Pax in Terra: A Meditation from Pema Chödrön

"One of the astronauts who went to the moon later described his experience looking back at Earth from that perspective. Earth looked so small, he said. Just a single sphere hanging in space. It made him very sad to realize that we have divided the world arbitrarily into countries that we're fiercely attached to, with borders we keep waging wars to protect. What we do just doesn't make sense, he realized. We have just this one Earth with one people to take care of it, and the way we're going about it is crazy.

Chief Seattle had the same insight more than a hundred years ago:

'We are all children of the Great Spirit. We all belong to Mother Earth. Our planet is in great trouble, and if we keep carrying old grudges and do not work together, we will all die.'"

Let us walk in the holy presence.

The Many Shapes of Grief or, a Little Bit of Everything

After my last post, one of my sisters stopped me by the community room and told me about a podcast from Anderson Cooper. In the eight-episode series called All There Is, Anderson explores grief from his own experience of the deaths of his father, brother, and mother. Each episode is unique and exquisite. And while they were a challenging listen in parts, I'd give the series an A! I was quite grateful for the recommendation.

I enjoyed each episode, but the one featuring Stephen Colbert was a highlight for me...taking me back to my high school and college days when I had a one-sided love affair with him each night on The Colbert Report. He told the story of his father and two closest-in-age brothers who died in a plane crash when he was only 10. Stephen said, "My experience of grief has made me long for beauty."

How couldn't I think of dear Mary Miller? Someone for whom beauty was an essential, a non-negotiable of life.

I have been spending a few days down the shore enjoying some time away; beauty abounds. Just the first evening we were sitting bayside with this incredible view of the myriad, varied clouds while the sun poured through them. Lo and behold, we turned around to find a rainbow over the ocean! Mary's presence was damn-near tangible while experiencing the beauty of creation in such a full way.

This mixture of sun and clouds led to a day of pure sunshine and warmth yesterday. We went to the north end of the island at low tide, marveling at such a perfect blue.

And then, overnight last night, the storms from Hurricane Lee passed through. I could hear the thunder and lightning through my ear plugs! We went over to the ocean to see the waves in the morning.

So, the weather here resonates with how I'm feeling most days: a little bit of everything.

But so much of the "little bit of everything" comes from the grief from Mary's death. A quick Google search for the definition of grief was half-predictable, half-enlightening...

"deep sorrow, especially that caused by someone's death"

I didn't necessarily expect that second part... caused by someone's death.

There's grief, sadness, and anxiety these days, but they're also balanced by such joy and gratitude. It's right in-line with part of Stephen Colbert's main theme in the podcast: gratitude and grief can go together. Indeed, it's nearly impossible for me to feel grief about Mary without feeling some gratitude to balance it out. Gratitude for all I learned from her, for the gift of Emmaus she gave me by offering me a position there, for all the beautiful people of Erie who I've met because of her and the ministry, for simply having had Mary's life in mine for a brief time.

Which, of course, reminds me of one of my favorite Disney/Pixar films, Inside Out. Until preteen Riley can learn to experience multiple emotions at once she struggles to work through the increasingly challenging moments of life. We must be grateful for all the moments that force us to hold multiple emotions at once. And these beginning days of my new role at Emmaus are certainly that.

So, here are a few pieces of music offering me more than one feeling at once.

I stumbled upon this violinist, Anne Akiko Meyers, via her Tiny Desk Concert. But it's her version of one of my favorites, Gabriel's Oboe, that totally did me in.

Then, there's Allison Russell's new album. This song is called Requiem.

And my always-favorite band, First Aid Kit...when we went to their concert earlier this year, they blew us away with a cover of Fleetwood Mac. Here they are playing Songbird.

May our grief always be an avenue to experience so much more of life and to learn so much more about ourselves and to discern so much more about what we truly value.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

Tending the Growth

This past week we had our annual community days—a combination of learning, leisure, and legislation, or LLL as some of us say. It's always a good time to reconnect as a whole group since our lives and ministries take us to many places and in many directions, but for this week, we are together, and that's the best part.

Of course, another nice part is going out for a meal as a community. I was sitting next to a sister of mine who asked, "What are you reading these days?" I had to be honest. "I haven't been able to read, or write for that matter, since Mary died." I was expecting some sort of different response, but she said—so simply and equally honestly—"Yes, it'll come."

It was a reassuring answer from someone who has much more life experience than I do. And given that she is known as one of the most well-read sisters of our community, it made the comment even more impactful. On a similar note, I remember a dear mentor of mine telling me that there was a period in her life where the only prayer she could pray was the psalms.

It's not just that I haven't written here; I haven’t really written anywhere since our dear Mary Miller got sick in April. I haven't read anything besides what I have to read for work, and while I make attempts to open books, a few sentences in, and I put them down, unable to engage with the text.

It's very weird and even disconcerting at times. I have been a faithful journaler since college, and I love to converse about my latest read with others. But I am trusting that this particular lull is just one of the ebbs and flows that comes with the realities and events of life. In fact, I was able to get more than just a few phrases written down in my journal this past week.

So, from where have my reflections been coming these days? On Saturday night after our closing meal at LLL, I headed out into the little patch of land I tend at the monastery. I hadn't weeded since June—being in and out of the house as much as I was—so needless to say, it was a bit overrun. On the other hand, the sunflowers were almost four feet tall!

As I began working away inch-by-inch, trying to get to the roots, I thought about myself these past months. Even if I don't have the written proof of what's been going on, I am sure that, like the garden, I have grown quite a bit from all that has happened. Perhaps now's the time to do a little weeding of myself, too. What am I doing these days that isn't necessarily serving me so well? What areas of my life need a bit more cultivation and attention?

A second "needless to say" is that much of my growth comes through my ministry at Emmaus. Taking on the director role in the wake of Mary's death has presented plenty of challenges, and a lot of exhaustion and thought-filled nights. Feeling her presence alongside helps, but it also makes me sad. The good, good people she brought together to create the Emmaus community: staff, volunteers, donors, and the rest are a huge support and comfort as well.

Emmaus isn't about Mary, and Mary would have been the first person to tell you that; Mary just happened to model what Emmaus is about unlike anyone else. Her abilities to become present to the other, to give generously and selflessly, to companion both friend and stranger along the way, to nourish body and soul...those were her gifts. And she brought out those abilities in us all.

Mary loved the garden, too. I remember exchanging texts with her on Easter Monday after we had both spent time with the soil. She knew what was essential—beauty, delight, a concern for others—and she knew what to let go, too—pettiness, small talk, unkind words. The garden of her life was well-tended.

May we all continue to cultivate what is beautiful in the world and in our hearts.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

Mary, at the soup kitchen, with flowers...a lovely combination!

The patch of soil I tend, seen here on Easter Monday...looks a little different now!

A patch of flowers at a monastery in Nebraska, where we traveled for a Benedictine conference in July.

Part of same patch...I believe these are called lisianthus, and I loved them!

The first passion flower opened at the soup kitchen this year.

Mary's favorite...a beautiful, yet poignant bloom.

(And a little PSA: If you are able, consider supporting Emmaus Ministries during Erie Gives tomorrow, August 8th. Follow the link here.)

Journeys Ended, Journeys Begun: On Mary Miller and Ted Lasso

To begin: I **promise** I won't reveal any Ted Lasso spoilers. (But I do write about a scene without giving anything away.)

The wonderful show ended this week, and I really loved it. I loved Ted Lasso because it was such a treat to have a feel-good show with depth, with well-written characters, and with heart when there are so many shows out there that I can't watch too close to bedtime because I won't be able to fall asleep after.

One scene in the finale hit me hard.

During a meeting of the "Diamond Dogs," the coaches and friends are in the locker room before a soccer match, and Roy seeks advice. (The "Dogs" meet when someone in the group needs a bit of counsel.) Roy, a character who has gone through considerable change throughout the three seasons, asks if change is possible, if we can become a better version of ourselves.

One character chimes in that change doesn't really happen, but "we learn to accept who we've always been." Others disagree; they say that people can change both for the worse or the better.

And then, another character offers an opinion: "Change isn't about trying to be perfect. Perfection sucks; perfect is boring."

This leads to some light joking about the way things can be perfect, while humans can't. (A thing like The Shawshank Redemption, for instance, is obviously perfect.) They all agree, and Higgins sums it up: "Human beings are never going to be perfect, Roy. The best thing we can do is to keep asking for help and accepting it when we can. And if you keep on doing that, you'll always be moving toward better."

+++

When I started working at Emmaus Ministries in 2019, Sister Mary told me that working in the ministry would help me with my own striving for perfection. "You're going to lose that, Val. There is no perfection at Emmaus. Not when you work with the poor." I can only imagine what her commentary to me would have been about those lines in the show.

It's now four years since Mary and I began having conversations about coming to work at Emmaus. I didn't begin there until December 2019, but I had shadowed her at the soup kitchen and met with her multiple times before I "signed on the dotted line."

+++

I found out not long before Sister Mary died that she both watched and loved Ted Lasso, too. I don't know how the show came up, but I was sitting across from her at her desk having one of our "morning chats", and we got to talking about it. This would have been in April. After that conversation, she watched only one new episode before she died. She texted me after watching it, wondering if I liked it or not. (For the record, I did—it was the episode set in Amsterdam.)

I'm very aware that I haven't written here since the unexpected death of our dear Sister Mary Miller on May 14. I haven't really written anywhere...because it's really hard to write about this loss.

Working with and for Mary Miller has been one of the greatest gifts of my life. It's hard to write about how much it means to watch her walk into the office each day where you work together, have her greet you with her sweet smile, and wish you a "Good morning, honey."

That was the gift of Mary, among myriad others—her presence. Just yesterday I was listening to someone talk about Mary while looking at a picture of her and say, "That's the face she always had when she was listening to you. I can still see her looking at me—like I was the only person in the world." She had that power, Mary did, the power that allowed her to look at you and make you feel completely unique and special—the holy power to look at you and see you the way God sees you. Beloved and beautiful.

To be able to work in her presence—to have her offer her presence to me and to watch her offer it to others, especially the poor—I repeat, it feels nearly impossible to articulate the gift.

+++

She and I would return to that perfectionism word often, as she continued to remind me that I didn't need to do anything else, to work any harder, to get anything "more right" to be perfect. I was beloved and beautiful just the way I was. Mary would text me quotes that she read about perfectionism; she would stop me when I got too caught up in trying to make something perfect, and she would often go back to the line, "Emmaus is going to help rid you of that nasty perfectionism."

And it has. You give up control when you work with the poor, when you work at a soup kitchen, when you work with kids, when you garden. You give up any chance at having things pan out just the way you envisioned them unfolding. It's the blessing and the challenge of human messiness, of journeying together. And Mary was a model for that journey. She delighted in others; she accepted and had compassion for their messiness. And the same way she felt about me—that I was just fine just the way I was—she felt that way about everyone. She welcomed everyone just as they were... unless, of course, you weren't sensitive to the suffering of the poor...then she might try to teach you a bit.

+++

We sometimes sing a song at prayer called Journeys Ended, Journeys Begun. I feel like I am in that space more profoundly than usual —in my life, in this moment. When Mary and I began talking about me taking on the role of Director of Emmaus, I'm not sure how real it felt. She had done it for 42 years; the name Sister Mary was synonymous with Emmaus. But, after 42 years, it was time. She would step back; I would step in. We would have regular conversations about the transition, though we never really worked out too many details; I think I began to trust that it would work itself out as it should.

+++

But, sometimes it's hard to trust the reality of her death. The word "perfect" hasn't entered my mind in weeks. But, I look at the words to the song Journeys Ended, Journeys Begun written by the monks at Weston Priory.

Refrain: Journeys ended, journeys begun:

to go where we have never been,

to be beyond our past,

moments of lifting up, transcending death,

rising in transparent light

to the fullness of God’s presence.

Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.

1. Do not let your hearts be troubled:

trust in God and trust in me, you shall not be alone.

To prepare a place for you I go but shall return

so that you may be with me

in the mystery of rising to new life.

2. Loving one another in truth,

choosing clear the many deaths of going beyond self,

living in the spirit of one who gave his life

so that we might come to know

how profound the gift of God in Jesus Christ. 

3. There can be no greater love than this:

to give our lives for others: our joy will be complete.

I have told you all this so that you may find peace

in the sharing of your life and know the depth

of love to which we’re called.

And they do feel pretty perfectly-fitting of this moment and of Mary Miller's life. One journey has ended; another is beginning, for both of us. I am humbled to carry on the ministry she cultivated and that centered her for 42 years. And, like Higgins said, I am grateful that there are so many wonderful people who love Emmaus and who are willing to help when I ask. I am grateful that I am learning to accept the help and to not feel like I have to or that I can do it all on my own. I am grateful that Mary taught me these lessons.

+++

Furthermore, I am so grateful that my life intersected with Mary Miller's; I am so grateful for warm, easy shows when the days are sad and hard; I am so grateful that Mary was right because Emmaus is, indeed, helping me let go of perfectionism; I am so grateful for the journey.

+++

Let us walk in the holy presence.

On Monastic Stability

Monastics take three vows when they make profession: conversion of life, obedience, and stability.

When I began to learn about each in greater depth, I had an instinct that stability would be the most challenging for me. The vow of stability means we commit ourselves to a particular monastery and community. Or, another way to say it, from Pema Chödrön:

It's best to stick to one thing and let it put you through your changes.

That's hard for anyone, and it's really hard for perfectionistic/idealistic Val.

In August it will be eight years since I entered the community.  And I have thought about running away at least 800 times. Or, as Joan Chittister writes:

When a monastic makes a vow of stability it is a vow designed to still the wandering heart.

Because it's that 801st moment of grace that gets me every time. And these past few weeks, I have been having a grace-filled experience of stability. I alluded to it in my last post.

Watching spring arrive in the natural world would be a source of joy for me anywhere I planted myself. But now that I have been at the Mount for eight springs, I am starting to notice things. I can tell that the little green leaves popping up will soon be fully blooming irises. I know that the forsythia became its beautiful yellow a little earlier last year than this year. And then, there's this tulip.

When you walk into our old convent where I work, there's a row of green along a fence. In the spring it's daffodils; come summer it will be mint. And right after the daffodils begin to bloom, there's this red tulip. When I saw it a week ago, I realized that it stops me in my tracks each year.

I love this tulip; I think it's just gorgeous. And if I weren't here each spring, I wouldn't have the opportunity to see it, to let it delight me. That's the gift of stability.

The 801st grace always comes. Alleluia!

Let us walk in the holy presence.

A Magic House: Alleluia!

Last year at Christmastime, my friend brought her kids over to see our decorated home. Her five-year-old son, upon walking through our motion-automated chapel doors, proclaimed, "Your house is a magic house!" They also couldn't get over how many Christmas trees we had.

Of course the adults got a good laugh.

But, in a way, our monastic life here is a bit of magic. Guided by Benedict's Rule, women who were once strangers come together and live a Christian life rooted in community and prayer. I do believe it is a bit of magical witness in our society today, or as Benedict puts it: "Your way of acting should be different from the world's way; the love of Christ must come before all else."

Christmas, Holy Week, and Easter are peak-magic for Christians. They remind us that even in our darkness and waiting, in our grief, our sorrow, and confusion, there will be "Glorias" and "Alleluias" resounding somewhere, somehow.

I've never learned a magic trick, other than trying to practice living this life in the daily. But this time of year—the Easter season, our springtime here in the Northern Hemisphere—makes it feel worth the effort, makes the attempt feel possible.

The changes in the earth each day are wonderful evidence, too, so right in your face as they are. When I turned into our driveway last night after dinner at the soup kitchen, the willow tree stunned me. It's complicated branch system and leaves beginning to do their thing...amazing. Magic.

A patch of crocuses springing up in the neighborhood, bursting in vibrant purple. Abracadabra, and there they are! Same with the hydrangeas in the inner courtyard. I leave for work, and the bush is merely branches; I come home and there's that perfect spring green popping through the ground. This morning it was the tiniest tulip tree that got me.

May it be a blessed Easter season for you, one that attunes you to the magic of life, of creation. Alleluia!

Let us walk in the holy presence.

P.S. Here's a shout-out to my sister Linda who wrote a piece for Global Sisters Report, also about the power of possibility and living differently as women religious.

One of my favorite things about the Triduum...the vigil candles leading us into chapel

Crocuses in our neighborhood

The root system of our irises at Benetwood, a tulip tree, and those hydrangeas

Mary was so happy to revive this daffodil blossom that had fallen off its stem.

To become what I believe: March Madness Edition

It's been a little difficult to take my eyes off March Madness and, subsequently, to get anything done. The games are just *great*...in both the men's and women's tournament. Right now we are finding out if both the men's and women's teams from University of Miami will make the Final Four! (The men already won as of writing this post. The women are down at halftime.)

There have been so many nail-biters, so many comebacks. It's just been fun to watch, though anxious at times!

It reminds me of a piece I wrote for A Nun's Life during Lent in 2021. A Nun's Life is a website that helps Sisters connect and share their experiences of religious life with the broader community.

___________________   

To become what I believe

Do I grasp the Paschal Mystery? Of course not. Do I believe in it? You bet I do.

Our community heard a presentation a few weeks ago on grief and how we can use contemplative practices as part of the healing process. It was an incredibly moving presentation, especially considering how much grief we have had to bear this past year. To be reminded how normal it is to feel as heavy as we do right now was reassuring.

The speaker told us that she used to watch a lot of sports, and it was an emotional experience. She would get tense and anxious and easily excitable because of her vested interest in whichever team was her favorite to win. “It stole my peace,” she said. If the opposing team wasn’t playing fairly, her blood pressure might rise. If the game was turning into a nail-biter, and it was only the third quarter, you might find her yelling at the television or putting her body and her emotions into the experience.

As she began her contemplative practice, she realized she had to stop watching sports, or at least watching the games or matches in real-time, as we normally do. Instead, she began to record the games, looked up the score the next day, and then decided if she would watch. If her team won, she would watch. If not, well…you know how that goes if you have a favorite team.

Because she knew the outcome beforehand, she was able to watch the game with a greater sense of peace. Even if it didn’t seem as though her team would pull through, she was assured that at the end of the game, they would be the victors. There was no need for anxiety, for tension, for getting too caught up in something as insignificant-in-the-long-run as a sporting match.

Our presenter was a great storyteller, and hearing this alone resonated with me; I am a big sports fan myself. But far greater than any allegiance to any sports team, I have chosen to ally my life with the life of Christ. Our presenter arrived at the true end of her story. “We are Christians. We know the outcome of this game. We believe that the Paschal Mystery is our story, too.”

Why do I get so easily wrapped up in the small stuff of life? Why do I let one insignificant annoyance ruin my day? Why do I feel this desire to control so much that is out of my hands? Why do I allow so many little things to steal my peace?

I believe that our Lenten journey and the days of the Triduum end in “Alleluia.” Not just for Jesus, but for me, too. Can I hold closely to that belief when it feels like the score isn’t in my favor? Can I let go of the tensions and the anxieties of the day, reciting to myself the words of our dear mystic sister, Julian of Norwich, “All shall be well”? Am I striving to become what I believe?

___________________ 

Soon we will know which college teams will be singing the biggest "Alleluias," and not long after that, we will sing our own as Christians. May these remaining days of Lent be rich with trust in the Paschal process in our own lives and in our collective story.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

My friend joked the other day that she always knows which flowers are in bloom by reading my blog! Here's the first crocus I found this year...at the Neighborhood Art House...a perfect place to spot it!

We helped put in the last pour of the Paschal candle the other night.

And we celebrated St. Patrick's Day last week...always a Lenten highlight...because Rose puts in 100% to make it extra festive!

In deep (and snowy) nights

Those 76ers are FUN to watch right now. Last night they came back from being down 21 to win by 1 in the final seconds, riding on the coattails of superstar Joel Embiid. But, in reality, based on the highlights, it seems to have been an incredible team effort. Oh, if only to live somewhere where the game was broadcast!

Basketball (college and professional) has been keeping me awake later than usual lately.

Speaking of nighttime... while they're always applicable, I think of these lines from Rilke as a particularly Lenten verse. They come from his book, The Book of Hours (II, 34), which is chock-full of beautiful, holy imagery.

In deep nights I dig for you like treasure.

For all I have seen
that clutters the surface of my world
is poor and paltry substitute
for the beauty of you
that has not yet happened.

Isn't that what we're doing during these forty days, digging deeply in the darkness to continue seeking God in our lives, anticipating the beauty of Resurrection? And goodness, don't I all too often complicate the process? Dragging along too much equipment, forgetting how simple and beautiful the search itself can be. Oh well, keep digging, Val.

The treasure surrounds us, everywhere.

The stained-glass from the other side...a less-frequently captured photo.

On a previous post, I showed the daffodils popping through a dead leaf,

and here they are, taller than yesterday's snow.

One morning last week I noticed the forsythia looked like they were starting to bud,

and now they have some snowy companionship.

Scholastica with her snow cap on.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

Training Ground for Resurrection

I came across the same concept twice in one week in two different books I have been reading. So, I figured I better pay attention.

The concept is negative capability.

Coined by the poet John Keats, negative capability happens when one is "capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason."

Another description I read says, "The idea [of negative capability] ... centers on suspending judgment about something in order to learn more about it."

Sigh. Feels impossible! Yet necessary!

And, doesn't it sound like a good Lenten practice as we prepare for Resurrection?

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Poetry is often one of the best routes for me into the world of negative capability.

While I was going for my walk today, I listened to what might have been my favorite episode of Ezra Klein's podcast yet...with the poet Jane Hirshfield. (And if it does come in second place, it would only be to the episode featuring another poet, Ada Limón.)

I won't try to paraphrase or summarize the episode with Jane Hirshfield; it was too good, too comprehensive for that.

These poets do such an excellent job in their conversations, aided by Ezra's wonderful interviewing skills, to articulate the ways that poetry lifts us from ourselves and takes us into a fuller, more illuminated vision of the world.

Another way to practice Resurrection.

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I often want to find some meaningful or evocative photo to post here, so I was looking through my camera roll this morning for any with potential. I found this one that I love.

And this one, too...

But, while I was out walking and listening to Jane and Ezra, trying to find something else noteworthy enough for a photo on this blog, everything felt so mundane, so human, and even a bit melancholic.

Gray skies on a nondescript road...

A pile of random wood and other refuse...

Decomposing milkweed pods fallen to the ground...

Pretty earthy, indeed. But, humanity is where Resurrection happens. And these milkweed pods are empty...their seeds are out in the windy world somewhere, landing in time to plant themselves on earth again, ready to resurrect and nourish the metamorphosing monarchs sometime, somewhere down the road.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

I (We) Have No Idea

This past week I had a Zoom meeting with three other Benedictine women for a group called "55 & Under." 55 & Under is a gathering of women across Benedictine federations in the United States. We are currently participating in a more intense three-year process as we look toward the future, as is the case for most women in religious life.

We gathered in Beech Grove, Indiana last year and will head to Norfolk, Nebraska for more conversation later this year. In the meantime, we are meeting in small groups to talk and reflect. One of the members in my group offered the opening prayer, using the famous lines from Thomas Merton.

My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think I am following your will
does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you
does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.

And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road,

though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore will I trust you always though
I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.

I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

What was great about the prayer was pretty immediate. As soon as she said the lines, "I have no idea where I am going," we all started smiling and laughing to ourselves. 

None of us have any idea where we're going...and at least we're figuring it out together!

Let us walk in the holy presence.

Is this not a miracle?

I remember heading to a hermitage in our monastery woods to make retreat before I became a novice. In the hermitage was a copy of Mary Lou's book of poetry, The Blue Heron and Thirty-Seven Other Miracles. I read the poems in succession before the day ended. Each tells the story of a miracle Lou experienced in her life. Here is one.

"What

is

most

precious

in

life?"

I asked.

"Music,"

she answered,

"and loving

someone.

It doesn't

really matter

if you

are loved

in return.

Just

to love

another person

—at least once

in your lifetime—

is reason

enough

to have walked

the earth."

Is this not a miracle?

____________________

The sun was shining the other day, and we needed some fresh air at work. While I waited for J to come downstairs for a walk, I looked at the patch of soil that lines the walkway into the office. The daffodils were pushing themselves through a dead leaf. Resurrection. Miracle.

Mom is in town this weekend. She works at a garden center, so I took her to Potratz to see the greenhouse. The prayer plant...the pitcher plant...are these not miracles?

We even spotted a blue heron while walking along the creek after Liturgy today. And when the meringue and the lemon filling seal themselves and don't separate? Maybe the best miracle!

And here is a word-play miracle for a "quirky" person such as myself. When I played Wordle yesterday morning, I had five yellows right before my five greens! I had never experienced that before, and I simply delighted. What fun!

But, the real miracle I want this weekend? The Eagles to win the Super Bowl tonight! Fly, Eagles, Fly!

We are surrounded by miracles, indeed. As we sang this morning, "Open my eyes, God."

Let us walk in the holy presence.

Women Talking

Last week at dinner we were talking about our favorite films of all time. As a woman of a certain age, I have no choice but to include Titanic on the list, but there are others with perhaps some higher cinematic standards, too, that I included like The Shawshank Redemption.

Little did I know that I would add another film to the list a few days later.

J and I went to see Women Talking, the Oscar-nominated film by Sarah Polley. In the story (based on a novel, based on a true events), a group of women who belong to a Mennonite religious colony must discern whether they will stay or leave after the men continually abuse them. 

Yes, the subject matter isn't easy, but the movie was so well made, so well acted, so thought-provoking that it had us captivated from start to finish. It started at 7:45pm, and I didn't even fall asleep! A true compliment!

Of course, it's hard not to think about the Rule of Benedict where, in Chapter 3, Benedict asks the prioress or abbot to call the community for counsel. The movie was basically an ongoing dialogue of discernment. There was listening, there was arguing, there was spirit moving, there was intergenerational insight.

I cannot recommend it enough, though I admit, it might be not for everyone.

I'd also recommend the burrata at Cloud 9! Women talking over food!

Let us walk in the holy presence.

On Monastic Prayer, continued + 1,000 Hours

You know those alarm clocks that allow you to "wake up" to the sounds of nature. I had one as a kid, and I remember choosing the "Babbling Brook" setting.

Well, this morning we had our very own all-natural alarm clock as water began dripping from the roof into chapel during morning praise! It certainly woke us up!

What was even better were the lines from Psalm 32 we chanted, punctuated by the drip, drip, drip:

So let the faithful pray to you

in their time of need.

Even flood waters will never reach them.

Oh, all is one! (And ironic!)

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Speaking of nature, I am just about done with a new book by religion historian Karen Armstrong, Sacred Nature: Restoring Our Ancient Bond with the Natural World. 

She reminds us what so many others have reminded us: we humans are the ground we walk on. Let us be a bit more reverent; let us recognize our place in the cosmos. (See: Benedictine humility)

Here are two of my favorite quotes from the book.

Human beings have the freedom to make a voluntary act of islam (the "surrender" of ego) and to consciously shape their lives so that they reflect the source of being.

We can practice a simple exercise that will remind us of the kenosis [self-emptying] that is central to a fulfilled human life. This is not a prayer. It is simply a short, sharp reminder of the essential frailty of our humanity that enables us to see ourselves realistically and, hopefully, improve. Every day, first thing in the morning and at night, for just a few moments we should consider three things: how little we know; how frequently we fail in kindness to other beings; and how limited are our desires and yearnings, which so often begin and end in our self.

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Speaking of nature (again), J suggested that we take on a challenge: spend 1,000 hours outside over the course of the year. Doing simple math, i.e. 1,000/365, we have to spend an average of just under 2.75 hours outside each day to achieve this goal. We are banking on summer days and maybe a camping trip (or two) to help us along. 

I am still not so sure it will really be achievable for me, but it's certainly something worth striving for. Plus, the comprehensive spreadsheet I made to log our hours is delightful for my organized and goal-oriented self!

Here are some photos I have captured over the first 2% of the journey! (980 hours to go!)

Let us walk in the holy presence.

I love the contrast of the fog and these trees.

And I love when the horizon is indistinguishable.

Overall, it hasn't been too snowy of a winter here.

Old Monk + The Gingko

So many of us have memories of Old Monk, communal and individual, professional and personal, and all those memories somewhere in-between. 

The one I want to share here happened in October 2020, when we expected that she might only have a few months left after her cancer had metastasized. 

Old Monk decided the time had come to clean out her writing studio where she led numerous writing workshops, facilitated book and poetry discussions, and spent hours writing in solitude, too. She asked me to help her with the task.

So, on a Monday afternoon we took some boxes to the classroom-turned-artist studio at St. Mary's School. There, there were so many books of poetry, books on teaching poetry, books on writing, so many books. But, among the books were so many ideas. On one piece of paper scattered among many, as though it were nothing, I found in her scratchy scribble, "COLLEGE FOR POOR." Then, there was a list underneath:

Philosophy

Art History

Logic

Rhetoric

Poetry

American History

30 students

2 nights a week/90 minutes

The paper was caught between others, as though it were nothing, but it was illustrative of Old Monk's life: big ideas. Yet, it was just another idea among many of hers that would add something beautiful and just to the world.

That was Old Monk's life, adding beauty and justice to the world as a sign of God's love for us all. And doing it in a uniquely creative and prophetic way.

At one point, after we had boxed up the things she wanted to keep, Old Monk went to sit down. She said to me, "Come, sit down. Let's let our souls catch up to us."

Mary Lou did so much in her prodigious lifetime; I was fortunate enough that my life crossed her own, even if only at the very end. And even though she did so much: advancing movements and holy ideas, creating communities and ministries, writing books and poems and pamphlets and reflections, she still found a way to let her "soul catch up to her" each day with a disciplined morning routine of prayer and reflection. And all she did was done with such fidelity to and integrity for life. Her life reminds me of the quote about Saint Scholastica, Benedict's twin sister: She could do more because she loved more.

In that same afternoon, she put on a hat that had been sitting on a shelf in her studio. It said "Art—Break the Rules." She loved art, and she loved breaking the rules. I asked her for some bit of wisdom; I don't even remember the exact question, but she replied, wearing this ridiculous-but-perfectly-suited-to-her-personality hat and that characteristic grin.

"You gotta keep choosing life."

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Of course, Mary Lou did keep choosing life. She fought death all the way to the end; she fought death for two years more than her terminal prognosis. She fought death in so many ways throughout her 81 years here on earth. She committed herself to giving life to community, to the poor, to the nonviolent moment, to the gospel message, to furthering the cause of women (especially in the Church), to art, to feast and family, to all these parts of life that she cherished.

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Old Monk loved ginkgo trees, too. I saw this one during a walk on a fall afternoon in the city she loved so much.

On the Smithsonian Education website, it reads:
In Japanese decorative art, the ginkgo’s distinctive fan-shaped leaf has carried symbolism along with its singular beauty: the ginkgo has been a symbol of longevity (the tree can live for a thousand years) and of a more profound endurance (four ginkgos survived the blast at Hiroshima and are still growing today).

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a more profound endurance

and a more profound way of living

she could do more because she loved more

that was mary lou kownacki.

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Let us walk in the holy presence.

New Year, Same Liminality

My mentor and I are reading Pema Chödrön's new book, How We Live is How We Die. The contents are as challenging and scary to take in as the title suggests! The title reminds me of a line that one of our sisters sometimes quotes to me from another sister, "As you are in the novitiate, so you'll be in the infirmary."

It's hard to not think about death these days.

Another dear and greatly influential mentor of mine passed away last week. Dr. Robak's wisdom helped to set in motion a lot of necessary discernment and change in my life during my senior year of undergrad. I can't imagine I'd be where I am today without his presence.

And Old Monk also continues her transition back to stardust.

Rafiki is another wise mentor at a time like this: "It's the circle of life."

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We have only read the first three chapters from Pema, but the focus is impermanence. She writes, "Contemplating continual change is a poignant experience."

It feels especially poignant right now.

But, the reality of living in a constant liminal space does open us up to connection and compassion.

During this time Pema offers comfort:

These feelings [of sadness or anxiety that come from reflecting on the passage of time and reality of impermanence] aren't a sign of something being wrong. We don't have to push them away. We don't have to label them as negative or reject them in any way. Instead, we can develop openheartedness to our painful emotions around impermanence. We can learn to sit with these feelings, to become curious about them, to see what vulnerability has to offer. In that very fear, in that very melancholy, is our compassionate heart, our immeasurable wisdom, our connection to all other living beings on this planet, each of whom are going through their own bardos [in-between states]. When we stay present with our transitory experience and all that its fleetingness evokes, we get in touch with our braver self, our deepest nature.

May this new year be one of deep connection and deep compassion for and with all creation as we change and grow together.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

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A Christmas-Day walk to the lake offered us these scenes. 60-degree weather last week changed that landscape quite a bit though!