choose you and to deepen into your word once it has found you. Even if you participated last year, you are more than welcome to register again.

Subscribe to our email newsletter and you will receive a link to start your mini-retreat today. Your information will never be shared or sold.(If you are already subscribed to the newsletter, look for the link in the Sunday, December 5th email and at the bottom of each Sunday following.)

WIN A PRIZE – RANDOM DRAWING GIVEAWAY ENTER BY JANUARY 6th!One space in the Virtual Celtic Pilgrimage: The Wisdom of the Irish Saints Brigid, Ciaran, & GobnaitFour people will win their choice of our self-study online retreats (with 18 to choose from!)One signed copy of Breath Prayer: An Ancient Practice for the Everyday SacredOne signed copy of The Wisdom of Wild Grace: Poems by Christine Valters PaintnerOne signed copy of Dreaming of Stones: Poems by Christine Valters Paintner

Please share your word with us in the comments on this post (and it would be wonderful if you included a sentence about what it means for you).

Share the love with others and invite them to participate. We will announce the prize winners on January 9th.

Please join us tomorrow for our Contemplative Prayer Service to celebrate Advent. And join me next Saturday for a retreat on The Spiral Way: Celtic Spirituality and the Creative Imagination.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

PS – You can read three of my poems in the current issue of Impspired online: Corcomroe Abbey, I Stand at My Mother’s Grave, and I Dream of My Mother. 

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