a new/old earthy contemplation...

Most nights I cook for our wee family: Di works teaching English to students overseas in the morning and evening - and does a ton of writing and editing during the day - so I get to be chief cook and bottle washer. It is a monastic task, I should add, I have always aspired to. Sr. Joan Chittister writes in The Rule of Benedict: Insights for the Ages:

In The Sayings of the (Jewish) Fathers, it is written: "It is wise to work as well as to study the Torah; between the two you will forget to sin." To make sure we don not forget that humble work is as sacred and sanctifying as prayer, Benedict blesses the kitchen servers of the week in the middle of the chapel. With that simple but powerful gesture all of life begins to look different for everyone. Suddenly it is not made up of 'higher' and 'lower' activities anymore. It is all - manual labor and mystical meditation - on straight beam of light on the road to fullness of humanity. One activity without the other, prayer without the creative and compassionate potential of work or work without the transcending quality of prayer, lists heavily to the empty side of life... Prayer is not for its own sake and the world of manual work is not a lesser world than the chapel.

In the early days of pastoral ministry I cherished cooking a LOT simply so that I could have the experience of the fruit of my labor: as a novice pastor I learned to bake bread as well as prepare various Indian and Mexican vegetarian dishes. As time ripened, I forgot a great deal of those early lessons. But now, on the other side of serving as a pastor, I'm back to the kitchen and garden and loving it. Last night's fare included fatoosh - my favorite Lebanese salad made with fresh cilantro, flat leaf parsley, romaine lettuce, tomatoes, mint, cucumbers, sumac, olive oil, lemon juice and pita chips - along with a Greek chicken skillet creation slathered in lemons. Cooking and gardening continue to be an act of love and prayer for me if I don't rush. I must also intentionally hold up my loved ones during the preparation. Like the late William Stringfellow used to tell his friends in East Harlem right before his weekend feasts: No more prayers are required for I've been praying over this meal all day long as a labor of love. Let's enjoy the blessings and let the feasting commence!

Maintaining our fresh herb garden - and some cukes and tomatoes that will be ready in another few weeks - is a way for me to embody small acts of love everyday. It is also a way for me to stay grounded in what is real. As one who lives inside his head a great deal, part of my road towards balance demands that the words become flesh. It is practice in trusting that everything is holy. Brother Lawrence in The Practice of the Presence of God wrote: 

We ought not to be weary of doing little things for the love of God, who regards not the greatness of the work, but the love with which it is performed... (God) does not ask much of us, merely a thought of Him from time to time, a little act of adoration, sometimes to ask for (God's) grace, sometimes to offer your sufferings, at other times to thank Him for the graces, past and present, He has bestowed on you... Lift up your heart to God during your meals and in company; the least little remembrance will always be the most pleasing for we need not cry out very loudly; (God) is nearer to us than we think.

I spent an hour weeding yesterday afternoon and will spend another few hours washing floors today. There is nothing romantic or flashy about either of these tasks. Nothing. They are necessary, however, if I want my plants to have the space and nutrition to become their best selves and for our home to be a place of hospitality. These occasions afford me time to think and pray for those I love. They bring an extended time of silence. And, if I am paying attention, they offer a wonderful simple beauty, too. Gardening and cooking - along with spiritual reading - have now my contemplative practices rather than just the regular study of the lectionary that once filled my days. The simpler and more balanced way of being reinforces what Herman Hesse once wrote in Siddhartha: "soft is stronger than hard, water is stronger than rock, and love is stronger than force."  

What's more, these times of extended manual labor and reflection help me discern the connections that exist that I so easily miss when I'm rushing and fussing. Not that I am really any good at such mindfulness, mind you. I have a well nourished monkey-mind that flits all over the place and always finds a resting place in anxiety. Still, there are moments... Yesterday, after being worn out by the sun, I sat at my desk with a cold beer only to come upon this poem by Carrie Newcomer:

Note to Self When Walking (Because I Forget)

When walking in the woods,
Or on a path,
Or down the street,
In a store,
Or just upstairs,
When you are intent on going,
Where ever it is you are going,
Stop.
Stand still.

Notice how the mind can chatter,
Like purple finches in the trees,
Endlessly clicking and warbling,
Rising and falling and rising again.
Notice all your plans and longings,
All the things you got, but didn’t want,
All you wanted, and didn’t get,
All the circular conversations aimed at changing,
What was already said or unsaid.
Notice all the losses you are carrying,
With as much grace as you can muster.

Notice the sky, the feel of the air on your skin,
The sounds or what hangs in the silence,
The hard knot in your throat.
Notice all these things and more,
Because there is always more.
Then let your heart open,
Even just a crack,
A dribble or a dam break,
It doesn’t matter.
Because it is in that opening,
You’ll find a clear space
The one you keep finding
And losing
And finding again.

Remember to love it all,
All of it.
Hold hands and high five
With what’s easy and dear,
Ephemeral and brilliantly ordinary.
Wrap compassion like a blanket
The kind we place tenderly,
Around other people’s shoulders,
When the disaster is done and the worst is over.
Love it all,
Without looking for any way out,
Not condoning, just allowing,
For it all to just live,
Where it lives.
Love everything that broke your heart open
That changed you forever,
That made you softer,
And helped you understand,
What you could not have understood otherwise.
Love what you’ve endured,
Love what you are still enduring.
Love the purple finches and the sidewalk,
The view from the upstairs window,
The brambles and wild asters,
And the click of the keyboard.

Love all of this
Small and fragile,
Big and beautiful,
Life.

Then take the next step.

One old friend recently wrote of our garden as my oasis. It is that, indeed, but more, too. It is a sanctuary. A place of silence and listening. A tiny refuge of tenderness, beauty and hospitality for others when they are overwhelmed with the harsh and brutal facts of our days. Sr Joan Chittister shares a Sufi story that rings true: 

An elder told a group of disciples whose heart was set on pilgrimage to "Take this bitter gourd along on the journey. Make sure you dip it into all the holy rivers and bring it into all the holy shrines." When the disciples returned, the bitter gourd was cooked and served. "Strange," said the elder slyly after they had all tasted it, "the holy water and the shrines have failed to sweeten this at all." All the prayer in the world... is fruitless and futile if it does not translate into a life of human community made richer and sweeter by our efforts. Both human connection and prayer, are intertwined - and we may not neglect either.