Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 68

A Different Kind of Fast: Part Four – Embrace Slowness

Dear monks, artists and pilgrims,

* This is the fourth part of a seven-part series we will publish weekly during this Lenten season

Modern life seems to move at full speed and many of us can hardly catch our breath between the demands of earning a living, nurturing family and friendships, and the hundreds of small daily details like paying our bills, cleaning, grocery shopping. More and more we feel stretched thin by commitments and lament our busyness, but without a clear sense of the alternative.

There is no space left to consider other options and the idea of heading off on a retreat to ponder new possibilities may be beyond our reach. But there are opportunities for breathing spaces within our days. The monastic tradition invites us into the practice of stopping one thing before beginning another. It is the acknowledgment that in the space of transition and threshold is a sacred dimension, a holy pause full of possibility.

What might it be like to allow just a ten-minute window to sit in silence between appointments? Or after finishing a phone call or checking your email to take just five long, slow, deep breaths before pushing on to the next thing?

We often think of these in-between times as wasted moments and inconveniences, rather than opportunities to return again and again, to awaken to the gifts right here, not the ones we imagine waiting for us beyond the next door. But what if we built in these thresholds between our daily activities, just for a few minutes to intentionally savor silence and breath?

When we pause between activities or moments in our day, we open ourselves to the possibility of discovering a new kind of presence to the "in-between times." When we rush from one thing to another, we skim over the surface of life losing that sacred attentiveness that brings forth revelations in the most ordinary of moments.

We are continually crossing thresholds in our lives, both the literal kind when moving through doorways, leaving the building, or going to another room, as well as the metaphorical thresholds, when time becomes a transition space of waiting and tending. We hope for news about a friend struggling with illness, we are longing for clarity about our own deepest dreams. This place between is a place of stillness, where we let go of what came before and prepare ourselves to enter fully into what comes next.

The holy pause calls us to a sense of reverence for slowness, for mindfulness, and for the fertile dark spaces between our goals where we can pause and center ourselves, and listen. We can open up a space within for God to work. We can become fully conscious of what we are about to do rather than mindlessly completing another task.

The holy pause can also be the space of integration and healing. How often do we rush through our lives, not allowing the time to gather the pieces of ourselves, to allow our fragmented selves the space of coming together again?

When we allow rest, we awaken to the broken places that often push us to keep doing and producing and striving. There are things in life best done slowly.

This Lent I will fast from rushing through my life and overscheduling my commitments. I will offer myself the gift of pausing before and after whenever possible, to simply savor the sheer grace of the moment. The desert way also calls us to value holy leisure, times when we are not directing our attention on achieving anything, but simply resting in the goodness of the divine. I will also embrace the practice of doing nothing at all, making room for God to erupt in new ways in the spaces between.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Monk in the World Guest Post: Joni Sensel

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Joni Sensel's reflection, "From Monk to Mummy and Back."

Monks have always interested me; my second novel is set in a tenth-century abbey, and as a long-distance hiker I've long considered myself a peregrina, not in medieval robes but in Gore-Tex. So when I discovered Abbey of the Arts a few years ago, I was immediately intrigued.

To explore my evolving identity as a monk in the world, I signed up for one of the Abbey's five-day events called Awakening the Creative Spirit. The workshop became a way for me to secretly acknowledge my partner, Tony, who'd died abruptly a year previously and whose birthday fell during that week. I enjoyed the workshop immensely, but one activity especially bowled me over: Near the end of the week, we made plaster casts of our faces. I expected this to be among our least challenging projects. Hoo-boy, was I wrong.

My partner, Michele, would plaster me first. With a shower cap protecting my hair, I stretched out on a yoga mat and closed my eyes, feeling as vulnerable as a hospital patient. Plastic wrap protected my skin with only the tiniest gap at my nostrils for breathing. Michele began smoothing wet strips of plaster overtop.

When my eyes and mouth were sealed over, I thought, "Oh! This is like a mummification. I'm being prepared for the next life." It wasn't the first time the week's activities had me thinking of symbolic deaths and rebirths. We were welcoming the emerging identities we'd try to capture as we painted our masks.

As the plaster stiffened, the mask felt increasingly isolating. I could still feel Michele's fingers and soothing presence, but I couldn't see, move, or even breathe deeply. The music in the room was trance-inducing. Trying to relax, I focused on each shallow breath.

And I thought about Tony. This loss of sensation, mobility, control—was it anything like what he'd felt as he died? I'd touched his face while I tried to revive him, not in these sweeping strokes but with great urgency. I imagined stroking his stubbled cheeks as Michele smoothed plaster on mine. This could be only the thinnest reflection of dying.

My heart ached intensely. Tears rose. No. Not now. Crying was one more thing I couldn't do. If I got sniffy, my slim ability to breathe would be lost and I'd have to bail.

Michele whispered, "You okay?"

I gave her a thumbs-up. I can do this. It can't be much longer. Pressing my hands to my overwhelmed heart, I tried to anchor myself to the music.

More warm, soothing hands touched my shins, feet, and hands. Our workshop leaders had a talent for reading emotion. Sensing my distress, they held me to the ground, a balloon—or a ghost—at risk of floating away.

The first teams done with their plastering began to speak above whispers, proof of life beyond my swirling mind and imprisoning mask. I wasn't scared, just awash in emotion: curiosity and grief, uncertainty, gratitude for Michele's tender help. After days spent expressing emotions through dance, those feelings were now trapped and roiling. Would my plastering never be done?

Light brightened beyond my eyelids. Good. Focus there. The clouds blocking the sun outside must have drifted. As I appreciated that glow, a sudden impression flashed—power, rushing just beyond my eyelids and my sense of self. It was like standing too close to a bison stampede: roaring, immense. That physical sensation struck me as a divine force, or maybe the flow of the collective unconscious. It was here, immanent, both reassuring and intimidating. I almost giggled into my mask because it showed me how utterly inadequate our conceptions of divinity are: We're ants trying to understand a nuclear rocket.

With that, Michele finally lifted my mask off. Breathe. Try not to shake. Queasy, I wiped my face and focused on returning the favor for her. The cool glop of the plaster helped calm my trembling. Still, as soon as we'd finished, I had to escape into the woods. With the trees and Tony around me, I could finally cry.

Feeling like I'd been hit by a truck, I dropped flat to the pine needles, spread my arms, and let my emotions sink into the ground. Surrendering. And trying to understand what had happened.

After 10 minutes or so, one of our leaders appeared on the trail. A gift. Though this break in the schedule was her time off to recharge, Betsey kindly paused. She asked and then listened while I spilled my feelings about the mask work, which had veered so far from the lark I'd expected. After brief support and a hug, she walked on. I remained prone until the chickadees hopping through the leaves granted me enough energy to go find warmth and tea.

Though it took me days to recover from my pseudo-mummification, the experience pushed me closer to Tony. I consider it a not-very-near-death experience, one that confirmed a Divinity out there, an immensity both in and beyond our perceptions.

Monks and mummies share the assumption of such a Beyond. They also share a strong sense of purpose, a focus on approaching and experiencing the Divine that is helping me to find meaning after my loss. Together, they're leading me forward, a hiking, art-making monk in the world who sees value in the mummy's seclusion and darkness as well as in dancing and light.

The author of more than a dozen books, Joni Sensel explores creativity and monkish adventures from her home at the knees of Mt. Rainier in Washington State. Visit her online at JoniSensel.com

Monk in the World: Sabbath 2 – Scripture Reflection by John ~ A Love Note from Your Online Prior

Dear monks, artists, and pilgrims,

During this Jubilee year of sabbatical we are revisiting our Monk Manifesto by moving slowly through the Monk in the World retreat materials together every Sunday. Each week will offer new reflections on the theme and every six weeks will introduce a new principle.

Principle 6: 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.

Exodus 20:1-11

The Ten Commandments

Then God spoke all these words:

I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery; you shall have no other gods before me.

You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I the Lord your God am a jealous God, punishing children for the iniquity of parents, to the third and the fourth generation of those who reject me, but showing steadfast love to the thousandth generation of those who love me and keep my commandments.

You shall not make wrongful use of the name of the Lord your God, for the Lord will not acquit anyone who misuses his name.

Remember the sabbath day, and keep it holy. For six days you shall labour and do all your work. But the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God; you shall not do any work—you, your son or your daughter, your male or female slave, your livestock, or the alien resident in your towns. For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but rested the seventh day; therefore the Lord blessed the sabbath day and consecrated it.

Background

After being freed from Egyptian slavery by Yahweh, the Israelites needed a bit of guidance. For generations they had been under the control of the Pharaoh. They were a people unaccustomed to making their own decisions. It was not something they had experience with. And so without the Commandments, the former slaves could very well have been like the college freshmen from a strict family: wild and a likely danger to themselves and each other.

Most of the Ten Commandments are about right relationship with others. But the first Commandments are about right relationship to God. The Commandment to "keep holy the Sabbath" usually gets put into the latter category as it is seen as a way to respect God. However, I see it as both: it respects God, but also the self and others.

Of all the Decalogue, this Sabbath Commandment is one of the most detailed. Like some of the others, it gives a reason for doing so: the Lord consecrated the Sabbath. But it also details all who it applies to: self, children, servants (there is no distinction in Biblical Hebrew between "slave" and "servant;" it is contextual, as the same word is used for both), work animals, and even guests. Everyone, regardless of age or gender or social status is to observe the Sabbath together and equally.

But more to the point, this Commandment turns the old ways of the Pharaoh on its head. Humans are more than beasts of burden. We are made for more than just working, producing goods and services. While that is important (or at least necessary), we were also created to be in relationship with our Creator. And that takes time.

You will hear people talk about "quality time" versus "quantity time." But if there is too little time spent on an activity or with a person, there is no quality to it. We exist in the fourth dimension as well; we span time as well as space.

Reflection

Part of how Christine and I plan our programs, whether they be online or live, is to ask ourselves what types of things would attract us to participate in a program. Being on the introverted end of the spectrum, we naturally gravitate towards programs that aren't over packed with activities and time spent in groups. We like being with people and interacting with others. But we both need time alone to physically recover and to mentally process everything we've been through.

So, none of our online courses will ever be seven days a week. The number of weeks may vary, but there is always at least one day a week is a Sabbath day to process the week's lessons and discussions. The same is true for our in person pilgrimages and retreats. There is always some Sabbath time or even a full Sabbath day in the middle, to give participants a chance to stop and catch their breath, both physically and mentally. The more we lead a program, the less we try to pack into it. Less really can be more.

But these Sabbath breaks are as much for ourselves as for our lovely participants. To be at our best for others, we need to take care of ourselves in order to take care of others. Part of the decision is to model good spiritual practice. And part of it is just practical, a time to regroup and rejuvenate.

I don't want to leave you with the notion that Sabbath is just a practical excuse to rest. There is a very real spiritual component. Stopping for a day helps put so many things in perspective. When we realize that the world can survive without our constant attention, we get a better sense of our place in the universe. Now that might make one feel small or unnecessary. The alternative interpretation of that is a greater appreciation of what God and others do. It can give us a better sense of hope, to be able to accept what we are powerless over and what is within our power to change.

With great and growing love,

John

John Valters Paintner, MTS

A Different Kind of Fast: Part Three – Embrace Trust

 * This is the third part of a seven-part series we will publish weekly during this Lenten season.

My word for this year is surplus. It is a word which has been working on me for some time now. A couple of summers ago I was pondering how to make the work I love so much sustainable both energetically and financially. Even with work that arises out of passion, we bump up against our limits of what we can give and how much renewal we need.

As a contemplative and a strong introvert, my needs for quiet times are high and I am grateful for our seasonal rhythms which allow for extended times of restoration. But there is, of course, always the anxiety around money and being able to earn enough to live.

Then last summer my pondering shifted to consider something even more generous than merely sustainable: surplus. I am not just thinking about how to have enough energy and resources to meet the needs of this flourishing community, but to have more than enough, a surplus, an excess of reserves.

My word is inspired by a quote I read a couple of years ago by Jungian analyst Robert Johnson in his book? The Fisher King and the Handless Maiden: "Nothing happens, which is enough to frighten any modern person.? But that kind of nothingness is the accumulation or storing of healing energy. . . to have a store of energy accumulated is to have power in back of one.? We live with our psychic energy in modern times much as we do with our money—mortgaged into the next decade.? Most modern people are exhausted nearly all the time and never catch up to an equilibrium of energy, let alone have a store of energy behind them. With no energy in store, one cannot meet any new opportunity."? Those words have stayed with me ever since I read them, because I have recognized the contemplative call in them.

What makes this path so counter-cultural is the active resistance against living a life of busyness and exhaustion, of not making that a badge of pride, of having an abundance of time to ponder and live life more slowly and attentively. How many of us feel our energy is mortgaged into the next decade? How many of us can never catch up with the rest we so desperately need much less feel like we have a "store of energy" behind us? I think many of us live in the tension of "what is enough?" Enough time, enough money, enough love.

We are surrounded by messages of scarcity and so our anxiety gets fueled. I think one of the most profound practices to resist anxiety, to fast from its hold on me, is the practice of Sabbath. Walter Brueggeman, in his wonderful book Sabbath as Resistance, writes that the practice of Sabbath emerges from the Exo­dus story, where the Israelites are freed from the relentless labor and productivity of the Pharaoh-system in which the people are enslaved and full of the anxiety that deprivation brings.

Yahweh enters in and liberates them from this exhaustion, commanding that they take rest each week. We essentially live in this self-made, insatiable Pharaoh-system again. So weary are we, so burdened by consumer debt, working long hours with very little time off. So many take pride in wearing the badge of "busy." So many are stretched thin to the very edges of their resources.

When we practice Sabbath, we are making a visible statement that our lives are not defined by this perpetual anxiety. It requires a community to support us.  At the heart of this relationship is a God who celebrates the gift of rest. Brueggemann says we are so beholden to "accomplish­ing and achieving and possessing" that we refuse the gift given to us.

The Israelites, and we ourselves, must leave Egypt and our en­slavement to be able to dance and sing in freedom. Dance is a cel­ebratory act which is not "productive" but restorative. When we don't allow ourselves the gift of Sabbath rest, we deny the foun­dational joy that is our birthright as children of God. To dance in freedom is a prophetic act.

We are called to regularly cease, to trust the world will contin­ue on without us, and to know this embodiment of grace and gift as a revolutionary act. Nothing else needs to be done.

In the coming days, as part of my Lenten practice, I will fast from anxiety and the endless torrent of thoughts which rise up in my mind to paralyze me with fear of the future. I will reclaim the Sabbath, making a commitment to rest and to lay aside work and worry. I will give myself the gift of things that are truly restorative—some time spent in silence, a beautiful meal shared with a friend, a long walk in a beautiful place. Sabbath-keeping is an embodiment of our faith that there is something deeper at work in the world than the machinations of the power structure. It is a way for us to embody this profound trust and enter into the radical abundance at the heart of things.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Featured Poet: Jan Richardson

Last spring we launched a series with poets whose work we love and want to feature and will continue it moving forward.

Our next poet is Jan Richardson whose recent work is centered on grief, hope, and fierce, enduring love. Read her poetry and discover more about the connections she makes between poetry and the sacred. Lister to her read "Blessing for the Brokenhearted" below.

https://abbeyofthearts.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/Blessing-for-the-Brokenhearted.mp3



The Magdalene's Blessing

You hardly imagined

standing here,

everything you ever loved

suddenly returned to you

looking you in the eye

and calling your name.

And now

you do not know

how to abide this ache

in the center

of your chest

where a door

slams shut

and swings open

at the same time,

turning on the hinge

of your aching

and hopeful heart.

I tell you

this is not a banishment

from the garden.

This is an invitation,

a choice,

a threshold,

a gate.

This is your life

calling to you

from a place

you could never

have dreamed

but now that you

have glimpsed its edge

you cannot imagine

choosing any other way.

So let the tears come

as anointing,

as consecration,

and then

let them go.

Let this blessing

gather itself around you.

Let it give you

what you will need

for this journey.

You will not remember

the words—

they do not matter.

All you need to remember

is how it sounded

when you stood

in the place of death

and heard the living

call your name.

From Circle of Grace

Themes of Her Work

Just a few years after we were married, my husband and creative partner, the singer/songwriter Garrison Doles, died unexpectedly. No surprise, then, that much of my work explores the terrain of grief and loss, those experiences that are heartrending in their universality yet stunning in how specific they are to each one of us. What has struck me most, though, is what shows up amid the intense sorrow. Hope has proven to be wildly stubborn. And love, no matter how inextricably it lives with deepest grief, turns out to be infinitely more enduring, more fierce.

How Joy Works

You could not stop it

if you tried—

how this blessing

begins to sing

every time it sees

your face,

how it turns itself

in wonder

merely at the mention

of your name.

It is simply

how joy works,

going out to you

when you least expect,

running up to meet you

when you had not thought

to ask.

Poetry and the Sacred

Much of my poetry takes the form of blessings. I am fascinated by this ancient literary form that, in the scriptures and elsewhere, has a tangible quality: a blessing is something given, something passed along, often in a time of trouble or pain. A blessing testifies to, and calls upon, God's presence amid what may appear unendurable. It bears witness to the fact that nothing in our experience lies outside the circle of God's care.

In English, the word blessing shares the same root as blood. A blessing connects us. It has the power to do what all good poetry does: to help us find our heartbeat again, and be present to the love that, in an entirely unsentimental way, enables us to live.

In the wake of my husband's death, this has come home to me with particular clarity. Grief brings us into intimate contact with the most elemental forces within us. Poetry—the reading of it, the writing of it—helps us abide and work with those forces. It opens a space where the work becomes possible, becomes imaginable; it gives us tools to engage and name both the pain and the joy that can sometimes seem unspeakable.

God of the Living

"Now he is God not of the dead, but of the living;

for to him all of them are alive."

—Luke 20.38

When the wall

between the worlds

is too firm,

too close.

When it seems

all solidity

and sharp edges.

When every morning

you wake as if

flattened against it,

its forbidding presence

fairly pressing the breath

from you

all over again.

Then may you be given

a glimpse

of how weak the wall

and how strong what stirs

on the other side,

breathing with you

and blessing you

still,

forever bound to you

but freeing you

into this living,

into this world

so much wider

than you ever knew.

From The Cure for Sorrow

About Jan Richardson

Jan Richardson is an artist, writer, and ordained minister in the United Methodist Church. She serves as director of The Wellspring Studio, LLC, and has traveled widely as a retreat leader and conference speaker. Known for her distinctive intertwining of word and image, Jan's work has attracted an international audience drawn to the welcoming and imaginative spaces that she creates in her books, blogs, and events. Her books include The Cure for Sorrow, Night Visions, In the Sanctuary of Women, and Circle of Grace. Her new book, Sparrow: A Book of Life and Death and Life, will be released this spring.

A native Floridian several generations over, Jan makes her home in Central Florida. For more about her writing and artwork, visit JanRichardson.com, where you can also find links to order her books.

Dreaming of Stones

Christine Valters Paintner's new collection of poems Dreaming of Stones has been published by Paraclete Press.

The poems in Dreaming of Stones are about what endures: hope and desire, changing seasons, wild places, love, and the wisdom of mystics. Inspired by the poet's time living in Ireland these readings invite you into deeper ways of seeing the world. They have an incantational quality. Drawing on her commitment as a Benedictine oblate, the poems arise out of a practice of sitting in silence and lectio divina, in which life becomes the holy text.

Monk in the World: Sabbath 1 – Reflection by Christine ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

During this Jubilee year of sabbatical we are revisiting our Monk Manifesto by moving slowly through the Monk in the World retreat materials together every Sunday. Each week will offer new reflections on the theme and every six weeks will introduce a new principle.

Principle 6: 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.

"The meaning of the Sabbath is to celebrate time rather than space. Six days a week we live under the tyranny of things of space; on the Sabbath we try to become attuned to holiness in time. It is a day on which we are called upon to share in what is eternal in time, to turn from the results of creation to the mystery of creation; from the world of creation to the creation of the world."

—Abraham Joshua Heschel,  The Sabbath

The work of the monk is important, but equally important are rhythms of rest and restoration.  Benedict's Rule is exquisitely balanced. In a world which runs nonstop where we are always accessible, we have to make the choice to step out from under its tyranny of demands. Sabbath calls us to restore ourselves and remember that the world will go on without our labors. It is ultimately an act of humility which means to remember our earthiness. Sabbath gives honor to our gifts by also acknowledging our limitations.

Connected to the seasons of each day's rise and fall, we are called to embrace times of fallowness, of doing nothing, of simply being. Sabbath offers us this gift and helps to cultivate a contemplative commitment in the world.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Art © Kristin Noelle

A Different Kind of Fast Part II: Embrace Vulnerability

* This is the second part of a seven-part series we will publish weekly during this Lenten season.

In 2003 my mother became seriously ill quite suddenly and died a few days later in the ICU. I was only 33 at the time, she was my second parent to die and I had no siblings. I was left with a profound aloneness, even with my beloved husband's faithful companionship. I coped at first in the way that had always served me well. By being strong and holding everything together, keeping busy when I could so that I could distract myself from the tremendous grief.

Western culture rewards us greatly for being able to pull ourselves together and carry on with life. Speed, productivity, and a denial of difficult emotions are the hallmark of our times. In our rush to get things done we armor ourselves even more.

The problem was that I became ill. It was a number of vague things like fatigue, headaches, depression, skin rashes. During this time I discovered a practice called yin yoga in which seated or lying postures are held for 3-5 minutes with the aim of softening the connective tissues. I grew to love this time of sitting with my body and paying attention to the places of holding, of physical armoring, of tightness and tension. Breathing into these places with loving attention brought a great softening to my body. And in the midst of that softening other things began to loosen their grip – the self-critical thoughts which plagued me, my heart opened to the river of mourning and demanded my attention. Tears arose without bidding and I learned to welcome them in.

I also had a wonderful spiritual director to help guide me through this territory of savage grief. I took long contemplative walks and let the turning of the seasons become a scripture text for me which spoke of the necessity of autumn's release and winter's rest alongside of spring's blossoming and summer's fruitfulness.

In the early Christian desert tradition, tears were considered a gift. Softening was the fruit of committed prayer and practice. Tears were shed over our grief at loss but also at the places in our lives which had become hardened, the ways we had turned away from God.

Penthos are tears of compunction, a puncturing of the hard shell of the heart, which pierces to our core, reminding us of who we most deeply are. This "gift of tears," as they are sometimes referred to, reveals to us the misguided perfectionism, games, and manipulations we struggle to achieve, as well as the stories we tell ourselves. These tears free us from lying and any form of pretense that takes over when we feel anxious.

Orthodox theologian and author John Chryssavgis writes: "Tears and weeping indicate a significant frontier in the way of the desert. They bespeak a promise. In fact, they are the only way into the heart."This frontier is the boundary between our old way of seeing and believing and the wide new expansiveness into which contemplative prayer calls us. Compunction awakens us to all the ways we have been false to our own deepest self and to the profound longing that is kindled when we pay attention to the heart.

A story about Abba Arsenius says that he "had a hollow in his chest channeled out by the tearswhich fell from his eyes all his life while he sat at his manual work.

The "gift of tears" written about by the desert elders also is celebrated several centuries later by Spanish mystic St. Ignatius of Loyola. They are not about finding meaning in our pain and suffering. They do not give answers but instead call us to a deep attentiveness to the longings of our heart. They continue to flow until we drop our masks and self-deception and return to the source of our lives and longing. They are a sign that we have crossed a threshold into a profound sense of humility.

In the New Testament we find Jesus weeping over the death of his friend Lazarus, and over the city of Jerusalem. Certainly his final hours were a profound witness to the call of radical vulnerability as a portal to divine grace.

God is felt in the places of pain and sorrow, in the places of paradox and contradiction. Our tears reveal our deepest joys when we acknowledge that we cannot possess anything, neither the spring blossoming nor our partner in life. We learn to love without holding on. The times my marriage has bloomed even further have often been the times of shared vulnerability, when we allow ourselves to reveal our soft underbellies to one another.

My fast this Lent is taking different forms. I am being reminded again of the seductiveness of strength, of pretending that everything feels fine when I am struggling inside. I remember that the places of the greatest disruptions in my life have also been the occasions of the most profound gifts.

My Lenten discipline is to allow a great softening this season, and in the fertile earth of my heart, to see what begins to sprout there that never had a chance in the hardened soil.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Discover the Sacredness of Life with the Desert Mothers and Fathers

Christine has written an article on the desert mothers and fathers which is published with US Catholic! An excerpt is below.

The desert mothers and fathers have much to teach Catholics about contemplation and prayer. In the third- to sixth-century desert landscape of Egypt, Syria, Palestine, and Arabia, a powerful movement was happening. Christian monasticism began flowering in response to a call to leave the world behind. Christians withdrew from a society in which the misuse of human relationships, power, and material possessions ran counter to their sense of the sacredness of life.

Their journey into the desert was a movement toward growing intentional awareness of God's presence and recognizing that worldly pleasures bring little long-term satisfaction. Their aim was to experience God in each moment and activity by reducing their needs and committing themselves to the discipline of regular prayer and self-inquiry.

Click here to read the rest of the article>>

Monk in the World: Jennifer Trently

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Jennifer Trently's reflection on finding and extending hospitality in the midst of death.

Having committed myself to be a Monk in the World for the past seven years, I have found that at various times, parts of the manifesto are harder to carry out than others.  I like living by the cycle of seasonal liturgical rhythms and for the most part, enjoy a less hurried life. However, as spring began earlier this year and Lent was ending, I found myself being swept into a polar vortex beyond my control.  All of my plans of decompressing from my thesis, journeying through Holy Week and practicing Resurrection turned upside down.

In the Monk Manifesto, the second commitment reads:  "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."  There is nothing like death to challenge your abilities to offer hospitality and stretch the limits of your compassion.

Receiving a middle of the night phone call that my mother-in-law had died thwarted my husband and me into full-throttled travel mode.  We spent time cancelling and re-arranging appointments. Then we had to make travel arrangements, find a cat sitter, and pack etc. etc.  Even all of those well-laid out plans spoiled when the airlines cancelled our flight due to weather, and we had to drive through the night to PA to make it in time for the funeral.  Driving and stopping to switch drivers, depleted my energy, limiting my ability even to be patient, let alone extend compassion.

Soon after an extremely short rest, my being felt thrust into swirling emotions and swarming people overrode my circuitry. I could barely extend hospitality to the stranger within my own soul.  I called a friend and walked under an umbrella in the rain.  Sadness bubbled up as the house seemed too quiet without all of the TVs blaring and as the cupboards stood empty, I thought of how this ended an era, my visits to 11 Marion Circle the place where I first met my husband's family would be no more.  Radical acts of hospitality did come from friends and extended family who brought food and listened to us talk about Evelyn.

However, for the other within the part of myself, I did not recognize and could barely muster the energy to extend any kindness to, radical acts of hospitality came from those who had gone before.  The moment I seated myself down in the pew, and the funeral liturgy began, I found myself enveloped by the communion of saints, both those venerated by the church and those who had been gone before in humble, devout service without recognition.  Solace came from the recitation of the Divine Liturgy of St. John of Chrysostom, a liturgy in continuous use since the sixth century.  As I took in the Stained-glass windows and meditated on the icons, when my heart became too full to concentrate on the liturgy, the Saints took over.  The ritual, tradition and experience of those who went before me sustained me. The words, the prayers, the chants and the sacrament combined to fill my senses and give my spirit language for the unspeakable.  I felt united with those who worshipped in this spot over the past 150 years.  I thought about what my in-law's wedding was like, my husband's christening and the funeral for my father-in-law all held in that same church. Later as I lit candles for my mother-in-law, for all of our family and several others, I absorbed the light knowing that the Light, the place of God within me did not ever disappear.

The Light, the place of God, upheld me in the waiting and the wondering of what was to come.  Finally, we arrived at the cemetery, the same cemetery where her parents and grandparents occupied graves.  We went into the chapel again to hear the liturgy of old recited and then stood in front of the casket as the priest recited those infamous words, "…from dust you came and to dust you shall return."

In this combination of the ancient and the modern, my heart created space and claimed the confused, frustrated, grieving and lost parts of myself.  In receiving this gift, I found the ability to care for the others around me and to allow myself to rest knowing that all of us were apart of a larger community, an ongoing continuous community made up of past and present, of living and dead, of the known and unknown.

Jennifer Trently recently received an MA in Christian Spirituality from Oblate School of Theology, is a spiritual director and a contemplative artist.  She blogs at livingintomycalling.blogspot.com or visit her website, www.JenniferTrently.org.  Jennifer makes her home in Jackson, TN with her husband and two cats, Saya Ming and Macademina.

Monk in the World: Work 6 – Reflection Questions and Closing Blessing ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

During this Jubilee year of sabbatical we are revisiting our Monk Manifesto by moving slowly through the Monk in the World retreat materials together every Sunday. Each week will offer new reflections on the theme and every six weeks will introduce a new principle.

Principle 5: 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.

This week we offer you questions for reflection on the principle of being fully present to your work.

What is the love that calls you to your labors in the world?

Do you need to maintain a job to earn a living?

Does this work support your ability to also create and rest and dream?

How might you bring more love and delight to all of the tasks you are called to?

Closing Blessing from Christine 

God who labors through us,

we bring our full presence to work

and enter into an act of co-creation with you.

Support me in the endeavor to do everything with love,

remembering that each small act of compassion

is woven together into a great tapestry of kindness.

Bless my hands as I offer my gifts

in service to your unfolding grace.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner