Christine Valters Paintner's Blog, page 99

Welcoming in All of the Selves as Beloved

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

Monk in the World Guest Post: Gina Marie Mammano

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Gina Marie Mammano's reflection "Mount Shasta Monk."

I was in the Mount Shasta area, at the tip top of California at a place called McCloud Falls. I have sailed by Mount Shasta many times as I venture from my current home here on Whidbey Island to my longtime childhood home in California. Through thick panes of tempered glass, I always acknowledge the towering sacred site, called “Acu Tek” by one of the native populations there. I always, as someone once said, “take a long, loving look at the real,” but seldom take the time to step into it.

This time, though, as I chose to step out of my hermetically sealed, air-conditioned, brightly painted tin can with four wheels, I realized something by the end of the day. Something that was true for me, and possibly true for you as well- that there is more than one way we can potentially experience a place. I created four categories for myself.

The first one is the least interactive- just passing by. The world is now suddenly in your rear view mirror. Wow! There goes Mount Shasta- wasn’t that beautiful?!

The second one . . . passing through. You’ve stretched your legs, taken in some fresh air, and actually stopped for a few minutes. But that’s about all.

The third one . . .  capturing a fleeting memory. This one’s purpose is to mark a moment in time. To remember. To have vivid proof that you were there. Oftentimes it includes bringing along a camera or a smart phone to create a photographic memory.

But the fourth, and I believe, the most rewarding opportunity, is making friends with the landscape.

As I approached the Upper Falls at McCloud that day in early summer, I realized that what I really wanted was to get to know it, not merely snap a picture of it or saunter quickly through it. And before getting to know it, I really wanted to be thankful for it- to appreciate what about that place makes it so unique and special in its own way.

So, checking around me to make sure I was alone, I began to sing the song that tends to emerge from me when I want to feel I am a part of a place, to bless it and to bless myself. A song I’ve taken with me along the bubbling, burbling Quinnault River in Olympic National Park, to a weathered bench near the high ridges of a cliff on Orcas Island, and to the ribbon of watery pathway on the Colorado River between Arizona and Nevada. The words go like this: Deep peace of the running wave to you. Deep peace of the flowing air to you. Deep peace of the shining stars to you. Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. After quietly, gently singing the words through a few times, this time, in this place at McCloud falls, I was feeling more grounded, more appreciative, more here.

I spent a few moments after that, enjoying the silence . . . settling myself into myself and the place where I found myself.

Wanting to remain inside of that place of gratitude and Presence, I then thought of another song that I could sing to the landscape to show appreciation. I wanted this moment to continue to unfold. I wanted to give it time, just like I would an intriguing person I just met, or an old friend.

I didn’t always choose to sing to every magnificent “new friend” that day in early June – to the natural features that opened themselves to my view. But, I found that the more times I stopped, looked, listened and thanked- whether I was sitting next to a waterfall, or a red plumed patch of Indian paintbrush, or a field of unknown bushes that somehow attracted glowing yellow butterflies lined with fractures of black- like flying stained glass windows, I was making friends. The landscape somehow gave me a piece of Itself, and I found I left a piece of myself there as well. An exchange of sorts. A getting to know, a getting to love.

I went from place to place that day, not merely passing by, or passing through, or even capturing a fleeting memory, but beginning the long, lovely process of making friends.

It was life changing.

The great and beloved African American botanist and inventor, George Washington Carver once said: “Anything will give up its secrets if you love it enough. Not only have I found that when I talk to the little flower or to the little peanut they will give up their secrets, but I have found that when I silently commune with people they give up their secrets also – if you love them enough.”

And this is my experience as well, as a newly robed monk in the natural world – love it enough, and you will get to know it in a way that you will never forget. That day I could walk away from McCloud falls and be able to say, “So beautiful to make your acquaintance; I’d love to get to know you more – I’ll be back!”

Gina Marie Mammano is a poet and author of Camino Divina – Walking the Divine Way: A Book of Moving Meditations with Likely and Unlikely Saints. She enjoys working as a spiritual director and retreat leader guiding people deeper into their own interior and exterior landscapes. She lives on Whidbey Island. 

Join us on Pilgrimage in 2018 – Updates

We are delighted to share that our Soul’s Slow Ripening pilgrimage in Ireland next May and our Hildegard of Bingen pilgrimage in Germany next September are both FULL! If you want to be added to the waiting list for either just get in touch with us.

If you still want to join us in Ireland next spring, there are just a few spaces left for our Monk in the World pilgrimage May 1-9, 2018 (also space in October) or perhaps you want to be creatively inspired by Writing on the Wild Edges August 26-September 1, 2018.

We won’t be adding any further dates to these offerings and would love to welcome you to the sacred and magical landscape of Ireland!

Cultivating “Eyes of the Heart”

Dearest monks and artists,

The Gospels are filled with stories about seeing, or not seeing, as the case may be.  On the road to Emmaus the disciples are walking with Jesus and breaking bread with him.  We read that their “eyes were prevented from recognizing him.” (Luke 24:16) When Jesus returns in resurrected form, he is fully embodied, yet hard for them to see clearly.  The disciples do not expect their dear friend to be among them again and so they miss this truth with their limited vision.

We find a similar emphasis on vision in the story of Jesus’ Transfiguration.  The burning light that once appeared to Moses in the bush now radiates from Jesus himself: “His face shone like the sun.”  For the ancient writer Gregory Palamas, it was the disciples who changed at the Transfiguration, not Christ. Christ was transfigured “not by the addition of something he was not, but by the manifestation to his disciples of what he really was. He opened their eyes so that instead of being blind they could see.” Because their perception grew sharper, they were able to behold Christ as he truly is.

This speaks of an invitation to see the world in a different way.  When we rush from thing to thing, never pausing, never allowing space, we see only what we expect to find.  We see to grasp at the information we need. We see the stereotypes embedded in our minds. We miss the opportunity to see beyond what we want. We walk by a thousand ordinary revelations every day in our busyness and preoccupation.

We move through our lives, often at such speed, that our perception of time becomes contorted.  We begin to believe that life is about rushing as fast as we can, about getting as much done as possible. We are essentially skating across life’s surface, exhausted, and disoriented.

The World Breaks In

You may have had an experience where you are moving through a most ordinary day, when suddenly something shifts.  Where there was drudgery and habit, suddenly you become aware of the way sunlight is spilling across the living room rug and your heart breaks open at the splendor of it all.  Or you see a loved one in a new way and revel in their beauty.  Or maybe it is as simple as savoring the steam rising from your morning coffee like incense lifting the longings of your heart.

Contemplative practice calls us to change our perspective and awaken to a different reality, one that is governed by spaciousness, slowness, stillness, and presence.  Contemplation invites us to tend the moments and see what is there, rather than what we expect.

Moments are holy doorways where we are lifted out of time and we encounter the sacred in the most ordinary of acts.  Moments invite us to pause and linger because there is a different sense of time experienced.  Moments are those openings we experience, where time suddenly loses its linear march and seems to wrap us in an experience of the eternal.

We are called to open ourselves to these moments of eternity, or better yet, how we allow the moment to find us. We only need to make ourselves available to them, to receive them as the gifts that they are, rather than seek them out as something we are entitled to have.

Learning to Trust What Shimmers

Our habitual ways of perceiving the world, which help us navigate things like stopping at a red light or stop sign, also stand in the way of seeing the world in fresh and new ways. So often, we are looking for information, rather than truly seeing.

I find inspiration in the ancient practice of lectio divina, or sacred reading.  In lectio, we read scripture and listen for what word or phrase is shimmering. This practice is always in service of contemplative vision in daily life.  Lectio invites us to slowly see more and more of the world as a sacred text, ripe with possibility for meaning.  We can expand our contemplative practice to include a kind of visio divina, or sacred seeing, where we gaze on an icon or painting we love and look for something that shimmers – perhaps a symbol, a color, a brushstroke, the play of light and shadow.  And in that shimmering we know there is a gift for us, even if we don’t fully understand its meaning in the moment.

We can then expand our practice of sacred seeing even further to include what we see all around us in our daily lives.  What would it be like to move through our day, watching for what shimmers, waiting to receive these moments of revelation, and then savor them?

A question I often receive from people cultivating the contemplative path is: How do I cultivate trust in what shimmers?  How do I know what I am drawn to is sacred?

We are so used to moving through the world analyzing and judging, bringing our expectations to each encounter, planning for the next several steps ahead.  It can feel awkward to bring ourselves fully present and draw on intuition, wisdom, and experience, rather than logic and analysis, to see what is most true.  This heart-centered knowing comes through practice.

The most essential way I learn to trust what shimmers, is to ask myself if this encounter increases my compassion.  Do I feel a sense of expansiveness toward myself and others?  When the holy shimmers before us, it is always in the service of greater love.

As I cultivate this practice of attending to the gifts the world has to offer me, to what shimmers, I am at the same time nurturing the opening of my own heart.  Our minds harden our defenses, but the heart softens and blooms forth slowly, so that we find ourselves looking with more compassion on those who annoy us, and perhaps later, those we actively dislike, and finally those we have previously ignored and not even allowed into our line of sight.

When we discover ourselves surprised by love and grace, we come to trust what shimmers forth as gift.  We receive without needing to figure things out.  We begin to follow the thread of moment by moment revelation, not knowing where it leads, only embracing the call to see with eyes of the heart.

Photography as a Doorway into Transformed Seeing

Photography is an especially accessible art medium in our modern world, where almost everyone carries a camera built into their phone, or small, portable cameras with good picture quality are widely available.  In my book, Eyes of the Heart: Photography as a Christian Contemplative Practice, I suggest ways to engage your camera as a tool for prayer and to cultivate a different way of seeing the world.

We talk in our culture a lot about taking photos. Cultivating “eyes of the heart” (Ephesians 1:18) refers to a kind of graced vision that is focused more on receiving gifts.  Seeing in this way is different from our ordinary way of scanning our field of vision for the information we want to find.  Instead, it is a spacious gaze which savors each moment.

In the Benedictine monastic tradition, everything is considered sacred.  The stranger at the door is to be welcomed in as Christ.  The kitchen utensils are to be treated just like the altar vessels.  The hinges of the day call us to remember the presence of God again and again, so that time becomes a cascade of prayers.

Photography can become an act of deepened awareness and love.  We can begin to see the everyday things of our lives as openings into the depth dimension of the world:  the bird singing from a tree branch outside my window, the doorbell announcing a friend’s arrival, the meal which nourishes my body for service.  Each of these moments invites us to pause and to see it through a different kind of vision.

Call to mind a time when you were so present to the moment, to the sheer grace of things.  Then the thoughts broke in which seemed to wield only criticism and dissatisfaction.  Maybe you remember the items still languishing on your “to do” list back at home and you felt an anxious dread. Contemplative practice cultivates our awareness of this pattern, so that we might be able to change it. We can become aware of our thoughts and gently release them.  When moments come to visit us, we are then able to savor and bask in wonder rather than reach for what is next.

Contemplative practice also cultivates our profound awareness of life as an unending stream of gifts. From this arises the impulse to create.  When we open ourselves to the sheer grace of things, we tap into a source of inspiration.  We feel moved to create something out of that gratitude.

For me, the creative practice of photography can be a powerful doorway into transformed seeing.  When we open ourselves to receiving photos, rather than taking them, we are offered a gift.  By bringing the camera to the eye and allowing an encounter with the holy to open our hearts, we might be transformed.

Look through the lens and imagine that it is a portal to a new way of seeing. Let the focus of the frame bring your gaze to the quality of light in this moment or the vibrancy of colors. Pay attention to what is shimmering.  Even five minutes can shift your gaze to a deepened quality of attentiveness.  No need to capture everything you see, but simply an invitation to breathe in the beauty of this moment.

Let yourself be willing to see the world differently, so that what others miss in the rush of life becomes transfigured through your openness and intention. This practice invites us to walk along the road and pay close attention, make space to receive the gift of bread, the nourishment of conversation, and a vision of the sacred.

For me, photography and writing are the ways I feel most often moved to respond to the generosity of life. Try this next time you feel overcome by beauty — pause there as long as you can without moving to do something else or complete another task.  And then, when there is a sense of fullness or completion, pick up a camera or a pen, and allow them to become the tools to honor what you have experienced and your expression of deep gratitude. Rather than “capturing” the encounter, let this be a prayer, so that slowly over time you might find yourself in an unending litany of praise.

Bless the World with Your Eyes

There is a beautiful practice in Jewish tradition of blessing the day.  In this worldview, each act becomes worthy of blessing. Gratitude is offered for the gift of every moment: upon awakening, when crossing a threshold, eating a meal, lighting candles. The Talmud calls for 100 blessings each day.

This act of blessing is really a special way of paying attention. It is a moment of remembering wonder as our primary response to the world. It is an act of consecrating the day.

What if you imagine your eyes as a vessel of blessing?  What if you moved through the day, and each time you felt drawn to take out your camera, you paused before pushing the button and consecrated what you were gazing upon?

Perhaps you might even say a short prayer: “Bless this shimmering moment, may my eyes receive its gifts, may my heart open ever wider in response” or craft your own holy words.

This is how we cultivate eyes of the heart for deeper vision, how we restore sight to the blind, our own blindness, missing what is there before us moment by moment, worthy of devotion.

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

If you want support in cultivating a new way of being in the world, we will be offering an online companion retreat to the book called Way of the Monk, Path of the Artist. A vibrant community forms under the wonderful facilitation of our discussion guides and spiritual directors Stacy Wills and Cheryl Macpherson. I offer six live webinars where we join together for meditation and questions. (These are recorded if you can’t join live).

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner (Galway City)

Monk in the World Guest Post: Polly Burns

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series. This is from Polly Burns, the newest member of our Wisdom Council.

When Christine asked me to introduce myself through this post, it was hard to know where to start. If you are a regular at the Abbey of the Arts, you will have heard the phrase ‘Go to your cell, it will teach you’. It was this phrase that floated into my mind as I tried to decide what to write. Although often taken as a metaphor for the inner cell of the heart, it also speaks to me of the little places of sanctuary I have found along the way. Places of solitude and silence. Ever since I was a child, such places have been important to me. Whether it was the old wooden summer house at the end of an acre of rambling garden, a den hidden in the trees or even the inside of a large built in wardrobe in the 18th Century house I lived in, these places have been threshold places. Places where I could imagine that the other worlds were as close to me as breathing . . .  which of course they were.

And so I went to my cell to listen. These days my cell is a small log cabin. Lovingly called The Lodge –its name a reminder of its former days as a fishing lodge where breakfasts and cups of tea were shared with fishermen-the cabin sits at the head of a lake and is surrounded by trees and rolling fields.  A place of reflection and prayer, of art making and creativity, it is  a place  where I take my clients and where I witness the transforming power of connection to Nature and Creativity.

As I sat and listened, gazing out at the Lake and fields, it was the fields that shimmered for me, much as a phrase would in Lectio Divina. Golden with crops and ready for harvest, I saw how much of what I am harvesting in my life now was planted as seeds along the way.

Thresholds have always captured my imagination. As a little girl brought up in the Catholic Church, I loved the moment when I entered a church. Moving from the busy existence outside on the street, we would enter the church buildings where footsteps and whispers echoed through the air. My fingers would reach out and be dipped in the holy water, I would use them to make a sign of the cross. I wonder now what it meant to a child of seven or eight  years old. I think it was an instinctive knowing that I was encountering Mystery, a Mystery that was not confined to a church building but who also met me when I was out in the woods or gazing into the liquid eyes of a horse.

This Mystery called me by Name. It seemed to see into my soul, see who I really was. Over the years there were times when I lost this sense. Struggling with chronic and sometimes serious illness and addiction to the opiate medications prescribed, caused me to disconnect from my body. Involvement in extreme Evangelical churches deepened this disconnection. It was a confusing time. I lived in a community setting. There was much to love. Our days were framed by communal prayer and worship. Times of silence and study of scriptures was encouraged, as was serving the vulnerable around us. The confusion came because of the interpretation of the scriptures where the Mystery was replaced by a patriarchal male figure who demanded that as a woman, I submit to men, be silent in the church and disown anything to do with my sexuality or sensuality.

My path away from those confusing days was long and winding. It took me to Israel to work amongst Russian immigrants, led me back to my home in the Cotswolds and into training as a therapist. Another spell of community living ended when I sat in a meeting and heard a well known speaker say, “The pedophiles will end up where the homosexuals are now, being normalized and accepted instead of being seen for what they are . . . an abomination before God”. My heart breaking, I sat frozen as people stood to applaud, shouting “praise God and Hallelujah”

The next day I packed my car and left, driving to the home of the woman I loved.

The next twenty years contained many more seeds. We became deeply involved with our local church providing a children’s work that grew out of a community arts programme. Dance, art and mime clowning were an integral part of the worship and I was commissioned as a cell pastor by our Bishop, in recognition of the unique way the church was operating. The church part funded my role as Community Link worker which enabled me to provide therapy in a local family project and in the junior and infant school. In 2002 I was hallowed as a member of the Iona Community, going on to help facilitate their Healing ministry as the Iona Prayer Circle Co-ordinator for eleven years. Part of this role was running a week on Iona every year. Up to fifty guests would gather from all sorts of backgrounds and experience to form community. We shared chores and prayer and explored spirituality, prayer and healing, using the arts and the natural world that surrounded us. I was always deeply moved by how a group of diverse people, often strangers, would come together, open their hearts and be willing to look at things in a different way. Many people came from churches but would say they struggled to pray. So many had been brought up to think that prayer had to involve words and it made my heart sing when I saw people realise that they could pray with their creativity or by connecting to the seasons or the elements. Faces and eyes would shine as if some inner light had been switched on.

As a member of the Iona Community I am committed to living by a Rule of life. This Rule  held me through the difficult years when my partner and I no longer felt able to remain in the institution of the church because of homophobia. I found my spiritual path leading me into Nature based practice and discovered the Celtic Wheel of the Year. At the same time, I discovered the Abbey of the Arts which helped me deepen my prayer life in a way that resonated so deeply.

Looking back at some of those difficult times, when I felt that things were being ripped away, I can see now that seeds were being planted in the earth. The seed loses its form, it disintegrates in the darkness so that the new life can come through it. As I work as a Soul Care Practitioner and therapist, I feel a deep sense of calling to those who have been wounded by the institutional church. As part of my daily office I say the words “With the whole church, I affirm that I am made in God’s image”. Sadly many do not experience that truth and my passion is to help restore the broken image, be that the image they have been given of God or the image they have of themselves.

So: Who am I?

An Artist

A Priestess

A Wild Child

A herbalist

A weaver of cloth and a weaver of dreams

A rebel

A Nun

A pioneering, forest foraging, path-finding mystic with muddy knees and dirty hands

A poet

An activist whose social justice is fuelled by prayer

A Druid Bard

Healer

A Visionary who cleans toilets and does barn chores

Dancing horse girl

Raven’s friend

Living on the edge

Passionate about the Wild

Sister of the Moon

Embodied with the Earth.

Who are you?

Polly Burns, MA UKCP has worked for many years as a psychotherapist and trainer in the field of trauma. Most days she can be found in her Lodge by the Lake, creating art and helping clients to connect to the Divine through art and nature.

Polly has travelled widely to train as a facilitator of Equine Facilitated therapy, Expressive  Arts and Eco-therapy. Always been a lover of nature, horses and creativity Polly now integrates all of these into her practice. She is a licenced facilitator of Chakradance,  The Art of Allowing , Creative Awakenings and is a facilitator and Instructor for the HEAL method of Equine Facilitated Therapy.

A member of the Iona Community, Polly was coordinator of their healing ministry for 11 years and when in that role ran regular retreats on the Isle of Iona.  With roots in the contemplative and monastic traditions, Polly also draws wisdom from other spiritual paths such as Druidry and Sufism. She is passionate to help those wounded by the institutional church, to restore their image of God and themselves. She is available for spiritual accompaniment and mentoring in person or by skype. www.wildsoulcalling.co.uk

Join us for Way of the Monk, Path of the Artist ~ A love note from your online abbess

Dearest monks and artists, 

Be. Here. This Moment Now is all there is, don’t go seeking another. Discover the sacred in your artist’s tools, they are the vessels of the altar of your own unfolding. Look at this cup of holy water, washing clean the brushes. See the blank page, awaiting your blessing. Gaze on the colors before you, each one a name of God: Saffron, Cobalt, Azure, Ruby. Say each one slowly and taste its juice in your mouth. Let this be your prayer. Brush them across the page. First the small strokes, then the larger sweeps. Lose track of all time. This too is prayer. Listen for the words that rise up: Awaken. Envision. Sing. Alleluia. Place marks on the page saying I am here. Watch as word and image dance together. Luminous. Illuminated. This is your sacred text. This is where God’s words are spoken, sometimes in whispers, sometimes in shouts. Be there to catch them as they pass over those sacred lips, tumbling so generously into your open arms.

Those words come from my book The Artist’s Rule: Nurturing Your Creative Soul with Monastic Wisdom. In some ways this book is the closest to expressing the heart of what we do at Abbey of the Arts.

Bringing together the poet and the mystic, the artist and the monk, the dancer and the pilgrim – I believe these partnerships offer much grace and healing to our soul-starved world. In my own life, I am feeling the pull of the poet and the hermit quite strongly these days – hungry to sit and listen to the music of silence and offer what is revealed there to me back to the world.

In light of this, I thought I would share four of my own poems (three inspired by Celtic saints) which are published at various links. You might pour a cup of tea and read each one twice slowly and see what invitations arise. Perhaps your own inner artist longs to dance with the monk and mystic.

“Listen” at Anchor

“Dreaming of Stones” at Spiritus Journal (a poem inspired by St. Ita)

“St Gobnait and the Place of Her Resurrection” at Poetrystuff

“Holy Mountain” at Galway Review (a poem inspired by St. Patrick)

This fall we will be offering an online companion retreat to the book called Way of the Monk, Path of the Artist. A vibrant community forms under the wonderful facilitation of our discussion guides and spiritual directors Stacy Wills and Cheryl Macpherson. I offer six live webinars where we join together for meditation and questions. (These are recorded if you can’t join live.)

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner (Claregalway Franciscan Friary in Ireland)

Monk in the World Guest Post: Monette Chilson

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission for the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Monette Chilson's reflection "Monk in the Darkness."

It is hard to be a monk in the dark. Our old ways don’t work. We bump, flail and wail in our blindness. We can easily get stuck in the disorienting fog.

I want to usher in the light. Celebrate the joyful. Be grateful for the blessings. That’s the kind of monk I want to be in this world. The serene, meditating variety with a bemused half smile upon my face. But that’s not always the reality of my calling or yours. Sometimes, we are asked to be monkish when the world goes black. Our private world or one of the concentric circles that contain it—our family, our city, our nation or what feels like the entirety of Planet Earth.

I find that I can’t think or analyze my way through this blackness, these places that feel like voids that might consume me. These places so bleak that I want to be consumed. What I have come to know is that these places are portals. They are dark, yes, but their darkness is holy. They are the way through to whatever Spirit has for you next. If we can’t intellectualize this passage, then how are we to traverse it? Religious platitudes have not helped me find my way.

What has helped is embodying the darkness. Diving into it and exploring it. In practical terms, using a yogic approach—one that includes the physical practices and the more subtle spiritual ones—has been the way through for me. Monks all know there is more to the world than that which we can see with our eyes. In the darkness, though, we forget. We need ways of reminding ourselves. Movements to awaken our body. Mudras to help us wrap our hands around what we’d rather push away. Meditation to help us sink down deep into the darkness rather than running away.

All this to make the unseen reality visible to our spirits. When we see this way, the material happenings around us take on a spiritual significance we would otherwise miss. A bolt becomes a beacon. Let me explain by way of a story.

Angie—my healthy, happy 42-year-old sister—had been gone long enough that I was still marking time in hours—18, 24, 36 hours. Surviving each felt like a milestone. I was not yet engaged in the busy work of writing the obituary that would come with the morning light and would make it feel real in a way that words do for me. Standing in my son’s dark room, groping desperately around his bunk beds for a tiny pillow to which he’d entrusted his most recently lost tooth, I just wanted to fulfill my tooth fairy duties and retreat back inside myself.

Frustrated, I silently wailed at my inability to do this one simply thing, tears rolling down my face. I felt defeated and disproportionately bereft at my failure. That is when I felt it. Something brushed against my hair en route to the floor where it landed on the wood with a solid clunk. I reached down to where I’d heard its metallic landing. I felt something cold. And hard. And real. A bolt. And next to it, the elusive tooth pillow, with the tiny ivory kernel tucked safely inside.

And then, through my tears, I smiled. I mouthed a whispered thank you to Angie. Angie who we’d jokingly called MacGyver. Angie who could fix anything. Angie who was somehow both wildly artistic and exactingly analytical. Angie who’d just pulled a bolt out of thin air to put me back together one last time.

This is the kind of seeing we need in the darkness. I could have missed it entirely, dismissing the bolt as an oddity. We need to open our hearts to the miracles that fall from the sky even when we are feeling forlorn and forgotten. When any God we ever thought we knew seems to have evaporated. When things can’t get any worse, still there is holiness. We can feel desolation and receive divinely orchestrated messages at the same time. In fact, our despair may sharpen our ability to receive them. When we have reached the end of us, that is when God steps in. That is when we become monks in the darkness.

Monette Chilson, author of Sophia Rising: Awakening Your Sacred Wisdom Through Yoga, has lived her yoga on and off the mat for more than twenty years. She writes and speaks about the melding of faith and yoga and about the feminine face of God. She has written for publications including Yoga Journal, Integral Yoga Magazine and Elephant Journal and has contributed to numerous anthologies, most recently Jesus, Muhammad and the Goddess, Whatever Works: Feminists of Faith Speak and A Journey Toward Home: Soul Travel from Lent to Easter. She was awarded an Illumination Book Award gold medal, as well as the Hoffer Small Press and First Horizon Awards. Her children’s book——was released in March 2017. Connect on Twitter and Instagram (@MonetteChilson) or explore her work at www.SophiaRisingYoga.com.

Finding the Mystic Within ~ A love note from your online abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

Welcome to all of our new subscribers who signed on during our sabbatical time!

I have thoroughly enjoyed taking this time to step back from email and social media and allowing more time for silence and reflection. Summer lends itself to a holy pause and a time to look ahead to the coming year and what rhythms we want to create for ourselves that allow listening to a deeper voice. I was reminded too of those foundational things which sustain and nourish me most. I feel ready to dive back into the work I love so much with renewed commitment and vision.

John and I also traveled back to the U.S. to visit family. It was a rich time of reconnection, conversation, laughter, and just being in one another’s presence. John’s father passed away after a long illness last May, and so the trip was in part a time to gather with his sisters and remember. There is a new grandbaby in the family as well who was baptized, so the cycles of life weave together and offer the hope of new life amidst the poignancy of loss. Holding this tension is at the heart of our work as monks, artists, pilgrims, and mystics.

I returned home to find a copy of Mysterious Ways magazine where I am interviewed on Finding the Mystic Within. Here is a brief excerpt:

What drew you to a life of monks and mysticism?

I’ve always had a contemplative heart, which means I’ve always been drawn to periods of silence and solitude, even though I grew up in New York City. When I was 21, I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis, and I quickly became aware of the rush of life and the push to produce and keep your schedule as full as possible. I couldn’t ignore what my inner voice was telling me—my inner monk, if you will. I needed to find a gentler way.

Does everyone have an inner monk, just waiting to come out?

That desire for a different way of being in the world is often the first spark that brings people to our abbey. A long­ing for a way to live that’s not quite so hectic and allows time for savoring. A voice deep inside that knows the importance of rest. We don’t always have a name for that longing, but we all have it within us.

How can you take what a monk does and apply it to “normal” life?

At the heart of it is spiritual practice. For instance, an important monastic principle is radical hospitality, wel­coming the stranger in our midst. That can also mean welcoming the as­pects of ourselves that we pay less attention to—our secret yearnings and needs. We need to acknowledge them in our contemplative practice.

You can read the whole interview here>>

If you want support in cultivating your own inner mystic, join us this September for Way of the Monk, Path of the Artist – a 12-week online journey in community through my book The Artist’s Rule. The monk and artist archetypes are two pathways to the mystic within!

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner

Writing on the Wild Edges – Participant Poems (Lucy Wilson)

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

(If you'd like to join us, we have our dates open for 2018 – August 26-September 1)

ST. CIARAN’S WELL AND CHURCH

At St. Ciaran’s holy well

my prostrated body stretched

till finger tips

touched holy water.

I brushed my forehead

a baptism of resurrection.

The well green-surrounded:

moss, ferns, wild herbs,

lush broad-leafed grass,

interspersed with sparkling

white daisies,

tangled vines joining rock walls

in mutual support.

Adjacent to all

an ancient church stands

juxtaposed between

etched stone slabs,

pre-Christian and Christian symbols.

Inside a stone altar

beckons me

to kneel and pray.

A side window

opens to the ocean

breath of a faint breeze

murmurs my blessing.

The bird chorus continues

its call and response.

In this sacred space

—time pauses—

I am engulfed in the eternal.

INIS MOR—April 22, 2017

The wild edge is gentle today

a caressing tender breeze,

slow undulation of a blue-grey ocean

stretching to a distant grey coast,

mountains—perhaps the Twelve Bens

looming in the distance,

birdsong blending with all.

“Be still and know…..”

A deep peace sweeps over me—

realization that I am being held

in the arms of God.

Paradise.

—Lucy Wilson

Summer Sabbath Time at the Abbey until August 6th ~ A love note from your online abbess

Dearest monks and artists,

We like to take some Sabbath time each summer to step back from the work at hand and have time for play and free flow of ideas. Usually this happens in August, but because we will be traveling back to the States for a family visit in July, we decided to take our newsletter and posting break during this next month or so until early August.

The following reflection is an excerpt from our Monk in the World online retreat. It is one of the principles of our Monk Manifesto:

"The meaning of the Sabbath is to celebrate time rather than space. Six days a week we live under the tyranny of things of space; on the Sabbath we try to become attuned to holiness in time. It is a day on which we are called upon to share in what is eternal in time, to turn from the results of creation to the mystery of creation; from the world of creation to the creation of the world."

—Abraham Joshua Heschel, The Sabbath

The work of the monk is important, but equally important are rhythms of rest and restoration.  Benedict's Rule is exquisitely balanced.  In a world which runs nonstop where we are always accessible, we have to make the choice to step out from under its tyranny of demands.  Sabbath calls us to restore ourselves and remember that the world will go on without our labors.  It is ultimately an act of humility which means to remember our earthiness.  Sabbath gives honor to our gifts by also acknowledging our limitations.

Connected to the seasons of each day's rise and fall, we are called to embrace times of fallowness, of doing nothing, of simply being.  Sabbath offers us this gift and helps to cultivate a contemplative commitment in the world.

We strive to live our values and so we are taking a break from now until August 6th from the email newsletters (including the weekly and daily notes) as well as blog posts. We will let you know what we discover in the time away!

If you need to contact us by email during this time, please allow a few extra days for response. We will still be accepting registrations for our self-study retreats and our live programs.

With great and growing love,

Christine

Christine Valters Paintner, PhD, REACE

Photo © Christine Valters Paintner