Two Stories

At the end of last week, I had two meaningful experiences while at ministry.

On Thursday, I worked the closing shift. After we had finished playing in the gym: balancing on a beam, playing basketball, and watching 4-year olds be more agile with a hula hoop than I am, we went back into the classroom. One of the kids changed demeanor quickly, and I asked him what was wrong. He started to pat his stomach. I held him, and I felt his head...burning up. We went to check his temperature, and unsurprisingly, he had a fever. So I spent the last 10 minutes of the day letting him sleep next to me while I comforted him.

On Friday, we went for a walk because it was *finally* sunny. As we got ready to round the last corner, one of the kids started to squirm. He couldn't hold it anymore and needed to go to the bathroom. And he definitely wasn't playing like some of my fourth graders used to do. But, we still had a bit farther to go. So I picked him up, held him, and started running to get him back to the building. (Yes, we made it back successfully.)

Ah, a day in the life.

Working with children is often weird, gross, sublime, and exciting...all at the same time. It makes me think of this poem from Naomi Shihab Nye:

Shoulders

A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.

No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.

This man carries the world's most sensitive cargo
but he's not marked.
Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,
HANDLE WITH CARE.

His ear fills up with breathing.
He hears the hum of a boy's dream
deep inside him.

We're not going to be able
to live in this world
if we're not willing to do what he's doing
with one another.

The road will only be wide.
The rain will never stop falling.

Let us handle life with care and with love.

And,

Let us walk in the holy presence.

my newest plant friend that I will love

Número 300

This is post #300! Yay! This little blog really started as a way for me to keep in touch with friends at home when I moved across the state three and a half years ago.

Oh, how life has changed.

Let me express gratitude for all the encouragement I have received along the way to keep up with writing even when my energy for keeping up with the blog has dwindled. It has always seemed that just the right words have come along when I needed them. (And not just about the blog!)

And, as always...

Let us walk in the holy presence.

a new day at the monastery

You see,
I want a lot.

Maybe I want it all:
the darkness of each endless fall,
The shimmering light of each ascent.

So many creative who don’t seem to care.
Casual, easy, they move in the world
As though untouched.

But you take pleasure in the faces
Of those who know they thirst.
You cherish those
Who grip you for survival.

You are not dead yet, it’s not too late
To open your depths by plunging into them
And drink in the life
That reveals itself quietly there.
--Rilke

Prophets of Peace

We spent this weekend celebrating the Feast of Saint Scholastica, Benedict's twin sister. Each year the community gives an award called the Prophet of Peace to someone (or some group) working for peace. This year we celebrated the writer, retreat leader, social justice activist Edwina Gateley. It was a lovely celebration.

The next day, at Sunday's Liturgy, our presider gave an equally lovely homily about Scholastica, citing Gregory the Great's Dialogues where he writes of Benedict's sister, "She could do more because she loved more." Rather than celebrate the Liturgy for the Fifth Sunday of Ordinary Time, we celebrated the Liturgy for the Feast, which led us to the Song of Solomon and the story of Mary and Martha, the quote, "She could do more because she loved more" tying in quite nicely as we reflected on the ways in which the two women serve in Christ's presence. Our presider reminded us that Jesus led Martha to love, not her anxieties about getting the work done. "There is need of only one thing," indeed.

Edwina has written a perfectly complementary poem, Let Your God Love You:

Be silent.
Be still.
Alone.
Empty
Before your God.
Say nothing.
Ask nothing.
Be silent.
Be still.
Let your God look upon you.
That is all.
God knows.
God understands.
God loves you
With an enormous love,
And only wants
To look upon you
With that love.
Quiet.
Still.
Be.

Let your God—
Love you.

Congratulations, Edwina!

Let us walk in the holy presence.

Another prophet of peace in our midst--the blooming amaryllis!

Darkness to Light

Two years ago we did some liturgical movement to a song about St. Brigid with lyrics that began "Darkness to light."

We have seen crazy switches in weather the past few days. Last Wednesday and Thursday we were off for sub-zero temperatures. This Sunday we sat outside on the back patio and enjoyed some snacks after our community meeting...sans jackets.

But these photos are from the last weekend in January when I enjoyed some solitude over at the lake. While I was there, there was a bit of a crazy storm with high winds and at least a foot of snow. (The kids certainly enjoyed splashing in the remnant puddles today while we went for a warm-weather walk!)

Here was the scene at the lake when I ventured out without realizing I shouldn't have been venturing during that weekend of solitude.

The snow blew in my face; my legs were red from the chill. It was unreal cold. I didn't even step outside last week when we had off; I have no idea how bad it was. We pray for those who have no choice but to be outside in those chills, for whatever reason.

That evening, though, it had already started to break. Look at the juxtaposition of the skies in the scene at sunset.

Darkness to light, indeed.

The next morning was also full of winter beauty.

As challenging as the winter months can be, there is such beauty for those of us blessed enough to enjoy it safely and in warmth.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

Culinary Cultures

One of my favorite things about working at our community's child development center is the opportunity to work with people from cultures not my own. One of my favorite things is experiencing different food and flavors--literally an added treat. Tacos, tamales, enchiladas, and pozole, among other delicious dishes have been savored. Momos, it turns out, are also wonderful.

Of course, we've all had a taco before. But recently I got to have a first-hand experience making authentic Mexican tacos with a dear friend of mine. We prepared everything from scratch: tortillas, salsa, and all!

Here is our journey...

We had to cut up lots and lots of steak (bistec) and season it with salt, garlic, and lime juice...

To begin the salsa, we peeled the tomatillos...

And roasted them up, along with three types of peppers...

Maza, corn flour, mixed with a bit of regular flour, and water created the beginnings of tortillas...

And the press to flatten them into discs...

I clearly need some more practice...

Because mine turned into Pac-Man!...

Blending the salsa...

And serving up the toppings...

To create some truly delicious food!

Yum!

Let us walk in the holy presence.

Mary, Mary–How Does Your Garden Grow?

I did post on here last week about the death of our beloved poet, Mary Oliver. But, I still feel I must give her a more proper tribute.

I thought about going back and figuring out how many of the posts I've written have included a Mary poem, but I will just hypothesize that it's a pretty high ratio.

I remember first befriending Mary Oliver; it was my first year of teaching. A friend gave me a book of poetry with words inspiring for teachers. Obviously Mary featured prominently. Wild Geese, The Journey, The Summer Day–all of these poems would help an educator through the highs and lows of the school year; they certainly did that for me.

But, it was just the beginning. I don't even know which book I bought first...maybe Why I Wake Early. My mentor and I would read her words together, reveling in the sheer beauty of simple diction and deep attentiveness. We'd often say, "How does she do it?" after a healthy pause when finishing a read aloud.

As I was coming into my own appreciation for nature, walking in the Wissahickon Park and sitting at the shores of Lake Erie, Mary was nearly constant company. While my favorite poem has been At the River Clarion for quite some time, I have also been taken by her essay, Winter Hours, since first reading it last year. Here is an excerpt, appropriate to re-read in the immediate days following our own recent storm here in Erie.

Sometimes I think, were I just a little rougher made, I would go altogether to the woods–to my work entirely, and solitude, a few friends, books, my dogs, all things peaceful, ready for meditation and industry–if for no other reason than to escape the heart-jamming damages and discouragements of the world's mean spirits. But, no use. Even the most solitudinous of us is communal by habit, and indeed by commitment to the bravest of dreams, which is to make a moral world. The whirlwind of human behavior is not to be set aside.

I'm not sure any of us will ever be able to write about you, Mary, in the past tense. I'm not sure any of us can count the number of times your poems consoled us. Your words sustain us on our journeys, dear friend. They live on inside so many of us. We are so grateful.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

The current collection, which has grown over time!

“When I Find Myself in Times of Trouble, Mother Mary Comes to Me.”

Mary, we will surely miss you.

The Ponds

Every year
the lilies
are so perfect
I can hardly believe

their lapped light crowding
the black,
mid-summer ponds.
Nobody could count all of them —

the muskrats swimming
among the pads and the grasses
can reach out
their muscular arms and touch

only so many, they are that
rife and wild.
But what in this world
is perfect?

I bend closer and see
how this one is clearly lopsided —
and that one wears an orange blight —
and this one is a glossy cheek

half nibbled away —
and that one is a slumped purse
full of its own
unstoppable decay.

Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled —
to cast aside the weight of facts

and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
I want to believe I am looking

into the white fire of a great mystery.
I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing —
that the light is everything — that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.

Thank you, Mary Oliver.

Let us walk in the holy presence.