Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 95

Monk in the World Guest Post: Dotti Delff

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Dotti Delffs' reflection, Spiritual Practicals.

When I first heard of spiritual practices I thought you had to be Catholic or Greek Orthodox or some sort of woo-woo denomination to practice them. Then about twelve years ago, I was talking to a friend who had just completed a Benedictine spiritual formation program. I had no idea what such a program would involve but something inside me said, “I have to do that.” Two days later, I was sitting in a large room of strangers who were speaking a new language, and who seemed way close to God.

For the next two years I learned about prayer, listening, journaling, silence, meditation, spiritual direction and other spiritual practices. I learned what the word “intentional” meant. I learned my Enneagram type and began to make sense of the thoughts and behaviors that had baffled me most of my life. I was introduced to Benedict and his Way. I saw nuns protest violence in war and take to the streets to do spiritual direction with homeless people. I was drawn into this mystical life with God that I had always desired but had never encountered in my evangelical Southern Baptist church.

At first I was overwhelmed. I understood that “practice” means ongoing attempts, but I just couldn’t practice like everyone else seemed to so naturally. I had my moments and these kept me going while I waited for the practices to become easier and not so mystical. I wanted God just to slip them into me one day when I wasn’t looking. I was missing the point of spiritual practice, but starting out I was all the raw material I had to work with. I assumed I did these practices for my own benefit, but they seemed so disruptive. I had a busy life filled with people and responsibilities. I needed more time. I needed a quieter life. I needed to go away to be alone with God.

Then after recovering from cancer, I started to work out again and ended up in a class called “therapeutic yoga,” intended for people with injuries or challenges. While the trends dictated adding more heat and speed to yoga classes, this one was slow and cool. There were no mirrors (which I highly recommend) and our mats became our islands, our own small piece of the earth. What I loved most about the class was my teacher’s ability to break down a pose into its components, recruiting and warming up parts of our bodies until we combined them to build the final pose.

This method of thinking led me to reflect on my life in the same way. What were the components to becoming more intentional with God? I soon found myself contemplating my everyday life and the small things I could do to build a spiritual practice. They were small things, components of larger practices, like focusing on my breathing as I cleaned up the kitchen, but they fit who I am.

So I began to call them “spiritual practicals” instead of practices. While practices seemed large and lofty, I was pleased to look up “practical” in my dictionary and find it means “relating to what is real rather than to what is possible or imagined, likely to succeed and reasonable to do or use, appropriate or suited for actual use.” This shift in focus, with its implication for success in everyday use, felt like an invitation to me.

One of my favorite spiritual practicals came about when I tripped over the phrase “practice suffering” in a devotional I was reading. The more I thought about it, the more my heart grew curious. “Why would I want to do that? Don’t I suffer enough?” Then I realized, “No, I don’t—not really.”

Long lines at grocery stores. Traffic that’s not moving. Last-minute cancellations. These “first-world problems” are mostly out of my control, yet they make me furiously frustrated. If my anger or frustration is disproportionate to my situation, which almost always involves waiting, then I have not suffered enough to take my eyes off myself. Whether it is waiting for my turn in traffic, or waiting for an answer to prayer, I can teach myself to relax in the present moment.

There are two ways I can accomplish this: 1) Once a day, just say no to convenience and comfort. Instead, choose the longest line. Refuse dessert. Drive slower. Test my own patience. Practice waiting. 2) Bring my attention to the present moment by asking what is this situation saying to me right then.

In Romans 5:3 Paul says, “suffering produces perseverance.” I don’t really think he was talking about waiting in line or delayed gratification.  He was referring to suffering because of belief in Jesus. Most of us don’t face that kind of suffering regularly. And I suspect if we can’t say no to an extra dessert, or wait patiently for the light to change, we don’t stand a chance when the really tough stuff happens.

Studying my own life and, in a sense, putting a frame around a small aspect and naming it, creates intention. It speaks to my roots that began in the pews of a Southern Baptist church but also to my deep wellspring of desire to know God in a way that bears no explanation. I’ve learned spiritual practices are both personal and universal—and always practical.

Dotti Delffs, from Michigan, is a caregiver to older people who want to stay in their own homes. She loves all things having to do with spiritual practice. She is trained as a counselor and spiritual director.

Wisdom of Mary and the Sacred Feminine (Advent retreat starts today!) ~ A love note from your online abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

This reflection is an excerpt from the first day’s reflection in our Advent retreat online that begins today where we explore the various titles and names for Mary.

Mary has gone by many names in the Christian tradition. My approach to these names is influenced strongly by Jungian thought on the archetypes. Archetypes are universal energies that we all experience through dreams and collective symbols. I am drawn to the names of Mary because I believe that their multitude of images points to images we hunger for and ultimately find within ourselves. Mary can be a mirror for our deepest sacred longings.

Mary is also the counterbalance to a tradition where the divine has been heavily masculinized and patriarchal. We need the masculine energies in their healthy forms, just as we need the feminine in her life-giving aspects. This retreat welcomes you to embrace both.

One of my favorite books about Mary is by Jungian author David Richo – Mary Within Us: A Jungian Contemplation of Her Titles and Powers (recently released under a new title – When Mary Becomes Cosmic: A Jungian and Mystical Path to the Divine Feminine). In it he writes that Jesus and Mary offer us windows into the essential self. His book draws on the Litany of Loreto which names Mary in a variety of ways. “Litany titles are fields of energy in the spiritual world. They describe what is in us potentially and what we are called to display in and disperse into the universe.”

We begin with the title of Mary as Virgin, because it is perhaps one of the most familiar. Marion Woodman, another great Jungian teacher and writer, describes the virgin archetype (The Pregnant Virgin: A Process of Psychological Transformation) as having less to do with physical intactness and purity, as it does with emotional wholeness and sovereign power. The Virgin archetype is whole, belonging to herself, and impregnated with divine love. “She is who she is because that is who she is.” She is free of the dictates of family and culture. The Virgin reconciles all opposites within herself and has everything she needs within to bring new things to life.

Interestingly, in ancient times there were many stories about virgin births to indicate the heroic or divine nature of a person. David Richo writes that “The virginity of Mary means that incarnation is about the conception and birth of higher consciousness without the intercedence or necessity of any human agency i.e., ego. The Incarnation is a spiritual reality not a literal one.”

When the angel Gabriel visits Mary, she is given a choice rather than a demand. Mary is both active in her openness to choice and saying yes to the angel’s invitation, as well as surrendering to the divine desire: “Let it be done to me.” The divine unfolding is dependent upon Mary’s full “yes.”

The Virgin invites us to integrate both the feminine and masculine energies within us, cultivate a deep connection to the divine within, and open ourselves fully to our inner resources. She reminds us that ultimately we do not rely on anyone else for our sense of power and presence in the world other than the divine spark within.

We hope you will consider joining us for this sacred season ahead!

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Writing on the Wild Edges: Participant Poems (Pamela Smith)

This past October we led one of our Writing on the Wild Edges retreats on the beautiful island of Inismor off the coast of Galway. We will be sharing some of the writing which participants gave us permission to share here in the next few weeks. Up next are poems by Pamela Smith.

Something about a Door



Something there is about a door,

Each evokes a closer knowing.

This door, unassuming grey and weather worn;

Another, cracked, abandoned in slouched disarray.

A ponderous roughly hewn door of darkened wood;

It’s neighbored door mantled in tendrils of gracious green.

A whimsical little red round door, childlike and welcoming;

The ordinary sturdy practical door, color carefully chosen,

The ornate pompous door with glass panels reflecting light…

All of them so strikingly unique yet reassuringly alike!

Passing through each one, a different voice:

A muffled thump, a time perfected creak, a brittle clink, a tenor voice, a vibrating clank, a tuneful jangle,

A decisive snap.

Opening or closing, deliberate or faltering,

Perhaps a glorious homecoming ; a fresh start

But equally a bittersweet departure; or permanent ending.

Standing on a threshold, I reach my hand toward the knob, the ring, the handle, the latch…

In the fleeting space of neutrality

comes an echo of re-membering.

A door I so surely had opened and reluctantly shut ,

Can, and will be, opened again

By my hand or….. yours!

The Bidding?



The thin place:

Grace

A Haiku for all who feel the clutch of grief:



Pain shards, relentless

Time feels tainted, healing stalled,

Hope waits it’s moment.

© Pamela Smith

Pamela Smith lives in Southwest Harbor, Maine, surrounded by the many borders of the unique and beautiful Acadia National Park. She has two magnificent adult sons and one grandson whom she deeply treasures! Before recent retirement, she worked as a nurse massage therapist, which was both avocation and vocation; her work with bereaved clients led her to becoming a Hospice singer in a group she helped form. Music has always companioned her, especially now, as she figures out how to navigate retirement and living alone. When not singing Pamela can be found wandering in the Park, photographing, reading, zentangling, volunteering in the community, communing with soul friends, and being fully present to whatever  and whomever the moment brings. She is also very much a pilgrim and finds great joy in being part of this sacred Abbey of the Arts.

Wisdom of the Body Interview with Guest Teacher Jamie Marich

Starting January 8, 2018 we will be offering a 10-week online retreat for women – The Wisdom of the Body: An Online Companion Retreat to the Book.

This retreat is for every woman who wants to reclaim her body as sacred, heal a lifetime of thoughts and judgments, offer compassion and love to this tender vessel, and remember that the incarnation means this body is holy. With weekly live webinars (recorded if you miss them), a vibrant and lovingly facilitated forum for sharing your experiences, and weekly offerings from some wonderful guest teachers.

For the next three weeks, Christine Valters Paintner will be hosting video interviews with our guest teachers so you can get to know their wonderful work a bit more and get a taste of what our online program will offer you.

We begin with Dr. Jamie Marich, Ph.D., LPCC-S, LICDC-CS, REAT, RMT who travels internationally speaking on topics related to EMDR, trauma, addiction, expressive arts, LGBTQ issues, spirituality and mindfulness while maintaining a private practice in her home base of Warren, OH. Jamie is the developer of the Dancing Mindfulness expressive arts practice and the author of several books including: EMDR Made Simple: 4 Approaches for Using EMDR with Every Client (2011), Trauma and the Twelve Steps: A Complete Guide for Recovery Enhancement (2012), Trauma Made Simple: Competencies in Assessment, Treatment, and Working with Survivors, Dancing Mindfulness: A Creative Path to Healing and Transformation (2015 with foreword by Christine Valters Paintner), and EMDR Therapy and Mindfulness for Trauma Focused Care (2017). You can read Jamie's guest post for the Abbey here>>

Pour yourself a cup of tea and settle in for this half-hour conversation about the wisdom of the body and the gifts that come from tending to it with compassion.

Register here: The Wisdom of the Body: An Online Companion Retreat to the Book

We are offering a special early discount price before December 8th!

Monk in the World Guest Post: Janelle Harvey

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Janelle Harvey's reflection, The Language of Feathers.

On a cold winter day, after discovering the truth and severity of your daughter’s drug addiction, you might find yourself running into the woods seeking the comfort and presence and help of God in that place of solitude and solace. Desperate tears will freeze on your cheeks as you sob a prayer to God: Help! Please! Protection! The words won’t matter; you will have turned all your attention to God. Sorrow, hope, and fear will pour out of you in groanings too deep for words. There will be no proper prayers, no lighting of candles, no folding of hands, no phone calls to begin a prayer chain . . . it will be just you with your heart broken wide open with the deep love of a mother for her child. Possibly years of accumulated shame will be your companion as well. Questions will plague you about what you might have done wrong, how you didn’t protect her well, pray enough, see the signs, deal with your own issues in time, etc etc. You might cry for a long time. You might have fallen to your knees by now, with your forehead touching the frozen dirt and dead leaves of the forest floor.

If you find yourself here, feeling more alone than you ever have before, you are in the right place. Eventually your sobbing will subside. Feeling utterly spent, you will begin to hear the quiet woods as the home of God where you are welcome, instead of as a hiding place. Suddenly, you will feel a Presence. Warm, safe, comforting. You will hear your breathing return to its natural rhythm. As you come to the remembrance that any real control you’ve ever had over the safety of your loved ones has only been imagined, and that God is and always has been our Protector and Healer, you might very well hear yourself uttering one last request: God . . . please let me know You’re with me. As you raise your swollen eyes from the ground, you might see a bright red cardinal feather flutter gently to the ground in front of your face, landing on the tiny patch of earth your forehead just vacated. If you see this feather, you will feel something ignite in your spirit–a connection to the Divine. Pain will be overshadowed by wonder, as, in one instant, you will know with such clarity and conviction that God, who made and inhabits All That Is, is speaking to you. You will just know. Beloved, I am with you. I love you. I will never leave you. Everything will be ok. Trust Me.

My friend, if you see that feather and hear that voice, I’m warning you . . . in a matter of seconds or minutes, you might feel tempted to doubt it is Real. Or divine. Or for you. As you pick up the perfect red feather, your mind might flirt with the word “coincidence” or even the word “crazy.” The old raspy voice of shame inside your head might challenge, “Why would God talk to you? Who do you think you are?” You might be tempted to leave the feather in the woods where it gracefully landed. Don’t. Pick it up. Carry it home. Tape it to your mirror. And when you look at your reflection and see the feather, don’t be scared to answer the question you were asked that day in the woods . . . "Who do you think you are?” Look boldly into the feathered mirror, and answer, “I am the Beloved of God” or “I am the one God sees and knows intimately” or “I hear God’s voice.” Jesus tells us, “My sheep hear my voice.” Yes, they do. Sometimes we hear a voice, and other times God speaks through a feather. Or a hawk. Or a deer. Or a burning bush. Or the word of a stranger. God’s creative communication has no limits, no boundaries; we are only bound by our lack of openness.

A few years later, you might have learned a thing or two about God’s faithfulness. You might trust your own sense of “hearing” a little more, as your feather collection has increased. Soon your bathroom mirror might be beautifully framed in feathers of every kind and color. You might find yourself in the chair of a tattoo parlor, holding out your wrist, hearing the question of the tattoo artist. “Why do you want a feather on your wrist?” You might want to shrug or say it’s a long story. You might be tempted to quickly slip your hand back in your pocket and run out the door. Don’t. Instead, remind yourself of the day in the woods when God introduced you to this new language of feathers. Remember God’s intimate love for you and creative ways of speaking just to you. Think of your daughter who was protected and grew in strength, courage, and kindness. Once you are full of these remembrances, look at the tattoo artist, and if you’d like, without explanation or apology, answer her question. “God speaks to me in feathers.”

Janelle Harvey is a writer, nature-enthusiast, spiritual director, and mother of four. She currently serves as a facilitator in the Tending the Holy spiritual direction program for Christos Chicago. She strives to live authentically as a contemplative in the world and to help others do the same. Many days she can be found walking in the woods, where she finds it easiest to connect with God.

 

 

Sacramentality of the Senses ~ A Love Note from Your Online Abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

The Catholic Mass, which is my own home tradition, is often described as “smells and bells.” A full liturgy will often meet and inspire every one of our senses: the scent of incense rising, bells ringing, stained glass windows, singing songs, embracing another at the kiss of peace, eating the bread and drinking wine.

I have always loved the Catholic idea of sacramentality, which means that physical things participate in and reveal the presence of the holy. The liturgy with all of its sensual dimensions is sacramental, the marriage union between two lovers is sacramental, the holy oil of anointing used in healing is sacramental, this bread and wine become flesh and blood is sacramental.

And then there are of course the more ordinary everyday sacraments. The sacramentality of our own flesh which allows us to be present in this world and receive its gifts through our senses.

If we ponder the monastery setting, we might imagine the soaring arches of the cloisters, the fragrant garden in the center providing herbs and medicine for healing and a taste of Eden in their midst, and the songs rising at the Hours for prayer. There is a profound honoring of the way these sensual delights can bring us closer to God.

To have a sacramental spirituality is to honor that our senses are doorways into the holy. When we bring ourselves intentionally to an experience and let ourselves receive it through our senses, the richness of it and the multi-dimensionality of it shimmers forth.

There is even a tradition in Christian spirituality of what are called the “spiritual senses.” The senses were seen as so essential to receiving the gift of the sacred in the world, that there was believed to be parallel interior senses to the exterior ones. There was spiritual vision which was the ability to see God beneath the surface of things. There was spiritual hearing which was the capacity to hear God underneath the noises and distractions. Each sense, including taste, smell, and touch, were imagined as having these inner counterparts, and when cultivated, offered us the ability to encounter God in the flesh and blood reality of the world.

The root of the word savor comes from the Latin word saporem which means to taste and is also the root of sapient which is the word for wisdom. Another definition I love is "to give oneself over to the enjoyment of something." When I give myself over to the experience of savoring, wisdom emerges. Savoring calls for a kind of surrender. We have all kinds of stories in our minds about why we perhaps shouldn’t give ourselves over to enjoyment, whether out of guilt or shame or a sense of fear out of what might happen. Yet we are called to yield to the goodness of life, to bask in it. It is an affirmation and celebration of God’s creation and an echo of “that’s good” from Genesis.

Savoring calls me to slowness: I can't savor quickly.

Savoring calls me to spaciousness: I can't savor everything at once.

Savoring calls me to mindfulness: I can't savor without being fully present.

It also calls for a fierce and wise discernment about how I spend my time and energy. Now that I know deep in my bones the limits of my life breaths, how do I choose to spend those dazzling hours? What are the experiences ripening within me that long for exploration? Do I want to waste my time skating on the surface of things, in a breathless rush to get everything done when all I need is here in this moment?

There is also a seasonal quality to savoring – this season, what is right before me, right now, is to be savored. It will rise and fall, come into fullness and then slip away. When I savor I pay attention to all the moments of that experience without trying to change it.

And finally, there is a tremendous sweetness to this open-hearted way of being in the world. Everything becomes grace because I recognize it could all be different, it could all be gone. Rather than grasp at how I think this moment should be, I savor the way things are.

(excerpted and adapted from The Wisdom of the Body – we will be offering an online companion retreat to this book in the new year, details at this link)

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Writing on the Wild Edges: Participant Poems (Tanya Stark Loretto)

This past October we led one of our Writing on the Wild Edges retreats on the beautiful island of Inismor off the coast of Galway. We will be sharing some of the writing which participants gave us permission to share here in the next few weeks. Up next are poems by Tanya Stark Loretto.

Dreamscape

The land of Éire has seeped into my being,

Permeating my dreams.

I wander through her paths,

Surrounded by rocks, cliffs, fields, bogs,

A multiplicity of hues- grays, greens, lavenders, and browns.

I wander and wander,

Often not knowing where I am going,

And yet I am not afraid,

To be without a destination,

I am living unknowing,

Because it feels like I am on my way, in some way,

To where I am meant to be,

To my place of resurrection,

Somewhere that I cannot know,

Yet somehow connected to my time in this land of Éire,

This place that permeates my dreams.

Ocean Pondering at Inishmore’s Worm Hole

Sitting on a flat rock

Overlooking the sea

I sit in awe of the ocean’s majesty.

The sea’s rhythmical flowing in a multiplicity of directions,

Shaped by grandmother moon,

Her mysterious currents

Erode and shape all that she touches,

Mists rise as she smashes rocky cliffs-

I can smell the briny air,

And feel her fine droplets on my body,

Sea plants and creatures are held in her ocean being,

She, like a womb, nourishes and carries all within her,

And I am in awe,

Pondering her strength, her being, her witness,

The sea’s presence-

A gift to the earth,

A gift to me.

Inishmore: Island of Sacred Sound

Sitting on a limestone rock overlooking the sea on Inishmore

I listen

And listen.

Accustomed to city noise

All fighting for attention,

Here on Inishmore

I’m given a gift of simple audio.

Wind and bird songs predominate.

Closing my eyes I realize that there is a bird symphony

And I don’t recognize many of the instruments.

No matter, the songs blend into a kaleidoscope of beauty

For my ears,

My being.

Wind is felt and heard, as it moves over the landscape, my body, my implements-

Sound waves and air movements blend into a multisensory experience,

Becoming one with birdsong

And other earth based sounds,

Each one an important part of the divine chorus.

The divine song of Inishmore,

An island of simple audio,

Sacred Sound.

Teachers Beyond Time

Anchorites’ harsh lives –

Beyond my twenty-first century privileged understandings.

Animals, straw, mud, rocks,

Wind, rain, and birds

Are her regular companions

In her simple beehive hut sanctuary.

She calls to me across time as I lay in my soft bed with a full belly:

I hear my beehive anchorite speak simple, basic words of wisdom:

Surrender

See

Be open

Accept

Believe

I humbly receive these words

And ask for her guidance

In leaving my gilded, cluttered, complicated life

For a more simple, beehive like, prayer-filled life.

Grieving on Inishmore

(This poem was written on Inishmore as Tanya was grieving her 24 year old son's sudden and recent death.)

Walking through my grief on the paths of Inishmore,

I hear the island speak.

I wander from holy place to holy space,

Often losing my way,

But somehow finding exactly where I am meant to be.

As my feet hit the ground, Inishmore’s rocks cry out,

Millennial stone witnesses of suffering and joy

Inviting me to know that they stand with me,

And the others.

The island winds resonate with my inner chaos

And teach me to breathe,

Breathe and flow

Through my grief.

The seabirds on her shores

Give me permission to screech and howl,

Fly and float,

As I need to.

Inishmore's grasses bowed down from the winds

Speak of bending while living harshness,

Teaching me to surrender,

Be.

Her holy wells bubble up from the quiet earth

Inviting me to be open to receiving blessings

At all times and places.

Her creatures are briefly curious to visitors and then return to what is important,

Inviting me to remember what and who are most important,

What and who give me life.

Inishmore’s lovely scent of turf fires,

Tightens my chest,

Calling me to center myself on hearth,

Heart.

Her rains cry with me,

Raindrops pelting my face, entering my mouth and eyes.

The rain tears enter my body,

Uniting my heart with this beautiful island.

Walking through my grief on the paths of Inishmore

The island speaks wisdom and healing through all that she is,

And I walk in gratitude for the many steps that I have taken

On this beloved, wild, Celtic Island.

Copyright, October, 2017

Tanya Stark Loretto is a spiritual director/companion and retreat facilitator.  She is very curious about how people make meaning in their lives, especially through the arts and other spiritual practices.  She lives with her husband, dog, and several "boomeranging" adult children in Vancouver BC, Canada. Visit her website here>>

Monk in the World Guest Post: Pat Butler

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Pat Butler's reflection, Thirsty Walls. 

As veteran homeowners know, the work never ends. Nor does spiritual work. And as this novice homeowner discovered, one can inform the other in a monastic practice of restoration: renovations!

Wall prep seemed to go on forever as I peeled wallpaper, cleaned and scrubbed glue, repaired cracks and spackled dings, sanded, preparing the walls to receive paint. I prayed through the work—for help, strength, knowledge, protection—in this new monastic cell, with a new spiritual discipline.

I smoothed hardened drips of paint that had run their course, ending their history as mine began, taking possession of this house. The work stretched on, one tedious wall after another, and my thorny relationship with the walls grew. It seemed the wallpaper glue would never dissolve, despite repeated soakings and a multitude of products. I tossed sacrificial offerings into the dumpster each day: sponges, sandpaper, rubber gloves, broken fingernails, and cleaning products.

Disruptions stalled the work: injuries, travel, lack of finances. Would it ever end? Were there short cuts? I searched You Tube, googled products, consulted with other homeowners, and made daily pilgrimages to the home improvement stores.

Weeks turned into months. By month two, I scrubbed with a lament from the psalms: How long O Lord!? There came a swift response:

How long to you think restoration takes?

A glimpse of God’s heart for the careful, painstaking work of restoration sobered me. I scrubbed on; each day a new day of reckoning. What else would the walls say?

Go the distance. Do it right.

I studied more, consulted more, reworked the budget, learned to wait for help, finances, or a pulled muscle to heal.

Old photos in cracked frames, gently removed from the walls, confounded me at the happiness portrayed but left behind. Were these walls abandoned, like the photos? Why?

Tell me a story, walls.

Erase the past; better: redeem it. Whose walls are these now? 

I learned to caress the walls, feeling for imperfections invisible to the eye, exposed to fingertips, inevitably revealed if paint went up prematurely. Daily I inspected, groomed, a monkey mother with her infants. I began to fall in love with the walls as part of my new home, supporting, protecting, demarcating space.

Eventually, each wall yielded up a beautifully smooth surface, ready to receive paint. A final inspection for flaws, one final consultation with helpers, and a photo to record the process. I gathered paint chips with names like Plum Dandy, Ionic Ivory and Obstinate Orange. Selecting, painting samples, making choices, commitments. Praying over the walls, writing Scriptures, blessings and prayers on them—and then—color!  One wall at a time.

Still the walls spoke.

Forgive.

Forgive the laziness, neglect, shortcuts, mistakes, lack of care or craftsmanship, which has created so much work for me.

Holy Week: another friend came to help. I’m thankful for companions on the journey. They weren’t always available, and I learned to shoulder more responsibility. A spiritual discipline is practiced by the individual, even in community. And some spiritual journeys are made alone, as Christ learned in Gethsemane. Ultimately, no one else could do my job. No one else could walk my walk. No one could or would love or prep these walls quite like me.

A thankless job I grew to thank God for, because I have a home, unlike so many. I want these walls to be ready to receive anyone who comes. And I want to hear all the words the walls want to speak, if I give them the time.

Good Friday: at the end of our week, exhausted, backs aching, we stopped for lunch. I made a power meal to keep our energy up, but after eating, we slumped in our chairs more likely to nap than press on.

“Let’s move before we fall asleep!”

I jumped up—consecration to the task!—asking God for renewed strength.

Two coats of primer later, I was finally splashing on color in my bedroom:  Cornflower Blue. I bent over, trying for the third time to reach a hard corner. The first coat was soaking in faster than I could paint, leaving a blotchy patchwork behind me. “These walls are thirsty!” I sighed.

I thirst.

The very verse I had read that morning! Fully awake now, I straightened. Speak, Lord. Your servant is listening . . . 

As the walls soaked up the paint, my mind soaked up images of a crucified Christ, dying: what were his thoughts? Of physical thirst, no doubt. But spiritual thirst as well? Thirsting to go home, for an end to suffering, for his Father, thirsting to obey, to fulfill his call.

Thirsting for his creation, for each one of us. Thirsting to make the rough places smooth and fill gaps, to remove what is stubbornly glued to us. To redeem histories, and add color. To prepare a place for us, and bring us home.

I yearned for this thirst. I prayed for it, as I continued with Cornflower Blue, preparing an earthbound place, sacred space for myself and others. No short cuts.

One could say I’m simply renovating a house, but that’s the external story; the internal one speaks of taking ownership, restoring, preparing a place for others. And God will use both stories for his redemptive purposes.

Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

Pat Butler is a monk in the subtropics of Florida, currently practicing spiritual disciplines of first-time home buying, sunset gazing, and beach combing. Artist, poet and writer, Pat has authored three chapbooks through Finishing Line Press, and enjoys family, travel, French culture, and black jellybeans.

Gratitude as a Spiritual Practice ~ A love note from your online abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

The United States celebrates the feast of Thanksgiving this week. I have always loved this time of gratefulness and sharing with loved ones. My heart overflows with gratitude for this beautiful community we have created together. I delight daily in knowing there are dancing monks all over the world.

The 5th century monk and mystic Benedict of Nursia counsels in his Rule for monastic life an attitude of contentment among his community. Whatever the circumstances they find themselves in, they are to find some satisfaction with what is in the moment. In a world of self-entitlement and inflated sense of need, learning to be content with what we have has the potential to be quite revolutionary. It means craving less and being more satisfied with what one has.

One way to encourage this posture of contentment in our lives is gratitude. Gratitude is a way of being in the world that does not assume we are owed anything, and the fact that we have something at all, whether our lives, our breath, families, friends, shelter, laughter, or other simple pleasures, are all causes for celebration. We can cultivate a way of being in the world that treats all these things as gifts, knowing none of us “deserves” particular graces.

We might begin each day simply with an expression of gratitude for the most basic of gifts, life itself. Awakening each morning for another day to live and love, grateful for our breath and a body that allows us to move through our day. Then we can offer gratitude for a home and all the things that are important to us about this place of shelter.

Environmental activist and author Joanna Macy describes gratitude as a revolutionary act “because it counters the thrust of the industrial growth society, or the consumer society, which breeds dissatisfaction. You have to make people dissatisfied with what they have and who they are in order that they keep buying.” Gratitude is a way for us to cultivate a healthy asceticism and reject consumerism.

Gratitude is a practice that can begin with the smallest acknowledgement and be expanded out to every facet of our existence. A simple way to nurture this awareness in our lives is to end each day with a gratitude list. You might write 5-10 things for which you feel grateful each day, lifting up both the large and small moments of grace. It is a way to end the day by honoring the gifts we have received rather than dwelling on where life came up short for us. Consider saving these grateful noticings together somewhere, and after a season of time reading back over the things that made your heart expand and notice what patterns you find there.

Gratitude has a way of transforming our approach to life into one that is more open-hearted, generous, and joyful. Rather than moving through our day feeling cynical or burdened, we can consciously choose our thoughts. This doesn’t mean that we have to offer gratitude for injustices or abuse, we are always called to resist those. But it does mean we might be able to tap into greater joy to replenish us for those moments when we do need to fight for dignity and kindness. Gratitude overflows into joy and makes us feel connected to something bigger than ourselves.

I don't want you to just sit down at the table.

I don't want you to just eat and be content.

I want you to walk out into the fields

Where the water is shining and the rice has risen.

I want you to stand there far from this white tablecloth.

I want you to fill your hands with mud, like a blessing.

-Mary Oliver

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Writing on the Wild Edges: Participant Poems (Julia Morris-Meyers)

 This past October we led one of our Writing on the Wild Edges retreats on the beautiful island of Inismor off the coast of Galway. We will be sharing some of the writing which participants gave us permission to share here in the next few weeks. Up next are poems by Julia Morris-Meyers.

Coming​ ​home,​ ​Christmas

to​ ​dusty​ ​high​ ​plains

front​ ​door​ ​opening

smells​ ​of​ ​turkey,​ ​more

stockings​ ​bulge,​ ​fire​ ​lit

smiling​ ​parents,​ ​happy​ ​we’re​ ​here.

Twinkling​ ​lights​ ​beckon

while​ ​Dad​ ​carves​ ​the​ ​bird

dear​ ​Aunt​ ​Dot​ ​samples

Mother​ ​juggles​ ​pans.

Table​ ​set​ ​with​ ​best

crowded,​ ​we​ ​don’t​ ​mind

cold​ ​night​ ​kept​ ​at​ ​bay

hearts​ ​warm,​ ​filled​ ​with​ ​cheer.

Yearning​ ​for​ ​those​ ​days

long​ ​gone,​ ​they​ ​now​ ​are

Dad​ ​and​ ​Dot​ ​are​ ​passed

a​ ​stranger​ ​lives​ ​there

high​ ​standard​ ​to​ ​keep

me,​ ​I​ ​can’t​ ​compete

memory​ ​my​ ​comfort

and​ ​love,​ ​in​ ​my​ ​heart.

And​ ​after​ ​visiting​ ​St​ ​Ciaran’s​ ​sacred site,​ ​this​ ​haiku:

Rag​ ​tree​ ​prayers​ ​for​ ​babe

holy​ ​well,​ ​seven​ ​times​ ​‘round

connecting​ ​stone,​ ​heal

(grandson​ ​#2​ ​is​ ​expected​ ​in​ ​the​ ​spring!)

Julia Morris-Meyers takes great joy in teaching others about the beauty of music, whether it is as choral conductor, organist and pianist, or private instructor.  Through her international travels as an accompanist she has seen the power of music to bring diverse cultures and peoples together and she strives for this goal in all her musical endeavors.  Julia lives on the Eastern Shore of Maryland and leads contemplative studies, retreats and weekly prayer at her Episcopal church. Her husband and pets provide great companionship and she relishes her new role as “Nana.”