Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 55

Spring (or Autumn) Equinox and Sacred Time ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

As the wheel of the year turns to the spring equinox in the northern hemisphere (and autumn equinox in the southern hemisphere) I invite you to deepen your relationship to the sacred rhythms of nature and the cosmos with its blossoming, fruitfulness, release, and rest. To become fully present to these moments of turning is to give ourselves over to Kairos time rather than chronos time.

To help us understand this further, I want to share with you another excerpt from my new book Sacred Time: Embracing an Intentional Way of Life.

The Greek myths may help us understand this dual relationship we have to time. In the ancient story the Greek god Chronos was cursed, saying that he would one day be overthrown by one of his children. As a result each time a child of his was born, he would devour them to not allow the curse to take place. He was also depicted with a scythe and is known as the god of agriculture. Later he became associated with time and its devouring and destructive aspects. Chronos became the name for the kind of time which makes us keenly aware of its passing, always moving us inevitably toward our own ends.

In World Enough & Time, McEwen writes:

"When the Lilliputians first saw Gulliver’s watch, that 'wonderful kind of engine . . . a globe, half silver and half of some transparent metal [glass!],' they told themselves it had to be his god. After all, 'he very seldom did anything without consulting it: he called it his oracle, and said it pointed out the time for every action of his life.'”

We have clocks everywhere now. On our computer screens and phones, in our cars and on our microwaves. They hover above at airports and train stations, urging us to rush to keep up with the schedule. As the sociologist Juliet Schor points out in an article in Yes magazine, we “work too much, eat too quickly, socialize too little, drive and sit in traffic for too many hours, don’t get enough sleep, and feel harried too much of the time.”

Meanwhile, there is another kind of time. The Greeks also had a word for the more life-giving aspects of time. Kairos is known as the god of opportunity and is depicted with wings. Time may be the destroyer of things, but it is also the medium through which creativity happens. Time can be life-giving when we view it from an alternate perspective, from that of touching eternity.

Author Jay Griffiths writes, in A Sideways Look at Time, that Chronos “gives his name to absolute time, linear, chronological and quantifiable. But the Greeks had another, far more slippery colorful, god of time, Kairos. Kairos was the god of timing, of opportunity, of chance and mischance, of different aspects of time, the auspicious and not-so-auspicious. Time qualitative.” When we eat and sleep because we are hungry and tired, that is Kairos time, if we do so because the clock tells us it is the time to do so, that is Chronos time.

Kairos is the time we experience on retreat, when the pressures of the world recede and there is just this moment now beckoning for attention. We are in Kairos time when we are with a loved one, immersed in laughter and meaningful conversation, and we lose track of what time it is. Or when we are in the flow of creating and we forget to even look at our watches or phones for a spell.

How do we open ourselves to Kairos more often? How do we pause on the horizontal progression of time and touch the vertical moments of eternity? I believe part of the answer is opening ourselves to a connection to cyclical and spiral understandings of time as we have in nature. Much of monastic practice and tradition is rooted in this understanding and relationship.

Several years ago I went away for retreat by myself for a week.  I rented a cottage on Saltspring Island, which is one of the Gulf Islands in British Columbia.  I had been on many retreats before but they were usually a guided program at a retreat center with a facilitator and schedule to follow.

I was feeling a deeper call to solitude and found myself in this place by the sea long enough to really sink into my own internal rhythms.  I started listening more deeply to myself in those quiet days.  I began to experience this profound freedom to attend to my body’s needs as they arose – for food, for rest, for movement, for stillness.

What I discovered in those days away was that my spirituality thrives when I can allow it to be organic – when I create enough space to respond to what the day offers.  I am someone who loves to plan and make lists, and yet what is most life-giving for me in the overall arc of my life is to listen deeply to what my life is calling me toward and shape my life in response.

There is a beautiful rhythm of rise and fall found in every breath we take, in the rising and setting of the sun each day, in the balance between work and Sabbath time each week, in the waxing and waning of the moon each month, the flowering and releasing of the earth through her seasons, the seasons of our lifetimes, and then larger rhythms of ancestral and cosmic time.

In the Celtic tradition, time is depicted as a wheel, as in many other indigenous traditions, always turning and moving through the cycles of seasons. These seasons reflect inner movements as well where we are invited into ritual to mark the new moments. Rituals immerse us in liminal space and time, which is time outside of time. We touch the eternal moment. Ritual creates a holy pause and connects us to the very rhythm of the world that sustains us, reminding us of the slow unfolding and ripening of things. Ritual, whether religious or otherwise, connect us to a deep source, a well of refreshment.

We don’t have to go anywhere in particular to experience sacred time. We don’t have to give up our lives in the world and run off to a monastery to be immersed in the holiness of time’s unfolding. Really what we are invited to is a shift in perspective. Think of those optical illusions where you look at a drawing and see one thing, but when you shift your gaze, you see something else entirely.

To immerse yourself in experiencing time in a new way with a community of kindred spirits, please join us for our 8-week companion retreat to my book Sacred Time starting on April 5th.

(That same week I am also starting another 4-session program with the Rowe Center on Celtic spirituality and creativity, this time through the lens of the four elements).

With great and growing love,

Christine

PS – You can read a reflection on the spring equinox in our archives here and on the autumn equinox here.

PPS – A poem of mine appears in the online journal Vita Poetica (there is also an audio recording there available so you can hear me recite it.)

Hildy Tails 9: Bíonn adharca fada ar na ba thar lear ~ by John Valters Paintner

Hello, gentle readers! This series of 12 essays were composed during John & Christine’s Jubilee Year (which began pre-pandemic, but some of which was written during varying degrees of lockdown). They were dictated to John by the Abbey’s mascot, Hildy the Monk-ey. Hildy is a bit of a free spirit who likes to entertain and doesn’t normally feel constrained by conventional story structure . . . or grammar, in general. She lives by the motto that “all stories are true; some actually happened.” We wanted to share them with you, our wider Abbey community, to give you a small monkey-sized window into life on the wild edges of Ireland. They will take the place of our Monk in the World guest posts until May when those will return.

Bíonn adharca fada ar na ba thar lear.

Hello, again, everyone! It’s me, Hildy the Abbey of the Arts’ adorable mascot. (John added the “adorable” bit there. I don’t want ye thinking I’ve got Notions. But thank you, John. I’ll do my Irish best to accept the compliment.)

But speaking of Irish . . . today’s expression means “far away cows have long horns.” It’s another way of saying the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. Only here in Ireland, the grass is always as green as it’s goin’ to get, wherever ya go and regardless of what side of the fence you’re on. So, cows it is. Besides, so much of Irish history/mythology has to do with cow envy and cattle theft . . . this just makes so much more sense here.

Now I don’t like to be the jealous type, as I try to be very grateful with my life (Thank you, Brother David Steindl-Rast) and do feel very blessed. However, I wish I had grown up in a thatched cottage.

It’s not that I long for ye olde tymes or anything. I know life was hard back when most people in the West of Ireland lived in them. I just love the look of them so much. I grew up down the lane from a woman (to protect her privacy, we’ll call her), Granny Privy who had a lovely thatched cottage that some of us would visit and play in . . . and on top of, in some cases. (That case would be me and my siblings.) But Granny Privy didn’t mind. We’d just sit up there and enjoy the view. We weren’t messing with the thatch or . . .

(Good point, John.) Maybe I should back up and explain a bit about thatched roofs and life in those traditional cottages.

Thatched roofs are made out of thatch. That is reeds or grass, depending on the local flora and what building materials were available at the time. Here on the mainland, thatch is traditionally made out of reeds, but out on the Aran Islands they are made of grasses. This means that out on the islands, where there’s more wind and rain, the roofs need to be replaced about twice as often. In the east of Ireland, where the weather is nicer (if not as dramatic and majestic) the roofs can last for well over a decade. This is one reason you don’t see a lot of thatched roofs anymore. It’s expensive and time consuming to keep replacing. Now the Irish government does provide a stipend to help people maintain their thatched roofs, but good luck finding a new one. (Actually, there is a new one near us here in Galway City; but more on that later.) Insurance companies won’t insure a building with one, because of the obvious fire hazard (I’ll get to the open fireplaces in a minute). Some people will built a tin roof and lay thatch on top of that, like a hotel in southern County Galway that likes to claim to have the largest thatched roof in Ireland. But it’s not a “real” thatched roof.  You see, real ones are just tightly wound bundles of reeds tied together and laid over a wooden frame. It keeps the rain out by funnelling all the run off down to drip off the ends of the thatch before it drips through to the inside of the cottage. If the building is too wide, the rain will leak into the house. But the real trick, the beauty hiding in plain sight of a thatched roof is along the ridge of the roof. How the thatched is laced together along the top is everything. And if you look closely (or are sitting on top of it), you’ll notice that each master thatcher has their own unique way of doing it. It’s a kind of signature that you can recognize, so those in the know would be able to tell who put the thatched roof on.

But the thatched roof is only one of the traditional aspects of thatched roof cottages. There’s also the half-door. You see, the English used to tax buildings based on the number of windows homes had. The more windows, the higher the property tax. So, the Irish started boarding up windows (seriously, there are some VERY nice Edwardian houses in Dublin that still have bricked over windows) or just not installing them. Most thatched cottages in the West had one window in the wall opposite the front door, and the door was cut in half. That way, you could open the top half and create a second window without being taxed for it. Granny Privy said there was a second, added benefit. She said it was a great way to keep the children inside and the animals out. Or, “if mom was having a rough day,” she’d say the bottom half of the door would keep the children out and the animals in. (Young and/or ill animals were often kept inside anyway for warmth and closer care.) An open half door was also a sign to neighbours that visitors were welcome.

On a side note, John says his Irish-American mom had his dad put in a half-door on the baby’s room in the house he and his sister grew up in. This was obviously long before the invention of baby-monitors . . . because John is OOOLD. ;-) (John laughed as I said that and he’s the one who typed it and left it in, so . . . we’re good.)

Now once you’ve stepped over the threshold (named after the little bit of wood that was put across the bottom of the door opening to keep the thresh inside the house, which was sometimes used if one couldn’t afford flooring and didn’t want to be walking around in mud inside one’s house) . . . in some instances, hopping through the open half-door . . . you were in the main living room / kitchen / dining room / spare bedroom. The main focus was the open fireplace that was kept lit throughout the year. Even at night the embers would’ve been covered over to smoulder and immediately be rekindled in the morning. There’d be a couple of metal arms that would swing back and forth to hold pots and pans over the fire or be pulled away. There is usually a stone or brick shelf next to the fire for baking bread. And a place to sit next to the fire to keep warm or tend the cooking food. That’s where Granny Privy would sit and tell us stories or sing us songs. We’d have to tell our own stories or play some music. That’s where I first learned to play the bodhrán, from the one hanging on Granny’s wall.

Oh, that’s another thing! There’s always things, just not pictures, hanging on the wall. Usually a crucifix (often a “Penal Cross” – a cross with short arms, so it could easily be hidden up a shirt sleeve or down a trouser leg if the British authorities popped in to see if you were practicing Catholicism back when the Penal Laws punished the Irish for doing so). In more recent years, you’d see a photo of the pope (not always the most current one, but the family’s favourite one), a picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, Mother Mary, and John F. Kennedy (treated almost saint-like by many Irish). But there’d be all sorts of tools and implements and instruments hanging on the wall or from the rafters. (Did I mention there wasn’t a ceiling inside the cottage? You could look up and see the underside of the thatching.)

Off to either side there’d be bedrooms, sometimes only one if the family was particular small and/or poor. In Granny Privy’s cottage her bedroom did have a ceiling and the space above was used for extra storage, accessed by a ladder in the living room. But the other bedroom didn’t have a ceiling, so the bed in there had a canopy (to keep creepy crawlies that might be living in the thatch from falling on ya while ya slept). Granny’s bedroom shared a wall with the fireplace, so it was warm . . . or so she told us. We weren’t allowed in and we didn’t try . . . not for want of wanting to. But she was good to us and like I said, she likes her privacy.

I know it’s weird to be nostalgic for an era I didn’t live through myself. And I know I’m being naïve about the difficulties of living in a thatched cottage, even with today’s modern conveniences . . . but there’s something about sitting around an open fire place with friends and family that just appeals to me.

Now before I go, I promised earlier to mention a new thatched cottage near me here in Galway. Christine & John’s place is just across the road from the Claddagh (which is the oldest part of Galway . . . having been a small Irish fishing village before the Normans set up a walled city across the river and called it Galway). In the Claddagh there’s an art and heritage centre, called Claddagh Designs. And this centre, a couple of years ago got building permission to expand and they expanded by building (according to the original tradition) a thatched roof cottage, called Katie’s Cottage! Nobody lives in it (which is why I think they got around building restrictions and insurance issues). Anybody can go visit it. They hold small theatre events there. It’s really cool. And if you’re into THAT and happen to be in the Galway area (with a large group), you can book a tour out at Cnoc Suain. It’s a restored Irish farm in the wilds of Connemara, with a few thatched cottages, that’s run by a retired school teacher and biologist who teach about Irish culture with a cooking demonstration, a mini-lesson about the bogs, and short Trad concert that ends with some dancing. It’s brilliant!

Hildy Tale: Bíonn adharca fada ar na ba thar lear ~ by John Valters Paintner

Hello, gentle readers! This series of 12 essays were composed during John & Christine’s Jubilee Year (which began pre-pandemic, but some of which was written during varying degrees of lockdown). They were dictated to John by the Abbey’s mascot, Hildy the Monk-ey. Hildy is a bit of a free spirit who likes to entertain and doesn’t normally feel constrained by conventional story structure . . . or grammar, in general. She lives by the motto that “all stories are true; some actually happened.” We wanted to share them with you, our wider Abbey community, to give you a small monkey-sized window into life on the wild edges of Ireland. They will take the place of our Monk in the World guest posts until May when those will return.

Bíonn adharca fada ar na ba thar lear.

Hello, again, everyone! It’s me, Hildy the Abbey of the Arts’ adorable mascot. (John added the “adorable” bit there. I don’t want ye thinking I’ve got Notions. But thank you, John. I’ll do my Irish best to accept the compliment.)

But speaking of Irish . . . today’s expression means “far away cows have long horns.” It’s another way of saying the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. Only here in Ireland, the grass is always as green as it’s goin’ to get, wherever ya go and regardless of what side of the fence you’re on. So, cows it is. Besides, so much of Irish history/mythology has to do with cow envy and cattle theft . . . this just makes so much more sense here.

Now I don’t like to be the jealous type, as I try to be very grateful with my life (Thank you, Brother David Steindl-Rast) and do feel very blessed. However, I wish I had grown up in a thatched cottage.

It’s not that I long for ye olde tymes or anything. I know life was hard back when most people in the West of Ireland lived in them. I just love the look of them so much. I grew up down the lane from a woman (to protect her privacy, we’ll call her), Granny Privy who had a lovely thatched cottage that some of us would visit and play in . . . and on top of, in some cases. (That case would be me and my siblings.) But Granny Privy didn’t mind. We’d just sit up there and enjoy the view. We weren’t messing with the thatch or . . .

(Good point, John.) Maybe I should back up and explain a bit about thatched roofs and life in those traditional cottages.

Thatched roofs are made out of thatch. That is reeds or grass, depending on the local flora and what building materials were available at the time. Here on the mainland, thatch is traditionally made out of reeds, but out on the Aran Islands they are made of grasses. This means that out on the islands, where there’s more wind and rain, the roofs need to be replaced about twice as often. In the east of Ireland, where the weather is nicer (if not as dramatic and majestic) the roofs can last for well over a decade. This is one reason you don’t see a lot of thatched roofs anymore. It’s expensive and time consuming to keep replacing. Now the Irish government does provide a stipend to help people maintain their thatched roofs, but good luck finding a new one. (Actually, there is a new one near us here in Galway City; but more on that later.) Insurance companies won’t insure a building with one, because of the obvious fire hazard (I’ll get to the open fireplaces in a minute). Some people will built a tin roof and lay thatch on top of that, like a hotel in southern County Galway that likes to claim to have the largest thatched roof in Ireland. But it’s not a “real” thatched roof.  You see, real ones are just tightly wound bundles of reeds tied together and laid over a wooden frame. It keeps the rain out by funnelling all the run off down to drip off the ends of the thatch before it drips through to the inside of the cottage. If the building is too wide, the rain will leak into the house. But the real trick, the beauty hiding in plain sight of a thatched roof is along the ridge of the roof. How the thatched is laced together along the top is everything. And if you look closely (or are sitting on top of it), you’ll notice that each master thatcher has their own unique way of doing it. It’s a kind of signature that you can recognize, so those in the know would be able to tell who put the thatched roof on.

But the thatched roof is only one of the traditional aspects of thatched roof cottages. There’s also the half-door. You see, the English used to tax buildings based on the number of windows homes had. The more windows, the higher the property tax. So, the Irish started boarding up windows (seriously, there are some VERY nice Edwardian houses in Dublin that still have bricked over windows) or just not installing them. Most thatched cottages in the West had one window in the wall opposite the front door, and the door was cut in half. That way, you could open the top half and create a second window without being taxed for it. Granny Privy said there was a second, added benefit. She said it was a great way to keep the children inside and the animals out. Or, “if mom was having a rough day,” she’d say the bottom half of the door would keep the children out and the animals in. (Young and/or ill animals were often kept inside anyway for warmth and closer care.) An open half door was also a sign to neighbours that visitors were welcome.

On a side note, John says his Irish-American mom had his dad put in a half-door on the baby’s room in the house he and his sister grew up in. This was obviously long before the invention of baby-monitors . . . because John is OOOLD. ;-) (John laughed as I said that and he’s the one who typed it and left it in, so . . . we’re good.)

Now once you’ve stepped over the threshold (named after the little bit of wood that was put across the bottom of the door opening to keep the thresh inside the house, which was sometimes used if one couldn’t afford flooring and didn’t want to be walking around in mud inside one’s house) . . . in some instances, hopping through the open half-door . . . you were in the main living room / kitchen / dining room / spare bedroom. The main focus was the open fireplace that was kept lit throughout the year. Even at night the embers would’ve been covered over to smoulder and immediately be rekindled in the morning. There’d be a couple of metal arms that would swing back and forth to hold pots and pans over the fire or be pulled away. There is usually a stone or brick shelf next to the fire for baking bread. And a place to sit next to the fire to keep warm or tend the cooking food. That’s where Granny Privy would sit and tell us stories or sing us songs. We’d have to tell our own stories or play some music. That’s where I first learned to play the bodhrán, from the one hanging on Granny’s wall.

Oh, that’s another thing! There’s always things, just not pictures, hanging on the wall. Usually a crucifix (often a “Penal Cross” – a cross with short arms, so it could easily be hidden up a shirt sleeve or down a trouser leg if the British authorities popped in to see if you were practicing Catholicism back when the Penal Laws punished the Irish for doing so). In more recent years, you’d see a photo of the pope (not always the most current one, but the family’s favourite one), a picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, Mother Mary, and John F. Kennedy (treated almost saint-like by many Irish). But there’d be all sorts of tools and implements and instruments hanging on the wall or from the rafters. (Did I mention there wasn’t a ceiling inside the cottage? You could look up and see the underside of the thatching.)

Off to either side there’d be bedrooms, sometimes only one if the family was particular small and/or poor. In Granny Privy’s cottage her bedroom did have a ceiling and the space above was used for extra storage, accessed by a ladder in the living room. But the other bedroom didn’t have a ceiling, so the bed in there had a canopy (to keep creepy crawlies that might be living in the thatch from falling on ya while ya slept). Granny’s bedroom shared a wall with the fireplace, so it was warm . . . or so she told us. We weren’t allowed in and we didn’t try . . . not for want of wanting to. But she was good to us and like I said, she likes her privacy.

I know it’s weird to be nostalgic for an era I didn’t live through myself. And I know I’m being naïve about the difficulties of living in a thatched cottage, even with today’s modern conveniences . . . but there’s something about sitting around an open fire place with friends and family that just appeals to me.

Now before I go, I promised earlier to mention a new thatched cottage near me here in Galway. Christine & John’s place is just across the road from the Claddagh (which is the oldest part of Galway . . . having been a small Irish fishing village before the Normans set up a walled city across the river and called it Galway). In the Claddagh there’s an art and heritage centre, called Claddagh Designs. And this centre, a couple of years ago got building permission to expand and they expanded by building (according to the original tradition) a thatched roof cottage, called Katie’s Cottage! Nobody lives in it (which is why I think they got around building restrictions and insurance issues). Anybody can go visit it. They hold small theatre events there. It’s really cool. And if you’re into THAT and happen to be in the Galway area (with a large group), you can book a tour out at Cnoc Suain. It’s a restored Irish farm in the wilds of Connemara, with a few thatched cottages, that’s run by a retired school teacher and biologist who teach about Irish culture with a cooking demonstration, a mini-lesson about the bogs, and short Trad concert that ends with some dancing. It’s brilliant!

Monk in the World: Songs for Contemplative Living

We are so excited to be launching our brand new album!

We have been working on Monk in the World: Songs for Contemplative Living for about a year now.

The Monk Manifesto is a set of 8 principles for contemplative, creative, and compassionate living. It is the Rule of Life for the Holy Disorder of Dancing Monks community at Abbey of the Arts. We embrace the practices of Silence and Solitude, Hospitality, Community, Kinship with Creation, Work, Sabbath, Conversion, and Creative Joy.

In our last album (Earth, Our Original Monastery) we explored Kinship with Creation. This album is an opportunity to celebrate the other 7 practices through the joy of song while cultivating our capacity for becoming monks in the world. Also available at Abbey of the Arts are 7-Day Prayer Cycles (for Morning and Evening) that you can pray, sing, and dance along with. Prayer Cycle Response Songs are included here.

The Digital Album is available for immediate download. The CD can be pre-ordered and will be shipped out by June 1st from Seattle, WA, USA.

Please also join us for our Novena (March 17-25, 2021) where we will explore celebrate these principles and hear many of these songs.

Buy the Digital Album or CD here

Monk in the World Novena ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

A year ago the news of the pandemic’s spread around the world started becoming dominant news and countries were shutting down to prevent its rampant spread. We had no idea how the year that followed would unfold and how many hours we would spend in compassionate retreat to protect those most vulnerable among us (perhaps ourselves included).

I awoke early one morning around that time with the thought of hosting a Novena for Times of Unraveling so our beloved community could gather together for nine days in prayer and reflection. I knew the monastic practices we hold so dear could offer much steadying to our hearts.

This pandemic has brought so much loss and grief, so much upheaval in our lives, so much disarray and disorientation. We were all hoping it would be short-lived and hadn’t imagined a year later we would still be in the midst of its demands.

Like every landscape of sorrow, there are also moments of grace that erupt when we pay close attention and hold dear ones close (metaphorically speaking). The grace for me has been to deepen into my sense of Abbey of the Arts as a true community, as a place where many come for their primary spiritual nourishment. In response to this we led the Novena, we created a 7-day cycle of morning and evening prayers (on the theme of Earth, Our Original Monastery), we led a weekly contemplative prayer service during Advent, in addition to offering many online retreats and programs (along with lots of scholarship support for those in need), and we continue to open for ways to bring you sustenance from the contemplative way.

We are already at work on our next 7-day prayer cycle on the theme of becoming a Monk in the World inspired by our Monk Manifesto and the 8 foundational principles we follow together as a community.

We decided to introduce this new prayer cycle to you through another Novena on the same dates as last year – March 17-25 – from the feast of St. Patrick to the feast of the Annunciation.  We will be praying with each of the principles below as a way of deepening our commitment to this rule or way of life and listening for how they are speaking to us in these difficult days. Then in April and May we will be releasing our audio podcasts for you to pray with on your own. (The video podcasts will be on their way this fall, but in the meantime you will have the Novena recordings.) We have also created a new Monk in the World album with many of the songs we will be hearing included there.

Monk: from the Greek monachos meaning single or solitary, a monk in the world does not live apart but immersed in the everyday with a single-hearted and undivided presence, always striving for greater wholeness and integrity

Manifesto: from the Latin for clear, means a public declaration of principles and intentions.

Monk Manifesto: A public expression of your commitment to live a compassionate, contemplative, and creative life.

I commit to finding moments each day for silence and solitude, to make space for another voice to be heard, and to resist a culture of noise and constant stimulation.I commit to radical acts of hospitality by welcoming the stranger both without and within. I recognize that when I make space inside my heart for the unclaimed parts of myself, I cultivate compassion and the ability to accept those places in others.I commit to cultivating community by finding kindred spirits along the path, soul friends with whom I can share my deepest longings, and mentors who can offer guidance and wisdom for the journey.I commit to cultivating awareness of my kinship with creation and a healthy asceticism by discerning my use of energy and things, letting go of what does not help nature to flourish.I commit to bringing myself fully present to the work I do, whether paid or unpaid, holding a heart of gratitude for the ability to express my gifts in the world in meaningful ways.I commit to rhythms of rest and renewal through the regular practice of Sabbath and resist a culture of busyness that measures my worth by what I do.I commit to a lifetime of ongoing conversion and transformation, recognizing that I am always on a journey with both gifts and limitations.I commit to being a dancing monk, cultivating creative joy and letting my body and "heart overflow with the inexpressible delights of love."* (*quote is from the Prologue of the Rule of Benedict)

Please join us for our 2021 Novena for Times of Unraveling with a focus on becoming a Monk in the World. I am delighted to be joined by musician and minister Simon de Voil for each day’s live session and my husband John will be sharing written scripture reflections. We will have one or two other guests with us during this time. This is a free offering although we gratefully accept donations to support this work, especially all the work involved in creating the prayer cycle resources. We do plan to continue creating these, ideally we’d love to have four weeks of daily prayer to offer this community. All the sessions will be recorded.

There are two other opportunities this week to join me as well:

Paraclete Press (who published my poetry collections) is offering a free online celebration for St. Patrick’s Day which you can register for here. I will be sharing a few of my poems as a part of this event.

The wonderful folks at the Breath and Clay Conference are hosting their annual event online this year from March 17-21, 2021. I will be leading a one-hour session on Friday, March 19th on The Re-Enchantment of Vision where we will explore the practice of visio divina together. This conference is sliding scale, so pay what you can afford to access it.

I very much hope to see you at the Novena, or perhaps at the Paraclete event or Breath and Clay conference. It will be a full week for me, but one where I get to share the joys of contemplative practice, poetry, music, and art with kindred souls so my heart feels full as well.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Hildy Tales 8: Craic agus Ceol ~ by John Valters Paintner

Hello, gentle readers! This series of 12 essays were composed during John & Christine’s Jubilee Year (which began pre-pandemic, but some of which was written during varying degrees of lockdown). They were dictated to John by the Abbey’s mascot, Hildy the Monk-ey. Hildy is a bit of a free spirit who likes to entertain and doesn’t normally feel constrained by conventional story structure . . . or grammar, in general. She lives by the motto that “all stories are true; some actually happened.” We wanted to share them with you, our wider Abbey community, to give you a small monkey-sized window into life on the wild edges of Ireland. They will take the place of our Monk in the World guest posts until May when those will return.

Craic agus Ceol  

[image error]Hello fellow pilgrims and monks! It’s Hildy, again, with another story . . . or rambling. Whichever. I enjoy talking and John at least says he likes taking dictation, so here we go again.

Today’s Irish phrase means “Craic and Music.” The first word really doesn’t have an exact English translation. As I’ve mentioned previously, it’s got nothing to do with the drug crack-cocaine. John tells me I defined it as “mischievous fun and entertainment, usually good conversation and even better company.” I’ll stand by that working definition. It can also be used a catch-all excuse to do something (usually foolhardy), as in “sure, why not; it’ll be good craic.” But I’m here to talk about the second word more than the first.

You’ll see the phrase ‘Craig agus Ceol’ on signs above many a pub door. It means that they have live music there, often Trad Music (that’s short for Traditional Irish Music). But I would warn you against pubs that have huge signs that read “Traditional Irish Pub,” as they’re often tourist traps and really play up the ‘Paddywhackery.’ (OK. Let me back up here. Paddywhackery is a term we use to describe over-the-top Irish stereotypes – shamrocks, leprechauns, rainbows, pots of gold, etc. We Irish tend to use it in reference to how we’re portrayed in American culture – think just about ANY St. Patrick’s Day in the States – but also tend to dip into for the American tourist dollar. After all, there’s a leprechaun museum in Dublin and an Irish tourism company with green buses called “Paddy Wagons” . . . which actually isn’t that offensive here; that’s America’s baggage.)

But speaking of negative Irish stereotypes, let’s talk about Irish pubs and alcohol. Yes, there is a problem with underage and/or binge drinking in Ireland. But not to sound defensive . . . what country doesn’t? I just don’t know why Ireland gets saddled with the stereotype of being drunks, when most other countries often partake in too much, too often. I suppose the fact that a beer that shall not be mentioned here is Ireland’s biggest export and practically our nation’s corporate sponsor doesn’t help. I suppose part of it also comes from a misunderstanding of what a pub is supposed to be.

Pub is short for Public House and is NOT a bar. A bar is exclusively for adults to drink alcohol in. But a pub is . . . it’s kind of the village living room. There’s often food served. There might even be a grocery and/or hardware store attached. Earlier in the day, families with children are welcome. Many an Irish child will be seen running around a pub on a weekend afternoon with a fizzy orange drink and bag of crisps, while parents watch the match on the telly and catch up with neighbours. Why Club Orange and Salt & Vinegar Tatyo Crisps is the smell and taste of this monkey’s youth. All that’s to say that pubs, unlike bars, are not for getting blind drunk and making a fool of yourself in.

A good pub is about community and in Ireland that means music.

Nowadays, you’ll hear all sorts of music in pubs. Many visitors to Ireland are surprised to find out how popular Country/Western music here. I also know a couple of people in a heavy metal band that use traditional Irish songs in their melodies and sing in Irish. But you won’t find them in a playing in a pub. What you’ll likely encounter is a Trad Session. Some pubs will pay some musicians to come play a regular set either every day or every weekend. Other times it’s entirely spontaneous. Even when there are regular musicians, others can join in. Bring your instrument, know some tunes, be willing to improvise, and wait to be invited to join the music.

Back home in the local (short for local pub or the one you usually frequent) there was a man who would show up every Friday night with his fiddle case. He’d sit at the bar, place the case on the counter, and order a pint. Away he’d sip as the music played. Eventually one of the musicians would ask him to bring his fiddle over and join them. He’d say no and continue sipping his pint. But when he was asked a second time, after he’d finished his drink, he’d be straight over . . . even as he continued to protest. He’d always play the same two songs, in the same order each time, and then go back for a second pint. It was part of the tradition of the local Trad Session.

Now one other bit that John really wants me to explain has to do with shushing. You see, when there’s a bit of singing to be sung, especially an a capella song (my favourites are the sean nós, which means “in the old style”) or a particularly tragic ballad (most of them are tragic, some more so than others) and someone stands up to do the singing, someone else will shush the crowd. It’s a pub, after all, and there’s lots of noise, side conversations and whatnot. So if someone’s going to stand up and sing, without a microphone or such, everyone needs to be quiet so they can be heard. But John says he was shocked the first time he witnessed this first hand. The silly American thought the person doing the shushing was going to start a fight . . . because apparently that’s not acceptable in America, shushing strangers. But how else are you going to get everyone else quiet and won’t everyone appreciate knowing a quiet song was about to heard, if everyone hushed?

Hey, since everybody’s there for the music . . . just keep it down a bit. Plenty of time to chat later. You’re not saving the world, we’re all just out for a bit of fun with good company and good music. Speaking of which . . .

There are a lot of different types of instruments that are used in Trad Music today. You’ll hear a tone of fiddles (John and I are still trying to figure out the difference between a fiddle and a violin, just know that we call ‘em fiddles here). Flutes and whistles are also very popular. Most Irish learn to play whistles in school, but it’s not a kids game when you get to the big leagues. There are professional whistle players who travel with dozens of different whistles in different keys of different lengths and materials and . . . it’s a whole thing. (Just don’t get my uncle started on whistles, because he’ll talk your ear off.) If you’re really lucky you’ll get to experience an uilleann pipe. It’s the Irish version of the better known Scottish bagpipe. (There are actually many different types of bagpipes. The Welsh bagpipes are lovely, too. But we don’t have time for all that now.) The uilleann pipes really have to be played sitting down and take A LOT of coordination. There’s a bellows under one arm that you pump with your elbow and fills up the air bladder that’s under your other arm that you squeeze slowly with your other elbow and that blows air through the pipes that you play with your fingers, while you also use your wrist to play different keys. (I’m sure I got part of that wrong, but you really have to see it to understand it . . . and maybe not even then.) I’ve heard it takes at least eleven years to learn to play it with any sort of proficiency at all and you’ll be mad as a hatter by the end of it (and it helps if you were a bit crazy to start). Occasionally there’s a harmonica player. And of course there’s always some guitars and banjos in the mix. (You’re probably beginning to notice a theme – small, easy to carry instruments. But that’s not entirely true.) The harp might be Ireland’s national symbol (and blue our official national colour, not the green and the shamrock), but you’re rarely see one played in a casual Trad Session. And while I love the accordions and concertinas, the bodhrán is my instrument of choice. It’s a percussion instrument, a cross between a drum and a tambourine. It’s held in one paw . . . or hand . . . that lays on the “inside” of the instrument and regulates the volume and tone of the sound. The other hand usually holds the cipin (or tipper), but some play with their bare hand. The tipper is a two-headed drumstick. You hold it in the middle and strike the face of the bodhrán in a variety of rhythms.

So if you ever find yourself in Galway on a night out and you pop into a pub for a good auld Trad Session, you just might want to mind the hush. And who knows, maybe you’ll hear a small monastic monkey singing a sean nós before breaking into an amazing solo on the bodhrán.

More Dancing with Fear in Troubled Times ~ A Love Note From Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

It is hard to believe we are a year into this pandemic. Ireland has been under another lockdown since Christmas where we are unable to travel more than 5km from home which was just extended until Easter. Vaccines are being rolled out but the process is painfully slow. Even though there are some glimmerings on the horizon of hope, the patience and endurance that has been demanded of us this last year can be wearying.

One of the things that has broken my heart the most over the last many months is the proliferation of conspiracy theories and other forms of denial, and those who use them as an excuse to not care for the vulnerable. It seems like some are living in a very different reality and the chasm is vast between us. This has gotten me interested in trauma again and especially its impact on our spiritual journeys. What are the ways we try and cope when life becomes difficult and the path ahead is full of unknowing?

Often we tend toward what is known as spiritual bypassing, a term that describes when we use spiritual language or ideas to avoid dealing with the pain of what is happening in our lives.  This is probably most obvious when you are in grief and people offer their platitudes without being willing to sit with you in the sadness. But we all participate in this in one way or another. We all have moments when we try to circumvent the struggles by avoiding the experience of pain.

One of the things Abbey of the Arts has long been committed to is promoting spiritual practices that help to sustain us in difficult days. The wisdom of ancient monks especially offers us guidance for ways to stay present when all we want to do is run somewhere else. When fear or grief or anger come knocking on our heart’s door, instead of slamming it shut, contemplative prayer teaches us to welcome these guests in with compassion and curiosity for what they might have to teach us.

This last season I have had the pleasure and privilege of teaching my Midwinter God retreat in January and February and now my Desert Mothers and Fathers retreat for Lent. There is a tremendous amount of wisdom in the Christian tradition for how to stay present to these wilderness experiences and how it is precisely in our commitment to stay with ourselves that transformation happens.

This path also demands that we make room for mystery. Rather than the linear path of setting goals and keeping control that is so valued in western culture, the contemplative way invites us to surrender and yield our own desires and rest into unknowing. It is in this space that we might begin to hold the tensions of paradoxes with more spaciousness.

In my own life, the challenge of living with an autoimmune illness my entire adult life and the great times of grief when I have lost loved ones dear to me, have thrust me into the wilderness of disorientation again and again. After I stop flailing about, reaching for some way to control the pain that accompanies this journey, and bring myself fully present, deep shifts have erupted in my heart. It is these experiences that have shaped who I am as a teacher and guide for others on the path.

I am really delighted to be leading a Zoom retreat online with Dr. Jamie Marich who is one of our wisdom council members, a trauma therapist, and the founder of dancing mindfulness. Many of you know her from some of our previous online retreats and how she invites you into an embodied place of receiving wisdom. Join us next Saturday, March 13th for Dancing with Fear in Troubled Times. We will also be joined for conversation with Dr. Kellie Kirksey and it promises to be an enlightening time when you will also be offered skills and wisdom in how to navigate life when it feels overwhelming.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Lift Every Voice: Contemplative Writers of Color – March Video Discussion and Book Group Resources 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 month's video discussion along with questions for reflection. Christine and Claudia are joined by author Therese Taylor-Stinson who co-edited the selection for the month.

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

Featured Book for March 2021! – Embodied Spirits: Stories of Spiritual Directors of Color

These essays speak of how we have incorporated our contemplative practices into our family life; our urban, non-religious background; how we have been nurtured in struggles for health and life through our contemplative prayer practices and our courage to survive and even thrive in the midst of dire circumstances. We speak of the unfolding bridge between faith and culture; our conflicts with an Interspiritual journey with a Christian foundation; our sexuality; our journey to healing and authenticity; and how we are taking this practice that began in the
first centuries of the church with the desert mothers and fathers to the present and into the future with spiritual direction through the Internet across the world.

Dancing with Fear in Troubled Times ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

On March 13, 2021 I am really excited to be co-leading a Zoom retreat with Dr. Jamie Marich on Dancing with Fear in Troubled Times. Jamie is a trauma therapist (among many other gifts) and one of our wisdom council members. Here she shares about Vulnerability and Spirituality: The Journey Out of Shame:

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The French writer Anais Nin declared that “Shame is the lie that someone told you about yourself.” This definition of shame resonates with me more than any other that are out there. As a child who survived spiritual abuse in a conservative home and as a woman who learned how to heal herself from the peril of addiction, mental illness, and living a life in several tucked away closets, I know shame. Intimately.

And I believed several lies about myself that were put there, often by those closest to me. That I was too fat or ugly. That I would never belong because I was too weird. That no one would ever want me. That I was defective. That I somehow belonged to Satan because I rejected many of the Evangelical teachings in which I was partially raised. That something was wrong with me because I was attracted to people of all genders and that I could not see “God” as something so binary. God never fit into a box for me, yet for so many years of my young adult life—as I struggled to find healing answers—this is where I went to find him. Yet I ended up finding the God that I truly needed through embracing my humanity, by getting vulnerable in the way that being human requires.

Even though Brené Brown has made the word vulnerability popular in her stellar work over the last decade, people do not seem aware of its true meaning. Vulnerability is not just something you can simply define by one of Brené’s often-memed quotes. Vulnerability is more than just taking a risk or putting yourself out there into the metaphorical arena. At its core, being vulnerable is about engaging in trauma work, aware that this healing can and usually does cause more pain in the process. If you’ve ever taken a course with me or have read one of my books, you know that I am a language nerd, and that my working definition of trauma is any unhealed wound—physical, emotional, sexual, or spiritual. This simplified definition derives from the word origin of the English word trauma—it comes from the Greek word meaning wound. Well guess what? Vulnerability comes from the Latin vulnarare, meaning to wound; another form, vulnerabilis, means injurious or wounding.

While the pop psychology understanding of vulnerability implies that one might get hurt if they want to take risks to grow, I will go a step farther and contend that hurt of all kinds is inevitable. Here’s the lesson I’ve learned in my processes of coming out of the shame closet through my years in recovery: Vulnerability is about facing our wounds head-on and then deciding what we’re going to do in response to their impact. Are we going to ignore the wounds and thus open ourselves up to being hurt even more, or will we take the chance of feeling the pain we’ve stuffed down all the way through in order to experience freedom on the other side? I will spare you the details of my entire trauma narrative, yet I'll paint enough of a picture to qualify. By age four it was clear to me that I was too sensitive to survive the life I’d been dealt. By age nine I was already thinking of ways to destroy myself because I didn’t feel safe either at home or at school, and by 19 I was in full-blown addiction, the ultimate response of a developing brain that was bonded to dissociation in order to survive.

I was born susceptible; life made me increasingly more vulnerable. Hurt was my baseline, and even though I got sober at 23, it wasn’t until 25 that the chronic suicidal ideation largely dissipated. Had I kept all of this bottled in, assuming I would have survived past my thirties, I’d still be hurting, albeit in a much more pervasive way and I’d not be writing this today as a sober woman. Sharing the pain with others is imperative, and I first learned how to do this privately with an amazingly trauma-focused sponsor in a 12-step program, then through high quality trauma therapy. I agree with Brené’s fundamental teaching that shame cannot survive when it is shared in safe spaces. And I am grateful that the God of my understanding revealed those safe people and safe enough spaces for me on the years of my journey.

Yet a common struggle for religious folks or for people who walk a spiritual path is to navigate the balance between being spiritual and being vulnerable.

“Can’t I just pray to the God to be healed?”

“Doesn’t admitting that I have mental health or other challenges mean that I don’t trust God enough?”

“What if God is displeased with me? (because of who I love, how I am, etc.)”

“I believe that God doesn’t give me anything more than I can handle.”

These are all lines that I have heard people utter, and I even entertained them myself at earlier parts of my spiritual journey. I am sad that a disconnect seems to exist between being a spiritual seeker and a fully vulnerable human being. In my experience, one can most definitely inform the other.

What if we could learn to embrace spiritual practice and our spiritual belief systems as a path that can help us more fully embrace our humanity, warts, wounds and all? And what if we could fully dive into the experience of being human, which includes accepting the invitation to engage in deep healing work, and let that river of humanity carry us even deeper into connection with spirit, with source, with the God of our understanding? Even though my spiritual path in recovery draws on many faith traditions and spiritual practices, one of the reasons that I have stayed rooted in my Catholic-Christian identity is because of the Incarnation. The idea that God was willing to become a human being and show up for the human experience is one of the most wondrous aspects of what I believe. I take delight in the notion that when I pray to God, that God knows the pain, the joy, and the struggle of being human.

So when I engage in the deep healing work that has come in the form of trauma therapy, recovery steps, embodied practice, expressive arts processes, and sharing vulnerably with others, I do it with the help of God. In my early twenties when I began this journey, I did so from a very religious place. Yet even in that experience a very meaningful prayer emerged for me: “God, Divine Mother, teach me what I need to know. Reveal what needs to be revealed.”

As I prayed that prayer I did not receive a miraculous cure, I never saw the sun spin, and my rosary beads never turned gold. What happened is that the people I needed to meet who helped me to tend my wounds and heal from them showed up in my life—my first recovery sponsor (who I met through church), a series of tremendous therapists, and a plethora of wise teachers. God reveals their presence through other human beings who can, if we let them, help us to vulnerably and honestly step into the fullness of our human experience.

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Thanks so much to Jamie for her willingness to be vulnerable and transparent and invite each of us onto this journey of healing. Please join us for Dancing with Fear in Troubled Times.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Call for Submissions – Monk in the World Guest Post Series

We welcome you to submit your reflection for possible publication in our Monk in the World guest post series. It is a gift to read how ordinary people are living lives of depth and meaning in the midst of the challenges of real life.

There are so many talented writers and artists in this Abbey community, so this is a chance to share your perspective. The link to the reflection will be included in our weekly newsletter which goes out to thousands of subscribers.

Please follow these instructions carefully:

Please click this link to read a selection of the posts and get a feel for the tone and quality.Submit your own post of 700-900 words on the general theme of "How do I live as a monk in the world? How do I bring contemplative presence to my work and/or family?" It works best if you focus your reflection on one aspect of your life or a practice you have, or you might reflect on how someone from the monastic tradition has inspired you. We invite reflections on the practice of living contemplatively.Please include a head shot and brief bio written in the third person (50 words max). You are welcome to include 1-2 additional images if they help to illustrate your reflection in meaningful ways. All images should be your own. Please make sure the file size of each the images is smaller than 1MB. You can resize your image for free here.We will be accepting submissions between now and April 15th for publication sometime in the spring and summer of 2021 and beyond (depending on the number of submissions). We reserve the right to make edits to the content as needed (or to request you to make edits) and submitting your reflection does not guarantee publication on the Abbey blog, but we will do our best to include as many of you as possible.Email your submission to Melinda by April 15th and include the reflection pasted into the body of your email and attach your photo(s).

We will be back in touch with you at the latest by early May to let you know if your post is accepted, if edits are needed, and/or when we have scheduled your post to appear.