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Macrina's Journal: Journaling is an important spiritual practice for me. Each morning I sit under my sycamore tree and journal. If weather does not permit or if I am traveling I see the sycamore tree with my heart’s eye. This is the same tree that I talk about on page 133 of my book, A Tree Full of Angels. It’s the tree I once used as a spiritual director. It was young then. Now, like myself, it is looking toward the evening of life. It’s my inspiration tree. It holds stories and I listen. In this journaling section I will share with you (one each month) selections from my daily journal. Happy Journaling to all who come to my window for you, too, must have hearts full of things that must be said.
December 2008 I have been pondering all those “in the beginning” times of my life and have become aware that I am almost always more faithful in the beginning. In the beginning of any season: autumn, winter, spring and summer as well as the beautiful liturgical seasons of Advent and Lent. In the beginning of each season I glow with hopeful anticipation of the gift of the new season. I journal faithfully and seem to pray all the right prayers. I am grateful for the new season that has entered my life. Likewise, each time I begin a new journal I taste the joy of one of those in the beginning times. Recently I have been reading through my old journals and it is so obvious that at the beginning of the journal my faithfulness shines through even in the legibility of my penmanship. In the beginning I never scribble. I write slowly, purposefully, reflectively. What I write appears to be blessed and anointed. It has substance and I don’t whine very much. But then something happens. Just like the seasons, the newness wears off and my beautiful in the beginning dries up like a brook in summer’s heat. Words don’t flow quite so well. The illegibility of my writing suggests that hurriedness has returned and the slow thoughtful process of my in the beginning time has disappeared. Even as I write this I see what a marvelous topic for reflection this could be… I doubt that I am the only person who understands something of the struggle of remaining faithful to my original love.
I wanted to write about discovering a new room in my soul, but I found instead an old room suffering from neglect. I came to the country to pray—away from my office, from schedules and conversations and anxiety. I was going to build on an extension to my life: a new soul room that I could slip into when I needed a great deepening. I soon discovered it doesn’t work that way. The most praying I can say I have done is that I refrained from incessant working. I sat quietly in an easy chair and gazed out into the meadow mindlessly. Was that prayer? I slowly cooked up a comfortable pot of soup. Was that praying? I read from the scriptures and from Eckhart Tolle’s book, The New Earth. I read slowly not trying to figure out the meaning of each sentence. I read as though I was walking though a garden keeping company with the plants and flowers. Was that prayer? I fed the donkey slices of apples and pears. Was that prayer? I sat by the pond watching the dragonflies darting through the air, sunlight picking up the iridescent colors in their transparent wings. Was that prayer? I sat in candle light trying to be present to the age-old mystery that ever so sweetly haunts me without end—always the mystifying haunting. Was that prayer? I’m not sure—perhaps it doesn’t matter if I prayed or not. Perhaps prayer is simply connecting with the Source of my life. Perhaps I don’t have to build a new room for my soul after all. Perhaps the room has been here with me all the while just waiting to be discovered. Perhaps it is about being utterly present to WHAT IS without analyzing it or trying to own it. Perhaps it is about putting away my tools of production (on occasion) and just being with the mystery. Perhaps it is about not tying to figure out if I am praying or not; and I have been told that the truly wise ones, having learned not to hurry, even pray as they work.
A prayer: All through the day I have tried to find a place for you God, tried to fit you into my schedule and into my busyness. Now at last when I am so tired that I’m about to fall asleep even trying to think about You, I am trying to give you my worn out, left over moments and it isn’t working. Although I know this is not ideal I still entertain visions of you looking with love on what’s left of me. Thank you for your ever abiding presence. Even though I have not put you first today, breathe on these fragments of me. Revive me that I may rise tomorrow with a renewed heart and spirit. Restore my tomorrow’s heart with a vibrant faithfulness. Give me an enthusiastic spirit and longing to serve you and others with love. Fill me with the wisdom to know that if I give you the first hour of my day I will become stronger to do the work I must do each day. Shelter me O God. Hide me in the shelter and shadow of your wings. ©Macrina Wiederkehr
June 2008 Revise me, go ahead, I give Creator of Life—You who lived with me in my mother’s womb, continue to make of me a new creation. It has been a long time since my first birthday. It is easy to forget about that little creature who was created in your image. It is easy to forget who I am. Actually they forgot to tell me on the day of my birth but in some secret part of my being I always suspected my origin. I knew I came from You. I want to be in the world as truly as the day of my birth. Pure potential!. New being! Love in process! That is who I am. May my birthday never end. But I have forgotten the day of my birth. I have added things to my life that you never intended. So now dear author of my life take your red pen. Edit me. Revise me and Reshape me. Mold and Sculpt me into the person that you know I long to be. Finally I am ready. To Be! What a noble profession! Yet, to be is so scary—to live with none of the masks I’ve acquired since birth! To live alive, with nothing but truth, love and consciousness as my clothing. Is there any possible way to truly BE. Such a little word with such immense meanings. Edit me that I may see more clearly my divine self, my passion and my love, my grace, my self that is no-self, my source and origin. Edit me that I may touch my Infinite Possibilities, my Pure Potential and my Sacred Emptiness. Take my tortured ego self and breathe on it. Alter me. Transform me. The vast, unlimited revelation of my deepest self cries out, “Revise me.” Take your red pen. I give you permission to edit me. Rearrange my life in colors of truth that I may be your new word-made-flesh. Take the lyrics of my life and set them to music. Sing through me. Dance in me. Be born in me each day. Let me become an ever unfolding hallowed emptiness blossoming into your image. If this can happen in my life then every day will be my birthday.
©Macrina Wiederkehr
May 2008 It is a windy day, entirely too windy for successful kite flying. I find myself pondering the fact that wind is one of the symbols of the Holy Spirit. I have never cared much for strong wind. Wind annoys me with its insistence on blowing things out of place. Yet with the feast of Pentecost so near I decide to allow the holy wind’s disturbance and pray about the things in my life that need to be blown out of place. And so I pray, O Wind of the Spirit, blow over the dead bones of me and resurrect a surprising and friendly new life. Blow away negative thoughts; replace them with hopeful dreams. Blow away critical thoughts; replace them with affirming words. Blow away busyness; replace it with a desire to take more time for building a rich interior life. Blow away anxiety; replace it with budding trust. Blow away unnecessary doubt; replace it with joyful hope. Blow away careless indifference; replace it with steadfast love. O Wind of the Spirit, blow out of place all that prevents me from being my best self. Then after you have turned over my life with the energetic force of your dynamic breath, send that transforming breath into my being that I may rise again renewed. O Breath of God, transform my unconscious way of living into a vibrant, alive and enlivening way of being in this world.
©Macrina Wiederkehr
April 2008 I first heard about moodling from one of my favorite mentors in the art of writing, Brenda Ueland, the author of If you want to write. Moodling is creative idleness. It is all those things we used to think were bad for us: dawdling, puttering, putzing, daydreaming. Moodling is not the same as laziness. It is a happy, glorious idleness. In a world that is as busy as ours a little moodling might work for our good. To be perfectly honest I have had to work very hard not to feel guilty about moodling and yet after every moodling session I have had bouts of joyful creativity and inspiration that I am certain were born from those happy idling moments. Some of my moodling moments are listed below: Lying in the hammock listening to wind singing through the pines, digging in the earth—planting a butterfly bush, slow mindless meandering walks, raking leaves, sitting under the sycamore tree with my morning coffee, gazing out the window daydreaming, patiently waiting for inspiration, loitering on the sun deck, sitting in candlelight, jotting down beautiful words for later use. really beholding a tree, listening to music, dancing to the music of your soul, watching fireflies, listening to the rain and walking in the rain. Now add your own. Moodling means you are guarding yourself from busyness. You are seeing with your spiritual eye. You are being rehabilitated, renewed and improved. You are protecting your soul space. Of course you can’t moodle all day. One last thought is this: you must moodle alone. Companions, lovely as they may be, are merely distractions when it comes to moodling.
©Macrina Wiederkehr
March 2008 I am having an ALLELUIA right in the middle of Lent. A first copy of my new book, Seven Sacred Pauses: Living Mindfully through the Hours of the Day, has arrived. I sat, for a few moments, in the small chapel outside my office holding it in my hands remembering the many, many months of dreaming it into being. It was both a joyful and a painful labor of love. Most writers will identify with the labor pains. Perhaps there are some writers for whom words come streaming forth non-stop but I am not one of them. It is more like I am digging the words out of the beautiful struggle of my daily life. Although it is true that there are moments when my writing is more like lifting words, ideas and thoughts out of my dreams, that is not a picture of my daily practice. For this particular book, however, I enjoyed many of those dream-lifting moments. I wrote this book for you, whoever you are…you seeking, struggling beautiful human creature—you, who can never find enough time to be the person you truly are. And as I wrote Seven Sacred Pauses I read pieces of it to the trees and plants, the gardens and the meadows, the birds and squirrels, to the rabbits and raccoons, to the earth. And the earth listened; and I prayed that you my readers would be filled with the sacred desire of slowing down and loving the hours of the day. I pray that you will be filled with a deep awareness of the need to find time to do what I call moodling each day. Moodling is something you do best away from your office desk and only the very wise can do it at the computer. In my April journal I will give examples of some of my favorite moodling activities—and even the word, activity sounds a bit harsh for true moodlers. Moodling has to do with soul time. ©Macrina Wiederkehr
Febuary 2008 Each day we emerge anew The soup of my own chaos is richly blessed: seasoned with darkness and light, possibility and despair, blessings and burdens, joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, moments and hours. Each morning I gather the ingredients without noticing that I am gathering them. Hastily I throw them into the vessel of my life and they simmer as I stew. My days are not necessarily dark yet not as brilliant as they might be if I could train myself to remember to salt my soup with radical presence and a little more SLOW. How often I forget both head and heart leaving them in my room on my pillow racing through the hours mindless and heartless. Yet for all the inadequate ways I ply the culinary skills of my life when I come home to my evening stew it is quite tasty and after a time of reflection, I manage to retire in peace in spite of myself. All praise to the Angel of Mystery who companions me through the hours of each day enabling my work to become my love made visible!
©Macrina Wiederkehr
January 2008 THE YEAR OF FINDING LOST TREASURES. My heart I have named, the heart of the hunter. These will be my new names: seeker, hunter, listener, vigil keeper. To the best of my ability, I will try to save one hour each day for nothing but poetry. During my poetry hour I will see poetry, sing poetry, write poetry, read poetry, stand in poetry, walk with poetry, and most of all I will be poetry. I will practice remembering that I am a poem. All this is just a long drawn out way of saying that I want to spend an hour with beauty and truth each day. In searching for lost treasures in my life I will watch carefully for the following:
These are treasures that were once a vibrant part of my life. They are still alive in me but have been neglected because of the busyness of my days. ©Macrina Wiederkehr
December 2007 Advent is a wise season. In our festive scurrying about, preparing to celebrate Christmas, we sometimes fail to notice the wisdom of the Advent teachings. As I prepared my December altar this year I pondered the themes of Advent. One special theme has taken hold of me, asking each day with wordless longing if she can spend more time with me. Her name is waiting. Vigilance, watchfulness, patience and waiting are all part of Advent’s decorations. In our preparation for Christmas, Advent’s face can sometimes remain hidden beneath all the other holiday trimmings. For this reason I love living in a monastery during this season. There are reminders all around me of the call to vigilant living. Thus I try to bring my own small pieces of wisdom to Advent’s great wisdom. I notice with compassionate understanding, that most people do not like to wait. We usually do not head for the longest line in the supermarket. Seldom do we find ourselves rejoicing when the light is red or being content if the car in front of us is not moving as fast as we would like to go. How then shall we learn to wait for God? How shall we wait to see Christ born in one another? If we are too impatient, will we notice the small transformational changes unfolding in the lives of those with whom we live and work? As we open our hearts to the eternal movements within us, we beautiful human creatures can discover our potential for awakening to the unfolding of grace in our lives. With practice, we might learn and even yearn to turn all moments of waiting into vigils. Every moment of waiting can become a little vigil. As we stand in the many “lines” of our lives or sit in the doctor’s office waiting, our hearts may turn toward those with whom we wait in loving awareness. We can learn, with practice, to keep vigil with the ones with whom we wait. They too, like us, have hearts full of stories of anxiety, hope, fear, yearning, sorrow and joy. The Eternal One also waits for us in the ground of our being. Let us practice keeping vigil with the Mystery. (See #3 song on Velma Frye’s new CD, Seven Sacred Pauses) This morning at mass our chaplain spoke of the spiritual power of “YES.” A friend speaks of the blessed energy of “YES.” Quietly I pray about how I might apply this spiritual power and blessed energy to the practice of waiting. Perhaps during this special season we might practice saying YES to the fine art of waiting. Waiting is a natural part of our lives: Create your own list of “waitings” and bless it with your breath. In the following days, watch yourself wait. ©Macrina Wiederkehr
October 2007 I am writing a book on the value of pausing before you are finished with your work and it seems I have forgotten my own sweet rule. This is the reason some of you have had to write and remind me that I haven’t shared my journal for awhile. “Remember to pause,” I keep telling my retreatants and readers. “Remember to pause,” I reminded myself early this morning. And I did! I went out to my sycamore tree before dawn, sat in my cedar swing and thought about things. It was still dark. There was a large slice of moon cradling Venus, circled by a myriad of smaller stars. It a was real standout in the eastern sky. I took a gasp of delight and then quite naturally I was drawn into silence and joy. Beauty often does that for me. Although I am aware that taking time for beauty is a spiritual act, our dear world’s multitasking way of living has crept into monastic life—alas, and so I have to add to my list of spiritual practices: take some time each day to pause for beauty. After a little while I didn’t even look at the star show anymore. I just sat in silence, aware that I was being anointed by beauty. I cannot begin to explain the value of entering deeply into silence. It is something you must experience for yourself. Actually the silence is already in you. It’s waiting for you. Sometimes it’s good to put away your words and thoughts and sink into that place and space of nada. It may seem scary at first but slowly the scary part goes away and you discover a whole new land within you. Way down there underneath all of your anxieties and fears, underneath the noise of many words, away from your ipods and cell phones and e-mail messages—away from everything that might talk to you there is a pool of silence and when you look into that pool you see the face of God. If you go to that place often eventually you will be anointed with joy. It will be a joy that keeps company with you even in the midst of your sorrows. And so I invite you just as I daily invite myself: Remember to Pause. ©Macrina Wiederkehr
June 2007 THE WOMAN WHO COULD BE YOU: Luke 9: 43-48 Weary and desperate she pushed through the crowd searching for healing—the woman without a name. Who is she? She could be anyone. She could be you. Discouraged with the burdens of life and poor health, she had her eye on Jesus. She settled for touching the fringe of his garment and although that touch cost her dearly it also blessed her with the healing for which she yearned. “Who touched me,” Jesus asked. That costly touch took away her privacy. She was singled out and her faith became public knowledge. Her intrusion into Jesus’ space made her vulnerable. “Power went out from me,” Jesus said. How I admire this faith-filled woman who took the risk to push through the anonymous crowd seeking healing. I, too, need healing. Sometimes when I look for the fringe of Jesus’ garment with my meager supply of faith, I suspect that even with my little faith I am standing knee-deep in grace. I need only open my eyes to see the hem of God’s garment all around, waiting for my touch. I touch the hem of Jesus’ garment each time I celebrate Eucharist or participate in the Sacraments. Every leaf, every blade of grass—indeed the entire created universe are all parts of the holy tassel of the Divine. Every kind deed that flows from my belief in the great commandment of love is like touching the hem of that garment. There are even times when, I too, risk my reputation as I push through the crowds daring to take my stand for something I believe in. All praise to that daring faith-filled woman who could be you or me! ©Macrina Wiederkehr
May 2007 Keeping Vigil is a part of my every day life that I frequently fail to notice. When I am in my “not-noticing-mode” I am often just waiting with anxiety rather than keeping vigil. Recently I had the graced opportunity to keep vigil all night long. I had to work at recognizing the grace but eventually it became visible. It happened like this. A Sister in my community fell and fractured her shoulder. We waited in the emergency room from 9:30 PM until 5AM. During that time I thought a lot about waiting, something I ordinarily abhor. We were waiting to be called—to be received into caring hands that would attend to my sister’s wound. And while we were waiting I watched other people who were waiting. You can tell quite a lot about what folks are like by watching them wait. Some are restless and angry. Some curl up in a chair and try to sleep. Some are sympathetic with other waiters. Some tell stories about why they are waiting. Some use this time of waiting to catch up on their reading. Some make new friends. There are even those who use this time to meditate. Waiting is never easy but it can become a blessing. We can change every moment of waiting into a vigil—a watch in the night (or, sometimes the day). I don’t know exactly the moment my waiting turned into a vigil on that long night spent in the emergency room—but it did happen. Shortly after midnight something turned over in my soul. I closed my eyes and drew into my heart all the people in that waiting room. I prayed for healing for all of us. I thought of the nurses who were trying so hard to be present and kind during that long night with only one doctor available. I kept vigil with them. This morning (before catching a few hours of sleep) I lit a candle for everyone who was part of my community of waiters during that long night watch. I, prayed, too for everyone who would have to wait today: in the traffic, in food lines, at the revenue office, in the doctor’s office, for job offers, etc. May we all discover our vigilant hearts. ©Macrina Wiederkehr
April 2007 At long last, having diagnosed the cause of my spirit’s weariness, I wrote my own prescription for the medicine of deep listening. No pills recommended; just spending three days at Hesychia, our community House of Prayer. It is not what the doctor ordered. It is what I, with my own inside eyes, finally recognized that I needed. How good it is to put all work aside for a short while—all, except the spiritual work of deep listening. How dear it has been to sit on my porch at dusk (I love porches) and watch the sky fill up with stars. How good that night allows me to see what is always present, the stars. This is also symbolic of the painfully dark times in my being. Sometimes this inner darkness provides me with the opportunity to see things that I miss on those ordinary, bright and sunny days of my life. Much insight that can come with spiritual darkness when we find the grace to just let it be and not fight it. There are inner stars as well as the stars of the heavens. Not only have I watched the night sky fill up with stars. In daylight, too, I watch the trees fill up with leaves—slowly, slowly, a little more each hour. This, too, is good medicine, inviting me into deep listening. I have closed my books. I am reading only the pages of creation. My spirit is growing strong again. I am getting well. I am like King Author drinking from the Holy Grail and crying out with new awareness. “I never knew how empty I was, until I was filled.” I, too, am drinking from the Holy Grail. ©Macrina Wiederkehr
January 2007 My prayer for the new year has been, Last day of January! Oh my! One of my friends has been trying to get me to become a blogger but I suspect if I struggle to get one journal entry a month posted I should not aspire to a higher vocation such as blogging. On January 1 as I sat quietly in my place of prayer I said to myself, “Dear self, I have some good advice for you. Listen up. Instead of making all these elaborate new years resolutions that you promptly break, try instead to think of one giant WISH that you have. Bring it out of the depth of your being. Spend the whole year yearning for this “WHATEVER WISH” you choose. Resolutions can be broken but not wishes. You just keep on wishing. You continue to yearn. Your desire is ever in your soul. And what was this magnificent wish that came to nest in my heart on New Year’s Day? Simply this: From this day forward I wish to banish phrases such as, “I don’t have time,” or, “I’m so busy,” from my conversations. Oh, and one last little wish. I wish to walk more slowly (unless, of course, I’m walking for my health) Did I break my resolution? No! There was no resolution to break. Am I still wishing? Yes!
©Macrina Wiederkehr
December 2006 This morning I sat in the darkness and experienced the coming of the light. I have waited for the light often but this morning something was different. The quality of my presence was more radical. I could almost feel the cloak of light being wrapped around me. It was the light of God surrounding me. It was heaven’s light visiting me, permeating me through and through. How limiting it is to imprison the Holy One in the heavens! Never, never, never keep God locked in heaven. That’s why Jesus came—to show us the face of God. And now it is Advent, the season when God’s light in the form of Jesus shone upon and within the world. But that’s only part of the good news. The very tender truth of Jesus shining forth the face of God has been bequeathed to us. Now we, too, can radiate the holy light. I will try to remember this when I walk through a crowd of people. I, too, am the light of the world. ©Macrina Wiederkehr
November 2006 On the feast of All Saints Day (Nov 1) while praying with the assigned gospel for the day’s liturgy which was the Beatitudes (Mt 5: 1-12), I begin to wonder what the ten commandments would sound like presented to us as BLESSINGS rather than THOU SHALT NOTS: This is what I came up with: The Ten commandments in the language of BLESSINGS.
©Macrina Wiederkehr
October 2006 Dawn, most gracious gift! The words of Kahlil Gibran are meandering through my mind this morning: To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving. These words from Psalm 5 also wander about in my soul trying to get my attention: I arise before dawn and cry for help. Well guess what! I didn’t rise at dawn and cry for help nor did I wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving. It was my intention to rise at dawn and do all these things but it just didn’t happen this day. When my heart can find its wings my morning prayer always seems to be a bit purer but sometimes my wings remain folded. This morning my wings were folded yet prayer still happened in me. It was a tad bit after dawn that my rising took place. The morning was still young and my prayer was spent very simply in just trying to remember some of the things that need to rise in me. —to name a few: —a tolerance for those who don’t agree with me As I remembered these necessary risings in my life the wings of my heart slowly started to unfold.
September 2006 Drops of water from yesterday’s rainstorm fall on me now and then as I sit under my Sycamore tree in summer’s green temple. Soon the gold will come but green still has its influence. I have been away too long—away from the earthiness of nature. The computer age has done this to me. I have become much too walled up. I must make plans to spend more time here—like maybe a small piece of every day. Reading and writing outside needs to become an essential part of every morning. I refuse to bring my laptop out under the tree. Sometimes just reading a good book outside is so enjoyable. I laughed out loud as I read an article by Roy Blount from the Spring 2006 Author’s Guild Bulletin. He says, “Nothing is ever going to replace books for me. Even if they do invent a laptop that you can spill tomato sauce on, shake sand out of and read in the tub.” These are my sentiments exactly. And the book I have been reading for a second time under the Sycamore tree is Lynne Hinton’s novel, The Arms of God. In this early morning hour there are never long lines trying to take possession of this cedar swing flanked by Sycamore branches and I sometimes wonder what folks have against morning. I suppose it is not so much that anyone is against morning. It’s just that in this present age even monastics seem to have become nocturnal creatures like the skunks that I have to be careful of when I come out just before dawn. And now as the rays of the sun begin shining through the pine trees I gaze at this natural slide show and ask myself, Where is everyone? If this unfolding of the day took place only once a year everyone would be here waiting for the miracle. Because it is a daily miracle it is taken for granted—too ordinary for anyone to show up. But that’s ok. I love my solitude as I lift up my heart on this fresh new morning.
August 2006 This morning, for some reason, an image came to me of the little table in my childhood home where we kept our Bible. I found this image very tender and telling. The bible that was honored in its special place was seldom opened. We rarely read the Bible in those days. We heard the Gospel read in church but we didn’t read the scriptures on a daily basis. As I look back into those days, however, it is clear to me that our home was full of the Word of God—brimful and faith filled. I was enriched later as I began to study and pray the scriptures yet what moves me about this memory is that I realize God is never locked between two covers. This memory of the bible on the table tells me there was a reverence for this special book even though it was only opened to store the treasures we children would bring in from the fields: wild flowers, precious ferns and colored leaves. Without reading it we knew it was a precious book. As I pray the scriptures now I realize that it’s not each individual word that is the Word of God. Rather, it is in the spaces between the words where we live and reflect and sit in silence. There is where we find God—in the spaces between the words. Today I cherish the memory of that small table that held The Word of God.
July 2006 In Regina Sara Ryan’s book, Praying Dangerously, she describes a practice that she calls, “writing one true sentence at a time.” She is talking about writing what is true in your own experience. I was moved by the things she wrote about prayer and wondered, with a little alarm, what kind of true sentences I might write about my experience of prayer.
June 2006 The state of my journal has become deplorable. It’s turning into a diary rather than a journal. This has happened before and it almost always has something to do with the condition of my prayer life. I’m really not all that interested in a record of where I was on specific days, what I did or who I was with. I’m so much more interested in knowing where my soul was in those moments. Did it feel safe with me or was it in hiding? What stirred it to wonder, brought it to new life or gripped it with pain? And why? Have I been in touch with my inner teacher? How well do I listen to the people with whom I live? And what about the God in whom I live and move and have my being? How deep do I drink from the well of God? What are the questions I need to be asking of myself if I am to grow spiritually? This morning I want to make a commitment to be infinitely more attentive to silence—and more observing of my words for they, too, bear resemblance to the Word of God when they come from a heart absorbed in the Word. Each of us is a Word that God has spoken into the world. I wonder what I’ll say today. What will I proclaim with my life? What kind of Good News will I be? It really is a choice. With this in mind, I become more aware of how incredibly important it is that I live awake and that I build some time for silence in each day.
June — July 2005
On this sunny day in June I am drawn to sing the praises of manual labor. As a Benedictine that seems particularly fitting. During my week’s retreat I spent quite a few hours pulling weeds in our labyrinth. All in all it has been good exercise and I am probably coming out of this retreat healthier than when I began. The thought that keeps stirring around in my mind, though, is this: How am I going to keep this labyrinth in good shape without a small herd of volunteers? I did all the right things before building the labyrinth. For weeks before we began, I walked over the area where it was to be built talking to the grass, praising it for its beauty and its constant, faithful growth. I apologized to it, explaining that we would be taking it up and putting it somewhere else where grass was needed. I thanked it for allowing us to disturb it, explaining that pilgrims would be coming to walk the labyrinth we were about to build. These seekers would be searching for meaning in their lives. The labyrinth was to be a spiritual tool to assist those who would come to these holy grounds. I thanked the grass for its part in helping to make the ground holy. Now that the labyrinth has been created I have had to eat many of my words. I never intended to use RoundUp but I had underestimated the enduring spirit of the grass. Although the RoundUp works well on the Bermuda Grass, the Nut Grass is another story. I am convinced that after a fifty year drought it would sing its way out of the earth with renewed vitality. I finally put down the RoundUp. I held up my water bottle and proposed a toast to the resilience of the Nut Grass. This has been a good meditation for me. Would that I could be so animated and vivacious that nothing could tame my growing. My summer lesson is that all of nature is a teacher. Even the Nut Grass that grows right on through the weed block is teaching me. As I continue to pull it out I meditate on what its purpose might be. If you live near Fort Smith, Arkansas you are invited to join me in Nut Grass Meditation at the St. Scholastica Monastery Labyrinth.
November / December 2004 I am forever discovering what good teachers our experiences can be. Recently, after an ear and sinus infection left me with a loss of hearing, I spent fourteen days in almost total silence. While in many ways this was a lonely and scary experience it also became a time of grace for me as I used the silence for reflection. I thought of all the things I’m allowed to hear on a daily basis that I simply take for granted. I prayed with all that I have refused to hear and decided there are some things we can only hear in silence. To live unable to hear is an experience that perhaps everyone would benefit from for awhile. Of course when we believe the hearing loss isn’t permanent it is easier to allow the experience to become a teacher. A few days ago Sr. Rachel was proclaiming the scripture reading at Vespers. Although she was moving her lips I could hear no words. Later that night I said to myself, “You know all those words you couldn’t hear today—don’t worry about them. None of them can compare to the unexpected gift of this jewel of silence you have accidentally been given. They were just words, words that you have heard many times and let slide out of your life, unlived. So what’s the big deal? All the words you can’t hear, let them go and listen to the silence. There are some things you can only hear in silence” Then slowly my ears began opening – I kept a record of what I could hear each day. Even sounds I do not ordinarily consider pleasant suddenly became welcome guests in my life… …water running in the sink, the commode flushing, a plane going over, the little cricket that has taken up residence in my room, my alarm clock, the gospel being read during mass, the Sisters singing the Divine Office, the wind in the trees, brown, crumbled leaves blowing through the air, laughter, a voice of affirmation, a harsh, impatient voice, the song of a bird someone sent to me over the internet, and finally, a bird outside my window, our sometimes resident hoot owl, a chair sliding across the floor, the paging system which I could do without, Christmas music, a friendly voice saying, “Thank you.” How
much we take for granted! I hope this Christmas your ears will
be grateful for all the sounds of life. Some of those sounds
will be happy sounds, some may be annoying, unappreciated sounds—but
the joy of it is we can hear. Through our hearing and seeing
God keeps blossoming in our lives. This has been an Advent teaching
for me. The blossoming face of God is everywhere. Even what we
know is soon to be a dead leaf, blossoms with beauty. Death blossoms.
Birth blossoms. New experiences blossom. Every season contains
some kind of blossoming. Spring does not hold the copyright to
blossoming. This Christmas in the midst of all that delights
you and wounds you, in the midst of brokenness and failing health,
divorce and new relationships, broken dreams and new found dreams,
new friends, old friends, familiar faces and strangers—may
you find the blossoming face of God! This is what Christmas is
all about. In all the unexpected turns in your life may the blossoming
face of God be revealed to you.
September / October I’ve been carrying a dream around with me for some time now—the dream of building a labyrinth on our monastery grounds. The best thing to do with a dream is to share it so that it becomes other people’s dream also. A dream all alone is just too lonely. So my dream grew and spread into the hearts of many people who have found a spiritual home here at our Benedictine Spirituality Center in Fort Smith, Arkansas. Thus on Labor Day weekend about twenty-five volunteers from many states gathered on our grounds under the supervision of professional labyrinth builders, Stuart and Mary Bartholomaus of Knoxville, TN and the building began. Visit our web site for pictures. In our menu click on labyrinth: www.scholasticafortsmith.org A labyrinth is a long, circuitous prayer path which has been used in many cultures and religious traditions from ancient times. In the labyrinth, the circle and the spiral unite, creating a meandering path, which when walked slowly and attentively, becomes a metaphor of one’s life journey. The labyrinth is not a maze. there are no dead ends or tricks. The path into the center is the same path that leads out of the center and back into the ordinariness of daily life. I hope that some day you will give yourself the gift of making a retreat at our Center and walking our labyrinth. The path is here waiting for you. The stones that line the path have already been anointed with the prayerful presence of many pilgrims. Some day, perhaps, you will add your presence to our sacred path. One of the positive experiences I had while working on the labyrinth was a return to the earth. Having grown up on a farm where I practically lived outside I was unaware how starved my soul has been for the land. The week of preparing the ground as well as the time spent in creating the labyrinth gave me permission to live outdoors again. My time with the earth and the kinship I experienced in working together as a community on a significant project were two precious gifts I received. At the beginning of our pathway a lovely engraved stone welcomes us to begin our journey with the following words from the prophet Jeremiah: Stand at the roads and look
March/April Many
people are searching for books to use in Faith-Sharing
Groups. Recently I stumbled upon a book. It
is a little treasure that has been hidden in the field
as far as I’m concerned and I want you to know about
it. The title is Becoming Bread by Gunilla Norris and
published by HiddenSpring
Consider
spending time with this book. The poetry and prose will probably
lead you to gathering up some flour, yeast and a mixing bowl.
Forget the electric
bread baker but don’t forget to invite your friends to share love and bread. A second book I recommend for faith-sharing groups is:
The
thirty-one exercises in Mile Markers are called breathers.
You have thirty-one opportunities to sit down and breathe.
I suggest
that you
do this more for your
own sake than for God’s sake. God won’t have a bad
day if you don’t
journey through this book. However, if you choose to make this
journey you might have many good days so why not invite some
companion seekers to sit down and
breathe with you.
February 25, 2004 Today
is Ash Wednesday. I have often heard people speak of how they
dread Lent. As for me, I’ve never felt that way. I look
at this rich spiritual season as a welcome opportunity for
a much needed renewal in my life. I see it as reminder to strive
to be the kind of person that, in my most honest moments, I
truly long to be. This year I want to practice letting the
Spirit of God have full sway in my behavior and thoughts. May
it come to pass!
February 6, 2004 My
dear friend and sister in community, Sr. Fidelis Marie (affectionately
called, “Fide,” begin her final journey home at 4:45
AM this morning, February 6, just one day before her 84th birthday.
I had spent a good part of the last two nights with her and checked
in on her often during the day. I had so wanted to be with her
when she drew her last breath. I was very weary last night (Feb
5) and decided that I wouldn't go up during the night. I intended,
instead, to go up early in the morning and from 4:00 to 5:00
AM.
January 25, 2004 It
is morning ~ the last day of my retreat at our House of Prayer.
Morning is like dessert for me. I never met a morning I didn’t
like. Well! Maybe one or two! My morning prayer has been a medley
of wordless wonders. It began at 5:30 a.m. when I stepped out
my door and stood beneath the umbrella of stars. I’ve had
my prayer of morning fire sitting silently before the stove beholding
the communion of the wood and the flames. Now it is almost 9:30. Another prayer! A covey of quail just landed in the meadow outside my window. I had forgotten how beautiful quail are. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen them. I must check the bird book to see just what kind of quail these are. I recognize them as the kind that I remember from my childhood on the farm. I think we called them Bobwhite. I didn’t know they were around anymore. They are a beautiful addition to my day. Strangely, I felt a special presence, like God had come. Perhaps I’ve been looking for God in all the wrong places. Maybe I need to be more alert to Gods’ landings in my life. Perhaps I need to proclaim the gospel of God coming into my meadow on this new morning. I will go home and tell the good news. I’ll say: Listen! Yesterday morning God came to me in the form of a covey of quail that landed outside my hermitage window. I didn’t recognize God at first. I simply watched the quail gathering grass seeds. They run instead of hop. They were running here and there as though in praise of the new day, in praise of the manna of grass seeds that served as their breakfast. Watching all this with tender, mellow eyes I suddenly felt a Presence surround me. And I realized that God was visiting me in the desert of my prayer life. I came here thinking my prayer life had dried up. Now I have a new moment to treasure. God landing in my meadow with outstretched wings!
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