Category Archives: paying attention

Seasoning Eastertide!

22 Saturday Apr 2017

Posted by in blessing, doing good, Easter, paying attention

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I was deeply disappointed last Sunday, Easter Day, when I was felled by a vicious 5 day cold that knocked me so flat that, for my sake and the welfare of the community I could neither join a worshiping congregation, nor serve a festive dinner to my family. All the elements of Easter baskets are lying unopened in the grocery bag, the cards are unwritten, and the one lily is languishing. I became very heartened, however, when I realized that in the liturgical calendar in some traditions Eastertide is 50 days, not just One Big Day! So I have time, time to celebrate and rejoice, time to ponder the gospel accounts of the post-Resurrection accounts of Jesus life with his friends, and especially to notice where Easter is happening, where new life is springing forth, where the signs of hope and Light are evident for the fist time or recurring again.

The seasoning of Easter keeps coming day after day even in this first week after the celebration day. I have heard a story of someone completely bereft who suddenly received comfort after it seemed like there was no comfort to be had. I witnessed hope and energy take root in one who had been mired in despair for months, but who now had a sense of agency and power to keep moving toward hope. I was present when a group of friends gathered, bringing with them the predictable crises of their separate lives, and as they reflected on the love demonstrated in resurrection and the promise of new life, the joy and grace between them deepened, widened and hope was palpable, despite the incessant toll of Awful Things in the lives of our world.

So I am looking around for the Season of Easter with vigilance and scrutiny during this Eastertide, these remaining 44 days. I have already heard of a new job, a mended friendship, a lifting of dullness, an easing of conflict, and I am witnessing acts of mercy and justice all around me in the neighborhood, in the Church and in the world.

So I ask how I can contribute to this new life that we celebrated last Sunday. Paying attention is my primary practice–the the salesperson the barrista, the server, the mail carrier. Each of them is worthy of receiving the Light of Easter, even if it is just a warm and attentive exchange over business. I am also aware that there are places that need care where I must to be present–in person, by phone or by e-mail; all I have to bring is my presence and my hope. To give advice is not nearly as alive and joyful an Easter flavor as it is to show up in some way. I am also hoping to stretch out to give what the Jewish traditions calls mitzvahs, those acts of hospitality and grace in which there is no possibility of payback or reciprocity. I feel as if the seasoning in my own heart in celebrating Easter once again replenishes me for that kind of extension and effort.

My garden, blooming to beat the band, with new surprises every morning, is the tangible prompt to me to be receiving and giving the seasoning of Easter right now. Every morning I look for a new blossom! In our journey the dying is not the last word; there is new life after death. And as long as I am alive, whether or not I can get to the Big Band celebrations of Easter Day or not, I can use these days of Eastertide to take in the glory and the power of Christ’s resurrection, and then to sprinkle and spice all these gifts that new life brings–love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, and gentleness–while I do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with the Risen One.

 

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Points of Hope: Signs and Symbols

24 Friday Mar 2017

Posted by in beauty, grace, joy, Lent, paying attention

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Even though the Lenten journey is a serious one, leading to an intense Holy Week, I am also looking for signs and symbols that point me to hope along the way. Because Lent and Easter are so late in the calendar year this year, the days are accompanied by the signs of spring, even in our supposedly “season-less” Southern California.

My irises in the drought resistant garden are thriving, especially with the unusual rainfall. There has been a constant parade of beautiful blooms beginning in Advent (white) and continuing on with Lent, all purple, four come and gone, four to about to burst forth. The liquid amber tree and the fig tree next door have tender green leaves and shoots multiplying each day. The ornamental plum tree and the peach tree are showing their tiny flowers. All of them remind me that after the winter, after rain, after the Great Grayness there is Hope. The Creator has made each thing beautiful in its own time.

Another sign of hope has been discoveries of missing things. In my clearing out and de-cluttering, I have found things that I believed to have vanished–some pairs of socks, a quotation that I had written out on a card with decoration, some pairs of old shoes. I am reminded, even in the simple nature of the retrievals, that with the Holy One, nothing is lost, there are no final defeats. Hope can spring up.

Some signs locate me. Some creative people in the neighborhood painted the power boxes on many corners with folk art, reminding us of who we are, where we are, a gathering of people from many nations, places and beginnings. And we are people who in proximity to the freeway are people on the go, working, traveling, walking the dog. It is important to me as I journey, not to forget where I am grounded, where I am heading and whence I have come.

In the providential movement of this season, I have been engrossed by three memoirs, chosen without intentional theme, that have reflected to me a part of my beginnings that still shape me, but from which I have moved. Each writer comes from a different place than I have geographically, and each one is younger, but we have in common a shared religious heritage that gave us great gifts and enormous challenges. As I watch and listen to each voice, I am filled with hope. Thought there have been moments of pain, or disorientation, of wandering without a map, each woman has found her spiritual center, her place of belonging and her traveling mercies. I have found joyful hope in locating myself at points on each journey, and sharing moment  of  Grace.

I am finding that Lent is not only solemn and gray, but is also alive with reminders that Light and Darkness together are part of our human pilgrimage. This year it is profoundly important for me to remember that here on earth, although there is tremendous grief and suffering, there is also the whimsy, laughter, cheer, surprise of hope that manifests itself, sometimes daily–in the smile of the server, the grace of the responsive leader, the compassion of the helper, the delight of the discoverer, the unfettered laughter of old friends, remembering the way we were, and how it is Grace that has led us safely this far. I have taken on as a Lenten practice to look for those signs.

I am reminded of an old Brian Andreas drawing in which the angel appears to him in tights, he laughs and then knows that when signs appear, if there is no laughter in them, they are not for him. Nor are they for me. And neither are they for me if there is no Grace, no Joy, no Hope. On our way through Holy Week I am like the faithful one singing Psalm 126 of Ascent: ..our mouths were filled with laughter, and our tongue with shouts of joy…the Lord has done great things for us, as well as small ones, in tiny but unmistakable signs. In Lent, I can rejoice.

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Points of Detour: Roadblocks

16 Thursday Mar 2017

Posted by in Lent, paying attention, waiting

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Some days the Lenten journey is frustrating. I set out to do something, and there is construction on the street. I go to pay for something, and the computer is down. I send a note of good cheer, and it is returned to me, “Addressee Unknown.”  And sometimes all of those things happen in one day! What does that tell me about my attempts to pay attention to the sanctuary that God can give and that I aspire to be?

My attention gets turned to the Psalms, and how often they challenge me to wait.

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, in God’s word I hope./My soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning. (Psalm 130:5,6)

The roadblock, the detour is an opportunity to wait for the Holy. These past six months of recovery and restoration from surgery and a fall have given me ample opportunity to wait–for healing, for test results, for new ways to re-engage with life as I was used to it. I will admit that I am not always fond of waiting. I much prefer to imagine a kind of Wonder Woman progress that swoops up into the adventuresome task and gets immediate results. But the waiting, the detours and roadblocks have given me some gifts as well.

They have focused my attention on the immediate moment, and led me to ask, “What is here in front of me–both to enjoy and to care for?” I have watched enriching TV that I didn’t know was there. I have spoken to people about uncharted territory, and learned things about my being and the mysterious world of created humanity that I never would have discovered. I have practiced small movements, prayed small prayers, celebrated tiny successes that heretofore I would have swept by. I have learned AGAIN that my worth to the Holy and to those I am given to love is not in how much I accomplish, produce and deliver, but in just being who I am, as transparent and as open as I can be, everything that I was meant to be in the moment.

The hold-ups also direct my attention to others that I might miss if I am zooming about my intended agenda too quickly. While slowing for construction, I wonder if if I have taken time to pray for those who are doing the demanding and dangerous work. If I am delayed by technical difficulties at a counter, can I feel compassion for the one who is trying to sort it out? As I meet the seemingly unending array of caregivers in doctors’ offices, am I a person who notices names and faces, and treats each one with respect and interest, while still asking clearly for what I need? And as I “wait for the Lord,” where does my heart rest in trusting that wisdom and wholeness will come?

So it appears that part of my Lenten journey is attending to the waiting, the already but not yet, things hoped for but not yet seen. The waiting is a place of looking close up, of listening deeply and of opening myself to see how the Holy will appear and in what guise. It is not wasted time, but another gift.

Help me in the waiting times, O Holy One.

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Advent II: Signs of Hope–Lights

04 Sunday Dec 2016

Posted by in advent, Hope, Light, paying attention

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My Hope continues to need prompts. The scent and blossom of the rose give me cues, and this week the Light in the semi-dark expands my repertoire of signs. I love our Advent Candles, plopped down in the midst of closed blinds, rumpled couch covers, and uncertain plans. The world hovers with great grayness, disheveled-ness and despair. But in Advent someone keeps lighting a Light!

The Gospeller records: What has come into being in him was Life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. (John 1:3b-5)

How much I am looking for points of Light, as a former president phrases it! And I have noticed and felt them. As I am being treated in physical therapy, my healer tells me a story of Thanksgiving largesse, spontaneous, imaginative and far ranging, with compassion, kindness and long-lasting effect. In hearing about the death of  long-time saint of God, I also hear an outpouring of times and places where her milk of human kindness was served to so many with energy, intelligence, imagination and love. A community observes the anniversary of a horrendous act or terror, and despite the deep wounds that will leave scars forever, as individuals and clusters, they pray, they witness, they improve methods of protection and they support one another.

I am grateful for each voice and pen that shows a way to light the Light in Hope in this Advent season: for each prophetic pastor who speaks the Truth in Love, for each blogger who does not sink into hand-wringing or indulge in diatribes or leap to ad hominem assaults of shame and blame, for each commentator whose voice is that of the turtle-dove rather than the hawk. I receive Hope in each conversation in which the darkness is not denied, but pragmatic steps to turn the Light on are offered–writing letters to people in power; bringing in the trash cans of an elderly neighbor; giving to food programs, blood banks and toy drives. Not any of them alone bring the Light of Hope to full blaze, but each little Light reflects the Light of Life, and gives Hope.

I will keep my eyes open for points of Light this week: in the concert hall, in the shopping center, in the general stores and specialty stores, in the coffee shops, in my living room, in my inbox, on the phone, on Facebook, in the mail. And then I will ask myself where I can bring the Light of Hope–next door? down the block? across the street? to the food bank? to the start-up in service of the frail? to this particular conversation in which I find myself? If the Light is shining, it needs to shine in me, through me, with all my limitations, opportunities, and affections. And I am humming in Hope from the Iona Community, “Kindle a flame to lighten the dark, and take all fear away, ” flexing my Hope muscles in belief that the Light cannot be extinguished

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From the Margin

23 Sunday Oct 2016

Posted by in Discernment, faithfulness, icons, Mindfulness, paying attention, seeing

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“The Servant Girl at Emmaus” by Diego Velazquez hangs on my wall, a print, an icon of my ministry, as one who has almost always felt that my ministry and life was not one of center stage, but in the surrounding support systems. The culture of celebrity ministry exacerbated that feeling when I was active in church and seminary, but this season I am even farther out on the edge in my retirement and in my recovery from surgery–limited by energy, strength and position. However, The Servant Girl is here to remind me that even in a place of limitation, I can encounter the Holy One. Up in the left corner on the painting I can see Jesus and his two companions to Emmaus. They have been walking the road together, wrestling and wondering, and now sit down to eat together. She, however, is the one who recognizes first that this is the Risen Christ, the Beloved One; it is evident in her attentive pose, her listening ear, her momentary pause from her tasks.

So I can take heart. Even though my appointed rounds are more circumscribed than they used to be, I can still encounter the presence of the sacred, the incarnation of the holy in the encounters I do have. This week there has been an encounter with someone at an occasion where I was a stranger where I met another stranger who longed for connection, and in those moments we were joy and peace for one another. Although I cannot and do not want to enter the shrill and divisive political fray, earlier in the week I was able to sit with a wounded one to imagine together how we could be faithful citizens, yet still do the things that makes for peace, within us and for those around us. Although I can’t go far afield for long times, I can, with memory and social media, keep prayerful watch over the weeping ones, the sick ones, the fearful ones, the weary ones, the suffering ones, and those in despair, knowing that the Loving One is the healer, the Comforter, the Sustainer, of me and of the ones I hold to the Light.

The Servant Girl also teaches me that my connection the holy happens when I am doing the things I have been given to do. Even in my limitation I still have laundry to fold, bills to pay, errands to run, phone calls to make, appointments to keep. When I am paying attention those are venues, however surprising, in which I might hear a word, see a sign, sense a direction from the Holy One. My daily practices may need to be adapted to my present body and mind realities, but I never go anywhere in which I am outside of the circle of God’s loving care, for me and for others.

The changing world, the changing Church, the changing ecosphere, the changing social milieux all cry out for powerful activists, agents of change, makers of peace, visionaries and workers for the healing of the world. But, that is not is not the call to me right now. I think of Milton’s conclusion in his poem, “On His Blindness,” They also serve who only stand and wait. Neither is that my call. I am, like my beloved Servant Girl, asked to do daily that which is given to me, all the while paying attention to the places and ways in which the Holy One may appear, listening for the Spirit voice that says, “Go here–to the right or to the left.” Even on the margin.

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The Turn of the Year

06 Thursday Oct 2016

Posted by in beauty, body, creation, grace, gratitude, Mindfulness, Mystery, paying attention, presence

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Two years ago as the season turned from summer to fall, I was driving through Colorado and northern New Mexico, and saw the stunning harbingers of the season in the forests of aspens.

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Last year as the summer became fall I was on the west coast of Florida to see my children, the beauty of a completely different order, serenity of a different hue and promise.

These summer and fall seasons I have felt sidelined from the turning of the season because of surgery and recovery. I watch as the children go back to school through my front window. I follow the many adventures of my friends and colleagues as they take their sojourns to exciting or exotic locations. I notice that committees and kick-off events are happening without me. Since here in Southern California there are not critical changes in the weather, I look up our current predictions for the day, all usually well within the temperate zone, which tell me that Fall has come.

But my focus is here where I am, with the resources that I have this moment, looking over the place where I have been planted.

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It is a lovely place, a place of stability that I have been given to savor and to share, even as the world turns. It has many moments of deep stillness, a capacity to invite and enjoy host of beloved ones or just one. I have a window to the street and another window to the sunrise. Many birds visit, along with our dog, the squirrels and the occasional unwelcome possum. I live in God’s world, as well as God’s season, God’s time, God’s rhythm. I have been reminded again in this season of relative confinement that it is all Grace, and that the only appropriate response to Grace is gratitude–for bringing me safe this far–in Love, in Beauty, in Joy. So let the season turn–in me, around me!

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Peaceful Places

21 Saturday May 2016

Posted by in beauty, blessing, music, paying attention, peace, pilgrimage, seeing

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I noticed this week that although I have trusted that peace was first an interior attitude of Spirit, I also come more readily into peace (which passes understanding) when I am in a physical environment of peace. I enter into it whenever I am able to retreat to the Immaculate Heart Center at Casa de Maria in Santa Barbara. I felt it when I visited the exhibit of Agnes Martin paintings at the Los Angeles Museum of Art this week. I am always engulfed in peace when I hear concerts by the Los Angeles Master Chorale at Disney Hall. And I am learning more deeply, and leaning more fully into “the peace of wild things,” as Wendell Berry calls it, as I encounter and attend to the natural world.

This morning as I went out early to pick up the newspaper, as I was musing about the new stalks of irises about to bloom, yet again, I heard a thrilling and joyful birdsong which I was able to follow to a mockingbird perched on a “No Parking” sign directly across from my house. No one else was visible, no other noises were audible, and this moment there was a peaceful beauty as the sun rose in the east, that tuned my own heart to the Peace of the Holy. I sense in my body and soul when I have entered into a place of peace.

I wonder why I don’t seek out these places with more regularity. Between my enslavement to the clock, my anticipatory anxiety, and my restless mind, I find it difficult to follow Wendell Berry, to turn aside into the places and the things that foster peace. I don’t lack possibilities. Several years ago my husband and I each bought each other simultaneously, and unbeknownst to the other, a book called Peaceful Places in Los Angeles (Laura Randall, Menasha Ridge Press, 20010). Each week that summer I explored one of the 110 “tranquil sites” listed in the book. I selected a place for each Thursday morning, setting out with a sacred book, journal, hat, and sunglasses. I sat in the courtyard of Union Station downtown, perused the collection of the Long Beach Museum of Art on the ocean, savored the UCLA Murphy Sculpture Garden, and and browsed Small World Books in Venice. I visited for the first time the Lake Shrine Temple in Pacific Palisades and the labyrinth at the Neighborhood Church in Palos Verdes Estates.

Several things happened in these pilgrimages. I was removed from my quotidian routine and daily distractions; my sojourn was intentionally to seek the things that made for peace in my being. And I discovered delights and challenges right around me that I had never known were there. Not every single one felt like what the Celts call a “thin place,” where heaven and earth intersect, yet every one had things of beauty and interest. Moreover, the time and attention that I gave to this quest brought me nearer each time to that place of peace for which I yearn day after day.

So! my spiritual practice in this ordinary time leading into the summertime is to pick up the practice again. According to the book, there are many place that still await:Amir’s Garden in Griffith Park, the Baldwin Hills Scenic Overlook, Jin Patisserie in Venice, Wattles Garden Park in Hollywood, and many more. My guess is there are also hidden places of peace not even catalogued in the book.

And I need to bring my open heart. The apostle Paul write in Philippians that the steps to that openness are gratitude–again and again; gentleness to everybody; letting go of worry and anxiety, and: the peace of God which surpasses understanding will keep our hearts and minds safe (Phil 4:7) as we enter into the peaceful places.

Here’s to a summer of entering the places and practicing the attitudes that make for peace!

Personal photo taken in courtyard, Immaculate heart Center, Casa d Maria, Santa Barbara.

 

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 4: Love of Wisdom

11 Friday Mar 2016

Posted by in discovery, Lent, paying attention, peace, sacred reading, wisdom

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It might have been said of me, “She is too fond of books, and it has addled her brain.” This quip attributed to Louisa May Alcott certainly captures my best pleasure or best vice, depending on one’s point of view. I am and have been an avid reader since I was four years old. So when Joyce Rupp suggests that in this fourth week of Lent we attend to a love of learning and wisdom by reading spiritual books, I dive in eagerly.

Her suggestion makes me ask some questions not only about what I am reading, but how I read them. Because I am a rapid reader, I can often read without being very careful about every words and nuance. Yet, for this kind of reading I need to slow down, maybe even with the rhythm I use in lectio divina, reading slowly enough to let a word shimmer for me, then meditate with it, pray with it, let it sink into the marrow of my soul. I am prone, I confess, to spiritual “obesity,” reading or gathering as much as I can without letting the full nourishing value reach into the places in me that long for transformation. So in the books that are coming to me of late, I have been invited to read more slowly, pay closer attention, and to let there be space in between intakes, even doing some written reflection on what I am reading and learning, seeking what the invitation there might be for me.

I find myself profoundly grateful to live in a time when so many sources of wisdom are so freely accessible to all. Between the old resources like libraries and newspapers and the newer ones on electronic media, I am never without wisdom at hand, at least on one hand or the other. So in this season I have been touched by memoirs of the dying and those growing older, of those in seminary, of those on the front line caring for others. I have been challenged by theologians, from my own tradition and other traditions; on my stack of books awaiting me is the papal encyclical on the environment, Laudato Si’. I am accompanied by spiritual writers, again from many traditions, from many places in the world, from many location in our own country; I have seen that spiritual practice often has a different face in snowbound or rural settings, far away from my Southern California urban life. Novels continue to touch me, particularly those whose central character seem to be on a quest for touching, feeling, loving the Mystery. And, the dessert course to almost every meal is the poetry, whether it is Malcolm Guite, Jan Richardson, Denise Levertov or Lucille Clifton. The wisdom that lies in the language of the poet touches deeply, lasts long.

I have also had a shocking encounter with an old realization about reading this week in this practice. I am an avid collector of lists of “bests” in reading from magazines and blogs, copy them down, often ordering them on the basis of recommendation only, rather than discerning whether or not they might be a fit for me, for my journey thus far, for my particular sensibilities and ways of knowing. Over my journey I have come to know a great deal about myself, especially what builds me up, what nurtures me and challenges me, and also what diverts or oppresses me. Some events that are reminiscent of past wounds and scars, some language that is punitive and exclusionary, some tones that are arrogant and condemnatory, even if the writer’s intention is pure, are writings that do more harm than good to my spirit. My own wisdom can be a discerning voice, were I to listen to it. This week I didn’t!  I picked up a book from a list and forced myself to read it all the way through, even though a few pages in, I knew it was not good for me. My reading resulted in nightmares, a very infrequent occurrence at this point in my life. Had I listened to Lady Wisdom, I could have prevented that fear and anxiety.  That very good book wasn’t wisdom to me.

I love the quest for wisdom. I take to heart again the words from the book of James:

The wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, willing to yield, full of mercy and good fruits without a trace of partiality or hypocrisy. And a harvest of righteousness is sown in peace for those who make peace. (James 3: 17-18)

As I seek wisdom this week, I will also seek the things that make for peace.

 

 

Finding the Rhythm

08 Monday Feb 2016

Posted by in Discernment, Mindfulness, paying attention, time

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TanDunnWaterMusicSome periods of my living seem quite straightforward and almost orderly, one thing after another in sequence. Then there are the other times in which I am listening to a myriad of melodies, never quiet sure where the downbeat and back beat should be. I begin a day quite sure that I know what its schedules is, and then in an instant, the phone rings or the doorbell chimes or a text message appears, and everything is suddenly rearranged. There also is the matter of density–some periods are blissfully leisurely, some others packed to rafters with deadlines piled atop one another, everything due within the same week. How did that happen? And how does the Holy One appear to me in such changing tempos?

Something in this picture I took of the concert arena at Disney Hall, awaiting the performance of Tan Dunn’s “Water Passion,” gives me some clues. All the necessary elements are ready: instruments, chairs, lights and what appears to be the infrastructure for the performance. They are diverse. Some do not seem to fit the usual categories of musical offerings. Some are part of the visual architecture of the hall itself. But at the right time the music begins at the direction of the conductor. The musicians–singers, players, and movers–all follow the lead of the one who is interpreting the work of the composer, in his rhythm, at his speed, on his cue. Measure after measure unfolds, and it becomes the musical offering it was meant to be.

I do not believe in a puppeteer God, who is managing the strings of my life from far above in the sky. I do believe in a Holy One who knows the set-up of my life–body, psyche, intentions, resources and limitations, the things that I keep in place continually through spiritual practice alone and with the community. I also believe that as Jeremiah the prophet says the plans that the Holy One has are for good–mine and the world around me. So my question must turn from “how did this happen?” to “how is God here?” and “what is the invitation to me when my careful Plan A unravels into Plans B, C and D?” How do I hear the downbeat for the beginning of this magnum opus of a moment?

In the days I have been musing on this, I come back again and again to the way I start  each day, or phase, or month, or year, or decade, when I pause to look at what is before me–the instruments, the risers, the percussion instruments, the water, the lights– to see if I have supplied them, made them ready. Then it is time to listen; I offer the prayer, “Loving God, here I am.” And I wait. Until I sense that the Conductor is starting the downbeat. Now it is time for moving in these 10 minutes, in this hour, in this day, in this time of my life. Each day has its own rhythm, and each day has its own interruptions. I am comforted by Rumi who enjoins me to welcome the uninvited visitor, even if my “plans” are thrown off.

And what about those spaces where there is suddenly nothing scheduled? nothing happening? I have found that these are gifts as well–they are spaces for noticing what is around me–what is blooming, what is growing, what is shining, what is singing. They are opportunities for imagining and dreaming of what might be and where my heart longs to soar. They are fallow times when I take in the beauty, the goodness, the richness of the Word–written or sketched or embodied–all nourishing the resources of my body and soul in preparation for the next downbeat of the Conductor.

This week we enter into Lent, and I will be attending to an external prompt for the rhythm of my life. Yet within each day and its infinite variety, I will still be listening each morning for today’s downbeat and tempo, trying to be a faithful dancer on the journey of following the Holy.