Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 48

Monk in the World Video Podcasts (Conversion) ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

Today we offer you the gift of morning and evening prayer from our Monk in the World Video Podcasts on the theme of Conversion. Conversion may sound harsh to some ears, especially when it comes from a place of wanting others to be different, to be changed.

In the Benedictine tradition, however, conversion is about a lifelong commitment to our own transformation. It is acknowledging that we are always growing and learning, we have never fully “arrived.” Conversion is a commitment to always beginning again, to know that we will falter in our passion and desire. I like to think of it as being open to holy surprise. 

Conversion has been at the heart of our Lift Every Voice book club as well. I started 2021 with a desire to root myself more deeply in the monastic principle of humility. I knew reading voices from more diverse perspectives would be deeply enriching and would be one way to commit to my own ongoing transformation. I have been so enriched and am hungry for more. 

Our book for November is Soul Care in African American Practice by Dr. Barbara Peacock. This is a beautiful book about contemplative practice rooted in the Black church tradition. Dr. Peacock uplifts practices like lectio divina and spiritual direction and situates them firmly at the heart of African American practice. She also uplifts Christian mystics like early church fathers Tertullian and Augustine who are known for their contemplative contributions, but mainstream religious history has not emphasized their African heritage.

She writes: “If a greater percentage of African Americans were aware of the rich contributions of our ancestors – it would change our thinking, our views of the Christian faith, and consequently change the face of Christianity.” This is part of the conversation I am so excited to be a part of. To broaden our understanding of mysticism by uplifting more voices. 

Dr. Peacock writes movingly from her own experience of burnout as a pastor and how she sees God’s lavish desires for us to simply rest in the divine presence:

“It is a beautiful experience to carve out extensive time with (God), and it is also a glorious event to be in the moment with him, just appreciating a conscious, fresh breath of his presence. A selah moment. A pause. A time to stop and be with your Creator, your Savior, your God, your friend, your companion. How precious it is to rest in his presence, rest in his arms, rest in him. Just being. No doing. Selah.”

I know part of my own ongoing conversion is to commit again and again to those true pauses or selah moments. 

She also writes beautifully about how the “legacy of African Americans extends beyond what is physically visible and mentally comprehensible. Our trials and tribulations have birthed an eschatological hope that is perpetually undergirded by prayer and by directives from Yahweh.” Through my reading this year as part of this book club and beyond, I have been so moved to understand this profound hope born from a legacy of oppression and the vision it offers for us collectively. It feels essential to the times we are living in. 

You can listen to the video conversation Claudia and I had with Dr. Peacock. Toward the end Claudia asks her to lead us in a meditation which was a really beautiful experience. 

Please note that my wonderful book club conversation partner, Claudia Love Mair, recently lost her oldest son to a drug overdose. To allow her some time for her bereavement we are cancelling our community conversation for November and December and our featured book for December – Womanist Midrash – will be postponed until February 2022 when we will launch a new year and a new series of books to explore. The November video conversation was recorded prior to this and the daily quotes and questions for the book will still be posted in our Facebook group during November to help you deepen into your own conversation with the text. 

Please pray for Claudia, her son, and her family as they travel this painful path. She has been writing some beautiful reflections on her grief and will be sharing some of that with us here in the weeks to come. 

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, ReaCE 

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Monk in the World Guest Post: Bart Brenner

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Bart Brenner’s reflection on filling the cup

You are the wine, / I am the cup.
I can yield nothing till I am filled up.
(O Sun, Earth Our Original Monastery Prayer Cycle: Morning Prayer, Day Six)

The pandemic brought illness and death, and a strange way of living—lock down, masking, and social distancing. Living in a cloistered community was was not welcomed by many. As an octogenarian, living alone since the death of my wife six years ago, the pandemic gave a new meaning to hermitage. How would my cup, as an introverted monk, be filled up during this time of external restrictions?

Even with restrictions, it became necessary for me to travel. My 105 year old mother had entered in-home Hospice care. I was part of the care team for the last three weeks of her life. Lovingly tending to life at its end helped fill my cup.

Upon returning home, I began to fill some of the extra alone time caused by the pandemic with riding my newly purchased ebike. I named my bike The Quest because it takes me into nature’s amphitheater and gives me time to reflect on matters both substantive and mundane. These reflections have helped fill my cup with deeper appreciation for the blessing of a weak faith.

A wise teacher once told me that it doesn’t matter what size cup you hold—demitasse or beer stein. In the kingdom, it will be filled to overflowing. Perhaps a weak faith is enough. After all, faith is not a possession.

John Caputo teaches that “God does not exist, God insists.” It is not so much that I have faith but, rather, that faith has me. Faith insists—disturbing me, stirring me up, inflaming me. Faith resides in my heart (or my guts), not my understanding. The understandings come later. Faith is simply the pre-disposition to pay attention to the insistence that comes in the name of God. Faith itself is weak because it come without a plan of action.

When The Quest and I go out on an overcast day, I am reminded of the Cloud of Unknowing—the cloud that comes in the name of God, insisting, luring me from the heights and the depths. In the midst of that unknowing there is that trace I call faith. It fills my unknowing, not with knowing but with curiosity and seeking.

Faith opens my emptiness. My studies (especially seminary) taught me to fill that emptiness with theological understandings and a solid belief system. I have slowly learned to look beneath those beliefs, for they are simply opinions—hopefully informed opinions, but opinions nevertheless. Underneath is the trust that hides itself in faith—trust in myself, trust in others, trust in the creation. Radical trusting opens me to the insistence, the trace, lure, or nudge. These can become the call to action that comes in the name of God.

Two months of attending to the daily prayer services of the Abbey of the Arts has reminded me of something I knew so well as a child. The creation is our original cathedral, our current spiritual directors, and the fount of sacramental liturgy. Churches, Sunday schools and seminaries are secondary resources.

For me, this was summed up in the reading from Teilhard de Chardin (Earth Our Original Monastery Prayer Cycle: Morning prayer, Day One): “By means of all created things, without exception, the divine assails us, penetrates us, and moulds us. We imagined it as distant and inaccessible, whereas in fact we live steeped in its burning layers. . . The world, this palpable world, which we were wont to treat with the boredom and disrespect with which we habitually regard places with no sacred association for us, is in truth a holy place, and we did not know it.”

The event of faith is an unspoken lure (an insistence, a nudge, a call) that, when heard and recognized, disturbs my status quo, upsetting plans and hopes. Understandings come later, along with the riskiness of deciding whether to follow where the lure leads, often without full knowledge. This riskiness of faith touches my passion, fuels my energy, and offers me integrity. What I have been describing is “the weakness of faith.” For the trace, the lure, the call comes gently (even weakly) as an invitation—disturbing me in the night, disrupting my mid-day. Even though it comes in the name of God, it has no power except for my response. When I listen and respond, my cup is filled to overflowing. If I ignore the invitation, if I refuse to answer faith’s call, faith retreats.

Thankfully, the creation does not retreat. The birds continue to sing, the seasons change, the brook babbles, the silent stone remains implacable in the face of my hesitations. As The Quest and I wander out into nature’s amphitheater, as I watch the redbud trees burst into their springtime glory, as I gaze into the vastness of the sky, I am reminded that I am but a small (sometimes even marginally important) part of this vast and wondrous creation, a cup waiting to be filled up. The shimmering of faith that dawns within me and the glimmering of hope that accompanies it both call me to dance with Amma Syncletica and kindle the divine fire within. As we dance, we also sing, “Breathe into the Earth, Holy One and renew us; it’s a new day.” (Earth Our Original Monastery Prayer Cycle: Closing Song, Morning Prayer, Day Six)

Bart Brenner is a retired Presbyterian minister. He is an avid genealogist, fly fisher, and ebiker. He enjoys watching his grandchildren grow into a young woman and a young man. He is co-author of Stirring Waters: Wrestling with Faith in a Restless Age.

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Lift Every Voice: Contemplative Writers of Color – November Video Discussion and Book Group Materials Now Available

Join Abbey of the Arts for a monthly conversation on how increasing our diversity of perspectives on contemplative practice can enrich our understanding and experience of the Christian mystical tradition. 

Christine Valters Paintner is joined by author Claudia Love Mair for a series of video conversations. Each month they take up a new book by or about a voice of color. The community is invited to purchase and read the books in advance and participate actively in this journey of deepening, discovery, and transformation. 

Click here to view this m onth’s video discussion along with questions for reflection.  

Soul Care in African American Practice by Barbara Peacock illustrates a journey of prayer, spiritual direction, and soul care from an African American perspective. She reflects on how these disciplines are woven into the African American culture and lived out in the rich heritage of its faith community.

Join our Lift Every Voice Facebook Group for more engagement and discussion.

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Monk in the World Video Podcasts (Sabbath)

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

I am delighted to share the next in our Monk in the World Video Podcast series – morning and evening prayer exploring the principle of Sabbath. Sabbath is a contemplative practice found in Christianity, Judaism, and Islam. It is also at the heart of a yoga practice when we rest into “corpse pose” at the end and allow everything to integrate. Cultivating this rhythm of rest in our lives is part of our commitment to relishing joy. 

The following reflection is excerpted from Imam Jamal Rahman’s recent co-authored book The Teachers of Spiritual Wisdom: Gaining Perspective on Life’s Perplexing Questions published by Wipf and Stock

Sufis rhapsodize over this astonishing revelation that came to the Prophet Muhammad in a dream:

“I was a secret Treasure and I longed to be know.
And so I created you, and the worlds, visible and invisible.”

Cosmically encoded within us is a deep and mysterious longing to know and connect with our Creator. Within every desire for anything in our lives is a yearning for our Beloved. The inexplicable unease we experience in our life even when our wants are fulfilled is expressed in the utterance of the beloved 8th century female Islamic saint Rabia: “There is a disease in my breast no doctor can cure; only union with the Friend can cure this.”

The Qur’an says that our Creator is within and without. To connect with Allah inside of us, we have to do the essential inner work of evolving into the fullness of our being by removing the veils of our ego so that we move closer to our higher self. This work is critical. Sufi teachers explain with a metaphor: A benevolent King sends you to a faraway country with a specific task. You go there and do many beautiful things but not that one specific task. Upon your return, can you say that you have attained?  

To bond with Divinity outside of us, we experience the joy of serving God’s creation. We strive, in the words of the 13th century sage Rumi to be a “lamp, lifeboat or ladder” to others. The 20th century Indian poet Tagore wrote, “I slept and dreamt that life was joy; I awoke and found that life was service; I served and lo! Service was joy!”

May the words of the Prophet Muhammad splash in your heart: “When you arrived here, everyone was laughing and smiling but you were crying and weeping. Live such a life that when you depart, everyone is crying and weeping but you are laughing and smiling.”

Be sure to join us next Saturday, November 6th when we joyfully welcome Jamal. He will be leading us in a mini-retreat on the Sufi mystics. If Rumi and Hafiz make your heart tremble with joyful knowing – or you long to cultivate that kind of desire for the Beloved in your life – you will definitely want to join us. 

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

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Monk in the World Guest Post: Nancy 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 Agneberg’s reflection “Contemplative Driving: Noticing, Wondering, Returning.”

Although my father’s death was not unexpected—after all, he was 96 years old, I miss him. A lot

During the eight weeks of Dad’s dying, I drove the same round trip every day. Thirteen miles in the morning and then again later in the day. My destination was my widower father’s home where he had lived easily and contentedly for several years. Even though I wasn’t walking the Camino de Santiago, spending nights in hostels along the way, rubbing my feet with lotions to ease the blisters from too many miles and too tight boots, I was still a pilgrim. A pilgrim driving in her blue Jeep.

Most days I traveled alone, not exchanging trials and triumphs with other pilgrims encountered along the way. Sometimes I listened to public radio, welcoming the familiar voices of people I’ve never met, but most of the time I drove in contemplative silence.

In her book, Water, Wind, Earth and Fire, The Christian Practice of Praying with the Elements, Christine Valters Paintner describes contemplative walking as a time for noticing, wondering, and returning. (120). And that’s exactly what I did, only instead of walking, I practiced contemplative driving.

When I first started making the daily pilgrimage to Dad’s apartment, the trees were bare and the ground, brown. Occasionally, I drove through a snow squall, winter blowing its last breath. My route along Minnehaha Creek was still covered with ice, and the runners and dogwalkers were bundled tightly in winter gear. As the weeks passed, however, I noticed fewer dried and prickly Christmas wreaths on front doors, and lifeless pots of Christmas greens on front steps were replaced with jaunty pansies. A soft green haze developed on the trees along the parkway, and I felt the promise of spring as buds formed. Eventually, crabapple and lilac trees burst into full, fluffy bloom. Day by day.

Along with every variety of dog, I spotted wild turkeys strutting their stuff, and one day, much to my surprise and delight, I saw a parrot perched on the back of a bike, seemingly enjoying the fresh air and the change of scenery, as its owner coasted along city blocks. What was that story? And what about the tired-looking older woman I noticed leaning on her walker most every morning at a bus stop? Where was she going?

I passed the bandshell at Minnehaha Park not far from the falls Henry Wadsworth Longfellow made famous with his poem “The Song of Hiawatha.” I wondered if my husband and I would in the coming summer months enjoy a picnic in the park before attending a concert, as we had many times before. Those were the early days of the pandemic, days of shelter in place, and I passed empty church parking lots and school playgrounds. What was everyone doing and how were they managing?

I sent blessings, “Be safe,” to those who lived in the homes I passed, thinking surely we should know each other because I had passed by so often. Sometimes I played a game with myself, noting the houses that most appealed me, imagining what it would be like to live there.

Crossing the bridge over the Mississippi River connecting St Paul and Minneapolis, I often saw an eagle soaring, a reminder to whisper my mantra, “May I know and be the presence.” I repeated it and took a deep cleansing breath at STOP signs and at familiar landmarks – the bakery that made my wedding cake decades earlier, the funeral home where my mother’s body was taken after she died so long ago, the location where there used to be a Dairy Queen and is now a bank.

Most days the trip took 25-30 minutes, depending on the number of green lights. It could have been less if I had driven the highway, but I needed the time to prepare myself before arriving at the newly-designated sacred destination. Each time I wondered before getting out of the car, if that would be the day my beloved father would take his last breath.

And then hours later, when I retraced my route, returning to our house, I wondered if tomorrow I would not sit by his bedside again. Had I told him I loved him and heard him tell me he loved me, too, for the last time? Sometimes after pulling into the garage, I remained in the car, my sanctuary, for a few minutes, crying, even sobbing, before heading into the house.

Those daily drives were a spiritual practice: contemplative driving.

I noticed my feelings and what supported and strengthened and nurtured me.

I wondered in what ways I would continue to experience Dad’s presence.

I returned to calm, amidst my sadness and loss.

And I prayed, mile after mile, “May I know and be the presence.”

Nancy L. Agneberg is living her Sacred Seventies fully and gratefully in her many roles, including mother, grandmother, spouse, friend, writer, spiritual director, hometender, volunteer, voracious reader, walker of labyrinths. Read her perspectives on aging as a spiritual director on her LivingOnLifesLabytinth.com or ClearingtheSpace.blogspot.com

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Breath Prayer Book Launch Recording Available

I was delighted to be joined by Simon de Voil and Jamie Marich to celebrate the launch of my latest book, Breath Prayer: An Ancient Practice for the Everyday Sacred. We gathered with many of you to share song and movement and breath as a way to deepen into this practice.

I invite you to join us for the Advent Breath Prayer Retreat: A Companion to the Book which begins November 29th.

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Monk in the World Video Podcasts (Work)

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

We have our newest Monk in the World Prayer Cycle video podcasts available for you this week on the principle of meaningful work. Follow the links above for morning and evening prayer. 

I am also hosting a book launch tomorrow (October 25th) for my newest book Breath Prayer: An Ancient Practice for the Everyday Sacred. I will be joined by Simon de Voil who will be offering his gift of music and Jamie Marich who will lead us in a short dancing mindfulness practice connected to breath. I will be talking about the roots of breath prayer and leading us in a practice of creating our own breath prayer to draw on throughout the days to come. This is a free event and there will even be a chance to win a space in our Advent companion retreat to the book for those who join us live. If you can’t join live, we will be recording the session. 

This is one of my favorite times of year as we approach the Celtic feast of Samhain and All Saints/Souls. Samhain marks one of the two great doorways of the Celtic year. The Celts divided the year into two seasons: the season of light and the season of dark. Some believe that Samhain was the more important festival, marking the beginning of a whole new cycle, just as the Celtic day began the previous night. In the silence of darkness comes the whisperings of new beginnings.

Two significant features of this feast are the beginning of the season of darkness and the honoring of ancestors. Crossing the threshold means welcoming in the dark as a time of becoming more closely woven with the spiritual dimension of life. Winter invites us to gather inside, grow still with the landscape, and listen for the voices we may not hear during other times of year. These may be the sounds of our own inner wisdom or the voices of those who came before us.

The Celtic feast coincides with the Christian celebration of All Saint’s Day on November 1st and All Soul’s Day on November 2nd which begin a whole month in honor of those who have died. We tend to neglect our ancestral heritage in our culture, but in other cultures remembering the ancestors is an intuitive and essential way of beginning anything new. We don’t recognize the tremendous wisdom we can draw upon from those who have traveled the journey before us and whose DNA we carry in every fiber of our bodies. We carry not just their wounds but also their resilience and courage as well. 

This is one of my favorite times of year with the darkening days of autumn and the spreading color across the trees.  I have long loved the wisdom of the Celtic Wheel of the Year, but living here in Ireland I experience the turning points more keenly.

In the ancient Celtic imagination, this was considered to be a “thin time” when the veil between heaven and earth grew more transparent and the wisdom of our ancestors was closer to us. We are reassured that we are not alone, that we share the world with a great “cloud of witnesses” and “communion of saints” just across the veil. This season is a threshold space and in thresholds we are closer to the other world which is always here. The communal honoring of the dead continues for the whole month of November.

We have three ways to support you in deepening into this season: Yoga with Melinda: Samhain, a mini-retreat with Christine on Writing with the Ancestors, and a Contemplative Prayer Service with Christine and Simon. We hope you will join us for one or all of these programs as a way of receiving the love of thousands who stand beyond the veil.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

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Monk in the World Guest Post: Robert Walk

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to our Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Robert Walk’s reflection “Do Dancing Monks Retire?”

One of our monk manifesto principles is that of silence. Silence is an attribute I come by naturally. Silence as in quiet, particularly in a group, be it in family gatherings or otherwise. However, being quiet or silent as a personality trait does not equate to the practice of silence that defines part of our “monkdom” qualities, although it may contribute to its development.

For fifty-three years I have participated in professional ministry both as a local pastor in the American Baptist tradition and as a Chaplain in an interfaith setting. While silence and the ability to listen with my mouth shut and my mind focused are vital in pastoral care there are obvious times when talking is a must, as in preaching, teaching, and pastoral care. However, the practice of silence is a vital prerequisite and an on-going lifestyle from which personal well-being and pastoral ministry have their most creative and beneficial foundation.

Recently I retired from my work and role as a pastor/chaplain after twenty years in the same facility and now becoming a full-time resident in the same facility. The appreciation lunch and congratulatory cards are fading into a collection of grateful memories. Now what do I do? Who am I now that the pastoral role is no longer a major source of identity? The thunderous silence of retirement has an invitation all its own. What will your calling be now, Bob, asked my brother-in-law. Along with that question come other questions. What will I do with my time? How much of my identity was wrapped up with my job as a chaplain/pastor? Will I drive my wife nuts?

Being retired for only a few months the answers to some of these questions are beginning to resolve slowly. Several realities are coming to light. Directly across the street from where we live is a nine-hole disc golf course. Until six months ago I had never even heard of disc golf, the sport that is similar to ball golf except it is played with a disc that resembles a frisbee. I have been playing this game “religiously,” as in almost every day, since I became aware of it. My almost lifelong engagement with religious ritual and liturgy is transitioning as I enjoy the opportunity in retirement to not be responsible for preparing and leading services and groups.

Having lived, worked, and experienced the words and practices of the Christian faith for a lifetime I find that in the early months of retirement I have entered a season of retreat from the outward features of my faith tradition. Part of this retreat, or should I say sabbatical, has to do with the reality of giving a wide space to the new Chaplain and the residents as they develop rapor and he carves out his unique style of pastoral care and ministry. Equally as important, and actually more important, is for me to retreat into the silence of my inner sanctuary where the encounter with the Great Spirit enables a renewal of my faith and spirit as I begin to put the finishing touches on my life and faith as I near the home stretch of this earthly journey. In part this is a time to let go of some of the outward features and practices of my faith tradition to ground myself more deeply in that inner encounter with the holy.

So, almost on a daily basis, golf discs in hand, I literally cross the street from where I live and play the nine holes of disc golf, usually by myself but occasionally with a fellow resident. The flight of the frisbee-like golf disc is usually one of silence and soaring beauty as it wings its way through the air until it touches down on the earth beneath it. However, as is the case for me and many a disc golf player, if the path of the disc is hindered by a tree or hanging branch there is the smack of the disc colliding with the tree and throwing the disc off course. Life and faith have impediments that challenge us in our journey. The disc has become a tool in my development of a new spiritual practice, and I purposely call this a spiritual practice because it combines walking, throwing, moving in on a goal, and contemplating silently with nature – the birds, the bees, the trees, the air, the grass, and exercise with an occasional expletive condemning my off course throw.

So, do dancing monks retire? Do I as a dancing monk retire from the disciplines and practices of our calling? The landscape of my being a monk has changed. For the present I’ve retreated from attending weekly church gatherings, except for the occasional participation in a streamed service from Washington National Cathedral or daily prayer from Durham Cathedral. The landscape has changed, I am no longer responsible for leading daily or weekly services. Personal sabbath is now an everyday occurrence, which it should always be anyway, and the old man and his disk keep walking and throwing the disk as it sails into the wind of the Great Spirit that blows where it will. Dancing monks do not retire but use the fertile ground of retirement to be refreshed and to contribute to the continued emergence of the Beloved Community. As my disc golf shirt says: “May the course be with you.”

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Robert Walk is an American Baptist clergy person in retirement with his wife, Kathleen and their two cats Jack and Jill. He lives in Simpson House Retirement Community in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania where he recently retired after twenty-one years of serving as the Chaplain there.

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Monk in the World Video Podcasts (Community) ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

We continue our exploration of the Monk in the World Prayer Cycle Video Podcasts with morning and evening prayer for Day 3: Community. The reflection below comes from my new book Breath Prayer: An Ancient Practice for the Everyday Sacred which was released in the US and Canada on Oct 12th. 

I see you with love
gifted, cherished.
Grateful
for who you are.

How often do we really see another person as the beautiful gift they are? Perhaps this happens sometimes with those we love, where we are caught in a moment of grace and see them in all their wondrousness and you feel full of gratitude for their presence in your life. 

Maybe you have a moment where your eyes meet and you hold each other’s gaze for a few breaths as an act of seeing each other with love. 

When I work with individuals in spiritual direction, I actively try to see them through God’s eyes and knowing how deeply loved they are. I try to bring that loving presence into our time together. 

We can intentionally bring this gaze of love to others. You can practice this with a beloved one or very dear and close friend. You might try setting a timer for one minute and just sit together, eyes softly receiving each other while breathing together and praying quietly in our hearts. 

Breathe in: I see you with love
Breathe out:gifted, cherished.
Breathe in: Grateful
Breathe out:for who you are.

This can be a very intimate and vulnerable moment because we so rarely spend this kind of time simply looking at another person with love and care. 

We can also bring this practice out into the world. How often do we really see another person beneath their role, under our expectations? What if we paused at the grocery store and for a moment brought eyes of love to the stock clerk or the cashier. They don’t have to know what you’re doing. You don’t have to stare, just take in their image, then close your eyes for a moment, breathe, and bathe them with love. Pause and see the other person as beloved and beautiful as they indeed truly are.

We do not want to violate their personal space by holding an uncomfortable gaze, but we can have an encounter with them and then pause afterward to hold them with love in our imagination while repeating the breath prayer through a few times. 

This can be such a beautiful way to really start to see people who are often invisible to us. We can see them as gifts to the world. We can cultivate a deeper kindness within ourselves too as we begin to widen our appreciation for others.

Join us for the virtual Breath Prayer book launch on Monday, October 25th. We are also offering an Advent Companion retreat to the book.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD REACE 

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Monk in the World Guest Post: Kristine Schnarr

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Kristine Schnarr’s reflection on the labyrinth.

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During the majority of my 71 years on this beautiful earth, I have lived in the suburbs of various sprawling cities around the United States. However, born in Chicago, I am very much a city-girl at heart. I am also very much an introvert and very much a contemplative. Over the years, I have always gravitated towards places and spaces, that offer opportunities for quiet prayer and contemplation in the midst of the hustle and bustle of life.

I actually do not remember my very first labyrinth experience. I’m not sure where or when it was. If I had to guess, I would say maybe 25 years ago at a women’s retreat somewhere. Conversely, I will never forget the first time I met My Labyrinth. My Labyrinth and I met the first week of March, 2014. That was the week my husband and I made a big move from a large home with a large yard in a midwestern suburb to a rather smallish condo with a small balcony in the urban setting of Arlington, VA.

On one of our first walks around our new, vibrant, city neighborhood I spotted a small grassy park-like space less than ¼ mile from our condo. As we ventured into that space, I saw My Labyrinth. It was in a low area, rather hidden from those coming and going on the adjacent city sidewalk and street. It was surrounded by big, beautiful trees that helped create a cathedral effect. It was love at first sight.

You might be wondering why or how I feel I can call this public labyrinth, My Labyrinth. After being in relationship with it for the past 7+ years, I would say that the main reason is I am one of the few people I know who knows about it and who uses it. I hardly ever see anyone else there. When I talk about it or share photos of it with my friends, they always ask its location and then say they have never been there. Even though I am more than happy to share it with others, I rarely see anyone else there. When I do see other people there, I am happy for them, and actually feel a sense of kinship with them. Especially during this unprecedented year of the world-wide COVID pandemic.

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As I traversed the trials and tribulations of these trying pandemic times, I often turned to My beloved Labyrinth for a sense of groundedness, solace and hope. In this place, I truly felt that I could be a Monk in our anguished world. In the face of endless uncertainties, this small space in my urban corner of the world held a spaciousness for me. Here the pandemic paradoxes of sorrow & joy, grief & gratitude or hopelessness & hope could reside together in my heart & soul. Here I prayed. Here grace flowed.

Thomas Merton once said, “In a world of noise, confusion and conflict, it is necessary that there is a place of inner silence and peace, not the peace of mere relaxation but the peace of inner clarity and love.” When I walked My Labyrinth during this tragic year, I was able to abide in that place of inner silence, clarity and love thanks to My Labyrinth. Walking My Labyrinth taught me that if I just kept putting one foot in front of the other and just kept trusting the path I was on, I would reach the center, rest and then be able to continue the journey out into the world with the strength I needed for whatever was ahead. As I walked My Labyrinth’s path, I was given the grace to let go, the faith to trust, the hope to keep going and great gratitude for the beauty and nurture of nature.

I close with a Haiku poem and a prayer of thanks for My Labyrinth:
OFF THE BEATEN PATH…. MY URBAN LABYRINTH CALLS…INVITING ME IN

Thank you, Holy One, for the gifts of grace you offer to those who seek and love You. Thank you for the gift of My Labyrinth for such a time as this. Thank you for how My Labyrinth has been such a sweet help to me during this challenging pandemic year and how it has nurtured me as I travelled the way of being a Monk in the World.

Kristine Schnarr and her husband, Mark, live in Arlington, VA. Kristine thanks Abbey of the Arts for nurturing her interest in Celtic Spirituality and her love for contemplative spiritual practices. Kristine is an avid, amateur contemplative photographer. She loves to share and give away her photos to others and use them to inspire her recent love for writing Haiku poems.

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