Rewilding Prayer: How Caim Invites Protection for All of Creation
This week my youngest son started pre-school. And while his mornings will be spent within woodland walls and upon forest floors at a nature preschool, both he and and I were experiencing a deep anxiety around this fundamental shift in our daily rhythm together. I awoke early on his first day of school for a time of meditation and prayer practice on our behalf and for personal preparation.
I began with an embodied, ritualized form of prayer, the Celtic circling prayer.
This week my youngest son started pre-school. And while his mornings will be spent within woodland walls and upon forest floors at a nature preschool, both he and and I were experiencing a deep anxiety around this fundamental shift in our daily rhythm together. I awoke early on his first day of school for a time of meditation and prayer practice on our behalf and for personal preparation.
My spiritual practices come from the Celtic tradition. The Scottish Highlands are in my blood through my maternal line and I grew up with a father who worshipped in the many steepled sanctuary of the mountains. Seeing the natural world as sacred, a fundamental feature of Celtic spirituality, is written into my DNA; it is a cellular response for me to see the numinous within nature. So on this particular threshold morning, I began with an embodied, ritualized form of prayer, the Celtic circling prayer.
Circling prayers, also known as Caim prayers (from the Irish gaelic meaning ‘protection’), are used to create a ring of safety around one's self and their beloveds. It is a way to pray within the physical dimension as it requires the body to actively participate in the supplications of the heart. When one participates with and prays a Caim, the invocation begins with an arm extended outwards, pointer finger set towards the ground tracing the shape of a circle. This intentional act creates a sacred sphere, a space within which the pray-er invokes the protection of the divine. When I pray a Caim, I extend these boundaries beyond my personal reach to include my whole house, my neighborhood, the community in which I live, and the world at large. I encircle a space much larger than myself as a way to include the vast and diverse community of life of which we are fundamentally a part.
By extending the Caim protection beyond my person to include the plants, trees, birds, and other wild-life, I am doing something different than invoking a defense against that which is forbidden, dangerous, or out of control; instead, I am inviting that wild world in, bringing the more-than-human community of life into revered relationship and attunement. I am inviting a way of seeing the wild as wonderous, and in the most ancient of meanings, seeing myself within its ward. Encircling prayers that cast the boundaries beyond our domesticated borders initiate a way of moving through the day that is expectant of mystery and magic as the whole of creation is considered to be within the Caim circle. In this way, Caim becomes an eco-centric way of praying.
And so I prayed a Caim the morning of my son's first day of school, which would be situated on the wild edges of an urban parkland. I chose a prayer befitting the day, knowing where my son would be. This prayer of blessing is one of the earliest known Caim prayers that is attributed to St. Columba, founder of the Iona Abbey:
"Bless to me the sky that is above me, Bless to me the ground that is beneath me, Bless to me the friends--furry, feathered, or fronded--who are around me, Bless to me the love of the Three Deep within me and encircling me and the greater community of life. Amen."
(emphasis my own personal eco-centric addition)
I said these words as I circled, intentionally creating an expectation for the sacred wild to be within our midst this day.
Here is where this day's prayer practice became quite extraordinary. We are fortunate to be able to walk to this sweet outdoor school, but every step away from home towards this new experience was causing my son anxiety and tears. Our route leads us through a wondrous three city-block sidewalk that has mature chestnut and maple trees planted on either side of the path that creates a wooded passage; we have since named it the Tree Tunnel. While walking along this way, a squirrel appeared before us on the sidewalk. While that is not uncommon, we did expect the normal behavior of it scampering up a tree as we drew closer. However, this squirrel did not. Instead, it carefully and slowly approached myself and Cannon who was seated in his stroller. With a steady gaze directed at Cannon, the squirrel continued straight up to him and gently put his paw upon my son's foot. The silence that surrounded these two beings was sacred, a holy moment marked by their communion. This is interbeing, what Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh talks about as that recognition of the connectedness of all life, a way of being that must be reclaimed and protected now more than ever. This is Caim.
After a full minute's pause, the squirrel scampered away, and Cannon turned to me with a rapturous face, exclaiming his empowered readiness to go on to school where the squirrel would be to watch over him, protecting him until my return.
Every day thereafter this week, that squirrel has been awaiting Cannon in the Tree Tunnel and the same ritual ensues. Squirrel appears before Cannon and as we slow to a stop, it approaches him and places his paw upon his leg. Cannon quietly receives this blessing from the wild, a lesson he is too young to have yet unlearned. He inherently knows that nature is not something from which we need protection against, but a relationship in which to be cherished and engaged, a relationship that is within our sacred circle.
Rewilding Practice
Find a place outside where you can practice in the embodied form of the Caim. Back yards, front gardens, public parks, and even sidewalks will do!
Center yourself by taking several deep breaths, tuning in to the sounds of the natural world all around you. You will likely hear human-made sounds too. Don't ignore the anthrophony. Instead, receive these sounds as an invitation to include them in your Caim too.
When you feel ready, position your body facing north. Breath deeply and feel the air within and around you. Stretch out your arm in front of you with your pointer finger extended and pointed to draw a metaphorical, expansive circle that includes the natural world. Slowly turn your body in a clock-wise rotation--going from the cardinal direction north, to east, to south, to west and back again to facing north while saying this simple encircling prayer, adapted to include the greater community of things with whom we live:
- North, “Circle us Spirit, Keep protection near, And danger afar.”
- East, “Circle us Spirit, Keep light near, And darkness afar.”
- South, “Circle us Spirit, Keep peace within, Keep evil out.”
- West, “Circle us Spirit, Keep hope within, Keep doubt without.”
- Back at the North can finish your prayers with: May you be a bright flame before us, May you be a guiding star above us, May you be a smooth path below us, And a loving Guide behind us, Today, tonight, and forever.
Amen.
Trials and Trails that Wound: How We Learn from the Dragon
We are coming into the season of Michaelmas, the ancient festival time of St. Michael who is connected to myths and lore around harvest abundance and more prominently, dragons. St. Michael is an archetypal representation of our inner light and courage that is called forth when scarcity is nigh. This scarcity and its corresponding fear is our dragon, one that we all must meet.
Yes, dragons and the dark woods within which they live, can scar us. But instead of killing the beast in return, can we learn to ride the dragon, and see our scars as sacred?
We are coming into the season of Michaelmas, the ancient festival time of St. Michael who is connected to myths and lore around harvest abundance and more prominently, dragons. St. Michael is an archetypal representation of our inner light and courage that is called forth when scarcity is nigh. This scarcity and its corresponding fear is our dragon, one that we all must meet.
Since the birth of my fourth child, Cannon, and the years in his wake I have found I'm asking how I befriend the dragon--the one that lives in the dark woods of our innermost journey, the one that can claw and snatch. It feels that within the realm of the feminine, there is an invitation that goes beyond conquering to that of kinship. I spoke about this idea at my graduation ceremony, very much having this archetypal myth in mind.
Yes, dragons and the dark woods within which they live, can scar us. But instead of killing the beast in return, can we learn to ride the dragon, and see our scars as sacred?
Learning from the Dragon’s Fiery Fury
We each accepted the call to come here, and with this acceptance in many ways we disappeared from the world, descending into the mysterious, archetypal dark wood. This is the stage of the journey where the epic work of self-reflection takes place with the purpose of renewal and discovery.
This is the time of tests and trials, which serve as fortifiers as we learn to rely upon companions as well as our own developing abilities to move to and through suffering. This requisite stage brings one into the darkest chamber of the heart, a place filled with trauma and treasure, a place through which one must trod to manifest the deeply held desire for transformation.
This is the stumbling along the hard, dark path-time. The descent is disorienting, destabilizing, and in a word: deconstructing. This isn’t just the stuff of legends. This is life well-lived, and it is a quest of meaning-making and discovery. And like any good transformative adventure, there are dragons.
Joseph Campbell would say that this is the part of the journey when dragons emerge from the shadowy wood and must be slain…but this isn’t the way at The Seattle School. Here we have gained knowledge and tools to encounter the dragon. How will we engage its various forms, listen to its terrifying tales, and learn from its fiery fury? For only when we begin to reconstruct together new ways of being through the recovery and discovery of lost pieces of ourselves will we find that the dragon actually becomes a vehicle towards our well-being: here we learn how to train, and ride, dragons.
But first we must find the unknown path, an endeavor that requires much. This is the way of walking through the woods—an arduous journey winding through unfamiliar territory, trying to find the way through, all of which requires endurance, stamina…and inevitably, brokenness. Our brokenness becomes the path back into being.
Here in the dark woods, we trip and fall—scraping, breaking, bruising our way through the requisite phase of finding.
This is the sacred Holy Saturday time where the woods keep silence and watch.
I thought that I met my dragon when I began the work of confronting my story four years ago in the first year foundational course Faith, Hope and Love…the thing that I would primarily fight and wrest…and while that did indeed occur, it proved itself to be more of an entrance to an even darker wood, a longer labyrinth, and one that demanded that I find out who I truly am when the demands of the journey turn treacherous. This is what I now know: the forest forms you.
In the dark of my winter term of my first year at The Seattle School, I became pregnant with our fourth child. This pregnancy proved near fatal for both me and my then-baby who, born too early, was dangerously close to death. As I lay in my own liminal life-shadow, he needed resuscitation, and was placed in NICU for weeks.
We lose much of ourselves during our passage through the dark—in many ways this must occur for the gifts of the transformation to have space to become. 80% of my blood was lost during the emergency birth and replaced with other people’s blood during my reconstructive surgery, creating a much longer and more wearisome journey back to health.
Shortly after I was learning to live with my new wounds, my husband got mono and could barely get out of bed for a month. Then he lost his job and the security of our family’s primary income. By now I remember wondering when this wandering would end—every hard and painful path seemed to be dropping out from underneath us to reveal yet another rocky road.
One dark summer night, with only the street lamp assisting with light, I was harvesting my lavender, hustling it to help put food on the table. While wielding a brand new scythe—and not fully present to its power—I cut a significant portion of my finger off and ended up back in the ER only to begin another long, slow and painful journey to healing. This pain, this part of the dark woods, taught me deep truths about regenerativity—especially as I witnessed my finger literally grow back. Hope indeed is forged in the forest.
I have had to ask the question and face the answer of who would I become after facing such fierce dragons who seemed to cut and jeer in the face of my becoming. How could I befriend the foe and their fire?
It has been said that the wise one limps. You will know wisdom not by one who walks upright, whole, and strong, but one who walks humped and slumped, scarred by the trials and trails that wound.
We gather today, robed with honor, distinction, and wisdom. These robes would say to the world that we are now wisdom-bearers. Ones who have risked much for priceless gain. These robes become your story to steward, not to hoard. May these hoods continue to call forth courage, for this dress required a fight with dragons that will forever remind us of what we have been through, the deep woods through which we have come.
Keep alive the memory of the woods for they have proven to be the greatest of teachers. For deep roots are reached through the forest. And don’t forget the dragon’s fire, fashioned now into foresight. Don’t let it slip from your heart, for that which wounded us has also healed us.
Lest this become a tale forgotten, finger your scars as a reminder of your journey in the case the limp you now bear does not.
May you learn to love your limp and see your scars as sacred as you leave this place, wise from your time in the woods.
Watch the video of Mary DeJong delivering this script at the 2017 Seattle School of Theology & Psychology Commencement ceremony here.
Seminary Musings: Connected to the Other through the Stars and Soil
Friends,
On this Day of Epiphany, and before my next term at school holds my time hostage once again, I wanted to take a moment to share some of the emerging thoughts that have been personally prominent these past few months. As we take time today to reflect on the legendary Three Wise Men, kingly magis who had deep knowledge of the links between the Divine and the cosmos, may we too ponder how we invite our celestial neighbors to inform our sense of awe of the Grand Story in which we continue to participate.
On this Day of Epiphany, and before my next term at school holds my time hostage once again, I wanted to take a moment to share some of the emerging thoughts that have been personally prominent these past few months. As we take time today to reflect on the legendary Three Wise Men, kingly magis who had deep knowledge of the links between the Divine and the cosmos, may we too ponder how we invite our celestial neighbors to inform our sense of awe of the Grand Story in which we continue to participate.
I returned to seminary with an understanding that I needed a framework of academy and community to speak into inklings and intuitions that I have based my vocational experiences upon. My work of the last 10 years has been based on ideas that promote living on behalf of the Other and the Future as a way of delving into a meaningful life that furthers the peace of heaven on earth. These reflections have led me to actively engage our urban neighborhood in a call to see our local urban forest as both "other" and the future in that there has been a traditional treatment of this land that is akin to oppression, misalignment, marginalization and fear. My hunch over the last many years has drawn connections with how we treat our native landscapes and how we treat one another. It is no longer a surprise that this particular Southeast Seattle forest is also one that is stymied by outdated models of conservation and policies that have prevented and prohibited access by the City's most diverse and traditionally underserved community.
This is all to say, the intersection of urban place, the environment, and how this all informs our spiritual identity has been driving my academic pursuits, and will continue to be the lens from which I look at my learnings and studies. I would like to share with you all my "Theological Anthropology" paper that was assigned for one of my courses last term. Yes, this is a vulnerable display of my academic blunderings, but my desire is to stay transparent with my Waymarkers community in what I'm learning, and where, I (and this on-line community) is heading in the future. I would love to hear your thoughts and reflections on this paper! With that, please do read on with great grace for my professional attempts. Perhaps a bringing along cup of tea would assist in the softening of the reading! And may this be an invitation for us all to be like the Three Wise Men, and continue to look up to the stars as guidance for our journey on the soil of this good earth below.
A Theological Anthropology: Loving Your Neighbor Well Through the Land
Different faith traditions from all over the world uphold the basic tenants of The Golden Rule or the ethic of reciprocity. Echoes of this wise code, from Hinduism (“Treat others as you would yourself be treated.”) to Native American spirituality (“Live in harmony, for we are all related.”), carry a similar semblance of the demand that people treat others in a manner in which they themselves would like to be treated (Princeton University, Ethic of reciprocity, n.d.). The intrinsic morality that is bound in this maxim, as delivered by YHWY in Leviticus 19:18, “Love your neighbor as yourself: I am the LORD,” contains essential attributes of the way humanity is called to live in connection with the Creator through kinship with others on this planet. The triune nature of the Trinity makes God’s self known through diversity in relationships with the other and revelation through Nature, and subsequently models and informs how one lives wholly and well in intentional relationship with other people and things. It is through the mutual respectful engagement of all living things—be it neighbor or nature—that a justice-oriented response to living occurs; one that discovers and responds to the goodness of God through the integrated presence, and subsequent love, of the other and the natural world.
The Western Judeo/Christian ethical standard to love one’s neighbor as one’s self demands that one exists fully and well when in relationship with human beings and other living things for it is in the exposure and experience with others that God is encountered. With the call to love one’s neighbor as much as one’s self, there is an inherent challenge to enter into a degree of relationship that removes the other from a place of isolated alienation to a place in the community, even to the extent of being the one who literally lives next door. By use of the glaring call within Jesus’ story of the Good Samaritan in Luke 10:29, Guitiérrez (2000) courageously claims that love for God is activated by loving the neighbor, particularly the wounded or needy (p. 149). Guitiérrez dares people of faith to see the neighbor as someone other than the like-minded person with whom one shares similar dreams and passions, and adjacent real estate in a suburban cul-de-sac. He states, “The neighbor is not the one whom I find in my path, but rather the one in whose path I place myself, the one whom I approach and actively seek” (Guitiérrez, 2000, p. 153). Based on an intentional relocating of the other, or relocating to become neighbors to the other, one can shift objectifying macro-perceptions to the personal, integrated stuff of one’s very own lives, and lean into the dynamic lifestyle of transforming Other to Neighbor to Self where the self-preservation with which one is born is willfully desired for all who live and exist.
This justice-oriented approach of integrating the other into one’s daily life finds theological grounding in Jürgen Moltmann’s (1993) ecological doctrine of creation. The monotheistic standpoint of God resulted in a historical perception of a God that was disconnected from the created world, but maintained a powerful presence as ruler and owner of all therein. Moltmann (1985) states, “As a result, the human being—since he was God’s image on earth—…was bound to confront his world as its ruler” (pg. 1). As dominator, the human being could be excused from a relationship with all of creation and move into roles of objectifier and oppressor. This role as ruler, which again allowed the human to relate to a monotheistic God, justified actions against anyone other-than-himself and an exploitative use of the earth and its resources. This way of understanding God clearly has ill effects on the globe and its community; therefore Moltmann (1985) offers a Trinitarian perspective of God that binds all of humanity and creation in a relationship created for the common good:
If we cease to understand God monotheistically as the one, absolute subject, but instead see him in a Trinitarian sense as the unity of the Father, the Son and the Spirit, we can then no longer, either, conceive his relationship to the world he created as a one-sided relationship of domination. We are bound to understand it as an intricate relationship of community.
(p. 2)
The Trinitarian nature of God provides a relational model that mandates a knowledge and understanding of the other, and a relationship that results in a bond from stranger to that of neighbor.
This transformational process is made available because of the incarnational nature of God and the Christian’s call to embody Christ. The nature of God is relational as seen in the Trinity; therefore we are bound to understand God in relationship with community. Barsness (2006) understands this relational encounter as hallowed when he states “Our relationships must be held sacred, for it is the nature of God to reveal himself incarnationally” (p. 45). It is in relationship with others, where Christ is embodied, and where humanity becomes the Imago Christi. So, when care is extended for others, it is Christ caring; when forgiveness is offered, it is Christ forgiving; when reconciliation is engaged, it is Christ healing and reconciling through the embodiment of the human experience. To dispense God’s healing and wholeness through encounters with others, to be present to their pain and needs requires a physical presence to those wounded places and people. Martin Buber (1970) would say, “God is present when I confront you. But if I look away from You, I ignore him. As long as I merely experience or use you, I deny God. But when I encounter You I encounter him (p. 28). It is in this call to the genuine encounter with another human being or life with nature (Buber, 1970, p. 57) that Moltmann’s (1985) doctrine of creation and Guitiérrez’s (2000) liberation theology weave together into a critical challenge for humanity in the 21st century; the future of fecund life on this planet will be determined by the ability to extend justice and love for neighbor to include the rights of the earth and the greater community of things with whom life is shared on this planet. Indeed, to be an image-bearer of the Imago Christi involves loving respect for all of God’s creatures.
Moltmann (1985) states, “The dignity of human beings is unforfeitable, irrelingquishable and indestructible” (p. 33). To see the human in a state of inherent goodness transforms how one views the other and has vast implications for how relational engagement ensues. To stand with an understanding of created dignity invites one to seek out the Divine in one another; we are challenged with the beauty of truly encountering the Imago Dei in others in our neighborhood. Furthermore, this posture of dignity has implications for the planet and beyond. Aquinas says: “God wills that humans exist for the sake of the perfection of the universe” (as sited in Fox, 2011, p. 28). This same inherent goodness can be applied to the natural world, which also participates in worship and adoration of the Creator God. Aquinas also stated:
Because the Divine goodness could not be adequately expressed by one creature alone, God has produced many and diverse creatures so what is wanting in one in the representation of divine goodness might be supplied by another. Thus the whole universe together participates in the divine goodness. (p. 28)
This is a celebration of the diverse order of created things and underscores the importance of a relational view of the diversity of the Trinity. This perspective also recovers a sense of the sacred in local neighborhoods and the greater landscapes beyond by acknowledging the inherent goodness and revelatory means of Creation. However, implicit in the genuine encounters available with the other on a sidewalk or forested trail, is the need to rediscover the vastness of God’s immanence beyond our world. There is a need to recover a sense of this grand divine cosmos, a whole in which all of humanity participates as image bearers of God.
The Imago Christi participates in this elaborate perspective as well. Cultural historian and spiritual ecologist Thomas Berry (1987) is explicit in placing his vision in the lineage of the Cosmic Christ, which is written of in John’s Gospel (Christ as the ‘light in all things’). He writes:
If Saint John and Saint Paul could think of the Christ form of the universe, if Aquinas could say that the whole universe together participates in the divine goodness more perfectly and represents it better than any single creature whatever, and if Teilard could insist that the human gives to the entire cosmos its most sublime mode of being, then it should not be difficult to accept the universe itself as the primordial sacred community. (p. 38)
This is a clear and grand picture beyond the anthropocentrism from which the Christian consciousness needs to depart; a move in this direction not only affirms the dignity of humanity, but that of the other, which includes the vast and great cosmic community of which our planet is a part. This is a bold movement from seeing God as the absolute subject, which increasingly stripped God of his connection with the world (Moltmann, 1970, p. 1).
The effects of a monotheological thought regime has wreaked havoc on the marginalized and on our planet. In fact, it could be argued that geoengineering (the intentional large-scale modification of the earth and weather patterns by dominating humans) schemes have become uniformly disastrous as we see the heart-wrenching effects of damming and deforestation on our planet and within our communities (Jenson, 2013, p. 11). McFague (2002) provides a helpful theological framework of traditional models of the God-world relationship and why these models result in thought patterns and behaviors that are detrimental to the earth, the greater community of things, and ultimately, even personally. She suggests a critical shift to the agential model by asserting that the world is God’s body (p. 40). To understand this in light of Buber’s (1970) life-with-nature relational sphere allows one to fully accept and engage the natural world as revelatory (p. 58). While Buber would have understood this relation to be with individual animals, rocks, or elements, this intentional awareness of the potential of a genuine encounter with the natural world is evidenced when he writes, “something lights up and approaches us from the course of [its] (the tree) being” (Kramer, 2003, p. 52-53). During an I/Thou encounter with a natural thing, there is the unique particularity of the thing that “speaks;” this is relational evidence that the created world emanates from the Creator. The resulting effect of Buber’s (1970) relational sphere with the natural world and McFauge’s (2002) agential model offers freedom to live fully and transformational into local neighborhoods, thus affecting global trends.
To divorce God’s presence from the created world has had profound effects on the human and community experience. The resulting disconnect from nature can be seen the world over; while it is evidenced in the power-over posture that has resulted in geoengineering sciences, it is also evident on local levels in how traditional cities have been designed with little access to Nature in mind. “People with less access to nature show relatively poor attention or cognitive function, poor management of major life issues, poor impulse control,” says Frances Kuo, a professor at the University of Illinois, adding that humans living in a neighborhood stripped of nature undergo patterns of social, psychological, and physical breakdown similar to those observed in animals deprived of their natural habitat. “In animals, what you see is increased aggression, disrupted parenting patterns, and disrupted social hierarchies” (Louv, 2013, n.p.). One cannot live the designed life of wholeness and health without engaging the natural world. There is a profound link between how one engages creation and subsequently treats the other, and their neighbor.
The resulting negative psychological implications of removing access to nature in urban communities has been noted and strong voices are now coming to the table to encourage urban leaders and designers to re-imagine how to integrate natural and wild landscapes into cities and neighborhoods. Richard Louv (2013), the author of the renowned book Last Child in the Woods, also contests that genuine encounters with the natural world will have profound effects on our communities on neighborhoods. Note his list of the seven comprehensive effects of access to nature on communities: improves psychological health, may help reduce domestic violence, natural playgrounds may decrease bullying, encountering other species help children develop empathy, greater biodiversity in cities can increase social and family bonding, and more nature in one’s life can offset the dangerous psychological impact of climate change (Louv, 2013, n.p). There is something physiological that occurs within the human when exposed to the unpredictable environment; the body, mind, and spirit positively reacts when experiencing the earth beneath their feet and the euphoric effects impacts not only the individual, but also the community for good. Creation is designed to be revelatory and provides not only the environment for a genuine encounter with God, but also is the context for where people engage others in a sacred space of dialogue. Jones (1985) speaks to this socio-wilderness dynamic when he says:
Without the occasional abrasive brush with the unexpected, human life soon becomes a mere matter of routine; and, before we know where we are, a casual indifference and even brutality takes over and we begin to die inside. The shock breaks open the deadly ‘everydayness’ that ensnares us and brings something awesome and terrifying to our reluctant attention: the believer’s name for that ‘something’ is God. (p. 84)
Clearly, there is something of the essential goodness of God that is bestowed on God’s creation for the effects of natural environments to have such profound effects on a person. To not have exposure and experience with nature can lead to the brutal posture that objectifies and exploits the other. To see the inherent goodness in nature and its intended presence in the lives of humanity leads to a therapeutic stance that acknowledges how the surrounding landscapes can participate in the healing and wholeness of individuals and communities. The mysteries of God will be better accommodated when we recalibrate God’s creative landscape to include planet earth and every creature that lives here.
Our neighborhoods are never singular communities, but are actually a mesh of myriad overlapping networks. We all belong to many different communities, from the diffuse (i.e. a professional association, or an online message board), to the intimate (i.e. a family, or a group of friends). In consideration of the paramount impact of how a landscape informs an individual and how they connect to the other in their community, there is an emerging theory called “Placemaking” that aims to create a balance of uses in public spaces that serve the many communities at once; in this way a landscape can serve as a therapeutic response to the needs of a neighborhood. A single place can’t do everything at once, so “Placemaking” prompts us to look for convenient and clever ways to make limited space serve multiple functions. De Botton and Armstrong (2013) have suggested that by balancing ones need with those of the people by which one lives, one finds their place, literally and figuratively, within a community of neighbors. By inviting the presence of a place to participate in the lives of communities for a common good, there is an acknowledgment of something profound and beyond human-limitations that is unleashed: God moves back into the neighborhood!
The challenge of loving and caring for one another well in the 21st century requires one to recover a primordial sense of the vast mystery of God and apply that energy to paying attention to the earth. Our love of neighbor needs to be extended to the greater community of things on this planet and our neighborhood needs to considerably broaden to include our universe as well. Historically anthropocentric views have concerned Christians with the redemption of this world alone, and have disconnected the very nature of a connected, covenantal God with the diversity of his inherently good creation. Nobel Peace Prize two-time nominee Ervin Lazlo (2011) attests that “seeing ourselves as separate from the world fuels selfish and irresponsible tendencies: we are only responsible for ourselves, and not for ‘foreigners,’ ‘competitors,’ and ‘others’” (p. 117). In bringing the care of the earth into the folds of reconciliation, there is acknowledgement that human-centric modern history has caused great harm to marginal people groups, and environmental injustice to a host of living beings on this planet, as well as a severe disconnect from the goodness with which the earth was designed, and how that endowed goodness was created to participate in the whole person and health of a community.
In returning to a grand sense of awe before the God of the Universe, God’s relationship is placed with humanity into the context of billions and billions of galaxies. This profound placement of the Great Mystery has immediate effects on how we engage and encounter the other and all living things. “The experience of our connection with each other and the universe would inspire solidarity among people and empathy with all life on earth” (Lazlo, 2011, p. 124). While God is intimately present as one’s neighbor on the front porch, to allow God’s cosmic vastness and presence in creation will inspire a critical mass that espouses values of sustainability, peace, and personal and social responsibility. In this way, the embodied life of God is seen on earth. The wisdom of the ethic of reciprocity, or The Golden Rule, unleashes love and empathy for the other and transforms all life on earth into one’s very neighbor.
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McFague, S. (2002, March 13-20). Intimate Creation. The Christian Century, 36-45.
Moltmann, J. (1985). God in creation. Norwich: SCM Press Ltd.
Connected Colors-A Gift from the Garden
This week has provided space for some much needed self-care. Seven weeks into my first term at The Seattle School and we have a week "off" to read, write, reflect and rest.
With most of my reading already caught up, I was all too eager to get my fingernails dirty and be outside! My spirit rejuvenates in the soil of my garden. It is where I get connected and find connectedness. It is where I engage awe and wonder in ways that only the natural world can provide. As I wrestled overgrown perennials and dug deep into the damp earth to plant promises of spring, I was struck with the diversity of color that still surrounded me, even as Autumn begins to shed her vibrant hues.
This week has provided space for some much needed self-care. Seven weeks into my first term at The Seattle School and we have a week "off" to read, write, reflect and rest.
With most of my reading already caught up, I was all too eager to get my fingernails dirty and be outside! My spirit rejuvenates in the soil of my garden. It is where I get connected and find connectedness. It is where I engage awe and wonder in ways that only the natural world can provide. As I wrestled overgrown perennials and dug deep into the damp earth to plant promises of spring, I was struck with the diversity of color that still surrounded me, even as Autumn begins to shed her vibrant hues.
My youngest and I collected a rainbow today. And the colors gave me hope, that even whilst Winter is soon upon us (and my studies will require my attendance once again), there is sheer, inherent beauty in what we are created to be! There is connection and cohesiveness in creation, and we are a part of this great created community of things!
Michaelmas
Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten. -G.K. Chesterton
Michaelmas is almost here! How are you reflecting on the dragons in your life? Can they be tamed and turned into life-giving energy? Click through to read last year's reflection on this wonderful festival!
Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten. -G.K. Chesterton
Michaelmas is almost here! How are you reflecting on the dragons in your life? Can they be tamed and turned into life-giving energy? Click through to read last year's reflection on this wonderful festival!
Iona Pentecost Pilgrimage: Day of Silence
The practice of silence is a way of opening up our ears and eyes to fresh and new awarenesses. By quieting our tongue, we are able to listen in profound ways and by engaging silence; we are agreeing to listen to the still small voice of the sacred.
The practice of silence is a way of opening up our ears and eyes to fresh and new awarenesses. By quieting our tongue, we are able to listen in profound ways and by engaging silence; we are agreeing to listen to the still small voice of the sacred.
Our Day of Silence invited our group to intentionally draw apart from one another and choose the quiet as a companion to our day. The white, soft sand of the North Beach, inviting meditation benches, ancient pink walls of the Nunnery, and rocky, surf beaten shores of Iona’s southern side provided places in which we encountered the inarticulateness of ourselves and of God. Following such an intense day of walking and reflections, this day of being alone with the elements was a welcomed respite.
Our normal lives are filled with amplified sound coming at us from all perspectives. There are the very real noises of planes, trains and automobiles. Then there are the myriad of subtle sounds-cell phones, text messages, Instand Messaging, and other modes of media. The demands of relationships can also offer up their own version of needy-noise. We make pilgrimage to leave behind the normal structures of life to engage the Holy; we also must leave behind the noise so to better hear God.
“Settle yourself in solitude and you will come upon [God] in yourself.”
Iona Pentecost Pilgrimage: Island Journey
The pilgrimage around Iona visits places of sacred significance and historical importance on the island. There are 18 sites in all and can take nearly all day to get to each one. Our group broke the pilgrimage up in a few days-hitting the Abbey's specific spots while we did our tour and hiking up Dun I on a quiet afternoon-so that we could enjoy the heft of the hiking down to the south end of the island to really spend some meaningful time at St. Columba's Bay and enjoy the reflections at holy sites along the way.
“Bless to us, O God, The earth beneath our feet, Bless to us, O God, The path whereon we go, Bless to us, O God, The people whom we meet. ”
The pilgrimage around Iona visits places of sacred significance and historical importance on the island. There are 18 sites in all and can take nearly all day to get to each one. Our group broke the pilgrimage up in a few days-hitting the Abbey's specific spots while we did our tour and hiking up Dun I on a quiet afternoon-so that we could enjoy the heft of the hiking down to the south end of the island to really spend some meaningful time at St. Columba's Bay and enjoy the reflections at holy sites along the way.
I watched our band of pilgrims prayerfully hike the path that Columba, his followers and 1450 years of seekers have sojourned. While not adorned in the medieval garb of the traditional pilgrim (full length tunics, broad rimmed hats, staffs and satchels), their water proof pants and jackets, knit caps and thick ankled hiking boots carried the seeker-spirit of modern day pilgrims on this Sacred Isle. While not barefoot, our blistered, bone-tired and boot-sore feet carried us over sacred pebbled beaches and peaty bogs. We jumped and leapt from rock to rock, attempting to keep out of the muck, as we made our way to the 17th century remains of the Iona Marble Company’s marble quarry, a site that demands acknowledgment of humanity’s exploitive behaviors and pleads for a change in global values and lifestyles.
Scripture verses that speak of Christ as our rock became more than just metaphor as we discovered that we very much needed the consistent presence of the rocks to keep our feet out of the mire. This island journey was clearly emphasizing and highlighting Celtic and pilgrim-ways of seeing. Without the physicality of the outside world to underscore these Biblical truths, these Christian metaphors would be weak words and flimsy fables.
The early Celtic church had a fundamental belief in the revelatory nature of the created world. Every tree, blade of grass, and wild gooses cry was imbued with the Spirit of God and spoke to the character of the Creator. These “theophanies” –God showings—were expected and sought after as a way to understand the sacred mysteries. The ninth century Irish teacher, John Scotus Eriugena believed that God was the ‘Life Force” within all things, “…therefore every visible and invisible creature can be called a theophany” (John Scotus Eriugena, Periphyseon-The Division of Nature, 749D). All of the created world upholds something of the essence of the Creator. Eriugena also taught that there are two primary ways in which the sacred is revealed--the Bible and creation: “Through the letters of Scripture and the species of creature…” mysteries of God are revealed.
The historical significance of Iona was underscored as we hiked this island pilgrimage; sacred sites emphasized how very near the works of God are all around us. We were also reminded that we walk the pilgrim path together; we are not alone as we seek God’s guidance in our lives. The road is filled with pilgrims who are seeking after inspiration and transformation, seekers who long for and are called by the saints who have gone before us. And, as a mutual company, we are challenged to live forward in ways that bring about restoration to others and our earth.
Iona Pentecost Pilgrimage: Lectio Divina with Wind & Stone
Lectio Divina is an ancient contemplative prayer practice used to allow scripture to speak to our hearts and to help us to discover the multiple ways God dwells there. It means "sacred reading," and this practice can be extended beyond just the reading of scripture or inspired poetry. In the Celtic Christian tradition, the created world was seen as a revelation of God, and could be "read" to learn about and experience the Divine. Lectio Divina is a wonderful way of engaging the natural elements around us by inviting the "rocks to cry out" and the wind to whisper (or in the case of being on Iona, EXCLAIM!) to us the things of the numinous, the sacred, the divine.
reading the wind
Lectio Divina is an ancient contemplative prayer practice used to allow scripture to speak to our hearts and to help us to discover the multiple ways God dwells there. It means "sacred reading," and this practice can be extended beyond just the reading of scripture or inspired poetry. In the Celtic Christian tradition, the created world was seen as a revelation of God, and could be "read" to learn about and experience the Divine. Lectio Divina is a wonderful way of engaging the natural elements around us by inviting the "rocks to cry out" and the wind to whisper (or in the case of being on Iona, EXCLAIM!) to us the things of God.
What will the wind whisper to you?
Our group had an intimate time of reflecting on Acts 2:1-2 yesterday morning. I was deeply moved by the thoughtful sharing around this scripture; images of violent wind, fire, community, movement, resting and empowerment all came through this text. To further explore this Pentecost Wind, we moved out into a field near Iona's North Beach and spent time in stillness and silence listening deeply to the stirring of the wind all around us. As the wind whipped and whistled, we allowed our senses to engage this element as a sacred text. It was a personal time that ended with laughter as we flew a kite. This playful partnership with the wind underscored metaphors that we were all seeing with the wind as Holy Spirit in our lives.
Learning from the land with Dr. Fionna Menzies
We continued our Lectio Divina with nature with an afternoon of learning about the rocks of Iona. Fiona Menzies, a local community member of Iona, holds a Ph.D in geology with a specialty in Iona's unique rocks. Through our lecture and beach combing, there was a combined sense of awe at the grand-scape of time and the Creator that holds even this mind-blowing expansiveness within the cup of his hands. The rocks told us stories of millennia, ages and eras, life and death, in-breath and out-breath. Ultimately, countless volumes of sagas containing adventures of ice and tropical heat, deep pressures and forceful thrusts created these rocks of such exquisite beauty. This sacred time studying these rocks was likened to reading a sacred text and it allowed us to value these pieces as God's movement on this earth.
Exploring Iona's ancient stories through stone
Iona Pentecost Pilgrimage: Solviture ambulando
Here on Iona, where it is often stated in promotional material that sheep outnumber people and cars, everyone walks. There is but a single road and upon that one walks to get to the ferry, get to the Abbey, get a cup a tea. It is both a means to a destination and a value in and of itself. The road becomes a liturgy and walking the prayers.
walking along the only road on IOna
Here on Iona, where it is often stated in promotional material that sheep outnumber people and cars, everyone walks. There is but a single road and upon that one walks to get to the ferry, get to the Abbey, get a cup a tea. It is both a means to a destination and a value in and of itself.
By walking, I get in tune with my body. I am aware of what feels good, and what is creaking more than it used to. I become attuned to my overall health and well being: am I out of breath? Do I feel strong? Do I need to stop, slow down or speed up? Taking such stock of myself, I'm also more aware of others. Incredibly different than when driving within cars, when I pass someone on this solitary street, I am significantly aware of their presence, even when they are yet yards and yards beyond me. I sense them really; because I am removed from my insular vehicle, my soul feels the life of what is around me.
So not only am I aware of others walking the road, but I hear the kerrx-kerrx of the Corn Crake nesting in the farmers' fields. I hear the bleating cries of young sheep trying to find the warmth and milk of their momma's. I feel the wind whipping about me and the moist mist accumulating on my face. Because I can trust the undulation of my walking, I can also look about me without worrying about crashing (hopefully!). I watch the ferry crossing the Sound of Iona. I note the craggy height of Dun I. I look for the turquoise hues in the sea. And if I do happen to bump into another person during my perusals, it mandates human contact, and always elicits laughter and communication, despite language barriers.
“Walking removes barriers.”
That's really it, I think. Walking removes barriers. Issues of class and status don't exist on a road of pilgrim pedestrians. There are no BMWs or Mercedes Benz. There are no pimped out wheels or self-defining bumper stickers. There is no road rage as we all are relying on the same bi-ambular locomotion. We are just simply, ourselves, on our two feet, walking the way we were designed. And we appreciate our fellow roaming creatures as well. A leveling effect takes place even between us and the sheep, us and the cows. I see these creatures a bit differently when we are on the same plain, looking at one another with only a fence between us. As I look into these creatures eyes, as we both stand on our feet, and I witness the lamb bumping up into his momma's udder to drink her milk, and I think, "We are not all so very different, you and I. What can I learn from you today?" Walking teaches us about things that matter and things that don't.
As my feet walk this road, I find that my life is slowly set back in order. Priorities fall back into place. I cannot rush to get somewhere and pack more into my day. For I simply can only do what my body is capable of and where my feet can physically take me. I cannot squeeze in one last Target errand, while rushing to get children to baseball practice and swim lessons. In walking's simplicity, a gift of simplicity is given back to me and how I choose to live my life.
Augustine was onto a great truth when suggesting that we have the answer to our problems in our own two feet as he said, "it is solved by walking."
Iona Pentecost Pilgrimage: Arrival-Hospitality
The warm invitation that this island, and its people, extend to new comers is quite profound. There is a very real sense that there are no strangers in our midst. In the context of the single road, the hostel or the beaches, there are ready smiles to lift yours, gregarious laughter rushing out to include you, and generous invitations to share tea, a meal or a bit of chocolate. There is a sense of general community and conviviality that spans generations and gender.
The warm invitation that this island, and its people, extend to new comers is quite profound. There is a very real sense that there are no strangers in our midst. In the context of the single road, the hostel or the beaches, there are ready smiles to lift yours, gregarious laughter rushing out to include you, and generous invitations to share tea, a meal or a bit of chocolate. One Swedish pilgrim noted to me today how, even though he just arrived yesterday, he has felt like he is with family. There is a sense of general community and conviviality that spans generations and gender.
In my short time on the island, I have been lovingly embraced by a group of British women staying at the hostel. I had opened the door of the hostel's common area to review some receipts and in a manner of seconds was instead drawn in to their circle with stories of shared faith, red wine and chocolate. There is a very special feeling when surrounded by a group of wizened women who claim themselves with a mesmerizing confidence. Since the late hour last night when we first all met, we have continued to enjoy countless conversations about our different countries and mutual faith.
Once again, I've been reminded how these journeys challenge the best of us to put our agendas away and embrace the gift of humanity right in front of us. This type of soul journey is inevitably tied to how we connect and commune with others. Their very presence reminds us of the absolute value of the most precious gift: life!
The vibrancy of this island is seen all over, from the colors of the sea, to the crashing waves, to the delightful hand-made signage. Walking the streets and trails on Iona, while the wind bustles you about, truly brings one back to a fullness of life!
Iona Pentecost Pilgrimage-Departure: Fire and Fear
The last load of laundry was finally folded and last minute pre-travel errands run. Whispered prayers and silent repetitons of the “do not forget list” infused rain gear, woolen layers and inspirational books as they were packed tightly away in the suitcase. Today I departed for my pilgrimage to Iona and I couldn’t be more eager to get past this stage!
The last load of laundry was finally folded and last minute pre-travel errands run. Whispered prayers and silent repetitons of the “do not forget list” infused rain gear, woolen layers and inspirational books as they were packed tightly away in the suitcase. Today I departed for my pilgrimage to Iona and I couldn’t be more eager to get past this stage!
The pilgrimage’s archetypal stage of departure is wrought with tension and conflict. While our souls are desperate for this life-giving journey, our egos are inherently set against anything that would bring about such unity and peace for ourselves. Traditionally, this struggle against Self-- to get over and through the leaving threshold-- is represented by two great sphinxes that stand guard and strike fear into whoever would dare bypass them. The only weapon that can defeat the sphinx is self-assurance and the ability to see through their fear tactics. To garner the strength to acknowledge the ruse of dares and distresses they throw at the pilgrim, is to seek strength from our Sacred Source and boldly call out to these foes that they are but a distraction from our destination.
I’ve studied pilgrimage for years and yet am always surprised at how very real and strong these archetypal stages are. The events and occurrences that lead up to the departure are absolutely hallmarked by despair, and lead one to second guess the need to go on such a soul journey. This particular pilgrimage has been no different and the sphinx have sure been doing their dandiest to scare me away from the day’s journey; it has been a nonstop onslaught of attempts to waylay and mislead me.
Beyond the leading-up weeks of fluish fevers, car problems and financial woes, we almost had a house fire last night. Seriously. To commemorate my departure-and Seattle’s brilliant May weather-we decided to grill a salmon and enjoy our family’s meal outside. I decided to leave the grill on high heat to burn off the residual fish skin following dinner…and promptly forgot about the outside oven as I packed and put the children down to bed. Late into the night, after my husband had swept the kitchen floors and laid the shaken out kitchen rugs on top of the grill, which is inches from a bakers rack containing shoes, coats and outdoor miscellany that stands against the 100 year old wooden paneling of our home (!!!!!), I smelled burning smoke through the kitchen window I just happened to open earlier in the afternoon to get a cool spring breeze through the house. I opened up the back door only to find the kitchen rugs in flame atop our gas grill! Grabbing an un-torched corner, I flung the rugs to the ground and rushed around looking for water to douse the firey inferno. The flames were inches away from our house…I still shudder to think about what would have happened if I had gone to bed at my regular bedtime, and not been awake fussing about my packing.
That incident behind me, I anxiously laughed in the faces of the sphinxes; “Oh you archetypes! Trying to get me all afraid and what not! Nope, I’m getting past you and continuing on with my soul journey!”
It was time to leave for the train, which runs just a block away from our house, to get to the airport in time to catch my flight. My husband and two of my children were home to walk me to the station. The sidewalk to the station takes us past a nuisance property where felons, prostitutes and drug addicts are want to hang out. Typically they are active in the wee hours of the morning and are rarely out and about during the bright sun-filled days. However, just as we were about to make our way to the train, a handful of these unsavory household guests gathered on the sidewalk. Their presence induces silence and fear; and as their eyes bore through my own, I desperately just wanted to turn back home and forget this whole pilgrimage affair. Strengthened by the innocence of my children, and my bold husband, we walked past these people who had become apparitions of fear itself, daring me to be strong enough to pass by them. With an exhale, I tightened my grip on the hands I love most and felt joy returning as we made our way quickly to the train.
However, the sphinxes weren’t through with me yet. It appeared they wanted to throw one more thing of fear at me to see if I truly dared pass them and engage the heart of this pilgrimage journey. We stood waiting at the street’s crosswalk-just beyond was the train station-and directly across from our little family was a man, who with one glance, made my skin crawl and move around me like a snake. His ogling eyes didn’t ask permission as they seemed to look through my clothes, his jeering toothy smile centered on my son and his lips moved with unheard incantations. I clutched my children, for in the urban wilderness, these are the types from which we are warmed to stay far away. Through pursed lips, I whispered to my husband to remember to lock all our doors and stay vigilant; indeed, I was scared! The pedestrian crossing sign changed and we embarked across the street, brushing shoulders with this man as we passed. The snakes swarmed in my stomach, but were released as soon as we made it safely to the other side of the sidewalk.
A beacon of welcome seemed to embrace my safe passage through the threshold of departure: just feet away from me was a transit sign displaying a dove, sacred symbol for the patron saint of the Holy Isle of Iona-St. Columba, for whom this particular Seattle station was named.
Coincidence? I think not. Grateful for this sign of affirmation, my heart leapt past the fear and foreboding; and eagerly boarded the train for this pilgrimage journey.
Taking the Outdoors In
By bringing in something in from the outside world, we are creating reminders of where we are. As a result of big-box home stores going global and all the home decorating catalogs that infiltrate our front doors, our home interiors can begin to reflect a homogeneous look and feel. We could be inside and really be anywhere. Our regional landscapes give us bold reminders of where we live and inform a sense of our identity and spirit. This connection to place is critical in a global, technological driven era. Simple objects from just outside your front door can distinguish your homescape and provide a native anchor to your home.
Its a sick-day today at our house. And a rainy one to boot. Fevers and coughs, snuggles and sighs, and relentless rains are keeping this family inside. For a group who typically goes outside no matter what (we are firm believers in the "there is no such thing as bad weather, only being poorly dressed" theory), these days are hard. Furthermore, the Celtic Christian that I am, I get at my sacred space when I'm out of doors, whether it be in my garden, in our neighborhood greenspace, or trekking a bit beyond to the beaches and burrows of Seattle. Considering this dynamic, I knew I needed to intentionally employ some resources to sooth and ground our souls, in spite of the sickness.
I'm a tactile person, hence the great benefit I personally receive from our forest restoration work, digging deep into my garden and even my seasonal knitting. The feel of a tree, a stone or yarn passing through my fingers quiets my Self and wills my soul to show up and be present to my daily realities in ways that invites me to see the Divine all around me. Synthetics and plastics just don't cut it; they lack the heft and tactile reality that natural elements embody. For example, a plastic "toy" rock simply cannot achieve the appropriate weight and texture of a true stone. Nor do I have the same soul-response to a simulated stick or floral spray.
I need to engage the natural world in real and tangible ways daily; it is how I connect with God, myself and the greater community of things all about me.
It is common-culture in our house to bring the outside in in whatever appropriate and inspiring ways that we can. So while, yes, we have Playmobile Knights fighting battles throughout the house, we also have baskets of chestnuts collected last autumn for counting games and cannonballs, sliced wood blocks, scores of sticks, and easily accessible balls of woolen yarn for spontaneous story string making or finger knitting. Absolutely, the outside comes in for fun and play. But we also create intentional spaces and places that with a mere glance reminds us of the goodness of creation and the One behind it all.
One such example of this planned kind of place is our Nature Table. Our Nature Table is a dynamic display that morphs daily depending on who brings back what from a walk, from school, or from the woods. It tells the stories of our days. This dedicated plate contains memories of adventures, tokens of loved ones and connections to sacred places. I'm delighted when, with fluttering finger strokes, my children recall special memories of our family's time on the beach that are imbued in a shell. Or when they want to be the ones to light the daily candle, for as this place is like our family altar, they understand that by bringing light here, they are inviting divine illumination on our lives . For it is here that we bring natural items to represent prayers and hopes, and reminders of beauty and blessings.
We also have bowlfuls of green stones from Iona, Scotland around the house on tables, next to couches, on bookshelves. They are kind of like rabbits here, I guess. These favorite rocks have been rolled, tossed, counted, used for doll's food, blasted at by Lego ships, the whole gamut of play. But they are also fingered when we are having hard conversations, or laying sick on the sofa, or reading books. To some degree, they have become like prayer beads for our family, as fingering them seems to help keep in prayerful mindfulness the stories and events of our lives. Every member of our family has a favorite stone and we also make a practice of giving away Iona stones to friends who are having birthdays or need something especially special and hopeful.
But, today. Today, a wearied mom-of-two-sick-kids, I needed something. I needed to figure out how to get my "gift of grace." An important aspect of Celtic Christianity is the refusal to separate the gift of nature from the gift of grace, for both are seen as of and from God. Celtic scholar, and former warden of the Iona Abbey, John Philip Newell, unpacks this theological perspective further by offering, "The mysteries of creation and redemption are one. They are not in opposition to each other. Holding them together allows for a celebration of the essential goodness of life as a gift from God...." (The Book of Creation, p13). We were not going to be putting on the rain gear to discover God's goodness today outside...I had to find some fresh displays inside to buttress my rain-soaked-fever-weary spirit.
While rifling through some of the children's books, I found some forgotten-about pressed gingko leaves. These lovely fan-like, yellow leaves offered themselves up to become a garland for the piano in our front room. By gently tying regular knots around each stem, and guesstimating equal spacing, we created a simple and natural bunting that is not only unique and attractive, but also a reminder of this neighborhood we call home, for ginko trees line the avenue to which our small road connects.
By bringing in something in from the outside world, we are creating reminders of where we are. As a result of big-box home stores going global and all the home decorating catalogs that infiltrate our front doors, our home interiors can begin to reflect a homogeneous look and feel. We could be inside and really be anywhere. Our regional landscapes give us bold reminders of where we live and inform a sense of our identity and spirit. This connection to place is critical in a global, technological driven era. Simple objects from just outside your front door can distinguish your homescape and provide a native anchor to your home.
Our children recently learned how to make the Ojo de Dios (Eye of God) in Sunday School. This weaving craft is surprisingly simple and meditative. The repetitious pattern of bringing the yarn over and under the sticks is calming and centering. Today, of course, no popsicle sticks could be found anywhere in our house, so I went out to our covered front porch where I keep a decorative stash of cut branches from my parents' Red twig dogwoods out at their place in Snohomish. I cut larger than normal segments, and my son nestled into the arm of the couch to ensue a time of creating with sticks and wool yarn. Over, under, turn. Over, under, turn. Over, under, turn. His cough actually slowed down. He relaxed into the rhythm of co-creating with elements from the natural world. He commented on how different it was to do this project with real twigs compared to prefabricated popsicle sticks. It required more focus and dexterity. But the end result is beautiful and is already hanging over the interior of our front door, a visual reminder of God’s watchful presence in our lives.
My sense is that most of us live with items from special landscapes throughout our homes. While outside, we are naturally drawn to look and touch. While our feet carry and tarry us, we scan and search for a treasure to remind us of this time of feeling connected to the Source of it All. Reflect upon occasions when you have walked along beaches and looked for drift wood or shells, or hiked through the mountains and come across interesting rocks or sticks. These experiences tend to be imbued with a sense of calm and wonder. Sure, you can buy up tons of cast resin shells, coral and such from West Elm and Pottery Barn, and they will look wonderful on your shelves. But there is something priceless about the seek and find of a natural object that comes into our home to serve as a reminder of an interconnectedness to the Creator and the created world all around us.
Indeed, I found what I needed today. My gift of grace came by way of reminders and representations of the blessings that have come by way of surrounding landscapes, and being held and known by my children's hands.
Please share how you intentionally create spaces in your home to collect and display found, natural items. Is this a practice you regularly engage? How do these objects/spaces make you feel?
Easter: The Place of Our Resurrection
This Easter evening we resurrection-believing types are likely sitting down, basking in the power of today's symbolism, while licking the stolen-from-our-kids'-Easter-basket chocolate off our fingers and pondering what to do with all those hard boiled eggs. Our Lenten journeys over, we are quickly back to sipping on our coffees, wine or whathaveyou's, secretly grateful that that discipline practice is over and we can return back to ordinary life.
This Easter evening we resurrection-believing types are likely sitting down, basking in the power of today's symbolism, while licking the stolen-from-our-kids'-Easter-basket chocolate off our fingers and pondering what to do with all those hard boiled eggs. Our Lenten journeys over, we are quickly back to sipping on our coffees, wine or whathaveyou's, secretly grateful that that discipline practice is over and we can return back to ordinary life.
And here is where the ever ironic and paradoxical-pilgrimage ways of the Greatest Journey ever made continues to resound and clang, making that Lenten home-coming not as comfortable as we anticipated and certainly not what we thought it would seem. For the journey made by Jesus through Gethsemane to Golgotha didn't end in darkness and death. This tormented trek didn't return a man unchanged from his travails. No, this most sacred of all journeys ended in transformation, restoration and resurrection! Nothing in the universe would ever be the same again because God set out on the greatest venture ever beheld, journeying towards an end that really has only been The Beginning.
We set out on the pilgrim-path traveling towards transformation. All bets are in that indeed, this ancient mode of sacred migration will connect us to the divine and that we will return changed. And it most certainly does! For no one who has ever encountered the Holy remains the same, so how can we expect to arrive home, pull up the ottoman, pop open a beer and exhale, "Whew! Glad that is over! ...Now, what's on TV?...." Pilgrimage just doesn't work that way. For you see, from the earliest recordings in the Judeo-Christian tradition, we witness a universal life force that is always on the move. Jehovah was a pilgrim-God, always walking, always moving, always going out towards the edges of society and calling to the least of these. Author Charles Foster in A Sacred Journey (2010, Thomas Nelson), says it fantastically, "[God traveled] in a box slung over the shoulders of refugees and worshipped in a tent."
Pilgrimage is wandering after this nomad-loving God and seeking after a divine-kingdom whose powers are established on the periphery. And if we take up our cross and follow Him to these places, how can we expect to return home, content to put our walking stick in the closet and our souvenirs on the mantel? We were made to walk, hence our amazingly designed bipedal bodies. When we sit for too long, bad things happen, there is really no denying it. We develop physical issues that lead to chronic pain and poor health habits. We start to engage the world through screens instead of through touch, resulting in an apathy that is hardly characteristic of Jesus' radical pilgrimage through Palestine. We get cozy and comfortable and no longer long for a quest that will transform and reform us. Content, we are happy to scroll through our iPad finding hints of God's presence there.
Understandably, our technology indeed offers new and unique ways of engaging the world, and yes, even bearing witness to testimonies of God's presence throughout the earth. However, there is something fundamentally changed that occurs when journeying after God outside, when the created elements are participating in the blessings and bumps that are experienced on the road. In the Celtic tradition, peregrinatio (Latin for "pilgrimage") takes on a special meaning as it refers to a different kind pilgrimage. Instead of setting out to walk to a specific holy site or destination, the ancient Celtic monks would undertake a maritime excursion to find their "place of resurrection," which is a place to which God is calling the wanderer to settle, serve and await death. The boats used at the time were called coracles, which were small vessels made of animal skins stretched across a wooden frame and sealed with pitch. These early Celtic saints would set off in a coracle without oars, trusting the wind and current to guide them to arrive where they are being called to go. They would literally cast themselves adrift to sea for the love of God, following only the direction the wind would take them. In this ancient practice of peregrination, the natural world was a critical element to the journey. The wind and waves interacted with and informed the wayfaring, ever obedient to the will of God.
These journeys were acts of complete trust and faith in God, and resulted in new monastic establishments, some of which would define the Celtic Christian world (Iona and Lindisfarne being great examples). The place of resurrection was one in which absolute assurance in God would become the new normal; this certitude would become the ordinary time in which these pilgrims now lived. And death, let's say death to self, would come in the form of no more comfortable couches on which to recline until the next call came. No, the cross was borne and convenience was exchanged for connection with God through creation.
Our Lenten journey need not be over. Our Easter celebrations should not be checked off the list of this month's activities. Because we set out to experience grace in the pilgrimage conditions of Lent, we were changed. And because we are changed, so will be our home-places. These environs of patterned thoughts, behaviors and lifestyle should be affected by the grace we experienced on the road, thereby causing even these familiar modes of being to be radically impacted, so much so that home no longer looks or feels the same. So much so that we discover that we are hoping more, living more, desiring for difference more.
Our pilgrimage didn't end on Friday, nor does it conclude today in a dyed, candy coated frenzy. Today, because of the Resurrection, we are lit up with our Easter-people reality! And this awe, this grace initiates another inner prompting, to again leave behind the familiar (because indeed, it takes mere minutes for something to become familiar), to again engage the cyclical patterns of pilgrimage, and go where the Spirit now leads to continue to walk to the place of our resurrection!
Lenten Walk Series 8 (Sacred)
I spent this past weekend convening a women's retreat around themes of pilgrimage and Celtic Christian Spirituality. We spoke at length about the inherent blessing of all creation and practiced seeing the sacred in all we encountered. As this tradition relates to pilgrimage, we also learned about the hope-filled practice of the Celtic peregrines who would make pilgrim-voyages in their tiny coracles, which were often sailless and rudderless, so that God might allow ebb and flow to take these early pilgrims to wherever God wished them to go.
I spent this past weekend convening a women's retreat around themes of pilgrimage and Celtic Christian Spirituality. We spoke at length about the inherent blessing of all creation and practiced seeing the sacred in all we encountered. As this tradition relates to pilgrimage, we also learned about the hope-filled practice of the Celtic peregrines who would make pilgrim-voyages in their tiny coracles, which were often sailless and rudderless, so that God might allow ebb and flow to take these early pilgrims to wherever God wished them to go. My surprise was slight then, when upon taking our family prayer walk yesterday evening along Seattle's Alki Beach, I came upon these two inscriptions in the walk way. Indeed, the sacred is always around us and often more pronounced when we are outside...walking...as the earliest pilgrimage traditions would have us do. There is something to be said for this ancient practice that gets us moving up and away from our homes, from our center-places, and challenges us to find the Sacred in and around us.
While this image is of a seafaring vessel from the Coast Salish people, I can't help but believe they employed a faith and trust in Creator as they set sail, very similar to the Celtic people as they set off for the land of their resurrection. They too had an inherent way of seeing the strength of the sacred all around them in the created world as evidenced by these words of blessing by Chief Dan George:
My Heart Soars, by Chief Dan George
The beauty of the trees, the softness of the air, the fragrance of the grass, speaks to me.
The summit of the mountain, the thunder of the sky, the rhythm of the sea, speaks to me.
The faintness of the stars, the freshness of the morning, the dew drop on the flower, speaks to me.
The strength of fire, the taste of salmon, the trail of the sun, And the life that never goes away, They speak to me.
And my heart soars.
Lenten Walk Series 4/5
Gratitude for legacy and heritage have been on our praiseful lips these past two daysas we have made our way to Big Sky, Montanta for a week of skiing with family. We overnighted in Butte, MT the birthplace of both of my parents and a landscape both sets of my grandparents intimately knew and loved
Gratitude for legacy and heritage have been on our praiseful lips these past two days as we have made our way to Big Sky, Montanta for a week of skiing with family. We overnighted in Butte, MT the birthplace of both of my parents and a landscape both sets of my grandparents intimately knew and loved. My paternal grandfather, Knute Plate, immigrated from Sweden to Butte and worked the mines here in what is known as the “richest hill on earth.” And, my maternal grandfather advocated and proponed any project or proposal that would keep this motto socially and theoretically true. One of the projects in which my Grampa, Don Ulrich, was critically involved was the restoration of Blacktrail Creek, which runs through the mid-line of Butte. This stream corridor, highlighted by the majestic presence of the nearby Continental Divide, had suffered adverse affects by “channelization” (or the straightening of the stream), livestock overgrazing, highway construction, and other urban development. A primary restoration goal of this project was to improve public access and use of the stream corridor as well as improving ecosystem function and biodiversity habitat. The restoration resulted in a healthier stream and made a valuable natural resource more accessible to the public.
The pedestrian trail was renamed the Ulrich-Schotte Nature Trail and is now a two-mile segment of a Greenway system in Butte. Named after my grandparents, Don and Kathryn Ulrich and their dear friends and civic leaders, George and Jennie Schotte, The Blacktail Creek Restoration Project was completed in 1998. These visionaries believed that this landscape could be more than what it was. They believed that they didn't have to be content with the status quo: a sickly stream that was a regular dump site for neighbors' trash. Over the years, the project grew from a stream restoration project to include a recreational trail used by thousands of area residents and visitors. This grand vision resulted in something that would serve the greater community, humans and creatures combined!
Considering the stewardship work that we are currently about in Seattle’s Rainier Valley, I was struck anew with the realization of all my grandfather did on behalf of Other and the Future. In this context, he spoke on behalf of the healthy biodiversity that hung in balance depending on the health and well being of this stream corridor. He had the insight and clarity of mind to foresee that healthy and vibrant ecosystems would result in a native, beautiful landscape that would mutually enhance the health and well-being of Butte’s people and generations to come. It became clear that we do this work in our lives out of a great hope for the future, but also because of the legacy and heritage of my family’s DNA.
This was an ideal, which Grampa had to champion with both shovel in hand and policy papers in the other to get the City to support this intrinsic value proposal. But I understand now that he had a vision that was rooted in justice. It would be socially irresponsible to allow that stream to dry up due to the City’s mismanagement of resources. It would also be a holistic loss for both the creature’s depending on that landscape for life, and the inherent health benefits that would be available to the people if allowed to enjoy this native feature. Peace is the presence of justice, Martin Luther King Jr. once said. And the peaceful place that is experienced along this vibrant stream attests to the justice advocated on behalf of systems greater than our own.
For the past couple days we have been walking segments of this trail. We have offered prayers of thanksgiving for our heritage and ancestors, the lives that link us to a lineage of justness and action. It has also caused us to reflect more on our own “legacy work”--that great work of making an impact on something greater than, and beyond, ourselves. We prayed that our children would be impacted by a need outside of themselves that would cause them to cry and subsequently stand up and fight for a better way. We prayed that they too would continue to walk in our heritage’s path of faith, always looking to the mountains, from where comes our help (Psalm 121:1), for the vision to reimagine a better way on behalf of something greater than themselves.
Lenten Walk Series 3
Walking through the streets of Seattle's New Rainier Vista neighborhood can seem somewhat like a maze. If you don't keep your bearings on Mt. Rainier (easy to lose for non-natives on a cloudy day), you can effortlessly get turned about. As we walked along the sidewalks of this redevelopment, the children picked up garbage; it seemed the only familiar act in which to respond to the ever-present litter lined up along some of these unfamiliar lanes.
Walking through the streets of Seattle's New Rainier Vista neighborhood can seem somewhat like a maze. If you don't keep your bearings on Mt. Rainier (easy to lose for non-natives on a cloudy day), you can effortlessly get turned about. As we walked along the sidewalks of this redevelopment, the children picked up garbage; it seemed the only familiar act in which to respond to the ever-present litter lined up along some of these unfamiliar lanes.
We prayed for this new community that has both displaced long-time Valley residents and offered new hope for immigrants and refugees from around the world. We acknowledged that living in this dense urban village must seem very much like a maze for families who come without great resources from war torn countries. However, we also prayed that, unlike a maze, these souls wouldn't come here to get lost. Rather, more in alignment with that of a labyrinth, these many homes and streets would lead to personal transformation and, ultimately, abundant life.
The children played for a bit at a happened upon pocket park surrounded by tall, dense homes. As we followed the trail to exit the playground, we came upon a grouping of carved stones with labyrinth images.
Today's prayers echoed this ancient prayer, attributed to St. Brigid:
“God of the Twisting Path, God of the Turning Spiral, God of Revelation, God of Infinite Mystery; may this God enfold and entwine you in every step. ”
The Legend of the Labyrinth of the Minotaur
Upon ascending to the throne of Crete, King Minos prayed to Poseidon to send him a white bull, which he would sacrifice in honor of Poseidon. However, Minos found the bull so delightful that he kept it and sacrificed an ordinary bull, which angered the gods. Aphrodite made Persephae, Minos' wife, so desire the white bull that she bore its offspring, which grew to become the monstrous Minotaur, half man and half bull. King Mino had Daedaius, the master craftsman, build a giant labyrinth to hold the Minotaur.
The Athenian King Aegeus was compelled to pay Minos penalties every ninth year by giving up seven young men and seven maidens, who were forced to enter the Labyrinth of the Minotaur and ultimately be devoured. At the approach of the third sacrifice, Theseus, the son of King Aegeus, offered to enter the labyrinth as one of the virgins so that he could kill the Minotaur. He promised his father that on its return his ship would have white sails if he was successful and black sails if he had been killed.
Ariadne, on of Minos' daughters, fell in love with Theseus and gave him a ball of red string, allowing him to retrace his path to escape. Theseus killed the Minotaur with the sword of Aegeus and led the other Athenians back out of the labyrinth. On the trip home, he abandoned Ariadne on the island of Saxos, continuing home with er sister Phaedra, who became his wife. Theseus forgot to put up the white sails, and when King Aegeus saw the black sailed ship he threw himself from a cliff lookout into the sea, which is now called the Aegean. Thereby, Theseus ascended to the throne of Athens.
Lenten Walk Series I
The last couple weeks leading up to Lent, my children were bemoaning the Lenten possibility of eating only rice and beans for dinner (as we did last year). While I am really glad we did that practice last year, it didn't seem to fit where we all are this year. Giving up coffee, chocolate or wine are never very realistic options for me for obvious reasons, but on the whole, I'm just not inclined towards the "lack" this year. We all seem to be needing something more....
The last couple weeks leading up to Lent, my children were bemoaning the Lenten possibility of eating only rice and beans for dinner (as we did last year). While I am really glad we did that practice last year, it didn't seem to fit where we all are this year. Giving up coffee, chocolate or wine are never very realistic options for me for obvious reasons, but on the whole, I'm just not inclined towards the "lack" this year. We all seem to be needing something more....
I'm grateful to Joel for the inspiration to practice a daily family prayer walk during this season of Lent. When he first brought up the idea, it clicked with everyone immediately. The intention behind it all being that we, all five of us, rain or shine, will take a walk and pray intentionally for our neighborhood, or whatever else is stirred in us as we ambulate through our community. It will give us time together, a healthy practice and continue the ever challenging charge to be OUT in our neighborhood, an all too easy bidding from which to back away when gun shots and sirens are our common caterwauls.
Today we set out on our first Lenten Walk and we went to the landscape that is both near and dear to us: Cheasty Greenspace. As we walked on our beloved trails, we thanked God for the countless volunteers who have given of their time and energy to create this much needed safe access to Nature for our community. We gave thanks for a supportive Parks Department and staff members who have become friends through this long and arduous process. And we prayed for the process that would lead towards the dream to see this greenspace in its entirety restored, reclaimed and reimagined for the greater good of our neighborhood.
On our way home, as my tummy tumbled and turned with the tensions that have arisen out of this greater work, we came upon this tree. Given that today is Valentine's Day, and provided I was praying for softened hearts, I couldn't help but accept this tree's message as a gift from God.
Heart Tree
Great Impressions
There are some souls you come across in your life whose imprint they make on your own is more than the hands you hold every day. Richard Twiss (Taoyate Obnajin: He Stands With His People) was such a soul. And today, as the world cries, dances and drums their response to his death, I am humbled and challenged by the deep and lasting impression Richard made on my life.
Richard Twiss
There are some souls you come across in your life whose imprint they make on your own is more than the hands you hold every day. Richard Twiss (Taoyate Obnajin: He Stands With His People) was such a soul. And today, as the world cries, dances and drums their response to his death, I am humbled and challenged by the deep and lasting impression Richard made on my life.
A personal sense of what it means to live on behalf of something began to form soon after I first met Richard at Seattle Pacific University in 2004. His story and teachings from the perspective of a First Nations person silenced and stunned me, and implored that I reject the insidious ethnocentric ways of our culture and Church. His dancing prayers displayed an understanding of the Creator for which I had always yearned, but never found within the four-walls of our standard sanctuaries. Richard's visceral understanding of all actions, decisions and hopes being born out of a respect for future generations shamed my consumer-lifestyle. The deep joy of living forward from this place took hold of me!
I had the wonderful opportunity to facilitate a Native Expressions of Faith workshop for Seattle-area church and lay leaders at Seattle Pacific University in 2007, where once again I was able to work alongside this tremendous soul. As I danced with my prayers and my feet kept the drum circle's beat, I recall feeling the clarity and formation of a personal mission statement that has informed my vocational call and way our family lives our life: to live on behalf of Other and the Future.
I bow to you, Richard, in deep gratitude for the life you walked along the path of the Waymaker. I am forever changed because of your response to the Creator. May the Spirit brood over your family as they continue their journey on this side.
My personal altar to honor the life of richard twiss
Hearth Places
This has been a day to gather around the hearth-places to find warmth and inspiration. For centuries the hearth was considered an integral part of a home, often its central or most important feature. These brick lined structures were a place of survival from where nourishment and story came; food would be served from this seat of heat with a healthy side of laughter and conversation. This was the gathering place. This is where socks and tears were dried. This was the place that centered and from which one left to go out into the world.
Today is drenched in Seattle rain; gray blankets of clouds drape over the cityscape and the wind is whipping remnant leaves about and collapsing the emboldened umbrella. Even for us who believe that “there is no such thing as bad weather, only being poorly dressed,” this has been a day to stay in doors. For every puddle formed, a tea kettle has whistled. With every heavy drop of rain, a child has sighed a resigned breath onto the window pane, the weather affirming mommas’ requests to stay inside.
This has been a day to gather around the hearth-places to find warmth and inspiration. For centuries the hearth was considered an integral part of a home, often its central or most important feature. These brick lined structures were a place of survival from where nourishment and story came; food would be served from this seat of heat with a healthy side of laughter and conversation. This was the gathering place. This is where socks and tears were dried. This was the place that centered and from which one left to go out into the world.
In an era of central heating and warmth that comes from pushing a button, hearths are no longer a required feature in a home. It is far more common to have the television set inlaid in a prominent wall, which then becomes the family gathering place. Indeed, one can turn on a channel that emulates the spark and sound of a crackling fire to enjoy the perceived warmth of a fire place.
In the context of these modern conveniences, how do we still create a place that not only provides warmth, but also inspiration and reminders of all that nourishes us? These places need not provide a literal heat, but something that warms the heart and soul, and provides both renewal and reminders of all that is most dear.
I have two such hearth-places in my home. Our primary hearth-place is appropriately in our kitchen, which is central to our home in its location and in its function to our family. In this room we cook, paint, draw, play games, eat our family meals, tell stories, and yes, even cry. Our very old (and very loud) dishwasher provides a lulling hum to the room while our clothes washer and dryer spin and bump along its own chorus. So it is here that I have created our family hearth. On this lovingly passed-along, blue bookshelf, which is just off from the most center-point of our house, I tend a collection of meaningful items that warm my heart, that affirm our family’s stories, that remind us of loved ones in need of prayer and even hold favored cook books. This simple collection warms and brightens my spirit; it guides my memory and affirms the love of my family.
The other hearth-place I tend is in my office. I am grateful that I am able to have this room in my home, as it allows me to be in this home I love with the people who are most dear. However, when I enter this space, my mind is activated with the work that fuels me in other vibrant and important ways. Here are my books, my articles, my correspondence, my planning and in many ways, my prayers. So it is here that I have assembled a hearth-place that puts fire to my spirit and ignites my soul. It reminds me of the passions behind my work and rekindles memories of places and people so dear. At this hearth I am renewed by my faith and The Story that fuels me to get up each day and do the work I do outside of our home. This place centers me, feeds me and sends me out into the world prepared to do the work I was uniquely created to do.
The Celtic tradition perceives God’s presence in and through all the mundane and domestic details of daily life. No moment in the daily round is too small or insignificant to be an occasion to experience Spirit. The most common of chore is seen as an occasion to be in the posture of prayer. This prayer was offered following the rhythym of awakening and tending to the hearth. May this blessing be an invitation to you to transform a place in your home that daily calls you to the warmth of all the gifts you have been given and urges you to share what you have with the world.
Blessing of the Kindling
I will kindle my fire this morning In presence of the holy angels of heaven, In presence of Ariel of the loveliest form, In presence of Uriel of the myriad charms, Without malice, without jealousy, without envy, Without fear, without terror of any one under the sun, But the Holy Son of God to shield me....
God, kindle Thou in my heart within A flame of love to my neighbor, To my foe, to my friend, to my kindred all, To the brave, to the knave, to the thrall, O Son of the loveliest Mary, From the lowliest thing that liveth, To the Name that is highest of all. Carminda Gadelica, 82
How to create a Hearth-Place in your home.
- Decide on a location in your home. Which room do you naturally gravitate towards when in need of warmth and nourishment? Where do you instinctively go to be cozy, to read, to be told a story?
- Use a defined space to create your hearth-place. Tops of book shelves, a shelf in a book shelf, the top of a piano, a wall shelf or the top of a dresser can all work to provide the structure.
- Assemble items that remind you of essential times in your life or represent loved ones near or far. Bring in a bit of the natural world to this as well as it anchors us within the greater community of things of which we are apart. Invite your family to participate in this gathering!
- Light a candle in this space. This serves as a reminder of the warmth we have been given in these many gifts of people and places. It renews the soul and activates the space.
- Make it dynamic! The hearth-place is a dynamic place that can reflect the change in seasons, people in need of thoughts and prayers, as well as current stories and reflections. Enjoy bringing new items to this space.
