Morning Light

I woke early yesterday morning - or at least earlier than I intended, having stayed up a bit the night before. My body said that it wanted more sleep but I could see that my mind wasn't permitting it. I got up reluctantly. I could see that the sky was clear and the sun was pushing its way through the houses and trees that rim the sky of my urban environment. It occurred to me that I could take a walk. I have never been an early morning walker but I have always thought that it would be a lovely time to be out, with the day still new and fresh and cool.

Almost immediately, my mind was confronted with all of the reasons why I should not do this. After all, getting up early was a good opportunity to get more work done and I certainly had enough of that to do. Even more ridiculously, thoughts occurred that I should not disrupt my morning routine that includes drinking water and meditating. Besides, I was hungry. And if I took the time for this walk, would I be able to get everything done so as to be ready for an appointment that was still hours away?

I filled a water bottle from the kitchen tap, packed a bit of dried fruit and put both into a roomy canvas shoulder bag. I stuffed in an old towel as well. A long-sleeved cotton shirt over my t-shirt protected against the still cool air. And I grabbed my camera. The park was only a few blocks away and the sun was rising. I must go if I want to catch the morning light.

Artists often talk of the morning light. Ancient traditions have long directed people to pray facing east and many churches have sunrise services on special occasions. What is this morning light? I wondered. What have I been missing while making excuses for why I couldn't possibly go out walking in the early morning?

Just the night before, I had signed the "Monk's Manifesto", declaring (online) that "I am a monk, by the grace of God." This may seem a little surprising if you, like me, think of monks as men in robes, living solitary lives away from the rest of society. But I found a group online (by chance?) that tells of being a "monk in the world" who "does not live apart but immersed in the everyday with a single-hearted and undivided presence, always striving for greater wholeness and integrity". It did not hurt that this monastery without walls also is a wellspring uniting spirituality and expressive arts, even offering a class on "photography as contemplative practice". I had felt my spirit connect. Perhaps that is what gave me the extra push to move past my excuses and seek the Morning Light.

Come, walk with me. (The few photos the follow were taken as I went out into the morning light. Although I cropped and straightened a couple of them, I did not alter the lighting or color when editing, as I wanted to capture for you, as much as possible, what I actually saw...)

I stop by my neighbor's garden,
taking a picture of a rose
with its petals unfolding
in the early morning light...

In the lot next door
where the old gardening shed
hides in the shadows,
I see the sun breaking forth
upon random leaves and branches,
setting them ablaze
with its brilliant light...

As I approach the overpass,
with the smell and noise of
cars and trucks whizzing by,
I spot one weed among
the many that grow untamed,
a weed that in the sun
becomes a flower...

I cross the seldom-used alley
separating the convenience store
from the towering old church.
Even the bricks of this old path
seem aglow and living
in the light of new day...

I am at the park.
I roll out my old towel
upon the dewy grass.
I sit yoga-style, facing east.
Even with my eyes closed,
the light is too brilliant.
My extra cotton shirt
becomes my eye shade.


I am there, in the park, morning meditation upon me as usual, but not usual. The brilliant light. The air warming. Birds around me chirping and cheeping. Sudden loud barks of a dog being walked startle me for a moment until I settle back in, trusting that all is well... "Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, is now and will be forever. Amen. Alleluia." I open my eyes and stretch. I drink my water and eat my dried fruit, looking and listening to all around me.

I walk to the far end of the park.
The sun is higher in the sky now.
There is beauty,
more beauty,
as the morning light
brings creation into focus.

I take another picture.
I must show you
what I've seen.
I cannot keep something
like this to myself.
The light, the beauty
is for all of us...


I put my camera away and walk home. As I approach my house the words come to me:

My soul is awash with God.

The Morning Light has washed me, cleansed me, refreshed me. I am ready once again to be "immersed in the every day", my heart set apart yet still fully in the world.

* * * *

(If you are curious about the "Monk Manifesto" I signed, you may read it by clicking on the link below. Since I am a newcomer there, I am not recommending that you spend money at this site - that is your decision - but the free gift that came with newsletter membership was very nice.)

http://abbeyofthearts.com/about/monk-manifesto/

You will show me the path...

("You will show me the path to life, abounding joy in your presence..." Psalm 16:10)

I have not written in quite awhile. I have been busy, of course. But it has been a sort of curious experience for me, because I have wanted to write. The inspiration just didn't seem to be there. I could think of things I might write of, but the thoughts, the ideas, did not seem to coalesce and flow. I began to wonder why. Sometimes this happens because I am not taking enough time to be open to God. Sometimes I will have an idea to write of something but only realize later, when I have been set straight, that I was going in the wrong direction.

Another thought occurred to me this time though. I thought: what if it is over? What if writing this blog was something God called me to do for awhile and now it is done? Maybe there is something different I should be doing. First, let me say that I don't believe that to be the case. Nor do I necessarily see God as a micro-managing sort who has plans that dictate my every action. But the thought was an important one because I truly love writing this blog. It has brought me much growth and joy. If, for some reason, God did not want me to do it anymore, could I just let it go?

I remember that I was fairly well into my young adult years when it occurred to me that I had always assumed that what I wanted was what God wanted. It was almost as though, prior to that, I believed that if I liked, loved or enjoyed something, then certainly God wanted that too. Of course I see now that there are some major pitfalls in that perspective. As Thomas Merton (Trappist monk and writer) put it, "I was living as if God only existed to do me temporal favors..." Certainly a nice sort of God to have - one whose only goal is to make me feel good. What I want is never wrong and never has to be sacrificed. If dealt good fortunes in life, one can coast along this path for awhile, mistaking comfort and ease for harmony with God. However, when life suddenly isn't feeling good, it is almost impossible to make sense of it. How could God allow me to feel bad? Especially, to feel really, really bad.

A story is in order. I remember back when I was in elementary school, attending the neighborhood Catholic school, missionaries would sometimes visit our classrooms. They would tell us of foreign lands where they had served, living in great hardship with the native people. Although I don't remember many details, I recall mention of primitive living conditions, lots of bugs and diseases like malaria. My spiritual education blended into these accounts the stories of the martyrs, the great saints of old who risked and bravely gave everything, even their lives, for God. I was quite impressed by all of this as a young child. So impressed, in fact, that for some time, I imagined myself following that path, enduring the hardships without complaint, heroically suffering and maybe even dying... It never occurred to my childlike mind that following this path would feel anything other than good. I wasn't yet capable of conceiving of true suffering and was very far from realizing that I wasn't at all good at enduring it.

Fast-forwarding to a few years later, in my early teens, I remember a thought coming to me while sitting in church one day. I suddenly had the idea that my sufferings in life were going to more mental/emotional than physical. I don't know why that thought popped into my head but it had the feel of truth - and I certainly didn't like it. As I have grown through the 40+ years that followed that thought, I must admit that so far, this premonition has largely come true. And a major realization that has come with it is that I don't get to choose my suffering. In fact, it is the lack of choice that makes it true suffering. In my childhood fantasy, I was bravely embracing a self-serving scenario that would lead everyone to admire me and I would just slip painlessly into the glory of heaven... Real life, of course, is nothing like that.

The Buddhist perspective on suffering, as I understand it, is that most if not all of human suffering comes from our wanting reality to be something other than what it is. Whether we have suffered physical or mental ills, whether we have lost people or jobs or possessions, it is our fighting, our outrage, our rejection of what is, that makes that experience "suffering". When we learn to accept, the undesirable experience is noticed, felt and passes by, just as the more pleasant experiences also pass. Nothing, neither the wanted nor the unwanted, lasts forever. Avoiding suffering, in a sense, is accomplished by not desiring anything: I accept the pleasant and the unpleasant and it all passes, one moment unfolding into the next. (My apologies to those more knowledgeable than me; I'm sure my portrayal of Buddhist teaching in woefully inadequate.) I do believe that Buddhism has much to teach us about life and suffering. But it is not my path... for without desire, the path does not seem to lead anywhere. How can there be love, without desire?

("You will show me the path to life, abounding joy in your presence..." Psalm 16:10)

I have chosen His path. Or more correctly, He has chosen me and I am learning how to say, "Yes, I'll come. No matter what". If His path were to lead me away from this blog (that ponderous thought I started with tonight), I would still go. But there are many possible, even likely, twists and turns the Path may take that are far more terrible (and terrifying) than that. The Path may lead through wrenching pain - pain in my body, pain in my heart, pain in my mind. And I will not get to choose. I may choose to be on the Path, but what happens next is not in my hands. The wrenching pains will not be the glorious fantasies of my childhood. They may even push me to the very limits of my endurance. I may wonder why did I ever take this path... where is it leading? Is it leading anywhere?

I take this Path because it is the path to Life. Not more of this life, with all of its ups and downs and absurdities. The Path to Life - a Life infused with love and hope and beauty. The Path is not one I can walk alone. To try it alone would be to be forever lost, thinking that I have figured it out, that I know how to get there - and then, at the next twist or turn, find that I have no idea where I am going or why.

There is, however, One to lead me - to show me the path to Life. He does not show me by simply giving me a road map or a set of directions. He walks the Path with me. He is with me through all of the terrors, the twists and the turns, the sufferings that are not at all glorious but that appear to my eyes meaningless and absurd. He suffers with me, to help me get there. And it is the suffering-with-me that is Love.

No, I am not a Buddhist, because I do desire. I desire that Love - not just for me - but for you, for all of us.

Let us walk the Path together. Toward the abounding joy...

(To share some of my path, click on the image below. You will leave this blog and be able to visit my web album of photos from this spring. To view as a slideshow, click on the slideshow button in the upper left; to stop the slideshow, hit the escape button on your keyboard.) 

Abounding joy

(Something new: I have put a link to my all of my public albums in the left sidebar, under the "About me" section. This will make it easier to find previous photos that have been posted at other times in the blog's history. You are welcome to download any of my photos for your personal use.)

Dancing...

Easter continues... In my church, we formally celebrate Easter for the same number of days that we experienced Lent. So the joy goes on ... and on.

Therefore, I would like to share with you the entire "Butterfly collection", that is, the little paintings I have been making for the last few months, a few of which I shared in my Easter posting. I have created a short video with the paintings, the background music being "Butterfly Waltz" by Brian Crain (unfortunately played by me instead of him, but a gift from him nonetheless; if you like his copyrighted music, visit his website at http://www.briancrain.com/).

So let us dance our hope and joy along with the butterflies. (Even if you are not feeling hope and joy now, perhaps the butterflies will help you along...).

The Promise

A couple of years ago, I was out for a walk and decided to stop in a small neighborhood bookstore to browse a bit. I didn't have any money with me but I always enjoy the browsing. As I was leaving, I saw that there were some mugs for sale and I glanced through them, even though I didn't need any more mugs. I found one that had a proverb on it that really struck me: “Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly”. That mug, purchased on a return trip, remains in my office today.

I read somewhere recently that the notion of the Easter bunny, ironically, precedes the whole event of Easter. It seems that the rabbit was associated with spring because spring is a time of fertility, with plants beginning their yearly new growth and many animals preparing to mate. And since rabbits are so, well ... fertile, they became associated with spring fertility and therefore Easter, our spring holiday. However, at the risk of offending Easter bunny lovers, I believe that the butterfly represents what Easter is so much more deeply. Easter, while about new life, is about so much more than fertility and flowers blooming.

Easter is about new Life. It is about a process of giving up our lives as we know them, letting go of the things that are certain in order to be open to the uncertain. Like the caterpillar, we need to give up being caterpillars in order to become butterflies. However, in order to be transformed into the new life we were created for, often we find ourselves in places of darkness. We feel almost lifeless in our cocoons - for we see no light, no future, no hope. We do not know, while we are in the cocoon, whether we will ever enter the beautiful life that was promised to us when we gave up our old, familiar (caterpillar-like) selves.

However, unlike the caterpillar, if we give up our old lives, we do so not out of some nature-directed life cycle, but with a completely free choice. I choose to give up myself, to cast behind me my worm-like ways. I choose out of love, out of faith and hope that the new Life is truly possible for me. A new Life that is more beautiful than anything imaginable to me in my current state.

It is a scary thing to do. And yet it is the only thing that makes sense to do.

_ _ _

Around the beginning of this year, for no particular reason, I started painting little butterfly pictures (using Microsoft's Paint program). I have written elsewhere of my love of butterflies and it just came to me one day when I felt like playing around with color. I found myself attaching different words (and eventually different phrases or quotes) with each little painting. They started out simply, with "hope" and "peace" and "joy". But then, as so often seems to happen in my life, I entered a journey that I had never really intended to start. I kept feeling drawn to paint more. It was fun and relaxing after a long day because it absorbed my attention. I assumed that I would soon run out ideas and that would be that. However, ideas kept coming to me. And the messages became increasing spiritual, until I realized that I was on the journey toward Easter. As I have experienced when writing, sometimes the things I painted amazed me, that is, they felt like they came from somewhere (Someone) beyond me. I felt compelled to continue - until finally I realized, just this last week, that it was finished.

Allow me to share a few. Join me in the journey toward Easter - a journey that continues every day as we await our transformation.

But, "Wait," you may say, "I am still in the cocoon. I am alone and afraid. I do not know if there really is anything more that this darkness I am in."

And that is where the Promise comes in.

I am in the darkness - but I am not alone. There is Someone with me who knows the way. And he has told me he will remain with me always, however long it takes for me to be transformed into the Life that was promised to me.

Let us together work to keep the promise alive in our hearts. Listen with me to, "Promise", composed by Brian Crain. Thanks to Brian for permission to post my inadequate playing of his copyrighted music. (To learn more about his music and hear it played right, visit his website at www.briancrain.com)

       

O, the deep, deep love...

(Holy Week, part II)

Emptied of self, I am now ready for what it was I wanted all along.

There is nothing wrong with wanting love. It is indeed what we are made for. But it is easy to seek out the wrong kinds of loves - the ones that ultimately hurt or disappoint.

I believe there is an Eternal Love. A deep, deep Love...

Listen. A Gift.                         



"O, The Deep, Deep Love of Jesus" © 2000 arranged and performed by Jeffrey Bjorck 2005 Pure Piano Music, available at http://www.purepiano.com/
[Thanks to Jeff, a gifted musician and fellow psychologist, for permission to post this for you at no cost.]

Into the dark night...

(Holy Week, Part I)

I first started writing poetry and keeping a journal when I was a young teen. There was so much going on inside then - doubt, anguish, joy, longing - and no way to express it all except on paper. Writing gave me a profound comfort as I witnessed deep parts of me being born into words in the spiral notebooks before me. Sometimes what appeared were ideas that seemed to come from somewhere beyond me, surprising me when I re-read them later, wondering where such depth came from ... certainly not from me.

Imagine then my dilemma when my high school English teacher, whom I liked and admired, made writing a journal a homework assignment. Suddenly, this sacred place where my deepest thoughts and feelings came forth was homework that had to be turned in and scrutinized by a teacher! I recall considering writing two journals, the real one and then another to turn in. But how could I do that? What could I say in a fake journal?

And, interestingly, it was not so much that I didn't want my teacher to know my thoughts and feelings. She had been kind to me and shown a special interest in me by inviting me to a spiritual discussion group for young women. I think, if anything, I really did want to share with her - to reveal all of this to someone and have them understand - but I was simply too scared. I was scared, I suppose, of being known and understood just as much as I was afraid of not being understood. Probably even worse though was that I secretly wanted to be liked, loved and admired for what I wrote. I suspect that I had to keep that desire secret, even from myself, because to want that somehow contaminated the whole thing.

So I was stuck. I wrote in the journal and turned it in, all the time struggling with self-consciousness and embarrassment. I found myself writing things that I didn't like. It was me before the audience, rather than me before God. I breathed a sigh of relief when the assignment was over and I could go back to my sacred place.

I am reminded of this during this Lent, this time in my church where we prepare ourselves for Easter. It was a tradition in my church when I was a child (non-negotiable, by the way), that we give something up for Lent. Usually children of that era gave up candy or cookies - it had to be something we liked - with the idea that denying ourselves this bit of pleasure would strengthen us spiritually. In more recent years, this practice has gradually been modified, with more emphasis on doing positive spiritual things or sacrificing something and donating its monetary value to the less fortunate. In other words, we have a lot more leeway in our spiritual practice and the question, "what are you giving up for Lent?" is seldom asked anymore.

I don't usually tell anyone what I am doing or giving up for Lent. Somehow that seems to make it more for show than for inner change. However, I am going to share with you what came to me at the beginning of this season. I say it "came to me" because I didn't set out to think of it or to really think of anything. It came to me this year to give up my self for Lent. If the thought knocks the wind out of you, know that it knocked the wind out of me too. It zeroed right in on that secret - the one that makes me want to be liked, loved and admired for what I do. As much as I want to tell myself otherwise, there are vestiges of self that like to imagine that the gifts coming forth in my words or my art are my own creation. There is a self inside waiting for the audience to stand up and applaud. A self that wants to be god, rather than be His vessel.

Of course, I have no idea how to give up my self or even what that means. I have to hope that God is doing in me what needs to be done, as I watch myself tripping and floundering through the forty days, seeming to get worse rather than better... One thing has become apparent: the Gifts that have come to or through me were not meant just for me. In fact, they have little to do with me. As the words in my early journals suggested, the Gifts came from somewhere beyond me. I can only write them, say them, photograph them, paint them or play their melodies.

There is a Gift that came to me 25 years ago, in Lent of 1986. It came during a time of great suffering for me and the writing of it was Gift for me, like balm on painful wounds. In the last 25 years, I have (until now) shared it with only one person, and then with fear and trembling. I have often wanted to share it - truly thought it should be shared but didn't know how. Now it is time to share it, my self set aside so as to not get in the way of the One who gives.

It is a simple thing actually and it may mean nothing to anyone but me. But I share it anyway.

In the tradition of my church, there is a prayful reflection known as the Stations of the Cross. Sometimes it has been called The Way of the Cross (or Via Dolorosa, the Way of Sorrows). Its history dates back centuries, taking many forms, from actual pilgimages to Jerusalem, to painted images of Jesus at different points on his way to crucifixion, to prayers, traditional and otherwise, commemorating these steps or stations. More recent tradition marks fourteen steps along Jesus' way. In the audio that follows, I read for you the "stations" as they came to me in Lent of 1986. They are in a poetic form, different from traditional versions that some readers may know. One further note (since I know my readers come from varied backgrounds): my reference to the "dark night" is an allusion  to "the dark night of the soul", an experience of spiritual darkness or desolation written about by St. John of the Cross and others.

As always, feel completely free to listen, not listen or stop listening - there are many Gifts given and if this is not your time for this one, there will be others - always more and more Gifts being given...