Interminable

 

I already posted this month, and my reflection on this giant waiting room we’re in together still stands, but because it is the last day of the year, of THIS year, this interminable year, I want to leave you with one more reflection.

 That the hardest of lessons we each experienced this year have real meaning for us now and forever. 

 It began for me on that bicycle I got back in April or May. It took awhile, but dawned on me that this bike, which is a one speed, simple, straightforward bike, was much like what I had as a youth. Moreover, that I was riding it as I did as a youth: I took the girls to the one flat cul de sac in the neighborhood and rode round and round and round it, over and over, to the point they got sick of it, the sheer repetition. 

 I, somehow, did not. 

 And this is where my realization began: that something from my youth had prepared me for the mundane, exceedingly boring, soul-killing repetition, the groundhog day effect of 2020. That I was made for this, I joked with friends online. My parents never let us beyond our block (at least, not until my father got himself a bike to ride with us), and we (my cousins, siblings and I) contented ourselves with the limitations of that space, managing fun and fulfillment from it. I did hate it, mind you—I hated all the restrictions. Unlike most of you reading this, I could not go out with my friends, and when I finally did, could not stay out any reasonable amount of time. I did not have the freedom to go places and do things like various of my friends did, and even as a teen not without serious supervision. It was a practice and discipline that made me who I am, for better or worse—I still sometimes have to give myself permission to do things. Something about this extended restriction most assuredly has given me the space right now to be content as is but at the same time realize what freedoms I have even within and definitely beyond this space I’m in. I can see this—and that’s the lesson, the main take away for me, at the end of this insane year. 

 As the new year begins my wish for you is to see your limitations as they are, and perhaps just beyond them, into the new space being created for you even as you might curse the problems of now. Let’s look forward together in hope for that vision.

Incarnation

 

The Incarnation. 

A state of mind, a constant celebration. I think of those who want the trees and lights immediately as not being too far off the mark after all, as the presence of God *is* in fact here, and the Advent meditation on Incarnation is more about our wonder that God should choose to come among us, that he would meet us where we are in this complete and total way. 

Fully present and here among us, if we would just be instruments for God’s peace and love. 

The real focus comes in the whisper of *trust me* from our Creator. Every bit of the language of Isaiah, and the gospel of Mark and Matthew, shows us the light present in the darkness, shows us the impossibility of ne’re-do-wells and sinners as much as saints paving the way for this birth. The need to prepare a way. To make straight God’s path. We’re called into it, into the Incarnation, to become a part of the mystery. To dreams the dreams of Joseph and see as Mary sees, and to say yes to the invitation to be present. 

 In this pandemic it feels as though we’ve all joined some giant waiting room together. Some in the waiting room are more willing than others to see things as they are—as God sees. Some can see or be the angels necessary to straighten the path. I’m practicing daily being here now with you, and to allow my yes to help change the world, each moment of each day.

St. Joan of Arc

 Friends, it has been several months. It's been several...difficult months. We've been on this journey together. I wanted to just share with you something that happened yesterday that caught me and--as many things have in the past two months--forced me into staying in the moment. I thought you might find it something worth meditating yourself.

I've been starting the process of my practice of spiritual direction, and it's been a joy. I could not have started this at a more chaotic time, really, and that's nearly undermined my efforts, but I am determined that nothing should keep me from the mandates God has given me: to serve others and lift up those who need lifting. I am learning and lifting myself, y'all.

Yesterday, before finding out about Biden and Harris--literally a minute before--I had closed my direction session with a Catholic Center friend with a prayer to St. Joan of Arc. Many of you may know this most famous of female saints--born to a peasant family, determined herself to fight for right, and unafraid to put herself on the line. My friend had mentioned her as part of a litany of saints which had always fascinated her and inspired, and I realized I know so many who would be inspired by this 15th century woman.

This was the prayer I read, which came from the 40 days of prayer website, a Catholic Cancer support group:

In the face of your enemies,
in the face of harassment,
ridicule, and doubt,
you held firm in your faith.

Even in your abandonment,
alone and without friends,
you held firm in your faith.

Even as you faced your own mortality,
you held firm in your faith.

I pray that I may be as bold in my beliefs as you, St. Joan.

I ask that you ride alongside me in my own battles.

Help me be mindful
that what is worthwhile can be won when I persist.

Help me hold firm in my faith.

Help me believe in my ability to act well and wisely.

Amen.

Seeing Myself for the First Time

 During quarantine I have watched out my window at winter turn into the bright green of spring, and then that velvet green turn into something lush and leafy, with all the heat that counters the breeziness of the previous season. In recent days I have watched leaves start to one by one twirl down from the tops of trees, heading toward fall. In a way it feels like a slow or fast motion movie, depending on the day and how you feel.

 

But this week for me it feels special, because I have also reached a 5-year mark of learning and growth present in my rainbow baby, my youngest and long-sought child. She was born just as my greatest mentor died, and now we are five years on, and so much water under that proverbial bridge. So much. Yet these five months have felt like a learning of five years in some ways. Putting both time frames side by side I see parallels and suddenly my mind opens up like a lotus or some slow but sure opening flower, bent toward the sun. I see a long process of learning from suffering that has come to fruition in patience, fortitude, and perhaps most important for me now, forebearance.

A waiting, a holding back but paying close attention to the way someone talks about himself, or the concerns she might have, or the prejudices another might hold...but being able to know in my core what's wrong, what's right, and being able to stand in the middle to see. Not to agree, but to see, to really see.

Now what I see is God's eye, and see as well this has been a lifelong trend in my life: encounter of this place of pain in the souls I have met. Right now this has opened up in ways that, for awhile, caused me deep and abiding pain. Now I acknowledge this pain, and see what it teaches me. I acknowledge the wrongs around me in foul ideas coming out of this pain or ignorance, and I acknowledge that if I look, I see God present, filling in those dark gaps with the good humankind can wreathe around what matters. I am understanding the space I take up better now because of this, and this means I can walk ahead into the path I've been given, regardless of where it goes. Regardless of the fact we will never be the same again.

 

Darkness and Light

My favorite times of day are dawn and dusk, and now I really know why, in my core. In either case, darkness and light take time to come and go: the slow coming of darkness at dusk allows us color and shadow, a respite from the brightness of day, from its heat. The eking, little by little, of dawn’s rosy, sometimes pale yellow light, unfolding like a lotus, revealing the firmament. The passage of time, sure and slow and easy, familiar to us still in spite of all humankind has wrought, brings us these passages. Our Creator has made it so.

In some ways this natural phenomenon tells us of our deepest fears and longings, of our evil and good, which are of a piece, whether we like to think of it that way or not. Coming out of this milestone 5 day silent retreat I have reacquainted myself with this truth. In this pandemic this has become a reality—again, whether or not we see it for each ourselves. I see it, clear as day, now.

I see it in those I know who fight the good fight, who enter into the ring of daily battle and bring goodness into the world, who care about more than themselves. In those whose governance in the true sense has in mind the well-being of many and not the selfish, singular path of the few. In those who place their voice on the line for those who are voiceless and vulnerable, without resource and without foothold. In those who suffer quietly each day but raise their hope nonetheless for reasons we may not understand; I stand with those people.

Darkness comes to us all, and it is simply a reflection on the nature of light; in both we still have the God who holds us. Whether you believe or not there is a God who loves you to your core. Touch the ground of your holiness, and consider how St Francis presented, in his famed Canticle, his study of light and dark.

All praise be yours, my Lord, through all that you have made,
And first my lord Brother Sun,
Who brings the day; and light you give to us through him.
How beautiful is he, how radiant in all his splendor!
Of you, Most High, he bears the likeness.

All praise be yours, my Lord, through Sister Moon and Stars;
In the heavens you have made them, bright
And precious and fair.

I pray for you that you become the lotus, unfolding when the time is right. That darkness and light both form you and bring you not only to peace, but into action in this world for the greater good.

Release

I am deeply dismayed at the number of people I know trying to justify murder. Aghast, even. Countless comments with some justification to make sense of the immediate death and trampling of human life. It’s enough to make me want to crawl back into bed daily, or at least to question my friendships, scrutinize and wonder what has happened, or why some would choose to tighten their grip on what is clearly wrong.

Yet Dr. King tells us now in a voice from the past to move forward: ““If you can't fly then run, if you can't run then walk, if you can't walk then crawl, but by all means, keep moving.” Dr. King spoke this to inspire youth in 1967, and it speaks to us today, of course. Regardless of who or what stands in the way of the justice that comes from the Creator alone, something he acknowledged in his speeches and efforts to inspire. We are God’s hands and feet.

Here’s the thing for me: right now so few are willing to look inside themselves that some outside justification becomes necessary to quell the doubt within that perhaps, just maybe, you are wrong. That there could be another way. There could be a way that no one has thought of yet, or wants to consider.

Letting your time take up your time is where this begins. In true awareness or being you are present in the ordinary and the extraordinary, and these days, we’re in a heady mix of the two: some quarantining, some rushing out into the still disease-infected fray, some fighting the good fight against injustice. All of it of a piece, melding together in the form of a mighty revelation. This revelation only takes root if we take our time to let it.

Today a mentor brought to my attention the words of Dogen, a 13^th century Buddhist Zen Master: “To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be actualized by myriad things. When actualized by myriad things, your body and mind as well as the bodies and minds of others drop away. No trace of enlightenment remains, and this no-trace continues endlessly.” This idea tracks for me, as someone always interested in the myriad ways humans have conceived of the self and of the Creator. We all bring this to our ways of believing, no matter what it is we believe, so long as this faith brings us face to face with God.

This begins a more global kind of change, when we meet ourselves, and shift toward perhaps our truer self. Only in this can we move forward. And until everyone is willing to look at themselves, we cannot become intentional about what matters most.

God's Eye

God pours light into all things—everything is holy. Everything teaches us more about the God who created us. Why would be put ourselves and our selfish desires—willfulness that does not fulfill God’s call to us as co-creators—ahead of that which brings us closer to the Creator? The diverse ways God is present to us calls us to do more. As Richard Rohr, in “Christ Since the Beginning,” points out through Ilia Delio’s words, “We are created to read the book of creation so that we may know the Author of Life.”


Delio echoes Aquinas as well, something Rohr also points out and connects: “God brought things into being in order that God’s goodness might be communicated to creatures, and be represented by them; and because that goodness could not be adequately represented by one creature alone, God produced many and diverse creatures, that what was wanting to one in the representation of the divine goodness might be supplied by another. For goodness, which in God is simple and uniform, in creatures is manifold and divided.” 



I have spent many Saturdays now walking out somewhere under the sky: on a trail, in a garden, in neighborhoods, on campus greens. When I present pictures of these in social media I do it with the intent to reach my family, strewn across the world, and friends everywhere, too. To show you a beauty that might lift you as it lifted me. Not to “show off,” or create the much-touted “my-life-is-better-that-yours” attitude social media can and does often portray. Oh no—I am most certainly opening myself up to you and aiming or vision through a God’s eye level, a reminder of the ways in natural beauty— even ordinary beauty, unexpected beauty, in the fresh and green and in the old and worn—we find God.


I pray for you today that you find this moment, and many to come, day by day: anchors to steady you. A way home. An assurance that the rocky journey will lead you secure to where you belong.

Stay here and keep watch with me

I pray for my brothers and sisters out there in prayer--those who celebrate Passover, those starting the Holy Triduum today, and a host of others who cannot celebrate their holy days because of this virus, a human frailty, one which we cannot escape. I share with you my feeling this morning of Holy Thursday that Jesus' words to his friends "Stay here and keep watch with me" mean something quite different now, and will never quite be the same from this point forward.

I share this in light of the fact that in 2014, I miscarried during Good Friday, and that experience has never left me the same: the pain I felt as I kept watch was a sharing in suffering, but it was also my suffering. I felt the story I'd only until then celebrated cerebrally or spiritually--I'd felt it in my body. When all three elements of my existence came together, I saw in a whole new way what it means to suffer with, to feel compassion. In this situation we find ourselves in, the same might be true: we feel a compassion--we hope everyone does on some level--with those many who have died during this time around the world and here in the States. We feel a mourning of a loss of so many other things in our lives. We know it is a time that will eventually pass, and we grow weary of time, and impatient of its passing, and we fall asleep. But some remain in friendship, some keep watch, and in turn, we keep watch together. There may be many reasons for those who won't keep watch; some of those reasons are good ones, and some are selfish. Either way, forgiveness asked or given is part of the story. To ignore that part of the story would be a great oversight on our part, and so I practice it daily, with myself. Excruciating, isn't it--our frailty?

Our reality is still here, in this moment. We will find it hard to stay. To keep watch. Of each other and of ourselves, of the story we find familiar, of the friendship betrayed and forgiven. Of the death of many things. And of a rising away from this. Don't miss this, though--the story as it unfolds. Pray to remain steadfast, so that you and I can emerge from it to tell the story once more, in a new way, of how we remained together, in spite of a world hellbent to tear us apart. It's how the disciples must have felt watching their story unfold, unknowing of its conclusion and of how far that story would go to enter into our human weaknesses.

Wrapped and Tangled

I’m covering myself up with this beautiful plaid Pendleton-like blanket I inherited from this old couple who’d lived across the street from us in the 70s and 80s, named Bill and Margaret. They took a shine to me and my sister, making us ice cream sodas and showering love. It’s obvious I’m wrapping myself in that comfort, covering up with this woolen blanket, fringe falling off, a woven memory.

The chill of early Spring brings on the physical need to cover up, but the emotional toil of what’s happening equally brings on a need. For many the blanket comes in prayer and spiritual communion; for some yoga, meditation, creativity. Of course, our comfort can come in all these things, and we’ve been given a unique opportunity to practice even more, in a way we would never have before. Tangled up in life’s busyness, in our self-importance, we’d not see the beauty of taking significant time with our selves. I think in some cases there are those who struggle with the quiet and with who they’re encountering within themselves. Facing your less than best self is humbling, a bitter swig.

Fortunate for us, in the media age, we can connect faster than ever. I am humbled and grateful for smart, savvy, humorous friends with whom I chat regularly, checking in on each other from afar, and with family connectivity across the continent. It’s a little miracle helping us bear the burden of time and fear. I pray we remain safe and healthy, but even more, I pray we remember this lesson of savoring connection, time, and meeting our souls where they are, even when we return to whatever our new normal will be beyond this moment.

Exhausted

Lately life has been about anxiety, and scheduling everything to within an inch of its life, about trying to keep up with all of the humans in my life, about trying to make time for the human in me, the soul in me, and I am striving, striving toward that goal.

Then we have the problems of the world looming in on us as a community: illness and strife in many forms. Incompetence at all levels where we would normally trust our experience and our well-being. The kinds of things that make anyone want to fundamentally question their experience and existence and purpose.

It’s exhausting.

Having said that, it’s also life-molding and life-changing. Something is happening to our synapses and our souls when we engage fully in our experience, when we learn how to draw boundaries and consider how to communicate and share in life’s great pageant. And I am learning to pray not merely over these moments but through them, to become fully aware of God’s presence in even the more difficult moments of life. It’s become most helpful for me to have a practice of meditation before, during, and after my day for when those moments get tense, or I have to think on my feet, so that when the time comes, I can, with a little nudge, see and feel and even taste God’s presence.

As we endeavor together, pray for me, and I will pray for you. Sending love out to all.

Pictures of You

Seems like whenever I go and visit the place I called home for 24 years, some kind of song from my youth gets lodged in my head as a part of the experience. It’s not every time, but happens more often, maybe because now I’ve been in this place I have made into a home 23 years. Something is happening in the balance of my mind about place—calling for music and beauty to fill it in.

When my uncle died suddenly in 2008, the song that wouldn’t leave my ears was Pink Floyd’s “On the Turning Away.” It made sense to me almost immediately at the time, and stayed with me through the wake and funeral, through the long delayed train ride back to Georgia. Other times I’d link onto a song just to accompany the moments—beach, park, family visits. This year for Christmas it was The Cure’s “Pictures of You,” and like “On the Turning Away,” it made immediate sense to me. It came in strains and solidified itself on the plane back, when one of the in-flight offerings was a 40th anniversary Cure concert in England. What caught me off guard was that the song itself showed me more clearly how I was living inside of a memory and beyond it— how being present can make you completely yourself.

This one is hard to explain, though: what had happened was that an Uncle I had not seen since I was five came with the majority of his family to America to visit with us and see snow and be a part of the life my parents and their siblings had built in a new country. It was the first time they’d all really experienced snow in that way, and the first time I’d met my aunt, who’d married my uncle after I’d gone in 1978. Like so many immigrant gatherings before, though, this was a coming to know and encounter one another, a feast, a kind of saudade come to life. As I looked around the room in between discussions with cousins and my aunt, who I truly enjoyed chatting with in Portuguese, I realized that all of this was sinking into my memory as it happened, in the very moment of its occurrence. I realized that the many years that had passed since my childhood visit to Portugal and the times back and forth between then-home and now-home had formed me, was itself a discernment. I found myself inside the picture I knew I would see someday again and think, oh yes, I remember this well. What a great time we had. What a wonderful encounter between us. I was seeing what Robert Smith near-crooned when he sang “I’ve been living so long with my /pictures of you/That I almost believe that they’re real….”

Maybe some of you have experienced something like this; maybe the holidays bring it out even more. I have been boarding planes for so long I have had so many opportunities to get to this space in time, to see it in my soul. It’s tiring, too—it emotionally wears me even as it builds me. Even so I wish for you this kind of sublime auld lang syne meets saudade meets some other undefinable thing, as the days and weeks pass into this new decade. Peace and All Good.