Tag Archives: silence

Change and Decay

19 Friday Jan 2018

Posted by in change, darkness, gratitude, grief, Hope, Uncategorized

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changeanddecay

-I go to my appointment, and the pipe shop that has been on the opposite corner for as long as I can remember is boarded up and fenced in.

-The sandwich place next to the coffee shop has gone out of business, and the department store I counted on has moved to another mall.

Much worse then all of these are the images of destruction by mudslides of parts of  the sacred retreat center where I have gone so many years on pilgrimage. I grieve for what was, what was dear and holy.

And since the festival season, there have been so many losses: death of a colleague, a neighbor, the spouse of a college friend, a former parishoner.

And the world, the nation! How hard to fathom what they seem to have come to!

Changes, changes changes! it’s been said that we as humans experience all change as loss. And I am feeling it this January! With each medical appointment, I feel the loss of what I used to be. With each encounter in the faith community, I am aware that we are in  liminal place with unclear agendas and sensibilities. With each report on the news, I see time-held axioms of thought and behavior disappear, some for the worse, and irreparable loss of public lands, public generosity and public civility.

So I am pressed to know how to navigate each day when there are so many variables before me. I find that I need to fall back on some organic principles of Spirit with more attention and intention in these days:

–Give my grief all of its due, but only its due. Etty Hillesum challenges us to remember that it is a “spiritual bypass” to go straight to counting blessings when we have not grieved the loss. I mourn the loss of people and places that gave me life and love. I remember wistfully the ways and means of comfort and compassion I have experienced. I lament the destruction that lays waste our planet and that thoughtlessly removes the beautiful and the good. I cling to the Word that my tears are precious to the Holy One.

–Give thanks for what is blossoming and healing. My border of white irises has not ceased to be in bloom, one plant after another, since early November. There is a new one every morning. And God’s mercies are new every morning, if I am paying attention. Random  and intentional acts of kindness still abound. Fred Rogers has reminded us that in times of catastrophe, we are to look for the helpers to see the presence of the Holy One. They are everywhere–the ones who welcome the displaced, the ones who give rides, the ones who provide food, the ones who go more than one extra mile, but tens and hundreds of extra steps to care for others, those who give generously over and over for the healing and preservation of the world and its fragile ones.

–Give room for the Light to shine in. If I focus only on the reports of doom and gloom, of murder and mayhem, my own heart gets clouded, or “rubbled over”, as Jurgen Moltmann says. So I need to keep practice looking for the “cracks when the Light gets in” and make them a little wider. I celebrate the one who sat by the bedside of the dying one, so she could go in peace. I delight in the one who has learned to turn away anger with a soft answer. I rejoice in those who at great cost give themselves to generosity and thoughtfulness. And I cheer for those who are willing to speak truth to power, to affirm the good and call out the evil when it appears.

Things will change, they always have. In this world many institutions, places I hold sacred, precious relationships will fade and decay. However, as long as I have life and breath, I need to remain one who hopes, who engenders hope in others, and celebrates the reality that with the Holy One there are no final defeats.

Change and decay in all around I see/ O Thou who changest not, abide with me.

 

 

 

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Spiritual Clutter

22 Wednesday Nov 2017

Posted by in advent, listening, prayer, reflection, Uncategorized, Word

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images-2The liturgical year comes to an end this week, and I am struggling with what  am experiencing as spiritual clutter in my heart and mind: too many books, too many websites, too many blogs from others, too many fraught conversations. All of these sources are good, some even brilliant, but the sheer number of them is crowding out my ability to listen for the Word of the Holy One to me day by day.

I am attracted to every shiny word and image about people’s journey of Spirit that I see. What does this young woman have to say? what insights do these theologians have to bring? how are these spiritual teachers expanding the parameters of deep conversation? and who are the latest voices to come to sit in at the table of conversation? Most of these sources are worthy, provocative and helpful. Theirs are insights and perspectives that challenge and enrich my own study and experience so far. But what I am finding is that for me right now, the engagement of “more” is crowding out the “one thing necessary” that Jesus flagged for Martha and Mary, that time of listening deeply, musing, pondering, letting the Word dwell in me richly, truly, madly deeply. I read quickly, so I can absorb lots of words in a record amount of time, but I am noticing that my rapid speed and prodigious quantities of written material are making it hard for me to hear a Word. I remember the seekers who went to the Desert Ammas and Abbas to ask, “Amma, give me a word!” Rarely were the responses given in more than one or two sentences. When that Word was given, the seeker was to go into her own life again to ponder, to meditate, to contemplate what that might mean for her in the location she was given to live.

As I take the turn into Advent next week, I want to  attend to the one thing necessary. It will mean ignoring and tuning out some very glittering images and plangent siren calls of What’s New, What’s Exciting and What’s Different. It will mean turning down the volume on the shrieking headlines and news updates of the hour. It will mean choosing an Advent practice wisely, and then sticking with that, and only that, while I give myself the time and space to reflect on what comes up for me. It will mean committing myself to the parts of my practice that I skate over quickly–the silence, the journal writing, the focused prayer. And keep my eyes and ears focused on the one thing I intend to do.

I have already begun removing things from my basket in my prayer place. That book I nearly finished but didn’t can go to another stack of awaited reading. That diary that is more about quotidian activities than the heart of the matter can come to my reading chair for later. That journal that is really completed can be replaced by a new one that is eagerly waiting with me for a Word. And my timer can keep me rooted and breathing in my prayer place as I listen for the Word.

My late spiritual director, Betsy, often quoted C.G. Jung, saying ,”The Good is the Enemy of the Best.” The good clutter all around, so readily accessible to me, is in this moment the enemy of my best hope for getting a clear channel of connection to the Holy One who is waiting to teach and direct me in these days fraught with bafflement. outrage and grief. My invitation is to un-clutter, sit still and keep my heart, eyes and ears open.

I look forward to what will come in this Advent of attention.

Wrapped in Silence

14 Wednesday Jun 2017

Posted by in retreat, silence, Uncategorized

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DenverEpiscopal

I was encompassed in silence, a gift I chose that was offered by my church, a six hour retreat on a Saturday morning. The all-purpose room was set side for sacred use–a circle of chairs, a library of books, a table of fresh food, a labyrinth laid out, a cozy room with overstuffed chairs, tables for writing and coloring and then an empty sanctuary, with an icon of Christ surrounded by candles, awaiting to be lit in prayer.  After the opening instructions and a reading from the pastor, we spent our next hours in silence.

My routine life is not very noisy. My husband and I don’t create much sound daily as we patter through our retirement ways of being. The loudest eruption is the dog as he tries to keep us safe from post-people and squirrels. Yet there is the hum of appliances, the whoosh of delivery trucks, the ringing of phones, even ones stopped by “nomorobo!” More incessant are the chirps and hums inside me, reminding me it is time to pay a bill, put laundry in the dryer, check on the neighbor down the street. Left to my own devices, I find it hard to enter into Silence. However, dropping into the retreat on Saturday, after I was welcomed warmly by those I knew even slightly, I could rest in the container created for me by the committee–the place, the nourishment, the prompts, the opportunities. It was pure Grace!

I began by breathing, attending to my breath, checking in with my body, and then walking the labyrinth, a tool for prayer that has delighted and served me well for many years in many places. In the deliberateness of the pace, I could recognize the clutter which needed release, listen for a Word coming to me to shape the day, and then I could begin to integrate that Word with what was ahead of me.

After that walk I sat down with my journal and began to note all that was coming up and where my prayers and reflections might go throughout the hours we were in silence. I listened deeply to the sacred text with which we were introduced to the day, gave thanks that I was beloved of God and that angels attended me, even in wilderness. I did some reading in Christine Valters Paintner’s book Wisdom of the Body, which has been my teacher in this Easter and Pentecost season. I spent time in gratitude for all the joy and blessing in my life. I spent time in lament for the losses of which I am so keenly aware–in my own body and experience, in the leaving of those I love, in my anxiety for the frailty of particular persons and the world.

In the stained glass lighting of the sanctuary I felt free to pour out my heart about things unknown ahead of me, for those whose need seem far beyond my capacity to touch, for the broknen-ness of people and systems. I lighted candles for some at the very top of my awareness, even now living with pain and fear.

I was nourished with healthy food, silently companioning others when they chose to sit with me in silence for lunch. Bread for the journey!

My heart turned toward a primary ministry I have now, a group of women who have met together for 10 years. Where are we being led? Who will keep on with us? Can we let go of those who move on? And how does our aging and growing shape what we do? What are we being invited to reflect on in the year ahead?

After the hours of prayer and reflection went by, I came to a place of rest. Sitting comfortably with my eyes closed, I savored in gratitude what had been provided for me in this day. I recognized that my soul was satisfied as with a great feast by having this opportunity to be in the presence of others, yet in silence given the space, time and awareness to hear the voice of the Holy to come to me in particular–for such a time as this!

I am deeply grateful for this time in which I was able to come apart and rest with the Holy in the presence of others on the journey. Savoring. Thankful. A full heart!

Personal photo from St John’s Cathedral, Denver. (not from my home church)

 

 

 

 

 

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.