Category Archives: listening

When Two or Three Gather

04 Wednesday May 2016

Posted by in Discernment, friendship, listening, open heart

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AlbuquerqueBenchThere is always a gathering of some kind. Jesus said, “Where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there.” Centuries later some wag wrote a book called “Where Two or Three Are Gathered Together, Someone Spills the Milk.” The truth about living our journey of Spirit is that it is always done in the company of others, and sometimes it feels holy, and other times it feels anything but.

This week where I was gathered with two or three:

  • someone forgot to show up
  • someone attacked another guest who had a different opinion
  • someone interrupted the conversation, over and over again
  • someone was absolutely silent because she could not get a word in
  • someone made an insensitive judgement about a person close to the heart of another

Yet in those and other gatherings there were some sacred moments as well:

  • a friend went out of her way to make sure that the one who could not hear so well was sitting close enough so she would not miss out on the fascinating conversation
  • someone kept his eye out so that he could welcome one who was least familiar with the group practice
  • a generous heart brought the conversation around to shared memories in which everyone could make a contribution
  • someone took care to listen to stories from the old days that had been repeated often but seemed to need to be told again
  • one with an keen eye and a a steady gait came alongside one whose balance was becoming frail

I am musing these days on my journey of Spirit on the ground, which is to say, in my friendships and in my attempts at community. Susan Phillips in her book, The Cultivated Life, (IVP Press, 2015) lists attending to friendship as one of the essential practices that nourishes that journey. The actions that incarnate that practice are : Receiving, self-disclosure and empathy, cultivating insight, calling by name, accompanying through thick and thin, and celebration. As I read them, I think “how hard can that be?” until I look at the ways that I either invite, neglect or reject friendship in my life. Then, I am stunned with how quickly the lists of the hurts and slight arise, as if to warn me off of further risks in friendship. With too much ease I can recall being dropped from a friendship, being slighted in a conversation, feeling wounded at a cavalier remark. And I confess that forgiving generically is much easier than forgiving in particular.

Where to start! I think I need to begin (again!) with some tough realities:

  • distance and time do affect the way I can tend my friendships and that friends can attend to me
  • not every friendship is for a lifetime
  • friendships can morph and change with circumstance and time
  • people are not always mutually drawn to one another
  • signing up for friendship makes me vulnerable to disappointment and hurt, as well as great joy and satisfaction.

With those truths before me, I muse on where I am being called to tend my friendship garden right now. Some of the actions that Phillips lists are habitual with me already. However, I can become more attentive to “Receiving,” less wary, less defended and skeptical. I  addition I can risk expanding my “trusting self-disclosure” to my well-developed empathy. In this time in our world and in our Church, the biggest call may be to cultivate insights into the multi-layered worlds of another–to listen to another’s tales of beginnings and roads of discovery. What I hear will also lead me, with my cooperation, to greater compassion and greater celebration.

Where two or three are gathered together, the Holy One is present. I am cultivating sensibilities to see and to hear that every time I gather with others.

 

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Where Am I?

23 Saturday Apr 2016

Posted by in daily examen, Easter, listening, Mindfulness, paying attention, presence, silence

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Yesterday a friend emerged from surgery; another one is going in tomorrow.

One friends left for her summer location; another left on an extended trip to see loved ones.

I drive south to reconnect with a long time friend. I drive east to share breakfast with my daughter. I go north to attend a meeting.

I have a conference call on tap for the morning. I need to make some appointments with doctors. I have to have a prescription refilled. I need to take a rain check.

But where am I–my heart, my mind, my soul?

I remember Carmen Bernos de Gasztolde’s “The Prayer of the Butterfly”from her Prayers from the Ark:

Lord!/ Where was I?/ Oh yes! This flower, this sun, /thank you! Your world is beautiful!/This scent of roses…/where was I?/ A drop of dew/ rolls to sparkle in a lily’s heart./ I have to go…/ Where? I do not know!/ The wind has painted fancies/ on my wings./Fancies…/ Where was I?/ Oh yes! Lord,/ I had something to tell you.

When my worlds are so much with me, I have a hard time keeping track of myself! Every world is interesting–fascinating or compelling or demanding, yet if I can’t locate my own center of being, I don’t have much to bring to the worlds I navigate.

In this Eastertide I am needing to practice once again paying attention first thing in the morning and last thing at night to where I am. I begin with my body–what space do I occupy? how does it feel? where are the comfortable or sore places that inform me of my state of being? I then attend to my heart–what feelings am I aware of? if I stay longer, what else is there? Then I move to my wider location: what is happening or has happened today? what will I or did I do? what crossed my mind? captured my attention? keeps pulling on my focus? I almost always need to do this in silence, alone–often with my candle lit, reminding me that the Light of the Holy never goes out. I also need to take time, enough time to let the mud settle, to let unattended hope and fears surface, to develop a sense of proportion and place.

It is a continuing amazement and distress to me that I have to practice this over and over, I am always a beginner. My Butterfly Mind has such strong wings, and rides so hard on the updrafts! So I need to come back to what I know for sure: The Holy One knows not only who I am, but where I am. In Psalm 139, the poet declares:

O God, You search me and know me inside out./ You know my comings and goings. / You understand my thought completely.                                                   (Swallow’s Nest,  Psalm 139:1)

If I want to know where I am, I need every day to begin with the One who knows. And the Spirit is willing to lead me into knowing, even after sleeping. When I awake, I am still with you. (KJV, Psalm 139: 18, b).

Yesterday the Gratefulness.org website posted this thought of the day:

 You do not need to know precisely what is happening, or exactly where it is all going. What you need is to recognize the possibilities and challenges offered by the present moment, and to embrace them with courage, faith, and hope. ~ THOMAS MERTON

It is in the time of silence of beginning and closing the day where the recognition of that which Merton calls for begins to speak, and it is there where the Spirit who knows me inside and out can guide my awareness, can replenish me for this present moment, and empower me with courage, faith and hope once again.

For each new day and night, thanks be to God!

Lent 5: A Time of Silence

16 Wednesday Mar 2016

Posted by in Lent, listening, Mindfulness, silence, Uncategorized

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After all the words read and said in my Lenten practices this year, Joyce Rupp invites me to observe a time of silence and solitude each day. What does the silence bring me?

  • a slowing down of my breathing
  • a clearing of my space of external noise, a choice for me to unplug and shut down what creates babble
  • a lens through which to notice the gifts of creation around me–the first rose in bloom, the sprout from the succulent in the box by the gazebo, the hummingbird and the pair of romping squirrels, the endless forming and re-forming of clouds
  • an inner word to anchor my reflection; today, once again, it was GRACE
  • a space in which to spread and to sort all the pieces of my daily life, my memories of past adventures and hopes for the unknown and unfolding future
  • an ear by which to listen to what comes to me from the Spirit–for today, for those closest to me, for creation, for all people everywhere
  • a tangible connection to all others who long for and seek the Holy in all places around the world
  • a context for understanding and hoping in prayer for the broken world that God loves and that I try to love
  • one more encounter with the Mystery we call God, ephemeral, real, numinous, in that slowed down breathing, closer than my own breath.

Thomas Keating says, The root of prayer is interior silence.

I pray in this final week of Lent that what I choose for my exterior practice becomes a reality in my interior heart.

 

Coming Into A Clearing

21 Thursday Jan 2016

Posted by in listening, Mindfulness, Mystery, opening my mind, paying attention, Spirit, wisdom

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The big pressures of the Season are over, and even though there continues to be much to do, I feel as if I can pause to take a breath. I have been doing a great deal of reading about “mindfulness,” and listening to a multitude of voices who speak from their experiences about what this practice does for, in and through them. In attempting to participate in the practices about which I read, however, I find that they are not intuitive to me, or easy to get the hang of.

This break in the liturgical year between Epiphany and Lent does give me space to try to practice some ways of mindfulness. The calendar is not quite so event-filled, the deadlines have been met for the time being, and the sales forces are losing a little of their steam. I can be a little less in a hurry, a little gentler in my intention, and more expansive in my gaze.  Susan Phillips in her book, The Cultivated Life, (IVP,2014), when speaking of mindfulness for someone on a faith quest, says this: The praying person enters the silence, pays attention to what’s on her heart, and then directs attention to God, aided by the text and the community.” (116)

I am attempting to take that pause, to allow this change of pace to be more mindful and attentive. On a trip to the section of beach where dogs can roam free, accompanied by my grandson, husband and wild dog Max, in the crispness and quiet, I sit shivering, but still, captured by the juxtaposition of motion and stasis: rolling waves, calm ocean farther out; dark mass of clouds softening into promising light; intrepid surfers and quiet watchers. How do I attend to Holy Presence in this moment?

I begin with gratefulness–for being here in this moment to behold the beauty of the Creator in wave, sky and sand; to delight in the weaving of grand-boy, grandfather and dog, up and down the strand; for living in proximity to ocean and mountain both; for ample time to take a day to celebrate the birthday of this unique grandchild, with a love for creatures and a longing to wander untethered in as much wilderness as he can inhabit.

Then with the prayer, Loving God, here I am, I turn my heart to questions for clarity: what do you want me to know? where do you want me to be? how shall I do the next right thing? I experience these prayers as seeds being sown in the garden of my heart, to be brought to fruition when the time in right. For the moment I need only to offer them, and sit with the panorama of Light and Dark before me, and wait. Like the roses in my garden behind and as the irises in my garden in front, the flowering of answers will appear in due season.

The next morning I am in a sanctuary preparing for worship. I am sitting with my husband, there is powerful music, stained glass, and a welcoming liturgy. But first to get quiet. I find that  I routinely need to do things: rest in the truth that I am now a “person in the pew” not a worship leader, and that I need to recycle all the Grace that was extended to me by letting go of any bits and bobs of critique I might carry forward from my years of experience as pastor; then, I need to remind myself that I am gathered here with the people of God in worship of the Mystery we call God, even though I don’t have deep friendships or feel connected. I am ready now to pray, Loving God, here I am, and to see what how the Spirit will catch my attention and nourish my thirsty soul. Will it be words of a new hymn? will it be the reading of the Word by a sweet and adept 10 year old? will it be a line from the Word preached, a cadence sung by the alto soloist, an invitation to participate in the healing of the world close by? I tune my hearts to listen.

The next challenge will be to bring my practice of mindfulness to a committee meeting. Will I be able to lay aside my resistances, my anxieties, my critical spirit long enough to be quiet, pray again Loving God, here I am, and then listen for what prompts the Spirit brings to me: is this a time to speak, to refer to my past experience, to jump into the fray or this is a time to call of the Spirit ot “set a seal on my mouth,” to listen to the deliberations with an open heart, while praying for the common good for all of us gathered?

“Thou will keep her in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on Thee…”  Isaiah 26:3

Loving God, here I am, make me mindful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advent III: Love, the Rose

13 Sunday Dec 2015

Posted by in advent, listening, open heart, waiting

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I flew to the east this past week. I didn’t encounter “weather” the likes of which I hear about in the news, but it was definitely winter where I was. There was no snow or rain, but there were bare trees and gray branches. In my own yard back at home, there were no roses left, no camellias out, not many blooms anywhere.

Furrows, be glad. Though earth is bare, one more seed is planted there. Give up your strength this seed to nourish, that in course the flower may flourish. People, look east: and sing today: Love, the Rose, is on the way (Eleanor Farjeon).

This Advent it has been a challenge to see much besides “bare furrows” in the field–loved ones suffer, old acquaintances square off, tribes stake out exclusive claims, and so many just weep in loneliness, frustration and pain. Yet on this third Sunday of Advent, Gaudete Sunday, the Church offers a rose colored candle to be lighted, both to honor Mary, the mother-to-be, and in an older time, to give respite to the darkness of Advent, by lifting some of the practices of austerity, in hope that there is a “seed” left to nourish. We are asked to give up our strength to support the tiny seed of hope nestled in the ground which seems unforgiving and barren, even when the darkness does not allow us to see what might be about to blossom.

In the twelve days left before Christmas I am turning my attention to the “littles,” the small things that might have a seed to hope in them, that need nourishment from me in order to become what they can be. I am remembering the last days of my own pregnancies, when all the big items had been taken care of–nursery ready, supplies on hand, arrangements made for getting to the hospital. What was left was the waiting and internal preparation. Was I ready to be a mother? what would encourage me, nurture my hope? would there be companions on the way? and was I paying enough attention to positioning myself to access that strength?

This Advent the “littles” I need to which I need to pay attention this year are inner ones primarily.  I have had a long run of attending to “seeds” around me in the wider world, people who have needed care, situations that have needed mending. However, the “seed” in my own heart feels buried and thirsty. So in these last two weeks of Advent I want to give up my strength primarily to that soul work. The sacred text that came to me at the beginning of Advent was this one from James 5:8–Do not lose heart…God is kind and compassionate. But these past weeks I have been moving at warp speed (for me), and I have not slowed down enough to wait with patience to notice the kindness and compassion of the Holy One. Mary was known for pondering things in our heart: I have much to ponder this week. I will do that with silence, with music and reading, with walking the labyrinth–do not lose heart! Mary was known for going to soul friends for protection, comfort and wisdom: I will reach out to beloved ones who keep bearing flames of hope by example and insight–do not lose heart! Mary was willing to receive what the Holy One wanted to give her: I am offering the little seed that is my heart to receive whatever it is that I am being given–do not lose heart, the Holy One comes to you!

Love, the Rose, in on the way–in the little seeds of my life this Advent.

 

 

Seeing What’s New!–Eastertide

06 Monday Apr 2015

Posted by in Easter, listening, seeing

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chihulyTampaIt is Easter Monday, and as intensely as I participated in the 40 days of Lent and the journey of Holy Week, I am relieved and delighted to be here in Eastertide. It is not as if there are great celebrations of faith in front of me, but I feel as if if I am entering in a spacious place with room enough to observe in quiet the ways that the resurrection keeps happening in the world, in the Church and in me.

I am grateful for waking up to a silent morning, with only the accompaniment of birds. No school buses or trucks or planes seem to be racing around in my neighborhood yet. I muse on my favorite Easter scene in John 20, when Mary come to the place where Jesus has been lovingly buried, to ponder, to wonder, to imagine what what might come next. There are tears and remembering, but then suddenly there are angels–always carrying a sacred message–who extend compassion to her by asking where her tears come from. I often wonder where my tears come from–why am I weeping? Certainly the world presents enough cause for tears on a daily basis, and my heart weeps more often than my eyes do–for innocent families left bereft because of the cruelty or torment from others; for the ravages of wars on targeted populations because of their faith or race or gender; for the earth gone dry here in my home state because of rampant greed. However, it is those moments when by surprise my eyes are suddenly filled with tears that I ponder in this morning quiet–the music that throws me back to a time when I was more wide-eyed and eager, an observation of a grandchild who is overcoming great obstacles, or a realization that I am in the last third of my life with opportunities come and gone. What am I being given a chance to see through my tears in this Eastertide?

Mary gets to see Jesus. She doesn’t recognize him at first; he seems ordinary, utilitarian, unrelated to the drama in which she has been living this last week. However, when he speaks her name into that silent beauty of morning, she recognizes that One whom her heart loves. Yet the relationship has undergone a transformation; their love for each other will take a new shape. Jesus tells her he is returning to God, she will now be about the business of recognizing the face of Jesus in everyone she meets and loving that particular one because she and he bear the image of God in their particular person. With Easter we don’t view people from a human point of view any more; we see them as new creatures, in the words of Thomas Merton, “shining like the sun.”

So I muse on those I expect to see this first week of Easter–those with whom I sit in spiritual direction–will I recognize the sun shining in them? my neighbors with whom I share the welfare of the block and the city? my family who bring laughter and tears into my life? my friends in faith who worry and churn about the state of the Church and living in a pluralistic world? How will I be willing to look at those in our country and our world who seem bent on muddying the waters, striking fear and anxiety in the populace, spewing inanities and vilification all around? Will I be willing to see the face of God in them?

I am grateful this early morning for the space to sit quietly with this question, and to pray this prayer, Open my eyes (again) that I would see Your face. Show me the new creation that you love, and empower me to love the ways you do. In the name of the Risen One, Amen.

Opening my Ears-Lent II

01 Sunday Mar 2015

Posted by in Lent, listening, music, scripture

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ListenSantaFeI am practicing openness this Lent–opening myself to God’s presence and letting the angels feed me, as Ronald Rolheiser says. I have begun with the prayer “Open my ears, Lord.” I noticed first that hearing is not my primary sense organ. I rely much more on the eyes, so I have been surprise how often I have had to remind myself to LISTEN each day.

I am certainly not helped by the amount of noise that is around me no matter where I am in this city. Even in the still of the morning I can hear the hum of the freeway two blocks away, and the drone of helicopter and plane as they move over the air lanes toward the two airports with in reach. Often nature itself chimes in with gusty winds, dogs barking to protect their territory, even birds a-squabble in the trees that line my yard. My house has machines humming, doors opening and closing, and computers bursting with YouTube clips, yammering to be played.

The noise that is more insistent come from deep inside, the constant interior chatter of my monkey mind, full of primitive wisdom that is not longer useful, habitual emotional tracks without much basis in reality, and a hummingbird attention span that natters to be fed. So I am invited to LISTEN, an intention which takes time, space and practice.

In this week in which I have focused in listening, I have been mindful of the boy Samuel, who when hearing an intimation of the Holy One calling his name, responded, “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.” Along with that prayer, I also pray to discern among the madrigal threads that interweave in my brain and heart, “Which one is the voice of the Holy?” Barring an appearance from the Angel Gabriel, who does not seem to know my address, God speaks to me through other messengers.

I begin with sacred text…listening for the Word that shimmers, or rather rings a bell for me. I am loving the daily lectionary texts, this week from Deuteronomy and Hebrews, reminding me to remember and to rest, two spiritual practices that are not organic for me, but ones which deepen my awareness of the Holy. Once again John’s gospel gives me Jesus is a way that is inviting and compelling.

I hear Presence when I LISTEN to music in a whole-body way–the clarinet of Richard Stolzman, the chorales of the Orthodox monks—all inhabit my being with a sense of the sacred. Sometimes it is my own longing that is carried on the wail of Bonnie Raitt’s voice and guitar. But then, my heart can be  grounded and consoled by a Bach cantata. What I hear opens me to the Holy One.

I keep being reminded to LISTEN to my own heart. The Spirit is in residence there, a gift of God to keep me from being alone, to energize me, to direct me into the next right step. How baffling it is to get so separated from myself so easily, yet how clearly the flow of the Spirit emerges when I turn my heart of LISTEN, to my own heartbeat, and with J. Philip Newell, to the heartbeat of God. It is here where I come to know which ones of the many griefs of the world are mine to notice, to attend to, to act toward healing. It is here that I discover the invitations that have my name on them, and which ones can be let go. It is here that I face the unhealed and unworthy practices in me that call for a turning away and an asking forgiveness.

in the welter of noise that is the world I which I live, I am called to LISTEN in each capsule of time for the one thing necessary to recognize how the Holy One is here, and then to let the angels tune my heart and voice as they feed me. Open my ears, Lord, that I may hear your voice!