Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 97

Mystics and Makers Podcast – Interview with Christine

Stephen Roach who hosts the wonderful Mystics and Makers podcast interviewed me for an episode about my book The Artist’s Rule, creativity and spirituality, and ways to nourish the artistic life.

Click here to listen to the podcast >>

Monk in the World Guest Post: Cheryl Bartky

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Cheryl Bartky's reflection, "Eclipses and Shooting Stars."

The solar eclipse may be a forgotten memory for many of the millions of people who watched it on August 21st.  But for me, it is still alive: the slow progression of the moon’s shadow sweeping across the Sun.  The moments of complete darkness.   The shimmer of the Sun’s corona surrounding its now blackened center.  The re-emergence of the Sun’s light with a dazzling diamond flash.  The progressive unveiling of the Sun’s radiant orb until it resumes reign over the day sky.  I savor it still.  And it fills me with the sense of child-like wonder that I feel is my essence—the very best of me.  Nature has always been my favorite temple.  As a youth I aspired to be an astronomer and to this day it is in the awesome expanse of the sky that I still feel a deep connection to the magic and mystery of life.

This year’s total eclipse of the sun captured the imaginations of millions across the USA and the world.  Yet nature is around us all the time—in the weather we enjoy or suffer, the trees we climbed as kids or shelter beneath in the heat or rain as adults, the clouds we watch morph into angelic or demonic shapes, the weeds that thrive even in sidewalk cracks.  But it can take spectacular events like a rare solar eclipse to grab our attention.  Just as it takes sudden miracles that cause us to cry out in relief or amazement to alert us that grace indeed exists.  Events like an eclipse give us pause.  To register its magnificence, we actually have to stand or sit still to notice it.  Just as we have to stay still at times to absorb the gradual change that is always happening in our lives if we only pay attention.  A solar eclipse awakens our ability to be mindful.  To be present to the magic that unfolds in life.  As a person whose adult career choices include dance-movement therapist and spiritual director, noticing the movement of spirit in daily life is what my life centers on.  Nature grounds me in this awareness.  It keeps me hopeful.  It rejuvenates me.  It keeps me present.

As an avid reader all my life, I remember poring over astronomy books as a child, inspired by the origins and images of the planets, the moon, and the stars.  A city born and bred kid with night skies hidden by street lights and apartment buildings, these books fed my nature-yearning soul to the wonder and awe of the universe.  To this day I vividly remember a dream that visited me decades ago: the brilliant planet Saturn is just beyond my New York fire escape—so close I could sit on its glorious rings, my legs swinging in the brisk night air.

Last August, I sat, not on Saturn’s rings, but on my deck in the San Francisco Bay area.  Blessed with a rare clear night sky, I tucked a blanket around me against the chill of the evening and looked up, awaiting the annual Perseid meteor showers.   I watched and waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And then, gasping with surprise, a picture perfect shooting star streaked across the complete canvas of the sky.  Several other shooting stars danced across the sky as I watched and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited.  They were all exquisite.  But I have to say, that first one—which caught me by surprise—was the best.  Because of its suddenness, its unexpectedness, it felt like a gift—a grace.

The Perseids are at their peak for at least two nights.  So I attempted to indulge in a second night of sky watching.  But instead of shooting stars—or even “still” stars—all I was able to see was fog.  At first I was annoyed.  I mean seriously, of all nights, couldn’t God give me one more clear night?  But soon, I was bedazzled by the dance of the fog.  It flowed along in waves and tufts and streams and was deliciously beautiful.  I didn’t see the show I had hoped for, but the show I got was delightful nonetheless.

The total solar eclipse was something—because of modern science, we could prepare for, we knew exactly what time it was destined to happen.  But this isn’t the case with so much of everyday life.  We plan, we work hard, we pray, but then, it’s often like searching for a shooting star—we might know the general time frame and we might know the general direction, but still we wait . . . and wait . . . and wait and hopefully our eyes are open when the miracle finally happens.  Or, while we’re waiting for a shooting star and life brings us fog instead, hopefully we can muster the resilience to transform our disappointment into appreciation for the miracle in the dance that is.

Maybe it’s because I was born on the first day of spring that nature and its wonders are so significant to me.  Or maybe it’s because my Jewish faith is based so deeply in the seasonal cycles of life.  Or maybe it’s simply because I’m human and unlike faith traditions which can divide and separate us—nature belongs to us all and we are all a part of nature.  Nature teaches us that we all live in this one world—this one Earth—this one universe.  And so, when I watch a solar eclipse, or search the night sky for a shooting star, or sit on Saturn’s rings in my dreams, while I can’t deny feeling so small against a backdrop so huge, rather than feeling insignificant, those are the times I feel most whole.  Those are the times I feel most connected to the majesty and enigma of the All.  Those are the times I feel like my largest and truest and perhaps most divine self.

Cheryl Bartky is a licensed counselor, board certified dance therapist, board certified life coach, an experienced spiritual director and supervisor.  She’s the author of Angelina’s Prayer and the creator of The Moving On Dance Project and the popular online program Re-CHARGE Your Life Now!  Visit her at www.Counseling4theSoul.com.

Earth is the Original Monastery ~ A love note from your online abbess

Dear monks, artists, and pilgrims,

The following reflection is excerpted and adapted from an article that appeared in Presence: A Journal for Spiritual Directors International earlier this year. It speaks to what feels like the heart of the work I do in reclaiming an intimacy with creation and letting her wisdom guide our contemplative practice.

The creatures and trees are spiritual teachers

“Believe me as one who has experience, you will find much more among the woods then ever you will among books. Woods and stones will teach you what you can never hear from any master.”  — Bernard of Clairvaux

In ancient tradition, there were often holy men and women who were described as having a special relationship to animals.  Benedict of Nursia, for example, befriended a crow who was later said to have saved his life.  It was said of Kevin of Glendalough that an otter would sometimes bring him salmon from the lake so he could eat.  There is a story about Ciaran of Clonmacnoise in which the boar became one of his first monks. These special connections and relationships to animals were once a sign of profound holiness.

In one of his letters, 20th century Trappist monk Thomas Merton wrote that this is what the monastic life is all about: “The monk here and now is supposed to be living the life of the new creation in which right relation to all the rest of God’s creatures is fully restored.”  We are called to live the life of the new creation in which right relationship to all creation is restored.  We are not anticipating its arrival, but living its becoming.

When we allow the creatures to teach us, we move into a posture of humility, of laying down our human-centric perspective and receiving new insight as the ancient monks did.

The elements are spiritual directors

“How necessary it is for the monks to work in the fields, in the sun, in the mud, in the clay, in the wind: These are our spiritual directors and our novice masters.” – Thomas Merton

The elements of water, wind, earth, and fire offer us wisdom and guidance.  They are the original soul friends.  Air is the gift of breath we receive in each moment, the rhythm of life sustaining us. Breath reminds us of Spirit moving through us and guiding our direction. Fire is the gift of life force and energy and we might call to mind mystics across religious traditions that imagine God as the living flame of love which burns in each of our hearts. Fire reminds us of our passions.

Water is the gift of renewal and replenishment, sacred in rituals of cleansing and baptism. The sea calls us to remember our own tidal rhythms. The elements at the communion table and ritual feasting emerge from the earth, the act of eating is sacred and holy, also sustaining our life and work. Earth reminds us of our own earthiness and mortality, calling us to claim what is most precious to us in each moment.

Sometimes we imagine the ideal spiritual life as one of stillness in a retreat center or monastery. But as Merton reminds us, it is our embodied engagement with the world that reinvigorates our connection to the earth and how we might learn from the elements.

The mountains and flowers are the Saints  

“The bass and trout hiding in the deep pools of the river are canonized by their beauty and their strength. The lakes hidden among the hills are saints, and the sea too is a saint who praises God without interruption in her majestic dance.” – Thomas Merton

Humans are not the original Saints, we find the first examples in nature. Poet David Whyte has a beautiful line in one of his poems where he asks, “Why are we the one terrible part of creation privileged to refuse our own flowering?” The animals and the elements live their fullness without holding back and in them we can discover what it truly means to become a saint.  They teach us how to live out our own sainthood by no longer refusing our true nature.

This is the heart of contemplation, to remember our true nature, to free ourselves from the ways we refuse each day, to listen into the invitation to become who we really are. We might consider inviting in nature as an ally in this journey and invite in trees and companion animals as witness to what it means to live into the true self.

(We are offering a brand new live intensive/retreat in Scotland next June 12-17, 2018 at the beautiful Bield retreat center to explore nature as wisdom guide more deeply.)

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Monk in the World Guest Post: Debby Bellingham

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Debby's Bellingham reflection, "Elevator Pitch."

“You need a memorable tag line,” adamantly declared one presenter. Another concurred, “You need to have your elevator pitch ready.”

I naively attended a national Christian writer’s conference expecting instruction on honing my craft. Instead, I learned what I needed to do to become a “super blogger.” I didn’t really want to be a super blogger, but they knew better than me, they were published and recognized authors. The world needed my voice, they preached, and how could it find me unless my blog gained an impressive platform, with thousands of followers. So I diligently set out to write a sentence or two that communicated who I was, what I write, why I write it and to whom I write that deliverable in the time it would take to ride an elevator to the second floor.

And got nowhere. All my attempts, which were many, felt canned, cramped, inauthentic. I gave up on it and contented myself with my narrow, but deep influence on the 150 or so followers who had found me.

Until one day while trolling through facebook I came across a video someone had posted. (Sorry I cannot give credit to the post-er, or the video itself. I’ve tried to find it since with no luck.) The video was of a business consultant who worked with companies and organizations helping them motivate and increase their employees productivity and morale. “Don’t ask a person what they do, that will give you the flat, specific, boring details of their work situation. Instead ask them why they do what they do. This question engages their cherished dreams, their most valued hopes and most important relationships.”

So I asked myself, Debby, why do you write what you write? The answer descended like the fire at Pentecost. “I wake up every morning eager to hear God’s voice of love and then share it through my life, my writings and my words.” Bingo! I still smile when I repeat that phrase. It’s an answer to all the demands of an elevator pitch and beyond that gives me energy, focus and informs not only my writing but all the actions of life. It is my monk’s rule!

I almost live a monastic life. My husband and I recently moved from a 900 sq foot condominium in the heart of San Francisco, to a two acre farm in the Hudson Valley of New York. I wake each morning and eagerly await God’s voice of love. I encounter it in the quiet of our home before anyone else is awake. The scripture I read, the songs I sing, alternately whisper or shout “God is here, God sees, God cares, God needs you.” My journal pages capture the heartbeat of God’s love and I often share it with the world through my blog. My dogs greet me with great affection, presumptuously finding their way onto the center of my lap. What wonderful reminders of the welcome that awaits me in the lap of my loving God. My husband joins me and we enjoy companionable coffee, share our plans for the day and I recall the companionship of the Trinity.  The constant changing of my garden teaches me almost all of what I need to understand about the spiritual life.

Trained in the Ignatian mode of Spiritual Direction, I am particularly fond of Imaginative prayer, putting myself in the gospel story, becoming one of or interacting with the characters. Such a prayer practice evokes deep and often hidden beauty and wounds within my soul. Once while praying with the gospel account of Jesus preaching to the crowds while standing on Peter and Andrew’s fishing boat, I was prompted to “be the boat.”

I felt such humble gratitude that Jesus would use me as his platform for speaking of God’s love. I basked in the joy of that privilege for quite some time. And when Jesus invited Peter and Andrew to become fishers of men, and they then left their boats and followed him, such an anger erupted within me. “What, you’re going to leave me behind.” I never knew there was such pride hidden within my heart. This prayer shed light upon it and allowed me to welcome my need to be needed into the loving and healing presence of God. I can now more easily rejoice in God’s creative use of all kinds of people and things to communicate his great love for the world. Me included!

My parish may be small, but I am its pastor. And the more I let myself be loved, the more loving I become. It’s my life’s journey.  It is how I am a monk in the world.

Debby Bellingham lives with her husband and dogs in the Hudson Valley of New York. She’s a psychotherapist, a spiritual director, author and friend. Read her blog at www.thementoredlife.com and her daily prayer at her MentoredLife Facebook page.

 

 

Ancestral Pilgrimage: Honoring Landscape and Lineage ~ A love note from your online abbess

As we grow older we have more and more people to remember, people who have died before us. It is very important to remember those who have loved us and those we have loved. Remembering them means letting their spirits inspire us in our daily lives. They can become part of our spiritual communities and gently help us as we make decisions on our journeys. Parents, spouses, children, and friends can become true spiritual companions after they have died. Sometimes they can become even more intimate to us after death than when they were with us in life. Remembering the dead is choosing their ongoing companionship.

—Henri J. M. Nouwen, Bread for the Journey

Dearest monks and artists,

I stood there at the edge of the Baltic Sea, on the beach at Jurmala in Latvia, and I felt a deep kinship to this place, which I had never been to before. Perhaps it was standing at this borderland place where forest meets the sea, the same kind of landscape I had inexplicably fallen in love with in the Pacific Northwest of the U.S. Thousands of miles away I had met this place of wildness and fallen in love. As I stood in this ancestral land, I felt a connection, a kind of deep knowing.

Maybe the felt connection was because of the photos I have of my father playing on these same sands, the carefree days of his childhood long before the burdens of adulthood settled into his bones and the deep grooves formed on his forehead.

Whatever the source, walking this ancestral landscape brought me a sense of understanding and peace. My father had fled this country as a boy when the Russians invaded. He became a refugee, never to return home again in his entire life. I was making this journey in part on his behalf, to restore something that had been broken. 

One of my primary spiritual practices these last several years is ancestral pilgrimage. A pilgrimage is a journey of meaning to a sacred site, in this case, a place that was significant for my ancestors. I trace my genetic lineage back through England, Austria, and Latvia and have travelled to each of these places, some multiple times, as a part of my personal journey.

These journeys have changed me and brought much healing to my life and called forth even more from me. In the summer of 2012 I made an even more radical choice. After several of these ancestral pilgrimages, my husband and I moved to Vienna, the city where my father grew up after leaving Latvia and is now buried, as a deeper commitment to continuing this ancestral journey. And then we followed the call to Ireland, the land of John’s maternal ancestors.

A pilgrimage is a special kind of journey, one taken to a holy place with the hope for an encounter with the sacred and the intention of being changed by what happens there and along the way. We don't go on pilgrimages to return the same person.

I believe we are profoundly connected to the land and culture and stories of our ancestors in ways we don't fully realize. Their experiences, their sorrows and joys are knit into our bones, woven into the fabric of our very bodies. The impulse to discover one's story often leads you to reach far back into history. We can't fully understand the impact of these connections until we stand on the land and speak the language of those who came before us and gave us the gift of life through our ancestors.

When I stood on the shores of the Baltic Sea in Latvia and imagined my father playing as a child in the sand and the waves, I connected to this experience of longing. I understood him in new ways. I saw the innocence of a young boy before the war came and shattered everything he knew. May Sarton wrote in one of her poems: "Now the dead move through all of us still glowing . . . What has been plaited cannot be unplaited . . . and memory makes kings and queens of us." Remembering what has been already woven into us is the task.

Each time I prepare for these journeys with excitement and anticipation, as well as fear and trembling, knowing I will have to confront the shadow sides of my family system. But it is in facing the dark depths that I no longer have to live in fear of them.

"If your journey is indeed a pilgrimage, a soulful journey, it will be rigorous. Ancient wisdom suggests if you aren't trembling as you approach the sacred, it isn't the real thing. The sacred, in its various guises as holy ground, art, or knowledge, evokes emotion and commotion," writes Phil Cousineau, in his book The Art of Pilgrimage.

I believe, along with psychologist Carl Jung, that the stories of our ancestors run through our blood and the unhealed wounds and unfulfilled longings continue to propel us forward or keep us stuck in old patterns. The stories of our grandmothers and grandfathers are our stories and we can help to heal the wounds of the past and in the process heal ourselves by telling those stories again, giving voice to the voiceless, unnamed secrets and to the celebrations, insights, and wisdom gathered over time.

Jung introduced us to the concept of the collective unconscious, that vast pool of ancestral memory within each of us. It is a kind of deposit of ancestral experience. He believed it comprises the psychic life of our ancestors right back to the earliest beginnings. Nothing is lost; all of the stories, struggles, and wisdom are available to us. Each of us is an unconscious carrier of this ancestral experience and part of our journey is to bring this to consciousness in our lives. "I became aware of the fateful links between me and my ancestors. I feel very strongly that I am under the influence of things or questions which were left incomplete or unanswered by my parents and grandparents and more distant ancestors," he wrote.

Consider making a pilgrimage to walk in the footsteps of your own ancestors, those everyday saints who struggled with life's heartaches and suffering. Spend time in the places that shaped their imaginations and their dreams; speak the language with which they whispered their most private secrets to one another, the words they used to express their aching sorrow and profound joy. It doesn't matter if you know nothing of the details. Walking, being, listening, and noticing the impact of trees, rivers, mountains, and sky on your own spirit is enough.

A pilgrimage doesn't have to be a long journey overseas. It might be to a nearby cemetery or a phone call with a living relative to ask about stories you have never heard before.

November is the season of remembrance and we are offering an online retreat in community to celebrate and honor those who have walked before us. We would love to have you join us!

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Monk in the World Guest Post: Ally Markotich

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Ally Markotich's reflection, "Noticing as a Gateway to the Divine."

The rhythm of the day doesn’t escape me. Kylo won’t let it. He, our family’s zesty yellow lab, follows me close as I blearily pour my coffee. He pants as I slowly sip. He hopefully looks as I open my closet doors waiting for me to grab… Will she?… Won’t she? Sneakers! Yes! His awkward dance of whimper, whine and skip nearly trips me as I clip his leash upon his neck.

At age one, this excitable rescue came into our family’s life. When he arrived, I never imagined how he’d keep me on a strict daily walking routine. Over the last two years, he’s made his persistent morning case for exercise; he cannot be denied. In the beginning, I resisted. Then, I begrudgingly gave in. But, walking him became one more chore to be crossed off the daily agenda. I set off through the neighborhood, traveling the same route, looking at the same houses, passing the same trees. My mission was sadly singular: to arrive back home to get to the next task on the list. The one highlight was a local manmade lake. Or, so I thought.

Months went by, and during this time, seeds of practice were being dropped in my life. Christine’s words of walking as a spiritual practice crossed my path. This paired up nicely with insights I received in Spiritual Formation classes. My vantage point began to change. I started to leave my home each morning prayerfully with anticipation. What would come into focus this day? What would grab my attention? What beauty would gift itself to my eyes? Slowly, my vision shifted. I began to notice. The ordinary turned to extraordinary. The mundane transformed to sacred. I spotted beauty in pollen. I detected a face in a tree and laughed out loud. Ribbons of pink clouds overhead became God’s personal present for me. My awareness let me shift course easily if another dog came into view. No longer was I stubborn about “my walking path,” but could easily turn around if need be. I was now walking a daily adventure.

Turkey vultures regularly flew overhead. These dark, ominous birds lurked on powerlines and gathered in trees. They sent shivers down my spine. One day, I stopped in amazement and counted. Over thirty-five were in one tree. I wondered if this was a sacred symbol for my life. I decided to learn more about the vulture. After a quick search on the Internet, I found that vultures are incredibly resourceful. They aren’t predators, but only eat what they find. They are able to eat death and decay but don’t harness it in their bodies. In fact, their urine is a cleanser to kill bacteria from their feet. They also use heat from the sun to kill off toxins on their wings. I opened my heart to vultures as a gift and now, am able to give great thanks for their provision in the cycle of life. Learning from their way continuously has me asking, “How can I be more resourceful with what I have?”

The act of noticing on walks has become a powerful tool for the writing and art I create. When I am fully present with the act of walking, words for a poem will stream into my consciousness. Or, an idea will happily hop into my heart. I find shapes, color and shadow delight me with their whimsy giving me fuel for painting. Regularly dwelling with repeated sights and sounds of my neighborhood led me to consider how people on the opposite side of the world may feel a similar way to their common surroundings. I came home and wrote this poem, entitled Gazing:

Could it be

the flowers you find

oh-so common

are foreign to me?

Could it be

the flowers I find

oh-so common

are foreign to you?

Could it be

if we came together

to gently gaze upon

each other’s flowers,

our familiar worlds

would fuse and

unfurl into a garden

of possibility?

Embarking on a path to notice what is in my midst has changed my life. Nowadays, this practice comes with me beyond my morning walks. I find intentionality is key. I must take care to notice; she is rather sensitive and easy to shut down. Noticing follows me to the grocery store and stands next to me with my children. She gingerly points out needs in my midst, but I’m not always brave enough to follow through. Yet, when I lean into her, noticing becomes a gateway to the divine, a light for my path, the burning bush at my feet. I’ll never forget where I found her. On a simple, ordinary walk with a happy yellow lab. For this, I am forever grateful.

Ally Markotich is passionate about the meeting place of creativity and faith. Currently, she explores this connection through poetry, soul art and kinesthetic small group experiences. Ally recently completed a certificate in Spiritual Formation from Columbia Theological Seminary in GA. You can find more of her work at www.creativesoulkindling.com

The Soul’s Migration: Following a Holy Direction ~ A love note from your online abbess

Fin and feather, flesh, blood and bone: the earth calls its creatures to leave the familiar, turn again into the unknown; to move steadily and continuously and at great risk toward an invisible goal, expending great energy with the possibility of failure… ~ Marianne Worcester

Dearest monks and artists,

Three years ago I had the privilege of leading a retreat on the shores of Cape May, NJ. Cape May is a resting place for weary souls seeking renewal and refreshment. It is also the resting place for Monarch butterflies as they make their long migratory journey to Mexico.

In the Skagit Valley, north of Seattle, I have stood on a midwinter's day and witnessed thousands of swans and geese landing in a field, also on their own movement toward an invisible goal. In Alaska are the pods of Humpback whales who feed off the nutrient rich waters all summer and gain sustenance, and then return to warmer seas to give birth in the winter.

Autumn is the time of transition, of the earth's turning, with the balance of light and dark in the northern hemisphere tilting toward the dark season and the invitation to release the excess we carry and rest into growing Mystery. It is a season of initiating these great movements across the globe of birds, fish, and mammals following an instinctual call.

I am taken with the mysteries of migration, the inner knowing that rises up in them to embark on a journey, the impulse to swim and fly across great expanses of earth and sea in search of a feeling of rightness that season.

I think of the ancient desert monks who each knew that one day they would have to leave behind the familiar and venture out into the wilderness to seek a space of radical encounter with God. Or the Irish monks who felt called to a particular kind of journey called peregrinatio, which was a pilgrimage for the love of Christ without a destination in mind. The practice was to step into a small boat called a coracle, without oar or rudder, and let the current carry them to the place of their resurrection.

They yielded their own agendas and plans to the current of love, trusting in this deeper wisdom at work in water and wind, on behalf of the One who opens the way before us.

St. Gobnait, one of the early Irish women saints, fled her home to the island of Inisheer, but was told by an angel that this was not her place of resurrection. She was to seek the place of the nine white deers, which led her journey onward to a place she did not know. The place of resurrection is the land where the heart finds its home and soul's deepest dreams come to fruition.

Swans and swallows, whales and salmon make the long arduous journey to give birth to the new lives breaking forth in them. The monks wandered in search of wild places that could break apart their own expectations and judgments, to let the new life being offered to them come forth.

In the Book of Isaiah (48:6-7) we read:

Now I am revealing new things to you, things hidden and unknown to you, created just now, this very moment. Of these things you have heard nothing until now so that you cannot say, Oh yes, I knew this.

In the Christian contemplative tradition, we are invited to rest more deeply in the Great Mystery, to lay aside our images and symbols, and let the divine current carry us deeper, without knowing where, only to trust the impulse within to follow a longing.

As autumn tilts us toward the season of growing darkness, consider this an invitation to yield to the mystery of your own heart's desires. You do not need a map or agenda, simply a willingness to swim in the waters carrying you back home again.

The monks knew the wisdom of embracing a season of unknowing, to wrest from their grip the idols of certainty and security. As mythologist and storyteller Michael Meade says, "a false sense of security is the only kind there is." Of the new things happening you have known nothing until this moment.

Taking flight requires courage to ascend into the unfamiliar and unknown. And it requires a community of kindred souls who affirm the journey isn't completely crazy and there is more awaiting us beyond the borders of our narrow expectations.

The soul's migration demands the long, slow journey in a holy direction, calling us only to follow the impulse of love.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Monk in the World Guest Post: Patricia Brenneman

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Patricia Brenneman's reflection "Surrender to the Mother Vessel."

2015 was a year of discernment for me. I felt called to deepen my work in the spiritual realm, both personally and professionally, and faced decisions about training and travel and all of the energy and expense that comes with that territory. In the midst of this, I discovered that my spiritual director of the previous 12 years was, at age 80, moving into retirement. Cil was not only my spiritual guide but also my spiritual mother, guiding me through my own mother wounds, the death of my mother, and my journey of integration/individuation. In facing this loss, I was launched into deep grief amidst my joy and excitement about the next phase of my journey.  As I lived into my joy and grief and excitement and decision making about programs and spiritual directors, I witnessed my body's expression of all of this – the rhythms of full-bodied exuberant "yes!", the tightening and resistance of fear, the heartbreaking sadness in my heart and gut. Somewhere in all of this, I consulted with the Tarot cards, asking what I most needed to pay attention to. Embedded in the reading was this: Surrender to the Mother Vessel.

I am haunted by this phrase. Surrender to the Mother Vessel. It rolls around in my mouth, like the smooth pebble from ocean's shore, salty and worn to its essence. It steeps in my tea each morning, and I pluck it out before it becomes too bitter, seeking just that enoughness of flavoring. I wrestle with it, as did Jacob with the angel, hoping for a wound visible enough so I can see its impact. I play with it, make art with it, meditate on it, dream it.  I am entranced, enthralled by it. This is all about devotion, actually.

Devotion. Hunger, and thirst.

My own original experience of the Mother Vessel involved something very sad, empty and lonely. Through therapy and my work with Cil, I sense a container within that is more firm, more whole, more resilient in its holding and receptive capacity. Yet facing this loss of Cil triggered a new level of free fall into the original loss of Mother in her inability to give me the holding and containment I needed – a remembering this in my body – and a realization of my childlike externalization of Cil as my Mother Vessel. I was suddenly terrified. How could I do this without her? Who do I think I am, to aspire to move into Cil's shoes as spiritual guide to others? To take on this role meant direct displacement of Cil in my life. I felt caught – something that I had been moving toward in joy was now fraught with loss.

There is paradox here. Destruction and creation, death and life. I sense the presence of Kali, "gentle mother, fierce warrior," goddess of creation and destruction, Great Mother, that "dangerously dual figure, both benevolent and terrifying." This is about birth mother, about Mother, about Great Mother. About devotion – devotion to my mother in all of her aspects, devotion to Cil's leaving, and ultimately, devotion to my Self, in all of my aspects.

A man, in a documentary I watched recently, describes sitting with his mother as she is dying. He watches her slow breathing, and is struck by how the curves of her pelvis and ribs are much like those of a ship, very much like the wooden canoe he had made himself, the very vessel from which he fishes for fish to eat. Mother Vessel, vessel out of which we are born and then launched, within our own vessel, within this vessel of earth, of universe, of Great Mother. Birth and death, our womb experience. How our very living involves causing death and destruction.

There is paradox in this darkness, and there is stillness, silence, waiting. Being present in what is, receptive to what shows up, ready to surrender. Surrender to the Mother Vessel.

Surrender. Floating on my back in water feels like surrender. I do this regularly as part of my lap swim in the pool, loose and aligned within that liminal place of water and air, ". . .  float[ing] into Creator Spirit's deep embrace, knowing no effort earns that all-surrounding grace" (Denise Levertov).  Recently I got to float in ocean water, lifted and raised by salty wave motion, circled by sky, open and expansive. Heart open, exposed and lifted – this is both sweetly vulnerable and terrifyingly tender.

My dreams manifest the image of a white, milky substance, something I've come to think of as mother's milk. In the first dream, around the time of the Tarot reading, the milky substance comes up from a tube that is inserted into the depths of the pelvis. The appearance of the substance means that the tube is properly inserted, in the right position. I observe the older expert surgeon, and as he steps aside, I move into his place and, following his example, ease the tube into place correctly. More recently, in another dream, the milky substance appears in a glass of my client's medicine, medicine for his Crohn's (crones), which I drink from and receive, holy medicinal mother's milk. My hunger and thirst are satisfied, for now.

Devotion indeed.

Patricia Brenneman dreams, writes, reads, and walks her dog Gracie in Minneapolis.  She offers Sweet Nectar for the Grieving Soul: A Pilgrimage into Grief and Loss groups, using sandplay to explore grief as sacred territory, and practices spiritual guidance in the Jungian tradition. She can be reached through www.patriciaspiritualdirection.com.

 

 

 

Feast of St. Francis and the Holy Fool ~ A love note from your online abbess

St. Francis at the Corner Pub

Approaching the door, you can already

hear his generous laughter.

He stands on the bar upside down for a moment

to get a new perspective on things,

a flash of polka-dotted boxers

as his brown robe cascades over his head,

sandaled toes wiggling in the air in time with

a fiddle playing in the corner.

Rain falls heavily in the deepening darkness

and he orders a round of drinks

despite his vow of poverty and the single silver coin

in his pocket, multiplied by the last Guinness poured.

Nothing like a good glass of wine, he gleefully says,

heavy Italian accent echoing through the room,

he holds it up to the overhead light, pausing for a moment

lost in its crimson splendor, breathes deeply.

At ease among fishmongers and plumbers,

widows and college students, and the

single mother sneaking out for a moment

of freedom from colic, cries, and diapers.

As the wind blows rain sideways, in come the

animals, benvenuti to pigeons, squirrels, seagulls, crows,

and the neighborhood cat balding from mange,

a chorus of yowls, coos, caws, and meows arising,

all huddle around him. No one objects to the growing

menagerie, just glad to be dry and warm.

He clinks glasses all around, no one left out.

—Christine Valters Paintner

 

Dearest monks and artists,

 “We are fools for the sake of Christ” (1 Cor. 4:10)

There are many aspects of Francis’ foolishness, from stripping his clothing publicly, appearing naked in the church, renouncing his wealth, befriending all creatures, and calling his community of brothers “fools for Christ” reflecting the words of St. Paul above. He tames a wolf and during the Crusades he walks unarmed across the Egyptian desert into the Sultan’s camp where he had every reason to expect his own death, a foolish act indeed.

We are always being called to new revelation and to see the world from another perspective. The inner Fool is the one who helps us to see things anew and to dismantle the accepted wisdom of our times. Paul also writes “Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?” (1 Cor. 1:20b) Productivity, striving, consumption, and speed are some of the false gods of our western culture. A life committed to following the Divine path is one which makes the world’s wisdom seem foolish, but conversely, the world looks upon those with spiritual commitment often as the ones who are “fools.”

This can be a challenging archetype for some of us as we often try to do everything possible so as not to look foolish. However, this archetype is the one which helps to subvert the dominant paradigm of acceptable ways of thinking and living.  The author GK Chesterton, in his book about Francis of Assisi, explores the idea of Francis seeing the world upside down, which is really seeing it right side up, because we get a totally new perspective. There is a subversive act of truth-telling through the Fool’s humor and playfulness.

The Fool risks mockery by stepping out of socially acceptable roles and asks where are you willing to look foolish? Through the fool we find vicarious release for much we have repressed in ourselves. If we have always lived according to the “rules” or been overly concerned with how things look, the Fool invites us to break open and play. The Fool encourages us to laugh at ourselves, reminding us that humor and humility have the same root as humus, which means earthiness.

We activate the fool when we do something that others have a hard time understanding or accepting. I remember when John and I first began our move to Europe and we sold off or gave away our possessions, various family members and friends couldn’t understand different things we had let go of – how could we release our library of treasured books? How could I burn years of journals? How could John quit his secure job? To some, our choices appeared “foolish” because they didn’t fit their way of thinking about how you move through life. To others, they seemed liberating precisely because it was a different path chosen.

How does Francis call you to your own path of holy foolishness? What have you been longing to do but afraid of looking “foolish” to others?

To explore the Fool and other archetypes, look for my book Illuminating the Way: Embracing the Wisdom of Monks and Mystics.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Dancing Monk Icon © Marcy Hall (order prints here)

Monk in the World Guest Post: Katie Birkeland

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Katie Birkeland's reflection "Making Art."

Strangely, my body is willing tonight.  It is my souls that seems exhausted.  I cry just a few lonely tears. Not knowing what else to do, I make some tea and light some candles.  The house is a peaceful quiet.  All is well, but is it well with my soul?  The rain, steady and calming, dreary and fresh, mix with the sound of the refrigerator and Little Man’s feet bumping the wall.  My pen starts to move dully across the page then frantic with anxiety, jumbled words that seem to be the only outlet for the shattered mess within.  “Why?” I scribble.  “Why do I write?  Will anyone ever read this?  Will it ever impact anyone?”  I stir my tea with a spoon swirling the cream.  I realize I am write because it stirs a life that seems lifeless.  It is sweet.  It soothes.  The tea and the pen.  I write not because I want to be productive but because I want to make art.  I want to express what is sitting in my soul, even if it feels dead.  I want death to come to life.

An upward glance catches the picture clamped to my desk lamp of the Gift of Life within.  I feel the Life move.  I wonder with my pen how I can love another when I struggle loving the Lives already in my home.  I want to hold this Gift of Life and push it away all at the same time.  I smile and I ache as I stare at the adorable profile I can already see in the black and white print.  Do I have what it takes to love and how?  Is it safe?  What kind of mother would ask these questions?  A mother with a deep desire to love beyond beautiful moments.  Fear holds me with this kind of honesty of paper. Love requires so much.  It requires me, exposed. “Yes Mama, love me.”  The Life’s movements are getting stronger.  A punch in the flesh, not just a flutter.  “Mama, love me.  I am here.  I just want you.”

Discovering from the scratches on my paper that I want to be brave, I want to love, I want to be exposed, my deepest place bring encouragement through my hand: “When you offer 'the you of love' to yourself, then you can receive the truth of others.  When you receive the truth of others then you can offer your truest self to them.  The exposure of self is art, the offering of self is love.  But true art is made when love is the color.” Feel the longing, love, life, movement, and connection all wrapped up in you.  Notice the experience and remember it as you labor for the first time and for the rest of your life with this Life, then you will know love.  Love fills in the empty places.”

It is 10:24pm when the blonde hair of a beautiful boy spirit I know comes into my office with a blue passie and blue blankie, fireman jammies and dinosaur feet slippers cozy him as he carries a big Tonka truck.  He grunts in his high pitched voice at the truck.  I don’t think he wants to play, rather he wants his mommy’s help in calming his soul so he can put his body to sleep for the night.  So I scoop him in my lap and I write.  He watches and listens to the scratching of my pen move across the page, the rhythm calming.  Occasionally he touches the paper where the pen will soon move as if to discover what will be there.  I hope one of his memories of me and him when he is grown is being snuggled on my lap while I write and drink tea late at night.  I lean in and kiss the blonde.

Soon he has his own paper and markers.  Mom and son “write” together.  Little Man asks what I am coloring.  I tell him I’m writing a story about us. “Are you painting your paper Mommy,” breaks the moments of silence. I guess I am.  A deep inhale and sigh of contentment follow as I realize that I am making art on the paper and on two souls.

My sweatshirt falls off my shoulder revealing my own feelings of exposure.  Usually I run from vulnerability, but tonight it is brimming with truth, life, and contentment.  It feels good to share myself with my son—even when he should be sleeping.  Rebellion to rules—scandalous.

He draws quietly filling my lap for the next while.  His voice throws in sweetness every now and then.  Although, without me telling him, he whispers, “I’m being quiet”.   Only to be followed by a conversation carried on by him. Secretly I don’t mind.  And we share our art with each other, and the experience of making it.  And I learn that for children life lessons and self are discovered in the ordinary moments of play.  And I wonder with desire if that can be the same for adults.  So I rest my cheek on the blonde, it’s soft, trying to soak up the childlikeness.  Little Man and I are done “coloring”.  He takes the last sip of my now cold tea.  I pull the candles over, we blow them out together, watching the smoke rise in the dim of darkness.

I made true art.

Katie Birkeland makes her home with her husband in Minnesota where they wrangle, cuddle, homeschool, explore and live life with their three children.  Pockets of writing time with a candle and tea are rare and celebrated, as writing is a life-giving practice and means of growth.  You can find her at findingedenglory.wordpress.com