150 Pathways to God: #21 Mystics View

Recently, as the priest of a small parish, I did a burial service at an old countryside cemetery. The drive to the burial was through a beautiful slice of mountainous upstate Pennsylvania. The scenery is spectacular in all seasons, but most especially in Spring when new growth has come upon trees and emerged as a flowered and carpet covering the fields and open spaces. The misty low clouds of the night linger among the mountain ranges even into mid-morning before ascending. The locals don't call this "God's Country" for nothing.

As I drove through the rural landscape I came upon a street sign called "Mystics View." In the span of a nano-second I readied myself for the beautiful view that was surely to follow down the lane of any street so named. But what I saw was jarring; it was the entrance into a very poorly kept trailer home park. Now I have seen quite a number of lower income neighborhoods whose upkeep and landscaping rival the gated communities of Hilton Head Island. But this was not one of them. Not one of the trailers appeared cared for. I wasn't even sure anyone even lived in them anymore. It was  collection of plastic and metal; antithetical to the specter of beauty I was anticipating. Mystic's view? Hardly. It seemed that there was an ironic twist at work here.

It later occurred to me that this was not irony but rather a righting of my ideas about mysticism. Apparently, the ethereal ideals I had placed upon mystical writing was in need of grounding. I had placed the work of the mystic within the angelic realm, limited it to the earth's many and varied displays of beauty in every season. Therein lies the evidence of God in the created world... the end. But the true tradition of the mystic is seeing the divine in all manner and conditions of life. The mystic sees not what appears to be there, where there is raw beauty or raw dilapidation, but sees through what is, to expose another place that coexists along side it; "Out beyond right doing and wrong doing there is a field...." (Rumi). The mystic does not judge what is in front of them, but sees with different eyes, employing sight that transcends human understanding to reveal what is hidden.

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe is a kind of mystic tale. The armoire is more then it appears; it is a portal to another place and time. In Harry Potter the children board a train that appears to be like any other to go off to school. But the train, moving at full steam, disappears through a solid wall and emerges in another world, another dimension, the world of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. When Dorothy is caught in a tornado she is transported to a place that was as real as her own bed where at the very same time she lay unconscious. Perhaps the dilapidated trailer park too is more then it appears. Perhaps it is a thin place that can only be seen from the mystic's view. Perhaps it is the home of things unseen by those who are blinded by their lack of imagination. The mystic has regained the full faculty of their imagination and from that vantage point translates to us what is just out of sight; what is just beyond our understanding.

Mystics do not place signposts in places where the divine is obvious but rather post signs as to where to view the divine in the unexpected.

150 Pathways to God: #21 Blessings from the Earth Garden

Thank you to Nancy Dart, guest blogger, who submitted this post.

Recently, at a local, busy store while I was shopping for some ‘ideal’ soil to amend my ‘not-so-ideal’ soil to grow vegetables in my home Victory Garden I noticed an intent young mother.  She pushed a very large cart with two little girls in the seats, and another younger lass surrounded with young plants.  Little girls with freckles and smiles, the youngest, perhaps about three years old, with lovely bright strawberry hair in an untidy braid and a halo of frizz around her sweet, freckled face. They chattered to each other and to their mother, holding their own little plants in their hands. 

I held my breath at such beauty!  What gifts we have been given by God!  I have been in that mother’s shoes, as many of us have, intent on the quotidian demands of our lives, a long list of things to get done before we can get to the rest of the items on our lists; and totally unaware of the face of God shining in the ordinary.

It was evident that the mother was teaching her little ones some things about gardening — about how to plant, care for, and nurture other beings. They were with her as she shopped, they held little plants in their hands that they chose for their own. 

The Victory of this Earth Garden is in the love of a parent, who works hard and doesn’t often see the blessings; the Victory is the presence of children and nature in the cycle of life; the Victory is in the learning that will occur as these little ones tend to their own little plants today, gardens tomorrow, families and communities in the future. Amidst the backdrop of the appearance of a sometimes hopeless world (if one listens to the news too much) was the reminder of faith and grace in the unassuming activities of a sweet little family. 

This mother and her children were unaware of the holiness of their activities but I want to thank them for their blessing from the Earth Garden. I bought a bag of dirt but received a gift that was priceless.  

150 Pathways to God: #20 Let go of the day

For the last several months I've been listening to a nighttime meditation by Dr. Joe Dispenza. My favorite part of it comes in the very beginning. He says, "Now as you exhale, let go of the day."

For the first few weeks of this it seemed matter of fact... it was the end of the day after all. But over time I began to really look forward to those words. Each time I heard them the exhale got deeper and deeper as I began to really let go of the day, the whole day, without retaining any parts of it. It is now my second best part of the day. The first is waking up to a new day.

My spiritual director asked about my prayer life recently and this singular moment at the end of the day sprang to my mind first. I had never spoken to anyone about my meditations and I was surprised to hear myself talk about this nightly ritual and how much it had come to mean to me. I was hearing myself tell myself what it knew at a deep level but not at the surface level of everyday conversation. I observed myself saying out loud: "Do you know what a relief it is to have someone give me permission to let go of the day?"

Somewhere in me a habit on holding on to parts of a day, good or bad, and replaying them for days or weeks or longer into the future had become the norm. I had no idea the weight I was carrying around. But to let go of the day means to let go of it, all of it. That is, to release it into the infinite cosmos and to start anew tomorrow. To choose not to "cling," as Michael Singer says, allows us to be fully present in this moment of this day, free from the attachments of the past.

One of my teachers says that when we go to sleep at night all momentum stops on all subjects. So that when we awaken, we truly wake to a new day, a new creation, and we are new, and everything is possible regardless of what came before because we are starting at a brand new place. If we chose to pick up on yesterday's stuff then it carries forward and maybe that's really good. But if yesterday brought unhappiness or anxiety, then it can be left in yesterday. We make the choice to bring forward whatever we want. We also choose to let go of whatever we want. There is no rule that requires us to drag around our memories of the past, good or bad, like a ball a chain.

Take a deep breath... and with this exhale, and let go of the day.

150 Pathways to God: #19 Beyond Words

People in the western world are very word-centered. We think a lot about what has been said and what will be said. We read a lot. We converse a lot. The music we listen to is largely lyric-based. Our judgements about things are based generally on the argument that has been made as to what is right or what is wrong, or better or worse, what we prefer and what we reject. We hear the opinions of others and then we decide what we think and then add to the conversation. Most of what we consider important comes to us by way of words: the news, political updates, historical information, fiction and non-fiction, prose and poetry, documentaries, the weather report, articles and essays, dinner-time conversation, heart to heart talks, arguments, phone calls, sign language, braille, the giving and receiving of directions and instruction, teaching and learning, phone messages, texts and much of social media, emails, tweets, blogs, sermons, hymns, liturgy, even the sacraments are distributed with words. Words explain, justify, defend, inform and describe. 

Words are sounds which are vibrations or waves of energy that our ears receive and our brains interpret. In and of themselves they hold no value. We assign all meaning and power to the words we hear, read, sing, and speak. And we decide how to receive the words in our life. Have you ever thought about how many words you encounter in a given day? If there were no words would there still be meaning? The spiritual life utilizes words to be sure, but often in an attempt to reach beyond them. What is meaningful about life cannot be measured with any accuracy in words: birth, death, the bonds of affection, joy, peace, love and whole range of human interaction. The most profound spiritual experience cannot be described. Art and musical instruments, or voices that utter sounds that are not words can get into the places that words cannot.

Over the centuries spiritual communities have wrestled with words and developed practices that work to move us beyond them. One of these in monastic life is the practice of silence. It aims to reduce the overstimulation of constant conversation. It is a difficult practice for many people. Quantumly speaking: One needs to be up to speed vibrationally with silence or else it feels jarring and uncomfortable. The first few days of a silent retreat can be grueling for those not prepared. But for many, silence is a blessing and much is gained in a short time. It is of note that during silent retreats people often move from the spoken word to the written word. We simply move our conversations to the page. 

I find it helpful to take a mini word sabbatical on a daily basis, loosely, not being too strict about it. What time of day lends itself to no words between your waking and sleeping? The amount of time is immaterial really. A word sabbatical is not meditation. And it can be very brief. Perhaps long enough to fold the laundry. It might get longer as one gets vibrationally up to speed with wordlessness; that is when it becomes more comfortable then uncomfortable. In wordlessness one might go about the simple work of the day, cleaning and cooking and gardening. Doing art. Listening to or playing instrumental music. Driving to work. Sitting in the sun or watching the rain outside the window with a cup of warm tea and watching the swirls of steam that you never noticed before. Knitting. Walking a well-worn path alone or just wandering around the yard. Brushing the dog. 

But you say: Well I'm still thinking and those are words! Yes, for awhile. But like any practice the fruits come with repetition. When someone is involved in creative act they reach a time when impressions rather than words come to the front: They are inspired. Probably not the first time; but after many times they learn how to slip into an inspired creative state quickly and easily. Many people can work on a project, like sewing or car repair, for hours and not realize that quite a long time has gone by. Others can drive from one place to another and not remember the trip. They might remember what they were "thinking" about but it might be more like a dream filled with images. Some feel as if at times they "blacked out" while remaining conscious and nothing at all can be recalled. When we remove ourselves from the world of words for a short time day after day, impressions begins to appear; the voice of the divine which is beyond words begins to make itself known. It rises up from a deep place within us and expands into a kind of spaciousness; free from the constraints and conditions of words. Some practice meditation to achieve this; but I think that a simple time of wordlessness practiced in the midst of every day life and tasks can be as useful. Rightly described, this is a practice of receiving that which is beyond words. 

150 Pathways to God: #18 Transforming rectangles to diamonds

Welcome guest blogger Nancy Dart, parishioner of St. James, avid theological student, seamstress and creative and loving soul.

Easter and the UFO

In spring comes the ‘urge to purge’—purge those old, sticky, body energies by eating new greens and walking in the ‘waking up’ woods; purge the clutter, dust, and old cobwebs from the corners and walls, purge old stale thoughts and boredoms of winter.  Purging opens space for life. The Tomb, now empty, napkin neatly folded at the end of the shelf, is a reminder that the Easter Resurrection is well-timed to purge the old season in order to resurrect the body, mind, and spirit.

The past few cold days of early spring have reminded me that Mother Nature is alive and well. Her Resurrection will not be denied. Those little green tulip sprouts peek from the soft, snowy blankets, upright, and determined to live! And the Resurrection of Mother Mary’s Son Jesus has also not been denied! Our spirits soar and our bodies are rooted in the sacredness of Life during this ‘waking up’ season.

Like most quilters and other artists I know, I have a cache of UFOs waiting… waiting… for the right time…. to…  This is my season to purge at least one UFO—Unfinished Object-- from my shelf.  I only have a few of these, as I try to keep up with my projects, and be disciplined in their completion.  Well, not so disciplined, actually. (Some of them are 15 years old.)  However that is not the case for the other UF’s in my life.  Like my UFB’s (unfinished books), or my UFJ’s (unfinished journals), or even my UFT’s (unfinished theologies). They continue to accumulate--and don’t touch any of them, please! …I am waiting for the right season…

Occasionally, I visit my abundant fabric stash; I love to touch the softness of the fabrics, dream of color and texture combinations, fantasize what the designs and outcomes can be next time. There’s a lot of history here; memories of where I was, who I was with when I bought the pieces, dreams, plans for use—much of it is vintage now. It’s kind of like visiting an art gallery.  The experience is all that matters at the time.

I am blessed to be able to make art with these pieces, and share from my ‘store’ with my friends. We always need “the one little something to make the block pop”. Do you have anything?  Yes! Come over for lunch and we’ll find something!  Rumi writes, “Let the beauty you love be what you do”.  We have enough beauty to keep us busy for years!

While extremely grateful for these resources that I have at hand to make beautiful items, I get a little anxious because there’s SO MUCH of it! Paul reminded his Corinthian church, that “God is able to provide you with every blessing in abundance. “  2 Cor. 9:8   But when does abundance become clutter?  I know it’s an issue fraught with fears, identities, histories, etc., that everyone must come to terms with, sometime. Mystics tell us that attachment creates suffering. You know when that tipping point occurs. We have lived in the same house for almost 42 years.  We have not had to purge in order to move someplace else, but the time is here to do ‘something’ about ‘some of it.’ (not my stuff, though. Not yet.)

I have read that the Sea of Galilee is only alive because the Jordan flows into and out of it, unlike the Dead Sea, which has no outlet; an apt lesson.  We must share and send on our love, our works, our prayers. I’ve kept very few pieces. Most move on—baby quilts to the maternity department at the hospital, tree skirts and table runners to my churches to sell at fundraisers, gifts to friends and family. Completing a project makes for a sigh of relief, a job accomplished, a prayer sent to someone, (a compensation for paying all that money for a spiffy new sewing machine!)

So, to come back to this UFO that I’m working on:  It’s a Lone Star pattern, using a fabric collection that was designed by a friend of mine, Aleta Yarrow. She is a gifted artist who shares her talents and love of art with school children.  I think it’s pretty remarkable that someone can design a series of prints taken from a painting, which are then manufactured as fabrics, and sold to thousands of buyers, who in turn will use them for countless, creative endeavors.  How amazing is that?! Isn’t that abundance?  Isn’t that Creation? Resurrection? Transfiguration? Isn’t that Easter?

Bishop Audrey reminded us last week that the Easter season lasts 50 days until Pentecost. Fifty days.  The pragmatist in me sometimes needs a deadline, no, live line to gauge my pace.  So, I will continue to transform 128 little rectangles of four different prints into a blazing eight-point star of diamonds. Add a few background pieces to make it into a 40 inch square, back it, quilt it, bind it, and done!  Where this Lone Star wallhanging ends up is anyone’s guess.  God will help me determine that in the right season.  Fifty days. I may even have enough time to tackle another UFO!

150 Pathways to God: #17 Resurrection day

Welcome Judith Sornberger, guest blogger, and author of Open Heart, Wal-Mart Orchid, Practicing the World, and The Accidental Pilgrim: Finding God and His Mother in Tuscany.

Below is one of several poems from a series called “Days of Ash and Wonder”—poems written during this Lenten season. Some are more personal than others, but, as with all so-called “personal” or “confessional” poems, the hope is that they will speak to others, nonetheless.  

My Colleague Asks If I Really Believe in the Resurrection

We awaken to the same dark sky and cold

we’ve endured for months now, but

before church, kids search for baskets

filled with chocolate rabbits and those

neon pink and yellow Peeps, celebrating

something almost too sweet to swallow.

Later a baritone sings “And we shall

be changed,” his voice flowing through

us like the maple syrup folks around here

make, while a tiny girl in an orange tutu

twirls in the aisle and we’re all yearning

to spin with her, to succumb to dizzy joy,

grinning like a bunch of fools when,

believe it or not, spears of sun shoot

right through Jesus’s glass robe and hands,

lighting our cheeks and foreheads like we

all suddenly get the same great joke.

150 Pathways to God: #16 The birds of Lent

Welcome Judith Sornberger, guest blogger, and author of Open Heart, Wal-Mart Orchid, Practicing the World, and The Accidental Pilgrim: Finding God and His Mother in Tuscany.

Below is one of several poems from a series called “Days of Ash and Wonder”—poems written during this Lenten season. Some are more personal than others, but, as with all so-called “personal” or “confessional” poems, the hope is that they will speak to others, nonetheless. 

Praise be to God for birds—

our only flowers in this season,

our prophets of color,

even though the finch’s gold

is only a yellow whisper

in its mustard-gray flitting

But the tulip’s red soars

on the cardinal’s wing

and a muted tea rose arrives

with his bride. And we forgive

bluejays’ appetite for other birds’ eggs

(after all, you made them that way)

when they plant an early tribe

of hyacinth blue beneath the feeder

before, as we all must,

they fly away.

______________________________

I know the cardinal’s not

calling me his beloved

when he appears

like a crimson heart

on an ash-gray day

to tap at my window.

It’s nearly mating time,

and I’m told he views

his reflection as a rival,

that, far from courting me,

he’s calling out a competitor.

But if that’s true, God,

why does he follow me

from room to room, his

hammering a heartbeat

at each pane, as though

he knows how a heart

falters in this dark season?

150 Pathways to God: #15 Small Windows

Welcome Judith Sornberger, guest blogger, and author of Open Heart, Wal-Mart Orchid, Practicing the World, and The Accidental Pilgrim: Finding God and His Mother in Tuscany.

Below is one of several poems from a series called “Days of Ash and Wonder”—poems written during this Lenten season. Some are more personal than others, but, as with all so-called “personal” or “confessional” poems, the hope is that they will speak to others, nonetheless.  

Small Windows

    from the exhibit “52 Weeks” at the Gmeiner Arts and Cultural Center: 52 paintings by H.

    M. Levan—each 12” by 12”, one for each week of the year.

There is no point, my grown son says

when I call, then hangs up. What can I say?

Some days I’m tempted to agree.

Today, though, I listen

at small windows of shape and color.

What’s the point? I ask the light-infused mist

spilling through daybreak onto white buds

opening as if they have a mission,

the apple tree near the end of her season,

most of her fruit gone to deer and ruin,

the late spring field of snow, lavender-blue

in the day’s last light,

when in only days it will vanish.

What’s the point of the particular pinfeathers

of the titmouse on her snowy branch,

of loving this bird whose outsized eye

I imagine as the center

of some universe I cannot enter?

What’s the point of the indigo

planet of the blueberry,

of hemlock roots reaching through

solid earth to nurture one another?

What’s the point? I ask the pines

at sunset, lined up like monks at Compline,

the point of splitting all this wood

to get through one more winter.

What’s the point of the white clapboard house

trimmed in evergreen where we try

to learn to love each other?