Once again this morning, I walked the half mile up to the monastery, this time by myself. My retreat brothers and sisters, perhaps saner than me, opted for warm beds. It was a cold pre-dawn darkness, but once again there was a soft light from the half-moon still risen in the southern sky. Sounds just out of recognition filled the woods on either side of the gravel road and I added the sound of my breath and my boots crunching with each step. And just as the two mornings before, the priory bell rang through the darkness to announce that day's prayer.
I arrived at the chapel with the skin on my face refreshed by the cold air of the walk. The only other people in the chapel were two women up from Massachusetts we had met the evening before. The brothers came in randomly over the next few minutes. This morning the Sunday service of morning prayer began with Brother Alvaro lighting a taper in the rear of the chapel and bringing the light forward to several candles -- it was reminiscent of the Easter Vigil light ritual. This morning, we sang to Christ, light of our hearts and sign of God's love. The psalms flowed back and forth in easy chant.
The Gospel for this Sunday was the familiar, awful parable of the sheep and the goats (Matthew 25). "When did we see you hungry, naked......." the people ask and Jesus gives that most touching of responses: "Whatsoever you do to the least (the weakest and most "unimportant") of my brothers and sisters, you do to me." In a world of 99% and 1% class and economic divides, here's a reminder that God is not about effete abstraction, but about standing for the poorest and most undefended among us. And that makes us family with each human being.
These brothers of Saint Benedict are an intentional community of commitment and choice, an alternative kind of family. If "friends are the family we choose," this particular family has chosen to live a life up in these woods that is steady, modest and full of meaning. They are "perfectly imperfect" men whose witness to the gospel call is genuine and compelling enough to bring visitors and fellow pilgrims like us to share, very briefly, in their lives of faith and worship. They remind us all of what's important in a way that's not fussy or so strange that we can't see ourselves in them. I return to my own family blessed and strengthened by theirs. And I'm grateful.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Vermont II - Out On A Cold Morning
Once again this second morning in Vermont I walked out before dawn. Another man on the retreat joined me, and the two of us walked through the cold and dark. The light of the stars and a half moon created a wonderful soft light as we walked up the country road, woods on either side, with the gravel crunching under our feet. Once again, the sound of a bell flowed through the darkness, sounding the call to morning prayer.
The monks at whose priory we stay when on retreat sound that bell several times each day, all the year round. Whether or not outsiders come, and they usually do, these brothers of Benedict gather to sing and pray the ancient psalms and listen to the Word. Why? What might they be teaching us?
We met yesterday with two of the brothers. Our group's custom has been to determine a serious question we have about life and living, and then ask for any wisdom or insight the brothers might have. This year's question went something like this: how can I come to accept my dark side and so be more able to connect with others who may be hurting? How can my failings and imperfections actually draw me closer to others? It's a great question, and the two older brothers who gave us an hour of their time certainly rose to it. One brother (I swear he has "merry" eyes!) has always struck me as having something to say worth hearing, and he didn't disappoint this time, either.
The brother said that whenever he experienced conflict and division with his fellows, he liked to remember to go back to beginnings...... by that he meant the "why" of the relationship. He observed that each of us first experiences connection by feeling the heartbeat of our mother right in the womb -- not a word, but an experience of connection, physically felt. When he is in conflict with a brother monk, he told us he remembers the original commitment they made to each other -- to be brothers in the service of their spiritual calling. That's a beginning remembered, and helps sort things out. Not a bad standard.
What are the beginnings in my relationships? What do I need to remember? Most importantly I remember the choice of my wife (and hers of me); the choice to be a parent; my choice of profession as counselor, teacher and writer; and my choice of a spiritual path. All these beginnings remind me of what's important. If I've given my word to do or be something, that's a beginning that needs to be affirmed when life frays and sometimes tears like worn fabric.
What those Benedictine brothers stand for as they return to that chapel several times a day seems clear: connection, community and purposive commitment all matter and are worth celebrating. So it's also worth a cold morning's walk to witness and briefly join them in their way of choosing life and mending what's frayed.
The monks at whose priory we stay when on retreat sound that bell several times each day, all the year round. Whether or not outsiders come, and they usually do, these brothers of Benedict gather to sing and pray the ancient psalms and listen to the Word. Why? What might they be teaching us?
We met yesterday with two of the brothers. Our group's custom has been to determine a serious question we have about life and living, and then ask for any wisdom or insight the brothers might have. This year's question went something like this: how can I come to accept my dark side and so be more able to connect with others who may be hurting? How can my failings and imperfections actually draw me closer to others? It's a great question, and the two older brothers who gave us an hour of their time certainly rose to it. One brother (I swear he has "merry" eyes!) has always struck me as having something to say worth hearing, and he didn't disappoint this time, either.
The brother said that whenever he experienced conflict and division with his fellows, he liked to remember to go back to beginnings...... by that he meant the "why" of the relationship. He observed that each of us first experiences connection by feeling the heartbeat of our mother right in the womb -- not a word, but an experience of connection, physically felt. When he is in conflict with a brother monk, he told us he remembers the original commitment they made to each other -- to be brothers in the service of their spiritual calling. That's a beginning remembered, and helps sort things out. Not a bad standard.
What are the beginnings in my relationships? What do I need to remember? Most importantly I remember the choice of my wife (and hers of me); the choice to be a parent; my choice of profession as counselor, teacher and writer; and my choice of a spiritual path. All these beginnings remind me of what's important. If I've given my word to do or be something, that's a beginning that needs to be affirmed when life frays and sometimes tears like worn fabric.
What those Benedictine brothers stand for as they return to that chapel several times a day seems clear: connection, community and purposive commitment all matter and are worth celebrating. So it's also worth a cold morning's walk to witness and briefly join them in their way of choosing life and mending what's frayed.
Vermont I - The Chapel and the Sweat Lodge
As I write this, I'm on my third annual "conscious contact" retreat of folks in recovery at the beautiful eastern Vermont location of the Weston Priory. We're in the Green Mountains and out beyond my window at the desk where I write this is a small mountain (a 'monticello!"), getting clearer to my sight and more defined as the morning light rises. The clouds, just a few minutes ago mauve in the dawn light, are now an array of grays and beiges and whites. They scud across the little mountain top, pushed from the north as they journey to unknown parts south.
It was just over a year ago that I began this blog at this same desk, looking at this same mountain and the surrounding woods. It's been a momentous year in part because I nearly lost my life to a virulent staph infection. But it's also been a year of blessings, especially in the people who rallied around my wife and me, Just as I wrote that sentence, I looked up and saw an immense cloud, bathed in sharp, pink light, move across the mountain top. It was followed by outlier clouds, russet and violet against a deepening blue sky. The trees at this time of morning take on tones of white and gray and green, and the whole scene changes from moment to moment. It's dynamic, powerful and peaceful all at once. The fullness of it all is surely a metaphor.
The morning began before dawn, just a couple of hours ago. A few of us walked up the road towards the priory, a collection of buildings that recall a Vermont farm, but with a difference. Halfway up the wooded country road, bells rang out through the darkness, calling the monks and any willing lay folk like ourselves to the ancient morning prayer of the Church. In a few minutes, we arrived and entered the chapel which was mostly in darkness. The chapel looks and feels a bit like a Zendo, but with the flickering light of a eucharistic chapel off to the right. The prayer begins with a rainstick, drums and the light of a few candles, then proceeds to sung psalms, readings and prayer. "Let the heedless get the trouble they need!" went one sharp petition.
The darkness dispelled by low light, an ancient language (Greek in the Kyrie) and the drum recall another sacred space I am privileged to attend regularly, a sweat ceremony on the land of the Shinnecock nation not far from where we live. In that ceremony, two medicine people, Shinnecock and Kiowah, respectively, lead the people in prayer, chant and ritual actions, much of which is in the ancient language of the Lakota nation. At the priory we sang the ancient words, "In the shadow of your wings, my heart rejoices." In the sweat lodge there comes a moment where people experience the sensation of eagle wings circling inside the lodge -- a contact the Creator grants as a gift to the men and women struggling in the intense heat to pray more open-heartedly. As the heat rises from the "Grandfathers," the stones glowing red from the fire in which they lay for a few hours, the people in the circle of the lodge cry out, "Pity, me - pity me!" hoping for help in enduring the heat for the sake of their prayers. No such endurance is called for by the chapel-goers, except perhaps the struggle to stay awake at this hour of the morning.
A little over an hour later, writing at this desk, the sun has come up a ways, with the ridges and valleys becoming clearer and more defined in the beautiful cold sunshine. I think of the two spaces, chapel and sweat lodge, and how they connect and complement each other in my life. I feel blessed to share in the experience of each one. "Kyrie elieson (Lord, have mercy!)" and "Mitakuye oyassin (All my relations!)" join in my heart and make me full.
It was just over a year ago that I began this blog at this same desk, looking at this same mountain and the surrounding woods. It's been a momentous year in part because I nearly lost my life to a virulent staph infection. But it's also been a year of blessings, especially in the people who rallied around my wife and me, Just as I wrote that sentence, I looked up and saw an immense cloud, bathed in sharp, pink light, move across the mountain top. It was followed by outlier clouds, russet and violet against a deepening blue sky. The trees at this time of morning take on tones of white and gray and green, and the whole scene changes from moment to moment. It's dynamic, powerful and peaceful all at once. The fullness of it all is surely a metaphor.
The morning began before dawn, just a couple of hours ago. A few of us walked up the road towards the priory, a collection of buildings that recall a Vermont farm, but with a difference. Halfway up the wooded country road, bells rang out through the darkness, calling the monks and any willing lay folk like ourselves to the ancient morning prayer of the Church. In a few minutes, we arrived and entered the chapel which was mostly in darkness. The chapel looks and feels a bit like a Zendo, but with the flickering light of a eucharistic chapel off to the right. The prayer begins with a rainstick, drums and the light of a few candles, then proceeds to sung psalms, readings and prayer. "Let the heedless get the trouble they need!" went one sharp petition.
The darkness dispelled by low light, an ancient language (Greek in the Kyrie) and the drum recall another sacred space I am privileged to attend regularly, a sweat ceremony on the land of the Shinnecock nation not far from where we live. In that ceremony, two medicine people, Shinnecock and Kiowah, respectively, lead the people in prayer, chant and ritual actions, much of which is in the ancient language of the Lakota nation. At the priory we sang the ancient words, "In the shadow of your wings, my heart rejoices." In the sweat lodge there comes a moment where people experience the sensation of eagle wings circling inside the lodge -- a contact the Creator grants as a gift to the men and women struggling in the intense heat to pray more open-heartedly. As the heat rises from the "Grandfathers," the stones glowing red from the fire in which they lay for a few hours, the people in the circle of the lodge cry out, "Pity, me - pity me!" hoping for help in enduring the heat for the sake of their prayers. No such endurance is called for by the chapel-goers, except perhaps the struggle to stay awake at this hour of the morning.
A little over an hour later, writing at this desk, the sun has come up a ways, with the ridges and valleys becoming clearer and more defined in the beautiful cold sunshine. I think of the two spaces, chapel and sweat lodge, and how they connect and complement each other in my life. I feel blessed to share in the experience of each one. "Kyrie elieson (Lord, have mercy!)" and "Mitakuye oyassin (All my relations!)" join in my heart and make me full.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
History Lost & Found: Reflections on the Death of a Favorite Aunt
My aunt Edna Finnerty Kelliher died last week at the age of 93. She was bright, funny, smart and outspoken, but almost never unkind. She was a wife (widowed from her beloved Neil). She was a mother to three children, the youngest of whom, Paul, died all too young. She was a sister, cousin, aunt (I want to add the word "favorite" almost automatically) and, by all accounts at the wake and funeral, a very great friend to many. She had that quality of ordinary courage that really is extraordinary. Years ago, whenever my sister and I heard she and Uncle Neil at the front door of our flat in Brookline, we were delighted because we knew we were going to laugh. Edna was a mighty presence on the earth and she will be greatly missed.
My wife, Nancy, observed that in Edna's passing, I was losing a significant part of my history, and that's true, I thought, as far as it goes. . What's also true, I found over the past few days, is that one can connect with that history in some powerful ways. Let me explain.
We stayed as we usually do in the apartment of my sister Betsey. She just moved into a new apartment in Weymouth with a great view and very comfortable layout. Her apartment sits on a peninsula that includes Webb State Park, with many wonderful view of greater Boston and the many islands of Boston Harbor. Thousands of years ago, various indigenous groups fished and gardened and hunted on the shores and islands of this harbor. When the Europeans came, followed soon by Africans and other citizens of the world, they displaced those people with great force and terrible things like infectious diseases against which they had little defense. Africans brought to these shores were mostly brought in servitude and slavery in the early years. Wave upon wave of immigrants made and remade Boston at least a little in their own image. Boston is a very American city and region, with "here comes everybody" an apt regional slogan, with millions of stories of hope and heartbreak, courage, venality, resounding success for many and grinding injustice for some. In other words, life.
All that history pushed in on my consciousness as I walked Webb Park in the mornings. Later in the weekend, as I drove through Milton and Brookline, the towns of my childhood, a more personal set of memories intruded, clamoring inside my head for attention and respect. The streets and fields where I played as a kid were mostly still there, and I flashed back on walking and bicycle riding, the latter an amazing experience of freedom and competence once I mastered my J.C.Higgins Special. The funeral home was directly across the street from the Brookline Public Library, a shrine and a refuge for me when I was young. Edna was buried from the church, St. Mary's of the Assumption, in which I was baptized and received First Communion. Part of my spiritual consciousness was shaped by that building and its leaders -- including my eight year old rebellion against them telling me that our Presbyterian neighbors across the street weren't going to go to heaven: didn't buy it then, don't buy it now.
As we made our way in the funeral procession to St. Joseph's Cemetary, we passed by so many of the spots that defined my childhood, Everett Morgan's drug store, the reservoir, St. Lawrence's Church, Chesnut Hill. Thousands of headstones with mainly Irish surnames dominated the cemetary, with Edna laid to rest just a little ways from my maternal grandparents' graves, not far from my paternal grandparents and the grave of my father. All that history on a sunny fall morning. Finally, we ended up at a golf course clubhouse for the funeral luncheon -- back in my day a municipal course I had caddied when I was 10 years old.
Blessed Yogi Berra supposedly said "nostalgia ain't what it used to be." I don't know -- it felt pretty good reliving at least many of those times in those familiar Boston settings. Some day, hopefully not for a great while, my poor remains will go on a similar journey, perhaps on the very same streets. Until that day, I celebrate the ancestors and forebears, related by family and related by common humanity. And I celebrate the current generations working hard to make a living and to make life. We're all of us in a mighty flow.
My wife, Nancy, observed that in Edna's passing, I was losing a significant part of my history, and that's true, I thought, as far as it goes. . What's also true, I found over the past few days, is that one can connect with that history in some powerful ways. Let me explain.
We stayed as we usually do in the apartment of my sister Betsey. She just moved into a new apartment in Weymouth with a great view and very comfortable layout. Her apartment sits on a peninsula that includes Webb State Park, with many wonderful view of greater Boston and the many islands of Boston Harbor. Thousands of years ago, various indigenous groups fished and gardened and hunted on the shores and islands of this harbor. When the Europeans came, followed soon by Africans and other citizens of the world, they displaced those people with great force and terrible things like infectious diseases against which they had little defense. Africans brought to these shores were mostly brought in servitude and slavery in the early years. Wave upon wave of immigrants made and remade Boston at least a little in their own image. Boston is a very American city and region, with "here comes everybody" an apt regional slogan, with millions of stories of hope and heartbreak, courage, venality, resounding success for many and grinding injustice for some. In other words, life.
All that history pushed in on my consciousness as I walked Webb Park in the mornings. Later in the weekend, as I drove through Milton and Brookline, the towns of my childhood, a more personal set of memories intruded, clamoring inside my head for attention and respect. The streets and fields where I played as a kid were mostly still there, and I flashed back on walking and bicycle riding, the latter an amazing experience of freedom and competence once I mastered my J.C.Higgins Special. The funeral home was directly across the street from the Brookline Public Library, a shrine and a refuge for me when I was young. Edna was buried from the church, St. Mary's of the Assumption, in which I was baptized and received First Communion. Part of my spiritual consciousness was shaped by that building and its leaders -- including my eight year old rebellion against them telling me that our Presbyterian neighbors across the street weren't going to go to heaven: didn't buy it then, don't buy it now.
As we made our way in the funeral procession to St. Joseph's Cemetary, we passed by so many of the spots that defined my childhood, Everett Morgan's drug store, the reservoir, St. Lawrence's Church, Chesnut Hill. Thousands of headstones with mainly Irish surnames dominated the cemetary, with Edna laid to rest just a little ways from my maternal grandparents' graves, not far from my paternal grandparents and the grave of my father. All that history on a sunny fall morning. Finally, we ended up at a golf course clubhouse for the funeral luncheon -- back in my day a municipal course I had caddied when I was 10 years old.
Blessed Yogi Berra supposedly said "nostalgia ain't what it used to be." I don't know -- it felt pretty good reliving at least many of those times in those familiar Boston settings. Some day, hopefully not for a great while, my poor remains will go on a similar journey, perhaps on the very same streets. Until that day, I celebrate the ancestors and forebears, related by family and related by common humanity. And I celebrate the current generations working hard to make a living and to make life. We're all of us in a mighty flow.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
On the Water
I had lashed our kayaks down just before the hurricaine last month, so I hadn't had a chance to get out on the water for over a month. Yesterday's holiday and blessed reprise of summer-like weather gave me an opening to bring my boat out and I decided to take advantage of it.
When we're at home, deciding to kayak is a semi-big deal. I have to haul equipment out of the basement, install the rack on my car, lift the kayak onto the rack and tie that down for the car trip to the water. The kayak is almost eighteen feet long and is an awkward sixty pounds whose weight is tricky to manage because it can shift all too easily in the loading, travel and unloading. Murphy's Law fully applies and usually kicks in.
Putting the kayak rack securely on to the car is one of those groaner chores that I can try to skimp on, but end up inevitably paying the price for if I do skimp. Fine finger-eye coordination and hand strength combined do not make my skill-set list, so getting the Thule rack fit to receive my boat tests my patience and my ability to defer gratification, neither of which qualities I have in any abundance.
Suffice it to say, I managed to load up the kayak and make the fifteen minute journey to the Scallop Pond waterways in the woods and wetlands along Peconic Bay. Stepping out of the car, I was immediately struck by the sunshine and warmth, the clear and fragrant air, and the medium strong colors of early fall -- the green grasses going sere and golden, a few russet leaves and the diamond sparkles on the water.
I reversed the loading process and managed to get the boat down off my car roof without hurting me or the kayak, no easy feat. I put on my spray skirt and PFD (personal flotation device) and stuck my cell phone in a waterproof holder I hung around my neck, got into the boat and pushed off.
Sometimes I am so stressed and hungry for a workout that I paddle hard without interruption for a half hour or more. Not this day. I kept stopping and gliding, listening, looking, smelling and feeling the air around me as the sun warmed up the morning. I listened to birds and insects constantly sound their various signature noises. I watched the even ripple lines my boat carved as I paddled forward. I smelled the salt tang in the air and the marsh aroma, redolent with life. I saw lots of birds and crabs and fish, big and small. A flock of wild turkeys patrolled the marshlands, aware of me but not unduly agitated by the glide of my boat thirty feet from their foray in the grass. Several times during the two hour paddle, beautiful small bright yellow moths buzzed my head. And six cormorants set up a picket line on separate navigation buoys, carefully following my progress and ready to blast away if I came too close.
I was tired at the end of the two hour paddle (and grateful I could do that much after my illness earlier this year), so I got careless in reloading the boat onto the top of the car. Predictably, with the iron laws of gravity and Murphy combining in perfect coherence, I almost lost the boat off the car driving on the highway. So I had to stop and resecure the kayak with a great deal of effort and some extra twine fore and aft. Home safe, I reversed the process of earlier in the day and put everything away. Whew.
The lessons and gifts of the day are many. Time spent in readying things for safe transport is time well spent -- shortcuts can be costly. Beautiful early fall days are fleeting and need to be grabbed and experienced before they give way to gray, cold winter days. Colors and movement and aromas on a day like I had on the water are occasions for prayers of gratitude, of course, but also opportunities to just be aware and take it all in. To be one being in such a wide canvas of creatures feels like a blessing, and that mends the frayed ends of my over-stressed nerves. It was a good day to be alive.
When we're at home, deciding to kayak is a semi-big deal. I have to haul equipment out of the basement, install the rack on my car, lift the kayak onto the rack and tie that down for the car trip to the water. The kayak is almost eighteen feet long and is an awkward sixty pounds whose weight is tricky to manage because it can shift all too easily in the loading, travel and unloading. Murphy's Law fully applies and usually kicks in.
Putting the kayak rack securely on to the car is one of those groaner chores that I can try to skimp on, but end up inevitably paying the price for if I do skimp. Fine finger-eye coordination and hand strength combined do not make my skill-set list, so getting the Thule rack fit to receive my boat tests my patience and my ability to defer gratification, neither of which qualities I have in any abundance.
Suffice it to say, I managed to load up the kayak and make the fifteen minute journey to the Scallop Pond waterways in the woods and wetlands along Peconic Bay. Stepping out of the car, I was immediately struck by the sunshine and warmth, the clear and fragrant air, and the medium strong colors of early fall -- the green grasses going sere and golden, a few russet leaves and the diamond sparkles on the water.
I reversed the loading process and managed to get the boat down off my car roof without hurting me or the kayak, no easy feat. I put on my spray skirt and PFD (personal flotation device) and stuck my cell phone in a waterproof holder I hung around my neck, got into the boat and pushed off.
Sometimes I am so stressed and hungry for a workout that I paddle hard without interruption for a half hour or more. Not this day. I kept stopping and gliding, listening, looking, smelling and feeling the air around me as the sun warmed up the morning. I listened to birds and insects constantly sound their various signature noises. I watched the even ripple lines my boat carved as I paddled forward. I smelled the salt tang in the air and the marsh aroma, redolent with life. I saw lots of birds and crabs and fish, big and small. A flock of wild turkeys patrolled the marshlands, aware of me but not unduly agitated by the glide of my boat thirty feet from their foray in the grass. Several times during the two hour paddle, beautiful small bright yellow moths buzzed my head. And six cormorants set up a picket line on separate navigation buoys, carefully following my progress and ready to blast away if I came too close.
I was tired at the end of the two hour paddle (and grateful I could do that much after my illness earlier this year), so I got careless in reloading the boat onto the top of the car. Predictably, with the iron laws of gravity and Murphy combining in perfect coherence, I almost lost the boat off the car driving on the highway. So I had to stop and resecure the kayak with a great deal of effort and some extra twine fore and aft. Home safe, I reversed the process of earlier in the day and put everything away. Whew.
The lessons and gifts of the day are many. Time spent in readying things for safe transport is time well spent -- shortcuts can be costly. Beautiful early fall days are fleeting and need to be grabbed and experienced before they give way to gray, cold winter days. Colors and movement and aromas on a day like I had on the water are occasions for prayers of gratitude, of course, but also opportunities to just be aware and take it all in. To be one being in such a wide canvas of creatures feels like a blessing, and that mends the frayed ends of my over-stressed nerves. It was a good day to be alive.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
This Morning's Walk
Here on Long Island, we're still getting the edges of a pesky low that has unsettled our weather all week. Looking up the neighboring yard, I just saw a brief, beautiful little sun shower that made the grass brilliant and glossy. More often this week, it's been gloomy or humid or rainy. One break this weekend was a drop in temperature, so the nights have been great for sleeping under a blanket or two, and we even had a fire Sunday evening, the first of the season.
When I walked out at 6:00 this morning, it was cool and still early dawn, with just the edges of light. I was walking alone, so I had my i-Pod Nano on shuffle to make the walk easier. The mix was unusual, like my eclectic taste in music. Bob Dylan, The Christ Church Choir of Cambridge University, Aretha Franklin, Mumford & Sons, etc. I love the surprises of the shuffle, particularly when the tune has a beat that picks up my step -- this morning a couple of pieces featuring the Irish skin drum, the bodhran, really worked for me. Johnny "Ringo" McDonagh of Arcady had a sure and insistent hand on the beater that made me walk stronger and almost feel like I was dancing a good quick reel.
The clouds in the building light of the dawn were at first pale silver, and then became almost mauve in the first color the as yet unrisen sun provided. "How can I keep from singing?" goes the old hymn. How, indeed. It's easy to feel gratitude and expansiveness and connection on such a morning. The poets and psalmists of all the traditions have variations on moments like this, with all of creation "glorifying" the Maker. I think the experience they're reflecting is one of wonder, joy and awe at such a beautiful moment -- and gratitude seems the most natural of emotions.
When I walked out at 6:00 this morning, it was cool and still early dawn, with just the edges of light. I was walking alone, so I had my i-Pod Nano on shuffle to make the walk easier. The mix was unusual, like my eclectic taste in music. Bob Dylan, The Christ Church Choir of Cambridge University, Aretha Franklin, Mumford & Sons, etc. I love the surprises of the shuffle, particularly when the tune has a beat that picks up my step -- this morning a couple of pieces featuring the Irish skin drum, the bodhran, really worked for me. Johnny "Ringo" McDonagh of Arcady had a sure and insistent hand on the beater that made me walk stronger and almost feel like I was dancing a good quick reel.
The clouds in the building light of the dawn were at first pale silver, and then became almost mauve in the first color the as yet unrisen sun provided. "How can I keep from singing?" goes the old hymn. How, indeed. It's easy to feel gratitude and expansiveness and connection on such a morning. The poets and psalmists of all the traditions have variations on moments like this, with all of creation "glorifying" the Maker. I think the experience they're reflecting is one of wonder, joy and awe at such a beautiful moment -- and gratitude seems the most natural of emotions.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Language for A Season of Loss
(Excerpted from a talk given for the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of the South Fork, Bridgehampton NY, Sept. 25, 2011)
Several years reflecting on my work with trauma survivors taught me that the same God I believed in before the trauma would not survive the trauma. My own "dark night of the soul" [a life threatening illness] led me to a less certain, but deeper experience.... I came to know in my bones that sometimes the best thing to say about God is no-thing -- silence about God is sometimes the most eloquent word.
But words can also touch us and feel true....the words that come to mind to describe that experience are ones like mystery, connection, light in darkness, strength, power, hope, peace, friend and, of course, love. They're the old words certainly, but they're brand new when they're filtered through experiences like sickness, dying, losing a loved one or the shock of divorce. Those experiences make us feel like grown ups, and those old words take on a new and deeper meaning....
I look to people like veterans, cops, firefighters, medics, cancer survivors and Alzheimers caregivers to catch the faint signals that love is deeper than hate and despair, that hope is not stupid, or that while we can be beasts at times, we can also be sisters and brothers. Maybe I can't mend your body, but I can help mend your heart on the hard days and you can do the same for me....
....a few weeks ago after Hurricaine Irene passed, we went down to the ocean in Southampton and saw the mighty churning of the waves as the remnant winds roiled those waters. Another time, years ago I stood as close as I dared to the edge of Niagra Falls as those waters poured over the edge of the Falls. When I'm looking across a flooding river or I'm close by a surging ocean, I can hold on to hope. There is a Bridge. Raising my arms in thanks, even when it hurts, there is a Bridge. Looking deep inside my own broken heart, there is a Bridge. And maybe the most astonishing truth out of this darkness and pain....? The fact that you and I are that Bridge for each other. My look for what's godly in this life finds a good start there....
(cf. Aretha Franklin Live at the Fillmore West on iTunes for her version of "Bridge over Troubled Waters")
Several years reflecting on my work with trauma survivors taught me that the same God I believed in before the trauma would not survive the trauma. My own "dark night of the soul" [a life threatening illness] led me to a less certain, but deeper experience.... I came to know in my bones that sometimes the best thing to say about God is no-thing -- silence about God is sometimes the most eloquent word.
But words can also touch us and feel true....the words that come to mind to describe that experience are ones like mystery, connection, light in darkness, strength, power, hope, peace, friend and, of course, love. They're the old words certainly, but they're brand new when they're filtered through experiences like sickness, dying, losing a loved one or the shock of divorce. Those experiences make us feel like grown ups, and those old words take on a new and deeper meaning....
I look to people like veterans, cops, firefighters, medics, cancer survivors and Alzheimers caregivers to catch the faint signals that love is deeper than hate and despair, that hope is not stupid, or that while we can be beasts at times, we can also be sisters and brothers. Maybe I can't mend your body, but I can help mend your heart on the hard days and you can do the same for me....
....a few weeks ago after Hurricaine Irene passed, we went down to the ocean in Southampton and saw the mighty churning of the waves as the remnant winds roiled those waters. Another time, years ago I stood as close as I dared to the edge of Niagra Falls as those waters poured over the edge of the Falls. When I'm looking across a flooding river or I'm close by a surging ocean, I can hold on to hope. There is a Bridge. Raising my arms in thanks, even when it hurts, there is a Bridge. Looking deep inside my own broken heart, there is a Bridge. And maybe the most astonishing truth out of this darkness and pain....? The fact that you and I are that Bridge for each other. My look for what's godly in this life finds a good start there....
(cf. Aretha Franklin Live at the Fillmore West on iTunes for her version of "Bridge over Troubled Waters")
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