Bizarre Yet Beautiful

Life
(and its events)
it seems,
comes in a variety of moods.
Unexpected.
Anticipated.
Shocking.
Heart-breaking.
Joyful.
Humorous,  playful, daunting,
and perhaps,
from time to time, 
in a more bizarre yet beautiful format
that only God understands,
that only God creates.
All of it is life.
To live life fully is the call.
In the mix.
In the midst.
Community. Family. Friends.
God.

Pondering Possibilities ... a prayer poem

Sometimes when we have it all
figured out,
with plans for this and that and the other,
God surprises us.
Stops us in our tracks,
with love,
hope,
promise, and
possibility.
God's love is wider than the widest sea.
Can we see that?
Can I see that?
The call comes, ready or not,
stopping us
in
our
tracks,
onto another
track, full of hope and the promise of
possibility found
in the wideness of God's love.

Something silly

My rambunctious hat and
preposterous shoes

I find that when I spend some time in solitude and silence, eventually the silly comes. Usually unbeaconed. One such moment on retreat resulted in this poem.

"Pink Shoes"

When I am alone
in the wild
I can wear my preposterous pink shoes
and my rambunctious floppy hat.

I could always wear them
I suppose
but it is more fun alone.

I can trudge up the
so very steep hill,
full throttle,
sweating and out of breath
[I can stop if I want]

I can turn my walking stick
into a baton
and
twirl.
[Hold on a minute, that's a good idea. Let's pause and I'll do just that.]

I can sit and swing on the hilltop
alone
and unafraid
with you.

Enveloped in Bird Song

Normally I live on the south side of Chicago where I hear city noises outside my window: cars driving by, stereos, airplanes overhead, the train clanking on the nearby tracks, and the incessant noise of the car alarm in the middle of the night.

I spent a week on a silent retreat, meaning I was silent and didn't have anyone to talk to. But it was by no means silent. You see, I was enveloped in bird song. So many birds: cardinals, bluejays, orioles (yes, I know those birds because of the sports teams), some wood peckers and so many other beautiful winged creatures with names that remain a mystery to me.

I am not normally a bird aficionado, but this crowd caught my heart.  They also were the soundtrack for my prayers. And an inspiration. I'd like to share with you a poem that I wrote, called "Enveloped in Bird Song," and then share a video of morning prayer with the birds so you can enjoy the experience as well.  First the poem.

"Enveloped in Bird Song"
Morning coffee and prayer
enveloped in bird song, I read:

'Did your heart never fill with wordless
wonder when you heard a bird sing?' [Anthony DeMello, SJ]

Enveloped in bird song, I read:

'Let all the earth cry out to God
with joy! [Psalm 100]

Enveloped in bird song,

I sit,
eyes closed,
ears wide open,
heart softened.

So much joy.
So much wonder.
So much love.

Enveloped in bird song.
Enveloped in bird song.
Enveloped in bird song.
Amen.

And, here's a video for your own morning prayer with the birds!

Sometimes (a poem prayer)

Sometimes I and maybe you
too feel
tired
alone
anxious
overwhelmed
or discombobulated.
Or even a mix of
two or three or four or
more.
That's me today. No
thing. Nothing major.
Just life
at this moment in time and space
as it intersects with
other people's
time and space.

Sometimes
it takes
some more
time and space
for me
to realize,
remember,
and embrace
that I am not alone.
Not alone in feeling this mix of who knows what.
Not alone in this
crazy thing called life
(as a man once again known as Prince once sang).
Not alone at all.

Sometimes I need
to take time
and find space
to remember all of that.
To remember you
my friend,
my friends,
known and unknown
not alone at all.

Sometimes I need to
just accept
me
and what is in front of me.

But always
in the end
eventually
I return
to the more,
the love,
the all
that makes things tick
and gives meaning.
The more, the love, the all
who is always
present,
Presence,
Gift.

Sometimes
(or is it always?)
opening myself
to the more, the Love, the all
is all I need.

Advent

Week two of Advent. Not quite sure how that happened!  Here's one of my favorite Advent themed reflections, a poem by Jessica Powers.  The nights are midnight dark at 6:30 pm--not hard to imagine waiting in Mary-darkness.

I live my Advent in the womb of Mary.
And on one night when a great star swings free
from its high mooring and walks down the sky
to be the dot above the Christus i,
I shall be born of her by blessed grace.
I wait in Mary-darkness, faith’s walled place,
with hope’s expectance of nativity.

I knew for long she carried me and fed me,
guarded and loved me, though I could not see.
But only now, with inward jubilee,
I come upon earth’s most amazing knowledge:
someone is hidden in this dark with me.

               ~Jessica Powers

Retreat Poem

One of my last days of retreat I woke up early to a foggy morning. I went out to the ocean which I could see but could not hear. Then, through the foggy mist I saw that even in that weather, there were men standing out on the rocks fishing. This poem came to me and captures the movement of God in my life those days and always.

God is there

in the glimmering of the morning sun

dancing on the water.

You can catch a glimpse

as the monarch soars and flutters

out and beyond

daring your eye to follow.

God is in the celebrations,

the doing of good work

and works --

after all, God said it was good.

And so we are.

But at the stormy times

in the fog, mist and darkness that will come

it is tempting to forget.

Yet.

On that foggy morning when eyes see nothing

but blinding white

you can hear the waves -- still there;

and the singing of the birds telling the good news

to those with ears to hear.

Like the fishermen

standing on the rocks in the blinding mist

seeking with the eyes of faith.

Two Takes on Emmaus

I love the Easter Season! For those not in the know, Easter doesn't end on the day the bunny brings the chocolate. Easter - the liturgical season - just starts then. We have such amazing readings during this season. Like today's Gospel ... the Road to Emmaus. Today I thought I'd share two different takes on the story that I find fruitful for prayer and reflection.

Take One
This icon by Sister Marie Paul, OSB of the Mount of Olives Monastery, Jerusalem (1990). I was first introduced to the idea that one of the disciples who met Jesus on the Road to Emmaus may have been a woman by my old spiritual director. This icon gives an image to that tradition. It's become a favorite source of prayer for me at Easter time. (Learn more/order the icon here)

The “Road to Emmaus” Icon by Sister Marie Paul OSB
of the Mount of Olives Monastery, Jerusalem (1990)

Take Two
This poem by Denise Levertov (from The Stream & The Sapphire) based on this painting by Velazquez

The Servant-Girl at Emmaus

(A Painting by Velazquez)

She listens, listens, holding

her breath. Surely that voice

is his – the one

who had looked at her, once, across the crowd,

as no one ever had looked?

Had seen her? Had spoken as if to her?

Surely those hands were his,

taking the platter of bread from hers just now?

Hands he’d laid on the dying and made them well?

Surely that face -- ?

The man they’d crucified for sedition and blasphemy.

The man whose body disappeared from its tomb.

The man it was rumored now some women had seen this

morning, alive?

Those who had brought this stranger home to their table

don’t recognize yet with whom they sit.

But she, in the kitchen, absently touching

the winejug she’s to take in,

a young Black servant intently listening,

swings round and sees

the light around him

and is sure.

Happy Easter Wednesday!

Here I am

I spent a lot of time at this spot last week, gazing out at the ocean in all its glory. One morning, about half way into the week, I woke up early and sat in this chair by the sea for quite a while. A simple prayer filled my heart ... "Here I am" ... and this poem came to me.


Here the stout ocean pines dance
swiftly in the wind
as seagulls glide

overhead

the sun peaks through
the dusting of cotton ball clouds
just for a moment
and is gone

I spot two minuscule ants crawling
into my lap, they think --
Buddhist nun I am not

Yet the waves gently crawl
into the lap of my heart
one by one
over and over
the heartbeat of God?

Am I the first to ponder
their continuous rhythm - surely not
Rolling in
rolling out
since time began

No replay button or pause
Simply in
simply out
sometimes strong
sometimes very soft

But always there
Always here
The great "I Am"

Connecting with the Grants

I spent last week at Stella Maris Retreat Center, a ministry of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Peace. on the Jersey Shore. We bought the house in the 1940s as a vacation house where our Sisters could spend a few days away from the pressures of ministry and school. Since the 1970s, we've opened the doors of this sacred space to spiritual seekers for retreats.

Before that, the house was a grand vacation home for a rich and powerful publisher and then a copper magnate. Part of the property that is, where the main house sits. The adjoining property, which contains a newer conference center, chapel and gardens, was bought by the Sisters in 1963. It used to be the property of Ulysses S. Grant. Yes, that Ulysses S. Grant. His summer "cottage" is long gone, but thanks to the wonders of the internet, here are some pictures of his cottage and President Grant with his family taken in 1870.

On retreat, I found myself drawn to this connection between the Sisters of St. Joseph of Peace with a former U.S. President and Civil War general. As I sat and gazed at the amazing beauty of God's Creation, I imagined President and Mrs. Grant sitting in pretty much the same spot, 140 years ago.

Ulysses S. Grant
The war is over
Our Nation is one
majestic as this sea --
choppy, unpredictable too
But the war is over

So much did I see
Pain, mess and blood
so much bloodshed
Wash away, wash away
the red stains from my mind's eye.

By the power with which
you created this might ocean,
wash away the pain
For the war is over
Make us whole again

Julia Grant
What does he see, I wonder
when he stares out across this vast horizon?

Hours and hours he sits,
pondering, scratching his chin.

I am so proud of him, my General
so many young men followed him

But now his eyes follow
the seagulls, waves, and grass flowing in the wind

What does he see, I wonder,
my Ulysses?

The Grant Cottage is long gone. It was apparently in sad shape when we purchased the property, and needed to be torn down. In this picture, Stella Maris is the white building in the background.


Our chapel now sits on or close to where the cottage used to be. Somehow, I find the healing power of this view of the ocean from the altar space especially fitting ... Sisters of Peace praying where a General and his family sough solace after the Civil War.

on poverty

I've been thinking a lot about poverty lately. No, not the vow of poverty (although I do think of course think of that too as I try to live it) but the gut wrenching, life threatening kind of poverty we're seeing played out in Haiti and in the streets of our very cities.

One of the hats that I wear at my place of ministry--the Intercommunity Peace & Justice Center--is as editor of our quarterly justice journal. Our Winter Issue is on the theme of Poverty and Economic Justice. There are really some profound voices in this issue, including an article by Janice Connelly, a woman who has experienced homelessness in my own city of Seattle. She also wrote a poem which is printed in the issue which I'd like to share:

Ground Zero
I’ve learned Life is too short—
to disrespect another human’s dignity.

In recognizing this, I became able.
Able to respond to the hardships I,
and many of us face day in and day out.

I learned to utilize the many resources that
the wonderful city of Seattle has to offer.

I found strength and courage I didn’t know I possessed.
I received help and direction, and a way out of my
own way.

I want to thank all my sisters for every little thing good that is now.
— Janice L. Connelly

I thought of all this today as I was reading the paper with my morning cup of coffee and read an article about ingenuity in the midst of the destruction in Haiti - this particular article was about entrepreneurs charging cell phones. I suspect that there are many such stories, most untold, of human beings finding ways to live "for every little thing good that is now," even in the midst of poverty, pain and sorrow. We normally hear about the dramatic or devastating stories. The every day bits that really tell our stories as human beings are not usually fodder for news stories.

rainy day

I woke up this morning to the sound of rain beating against my window. The rains will soon be descending here in the Pacific Northwest, but hopefully this was just a taster. I've got lots to do today, but the rainy day makes me want to cozy up in my new room and listen to the rain.

I'm reminded of a piece of prose I found a while ago persuing my old journals. By a 14 year old me:

“Rainy Days are the Best”

It was a cold and dreary day, the type of day that saddens most people. If one took the time to look through the streets of the city one would see people walking, their heads down, arms around themselves to keep out the cold, wind, and gloom. Occasionally one comes across a person whose head is up high, a determined look on their face. These people are trying not to let the wet and gloomy day lower their spirits. You can, however, tell by their faces that their attempt is unfruitful as the neutral expressions on their faces slowly become frowns.

If you look hard enough, you may find a person with a large grin on his or her face. Not a smile or a feeble attempt at one, but a large, ecstatic grin. This type of person is at his or her best in inclement weather. These people are wondrously happy if they receive a transfer to Seattle (or any location with incredible amounts of rainy weather).

The person who enjoys rain or other “depressing” forms of precipitation is usually glad to be alone. They are usually their own best friend. They enjoy taking themselves out to dinner or a movie. They know who they are and what they like. This type of person is unique, special, rare and can be found inside everyone.

Now, I'm actually living in Seattle. Which I dare say is a tad bit rainier than Portland.

This is Just to Say

It's a beautiful spring day, so I went for an hour long walk in a nearby nature park this morning. I also brought along my ipod and listened to last week's episode of This American Life, which was actually a repeat. At the end, they had a segment about this famous poem by William Carlos Williams:

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were
probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so
sweet
and so cold

As they pointed out on the show, "It’s about, among other things, causing a loved one inconvenience and offering a non-apologizing apology." This American Life then invited several regular contributors to read poems inspired by this one. There were two which I thought I'd share. The first is by Jonatahn Godstein:

This is just to say
I have eaten the Fruit of Knowledge
but nothing happened

not a word
no lightning or volcanoes
not even a drop of rain

So I was just wondering
Are you there?

And then this one by Shalom Auslander:

He was a troublemaker, okay
And didn’t know when
To shut up

Still
We never would have killed him
If we’d known he was the Lord

This is just to say ... I don't know why I'm sharing those two with you all, other than that I love poetry that engages with the God questions. Plus, I think God has an excellent sense of humor!

A Poem for Christmas Eve

In Too Much Light
by Jessica Powers

The Magi had one only star to follow,
a single sanctuary lamp hung low,
gold ornament in the astonished air,
I am confounded in this later day;
I find stars everywhere.

Rumor locates the presence of a night
out past the loss of perishable sun
where, round midnight, I shall come to see
that all the stars are one.

I long for this night of the ornament of the stars
when days of scattered shining are my lot
and my confusion. Yet faith even here
burns her throat dry cries: on this very spot
of mornings, see, there is not any place
where the sought Word is not.
Under and over, in and out, this morn
flawlessly, purely, wakes the newly born.
Behold, all places which have light in them
truly are Bethlehem.

Return

Hello Again! As you can tell, I’ve returned from my week of retreat at Wisdom House, located in the foothills of the Berkshires in Connecticut. Can you sense my retreat glow through the computer?? It was a great week – an amazing opportunity to look back at where I’ve been and ahead to the next steps of the journey.

This was my second year at Wisdom House, and if it weren’t 3,000 miles away from where I’ll be living, next year I’d probably come back. It is a place of deep peace. I also had the same director again this year, a gentle and wise woman who, as you might guess, is a Daughter of Wisdom. The week was so great in no small part due to my daily conversations with her.

And then … there is the matter of the trees! I don’t know what Wisdom House is like the rest of the year, but towards the end of August the skies are blue, the weather warm (but not too hot), and the trees are a sea of green. I spent a lot of time with the trees, especially the Quaking Aspen.

Sadly, the Quaking Aspen are not very photogenic (something I have in common with them). You see, it’s not that they’re especially beautiful, but that they dance in the wind and glimmer in the sun! I tried to take a picture of them last year, to no avail. I also tried to draw them, but again no luck – a combination of my artistic (in)ability and their fluid nature. So this year, I took a quick little video which doesn’t quite give you the full impression but gives you an idea:

I also brought some poetry along with me this year, and found this poem by Mary Oliver. She captures what my drawings, pictures and video cannot, even if she wasn’t talking about my Quaking Aspen!

When I Am Among the Trees
by Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

Advent Thoughts

We had a quiet retreat day in the house today to mark the last days of Advent. In our prayer time at the beginning of the day, my novice director shared this poem by Jessica Powers.

I live my Advent in the womb of Mary.
And on one night when a great star swings free
from its high mooring and walks down the sky
to be the dot above the Christus i,
I shall be born of her by blessed grace.
I wait in Mary-darkness, faith’s walled place,
with hope’s expectance of nativity.

I knew for long she carried me and fed me,
guarded me and loved me, though I could not see.
But only now, with inward jubilee,
I come upon earth’s most amazing knowledge:
someone is hidden in this dark with me.

Three Advents ago I first ran across this poem and the phrase, “Mary darkness.” I wrote at the time:

I love that - waiting in Mary-darkness, with hope's expectance of nativity. New life. I could indeed learn a lot from Mary. She said Yes, we know that. But that wasn't the end, it was the beginning. She then waited in expectant hope, living in the present while awaiting the new life of the future.

I can still learn a lot from Mary, but this Advent the poem struck a different chord within me. “I shall be born of her by blessed grace,” Jesus and me, the divine and the human, together. Mary, our mother, holding us in expectation, carrying us and feeding us. The light of Christ around me, beside me, within me … waiting to be born. In the darkness – yes, but it is Mary-darkness, it is a darkness characterized by expectant hope and by the companion light hidden in the dark with us.

In her letter to the Province, our Provincial Sr. Andrea quotes Henri Nouwen: “To wait open-endedly … is living with the conviction that God moulds us according to God’s love and not according to our fear.”

God moulds us according to God’s love and not our fear. I am created to live in love. To act out of love. To dream for love. If I believe that – and I sense a kernel of belief waiting in the Mary-darkness – then my fears are nothing to fear. God’s love is greater, Christ’s light in me will shine through my darkness.

Andrea ends her letter with this:

And mostly, I am super confident that the God who has begun this great work in and with us will continue to be with us as we move to the crossing place that is before us. Christmas is precisely this reality over and over – the most unlikely scenario for the coming of a savior – the One who will conquer death and bring life and hope and joy to the most vulnerable and forgotten – the coming of new life to all who will receive it.

Am I “super confident”? Do I believe the most unlikely scenario? That God comes to conquer death and bring life and hope and joy to the most vulnerable and forgotten … to me?

My fears are still there. My demons. But in the Mary-darkness, I sense the me God dreams me to be, the me moulded by God’s love, waiting to be born. And that's somehow stronger than the fears.

And so I pray in the words that ended our Advent prayer time together this afternoon:

O creator of all peoples
Whose voice echoes within our bones
As you throw the clay
The curves and crannies of all who live
Rumble and quake within us
To let the newly-born come forth.

living life

I'm trying to finish a book that one of our Sisters here in the UK lent me before I head back to the States - I Will Not Die an Unlived Life: Reclaiming Purpose & Passion by Dawna Markova. An excellent read so far. This poem by the author begins the book and is worthy of some reflection.

I will not die an unlived life.
I will not live in fear
of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid,
more accessible;
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance,
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom,
and that which came to me as blossom,
goes on as fruit.

I can't speak for any one else, but I know that in my own life I have often lived out of my fear rather than out of my potential. I've lived out of self preservation rather than self-giving love. And yet, my heart's desire, my prayer, is to grow in God's love, to open my heart to Christ's love, to risk, to live, for love, in love. Perhaps that's why this poem speaks so much to my heart. It seems to me to be about living the one precious life that God has given us. And that, my friends, is really what it's all about - don't you think?

Patient Trust

A groovy sister friend of mine - who reads the blog and has noticed the unbloggables - sent me this prayer/poem the other day. It certainly fits the space where I find myself these days. Perhaps you'll appreciate the wisdom as well.

Patient Trust by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, SJ

Above all, trust in the slow work of God.
We are quite naturally impatient in everything
to reach the end without delay.
We would like to skip the intermediate stages.
We are impatient of being on the way to something
unknown, something new.
And yet, it is the law of all progress
that it is made by passing through
some stages of instability -
and that it may take a very long time.

And so I think it is with you;
your ideas mature gradually - let them grow,
let them shape themselves, without undue haste.
Don't try to force them on,
as though you could be today what time,
(that is to say, grace and circumstances
acting on your own good will)
will make of you tomorrow.

Only God could say what this new spirit
gradually forming in you will be.
Give our Lord the benefit of believing
that his hand is leading you,
and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself
in suspense and incomplete.

Camara on trees

Trees have been a recurring theme of my novitiate. Perhaps that is why this prayer/poem jumped out at me today in a book I was reading by Dom Helder Camara. The book is called "Sister Earth" and the prayer/poem is called "Trees, Sister Trees." Enjoy!

Ah, trees,
Do you live in peace,
In harmony,
Despite the differences
Between you
Which to the human eye
Seem so immense?
How do you feel,
You towering palms,
You massive oaks,
You giant baobabs,
As you stare down upon
A tiny bush?
Are the fruit bearers,
Apple, mango and coconut,
Tempted to mock
Those who have simply
Leaves and thorns?

Do you welcome
The birds' nests
And children who swing
From your branches?
What is it like
When the leaves fall
And your branches are draped
In snow?
Does Spring give a hint
Of the thought of resurrection?
And what is it like when
Drought wounds the land
And you trees seem to raise
Up your arms
In silent prayer
To our Lord and Father?

What do you feel
At the plucking of your fruits?
Is the stoning
The worst part?
And what is your pain
When your branches are pruned,
Or when a tree entire
Goes to the timber yard
To be cut
Into house or bridges or chairs or beds?
Do you understand the purpose
Of a bridge
And the vivid symbol it is?
Do you realize the importance in
The building of a home?

Chairs and beds
Call to mind rest
And make us think
Of the family:
But what does it mean to you?

When lightening strikes a tree,
Is it true that the tree
Prefers itself to be struck
Than to see a person or house
Destroyed?

Remember, sister Tree,
That the Son of God
In order to reconcile us
With our Father and his,
Bore a heavy cross.
Three times he fell
Under that burden,
And wanted to die
Nailed to the cross
In order to save us.

another take on emmaus

I shared this poem by Denise Levertov (also from The Stream & the Sapphire) during our morning prayer today as another way to look at today's Gospel.

The Servant-Girl at Emmaus

(A Painting by Velazquez)

She listens, listens, holding

her breath. Surely that voice

is his – the one

who had looked at her, once, across the crowd,

as no one ever had looked?

Had seen her? Had spoken as if to her?

Surely those hands were his,

taking the platter of bread from hers just now?

Hands he’d laid on the dying and made them well?

Surely that face -- ?

The man they’d crucified for sedition and blasphemy.

The man whose body disappeared from its tomb.

The man it was rumored now some women had seen this

morning, alive?

Those who had brought this stranger home to their table

don’t recognize yet with whom they sit.

But she, in the kitchen, absently touching

the winejug she’s to take in,

a young Black servant intently listening,

swings round and sees

the light around him

and is sure.