Contemplative Photography

The supportive audience

2012-01-27T08:46:00.000-08:00

Yesterday two of my blog sisters took the time to encourage me on this new creative path I'm exploring. It's amazing what an encouraging word can do: it gives me just the pick-me-up I need to keep going when things are getting tough.

But at the same time there are those other voices that kick in -- the one that says I shouldn't be so dependent on praise (don't you just hate those shoulds?), and the one that is so desperate for approval that it wants to stop right there and keep doing the same thing for more praise, rather than to keep pushing the envelope, and the one that sneers at that eagerness to please...

Overthinking -- and too much navel-gazing -- can be the death of the creative process. How do we listen through the cacophony of conflicting voices for the one true voice that leads us forward?

I think we need to join our own appreciative audience, and be willing to applaud and encourage our own efforts to step out of our comfort zones. So it was amusing this morning to read -- in a chapter about the terror of the blank page in Trust the Process -- these words about the importance of a supportive audience:

"The supportive audience that practices Carl Rogers's discipline of unconditional positive regard is critically important. If I am to be completely present in my expression I cannot be thinking about whether or not it will please or offend people in the audience. These thoughts distract me and take me away from complete concentration on what I am doing. Some might say that this method of performing "presence" is egocentric. I disagree because the artists and the audience are dedicating themselves to the particular expressions that emerge through the performance. The artist is a medium for their emergence. The witnessing function of the audience both energizes the performance and creates the safety needed to establish an authentic sense of presence."

I suspect this is exactly why it is so difficult for so many of us to face the blank page or the empty canvas: we are so intensely self-critical that it doesn't feel safe to step out onto that bare stage and express whatever is emerging in that moment. Fearful of what dark secrets might be revealed, we hide behind the safety of what we know, holding our successes up to mask whatever truths and failures and insecurities might lie beneath...

Stay with it...

2012-01-26T12:55:00.000-08:00

I spent most of yesterday experimenting, but the results were NOT particularly satisfying. I get that I'm supposed to be learning from my mistakes, but all I seem to be getting from this is that this is a rather unproductive road I'm going down: I can't quite seem to cross the bridge between where I am and where I want to go...

Funny, isn't it, how the creative life so often parallels regular everyday life! But if I just assume that's true, then the lessons from one should carry over into the other. Which means, I suspect, that I can't give up yet; can't walk away, must keep knocking at this door. Something is here to be learned, and I just have to stay present with the struggle til I find out what it is.

Grr. So much easier to cut and run; go back to what's safe...

The gift in mistakes

2012-01-25T09:01:00.000-08:00

Back when I was married to my first husband, I used to love visiting his older sister, who lived only a couple of hours away. She and her husband served as house parents for a prep school dormitory, and I remember she had a poster on her refrigerator that said, "If you love somebody, tell them."

Carol was particularly good at that, so she was truly a joy to be around (and the kids in the dorm loved her, of course). And though I don't remember the image from that poster, the sentiment stuck over the years, and clearly got passed on to my daughters: I hear them saying those three little words to their friends all the time.

... which is a good thing, because we all need to hear that we are loved. But I also remember reading a book on child-rearing in the 70s -- Faber and Mazlish's Liberated Parents, Liberated Children -- which emphasized that it wasn't enough to just praise a child: you needed to be specific about what you were praising. They also introduced me to the idea that it was important to make it clear when expressing anger with a child that you are objecting, not to them, but to their behavior.

So "I like it when you do that" became a catch-phrase for me, and I tried hard to impress my girls with the difference between a distaste for someone's behavior and a distaste for their actual person. Because I do believe the world could be a better place if we could all learn to hate the hateful things that people do without hating the people that do hateful things. (Was that sentence convoluted enough for you?)

This partly comes up this morning because I woke to find a note in my mailbox conveying praise for my performance at rehearsal last night -- and it just made me feel so good! But it also relates to what I'm reading this morning in Trust the Process about the importance of allowing yourself to make mistakes. Which is really important to hear when I'm caught in this limbo between what I've been doing and what I'm going to be doing: I really need to be okay with mistakes if I'm going to keep moving forward.

And I'm realizing, thinking about Faber and Mazlish this morning, that however good I might have been about "hate the sin but love the sinner" with my kids, I'm not all that good at it with myself -- especially with myself, the artist. If I dislike whatever art I produced that day, there's a litany of accusations that begins dripping away at my psyche in the background, like water torture. "You're no good. You're kidding yourself. You'll never amount to anything. You're not good at creating, just at copying..." And the most common one I hear from that internal judge, "What were you thinking? You're an idiot."

Clearly I have some retraining to do of those inner voices -- both the ones that applaud (which are all too quiet) and the ones that are so quick to criticize. So here. This is what I created yesterday afternoon; it builds on what I created the day before, though that may not be obvious. And though some part of me wonders where on earth this is going and what the heck it has to do with where I've been, I like it. I like the angularity of it, and the sort of Japanese floral effect. And so I'm honoring that and sharing it here with you.

I'm trying to learn to be kinder to myself -- and to trust that sometimes the things that look like mistakes could be an entry point into a whole new direction. I invite you to do the same!

The promise of mindfulness

2012-01-24T08:57:00.000-08:00

Our reassuring words for today

come from renowned botanist George Washington Carver,

as quoted in Jack Kornfield's book, The Wise Heart:

"Anything will give up its secrets if you love it enough."

In the liminal space

2012-01-23T09:04:00.000-08:00

Last night I got a small block of uninterrupted time. And realizing that I'd been hungry all day for the process of creation, I sat down at my computer to see if I could invite something into being.

This is what emerged -- as usual, a combination of several different images -- and I decided to name her "Agnes, preparing," thinking she must be preparing for death. I had no idea what she was trying to tell me, but then this morning I read this in McNiff's book, Trust the Process:

"Creation is a process of emanation. Nothing will happen unless we start working and allow the practice of our particular disciplines to mix with the streams of ideas and experiences that are constantly moving through daily life. These streams are never blocked. Therefore, the practice of creation involves the ability to tap into them...

The experienced creator is forever intrigued with the unplanned results that emerge from faithful practice... As with birthing, the practice of creation requires a continuous respect for that which takes place autonomously and in its own time. The creator is a necessary participant, but like childbirth the process is not controlled by the person who serves as the agent of delivery.

Creation also has a destructive aspect. The angelic offspring are accompanied by bothersome demons. As Nietzsche declared, the artist must break things apart in order to create anew. Even Picasso felt that every major creative act carries a shadow and its share of negativity. The results of artistic expression may bring relief, joy, and harmony, but the process thrives on tension. Conflict and uncertainty are the forces that carry the artist to new and unfamiliar places. Creative practice can be viewed as a ritual of preparation, readying the psychic household for unexpected guests and fresh combinations of familiar things..."

The process of creation seems to necessitate a certain amount of time spent in that uncomfortable place we call "liminal space:" the place between what was and what is to come. We don't get to control our going into that space or our coming out; we just have to trust that truth will emerge when its time comes.

I suspect that what this passage -- and Agnes -- are telling us is that part of our preparation for that which lies within us, waiting to be born, will be to step aside and allow certain other aspects of life to die. And therein lies the conflict and the tension. It's not like this is an unfamiliar process: When we enter into relationship, we say farewell to the single life. A couple expecting their first child must say farewell to the freedoms they experienced prior to childbirth. A child leaving home must say farewell to the relatively pampered existence of family life. But the transition between what was and is to come are rarely as smooth as we might wish.

As I write this, I'm hearing Anne Murray's 1996 recording of "I know too much:"

You live and learn to crash and burn;
Come out of the ashes even more alive.
You make your mistakes -- whatever it takes --
But know when to hit the brakes and when to let it slide.

You can come crying on my shoulder
But don't ask me to show you the way:
As I get wiser, as I get older
It seems like I've got less to say

I know too much: I've seen the light
And I've been lost in the shadow of doubt.
I know too much to give up on love
And I know too much to ever try to figure it out

What would I do if I were you?
Take my advice don't take advice from me!
There's no wrong or right no black or white --
Just shades of gray as far as I can see.

Promises, rules and hearts get broken;
Plans and minds and people change;
One door slams and another door opens --
Don't ask me I can't explain

I know too much I've seen the light
And I've been lost in the shadow of doubt.
I know too much to give up on love
And I know too much to ever try to figure it out.

I know these lyrics because I used to sing this song with a group of friends called "Those Guys from Orcas." I'll post a youtube video of it here so you can get an idea of how the song goes, but I warn you -- we are definitely NOT professionals!

What does it mean to be called?

2012-01-22T10:17:00.000-08:00

Standing in the communion circle this morning, after all too many Sundays away, I found myself thinking about the sermon topic (being called -- when our hunger meets the world's need) and staring at this beautiful and unusual floral arrangement (I apologize for the caliber of this photo, taken after the service with my iphone3) and then at the rug on the floor.

Our priest had mentioned that if our lives are easy and we are, for the most part, content, we are less likely to hear (or even if we hear it, to obey) a call. Somehow that made me feel better about the sense of vague discontent that fills my heart these days; maybe it's preparing me for a change, for something new...

But I think the process of listening for a call (and I'm one of those people who's always longing for more clarity about that) is further complicated by our (or should I say, my?) assumption that a call, followed, will somehow make us/me more important, more famous; that if we are invisible to most of the world we either have not been called or have not heard and followed the "right" call; that we're just not "there" yet -- wherever "there" is.

But looking at the perfection of this arrangement -- at the perfect balance between grapes, oranges, eggplants and sticks -- I could see that removing almost any element would make it less pleasing. Looking at the rug on the floor, a very plain grayish green, I can see that the yarns woven through it, though they vary slightly in color, are nonetheless quite similar, and disappear into the overall look of it. But if any one of them were to be pulled away, or frayed, it would detract from the overall effect. Each element of the arrangement is where it needs to be, and precious in that spot. Each thread in the rug is where it needs to be, and perfectly fills the cradled web in which it rests. What if whatever we're doing right now is what we're meant to be doing right now, and somehow contributes in a vital way to the web of life and community in which we rest?

What if being called does not mean called to stand out, but rather called to contribute; to become an essential part of a larger whole, a perfectly functioning cog in a larger wheel? But then the question comes -- if you look at that bit about our hunger and the world's need, what if the hunger is to stand out, and the world's need is to see or hear what you have to say? Does that mean that's a call?

Or, conversely, what if your hunger, like Jonah's in today's lesson, is to stay quiet and invisible, but you're hearing a call to stand up and speak the words no-one wants to hear? What if following the call means leaving a safe and comfortable life for one where you might get thrown out of the boat to flail and flounder in a rolling sea? Does the discomfort we suffer in following a call make that call any less valid?

Or what if the hunger is just for something different -- to stand out if you've been invisible, to become invisible if you've been visible, or just simply for a change? Which hungers should we listen to, and which can we safely ignore?

I can think of several calls I've followed over the years -- the most obvious of which, to work for the church, led to both high visibility and major discomfort (with hypocrisy, not with the visibility). Does that mean it was not a true call? I don't think so. I think it means that's where I needed to be then, and this is where I need to be now, and that was instrumental in leading to this. But this may not be the end -- AND -- just because I am not doing THAT anymore does not mean I am not following a call or fulfilling my potential. It only means this is where I am now. And if I need to walk away from what I'm doing now, it will be just as clear as it was then that I needed to do that.

Sorry, this is a bit of a ramble. But as I just told my daughter, who is in a new relationship and struggling with her tendency to overthink things, here is where we are. And so I tell her, and myself --and you, as well, if you, too, are wondering now about what comes next and what we're supposed to do here -- try to relax into it and trust your instincts. You'll know when the time is right what the next move needs to be, if you just stay open, keep listening, and trust.

When creativity keeps you awake...

2012-01-21T10:00:00.000-08:00

In the category of "Be Careful What You Wish For," this little lady wouldn't let me sleep until I finished her last night -- and then she woke me with a song this morning ("When morning gilds the skies, my heart awaking cries...") to let me know I needed to add arms and a border. So now I'm operating on WAY less sleep than usual, and I have an all-day rehearsal scheduled in a theater with no power. hmm...

But the good news is I did get some more work done on my presentation yesterday, the most important piece of which is the addition of a slide entitled "What does it mean to play?"
And the answers are: Start where you are, try something new, listen to your heart, struggle with your demons, expect imperfection, and trust the process.

That may not be my final word, but I'm getting there!

Falling into the unknown

2012-01-20T10:48:00.000-08:00

While reading Trust the Process I am also working on a presentation for our local camera club, to be entitled "What if? Artful Adventures of an Inquisitive Photographer." And, of course, given my annual mid-winter malaise, I am struggling to do any sort of art at all.

So I was encouraged to read this morning (how many different ways and times does this need to be said before I will hear it?) that perhaps instead of starting the creative process with a particular goal in mind, I need to express what I'm feeling, go with the flow and see where it takes me.

This is relatively new territory for a photographer: so much of what we do is already in place; we simply have to find a way to capture what we see. But to approach my work in this way is more equivalent to an artist approaching a blank canvas or a writer approaching a blank page.

As a writer, I have learned to trust the process implicitly, but as an artist I really struggle -- quite possibly as an inadvertent result of having a critical artist mother -- with fear of failure. But today I decided (despite constant intrusions from various family members dealing with car/weather/grocery/travel issues) to just start with what appealed, paint from image to image, and see where it might take me.

The end result is a combination of 6 different images in colors considerably more saturated than I generally prefer to work with. But there's a tenderness here that tells me not to worry; that I am supported and loved as I struggle through to whatever new artistic endeavors may emerge -- or at least, that's how I'm seeing this.

So now I think I need to go back to that presentation I'm working on and somehow add this understanding to it: that there will inevitably be dark periods and struggles and failures, but that, as McNiff says in Trust the Process, "When I enact my angst and fears in an artwork, they become my partners in creation, and my relationship to them is transformed... By falling into the unknown, we can arrive at a new place in our life and work....Falling becomes a release, an immersion in the process of life. Trusting the process brings a realization that miscues, mistakes, and failures make important contributions to the creative process."

Trust the process

2012-01-19T08:46:00.000-08:00

Several hours after I created and posted yesterday's video, I looked out my living room window and saw this intrepid fellow surfing the waves in the cold and wet. He seems a fitting symbol for today's message, which is about a book I began reading yesterday, entitled Trust the Process: An Artist's Guide to Letting Go.

I'm only two chapters in, but already the book has given me two gifts: 1) It's important -- and even essential -- to repeat yourself, and 2) "Creativity cannot flourish and reach its deepest potential without the participation of its demons as well as its angels."

One of my earliest memories dates back to when I was in second grade. I'd been repeatedly drawing pictures of a house in a yard, with a tree, and a pond, and a bird in the tree. And my mother (who was a watercolor artist) said to me, "Why do you keep drawing the same thing all the time? Can't you paint something different?"

To be honest, I don't remember drawing or painting much of anything after that -- but what I do know is that, like many grownups in my generation, I grew up believing I couldn't draw. I've taken numerous drawing and art classes over the years, but they've mostly confirmed that impression... Which is why photography has been such a gift, because with it I can create art without having to draw -- plus, with photography, it's TOTALLY acceptable to shoot the same thing over and over until you get it right. This image, for example, is one of five different shots I took.

But I do still have this deep-seated reluctance to repeat myself. And if you mix that with a need for perfection, well -- you've got a powerful cast of demons to inhibit your creativity -- demons I've definitely been struggling with lately. It's incredibly helpful to name them, but even more helpful to be reminded that the demons are just as vital to the creative process as the angels which flutter around when things are "working." Because understanding this not only gives me permission to struggle with my demons, but reminds me that ultimately that struggle will deepen my work.

But what if we take this out of the context of art? Isn't the spiritual path ultimately, like creativity, a matter of opening the channels between ourselves and the Divine, to allow what is being born in us to flow through? So then repeat actions -- reading, praying, meditating, returning to center, breathing -- all become an aspect of our spiritual discipline, and the demons we struggle with along the way as we attempt to open are a vital part of the process.

It is, of course, a delicate balance, and one that takes a great deal of practice to perfect -- not unlike what it must take for this windsurfer to find the perfect balance with wind, wave, sail and board. When will we learn it's okay to fall down once in a while?

... Or should I say, when will I learn?

PS: A friend just posted this 7 minute TED talk on Facebook. I think it perfectly captures the value of repetition as a discipline -- plus it has two thoughts that I TOTALLY agree with: "Words are really flimsy messengers for the fullness of experience"; and something about the way time expands and re-forms itself around a daily practice like singing, meditation, or blogging... just wonderful. Thank you, Margaret!

Fear sells

2012-01-18T11:01:00.000-08:00

For days we've been hearing about this horrific storm-to-come. And though we've learned to be a bit skeptical about weather predictions in the Northwest, we did make our dutiful trip to the grocery store to stock up (the parking lot was utter chaos with people cruising for spaces, and all the shopping carts were in use). But so far -- as you can see from this brief video shot on our back deck -- this one seems fairly tame, though of course we're at sea level, and tend to get less snow than the higher elevations.

As 20-year veterans of New England winters, we tend to get amused by the hype for snow here, but in this part of the world even a light snow has a way of bringing everything to a standstill, because drivers have little experience coping with snow and people don't tend to have chains or snow tires (we went looking for snow tires for our daughter's car and no one even carries them).

In addition, the cities don't tend to have very many snow plows (why invest in all that equipment to use only once or twice a year?), and they don't salt the roads, they just sand them, so if it's particularly cold things get very slick and icy. This year the city of Seattle decided to switch to salt; hopefully that will make a difference (for them, at least).

But news is slow this time of year, so the TV stations are full of dire predictions and helpful suggestions, and they're busily resurrecting images of past snowy crashes to raise the fear factor. I suppose at some level the intention is good -- they're trying to ensure that people who don't know how to cope don't venture out unnecessarily -- but it seems a shame to use fear to attract viewers and sell products.

I remember, back when I was working in an ad agency in Boston, that was one of the first things we were taught: figure out what potential fear the product might alleviate, and then capitalize on that. According to an article I read in a recent issue of The Economist, it was a Viennese psychologist named Ernest Dichter who was responsible for having introduced this idea into the American marketplace.

In a book published in the 1930's called The Strategy of Desire, he said that"marketplace decisions are driven by emotions and subconscious whims and fears, and often have little to do with the product itself... Dichter's radical approach to goading shoppers, called 'motivational research,' was considered so successful that he was even accused of threatening America's national well-being. Sociologist Vance Packard, in his 1957 book The Hidden Persuaders, claimed that Americans had become 'the most manipulated people outside the Iron Curtain.' "

... which might explain both the Iraq war and our current economic situation... I'm just sayin'...

At any rate, I think where I'm going with this is that we don't have to allow ourselves to be manipulated by fear. We may not always be fully rational, and our choices may not always be the best ones. But I think any time we get that panicky feeling we may very well just be responding to forces outside of us that are not necessarily acting in our best interests. So stay calm, breathe, and see if you can get back in touch with what is real, what is here, what is now, and what is wise.

As my 7th grade history teacher used to say, "Illegitimi non carborundum." I'll leave that for you to translate so I don't have to type in any expletives...

PS: My daughter just sent me this video, which beautifully describes what happens when snow comes to Seattle; enjoy!

The call of the Beautiful

2012-01-17T13:54:00.000-08:00

This beautiful coptic processional cross served as the centerpiece for the altar created for us as part of a separate chapel/meditation space. The proportions of the cross are deliciously pleasing, and the glow of the iridescent ribbons in the candelight had an additional appeal.

When my eyes are fed by sights like these, my soul is fed as well. I find myself wondering, is this true for all people, or only for artists? I know that Beauty becomes something of a sacred quest for those of us who are Fours on the Enneagram. But quite frankly my love of beauty often seems more a curse than a blessing -- it both triggers an urge to possess (of which some part of me cannot approve) and a critical eye that gets in the way of my being to open to possibility.

Yes, it's true -- it drives me to create. But it also pushes me to reject much of what I create, and, even if I don't, to anticipate rejection by being all too aware of imperfections. The critical eye keeps me improving, but at the same time it means it's terribly rare for me to settle into an awareness of success or completion.

Ah, we humans -- such complex creatures we are! At times like this I am grateful for all the Ones who have gone before and considered these questions. Today, as I continue addressing this issue (which played a huge role in my Soul Collages over the weekend), I find solace in the words of Sr. Joan Chittister, from her book, Illuminated Life:

"It is Beauty that magnetizes the contemplative, and it is the duty of the contemplative to give beauty away so that the rest of the world may, in the midst of squalor, ugliness, and pain, remember that beauty is possible. Beauty feeds contemplation, and Beauty is its end. A sense of Beauty evokes in us consciousness of the eternal in the temporal. ...An encounter with the beautiful lifts our eyes beyond the commonplace and gives us a reason for going on, for ranging beyond the mundane, for endeavoring ourselves always to become more than we are.

In the midst of struggle, in the depths of darkness, in the throes of ugliness, beauty brings with it a realization that the best in life is, whatever the cost, really possible. Beauty takes us beyond the visible to the height of consciousness, past the ordinary to the mystical, away from the expedient to the endlessly true...To be contemplative we must remove the clutter from our lives, surround ourselves with beauty, and consciously, relentlessly, persistently, give it away until the tiny world for which we ourselves are responsible begins to reflect the raw beauty that is God."

I wish you blessings and beauty today...

Resting in the heart of God

2012-01-16T21:56:00.000-08:00

Can you see the heart in this picture? This was the view from the dining hall at Camp Huston, where I spent the last two days photographing snow (we got almost 10 inches over the weekend) and creating some new Soul Collages.

It was a lovely time: there was a terrible snowstorm as I was driving up, but I drove the last 20 miles or so directly behind a snow plow, so I was as safe as could be.

My bed was comfy, the room was cosy, the food was delicious, and the liturgies and services (conducted by the Reverend Gail Wheatley, priest of St. Andrews, Port Angeles, who I had not met before) were totally refreshing: I felt like I was resting in the heart of God.

I am terrifically grateful for my time away, and I look forward to sharing some wonderful new images with you...

Gift of the moment

2012-01-14T08:51:00.000-08:00

When we first moved to Bainbridge Island, this bush was a huge and lovely beach rose, covered in white flowers for much of the summer. It sat beside a path that led to the boardwalk, and in the fall and spring was often covered with birds.

But the second year we were here was a particularly bad year for gypsy moths, and they took over the rose bush. My elderly neighbor said spraying it with Formula 409 would kill the moths, so I kept going out there and spraying, but the moths were very prolific and soon the bush had been nibbled down to a nub.

The rosemary bush beside it was of no interest to the gypsy moths, and it continues to thrive (and is now quite large) but I thought we had lost the rose bush altogether; certainly we've had no roses in that spot in years (and it's all become very overgrown with dune grass.)

But yesterday I went out there with my camera, to photograph the boardwalk, which was covered in frost, and I couldn't help but be enchanted by the christmasy contrast of red, white, and green on this bush, which now thrives in the spot where the rosebush once lived. I have no idea what it is -- it might even be a beach rose, for all I know of plants (I am not known for my green thumb) -- but it really is quite lovely, and it occupies the space where the beach roses once bloomed.

I've been reading this morning, in Jack Kornfield's The Wise Heart, about the impermanence of things, and the importance of holding both that awareness (which looks beyond the now) and presence in each moment; of understanding that we are both unique and infinitely connected to all that is; that life is both full and empty at the same time.

And somehow this bush helps me with that: the frost sits so lightly on these leaves, throwing their serrated edges and bright red stems into relief. If it were to sit there for too long, it would surely kill the plant, just as the gypsy moths killed the rose bush it used to be. But the frost has the same ephemeral glow the lovely little white roses once had, and the bush is almost as large as the rosebush once was. Yes, things pass away, but things are also reborn. One kind of beauty dies, and another rises in its place. The gypsy moths come, and then they leave; the frost comes overnight, and then it melts away -- and each moment, even the woven tent of the gypsy moth, has its own beauty to offer.

It's challenging to hold that tension, between now, and past, and what will come. But I continue to try, and am learning to trust, day by day, that each moment -- past, present, and future -- has its own gift to offer.

Glowing in the morning sun

2012-01-13T09:16:00.000-08:00

Another beautiful clear day (our last for a while, according to current forecasts, which are predicting storms and snow for the weekend), and I began outside, taking pictures of the mountains, glowing pink in the sunrise.

Later, when I rose from meditation, my beautiful Bodhisattva (made by Anita Feng) was glowing in the morning sun. I'm taking it as an omen -- further enhanced by the thought of going off to the mountains for a mini-retreat this weekend, and the unexpected pleasure of finding myself alone in the house this morning.

I'll begin this creative day by cleaning up the spaces that have been driving me most crazy, and see if that doesn't inspire me... But first, the dog is begging for a walk...

When the batteries run low

2012-01-12T12:16:00.000-08:00

Okay.
Something's going on.
I'm not liking my photos, and I'm discouraged about my poetry, too. I can't seem to create any intriguing new collages (though I've been trying). I'm not interested in going out shooting. And of all the sunrise pictures I've taken in the last few days (we've had some glorious ones) this is the one I chose to put here -- and it has an ominous feel to it -- or at least, it feels that way to me.

I think these are my normal post-Christmas blues. And it IS coming up on Martin Luther King weekend -- which I've traditionally spent going off somewhere on a retreat, usually with some sort of artistic component. Last year I went over the mountains and came back with these wonderful collage inspirations; the year before that I spent a weekend doing Soul Collages (which felt fabulous at the time, but now I look at them and go "what were you THINKING? These are CRAP!")

I've not made any plans for a retreat this year because I have a rehearsal on Saturday. But maybe I need to re-think this; see if I can get away, just for Saturday night and Sunday? Because something in me needs to get re-charged.

Just out of curiosity (this is the advantage of keeping a diary) I went back and looked at my posts for this time last year. The post for January 11 talked about a similar feeling, and the last lines said this:

"Sometimes we just need to give ourselves permission to go off-line. Take a deep breath. Vedge out.

Just do it!"

Hmmm. I guess this IS some sort of seasonal malaise. Sad to be so predictable, isn't it! And yet, at the same time, it's reassuring: this is a normal transition phase, usually followed by some new surge of creativity. So. What can I do to jump start that?

Hmmm.

Touching the earth

2012-01-11T10:53:00.000-08:00

This image is made up of a photo of light patterns inside an elevator, reflections on the side of a canoe, and a mountain hillside; I think it came out looking the way it did because my daughter's driving back from Montana today. Fortunately the weather's looking good, so with luck the broken window at the start will be her only incident.

But I did wake up with my mother radar going off, so it was a relief to get her call and hear it was just that the window had gotten stuck down (it's been sort of fixed; it's duct-taped up and hopefully that will hold).

It didn't help, though, that most of what I was reading in Jack Kornfield this morning was about the inevitability of loss and grief: I found myself wanting to slam the book shut -- I really don't need to be reminded of stuff like that when I'm already a bit anxious.

What did help, though, was tomorrow's poem from Coleman Barks' Year with Hafiz, entitled "When his foot touches earth near me:"

Not like a lone beautiful bird,
these poems now rise in great white flocks,
startled by God,

Breaking a branch,
when His foot touches the earth...
near me.

Not like a lone beautiful bird
need be your heart when I am close,
like this.

It's a bit of an awkward read. But once I slowed down and read it through again, I found myself thinking of something said in my spirituality reading group yesterday, about this spiritual journey -- especially if you're taking it apart from a church community after years of church involvement -- being a lonely one.

Maybe it doesn't need to be quite so lonely, and the anxiety can be relieved a bit, as well -- if we can just understand that that foot is touching the earth, quite near; quite close...

Battling perfectionism

2012-01-10T09:03:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I completed the project I promised to begin back on December 31; that of creating a short video based on the composition workshop I gave at the Episcopal Communicators convention in Seattle back in 2008. You can find it on Youtube, if you're interested.

I'm pleased to have completed the project, but not all that pleased with the results: this is a huge subject, but I only tackle some of the basics, and I don't illustrate all the points I make. The narration was constructed piecemeal, as I was frequently interrupted during the work and there was a lot going on around me, so it's a little slow (can you spell "soporific?") and it seems clear to me that it was added after the fact; I'm not always sure what I was thinking when I put the slides together in the first place.

Can you hear the perfectionist in me speaking? She has a way of surfacing any time I dare to make any statement that might indicate I have important information to share; I believe her job is to apologize in advance for any imperfections, in hopes no one will sneer at my work.

Sometimes I would like to shoot her, but I suspect it would make more sense for me to sit down with her, thank her for protecting me so assiduously, and ask her exactly what it is she's afraid of: after all, she is the single biggest example of that desperate need for approval that seems to take over whenever I'm feeling like I may have overstepped my bounds.

I suspect the image here this morning is my attempt to defy her: this is a photo taken in Boulder of scraps of paper in a trash can. I suspect the part of me that chose to display it here is trying to say (as protection against my perfectionist -- what complex beings we humans are! --) see? I can create art out of TRASH. So BACK OFF!

If it weren't time for me to head off to class, and if my husband weren't floating around the house, I might take time to sit down with these two protagonists and get them to work out their differences. I have a wonderful new book on family systems therapy that my friend Joanna recommended -- Self-Therapy, by Jay Earley -- that should be good at helping me deal with the squabbling children inside me.

If only I could find a bit of quiet space and time to do that!

Looking good, looking good

2012-01-09T08:41:00.000-08:00

One of the fun things about coming to the theater late in life is that you tend to get some really juicy character parts. The stage manager for our local theater posted this picture just yesterday: it's from The Secret Garden, in which I appeared a couple of years back as an evil headmistress.

Roles like this are fun -- a chance to channel unexpressed parts of the personality onto the stage -- but (as I noted on Facebook) it was particularly hard for my husband to watch me in this one because I was SO unattractive -- all the way through to the bone.

So it was amusing, having come face-to-face with this side of myself yesterday, to read the following passage this morning in Jack Kornfield's classic, The Wise Heart:

"To be wise we need to be able to enter each role fully, with awareness and compassion, and to let it go when our part is done... We can be free only if underneath all these temporary roles we do not forget that they are not who we really are.

In the same way that we identify with a role, we can identify with a self-image. Do I look intelligent, attractive, strong? Usually we worry in this way because we also feel the opposite qualities in ourselves. So to compensate, we create a self-image. A colleague of mine found these compensatory thoughts so frequent in his meditation, he began to humorously name them each time they arose: 'Looking good, looking good.' In simply seeing the constant struggle to look good, he felt more compassion and ease."

It helps, I think, to see that others struggle with issues around appearance. Because -- now that I'm in rehearsal for yet another minor character role -- I feel those old demons beginning again to rear their ugly heads: how can I keep this character from slipping into ugliness? How can I keep her appealing and amusing? And of course, beneath that, "How can I keep the audience from seeing me at my most unattractive?" And perhaps, below even that, "Who is it that lives beneath all these roles?"

As Kornfield's old friend Ram Dass used to say -- it's all Grist for the Mill. Or, in the words of Garrison Keillor, "To an English major, everything is material." Yet another opportunity to explore the workings of the spirit...

Forgive

2012-01-08T10:45:00.000-08:00

When the violin
can forgive the past
it starts singing.

When the violin
can stop worrying
about the future

you will become
such a drunk laughing nuisance

the Sun will then lean down
and start combing you
into its hair.

When the violin can forgive
every wound caused by others

your soul --
your soul will start singing.

-- Hafiz

Creating interior space

2012-01-07T10:19:00.000-08:00

I spent much of yesterday taking down the Christmas decorations, which means that the Buddhas in the living room are stepping forward again and making their presence known.

I get the feeling my belief system works a little like that, as well, taking on a more flamboyant Christian tinge as the year draws to a close and then shifting back into a more Buddhist understanding (tempered by the Sufi influence of Hafiz and Rumi) as the New Year begins.

I do know that there's always a sort of desperate longing for retreat after the craziness of the holidays has passed; a hunger for quiet, gray skies, still waters and more nourishing food sets in; an urge to pare down and live more simply. Perhaps that's what leads to that phenomenon known as Spring Cleaning: airing out the cupboards, clearing out possessions, creating a little space in the brain...

His hand is near

2012-01-06T12:59:00.000-08:00

I'm delighted to report that my daughter's drive went without incident, and she arrived safely in Montana. So all that worrying was fortunately for naught.

... But then, isn't ALL worrying really for naught? In my reading in Henri Nouwen this morning he talked a lot about how much we fear death, seeing it as "the great enemy who will always get the better of us against our will and desire."

Nouwen, of course, has another way of looking at it:

"Even though I often give in to the many fears and warnings of my world, I still believe deeply that our few years on this earth are part of a much larger event that stretches out far beyond the boundaries of our birth and death. I think of it as a mission into time, a mission that is very exhilarating and even exciting, mostly because the One who sent me on the mission is waiting for me to come home and tell the story of what I have learned.

... With this vision, death is no longer the ultimate defeat. To the contrary, it becomes the final "yes" and the great return to where we can most fully become children of God... when I listen to that small soft voice calling me the Beloved, I know that there is nothing to fear and that dying is the greatest act of love, the act that leads me into the eternal embrace of my God, whose love is everlasting."

The root of all worrying, I suspect, is an inability to trust that all will somehow turn out okay; that we are beloved, that everything is an opportunity for learning, and that all will indeed result in a return to the most desired state: that of union with the Beloved.

The poet Hafiz seems to understand and explain this beautifully:

If you knew the end of your story,
nothing on any page --
not one of your dramas,
could bother you as much.

If you knew the glorious end of your journey,
at least half of your attention could be lifted
from anything you can now focus on
that may cause you pain.

His hand is like that,
when it is realized near,
it will always turn your gaze
in the direction of more light.

I'm hoping, as time goes by, that I'll get better at realizing that hand is near, and that my gaze, in turn, will be ever more directed towards the light...

Traveling across the mountains

2012-01-05T06:58:00.000-08:00

Whew! Busy day yesterday: old friends came over to the island to visit for a day, rehearsal last night, and our younger daughter was busy prepping our ancient Eurovan for a trip across the mountains to Montana to visit her college roommate.

But she and I did manage to find a little time at bedtime last night to re-connect and share observations on some of her struggles and the ways our family dynamics sometimes play out in her life. And at one point she voiced a concern I remember feeling myself at her age; that she didn't have much to offer people who might be meeting her for the first time.

So I smiled when this morning's reading in Henri Nouwen's Life of the Beloved brought me this passage:

"Our life itself is the greatest gift to give -- something we constantly forget. When we think about our being given to each other, what comes immediately to mind are our unique talents: those abilities to do special things especially well. You and I have spoken about this quite often. 'What is our unique talent?' we asked. However, when focusing on talents, we tend to forget that our real gift is not so much what we can do, but who we are. The real question is not 'What can we offer each other?' but 'Who can we be for each other?'...It is the gift of our own life that shines through all we do. As I grow older, I discover more and more that the greatest gift I have to offer is my own joy of living, my own inner peace, my own silence and solitude, my own sense of well-being. When I ask myself, 'Who helps me most?' I must answer, 'The one who is willing to share his or her life with me.' "

So I read it to her over breakfast -- and she didn't even roll her eyes at me! Amazing!

... and now she's off, traveling alone for 12 hours across the mountain passes between here and Bozeman, equipped with Goldfish and 5-hour Energy and a box full of cassette tapes of me reading children's stories, from the radio shows I was doing when I was her age. I hope you'll join me in surrounding her with blessings for her trip; I'll be thinking of her often today.

Blessings

2012-01-03T08:47:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite places in Italy is Burano, the little island near Venice where lace is made. All the houses are brightly colored, and most of them seem to be back to back, facing onto canals; it's really a photographer's paradise.

Every once in a while there are alleys between the homes, and tucked into many of the alleys, just above and inside the arched entrance, are wee altars like this one, placed there to bless those who travel through.

I post this one today because in my reading this morning Henri Nouwen is speaking about the importance of blessing: of understanding that we are blessed, of noticing blessings, of listening for blessings, and of blessing others.

It seems to me that this is one of the tragedies of our now primarily secular society: that we no longer fully understand the value of blessings -- or even how blessed we truly are.

I need to run off and get ready for class, but in the spirit of blessing I thought I'd share one of my favorites with you:

Beannacht
("Blessing")

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

~ John O'Donohue ~

(Echoes of Memory)

Becoming beloved

2012-01-02T09:30:00.000-08:00

This morning in Henri Nouwen's book, Life of the Beloved, he was talking about the difference between being the beloved and becoming the beloved -- which is really the difference between knowing intellectually that we are chosen and blessed and tenderly cared for, and actually believing that, feeling that, and operating out of that deep inner understanding.

I am blessed, I think, with the intellectual understanding that I am beloved. But it seems to me -- and it's clear Nouwen agrees -- that the job of becoming the beloved, of knowing it at the deepest level of being, is always going to be a bit of a work in progress, and perhaps one of the key challenges of life on the spiritual path.

That said, I will also add that there's something about giving that helps propel us down that path. This is the quilt I created for my daughter's 25th birthday. And there was something about re-visiting each of those years of her life, remembering both the difficulties of those years and the wonder of them, and then stitching it all together, that not only helped me express my deep affection and gratitude for all the gifts she's brought into my life, but also helped me understand how I too -- with all my flaws and challenges -- might be beloved.

... which makes me think of those final lines in the prayer of St. Francis:

"For it is in giving that we receive.
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life."

... and somehow that, in turn, makes me think of the last time I had that most amazing sense of feeling beloved, which was when I found myself on my knees in Assisi, in front of the tomb of St. Francis.

Hope I get to go there again someday...

Sigh.

You are the beloved

2012-01-01T08:49:00.000-08:00

"Ever since you asked me to write for you and your friends about the spiritual life, I have been wondering if there might be one word I would most want you to remember when you finished reading all I wish to say. Over the past year, that special word has gradually emerged from the depths of my own heart. It is the word "Beloved," and I am convinced that it has been given to me for the sake of you and your friends...

All I want to say to you is "You are the Beloved," and all I hope is that you can hear these words as spoken to you with all the tenderness and force that love can hold. My only desire is to make these words reverberate in every corner of your being -- "You are the Beloved."

... I am putting this so directly and so simply because, though the experience of being the Beloved has never been completely absent from my life, I never claimed it as my core truth. I kept running around it in large or small circles, always looking for someone or something able to convince me of my Belovedness. It was as if I kept refusing to hear the voice that speaks from the very depth of my being and says: "You are my Beloved, on you my favor rests."

That voice has always been there, but it seems that I was much more eager to listen to other, louder voices, saying: "Prove that you are worth something; do something relevant, spectacular, or powerful, and then you will earn the love you so desire." Meanwhile, the soft gentle voice that speaks in the silence and solitude of my heart remained unheard, or at least unconvincing.

... Listening to that voice with great inner attentiveness, I hear at my center words that say: "I have called you by name from the very beginning. You are mine and I am yours. You are my Beloved, on you my favor rests. I have molded you in the depths of the earth and knitted you together in your mother's womb. I have carved you in the palms of my hands and hidden you in the shadow of my embrace. I look at you with infinite tenderness and care for you with a care more intimate than that of a mother for her child.

I have counted every hair on your head and guided you at every step. Wherever you go, I go with you, and wherever you rest, I keep watch. I will give you food that will satisfy all your hunger and drink that will quench all your thirst. I will not hide my face from you. You know me as your own as I know you as my own. You belong to me. I am your father, your mother, your brother, your sister, your lover, and your spouse ... yes, even your child...wherever you are I will be. Nothing will ever separate us. We are one."

-- Henri Nouwen, Life of the Beloved

Happy New Year -- and may this be the year you finally come to know your belovedness...

Holiday challenges

2011-12-31T09:55:00.000-08:00

There's frost on the boardwalk, and clouds in the sky: it's New Year's Eve, and lined up down the edge of the hallway (so our blind dog won't trip over them) are 25 packages, one for each year of life for our oldest daughter, who was born 25 years ago today.

And as you can see, there's a picture of her from each of those years -- can I just say how much fun I had putting this together? In that one on the right she's dressed as a shepherd for that year's Christmas pageant -- SO CUTE!!! Now we're just waiting till she wakes up and opens them -- which may be a while, as her younger sister had a party here last night, keeping all of us up til the wee hours of the morning...

In other news, I created a present for YOU yesterday, as well -- just a short video of the hymn I posted yesterday, because I hated sending you to the River City website with all its ads and clutter. I've replaced the link in yesterday's post, but you can watch it here as well:

And then a neighbor came over to purchase the last two Sandspit calendars (I make them every year, just for our little neighborhood). We got to talking about photography, and the end result was I decided to create a video out of a slide show I put together on photo composition and editing for the Episcopal Communicators Conference back in 2008.

So life is full and rich with potential, as always -- and what a great way that is to start out the New Year! Of course we still don't know how our day will play out, or if there's supposed to be a party at our house, or what the new year will bring: all of us are in transition right now, and so we're just taking things one step at a time; trying not to get too caught up in worries about what the future may hold.

But that does mean -- especially when you add in my husband's new cold and my recovery from that pre-Christmas fall -- that we all have a tendency to snap at each other: nothing serious, but it's not particularly pleasant either. It's a very small scale war, but... well, I've had to apologize several times in the last few days for losing my temper... so even if I find other family members irritating, I'm not liking myself much either! I'm hoping we're ready to declare a truce... And, having said that, now I'm hearing that John Lennon song in my head:

"So this is Christmas
And what have you done
Another year over
And a new one just begun
And so this is Christmas
I hope you have fun
The near and the dear ones
The old and the young

A very merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one
Without any fear

And so this is Christmas War is over
For weak and for strong If you want it
For rich and the poor ones War is over
The world is so wrong Now
And so Happy Christmas War is over
For black and for white If you want it
For yellow and red ones War is over
Let's stop all the fight Now."

For those who wait

2011-12-30T08:27:00.000-08:00

"All things come for those who wait." Does this sound familiar to you? I thought it was from the Bible, but actually it's just an old English proverb, used perhaps most famously as "Good things come to those who wait" in a ketchup commercial in the 80's...

Whatever the source, clearly it lives on in my brain as if it were the word of God. And it came to mind this morning as I was mulling over Henri Nouwen's words about the importance of solitude.

Nouwen believes (and of course, as a mildly introverted only child, I HEARTILY agree) that we all need solitude to help foster our spiritual lives, if not our sanity.

For Nouwen, solitude is meant to be an opportunity to listen for the word of God: he believes we need to create a quiet space within ourselves in order that we may be filled with an understanding of our purpose. But as anyone who attempts to create these kinds of quiet spaces knows, waiting is hard: the mind has a tendency to jump in with all the thoughts that preoccupy us during the day.

Fortunately, living on an island, I get lots of opportunities to practice waiting: any time I need to catch a ferry, I get to arrive early and sit in my car, waiting while the lot fills up with fellow travelers; waiting for the ferry to come and discharge its cars; waiting to load, and then sitting upstairs or in my car for the half-hour ferry ride to the city.

If I wait attentively -- always easier to do if there's a camera in the car -- I may see sights like this one, simple but appealing shapes or colors to invite my attention. If I let my mind drift but continue to steer it away from my usual preoccupations, it frequently fills with music -- which is what happened as I sat quietly in my chair this morning, waiting for Henri Nouwen's words to bear fruit in me.

Today's music was a song from my childhood, sung every Sunday in the Presbyterian church where I grew up in suburban Cincinnati:

Breathe on me, Breath of God,
Fill me with life anew,
That I may love what Thou dost love,
And do what Thou wouldst do.

Breathe on me, Breath of God,
Until my heart is pure,
Until my will is one with Thine,
To do and to endure.

Breathe on me, Breath of God,
Till I am wholly Thine,
Until this earthly part of me
Glows with Thy fire divine.

Breathe on me, Breath of God,
So shall I never die,
But live with Thee the perfect life
Of Thine eternity.

(You can listen to a brief clip of this from River City Music by clicking here.)

What's curious is that I only remember singing the first verse; and I remember the third line as "that I may live as thou wouldst live," so I'm wondering if perhaps someone modified it for use in a particular part of the service, as a response.

Whatever the original words, and whatever the use, I am nonetheless grateful that this appeared in my head as I was waiting in silence this morning: if feels like a gift for the day.

Learning to trust

2011-12-29T08:12:00.000-08:00

I suspect all those who attempt to follow the spiritual path -- whichever form that takes -- struggle with certain aspects of that work.

I was thinking this morning that for me the struggles center around the concept of obedience: I remember, when I first began thinking I wanted to serve God in some way, someone suggested I consider getting ordained in the Episcopal Church as a Deacon.

So I read up on it, and realized the centrality (in the life of a Deacon) of Service, and... well, I just cringed. It seemed my whole life had been spent serving, and I was tired of it. I wanted to lead, not serve. And, being me, I felt guilty about that.

I've thought for years that my struggles with that were around the idea of obedience. But actually, I am an almost embarrassingly obedient person. Having been raised as an only child by a difficult mother, my particular pattern has always been to assign some person authority and then bend over backwards trying to please them.

No, I think the real problem is trust. I just don't trust anyone -- even God -- to take care of me, to love me, to look after my needs... and so I never fully let down my guard, even for God. So Henri Nouwen's words in Making All Things New this morning are both words I need to hear and words that trigger a lot of resistance in me.

If we live the spiritual life, putting God at the center of our existence, he writes, "we are set free from the compulsions of our world and set our hearts on the only necessary thing... we no longer experience the many things, people, and events as endless causes for worry, but begin to experience them as the rich variety of ways in which God makes his presence known to us.

...We realize that we are in the center, and that from there all that is and all that takes place can be seen and understood as part of the mystery of God's life with us. Our conflicts and pains, our tasks and promises, our families and friends, our activities and projects, our hopes and aspirations, no longer appear to us a a fatiguing variety of things which we can barely keep together, but rather as affirmations and revelations of the new life of the Spirit in us.

All these other things, which so occupied and preoccupied us, now come as gifts or challenges that strengthen and deepen the new life which we have discovered. This does no mean that the spiritual life makes things easier or takes our struggles and pains away... What matters is to listen attentively to the Spirit and to go obediently where we are being led, whether to a joyful or a painful place.

Poverty, pain, struggle, anguish, agony, and even inner darkness may continue to be part of our experience. They may even be God's way of purifying us. But life is no longer boring, resentful, depressing, or lonely because we have come to know that everything that happens is part of our way to the house of the Father."

It all sounds really good. And I believe it, intellectually. But when push comes to shove, or the going gets tough -- whether for me or for those whom I love -- this is not where I go. I long to trust "that everything that happens is part of our way to the house of the Father." I even strongly suspect that's true. But that knowledge is not deeply rooted in me; I can't sink into it and trust. When things get challenging, all my body cells get preoccupied with the challenge, whatever it is. What's going to happen? How can I fix it? What can I do?

It's very hard to stop, to breathe, to know the Spirit is there, supporting and empowering me; to trust.

Doing what we love

2011-12-28T23:16:00.000-08:00

Years ago, in New Hampshire, I used to teach quilting at the League of NH Craftsmen in Hanover. So it's not surprising that the first manipulated image I ever created took the form of a quilt (I created this almost 10 years ago).

Today, in a fabric store, I happened to mention that I taught quilting years ago, but hadn't made a quilt in years. "Why on earth did you stop?" asked the sales woman.

"I guess," I replied, "because I found something to do I loved even more -- photography."

"Oh, well, that's okay," she said, "at least you're still being creative!" That's true, of course, but it's also true that photography is a lot less work -- and not nearly as tiring. Although perhaps that's always true when you find a way to do what you love...

Fading light

2011-12-27T09:28:00.001-08:00

This morning I received an invitation to participate in a photography contest whose theme is "Fading Light: the tension between wanting to hang on to the light but at the same time welcoming the darkness. Fading light, shadows, absence of light, twilight, darkness, losing sight, transformative."

Hmm. I'm not sure I take very many photos that AREN'T about fading light. And certainly at this time of year that's a pretty consistent theme. What intrigues me is the link the presenters of the contest draw between shadows, twilight, losing sight and transformation.

By now I think we mostly understand -- intellectually, at least -- that a step into darkness, however painful, will ultimately become a step into light. After all, the sun rises every morning, and spring always returns; right?

But yesterday a friend mentioned that what he feared most was to become increasingly disabled -- losing sight, hearing, and mobility -- with no way to afford either medical care or caregivers. And yes -- as age creeps up on me and those whom I love, it becomes increasingly clear that challenges like the ones my friend describes may well be lurking ahead. Old age -- as the poster in my pilates classroom reads -- is not for sissies.

And of course, the root of that concern is that, actually, there WILL come a time when spring does not return, and the sun will not rise -- for us, anyway. We tend to see death, from our limited perspective here on earth, as the ultimate darkness.

Somehow I suspect that may not be true; that there may actually be another, stronger light, that falls upon us when the lesser light of days and seasons fades, a transformation more complete than any we undergo in response to the darknesses we encounter here.

But that's only a guess; we can't really know. And to live our lives worrying about whether or not that's true; to divide our communities over disagreements about what that future might look like seems to be the ultimate exercise in futility. Yes, it's good to be conscious that life can change completely in an instant; that it may not always take the form it's taking at this moment in time. But to spend so much time worrying about that that we neglect what life and light lie waiting for us here and now, in this moment...

Nope. Just don't want to go there. Better to understand that we live -- always -- in fading light, laced with shadows and the possibility of transformation to come. Better to rejoice in the light that is, to breathe in the shadows when they arise, and to trust the light will always triumph in the end.

Eschew preoccupation

2011-12-26T11:12:00.000-08:00

One of the benefits of doing marketing work for the Seattle Children's Hospital thrift store (also known as the Bainbridge Bargain Boutique) is that it provides an excuse to shop there with some frequency.

Last week, while capturing photos of some likely-looking Christmas presents for the store's website, I picked up two books by Henri Nouwen. And this morning, in his tiny little treatise, Making All Things New, I read the following:

"More enslaving than our occupations are our preoccupations. To be pre-occupied means to fill our time and place long before we are there... Much, if not most, of our suffering is connected with these preoccupations.... Since we are always preparing for eventualities, we seldom fully trust the moment. Our individual as well as communal lives are so deeply molded by our worries about tomorrow that today hardly can be experienced."

I hadn't thought of that interpretation of the word preoccupied before, but it really resonated -- and it's a perfect description of what most often derails my meditation practice. I suspect it's also a phenomenon that contributes to the derailing of relationships as well. After years of marriage, we have a way of becoming absorbed in our preoccupations, and tend to be less present and less attentive to our mates and children. "Not right now, honey; maybe later," said with enough frequency, can leave a loved one feeling ignored and devalued...

The problem is -- as a friend said over coffee this morning -- things are always changing. And if we're not paying attention, we might miss something beautiful, or even life-changing -- like this moment in yesterday's sunrise. Not life changing, of course, but there might be something going on -- right here, and right now -- that could feed your soul way more than all that worrying...

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-25T09:04:00.000-08:00

May God bless you
this day
and every day
and in the months
and years to come.

Advent: Christmas Eve

2011-12-24T08:56:00.000-08:00

The presents are wrapped, the stockings are hung, the lights on the tree are sparkling and the cookies will be baking soon. Now comes the time of waiting: the music caroling softly in the background, the peace and dark, the stable loaded with fresh straw, the animals bedded down for the night, the heads of sheep and shepherds nodding, the wise men following the sacred star, young Joseph hoping they get to Bethlehem before all the inns fill up, chafing at the slowness of their speed, trying to be gentle with his wife...

Advent: Friday, Week 4

2011-12-23T09:05:00.000-08:00

Advent: Thursday, Week 4

2011-12-22T08:22:00.000-08:00

I am feeling particularly grateful this morning: while on my way to a friend's annual Solstice party last night, I tripped over an unexpected dip in the pavement, tearing open some skin on fingers and knees and twisting my wrist and ankle.

It could have been SO much worse, and SO much more painful. Lying in bed this morning, I found myself thinking there must have been a pair of angels on either side of me, gently lowering me to the ground and carefully cushioning my fall so that nothing was broken. I feel very blessed.

Of course, if I HAD a harp right now, I wouldn't be able to play it because my fingers are too stiff and my wrist is still weak. But the thought is there: whatever the challenges the holidays may bring, at least I won't have to meet them with a cast on my wrist or my ankle. True, I missed the party. But it seems a small price to pay.

So then -- because, with the practice of Tonglen, any comfort I find in response to suffering I experience, I imagine that comfort flying to others who suffer -- I found myself thinking of the more than 5,000 American troops who've been wounded just this year while soldiering in Afghanistan, and how difficult it must be to suffer so, so far away from home. How do we find it in ourselves to be thankful for that? We can be grateful to them for their service on our behalf, but it all seems so pointless.

So if you do, in the spirit of the season, find yourself singing, I invite you to spare a thought for our soldiers while singing. Send them your songs and your gratitude, and any comfort you can muster. Somehow I believe it has to help.

Advent: Wednesday, Week 4

2011-12-21T08:34:00.000-08:00

This time of year, when the light outside grows dim, the inner flame also seems to have a way of dying down, at least for me.

My creativity seems to decrease, my prayer life grows less satisfying, and my Centering Prayer takes me, not to the inner level where I can be silent and listening to God, but at best only to a place where I can recognize sparks of divine insight, but get caught up in trying to turn them into something.

I suspect, as I age, that this is further complicated by my awareness that my memory isn't what it used to be. So I no longer trust that the "important" thoughts that occur to me during prayer will still be waiting when I emerge from that space. So instead of releasing them I find myself rehearsing them, reciting them, hoping to hang onto them -- both the ideas for poetry that surface and the solutions to the challenges of my to-do list.

The glorious promise of Christmas is that Jesus will be born again; will come back into our lives and fan that guttering inner flame back to light. Our challenge is to trust that God, the divine presence, is more than capable of surviving our task lists and memory lapses; that we are blessed, that great things will be done for, in, and through us, and "Holy is his name."

The gift of Advent, I think, is that each of us is Mary. If we can sink fully into the season, it comes to us that each of us is carrying and birthing that divine spark. It's planted within us, not chosen, and its time of delivery is not under our control. Each of us experiences her own version of labor pains, but there is that promise that each of us will have the opportunity to deliver.

Our job is simply to wait.

Advent: Tuesday, Week 4

2011-12-20T09:53:00.000-08:00

Drenched in divine possibility

2011-12-19T14:13:00.000-08:00

I took my daughters up to Shaw Island for the annual All-Island Christmas Party this past weekend. The party, thrown every year by my dear friends Carole and Brud, is one of the few opportunities islanders get to really dress up; there are even prizes for best dress, best tie, best shoes, best jewelry, etc. This year one of the dresses that tied for best had last been worn 14 years ago to the Nobel Prize ceremony (she was a friend of that year's recipient).

It was the first year my girls have been old enough (and interested enough) to go, and they were having some reservations about the idea. But after the grownups on the island (all of whom remember my girls from grade school) quizzed them for a while about what they were doing now, the kids they'd grown up with started showing up, and though I gave up and went home at 10:30 (still under the weather with this cold) they were out partying until almost 2 am.

... which meant they slept in on Sunday. So I took that opportunity to walk one of my favorite beaches with my camera, just to see what called to me. Mostly what called were variations on this theme: the long strands of bull kelp, their sinuous light threads showing bright against the dark wet stones. I never quite understand why such things are satisfying to me, but I walk and let my camera bless them; letting them know they are a gift to my eyes, and gifting them in turn to you...

It was, in its way, a weekend full of blessings: an opportunity for me to reconnect with old friends, but this time my girls got to do the same. The cool thing, they informed me, about getting back together with their fellow classmates from the tiny 2-room schoolhouse they attended during their years here, is that "they get it."

What is it they get? I asked.

They get what it's like to grow up in a really small community, without a television, where everyone knows each other -- and get, in turn, what it's like, having grown up that way, to go off to college in a far more urban setting, surrounded by kids who DIDN'T have that experience. It's a bond they share, a special one, and as one grownup who had been a consistent mentor for their 4-H program said, "It doesn't matter where you live or where you go; you'll always be a part of the island."

Which was her way of blessing the girls: giving them assurance that they are part of a larger family. And isn't that always what blessings are about? I'm reading the final chapter of Barbara Brown Taylor's An Altar in the World, which is entitled "The practice of pronouncing blessings." In it she describes the benefits of the practice of blessing things and people we encounter over the course of our days. And though she doesn't specifically state it, I find I keep thinking of the practice as God's blessing flowing through us, which gives a sort of clarity and refreshment to those open spaces inside us through which the blessings flow.

And here's the quote from that chapter I loved the most, that helped me see why going up there, connecting with friends, and photographing something as simple as seaweed has such a restorative quality:

"God has no hands but ours, no bread but the bread we bake, no prayers but the ones we make, whether we know what we are doing or not. When Christians speak of the mystery of the incarnation, this is what they mean: for reasons beyond anyone's understanding, God has decided to be made known in flesh. Matter matters to God. The most ordinary things are drenched in divine possibility. Pronouncing blessings upon them is the least we can do."

I love that: "The most ordinary things are drenched in divine possibility." And I believe it with all my heart.

Advent: Sunday, Week 4

2011-12-18T08:58:00.000-08:00

Advent: Saturday, Week 3

2011-12-17T08:45:00.000-08:00

Advent: Friday, Week 3

2011-12-16T08:39:00.000-08:00

Advent: Thursday, Week 3

2011-12-15T14:33:00.000-08:00

As often happens, Christmas preparations are running away with me. So I think on the days it's a struggle to get to the blog I'll share some of the lessons I prepared for Advent a few years back; I hope you don't mind...

Fluid like the stars

2011-12-14T10:50:00.000-08:00

At last: a peaceful night's sleep and a renewed sense of well-being at dawn. And how perfect is this Rumi poem for today!

"The nightwatchman knows the way
from body to soul,
how soul moves
in stomach bile,
in blood and semen,
in saliva.

Soul works inside those fluids
to keep the body
fresh and full of energy.

So the stars and the planets and this world
are moving to bring grace here
through the cold night-clarity..."

The challenge of enforced inactivity

2011-12-13T08:55:00.000-08:00

Yet another day of enforced inactivity, as the cold doesn't seem to be progressing at all. So it was amusing (as I watch my responses to both the inactivity and the discomfort) to read Barbara Brown Taylor's Altar in the World this morning: it's as if she's speaking directly to me.

She's talking about the practice of saying no, and particularly about God's commandment to rest on the seventh day. "Anyone who practices Sabbath for even an afternoon usually suffers a little spell of Sabbath sickness. Try it and you too may be amazed by how quickly your welcome rest begins to feel like something closer to a bad cold. Okay, that was nice. Okay, you are ready to get back to work now... but how will you ever catch up?

... Sabbath sickness turns out to be a lot like other sicknesses, which until now have been the only way you could grant yourself more than one day off from work. If you flee from the pain and failure, then you run into them everywhere you go. If you can find some way to open to them instead, then they may bring their hands from behind their backs and lay flowers on your bed."

Hmm, I think to myself. Did some part of me choose sickness as a way of escaping holiday responsibilities, or because I'm not listening to how overwhelmed I've been feeling? My family (all of whom were here yesterday) keep asking why I'm apologizing for being sick. And I can't help but notice what a wuss I'm being about the discomfort. I did finally get rational about it last night and decide it might be okay to at least take a little Tylenol...

All of which makes me realize how tightly I'm clamped in to the roles I assign for myself. All the more reason to follow Taylor's advice:

"At least one day in every seven, pull off the road and park the car in the garage. Close the door to the tool shed and turn off the computer. Stay home, not because you are sick, but because you are well... Test the premise that you are worth more than what you can produce -- that even if you spent one whole day being good for nothing you would still be precious in God's sight -- and when you get anxious because you are convinced that this is not so, remember that your own conviction is not required. This is a commandment. Your worth has already been established, even when you are not working. The purpose of the commandment is to woo you to the same truth."

All shall be well

2011-12-12T07:36:00.000-08:00

Ugh.

What is it about a cold that's so debilitating? We know they only last a short while; why can't we somehow rise above the sniffles and the cough and the watery eyes and the sleepless nights?

Why is it that the only time I seem to be able to fall asleep is when I'm attempting to meditate? And why is it that family drama has a way of surfacing just when you're feeling like crap?

Oy.

Here's where I wish I were right now: basking in the sun, poolside in Phoenix, being waited on hand and foot with no dog to walk, no Christmas errands to run, no cats to medicate and no exhibits to hang.

Oh, well. This, too, shall pass. And "all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well." Thank you, Julian of Norwich!

The hunger for oneness

2011-12-11T08:02:00.000-08:00

I had actually intended to go to church this morning, but I'm at the sneezy, nose-blowing stage of this cold, so I'm staying home.

I'm out of fresh images to play with -- or, at least, there's nothing singing to me -- so I decided instead to play with just layering abstracts. This one is made up of three images: one of graffiti, one of rusted metal, and one treated underwater image.

It doesn't say much of anything, but it pleases me, and somehow makes me think of stone patterns I've seen in places like New Mexico and Arizona. It also would look great printed on metal and hanging in the lobby of my church. So I guess, in a way, this is my spirit's way of going to church without me. There's even a hint of purple to remind us that Advent is now officially underway...

But somehow it also seems to be an echo of the latter verses of the Rumi poem for today in Coleman Barks' book, A Year with Rumi:

The longing you feel for this love
comes from inside you.

When you become the Friend,
your longing will be as the man in the ocean
who holds to a piece of wood.

Eventually, wood, man, and ocean
become one swaying being,
Shams Tabriz, the secret of God.

In it, I see the ocean, and the clinging, and the wood. And together they somehow become unified in a way that expresses both the hunger for oneness and Oneness itself.

But maybe that's just me...

Full moon meanderings

2011-12-10T18:10:00.000-08:00

When I awoke yesterday morning at 5:30 and came downstairs, the moon was so bright in the living room I thought my husband had left a light on. Now I know there are people who say that the idea that life gets weird when there's a full moon is just hogwash, but I am not one of those people. I wasn't quite sure where the day was going, but given a moon like this I could at least be certain there would be surprises.

And there were; they just kept unfolding, big ones and little ones; small coincidences and bizarre ones, all of which could, I suppose, be written off. But I felt like I was held aloft in the hand of the Holy, and it was great fun. Timing was perfect, repeatedly, in events and in traffic, and when, coming back from the airport, we missed a ferry by minutes, it was more than compensated for by our accidental involvement in a Progressive Insurance commercial.

So later, in the evening, when I came down with a whopper of a cold, I should not have been surprised: this too, I kept telling myself, must be part of the plan. And when the runny nose was briefly joined by a bout of stomach flu, leaving me weak and headachey for much of today when I had a HUGE to-do list on my plate, was that not part of the plan as well?

Why do we assume only the good stuff means God is walking -- even dancing -- with us? Couldn't the tough stuff just be a different kind of opportunity to sense the Divine Presence? I did my best to see it that way, and did my best, as well, to look more closely at that list to see what -- if anything -- might be set aside for a day or two while I recovered. Unfortunately most everything is stuff I promised as part of my volunteer work, so I'm grateful I managed to perk up quite a bit by mid-day.

And now the toughest task with the shortest deadline is done, and I can finally sit down and tackle the blog -- always a bright spot in my day! But I also think I'll pass on poem writing today... yesterday's poem fits this post quite well enough, I think. More important to rest and get some food into my empty belly!

Feeling maternal

2011-12-09T06:55:00.000-08:00

Though she's a grown woman now, our younger daughter hates to fly. So when she's on her way home -- as she is this morning; I'll leave on the 9:40 ferry to pick her up at the airport -- I somehow always picture her as she is here, all smiles and soft cheeks, with Bear-Bear (her constant companion since she was 3 months old) in her arms. Which he will be, on the plane: though he is a dark and shabby shadow of his former white plush self, Bear-Bear is still a vital member of our family; still bringing comfort and joy wherever he goes.

It's funny. When you don't have kids, or you're thinking of having kids, diapers seem to be such a dealbreaker; so overwhelming. But when you do have children you realize each stage brings new, more difficult challenges. With time, it becomes harder and harder, as Bear-Bear grows shabbier and shabbier -- for him (or us) to fix anything. But the comfort he brings is still there. I suppose, as parents, that's all we can offer or hope for.

Go figure!

2011-12-08T18:26:00.000-08:00

I got word this morning that prints of this image -- which the gallery decided to use as the postcard image for the current show -- have sold out, and they want more.

So when I came home from my usual Thursday morning coffee date, I had to leave again and go off to Silverdale to buy more matts, then come home and make more prints of the image, then matt and mount and label and package them, and then drive them into town to the gallery.

I'm not complaining, you understand; it's just not quite how I expected my day to go. And I never anticipated that this image would become so popular. But then -- I'm not a horse person; I just thought it was funny. Almost as funny as finding myself sleepless in the middle of the night (which rarely happens to me) and coming downstairs to find Mr. Ed on the TV. At 3 am? Who knew!

All of this is just to explain why the blog is getting off to a late start -- and totally devoid of spiritual content. I barely woke up in time for coffee, so never read, never meditated, and never got to anything on my to do list.

Some days are just like that, you know?

"Hmph," say these horses. "A likely story; do you really expect us to believe you?"

The creative impulse

2011-12-07T08:34:00.000-08:00

Somehow our visit to New Orleans triggered an itch to create an icon. Well, some sort of cross between an icon and Kalle's art, which I enjoyed so much. Last week, while waiting for a late coffee date, I found myself doodling on the brown paper that covered my table with the crayons provided; clearly some part of me was still wrestling with that itch.

But I was visualizing it on some sort of long, thin board; where would I find such a thing? The very next day, while walking the dog, I found a piece in exactly the shape I had drawn, washed up in my neighbor's front yard. (It's that time of year, when the high tides bring us lots of presents; sometimes right to our door!)

Clearly the universe was conspiring with me, so yesterday I sat down to paint, using ancient tubes of acrylic left over from some high school art project of my daughter's. Here's the result, photographed against my dining room table. It's definitely not perfect (although I did discover the incredible gift of primitive art: it doesn't HAVE to be perfect!) but it was great fun to create, and it was pure joy to play with paint after avoiding it for so many years.

... so now, of course, I'm thinking of doing another one; just waiting to see what else the tide brings in! So important, to honor those creative impulses...

God's work

2011-12-06T08:33:00.000-08:00

There was a book that came out, back in the late, optimistic, 80's, called Do What You Love, The Money Will Follow: Discovering Your Right Livelihood. These days, of course, current economic reality has reduced that optimism to a shadow of its former self; a shadow many recent college graduates can no longer detect.

But I was reminded of that title this morning, reading Barbara Brown Taylor's book, An Altar in the World. In it she describes her attempts while in seminary to ascertain God's call for her; attempts made high on a rusty fire escape she would climb to pray for guidance.

And in the end, in response to her persistent plea of "What am I supposed to do with my life?" the response she received was simply this: "Anything that pleases you." Which makes me think of that wonderful, seminal passage from Romans (8:28): "All things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to His purpose."

Having once been married to a street musician, I know it's not an easy life; that we were often scraping to make ends meet. But I also know he loved his work, and it brought joy to him and to those who heard him, just as I suspect these two New Orleans musicians find joy in their work, even as I know it brings joy to those of us who hear it.

I think that 80's book, despite my natural skepticism, cast a long shadow for me. Over the years that title has continued to encourage me to do what I love -- as has that passage from Romans. But some part of me is still hooked into the theory that money is somehow a sign of God's favor; that if I were really "doing it right," money -- or at least recognition -- would be the inevitable result. And, as a result, I keep getting distracted by possibilities ("maybe if I tried THIS it would sell") and find it hard to just stay true to that God-inspired internal prompt of doing what I love.

Which doesn't mean I should drop everything and run after pleasure. What I think it DOES mean is that I need to honor the rewards that DO ensue from the work I do; the calendars I create every year around this time, the exhibits I'm hanging in hospitals and coffee shops and athletic clubs. It doesn't matter if things don't sell: what matters is that I enjoy the work, and others derive pleasure from its results. If a picture honors the beauty in something someone passes every day, so that they stop and take a look next time -- that's God's work, too.

And it's all good.

Art, mystery, and mercy

2011-12-05T10:30:00.000-08:00

It's always amusing to me, to see what I discover in my images after I get home from a trip. In this case, if you look closely at this Mardi Gras mask I found in a store window, you will see images of Venice above her gold scrollwork.

Of course, Venice, too, is known for its Mardi Gras celebration - Carnevale - and for masks; I just hadn't put it together that I might love New Orleans for some of the same reasons I love Venice. But now that I'm thinking of it, the narrow streets and ancient doorways of the French Quarter do have a Venetian feel to them, so it shouldn't be surprising that I responded as enthusiastically as I did.

Art, and mystery, and always at the mercy of the water... hmmm. And here, where I spend most of my time; we, too are known for our art, and our street, at least is surely at the mercy of the tides from time to time. But where is the mystery? Perhaps we should have our OWN Mardi Gras parade!

Cultivating curiosity

2011-12-04T10:02:00.000-08:00

I was out walking with my husband and his brother in New Orleans; we were in a park, tucked in between the Cathedral and the Cafe du Monde, and I had just paused to take their picture beside this plant with huge leaves.

They were already moving on when I spotted this lovely purple fantasia in the plant I'd used as a backdrop. Isn't it glorious? Not exactly a burning bush, but I did have to turn aside to explore it -- and there was no way, once I'd seen it, that I could walk past it without photographing it.

What I don't understand is why it's so satisfying to me. Is it because it's so exotic and unfamiliar? Is it those glorious colors? Or is it the way each piece of the plant seems designed to curl protectively around those bright and curious dancers in the middle?

Do I need to know the answer? Probably not; I suspect it's enough to notice and respond from some non-cognitive space deep within. Perhaps it captures me because I don't have a name for it -- we humans do have a way of dismissing things when we name them. "What's that?" "Oh, it's just a table -- or a kingfisher, calling to his mate, or a homeless man sleeping under a blanket in the parking lot." But until we name it, we're curious. Wouldn't it be great if we could keep that curiosity?

Listening to that inner child

2011-12-03T08:45:00.000-08:00

Having spent most of my adult life in rural environments, I love images like this. I suppose you could say it's a chicken and egg problem: do I live in rural environments because this is what I love, or do I love these images because this is where I live?

But the fact is, this pleases me. So I have lots of pictures like this one, and was delighted when I was invited to participate in the farm-centered show that opened last night -- and I had great fun mounting bunches of images like this one on little wooden cradles; they look adorable hanging on the wall, and add charm to some of those odd spaces we all have in our houses.

But I woke up cranky this morning, and I realized, after some thought (why does it take me so long to process these things?) that I was cranky because the gallery chose to display them all flat, on a platform. No one seemed to understand what they were, and the light totally grayed them out because it bounced off them instead of illuminating the depth of them.

What's odd is that some part of me wanted to sweep them all up into my arms and carry them away, to say, "It's okay, you're not ugly, you're adorable and you are loved; we'll take you somewhere where you are appreciated." Clearly I am WAY more emotionally engaged with these pieces than I usually am with my work.

So what's that about? Is it just because they are small (only 3" x 5") and I feel protective of them? Am I projecting something of myself onto them? (Well, duh, probably!) Oh, good (as my neighbor Joanna says), something new to work on! Thinking about it this morning in my meditation time (my brain refused to release me into peace and quiet), I came to see that the piece of me that wants to be pretty and appreciated was squalling like a 2-year-old: Unfair! Not Fair!

Once I understood that, I was able to calm that part of me down and promise I'd attempt to solve the problem. So I've written to my curator friend to explain this; I'm not sure if he'll do anything about it but at least I've expressed my concerns. It was a perfectly calm note, I think, but I'm not sure it would have been if I'd written it before meditating.

When we have these parts of us that object to things, they have a disturbing tendency to take us over. And though they're using grown-up words, they're really very small children at heart, and pretty irrational -- not to mention ineffective. If I hadn't stopped to get in touch with what was driving my feelings, I could easily have written a rather nasty little diatribe -- you know the kind, the angry ones whose sentences start with "You never" or "You always" or -- worse still, "You #$$^^%!"

But the fact is, the gallery is not my enemy. They want these pieces to sell as much as I do. So if I share the information I have that they may not have had time to acquire, I am doing both of us a favor. Let's start by assuming we're on the same side here, right?

Which makes me wish, sometimes, that our political leaders would spend some time meditating before they go off on their diatribes, and before they declare wars. Wouldn't it be better for all of us if each of us took the time to understand that we really do all want the same things -- we just have different ideas and information on how to get them? Maybe if we could defuse the angry upset children inside us and just speak grown-up to grown-up the world would be a lot more peaceful place.

But mostly I just have to start right here, with me. Learn to listen carefully to the part of me that's upset rather than stuffing her down, belittling her, or letting her take over. She has useful information to share -- we all do -- but I need to take the time to listen -- and let her know I love her and take her concerns seriously.

Cold like me

2011-12-02T10:06:00.000-08:00

After 20 years in New England, the Northwest winters seemed incredibly mild to us when we moved here. So when we realized the previous owners of our house hadn't bothered to extend the forced-hot-water heating system upstairs to the bedrooms, we just left it that way. The heat that drifts upstairs from below seemed perfectly adequate; surely the tiny electric heaters installed in the walls of the bedrooms would be more than enough to take the edge off any particularly cold nights.

But I am older now, and more adjusted to the winters here; I'm no longer certain I could handle the brisk sub-zero winters I remember from my youth. And there are nights when our bedroom feels more like this picture than I would like, even though the temperature outside has not yet dropped to freezing. So I pile on the clothes, put on socks, and pile on the comforters as well -- and as I lie there shivering I think of all the people who are forced to sleep in colder places than this.

As Barbara Brown Taylor says in An Altar in the World, "However differently you and I may conceive the world, God, or one another, physical reality is something we can usually agree on. When the temperature drops below 32 degrees, I am as cold as whoever happens to be standing next to me. When I see someone run into a piece of furniture, catching the corner of a table right in the thigh, my own thigh hurts in that exact same place...

... When I watch a perfect stranger open her mouth for a bite of Key lime pie at my favorite Mexican restaurant, my mouth starts watering without my permission. My body is what connects me to all of these other people. Wearing my skin is not a solitary practice, but one that brings me into communion with all these other embodied souls. It is what we have most in common with one another."

And, I would add, it is what we have most in common with Jesus, who was also born into human skin, with all the joys and challenges that has to offer.

Yes, I know -- I don't often refer to Jesus here. But He's on my mind because I've been working on writing the call to artists for an upcoming ECVA exhibition, to be entitled "Jesus, our brother." I confess, though I still do attend my local Episcopal church with a certain amount of frequency, I am uncomfortable with a lot of the roles the church has assigned to Jesus over the years. But the incarnate Jesus, the Jesus who lived in a skin and got cold and hungry and tired just as we do; who longed just as we do for courage (for himself) and love and understanding (from those around him); this is a Jesus I can relate to.

This is the Jesus who speaks so beautifully in the Gospel of Thomas, who sees so clearly the Oneness, the connectedness of all life, and the divine presence that lives within each of us, and who longs for us to see that, too. This is the Jesus who is our brother, and I'm looking forward to seeing the art that comes in to depict how others experience that Jesus...

How interruptible are you?

2011-12-01T08:47:00.000-08:00

We all know the story of Moses and the burning bush, right? But I hadn't really thought about it until this morning, reading about it in Barbara Brown Taylor's Altar in the World.

I mean, yes, it's cool that God spoke to Moses. But "the bush was not right in front of Moses. It must have been over to the side somewhere, because when Moses saw it, he said, 'I must turn aside and look at this great sight, and see why the bush is not burned up.'

... What made him Moses was his willingness to turn aside. Wherever else he was supposed to be going and whatever else he was supposed to be doing, he decided it could wait a minute. He parked the sheep he was tending for his father-in-law and left the narrow path in order to take a closer look at a marvelous sight."

When Moses made that choice, to stop and investigate, God dismissed the angel and took over the bush. It's a wonderful example of what can happen when we take the time to notice.

But most of us are crusaders, always on a path to something important, always busy with a job to do; many of us are even doing what society has told us is the Work Of The Lord. And when we're on a roll, the things that get in the way -- the child saying "Mommy, Mommy, look at this!" or the slow elderly driver on the road in front of us, or the cat who gets underfoot at dinnertime or the homeless person blocking the doorway of the building we're trying to enter -- are simply obstacles to the crusade; irritations. We fail to see them as opportunities for Grace. Our eyes are on the prize, the Lord, the job ahead, and we never stop to appreciate the wonder right here at our feet.

As someone who is especially prone to this kind of preoccupation, I am grateful photography has captured my interest. Because, whatever I'm doing, some part of me is often alert for the burning bushes of the world. After all, if we don't even register them, we're not going to stop and investigate. But I have years of history of not stopping, lots of "the one that got away" stories.

Photography has taught me the fleeting nature of that golden light that can illuminate the bushes along the path. If I am not willing to drop what I'm doing and explore, but choose instead to finish whatever task is so important to me now and come back later, then in all probability whatever light infused the subject with grace has left the scene.

So it's not enough to be aware, although that's a start. We have to be willing to stop what we're doing; to drop the crusade and leave the path, "to turn aside and look at this great sight."

So how interruptible are you?

Noticing Grace

2011-11-30T07:59:00.000-08:00

This morning, in Barbara Brown Taylor's An Altar in the World, I am reading about the importance of paying attention. Which is fun, because that's one of the gifts of being a photographer -- we notice things; we pay attention. So here's a little story about the gift of noticing.

Background: when we went to New England in September for all those family birthdays, our daughter drove us to New Jersey and back. Since it was her car, we listened to her music, which, at that point in time, was Paul Simon's Graceland album. I had loved it, too, when it first came out, so -- no hardship there!

Fast forward a couple of months -- though perhaps I should mention that our flight to New Orleans took us to the Memphis airport, where we spent time in the Elvis store learning about -- you guessed it -- Graceland...

So on our first night in New Orleans, we ate in a little pizza place, and there was some terrific photography on the walls. One piece in particular -- a photo of an old guitar and a hand, nothing else -- caught my eye. I liked it so much I took a picture of it. Just a record shot, because I loved it.
Two days later we were walking down the street, a couple of blocks from our hotel, and there was a terrific street band playing. Our daughter was very taken with them, and borrowed money to purchase one of their CD's. I was very taken with the guitarist; I loved the intensity of his work, the angle of his head, his hat, his hands, his guitar -- so I took several pictures.

Processing the photos later, I realized the guitar in this picture was the same guitar whose photo had appeared on the wall of the restaurant: the curious perforations and the odd splashes of paint were unmistakably the same. So I sent a copy of my picture to a guitarist friend, and he wrote back to tell me it was a "National brand resophonic guitar," created out of metal with a resonator to enhance the sound.

So I went online to look up these guitars, and they're mostly very shiny; they don't have the glorious texture of this one. So it's still clear it's the same one I saw in the restaurant photo. But here's what brings this story to a circle: as an afterthought in his note, my guitarist friend wrote this: "From Paul Simon's "Graceland": "The Mississippi Delta was shining like a National guitar."

And suddenly I could hear the song and see the Mississippi Delta -- which was of course where we had just been -- and it all came together for me in a burst of joy; it just felt like the whole experience of New Orleans was peaceful, and right. It was, I believe, an experience of Grace.

In her curator's statement for the new ECVA Exhibition for Advent, gifted musician Ana Hernandez begins with a quote from pianist Glenn Gould (to whom my mother listened extensively when I was growing up): “The purpose of art is not the release of a momentary ejection of adrenaline, but is, rather, the lifelong construction of a state of wonder and serenity.”

I think both Gould and Hernandez are talking about Grace -- and that's certainly what I'm feeling, both in this story, and in this GORGEOUS exhibit. So in the time-honored tradition of re-gifting (and in case Graceland isn't a familiar song for you), here's a video of Graceland; those key lines are right at the beginning.

And for a final dessert helping of Grace, I invite you to visit ECVA's new Advent exhibition, entitled "Imaging the Sacred Art of Chant." Drink in the grace of these glorious images (you might even want Ana's music playing in the background as you browse through them). I feel certain they will feed your soul.

And -- PS: Thanks for noticing!

God in a bowling alley

2011-11-29T08:35:00.000-08:00

Having finished Barbara Brown Taylor's reassuring and inspiring book, Leaving Church, I am now reading her sequel: An Altar in the World. In it she speaks of the mistake so many of us make -- thinking God lives only inside the walls of a church.

"As important as it is to mark the places where we meet God, I worry about what happens when we build a house for God. I am speaking... of the house of worship on the corner, where people of faith meet to say their prayers, because saying them together reminds them of who they are better than saying them alone.

This is good, and all good things cast shadows. Do we build God a house so we can choose when to go see God? Do we build God a house in lieu of having God stay at ours? Plus, what happens to the rest of the world when we build four walls -- even four gorgeous walls -- cap them with a steepled roof, and designate that the House of God? What happens to the riverbanks, the mountaintops, the deserts, and the trees? What happens to the people who never show up in our houses of God?"

I suspect that when she titled her book "An Altar in the World," Taylor wasn't necessarily thinking of building or finding actual altars in the world -- like this Mary icon, which hovered over us as we stood in line to buy tickets for Zydeco Night at the New Orleans Rock 'n' Bowl (a combination bowling alley, dance hall, restaurant and bar).

But I do believe she was advocating the practice of awareness, of presence; of being conscious that God is with us wherever we go. Watching the smiles on the faces of my brothers-in-law and their wives as they danced, I'd have to agree that's true: God IS everywhere -- even in a noisy bowling alley. If I didn't already suspect it, I could hear it in the music, and see it in their smiles, and in the lightness of their feet as they waltzed, spinning around the room.

Alert to the spark within

2011-11-28T08:09:00.000-08:00

In stumbling through my piles of email yesterday I found a sweet note from a young Canadian woman who mentioned how hard she found it to make time for contemplative moments while caring for three children.

I had actually led a workshop on this subject a couple of years ago, and thought I'd send her a copy of the handouts. But as I began walking through them, I could see ways to update them and clarify some of the points.

One thing led to another, and I ended up spending much of my day turning the whole thing into a little book -- which continued calling to me as I sat in meditation this morning, until I realized that it was written when I still thought God was something outside us that we beckoned in.

Now what I believe is that each of us has a permanent spark of God-ness within us (I feel it in my heart, if I pay attention), and the function of meditation, of being present, even of breathing is to fan that spark into a flame. Somehow, thinking of that during meditation, I came to see Mary as an icon for all humanity, carrying that God-given spark to maturity, nurturing and feeding and birthing it into being...

When I opened my eyes, it was to see the candle burning in the lap of my Buddha, and when I rose this was the sight that greeted me -- that spark of light on the horizon that gifts us every day with light. And then I went to take a final pass at the new ECVA exhibit which will go up shortly, and found in the curator's statement this wonderful quote from Thoreau: "“Only that day dawns to which we are awake.”

May today find you fully awake, alert to the spark within, and aware of your many blessings...

No longer sojourners

2011-11-27T12:41:00.000-08:00

"Through him we have access in one spirit to the Father. So then you are no longer strangers and sojourners, but you are fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God."
-- Ephesians 2:18-19

I suppose it is irreverent of me to put this here, given that while we were in New Orleans there was a Saints game; does that make us -- for however short a time -- fellow citizens with the Saints?

I suspect not: New Orleans is markedly different from Seattle, and though the weather wasn't warm enough for us to have dressed this way, we were still quite obviously tourists, not citizens.

So for a time we have been sojourners in the land of Saints, and now we are back home (having arrived shortly after midnight); is this place, our home, what the household of God feels like?

The house smells a bit musty, but the animals are delighted to see us and the neighbors who cared for them are, I'm sure, looking forward to re-connecting and hearing about our travels. We slept easily and well, happy to be back in our own beds, and -- still (though it's after noon) in our robes and jammies -- are now busy catching up on emails, snail mail, and to-do lists, waiting to hear that our one daughter still in flight has safely landed. Perhaps the household of God is equally filled with the little details of life, and each of them has its own gift to bring to the journey...

But all last night New Orleans continued to weave its magical spell over my dreams. I wonder if that's true for the saints who die and make their way to the promised land, to find their home in the arms of God: do they continue to dream, for a time, of the journey they left behind?

Best part of the trip

2011-11-26T03:19:00.000-08:00

I know. This picture doesn't do it justice; my laptop can't give you the fidelity I can get from my desktop. But I saw this picture in a gallery in New Orleans and just fell in love with it. I don't know why -- I never quite know why things sing to me the way they do sometimes; they just do.

So I asked the young man if I could photograph it (since it's sold) and he said yes. I took a picture, then asked who the artist was, and it was him! His name is Kalle Siekkinen, and he'd been studying for six years under another artist named Bill Hemmerling (for whom the gallery was named); he'd mostly just been making frames; never had the courage to paint.

But then Bill died two years ago, so he started painting and VOILA! Amazing work -- perhaps not yet as consistent as Hemmerling's work (which I also love, though I've never seen it before), but I just adore it. He was a lovely young man, sweet and shy, and his spirit totally suffuses his work.

So if you're ever in New Orleans, pay a visit to Hemmerling Gallery on Royal Street to see Kalle and his beautiful work -- it's DEFINITELY worth a visit! And if you happen to find yourself in San Diego December 2, 3, or 4, stop by the Holiday Art Festival at the Del Mar Fairgrounds to see more of Kalle's work... SO GREAT!

Behold: the Mystery of Faith

2011-11-25T05:02:00.000-08:00

"The parts of the Christian story that had drawn me into the Church were not the believing parts but the beholding parts:

"Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy..."
"Behold the Lamb of God..."
"Behold, I stand at the door and knock..."

Whether the narratives starred hayseed shepherds confronted by hosts of glittering angels or desert pilgrims watching something like a dove descend upon a man in a river as a voice from heaven called him "Beloved," Christian faith seemed to depend on beholding things that were clearly beyond belief, including Jesus's own teaching that acts of mercy toward perfect strangers were acts of mercy toward him. While I understood both why and how the early church had decided to wrap those mysteries in protective layers of orthodox belief, the beliefs never seized my heart the way the mysteries did."

-- Barbara Brown Taylor, Leaving Church

Happy Turkey!

2011-11-24T03:56:00.000-08:00

Wishing you all a delicious and delightful Thanksgiving!

Seeing God's Body

2011-11-23T12:59:00.000-08:00

"Where other people see acreage, timber, soil and river frontage, I see God's body, or at least as much of it as I am able to see. In the only wisdom I have at my disposal, the Creator does not live apart from creation but spans and suffuses it. When I take a breath, God's Holy Spirit enters me. When a cricket speaks to me, I talk back. Like everything else on earth, I am an embodied soul, who leaps to life when I recognize my kin. If this makes me a pagan, then I am a grateful one."
Barbara Brown Taylor, Leaving Church

When the storms come

2011-11-22T07:08:00.000-08:00

As usual, Thanksgiving Week brings blustery weather: fierce winds, driving rains, and high tides for some reason seem to dominate this particular week in the Northwest. So some part of us is glad to leave, but another part longs to stay and watch over the home front as the storm gods roll in...

Though I get that God loves me, I have a lot of trouble trusting that everything will be okay in my absence. After all, what's okay for me may not be what's best for my growth, or my neighbors, or the planet. The problem is: I've never thought I should or could presume to understand God's plans or the workings of God's mind... Which doesn't necessarily give me the sense of security so readily available to the more evangelical Christians of my acquaintance.

But I do understand that there are people -- our dear neighbors in particular -- who will watch over our home and our animals in the event of severe difficulties, just as we will watch over theirs when they leave for Christmas. But there are actually nice people everywhere who have a way of stepping up to the plate in a storm: for example -- the first big high tide hit yesterday, enhanced by a low barometer, and the guys working the construction project down the street, hampered by the water, spent their time filling in some of the new potholes their trucks have created, as well as some of the old ones their trucks have significantly enhanced. We were surprised and pleased, and thanked them profusely.

So what do YOU do when circumstances prohibit you from spending your time as planned? When the power goes out, or the weather or illness keep you housebound? Grumble? Enjoy some unexpected bath, reading, or breathing time? Take a walk? Shop? Offer to help out a friend?

What we choose to do in moments like these says a lot about who we are...

Every prison has a chapel

2011-11-21T07:27:00.000-08:00

"Despair comes from trying to control matters over which you have no power. Hope comes from taking responsibility for yourself.

If you cannot find security by your grasping, then you look around for others to blame for your discomfort. All these actions build walls within you, and the wind of the Spirit cannot move through you.

You add more walls until you have built a solid prison for yourself... But remember: every prison has a chapel. Travel through the corridors of your own dark stillness until you come to a little room. Inside that room is a tiny spark that never goes out. If you blow on the spark with your full attention, you will be able to make a flame.

Then light a torch. Examine the walls. See how fragile they are. Look at the face of the jailer. You are the jailer.... If there is within you a nostalgia for freedom, you will hold your torch high. You will not allow yourself to be dominated by desires to have and to control. You will not let yourself be possessed by things and thoughts. Then you will stand and watch the walls of your prison melt away like clay in the rain."

-- Tolbert McCarroll, Notes from the Song of Life

Finding Christ in Christopher Robin

2011-11-20T09:35:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning intending to go to church, but as I sat with my coffee at the dining room table, reading the final (and extraordinarily uplifting) pages of Cynthia Bourgeault's little gem, Mystical Hope, I found I was having a lot of trouble staying on task.

It's been an unusually clear fall here (normally by now the sky would have been cloudy for weeks), and we had our first hard frost last night. So I kept getting distracted -- first by the fog rising off the water into the cold air, then by the color of the rising sun on the Olympics, and finally by the cacophony of the seagulls at their morning feeding.

This, then, was the view through my dining room window this morning: is it any wonder I found it hard to think about leaving? Especially when I knew both my front steps and the roads would be icy...

And so I decided to meditate instead of going off to church. But as I sat I realized the seagulls were echoing a sort of internal cacophony: I was feeling really fragmented, with a lot of different voices competing for attention, both in my head and in my body. Some of this is because I have a mountainous to-do list today (we leave for the annual Walker Family Thanksgiving on Tuesday) but some of it is also just that I'm learning to listen to all the parts of me that are clamoring for attention.

For some reason it came to me that perhaps the reason I've always been so fond of Winnie-the-Pooh stories is because all those characters are alive and well in my psyche. Perhaps if I could identify the different voices, I could begin to choose -- or at least question -- who might be in charge at any time.

So here they are, not necessarily in order of appearance or preference:

Piglet: whiny, huffy, frequently annoyed, wishing he were more important or valued than he is; his is the voice that snarled so unattractively when I realized my husband hadn't put away the leftovers he brought in from the car after our dinner out with friends last night.

Roo: naive, squeaky, bouncy, always demanding attention -- a bit of a lightweight.

Tigger: enthusiastic, fearless, with a strong tendency to accidentally offend by just bouncing into other people's anxiety zones; seems to thrive on prickly situations.

Pooh: shy, insecure, anxious, not very self-aware, eager to be helpful but socially awkward.

Rabbit: officious know-it-all who really doesn't; always tripped up by his own ego.

Kanga: motherly, protective, with a pretty narrow view of the world, alert to danger; can be vindictive if threatened.

Owl: detached, a bit pretentious and scholarly; not as wise as he thinks he is.

Eeyore: depressed, negative, martyred, always assuming the worst, manipulates with his victimhood.

Christopher Robin: bright, aware, amused, affectionate; loves the others despite their foibles and serves as the uniting link between them all.

Obviously I would prefer to be a more unified being. And, lacking that, I would LIKE Christopher Robin to be in charge. But at the very least, I wish I could feel the way he does about the others when they take over... So what holds me back? Cynthia has some final thoughts about that:

"What holds us back from unified action is fear, the inevitable product of being trapped in that smaller, isolated self; of being in "egoic consciousness." But in the contemplative journey, as we swim down into those deeper waters toward the wellsprings of hope, we begin to experience and trust what it means to lay down self, to let go of ordinary awareness and surrender ourselves to the mercy of God. And as hope, the hidden spring of mercy deep within us, is released in that touch and flows out from the center, filling us with the fullness of God's own purpose living itself into action, then we discover within ourselves the mysterious plenitude to live into action what our ordinary hearts and minds could not possibly sustain.

In plumbing deeply the hidden rootedness of the whole, where all things are held together in the Mercy, we are released from the grip of personal fear and set free to minister with skillful means and true compassion to a world desperately in need of reconnection.

Hope is not imaginary or illusory. It is that sonar by which the body of Christ holds together and finds its way. If we, as living members of the body of Christ, can surrender our hearts, and listen for that sonar with all we are worth, it will again guide us, both individually and corporately, to the future for which we are intended. And the body of Christ will live, and thrive, and hold us tenderly in belonging."

... not unlike Christopher Robin. Perhaps there's a reason his name begins with Christ...

The pulse of truth

2011-11-19T08:15:00.000-08:00

"Hope's home is at the innermost point in us, and in all things. It is a quality of aliveness. It does not come at the end, as the feeling that results from a happy outcome. Rather, it lies at the beginning, as a pulse of truth that sends us forth. When our innermost being is attuned to this pulse it will send us forth in hope, regardless of the physical circumstances of our lives. Hope fills us with the strength to stay present, to abide in the flow of Mercy no matter what outer storms assail us."

-- Cynthia Bourgeault, Mystical Hope

Stones in the river bed

2011-11-18T09:24:00.000-08:00

"When we are in a true way of being -- that is, attuned to the homing beacon of our innermost ground, of the point vierge -- hope is the current that flows through, carrying us toward the future. As we let ourselves yield and go with it, it will open us toward the authentic unfolding of our being.

The opposite is also just as true: any form of resistance, be it nostalgia, clinging, bitterness, self-pity, or self-justification, will make it impossible to find that current of hope, impossible for hope to carry us to our true becoming. We become stones in the riverbed. But as far as we are able to yield, we yield objectively into hope."

-- Cynthia Bourgeault, Mystical Hope

At the crossroads of Now

2011-11-17T16:24:00.000-08:00

"If only we could see and trust that all our ways of getting there, all our courses over time -- our good deeds, our evil deeds, our regrets, our compulsive choosings and the fallout from those choosings, our things left undone and paths never actualized -- are quietly held in an exquisite fullness that simply poises in itself, then pours itself out in a single glance of the heart.

If we could only glimpse that, even for an instant, then perhaps we would be able to sense the immensity of the love that seeks to meet us at the crossroads of the Now, when we yield ourselves entirely into it."

--Cynthia Bourgeault, Mystical Hope

Seasonal tension

2011-11-16T11:11:00.001-08:00

It's that time of year again -- busy days, busy weeks, busy months, lots to do and the clock always ticking. The body doesn't like all that stress, so it begins sending out signals to slow down -- which just seems to add to the tension. We think, "I can't deal with that right now" and so we put things on the back burner, but they have a way of simmering that seems to interfere with our efforts to accomplish, accomplish, accomplish...

At least, I THINK that's where this image comes from; it's certainly how I've been feeling these last few days...

So what do we do when those seasonal pressures put a few cracks in the competence facade?

Take a deep breath.

Go for a walk.

Stop and have a cup of tea.

Look at your list and see if there's something you could just cross off this year.

Take another deep breath.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe...

In the deeper waters of being

2011-11-15T08:17:00.000-08:00

"Our spiritual awareness seems to be given to us in order to hone in on and not lose touch with that spark of pure truth at the core of our being, from which both the true compass track of our life and our existential conviction of belonging emanate. That is what the magnetic pull is all about.

And as we learn gradually to trust it and let it draw us along, we discover that those core fears of the egoic level -- that something terrible can happen to us, that we can fall out of God or suffer irreparable harm -- do not compute in these deeper waters of being. Try as we will, we simply cannot find them there. They can only affect us when we are at the surface of ourselves."

-- Cynthia Bourgeault, Mystical Hope

A hand to hold

2011-11-14T08:13:00.000-08:00

The other day I mentioned something about the big-leaf maples that turned color last week. And though we have none of these trees in our yard (all we have is dune grass), one of the leaves from the tree across the lagoon from us floated up on our beach yesterday, so I thought I'd show those of you who do not hail from the left coast what I mean by big-leaf maple... and, yes, the stem of this one extends to my elbow -- and I am NOT a small woman.

That I would write about this tree and that her leaf would wash up on my beach the next day is not really such a huge coincidence. But somehow, for me, it serves as a gentle reminder of the constancy of Divine Presence. Which brings me to this morning's quotation from Cynthia Bourgeault's book, Mystical Hope: Trusting in the Mercy of God.

"Mercy is always with us; it is the ground and wellspring of our being. But unless we can connect with it, we miss the whole show -- and we do not really understand the "good news" that our gospel is founded upon. It is possible to be swimming in a sea of mercy and still experience ourselves as stranded on shore. This distorted perception is what meditation is intended to fix."

Living by the water as I do, this metaphor seems particularly apt -- and a lovely description of how I've been feeling lately; i.e., stranded on the shore. So for this leaf to wash up has been helpful, and -- oddly enough -- it indirectly led me to Cynthia's post on her blog about the Fall Triduum. Her post is definitely worth a read, and helps me to understand that the shadow space into which I've fallen lately, though it results initally from the recent series of deaths in my circle of acquaintance, is actually a natural response to the shifting seasons. Here's a tiny piece of her post to whet your appetite:

"In the quiet, brown time of the year, these fall Triduum days are an invitation to do the profound inner work: to face our shadows and deep fears (death being for most people the scariest of all), to taste that in ourselves which already lies beyond death, drink at its fountain, then to move back into our lives again, both humbled and steadied in that which lies beyond both light and dark, beyond both life and death. What better tilling of the inner soil for the mystery of the Incarnation, which lies just ahead?"

And so, having read her words, I went again into meditation -- which hasn't been providing much solace lately -- but this time I carried with me the mercy of acceptance; that the shadows which have been coming to the fore of late are normal and natural, and not some failure on my part. And with that sense of mercy -- and this leaf -- comes the trust that despite this stranded feeling I am not alone on the journey. Thank you, Cynthia, for giving me a hand to hold.

The foundation of hope

2011-11-13T07:06:00.000-08:00

"In workshop after workshop I meet people (many of them no longer practicing Christians)

who despite all theological indoctrination about the complete otherness of God

have stood their ground, firm in their innate knowledge that at the foundation of the soul,

at that point vierge, something of our being presses deep into the heart of God

and begins to swim in the infinite ocean of God's mercy.

That ocean is our source and substance,

the ground of our own arising,

the foundation of hope.

Those who experience it may leave the church,

but they do not leave this ground.

Once experienced, it is undeniable."

--Cynthia Bourgeault, Mystical Hope

Welcoming with humor

2011-11-12T09:30:00.000-08:00

I'm back from a 2 day visit to Shaw Island. Something in me needed the down time; I'm thinking it was a chance to process the recent deaths and the inevitable ripples they've caused.

It was great to be with friends, and great to be in such a quiet space. But great, also, to have a sense of humor about the whole peace and quiet schtick. Somehow the contradiction implicit in this image (the first thing a visitor sees as she drives away from the ferry dock) echoes the contradiction I've been struggling with: how do we carry the peace of meditation back into this noisy troubled world? How do I carry the peace I find on Shaw back into my busy life?

It's easy to get tangled up and self-critical in our efforts to live out the spirituality within us; I'm thinking the best way to avoid that tangle is to stay loose and keep a sense of humor about the whole thing. I keep thinking of the Dalai Lama's smile; wishing I could be that gracious; wishing I could carry that sense of joyful acceptance into all the parts of my life.

Cynthia Bourgeault often speaks of what she calls "The Welcoming Practice," and I think that's a piece that's always been a bit difficult for me. Humor, I think, makes the act of welcoming just a little easier.

Thoughts on hope

2011-11-11T20:46:00.000-08:00

It seems odd to be thinking about hope when all the leaves are falling; driving back today from Shaw the roads and lawns were just carpeted with leaves -- mostly yellow, as all the big-leaf maples decided to turn this week.

But I just finished reading what I think may be one of the finest books of fiction I've read in a REALLY long time, Muriel Barbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog, and one of the protagonists thinks we really do ourselves a disservice by hoping. She's only 12, but she thinks we should stop encouraging our children to pursue possibility, and just tell them up front they'll never amount to much.

She bases this thought on the fact that so many of the grownups she knows are too busy trying to prove how important they are to actually get down to the business of living, let alone living well. Perhaps, she thinks, they might be more present if they could just stop trying so hard...

And she got me thinking. I mean, yes, I do what I do -- photography and blogging and meditating -- because I love it. But there's some part of me that always thinks I should do more, or sell it better, or wonders what else I could be doing, or how I could be doing it differently -- always (I suspect, though of course I would prefer not to admit it) in hopes of broader recognition. And there's that hope word again. It feels like things have gotten off-track, somehow.

So I decided to go back to Cynthia Bourgeault's little miracle of a book, Mystical Hope. And thankfully she redefines hope, taking me back to a better place, a place where I can honor those hopeful feelings I have without tying them to success or recognition.

"Jesus hints at this other kind of hope in his dialogue with the Samaritan woman... The day is hot, and Jesus pauses by a well to ask a woman for a drink of water... he suddenly announces, "Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I will give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life...

In contrast to our usual notions of hope [she continues]:

1. Mystical hope is not tied to a good outcome, to the future. It lives a life of its own, seemingly without reference to external circumstances and conditions.

2. It has something to do with presence -- not a future good outcome, but the immediate experience of being met, held in communion, by something intimately at hand.

3. It bears fruit within us at the psychological level in the sensations of strength, joy, and satisfaction, an "unbearable lightness of being." Bu mysteriously, rather than deriving these gifts from outward expectations being met, it seems to produce them from within."

It's not wrong to hope. It's just not especially helpful to let those hopeful thoughts get all tangled up with external possibilities. It's a bit like the difference between the kind of passion that's filled with drama and emotion and angst and the kind of passion that burns pure and inspires creativity and acts of compassion and sacrifice. The line between the two can get pretty thin sometimes. But the right stuff is this kind of joyful surge from within, a sort of waterfall of rightness and light that can wash over you and carry you through, so that even when life is really difficult you can still find it in you to smile, to love, to be generous and gracious...

That's the mystical kind of hope. Maybe they call it mystical because it doesn't necessarily make a lot of sense.

But it's good stuff. I need to get back into that space.

Where is beauty?

2011-11-10T11:30:00.000-08:00

"Where is beauty to be found?

In great things that, like everything else, are doomed to die,

or in small things that aspire to nothing,

yet know how to set a jewel of infinity in a single moment?"

--Muriel Barbery, The Elegance of the Hedgehog

Summoned to become

2011-11-09T06:09:00.000-08:00

"The pain of all maturing

arises from the need to leave behind us

every earlier state of development,

all that we have been,

in favor of what we are summoned to become."

--John Main

Conflicting desires

2011-11-08T07:00:00.000-08:00

One of the many things I've learned, watching my daughters over the years, is that we humans tend to have conflicting desires. This is true in a lot of arenas, but the one I'm thinking of this morning, in response to this picture, is the conflict between wanting to stand out, to be unique and special, and wanting to blend in; to fit in, be part of the crowd.

Some part of us desperately yearns to be seen for who and what we are, and another part of us has learned, not just that there can be comfort and support in community, but that "the nail that sticks up gets pounded down." And so there's always this dance between the two extremes.

... which seems to me to be both a gift and quite reasonable: we need both extremes, in ourselves and in society. This tree helps me understand that: I might not have taken the photo if it hadn't been for that yellow leaf. But I need all the red leaves to set off the yellow one; the photo would be just as boring if all the leaves were yellow as if all the leaves were red.

And what really makes this picture pop is that all those red leaves have yellow tips -- and, of course, those black black branches, the dark threads that knit them together...

The range of light

2011-11-07T08:37:00.000-08:00

There is a quality of light that seems capable of making everything appealing -- even the peeling paint on this little seaside cottage.

What I don't really know for sure is if this is so appealing to me because light doesn't tend to be this strong where I'm living; it's usually filtered -- especially this time of year -- through the clouds.

But then that same filtering is what makes it so easy for me to shoot pictures I like here, whereas when I go back east my camera can't seem to take in the range of highs and lows.

Maybe it's just that my camera is no fonder of drama than I am; perhaps we both prefer a somewhat narrower range of light to dark. Certainly it's true that if we cut ourselves off from our darker feelings we also limit our ability to sense the brighter emotions...

All Saints Day

2011-11-06T09:22:00.000-08:00

All Souls

by May Sarton

Did someone say that there would be an end,
An end, Oh, an end, to love and mourning?
Such voices speak when sleep and waking blend,
The cold bleak voices of the early morning
When all the birds are dumb in dark November-
Remember and forget, forget, remember.

After the false night, warm true voices, wake!
Voice of the dead that touches the cold living,
Through the pale sunlight once more gravely speak.
Tell me again, while the last leaves are falling:
"Dear child, what has been once so interwoven
Cannot be raveled, nor the gift ungiven."

Now the dead move through all of us still glowing,
Mother and child, lover and lover mated,
Are wound and bound together and enflowing.
What has been plaited cannot be unplaited-
Only the strands grow richer with each loss
And memory makes kings and queens of us.

Dark into light, light into darkness, spin.
When all the birds have flown to some real haven,
We who find shelter in the warmth within,
Listen, and feel new-cherished, new-forgiven,
As the lost human voices speak through us and blend
Our complex love, our mourning without end.

Be the light

2011-11-05T13:53:00.000-07:00

There are two ways of spreading light:

to be the candle

or the mirror that receives it.

--Edith Wharton

Knitting before the face of God

2011-11-04T09:53:00.000-07:00

Once you learn to be fully present, says Anthony Bloom in Beginning to Pray, "there is no situation which can prevent you from praying. What can prevent you from praying is that you allow yourself to be in the storm, or you allow the storm to come inside you instead of raging around you."

Remembering the story of Jesus sleeping in the boat with the disciples while the storm rages, Bloom goes on to say that we are like the disciples: in the face of the storm we wake God up and shake our fists, saying "Why don't you DO SOMETHING?"

But if we have taken the time to learn to be still, to be present, then we can bring that stillness into the storm. "If you are silent, you can rest in the eye of the cyclone or the hurricane, in the calm there, leaving the storm around you to rage while you stand at the only point of total stability. But this point of total stability is not a point where nothing happens. It is the point where all conflicting tensions meet and are counter-balanced by one another."

And if, he adds, you find it troubling to be still, "Go to your room after breakfast, put it right...light the lamp before your icon, and first of all take stock of your room. Just sit, look round, and try to see where you live... and then take your knitting and for fifteen minutes knit before the face of God. I forbid you to say one word of prayer. Just knit, and try to enjoy the peace of your room."

Now THERE's a practice I could do -- although I might be crocheting instead...

A breath of joy

2011-11-03T08:15:00.000-07:00

"Can you imagine that only one minute goes by every minute? That is exactly what happens. It is strange, but it is true, though from the way we behave one might think that five minutes could rush past in thirty seconds.

No, every minute counts as much as the next, every hour as much as the next... You may say, 'Shall I have time to do it all?' I will answer you in a very Russian way: 'If you do not die first, you will have time to do it. If you die before it is done, you don't need to do it.' "

-- Anthony Bloom, Beginning to Pray

I don't know about you, but even though life has slowed down a bit it still feels like I am always rushing from one thing to the next. Except in the mornings. Then -- because I know I am slow to wake up -- I take my time and don't load up with to-do lists. Which means that when I'm walking through the standard morning tasks -- like taking the dog out to pee -- I have time to notice.

This morning, in the dark sky above our deck, I saw Orion. Not such a big deal to you, I'm sure, but to see Orion in November, however briefly, is amazing in my part of the world. Because this time of the year, the sky is ALWAYS cloudy.

But there it was -- though unphotographable with the little camera I use these days -- the stars of that distinctive belt stark against the night sky, the whole constellation delicately framed in a circle of cloud wisps, their edges lit lightly by the half moon, though the rest of the sky was cloudy. The blessing was -- I saw it. Breathed in the clarity and the light, paused on the steps and just thanked the sky for showing me her beauty.

... and then my husband called to say he'd run out of gas on the way to the ferry; could I bring the gas can? And so the rush begins again -- but there was, at the beginning, that lovely deep breath of wonder...

I know, this image has little to say about any of this -- except, well -- I like looking at it. The colors feel to me the same way Orion felt: like a breath of joy.

If it's all a gift...

2011-11-02T08:31:00.000-07:00

I went out again with my camera yesterday -- fall is particularly beautiful this year -- and caught this lovely little surprise by the side of the road.

We just assume at times like this that something as simple as a yellow leaf falling on a red bush is merely a happy accident. But Anthony Bloom, in his Beginning to Pray, suggests otherwise:

"If you accept that this day was blessed of God, chosen by God with His own hand, then every person you meet is a gift of God, every circumstance you will meet is a gift of God, whether it is bitter or sweet, whether you like or dislike it. It is God's own gift to you and if you take it that way, then you can face any situation..."

I'm surely a person of faith, and yet something in me rebels against this idea. It might, of course, just be the language... or it might be that I can't handle the challenge of it; haven't yet achieved that level of commitment. And it is rather painfully reminiscent of the predestination stuff that I absorbed in my childhood.

But it's good to think of things in this way. If I accept that everything that happens to me today -- good or bad -- is a gift from God, how will I behave differently?

Saying goodbye

2011-11-01T16:09:00.000-07:00

"It's another day in the neighborhood," I hear Mr. Rogers singing, another ordinary day in the neighborhood. The sun rose, the clouds puffed up and reflected in the lagoon, and yet... It's just not an ordinary day at all for some people -- especially not for a couple I know who pulled the plug -- at 11:11 on 11-1-11, as per their daughter's wishes -- this morning.

Lauren, or Lala as she is known by friends and family, had just turned 21, and succumbed to her third bout of cancer this week. It was, by all accounts, a beautifully handled death, but still -- it's got to be hard to bear; hard for her friends and family to deal with the fact that the sun still rises and life goes on for the rest of the world.

I keep hearing that old song -- I think it came out while I was in grade school --

Why do the birds go on singing?
Why do the stars glow above?
Don't they know it's the end of the world.
It ended when I lost your love.

I wake up in the morning and I wonder,
Why everything's the same as it was.
I can't understand. No, I can't understand,
How life goes on the way it does.

Why does my heart go on beating?
Why do these eyes of mine cry?
Don't they know it's the end of the world.
It ended when you said goodbye.

Why does my heart go on beating?
Why do these eyes of mine cry?
Don't they know it's the end of the world.
It ended when you said goodbye.

I'm so sorry. I know all things come to an end at some point. But some things just end too soon.

Talk about scary

2011-10-31T10:22:00.000-07:00

It's Halloween, and the stores and streets are littered with skulls, ghosts, pumpkins, black cats, witches, and endless variations of black and orange. It's all about what scares us, and of course a lot of what scares us is death.

But lately I've been listening to CDs of a Pema Chodron talk called "Getting Unstuck," and I have to say -- coming up against your own "stuff" can be every bit as scary as one of those Halloween symbols. And -- wouldn't you know it -- as soon as I hear about it, there it is, staring me in the face!

So she talks about "shenpa," a word that means stuck, attached, caught, trapped; those thought patterns that keep you going round and round... And this morning I found myself thinking "I'm stuck on a shenpa merry-go-round: I keep going up and down and round and round and I can't seem to get off the track, out of the rut."

It's a simple thing, really: I tried out for a play last week. I made callbacks, they gave me three scenes to study, different roles to prepare for, and I showed up excited about the parts. Only I didn't get to read for any of them (though other people did). I only got to cold-read something I hadn't prepared for; something someone else had clearly already prepared for and done better.

And it threw me onto that merry-go-round, I'm embarrassed to say: I kept going round and round. Why didn't I get to read? Had I offended someone? Did the perfect people for those roles show up after my audition? Or are they so familiar with my work they don't need to see me act?

I could say they screwed up, but really -- they only have 3 hours for callbacks and a lot of roles to fill. If there are things they already know, they just confuse the issue and waste time running scenes they've already secured.

It's not them, it's me. So I get to watch myself on the merry-go-round, watch where I go, watch myself get totally stuck, completely debilitated by my desperate urge to please, my fear of conflict, my projections of authority, my insecurities -- you name it, all the haunts and shadows that plague me are dancing on that revolving platform, personal skeletons clattering out there in plain sight while I hold onto that little wooden pony, thrust helplessly up and down and around...

I'm better now: Pema Chodron at least helps me understand what's going on -- which allows some wiser part of me to step off onto solid ground and watch the rest of my brain spin out of control. With time and a little distance it even becomes amusing -- and of course, it helps that I got the part I cold-read for. But it's always amusing, when we think we're finally getting it together, to see how easily we can be derailed; how easily the demons can be unleashed.

But, oh, boy. Talk about scary! The mind is an amazing thing...

All in how you look at it...

2011-10-30T00:54:00.000-07:00

While we were in New England last month we stopped off in Middlebury, VT, to visit a gallery that sometimes carries my work. The waters around the state were still pretty high from Hurricane Irene, so this waterfall in the center of town was definitely roiling. Not dangerous at all, but the way the picture looks kind of suggests it might be...

We also passed through Hanover, NH, and stopped off to pay a brief visit to my ex-husband, who teaches music at Dartmouth. He mentioned he'd played in a benefit for Hurricane Irene victims with Aerosmith guitar great Joe Perry, so when his sister posted clips of the concert on Facebook I decided to check it out -- after all, I haven't seen the man play in probably 30 years.

That's one of the odd things about a divorce, isn't it -- that some parts of your life just disappear? I used to be a total jazz groupie, and spent most of my spare time listening to him play music in all the various venues -- with local bands, with the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra, with Ray Charles and Stan Kenton... But these days I rarely listen to live music; the jazz concert we went to Friday night (a performance by the daughter of a dear friend whose husband often played bass with my ex) was the first live jazz I've heard in years...

Anyway (get to the point, girl!) I listened to these clips, which included Joe Perry singing Bob Dylan's Man of Peace, and realized I was pretty hard on myself (and, indirectly, my Baptist grandmother) for that poem I wrote yesterday (I'm leaving it in the sidebar on the left in case you don't remember it). Because when I went back and read it after listening to the Dylan song, it could just have easily been a blues tune as a hymn. Maybe it's time to stop flagellating myself for the way rhythm tends to take over my poetry, and think of the poems as songs, instead... After all, with a musician mom and a musician ex-husband, it shouldn't be surprising that the music still hums in me.

Speaking of Facebook, I posted a picture this morning of my daughters, and the younger one untagged herself because she hated how her face looked. Which is weird, because I LOVE that photo, and love her energy in it. I guess -- like the suggestion of floodwaters in the above photo, and the is-it-a-hymn-or-the-blues of that poem -- it's all in how you look at it.

Here, by the way, is the Dylan/Joe Perry clip; that's my ex on the sax:

Old-time truths

2011-10-29T11:01:00.000-07:00

While we were out to dinner with friends last night, the conversation naturally fell to the current state of the world, our country, our city, our street -- all of them troubled by political battles between rich and poor.

What can we do? How can we help? And how can we keep from becoming discouraged as we watch events apparently careening out of control?

There are two passages in my current reading -- Beginning to Pray, by Orthodox bishop Anthony Bloom -- that speak to this challenge:

"In a world of competition, in a world of predatory animals, in a world of cruelty and heartlessness, the only hope one can have is an act of mercy, an act of compassion, a completely unexpected act which is rooted neither in duty nor in natural relationships, which will suspend the action of the cruel, violent, heartless world in which we live."

"I never ask myself what the result of any action will be -- that is God's concern. The only question I keep asking myself in life is: what should I do at this particular moment? What should I say? All you can do is to be at every single moment as true as you can with all the power in your being -- and then leave it to God to use you, even despite yourself."

It seems to me that, as people of faith, we are invited to be -- in whatever way seems to come to us in the moment -- lights in the darkness, to be the yellow tulips that brighten these dark stairs, to stand as beacons of faith in whatever way feels appropriate in the moment, even when the picture we're seeing at the time seems plagued, even overwhelmed, with darkness.

... which makes me think of this hymn they used to sing in my grandmother's Baptist church. I thought it was terribly hokey at the time; it had a way of raising my feminist hackles -- sort of "don't you worry about the troubles of the world little girly, you just keep the front steps clean, the kids quiet, and food on the table" -- but it does (perhaps because I'm older now and not out saving the world) seem to speak some important -- or perhaps just reassuring -- truth:

Do not wait until some deed of greatness you may do,
Do not wait to shed your light afar,
To the many duties ever near you now be true,
Brighten the corner where you are.

Refrain: Brighten the corner where you are!
Brighten the corner where you are!
Someone far from harbor you may guide across the bar;
Brighten the corner where you are!

Just above are clouded skies that you may help to clear,
Let not narrow self your way debar;
Though into one heart alone may fall your song of cheer,
Brighten the corner where you are.

Refrain

Here for all your talent you may surely find a need,
Here reflect the bright and Morning Star;
Even from your humble hand the Bread of Life may feed,
Brighten the corner where you are.

Refrain

God at the Breaking Point

2011-10-28T09:32:00.000-07:00

"God helps us when there is no one else to help. God is there at the point of greatest tension, at the breaking point, at the center of the storm. In a way despair is at the center of things -- if only we are prepared to go through it.

We must be prepared for a period when God is not there for us: The day when God is absent, when He is silent -- that is the beginning of prayer. Not when we have a lot to say, but when we say to God, 'I can't live without You, why are You so cruel, so silent?' This knowledge that we must find or die -- that makes us break through to the place where we are in the Presence. If we listen to what our hearts know of love and longing and are never afraid of despair, we find that victory is always there the other side of it."

-- Metropolitan Anthony Bloom, Beginning to Pray

Where is love; where love is

2011-10-27T08:51:00.000-07:00

"So often when we say 'I love you' we say it with a huge 'I' and a small 'you.' We use love as a conjunction instead of it being a verb implying action. It's no good just gazing out into open space hoping to see the Lord; instead we have to look closely at our neighbor, someone whom God has willed into existence, someone whom God has died for.

Everyone we meet has a right to exist, because he has value in himself, and we are not used to this. The acceptance of otherness is a danger to us, it threatens us. To recognize the other's right to be himself might mean recognizing his right to kill me. But if we set a limit to his right to exist, it's no right at all... If we turn to God and come face to face with Him, we must be prepared to pay the cost. If we are not prepared to pay the cost, we must walk through life being a beggar, hoping someone else will pay. But if we turn to God we discover that life is deep, vast, and immensely worth living."

--Metropolitan Anthony Bloom, in Beginning to Pray

Rumi: Out in Empty Sky

2011-10-26T08:45:00.000-07:00

"Any beauty the world has,
any desire,
will easily be yours.

As you live deeper in the heart,
the mirror gets clearer
and cleaner...

Interpretations come,
hundreds,
from all the religious symbols
and parables
and prayers.

You know
what they mean
when the presence lives through you."

Glimpses of God

2011-10-25T08:37:00.000-07:00

When I was a child, living in a small suburb outside Cincinnati, my parents used to take me with them to choir practice every Wednesday night. (I was an only child, so they found it easy to drag me along on their social life; cheaper than hiring a sitter).

What made it worth my while to go along was that we'd always stop at the library on the way, and I would exchange the five books I'd taken out the week before for five new books, thus giving myself something to read while they rehearsed.

And what REALLY added a little zing to the trip was the chance that I might encounter one of the two brothers I had a crush on at the library -- because whenever that happened, my heart would give this delightful little leap of surprise. Which felt good. In fact, I grew addicted to that little leap, and in my late 20's for a while I could get the same little leap reading Barbara Cartland novels (ah, youth...).

These days the leap tends to come primarily either in the course of meditation (in which case it's more a surge than a leap) or through my eyes, when something surprises me with beauty -- as did this little scene I spotted while turning around in a side road on the island in order to return to a scene I wanted to photograph. The leap always seems to be about color: I get it sometimes while browsing in art galleries and museums, as well; something will just sing to me.

Even though the source/inspiration of the leap is different now, it still seems to me to be -- perhaps because it's centered in the heart, even if it's a response to something seen by my eyes -- about love; about the gift of attention, of noticing, that allows us to sense, however briefly, the larger, divine, love that surrounds us all.

I know. It sounds a bit far-fetched; it's just my interpretation. But when I catch sight of something like this brief explosion of light and color, I feel a wonderful sense of blessing washing over me... And now, as I look at this image one last time, I see Moses' burning bush. Perhaps this is, indeed, a glimpse of God.

A better perspective

2011-10-24T08:34:00.000-07:00

Wandering through my images this morning, I came across this one, which reminded me of that Henri Nouwen quote I posted two days ago, the one about small slights and kindnesses looming larger than world catastrophes.

So what is it people say to us when we get unduly caught by the trials and tribulations of ordinary human interactions (caught in the sense of attachment; what Pema Chodron calls "shenpa")? "Get over it!" "Rise above it!" "Look at it this way:" or, as they were fond of saying in my classes at Antioch, "Get on the balcony."

All of which comes to me because there are three photos in this series, taken from the dock at Waterfront Park on Bainbridge Island; each taken from a different perspective. For this one I squatted low and shot across the bow of the dinghy. For a second shot I stood but held the camera low, and for the third I held the camera high.

The higher the camera, the more the two boats come into balance; the more accurate the perspective. And clearly, dropped to its lowest point, the shadow cast by the dinghy looms even larger than the dinghy itself. So it's not just a matter of distancing ourselves from our challenges -- it really is a matter of rising above them -- not in a snooty, sort of "I'm more important than this" way, but rather learning to see as God sees, from a higher plane.

And I think the only way we can do that is to devote a certain amount of time to getting to know God better -- however you define God, and however you practice: meditation, awareness practice, prayer, mindfulness... all those things can help give us a better perspective.

Be still and know

2011-10-23T08:42:00.000-07:00

I've been listening a lot lately to the chants of Ana Hernandez, curator of ECVA's upcoming exhibit, Imaging the Sacred Art of Chant.

The song that seems to keep resonating in my heart is one that riffs on the theme, "Be the Peace that you wish to see in the world." So when I opened my eyes this morning after meditation, and this was the sight that greeted me, I had to go for my camera -- which made me think of a discussion I had yesterday with a couple of artist friends.

We were talking about the importance of home to each of us. Where do we work? Where do we feel most at home? How often do we leave home, and how is that related to our art?

Mulling our words over later, I realize I've been sticking close to home for a long time now. Of course, the ten speed bumps I have to cross every time I leave or return are a factor in that decision! But I think I've been unduly hard on myself for not wanting to go out more. There is a peace here that feeds my soul, and it's part both of what keeps me here and what allows me to do what I do and be who I am.

... but I think it's also that peace that helps me to be more aware of the compulsion that lies behind it to be and do MORE than I am being and doing. There's always this drive; always this question, "What should I be doing now," or "what have I done today," or "How can I make this better?"

Not this is new, for me, or for anyone else who is drawn to the contemplative practice; it's the age-old tension between Action and Contemplation, and the reason Richard Rohr's organization is called the Center for Action and Contemplation.

But as you're taking a moment today to process your week and prepare for the week ahead, I invite you to think about how that tension manifests itself in your life. And, while you're doing that, take another moment, and breathe out all those shoulds that are driving you. See if you can get back into that space where there is no "more," where you can accept that who you are, and what you're doing now, is enough.

As one of Cynthia Bourgeault's chants tells us:

Be Still and Know that I Am.

Be Still and Know.

Be Still.

Be.

In pursuit of color

2011-10-22T08:30:00.000-07:00

I had some free time yesterday, and there were errands to run, so I set out in my car. But after getting a mile or two from the house, three things were clear: the autumn colors were at their peak, the sky was lightly cloudy (a perfect foil for the brightly colored leaves), and the weather was about to shift; within a day or two the wind and rain will have reduced most of our deciduous trees to bare branches. So I drove back to the house to get my camera, and set out again.

The most gorgeous trees were often in rather ugly locations; mostly shopping malls. Do developers plant them in rows around the malls to disguise the ugliness of commerce? I found this one, for example, behind a video store that had gone out of business. But it was fun to drive with this as a side objective, noticing where the colors shone the brightest.

In the end, my errands were completely unsuccessful (though I did find a particular brand of tea I was looking for, and I got some chocolate-covered marzipan (a favorite treat)). But my eyes came home greatly refreshed, and my camera came home full of color and joy. Despite the rain and wind, it was a lovely afternoon.

Small disturbances

2011-10-21T10:57:00.000-07:00

"Small signs of friendliness can create much joy and small disturbances between people much sadness, while the "great events" of the day often do not touch us so deeply. An unexpected note from a friend or the passing remark from a neighbor can make or break my day emotionally, while inflation and recession, war and oppression do not touch my emotions directly. A distant catastrophe has less effect than a nearby mishap, and an interpersonal tiff raises more hackles than a world-wide calamity."

--Henri Nouwen, The Genesee Diary

I think we're all aware of this phenomenon: it seems particularly prevalent during the teenage years, although I remember coming back from my freshman year in college all distraught about the Viet Nam War, and being furious with my mother because she was only interested in something that happened at choir practice that week...

I don't know about you, but I do feel a little guilty about not being more easily disturbed about the plight of the world. On the other hand, I am all TOO easily disturbed by that, and over the years I've decided to save my energy for the places I can make a difference. It's not that I don't give thought to war, famine, or injustice, but it's more that I try to draw parallels through tonglen.

If I am distraught, I hold space in my heart for others who are distraught; if the sky looks like some air battle is taking place above the clouds, I try to hold space in my heart for those for whom this is actually occurring. If I am hungry, I try to hold space in my heart for the world's hungry... and do what I can to make a difference here on the island. It's a matter of staying conscious, I think -- and a way of ensuring we don't get too caught up in our own challenges and ignore those of others.

That said, it's been a rough couple of days, and I found myself snapping at my husband last night when he came to me with another major project he needs me to take on. We are not usually snappers, he and I, and I notice both of us have been a little frayed lately. I'm looking forward to the weekend, and the chance to sleep in, unwind, and restore the gentleness in the house.

Under a lowering sky

2011-10-20T23:26:00.000-07:00

We received the sad news yesterday that a friend of ours who has been struggling with a recent divorce and his daughters' decisions to move away, put an end to his life this week.

There's so much I could say, but I actually think my husband said it best: "Sad, sad, sad." It is a terribly sad thing, and I worry greatly about his decision's impact on their daughters. And of course, as is always true in cases like this, those of us who cared for him can't help wondering if there might have been something more we could have done to avert this tragedy.

I'm certain -- wherever he is -- that he's making beautiful music. I'm hoping that he finds the peace that eluded him in this life. And I'm praying really hard for those two lovely girls...

A lesson in love

2011-10-19T10:14:00.000-07:00

This handsome boy is Alex. His fur is ridiculously thick and soft, and he is (we are fond of saying) a dog in a cat suit. He goes for walks with us when we walk the dog, he comes when he is called, he loves to play with the tennis ball, and he adores me; in fact, he adores most everybody.

Alex will wrap his arms around the neck of a complete stranger and lick their cheeks and hands until they cry for mercy: he's just one amazing bundle of unconditional love. I've had cats all my life, too many to count, but I was never really a cat person until I met Alex -- the best, most intelligent and affectionate cat it's ever been my privilege to know.

... But in a late night run to the emergency vet last night -- our only choice after multiple attacks of wheezing -- he was diagnosed with heart disease.

Bad prognosis. Many tears.

Fortunately, 2 x-rays, a night of oxygen, and $800 later we are thrilled to learn it was just an asthma attack, probably brought on by a change in cat litter. (They stopped carrying our old stuff, so we had switched.) But what a lesson, to go through that. Now I get another chance to give some of that love back. I plan to make time to do more of that.

Expanding our sense of community

2011-10-18T08:26:00.000-07:00

We humans are so interesting. We crave companionship, and yet we crave alone time, too. My friends who live alone do their best to arrange social time on the weekends, while friends who are in relationship confide they are desperate for time apart; time to get centered and pull themselves together.

Henri Nouwen talks about these conflicting pulls as well -- he goes to a monastery to get some alone time with God, but then gets distressed when the monks don't converse with him, or he doesn't get mail from his friends.

... and of course some of us need more -- or less -- social time than others. For myself -- perhaps because my husband is around most of the time -- alone time looks particularly appealing. But I know from experience that when I do get it I like seeing that light in someone else's window across the water in the morning; like knowing there are folks nearby I can visit if I'm in the mood -- or call upon in case of emergency.

But ours is also a pretty close neighborhood: because our environment is so unique, and occasionally challenging, we keep track of one another, know each other's names and phone numbers, and watch out for each other's homes. It's a community: we know that what happens to one of us happens -- at some level -- to all of us, and that's important to me.

My job is to get better at feeling that way about the larger world out there.