Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 88

Monk in the World Guest Post: Mary Davis

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Mary Davis' reflection, Creating a Tech Sabbath: Uninterrupted Being.

In unscheduled moments, my soul speaks and my heart listens.

Sundays are heavenly in my little “monastery” by the sea. This is my day to linger longer in morning meditation. A day when I can stretch, breathe and align without a phone chirping on the corner of my yoga mat. This is the day when my gratitude practice is not confined to a specific time of morning, but becomes a joyful journey of finding the holy in the small and the sacred in everyday moments. It is a day to read, to contemplate, to welcome and to allow.

For many years I have powered down all electronics on Sundays. It was a little stressful at first, and as the only employee of my inspirational creative arts business, there was no end to the stream of writing, digital art, and the making of cards and prints. Although everything that I write and create is spiritual in nature, it all takes place with my hands on a keyboard and my eyes on a screen. My soul aches for the freedom of looking into the distance, inside and out.

After a few Sundays of practice, I began to relish the open-ended flow of unstructured time to recharge my heart, create with my hands, nourish my soul and answer the call of spirit—without electronic interruption. I call this glorious day my Tech Sabbath.

The word Sabbath originates in the word sabat, meaning to stop or to rest. It is a day of renewal and devotion, honoring God’s rest following six magnificent days of creation. In monastic traditions, Sundays were a day of rest with a focus on meditation, prayer and devotional reading.

I, too, need spiritual renewal after six long days of worldly ways. I need the space to remember the tender truth that most real creation doesn’t take place on the phone. It happens in the heart. The heart deserves untethered time to integrate the lessons of the magnificent co-creation of the week. And so my Sabbath has become a day to honor the sacred spirit, remembering that wisdom and clarity originate in moments of stillness, prayer and listening.

In preparation for the Tech Sabbath, I tidy up my desk on Saturday night and ready myself for a fresh start on Monday morning. The excitement of spiritual freedom builds as I place special cloths over the desktop computer where my art is made and the laptop computer where my writing is done. The guidelines for Sundays are simple: to do nothing on a computer or phone, which includes no email, social media, news, online shopping or work of any kind. For my daughter or a friend in need, it is necessary to glance at texts, but I answer only the essential.

On any given Sunday my time might be completely unscheduled as I float with a steaming cup of Earl Grey to whatever nourishes my spirit. On the next Sunday I might have at the ready a good book, my journal, some cooking or hobby supplies, my kayak, my walking shoes—earthly tools that support my contemplative heart. The phone stays inside for beach walks, gardening and reading on the patio.

After a flurry of doing during the week, it is a retreat for my soul to step off the train of constant connectivity to bask in uninterrupted being. The walls of work that I build around myself for six days swing wide open to divine wisdom. I receive more focus, clarity and intuitive guidance when I step away and open up the channels of Sunday grace each week.

I have come to realize that my Tech Sabbath is one of the best gifts I have given to myself. I am slowly learning how to downshift into holy downtime, into rest and renewal, into lingering and listening, into being and allowing. I had to teach myself to break the endless routine of overworking at the computer and learn how to disconnect to reconnect, how to unplug to get centered, how to step away to come closer.

Creating space for uninterrupted being has become a sacred practice on my journey as a monk in the world.

Mary Davis is an author, wisdom seeker, spiritual teacher, graphic artist and founder of Every Day Spirit. She has a house by the sea and lives a contemplative life in harmony with nature. Her creative adventures can be found here: www.everydayspirit.net

 

 

Celtic Conversations with Christine Valters Paintner (a new podcast series!)

I am delighted to introduce a new podcast series, Celtic Conversations, inspired by my new book coming out on September 7th – The Soul's Slow Ripening: 12 Celtic Practices for Seeking the Sacred – and my time living in Ireland. I am hosting a series of conversations with authors, artists, and guides about Celtic spirituality. So find a cozy space and pour yourself a cup of tea.

In this first episode in the series, I am launching my book which is officially released this Friday and I share a bit about what inspired the series, some of what I love about the Celtic spiritual tradition, and the story of St. Kevin and the Blackbird, as well as the poem I wrote inspired by this story.

We have 12 episodes prepared for you which will be published each Monday:

Sept 3 – Christine Valters Paintner, The Soul's Slow Ripening: 12 Celtic Practices for Seeking the Sacred

Sept 10 – Christine Sine, Rest in the Moment: Reflections for Godly Pauses

Sept 17 – Dara Molloy, The Globalisation of God: Celtic Christianity's Nemesis and Legends in the Landscape

Sept 24 – Mary Earle, author of Holy Companions: Spiritual Practices with the Celtic Saints and Celtic Christian Spirituality

Oct 1 – Simon De Voil, interspiritual minister and musician

Oct 8 – Sharon Blackie, author of If Women Rose Rooted and The Enchanted Life

Oct 15 – Carl McColman, author of An Invitation to Celtic Wisdom

Oct 22 – Jenny Beale, founder of Brigit's Gardens in Rosscahill, Ireland

Oct 29 – Pius Murray, local guide in the Burren, Ireland

Nov 5 – Kayce Hughlett, author of SoulStrolling: Experiencing the Weight, Whispers, and Wings of the World

Nov 12 – Edward Sellner, author of Wisdom of the Celtic Saints

Nov 19 – Deirdre Ni Chinneide, retreat guide and musician

I shared this beautiful blessing "For One Who is Exhausted" to begin our time together.

*Opening music track is an excerpt from Simon DeVoil's song "Water" on his album Heart Medicine (used with kind permission)

Dreaming of the Sea: A Journey with the Selkie Myth ~ A love note from your online abbess

What She Does Not Know

(for unsuspecting Selkies everywhere)

She does not know there is a reason

she always feels out of place

her life rigid and small, like living in a doll’s house

a marriage more trap than longing

and when she chokes on courtesy and convention

the salt which burns her throat is not just tears.

She does not know that when she stands

on the sea’s wild edge and can finally

breathe, dream, weep,

her body strains forward

seawater in her veins, barnacles behind her knees

waves lap her ankles, thighs, torso, her cold breasts.

She does not know that when she swims

in that wide expanse and the swell

pulls her under, she does not need to struggle,

the sea has been longing for her as well –

everyone onshore aghast –

her daughter will grieve and wail and awaken

from dreams of the deep dark water also calling her name.

—Christine Valters Paintner

*(originally published in Tales of the Forest)

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

I have long loved the story of the Selkie. In the ancient Celtic stories Selkies are shapeshifters. They move between worlds. They are women who take the form of a seal when in the sea and human form on land. These stories appear across Ireland, Scotland, and the Faroes. When the Selkie comes ashore, she takes off her skin, and if this skin is captured by a human, she is forced to stay on land.

Clarissa Pinkola Estes writes in her reflection on the Selkie story in Women Who Run With the Wolves:

In the story, the old seal rises out of its own element to begin the call. It is a profound feature of the wild psyche that if we do not come on our own, if we aren’t paying attention to our own seasons and the time for return, the Old One will come for us, calling and calling until something in us responds. . . We can be too worn down by something. We can be overloved, underloved, overworked, underworked. . . each costs much. In the face of ‘too much’ we gradually become dry, our hearts become tired, our energies begin to become spare, and a mysterious longing for — we almost never have a name for it other than ‘a something’ – rises up in us more and more, then the Old One calls.

Over the last five years of living in Ireland, I have fallen passionately in love with the landscape and the stories that are rooted in it. This work with the power of stories comes from my love for Jungian psychology and working with the narrative structure of the psyche that is illumined through them. They carry us across a series of thresholds, moving inward, and then moving back out into the world again with new gifts and treasures. Stories are potent agents of change. Stories offer us the healing medicine we are so hungry for.

Mythologist Martin Shaw says: "Myth insists that in each of us a great kingdom presides: filled with forests, remote castles, giants, witches, lovers, the dreams of the earth itself. To hear a story well told was to bear witness to the wily tale of your own life meeting the bigger epic that those before you had walked. Such speech was a way you tasted your ancestors. We don’t have such stories: such stories have us."

Similar to the wonderful stories of saints that I love to enter into with my imagination because they invite me into a bigger life, these old myths can function in the same way.

I am offering an online retreat on the Selkie myth this fall, designed specifically for women. Please join us if you hear the sea calling to you.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Selkie Art©by Polly Burns

Monk in the World Guest Post: Michelle Kobriger

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Michelle Kobriger's reflection, "A Reluctant Pilgrim."

On Sunday mornings, I look forward to the Abbey of the Arts weekly email and its serendipitous bits of wisdom. Last October’s post describing the spiritual practice of peregrinatio was exceptionally timely— days earlier I’d been diagnosed with endometrial cancer.

Peregrinatio is a pilgrimage made for the love of God with no set destination. Celtic monks set out alone in small boats called coracles. Without rudder or oar, the monks trusted the wisdom in the water to carry them to the place of their resurrection.

I don’t have the courage or conviction of the monks who willingly climbed into their little boats. I like maps and plans. Nevertheless there I was in roiling water, stripped of all illusion of control. Waves of fear rocked my fragile craft as it lurched toward uncertain destinations, but I had to trust a greater force was guiding my journey.

In Celtic lore, dolphins bring healing and rebirth. The night after my diagnosis, two of them came to me in dream: I sat on a boat launch beside a lake, and one wriggled up the concrete ramp to lie beside me. Stroking its sleek grey skin, I was filled with a sense of peace. The other dolphin stayed in the lake just beyond the launch. Swimming patiently. Waiting. For me? I’m never keen to jump into an unknown body of water.

I used to wonder how people persevered in the face of a frightening diagnosis. I learned that when you feel the most alone and afraid in your little boat, helpful creatures pop up from the murky water to swim beside you. They’ll nudge your boat to keep it off the rocks, maybe push you along when the current slows — another way to say people showed up with homemade casseroles and soup. Some sent cards, brought flowers, or sent gifts. They phoned, texted, and emailed assurances of their love and prayers. I relaxed into the current of grace they made; a current strong enough to carry me through medical tests and consultations with new doctors, move me through days of waiting for the next appointment, procedure, or test result with more equanimity than I possess.

Ten days after a hysterectomy, I thought I’d arrived at the place of resurrection: the pathology report was completely normal! I was cancer free, but my journey in the coracle was just beginning. Two days later, my digestive system shutdown like someone flipped its “off” switch. Emergency Room staff diagnosed a post-surgical, small-bowel obstruction. It was a miserable five-day hospital stay: IV fluids, an NG tube siphoning my stomach and nothing to eat or drink. With boatloads of prayer and patience, my digestive system finally rebooted.

Back home, there was culture shock over the mismatch between the food in our house and my newly-prescribed low-fiber diet. Most of the fresh, whole foods I enjoy were off the menu for awhile, but canned peaches and white bread are a big upgrade from IV’s and ice chips.

Landmarks of my old life fell away during the months of recovery. Care-givers were hired for the two days a week I babysat my twin grandbabies. The non-profit arts organization where I was president and a volunteer for more than a decade was closing, and an artist guild I helped to run faced an uncertain future. The journey seemed orchestrated to keep me off balance, unable to rely on old patterns and assumptions, clearing the way for new life to emerge.

There was plenty of time to recuperate and I didn’t mind so much; resting in winter while the trees were bare and the gardens slept beneath a blanket of snow. Then daffodils bloomed and goldfinches sported their yellow summer garb. I grew frustrated and annoyed with my lack of stamina and persistent symptoms of malaise, but as every traveler should know; frustration, impatience, and anger never hasten the journey. Best to take a deep breath, surrender to the pace, and find something to appreciate.

I try to appreciate my body — scarred, road weary, and missing a few not absolutely essential parts — it held cancer at bay, ran a rigorous medical gauntlet, and still gets me where I need to go. Doctors prescribed “extreme self-care” for my recovery. According to folk-lore, dolphins come to teach lessons of self-love — lessons I need to embrace.

While scanning the horizon for my island of resurrection, I ponder radical questions: If I loved myself, what would I do right now? Can I nourish and support my body with love and compassion rather than resenting it for its frailty? Where do I lack appropriate boundaries? And — How do I resurrect my creative practice from a tomb of neglect — buried under the weight of everyone’s needs but my own?

Perhaps resurrection springs from the place where my needs intersect with the needs of others; the crossroads of service and deepest joy. The point of authentic “sacred yes.”

In this new, ever-shifting landscape, I have a clean slate upon which to reinvent my creative life. I listen for guidance in the songs of birds, the breath of wind in the trees, and the words of loved ones. I seek inspiration from the fresh blooms in my garden. I challenge myself to practice less doing, more being. And I picture a pair of dolphins swimming nearby, chattering cheerful reminders: “Breathe. Embrace joy!”

Michelle Kobriger is a metalsmith and mixed-media artist. At her home in Waukesha, Wisconsin,  cooking, gardening, and homemaking offer constant opportunity for creative expression in the spirit of Oscar Wilde’s words: “Life has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your sonnets.”

Allowing the Soul to Ripen and Unfold ~ A love note from your online abbess

St. Kevin Holds Open His Hand

Imagine being like Kevin,

your grasping fist softens,

fingers uncurl and

palms open, rest upward,

and the blackbird

weaves twigs and straw and bits of string

in the begging bowl of your hand,

you feel the delicate weight of

speckled blue orbs descend,

and her feathered warmth

settling in for a while.

How many days can you stay,

open,

waiting

for the shell

to fissure and crack,

awaiting the slow emergence

of tiny gaping mouths

and slick wings

that need time to strengthen?

Are you willing to wait and watch?

To not withdraw your

affections too soon?

Can you fall in love with the

exquisite ache in your arms

knowing the hatching it holds?

Can you stay not knowing

how broad those wings will

become, or how they will fly

awkwardly at first,

then soar above you

until you have become the sky

and all that remains is

your tiny shadow

swooping across the earth.

—Christine Valters Paintner

*(originally published in Skylight 47)

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

John and I arrived in Galway five and a half years ago in the midst of a life pilgrimage.  It can be hard to explain sometimes how we ended up in this place. It is certainly beautiful, perched on the edge of the ocean, with a feeling of being on the wild edges of Europe. The Irish people are genuinely warm and welcoming to us. We have ancestral connections to this land, and so something in our blood draws us to this place.

After years of claiming the path of monastic spirituality as the one most life-giving for us, it makes perfect “sense” that we would land in Ireland, a place where monasticism flourished for so many centuries in a unique form from more Roman-centered monasticism.

Here on this Irish soil we discover the sheer plenitude of monastic ruins within an hour of where we live, because it was so much a vibrant part of the culture. We immerse ourselves in the stories of saints like Brigid, Brendan, Patrick, and Columcille, hearing them whisper across the landscape.

We find a path that is more about following one’s own ripening and unfolding rather than looking for the straight path and plan. There is a wonderful story about St. Kevin, who founded the holy city of Glendalough, south of Dublin. In his prayer, kneeling with arms outstretched and palms open, a blackbird lands in his hand and nests. He feels her laying eggs and realizes he has to stay in this position until the birds are hatched. It is a marvelous description of holy yielding of our own agendas, to the birthing happening already around and within us.

This monastic path calls us to let go of our own plans. As the poet David Whyte writes, “what you can plan is too small for you to live.” This is the beauty of this ancient way. It teaches us through stories and practice and very concrete way to let go of plans and surrender to the Divine current carrying us to our own places of resurrection.

My newest book coming in September, The Soul’s Slow Ripening: 12 Celtic Practices for Seekers of the Sacred is about a way of discernment that is more spiral, less linear, more about ripening and unfolding, than planning and striving.

If you pre-order you can receive a free gift from me to you of an online mini-retreat. E-mail a copy of your receipt to my wonderful assistant Melinda and she will send you the gift.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Dancing Monk Icon © Marcy Hall at Rabbit Room Arts

Monk in the World Guest Post: Rachel Grenier

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to our Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Rachel Grenier's reflection "Returning to the Path."

When I sat down with my devotional this morning, I realized it had been a month since I had last cracked its cover. My days had been busy, and loud, and chaotic, weaving themselves into weeks, then a full month before I realized how long it had been since we had visited together.

Fortunately, God does not withhold from us in retribution for our departures – however frequent or extended. Instead, God welcomes us back with great joy and celebration. And much like the prodigal son, I too was rewarded for my return.

For the first time in a month, I allowed myself to sit quietly, face raised toward the sun, breeze cool upon my cheeks (a seemingly simple task made challenging by the ever-present and overly competitive to-do list flashing wildly through my mind).

Eyes closed and palms open and ready to receive, a surprising and beautiful image began to form in my mind. A wide, shimmering, golden ribbon unfurled in front of me, like the red carpet leading royalty to their place of honor. Like a pathway for me to follow. I watched as it rolled out of my driveway, down my street, and stretched into the distance, the end fading from sight.

Soon, though, I noticed the ribbon’s perfection was marred by a rat’s nest of black squiggles branching off in various points along the way. The lines would veer off and run in tangled circles – eventually returning to the path, but only after ugly, confusing, circuitous detours.

Right there, in the midst of my meditation, I laughed out loud as the realization hit me: The black squiggles were my own additions to the perfect path marked out for me! Lines drawn by my decisions to go in a different direction, or distractions that pulled me from where I was meant to go.

I composed myself and continued to sit patiently, enjoying the vision – and God’s sense of humor.

As I gazed at my golden pathway, others began to appear. Criss-crossing, creating a beautiful, shimmering, golden web. I followed my ribbon with my mind’s eye, noting all the times it intersected with another. The connectivity was startling, and I was struck by the visual depiction of the many opportunities we have to touch the lives of others – however brief our overlapping paths may be.

I felt a light tugging in my chest. In my mind, I looked down and saw that my ribbon was attached to my heart. Gently pulling me in the direction it led.

It was time to move.

“OK, God,” I said, wryly. “But I have to go the bathroom first.”

I opened my eyes, reluctant to leave my meditation but intrigued by where it might lead. I picked up my imaginary black marker and began to draw my detour as I used the restroom, brushed my teeth, put on some makeup, packed a lunch (who knows where this pathway may go … I might get hungry along the way!). All the while, my golden ribbon sat patiently and waited.

Finally, I climbed into my car and merged back onto my ribbon, following it out of my driveway, down the street, through my neighborhood. As I turned onto the main road, my breath caught in my throat, and goosebumps broke out all over my arms and legs.

I kid you not: A real, not-in-my-mind, but of-this-world golden pathway ran straight down the middle of my lane. A 3-foot-wide swath of gold-yellow, bright against the black asphalt.

“A paint truck must’ve sprung a leak,” my ever-logical left brain explained to my pounding heart. “It’s just a coincidence.”

“Be quiet,” I told it, hands firmly on the steering wheel. I followed the path at 35 MPH as it grew fainter and fainter, before disappearing completely.

And while I could no longer see it, I knew I was on the right road.

I knew I had been blessed with a rare experience, a brief but incredibly tangible encounter, designed to remind me that God is there, that the pathway laid out for me – for each of us – does exist, even when we can’t see it, even when we stray far from it.

I believe God allowed me to see it for that fleeting moment as a way to renew and strengthen my faith – and to encourage me to come home more often.

And now I am gently reminded I just need to regularly take the time to listen, to breathe, to quiet that demanding to-do list.

To minimize the circuitous detours I create for myself.

To feel the tug at my heart.

To welcome and seek out – not avoid – the opportunities I have for my path to intersect with others.

And to step out confidently, trusting that the ground under my feet isn’t just dirt or rocks or asphalt, but a beautiful, shimmering, golden ribbon, leading me along the path God has planned for me.

Rachel is a writer, daughter, wife and mother who migrates between Alaska and Hawaii – the only two places she has ever called home.

 

 

The Soul’s Slow Ripening: 12 Celtic Practices for Seekers of the Sacred ~ A love note from your online abbess

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

In 2007 I traveled to Ireland with my husband John and began to fall in love with the path of Irish monasticism. I discovered stories and a way of moving through the world that felt more spiral and less linear, more organic and less structured. The early period of Irish monasticism is quite unique in that it was less influenced by the Roman church and desire for uniformity of practice. The Irish monks integrated Christian teachings with the Druidic wisdom of their ancestors, and created a spirituality that was much more indigenous to the place they lived. It honoured the landscape and the places that were already considered holy, it honoured the rhythm of the seasons as sacred.

Five years later, as the result of much listening to our lives and following the threads that were unfolding, John and I embarked on a midlife pilgrimage and moved from the U.S. to Europe. First came time in Vienna, the city where my father was buried, and then six months later we settled in Galway, Ireland, on the wild west coast of the very fringes of the European continent. Our journey was very much into the unknown. We did not know when we left behind the life we loved in Seattle where the following years would take us. The unfolding journey has been far more wonderful than anything I could have imagined.

We have found in Ireland an even richer immersion in Irish culture and ways of being in the world, which are decidedly less controlled, structured, and planned than the American ways we are used to. We have learned to embrace Irish understanding of time with more fluidity. This is challenging at times, but ultimately invites us into a way of being that is more relaxed and spontaneous. There are often no street signs to guide you and so you have to make peace with getting lost more often.

Along the way, we have been introduced to many of the great Irish saints of this land, whose stories offer the kind of wisdom the desert monks also brought. The Irish saints were profoundly influenced by desert spirituality and they sought out wilderness places and radical solitude for deepened intimacy with the divine. We knew that monasticism had flourished in Ireland in the early Middle Ages, but were unprepared for just how many monastic ruins saturate this landscape. Within an hour’s drive of our home are dozens of monasteries which are now stone sanctuaries, overgrown with herbs and vines, but still holding the prayers of thousands. We were also unprepared for the deep hunger that people had to visit this sacred land in ways that were slow-paced, community-building, and nourishing to the spirit. Leading pilgrimages here remains one of our great joys.

In addition to the sacred land, come a variety of spiritual practices unique to the Celtic imagination. Practices which include walking the rounds at holy places sunwise, in harmony with cosmic forces, as a way to arrive, ask permission to be received, and move out of our linear thought process. There are practices of encircling oneself as a means of protection from harmful energies, of peregrinatio, a form of pilgrimage unique to Ireland. The Irish monks also treasured learning by heart, blessing each moment, and listening to the wisdom of dreams.

My newest book coming in September, The Soul’s Slow Ripening: 12 Celtic Practices for Seekers of the Sacred, is a love letter back to this land that has adopted me, welcomed me in with such care and warmth. It is my way of celebrating all that makes this place beautiful and sacred.

Edward C. Sellner, who wrote the wonderful book Wisdom of the Celtic Saints had this to say:

“Christine Valters Painter has written another excellent book for spiritual seekers desiring insight, encouragement, and inspiration on their spiritual paths. In The Soul’s Slow Ripening, she provides readers a series of practices inspired by the Irish traditions that will help readers, as she says, live into ‘new ways of being’ by pursuing such helpful practices as working with dreams, going on pilgrimages, having a soul friend, and seeking solitude. I cannot recommend enough this practical guide to soul-making.”

If you pre-order you can receive a free gift from me to you of an online mini-retreat. Email a copy of your receipt to my wonderful assistant Melinda and she will send you the free gift.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Monk in the World Guest Post: Marlene Kropf

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Marlene Kropf's reflection on practices of solitude, shared prayer, and contemplative walking.

Monasteries are favored retreat spaces for my husband and me.  When we travel, we seek out monastic communities along the way and sometimes book a couple of retreat nights in the midst of our itinerary.  Whether in the United States, Canada, Scotland, England, or Ireland, we’ve enjoyed warm hospitality and peaceful, beautiful settings in many communities of prayer.  Usually we spend our days in solitude – praying, journaling, resting, eating mindfully, and walking in the monastic gardens, nearby forests, or along rivers or shorelines.  At the end of the day we share an hour of reflective conversation, discerning together how we’ve been moved by the Spirit.

Because of the ways we are nourished by solitude and communal prayer, we look for ways to incorporate monastic rhythms into our everyday life.  One way we do this is by sharing morning prayer together, using a variety of Daily Office guides from contemplative communities.  We pause after breakfast to sing a chant, listen to sacred texts, and offer our prayers of thanksgiving and intercession as the day begins.

Recently we’ve engaged in a new practice:  contemplative walking in a nearby nature reserve.  With 150 acres of Northwest woodlands and gardens, Bloedel Reserve, located on Bainbridge Island (WA), offers a welcoming environment for prayer and contemplation.  With an annual membership, we are able to visit regularly – many times with guests but often by ourselves.  When it’s just the two of us, we take advantage of the opportunity to engage in a contemplative walking retreat.  For us, that means strolling through the gardens in silence, opening ourselves to sights and sounds unfolding along the way:  ducks and geese floating peacefully on a pond, the unfurling of ferns in springtime, a profusion of colorful blossoms along the trail, reflections of passing clouds in a reflecting pool, sunlight dancing on textured moss and tree bark, birdsong drifting above us, and a panoramic view of the waters of Puget Sound. Each season brings new delights.

Beyond absorbing the beauty and wonder of this special place, we listen deep within for the Spirit’s voice of comfort, guidance, and challenge.  At the end of our walk, we pause to talk with each other about what we’ve seen and heard.  We return home with hearts and bodies refreshed.

Though we can’t always get away to a monastery, the practices of solitude, shared prayer, and contemplative walking can enliven ordinary life with the same kind of awareness we experience when visiting a monastic community.

Marlene Kropf, who lives in Port Townsend, Washington, is a spiritual director, retired seminary professor, and ordained Mennonite minister.  For the past twenty years she has regularly led Celtic Pilgrimages to sacred sites in Scotland, England, Ireland, Northern Ireland, and Wales.  She and her husband Stanley enjoy contemplative walking.

Celebrate the Sacred Feminine ~ A love note from your online abbess

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims,

August 15this the Feast of the Assumption, a feast which celebrates Mary’s elevated role in the Christian church as the bringer of the holy to birth. Mary has received many names and titles over the centuries: Star of the Sea, Greenest Branch, Seat of Wisdom, and Gate of Heaven to name a few. She is multifaceted, offering us many possibilities for guidance and support on our own journeys of birthing.

Mary as Mother of Mercy

2016 was celebrated as a Year of Divine Mercy in the Catholic Church. The Pope wanted the whole Church to be reawakened to Mercy, which in the context of Christian teachings, refers to concepts such as forgiveness, healing, hope and compassion for all fellow human beings. He called for a ‘revolution of tenderness’ in the Church through a renewed focus on these values. I love that image of a revolution of tenderness, and Mary seems to be a perfect ally on that journey. What might the world look like if we embraced tenderness as a primary quality? What if being tender were at the heart of our spiritual journeys?

Divine mercy is that completely gratuitous and abundant, unearned grace.  When we pray the Hail Mary we describe her as “full of grace.” Mary is the embodiment of divine mercy, that lavish gift of kindness and care.

Mercy is defined as “compassion or forgiveness shown towards someone whom it is within one's power to punish or harm.” Many of the biblical stories point us toward mercy, to show a generosity of heart and spirit especially toward those who are poor, marginalized, and living on the rough edges of society.

Mary as Mother of Mercy, extends her reach out to all those who are on the edges. She also calls us to extend this mercy within ourselves to all those places within that we have abandoned or exiled. She invites us to consider those tender and fragile places within which we have rejected for so long. At the heart of mercy is a radical hospitality where the stranger is welcomed in with abundant care and compassion.

We live in a world where terrible things happen every day, sometimes to people far away, and sometimes in our own homes and hearts. We are prompted to call out “How long O God?” in heartfelt lament. Mary is the one who hears these cries and meets us in our grief and anguish. Sibyl will be exploring Mary as the Mother of Sorrows in a couple of days. Mary as Mother of Mercy is her close sister. She is the one we long for, especially when we encounter our own frayed edges.

We see a world filled with violence toward one another, we ask for mercy.

We see children and the elderly dwelling in poverty, we ask for mercy.

We see the earth being slowly choked and poisoned, we ask for mercy.

We recognize the ways our own choices contribute to the above realities, we ask for mercy.

It is in the humbling journey toward lament and a reaching toward the mercy of Mary that we may meet ourselves in new ways. We learn to welcome in the vulnerable places. It is this revolution of tenderness that will move us to a new way of being in the world that relies less on force and power, and more on love and kindness.

View the powerful icon Our Lady Mother of Ferguson at this link>>

This reflection is excerpted from our self-study online retreat The Wisdom of Mary and the Sacred Feminine>>

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Dancing Monk Icon © Marcy Hall at Rabbit Room Arts

Monk in the World Guest Post: Anne Marie Vencill

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to our Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Anne Marie Vencill's reflection on the art of quilting as a spiritual practice.

An email set me on my quest to be a monk in the world.

It simply said, “I discovered Abbey of the Arts a few years ago. Can’t remember if I shared it with you. It has a lot of good things.” I clicked the link and found St. Gobnait, the art of Marcy Hall, a manifesto that resounded, and doubt. How could I possibly join a group of artists?

I remember thinking, “Of course the sender of the email fits into a community of artists. She is a musical talent and relatively well-known in our community. She has a lovely voice. She is an amazing singer. She teaches at the university where we live.

I was a stay-at-home mom with five teenage children, an abandoned career, and no talents of seeming value. Yet I found the story of St. Gobnait so compelling, I did what I do when I am inspired, sad, praying fervently for someone, wanting to express gratitude; I made a quilt. (I must admit, having studied entomology, it was the bees in her story that wooed me.) At the time, it did not occur to me that quilting was not only an artistic endeavor, but played a significant role in nourishing my faith.

Quilting makes me happy. It feeds a creative place inside me in a way nothing else does, while at the same time giving a nod to the practical person I am. I love gifting someone a quilt and imagining them wrapping up in it or hanging it on the wall. I hope they somehow feel the love, kind thoughts, prayers, and me sewn into it.

I designed and sewed my first quilt some 40 years ago when I was in fifth grade. It was a gift for my youngest brother when he was born. I have been quilting ever since!  I like a wide variety of patterns, colors, and fabrics. Batiks are my favorite. Much of the time I create my own designs. I find inspiration everywhere: in the mundane activities required to maintain a household; in nature; from what I read, see, and experience; in my imagination. Quilting is my outlet for being a monk in the world. My sewing space is a place of solitude; a place to rest and be refreshed; a place to be challenged and pushed; a place to step-back, learn, and create.

It takes time to construct a quilt. Often, I find myself spending that time in prayer, using the rhythm of the sewing machine as a mantra. It becomes a holy pause in my sometimes hectic and stressful life, an opportunity to dig down into the essence of who I am and pour that into the pieces of cotton cut apart and put back together; the same, yet different. I like to think that this work of my hands is holy work. Quilting is also a connection to many women who have gone before me; women who used this seemingly utilitarian craft to tell their story. This too, is how I tell my story.

It has taken me a long time to realize and accept that making quilts is the most authentic expression of me and to acknowledge what I do when I quilt is create art. Perhaps the best compliment I have every received regarding my quilts came from my middle, middle child who said to his brother, “If Mom asks you if you want a quilt, say ‘yes’. Her quilts are awesome!”

So here it is. My quest: Accept who I am. Love who I am. Share who I am. That’s a lot of fabric to cut and sew together. (And thanks Ellen, for sending that email.)

Anne Marie Vencill lives in Athens, Georgia with her husband and some of her five teenage/early 20s children. She holds a PhD in Entomology and currently works as an academic advisor at the University of Georgia. She is an avid quilter and knitter and bee keeper.