Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 95

Monk in the World Guest Post: Nancy Agneberg

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to our Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Nancy Agneberg's reflection, Surprise, Nancy, You are Retired!

“So what do you do?”

My husband Bruce and I were spending a long weekend in one of our favorite vacation areas, Door County, WI. Often called the “New England of the Midwest,” Door County is a long, narrow peninsula with Green Bay on one side and Lake Michigan on the other. We loved roaming the countryside, as well as enjoying the water views. Restaurants, galleries, theatre. Time there was restorative.

One morning we stopped in a gallery where the artist-owner engaged Bruce in conversation, asking if this was our first visit to Door County and where we were staying. The usual. And then he asked the “What do you do?” question.

“I'm a hospice doc in Madison.”

“Wow, what an admirable thing,” he responded. I circled the gallery, hoping to avoid being asked the same “What do you do?” question, for I was not yet comfortable saying, “Oh, I'm one of the lucky ones. I'm retired.”

We had moved from Ohio to Madison, WI, recently, and I struggled to find my next step. I had reached out, sent out resumes, networked, made calls, followed leads, explored options, took classes. I gave it my best shot, but nothing seemed to click. At age 60, it seems, I had retired, much to my surprise.

Our Ohio home, Sweetwater Farm, had been a place of shelter and sanctuary where people felt privileged to spend time. Visiting us became an event, a ritual, a retreat. Our life there with the gardens and pond, the century home filled with antiques, the barn housing our personal petting zoo—llamas and sheep and geese and goats, donkey and chickens, oh my—was what many people say they, too, want. We lived the fantasy for many.

I completed my training as a spiritual director and met with clients there. I prepared classes and retreats, even leading some at the farm, and I enjoyed quiet writing time. I lived a contemplative life.

The first year in Madison, while waiting for the farm to sell, we lived in an unappealing apartment. Each time I walked up the dreary stairs and down a colorless hallway to a nameless door, I felt anonymous. I missed our cheery laundry room where quarters were not required. I resented the teeny-tiny mailbox that chewed up the home décor magazines I loved. When I sat on our small balcony for morning meditation, I missed the uninterrupted quiet I achieved without effort at the farm and instead, became privy to conversations I did not want to hear.

When I expressed to a friend how clueless I had been, she showed her surprise.

“Do you mean to tell me you didn't spend any time writing in your journal about what this move might mean for you? You are usually so reflective, seeing beneath the surface of situations.”

“I know and, of course, I filled page after page about this move and our new life here, but I truly thought I would be welcomed and recognized for what I could bring to the community.”

“Well, friend, I guess it is time to pull out your journal and go a bit deeper.”

Of course.

My inner voice, the one beneath morning traffic and slamming doors and crying children, invited me to clear the space, to find open space, to rest in the expanse in front of me, behind me. My sanctuary became the car, and I wandered country roads. I headed to where I could see beyond the rainbow. I looked for the first hints of fall or a hawk over the horizon. I took a deep breath and became the lone tree across the meadow with grass at my toes to keep me grounded and branches to touch the blues no one else sees.

Sometimes I went to the University of Wisconsin's student union on the shore of Lake Mendota where the water view welcomed me. “Come, sit as long as you want.” The expanse of water and sky momentarily set aside the yearning, the urgency to know, “what's next?” as I imagined myself floating into that expanse where waterline touches skyline, where body, mind and spirit unite, where what is far away is also close at hand.

These moments of reflection, of contemplation, helped ease me into acceptance, into the surprise of being retired.

I needed time to dry on the clothesline. Some slow sipping time. Some take a breath into midair time. Some time to hit the pause button. Time to cleanse the palate. Unsubscribe. Wade in the water. I needed time to honor the transition. Time to sit with the Divine, the Sacred, and enjoy the surprise. 

Nancy L. Agneberg, a writer and spiritual director, finds joy helping others deepen their relationship to the Divine, the Sacred, the Holy, especially as one ages. Currently, Nancy is writing a spiritual memoir about the spiritual invitations of moving and living in different homes. She posts frequently on her blog, Clearing the Space.

Imbolc and the Feast of St. Brigid ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

St. Brigid and the Fruit Tree



There was the moment

you could bear it no more.

Your eyes brimming with

great glistening drops

summoned by the hunger of

the world, the callous and

terrible things men and

women do to one another.

Your tears splashed onto

cold stony earth, ringing out

like bells calling monks to prayer,

like the river breaking open to

the wide expanse of sea.

From that salt-soaked ground

a fruit tree sprouts and rises.

I imagine pendulous pears,

tears transmuted to sweetness.

There will always be more grief

than we can bear.

There will always be ripe fruitflesh

making your fingers sticky from the juice.

Life is tidal, rising and receding,

its long loneliness, its lush loveliness,

no need to wish for low tide when

the banks are breaking.

The woman in labor straddles the doorway

screaming out your name.

You stand there on the threshold, weeping,

and pear trees still burst into blossom,

their branches hang so heavy, low,

you don’t even have to reach.

–Christine Valters Paintner

Dearest monks and artists,

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

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

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

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

St. Brigid is said to bring the first sign of life after the long dark nights of winter. She breathes into the landscape so that it begins to awaken. Snowdrops, the first flowers of spring are one of her symbols.

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

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

(This was excerpted from our self-study retreat Sacred Seasons)

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Dancing Monk Icon © Marcy Hall at Rabbit Room Arts (order a print here)

Monk in the World Guest Post: Anne Marie Vencill

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Anne Marie Vencill's reflection on the spirituality of beekeeping.

For more than 30 years I had an idea. It bubbled to the surface at odd times, often with the change of seasons. Thoughts tumbling; gossamer threads pulled out in moments of daydream. The reasons to keep it suppressed were numerous: early on there were frequent moves and limited resources; then a flush of children, five in six years; the busy-ness of caring for said children; the potential for failure. The list goes on. It broke wide-open while lingering over a cup of tea when my husband asked, “What would you like for Christmas?”

“A beehive!” I blurted out, not pausing all to think about my response.

A large box appeared next to the Christmas tree, resplendent in brown cardboard glory, beckoning me to enter with those who have gone before keeping bees: Gobnait, Hildegard, Bernard, Dominic, and Ambrose by association. I wonder, did this provide grounding for them too; the simple work of tending bees?

I have come to understand the keeping of bees is more than a popular “protect the pollinators” project; more than an intellectual entomological exercise. It is spiritual experience, exposing my greatest fears and wildest joys. Sometimes it brings an exhilarating sense of awe and understanding. Other times I am perplexed, unsure, even stung. Beekeeping, the ways of the hive, the hopeful anticipation of a fruitful harvest are metaphorical mirrors in my quest to be a monk in the world.

Bees, like me, move through different stages of life. They change both in physical form and function within the colony over time. The hive is mostly female. Newly hatched adults begin their work tending the young bees. They feed them, clean their cells, and cap them when they are ready to pupate. These workers stay close to the hive and are attentive to the needs of the individuals within the colony. It is only as bees age they leave the hive to forage for nectar, pollen, and eventually die.

For more than two decades, I too, stayed close to home. I was the full-time caretaker of my children. Some I homeschooled for a period. Now I find myself drifting uncomfortably through the flotsam and jetsam of mid-life. I struggle to understand how I fit into a family mostly grown and moving away (three of my children are in their early 20s, the other two in their late teens). The role that has defined me over the last 20+ years, is no longer. Suddenly I am not Elizabeth or Theresa or Benjamin or Alexander or Henry’s mother. I am just me … Anne Marie.

I play the “what if” game. What if I joined a religious order instead of marrying? What if I chose to pursue my academic career instead of raising a family? What if we moved? What if? What if? What if? It is like bees swarming. It unsettles me. Breeds discontent. Makes me prickly and on edge. I know I can’t go backwards yet I continue to play.

My physical form too has changed too. I have more gray hair, wrinkles, less muscle tone. I wear trifocal glasses. Sometimes I peer into the mirror and see my mother staring back. I am not the regal matriarch of my dreams. Bees too age. They become more ragged and worn, lose the pubescence that identifies newly hatched adults. This is when they leave the hive to forage for pollen and nectar. It is in mid-life they take flight.

Just as there is freedom in flight, there are conditions which may cause harm: mites, wax moths, hive beetles, extreme heat or cold, etc. In my own life, it is not varroa mites that infest, but a painful, crippling, exhausting, and debilitating disease: rheumatoid arthritis. Diagnosed nearly 20 years ago, I must face the reality that I can no longer just “push through” ignoring my body. The disease and medications have taken a toll: Constant pain that wakes me up at night and lasts all day, crippling fatigue, frequent and persistent illnesses brought on an immune system suppressed. I scream over and over and over in my mind, not fair! What have I done to deserve to suffer like this?

In those moments when I am trapped in pain or feeling sorry for myself or need to get out of my head, I wander back to the hives. They are a place of calm and peace. As I watch bees flying in and out, my heart rate slows. My mind focuses on something other than me. I marvel at the beauty and complexity of the bees, and the mystery of the One who created them. I can observe bees for hours without distraction or boredom. I talk to the bees. I move more deliberately and slowly, with care. I’ve been stung too, a wake-up call to be more mindful.

Maybe the bees call me to do this with my own life: To stand back, observe, marvel, and be mindful. To set aside my preconceived agenda and ebb and flow with the natural cycles of family and aging. To give myself permission to take flight and explore where I am at this moment. To move deliberately and slowly, taking time to enjoy what is.

Anne Marie Vencill is an entomologist from Athens, Georgia and works as an academic advisor at the University of Georgia. She is an avid quilter, knitter, and bee keeper.

 

New John of the Cross dancing monk icon ~ A love note from your online abbess

O night! O guide!

O night more loving than the dawn!

O night that joined

The lover with the Beloved;

Transformed, the lover into the Beloved drawn!

—excerpt from John of the Cross’ prayer

(contemporary musician Loreena McKennitt has a beautiful song with these words set to music)

Dearest monks and artists,

We have some new dancing monk icons which we will be sharing with you over the next few weeks. Artist Marcy Hall has been busy at work creating these delightful images. Last week we shared Teresa of Avila, this week is another Spanish mystic, John of the Cross. He is probably best known for his writing on the “dark night of the soul” and the exploration of what is called the apophatic path in Christian tradition.  Apophasis is a Greek term that means to deny and is also called the via negativa – the way of negation.  In apophatic spirituality all descriptions of God happen through saying what God is not like in the belief that with our limited human perspective we can never describe the full glory of God.

John of the Cross lived in 16thcentury Spain during a time of much religious persecution and he himself was imprisoned and tortured for many months during which time his many of his great poems were composed and insights into the dark night journey.

For John of the Cross the spiritual life is not about getting closer to God.  Instead it is a journey of consciousness.  We realize union with God, we don’t acquire it or receive it.  It is something we already possess but we need to let go of everything that keeps us from seeing this reality.  The dark night journey essentially is about stripping away all of our false idols and securities so that we might come to a more profound realization of the love that already dwells within us.

Even though we are made with love, filled with love, and meant for love, we feel separate and behave so destructively because we are asleep to the truth and we do not realize who and what we are for.  We also misplace our love, we become attached to things other than God.

We move through life and seek God in all kinds of religious images, feelings, and experiences.  We yearn for a glimpse of truth.  They are objects of our attention rather than the Divine subject.  God is too intimate to be a thing or object.  We see God reflected or represented, but miss the essence of the Divine being.  John describes God as “no-thing” or nada.  In all of the good things of life, God is not identified with any one of them.

When John of the Cross wrote about the dark night experience, he wasn’t using dark as a metaphor for something evil or sinister.  In our religious traditions we have often divided our experience into dark and light with dark symbolizing what is bad or rejected and light symbolizing what is good or what we strive for more of.  In this way of thinking, this is a holy darkness through which God helps us to release attachments and idolatries.

This is not meant to imply that God somehow “gives” us our suffering to then free us.  Instead as human beings, we will experience suffering, and through grace we can encounter God’s presence there with us guiding us and helping to give our suffering meaning.

The hallmark of the dark night experience is its obscurity – we feel disoriented, we don’t understand what is happening to us.  According to John of the Cross, the night involves us relinquishing our attachments we hold so dear, and takes us beneath our layers of denial into the inner landscape we try to avoid.

How do we navigate this journey?  Through staying committed to practice, to showing up for ourselves and life, being present to our experience, and not shutting down and through having a mentor along the way who can help offer us an anchor.  There is no way out, only through the heart.  Ultimately we take the journey alone, but it is helpful to have a wise guide who has gone through their own dark night to help us witness what is happening.

(This was excerpted from our self-study retreat A Midwinter God)

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Dancing Monk Icon © Marcy Hall at Rabbit Room Arts (order a print here)

Monk in the World Guest Post: Jessica Curtis

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Jessica Curtis' reflection, The Pace of Nature .

This past summer, I up and moved my family to France. I have always wanted my children to experience a different culture and learn a second language. The decision to do it now came more from a desire for them (and myself) to experience a different pace of life.

Back in the U.S., I thought I was making conscious decisions not to overschedule our family. Saying no to events, extra clubs and commitments. But by last spring, somehow, we were participating in sports six or seven days per week and eating dinner together only one or two nights per week. Swept up in the tide, we were running at the pace of the standard American family.

Now we are living in the French countryside. We are spending more time out in nature – hiking, collecting wild berries, exploring on bikes. We still have daily routines that include school and work, but other commitments have fallen away, and we have plenty of unstructured time for slowing down.

My kids are learning to create their own fun rather than participating in so many structured activities. I am learning to slow down and be present to what is here now.

No longer running, I notice the landscape, the moth, the rustling leaves. I notice the expansive view across the countryside, and I find the expansive space on the inside.

My breath deepens. I can feel the inner terrain fleshing itself out – rocky paths, dense brush, murmuring brooks. It is all as present within me as it is without.

This is the space of being, of inhabiting. There is more room here for intention instead of impatience, for reflection instead of reaction.

Of course, busy-ness has a habit of creeping in if we let it. I notice myself, at times, prioritizing productivity rather than presence. Thankfully, the Universe has a way of pointing this out – sometimes it is a traffic jam, sometimes it is a sewing machine that refuses to cooperate. I close my eyes and take a breath.

And suddenly I become present yet again.

In my mind, I have been calling it the pace of Nature. To be present with whatever the moment is offering. Sometimes it is absolutely lovely – like a gentle breeze on a warm day. Other times, it is more uncomfortable, and I want to run away to the land of productivity. By speeding up, I can (temporarily) avoid the discomfort.

In hiding from the discomfort, however, I also lose access to the awe, to the joy, to the celebration. And so I do my best to stay.

The pace of Nature reminds me that small things matter. Our fruit trees need small bee pollinators to bear fruit. My children need to hear words of encouragement and praise at the end of the day.

The pace of Nature reminds me that change takes time. The stones at the river’s edge were not always so smooth and rounded. I cannot change my habits overnight. Letting go of coping mechanisms will take time and practice.

The pace of Nature reminds me that there is always a broader perspective. I went hiking up in the mountains last month, and I could see so far that I lost track of size and distance. It was a majestic perspective. My desire to be productive and my desire to be present are not mutually exclusive. There is room in my life for both.

So, I sit in my garden and take time to reflect. It may be that the email doesn’t get sent immediately or that the laundry doesn’t get folded until tomorrow. In this moment, I am not looking to accomplish something. I am simply looking.

And I like what I see.

Jessica Curtis, M.Ed., CPCC, ACC works with people seeking growth, clarity and balance in their lives. A certified, professional coach, Jessica helps people cultivate intention and live a spiritually-centered life. Jessica currently lives outside of Lyon, France with her family and two cats. You can learn more about Jessica and her work at: www.jscurtiscoaching.com

New Teresa of Avila Dancing Monk Icon ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

We have some new dancing monk icons which we will be sharing with you over the next few weeks. Artist Marcy Hall has been busy at work creating these delightful images.

I love Spanish mystic St. Teresa of Avila’s very earthy spirituality, she is known for finding God among the pots and pans. Probably best known for her book on the soul’s inward journey, The Interior Castle, in which she likens the soul to a castle made from a single diamond, with a series of concentric rooms within. As the ego is slowly released and love is embraced, the soul eventually discovers the treasure of divine communion at the very center of things. She had such deep reverence for the dignity and beauty of the soul.

In this icon, I asked Marcy to take her inspiration from the famous statue by Bernini in Rome which depicts a scene from her autobiography in which she describes an angel piercing her heart and her state of complete ecstasy. This is the excerpt from her Life:

I saw in his hand a long spear of gold, and at the iron's point there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart, and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God. The pain was so great, that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish to be rid of it. The soul is satisfied now with nothing less than God. The pain is not bodily, but spiritual; though the body has its share in it. It is a caressing of love so sweet which now takes place between the soul and God, that I pray God of His goodness to make him experience it who may think that I am lying.

This is what I imagine the dancing monk might taste, some of the sweetness of ecstasy that comes when we touch the divine presence within us. We need more of this in our world wrought with division, to bring the tremendous grace of love at work within us more present to everything we do.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Dancing Monk Icon © Marcy Hall at Rabbit Room Arts (order a print here)

Christine's Reflection "Living Monasticism" Featured in Matter of Spirit

The wonderful folks at the Intercommunity Peace and Justice Center in Seattle chose the theme of "New Monasticism" for their winter issue of Matter of Spirit. I am delighted to have my reflection "Living Monasticism" featured on the front page. Lots of rich reflections in there including one from Laura Swan, the former Prioress at St. Placid Priory where I am a Benedictine oblate.

You can find my reflection as well as the whole issue here>>

There is also an audio version for download narrated by someone else.

Coming Home to Your Body ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

I was first diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis when I was 21 years old. The only other person I knew at the time with this disease was my mother and her body had been ravaged by the effects of deterioration, with multiple joint replacements and eventually use of an electric wheelchair for mobility.

I first dealt with my diagnosis through denial. I had just graduated from college and travelled across the country to begin a year of volunteer work. I managed to push my way through fatigue and pain for about six years before I was forced to stop. I was teaching high school at the time and my wrists were growing ever more painful. An x-ray revealed severe damage to the joints despite the aggressive medication I had been taking.

My doctor urged me to stop teaching, it was too much for my body. Thankfully I had private disability insurance through the school where I worked that helped sustain me financially first through a year of rest and healing and later through five years of graduate work to earn a PhD. I lived much of that time with the fear I would never be able to support myself financially. I was profoundly grateful for my loving husband who worked to provide for our needs.

During that first year of disability, without any work to claim when people asked me “what do you do?”, I was often in emotional pain as well over the loss of an identity. I didn’t look sick and often came judgment from others, or inner judgment about why I wasn’t trying harder. Many were supportive, but others offered unwelcome advice or explanations about how I wasn’t thinking the right thoughts. Dr. Joan Borsyenko describes this as “new age fundamentalism.”

A great gift arrived to me one day at church, when a woman asked me that dreaded question. I responded about taking time for healing and she said, “oh, you’re on a sabbatical.” And with that phrase came a wave of relief, a connection to ancient wisdom about our need at times for deep restoration. My body responded with such release.

Language has a way of breaking us through to new understandings, to shift us out of old stories which bind us. Illness can move us into a landscape where we feel keenly a sense of being a stranger – whether to our own bodies, or in navigating health care systems and doctors to find relief and support.

It has been my experience of illness that has been one of the greatest teachers about how to listen to my body’s wisdom and fall in love with her again. Chronic illness can be a kind of sacred journey which doesn’t require that I dismiss the profound pain and uncertainty it brings. Instead it asks me to embrace mystery and unknowing, to seek fellow companions along the way, to understand that the profound discomfort of having so much stripped away can reveal my own gifts in service of healing others.

The year I turned forty I flew to Vienna, Austria by myself for a time of retreat. During the flight I developed a pulmonary embolism which took me several days to get treated. It was terrifying to realize I could have easily died walking alone on those city streets. In allowing myself to be fully present to the fear, to witness my experience with profound compassion, I found myself moving away from the victim’s cry of “why me?” We will never know the answers to those questions.

There is powerful Greek myth about the young maiden Persephone who is abducted into the Underworld by Hades. It is a story of innocence lost. Many of us diagnosed with serious illness feel in some ways “abducted” by forces more powerful than ourselves. Persephone was told that if she ate anything while there she would need to stay, and while some versions say she was tricked into eating the pomegranate seeds, I prefer the versions where she makes this choice herself. As a result she is required to stay there part of each year and becomes the Queen of the Underworld.

She moves from victim to sovereignty. She steps into her role as guide and companion to others who find themselves in that Underworld territory. She becomes the wounded healer. Her wholeness is in both body and soul. We are invited to this wholeness ourselves. When we meet illness with compassion and attention, it can become a journey of initiation into a way of being that deeply honors the paradoxes of life and treasures the tender and grace-filled vulnerability of our bodies.

Join us for a powerful journey of returning home again: The Wisdom of the Body online retreat starts tomorrow! Through the wisdom of the Christian contemplative tradition and body awareness practices informed by yoga, movement, and meditation, you will be invited to fall in love with your body again. Includes live webinars, guest teachers, and a lovingly facilitated forum.

You can also read my reflection on the feast of Epiphany at the Abbey blog>>

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Give Me a Word 2018 Drawing Winners!

Thank you to everyone who participated in our 2018 Give Me a Word invitation! We had almost 360 participants take the online retreat to help a word choose you. Above is a word cloud made from all the words submitted by January 5th. Please note some appear larger when they were submitted more frequently. Some are quite tiny but are there in the spaces between.

We have done our random drawing and are delighted to announce the winners:

One space in our upcoming New Year's online retreat – The Wisdom of the Body Eva Micirua – Believe
One space in our Lent retreat – Watershed Moments in the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures – Julie Mitchell – Believe
One space in our online program Sacred Seasons: A Yearlong Journey through the Celtic Wheel of the Year – Jeannie Marsh – Be Still
4 people will win their choice of our self-study online retreats – Evelyn Jackson – Connection; Judith Doran – Enough; Alma – Flow; Susan Lees – Delight

Congratulations to everyone! If your name is listed above please get in touch with the Abbey so we can enroll you in your online retreats.

You are welcome to still share your word at this post>>

Monk in the World Guest Post: Barb Morris

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Barb Morris' reflection on the danger of being a Monk in the World.

“DANGER.” That’s the sign that should hang at the entrance to every cloister. In big red letters.

The fine print should say, “Warning: Being a Monk in the World is dangerous. Your commitments to silence and solitude, hospitality, community, kinship with creation, work, Sabbath, conversion, and creative joy are subversive and will cause conflict and strife in your everyday life. Your striving for greater wholeness and integrity will not always be peaceful.”

I wish someone had told me before I set foot on this contemplative path that my life would be disrupted. That sitting in silence, being present to Reality around and within me, would jostle loose my detente with the status quo. That accepting holy invitations from the Deep Voice would lead me to terrifying places of profound unrest.

Here’s the current disruption in my life created by my monk commitments.

I’m feeling a desire to leave church. I’m tired of masculine God talk and persistent imagery of atonement and sin. I’m tired of being complicit in the church’s refusal to acknowledge words and structures that are clearly harmful, especially to women, people of color, and the Earth. The glacial pace of change isn’t adequate for me anymore.

I’m a cradle Episcopalian married to an Episcopal priest. I love the Episcopal Church. (As I write, I’m listening to a Thomas Tallis Pandora station.) I’ve taken church sabbaticals several times in the last thirty years, choosing to be outside rather than inside behind stained glass windows. My sabbaticals have been difficult and disruptive for my husband’s parishioners who are also my friends. Leaving church is not a decision I make lightly.

So, what to do when actions that feel faithful and necessary to me seem unfaithful to others?

I remember that following the call of wilderness is not an unfaithful act. Going roadless is, on the contrary, an act of profound faith. Christians for centuries have jumped the cloister walls to seek direct experience of the Divine, unmediated by hierarchy, rules, and doctrinal decrees.

Jesus comes to mind.

The Desert Ammas and Abbas come to mind.

Our Celtic forebears, who sailed rudderless on the open seas in their curraghs, come to mind. Our Celtic forebears, who built isolated huts on the peaks of rocky mountain islands in the Atlantic Ocean and survived on puffins and gannets. Our Celtic forebears, who pioneered new forms of monasticism and evangelized Europe from their wilderness outposts.

There’s ample Christian precedent for going roadless.

Abbess Christine says this about roadlessness in The Soul of a Pilgrim: “The second-century bishop and theologian St. Irenaeus wrote that the true pilgrim was to live life in a state of ‘apavia,’ a Latin word which means 'roadless.' He called for a posture of deep trust in the leading of the Spirit, rather than human direction. In essence, he taught that the place where we don’t know where we’re going is also the place of greatest richness.”

Despite the assurance of St. Irenaeus, the wilderness still scares me, and not only because my going there makes others uncomfortable.

When I go roadless, I come face to face with threats I’d rather avoid.

I come face to face with my reliance on church, parents, teachers, and other authorities to tell me whether or not I’m getting it right.
I come face to face with what I really believe. Or don’t believe, as the case may be. I discover that received ideas about God, faith, and belief won’t cut it. I need sturdier stuff to survive out here. I need real food, real faith in a God that makes sense to me. The desert light shines through the holes in the fabric of my faith, and there’s no one out here to mend them but me.
I come face to face with parts of me I’d rather not meet. I see and hear the me that’s fearful, whiny, and childish. The me that judges and finds fault. The me that just wants things to be different than they are.
I come face to face with loneliness. I want friends, family, and community. I want companions on this roadless road.

Yet, when I’ve had the courage to go, I find the gifts of wilderness are worth facing my fears. I find what can only be found in wild, roadless places.

I find silence for hearing that Deep Voice, the “Bat Kol” of ancient Hebrew tradition for whom the Desert Ammas listened.
I find space for my heart. I can hear my yearning, my pain, and my hope with sharp-edged clarity because there are no external voices to distract me.
I find unexpected beauty. Rocks in the dusty road sparkle, and even the weeds and dirt are lovely.
I find my body, the ultimate wildness.

I’m going wild, for a season or two. Look for me on a mountain peak or sitting on a river rock, face to the sun, dusty feet in the water. I’ll be listening to what’s true for me, finding the bedrock of my faith, sweaty and free. I’ll be trusting in the holiness buried beneath doctrine, rules, and hierarchy to see me through.

Contemplative practices shepherd us back to our integrity and wholeness. Integrity and wholeness, like metamorphosis, shatter our static, shiny outer shells as new growth emerges.

The contemplative life is dangerous, and so worth the risk. I’m glad I didn’t see the warning sign!

Barb Morris is a life coach, writer, and artist living in Bend, Oregon with her Episcopal priest husband. They walked the Camino de Santiago in 2014. Barb is the author of the forthcoming book Choosing Transformation: A Handbook for Change. You can connect with her at www.barbmorris.com.