Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 56

Hildy Tales 7: An Nead 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.

An Nead

Greeting fellow pilgrims! It’s Hildy again. And today’s Irish word is “An Nead,” which means “The Nest.” It’s what Christine and John named their . . . our . . . apartment. (You call them condos in the States, but rent or own, they’re all just apartments here in Ireland.) I mention it because it has to do with what I want to tell ye (that’s plural for you, or y’all as some of you might say). As a small monkey who grew up in a very flat area of Ireland with very few trees, I was always a bit scared of birds. I was quite naturally worried that one might scoop me up and take me away. (It’s only a “phobia” if it’s unreasonable and that’s not unreasonable.) It didn’t help that Seagulls regularly stole my lunch straight out of my paws in the school yard. So moving to live on the third floor (that’s the fourth floor in America) of a building in the city centre and being able to look down on birds . . . it was an eye opener, for sure.

After getting over my initial hesitation, I decided to be bold and get to know some of my feathery neighbours. I started by leaving seeds out for the smaller Sparrows and Robins. They weren’t great conversationalists, just a lot of chatter about the weather. That’s not really an unusual topic of conversation here in Ireland (most discussions start there), but most of us eventually talk about something else . . . eventually. Two interesting facts though – they don’t mind the rain so much as the wind (being wet is something we all get used to here, but being buffeted about by the constantly changing wind is a particular issue for small birds) and Red Breasted Robins, despite the actual colour of their chest feathers, aren’t called Orange Breasted Robins . . . are ye sittin’ down for this one . . . because the English named them BEFORE the tropical citrus fruit was “discovered” (ie – found by Westerners for the first time). That’s right! The colour is named after the fruit and not the other way around. Before the golden orbits of citrus goodness were “discovered” by Western explorers, what we now call orange was just another shade of red to them. (Weird, right?)

The Starlings are very fascinating to talk to. Or . . . they were at first. They either will give you hours of play-by-play analysis of their latest murmuration or they’re preoccupied by their very demanding and noisy chicks (no offense – Starling babies are super cute and Starling parents are super devoted . . . I’ll give them that). However, the discussion between the Starlings about who-did-what-when during the latest murmurations are SUPER fascinating. The tricky bit is keeping up with their ever-changing slang for the different manoeuvres. Each generation seems to have their own lingo and slang and so keeping up with what they’re talking about season to season is difficult for non-Starlings. They don’t mean to be exclusive, it’s just the nature of their interactions, ever shifting and changing. But what I find most odd is that they never, EVER discuss what they will do next time. It’s all improv and they refuse to choreograph any of it in advance.

To help with my interaction with the small birds, Christine and I put out bird feeders. Our little terrace soon became THE go-to spot for all the little birds. Unfortunately, word got out and soon larger birds showed up, too. Now, we’re fortunate that the terrace is too narrow for Seagulls to land (although we’ll occasionally get an adolescent Seagull who kinda gets stuck). But the problem really was the Pigeons. And Pigeons are jerks. I know that’s not nice to say and I really do try to be charitable and understanding. But . . . there’s a reason they fly through pedestrian zones at about 5 to 6 feet off the ground. They *could* fly WAY higher. They could fly around. They could probably waddle in between everyone’s feet, as they are clever and agile creatures. They just like the looks on human’s faces as they zoom past your faces. It’s a jerk move and they don’t grow out of it as they grow older. But all that’s to say, the pigeons started crowding out the smaller birds and eating all the bird seed. Christine ordered a special bird feeder that had a kind of cage around it to keep the larger birds out. But tiny birds are slobs and scattered enough of the seeds to keep the pigeons coming back. And they just pooped everywhere. It got to the point that Sourney and I didn’t want to go out there anymore. It was hard talking Christine into giving up the bird feeder, but John voted with us and she was overruled 3-1. (Don’t worry; the Pigeons are very resourceful and have no trouble finding food elsewhere to share with their young . . . that outsiders rarely ever see.)

Now not all the birds came to visit or are willing to talk to me when I go about town. The Ducks are always in too much a hurry to pay attention to a little monkey in a monk habit. Fair enough. The Cormorants, a European version of the infamous Canadian Loon, have their own version of “ghosting.” They’ll be floating on top of the water, as they are apt to do. And they’ll start a conversation with you, but then . . . SPASH! . . . they submerge into the water and are just GONE. They can stay submerged for AGES and usually pop up far, far from where they were when you were talking to them. The Herons (Christine’s favourite) just flat out ignore you. It’s like their deaf and blind . . . but they aren’t; they just like their privacy and will ignore you until you figure it out and leave them alone. (Fair enough, I suppose.) However, they are better than the Swans who will size you up (the way they tilt their heads and look at you sideways with one eye is VERY intimidating) and decide on whether or not they’re going to give you the time of day depending on the likelihood of you giving them food. It’s just rude . . . but they have cause to be over protective of their young.

But what makes up for it are the Corvidaes! Oh, how I adore them all: the Ravens and Rooks; the Crows, both Hooded and “regular” ones; the Magpies and Jackdaws. Each with their own uniqueness, even if it took me ages to tell them apart. (OH! Did you know that Crows have been found to be able to identify different human faces? And if you mess with them, they will not only remember you . . . I hope ye are still sitting down . . . they will teach other Crows to dislike you and they’ll all gang up and attack you, even the ones who never saw you before. Don’t mess with them!) Ravens are the largest of the Corvidaes and solitary creatures. Crows are slightly smaller and more social, really good craic! Rooks are about the same size as Crows, but have much more conical-shaped beaks which are AMAZING at cracking nuts open. (OH! Did ye know that Ravens and Crows will use vehicle traffic to help crack open nuts? They’ll intentionally drop things on roads and wait for cars to run them over. Crows in Japan even take advantage of traffic lights to time dropping nuts and swooping in to eat them.) Where was I . . . ? Oh, the Hooded Crows are very dignified. They look like they have little grey vests on. And they love to debate with Magpies if the low contrast black-and-grey or high contrast black-and-white is prettier. I made the mistake of getting involved once, by suggesting that Magpies look blue-and-white, in certain lighting due to the oil on their feathers and . . . I got the silent treatment from everyone for weeks. But my favourite Corvidaes are the Jackdaws. They are the smallest of this family (like meself) of birds. They have smaller beaks, proportionally, and have a ring of grey feathers around their heads that make it look like they have male-pattern-baldness. They call it their tonsure and . . . get this . . . love to nest in old monastic ruins! What’s not to love? Well, the fact that they’re not really city-birds, like the rest of them means I don’t get to talk to them as often. But, their more spiritual conversations (even more so than the other birds) are well worth the wait. (Bring a picnic, heavy on the seeds to share, to an ancient Irish monastery and you’ll have a great day out!)

But of all the things I’ve learned about birds these last few years, living in An Nead, was what I learned about myself. (Sorry. A bit “Afterschool Special” there, but . . .) What I learned is that I was wrong to harshly judge the Seagulls. (Maybe I’ll have to give those jerky Pigeons another chance, too.) Sure, some of them used to steal my school lunches. And I did see a very large one eat the remains of a cooked chicken leg in one giant gulp while staring down a group of terrified humans and one really freaked out monkey. But I wasn’t appreciating them for who they are. I never really observed them in THEIR environment. If you want to really, truly know a Seagull (and you should; they’re majestical!) go out on a really, truly stormy day – a day every other creature is tucked away somewhere safe from the lashing rain and swirling wind – and watch the Seagulls play.

Honestly, it brings a wee tear of joy to my eye just thinking about the Seagulls effectively alone in the world just swooping and diving and dancing and laughing on the wind. They aren’t land birds; they aren’t sea birds; they’re Storm Birds! They should be called ‘Stormgulls!’

Sacred Time and Slowing Down ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

I am so excited that my book Sacred Time: Embracing an Intentional Way of Life is published! This book is the fruit of about ten years reflection on our relationship to time and how we can shift our perspectives by embracing more intentional and cyclical rhythms. The book invites you to consider the moment of breath, the Hours of the day, Sabbath rhythms of the week, lunar cycles, seasons of the year, seasons of a lifetime, ancestral time, and cosmic time. From the breath to the cosmos we find this pattern of inhale and exhale, of fullness and release.

This excerpt is from the conclusion of my book:

How many of us wish there were more hours in the day to get things done? As if thirty-hour days or being able to get by on less sleep would somehow solve our problems with feeling so rushed and busy all the time. We think that by hurrying we will somehow catch up, but that is the great illusion.

We are all suffering from time poverty in a culture that worships productivity and accomplishments. We become hostage to our calendars. In his book Time Wars, Jeremy Rifkin says, “We have surrounded ourselves with time-saving technological gadgetry, only to be overwhelmed by plans that cannot be carried out, appointments that cannot be honored, schedules that cannot be fulfilled, and deadlines that cannot be met.” What is the purpose of managing our days more efficiently if we don't understand the meaning of our days?

There is of course the social and cultural reality that many people are forced to work relentlessly in low-paying jobs, sometimes multiple jobs to make ends meet. They may not have the ability to create a more spacious way of living. We need to ask questions about social justice and demand reforms that will enable people to have a higher quality of life. Those of us who do have this accessible to us, we have a responsibility to witness to another way of being. Part of transforming the culture is embodying a different path so others might see what is possible.

In 2010 at Christmas, I had an experience of confronting my own mortality in a very intimate way. I ended up with a pulmonary embolism after a long-haul flight. It was profound for me to walk away alive but knowing it could so very easily have been otherwise. I was humbled and profoundly grateful. As with many others who have had near-death experiences, the days, weeks, and years since have cultivated in me an even deeper cherishing of my moments. That experience was a significant part of what compelled me to finally consider moving to Europe, something I had longed to do for most of my adult life.

And yet the irony is that while I am keenly aware of the preciousness of my days and even my hours, overall I don't generally feel more rushed in my life or more compelled to get things done faster. Instead, I am compelled to inhabit my days more fully so that each one feels more like a wide expanse and an open field of possibility rather than a narrow tunnel nearing its end.

This is the heart of our relationship to time – first, experiencing its cyclical rhythms so that we don’t experience ourselves as rushing toward deadlines and the end of things, but always moving toward new beginnings as well. Second, a more expansive and present way of being in the world, where we might touch and taste eternity more often. Eternity is not something that happens after we die, eternity exists here in all the glorious spaces where we lose track of time because our hearts are so full of wonder and delight. God is a God of circles and rhythms, inviting us always to fall fully into this moment.

I am always grateful for your support of my writing and work. If you are able to leave a review of the book on Amazon or GoodReads (or both) it goes such a long way to support spiritual publishing.

We will be going on a journey through the book in community starting in April.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Hildy Tales 6: Céim uile an domhain ~ 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.

Céim uile an domhain

Dear monks, pilgrims, and artists . . . lend me your ears (or eyes, since you’re reading this). It’s me, Hildy – your online monastic mascot – again to share with you a week+-in-the-life here in Galway City, Ireland.

Today’s Irish quote is actually a translation of William (he wished he’d been Irish) Shakespeare, “all the world’s a stage.” I chose it because of all the theatrical shows Christine & John took me to last week+, including ‘The Scottish Play’ in Gaeilge (in Irish) . . . but more on that later.

The week+ started on Monday when John and I went to see The Theatre Room Galway’s “Best of the Year” show in 126 Artist-Run Gallery. John had been a long time and active member of Theatre Room, as a regular script contributor (even winning Best Script and Best Play in previous years) and even served on the committee (including chairperson) for several years. He hasn’t been active this past year, having stepped down to work on longer pieces. OH! Let me back up. The Theatre Room Galway is a monthly showcase of one-act plays written, directed, and acted by local theatre-makers of all levels of experience. Every month, after the show, scripts are pitched, directors selected, and actors auditioned for the following month’s one act plays. It’s AMAZING! But as I was saying, John has been to a lot this year. However, several active members suggested that John attend this month’s show and he let me tag along. The space wasn’t a traditional theatre (as most Theatre Room performances aren’t – It started in people’s living rooms and spread out to be done in pubs and restaurants and even a furniture store . . . twice!!), but a big open-space art gallery with a lovely open-beamed ceiling that was perfect for a little monkey like myself to watch the proceedings. There were seven different short one-act plays: one about Death going to therapy, two childhood frenemies meeting as adults at the doctors (John’s favourite of the night), a monologue by a dragon, a dramatization of a Lenard Cohen song, a story of two adult sons visiting their ailing father, and a musical spoof of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory (my favourite, because of the dancing). It was a ton of fun and nice to catch up with some old friends I hadn’t seen in a while.

The following day (Tuesday, Nov 26th) John & Christine took us to see “Selvage” in the Town Hall Theatre. John had seen this show before last year in a smaller venue, but wouldn’t shut up about how much he liked it and wished Christine and I had seen it. (We were out of town; separate trips.) It’s essentially a one-man show by Brú Theatre Company (but there was beautiful live musical accompaniment by Anna Mullarkey – whose brother is a popular busker – and some stage hands that helped with a few props and a puppet.) The story is about a young teenager who lives alone with his grandmother who loves to knit and cause revolutionary trouble. When she burns down city hall (no one was injured in the blaze), granny is put in jail and the young boy is sent to foster care. And even though the lady looking after him is very sweet, Anxiety (personified by the writer/performed by James) follows him everywhere, whispering doubt and worry in his young ear. It was a charming representation of the inner struggle so many of us have with self-doubt and the overwhelmingness* of life. (* — Yes, John. I know that’s not a word. But we’ve already mentioned Shakespeare, and HE made up words all the time. But nobody gives out to ye olde William about it; they praise him for it. Besides, everyone knows what I mean and I think the word/phrase will be trending before ya know it.)

Now on Wednesday, we split up again. Christine drove her friend Susan to Athenry where they both read poetry (Susan was a featured poet and Christine read at the open-mic at the end). But John and I stayed in town and went to Little Cinema Galway at the Roisin Dubh pub around the corner from our flat. Little Cinema, which was the inspiration for Theatre Room Galway, is a monthly “open mic-night for filmmakers.” Every month, 8-10, short films (comedy sketches, documentaries, music videos, dramas, and action/suspense) are showcased. Anyone can submit a film (John has written for and worked on a few over the years). They just have to be under ten minutes and someone working on the film has to be present to introduce the short. It’s a lot of great craic and you can talk to and hang out with the filmmakers after the show. (Even fellow Roscommon native, Irish actor and Hollywood leading man, Chris O’Dowd is a fan and patron of Little Cinema.) This month’s showcase of short films included a funny documentary about some friends of John who are doing a charity swim for a great local charity, a few comedy sketches, a couple of other documentaries (a really moving one about tattoos and one about Hungarians living in Ireland), a Canadian remake of a script written by an Irish film student John knows, and a really cool music video (also made my some people John knows and has worked with on other short films).

On Thursday, John & Christine just ordered some food delivered and watched shows on the couch, while Sourney and I played cards in the back office. (I don’t think they noticed.)  It was a quiet night, but we’d had a couple of late nights and a few more to go over the coming weekend, so it was nice to relax a bit and get to bed early.

Back out again on Friday to a show at the Connaught Tribune Print Works. It’s a big open space behind the local newspaper’s offices. As, I’m sure you can tell by the name, it used to hold the print works for the paper. But they started outsourcing the printing to a larger paper in Limerick years ago. (With so many people following them online, it wasn’t worth printing it themselves anymore.) In recent years, the space has been used for all manner of art installations and shows. Last week, it was transformed into a punk rock venue for “Mac an Bheatha,” an Irish language version of MacBeth by the Fíbín theatre company. We were all a bit nervous about going. I’ve never seen any Shakespeare before (always seemed a bit too “highbrow” and British to me) and neither of my human companions have a word of Irish. But we know a few people involved in the show, behind the scenes (producer Caitríona, artistic designer Yvette – whose sister was interviewed in the short-doc about tattoos from Wednesday . . . We’ll have to ask her about that later . . . and set-builder Damian – who is our go-to small-job handyman). And they all encouraged us to go. So . . . John gave me a great summary of the story before the performance and I whispered translations to the two of them (not that they really needed it, as the action and acting spoke volumes). But the whole show was amazing. The entrance to the Print Works had a “burned out” car. We were all subjected to fake metal detector wand-ing and the inside of the space was artistically/thematically graffitied*. (* — See my earlier comment about newly created words that everyone understands immediately.) There was a punk band playing music when we came in (that turned out to be the Witches from the original play) and took our “seats” on either side of the stage in make-shift scaffolding. John & Christine grabbed a couple of folding chairs, but most people stood throughout, and I (naturally) swung about! (Best. Theatre. Space. Ever!) I won’t spoil the story for any of you, like myself until just recently, haven’t seen it yet. But John & Christine both really loved this version; they said it was one of their favourite Shakespeare performances, ever. (I’m definitely giving old Willie a second look, as I’ve clearly misjudged him. Life lesson, learnt.) It was dark, but also whimsical and funny (in parts). Not a show for children, but a great one for the rest of us.

But speaking of whimsical and magical . . . Saturday (after “Prinks” – that’s pre-drinks or drinks before going out, usually drinking) we were back at The Town Hall Theatre for “Tea Dance” by the man, the myth, the legend which is little john nee! John Nee is a friend of ours who has performed for a few of John & Christine’s pilgrim groups here in Galway. He grew up in Scotland, but his family is from Donegal (which he calls home). He writes songs (and poetry, he has a book of haikus which is really quite lovely) and theatrical shows that are sometimes autobiographical. This one is about a small, fictionalized town in Donegal where a woman opens a new tea house and holds a dance to help promote it. Little John normally performs alone, but had two back up musicians this time around. But like James at the beginning of the week (it seems like weeks), he performed all the parts. He has such a wonderful way with his voice and subtle mannerisms to embody everyone in the village, with all their quirks and charm. It was another amazing show and I can’t wait to see more of his work, even if it’s something I’ve seen before. We’re all big Little John Nee fans, the three of us.

Sunday we had dinner with a couple of friends (Susan, the poet I mentioned earlier, and her poet husband Kevin). Susan’s mom is from Belfast, but she was born and raised in the States. (We don’t hold it against her, even if John teases her about it; he teases everyone about everything. I often join in/encourage him.) But instead of Prinks, we went to St. Nicholas Collegial Church for their Compline service. (Don’t tell my folks I went to a Protestant service, but . . .) Christine and I really love the music they do and this service is always beautiful. Our celebration dinner with friends consisted of duck breast (instead of turkey), with cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and Brussel sprouts, with bacon. (John doesn’t normally like Brussel sprouts, but sliced and sautéed with bacon . . . who could resist.)

Monday night, John went across the street to Aras na Gael (an Irish language centre) for the AGM (that’s Annual General Meeting) of Threatre57, a theatre advocacy group. Christine and I aren’t members, but Christine might sign up next year, seeing as she’s working on a play about her cousin Ludwig Wittgenstein (an Austrian philosopher who goes straight over my head – no short jokes, please) and her dad. But it’s theatre-related and so I’m still counting it as part of the theatre week+.

And finally bringing it all home (you’ll get the pun in a moment) . . . on Tuesday, John had some actor friends around to our gaff (Get it? Bringing it home? The last theatre thing was here at home? I feel like I’m explaining this too much) for the first read-through of his play “Guilty Pleasures.” The whole thing was almost cancelled at the last minute. John had submitted the play to the Galway Theatre Festival as a work-in-progress. He got the rejection email just hours before the cast was scheduled to arrive. It was poor timing, to say the least. But I talked him into going ahead with it. He’s good friends with two of the actors (and it’s always nice to have friends around) and it was really great to hear the play read aloud by professionals. It really turned his mood around and he’s more determined than ever to put it on next year. Now if only I can get him to write something about a monkey from Roscommon . . .

I’m sorry for the longer-than-normal story. But as you can tell from having read through it all, we had QUITE a week. Normally, we’re fortunate to get out to a show once a week (even though there’s always a ton of stuff on in Galway). All the theatrical stars just happened to have been aligned and so we went for it!

Now for a week’s worth of naps . . . Maybe even sleep ‘til the New Year’s Eve fireworks wake us up.

Join us on a Desert Journey for Lent ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

We begin a desert journey on Wednesday through the sacred days of Lent this week on Ash Wednesday. We will be drawing wisdom from the desert mothers and fathers and creating a sacred space for contemplation and reflection. As we collectively move through a desert time in this pandemic, the desert elders have much to offer us. This is an excerpt from the introduction to my book about them:

The wisdom the ammas and abbas offer is so pertinent to our times because it is about the fundamental struggle to live a meaningful and authentic life.  They offer a challenge to the values of our contemporary culture which include productivity, achievement, “power over” rather than shared power, self-interest over the common good, and self-preservation at all costs.

In many ways the ethos of our times are similar to that which prompted the ancient monks to flee out into the desert.  Many of us are similarly seeking ways to live with integrity and congruence between our inner convictions and actions in the world.  It takes courage and insight to live in active resistance to the destructive forces in the culture around us.  Desert wisdom helps us to see ourselves more clearly and remember that our relationship to God is at the center of our lives’ meaning.

In The Solace of Fierce Landscapes, his book on desert and mountain spirituality, theologian Belden Lane writes, “Certain truths can be learned, it seems, only as one is sufficiently emptied, frightened, or confused.”  The desire to go out into the desert is a desire to be stripped bare of all pretension so that we might see what is real.  He goes on to write:

"My fear is that much of what we call ‘spirituality’ today is overly sanitized and sterile, far removed from the anguish of pain, the anchoredness of place.  Without the tough-minded discipline of desert-mountain experience, spirituality loses its bite, its capacity to speak prophetically to its culture, its demand for justice.  Avoiding pain and confrontation, it makes no demands, assumes no risks. . . It resists every form of desert perversity, dissolving at last into a spirituality that protects its readers from the vulnerability it was meant to provoke.  The desert, in the end, will have none of it."

Desert spirituality is about allowing ourselves to be broken open and to meet our attachments with a fierce willingness to surrender.  The desert demands that we be vulnerable and broken open.  This is no comforting path assuring us tritely that “everything happens for a reason.”  The God of the desert elders shatters the boxes to which we try to confine the sacred.

We do not have to journey to the literal desert to encounter its power.  Each of us has desert experiences – seasons that strip away all of our comforts and assurances and leave us to face ourselves directly.  When illness, death, or loss of any significant kind visits us, we meet the desert in one of its guises.  Each of us can benefit from the wisdom of the desert mothers and fathers who speak to us across time about the meaning and grace possible there.  The symbolic, and very human, dimension of life in the desert is common to all of us.

In the desert, the only option is to stand clear-eyed before every aspect of yourself, to your temptations, to your addictions, to your ways of falling asleep to life.  The way of the desert calls us to confront our hearts and its deepest desires without any place to hide or turn away.  There is no room for lying or deception there.  It is the struggle of a lifetime.

The desert is a place of deep encounter, not of superficial escape.   The ultimate paradox of the desert is that to find oneself, we have to relinquish everything we think we know about ourselves.

Ultimately, and in contrast to “sanitized and sterile” spirituality of today which Belden Lane warns against, these desert monastics are fiercely uncompromising in their advice for fellow pilgrims traveling the interior geography of the human heart.  This fierceness is refreshing, it takes our woundedness seriously, but always points back to our beauty as creatures of God. Their wisdom is in the service of healing and love rather than theological systematization of ideas or doctrine.

Scholar of religion, Andrew Harvey once wrote, “The things that ignore us save us in the end. Their presence awakens silence in us; they refresh our courage with the purity of their detachment.” One of the goals of the spiritual life in desert tradition was detachment from our own desires and agendas. Being in the desert landscape reminds us of what that means on a visceral level. The harshness of that world helps to clarify the mind and reorder priorities. To be in surroundings which are not conditioned by our own meek presence, which do not exist for us, can also set us free.  For a moment in time the world is not there to serve us, we fade into the background.  We can release our frantic quest for self-fulfillment and return to what is deeply true and meaningful, to the essence of the spiritual life.

Please join us for this pilgrimage through the desert with kindred souls.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD

Hildy Tales 5: Níl aon tinteán mar do thinteán féin ~ 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.

Níl aon tinteán mar do thinteán féin.

Greetings, fellow monks and pilgrims! It’s me again, Hildy – your friendly online abbey mascot.

Today’s Irish phrase translates to “There’s no fireplace like your own fireplace.” It’s our version of “There’s no place like home” . . . but with a fireplace. Not that we have a fireplace here in Christine and John’s apartment. But I had one growing up and most places in Ireland do. Fireplaces are very traditional in Ireland. Even pubs with central heating usually have one, at least for show. And so I am not at all upset that my current abode doesn’t have one . . . even on cool Autumn nights or cold Winter evenings.

(Sorry, John. I’ll stop about the lack of a fireplace.)

Anyway, It’s home . . . even if it doesn’t have a fireplace (that was a slip, I swear; I’ll do better from here on out.) . . . that I want to talk about today.

As some of you may know, my adopted home town of Galway City was named European Capital of Culture for 2020. Exciting, I know! And just recently, Lonely Planet ranked Galway as the fourth best city IN THE WORLD to visit in 2020. Everybody, except maybe Dubliners, loves us . . . and even the Dubs come here for a fun weekend now and again. So while it’s against my humble Irish monkey nature to brag . . . I can’t help it.

The competition for European Capital of Culture was fierce. We were up against the actual capital of Dublin, the large and vibrant city of Limerick, and several smaller and charming towns from the south east that banded together in what they called The Three Sisters. There were also four cities in Croatia that were competing for their own Capital of Culture competition, as there are two each time, from different countries. But that’s someone else’s story to tell.

Halfway through the competition, which included writing up this HUGE bid book with all the great cultural stuff going on in town and how winning would be helpful to us in the future, the judges were supposed to eliminate two cities and only two Irish cities would be in the finals . . . so to speak. But when the judges, after visiting all four (That was nerve racking, was it not, John?), they only eliminated Dublin. Odd, to be sure. But it was right after ‘The Big Smoke’ had decided on an almost all male-authored retrospective at the national theatre and . . . there was backlash. (#WakingTheFeminist, am I right, John? John knows what I’m talking about.)

But, that put Galway in a strange position, so it did. Galway’s kind of a small town, but the Sister Cities are smaller. So if the judges wanted to award the prize to a small community that would get a boost from it, we were too big. But Galway’s also a city with a lot of great stuff going on already. So if the judges wanted to award the prize to a larger community that already had the infrastructure to support the programme, we were too small. But luckily, the judges must have been Goldilocks, because Galway won!

Once the celebrating was over – and since this is Galway and we’re really good at celebrating, that took a while – the real “fun” began. A non-Irish person who had experience running another European city’s Capital of Culture was hired to run things here in Galway. But in the end it wasn’t a good fit. It’s unclear whether locals were upset that he didn’t seem to be very good at the job or he wasn’t good at the job because locals were upset that he got the job. But he left and someone else took over and still people weren’t happy. I hate to air Galway’s dirty laundry in a worldwide public forum, but it’s no secret that funding goals weren’t reached and people in town felt excluded and . . . Well, the only thing everyone seems to agree on is that nobody is completely happy . . . Which sadly, everyone is secretly happy about.

But we’re back on track and the programme was launched at a really amazing ceremony in Eyre Square with local and European artists and it’s all good. There are still people who aren’t happy, but that may just be more them than anything else. ‘Tis a matter of finding happiness in your own skin . . . even if you haven’t got a fireplace at home. (Sorry. I forgot my promise there for a moment.)

Being European Capital of Culture isn’t the only thing we can brag about here in Galway. Like I said earlier, Lonely Planet is after naming us the fourth best city in the world to visit in 2020! It doesn’t matter what the other cities are; I can only brag about one city at a time. I’m sure your cities have plenty to brag about, too . . . but back to Galway for the moment.

Everybody in town was over the moon that wee Galway, barely a city at all with under 100 thousand inhabitants, would even be considered for such international recognition. Many a city council member was seen to be posting about it all over their various social media accounts. Only, the Lonely Planet article about why Galway was chosen started off by mentioning the thriving busking scene in Galway. Busking is street performance – mainly musicians and street theatre. However . . . prepare for more dirty Galway laundry . . . wasn’t the city council just after voting in new, highly restrictive, anti-Busking bylaws that go into effect in 2020? Some of the very same politicians who voted to all but ban most busking in town are now basically bragging about said busking. I wasn’t going to mention that, because it makes Galway look bad and might dissuade some people from visiting. But some of the bylaws might be unconstitutional and so a law suit to throw them out might stop them before they start. And besides, it’s just not the Busking that brings people to Galway . . . although it doesn’t improve an already wonderful experience.

At the end of the day though . . . pride of place/home isn’t about outside recognition . . . or even a fireplace. (Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.) It’s about finding joy in what’s already around you, about what’s on the inside that counts. And one thing that Galway had long before any Capital of Culture or Lonely Planet nonsense was Macnas. The word macnas, or de Bhaldraithe in Irish, means “joyful abandonment.” It’s the perfect name for a local street theatre group that has been putting on parades in Galway, and around the world, for decades. They build giant, two-story, puppets. They walk on stilts. They juggle. They dance. They dress in magnificent handmade costumes. They interact with the crowds along the route. They create magnificent and magical mischief!

As a small monkey, I’m a bit too small to participate as a performer or assistant. But as a small monkey, I can get the most amazing vantage spot positions along the parade route as it twists and turns its way through the city centre. Before meeting Christine and John, my monkey friends and I would love jumping from building to building and along the tops of the heads of the crowds to follow the parade. But now . . . the parade goes by our flat on the Westend of Galway. I can sit on our patio with a hot chocolate . . . maybe a hot toddy . . . and wait for the parade to come to me. I don’t need a fireplace to make me warm or happy. (I’m not sorry about that mention of our non-fireplace.) It’s a warm and happy home because of who lives here.

Sacred Time (new book coming from Christine) ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

I am really thrilled to announce that I have another book coming out on February 19th! Sacred Time: Embracing an Intentional Way of Life is being published by Ave Maria Press (see the end of this love note for a special discount code for those of you in the U.S.) and has been in the process of writing for some time now. Some of you may even have read early versions of it many years ago in a couple of online retreats about the seasons of the soul.

The book begins with the moment of each breath and slowly widens out to consider the Hours of the day, Sabbath rhythms each week, lunar cycles, seasonal rhythms, seasons of a lifetime, ancestral time, and cosmic time. It invites the reader into a more intentional way of being in the world that makes space for touching eternity.

This is an excerpt from the Introduction:

We live in a breathless world.

Everything around us seems to move at faster and faster speeds, summoning us to keep up. We multitask, we organize, we simplify, we do all we can to keep on top of the many demands on our time. We yearn for a day with more hours in it so we can complete all we long to do.

We often talk about wasted time, or time spent like money, or time fleeting. This rushed and frenzied existence is not sacred time.

Sacred time is time governed by the rhythms of creation, rhythms that incorporate times of rest as essential to our own unfolding. Sacred time is being present to the moments of eternity available to us at any time we choose to pause and breathe.

In sacred time, we step out of the madness of our lives and choose to reflect, to linger, to savor, to slow down. We gain new perspective here. We have all had those moments of time outside of time, when we felt like we were touching eternity, bathed in a different kind of rhythm. Touching eternity brings a cohesion to our lives and reminds us of the goodness and surplus of living because it honors the rhythms of the soul.

The clock with its forced march is not the only marker of time. Our calendars with their five and ten year strategic plans rob us of our future as we desperately try to cram things in. Each slow mindful breath, the rising and setting of the sun, the expansion and contraction of the moon, the ripening and releasing of the seasons, these all mark a different quality of time and invite us into a deepened and renewed way of being.

Psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi has written extensively about our “flow state,” that experience of moving beyond consciousness of time’s ticking and into a place of timelessness. Wisdom traditions tell us that reaching these states of spaciousness and ease takes time, but that is the one thing that feels most scarce, and so we seek quick and easy fixes to our time anxiety. Often this includes rushing more, sleeping less, and being distracted by multiple demands on our attention.

Gary Eberle, in his book Sacred Time and the Search for Meaning writes:

"Sacred time is what we experience when we step outside the quick flow of life and luxuriate, as it were, in a realm where there is enough of everything, where we are not trying to fill a void in ourselves or the world, where we exist for a moment at both the deepest and the loftiest levels of our existence and participate in the eternal life of all that is. In simpler, or perhaps just slower, times, people seemed to enter this realm more regularly, or perhaps even to live with one foot inside it. Prayer, meditation, religious rituals, and holy days provided gateways into eternity that allowed us to return to the world of daily time refreshed and renewed, with an understanding that beneath the busyness of daily life there was an underpinning of calm, peace, and sufficiency."

Our clocks and calendars were created as tools to serve us, but the roles have reversed and now we serve them in their perpetual drive forward. They measure time horizontally, in a linear way, always ticking off the missed moments. For some, the calculations are literal with productivity expectations rising, and the need to produce more and more widgets in the same amount of time. Our schedules are so packed full of appointments and commitments that there is no time to lose ourselves in dreaming, wandering, playing, or in the eternal now.

It is only when we move more slowly and with intention that we can touch the vertical modes of experiencing time. In this book I suggest that the slow witness of the natural world and rhythms offer us a portal into another experience of time and offer ways to begin practicing this alternate way of being.

When we look at the world around us,  of nature and creation, we find exquisite examples of sacred timing: I’ve experienced the monarch butterflies resting in Cape May, NJ in the midst of their migration, cherry trees blossoming each April in Seattle around the building where I lived, the salmon festival in the Pacific Northwest celebrating their return each autumn, and now living in Ireland, welcoming them home to Lough Corrib after crossing the Atlantic to return to the place of their origins to spawn and die. I’ve been in the arctic circle in Norway just before their two months of polar darkness begin, and what I found most surprising and refreshing was how the restaurants and cafes didn’t have bright lights trying to dispel the darkness. Instead everything was lit with candles, there was a sense of welcoming in winter’s gifts.

Seasons like winter call for hibernation, rest, moving into darkness and mystery. Instead we are bombarded with an ubiquitous call to shop endlessly, to socialize as much as possible, lights are strung everywhere to stave off the night. This now begins as early as late summer, and at least by Halloween. I suggest that we look at time as a spiral, through the lens of each breath’s rise and fall, the rhythms of the sun and moon, and the longer cycles of a lifetime, generations, and the Universe itself.

(If you’d love to read through this book in community, we will be hosting an 8-week online retreat starting April 5th.)

Ave Maria Press is offering a special 25% discount on all the books I have published with them including Sacred Time. Use the code TIME at checkout for the discount. Expires June 1, 2021. Only valid in the contiguous U.S. (sorry my beloved global community outside the U.S.)

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Hildy Tale 4: An té a luíonn le madaí, eiroidh sé le dearnaid ~ 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.

An té a luíonn le madaí, eiroidh sé le dearnaid.

Greetings, my fellow pilgrims! ‘Tis I, Hildy – your friendly online mascot for the Abbey of the Arts.

This month’s Irish phrase roughly translates to, “he who lies down with dogs, gets up with fleas.” It’s usually used in the context of warning people about the type of company they keep. But I think it gives dogs a bad rep and my favourite dog, Sourney, certainly has no fleas on her (literal or figurative). And so today’s story is as much about her as it is about me.

You see (and I hope John is ready for this revelation), sometimes . . . I get on Sourney’s back and we go for a run up the canal and around the river!

(I’ll give John a moment to process.)

Yep. If Christine (who I think also just found out about this when John repeat-yelled it in disbelief) and John coordinate afternoon naps, then I will put Sourney’s harness on her and the two of us will go for a furry gallop along our favourite waterway. There. The truth is out in the open.

I feel so much better now. (John looks a little pale, but that’s kind of his natural color, so . . . )

John doesn’t believe I can ride Sourney like a person rides a horse. But I’ll have ye know, that in my youth, my siblings and I did a fair bit of mutton-busting. My parents, among other things, kept a small herd of sheep in the fields behind our house. And so warm, lazy summer days, my siblings and I would jump on the back of some sheep and race each other around the fields.

In hindsight, I realize that my parents were right to yell at us . . . as we were “worrying the sheep” and more than one of us got thrown off and broke a limb. (Not me, of course; I was the best and always won.)

But I am a good rider and Sourney is a . . . fairly good-ish . . . stead. Okay, to be completely honest: she’s a bit sporadic. She goes from wanting to bolt ahead at great speed to stopping on a dime to sniff something in great detail. I was going to say she’s unpredictable, but . . . It’s guaranteed that she’s going to want to bolt and then want to stop for a long time to sniff, every time. (Every. Single. Time.) She’s a dog; the nose must be obeyed. (What are ya gonna do, am I right?) But that’s not to say we don’t always have a blast and I enjoy the challenge of holding on as we navigate the trail.

The most difficult part of the whole thing is getting the harness on Sourney. She’s very sweet and tries to help, but she gets excited and jumps around a bit too much. I also have tiny hands and the buckle is kind of large for me. But I’ve got a prehensile tail and we always manage. Once we’re out of the building it’s a quick dash across the street and the first stop at the auld gate-keepers house. It’s a law office now, but originally was the home and office of the man (John Keogh) who was responsible for collecting fees for barges taking goods along the canal that connected the Claddagh Basin in Galway City and County Mayo, by way of Lough Corrib.

(John helped with some research and even I learned a bit of history about the place we live. Like . . . ) The Eglinton Canal was a publics work programme that was constructed between 1848 and 1852. The idea was to create a better economic routine between Galway and Mayo. But by the time it was done the roads were also greatly improved and once the automobile was introduced, the canal fell into disuse. But it did employ a lot of people in the area towards the end of the Potato Famine (and that was good).

Anyway, back to our run. A quick sniff and piddle at the corner (“checking her messages” as Christine likes to say) and we’re off again, past a wall that always has some lovely commissioned graffiti on it. It’s too bad Sourney is colour blind, as she can’t fully appreciate it.

Next we race past what was one of the last locks on the canal. The old wooden gates lasted until just a couple of years ago when the rotting timbers were finally replaced by cement brinks. It’s a lovely little waterfall in the middle of the city and there’s a wee grassy area on the other side of a small foot bridge over the lock that’s a nice place to stop and . . . But Sourney is not one for stopping for too long and so . . . Past the remaining wall of an auld saw mill and on we go!

Another, what Americans call, “block” and the path opens up a bit as we saunter by some lovely two story houses with front lawns and trees along the canal. Another stop or two by Sourney, perhaps a quick chat with one of her dog friends and we’re opposite Nun’s Island. It’s named after the convent of cloistered Poor Clare nuns that have lived there for ages! Like, they were there way before they tore down the old Goal (jail) and build the Cathedral, reusing the same stones.

The canal goes for another “block” past the university (NUIG or the National University in Galway) and the rowing clubs and ends at a marina. But we turn right over a bridge and head into Millennium Park. ‘Tis a lovely wee park with a modern playground for kids and a rundown skate park, with the cloistered nuns just over the wall from it. Sourney and I will stop here sometimes and make up stories about novices sneaking over the back wall of the convent at night to skateboard. (It could happen!)

But eventually we exit the park via another footbridge next to the Cathedral and we run down an older canal that separates the church from the convent and scare a bunch of sleeping ducks. I swear Sourney thinks she’s eventually going to catch one someday and . . . do what with it, I’m not sure. But I whoop and shout to give them a heads up to get out of Sourney’s way. (Sourney just thinks I’m getting into the fun of the chase, so let’s not tell her.)

The next bit of our usual routine is the second trickiest bit. We cross over the river here at the Salmon Weir Bridge. There’s a lot of traffic, most times of the day, and a VERY narrow footpath for pedestrians. The city council have plans to build a second, wider footpath only bridge here, but . . . neither Sourney nor I are holding our breath for that to happen any time soon. I mean, do NOT get us started on humans and their politics.

Let’s talk about the River Walk, instead!

The stroll along the canal (with the gentle water so close you could reach out and touch it) and the walk along the river (with its raging torrents of water several meters below) are two very different experiences. The Corrib River may be the shortest in all of Europe, but it makes up for that in speed and volume of water. There’s quite a drop in elevation from Lake Corrib that feeds the river and the Galway Bay where the river ends, so . . . it’s not a river to mess with.

Although . . . when the tide is very low (and the Corrib is tidal, being so close to the Bay and the Atlantic) the occasional angler can be seen wading in to do a bit of fishing! But also, kayakers like to play in the rapids created by not-quite high tide. The river is never the same and so always a delight.

Along the river, we often see grey herons and swans and cormorants. But Sourney is more interested in the ducks that sit between the two canals along the east side of the river. The one nearest the river is called the Middle River and the other one is rarely mentioned by name. It’s called Blood River, because the primary school it runs past used to be a slaughter house. (Sure, a bit gory. But the St. Pat’s students are cute and just recently co-ed and so more than make up for the gruesome history.)

Any-hoo, this is where Sourney and I usually have a bit of a . . . shall we say . . . discussion on whether to go one more “block” to the Wolfe Tonne Bridge or turn at O’Brien’s Bridge to head for home. The decision depends if we want to go pick up some croissants at the bakery or have some tea at the café.

Sometimes we do both.

Blessed Feast of St. Brigid – Join us for the Spiral Way! ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

I am really excited to be offering a brand new online retreat starting tomorrow through the Rowe Center in Massachusetts. The Spiral Way: Celtic Spirituality and the Creative Imagination will be an exploration of Celtic stories and practices which help to cultivate and nourish our creative imaginations. The program will be delivered through four 90-minute live weekly sessions with me and will include meditation, teaching, writing exercises, song, and poetry.

I am especially delighted to begin this journey on the Celtic feast of Imbolc which is also the feast of St. Brigid, one of the wondrous Irish saints known for her hospitality and generosity.

This is an excerpt from our Sacred Seasons online retreat about some of St. Brigid’s gifts for us. Join me on her feast day tomorrow by embarking on the spiral way.

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

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

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

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

St. Brigid

In Ireland, Brigid (c. 451-525) is one of the three main Saints of the land alongside Patrick and Columba. We don’t know many details of her life, and there is great evidence that she is part of a much older lineage extending back to the Irish triple goddess Brigid of pre-Christian times who was the goddess of poets, smithwork, and healing.

Most of what we know about St. Brigid comes from the Life of Brigid written by the monk Cogitosis in the second half of the 7th century. The Life emphasizes her healing, her kinship with animals, her profound sense of hospitality and generosity, and concern for those oppressed. These stories of the Saints are not meant to be literal or historical, but spiritual, mythical, archetypal, and psychological, resonating with the deepest parts of our souls.

Her feast day is February 1st which in the Celtic calendar is also the feast of Imbolc and the very beginning of springtime. It is the time when the ewes begin to give birth and give forth their milk, and heralds the coming of longer and warmer days. She is the first sign of life after the long dark nights of winter. She breathes into the landscape so that it begins to awaken. Snowdrops, the first flowers of spring are one of her symbols.

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

In Ireland Brigid is even called Mary of the Gaels and was said to be present as a midwife to Mary at the birth of Jesus. She crosses thresholds of time and space and these stories often break the boundaries of linearity. It is said that she was born as her mother crossed the threshold of a doorway. Women giving birth often stand on the threshold of a doorway and call out her name.

Brigid was a powerful leader and one of the founders of monasticism in Ireland. She was an abbess, healer, soul friend, prophet, and more. Many miracles are connected to her, especially related to milk. She had a white cow who could give as much milk as needed. A small amount of her butter miraculously feeds many guests. There is a sense of lavish hospitality and generosity connected to the spirit of Brigid. Many of the stories connected to her, reflect the dignity of the ordinary tasks, especially in the home. No more divisions between what is worthy of grace and beyond the scope.

Brigid is especially connected to the elements of water and fire. Many holy wells across Ireland are dedicated to her and wells are places of healing, where those suffering with illness come to be transformed. In Kildare is the perpetual flame of Brigid. When she was consecrated as a nun (and legend says she was inadvertently also ordained bishop) a flame extended from her head up to the heavens. She is invoked for protection in travel, in prayers at night, and in the work of the day. Brigid would also have been immersed in herbal traditions of her time.

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

I have come to embrace and love Brigid more and more the longer I live in this sacred landscape. From visiting her holy wells, to participating in the festivals for her feast day which continue to celebrate her gifts for the world, to her kinship with creatures, I discover in Brigid a powerful source of wisdom for how to be with the places within me which often feel divided. I find myself calling on her name in times of illness or other places where the gap between my heart’s longing and how I am living feels too very large.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Image credit: © Marcy Hall at Rabbit Room Arts

Lift Every Voice: Contemplative Writers of Color – February 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.

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

Featured Book for February 2021! – God Alone is Enough: A Spirited Journey with Teresa of Avila 

No one can teach a Christian to pray, like Teresa can. This lively little book introduces postmodern readers to one of Christianity's most endearing prayer warriors, and guides them through her most radical teachings. Here, Teresa of Avila is not a lofty, inaccessible saint; she's a companion, taking readers on a rollicking journey through their own interior castles. The secrets of Teresa's intimate devotional life are revealed, and readers learn practical ways to abandon complicated contemplative prayer techniques, and simply "enjoy" God. This journey through the life and writings of Teresa of Avila will engage Christians who would have never before considered encountering a post-Reformation Catholic nun. Mair Burney makes Teresa accessible-and essential-for understanding what it means to come to know God, and how it's possible.

"This is the kind of book that a serious Christian has to thank God for. It only illuminates and opens St. Teresa of Avila in a profound and intimate way. I cannot recommend this book too highly or, I suspect, even adequately. Read it and you will see what I mean." -Phyllis Tickle, author of The Divine Hours 

Celtic Spirituality and the Spiral Way ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

On my first trip to Ireland in 2007 with my husband John, I read Thomas Cahill’s now-classic book How the Irish Saved Civilization, in which he describes the essential role of the Irish monks and their work on illuminating manuscripts during the Dark Ages. I was captivated especially by the idea that Ireland was outside the Roman Empire and a form of Christianity developed early on that was more indigenous and localized.

Because Christianity was introduced into Ireland without violence, it also preserved older traditions and practices of the pagan culture and the Druids. Eventually, Irish Christians found themselves in conflict with the Roman church around such issues as the date of Easter and how to wear the tonsure (monks’ haircut). By the later middle ages, Rome had brought conformity to these practices, but there was a rich period from about the 5th until the 11th centuries when Christianity flourished in a way that seemed to be more earth-honoring and connected to the landscape. We call this period Celtic Christianity.

In 2012, John and I felt called to move to Europe. It was the unfolding of a whole confluence of events that led us first to Vienna, Austria, an ancestral place for me, and ultimately to Galway, Ireland where we have lived for the last eight years.

People often ask us how we ended up in Galway City, and largely it was an intuitive choice. We knew we didn’t want to be in Dublin, but we still wanted the convenience of a city. I loved the idea of living by the Atlantic, on the western edge of Ireland, on the western fringe of Europe. The image of the wild edges called to me. We also knew it had a reputation for being a center for the arts. Both of these factors sparked our imaginations, so that was enough to draw us.

When we moved to Galway I knew that Ireland had been a thriving community of monks for centuries, but I had no idea just how saturated the landscape was with the ruins of these ancient monasteries. Within an hour’s drive of us are dozens of sacred sites. Despite the buildings being “ruins”, we were entranced by these places. The roofs were gone from many of them, opening them up to the sky and the elements of creation. Holy wells were still places people came to seek healing. The stillness found at these locations opened us up to a beautiful sense of sacred presence where we could feel all those who had prayed in these places for hundreds of years prior.

Place is a vital concept in the Celtic imagination. Certain places can be called “thin” where we experience the nearness of heaven and earth to one another. In the Celtic worldview, there is a veil between this world and the Otherworld, and when the veil is thin, we sense the presence of the ancestors and the angels more closely. We are able to encounter the divine in all things.

Physical matter pointed toward the sacred, incarnation was a living and breathing concept felt most keenly in creation among trees and mountains, oceans and rivers. Ninth century Irish theologian John Scotus Eriugena taught that there are indeed two books of revelation – the book of the scriptures and the book of creation. The first is physically small, the second is vast. Both are required to know the fullness of the divine presence. Just as the divine can speak through the words of the scriptures, so can we hear the voice of the sacred presence in the elements, the creatures, and the land.

Therefore the landscape can become a theophany, or place of divine manifestation. The shoreline is a living threshold, the mountain lifts us toward the heavens. The monks sought out places in the wilderness to receive this gift of revelation. The hermitage was a new Eden, a place where the promise of paradise could be tasted in this world.

The Celtic monks saw that all of creation is continually offering praise to God, as Psalm 104 describes. The great and powerful sea, the wide sky, the creatures, the sacred trees, the force of wind and rain, are all seen as participating in a liturgy of praise, which our own worship joins.

When we awaken to the holy shimmering in each flower, tree, and bird, we suddenly discover that we are woven into a vast community. We find ourselves nourished and supported in ways we didn’t see before. We are called to hold this deepening awareness and trust that we are sustained and called forth by the choirs of creation into our own creative journeys of expression.

The Celtic imagination moves in circles and spirals; values dreams and visions; sees animals as wise guides; and gives reverence to Earth, her seasons, and land as wisdom guides. Living in Ireland has broken open my own creativity in new ways and has affirmed my own inner sense that the creative process is best nourished by letting go of our goals and opening our hearts to what wants to arrive each moment.

Join me for The Spiral Way: Celtic Spirituality and the Creative Imagination – a 4-session program hosted by the Rowe Center February 1-22, 2021. We will dive into the Celtic imagination through story, poetry, writing exploration, music, conversation, and teaching.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner taken at Ross Errilly Friary