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.

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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