Please add the thoughts, prayers, poems, words ... that inspire you.
“In the measure that you desire God, you will find God.”
St. Teresa of Avila
Friday, May 2, 2008
Thoughts...
"Each person, no matter how old,
has important work to do.
This good work not only accomplishes
something needed in the world,
but completes something in us.
The work we do in the world,
when it is true vocation,
always corresponds in some mysterious
way to the work that goes on in us."
-Elizabeth O'Connor
"Soul is the ability to stretch ourselves--
our language, our responses, our reactions--
one notch higher than
our present circumstance seems to require."
- The Carmelites of Indianapolis
has important work to do.
This good work not only accomplishes
something needed in the world,
but completes something in us.
The work we do in the world,
when it is true vocation,
always corresponds in some mysterious
way to the work that goes on in us."
-Elizabeth O'Connor
"Soul is the ability to stretch ourselves--
our language, our responses, our reactions--
one notch higher than
our present circumstance seems to require."
- The Carmelites of Indianapolis
The True Carmelites
Please go to
http://www.praythenews.com/
You will be glad to know the Carmelites of Indianapolis and by the way it is possible to become a secular Carmelite. This is explained on their website where you can also light a votive candle and ask for the sisters' prayers.
http://www.praythenews.com/
You will be glad to know the Carmelites of Indianapolis and by the way it is possible to become a secular Carmelite. This is explained on their website where you can also light a votive candle and ask for the sisters' prayers.
The Sisters of Saint Clare, Les Clarisses
will soon have a community at La Chapelle de Ronchamp designed by Le Corbusier.
The photo (see below in "Master Let Me Walk with Thee") is one my husband took when on his spiritual journey in his belovèd France and Switzerland recently.
He did not know that my preferred (or one of them!) saint is Saint Clare.
You can find the Sisters of Saint Clare at Le Monastère Sainte Claire in Besançon (clarisses-besancon@wanadoo.fr) and at the Franciscan Sisters of Little Falls at Clare's Well, a retreat center, in Annandale, Minnesota, one of my favorite places in the world, a place where my heart healed http://www.fslf.org/clareswell.html.
Clare. Clair. Clairvoyance.
For those of you now experiencing what I call a "soul's wilderness of grief and pain and all strife," know that the way does and will become clearer.
It is so. Thanks be to God.
Soli Deo Gloria.
Peace.
The photo (see below in "Master Let Me Walk with Thee") is one my husband took when on his spiritual journey in his belovèd France and Switzerland recently.
He did not know that my preferred (or one of them!) saint is Saint Clare.
You can find the Sisters of Saint Clare at Le Monastère Sainte Claire in Besançon (clarisses-besancon@wanadoo.fr) and at the Franciscan Sisters of Little Falls at Clare's Well, a retreat center, in Annandale, Minnesota, one of my favorite places in the world, a place where my heart healed http://www.fslf.org/clareswell.html.
Clare. Clair. Clairvoyance.
For those of you now experiencing what I call a "soul's wilderness of grief and pain and all strife," know that the way does and will become clearer.
It is so. Thanks be to God.
Soli Deo Gloria.
Peace.
Celtic Prayers
From
The Celtic Way of Prayer
Esther de Waal
Marked by Claudia with a Salvador Dali bookmark from her 2003
trip to France to this:
"Making the bed provided them with the opportunity to reflect on God's many blessings.....
Marked by Claudia with a Salvador Dali bookmark from her 2003
trip to France to this:
"Making the bed provided them with the opportunity to reflect on God's many blessings.....
'I make this bed
In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit
In the name of the night we were conceived,
In the name of the night we were born,
In the name of the day we were baptised,
In the name of each night, each day,
Each angel that is in the heavens.'"
"A Celtic Prayer"
The Cross
The Cross
In the Name of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
Amen.
THE INVITATORY
O God make speed to save me (us),
O Lord make haste to help me (us),
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.
As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever.
Amen.
THE CRUCIFORMS
Be the eye of God dwelling with me.
The foot of Christ in guidance with me,
The shower of the Spirit pouring on me,
Richly and generously.
THE WEEKS
[Pray each phrase on a separate bead.]
I bow before the Father who made me,
I bow before the Son who saved me,
I bow before the Spirit who guides me,
In love and adoration.
I praise the Name of the One on high.
I bow before thee Sacred Three,The ever One, the Trinity.
This prayer was created by Sister Brigit-Carol, S.D.
You can visit the website of the Solitaries of DeKoven,a community of Episcopal Hermits,
For those who grieve and whose hearts are heavy today
A Litany of Farewell (Episcopal Church)
Good Christian people, I bid you now pray for the saving presence of our living Lord
In this world:
He is risen.
In this Church:
He is risen.
In the hearts of all faithful people:
He is risen.
But especially I bid you pray and give thanks for
those I love who are now leaving [me and whom I must leave] our community.
For expectations not met:
Lord, have mercy.
For grievances not resolved:
Lord, have mercy.
For wounds not healed:
Lord, have mercy.
For anger not dissolved:
Lord, have mercy.
For gifts not given:
Lord, have mercy.
For promises not kept:
Lord, have mercy.
And now for this portion of your lifelong pilgrimage which you have made with these people in this place:
Thanks be to God.
Good Christian people, I bid you now pray for the saving presence of our living Lord
In this world:
He is risen.
In this Church:
He is risen.
In the hearts of all faithful people:
He is risen.
But especially I bid you pray and give thanks for
those I love who are now leaving [me and whom I must leave] our community.
For expectations not met:
Lord, have mercy.
For grievances not resolved:
Lord, have mercy.
For wounds not healed:
Lord, have mercy.
For anger not dissolved:
Lord, have mercy.
For gifts not given:
Lord, have mercy.
For promises not kept:
Lord, have mercy.
And now for this portion of your lifelong pilgrimage which you have made with these people in this place:
Thanks be to God.
For friendships made, celebrations enjoyed, and for moments of nurture:
Thanks be to God.
For wounds healed, expectations met, gifts given, promises kept:
Thanks be to God.
For bread and wine, body and blood:
Thanks be to God.
For all the thoughtful, little unheralded things done to make the day better for someone:
Thanks be to God.
And so, to establish a home in another place with other members of the family of Christ:
Go in peace.
To continue the journey with new friends and new adventures, new gifts to give and to receive:
Go in peace.
To offer wisdom and experience, competence and compassion, in the ministry to which you are called:
Go in peace.
With whatever fears, whatever sadness, whatever excitement, whatever dreams may be yours:
Go in peace.
With our faith in you, our hope for you, and our love of you:
Go in peace.
Your petitions and thanksgivings are invited at this time.
The Lord watch between us while we are absent one from the other—
in the Name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.
Go in peace.
Amen.
Care thou for mine whom I must leave behind;
Care that they know who 'tis for them takes care;
Thy present patience help them still to bear;
Lord, keep them clearing, growing, heart and mind;
In one thy oneness us together bind;
Last earthly prayer with which to thee I cling--
Grant that, save love, we owe not anything.
From Diary of an Old Soul, George MacDonald, Entry for January 18
I am standing upon the seashore.
From Diary of an Old Soul, George MacDonald, Entry for January 18
I am standing upon the seashore.
A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength and I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says, ‘There! She's gone!' ‘Gone where?' ‘Gone from my sight, that's all'. She is just as large in mast and spar and hull as ever she was when she left my side; just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of her destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at that moment when someone at my side says, ‘There! She's gone!' there are other eyes watching her coming and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, ‘Here she comes!' …..
Attributed to Victor Hugo
Do not stand at my grave and weep
Attributed to Victor Hugo
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
Attributed to Mary Fry
A Gift from a Teacher, a True Preceptor -- 31 years later
The Gift to Be Simple, the Gift to be Free
Sarah H. Youngblood
Professor of English
Mount Holyoke College
Baccalaureate Address
May 29, 1977
Mount Holyoke College
If I could have for you three wishes, I would wish for you the three gifts of the Shaker song: “the gift to be simple, the gift to be free, the gift to come down to where you ought to be.” Each is a gift of purified consciousness: of lucidity. Each describes a way of being, and a way of perceiving, that is cleaned of the trivial, released from the constraints of vanity and will. They are all, perhaps, forms of grace: ideals of being that cannot be continuously realized in the fret and clutter, the general wear-and-tear of our daily human lives; but none the less real for that; none the less to be wished for; none the less possible.
The last of them, “the gift to come down to where we ought to be” defines a grace of self-perception, and of self-conduct, that is especially difficult for persons of privilege – as you, and I, and all of us in this place, are privileged persons – and, for that reason, it is a gift the more especially to be wished for.
The privilege that we share is a larger access to culture than is possible to persons without education. And I do not mean by culture, having the Bachelor of Arts degree (even when inscribed in Latin); or going to the theater every week; or being able to quote Plato to a prospective employer. I mean by culture something that does indeed include these things; but is much larger and of much greater age: “culture” in the sense that anthropologists use the term. All of the artifacts that the human race has made, from the fluted-stone spearheads of prehistoric tribes to the pyramid of Amen-Hotep to the space vehicles on the moon. All of the texts, sacred and secular, from the Upanishads to the I Ching to Dante to the White House transcripts. And all of the concepts, institutions, theologies, intellectual constructs of human history. Culture in this largest sense is the inheritance of the educated. It is a mixed legacy: immense, chaotic, glorious, terrifying. Fortunately, no single mind can encompass it, or even a fragment of it. But by education, each generation tries to possess as much of it as possible. Not only out of practical need – so that each generation does not have to invent the wheel again, nor discover radium again – but also, out of a more deeply-rooted emotional need, we strive to understand the culture we inherit.
For culture is the home the human race has made for itself, the many mansions we have built to house the troubled, divided consciousness we carry – a consciousness that is no longer at home among the other mortal animals with whom we share the earth; a consciousness that cannot imagine a god who is not, unlike us, beyond death.
The notion of the human being as scaled on a ladder, or an ascending chain, midway between the animals beneath us and supernatural beings above us, is an ancient one. It, too, is part of our cultural inheritance, a persistent metaphor for man’s urgent need to aspire beyond the constrictions of the physical, mortal self. All of our metaphors for aspiration and self-transcendence are vertical: variations upon the same figure: per aspera ad astra. Whether for the stars, or the moon, or the apple in Eden, human history enacts again and again the same symbolic gesture. The dynamic force of culture, and the dynamic force of our individual lives, for we are creatures of culture, is a belief in the necessity of ascending. The ziggurats of ancient Babylonia, the spires of Notre Dame, the launching towers at Cape Canaveral, point in the same direction: up there.
And yet the Shaker song reminds us – quietly, purely – that it is a gift to come down: to come down to where we ought to be. For whatever “the rights, privileges, and responsibilities” that are vested in us, as signs of our acculturation, we are creatures of the earth, still. To remember this, to accept it, is not to debase the self but to honor it in its essential being. The earth is our first home; life is our first gift. That you should remember this – simply, freely – is what I wish for you: here, now always.
§§§§§
Nota Bene
Another teacher who knew Miss Youngblood well, both as professor and colleague, just sent this moving address to me. Oh, that I might have known Sarah Youngblood but I did not take a course with her although I feel now -- having read her words -- that her spirit was transmitted to me by her student and friend, my first professor at Mount Holyoke College and a person who has inspired me (in the true sense of the word) whom I am now honored to call "friend."
Sarah Youngblood "passed the Veil" in 1980. May perpetual light shine upon her.
In her honor, I ask you to listen to:
"Tis a Gift to be Simple"
http://www.oremus.org/hymnal/t/t717.html
and
"In Paradisium" from the Duruflé Requiem
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJ0wunX3C2o
Education comes from the Latin "educare." To lead out.
In English the word "education" can be transformed into:
Action due.
That is what I learned at Mount Holyoke College. It took me a long time to understand.
But I did. I did!
Soli Deo Gloria.
Sarah H. Youngblood
Professor of English
Mount Holyoke College
Baccalaureate Address
May 29, 1977
Mount Holyoke College
If I could have for you three wishes, I would wish for you the three gifts of the Shaker song: “the gift to be simple, the gift to be free, the gift to come down to where you ought to be.” Each is a gift of purified consciousness: of lucidity. Each describes a way of being, and a way of perceiving, that is cleaned of the trivial, released from the constraints of vanity and will. They are all, perhaps, forms of grace: ideals of being that cannot be continuously realized in the fret and clutter, the general wear-and-tear of our daily human lives; but none the less real for that; none the less to be wished for; none the less possible.
The last of them, “the gift to come down to where we ought to be” defines a grace of self-perception, and of self-conduct, that is especially difficult for persons of privilege – as you, and I, and all of us in this place, are privileged persons – and, for that reason, it is a gift the more especially to be wished for.
The privilege that we share is a larger access to culture than is possible to persons without education. And I do not mean by culture, having the Bachelor of Arts degree (even when inscribed in Latin); or going to the theater every week; or being able to quote Plato to a prospective employer. I mean by culture something that does indeed include these things; but is much larger and of much greater age: “culture” in the sense that anthropologists use the term. All of the artifacts that the human race has made, from the fluted-stone spearheads of prehistoric tribes to the pyramid of Amen-Hotep to the space vehicles on the moon. All of the texts, sacred and secular, from the Upanishads to the I Ching to Dante to the White House transcripts. And all of the concepts, institutions, theologies, intellectual constructs of human history. Culture in this largest sense is the inheritance of the educated. It is a mixed legacy: immense, chaotic, glorious, terrifying. Fortunately, no single mind can encompass it, or even a fragment of it. But by education, each generation tries to possess as much of it as possible. Not only out of practical need – so that each generation does not have to invent the wheel again, nor discover radium again – but also, out of a more deeply-rooted emotional need, we strive to understand the culture we inherit.
For culture is the home the human race has made for itself, the many mansions we have built to house the troubled, divided consciousness we carry – a consciousness that is no longer at home among the other mortal animals with whom we share the earth; a consciousness that cannot imagine a god who is not, unlike us, beyond death.
The notion of the human being as scaled on a ladder, or an ascending chain, midway between the animals beneath us and supernatural beings above us, is an ancient one. It, too, is part of our cultural inheritance, a persistent metaphor for man’s urgent need to aspire beyond the constrictions of the physical, mortal self. All of our metaphors for aspiration and self-transcendence are vertical: variations upon the same figure: per aspera ad astra. Whether for the stars, or the moon, or the apple in Eden, human history enacts again and again the same symbolic gesture. The dynamic force of culture, and the dynamic force of our individual lives, for we are creatures of culture, is a belief in the necessity of ascending. The ziggurats of ancient Babylonia, the spires of Notre Dame, the launching towers at Cape Canaveral, point in the same direction: up there.
And yet the Shaker song reminds us – quietly, purely – that it is a gift to come down: to come down to where we ought to be. For whatever “the rights, privileges, and responsibilities” that are vested in us, as signs of our acculturation, we are creatures of the earth, still. To remember this, to accept it, is not to debase the self but to honor it in its essential being. The earth is our first home; life is our first gift. That you should remember this – simply, freely – is what I wish for you: here, now always.
§§§§§
Nota Bene
Another teacher who knew Miss Youngblood well, both as professor and colleague, just sent this moving address to me. Oh, that I might have known Sarah Youngblood but I did not take a course with her although I feel now -- having read her words -- that her spirit was transmitted to me by her student and friend, my first professor at Mount Holyoke College and a person who has inspired me (in the true sense of the word) whom I am now honored to call "friend."
Sarah Youngblood "passed the Veil" in 1980. May perpetual light shine upon her.
In her honor, I ask you to listen to:
"Tis a Gift to be Simple"
http://www.oremus.org/hymnal/t/t717.html
and
"In Paradisium" from the Duruflé Requiem
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJ0wunX3C2o
Education comes from the Latin "educare." To lead out.
In English the word "education" can be transformed into:
Action due.
That is what I learned at Mount Holyoke College. It took me a long time to understand.
But I did. I did!
Soli Deo Gloria.
I Meant to Do My Work Today
I Meant to Do My Work Today
Richard Le Galienne
I meant to do my work today --
But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling me.
And the wind went sighing over the land
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand --
So what could I do but laugh and go?
Potato Soup
Potato soup, scratch buttermilk biscuits….
Peel; wash; chop; roll rivoli between floured palms; pinch off.
Simmering soup.
Mix flour, butter, buttermilk; knead; roll; cut; dip.
Biscuits baking.
***
Here, suddenly in this country kitchen
A world away,
My grandmother.
Her country kitchen,
Galesburg, Illinois.
She prepares supper—
Kneading the rivoli and the biscuits, needing hearty food for her four girls.
(Nickels and dimes scarce on the farm.
The Great Depression about to occur but already here on this farm.)
Suddenly now my mother, joining us in my country kitchen.
She who
In this simple meal
Passed down her mother’s Love.
Our family meal—
A hearty meal for the hungry heart and soul.
Made now
In a country kitchen
In a country far away
Where I carry on and with me
The loving
Gestures of the generations.
18 March 2008
Peel; wash; chop; roll rivoli between floured palms; pinch off.
Simmering soup.
Mix flour, butter, buttermilk; knead; roll; cut; dip.
Biscuits baking.
***
Here, suddenly in this country kitchen
A world away,
My grandmother.
Her country kitchen,
Galesburg, Illinois.
She prepares supper—
Kneading the rivoli and the biscuits, needing hearty food for her four girls.
(Nickels and dimes scarce on the farm.
The Great Depression about to occur but already here on this farm.)
Suddenly now my mother, joining us in my country kitchen.
She who
In this simple meal
Passed down her mother’s Love.
Our family meal—
A hearty meal for the hungry heart and soul.
Made now
In a country kitchen
In a country far away
Where I carry on and with me
The loving
Gestures of the generations.
18 March 2008
Ironing
Ironing out the creases in
The family
Laundry now newly lavender-scented, starched.
From generation to generation belovèd women pass on their legacy --
A sacred act.
A sacred trust.
17 March 2008
The family
Laundry now newly lavender-scented, starched.
From generation to generation belovèd women pass on their legacy --
A sacred act.
A sacred trust.
17 March 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Shema
SOUL SCULPTING 2008
From an email written on 14 August 2008
Now for the latest news from LA P.
***
Last night (August 13, 2008) at around 9 30 the doorbell rang. We had not even had dinner yet. At first we were not going to entertain these guests as the two rooms were not ready because I was going to do them today for the family of five that is arriving. BUT. I had a feeling. III, the informed Irish intuition, at work....
So we welcomed these particular angels.
This morning Odile informed me that they are from Paris but now live in Israel where...................she teaches French. Her "dream" has been to create a "cours intensif" in France for her students and, my dear Elissa (Gelfand who is a professor of French at Mount Holyoke and who directed my undergraduate and one and only thesis!), it looks like she has found the perfect place to do so. Yes, indeed. La Prévenchère (English) Language Academy cum B & B.
In a note written to Andrea Sununu, who is now a professor of English at DePauw but who was my first professor at Mount Holyoke:
Andrea-- One of my dearest friends is an orthodox rabbi who has always called me "Reverend Mother." No kidding. He is from London and his parents (his father was also a rabbi) sent him to Catholic grade school so that he would learn about "the other side." Barry is 69 years of age and has lived in MN for many, many years. We met in 1993 at the largest Lutheran church in the US -- Mount Olivet -- where I had organized a weekend-long conference on mental illness and where he spoke on the Sunday morning.Read on concerning our recent angels from Israel.C.OH. PS. My parents' bequest was used at Bradley Hills Presbyterian Church in Bethesda, MD to create art for the common area. The common area because for more than 30 years BHPC has shared its sanctuary and space with the Bethesda Jewish Congregation. Yes. Really. Bethesda.AND. The work of art commissioned with the bequest (equal to the amount my parents paid for our home...did I say "Beth"??????????????) is titled, "The Light of One God."
And as we know. "As above, so below."
The following is a note I wrote to Rabbi Barry Woolf on 15 August 2008, the Feast of Mary—Assumption:
My dear,When I make beds and clean toilets, I pray.Here is the prayer I usually say when I make beds: http://quieteyevirtualconvent.blogspot.com/2008/05/celtic-prayer.html
From
The Celtic Way of Prayer
Esther de WaalMarked by Claudia with a Salvador Dali bookmark from her 2003trip to France to this:"Making the bed provided them with the opportunity to reflect on God's many blessings.....
'I make this bed
In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit
In the name of the night we were conceived,
In the name of the night we were born,
In the name of the day we were baptised,
In the name of each night, each day,
Each angel that is in the heavens.'"
HOWEVER.The other night after telling my newest angels about the "Grand Pardons" today in Brittany -- it is the Feast of the Assumption as you know -- and their having replied, "Nous sommes juifs" and my having then told them about you, my dear "rabbin" educated in Catholic schools --when I made their beds I said the Shema.***
I told Odile that this morning and she was very moved. She said, "How do you know about this?" And I forgot to tell her about "The Light of One God" at Bradley Hills and Bethesda Jewish Congregation!
***
17 August 2008
Andrea Sununu asked me the other day how I prefer to be called: Christie or Christiana.
Here is my reply.
Dear Andrea,Funny you should ask. I have had a lovely time today thinking about this while making beds, etc.There is of course a story to tell. Or several. Read: AND several.
My full given name is Margaret Christiana. My mother's name was Mary Margaret. My sister's name is Mary Beth and we call her Beth. I understood after my mother died that she had given her name to her two daughters. Mary Beth and Margaret Christiana.
My paternal grandmother's name was Christiana. Her family and friends called her "Yonnie." Second generation German in Pittsburgh. In the late 19th century, she married Edward Adams, second generation Irish. (That is a story for another day because as you know, I am sure, marriages then not only between different ethnicities but ! Roman Catholics and Protestants were verboten....especially in cities like Pittsburgh.) My grandmother raised all eight of her children as Catholics. Their third child, whose name was Margaret Christiana, died when she was three years of age (as we say in the Midwest). Bless her heart, my grandmother always thought my mother had named me after her daughter when in fact.... My mother, to coin Elissa's phrase, never disabused her mother-in-law of this notion. I am so fortunate that none of my father's siblings chose this beautiful name for their children. My father was the eighth and last child and I am the last grandchild of Edward and Christiana Adams.******
My mother, as you know from "Soul Sculpting", loved words. Her wish was that I be called "Christie." Never Christiana when I was a child. "Christie." I think you understand why. Please remember that my father was then the Dean of the School of Pharmacy at Duquesne University and we were surrounded by the Holy Ghost Fathers and all of the nuns who were studying pharmacy with "Iron John." Christie.
Sidebar story: One evening my parents were entertaining...angels?...several Holy Ghost priests at our home in Pgh. Suddenly a three-year old Christie shouted and I do mean shouted, "JESUS CHRIST." My parents were absolutely mortified; in our home the Lord's name was never taken in vain, or rarely! And only by "Iron John" when he was in a fix! "GD IT" was what he said then. Never, never "JC."That being said he never said even the "GD" in the hearing of this little child. Not then.But wait, Andrea! There is more. As my mother told the story, the little Christie immediately dropped to her knees, raised her hands in prayer and said, "My Lord."This, my dear Andrea, is yet another true story. Really.End of sidebar.
My family called me "Chris." Even my mother very often called me "Chris." Three people in my life called me "Chrissie." Actually five. My father, Monique Legrand, her sister Suzanne, her best friend Elisabeth (also deceased ... just five years after Monique, from a brain aneurysm; I knew Elisabeth very well also and she was so young, so young when she died), and my friend Bob, who died in November 2004.***
When my father introduced me to people, he always introduced me as "my daughter, Chris." When my mother introduced me, it was always "my daughter, Christie."At school (grammar, junior high, senior high and MHC) and then when I moved here the first time, I was and still am actually "Christie."Another true funny story. In school of course when Miss Marjorie Baldwin, my first grade teacher, called the roll at Storrs Grammar School, she called, "Margaret Adams." I naturally did not reply "Here" because I am Christie Adams!***
When I moved back to the US in 1988 and in the circumstances you know, I asked very close friends in NYC to call me "Chris." I was so lonely and "Chris" reminded me of my family.When I moved to Minnesota I was even lonelier! (Thank God for Dorothy Day and _The Long Loneliness_ and for HJM Nouwen and for _Markings_....) I therefore introduced myself everywhere I went (Mary's lamb of sorts) as "Chris." That is what everyone from those years calls me.***Another sidebar. When I was at MHC and living on the German floor of Ham so that I could get a single but did not! one of my dearest friends, Carol Fitton, (and yes, there is another story there as well that I will tell you) used to call me Christiana. (She pronounced if for fun as CHREESTIANA". Her father was a Presbyterian minister.)She loved my name. And now there is Christie II as Carol named her daughter after me. Christiana Fitton Moyle.Christie II.End of this sidebar***
Fast forward now to 13 January 2005. "Chris," said Patti. "Meet Chris." Unbelievably many, many of his friends from MN call Christian "Chris." He is just not a "Chris"! Not, in my opinion, a "Chris." He is a Christian, Martin, Raphaël (mmmhmmm......). I have always called him Christian and he has always called me "Christiana." I am so glad as I love our name.
Final sidebar: I, too, love Montaigne's essay on friendship that Christian selected as his secular reading for our marriage. What then should I choose? I just could not find what I wanted; I could not find the perfect secular passage. No problem for the Biblical passages!I looked through all of my books of poetry (including one from a certain class in 1974--no kidding!) and essays or nearly all of them. And then I was inspired (yes, truly) to go to a book my mother had given me a very long time ago: _The Four Loves_ . Where I immediately came upon the reference to _The Pilgrim's Progress_ and another Christian and Christiana. (I cannot remember if I have sent you the second attachment. If so, here it is again. If not...well...read on!)End of last sidebar for this evening!
Here, finally, is the answer to your question. Call me "Christie" as that is how you think of me. I call myself "Christie" too! And my "Christie II" is a very special girl. Attached is a poem she wrote when she was eleven years of age. She is now twelve.I sent her the poems of Hilda Conkling, whose mother as you most likely know, was an English professor (or assistant prof) at Smith.
With my love,
Christie I
From the evening of 16 August 2008:
My dears,
It is late and I am tired. So many angels! One who is here for two weeks a professor of French, Latin and Education ... And there is so much more. But as I said it is late and I am tired. Those will be stories for another day.***A few minutes ago, I went to bed but wanted to read the Missal to relax and to be "inspired." (In both the literal and figurative senses!) Before going to sleep I wanted to "breathe deeply of God's peace", as Susan Andrews (our pastor for many years and through the best of times and the worst of times...) told me to do when I had a sinus operation in 1990.(Because in addition to entertaining all of these angels, my dear cat, Mistinguett, had a stroke three weeks ago and then last Monday fluid on the lungs. I have been hand-feeding her for three weeks. Equivalent of Ensure, vanilla milkshakes with egg now, chicken, tuna, water, ginger vaporizer inhalations and so forth and so on. Und so weite, und so weite... Well. Basically everything I did for my beloved parents and Aunt Lorraine. Including singing. My cats, by the way, always come to me when I sing...you simply will not believe this but ‘tis true, 'tis true..."Jesus Loves Me." Many people can now attest!Dear Mistinguett. Her illness has provoked all of the tears I never shed for my beloved ones. The human ones that is. I have cried a river and more tears in the past three weeks than in my entire life. Truly. This is a good thing for me. A very good thing.)***Back to a few moments ago.The Missal from Duquesne University was edited by one of my father's favorite Holy Ghost Fathers. It of course belonged to my dad and I have read it, shall we just say religiously, for many years and I always look to it for solace. Just now I looked at today's feast. Yesterday of course was the Assumption of the BVM, if you happen to be Catholic! Then I looked forward to August 22, the anniversary date of my father's passing.Lo and behold.August 22 is yes. That is correct. The Feast of the Immaculate Heart of Mary.****For those of you who did not know them. My mother's name was Mary. My father's name was John.Peace and blessings.C.
***
Finally, we entertained English angels the other day. Here follows the email I received from Susie Bromwich last night. Susie is also a development director for grammar schools in England. Her nine-year-old daughter’s name is Lucie.
Dear Christiana
We had such a great time staying with you at La P, thank you so much.
I have looked out my copy of 'Labyrinth' and will send, it is a great story, not too highbrow, but a 'must' for all Grail followers, and set in Languedoc.
How is your little cat? Lucie said she thought she might be a a Russian Blue - I wonder... when I was little we had a Russian Blue called...'Magnificat'!!! (my brother was a chorister and we are all musicians, and also Russian Blues orginate from the town of Archangel in Russia, so that's how the name came about. Anyway, we hope your little cat is ok.
Lucie loves Eloise and promises me she will finish it tomorrow and then I can read! I read all of 'Thirst' last evening and will read some again, I like her sea, sky and earth. I did enjoy your reference to angels: - travellers (of course!) - in our home we have always lit a candle in our window every evening for travellers, but I hadn’t made the connection to angels till you forwarded the
e mail. Glad that more angels are calling in.
We had a rough crossing, everyone sick except us, we got home at 3am!
Thanks for finding my nightdress, sorry to have put you to trouble, please give best wishes to Christian, lots of hugs to your both from us
Susie and Lucie
From an email written on 14 August 2008
Now for the latest news from LA P.
***
Last night (August 13, 2008) at around 9 30 the doorbell rang. We had not even had dinner yet. At first we were not going to entertain these guests as the two rooms were not ready because I was going to do them today for the family of five that is arriving. BUT. I had a feeling. III, the informed Irish intuition, at work....
So we welcomed these particular angels.
This morning Odile informed me that they are from Paris but now live in Israel where...................she teaches French. Her "dream" has been to create a "cours intensif" in France for her students and, my dear Elissa (Gelfand who is a professor of French at Mount Holyoke and who directed my undergraduate and one and only thesis!), it looks like she has found the perfect place to do so. Yes, indeed. La Prévenchère (English) Language Academy cum B & B.
In a note written to Andrea Sununu, who is now a professor of English at DePauw but who was my first professor at Mount Holyoke:
Andrea-- One of my dearest friends is an orthodox rabbi who has always called me "Reverend Mother." No kidding. He is from London and his parents (his father was also a rabbi) sent him to Catholic grade school so that he would learn about "the other side." Barry is 69 years of age and has lived in MN for many, many years. We met in 1993 at the largest Lutheran church in the US -- Mount Olivet -- where I had organized a weekend-long conference on mental illness and where he spoke on the Sunday morning.Read on concerning our recent angels from Israel.C.OH. PS. My parents' bequest was used at Bradley Hills Presbyterian Church in Bethesda, MD to create art for the common area. The common area because for more than 30 years BHPC has shared its sanctuary and space with the Bethesda Jewish Congregation. Yes. Really. Bethesda.AND. The work of art commissioned with the bequest (equal to the amount my parents paid for our home...did I say "Beth"??????????????) is titled, "The Light of One God."
And as we know. "As above, so below."
The following is a note I wrote to Rabbi Barry Woolf on 15 August 2008, the Feast of Mary—Assumption:
My dear,When I make beds and clean toilets, I pray.Here is the prayer I usually say when I make beds: http://quieteyevirtualconvent.blogspot.com/2008/05/celtic-prayer.html
From
The Celtic Way of Prayer
Esther de WaalMarked by Claudia with a Salvador Dali bookmark from her 2003trip to France to this:"Making the bed provided them with the opportunity to reflect on God's many blessings.....
'I make this bed
In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit
In the name of the night we were conceived,
In the name of the night we were born,
In the name of the day we were baptised,
In the name of each night, each day,
Each angel that is in the heavens.'"
HOWEVER.The other night after telling my newest angels about the "Grand Pardons" today in Brittany -- it is the Feast of the Assumption as you know -- and their having replied, "Nous sommes juifs" and my having then told them about you, my dear "rabbin" educated in Catholic schools --when I made their beds I said the Shema.***
I told Odile that this morning and she was very moved. She said, "How do you know about this?" And I forgot to tell her about "The Light of One God" at Bradley Hills and Bethesda Jewish Congregation!
***
17 August 2008
Andrea Sununu asked me the other day how I prefer to be called: Christie or Christiana.
Here is my reply.
Dear Andrea,Funny you should ask. I have had a lovely time today thinking about this while making beds, etc.There is of course a story to tell. Or several. Read: AND several.
My full given name is Margaret Christiana. My mother's name was Mary Margaret. My sister's name is Mary Beth and we call her Beth. I understood after my mother died that she had given her name to her two daughters. Mary Beth and Margaret Christiana.
My paternal grandmother's name was Christiana. Her family and friends called her "Yonnie." Second generation German in Pittsburgh. In the late 19th century, she married Edward Adams, second generation Irish. (That is a story for another day because as you know, I am sure, marriages then not only between different ethnicities but ! Roman Catholics and Protestants were verboten....especially in cities like Pittsburgh.) My grandmother raised all eight of her children as Catholics. Their third child, whose name was Margaret Christiana, died when she was three years of age (as we say in the Midwest). Bless her heart, my grandmother always thought my mother had named me after her daughter when in fact.... My mother, to coin Elissa's phrase, never disabused her mother-in-law of this notion. I am so fortunate that none of my father's siblings chose this beautiful name for their children. My father was the eighth and last child and I am the last grandchild of Edward and Christiana Adams.******
My mother, as you know from "Soul Sculpting", loved words. Her wish was that I be called "Christie." Never Christiana when I was a child. "Christie." I think you understand why. Please remember that my father was then the Dean of the School of Pharmacy at Duquesne University and we were surrounded by the Holy Ghost Fathers and all of the nuns who were studying pharmacy with "Iron John." Christie.
Sidebar story: One evening my parents were entertaining...angels?...several Holy Ghost priests at our home in Pgh. Suddenly a three-year old Christie shouted and I do mean shouted, "JESUS CHRIST." My parents were absolutely mortified; in our home the Lord's name was never taken in vain, or rarely! And only by "Iron John" when he was in a fix! "GD IT" was what he said then. Never, never "JC."That being said he never said even the "GD" in the hearing of this little child. Not then.But wait, Andrea! There is more. As my mother told the story, the little Christie immediately dropped to her knees, raised her hands in prayer and said, "My Lord."This, my dear Andrea, is yet another true story. Really.End of sidebar.
My family called me "Chris." Even my mother very often called me "Chris." Three people in my life called me "Chrissie." Actually five. My father, Monique Legrand, her sister Suzanne, her best friend Elisabeth (also deceased ... just five years after Monique, from a brain aneurysm; I knew Elisabeth very well also and she was so young, so young when she died), and my friend Bob, who died in November 2004.***
When my father introduced me to people, he always introduced me as "my daughter, Chris." When my mother introduced me, it was always "my daughter, Christie."At school (grammar, junior high, senior high and MHC) and then when I moved here the first time, I was and still am actually "Christie."Another true funny story. In school of course when Miss Marjorie Baldwin, my first grade teacher, called the roll at Storrs Grammar School, she called, "Margaret Adams." I naturally did not reply "Here" because I am Christie Adams!***
When I moved back to the US in 1988 and in the circumstances you know, I asked very close friends in NYC to call me "Chris." I was so lonely and "Chris" reminded me of my family.When I moved to Minnesota I was even lonelier! (Thank God for Dorothy Day and _The Long Loneliness_ and for HJM Nouwen and for _Markings_....) I therefore introduced myself everywhere I went (Mary's lamb of sorts) as "Chris." That is what everyone from those years calls me.***Another sidebar. When I was at MHC and living on the German floor of Ham so that I could get a single but did not! one of my dearest friends, Carol Fitton, (and yes, there is another story there as well that I will tell you) used to call me Christiana. (She pronounced if for fun as CHREESTIANA". Her father was a Presbyterian minister.)She loved my name. And now there is Christie II as Carol named her daughter after me. Christiana Fitton Moyle.Christie II.End of this sidebar***
Fast forward now to 13 January 2005. "Chris," said Patti. "Meet Chris." Unbelievably many, many of his friends from MN call Christian "Chris." He is just not a "Chris"! Not, in my opinion, a "Chris." He is a Christian, Martin, Raphaël (mmmhmmm......). I have always called him Christian and he has always called me "Christiana." I am so glad as I love our name.
Final sidebar: I, too, love Montaigne's essay on friendship that Christian selected as his secular reading for our marriage. What then should I choose? I just could not find what I wanted; I could not find the perfect secular passage. No problem for the Biblical passages!I looked through all of my books of poetry (including one from a certain class in 1974--no kidding!) and essays or nearly all of them. And then I was inspired (yes, truly) to go to a book my mother had given me a very long time ago: _The Four Loves_ . Where I immediately came upon the reference to _The Pilgrim's Progress_ and another Christian and Christiana. (I cannot remember if I have sent you the second attachment. If so, here it is again. If not...well...read on!)End of last sidebar for this evening!
Here, finally, is the answer to your question. Call me "Christie" as that is how you think of me. I call myself "Christie" too! And my "Christie II" is a very special girl. Attached is a poem she wrote when she was eleven years of age. She is now twelve.I sent her the poems of Hilda Conkling, whose mother as you most likely know, was an English professor (or assistant prof) at Smith.
With my love,
Christie I
From the evening of 16 August 2008:
My dears,
It is late and I am tired. So many angels! One who is here for two weeks a professor of French, Latin and Education ... And there is so much more. But as I said it is late and I am tired. Those will be stories for another day.***A few minutes ago, I went to bed but wanted to read the Missal to relax and to be "inspired." (In both the literal and figurative senses!) Before going to sleep I wanted to "breathe deeply of God's peace", as Susan Andrews (our pastor for many years and through the best of times and the worst of times...) told me to do when I had a sinus operation in 1990.(Because in addition to entertaining all of these angels, my dear cat, Mistinguett, had a stroke three weeks ago and then last Monday fluid on the lungs. I have been hand-feeding her for three weeks. Equivalent of Ensure, vanilla milkshakes with egg now, chicken, tuna, water, ginger vaporizer inhalations and so forth and so on. Und so weite, und so weite... Well. Basically everything I did for my beloved parents and Aunt Lorraine. Including singing. My cats, by the way, always come to me when I sing...you simply will not believe this but ‘tis true, 'tis true..."Jesus Loves Me." Many people can now attest!Dear Mistinguett. Her illness has provoked all of the tears I never shed for my beloved ones. The human ones that is. I have cried a river and more tears in the past three weeks than in my entire life. Truly. This is a good thing for me. A very good thing.)***Back to a few moments ago.The Missal from Duquesne University was edited by one of my father's favorite Holy Ghost Fathers. It of course belonged to my dad and I have read it, shall we just say religiously, for many years and I always look to it for solace. Just now I looked at today's feast. Yesterday of course was the Assumption of the BVM, if you happen to be Catholic! Then I looked forward to August 22, the anniversary date of my father's passing.Lo and behold.August 22 is yes. That is correct. The Feast of the Immaculate Heart of Mary.****For those of you who did not know them. My mother's name was Mary. My father's name was John.Peace and blessings.C.
***
Finally, we entertained English angels the other day. Here follows the email I received from Susie Bromwich last night. Susie is also a development director for grammar schools in England. Her nine-year-old daughter’s name is Lucie.
Dear Christiana
We had such a great time staying with you at La P, thank you so much.
I have looked out my copy of 'Labyrinth' and will send, it is a great story, not too highbrow, but a 'must' for all Grail followers, and set in Languedoc.
How is your little cat? Lucie said she thought she might be a a Russian Blue - I wonder... when I was little we had a Russian Blue called...'Magnificat'!!! (my brother was a chorister and we are all musicians, and also Russian Blues orginate from the town of Archangel in Russia, so that's how the name came about. Anyway, we hope your little cat is ok.
Lucie loves Eloise and promises me she will finish it tomorrow and then I can read! I read all of 'Thirst' last evening and will read some again, I like her sea, sky and earth. I did enjoy your reference to angels: - travellers (of course!) - in our home we have always lit a candle in our window every evening for travellers, but I hadn’t made the connection to angels till you forwarded the
e mail. Glad that more angels are calling in.
We had a rough crossing, everyone sick except us, we got home at 3am!
Thanks for finding my nightdress, sorry to have put you to trouble, please give best wishes to Christian, lots of hugs to your both from us
Susie and Lucie
The Journey
A poem by Mary Oliver sent to one of the Irish Ladies on the occasion of her birthday.
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world.
Determined to do the only thing you could do
determined to save the only life you could save.
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world.
Determined to do the only thing you could do
determined to save the only life you could save.
Oh, the Comfort
Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort
Of feeling safe with a person;
Having neither to weigh thoughts
Nor measure words,
But to pour them out.
Just as they are --
Chaff and grain together,
Knowing that a faithful hand
Will take and sift them,
Keep what is worth keeping,
And with the breath of kindness,
Blow the rest away.
George Eliot, 1819-1880
Of feeling safe with a person;
Having neither to weigh thoughts
Nor measure words,
But to pour them out.
Just as they are --
Chaff and grain together,
Knowing that a faithful hand
Will take and sift them,
Keep what is worth keeping,
And with the breath of kindness,
Blow the rest away.
George Eliot, 1819-1880
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
A Cup of Kindness
A Cup of Kindness
Christiana Adams-Caille
For Claudia Hampston Daly
Christmas Day 1992
My mother was always the first downstairs on Christmas Day.
(In her family of four girls –Their own Little Women story –The Wagoner sisters had an
oft-used expression:
“First up, best dressed”
primarily because my mother “borrowed” her sister Lorraine’s clothes).
My mother Mary always ate a piece of Christmas chocolate
And an orange first thing on Christmas day.
A present she gave herself,
memories of her Illinois farm Christmases
no doubt
when an orange was rare and chocolate even rarer
until of course she found the Chocolate Oranges,
the ones she gave each of us every Christmas thereafter.
The ones I give to everyone this year.
In remembrance.
For this December 25 morn, we are still in mourning.
I, her daughter, Christie, descend the stairs,
(my father and my Aunt Lorraine sleep)
with heavy heart.
And then I hear it.
The music – Celtic – from the CD “Grey-Eyed Morn” –
that she so loved to hear.
A gift to our father from my sister, Beth.
“No,” I say.“This cannot be.”
(Knowing that Dad had turned off the Christmas lights as he always did and
never, never would have left the Revox (again a voice?) now with CD player on.
Or did he? I will never know.)
§§§
Walking toward the family room.
Our Family Room,
once filled with music and laughter,I enter.
The music fills the room.This is not a dream.
Music for those who mourn.
Music now for Christmas morn.
“Mourn no more, my dear heart,”
I hear her voice again, her words.
(Had I told my Dad he would have found an explanation I did not want to hear; my mother would have known and understood too well that there are mysteries that some Irish scientists do not want, do not dare contemplate…
“You know, Mom, I am a mystic in some ways,” I said to her in 1989.She replied, “I know.”
She meant it.)
Easter 2008
“Grey-Eyed Morn” plays
in Saint Caradec.
I have rarely, rarely listened to this music
since Christmas 1992.
Too many memories, the memory of Christmas 1992 held in my heart, a story never told.
(For who among the angels’ hierarchies,
among my family and my friends,
will believe me?
I believe they will now.)
§§§
“Auld Lang Syne”
Fills the air.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne ?
CHORUS: For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne,
we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.
And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup !
And surely I’ll be mine !
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,for auld lang syne.
CHORUS
We twa hae run about the braes,
and pou’d the gowans fine ;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,sin’ auld lang syne.
CHORUS
We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,frae morning sun till dine ;
But seas between us braid hae roar’dsin’ auld lang syne.
CHORUS
And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere !
And gives a hand o’ thine !
And we’ll tak a right guid-willie-waught,for auld lang syne.
CHORUS
***
This day I am paying attention
To the musical message,
just when I see in front of me
My mother Mary’s Friendship Cups.
All those Cups of Kindness
poured out for her friends.
I think of my friend, Claudia, who loves Burns’ night in Duluth
with her Scottish mother, Marguerite, and the whole clan and then some;
of the cups of kindness she has poured out for me.
Balm for my wounds.
I remember my mother’s family cup I gave to Claudia
in October 2002.
§§§
Mary’s Cup.
§§§
The Pietà (given by a belovèd mother-in-law) in Claudia’s kitchen.
Mother Mary comfort us, care for us, care for our sons and daughters;
“Hail Mary, Full of Grace, Pray for us now and at the hour of our Death. Amen.”
So many deaths.
(From my paper at UTS entitled “The Inner Vision” –
GAZING OUTWARD
Equally sacred, however, are the great cathedrals of the world, resplendent with art of all kinds. Recently while traveling in Italy, a young man who is perhaps not an atheist but not far from it either, exclaimed to his companion upon entering the Cathedral of Saint Mark, “Now this. This beauty. It could make you believe in God.” Similarly I will never forget my own experience in Rome. Suddenly we came upon the most beautifully exquisite artwork I had ever—then or since—seen. It was Michelangelo’s Pietà. While few would disagree that this sculpture evokes a sense of beauty, that day it provoked my first experience of the transcendent inspired by the immanent. Gazing upon the broken body of Jesus in the arms of his mother and upon their faces not only allowed me to understand deeply, suddenly, and completely the love of parent for child, but it also formed and transformed my understanding of the words I had heard countless times concerning the death on the cross and Jesus’ suffering. This incomparable moment, inspired by a depiction of mother and son, a depiction of Mary and Jesus, engendered feelings and beliefs and a sense of awe that remain as fresh and new today as they were 30 years ago. I remember so vividly also my certainty that this sculpture had been divinely inspired. Here then for me was a proof of God’s existence. How else could this marble have been transformed into pure beauty? Years later a sculptor explained that, like Michelangelo, he felt that God called the carving out of the blocks of wood in front of him, that the images he created were truly the will of God shaping the rough form into the artwork.)
Mother Mary, the broken body of her Son
Cupped, clasped in her all-too-human arms.
“Can you drink the cup?”
§§§
We have. Indeed we have.
§§§
Re-birth. Re-creation.
“Morning has Broken.”
Morning has broken,
like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the word
Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass
Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God's recreation of the new day
§§§
Our cups overflow
With the joy come in the
Morning, (Psalm 30)
our tears wept in the night
dried by an unseen Hand
as in heavenly Revelation where
“all their tears will be wiped away”…
§§§
—Blessèd are those who mourn,
For they shall be comforted—
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow us all the days of our lives.
May It Be So.
23 April 2008
Christiana Adams-Caille
For Claudia Hampston Daly
Christmas Day 1992
My mother was always the first downstairs on Christmas Day.
(In her family of four girls –Their own Little Women story –The Wagoner sisters had an
oft-used expression:
“First up, best dressed”
primarily because my mother “borrowed” her sister Lorraine’s clothes).
My mother Mary always ate a piece of Christmas chocolate
And an orange first thing on Christmas day.
A present she gave herself,
memories of her Illinois farm Christmases
no doubt
when an orange was rare and chocolate even rarer
until of course she found the Chocolate Oranges,
the ones she gave each of us every Christmas thereafter.
The ones I give to everyone this year.
In remembrance.
For this December 25 morn, we are still in mourning.
I, her daughter, Christie, descend the stairs,
(my father and my Aunt Lorraine sleep)
with heavy heart.
And then I hear it.
The music – Celtic – from the CD “Grey-Eyed Morn” –
that she so loved to hear.
A gift to our father from my sister, Beth.
“No,” I say.“This cannot be.”
(Knowing that Dad had turned off the Christmas lights as he always did and
never, never would have left the Revox (again a voice?) now with CD player on.
Or did he? I will never know.)
§§§
Walking toward the family room.
Our Family Room,
once filled with music and laughter,I enter.
The music fills the room.This is not a dream.
Music for those who mourn.
Music now for Christmas morn.
“Mourn no more, my dear heart,”
I hear her voice again, her words.
(Had I told my Dad he would have found an explanation I did not want to hear; my mother would have known and understood too well that there are mysteries that some Irish scientists do not want, do not dare contemplate…
“You know, Mom, I am a mystic in some ways,” I said to her in 1989.She replied, “I know.”
She meant it.)
Easter 2008
“Grey-Eyed Morn” plays
in Saint Caradec.
I have rarely, rarely listened to this music
since Christmas 1992.
Too many memories, the memory of Christmas 1992 held in my heart, a story never told.
(For who among the angels’ hierarchies,
among my family and my friends,
will believe me?
I believe they will now.)
§§§
“Auld Lang Syne”
Fills the air.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne ?
CHORUS: For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne,
we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.
And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup !
And surely I’ll be mine !
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,for auld lang syne.
CHORUS
We twa hae run about the braes,
and pou’d the gowans fine ;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,sin’ auld lang syne.
CHORUS
We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,frae morning sun till dine ;
But seas between us braid hae roar’dsin’ auld lang syne.
CHORUS
And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere !
And gives a hand o’ thine !
And we’ll tak a right guid-willie-waught,for auld lang syne.
CHORUS
***
This day I am paying attention
To the musical message,
just when I see in front of me
My mother Mary’s Friendship Cups.
All those Cups of Kindness
poured out for her friends.
I think of my friend, Claudia, who loves Burns’ night in Duluth
with her Scottish mother, Marguerite, and the whole clan and then some;
of the cups of kindness she has poured out for me.
Balm for my wounds.
I remember my mother’s family cup I gave to Claudia
in October 2002.
§§§
Mary’s Cup.
§§§
The Pietà (given by a belovèd mother-in-law) in Claudia’s kitchen.
Mother Mary comfort us, care for us, care for our sons and daughters;
“Hail Mary, Full of Grace, Pray for us now and at the hour of our Death. Amen.”
So many deaths.
(From my paper at UTS entitled “The Inner Vision” –
GAZING OUTWARD
Equally sacred, however, are the great cathedrals of the world, resplendent with art of all kinds. Recently while traveling in Italy, a young man who is perhaps not an atheist but not far from it either, exclaimed to his companion upon entering the Cathedral of Saint Mark, “Now this. This beauty. It could make you believe in God.” Similarly I will never forget my own experience in Rome. Suddenly we came upon the most beautifully exquisite artwork I had ever—then or since—seen. It was Michelangelo’s Pietà. While few would disagree that this sculpture evokes a sense of beauty, that day it provoked my first experience of the transcendent inspired by the immanent. Gazing upon the broken body of Jesus in the arms of his mother and upon their faces not only allowed me to understand deeply, suddenly, and completely the love of parent for child, but it also formed and transformed my understanding of the words I had heard countless times concerning the death on the cross and Jesus’ suffering. This incomparable moment, inspired by a depiction of mother and son, a depiction of Mary and Jesus, engendered feelings and beliefs and a sense of awe that remain as fresh and new today as they were 30 years ago. I remember so vividly also my certainty that this sculpture had been divinely inspired. Here then for me was a proof of God’s existence. How else could this marble have been transformed into pure beauty? Years later a sculptor explained that, like Michelangelo, he felt that God called the carving out of the blocks of wood in front of him, that the images he created were truly the will of God shaping the rough form into the artwork.)
Mother Mary, the broken body of her Son
Cupped, clasped in her all-too-human arms.
“Can you drink the cup?”
§§§
We have. Indeed we have.
§§§
Re-birth. Re-creation.
“Morning has Broken.”
Morning has broken,
like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the word
Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass
Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God's recreation of the new day
§§§
Our cups overflow
With the joy come in the
Morning, (Psalm 30)
our tears wept in the night
dried by an unseen Hand
as in heavenly Revelation where
“all their tears will be wiped away”…
§§§
—Blessèd are those who mourn,
For they shall be comforted—
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow us all the days of our lives.
May It Be So.
23 April 2008
Soul Sculpting -- an ongoing essay
WORDS
I have always loved words, the way they sound, the way they look, the ways new words can be crafted from others. Even so I have never been talented at crossword puzzles! But my mother was a whiz, and she breezed right through them. Her love affair with language lasted her entire life, and she learned early on how to measure and weigh her words with care. This was a skill she hoped her impulsive daughter would one day acquire.
By the end of March 1992, no words, at least no words that we could understand, had crossed my mother’s lips for two months. Cancer was destroying her brain. The last day I spent with her, words of love that I did not care about measuring flowed from me as did the music of songs long familiar to her. And then for the first time during her illness, I was moved to pray the Lord’s Prayer aloud. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven…. Amen. After a few moments, I quietly said, “You know, Mom, I pray all of the time.” My mother turned her face toward me, fixed her gaze upon me, and replied, “I know that you do.” She died two days later.
My mother was physically gone, but she had left me with one last and lasting gift. There have been many times since that day when I have been uncertain, many times when joy has filled my heart or grief has seared my soul. Never again, however, have I doubted that God is with us nor that the “Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.” Mysterious? Difficult to discern? Unfathomable? Yes. But always present.
If we could see our souls, I believe that they would resemble sculptures. Beautiful white marble or onyx sculptures; some souls might even be cast in bronze. The experiences of the past ten years in particular have sculpted me, skillfully preparing the material and shaping the rough form. Now the time has arrived for more detailed and delicate work. The following vignettes describe the process of the sculpting of my soul and the evolution of my faith that have led me to The College of Saint Catherine and to submit this application to obtain the Master of Arts in Theology.
JESUS WEPT
When my mother was so ill, I clung to the two words that I believed without a doubt: “Jesus wept.” As I moistened my mother’s lips and placed ice chips in her mouth, my faith grew faint and then stronger as I remembered and suddenly understood Jesus’ words on the cross and their significance: “I thirst.” I recalled the cruelty with which he had been answered, and I pondered what it means to love and what love means. My experience with my mother taught me to care in ways I had never imagined possible, even though I had also been present during the last days of my best friend’s life in 1985. Caring for individuals so dear to me and receiving tender care from friends who helped me carry on inspired me to reassess the ways in which I was living my life. I stood at a crossroads and decided to turn toward a life of service.
“I THIRST”
In October 1992 I left my career in management consulting that, once exhilirating, had lost its meaning. I accepted the position of Director of Education for the Mental Health Association of Minnesota. The change meant decreasing my annual income by 70 percent, but it also meant the fulfillment of a dream. I have never regretted my choice or the lifestyle that I gave up. Highly styled Italian shoes and designer clothing lost their allure as I began to understand more fully the power of the human spirit and the myriad ways the Spirit moves among us.
My six years at the Mental Health Association introduced me to a world of people whose boundless courage, integrity, and faith had ushered them through the Valley of the Shadow of mental illness. Indeed, Jesus could not help but weep with the persons whom I visited in psychiatric hospitals. Like him, they thirsted; many felt abandoned by God and were in fact abandoned by friends and family. I met so many individuals, some of whom I am honored to call friend, who persevere against all odds. These and many other people enriched and changed my life forever by sharing their wisdom with me. Among other things, they tried to teach me to examine my own heart and soul and to replenish my spirit because “You cannot give what you do not have.”
WE HAVE LOVED THE STARS TOO FONDLY
Now we return to the summer of 1988. It was just ten years after my graduation from Mount Holyoke College with a major in French literature, a minor in English literature, and a B.A. degree magna cum laude. In the meantime, I had married and moved to France, where I had embarked upon my career as a management consultant. In March 1988 I became ill and was hospitalized for two months.
While convalescing, I was also learning to cope with the repercussions of the diagnosis of manic depressive illness and preparing to begin a new life in New York City. One day, to ease my anxiety about the future and all of the unknown challenges it held, I went shopping. Not my usual response to life-changing events and a seemingly minor occurrence in the grand scheme of things that summer. I remember it, though, as clearly as if it had happened just hours ago.
It was a charming—almost too charming—shop. To cheer myself up and on, I tried on a summery, flowery dress and then I wandered over to the greeting cards. My eye was immediately drawn to one card, and it turned out to be, of all things, a sympathy card. But then again, maybe I needed some sympathy! Needless to say, I bought the dress and the card and while I no longer have that lovely dress, the card has accompanied me everywhere I have gone since that long-ago and painful summer. A “Velveteen Rabbit” of sorts, tattered and worn, the card reads, “We have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.” Those words still inspire me, and there have been many occasions when I have needed them since 1988, including the grave illnesses and deaths of my closest family and the usual, sometimes slightly unusual, ups-and-downs that life sends our way. [1]
“FOLLOW ME”
In 1995 one of the ministers of my church asked me to give the meditation at the chapel service. The text I selected was the story of Zacchaeus. He was the tax collector who perched in a tree to get a glimpse of Jesus. As Jesus passed under the tree, he stopped and called out to Zacchaeus to get right down and get to work serving others. As I thought about the meaning of Zacchaeus’ story in my life and the lives of people I know, I realized that we, too, are called by name, called to climb out of whatever tree we happen to be in and to enter the world in a different way. As I wrote and delivered the meditation, I reflected upon another two-word sentence, this one an imperative: “Follow me.”
From that day on, my faith has revolved around three two-word sentences—“Jesus wept,” “I thirst,” and “Follow me.” Since then I have also yearned to heed the call to study theology. In the intervening years, however, I have tended to other responsibilities, such as caring long-distance for my father and my aunt, who had serious illnesses and who both died in August 2000. Since 1995 I have also changed jobs twice. In June 1998 I accepted the position of Director of Marketing for 89.3 WCAL, the public radio station of St. Olaf College, and in June 2000 I became the Director of Development of the Alzheimer’s Association Minnesota-Dakotas Chapter. Both of these professional experiences have given me great satisfaction, and I have met wonderful people whom I will always cherish—colleagues, volunteers, and donors alike. But like my “Velveteen Rabbit” card, the desire to attend graduate school has accompanied me every step of the way. This week I celebrate my 45th birthday and greet a new year. I am at another crossroads in my life, and I am at last ready to say “Yes!” to the adventures and discoveries that are waiting for me in graduate school.
“FEED MY LAMBS”
In 1997 I went on retreat to Clare’s Well, where I have always found great solace and inspiration. On my way there, the words “Feed my lambs” popped into my head. When I arrived at Clare’s Well, I thought at length about those three words and their meaning. Amazingly, I opened up my Bible that afternoon to John 21. In verses 15 through 18, Jesus admonishes Simon Peter to “Feed my lambs.” And then he says, “Follow me.”
In the “busyness” of the five years since my experience at Clare’s Well, I have tried to do both. I have sometimes succeeded and more often failed. Failed in large part because I have been weary. Like Martha, I have felt too overwhelmed to pause and pay more attention to friendships or to take the time to feed and refresh my own spirit. So I have not been able to give what I did not have. That is a lesson I thought I had already learned, but I can be a little slow on the uptake sometimes! The good news is that I am finally understanding that it does no good—and that it can in fact be harmful—if I keep trying to feed lambs while ignoring my own needs for nourishment. Ultimately lambs I love suffer, and so do I. Lately I have been contemplating another lesson about life and faith as well. Why worry? Why be afraid? As the old saying goes, “Fear knocked at the door. Faith answered. No one was there.” Faith, I am slowly but surely learning, is not just knowing but especially believing and trusting that no matter what we are doing or not doing for ourselves or for others, God is tending the lambs and touching our lives every moment of every day, in ways seen and unseen.
God’s love constantly speaks to the heart and soul. How do we come to trust this still, small voice, which so mysteriously can be understood even when the mind cannot form the words of a reply? Years ago when I lived in Paris, I volunteered with a young woman in her late teens who had autism. She could not speak or walk, but when I sang to her and hugged her, her eyes sparkled. A friend’s husband has Alzheimer’s disease, and his cognitive skills have slipped away. Recently, though, when he held a child in his arms and she cooed at him, he responded, “Abba.” One of my friends has battled severe mental illness for more than thirty years. She recently spent two years in a psychiatric hospital. She has just moved to a new home, joined a church and is busy making new plans for her life. She never gives up. Last week I visited with an individual whom I greatly admire. His wife has early onset Alzheimer’s disease and can now barely function. I feel certain that she is aware of his love, but just what entitles me to offer up this opinion when no one knows? Does my feeling come from ignorance of the situation or does it come from a deeper place, a place where trust and faith are blossoming?
RENEWAL—A NEW WELL
When I throw a coin in a wishing well or make a birthday wish, I close my eyes and silently pray, “Allow me to give back everything I have received.” All of my wishes have come true. Professionally, I have given back to the world even when I was a management consultant, but especially in my different roles at the Mental Health Association and as Director of Development at the Alzheimer’s Association Minnesota-Dakotas Chapter. I have spent much of my personal life caring for others.
But I want to stop spending time. I would rather deliberately set the next two years apart as a time to care for my own physical and spiritual needs. I want and need to linger for a while at a well of wisdom I have never before visited, where I will learn more about how God, Christ and the Holy Spirit manifest themselves in the world and through us. I seek refreshment from a new well where I will learn to draw from time-honored paths to faith and trust. Now is the time for me to explore the promise of new and renewed ways of thinking, perceiving, feeling, discerning, and acting in the world. Exactly what the promise holds, I am not quite sure. That is what my journey of contemplation and study will reveal.
When I make my birthday wish this week, I will ask that beauty, sorrow, and joy continue to sculpt my soul.
I will wish for the opportunity to grow, to change, and to participate in the life of the community at the College of St. Catherine as I pursue the Master of Arts degree in theology.
Theological Knowledge
When I first read the questions about theological knowledge, all I could think of was the book I had just reread. “To Kill a Mockingbird” tells us in simple and direct language what we need to know: “To kill a mockingbird,” declares Scout,
“is a sin.”
In the late 1990s I participated in a bible study group that helped me to think about my faith; I delivered three meditations at my church, one of which I mention in my personal statement. The others were equally important and helped me to grow in faith.
As I also mentioned in my personal statement, I prayed all of the time when my mother was ill. And I still do. But let me not exaggerate; maybe I don’t pray all of the time, but I talk to God frequently. Very frequently. I talk about mundane matters; I talk about the things of the spirit; I ask for help for the people I care about, for the world, and for myself.
I read. I read a lot. What are the theological works I have read? Titles include (but of course are not limited to!): “The Genius of John” (Ellis), “A Cry of Absence” (Marty), “Visions of God” (Armstrong) and the “History of God” (Armstrong), “Through the Narrow Gate” (Armstrong), “Masks of God” (Campbell), “The Path of the Kabbalah” (Sheinkin), “God” (Miles), “Heaven and Hell” (Swedenborg), “The Gnostic Gospels” (Pagels), and “The Brothers Karamazov” (Dostoevsky). I have read nearly everything that Nouwen wrote; nearly everything that C.S. Lewis wrote; much of what Buechner has written and most of the poetry of T. S. Eliot. I have tried with all my might to read the “Summa Theologica.” I read “Markings” by Dag Hammarskjold nearly as often as I read the Bible, which is to say almost every day. I read Rilke and Donne and Yeats and Gerard Manley Hopkins. I have read the works of St. John of the Cross and Thomas Merton. I read about the lives of the saints, and I keep the Missal close by my side and read it almost every day. Sigrid Nunez’s book “A Feather on the Breath of God” is in a prominent place in my dining room along with “Crossing to Safety” by Wallace Stegner.
I have already spoken in my personal statement of my love for sculpture. What can express God’s love for the world more poignantly than La Pieta? Or the sculpture of Brancusi, Rodin, and Claudel? What of the paintings of Georges de la Tour? Or, or, or…. Art, too, is theological work. Not to mention music and the music of the spheres.
I not only read but also write poetry. The poem I wrote on Good Friday 1995, published in 1996, follows.
I have always loved literature, poetry, sculpture, music, and art. We can find great theological meaning in all of these forms of the soul’s expression. Just think of the many examples there are. I have a feeling that in my pursuit of the Masters of Theology at Saint Catherine’s, I am going to find the way to combine my love of literature and art, my knowledge of French (I am bilingual), and my love of God into a meaningful whole that will transform itself into service.
Good Friday 1995
The pain of the world
H
A
N
G
S
today upon the Cross.
Darkness was upon the face of the deep.
Death.
And then,
There was Light.
Fiat lux; lux fiat.
On the third day—or was it today in Paradise—
the
Light
illumined
every crevice,
every cranny,
every dark and desolate wilderness.
The Light
of the World
lives and reigns
over All.
Not
the dying of the Light;
but the ReBirth of Light
into the receiving
Hands of God.
“Into Thy Hands, I commend my Spirit.”
Light merged with Light.
Now lettest Thy servant depart,
according to
Thy Word.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the
Word was God.
Christiana Adams
In Sacred Suffering
A Lenten Journal, February – March 1996
Bradley Hills Presbyterian Church
Bethesda, Maryland
EASTER 2002
THE EPISCOPAL PARISH OF
ST. DAVID
THE FLOWERING OF THE CROSS
A GLAD SHOUT FROM THE HEART:
WHY NOT?
POURQUOI PAS APRES TOUT?
CREDO.
AFTERWORD, FOREWORD AND FORWARD
Today is the second anniversary of my father's death. Last evening I reread the words that I shared at his memorial service. My remarks began with the words of Shakespeare that I had contemplated on my long journey home: “When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought/I summon up remembrance of things past.” I concluded my remembrance of my father in part by saying that “He was and will remain for all of us who knew and loved him both a mystery and a wellspring of clarity. ”
Last evening I knew with sudden clarity that there is another two-word sentence, this one a declaration that belongs in my journey as both the afterword to my personal statement and as the foreword to the journey on which I now embark.
"I believe."
Reduced to and expanding into one word: Credo.[2]
August 22, 2002
September 11, 2002
Tonight I realized that there are three seven-word sentences that belong here; sentences that form me and that now inform my life:
“I am the Light of the World.”
“And the darkness shall not overcome it.”
“Into Thy Hands I commend my Spirit.”
October 1, 2002
Which of course we can say anytime and perhaps every day for as long as we live!
Jesus wept and smiled . . . I imagine He even laughed from time to time . . .
CREDO.
ADVENT 2004
Today is the day that the Lord hath made
Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
The First Sunday of Advent~
The Death of my dearest, dearest Soul Friend
The Third Sunday of Advent~
Rose Light and purple hues.
Gaudeamus!
Let us
rejoice.
Rejoice in the Lord always.
And again I say rejoice.
For the Light shines in the darkness;
And the darkness has not overcome it.
Thanks be to God.
Jesus Christ said,
“I am the Light of the World. Believe in me.”
And now there is a two word prayer I make:
Send me.
May it be so.
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.
Walk in love, beloved.
12 December 2004
AMOR VINCIT OMNIA
[1] When I received the diagnosis of manic depression (now more often referred to as bipolar disorder), I decided that I would not hide my condition from employers or friends despite the ongoing stigma and discrimination that still attach to mental illness. It is not usually the first thing I tell people about myself, however, because I prefer discussing topics much more interesting than my health! I mention it here because although it does not define who I am or what I do, it is a part of who I am and has shaped my experience; this illness has enriched my life considerably and sculpted my soul in ways I may not fully apprehend or comprehend. I am exceedingly fortunate, unlike other people I know, that this illness has not unduly disrupted my life or my career. The major symptoms of my illness have been “in remission” since 1988.
[2] Credo, to believe, I learned during my first class at St. Catherine’s, means “To give one’s heart to.”
I have always loved words, the way they sound, the way they look, the ways new words can be crafted from others. Even so I have never been talented at crossword puzzles! But my mother was a whiz, and she breezed right through them. Her love affair with language lasted her entire life, and she learned early on how to measure and weigh her words with care. This was a skill she hoped her impulsive daughter would one day acquire.
By the end of March 1992, no words, at least no words that we could understand, had crossed my mother’s lips for two months. Cancer was destroying her brain. The last day I spent with her, words of love that I did not care about measuring flowed from me as did the music of songs long familiar to her. And then for the first time during her illness, I was moved to pray the Lord’s Prayer aloud. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven…. Amen. After a few moments, I quietly said, “You know, Mom, I pray all of the time.” My mother turned her face toward me, fixed her gaze upon me, and replied, “I know that you do.” She died two days later.
My mother was physically gone, but she had left me with one last and lasting gift. There have been many times since that day when I have been uncertain, many times when joy has filled my heart or grief has seared my soul. Never again, however, have I doubted that God is with us nor that the “Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.” Mysterious? Difficult to discern? Unfathomable? Yes. But always present.
If we could see our souls, I believe that they would resemble sculptures. Beautiful white marble or onyx sculptures; some souls might even be cast in bronze. The experiences of the past ten years in particular have sculpted me, skillfully preparing the material and shaping the rough form. Now the time has arrived for more detailed and delicate work. The following vignettes describe the process of the sculpting of my soul and the evolution of my faith that have led me to The College of Saint Catherine and to submit this application to obtain the Master of Arts in Theology.
JESUS WEPT
When my mother was so ill, I clung to the two words that I believed without a doubt: “Jesus wept.” As I moistened my mother’s lips and placed ice chips in her mouth, my faith grew faint and then stronger as I remembered and suddenly understood Jesus’ words on the cross and their significance: “I thirst.” I recalled the cruelty with which he had been answered, and I pondered what it means to love and what love means. My experience with my mother taught me to care in ways I had never imagined possible, even though I had also been present during the last days of my best friend’s life in 1985. Caring for individuals so dear to me and receiving tender care from friends who helped me carry on inspired me to reassess the ways in which I was living my life. I stood at a crossroads and decided to turn toward a life of service.
“I THIRST”
In October 1992 I left my career in management consulting that, once exhilirating, had lost its meaning. I accepted the position of Director of Education for the Mental Health Association of Minnesota. The change meant decreasing my annual income by 70 percent, but it also meant the fulfillment of a dream. I have never regretted my choice or the lifestyle that I gave up. Highly styled Italian shoes and designer clothing lost their allure as I began to understand more fully the power of the human spirit and the myriad ways the Spirit moves among us.
My six years at the Mental Health Association introduced me to a world of people whose boundless courage, integrity, and faith had ushered them through the Valley of the Shadow of mental illness. Indeed, Jesus could not help but weep with the persons whom I visited in psychiatric hospitals. Like him, they thirsted; many felt abandoned by God and were in fact abandoned by friends and family. I met so many individuals, some of whom I am honored to call friend, who persevere against all odds. These and many other people enriched and changed my life forever by sharing their wisdom with me. Among other things, they tried to teach me to examine my own heart and soul and to replenish my spirit because “You cannot give what you do not have.”
WE HAVE LOVED THE STARS TOO FONDLY
Now we return to the summer of 1988. It was just ten years after my graduation from Mount Holyoke College with a major in French literature, a minor in English literature, and a B.A. degree magna cum laude. In the meantime, I had married and moved to France, where I had embarked upon my career as a management consultant. In March 1988 I became ill and was hospitalized for two months.
While convalescing, I was also learning to cope with the repercussions of the diagnosis of manic depressive illness and preparing to begin a new life in New York City. One day, to ease my anxiety about the future and all of the unknown challenges it held, I went shopping. Not my usual response to life-changing events and a seemingly minor occurrence in the grand scheme of things that summer. I remember it, though, as clearly as if it had happened just hours ago.
It was a charming—almost too charming—shop. To cheer myself up and on, I tried on a summery, flowery dress and then I wandered over to the greeting cards. My eye was immediately drawn to one card, and it turned out to be, of all things, a sympathy card. But then again, maybe I needed some sympathy! Needless to say, I bought the dress and the card and while I no longer have that lovely dress, the card has accompanied me everywhere I have gone since that long-ago and painful summer. A “Velveteen Rabbit” of sorts, tattered and worn, the card reads, “We have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.” Those words still inspire me, and there have been many occasions when I have needed them since 1988, including the grave illnesses and deaths of my closest family and the usual, sometimes slightly unusual, ups-and-downs that life sends our way. [1]
“FOLLOW ME”
In 1995 one of the ministers of my church asked me to give the meditation at the chapel service. The text I selected was the story of Zacchaeus. He was the tax collector who perched in a tree to get a glimpse of Jesus. As Jesus passed under the tree, he stopped and called out to Zacchaeus to get right down and get to work serving others. As I thought about the meaning of Zacchaeus’ story in my life and the lives of people I know, I realized that we, too, are called by name, called to climb out of whatever tree we happen to be in and to enter the world in a different way. As I wrote and delivered the meditation, I reflected upon another two-word sentence, this one an imperative: “Follow me.”
From that day on, my faith has revolved around three two-word sentences—“Jesus wept,” “I thirst,” and “Follow me.” Since then I have also yearned to heed the call to study theology. In the intervening years, however, I have tended to other responsibilities, such as caring long-distance for my father and my aunt, who had serious illnesses and who both died in August 2000. Since 1995 I have also changed jobs twice. In June 1998 I accepted the position of Director of Marketing for 89.3 WCAL, the public radio station of St. Olaf College, and in June 2000 I became the Director of Development of the Alzheimer’s Association Minnesota-Dakotas Chapter. Both of these professional experiences have given me great satisfaction, and I have met wonderful people whom I will always cherish—colleagues, volunteers, and donors alike. But like my “Velveteen Rabbit” card, the desire to attend graduate school has accompanied me every step of the way. This week I celebrate my 45th birthday and greet a new year. I am at another crossroads in my life, and I am at last ready to say “Yes!” to the adventures and discoveries that are waiting for me in graduate school.
“FEED MY LAMBS”
In 1997 I went on retreat to Clare’s Well, where I have always found great solace and inspiration. On my way there, the words “Feed my lambs” popped into my head. When I arrived at Clare’s Well, I thought at length about those three words and their meaning. Amazingly, I opened up my Bible that afternoon to John 21. In verses 15 through 18, Jesus admonishes Simon Peter to “Feed my lambs.” And then he says, “Follow me.”
In the “busyness” of the five years since my experience at Clare’s Well, I have tried to do both. I have sometimes succeeded and more often failed. Failed in large part because I have been weary. Like Martha, I have felt too overwhelmed to pause and pay more attention to friendships or to take the time to feed and refresh my own spirit. So I have not been able to give what I did not have. That is a lesson I thought I had already learned, but I can be a little slow on the uptake sometimes! The good news is that I am finally understanding that it does no good—and that it can in fact be harmful—if I keep trying to feed lambs while ignoring my own needs for nourishment. Ultimately lambs I love suffer, and so do I. Lately I have been contemplating another lesson about life and faith as well. Why worry? Why be afraid? As the old saying goes, “Fear knocked at the door. Faith answered. No one was there.” Faith, I am slowly but surely learning, is not just knowing but especially believing and trusting that no matter what we are doing or not doing for ourselves or for others, God is tending the lambs and touching our lives every moment of every day, in ways seen and unseen.
God’s love constantly speaks to the heart and soul. How do we come to trust this still, small voice, which so mysteriously can be understood even when the mind cannot form the words of a reply? Years ago when I lived in Paris, I volunteered with a young woman in her late teens who had autism. She could not speak or walk, but when I sang to her and hugged her, her eyes sparkled. A friend’s husband has Alzheimer’s disease, and his cognitive skills have slipped away. Recently, though, when he held a child in his arms and she cooed at him, he responded, “Abba.” One of my friends has battled severe mental illness for more than thirty years. She recently spent two years in a psychiatric hospital. She has just moved to a new home, joined a church and is busy making new plans for her life. She never gives up. Last week I visited with an individual whom I greatly admire. His wife has early onset Alzheimer’s disease and can now barely function. I feel certain that she is aware of his love, but just what entitles me to offer up this opinion when no one knows? Does my feeling come from ignorance of the situation or does it come from a deeper place, a place where trust and faith are blossoming?
RENEWAL—A NEW WELL
When I throw a coin in a wishing well or make a birthday wish, I close my eyes and silently pray, “Allow me to give back everything I have received.” All of my wishes have come true. Professionally, I have given back to the world even when I was a management consultant, but especially in my different roles at the Mental Health Association and as Director of Development at the Alzheimer’s Association Minnesota-Dakotas Chapter. I have spent much of my personal life caring for others.
But I want to stop spending time. I would rather deliberately set the next two years apart as a time to care for my own physical and spiritual needs. I want and need to linger for a while at a well of wisdom I have never before visited, where I will learn more about how God, Christ and the Holy Spirit manifest themselves in the world and through us. I seek refreshment from a new well where I will learn to draw from time-honored paths to faith and trust. Now is the time for me to explore the promise of new and renewed ways of thinking, perceiving, feeling, discerning, and acting in the world. Exactly what the promise holds, I am not quite sure. That is what my journey of contemplation and study will reveal.
When I make my birthday wish this week, I will ask that beauty, sorrow, and joy continue to sculpt my soul.
I will wish for the opportunity to grow, to change, and to participate in the life of the community at the College of St. Catherine as I pursue the Master of Arts degree in theology.
Theological Knowledge
When I first read the questions about theological knowledge, all I could think of was the book I had just reread. “To Kill a Mockingbird” tells us in simple and direct language what we need to know: “To kill a mockingbird,” declares Scout,
“is a sin.”
In the late 1990s I participated in a bible study group that helped me to think about my faith; I delivered three meditations at my church, one of which I mention in my personal statement. The others were equally important and helped me to grow in faith.
As I also mentioned in my personal statement, I prayed all of the time when my mother was ill. And I still do. But let me not exaggerate; maybe I don’t pray all of the time, but I talk to God frequently. Very frequently. I talk about mundane matters; I talk about the things of the spirit; I ask for help for the people I care about, for the world, and for myself.
I read. I read a lot. What are the theological works I have read? Titles include (but of course are not limited to!): “The Genius of John” (Ellis), “A Cry of Absence” (Marty), “Visions of God” (Armstrong) and the “History of God” (Armstrong), “Through the Narrow Gate” (Armstrong), “Masks of God” (Campbell), “The Path of the Kabbalah” (Sheinkin), “God” (Miles), “Heaven and Hell” (Swedenborg), “The Gnostic Gospels” (Pagels), and “The Brothers Karamazov” (Dostoevsky). I have read nearly everything that Nouwen wrote; nearly everything that C.S. Lewis wrote; much of what Buechner has written and most of the poetry of T. S. Eliot. I have tried with all my might to read the “Summa Theologica.” I read “Markings” by Dag Hammarskjold nearly as often as I read the Bible, which is to say almost every day. I read Rilke and Donne and Yeats and Gerard Manley Hopkins. I have read the works of St. John of the Cross and Thomas Merton. I read about the lives of the saints, and I keep the Missal close by my side and read it almost every day. Sigrid Nunez’s book “A Feather on the Breath of God” is in a prominent place in my dining room along with “Crossing to Safety” by Wallace Stegner.
I have already spoken in my personal statement of my love for sculpture. What can express God’s love for the world more poignantly than La Pieta? Or the sculpture of Brancusi, Rodin, and Claudel? What of the paintings of Georges de la Tour? Or, or, or…. Art, too, is theological work. Not to mention music and the music of the spheres.
I not only read but also write poetry. The poem I wrote on Good Friday 1995, published in 1996, follows.
I have always loved literature, poetry, sculpture, music, and art. We can find great theological meaning in all of these forms of the soul’s expression. Just think of the many examples there are. I have a feeling that in my pursuit of the Masters of Theology at Saint Catherine’s, I am going to find the way to combine my love of literature and art, my knowledge of French (I am bilingual), and my love of God into a meaningful whole that will transform itself into service.
Good Friday 1995
The pain of the world
H
A
N
G
S
today upon the Cross.
Darkness was upon the face of the deep.
Death.
And then,
There was Light.
Fiat lux; lux fiat.
On the third day—or was it today in Paradise—
the
Light
illumined
every crevice,
every cranny,
every dark and desolate wilderness.
The Light
of the World
lives and reigns
over All.
Not
the dying of the Light;
but the ReBirth of Light
into the receiving
Hands of God.
“Into Thy Hands, I commend my Spirit.”
Light merged with Light.
Now lettest Thy servant depart,
according to
Thy Word.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the
Word was God.
Christiana Adams
In Sacred Suffering
A Lenten Journal, February – March 1996
Bradley Hills Presbyterian Church
Bethesda, Maryland
EASTER 2002
THE EPISCOPAL PARISH OF
ST. DAVID
THE FLOWERING OF THE CROSS
A GLAD SHOUT FROM THE HEART:
WHY NOT?
POURQUOI PAS APRES TOUT?
CREDO.
AFTERWORD, FOREWORD AND FORWARD
Today is the second anniversary of my father's death. Last evening I reread the words that I shared at his memorial service. My remarks began with the words of Shakespeare that I had contemplated on my long journey home: “When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought/I summon up remembrance of things past.” I concluded my remembrance of my father in part by saying that “He was and will remain for all of us who knew and loved him both a mystery and a wellspring of clarity. ”
Last evening I knew with sudden clarity that there is another two-word sentence, this one a declaration that belongs in my journey as both the afterword to my personal statement and as the foreword to the journey on which I now embark.
"I believe."
Reduced to and expanding into one word: Credo.[2]
August 22, 2002
September 11, 2002
Tonight I realized that there are three seven-word sentences that belong here; sentences that form me and that now inform my life:
“I am the Light of the World.”
“And the darkness shall not overcome it.”
“Into Thy Hands I commend my Spirit.”
October 1, 2002
Which of course we can say anytime and perhaps every day for as long as we live!
Jesus wept and smiled . . . I imagine He even laughed from time to time . . .
CREDO.
ADVENT 2004
Today is the day that the Lord hath made
Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
The First Sunday of Advent~
The Death of my dearest, dearest Soul Friend
The Third Sunday of Advent~
Rose Light and purple hues.
Gaudeamus!
Let us
rejoice.
Rejoice in the Lord always.
And again I say rejoice.
For the Light shines in the darkness;
And the darkness has not overcome it.
Thanks be to God.
Jesus Christ said,
“I am the Light of the World. Believe in me.”
And now there is a two word prayer I make:
Send me.
May it be so.
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.
Walk in love, beloved.
12 December 2004
AMOR VINCIT OMNIA
[1] When I received the diagnosis of manic depression (now more often referred to as bipolar disorder), I decided that I would not hide my condition from employers or friends despite the ongoing stigma and discrimination that still attach to mental illness. It is not usually the first thing I tell people about myself, however, because I prefer discussing topics much more interesting than my health! I mention it here because although it does not define who I am or what I do, it is a part of who I am and has shaped my experience; this illness has enriched my life considerably and sculpted my soul in ways I may not fully apprehend or comprehend. I am exceedingly fortunate, unlike other people I know, that this illness has not unduly disrupted my life or my career. The major symptoms of my illness have been “in remission” since 1988.
[2] Credo, to believe, I learned during my first class at St. Catherine’s, means “To give one’s heart to.”
HEARTS
LET MY HEART BE BROKEN….
Vocational statement, July 2003
M. Christiana Adams
“Let my heart be broken by the things that break the heart of God.” This sentence was on a collage I saw in a high school where I was talking to the students about depression and other mental health issues. It is indeed heartbreaking when young people suffer from depression or any kind of illness. I have never forgotten the collage because I have made these words into a familiar prayer to which I have added another sentence: And let God heal our broken hearts. Even as we are moved by the pain of our world and as we act to diminish it, God is healing our hearts also and strengthening them for what lies ahead. What lies ahead for me, I hope, is chaplaincy or some other form of ministry in hospital, nursing home or hospice settings. This decision has been a long time coming. I have searched my soul for ten years, and it has taken me awhile to say “Yes!” and to feel ready for seminary. Now I am ready and here I am.
My years at United Theological Seminary will test my vocation and test me; I understand. It is also entirely possible that I am not suited for this work. But today, after a lengthy period of reflection and prayer, I believe I am. And I am going forward in this direction trusting that this is so. Let me describe some of the experiences that have brought me to this place.
After twelve years as a management consultant first in Paris, then in New York and finally in the Twin Cities, my first position in the nonprofit community was Director of Education at the Mental Health Association of Minnesota. We created many outstanding outreach programs, including Breaking Down Barriers, Building New Foundations for the faith community. My favorite program (I called it “Brainstorm”) led me to Anoka Regional Treatment Center on a monthly basis, where I spent time talking with the people hospitalized about what we needed to do to make things better and offering them information about community resources. This was,
I realize now and I think I knew even then, a form of ministry. I loved it; this was the part of
my position at the Mental Health Association that I missed the most when I went to work in public radio.
When I left the Mental Health Association, I was about to learn even more about caring. My father, once dynamic and full of vitality, had taken on many characteristics of the desert fathers. He had retreated from the world. Even our minister suggested one day that Dad should have been a hermit. But he was not.
Then he became very ill physically and I spent time caring for him, not in the same ways as we had cared for my mother when she was dying of brain and lung cancer, but in different ways.
I came to understand—finally, finally—that it did not matter what my father said or did not say. What mattered was what I did or did not do, what I said or did not say. What mattered was my presence and my love. After he died, I understood that something else mattered—and that was holding hands. Susan Andrews, our pastor, knew how very important this was. She said afterward, “John didn’t talk to me, but when I prayed and held his hand, he grasped mine fiercely.” Presence is important, but touch, I learned, conveys the thoughts “that lie too deep for tears,” the thoughts that otherwise might remain unspoken. Everyone needs a hand to hold.
This is a lesson I will never forget.
A friend of mine has been hospitalized for more than nine months at Anoka Regional Treatment Center, and she hates it there. Who wouldn’t? Recently she became very ill and was not able to form a sentence. I was extremely concerned—in fact, for the first time in my life, I thought “God! You have to do something!” I am not a family member; all I could do was pray. So I added my friend’s name to prayer lists. Then, adding insult to injury, she fell and broke her ankle, and her health declined even more. What was happening here?
A few weeks went by and I learned from her brother that my friend had been transferred to a nursing home in the Twin Cities. She would not have to go back to Anoka. I’ve visited her several times; she’s recaptured her speech and is already complaining about the nurses, a sure sign she’s getting better. The other day when we went outside for a little while, my friend looked at me and out of the blue said, “I am thankful.” And I am thankful to have had this experience with her. It allowed me to remember that sometimes things must get worse before they get better. It demonstrated how prayers can be answered in very unexpected ways.
God works in mysterious ways….
The mystery of God swirls around us constantly and we are blessed when we are given the sacred gift of feeling the immanent presence of the Holy Spirit. I have had several experiences of this, but one of them transformed my life. It occurred two days before my mother passed away. I was sitting with her and decided for the first time to pray the Lord’s Prayer aloud. I added, “You know, Mom, I pray all of the time.” My mother, who had not spoken intelligible words for two months, turned to me and said, “I know that you do.”
I am certain that God hears our prayers, that Jesus Christ suffers and rejoices with us, and that the Holy Spirit fills our lives. God is right here, right now, no matter where we are. God needs us to carry that message in many different ways. I feel particularly called to hospital and nursing home ministry; I feel comfortable in these places and with people, perhaps especially those who are somehow suffering and often wounded. Many of the people dearest to me, family members and friends, have experienced grave illness. I have spent many hours with them, learning how to be still and listen, learning when to speak. My own experiences with illness and the brokenness that we all share have blessed me with insights I would not otherwise have. I believe that all of it—all of the joys and sorrows that have graced my life and have made me “strong at the broken places”—will allow me to serve others with compassion and love.
“The place God calls you is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet” (Frederick Buechner). This is how I feel about my goal to attend seminary. I am as certain as I can be that my studies and all of the experiences I will have at United Theological Seminary will prepare me for the unique place to which God is calling me.
Vocational statement, July 2003
M. Christiana Adams
“Let my heart be broken by the things that break the heart of God.” This sentence was on a collage I saw in a high school where I was talking to the students about depression and other mental health issues. It is indeed heartbreaking when young people suffer from depression or any kind of illness. I have never forgotten the collage because I have made these words into a familiar prayer to which I have added another sentence: And let God heal our broken hearts. Even as we are moved by the pain of our world and as we act to diminish it, God is healing our hearts also and strengthening them for what lies ahead. What lies ahead for me, I hope, is chaplaincy or some other form of ministry in hospital, nursing home or hospice settings. This decision has been a long time coming. I have searched my soul for ten years, and it has taken me awhile to say “Yes!” and to feel ready for seminary. Now I am ready and here I am.
My years at United Theological Seminary will test my vocation and test me; I understand. It is also entirely possible that I am not suited for this work. But today, after a lengthy period of reflection and prayer, I believe I am. And I am going forward in this direction trusting that this is so. Let me describe some of the experiences that have brought me to this place.
After twelve years as a management consultant first in Paris, then in New York and finally in the Twin Cities, my first position in the nonprofit community was Director of Education at the Mental Health Association of Minnesota. We created many outstanding outreach programs, including Breaking Down Barriers, Building New Foundations for the faith community. My favorite program (I called it “Brainstorm”) led me to Anoka Regional Treatment Center on a monthly basis, where I spent time talking with the people hospitalized about what we needed to do to make things better and offering them information about community resources. This was,
I realize now and I think I knew even then, a form of ministry. I loved it; this was the part of
my position at the Mental Health Association that I missed the most when I went to work in public radio.
When I left the Mental Health Association, I was about to learn even more about caring. My father, once dynamic and full of vitality, had taken on many characteristics of the desert fathers. He had retreated from the world. Even our minister suggested one day that Dad should have been a hermit. But he was not.
Then he became very ill physically and I spent time caring for him, not in the same ways as we had cared for my mother when she was dying of brain and lung cancer, but in different ways.
I came to understand—finally, finally—that it did not matter what my father said or did not say. What mattered was what I did or did not do, what I said or did not say. What mattered was my presence and my love. After he died, I understood that something else mattered—and that was holding hands. Susan Andrews, our pastor, knew how very important this was. She said afterward, “John didn’t talk to me, but when I prayed and held his hand, he grasped mine fiercely.” Presence is important, but touch, I learned, conveys the thoughts “that lie too deep for tears,” the thoughts that otherwise might remain unspoken. Everyone needs a hand to hold.
This is a lesson I will never forget.
A friend of mine has been hospitalized for more than nine months at Anoka Regional Treatment Center, and she hates it there. Who wouldn’t? Recently she became very ill and was not able to form a sentence. I was extremely concerned—in fact, for the first time in my life, I thought “God! You have to do something!” I am not a family member; all I could do was pray. So I added my friend’s name to prayer lists. Then, adding insult to injury, she fell and broke her ankle, and her health declined even more. What was happening here?
A few weeks went by and I learned from her brother that my friend had been transferred to a nursing home in the Twin Cities. She would not have to go back to Anoka. I’ve visited her several times; she’s recaptured her speech and is already complaining about the nurses, a sure sign she’s getting better. The other day when we went outside for a little while, my friend looked at me and out of the blue said, “I am thankful.” And I am thankful to have had this experience with her. It allowed me to remember that sometimes things must get worse before they get better. It demonstrated how prayers can be answered in very unexpected ways.
God works in mysterious ways….
The mystery of God swirls around us constantly and we are blessed when we are given the sacred gift of feeling the immanent presence of the Holy Spirit. I have had several experiences of this, but one of them transformed my life. It occurred two days before my mother passed away. I was sitting with her and decided for the first time to pray the Lord’s Prayer aloud. I added, “You know, Mom, I pray all of the time.” My mother, who had not spoken intelligible words for two months, turned to me and said, “I know that you do.”
I am certain that God hears our prayers, that Jesus Christ suffers and rejoices with us, and that the Holy Spirit fills our lives. God is right here, right now, no matter where we are. God needs us to carry that message in many different ways. I feel particularly called to hospital and nursing home ministry; I feel comfortable in these places and with people, perhaps especially those who are somehow suffering and often wounded. Many of the people dearest to me, family members and friends, have experienced grave illness. I have spent many hours with them, learning how to be still and listen, learning when to speak. My own experiences with illness and the brokenness that we all share have blessed me with insights I would not otherwise have. I believe that all of it—all of the joys and sorrows that have graced my life and have made me “strong at the broken places”—will allow me to serve others with compassion and love.
“The place God calls you is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet” (Frederick Buechner). This is how I feel about my goal to attend seminary. I am as certain as I can be that my studies and all of the experiences I will have at United Theological Seminary will prepare me for the unique place to which God is calling me.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
My Mother's Favorite Hymn
Fairest Lord Jesus....
http://www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/f/a/l/faljesus.htm
Listen and see. With your Third -- Quiet -- Eye and Ear.
Silent, listen.
http://www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/f/a/l/faljesus.htm
Listen and see. With your Third -- Quiet -- Eye and Ear.
Silent, listen.
"The Quiet Eye"
is actually a book of pictures and quotes compiled by Sheila Shaw Judson, a Quaker.
I highly recommend it to you. My mother gave it to me 21 years ago....
I highly recommend it to you. My mother gave it to me 21 years ago....
"O Master Let Me Walk with Thee"
This is a beautiful hymn for a quiet Sunday, one that my father chose for his "Remembrance Service" that he and I planned together. He also selected portions from the mystical, mysterious Duruflé Requiem.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
For Suzanne, my cousin and sister....
Recently I learned that my cousin and I shared more than the family legacy of Shakespeare.
And "Bas Bleu."
We shared this favorite song.... "Bridge Over Troubled Water"...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qFruKvAq8PQ&feature=related
And then there is this, for Suzanne, my lovely cousin and adopted sister.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=czQoGSYBeHU&feature=related
And "Bas Bleu."
We shared this favorite song.... "Bridge Over Troubled Water"...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qFruKvAq8PQ&feature=related
And then there is this, for Suzanne, my lovely cousin and adopted sister.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=czQoGSYBeHU&feature=related
"The end of all meetings, Parting.The end of all striving, Peace."
The Sisters of Mercy and Sounds of Silence
Two favorite songs...
"The Sisters of Mercy" by Leonard Cohen
http://youtube.com/watch?v=oBFQg7P5YKw
(This is also on Judy Collins' album "Wildflowers".... )
and
"Sounds of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Kd8xp86reY
Lovely. Love-ly.
"The Sisters of Mercy" by Leonard Cohen
http://youtube.com/watch?v=oBFQg7P5YKw
(This is also on Judy Collins' album "Wildflowers".... )
and
"Sounds of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Kd8xp86reY
Lovely. Love-ly.
Blessing
May God
make safe to you each step,
May God
make open to you each pass,
May God
make clear to you each road,
and
May God
take you in the clasp of
His own two Hands.
make safe to you each step,
May God
make open to you each pass,
May God
make clear to you each road,
and
May God
take you in the clasp of
His own two Hands.
Thoughts....
“In the measure that you desire God, you will find God.”
-St. Teresa of Avila
“You do not even have to leave your room.
Remain sitting at your table and listen.
Do not even listen. Simply wait.
Do not even wait. Be still and solitary.
The world will freely offer itself to you unmasked.
It has no choice.
It will roll in ecstasy at your feet.”
-Franz Kafka
“All of man’s misery derives from not being able to sit silently in a room alone.”
Blaise Pascal, 17th century scientist
-St. Teresa of Avila
“You do not even have to leave your room.
Remain sitting at your table and listen.
Do not even listen. Simply wait.
Do not even wait. Be still and solitary.
The world will freely offer itself to you unmasked.
It has no choice.
It will roll in ecstasy at your feet.”
-Franz Kafka
“All of man’s misery derives from not being able to sit silently in a room alone.”
Blaise Pascal, 17th century scientist
"Oh, World I Cannot Hold Thee Close Enough"
God's World
Edna St. Vincent Millay
O WORLD, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!
Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart. Lord, I do fear
Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year.
My soul is all but out of me,—let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
O WORLD, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!
Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart. Lord, I do fear
Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year.
My soul is all but out of me,—let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.
"God's Grandeur"
God’s Grandeur
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89). Poems. 1918.
THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89). Poems. 1918.
THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
Friday, April 18, 2008
O Crux
« O Crux
Ave
Spes Unica »
For my Mother
« If I keep a green bough in my heart,
The singing bird will come.”
Chinese proverb
I stood today
At the foot of the
Cross.
Christ crucified.
Suffered, died, was buried.
Mary wept.
On this day 1992
Weeping, I stood at another crossroads.
The Calvary of my mother, Mary,
Fresh upon my heart.
Two
Breton Calvaries in
My village.
One just outside
Our bedroom window.
At night illuminated.
Today I stop and stand.
I pray.
Thanking God for the
Resurrection and the Life.
Thanking God for Mary’s life and laughter.
For Mary’s tears.
For my mother
Who taught me
That green is the color of hope, yellow the color of happiness.
Whose nightly thought before sleep
Was
Of the green bough
And the singing bird.
Ave Maria.
“O Crux
Ave
Spes Unica.”
1 April 2008
Ave
Spes Unica »
For my Mother
« If I keep a green bough in my heart,
The singing bird will come.”
Chinese proverb
I stood today
At the foot of the
Cross.
Christ crucified.
Suffered, died, was buried.
Mary wept.
On this day 1992
Weeping, I stood at another crossroads.
The Calvary of my mother, Mary,
Fresh upon my heart.
Two
Breton Calvaries in
My village.
One just outside
Our bedroom window.
At night illuminated.
Today I stop and stand.
I pray.
Thanking God for the
Resurrection and the Life.
Thanking God for Mary’s life and laughter.
For Mary’s tears.
For my mother
Who taught me
That green is the color of hope, yellow the color of happiness.
Whose nightly thought before sleep
Was
Of the green bough
And the singing bird.
Ave Maria.
“O Crux
Ave
Spes Unica.”
1 April 2008
Notes
Note 1 :
One of the St. Caradec Calvaries is inscribed with
“O Crux
Ave
Spes Unica.”
And I just learned that
O crux ave is the sixth verse of Vexilla regis, a hymn to the cross by Venantius Fortunatus (6th-7th cent.).
Latin text
O crux ave spes unicahoc passionis temporeauge piis justitiamreisque dona veniam.
English translation
O cross, our only hopein this time of suffering,grant justice to the faithfuland mercy to those awaiting judgment.
Note 2:
After my mother’s death, one of my dearest friends shared this with me. It is from "Diary of an Old Soul" and was illustrated by her grandfather, Arnold Flaten.
Note 1 :
One of the St. Caradec Calvaries is inscribed with
“O Crux
Ave
Spes Unica.”
And I just learned that
O crux ave is the sixth verse of Vexilla regis, a hymn to the cross by Venantius Fortunatus (6th-7th cent.).
Latin text
O crux ave spes unicahoc passionis temporeauge piis justitiamreisque dona veniam.
English translation
O cross, our only hopein this time of suffering,grant justice to the faithfuland mercy to those awaiting judgment.
Note 2:
After my mother’s death, one of my dearest friends shared this with me. It is from "Diary of an Old Soul" and was illustrated by her grandfather, Arnold Flaten.
Sometimes, hard-trying
It seems I cannot pray
For doubt and pain
And anger and all strife
Yet some half-fledged
Prayer-bird from the nest
May fall, flit, fly, perch—
Crouch in the bowery breast
Of the large, nation-healing
Tree of life.
Moveless there sit thru the
Burning day and on my heart
At night a fresh leaf cooling
Lay.
It seems I cannot pray
For doubt and pain
And anger and all strife
Yet some half-fledged
Prayer-bird from the nest
May fall, flit, fly, perch—
Crouch in the bowery breast
Of the large, nation-healing
Tree of life.
Moveless there sit thru the
Burning day and on my heart
At night a fresh leaf cooling
Lay.
Easter Thoughts
EASTER THOUGHTS
I.
The wind howls, the snow falls.
Still prim (and proper) roses, “primeverts”,
Nestle snugly in the ground.
Their joyful faces lifted up to the sky
Gaily proclaim Re-birth
On this Easter Day.
II.
The First Elegy
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies?
and even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart:I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence.For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure,
and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.Every angel is terrifying.And so I hold myself back and swallow the call-note of my dark sobbing.Ah, whom can we ever turn to in our need?
Rainer Maria Rilke
Entertaining Angels unawares …
Hebrews 13
Each angel in our home and in our lives
A member of the
Body….
Each knowing Gethsemane,
Each crying out, “I thirst.”
Each reaching out, arms stretched wide,
For the Promise of New Life.
***
Ah, Yes,
How easy it is to show
Brotherly and sisterly
Love on this
Feast of Love—
La Fête de l’Amour
As the priest proclaimed.
How easy and comfortable to recognize and
Be present with
Friendly Angels.
Not so easy
With
Rilke’s Terrifying Angels.
But here is what I understood today.
It is the Terrifying Ones
Who show us our Selves,
Leading us to the Dark Places,
To the Shadows in our
Souls—our own Terror and Error—
The Terrifying Ones hold the mirror.
And so it is from the Terrifying Angels
That we must learn
To minister.
It is the Terrifying Angels
Who teach us the most about our Selves and
Who walk with us into
The Light.
Let us entertain them.
“Walk in Love.”
5 : 00 p.m.
Note on my Easter thoughts—
During Mass at the Abbaye de Notre Dame de Timadeuc (Cistercian/Trappist), I remembered parts of St. Patrick’s Breast-plate. Here is the prayer that I have just copied here and that I have not even read in its entirety yet….
ST PATRICK’S BREAST-PLATE
I bind to myself todayThe strong virtue of the Invocation of the Trinity:I believe the Trinity in the UnityThe Creator of the Universe.I bind to myself todayThe virtue of the Incarnation of Christ with His Baptism,The virtue of His crucifixion with His burial,The virtue of His Resurrection with His Ascension,The virtue of His coming on the Judgement Day.I bind to myself todayThe virtue of the love of seraphim,In the obedience of angels,In the hope of resurrection unto reward,In prayers of Patriarchs,In predictions of Prophets,In preaching of Apostles,In faith of Confessors,In purity of holy Virgins,In deeds of righteous men.I bind to myself todayThe power of Heaven,The light of the sun,The brightness of the moon,The splendour of fire,The flashing of lightning,The swiftness of wind,The depth of sea,The stability of earth,The compactness of rocks.I bind to myself todayGod's Power to guide me,God's Might to uphold me,God's Wisdom to teach me,God's Eye to watch over me,God's Ear to hear me,God's Word to give me speech,God's Hand to guide me,God's Way to lie before me,God's Shield to shelter me,God's Host to secure me,Against the snares of demons,Against the seductions of vices,Against the lusts of nature,Against everyone who meditates injury to me,Whether far or near,Whether few or with many.I invoke today all these virtuesAgainst every hostile merciless powerWhich may assail my body and my soul,Against the incantations of false prophets,Against the black laws of heathenism,Against the false laws of heresy,Against the deceits of idolatry,Against the spells of women, and smiths, and druids,Against every knowledge that binds the soul of man.Christ, protect me todayAgainst every poison, against burning,Against drowning, against death-wound,That I may receive abundant reward.Christ with me, Christ before me,Christ behind me, Christ within me,Christ beneath me, Christ above me,Christ at my right, Christ at my left,Christ in the fort,Christ in the chariot seat,Christ in the poop [deck],Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me,Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks to me,Christ in every eye that sees me,Christ in every ear that hears me.I bind to myself todayThe strong virtue of an invocation of the Trinity,I believe the Trinity in the UnityThe Creator of the Universe.
May it be so.
Blessèd Easter.
I.
The wind howls, the snow falls.
Still prim (and proper) roses, “primeverts”,
Nestle snugly in the ground.
Their joyful faces lifted up to the sky
Gaily proclaim Re-birth
On this Easter Day.
II.
The First Elegy
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies?
and even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart:I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence.For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure,
and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.Every angel is terrifying.And so I hold myself back and swallow the call-note of my dark sobbing.Ah, whom can we ever turn to in our need?
Rainer Maria Rilke
Entertaining Angels unawares …
Hebrews 13
Each angel in our home and in our lives
A member of the
Body….
Each knowing Gethsemane,
Each crying out, “I thirst.”
Each reaching out, arms stretched wide,
For the Promise of New Life.
***
Ah, Yes,
How easy it is to show
Brotherly and sisterly
Love on this
Feast of Love—
La Fête de l’Amour
As the priest proclaimed.
How easy and comfortable to recognize and
Be present with
Friendly Angels.
Not so easy
With
Rilke’s Terrifying Angels.
But here is what I understood today.
It is the Terrifying Ones
Who show us our Selves,
Leading us to the Dark Places,
To the Shadows in our
Souls—our own Terror and Error—
The Terrifying Ones hold the mirror.
And so it is from the Terrifying Angels
That we must learn
To minister.
It is the Terrifying Angels
Who teach us the most about our Selves and
Who walk with us into
The Light.
Let us entertain them.
“Walk in Love.”
5 : 00 p.m.
Note on my Easter thoughts—
During Mass at the Abbaye de Notre Dame de Timadeuc (Cistercian/Trappist), I remembered parts of St. Patrick’s Breast-plate. Here is the prayer that I have just copied here and that I have not even read in its entirety yet….
ST PATRICK’S BREAST-PLATE
I bind to myself todayThe strong virtue of the Invocation of the Trinity:I believe the Trinity in the UnityThe Creator of the Universe.I bind to myself todayThe virtue of the Incarnation of Christ with His Baptism,The virtue of His crucifixion with His burial,The virtue of His Resurrection with His Ascension,The virtue of His coming on the Judgement Day.I bind to myself todayThe virtue of the love of seraphim,In the obedience of angels,In the hope of resurrection unto reward,In prayers of Patriarchs,In predictions of Prophets,In preaching of Apostles,In faith of Confessors,In purity of holy Virgins,In deeds of righteous men.I bind to myself todayThe power of Heaven,The light of the sun,The brightness of the moon,The splendour of fire,The flashing of lightning,The swiftness of wind,The depth of sea,The stability of earth,The compactness of rocks.I bind to myself todayGod's Power to guide me,God's Might to uphold me,God's Wisdom to teach me,God's Eye to watch over me,God's Ear to hear me,God's Word to give me speech,God's Hand to guide me,God's Way to lie before me,God's Shield to shelter me,God's Host to secure me,Against the snares of demons,Against the seductions of vices,Against the lusts of nature,Against everyone who meditates injury to me,Whether far or near,Whether few or with many.I invoke today all these virtuesAgainst every hostile merciless powerWhich may assail my body and my soul,Against the incantations of false prophets,Against the black laws of heathenism,Against the false laws of heresy,Against the deceits of idolatry,Against the spells of women, and smiths, and druids,Against every knowledge that binds the soul of man.Christ, protect me todayAgainst every poison, against burning,Against drowning, against death-wound,That I may receive abundant reward.Christ with me, Christ before me,Christ behind me, Christ within me,Christ beneath me, Christ above me,Christ at my right, Christ at my left,Christ in the fort,Christ in the chariot seat,Christ in the poop [deck],Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me,Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks to me,Christ in every eye that sees me,Christ in every ear that hears me.I bind to myself todayThe strong virtue of an invocation of the Trinity,I believe the Trinity in the UnityThe Creator of the Universe.
May it be so.
Blessèd Easter.
Be at Peace
BE AT PEACE
(Saint Francis De Sales)
Do not look forward in fear to the changes in life;
rather, look to them with full hope that as they arise.
God, whose very own you are, will lead you safely through all things;
and when you cannot stand it,God will bury you in His arms.
Do not fear what may happen tomorrow;
the same understanding Father who cares for you today
will take care of you then and every day.
He will either shield you from suffering
or will give you unfailing strength to bear it.
Be at peace, and put aside all anxious thoughts and imaginings.
(Saint Francis De Sales)
Do not look forward in fear to the changes in life;
rather, look to them with full hope that as they arise.
God, whose very own you are, will lead you safely through all things;
and when you cannot stand it,God will bury you in His arms.
Do not fear what may happen tomorrow;
the same understanding Father who cares for you today
will take care of you then and every day.
He will either shield you from suffering
or will give you unfailing strength to bear it.
Be at peace, and put aside all anxious thoughts and imaginings.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Climb Every Mountain
And then there is this...
"Feed the Birds"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_VwU_oS2ErQ&feature=related
'Though her words are simple and few.
Listen. Listen.
She is calling to you...."
Faith of our Fathers...
living still.
http://www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/f/a/faithoof.htm
***
When one of my dearest SoulFriends died, my hymnal on my piano opened to this hymn.
By some miracle.
True. True. It is true.
And wild geese flew.
A YEAR IN POETRY AND MUSIC
November 28 - December 2004
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
~ W. H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message
He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now:
put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
December 6, 2004
Wild geese on their flight home for the winter spread their wings—no, no, not doves—and flew over my home on the morning of the great day of mourning—their calls a music of a terrible, wild beauty … their song, a song of grief of departure and the everlasting hope of home…
Wild Geese
~ Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--over and over announcing your place in the family of things.
The Litany of Farewell in the Episcopal Church.
Second Sunday of Advent 2004, St. David’s Episcopal Church, Minnetonka, MN.
A gift from God…an unexpected Godsend for my soul.
December 2004
A Crazed Girl
~ W. B. Yeats
That crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling
She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken,
that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.
No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, 'O sea-starved, hungry sea.’
January 2005—the first two weeks
A poem of joy, sorrow and forgiveness for all seasons it seems…and to be understood at different times in different ways.
I Could Give All To Time
~ Robert Frost
To Time it never seems that he is brave
To set himself against the peaks of snow
To lay them level with the running wave,
Nor is he overjoyed when they lie low,
But only grave, contemplative and grave.
What now is inland shall be ocean isle,
Then eddies playing round a sunken reefLike the curl at the corner of a smile;
And I could share Time's lack of joy or grief
At such a planetary change of style.
I could give all to Time except - except
What I myself have held.
But why declare
The things forbidden that while the Customs slept
I have crossed to Safety with?
For I am There,
And what I would not part with I have kept.
February – December 2005
A much-beloved poem…a much beloved song (not the same as this poem) titled “In Memory of a Summer’s Day” performed and recorded by my friend Phyllis.
If everyday can be Christmas as I wrote two years ago, then every day can be Thanksgiving also. Every day can be a summer day.
Paraphrasing Camus…in the midst of winter I found in my heart an invincible summer.
The Summer Day
~Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed,
how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
***
December 2005
Now Thank We All Our God~
Variations on a Theme
~ Christiana Adams
ADVENT 2004 – ADVENT 2005
Today is the day that the Lord hath made
Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
The First Sunday of Advent~
The Death of a Soul Friend
The Third Sunday of Advent~
Rose Light and purple hues.
Gaudeamus!
Let us
rejoice.
Rejoice in the Lord always.
And again I say rejoice.
For the Light shines in the darkness;
And the darkness has not overcome it.
Thanks be to God.
Jesus Christ said,
“I am the Light of the World. Believe in me.”
And now there is a two word prayer I make:
Send me.
May it be so.
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.
Walk in love, beloved.
12 December 2004
Paraphrasing also:
Whatever is good and true and kind … the darkness shall not overcome...
This prayer I make. That when “The Answer is ‘No’” as a Soul Friend once titled a sermon, we may always—eventually—find the
“Yes!”
That I may hear the "yes" that life is calling to me and reply
"Yes! Here I am."
May it be so for you and for me.
I kneel in the grass. And pray. And pray. And pray.
And hope. And hope. And hope.
“And all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.”
“Teach us to care and not to care…”
“And the fire and the rose shall become one.”
2 December 2005
"Whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things." (Phil 4:8)
And hymns I love and sing…
Now thank we all our God,
with heart and hands and voices,
Who wondrous things has done,
in Whom this world rejoices;
Who from our mothers’ arms has blessed us on our way
With countless gifts of love, and still is ours today.
O may this bounteous God through all our life be near us,
With ever joyful hearts and blessèd peace to cheer us;
And keep us in His grace,
and guide us when perplexed;
And free us from all ills, in this world and the next!
All praise and thanks to God the Father now be given;
The Son and Him Who reigns with Them in highest Heaven;
The one eternal God,
Whom earth and Heaven adore;
For thus it was, is now,
and shall be evermore.
***
Bread of the world,
in mercy broken,
Wine of the soul,
in mercy shed,
By Whom the words of life were spoken,
And in Whose death our sins are dead.
Look on the heart by sorrow broken,
Look on the tears by sinners shed;
And be Thy feast to us the token,
That by Thy grace our souls are fed.
http://www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/b/r/breadwor.htm
***
O God, our help in ages past,
our hope for years to come,
our shelter from the stormy blast,
and our eternal home:
Under the shadow of thy throne,
thy saints have dwelt secure;
sufficient is thine arm alone,
and our defense is sure.
Before the hills in order stood,or earth received her frame,
from everlasting thou art God,
to endless years the same.
A thousand ages in thy sight
are like an evening gone;
Short as the watch that ends the night
before the rising sun.
Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
bears all its sons away;
They fly, forgotten, as a dream
dies at the opening day.
O God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Be thou our guide while troubles last,
and our eternal home!
***
From the musical, “Carousel”…
When you walk through a storm,
Hold your head up high,
And don't be afraid of the dark,
At the end of the storm is a golden sky.
And the sweet silver song of a lark.
Walk on through the wind,
Walk on through the rain,
Tho' your dreams be tossed and blown,
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart,
And you'll never walk alone.
You'll never walk alone!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=480dD5WzdvA
http://www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/f/a/faithoof.htm
***
When one of my dearest SoulFriends died, my hymnal on my piano opened to this hymn.
By some miracle.
True. True. It is true.
And wild geese flew.
A YEAR IN POETRY AND MUSIC
November 28 - December 2004
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
~ W. H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message
He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now:
put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
December 6, 2004
Wild geese on their flight home for the winter spread their wings—no, no, not doves—and flew over my home on the morning of the great day of mourning—their calls a music of a terrible, wild beauty … their song, a song of grief of departure and the everlasting hope of home…
Wild Geese
~ Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--over and over announcing your place in the family of things.
The Litany of Farewell in the Episcopal Church.
Second Sunday of Advent 2004, St. David’s Episcopal Church, Minnetonka, MN.
A gift from God…an unexpected Godsend for my soul.
December 2004
A Crazed Girl
~ W. B. Yeats
That crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling
She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken,
that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.
No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, 'O sea-starved, hungry sea.’
January 2005—the first two weeks
A poem of joy, sorrow and forgiveness for all seasons it seems…and to be understood at different times in different ways.
I Could Give All To Time
~ Robert Frost
To Time it never seems that he is brave
To set himself against the peaks of snow
To lay them level with the running wave,
Nor is he overjoyed when they lie low,
But only grave, contemplative and grave.
What now is inland shall be ocean isle,
Then eddies playing round a sunken reefLike the curl at the corner of a smile;
And I could share Time's lack of joy or grief
At such a planetary change of style.
I could give all to Time except - except
What I myself have held.
But why declare
The things forbidden that while the Customs slept
I have crossed to Safety with?
For I am There,
And what I would not part with I have kept.
February – December 2005
A much-beloved poem…a much beloved song (not the same as this poem) titled “In Memory of a Summer’s Day” performed and recorded by my friend Phyllis.
If everyday can be Christmas as I wrote two years ago, then every day can be Thanksgiving also. Every day can be a summer day.
Paraphrasing Camus…in the midst of winter I found in my heart an invincible summer.
The Summer Day
~Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed,
how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
***
December 2005
Now Thank We All Our God~
Variations on a Theme
~ Christiana Adams
ADVENT 2004 – ADVENT 2005
Today is the day that the Lord hath made
Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
The First Sunday of Advent~
The Death of a Soul Friend
The Third Sunday of Advent~
Rose Light and purple hues.
Gaudeamus!
Let us
rejoice.
Rejoice in the Lord always.
And again I say rejoice.
For the Light shines in the darkness;
And the darkness has not overcome it.
Thanks be to God.
Jesus Christ said,
“I am the Light of the World. Believe in me.”
And now there is a two word prayer I make:
Send me.
May it be so.
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.
Walk in love, beloved.
12 December 2004
Paraphrasing also:
Whatever is good and true and kind … the darkness shall not overcome...
This prayer I make. That when “The Answer is ‘No’” as a Soul Friend once titled a sermon, we may always—eventually—find the
“Yes!”
That I may hear the "yes" that life is calling to me and reply
"Yes! Here I am."
May it be so for you and for me.
I kneel in the grass. And pray. And pray. And pray.
And hope. And hope. And hope.
“And all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.”
“Teach us to care and not to care…”
“And the fire and the rose shall become one.”
2 December 2005
"Whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things." (Phil 4:8)
And hymns I love and sing…
Now thank we all our God,
with heart and hands and voices,
Who wondrous things has done,
in Whom this world rejoices;
Who from our mothers’ arms has blessed us on our way
With countless gifts of love, and still is ours today.
O may this bounteous God through all our life be near us,
With ever joyful hearts and blessèd peace to cheer us;
And keep us in His grace,
and guide us when perplexed;
And free us from all ills, in this world and the next!
All praise and thanks to God the Father now be given;
The Son and Him Who reigns with Them in highest Heaven;
The one eternal God,
Whom earth and Heaven adore;
For thus it was, is now,
and shall be evermore.
***
Bread of the world,
in mercy broken,
Wine of the soul,
in mercy shed,
By Whom the words of life were spoken,
And in Whose death our sins are dead.
Look on the heart by sorrow broken,
Look on the tears by sinners shed;
And be Thy feast to us the token,
That by Thy grace our souls are fed.
http://www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/b/r/breadwor.htm
***
O God, our help in ages past,
our hope for years to come,
our shelter from the stormy blast,
and our eternal home:
Under the shadow of thy throne,
thy saints have dwelt secure;
sufficient is thine arm alone,
and our defense is sure.
Before the hills in order stood,or earth received her frame,
from everlasting thou art God,
to endless years the same.
A thousand ages in thy sight
are like an evening gone;
Short as the watch that ends the night
before the rising sun.
Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
bears all its sons away;
They fly, forgotten, as a dream
dies at the opening day.
O God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Be thou our guide while troubles last,
and our eternal home!
***
From the musical, “Carousel”…
When you walk through a storm,
Hold your head up high,
And don't be afraid of the dark,
At the end of the storm is a golden sky.
And the sweet silver song of a lark.
Walk on through the wind,
Walk on through the rain,
Tho' your dreams be tossed and blown,
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart,
And you'll never walk alone.
You'll never walk alone!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=480dD5WzdvA
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)