The traveler has important tasks upon arriving to their final destination. Because the entire journey has been intentionally marked and prayerfully pondered, so must the arrival. This is the time to surround yourself with prayers, poems and hymns that anchor your place and provide the touchstone for this final experience.
Read MoreThat ultimate sense of wonder within the experience is what drives so many people to engage in [these] rigorous trials. Father Stephen Canny, an Irish priest who leads a parish in Santa Rosa, California, believes strongly in the effectiveness of pilgrimage. He has climbed Croagh Patrick, a popular pilgrimage site and storied mountain in Ireland, three times himself and has seen it work wonders on the devoted. "You are more alive after you have overcome something difficult," he says. "You're changed by the mountain and the fact that you have confirmed your faith. It's a remarkably effective way to answer the question, What is my purpose?"
Read MoreI need to tell my truth, my story, for another reason. Many of you today are journeying through the wilderness and traveling without the knowledge of company or solidarity. That kind of isolation can eclipse all hopes in ever leaving the labyrinth. Those of us who have gone before you would be false if we withheld the shadowy parts of our own lives. We have the power to provide community and comprehension for others when we share authentically about our own story.
Read MoreI'm strongly compelled to interrupt my normal posting schedule to share with you a new magazine that crossed my mother's counter top to mine over the weekend. Taproot is a dedicated printscape of stories; stories deeply rooted in the earth that tell of knowing our earthen HOME. These tales talk about urban chickens and soil under the finger nails, touching your food and children in gardens. It is also ad-free and the kind of collection that calls you to make a pot of coffee or tea, and cuddle up for a read. Please visit their site by clicking on their photo and consider subscribing to this beautiful new venture.
Read MoreAs we journey through life, we each come to, and through, seasons of great challenge and often despair. From the time we are children, we face the fears of monsters-real and imaginary-and the dark. We come up against the things that cause us to cringe and curl away from our castles in the air. And we are reminded that in many ways, we are very much like Max, the cajoling, contrary little boy in Maurice Sendak's story Where the Wild Things Are.
Read MoreThe work of bringing down heaven to earth is no easy task. And it always takes time...and a lot of it. This is the epic work of pilgrimages and journeys, deserts and dreams. There is always such fanfare and exhilaration when one picks up the walking stick and marks, and crosses into, the beginning of the journey. The vision of the destination is so clear, so lucid--it seems you could just reach across a short breadth of time and realize every desired detail. But soon you find your arm is tired from being extended for so long...for so very long.
Read MoreAs soon as you mark your journey as a pilgrimage, you are drawing a line in the sand transforming how you move through the world-how you see, hear and taste the world around you. And inevitably, because of this manner of intention-and because the Powers that Be know what you've done (that whole line in the sand act)-there will be things that go wrong...terribly wrong. That is simply the nature of the Pilgrim's Path; no longer can you just simply curse at an inconvenience or change in plans. There is Some One speaking to you now through the chaos. There is a Force that will derail all your best laid undertakings and ideals for this journey just so you will see things anew, afresh; just so you will see the Holy, the Mystery that is present.
Read MoreBefore one departs on a pilgrimage, it is essential to participate in leave-taking rituals. These separation rituals mark for yourself the place from where you are departing; they represent your current state of mind, your current situations, and your questions. They also prepare you to cross a threshold from the known to the unknown.
Read MoreIn 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.
Read MoreWho 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.
Read MoreThe 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.
Read MoreWe 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
Read Morethis 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.
Read MoreThis 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.
Read MoreI 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.
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?
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?
