The Call
In a culture whose calendars are captained by smart phones and apps, it is increasingly rare for us to be moved by a season beyond predictable greeting cards and holiday decor. These seasons-be they spiritual, soulful or secular-have a much needed purpose in our lives; they punctuate our plain places with celebration and solidarity. They break open our schedules and routines and bring us together; we gather in community and communion around these seasons, which testify to our lives, to our journeys and where we are headed.
“Stand at the crossroads, and look, and ask for the ancient paths, where the good way lies; and walk in it, and find rest for your souls.”
Next week the season of Lent begins. For some this may cause frantic binges on all things containing caffeine, sugar and/or alcohol. For others, this may hardly incite a passive, acknowledging nod and yet still for others, this may cause a response of libertarian piety for all those unsophisticated souls who still fast to prepare for the great feast of Easter. In a culture whose calendars are captained by smart phones and apps, it is increasingly rare for us to be moved by a season beyond predictable greeting cards and holiday decor. These seasons-be they spiritual, soulful or secular-have a much needed purpose in our lives; they punctuate our plain places with celebration and solidarity. They break open our schedules and routines and bring us together; we gather in community and communion around these seasons, which testify to our lives, to our journeys and where we are headed.
Lent itself is a journey that invites us to awaken to a deep disturbance-to acknowledge that Ordinary Time has become just that-ordinary-and out of this hum-drumness emerges a question and a yearning. There is something that calls us to look towards an end, a destination of a soulful sojourn that reengages us with Holy Ground, which spurs faith onward. This needn't be a time of temperance, but of transformation. There is an invitation here to see these upcoming weeks as a pilgrimage, that something, some PLACE is calling to us, beseeching us to look deeper, GO deeper and be altered by the process. This is a call that summons us to the hidden life, the life of the spirit.
Your life is calling you to leave home-that which is ordinary, that which has become so very normal and so very expected-this season. Your spirit needs you to heed, to really begin listening for the reason behind this journey (and lucky us, one that happens annually!). It is time to acknowledge your surrender to the Spirit, who will "lead you into unpredictable adventures of the soul." (Sarah York, Pilgrims Heart, 5). It is time to pack your bags! However, I would speculate that the ritualistic forgoing of certain foods or habits isn't that which will heighten this experience; just like when you pack for that flight that weighs your luggage, or when you load up your backpack for a trek in the backcountry, you want to travel lightly. Absolutely take note of that which you carry in this season right now, and you may find that to lighten your load you may want to practice simplicity in some areas. This practice begins to awaken the 'pilgrim mood' in you; it summons the inner-sojourner who is readying for the road, always listening, always watching, always waiting for signs and signals from the One who is calling you.
The call of the season is upon us. The journey pilgrimage towards engaging The Passion is nigh-this is the time to center in and listen. Don't be dismayed if you don't hear anything or connect with something right away; that will cry out loud as you campaign away from convention and common places. This is a quiet time. This is a time to begin with focusing on what you love and what is difficult for you. These will be what you carry with you as you cross the threshold and journey into Lent next week.
We set out as seekers after answers, or even peace, that we cannot find at home so believe that a change of scene may be easier than a change of heart.
But as we set out to travel the interior roads of discovery, we discover how quickly travel can turn to travail and how really, there is no forward motion unless we've yielded to the hard, steep, dark places. Our annual calendar calls forth the need for a journey that will stretch us, that will bring us to our knees, that will bring us closer to the Creator of it all. U2's Bono sang the truth well when he piped, "If you want to kiss the sky, you've got to learn how to kneel*."
The ancient path is calling us to come. The road is ready. And there is sky, and all the stars that sparkle within, that will watch over our every step and be there to greet us at our arrival. And we will be kneeling together, and helping one another up, along the whole journey.
“Where there is no way, no path, no road made plain, may there be wise ones who inspire you to see where the way could begin.”
*"Mysterious Ways" as written by Adam Clayton, Dave Evans, Paul David Hewson, Larry Mullen, Angelique Kidjo
Turn on Love
Who do you love? Who lives within the soft places of your heart? Today, as you exchange tokens of affections with close family and friends, ponder how the lines of love can be extended to include more. We are apart of a great community of things that need us to know of them, need us to love them, need us speak on behalf of them. When we are fully engaged with the host of living creatures with whom we live, we turn on our power.
"We touch this strength--our power, who we are in the world--when we are most fully in touch with one another and with the world." -Carter Heyward
On this Valentine's Day, I would like to imagine that our "power" is truly our ability to LOVE. And the ability to access this incredible strength occurs when we are engaging others and the world within which we live. We engage, we experience, we come to KNOW and out of this comes understanding, respect and love.
Who do you love? Who lives within the soft places of your heart? Today, as you exchange tokens of affections with close family and friends, ponder how the lines of love can be extended to include more. We are apart of a great community of things that need us to know of them, need us to love them, need us speak on behalf of them. When we are fully engaged with the host of living creatures with whom we live, we turn on our power.
We turn on our love.
Cookie Love
The amazing, magical thing that always happened-whether I was sad, depressed, lonely, dejected, or vulnerable-was that this process of baking cookies and giving them away truly sorted me out! I could be in the most dispirited of states and as the baking ritual commenced, I could feel myself lifting. My mind would initially focus on the chemistry of the cookie (1 tsp baking soda, 1 cup sugar, 4 cups flour...) and then center on the recipient. My thoughts were no longer wallowing in self-proclaimed pity, they were reaching out to someone else, and to another's story, who needed an extra dose of sweetness in their given season. The cookies created a shared moment that acknowledged another and put life back in perspective.
My mom has many glib witticisims that she pronounces as truths; a couple of her most favorites (which I heard often growing up) are, "Pretty is as pretty does," and "When you think people are looking at you, they are not." These were pretty harsh statements for a self-centered adolescent and she even had one more that could trump this lot and go straight for the Ego jugular: "When you are feeling out of sorts, bake cookies for others." Considering the emotional landscape of a teenager, you can imagine, I baked a lot of cookies! The amazing, magical thing that always happened-whether I was sad, depressed, lonely, dejected, or vulnerable-was that this process of baking cookies and giving them away truly sorted me out! I could be in the most dispirited of states and as the baking ritual commenced, I could feel myself lifting. My mind would initially focus on the chemistry of the cookie (1 tsp baking soda, 1 cup sugar, 4 cups flour...) and then center on the recipient. My thoughts were no longer wallowing in self-proclaimed pity, they were reaching out to someone else, and to another's story, who needed an extra dose of sweetness in their given season. The cookies created a shared moment that acknowledged another and put life back in perspective.
When my husband, Joel, and I first moved into our home (referred to often and simply as our house numbers: 2809), our block was a sinister sea of unknown stories whose sailors stayed inside, anchored in fear and addiction. Surrounded by averted eyes, gated windows, and stupefied souls, I could feel myself becoming fettered by the fear that kept our neighborhood silent and shut-in. My mom perceived this movement away from the eager excitement of a new homeowner and, prayerfully, unfurled her time-worn truism: "Mary, it is time to bake cookies...this time, for your neighbors." My spirit knew it too; I began to bake.
After plates of the sweet offerings were assembled, Joel and I headed outside, praying against the cowardice and consternation that were creeping into our souls. Mutually inspired by the life and work of Dr. John Perkins, we believed we were called to live here, we had felt God's leading to make our home in Seattle's Rainier Valley. And to be quite honest, our naive, privileged ambitions began to crumble at our feet in the face of the very real-and now next door-presence of Other. What remained was the very real question of how were we going to live through and past the fear and BE neighbors to these people who didn't give a damn about us and our enthusiasm. Brandishing our cookies like swords, we decided to meet the fear head on and start knocking on doors and introduce ourselves to the neighborhood.
Behind each answered door were stories of sordid suffering and profound human resiliency. Doors peeked open, chains were released and eyes were filled with skeptical curiosity; every face seemed etched with the same bewildered question, "Who are these crazy people delivering COOKIES!?" And yet, we were invited into our new neighbors homes where it was clearly evident a guest hadn't crossed the threshold in decades. We were invited to sit on a settee and offered dark drink and twisted delights in the company of anonymous tattooed faces. We received blank, baked stares in exchange for the no-strings-attached-cookies and we received the very clear message that the suggested packed gun would be unloaded on us if we didn't back away with our "f*cking cookies."
After delivering the last plate, we returned home with less fear and more knowledge of those who resided in this neighborhood. We didn't know what would come of this culturally foreign gesture, but we did now know our neighbors' names and they most certainly knew ours.
And that is one of the first steps to loving, folks. For you cannot know what you cannot name...and you cannot love what you do not know.
The baking had already begun to sort things out: I had no time to cower behind closed doors, I had a neighborhood to get to know!
My oldest son, Orion, was wisely "invited" by his teacher (whom we love and adore!) to have a home-day this week in response to a recent situation where he threw a rock-laden mud ball in the face of another class mate-ouch!! Our charge was to spend the day together working on what it looks like to be a caring friend. Orion was querulous about staying home; and I...well, I did what we always seem to do in these situations: I became my mother and said, "Orion, I think it is time that you bake some cookies."
The ritual had begun; we baked heart-shape cookies and read 1 Corinthians 13 until it became our mantra. "Love is patient." (1 tsp baking soda) "Love is kind." (1 cup sugar) "Love never fails." (4 cups flour) Orion made construction paper heart notes to accompany the plates we were assembling for our now-common neighborhood cookie delivery. Orion knocked on the familiar doors of our neighbors homes and greeted each of them by name as doors swung easily and happily open. As I hung back, wanting him to own every second of these moments, I heard him say how grateful he was they were his neighbors and wished each of them a Happy Valentine's Day.
Door to door we went. We had one last plate to deliver; it was the same house that eight years ago a gun was almost aimed at us for doing this exact same thing. Our Laos neighbor, Manichanh, flung the door open with a hug and gave Orion kisses for his sweet gift. Without hesitation, she grabbed her gardening gloves, and began to unearth some of her urban daffodil bulb bounty to gift us in exchange for our delivery. With our cookie basket now filled with soon-to-be flowers, we returned home to plant this generous neighborly token in our garden.
As we planted each bulb, we continued our 1 Corinthians 13 mantra: "Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails." I scanned my eyes up and down our block while my son dug in the earth, planting very real "seeds of love." I raised my eyes and sighed a prayer of thanksgiving for each of my neighbors, whom I know and love. And I quietly laughed in response to my mom's deep wisdom she taught me so long ago. For it is both cookies AND love that never fail. Never. Ever.
Living in Fear
We all live in fear to some extent or another. There is a spectrum of this emotional response and absolutely, there are situations and contexts that warrant this self-preserving stance. If we were to do a broad-stroke generalization though, what is the typical object of this fear? I daresay that the average common characteristic of these fiends is difference
We all live in fear to some extent or another. There is a spectrum of this emotional response and absolutely, there are situations and contexts that warrant this self-preserving stance. If we were to do a broad-stroke generalization though, what is the typical object of this fear? I daresay that the average common characteristic of these fiends is difference. Think about it: when someone or something is different than you, something inside bristles a bit and puts you on defense. And perhaps there is a good evolutionary reason for this. Because, very likely, a million years ago difference would have denoted danger and you could've tried to eat my kids or kill my clan! Please understand, I am not making light of very real, very tragic events and circumstances that absolutely generate fear. My heart cries with what I read about in the news and cringes when I hear gunshots and wailing sirens in my neighborhood. These situations should spur us to live with vigilance and a keen eye for safety. To a very real degree, our lives and the lives of our children, depend on it. But what I am interested in exploring is the kind of fear that causes us to dig our chin deep into our chest when passing a stranger on the sidewalk, that compels us to close our curtains to the chaos of our community and has us not knowing the very name of our next door neighbor. I think it has everything to do with difference and those unknown, misunderstood behaviors of Other that cause consternation instead of a courageous, compassionate response.
One day, not so long ago, I was playing in front of our house with our children. While they think nothing of this (to them the front of the house is appealing because we live on a hill and they love to take anything with wheels down our front sidewalk), this has always been an act of resistance for me. For good reason, there were times when I hid behind our curtains, double bolted every lock and wished that everyone on our block was like ME. But I've found over the years that this kind of hiding response doesn't necessarily increase safety; it feeds the fear and kills the community. And so we play out front of the house. I've intentionally planted curb-side gardens so that I have to be outside, out front, present to my neighbors and praying for opportunities to engage those who are unknown and different than me.
And then she walked up the hill. Lunging is likely a more accurate description-all the same, coming towards us was a stranger, someone unfamiliar and not at all like me. I shielded a shy smile with my shoulder. My boys, called out to her in a vigorous greeting and asked her for her name. She slowed her pace to a stop. There was a very strong something in me that immediately wanted to hush them, to swoop them under my wings and whisk them away from this now pending encounter with this foreigner...because...I was afraid. I inhaled. I exhaled. And I reminded myself of something I firmly believe: The Spirit resides in (I would say even thrives in) that grace-filled gap between being afraid and being known. That is a space that only the Holy can handle, hold and heal. It is a place that, while scary as hell, I want to be; I'm challenged here to see, to hear and to know Other.
Her name is Manichanh and she is an immigrant from Laos*. I've never seen her before because she rarely leaves her home, which is just five down from my own. She occasionally does exercises on our dead-end street when most people are at work and the roads are quieter. She lives with her six year old grandson, Alexander, who also doesn't play outside; indoors, TV and video games offer safety once he returns home from school. I ask her if she ever goes walking in our neighborhood woods, "There are trails in there now, you know," I gently offer. Manichanh emphatically shakes her head no, points to the woods and firmly states, "Bad. Scary." I take a deep breath knowing that I'm about to step into the gap: "Want to take a walk with me in the forest?" I ask.
Two strangers stare at one another. We have nothing to rationalize an excursion such as this other than the fact that, plain and simple, we are neighbors and I'm struck with the value that that still holds even in our isolated, urban existences. And I believe that our woods are healing and are active participants in a great agenda for God's common good. So, this seems as good a place as any to engage my new neighbor. For a reason greater than us, she agreed.
We-Manichanh, myself and the children-approached our woodland trailhead. She grasped my arm. I laid my hand over hers. This time I didn't hide my smile, and as we entered the woods together, these woods that once truly were a place of which to be legitimately afraid, she exhaled. We walked for a time in silence largely due to our language barrier, the children ran ahead and about, bird song lilted in the leaves of the waving trees. We clasped hands and completed our walk, a walk that took us so much farther than simply through the woods, it took us through the gap and to the beautiful place of being known.
When we made to depart from one another, Manichanh brought her palms together at her chest and bowed deeply, while murmuring a phrase repeatedly. I asked her what she was saying and she said it was like a 'thank you' but her native words carried a depth of gratitude that our mere thanks simply cannot touch. I knew she wasn't just thanking me. With her words and gestures, she was responding to me and the woods and The One who upholds us all, with a deep seat of gratitude. Both of our fears were relieved and in its place stood relationship.
The next morning I discovered home-made Lao cuisine on my porch. Manichanh's grandson, Alexander came over later for a play-date and a romp through the woods with my boys. These are the kinds of blessings that arise from living in fear, living close enough to the edge of what is known that reliance on the Spirit is critical to get through to the other side. And the other side is where the goodness resides, folks--therein lies the beloved community, where all are known, all are welcomed, and all are gloriously different.
The Spirit is calling: "Come! Step into the gap with Me!" Will you go?
*Mentioning Manichanh's ethnicity is important to describe the dynamic of this story. In this context she represents Other to me and I, and the forest, are Other to her.
Other and the Future
this is the hopeful intention of Waymarkers: the blog. Our lives are a pilgrimage. Each of us has been called to journey thoughtfully and intentionally through our days. We are asked to see the sacred all around us, but specifically in those other than ourselves. What exactly does this mean? It really is as simple as it sounds: anyone OTHER than you. This includes those that don’t look like you, act like you, live like you, or think like you. We are called to see them, travel with them, and yes, even live on BEHALF of them. This process of linking Other to our self begins the transformational unfolding of Other becoming Neighbor, and ultimately, in practicing the universal command of “Love your neighbor as yourself”, becoming your self. For when this conversion occurs, we suddenly cannot look away from the injustices and pain experienced by those other than ourselves, for it is now happening to US. We now journey forward on behalf of a common good for ALL.
This post initiates me into the blogosphere universe and I find that I am both excited and apprehensive. Like that of any new journey, the excitement comes from a seat of knowing that there has been much preparation and direction to get to this point and the time has now come to cross the threshold (into the blogging world, that is). The tension to the thrill is held by trepidation; I mean, what if these words, thoughts and stories mean nothing to all of you who inhabit these virtual landscapes? This nagging fear of the unknown, quite honestly, slows my poised fingers as they hover over the keyboard. There is great risk when one travels with transparency and journeys out from places of comfort. But, I have a strong sense of solace knowing that without these steps away from what is known and familiar, that which is HOME to me will never expand and challenge me to continue to become all who I am intended to be.
And that is really quite it; that is what I have been thinking about, reading about and talking about for years: in what ways are we intentionally living (for the sake of metaphor, insert 'journeying') out our lives so that when the pilgrimage cycles commence and begin again, we are engaging in this dynamic cycle of calling, departure, arrival, to—ultimately—Home again. It is this sense of Home that is compelling to me. Of course we have our structural residences, but I’m talking about the conceptual framework of this internal habitat. What is it that is so familiar and comfortable that it is like home to us? What does it look like? Who are the neighbors? Who lives and visits within the walls? What meals are shared? Who do we encounter on our Journey that is brought into the hearth of our Home and how does this simple act of hospitality create a culture of common good?
One of the ancient principals of pilgrimage was that the pilgrim was journeying on behalf of something. Whether that was a prayer, a petition, in penitence or even traveling in place of someone who couldn’t make the trek themselves, there was an elemental understanding that the journey was taking place on account of something, or someone, far greater. This positioned the pilgrim to travel in such a way that employed a keen eye and an astute ear; no longer were there such things as trivial events and random people. The value of fellow pilgrims and strangers alike was considered great, so much so that every encounter was acknowledged as a source of wisdom and possible enlightenment. The significance of ‘the Other’ was recognized as a sacred way marker and seen as a critical component to a journey well made.
So here it is, and this is the hopeful intention of Waymarkers: the blog. Our lives are a pilgrimage. Each of us has been called to journey thoughtfully and intentionally through our days. We are asked to see the sacred all around us, but specifically in those other than ourselves. What exactly does this mean? It really is as simple as it sounds: anyone OTHER than you. This includes those that don’t look like you, act like you, live like you, or think like you. We are called to see them, travel with them, and yes, even live on BEHALF of them. This process of linking Other to our self begins the transformational unfolding of Other becoming Neighbor, and ultimately, in practicing the universal command of “Love your neighbor as yourself”, becoming your self. For when this conversion occurs, we suddenly cannot look away from the injustices and pain experienced by those other than ourselves, for it is now happening to US. We now journey forward on behalf of a common good for ALL.
And how does the Future fit into all this? The Future isn’t now and it certainly isn’t what was, so why concern our self with it at all? Well, in a very real sense, the Future is Other to us. Our modern Western culture certainly has made great strides in our era, but a monumental failure was its inability to assimilate indigenous people’s capacity to see forward and understand their behaviors had long-term implications. This ‘seven-generation sustainability’ concept has its origins with the Iroquois people. This 'Great Law of the Iroquois' maintained one should think seven generations ahead (a couple hundred years into the future) and decide whether the decisions and actions they made would benefit their children, and children's children, seven generations into the future. This is a call and a challenge that we need to heed today; this view transmutes the Future, and our ecological concerns, into today and makes it a ready companion to our every action. It becomes our neighbor. It becomes our self. It becomes our HOME.
There it is folks. These are the foundational themes to this blog. Am I excited about thinking aloud with you all around these topics? Absolutely! Am I scared that I may not get it right and my own personal stories of living on behalf of Other and the Future might not be your version of virtue? Yes. There is that tension mentioned earlier again…but my hope supersedes this. I pray that by inviting you into my HOME you too will help hone me. That by saddling up together on this journey of life, we will see one another and our stories as sacred. That by living forward in ways that see the Future as important as today, we will all seek out that which is the common good for us all. And we will get lost; one most certainly does on a trek that carries with it much treasure. In these times of uncertainty, in these straying seasons, may we return to our God-given travel mates—Other and the Future—and ask them for guidance. May they be our way markers that point us all towards HOME.
Epiphany
This morning I awoke to bird-song outside my bedroom window; a robin was perched in a wintered tree and was robustly singing alongside the rising sun. This melody was a delightful reminder that Epiphany is upon us; the season where we proclaim that God is indeed with us is NOW.
This morning I awoke to bird-song outside my bedroom window; a robin was perched in a wintered tree and was robustly singing alongside the rising sun. This melody was a delightful reminder that Epiphany is upon us; the season where we proclaim that God is indeed with us is NOW. Throughout the dark-filled Advent season we prepared our homes, our trees and the containments of boxes for Christmas. We prepared for a day to come, a day which marks the arrival of the Christ Child. We moved forward with anticipation and delight, counting down the days and hours to this sacred time. And with Epiphany now here, we are invited to join with the age-old Wise Men and celebrate the reality of the Christ Child, to proclaim the promise of a prophecy, to commemorate the covenant of what comes out of Christmas being planted in our hearts.
Due to the fact that Christmas fell on a Sunday this year, we spent a shorter time leisurely around the tree, and prepared to gather with our faith community at Madrona Grace Church. Once there, the children (don’t all good lessons come by way of the children?) were engaged with the Nativity Story from Mary’s perspective and the great gift she was given of carrying the life of Jesus. The lesson was further emphasized by the simple assignment of placing a pole bean seed within the wetted, soft folds of a paper napkin inside a clear jar. “The seed, the promise of Jesus, was planted in Mary,” the activity affirmed. “What has God planted in you? What great gifts are growing in you?” The instructions were for the children to bring the jar home and place it on a windowsill. Daily they are to water it, watch it and wonder about what that is that has been planted in them.
Today, following the 12 Days of Christmas, the small seed has swelled with new life. It has sprouted a sustainable root system and grown a full two inches. Leaf fronds are emerging from the bean pod and the boys’ wonderment is real (and oh so good!) as they have witnessed the growing life from within this little seed. They are so eager to plant this pole bean in the earth and eat the tasty fruit from its vines. For this we must wait a bit longer, but the simple lesson from Christmas morning is very clear on this day of Epiphany.
We do prepare for Christmas, and prepare well we should. We are creating the conditions for the coming of the Christ Child into our lives. We are opening ourselves up to the life-giving promises of this contrary, cosmic Story. Even so, the Christmas Tree has likely grown dry and it is now the time for the festive accoutrements to be put away. But as we pack up the ornaments, and replace the holiday enhancements with the normal household arrangements, we should not be packing up the truth of the season as well. God came on Christmas Day, but God didn’t leave. Jesus, Emmanuel, God with us, is still here! The seed that was planted within Mary grew and became the SAVIOR.
So on this day, which marks a new season of celebrating the presence of God, I am struck by the roots of this quickly growing pole bean. I am stilled by this visual of quick and ready growth, when the conditions have been prepared just so. I hope that the gifts that I have been given, the blessings planted within me, are growing at a rate that will allow me to make gifts of them to others. I hope that I too can join with the Three Kings and give what I have been accorded.
Quietly Waiting (Advent)
I anticipated having a lot more creative inspiration during these early Advent days. I assumed that because of both the personal challenge to write reflections and the richness of this season that epiphanies would be snowballing me. This has not been so. In fact, it has been uncharacteristically quiet. This isn’t to say that my daily activities have been still. My interior home-life has all the markings of December; my children and I have been enjoying creating in the kitchen, and our freezer full of Christmas delights speaks to this. My knitting needles are keeping up pace with the envisioned gifts I have still yet to make. Christmas canticles have been sweetly singing and candles are aglow throughout our days and evenings, and indeed, we are all very much aware of the deepening darkness in these weeks leading up to the Winter Solstice and the celebration of the Christ child. Try as I might to center in on all the rich symbolism of the season and capture an essence of the deep truths that annually call us out to celebrate, squeals of boy-children laughter, running-on-hard-wood-feet, and sibling drum circles (six hands chaotically attempting to play along with The Little Drummer Boy) dissipate the reverie and my inner-writing-voice is, again, quiet.
Beyond our doors the urban streets surrounding our home in Southeast Seattle are far from quiet; they are full of life and noise. Our city’s light rail train runs just one block from our front door and our home resides directly underneath SeaTac International’s most popular flight path. The road in front of our home is a main arterial to Seattle’s interstate highway and hospital; the wailing sirens of ambulances, police cars and fire engines charge this street at all hours of the day, in every season of the year. Christmastide doesn’t lessen these lights of pain and sorrow; if anything, the blinking rainbow Christmas strands alighting these city-homes seem an ironic backdrop to the grand-scope reality of urban life. It is a practice to offer up a murmured prayer for the ones impacted by the siren’s story; but the high-pitched decibel of these warnings leaves me aching for peace and silence.
But just behind our house is a small parcel of forested land. When the banter of the children grows too big for the confines of our home, or when we are needed to exchange the concrete under our feet for the soft, spongy feel of the earth, we dress for the weather and go into the woods. And it is most often here, in this green space that is adjacent—and under! —all the aforementioned urban realties, that we find a deep sense of quiet and Nature silently offers up testimonies affirming this Advent season.
This past weekend, while giving a tour of our recent trail work to a volunteer, we were discussing the mutual frustration at the lack of creative writing during this wintertime. During our walk through the woods, I observed how quickly the forest had quieted into its dormant stage—it was just a few weeks ago that these self same woods were vibrant with the flaming colors of autumn. Heedful of a surfacing truth, I felt a message from the woods settling into a deep place in my heart: it is this time of year when the earth goes quiet. It is in this season that all of creation huddles inward; drawing its energy to its core as it awaits the time to unfold again into new life. This isn’t the time of creative displays of springtime colors or the heady scents of sultry summers. This is the month of darkness; this is the month of quiet dormancy. This is the tide of wordless waiting. I felt a comforting invitation from the trees: “Wait with us”, they seemed to say, “as we do not wait passively in vein!”
A popular prayer poem that comes by way of the Iona Community in Scotland begins:
When the world was dark and the city was quiet, You came. You crept in beside us. And no one knew.
It is easy to expect much from this time of year (and so we should!); the lights, the music, the bows—all seem to loudly proclaim the Life that is to come. These merry seasonal accoutrements, while certainly pointing to the day when the Ultimate Gift was given, can also be that which confuses the energy with which we move through these Advent days. With every Christmas light, tree or gift we see, we find the anticipation growing, the excitement mounting, the frenzy swelling, until—just like the energy of our home with three small children drumming along to carols—we have an emotional spiral in complete contradiction to the season of Christmas. I expected that all of the preparations and plans would inspire and nurture creativity; that the cookies and canticles would give me a fresh perspective on Christ.
Yet this prayer poem, with great simplicity, describes the ideal context for the Christ child to come: “When the world was dark and the city was quiet You came.” Our greatest Gift, our deepest Inspiration, the seat of our conceiving comes to us not because of the fanfare of Christmas, but out of the quiet, expectant, hope-filled waiting to which we are called. The One for whom we wait WILL come…will we know? Will we allow ourselves to be still enough to sense Christ’s presence? Perhaps if we accept the invitation to dark quiet from the trees, we will be among those who know of The Arrival.
Sacrificial Giving
This week commences the annual festivities of Thanksgiving among those of us in the North Western Hemisphere. Amidst the generous portions of food and family, is the explicit attunement to an “attitude of gratitude.” This is the season where, along with Christmas music already being played on the airwaves, a distinct line is drawn in the sand and we say with fervor, “Indeed, I am thankful!” And the reflections begin, do they not? In our own times of prayerful meditation, with our children and even with our friends and partners, in due diligence, we ask one another for what are we thankful? We emphasize the many blessings and gifts we have been given and for which we are grateful. And this is all well and good—certainly, this inclination should be a daily practice—but I can’t help but consider the giving that has to occur for me to be thankful in response.
It is a simple discipline to look around that which constitutes our lives—at the food on our plates, the warm walls that shelter our sleep—and acknowledge that someone built our house (I am grateful), a farmer grew my food (I am thankful), etc. Very soon after we begin this recognition of receipt, our awareness shifts and grows to include even more gifts and blessings that come from the various relationships in our lives. Further reflection allows even this broadening circle of thanksgiving to expand to include the natural world; we contemplate the air we breath is a gift of the trees and the water we drink is provided by rainfall and glacial streams. We arrive here on this magnificent gift of a planet and everything is given to us. The ground we stand on, the sustenance in our bellies, the clothes on our back—these are all gifts that are the result of sacrifices on the part of our greater home, the Universe. Mathematical cosmologist, Brian Swimme, talks about that from out of the numinous spark that began all of life—the fireball, stars, extinct species, Sun, Earth, animals, plants, and other humans—have been given the gifts that were needed and are needed for our lives.
We see that everything around us, and most notably above us, is giving of itself so that we may live our lives. Let us look at our sun. There is an incredible, mind-blowing process that is occurring every second of our lives: the unfolding of light. Without getting into the details of this scientific transference, it is enough to say that every second our sun is transforming 4 million tons of itself into light. That ongoing transformation of itself is irreversible; there is nothing that we can do to give back the light; no advancements in solar energy will ever allow us to return any of this gifted energy to the sun. The light has been given to us; it beams to our earth and is dispersed in all directions. Everything that's happened in the life of this planet is directly dependent upon the sun’s light. Every second it is given to us is for the sustenance of our lives and the lives of the billions of species on this planet. If this ongoing gift of light ceased, life as we know it would stop as well. Our earth’s temperature would plummet to 400 degrees below zero; our biosphere would die. This generous, sacrificial giving doesn’t require anything of us in return. Should we be thankful? I think so.
The early Celtic Christians nurtured a unique relationship with Creation as they had a deep understanding that nature was revelatory. They were alert and discerning of theophanies or showings of God in the world, and cosmos, around them. The sun, moon and stars—these ‘celestial luminaries’ (Eriugena, Periphyseon 711A)—shone out of the darkness and expressed something of the inexpressible nature of God. What is it that they are saying? What is the sun revealing about the Creator with its on-going process of light-giving?
All of human activity is generated by the generosity of the sun. Our very lives directly depend upon this ongoing gift of the sun; this is a real sacrificial, ongoing event. The sun is giving of itself so that we might have life. It is both giving us the way with its energy, and showing us the way with its light. This is a universal truth that has presented itself the world over, in all cultures, by way of deep archetypes and is manifested by the Christ. All has been given—Life itself is being given—on our account. And what is asked of us in return? I wonder if we are asked for more than just a seasonal attitude of gratitude. I wonder if with this universal model of unconditional giving, we too are being asked to give sacrificially, to participate in this great exchange of reciprocal giving; that we too are being invited to be the life-giving light to others?
Golden Seeds
Bigleaf Maples (Acer macrophyllum) group together in a large forested stand in our backyard. Their presence cools us in the heat of summer with their shade, and their branches provide endless childhood delights. And in Autumn, their yellow and orange hues transform our home’s sunlight into gold. As temperatures drop and wind commences its more forceful seasonal blows, these large leaves flutter and float through the sky, downward falling only to be lifted once again toward the trees; a dance that seems to speak to the leaf’s own uncertainty of where now to call home: the woods or the earth?
My children squeal with delight when the Bigleaf Maple relinquishes her seeds, dispersing them through the air with the aid of extremely well designed membranous wings. We stand together in our yard, scanning the sky for a sighting of these swirling seeds, watching their twirling trajectory from tree to terra. The boys run pell-mell, hands outstretched in hopes of intersecting this annual planting. They intuitively appreciate these ‘helicopters’ and attribute to a captured fruit the most coveted of names: favored toy.
In the midst of their laughter, I watch these seeds twirl and tumble through the air looking for places to settle and create a new stand of trees. I can’t help but wonder if our own patterns of living (as we leave our ‘parent plant’ to find our own home in the understory) sometimes look like the zig-zag pattern of these in-flight whirlybirds. I wonder if our lives are like the seeds—feeling the lifting and carrying of the winds combined with the curious uncertainty of where we may land. We whirl and wait, waiting to fall to a special, sacred place of the earth where we can burrow, take root and unfold in all we were created to be.
I wonder, if allowed to root, if allowed to grow, OUR gifts would be that which someday grows to create a golden hue in the lives and homes of Other?