Seeing with the "Eyes of the Heart"

I went out after work tonight and got drunk. In the woods. With my camera.

There was no food or drink involved - for it was not my body but my spirit that became intoxicated. Allow me to explain.

I first "met" Christine Valters Paintner online a couple of years ago quite by accident - or so I tell myself. I was on the internet one evening, googling something or other. I no longer recall what I was searching for but certainly it was not an online community. What I stumbled across was this: www.abbeyofthearts.com. The home page of Christine's website declared itself "an online global monastery without walls" - a most intriguing claim.

As I looked over the website a bit more, in addition to monastic values, I found references to creativity and being a "soul care practitioner". Whatever I had been searching for online up to that point faded into the background. I had to explore this site.

As I pored over the list of class offerings, I found one about photography and contemplation. That clinched the deal. I knew in my heart that I was home. A few days later, I signed the Monk Manifesto and my life has not been the same since.

In these past two years or so, I have participated in Christine's free Monk in the World e-course, numerous "poetry parties", an Advent Retreat, a course on the Wisdom of the Desert Fathers and Mothers, a Lenten retreat and a 12 week course on "Way of the Monk, Path of the Artist" - all online. And now I have the privilege of writing a review of Christine's most recent book, Eyes of the Heart: Photography as a Christian Contemplative Practice.

I don't know where to begin in describing one of the best books I have ever read. So I will start by telling you how it is that I ended up drunk in the woods with my camera.

I had brought my walking shoes and camera with me to work so that I would be ready for whatever unfolded. As the work day drew to a close, I resisted the temptation to do more at the office and inwardly invoked a blessing for what I was about to do. I felt my mind becoming quiet yet alert with expectancy. As I drove to the woods, I allowed myself to be open and empty so that I could receive whatever images might be given to me. (Whenever I found my mind returning to its old language of "taking" pictures or "capturing" photos, I gently returned it to its new language: I will walk and see what images I receive.)

Something in the distance drew my attention. I eased closer with my camera in hand and gazed with the eyes of my heart upon all that was before me. In that moment, I became aware that just a few feet in front of me was a cluster of white buds beginning to open. I had not known they were there - but I received them with delight. I journeyed on.

I walked for an hour or so, I suspect. I did not keep track of time and I had no destination. Having been to this area before, I knew that I would likely see ducks and perhaps some deer. But I did not know what I would encounter and I invited myself to see whatever was there. A blue jay and a cardinal were not to be "captured" by my lens - but I greeted them and drank in their beautiful colors. Light and shadow played with each other and both were welcomed. The creek mirrored the shore, reflecting bright spring leaves as well as complex tangles of roots.

My heart was open and I kept receiving and receiving. Until I was drunk.

I can still feel its effects as I sit here typing, like a slow smile forming deep at my center. For it is not a riotous, chaotic drunk or a deadening, stuporous drunk. Not at all. It is the quiet intoxication of a heart that has drunk of the unlimited abundance of the Divine.

As wonderful and glorious as this sounds, however, I am reminded that this journey of the heart is not always simple or easy. The way of "sacred seeing" calls me to gaze upon all that is, not just what is immediately pleasing to my senses. What might there be lurking in the shadows that I would rather not see? Instinctively, I want to turn away from those images, whether they be in the world or in myself. Even as I type this, I find myself thinking - perhaps I could just delete this paragraph and end on the happy note...

Yet to allow myself to turn away would be to allow myself to disown parts of myself and my world - as though those parts were not acceptable, not fit to be seen as part of the sacred whole. To want to see only the light and not the shadow amounts to not really wanting to see at all.

And so I am invited - to see and own and embrace the all of life, to grow beyond what I fear, while held by the deep and loving gentleness of the One who breathes life into all. You are invited too. It does not matter if you have never held a camera before - Christine's book is not really so much about photography as it is about seeing.

Let us learn together the art of sacred seeing. Whether we gaze through the lens of a camera or simply learn to gaze from our hearts, embracing each moment without judgment enables us to see the holiness in everything - even in our ofttime broken selves.

Christine Valters Paintner, a Benedictine oblate, is a gifted writer, photographer and teacher. In her book, Eyes of the Heart: Photography as a Christian Contemplative Practice, you will find themes of spirituality, photography and emotional healing interwoven with such a delightful simplicity that beginner's mind emerges quite naturally, whether you are a beginner or not. Yet to plumb the depth of her words, her reflection questions and exploration suggestions could easily take months even for the most experienced photographer-monk. The story of my experience here reflects some of what this book stirred in my soul. I want to read the book again (and again), each time more slowly, allowing myself to savor all that it has to offer.

(As is my custom when we are approaching a change of seasons, I wish to share with you some of the images that I have been blessed to receive in the last few months. Click on the image below to open the web album. You may view the images individually or as a slide show. Since I decided to limit this album to 80 photos (!), check back in as I hope to post more photos/poetry/reflections in these final weeks of spring. As always, you are welcome to download any images you would like for your personal, nonprofit use.)

Spring 2013

night prayer

A little something new...

I have been working on this idea for quite awhile and don't know yet if it will be a regular feature. I have started a podcast site for "night prayer", where you can listen to short audio reflections that are designed to offer a little something restful and spiritual for bedtime (or for those unfortunate times when you cannot sleep). They are not limited to bedtime use, however, and I hope you will find them generally calming.

Tonight, I posted my first one. (You can find the link in the left sidebar, under the description of this blog, along with my other links. When you get to the podcast site, you will see a little mp3 player as part of the post. Just click on the arrow to listen.) Enjoy!

The Opening

It is still Easter. It is Easter every day. (If it is not, then it never was...)

For many, Easter is just another yearly holiday, come and gone like all the rest. For we who believe, Easter (or "Pascha", as it is more properly called by Orthodox Christians) is a transforming truth, not a day on the calendar or a mere historical event. For it to be anything less than this renders it meaningless. 

What does it mean to be transformed by this "truth"? How can this be? Certainly it is not anything I know how to do.

While there is much good (and bad) theology written and preached on this topic, I am not a theologian. My mind accepts the Resurrection of the Christ - but my mind goes no further. At least not today. Instead, today, I listen and watch with my heart. 

Nature is, for many of us, a great teacher - and that is no accident. God reveals Himself in the truth of His creation. He reveals Himself in many other ways too, of course, and nature represents only a hint of the fullness of His truth. 

Nature is but a hint because it is "created" and therefore not Eternal - as is the New Life of Pascha. However, nature can help us conceive, in a tangible way, of the possibility of new life emerging from death. Without it, our imaginations could not possibly challenge our perception of death's finality.

Please allow me to share with you a short video, made from a poem and some images that were gift to me. They are, of course, only a most imperfect hint of Pascha truth but I believe they were given to me to share...

(text of the poem)

my heart is like a tiny tree bud

in early spring

wrapped so tightly in itself

that it knows not

whether it is living or dead.

deep within its core

it holds a truth it cannot name.

but the little bud knows that

not all truths are welcome

in this dark world

and it is afraid.

violent storms rage and rage

around the tiny bud

as it clings to the only branch it knows.

i watch and i wait.

what else can i do?

i look to heaven, pleading for a sign –

will the bud survive?

the sun smiles down

and the breezes warm

but they give no answer.

and then it begins:

the opening.

shyly...just a little at first,

fearful of what is coming.

i pray again, my heart quivering

as transformation unfolds.

“be open!” the sun beckons.

“stay rooted in me,” the earth invites.

“reach for the sky!” cries the wind.

my heart can wait no longer.

it cannot remain but a bud.

a living Truth bursts forth

and shatters the walls

that held it tight within itself.

it is not the old life anymore –

it cannot be.

my heart can be my heart no more.

it is Beauty,

only Beauty…

(Blessings to all, especially my Orthodox brothers and sisters in Christ who celebrate Pascha today. Special thanks to Orthodox priests, Fr. Stephen Freeman and Fr. Aidan Kimel, who through their blogs share their deep spiritual understanding with this poor Catholic. Thanks also, to Christine Valters Paintner who is helping me learn to see from my heart when I walk with my camera. In a few weeks, I will be posting here a review of her new book, Eyes of the Heart. More spring photos to come as well.)

a piece of broken glass

(author's note: I am just completing my online course on creativity and monastic wisdom. One of the recent suggestions related to the scriptural accounts of God offering new names to people who responded to His call, e.g. Abram became Abraham. In brief, we were to take a contemplative walk, find a white stone and, if we felt so called, write upon it the new name we were given. The following is what occurred for me in response to this suggestion.) 

The weather was chilly and I knew I wouldn't want to remain outside long. It seemed wasteful of time and fuel to drive to a cold, windy beach or river bank just to find a stone. So I decided to bundle up and go for a walk in my urban neighborhood. "It is an unlikely place to find a smooth white stone", I conceded mentally, "but perhaps God will provide one for me."

I walked down the street as ponderously as I could in the brisk wind, heading toward the bridge. My street is a busy four lane route into downtown Cleveland and, at one point, becomes the uppermost layer of a confluence of freeways. As I walked, I scanned the sidewalk for some sign of a flat stone upon which I could envision myself painting.

The sidewalk over the bridge had most likely never been swept since it was replaced during a construction project several years ago. It contained much debris: cigarette butts, bottle caps, scraps of cellophane and plastic, all likely tossed from car windows or dropped carelessly by walkers like myself. There were many tiny stones of unknown origin as well as decaying bits of old leaves and seeds that might be best described as dirt. All of this - but no stones of the type I needed.

I continued my sojourn. "Just a bit further," I thought. "Perhaps God will provide."

And then I saw it. The remains of a broken bottle. It barely caught my eye at first as the bits of broken glass were spread over an area and brushed up against the sidewalk wall. They were half covered with debris, giving the impression that the bottle had been broken long ago. No labels clung to the fragments to tell the story of what the bottle had once been. Just bits of broken glass, coated with dirt and grime. And yet...

There was one piece of glass lying there that seemed just about the right size for my artwork. Its surface was rounded not flat, but there were no cracks or dangerously splintered edges. Could this be my "white stone", the rock that was to bear my new name?

I bent over and carefully picked it up, my hands well-protected in leather gloves. I examined it briefly and, as my mind began conjuring up visions for its future, I carefully slipped it into my coat pocket. I headed back to my house, my quest fulfilled.

Once home, with hand still gloved, I fished the fragment from my pocket, setting it in the kitchen sink. I turned on the hot water, allowing it to get warm and bathe my "stone" while I hung up my coat. From under the sink, I retrieved some dish soap and an old toothbrush. A few suds later and the many layers of dirt were swirling down the drain. Afternoon sun was pouring through my kitchen window and I was delighted to see the piece of glass sparkle. "You were made for something so much more than this," I told it. "You are so beautiful."

Drying it with a soft towel, I cradled my piece of broken glass gently in my bare hand. Still marveling at my treasure, I carried it to my work area and set it carefully on the heavy white paper protecting my desk. One by one, I dropped little splashes of color onto the concave side of my glass fragment, tilting it this way and that, allowing the inks to roll and blend and dry upon its surface.

As it dried, I contemplated my new name. In my heart, I already knew what it was to be.

+

But Mary stayed outside the tomb weeping. And as she wept, she bent over into the tomb and saw two angels in white sitting there, one at the head and one at the feet where the body of Jesus had been.
 
And they said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken my Lord, and I don’t know where they laid him.” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus there, but did not know it was Jesus. 

Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” She thought it was the gardener and said to him, “Sir, if you carried him away, tell me where you laid him, and I will take him.” 

Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni,” which means Teacher. Jesus said to her, “Stop holding on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am going to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Mary of Magdala went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord.” (John 20: 11-18)

For as long as I can remember, this has been my favorite account of the Resurrection of Jesus. The other disciples had been at the tomb and gone home, but Mary of Magdala remained there, weeping. I can only imagine the depths of her grief. Her mind must have been replaying the horrifying images of his bloodied body hanging lifeless on the cross. So much had He done for her that her love for Him knew no bounds. She had been so lost when she met Him. He had looked at her and saw who she really was, casting out the demons, freeing her from her inner torment. She loved Him and now wanted to properly prepare His body for burial. But someone had stolen the body.

Whenever I hear this Gospel account read, I am with her in her sorrow - until I hear His voice say quite simply, "Mary". In that instant, along with Mary of Magdala, I know and I am known. My spirit leaps with joy for He has spoken to my heart in that single word. As real as His death was - this was even more real. With her, I want to cry out, "I have seen the Lord!" (for indeed, I have). 

John's Gospel tells us that Mary responded to Jesus in Hebrew but it does not tell us what language Jesus had spoken. Because it was her language, I imagine Him speaking to Mary in Hebrew as well.

And so, the ink now dry, I write my new name upon the piece of glass:  מִרְיָם ("Miryam", Hebrew for Mary).

+

What does all of this mean? Of what possible significance is this little piece of glass on this Easter Day?

It means everything - for its story is the story of what He was done for my soul (and what He does for your soul as well).

Out of love, He comes searching for me. Though I am broken, soiled, cast off and half-buried in the world's debris, He sees me and holds me in His hand. He cleanses my soul, washing from it the layers of grime build up from centuries of sin, (first the world's, then my own). He looks at me with love and somehow sees the beauty of who I was created to be. I am still a piece of broken glass - that cannot be undone - but oh what beauty He has made shine forth from my brokenness! He fills my soul with color. As His light shines through me, it is simply too glorious for words.

Having done all of this, He then speaks to my heart, speaking a word that only He and I will know - a new name that I will bear in His kingdom where death has no more power. As with the other Mary, in the saying of my name, He sets me free that I too might love. And having my heart so changed, I walk with Him through this life of brokenness, seeking out other pieces of glass that lie shattered and lost amidst the world's debris.

Be still and listen, for He speaks your name as well... 

(Blessings to all on this Feast of the Resurrection.)

On sin and mercy

I do not recall if I've told this story before, so please forgive me if I have. Though the event itself was perhaps not such an unusual event for childhood, the memory of it is still quite poignant.

It occurred when my family was still living in Minneapolis and I was a young child. My mother, brother and I had returned from some outing, apparently having taken a bus, since we approached the house from the front. For reasons I no longer recall, my mother instructed me to wait at the front door while she and my brother went around to the back. They would enter the house through the back door and then let me in.

I waited and waited. I did not like being left behind and, in a moment of anger, I kicked the storm door, leaving a dent in it. I was, of course, let in the house and I'm sure the wait was not nearly so long as it felt. I do not remember my parents' response to this bit of acting out on my part - at least not in any words or actions. If I was yelled at, I do not remember it. I am sure I was not beaten for it. What I do remember though was my father trying to figure out how to repair the dent in the door.

He didn't have to say anything. I felt ashamed and knew he was disappointed in me. My father, who worked every day (Saturday mornings too) and then came home to have to house and yard maintenance chores, now had one more thing to do because of me. Looking back, I imagine he must have been angry, but he did not show it. My father was (and is) a kind and gentle man.

I felt a deep shame at my anger and how I lost control of it. I don't remember that I ever said I was sorry. (We didn't tend to verbalize things like that in my family.) I don't remember my parents ever saying that they forgave me either - but their forgiveness was evident in the way life continued as usual. They took care of me as they always did, helping me with school projects, including me in family outings, giving me gifts on my birthdays. My "sin" against them did not change their love for me.

I put the quotation marks around the word "sin" because it seems to be one of those words that has gone out of fashion in the popular culture. In fact, many of us balk at the word these days because of what it conjures up. What it conjures up is different for each of us, depending on what, if any, religious training we may have had early in life. For many, it evokes thoughts of punishment by an angry God - punishment to the point of damnation. To hell: the place where God sends sinners.

As I talk to many suffering people in my daily work, it is not unusual that this comes up in some form or another, even though I work in a secular setting. When bad things happen in life, it is not unusual for people to wonder: why is this happening to me? Is God punishing me? Some who ponder this question have some  regrets or guilt tearing at their souls. Others go searching for something. What could I have done?

It also not unusual for people to tell me, "I know I'm going to hell." (It always breaks my heart to hear this...) Sometimes there is a reason for this declaration, such as some past or present sin, but just as often this belief seems to be born of a general sense of "badness" that people feel about themselves. Often they have been repeatedly told they are bad in one manner or another - often through verbal, physical or sexual abuse.

This notion of the punishing and vengeful God has led some people to reject God all together. And, I might add, rightly so.

If you are wondering if you read that last line correctly, you did. We should reject this notion of God. If you have been taught these ideas about God, know that you have been misled. In most cases, the misleading likely came from someone who meant well but had a limited understanding of Christianity. In a few cases, the misleading may have come from someone who was simply looking for another way to control or abuse, using God and hell as a threat no different than the threat of a Santa Claus who won't bring presents to bad children.

(If you are a traditional believer and find yourself ready to stop reading, please don't. I am not about to mock God or the Bible in the least. Keep reading.)

God is love. God's love is total, unconditional. God loves every creature He has made and He does not withhold His love from anyone for any reason. His love is personal and endless in depth and scope. No exceptions. Not even for the worst of sinners or the baddest of the bad.

As a sinner, I do not have to repent in order for God to love me. I do not have to  pray for God to love me. I do not have to do good works for God to love me. I do not even have to believe in God for God to love me.

To believe otherwise is to suggest that God's love is conditional, not unconditional. "God will only love me if..." This notion of God makes God into a being rather like us, a being who gets angry and wants revenge. In this view, prayer and repentance are reduced to frantic efforts by us to try to change God so that He will love us again. Besides painting a picture of a God who is not very loving (not even as loving as my parents), it suggests that our relationship with God is always in a state of uncertainty, depending on whether we have been able to sufficiently appease Him.

Or, what may be worse, we see our relationship with God being based on whether we are "worthy". Knowing our faults or "badness" then makes it clear that we could not possibly have a relationship with this God who loves only the worthy.

To truly accept God's love, completely free and unconditional, is not nearly so simple as it may sound, however. One might think that such an unconditional love would make us feel free - it no longer matters whether I sin! God still loves me! I don't even have to work at it!

However, while it is true that my sin does not change God's love for me, my sin does change me. My sin causes me to see God differently - to project onto Him my guilt, my attitudes toward myself and others, until in my mind I have turned Him into a wrathful, punishing God who doesn't want me. My sin convinces me that God is not all-loving - so that I reject Him or I reject myself, either course leaving me stuck in despair.

Hence, the prayer, the repentance, the good works are indeed needed - not to change God but to change me so that I can experience and participate in His freely given love.

Furthermore, accepting that God's love as truly unconditional entails accepting that it is unconditional for everyone - even those who may have hurt me terribly or done great wrongs in the world. I need to let go of wrath and vengeance, even for the Hitlers, the child molesters, the mass murders of the innocent.

No, it is not an easy thing to accept that God's love is free and unconditional. Accepting this truth requires me to change - or rather to allow myself to be changed. Without His grace and mercy I could never do it.

This coming week we call "Holy Week" because we commemorate during this time the most abundant outpouring of love and grace and mercy imaginable. Please join me here again for Easter to celebrate the news of how we can be changed by the love of God.

(Others have written much more eloquently than me about the unconditional nature of God's love. Fr. Aidan Kimel, an Orthodox priest, writes and quotes others most beautifully on his blog: http://afkimel.wordpress.com/2013/03/24/finding-the-god-who-is-love/)

poem

As I have mentioned in recent posts, I have been participating in a online class integrating art and monastic values through Abbey of the Arts. The class is nearly over and one of our assignments was to write an "instructional poem" in the spirit of Wendell Berry's "How to be a Poet". It was to be a reminder to myself of how I want to approach my spiritual/creative vocation. As are most, I consider this poem to be a gift given to me, not because I am worthy of it or talented. Rather, it is a call to me. Perhaps in sharing it with you, it will call to something in you...not that you need to be a psychologist :-) but it may call to something that will aid you in your journey to being you.

how to be a psychologist

get out of bed and wash your face with gratitude.

open your heart and gaze upon God’s face

that you might recognize him

when later you see him at your door.

take care of yourself: eat breakfast, drink tea.

allow time to pray and reflect.

try not to be late.

bless whatever workspace you have been given.

bless the chairs, the pens, the paper,

the very air you will breathe

and remember that this place is to be

a garden where grace and healing can grow.

when the suffering one arrives,

greet him at the door with kindness, whatever his state.

remember that he comes because he is lost

and that he looks to you for hope.

be gentle and listen with care.

do not worry if you do not know what to say.

there may be no words or there may be many.

keep your heart open and your mind tranquil.

there is One greater than you at work here.

when the gift has been given through you

be ever grateful to the suffering one

for allowing you to walk with him.

do not dread overmuch the documenting you must do,

for you are writing the sacred stories

that perhaps no one else will ever hear.

allow yourself to feel their sadness

and do not run from the confusion and fear they hold.

embrace them with a reverence

as you would the wounds of the Savior –

for indeed, that is what they are.

now, go home. rest.

write poems, paint pictures, play music.

express and share the truth you have learned

that one day the world may come to understand.