A fuller meaning of Christmas

A handful of our brave staff and volunteers ventured out to the soup kitchen for our Christmas dinner this afternoon amidst some pretty hazardous driving and weather conditions. While the snowfall isn't too deep here yet, the wind and the chill are dangerous. I am grateful to those organizing and running our city's shelter, especially during these days.

I am always amazed by the faithfulness of the Emmaus community, but I shouldn't be; they always show up. Whether it was the height of the pandemic when so much about our safety and wellbeing was uncertain, to a rather serious and extended Christmas storm today, so many are selfless when it comes to living the gospel in the daily.

I recently stumbled upon this reflection from Old Monk in her book, A Monk in the Inner City. The reflection is titled "Yuletide Carols," and it captures so wonderfully why we wait in hope for the coming of our incarnated Savior.

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The Advent season is especially meaningful this year. The snows are heavy and deep and comforting. It is easy to pray with Isaiah,

Though your sins be red as crimson,
I will make them white as wool.

And there is such silence. City noises, encased in yards of white swaddling, are muffled. Cars, concrete sidewalks, and other hard objects lie buried under the soft snow.

We are forced to slow down—walk carefully so we don’t slip; drive cautiously so we don’t skid. We can spend more time indoors reading, listening to music, and praying. We prepare. For soon, “when the earth is in peaceful silence, and the night is in the midst of its course, your almighty Word, O Lord, will leap down from heaven.”

It’s easy to get sucked into thinking that this is what Christmas is all about.

Thank God for the soup kitchen. Is there a lonelier place on earth as Christmas nears? The guys start drinking in the middle of the month so that by Christmas week they can’t even hear the words “I’ll be home for Christmas” blaring on the radio. It’s their only defense. We try to make it less sad. But even handing out brightly wrapped socks and scarves and lotions, or having a party and singing Christmas carols and drinking hot chocolate doesn’t ease the heartbreak.

I’m grateful for both experiences—quiet confident joy at the coming of the Savior, tempered by the harsh reality of human suffering. Together, they capture a fuller meaning of Christmas.

______________________

Thank you, Old Monk. And Christmas blessings to you all! May you be incarnated love each day.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

Mary graces our Emmaus office, also waiting hopefully.

The tree graces chapel, and the photo doesn't do it justice.
It's from our woods, and it's totally magnificent.

The liminality of Advent and Christmas on display.

Pizzelles: A Perfectionist's Perspective

Everyone gets on my case about being a perfectionist. And while it causes undue anxiety and tension in my life, there are times when it's helpful. And there are also times when others come out to play the game with me!

Pizzelle night is one of those moments.

A yearly tradition at the monastery, everyone looks to make the *perfect* circle with the pizzelle irons, getting just the right amount of batter at just the right location for just the right amount of time. And when they do, they want everyone to know. And we all rejoice in those satisfying shapes.

Marilyn, responsible, for the operation, gives us all pointers before we start, elevating the hope that the perfect circle is within our reach!

You can see many of my attempts above...Maybe not perfect, but they certainly offered an opportunity to appreciate diversity!

Many joined in on the fun!

Here was my best attempt of the evening!

But, of course, when they aren't perfect, we have to cut off the extra ends...and eat them, too! Maybe imperfections aren't so bad!

The anise and vanilla cookies are all boxed and ready to savor on Christmas Eve after Liturgy... Anticipation!

Let us walk in the holy presence.

To Be of Use: More on Advent

One of my favorite scenes at the monastery these days can be spotted in our courtyard. Each Advent one of our sisters decorates with lights. It used to be just the magnolia tree, but now it has extended to the bushes on the west side of the courtyard. And this year, another extension! Look at Mary herself!

Salve Regina!

It makes me think of a Marge Piercy poem I love.

To be of use

Marge Piercy

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

Mary wants to be of use, too.

We know Mary isn't the passive young mother in the way history has portrayed her. No, she was fully submerged in the task of being the Mother of God, and she is a model for us today. She, too, is an incarnation of God's love in our world—teaching us mercy, compassion, resiliency, and courage. No wonder God opted for incarnation; we, too, are here to be put to use.

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My friend shared with me a most beautiful rendition of the first lines of Isaiah 54 from the group Sweet Honey in the Rock—Sing Oh Barren One. It's worth the 12 minutes, I promise!

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I just finished a book called lighter by yung pueblo. The cover has the appearance a self-help book, which can be off-putting to me, but I found it to be one of the most profound books that I've read about doing inner work, i.e. making it an appropriate and beautiful Advent read.

In between his prose, yung pueblo (It's a pseudonym meaning "young people" and signifying that "humanity is entering an era of remarkable growth and healing, when many will expand their self-awareness and release old burdens.") intersperses some short, thought-provoking poetry.

It's that inner work, or as monastics would call it—conversatio—that allows us to more fully express the truth of incarnation.

Here's an example of these poems, one which I think is also fitting for this liturgical season:

we allow ourselves to love because it's worth the risk

even though there is the chance of loss or hurt

we take the leap again and again

because love is one of the best parts of being alive

we don't do it because it's easy

we do it because connection makes everything brighter

Let us keep taking the risks of love—even when it doesn't feel useful, even when we feel barren.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

Advent: A Different Perspective

On the first day that we heard Isaiah proclaimed at morning prayer our sister read with such conviction those dreamy, yet possible passages of hope, light, and promise. 

It must be Advent! And how good that is...

... because Advent offers us an opportunity to hope and dream of what it might look like if we took more seriously the reality of incarnation, the truth that we are embodied love.

It's a perspective we could really use these days. (Isn't that the kind of stuff we say each Advent?!)

I love this poem by Jan Richardson because it gives us a different perspective on the Annunciation. Of course we ponder for ourselves how insurmountable it might have felt for Mary to say "Yes" and hope we might muster up the courage to give a real, heartfelt one ourselves at least once in our lives.

But, how must it have felt to bear the news to Mary, to have to be the one to tell her about God's big ask? No wonder it took an angel!

I hope you love the poem, too.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

Gabriel’s Annunciation

Jan Richardson

For a moment

I hesitated

on the threshold.

For the space

of a breath

I paused,

unwilling to disturb

her last ordinary moment,

knowing that the next step

would cleave her life:

that this day

would slice her story

in two,

dividing all the days before

from all the ones

to come.

The artists would later

depict the scene:

Mary dazzled

by the archangel,

her head bowed

in humble assent,

awed by the messenger

who condescended

to leave paradise

to bestow such an honor

upon a woman, and mortal.

Yet I tell you

it was I who was dazzled,

I who found myself agape

when I came upon her—

reading, at the loom, in the kitchen,

I cannot now recall;

only that the woman before me—

blessed and full of grace

long before I called her so—

shimmered with how completely

she inhabited herself,

inhabited the space around her,

inhabited the moment

that hung between us.

I wanted to save her

from what I had been sent

to say.

Yet when the time came,

when I had stammered

the invitation

(history would not record

the sweat on my brow,

the pounding of my heart;

would not note

that I said

Do not be afraid

to myself as much as

to her)

it was she

who saved me—

her first deliverance—

her Let it be

not just declaration

to the Divine

but a word of solace,

of soothing,

of benediction

for the angel

in the doorway

who would hesitate

one last time—

just for the space

of a breath

torn from his chest—

before wrenching himself away

from her radiant consent,

her beautiful and

awful yes.

Renounce and Enjoy (and Give Thanks)

During her reflections at my final profession, our prioress quoted Gandhi's secret to life. (Get ready...it's not fun...)

Renounce and enjoy.

Isn't that brutal? Let go of it all, and experience joy. The gospel was about the young person who wanted to know the secret to inheriting eternal life. Renounce and enjoy... Really? Is there no other way?

Well, I got a fresh, and even more challenging, take on renunciation while reading Pema Chödrön's, The Wisdom of No Escape.

"Renunciation does not have to be regarded as negative. I was taught that it has to do with letting go of holding back. What one is renouncing is closing down and shutting off from life. You could say that renunciation is the same thing as opening to the teachings of the present moment.

"It's probably good to think of the ground of renunciation as being our good old selves, our basic decency and sense of humor. [...] It's as if everyone who has ever been born has the same birthright, which is enormous potential of warm heart and clear mind. The ground of renunciation is realizing that we already have exactly what we need, that what we have already is good. Every moment of time has enormous energy in it, and we could connect with that."

Renunciation is not just about giving up my possessions; it's about giving up anything that takes me out of the present moment. For me, that usually has something to do with giving up my ego and my anxieties and embracing my conceited, worried self just as it is. It means, after the awareness comes, trying to move away from the conceit and anxiety without beating myself up, but rather laughing at myself for falling into the traps of the ego, yet again, for the hundredth (thousandth?!) time that day. Renunciation is about giving up anything that takes me away from being who I am, where I am—so that I can be open, honest, and light-hearted about who I am, where I am.

Well, I'd rather renounce my extra winter coat.

(But it doesn't hurt to do that, too.)

I think, or at least hope, we've all had some taste of it—letting go of our agendas, letting go of our desire to live somewhere other than reality, letting go of our idea of the right way to do something, letting go of wanting to be something other than who we are—and tasting the joy that comes from just being. It's the call of meditation, as Pema would remind us. Let go. Breathe. Be. Renounce. Enjoy.

Yes, it's harder than giving away our coats, but there is indeed so much joy waiting for us there.

At the start of the chapter on renunciation from Pema, she writes that when people enter the Buddhist faith, they receive a title. People aren't too happy when they receive the title "Renunciation." No wonder.

We, too, in our community receive a title at profession. My title is "Of Mary, Joyful Bearer of the Word."

It's hard to joyfully bear much of anything when I am caught up in myself. No wonder I needed a reminder to "renounce" if I was going to "enjoy." 

I am so, so grateful to all those who journey on the path of renunciation with me. I am grateful to community, friends, family, guests of Emmaus, our volunteers, and so many more who come into my life with a reminder that the work of renunciation is worth it for the joy it bears in our lives.

Joyful Thanksgiving to you all!

Let us walk in the holy presence.

War No More

I always struggle to decide if I should watch movies about war.

This choice is made even more difficult when my favorite trusty website, Rotten Tomatoes, shows a good rating for a film or show on the topic. (As my friends know, I trust the site's averages [sample size dependent] wholeheartedly.)

So, when I saw that the new film version of All Quiet on the Western Front had a 92% with 99 reviews, I had to do some discernment.

I did end up watching it. The opening scenes were mostly piles of dead, bloody bodies, and people stacking piles of dead, bloody bodies. That made me cry.

And now I am writing this blog in response.

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When I was teaching, I kept this classic poster somewhere in each of my classrooms.

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Here's a poem I love... Bees by Alden Solovy

The bees
Do not stop
Collecting pollen
When humans
Murder each other
With guns.
The bees think:
How strange,
How low
On the evolutionary scale
Must those humans be,
That they haven’t yet
Figured out
How to make honey
Or peace.
___________

When will those wildflowers in our backyard begin blooming?

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I taught in a Quaker school for a year, and we weren't even to put war into the curriculum. It's debatable on a lot of levels, but it's what we did. We also had a tribute assembly at that school when Pete Seeger died.

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Josh Ritter, one of my favorite artists, sings some of the best contemporary anti-war music I've found.

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Old Monk has a quote on the wall of her office...

"I dream of giving birth to a child who will ask: 'Mother, what was war?'"

Gets me every time.

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May we walk into the Advent season with the Peace of Christ in our hearts and in our voices.

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Let us walk in the holy presence.

Another World

These are reflections I shared at Liturgy this morning, based on today's Lectionary.

II Maccabees 7:1-2, 9-14
Luke 20:27-38
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You know, if I had chosen readings to reflect on, I wouldn’t have chosen these.

I might have chosen Mary and Martha, or the Prodigal Son, or, any number of other biblical stories.

BUT…

That’s what you get for saying “Yes” without looking at the readings first!

And, isn’t that how life is anyway? We wake up in the morning; we say “Yes” to a new day, and then… the experiences that present themselves are rarely the ones we’d choose for ourselves, or the ones we’d imagine having.

So often the life that comes our way is challenging, mysterious, unexpected.

But it’s our life, and we’ve chosen to say “Yes,” so we have to do something with it.

So we do our best to dive in, to grapple with it, to live.

And once we dive in and grapple with these readings, there’s much to glean about our attitudes, our choices, and our way of moving through the world.

“There is another world, but it is in this one.”

I read this quote in a book recommended to me about the possibility of creating utopias here and now.

In the story from the Maccabees, there is another world for rulers who scourge those who live by their convictions, and we experience it in the pained, yet strong mother and her faith-filled sons.

In Luke’s Gospel, there is another world for those so concerned about distinctions and black and white answers that they cannot fully live, and we experience it in burning bushes and resurrections.

But inhabiting that latter world involves a choice. And it’s a hard choice. Because we are anxious, because we want clarity and not complexity, because we aren’t willing to let go of our grasp on the way things “should be,” because the work, both inner and outer, required to live in that other world demands too much of us, and asks us to change in a way that feels too far a stretch for us.

Yet, still, we hear the call to that world each morning. And we have to choose daily, and even in each moment, which world we not only inhabit, but also create.

We know from our own experiences, and now from these Scripture stories, that it is our experience of the Divine that takes us into that other world; it is our experience with the suffering and those on the margins that takes us into that other world; it is our experience of hardships and the inherent messiness of being alive that open us up to that other world. Does the Divine scourge? Does the Divine want black and white?

We know another world is possible. We have experienced it—the one of the mother and her sons, the world where what we eat does not matter as much as making sure those around us are not starving while we ourselves feast. We can create it right now.

We know another world is possible. We have experienced it—the one where our belief in life eternal unites us, the world where our true marriage is to the oneness that connects us all. We can create it right now.

But, to live in that world, we also have to choose a different narrator. The narrator cannot be those in power; it cannot be the capitalist economy; it cannot be the oppressor. We have to hear another perspective.

Come to the soup kitchen and listen to any hungry guest. Go to the shoreline and watch the water rise inch by inch. Take a walk through the poverty of any town or city. Unite yourself with the pain of the world.

Let your world be turned upside down by this new perspective. Welcome it with an open and compassionate heart and a robust humility. Welcome it with a desire for change, a desire to create a new world.

Because there is another world, but it is in this one.

It’s why we come to this chapel, to be together and to strengthen our communal resolve to choose to live in and create that other world, here and now—the one we know is so available to us when we hear another perspective.

That’s the outer world—our relationships with each other and with the earth itself. And how about my inner world? What about my relationship with myself?

What happens when I choose to narrate my own story rather than let someone else do it? What other world emerges? The woman and her sons do not allow the ruler to narrate their story. Jesus does not allow the Sadducees to narrate his. And it’s not only that I narrate my own story, but it’s the attitude with which I narrate it. Do I narrate my story through the world of my jealousies, my grudges, my desire for control and easy answers? Or, do I narrate my life through my experience of the Divine? Is my story one of abundance, of gratitude, of concern for others?

The former is so much easier than the latter, so much more comfortable, so much more seemingly secure. But, we know the former world is passing away. As we move closer and closer to Advent, the choice becomes more and more clear and more and more necessary. Christ is coming. Let go of the world you knew. Say to yourself, “I am the light of the world. I am the light of the world. I am the light of the world.” Believe it. Become it.

The possibility of this Christ-centered world comes in each moment, and there is a deep call from God to choose it.

And its name is simple. It’s love.

_____________________________

Let us walk in the holy presence.

a new day begins at the monastery

On Community

This weekend is our annual community weekend. The formal one. Our sister Joan Chittister will be speaking on the Synod and synodality to the community, which includes many of our oblates who will join us beginning today. Some, coming from a greater distance, have already started trickling in, making for a nice, fuller choir at prayer this morning.

Last weekend was a different sort of "community weekend" as another 100 trees were planted across the street on our property at Glinodo. Many helping hands joined to plant the trees, mulch around them, and protect them from hungry deer with cages. Even our Sister Lucia, 89-years-old and still-going-strong (!!!), came out to help on a rather glorious fall day. The trees were planted as part of the Re-Leaf project from LEAF (Lake Erie Arboretum at Frontier), with a goal to plant one tree for each citizen in the county over the course of a few years. They serve a double purpose, though. The trees will grow where the goats (who were here in the summer) gobbled up invasive species. This helps to prevent as much re-growth of the multiflora roses and other varieties that had taken over by the creek. Native berry trees made up the majority of one hundred planted.

Planting along the creek

Thanks, Lucia!

Jackie looking like she belongs on a holy card!

Jackie liked that I was wearing an appropriate shirt; it reads, "Cultivate community"

Certainly these trees and their roots will strengthen each other as they add more beauty to our property.

The Thursday before Saturday, eighth graders from St. Luke's parish school came to Emmaus Grove to clear the garden for the winter, providing a great help to our master gardeners who volunteer their time to plant and harvest over 2,000 pounds of fresh produce each season for guests at our food pantry.

We know that caring for the earth is a communal effort, so it's wonderful to watch so many people coming out to help with these good projects.

And fall is definitely here, so the work must get done sooner rather than later! It’s hard for me to let go of the warmth and fullness of late summer. You know those days when you might need a sweatshirt but can still get away with shorts if you really want to? As I scraped my car this morning for the first time, I knew summer had really ended.

Fall is here.

But, goodness, isn't it beautiful?

Natural proof that blue and orange belong together!

One of Jackie's goddaughters snapped this photo...I am obsessed with the shadows.

Mom snapped this one and sent it to me! She said it never stormed though...

I love the vibrant, richly colored hydrangeas next to the bare black-eyed susans... talk about diversity in community!

I thought our "library tree" couldn't get any more beautiful than it does during its spring blossoming, but this red hue might be close!

The letting go and trusting that the fall season calls us to are much more bearable when we are surrounded by community...by each other and by the beauty of nature.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

On Beauty

I recently listened to a great Ezra Klein podcast featuring Chloé Cooper Jones, the author of the memoir Easy Beauty. I haven't read the book yet, but it's next on my "to-read" pile after another memoir I just picked up, Solito. (Yes, the memoir is my favorite literary genre!)

A lot of moments stood out to me in the interview, and, of course, I listened to it a few weeks ago, so I don't remember much. 

But I do remember one point she made.

She said we sometimes feel weird when we don't experience beauty and awe in places and spaces where it's more-or-less expected, but instead, experience them in some inconspicuous moment. For instance, you might have just visited the Louvre, seen the Mona Lisa for the first time, but it's outside the museum, watching a pigeon pecking at food crumbs that moves you to tears.

I also copied down this quote from Chloé during the interview:

Beauty gives us an opportunity to step outside the palace of self-regard.

Well, if that isn't humbling! It was made even more humbling because I listened while taking a walk in downtown Erie, in and around our ministries and up to State Street (the street that divides the city into east and west). I saw a family—mother, father, and son—whose children I taught at daycare. And I wondered, why were they walking all the way up 10th Street during the school day. And I saw a couple who eats at the soup kitchen across the street from me, and we waved at each other while cars passed by. And I saw a pile of belongings from another man who comes to eat with us from time-to-time, all his belongings in the nook of a doorway on 11th. He wasn't there, but his things were; I knew it was his stuff because I've seen him there, spending away the hours—in that nook. The thing that killed me was the green top of a fresh pineapple, just the top, now wilted and brown. And his dirty stuffed tiger.

Chloé also said, of the experience of experiencing beauty:

I am broken out of the prison of myself.

We know it well. Stare at a full moon in the clear sky. Watch children playing in a fountain. Take in a field of delicate, bright wildflowers. Find the top of a pineapple of a homeless person you know on the street. See how your ego melts away.

How good and how pleasant it is

when all people dwell in unity. (Psalm 133)

And, of course, I'd add...how beautiful.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

On Monastic Prayer

Seven years into my monastic journey, and, at this point, I am not quite sure if I could be sustained without communal morning prayer.

Sure, there is the familiar recitation of psalms, the comfort of the Benedictus, the necessary reminder in the Prayer of Jesus to forgive and to let God do God's thing for the day, but...

There is also what happens to human beings at 6:30am!

It's great!

As a sister remarked to me once, "Chapel is a circus."

Just this morning, one verse too early, a sister began to stand up for the Doxology. With monastic reflexes and groggy brains, up went the other two sisters sharing the row with her! They all looked at one another and laughed while they sat back down for a couple more lines, until getting up once more to praise the Creator, Redeemer, and Sanctifier.

But, this smile-worthy story reveals a bit more of what's happening underneath in the monastery.

As cenobitic Benedictines, that is, monastics who live a communal life, we vow ourselves to one another. We vow to go to God together. Sure, we have to work on ourselves, but we are also accountable to each other. We aren't going to God alone, and we can't go too much faster than another sister, or we'll have to stop and let her catch-up. Vice versa, too, of course.

Sometimes not just our brains, but our lives get a bit groggy, too. We aren't attentive, don't listen deeply enough, fall down a bit. And that's when the beauty of going to God together appears. We have others surrounding us who, too, have committed themselves to seeking God. We can reflexively join with them on our own journey. They get up to praise God, so we get up to praise God.

For monastics the chapel holds so much of the symbolism and ritual of that communal journey. And, of course chapel is a circus...we're human!

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It always amazes me when our sisters who we know are in dementia pray with us as if nothing is wrong, their brains still fully there. They follow along with the psalter, utter a liturgical response, or sing a hymn they've sung most their lives. How can someone not be able to name any sister they've lived with most their life, but still sing the Salve Regina perfectly, in Latin no less!? A moment like this happened last night; it happens most nights. I witnessed it not only from one sister, but from another, who is in an even more significant stage of cognitive decline. We sang, and she tapped her feet while covered in a fleece blanket, itself covered in virtuous words such as "peace," "trust," and "faith."

These sisters lose their ability to do so much, but in chapel we see the fruits of a lifetime of prayer. It is who they've become.

We live this life faithfully, lovingly, and enduringly so that as we change, as we age, as we decline, as we evolve, all that's left is praise.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

The Lingerers and The Letting Go

It's that time of year.

(I feel like we could say that anytime, and some appropriate metaphor or story would follow.)

Well, right now, it's that time of year when some of those last blooms are hanging on for dear life! Or, are they?

A walk through our inner courtyard revealed just a few of the myriad examples you can find outside during these autumn days.

As I noticed them this morning, I referred to these flowers as "the lingerers" in my mind. They stick around to the last possible moment before letting go. Who knows why...

Just to show off...Because they still have life in them worth living...Because they're not ready yet...Some other reason... Really, who knows?

As we do know, though, nature is very generous in the ways it allows us to flex and create metaphors that help make meaning we want to find, meaning we sometimes need to help us make sense of life. Who hasn't seen a tree and given thanks for the ways it reminds us to root deeply and let go?

If you want to read a good book, pick up Pico Iyer's Autumn Light. I am only about 60 pages in now, but I am finding it a beautiful narrative reflection on letting go, in light of the death of the author's father-in-law in Japan.

However you are lingering yourself these days, how is nature calling you to growth? How is the autumn season calling you differently this year than previous ones?

And, just because, here is one of my favorite trees on our property. Look at that red color. Today I learned that it was struck by lightning some years back and not expected to survive. Well, here it is. (And don't forget about that full moon tonight!)

Let us walk in the holy presence.

Oh, Happy Day, Kathy!

If you look around the monastery, you might notice a few differences:

There are some colorful, bold mums lined up outside, next to a door that goes into our chapel.

There are unique, yet familiar cookies in the kitchen...

There are extra tables and chairs lined up in the community room...

Yes, today is a special day because our dear Kathy is making her final profession to this community. It's hard to hold back a smile when you spot these differences making your way around the monastery. And more "indicators," if you will, of this grace-filled day will pop up as the day continues. The Paschal Candle will be set up in chapel. Friends and family will walk through the front door. The joy and excitement will build in anticipation of the late-afternoon profession liturgy.

The traditional Shaker hymn, Simple Gifts, will interlace the Gospel proclamation during the ceremony. I spent some time listening to varied arrangements and performances of the song yesterday to center myself. It is a well-known and oft-used song and tune, so I shouldn't have been surprised to discover all I found, but perhaps the one that surprised and delighted me most was Aaron Copland's arrangement.

Community is a celebration of so many gifts, simple and layered, coming together to be something greater than the singular. The gifts that Kathy brings to community are both simple and multifaceted, too. Decades of working in L'Arche communities has gifted Kathy with a patient and gentle presence. Kathy also has a deep love and respect for the natural world. When she was a novice, she revived our composting efforts at the monastery and has helped to care for new trees, reduce plastic in the house, and transport glass recycling that can't be picked up here. Plus, Kathy's infectious smile and laugh make it hard to resist your own.

Kathy was the next woman to enter community after I did, which makes me her "angel"—the one who tried to help with the little things when she began her monastic journey...things as mundane as where to find everyday items or how to turn on the dishwasher. But, of course, few, if anyone, would argue that I have anywhere near the angelic qualities of Kathy. She is one-of-a-kind, and it feels like such a gift to welcome her fully into our community today.

Blessings on you, Kathy.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

_________________________

Enjoy some other versions of Simple Gifts.

Springtime Solitude

When the wind blows,

the scent of the lilacs hits you—

Nonviolence.

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Nonviolence:

When the wind blows,

and the scent of the lilacs hits you.

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Vast varieties of daffodils—

Small, big, orange, yellow, white.

What’s in a name?

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A diversity of daffodils,

The first spring I notice,

Might I live differently now?

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In the distance

I hear the monastery bells

Calling me to prayer

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The chapel bell rings

In the distance

Will I make it home?

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Solitude comes…

I make space to welcome it—

The dance begins.

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Solitude comes

Long-awaited one:

Birth new life in me.

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Green,

Budding on the branch of every tree.

Crayola, no name will suffice.

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Green,

Budding uniquely on each and every tree.

Crayola, don’t even try.

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Nature repeats the lesson

Over and over again—

Live easy.

Forget the rules.

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The lilies of the valley,

The violets of the field,

The children of the streets.

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Old Monk is my haiku teacher. When I was a novice, I spent time writing with her for a few months, practicing different styles of poetry. The haiku is her favorite.

I remember trying to force the haiku back then; I remember trying so hard to polish them. I wanted to be ingenious, maybe even cunning with my words. Don’t I do that with my life all too often? I would create a version of the lines in my head, honing the words, not putting anything down until I was satisfied. I would only present one set of lines for each idea. I don’t think I was ever really satisfied though.

Ah, so young. And still, now, so young.

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I went into solitude this past weekend for a much-needed break. The haiku about the lilacs came first, and then some more. But I knew that that one was the gift, the spontaneous grace. I could tell when I was trying harder than I needed to. I went back and experimented with different versions of the same poem. Let it evolve, Val. Let life evolve. Old Monk has taught you that—over and over.

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Here are some poems that came to me on the deck, in the morning, by the water, surrounded by delicious nature.

Thanks, Old Monk. For all the lessons then and now…and in between..and to come.

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Let us walk in the holy presence.

Happy Feast of Benedict!

My friend, Jackie, wrote a great reflection on the Transfiguration last week. She is writing weekly for an email we receive from our community's federation (Federation of Saint Scholastica) as we prepare to celebrate its centennial this June in Atchison, KS and in our home communities. Surely Jackie's words were part of my subconscious when I realized that I had formed enough thoughts to put together my own words for this blog. Read a part of what she has to say about the mountaintop, and then continue on. (If you care to read her thoughts on the Third Sunday of Lent, here they are as well.)

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A few weeks ago, I met a young Episcopal priest who was very interested in monasticism. She particularly wanted to understand its appeal for some spiritual “nones” who are leaving parishes like the one she serves.

“Monasticism seems to have a certain mystique that makes it very attractive,” she sighed. “Being in a regular parish church is mostly a matter of putting out folding chairs and then putting them away.”

I laughed and said that, although she’s probably right that many people who are drawn to monasticism expect it to offer something exotic, our day-to-day life also largely consists of chores. “We’re not exactly living on the mountaintop,” I said.

[...]

That’s what we are called to do, too: to fully give ourselves over to awe when we feel the divine presence, of course, but more importantly, to doggedly look for it, day by day. We monastics do our quotidian little chores, sit through long meetings, hold signs in inclement weather at political demonstrations, serve difficult guests at a soup kitchen, pray the same 150 psalms over and over, find a way to live peaceably with our sisters… all of it, hopefully, with a reverent awareness that God may be found in the midst of this.

That does seem to be attractive to many people, as my new priest friend noticed. It may be especially attractive to those who are disillusioned with institutions that have a flawed sense of certainty about exactly who, and exactly what, is holy. The monastic eagerness and curiosity about where God can be found–our willingness to seek the sacred in the mundane and even the ugly–is part of our gift to the world.

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As I've gotten older, (I know this phrase makes my sisters laugh at a median age of 76, but I am standing firm at 34!) my experiences of God have changed.

When I was in my early 20's, I had some pretty big, obvious moments of sacred sensation, fully aware that God's presence was the center of my being and that of the cosmos.

These days those grand and awesome "mountaintop" moments often escape me; I cannot recall the last time I experienced one.

And, now it's even harder for me to use the word "God" to describe the movements of my life. I am less and less sure of what the word even connotes, and I think God likes it that way.

But, yesterday morning, at Liturgy, there were two so-totally-ordinary things that happened, and I was so-totally-sure of their holiness.

At the start of Liturgy two sisters who are dear, lifelong friends walked into chapel together. One is recovering from surgery, the other accompanied her. When the healing one walked past the chairs the other had pointed out to her and chose her own seat, the other sister simply shrugged her shoulders out-of-view of her friend as if to say, "Yup, that's my friend...always doing her own thing," and she simply sat down.

Jackie and I laughed at each other, acknowledging the mirror to the future that this small moment provided us. We both knowingly said, "We're going to be both of them one day!" (If we are not already there now.) Laughing at the quirkiness of the intimacy that monastic life affords is joyful. It's hearing the footsteps of someone behind you walking into chapel and smiling to yourself as you identify her by the sound of her gait; it's changing the routine you have on your dish team when you sub on another because you know that they don't do things the same way as yours; it's knowing who is going to follow you to the fridge after morning prayer and getting out the orange juice with some pulp because that's what she likes...some pulp. Beautiful, unique, odd, lovely intimacy—indeed. It's nowhere near the mountaintop, but I have no doubt it's part of the journey there.

The second moment that stood out to me during Liturgy came during the responsorial psalm. We heard one of my favorites: a harmonized duet of Our God is Kind and Merciful. The sung harmony of these two sisters is always beautiful and breathtaking, but it felt especially beautiful yesterday. I think it was because in front of me sat two sisters who, too, are dear, lifelong friends, but they, on the other hand, were sitting side-by-side. You could tell that they were each leaning in toward the other with a particular fondness and love.

One of them has Alzheimer's, and the other helps with her caretaking, after decades of living together. She takes turns accompanying this sister—sitting next to her at prayer, pointing out where to make a turn down a hallway, helping her play Bingo—as Jackie would describe, "quotidian" events. And, even as the latter helps with the former sister whose memory is fading away, there is no doubt that she remembers and loves her sister deeply.

But, it was hearing the words of the psalm, "Our God is kind and merciful" while witnessing to this very real personification of the holy presence a few rows ahead that took me a little higher on the mountain. Isn't that what we are called to do? Be Christ in the world, here and now, for others?

The monastic life offers daily opportunities for this, all life does. But, having just made monastic vows, having just made a commitment to live the Christ life in this community, adds a little power to my reflections these days. We heard a reminder of it at morning prayer this morning: we commit our lives to coming together as strangers and making Christ's presence known.

We heard those words because today is a special day for us Benedictines. We celebrate the feast of our founder. Saint Benedict attuned himself so fully to mundane and asked us to seek God there. Indeed, the mundane makes up much of the Rule he gave us to guide us in our way of life. Where to say "Alleluia" when we pray, how to prepare to serve a meal, how to divide up the balance between work and prayer. There are no formal instructions on seeking God to be found in the Rule, except that it's all an instruction.

Let us celebrate, as some say, "the extraordinary ordinary" of the Benedictine way of life today. Wherever you are on the mountain, be grateful for God's presence with you—whatever that means.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

A Few Thoughts on Time

I was in a store recently and saw a greeting card that made me laugh.
On a drawing of a cake was the line, "Time is a construct."
Inside: "Happy Birthday!"

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The other day I was writing the date on the top of a bank deposit slip. When I was writing the month, I wrote "11," as if it were November...but it was March.

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We are entering into year 3 of living with, grieving about, and adapting to life in the pandemic.

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Last week we opened up the soup kitchen for indoor seating for the first time in two years, minus a week, after having served dinners through a window during that entire span, never having missed a meal.

On Friday, two guests asked me to tell them the Emmaus gospel story...something that wouldn't have happened through a window.

How good it felt to welcome our guests inside again.

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Two weeks ago, one of our sisters died. Sister Bernadette entered into the fullness of God's love for eternity.

I feel like I will still see her walking toward me when I turn the corner in the monastery hallways. I looked at her seat in chapel during her memory service, still filled with her reading materials and midday prayer psalter.

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Today is the death anniversary of Benedicta Riepp, the founder of our Benedictine life in the United States. She traveled to Pennsylvania from Bavaria in 1852, came to Erie in 1856, and died in 1862. She was in her late 20's when she left everything she knew, alongside four other women and traveled to a completely unknown place, trusting in God and her chosen way of life. I'm 34 and feel like I can barely decide what to wear in the morning.

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It feels like both yesterday and forever since I last wrote on this blog. It was Advent when I last wrote; now we are in the second week of Lent. Sometimes the liturgical calendar feels more real than the Gregorian calendar.

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Time is a construct, indeed—a truth given even more perspective by having "sprung forward" in Daylight Savings this past weekend.

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How are you relating to time these days?

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Let us walk in the holy presence.

our soup kitchen ready for guests...what does time mean for the poor?

water time...4 years ago