Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 98

Autumn Equinox and the Feast of Michaelmas ~ A love note from your online abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

Included in your love note today is a short excerpt from our current Sacred Seasons mini-retreat for the Autumn Equinox and the Feast of Michaelmas (register here to receive materials all year long to celebrate the turning of the seasons) written by your online Prior John Valters Paintner:

“Do not fear, Daniel,” the Archangel Michael continued; “from the first day you made up your mind to acquire understanding and humble yourself before God, your prayer was heard.” –Daniel 10:12a

The Book of Daniel, named after the hero and not the author of the story, is set during the early days of the Babylonian Exile. It is more an Apocalyptic text than truly Prophetic work. The book itself was written during the Greek occupation of Judea and a time of great persecution (far more so than what the Jewish exiles in Babylon would have suffered). Placing the story in an earlier time and different place allowed the unknown author to avoid trouble with the authorities, but the original audience would have read past the ‘code’ to see themselves in the story of Daniel. (A similar style of writing was used in the Book of Revelation to avoid directly or overtly criticizing the Roman occupation and subsequent persecution.)

The message is one of hope in the midst of what appears to be total defeat. The idea is that since their ancestors survived the Babylonian Exile, the Jews under Hellenistic rule will also survive and one day be restored. The Book of Daniel is arguably the first true revelation about a life-after-death, a great judgment in the life to come.

The Feast of Michaelmas is located in the season of autumn, a time when the warmth and bloom of summer fade. The days are growing shorter and colder . . . and winter is still yet to come. Not only have things taken on a gloomier hue, if you suffer from any kind of seasonal affective disorder, the worst is yet to come.

This must have been how the Jews under the increasingly oppressive reign of the Greeks must have felt. Their ancestors had faced hard times, but perhaps none as hard as this. I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to imagine, let alone see the light at the end of that tunnel. They were in more need of God’s loving embrace than ever.

And so the Archangel Michael, the captain of an army of angels, the defeater of Lucifer, the defender of heaven itself, comes to Daniel – to each of them – and tells them not only not to fear, but that their prayers have already been heard and answered. He becomes an archetype of hope and invitation to surrender into trust.

How do you find courage to endure when times are dark?

A concluding note from Christine:

Autumn Equinox coincides with the Feast of St. Michael on September 29th. In general I am not particularly drawn to angels. Perhaps it is the way some are depicted. Often the sweetness of cherubs is a bit too cloying for me. They feel disconnected from my own experience.

But I do often find myself drawn to statues of St. Michael. Usually he is depicted as this strong presence with a sword and shield. He offers a sense of protection against the forces that threaten to overwhelm us. He invites us to invoke our own inner warrior to provide boundaries on our energy and commitments. I used to resist the idea of warrior, preferring nonviolence and peaceful solutions. But the warrior is an essential ally for us.

This feels a bit like autumn’s invitation as well, the call to remember our own limits as we move into the season of release. How does Michael call you to say no in the days ahead? How might a sacred no offer you the grace of renewal and replenishment?

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Monk in the World Guest Post: Christine S. Davis

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Christine Davis' reflection "Losing the Weight."

Weighted down by worries, work, and weariness, I struggle to release the anxious thoughts, monsters in my mind, problems building and consequences looming. Sick dog still, a daily trial for her and us, every day for six weeks now, distress and hope, 

 

I breathe, let the breeze wash over me as I embrace my self today.

 

compassion and caution. Work piling and time ending, summer is almost over–the four saddest words in the English language to a 

 

I honor commitment, the power of the promise, reminders of the road taken, vows made.

Let go of more–more things to do, things to have, things to keep. Open your hand.

 

teacher. The muse has left town, she cannot handle the knot in my stomach and ache on my brow. Summer is almost over and I am still carrying the extra 40 pounds, still haven't trained for a triathlon, taken a pottery class, traveled to the islands, 

 

I appreciate courage, willingness to step out and overcome, overlook, face the lump of fear in your throat.

Let go of striving–the sun and the rain sustain my Yoshino cherry trees.

 

finished my book, or kayaked. Prince Charming, Superman, and Wonder Woman have all gone with the muse, and I am left with ordinary living, breathing, tiring, dying, 

 

I dream of a soft touch, a soft voice saying my name, a soft smile, crinkling at the joke.

Let go of dissatisfaction–be content with the love in your life and in your heart.

 

humans and beings. It seems life is lived in heartbeats and breaths rather than outcomes or accomplishments, and I did drink wine on the Rhine River, and at cafes in Colmar and Basel, did walk labyrinths in Switzerland and Inis Mor; did write poetry sitting amidst ancient gravestones and 8th century monastic ruins, 

 

I celebrate surprises, sudden adventures, and invitations into the unknown.

Let go of fear–trust in soft landings and ultimate strength.

 

and in a courtyard garden in Basel. I did read about romance and adventure, poetry and laments; share secrets and failings; lie in arms of love; play backgammon with a friend and patty-cake with a child; eat and move my body in various ways; spoon feed a baby 

 

I respect action and activity, purposeful practice, making, enjoying, and being.

Let go of shame–you are human and there is much joy to be found in that.

 

and feel the delicious drool of him sleeping soundly on my chest. I did write about death and love and I practiced it in daily moments upon returning home, in moments of spoon feeding a sick dog and cleaning vomit from a carpet and a sad furry face, disappointments and discouragements, 

 

I yearn for openness and compassion, much too rare today, love in action and word.

Let go, let the waters run through your fingers, what will be will be.

 

cancellations and crises. I am far from Inis Mor and Basel, Colmar and Weil em Rhine, and my mountaintop retreat, train rides, city strolls, art museums and border crossings, hiking trails and swimming holes,

 

I need novelty, excitement, change positions, try something new.

I am letting go of what will not be, being patient for what is to come, accepting what is, appreciating what has been, and remaining open to the holy tenses in all things.

 

but I am immersed in love as a verb, in writing poetry and editing drafts, dealing with the messy everyday dust and dirt, blockages and blockades, wrong turns and dead ends, frustrations and fatalizations, friends holding on, talking me down, pulling me up, lending an ear, a shoulder, and a hug.

 

Watch the morning dove land, spread her white wings. Do likewise.

 

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2017, previously published in my blog on August 5, 2017.

Dr. Christine S. Davis is Professor in the Communication Studies Department at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. Her research interests are in the intersection of family, health, and disability. Christine publishes regularly on topics such as children’s health, end-of-life communication, family disability, and arts-based and qualitative research methods. Her blog was inspired by her participation in the “Writing on the Wild Edges” retreat and is an exploration of arts-based, poetic, and narrative thoughts on living and dying, caring and being.

Monk in the World Pilgrimage – Participant Poem (Jo-Ellen Darling)

Last year Jo-Ellen Darling participated in our Monk in the World pilgrimage and shares this beautiful poem inspired by the magical island of Inismor off the coast of Galway.

The Ride to Inismore

by Jo-Ellen Darling

A shaft of light

spills over water

and shimmers –

then another –

holy places,

reminders of Eternal One

welcome me to Inismore.

Soon the rhythm of waves

lulls me in arms warm and wide.

What great or small miracle

will I meet today?

Seabirds join alongside us,

excitedly they flap and glide,

keeping up with us,

chuckling to themselves.

Then something half out of water

catches my eye –

and then again!

Dolphin squirms upward

can’t quite jump –

until she makes a perfect arch

rising toward the upper world –

not unlike my own inner journey,

which deepens through thin spaces

and thresholds of time and place.

Dolphin and I are free now, together

soaring into a new day

as wild edges emerge

before our eyes.

Jo-Ellen Darling is an avid journaler and creative nonfiction writer. She's a graduate of the Kairos: School of Spiritual Formation in Lancaster, Pennsylvania and recently published several pieces in the Kairos School's book of meditations and reflections titled "On The Journey." She lives with her husband Mike Jendzeizyk in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.

Hildegard of Bingen and Viriditas ~ A love note from your online abbess

St. Hildegard Strolls through the Garden

Luminous morning, Hildegard gazes at

the array of blooms, holding in her heart

the young boy with a mysterious rash, the woman

reaching menopause, the newly minted widower,

and the black Abbey cat with digestive issues who wandered

in one night and stayed.  New complaints arrive each day.

She gathers bunches of dandelions, their yellow

profusion a welcome sight in the monastery garden,

red clover, nettle, fennel, sprigs of parsley to boil later in wine.

She glances to make sure none of her sisters are

peering around pillars, slips off her worn leather shoes

to relish the freshness between her toes,

face upturned to the rising sun, she sings lucida materia,

matrix of light, words to the Virgin, makes a mental

note to return to the scriptorium to write that image down.

When the church bells ring for Lauds, she hesitates just a

moment, knowing her morning praise has already begun,

wanting to linger in this space where the dew still clings.

At the end of her life, she met with a terrible obstinacy,

from the hierarchy came a ban on receiving

bread and wine and her cherished singing.

She now clips a single rose, medicine for a broken heart,

which she will sip slowly in tea, along with her favorite spelt

biscuits, and offer some to the widower

grieving for his own lost beloved,

they smile together softly at this act of holy communion

and the music rising among blades of grass.

—Christine Valters Paintner

Dearest monks and artists,

Twice now I have had the great privilege of leading a pilgrimage to the landscape of Hildegard of Bingen with my dear teaching partner Betsey Beckman (our next dates for September 2018 are already full!).

When I went to that place of lush greenness I discovered viriditas in a new way. Viriditas was Hildegard’s term for the greening power of God, sustaining life each moment, bringing newness to birth. It is a marvelous image of the divine power continuously at work in the world, juicy and fecund.

While I expected to see this greening power alive in the vineyards draping the hills, in the beauty of the Rhine river flowing through the valley like a glorious vein of life, and in the forested hill of Disibodenberg where Hildegard spent much of her early life, what I received as gift was the greening that came alive for me in the community gathered.

There is something so powerful about walking in the places that our great mystics and visionaries dwelled, and to feel the wisdom of their teaching in a fully embodied way. However, to do that with an intentional community of fellow pilgrims, each arriving with their own longing and particular love of Hildegard, was a beauty beyond my expectations.

On our pilgrimage, we created a community of modern monks. In my own work, I use the image of being a monk in the world to invite folks into an experience of integrating contemplative practice into the daily tasks of living. The beauty of the monastic mindset, of which Hildegard was deeply shaped and formed, is that it asks us to see the holy in all things, all people, and in the unfolding of time.

We would gather together in the mornings for praying the psalms, in the great monastic tradition of praying the Hours. We entered the psalms through contemporary songs which carried us into their poetry and danced.  I am certain Hildegard would have approved! Throughout our days spent back at the hotel gathering space, which we fondly dubbed our chapel and cloister, we created together through poetry, photography, mandala drawing, and dance.  We would both laugh and weep together as we touched into the wonder of our experience.

On our outings, we received the gifts of these holy sites. We listened in the silence, the way the monks of old would and the way Hildegard surely would have, for the shimmering voice within that so often goes unheard.

Kindred spirits are a gift beyond measure. When we find our tribe, we can feel like we have come home again. We experience the viriditas in our souls, which Hildegard counseled. In that safe space of being met by other pilgrims who also have a love of contemplative practice and creative expression, we are able to start to drop down to a deeper place and let a part of ourselves come alive that we may keep hidden in daily life. We can welcome in the moistening of our souls. This is the greening power of God at work. We find ourselves vital, fertile, alive and saying yes in new ways, affirmed by our fellow companions.

Join companions and kindred souls in exploring the wisdom of Hildegard of Bingen for our lives. Our online retreat begins today!

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: Florence Heyhoe

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Florence Heyhoe's reflection on contemplation and trauma.

contemplation

the silence fell into me

as the sun went down

and held me in expectant

quiet in your presence

and in your absence.

tripping and tumbling

and

bumping into YOU

and finding me

deeper and deeper.

long lost shadows

remembered to be forgotten.

looking and seeing

as never before

tearing and restoring

and making new

colour and stitch

and torrents of tears

in the sunshine and the dark.

looking and seeing anew.

communion and

it's beyond me

here and over there

and i can`t contain it

and i will go down and rise

up continually

ever widening spirals

rising and falling

together as one.

Silence beckoned me in my 20s and we have pursued each other ever since. Brought up in the presbyterian church in Northern Ireland it was very unusual, bizarre almost that I bought and read, “The Cloud of Unknowing” and other spiritual classics. Eventually silence tumbled into me at deeper and deeper levels both in my prayer life and daily living. Silent waiting, expectantly before God has become the norm for me because for a long, long time words have given way to silence. I seem to have been made all eyes so I notice colour, landscape, pattern, light, wild flowers and faces. These sights can stop me in my tracks and lift me to a wordless place where my spirit dances in wonder. Entering deeper into silence my response to the visual world around me also deepened and tears flow freely.

I have been living a contemplative lifestyle  since before I knew it had a name. Just over a decade ago the silence slowly took me to a place I never knew existed buried deep within. It began with tears, as I sat waiting in Gods presence they would flow in torrents. A piece of art that I produced in response to reflecting on the sense of abandonment felt by the disciples on Easter Saturday surprised me. I had reproduced a childhood nightmare so I knew that I was entering a significant time in my life.

I was able to remain faithful to this unfolding sitting with it, living it before the face of Christ. I did not know what else to do but trust the process. My body in conjunction with the releasing of emotions began to tell a story, a horrible story that unravelled my perceived history. I found myself on a road with no signposts journeying into a dark, dark forest where terror, horror, disbelief, grief, rage, pain and all sorts of unimaginables had to be faced, lived, welcomed as my truth. At times I wanted to escape this horror, did not think I could do it any more. But I persevered, seemed to find the strength, the courage, the energy to keep going. My silence had become a place of noise and volcanic eruption of emotions but Grace and a flickering light lured me to keep returning again and again to being present to giving voice to my hidden self. The deep sense of loneliness and needed isolation took me deeper into God.

In this process I have come home to myself, I am more aware of just who I am. I am becoming a fully integrated woman and I have an ever deepening intimacy with Christ. I have learned about the relationship between my body,  my emotions and spirit. I have seen the link between my art, journalling, sewing, spiritual and emotional life. I am not a great one for housework but I know that on days when I choose to declutter I am also discarding stuff on the inside. I hear myself singing songs that reflect the inner life.

I have integrated this dreadful trauma of sexual abuse into my being. I have been transformed, a new creation, who lives life at new depths. I smell roses, let the chocolate melt in my mouth, listen to the bird song, feel the soft new larch leaves and savor the changing light on the landscape. Lost in wonder, love and praise as the hymn writer penned. At 61 years of age I now have an authentic voice for I have lived what I believed and now I know, I really know. In the depths of excruciating pain I found truth, truth about self and truth about the God who resurrects in whom I have my identity and I have come home.

Florence is a textile artist living in Northern Ireland where she runs workshops in textile art and exhibits her work. She is committed to a life of transformation and creativity and feels more equipped than ever to live a life that bears witness to the Divine who transforms us into the best that we can be.

The Unraveling Toward Love ~ A love note from your online abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

We live in an era of unraveling: wars, financial breakdown, gun violence, unemployment, mass migration, racial discrimination, gender inequality, poverty rising, and the poisoning of our ecosystems. Even as I write this litany, I am sure I have forgotten others, and certainly there are the smaller issues of daily life wherever we live—the uncertainties of money, health, and love; trust broken; decisions based on the bottom line rather than human dignity.

If your spirits aren’t being challenged, undone, or unraveled, then you are not paying attention.

Sometimes I click on my Facebook newsfeed, and there, sitting mockingly among the YouTube videos and the advertisements, are images of children torn to pieces by war in remote places and I just sob. I am mocked by the dissonance, the absurdity, and my own sense of helplessness. How do I go to the farmer's market each Saturday and roast my free-range chicken with organic broccoli? How do I lie down in my comfortable bed at night in my quiet home free from violence and the ravages of war?

We do what people who search and seek have been doing for thousands of years: we find new ways to live. We awaken from the numbness; we challenge the status quo. We do it right in our little corners of the world.

It is not even a question of awareness, of posting one more insightful commentary, of sharing one more petition. These things are, of course, good and necessary, but they are never enough.

The heart is fed with silence.

Every time tragedy strikes my newsfeed is filled with commentary. I get overwhelmed by the multitude of responses. Everyone seemed to have something to say; everyone is posting more and more words to fill the great mystery of what is happening.

We don't come to understand the great suffering of the world by thinking our way through it. Discussion is good, and conversations and reflection are worthy. Certainly analysis is often necessary. And yet, what nourishes the heart most are the moments of radical humility when we step beyond words and into the space between. We listen. We tend. We wait.

Our desire for more news and more information is often a desire for control. We live under the illusion that knowing every detail about something far away will help us to understand what is happening. But most often the heart comes to understanding in the womb of silent reflection. When we offer ourselves space to simply be before we jump to doing.

The heart embraces mystery and unknowing

One day some old men came to see Abba Anthony.  In the midst of them was Abba Joseph.  Wanting to test them, the old man suggested a text from the Scriptures, and, beginning with the youngest, he asked them what it meant.  Each gave his opinion as he was able.  But to each one the old man said, "You have not understood it."  Last of all he said to Abba Joseph, "How would you explain this saying?" and he replied, "I do not know." Then Abba Anthony said, "Indeed, Abba Joseph has found the way, for he has said: "I do not know." (Anthony the Great, 17)

This is certainly a phrase to live by in times of uncertainty: “Abba Joseph has found the way, for he has said: I do not know.”  The paradox of the spiritual life is that we find the way once we release the path.  Whatever we think the right choices are, the right thoughts, the right relationships or commitments, we have to truly descend into the darkness of unknowing to find the way.

Consider the possibility that the next time you feel absolutely certain about something, you will whisper the possibility that "I don't know" and see what happens when you open to something bigger than your own imagining, a vision that moves beyond tension and holds the fullness of things.

The heart asks us to stay

Stability and patience call us to stay with our experience, to be fully present to whatever is happening within us.  Moving about from place to place can be a form of distraction and placing our energies outside of us.  We do this in our minds as well, even when the body is still, we let our minds carry us far back into the past or into the future.  My own inclination is to live in the future, to always be planning ahead.  My organized self loves calendars and to-do lists.  And these are important aspects of my work, but they can also become a way of avoiding my own experience in this moment, right now.  I find myself sometimes too focused on checking things off my list or figuring things out, that I abandon myself in this moment by not staying present.

Amma Syncletica offers this wisdom story:

Amma Mother said, "If you find yourself in a monastery do not go to another place, for that will harm you a great deal. Just as the bird who abandons the eggs she was sitting on prevents them from hatching, so the monk or the nun grows cold and their faith dies when they go from one place to another." (Syncletica 6)

The desert elders call us to deepen our commitment to sitting in silence with whatever rises up.  Sometimes that time is filled with abiding stillness and more often there are waves of emotion rising. Sometimes those feelings are unexpected, ones I wasn’t anticipating and would rather not experience.  The emotions are a bridge between our minds and bodies.  When we feel sad or angry, we experience it both as a thought and as an experience in our bodies.  What we often do is to let our thoughts carry us far away from our actual experience and avoid feeling deeply what is happening in the body. The distraction of the internet is in part a distraction from our visceral experience of things.

Consider entering your silent prayer through your breath and then gently calling to mind and heart this image of the bird who must stay with the eggs for them to hatch.  Can you stay with your own experience and not abandon yourself?

The heart endures.

Another story from the desert mothers, this time Amma Theodora:

Let us strive to enter by the narrow gate. Just as the trees, if they have not stood before the winter's storms cannot bear fruit, so it is with us; this present age is a storm and it is only through many trials and temptations that we can obtain an inheritance in the kingdom of heaven.

Near Tucson in the desert southwest U.S., there is a biosphere built twenty years ago and filled with trees and plants, but because it is sealed from the outside atmosphere, it is sheltered entirely from wind. These trees have grown weak and spindly. The winds create strength through resistance and help to spread the seeds.

When we stay, we grow only stronger rather than weaker. Endurance asks us to stay put in the face of great struggle, it is the wind strengthening our foundation. Endurance means we have looked at suffering in the eye and not run away.

We might take consolation in knowing the storms fortify us for what is ahead.

The heart wants to be embodied in daily small kindnesses.

There is another ancient wisdom saying from the desert fathers: "Do not feed the heart what does not nourish the heart."

We need to stop feeding the consumer machine, which tells us our worth by the newest gadget we have purchased, only to throw the last one in an ever-growing landfill. We need to stop perpetuating the cycles of violence by denouncing war but still letting our minds offer relentless judgments about ourselves and the people we encounter every day.

We need to go off to our metaphorical deserts and wildernesses to really reevaluate our priorities. More than likely this is an oasis of silent moments in the midst of a full day with competing priorities. We are called to remember what it is that really nourishes our hearts. What comes to mind when you ponder that question? What makes you feel nourished, fed, and alive? How might you extend kindness this day to someone else?

These are the concrete ways we can respond to the devastation we see reported on the news in places far away, by remembering the love we can offer right here and now.

The heart loves messiness

There is a beautiful German film by director Wim Wenders called “Wings of Desire” about two angels who act as witnesses to humanity, and long for the experience of being embodied. They talk about how it would be to feed the cat and get newsprint on their fingers, to feel the glorious weight of being in a body.

The heart does not desire to transcend this moment into some ethereal lightness, but to be immersed in the weight and messiness of life. Ultimately we do not seek to be untouched by the great sorrows of the world, but to be moved immeasurably, to wrestle with these seasons like Jacob did and to walk away wounded but still walking.

The heart is nourished through tears.

Staying with the suffering of the world inevitably leads to grief. We need to rage together, lament the terrible losses of lives and dignity, of our own sense of security. Rather than numb ourselves or busy ourselves against the onslaught of despair, tears are the path toward softening.

Tears remind us of our vulnerability, they call us to yield our desire to control things and be with what is. The desert elders saw tears as a gift and a grace. They were a sign that we were beginning to come undone, which meant that the divine has room to enter.

Lament is a form of truth telling. When we cry out we say that something is not as it should be. This is a powerful act.

The heart is nourished by love.

 In that place of lament, of unraveling and undoing, our hearts can become more tender and vulnerable, more open and spacious. We can choose to respond out of cynicism and harden ourselves toward love and affection or we can choose otherwise. 

Years ago at a workshop led by Northwest American storyteller and mythologist Michael Meade he said something that has stayed with me and rises up in times like these. "We must continue to work for love, act with love, even in the face of all other evidence."

We can never know whether our efforts make any difference, and yet we must act as if, to continue to make the choice out of love each time, to let cynicism shrivel, even as the world continues to crumble all around us.

The heart sees how it is all connected.

We nourish ourselves by finding others who also want to live on the wild edges of the empire—the dominant consciousness—and imagine something different together. This tribe includes kindred spirits, maybe even just one or two soul friends, along with our spiritual ancestors, the desert mothers and fathers, and the mystics and monks who said there is a better way.

When we get overwhelmed our urge may be to withdraw into solitude. And while silence is definitely required for our nourishment, ultimately it is meant to lead us back into connection with others. The mystic knows that in true solitude we discover just how intimately we are bound up with one another.

The heart inspires the imagination.

Many of us live in fear of the cultural breakdown happening right before our eyes, and yet in some ways, what we most need is a breaking apart before a coming together can happen. The very disintegration we resist may be the necessary first step toward a renewed vision.

In this darkness of time, we might remember that this is also the place to dare the unimaginable. When everything else seems lost or hopeless, why not risk it all for love? Why not cast off our grasp of what we think will bring security, and embrace the thing that makes us tremble?

It can be hard to remember that there is goodness in the world, that love is the foundational impulse. But together, we must let ourselves unravel, feel the breaking down of everything, stay present, lament, and then imagine. We must act as if, gathered in our little tribes of kindness, showing love to our corner of the world. We must become outposts of generosity.

Let the heart be nourished first and see what happens.

(This article first appeared in Weavings journal)

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Monk in the World Guest Post: Jean Wise

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Jean Wise's reflection Living in the Shade of Mystery.

I don’t understand fishing.

I don’t fish. I didn’t grow up in a family who fishes. All those hooks, worms, and slimy flip-floppy critters baffle me.

Perhaps the biggest hindrance for fishing for me is the idea of “wasting” a full day, with a pole dipped in the water, waiting. Lingering in the muddy space of not knowing if and when the bait will work and supper caught.

In my second half of life, I am learning the language fishing speaks. As a monk in the world, I am slowly realizing the lessons of rest, wait, and unknown outcomes, symbolized in a pole and hook.

Life is like a day of fishing.

We live in the realm of gray uncertainty.

We dwell in the murkiness of questions, not clear answers.

We slowly move forward into the foggy journey of life, often only seeing one step ahead, instead of an obvious destination.

Not certain if and when I will catch that elusive fish, I live scanning the murky water of mystery.

I used to seek the perfect path and want those well-known and predictable ends. Easy clear routes to the known are more comfortable than being stretched into uncertainty. I only wanted the sunshine and clear weather and I treasured the good days.

I thought joy came from clarity and predictability. And security came from control. My control.

But now I understand life arrives both clean and dirty, happy and sad, full and empty. We live in an illusion of certainty with little control. I dance now to the music of mystery. I am finding comfort in the cool shade of uncertainty.

Like the flashing highway sign, I know life presents times to “expect delays” or to encounter “detours ahead.” Often these side trips offer the best adventures on a vacation.

When I don’t know everything, or have all of pieces fitting into the perfect place, I discover ways to be creative and to envision life from a new point of view.

I see the world as floating on an ocean, the current decided by a creator higher than myself who sees and knows the whole story, not the tiny view I have from my dinghy.

I am learning to embrace and live with the questions life brings with wonder and imagination. It’s ok to doubt, to welcome unknowns, to walk alongside of my fears and my hurts and listen to their stories.

Instead of wasting energy trying to control and predict my every move, I am enjoying the wind in my hair and the relaxation in the wait.

I am learning, still learning, to accept the depths of doubts. My ego and my emotions cling to the side of the pool, instead of swimming in the deep end, but at least I am finally in the water. I dive in with courage.

The truth is we never are in control or will live without some risk. Being a monk means taking the leap into the wild and wondrous river of life and laughing while riding the rapids.

As life overflows with ambiguity and vagueness, I discover the beauty in its shades. Amid the daily ordinary mud of life, I see prisms of light and enjoy pauses of peace.

"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next." ~  Gilda Radner

I still don’t fish, but now I understand its lure. I embrace this gift of the unknown, full of mystery, uncertainties, and waiting. And I cast my pole into the sea of life and listen to its lessons.

Jean Wise is a writer and speaker at retreats, gatherings, and seminars. She is a spiritual director and Deacon for her local church. Jean lives in northwest Ohio with her husband enjoying their empty nest. Find out more at her website: www.jeanwise.org or her blog: www.healthyspirituality.org.

 

Mystical Hope and the New Thing ~ A love note from your online abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

Our website issues have all been fully resolved and security strengthened. We also welcomed a new group of pilgrims to Galway and are journeying together this week.

Like many of you, global events lately feel quite overwhelming at times and I ponder and pray about my response. One thing I keep coming back to is a sense of deep certainty that the way of the monk and path of the artist make a difference in the world. What distinguishes these two ways of being is that each are called to live deliberately on the edges of things, in active resistance to a world that places all its value on speed and productivity, that reduces people to producers and consumers, and reduces the earth to a commodity for our use.

Last week’s love note dealt with that very monastic practice of inner hospitality. The longer I follow this path in my life, the more I consider hospitality to be one of the most essential of all the monk’s wisdom. To practice actively welcoming in what is most strange or other in my world as the very place of divine encounter – what St Benedict tells us in the Rule – is a holy challenge! But in a world where otherness sparks so much fear and policies which further divide us, learning to embrace the gift of the stranger, both within our own hearts, as well as in the world is a true balm.

This is what Jesus taught as well through his actions everyday – welcoming the outcast, the stranger, the foreigner. Always breaking boundaries to witness to immense love over fear.

Perhaps the other great essential for me is the practice of silence and solitude. Making time for a deep listening, rather than reacting to what we hear. What are the sacred invitations being whispered in quiet moments? And can we resist a culture of noise where we are bombarded with endless cycles of news.

In her book Mystical Hope, Cynthia Bourgeault writes that "(Mystical hope) has something to do with presence — not a future good outcome, but the immediate experience of being met, held in communion, by something intimately at hand." Allowing time to feel met by the divine and held in communion is a reminder for us as we return to the demands of our lives and seek to make wise and compassionate choices. It helps to nourish hope deep within us.

In my book The Artist’s Rule, I include a favorite scripture passage:

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. (Isaiah 48:6-7)

It is a reminder that more than ever we need people willing to pause and listen, to open their hearts to what is uncomfortable, and to hold space and attention until the new thing emerges.

I don’t have the answers, but I do have ancient practices which help to sustain me when I would rather run away. Perhaps if we keep practicing together, we will hear whispers of a new beginning.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Monk in the World Guest Post: Bridgette Goldstein

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Bridgette Goldstein's reflection "Stillpoint & My Sacred Story."

As a spiritual director, it is my gift to spend time with fellow souls on their journey of life.  Sometimes, it will be a moving forward with the next step on their path.  Other times, it will be sitting with them in the pain and questions of a struggle or trauma.  Still other times, it will be exploring the patterns and finding the Divine (or higher self, or whatever word works for you) among the chaos.  In all cases, the space is the same – sacred.  It is sacred because we make it so.  There is an intention by myself and the directee to come together in a single place and time with an invitation for the Divine to be with us in this space, for this moment.

As I hold space for these souls, I must also remember to honor and continue on my own journey.  Sitting with my spiritual director is definitely a rich and connecting experience, but it is not the only practice I have to honor and continue my sacred story.  Another way I do this is through centering prayer.  I have been on this path long enough to know that what this term may mean to you is, most likely, not what it means to me.  So I will share with you what it means to me and how it has been helpful on my journey.

I did my studies at a center called Stillpoint: The Center for Christian Spirituality in Pasadena, California.  It was not until a couple years after my program was complete that the full concept of ‘stillpoint’ clicked for me.  I have tried to find definitions and concepts that align with my experience of this stillpoint, but I have not been successful.  This has provided proof of what I have suspected for quite some time; spirituality is a deeply individual experience that can be enriched with exploration and a sense of adventure, holding what resonates and releasing that which does not.  It was with this attitude that I embraced centering prayer and found my stillpoint.

I was first introduced to centering prayer through the book Centering Prayer and Inner Awakening by Cynthia Bourgeault.  She also spoke about this subject at the 2017 Festival of Faiths.  Centering prayer is similar to meditation and contemplative prayer, but not the same.  The difference is that centering prayer is one of seeking connection, while the others are prayers of asking (for guidance, release, etc).  In my practice, I begin with centering prayer and then go into the next prayer, which is often one of meditation or contemplation.

In centering prayer, you begin with sacred word.  The intention of the word is not to be repeated over and over to calm the mind, but rather to be used, when distracted by thought, to return you back to your intention to be present with the Divine.   Next, sit comfortably – making sure your back is supported and you have a light cover if you tend to get chilled.  I sometimes do this laying down.  Next, close your eyes gently and simply be.  If you find yourself thinking (and you will), do not be angry or frustrated with yourself.  Instead intentionally release the thought, even if it is a really really good one.  If the thought is meant to be actioned, it will return at another time.  This moment is a moment to just be, so let the thought go.  If it persists, say or think your sacred word.  This will bring you back into the intentional space that you are here, in this moment, to connect with the Divine.  At the end of the time, take a few moments to come back into activity.  To keep time, you can set an alarm on your clock or phone.  I find the app Insight Timer very helpful.  This app not only has a timer that ends with a gentle sound (that you can choose), it also has a community of people and groups you can connect with, as well as guided meditations.

So that is how the practice works.  I will now describe what my inner life looks like going through this process.  I have incense or a scented candle burning when I get ready.  The incense is going and I breathe in the aroma, it begins to intertwine with my energy and with the next deep breath, I am in prayer.  Not even a second passes and the first thought comes my way – look at the beautiful red color, is that my root chakra.  I do not want to release. . . It is so beautiful.  I gently introduce. . . Just . . .  Be. . . and take a deep breath back to be present with the Divine.  This continues for several minutes until finally, I reach center.  Center for me looks like a secret garden, the sights and smells and sounds are incredible.  I am there for a few minutes and then I reach stillpoint – the point where everything pauses and for a brief moment I am fully connected with the universal Divine of all that is.  Then just as quickly it releases me and I continue in the presence until the bell sounds.  In this space, the conversation can begin and my sacred story continues.

Bridgette Goldstein is a spiritual director and founder of Arid Spirit .  She is passionate about bringing the Divine spark to those who have been wounded by organized religion and victims of domestic violence.  Finding the Divine in unlikely places is one of her pleasures.  She lives in North Texas.

Resources
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1aQmQu4lufo&list=WL&t=88s&index=40
http://wisdomwayofknowing.org/resource-directory/centering-prayer-and-inner-awakening/
http://stillpointca.org
http://festivaloffaiths.org

Welcoming in All of the Selves as Beloved ~ A love note from your online abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

One of my favorite lines from the Rule of Benedict is “All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ, for he himself will say: I was a stranger and you welcomed me” (RB 53:1). The heart of hospitality is to welcome in that which is most unknown, most strange, most discomfiting, as the very face of the divine into our lives.

To take this invitation even a step further, it isn’t just the strangers that arrive at our outer doors who call us to this hospitality. Perhaps an even greater call is to welcome in the parts of ourselves we feel embarrassed by, ashamed of, angry at, or afraid of, as the very image of God.

The Psalms as Inner Mirror

My husband and I pray lectio divina every morning together, that ancient monastic practice of contemplative reading of the scriptures. We also pray what is known as lectio continua, or the ancient practice of choosing a book of the scriptures and then praying through a couple of verses each day until we reach the end. This is one version of monastic stability, of staying with something through all of its ups and downs. We pray texts we might otherwise avoid. Last year we worked through the Song of Songs in this way, and now we are praying the Psalms one by one.

We recently found ourselves in the midst of Psalm 10, a difficult psalm of lament. Instead of reading all the way through to the end and finding immediate resolution in the psalmist's cry of hope to God in the closing lines, we have been sitting each day with two verses at a time, with haunting questions about God's presence echoing through the text.

Even more disturbing are the images of the "enemies," the ones whose "mouths are filled with cursing, deceit, and opposition." Or those who "murder the innocent" and "stealthily watch for the helpless." The psalmist later calls out to God to "break the arm of the wicked." As I sit with these images I want to turn away and say these have nothing to do with me and my peaceful life.

Yet, in prayer the invitation arises: What are the ways I deceive myself? What are the places of opposition within my own heart? How do I "murder" my own innocence? Or take advantage of that which feels helpless within? How do I fuel my own self-destruction?

I am discovering the psalms as a beautiful gateway of awareness into my own inner multitude.

Our heads and hearts are full of crazy, often self-defeating, competing voices. We are each a multitude of differing energies and personalities. We contain within the parts that feel tender and ashamed, alongside the courageous and fierce, the joyful and giddy. It often feels easier to simply push the voices away, but it is exhausting.

A lot of our inner conflict comes from our stubborn refusal to make space for the multiplicity we contain. But as Benedict reminds us, we are Beloved. Even the shadowed, rejected parts of ourselves offer us a window to the divine. We each have parts of ourselves we try to push away.

These voices often fight within us for primacy. They each want to define who we are. Especially loud can be the inner judge, who thinks she knows everything. She sounds very authoritative.

There is a deeper and wiser voice, which is the Self, or sometimes called the Inner Witness. It is the calm and compassionate part that can sit in the center of all this chaos and behold it all. It is the part we develop through meditation and is not carried away by conflicting inner demands. This is the voice of the Soul.

When we continue to follow the judge, or the inner critic, or any of the especially loud and forceful voices inside of us, without recourse to the whole range of who we are, we often find ourselves full of self-doubt, insecurity, and become depleted.

These voices often originated as a way of protecting ourselves. The judge can help us to discern what is true and good. The critic can help cut away the excess. Through loving attention we can start to unravel some of the fierceness we feel within and discover care there at the root.

Not all of the voices within us are "negative." Many of these energies can offer us tremendous resources for living in an empowered way. Some of my favorites are the inner warrior, who helps me to set healthy boundaries. My inner orphan reminds me that I have a lot of tenderness within, which just wants to be seen and not fixed. My inner lover calls me to follow my passions in life, to remember that what I am in love with—whether ideas or communities or people—will ignite vitality in my work.

These have their shadow elements too. An overeager warrior can become destructive or set boundaries that don't let anyone in. An orphan who feels completely abandoned can continue the cycle by cutting off relationships out of fear of being hurt. And the lover who is out of balance may find him or herself envious of the others who follow what lights them on fire.

Wherever You Go, There You Are

In our longing for new life and vision, we may be tempted to run away from ourselves by moving to a new physical location, or internally cutting ourselves off from things that feel painful or shameful about ourselves. We deny the existence of parts of ourselves we feel ashamed of.

The desert monks were brilliant at confronting this human pattern and knew the fundamental truth that no matter where you go, you always carry yourself with you. Seems like an obvious truth on one level, and yet it is human nature to desire to flee at times.

Abba Matrona said “we carry ourselves wherever we go.” An anonymous desert source tells us “Wherever you go, you will find that what you are running from is there ahead of you.”

The desert monks knew that we are an inner multitude. They knew the deep desire to run away from our angry selves, our selves which don’t conform to what we think a holy person should look like, our selves which embarrass us or want to rebel against the status quo. We carry all the parts with us.

Our temptation is to believe that this relationship is too challenging, this job is too difficult, this place I live is too boring, or whatever our inner chatter may tell us. The greatest pilgrimage is within, where we learn to welcome in the wholeness of who we are. If we are always feeling a gnawing dissatisfaction, the solution is not to find the next right book or program to fulfill us.

This does not mean we are never to leave a relationship, or job, or home that aren’t life-giving (or even worse, actively destructive). What it does mean is that over time we become aware of our patterns of responding and relating. We notice what situations “push our buttons” and cause us to have a strong energetic response. These always point to some place within ourselves that is struggling for freedom, that is limited by judgment or wounding.

When we feel tempted to run away to a cave in imitation of the desert elders, we might ask ourselves if we are fleeing responsibility for our own thoughts and actions. We might observe the ways what we are trying to flee travels right alongside of us the whole way.

The passions, for the desert monks, were the inner wounds and places within that required healing. They are part of this inner multitude. One perspective on the passions was to view them as something positive, as natural impulses, rather than originating from a more sinful source.

In fact, many of the desert elders believed that the source of the passions is from God and when they are directed toward their purpose, only then we are free from their tyranny. In this view, theologian John Chryssavgis writes, “the aim is to illumine them, not eliminate them; they are not to be destroyed but mastered and even transfigured.” Our passions are simply our energies misdirected. When our passions are distorted then we feel divided. When we are able to realign ourselves with God, we become integrated and whole again. Our true passion is an energy that can direct us back to the sacred source of our being.

Chryssavgis refers to a powerful passage from Abba Isaiah in his Ascetic Discourses, where he claims that all of the passions including anger and jealousy, are actually bestowed by God with a sacred purpose and direction. Because we have misdirected the passions, they have become distorted. Anger was originally for the purpose of fighting injustice, jealousy for the purpose of imitating the behavior of the saints.

In more contemporary language, we might consider the passions as distorted when the ego is in control of their direction. Then we desire what fills the ego, whether praise, or power, or what we crave. When we feel enslaved by what we desire, then we know we have gone down the wrong path. The spiritual journey is always one toward freedom, and an essential aspect is to direct the passions and desire toward God. The more we become clear about our places of wounding, the more free we can become because we are no longer controlled by unconscious impulses.

Gregory Mayers describes it this way in Listen to the Desert:

“The task, then, is not to avoid what makes me fearful, ashamed, or angry, or to entertain it, or even to act the emotions out. Both efforts, repression and expression, can lead to an emotional trap that bogs one down in the anger, shame, or fear. The task is to attend to them, acknowledge them, give them their full and rightful place in the community of the self.”

When the passions are healed and integrated they become the source for tremendous energy for good in the world and our ability to be a healing presence to others. But first we must reclaim all that has been discarded, all that has been denied. When we are unaware of or are in denial of our own shadow we become dangerous. The goal of the spiritual life is in part to recognize both the joy and sorrow at the heart of human existence.

The Self knows us as Beloved

The Self or Witness within us always speaks with tremendous compassion, always invites us to begin again. This voice can behold and welcome in all of the parts who want to speak, and not be overwhelmed by the demands of a single one. The Self can see where the shadowed and hurting places are and respond with gentleness and kindness, and yet also can call in a powerful fierceness when needed. The Self knows all of ourselves as Beloved.

We cultivate the inner Witness or Self through practices of meditation, mindfulness, and noticing. As we give ourselves time and attention to the inner movements of our heart we can begin to see the patterns, and we can practice responding to ourselves with love.

Monastic wisdom tells us that hospitality is key. Welcoming in the stranger, even if that stranger is me, or at least parts of me. The psalms can become a mirror to the shadow places within me. But other verses can also call forth the beauty and longings of my heart. They can remind me of the grace found in boundaries, in tenderness, in passion. They help to remind me that I am Beloved.

(This reflection first appeared in an issue of Weavings journal)

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner