a lent like no other...

As Lent unfolds during these days of contagion, I have found an unexpected tender solace in my somewhat unfocused, wayward ways of prayer. There have been tears, of course, the magnitude of the Covid 19 pandemic warrants nothing less than honest lament. And I have had my moments of terrifying anxiety, too. Last night I awoke twice from a sound sleep - once to a nightmare and the other to what can only be called a nocturnal panic attack - but these were prayers every bit as much as the tears of Jesus over the death of his friend Lazarus. They gave me a chance to practice what I preach about centering prayers with my breath:  IN - God of peace - OUT - fill my heart - until there is rest again. There have also been times of deep silence and serenity as well as some furiously embodied prayers while scrubbing the kitchen floor. NOTE: I am a serious practitioner of the "quotidian mysteries." (see Kathleen Norris @ https://www.amazon.com/Quotidian-Mysteries-Laundry-Madeleva-Spirituality/dp/0809138018.)

And poetry. Good Lord have I found poems to speak to my soul. And Bible study as I prepare digital worship with First Congregational Church, Williamstown. As well as two nourishing on-line courses: a novena led by Christine Valters-Painter at the Abbey of the Arts (https://abbeyofthearts.com/programs/online-classes/novena-for-times-of-unraveling/) and the seven week exploration of the spirituality of St. Francis by Richard Rohr at the Center for Action and Contemplation (https://cac.org/online-ed/course-catalog/)

Many of my online friends are entering week number two of isolation and finding it to be a bit of a challenge. They are socially engaged folk with full and public schedules, many in the performing arts, which has all but boarded itself up and shuttered the windows. Quite a dramatic shift in a short time, yes? Dianne and I, on the other hand, are monastic trolls who covet isolation and silence. We were chatting this afternoon about being exhausted - I think the emotional toll is yet to be counted - but not a lot has changed for us. When she started to teach students on-line two years ago, and I departed from active duty in the church, the phone quit ringing, the emails nearly ceased and our little country house became even more of monastery than ever before. We haven't been out for nine days except for walks around the block and the wetlands out back and won't do so again till next Monday's stocking up shopping adventure.

One of the on-line poetic gems that I came across last week from Dori Midnight looks at our new found respect of the hand washing ritual and imbues it with sacramental significance. That resonates with me as I have been quietly singing The Doxology to Louis Bourgeois' Old Hundredth tune six or eight times each day as I keep clean. One of the gems of the Geneva Psalter - also called the Huguenot Psalter of John Calvin - the settings of Les Pseaumes Octante Trois de David taught ordinary people to sing the words of Scripture. I like the way Midnight playfully invites us to do likewise.

We are humans relearning to wash our hands.
Washing our hands is an act of love
Washing our hands is an act of care
Washing our hands is an act that puts the hypervigilant body at ease
Washing our hands helps us return to ourselves by washing away what does not serve.

Wash your hands
like you are washing the only teacup left that your great grandmother carried across the ocean, like you are washing the hair of a beloved who is dying, like you are washing the feet of Grace Lee Boggs, Beyonce, Jesus, your auntie, Audre Lorde, Mary Oliver- you get the picture.
Like this water is poured from a jug your best friend just carried for three miles from the spring they had to climb a mountain to reach.
Like water is a precious resource
made from time and miracle

Wash your hands and cough into your elbow, they say.
Rest more, stay home, drink water, have some soup, they say.
To which I would add: burn some plants your ancestors burned when there was fear in the air,
Boil some aromatic leaves in a pot on your stove until your windows steam up.
Open your windows
Eat a piece of garlic every day. Tie a clove around your neck.
Breathe.

My friends, it is always true, these things.
It has already been time.
It is always true that we should move with care and intention, asking
Do you want to bump elbows instead? with everyone we meet.
It is always true that people are living with one lung, with immune systems that don’t work so well, or perhaps work too hard, fighting against themselves. It is already true that people are hoarding the things that the most vulnerable need.
It is already time that we might want to fly on airplanes less and not go to work when we are sick.

It is already time that we might want to know who in our neighborhood has cancer, who has a new baby, who is old, with children in another state, who has extra water, who has a root cellar, who is a nurse, who has a garden full of elecampane and nettles.
It is already time that temporarily non-disabled people think about people living with chronic illness and disabled folks, that young people think about old people.
It is already time to stop using synthetic fragrances to not smell like bodies, to pretend like we’re all not dying. It is already time to remember that those scents make so many of us sick.
It is already time to not take it personally when someone doesn’t want to hug you.

It is already time to slow down and feel how scared we are.
We are already afraid, we are already living in the time of fires.

When fear arises,
and it will,
let it wash over your whole body instead of staying curled up tight in your shoulders.
If your heart tightens,
contract
and expand.
science says: compassion strengthens the immune system
We already know that, but capitalism gives us amnesia
and tricks us into thinking it’s the thing that protect us
but it’s the way we hold the thing.
The way we do the thing.

Those of us who have forgotten amuletic traditions,
we turn to hoarding hand sanitizer and masks.
we find someone to blame.
we think that will help.
want to blame something?
Blame capitalism. Blame patriarchy. Blame white supremacy.

It is already time to remember to hang garlic on our doors
to dip our handkerchiefs in thyme tea
to rub salt on our feet
to pray the rosary, kiss the mezuzah, cleanse with an egg.
In the middle of the night,
when you wake up with terror in your belly,
it is time to think about stardust and geological time
redwoods and dance parties and mushrooms remediating toxic soil.
it is time
to care for one another
to pray over water
to wash away fear
every time we wash our hands

This is a Lent like no other. I have no idea where it will lead us. I am simply glad to be alive and engaged. I pray I am able to be a part of "the rising" into a new tenderness when we get to the other side. Give yourself a small gift and sit with this stunning setting of "The Deer's Cry (St. Patrick's Breastplate)" as arranged by a genius of our era: Arvo Pärt.