Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 57

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.

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.