nothing gold can stay...

"May the fertility of silence give life and power to our words and deeds, O Lord, give us hope."  Steven Chase includes this Lenten antiphon in his engaging and informative book: Nature as Spiritual Practice. Incrementally I am making my way through it this fall (and most likely winter, too.) It is both an extended theological meditation on what Scripture in the Judeo-Christian tradition teaches about nature, and, a collection of contemplative practices to lead us deeper into being in nature as an embodied prayer. "Throughout this book," Chase writes, "we will see how Scripture is saturated on virtually every page with the Creator's creation. Yet even people very familiar with Scripture often miss this central role that creation plays. (but) The earth/creation/nature is, in fact, a major character in the drama of God's people." (p. 13) An excerpt from the wisdom book of Job is illustrative:

But ask the animals and they will teach you;

     the birds of the air, and they will tell you;

Ask the plants of the earth, and they will teach you;

     and the fish of the sea and they will declare to you.

Job 12: 7-8

Creation rejoices and mourns - it teaches and evokes silence in our being - it opens our eyes to awe and overwhelms our senses with power. "Creation is inebriated with love, intoxicated with longing and joy, in constant praise for its Creator... it is also a place of mourning as Paul says in Romans 8, actively groaning, in bondage to decay. Perhaps," Chase asks carefully, "this is the very reason - that creation itself is so practiced in mourning - that enables nature to become a place of consolation that so willingly and without condition absorbs human grief, loss and pain." I know this to be true but have never considered that it is one of the intrinsic attributes of nature: God has infused it with a solidarity born of suffering. Certainly this is part of what Wendell Berry discerns in his poem, "The Peace of Wild Things." (Listen to the author read it here:https://onbeing.org/

poetry/the-peace-of-wild-things/)

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, 

I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, 

and the great heron feeds. 

I come into the peace of wild things 

who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence 

of still water. 

And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time 

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Yesterday, try as I might, I was only able to make a small dent in the debris of bracken: my old back just wouldn't/couldn't keep on lifting. So, with a measure of sad resignation, I accepted my limits for the day and called it quits. We hope to find some younger, stronger bodies able to handle the load over the next few weeks. Until then, however, I will chip away at the weeds, vines, rotten wood, and muck that needs to be cleared away. The magnitude of this task is a good mentor in the school of humility: I really do have limits - more and more as I ripen - and tenderness demands that I honor these limits. Chase frames this in a unique way:

Take a closer look around you: what is 'ripe for harvesting?' Another way to put this metaphor plainly is: what do you experience as sacred (ripe) now? How can you be present to creation in both her ecological and sacramental realities? (p. 15)

My friend the sugar maple, queen of the wetlands, continues to speak to me about ripening into the sacred as she matures this fall. In spring, she did the slow work of welcoming the warmth into her roots so that sap might patiently rise up her trunk and into her boughs. Robin Wall Kimmerer suggests in Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teaching of Plants that we can learn when a tree is starting to transition from a winter's rest into the slow work of spring by noticing when the snow has melted around the tree's base. This when the tree tells us spring is really coming. By May in these parts, new leaves have formed and the maple's skeleton is clothed in fine green splendor. Throughout the summer she welcomes our carbon dioxide and returns it with oxygen in a symbiotic relationship that we depend on. And then, after the exuberance of summer has passed, this sugar maple starts to slowly shut down: the sap calmly returns to the core, the leaves lose their chlorophyll, and as they die their true color is revealed. If I am not paying careful attention, I am startled by this dramatic truth as her vibrant yellows seem to show up overnight. 

This year, since I have been photographing her for a while as one of my meditations, I've noticed the subtle changes: the sugar maple is showing me how to be fully present (although I have a LONG ways to go.) Here is what she has shared over the course of just one week.

With our tomato plants hanging upside down in the basement (in the hope that a modest sacred ripening will occur) and our herbs sheltered inside around the sun room, I am starting to practice part of this season's spiritual wisdom: sacred transition. I still must replant the gladiolas bulbs. And turn over the garden bed with a bit of compost. Now I need to walk around the house and plug up two small holes that just scream WELCOME to the field mice before tomorrow's storms. How right did Robert Frost get it when he crafted this poem?

Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower,

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

what is the nature of these trees...

"It is the nature of a stone to be satisfied," wrote Mary Oliver. "It is the nature of a

river to want to be somewhere else." My soul is clearly akin to the river and yet I am currently considering what is the nature of a tree? The wetlands behind our home is filled with these friends as well as marshland, grasses, milkweed, asters, and goldenrod. I can't help but sense that in this season of suspended river living, it is time for me to let these trees become my mentor and ponder their deepest nature.

One resource is Maria Popova: in her on-going, on-line reflections, Brain Pickings, she regular writes about trees - and her insights are inspirational. Weaving together quotes from a wide-ranging cadre of artists alongside her own artistic analysis, Popova shares a weekly prose tapestry that is warm, vibrant, creative, challenging, and eclectic. Where else can you find visual art, poetry, links to in-depth essays and book reviews like this?

“The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing which stands in the way,” William Blake wrote in his most beautiful letter. “As a man is, so he sees.” Walt Whitman saw trees as the wisest of teachers; Hermann Hesse as our mightiest consolation for mortality. Wangari Maathai rooted in them a colossal act of resistance that earned her the Nobel Peace Prize. Poets have elegized their wisdom, artists have drawn from their form resonance with our human emotions, scientists are only just beginning to uncover their own secret language. Robert Macfarlane — a rare enchanter who entwines the scientific and the poetic in his lyrical explorations of the natural world — offers a crowning curio in the canon of wisdom on human life drawn from trees in a passage from Underland: A Deep Time Journey (public library) — his magnificent soul-guided, science-lit tour of the hidden universe beneath our feet.

Popova led me to Herman Hesse's wisdom as well as the musings of Walt Whitman. She has published poems I would never find by myself as well as art that is breath-taking. And she turned me on to Peter Wohlben's The Secret Lives of Trees (arriving later this week) who offers more than a few answers to my question.

Why are trees such social beings? Why do they share food with their own species and sometimes even go so far as to nourish their competitors? The reasons are the same as for human communities: there are advantages to working together. A tree is not a forest. On its own, a tree cannot establish a consistent local climate. It is at the mercy of wind and weather. But together, many trees create an ecosystem that moderates extremes of heat and cold, stores a great deal of water, and generates a great deal of humidity. And in this protected environment, trees can live to be very old. To get to this point, the community must remain intact no matter what. If every tree were looking out only for itself, then quite a few of them would never reach old age. Regular fatalities would result in many large gaps in the tree canopy, which would make it easier for storms to get inside the forest and uproot more trees. The heat of summer would reach the forest floor and dry it out. Every tree would suffer... Every tree, therefore, is valuable to the community and worth keeping around for as long as possible. And that is why even sick individuals are supported and nourished until they recover. Next time, perhaps it will be the other way round, and the supporting tree might be the one in need of assistance.... for a tree can be only as strong as the forest that surrounds it.

Part of their nature, so it would seem, has to do with sustaining community. Trees apparently care for one another. Popova writes that writer Macfarlane: 

Marvels at the slim contour of empty space around each tree’s crown — a

phenomenon known as crown shyness, “whereby individual forest trees respect each other’s space, leaving slender running gaps between the end of one tree’s outermost leaves and the start of another’s.” In this, too, I see a poignant lesson in love, evocative of Rilke and what may be the greatest relationship advice ever committed to words: “I hold this to be the highest task of a bond between two people: that each should stand guard over the solitude of the other.”

Trees also posses a long-view of time. Norman MacLean confessed at the close of A River Runs Through It that he is, "haunted by waters." I am not haunted by rivers - they feed me with their constantly flowing freshness - but I may be haunted by trees. They arrest my attention with their gravitas. They speak to something deep within me about patience, listening, and loving as I age. Their changing colors invite me to pay attention to the spirituality of the season. And trees quietly ask me to stay rooted in caring about the common good. One additional insight from Macfarlane that energizes Popova likewise captures my attention, too:

Lying there among the trees, despite a learned wariness towards anthropomorphism, I find it hard not to imagine these arboreal relations in terms of tenderness, generosity and even love: the respectful distance of their shy crowns, the kissing branches that have pleached with one another, the unseen connections forged by root and hyphae between seemingly distant trees. I remember something Louis de Bernières has written about a relationship that endured into old age: “we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two.” As someone lucky to live in a long love, I recognize that gradual growing-towards and subterranean intertwining; the things that do not need to be said between us, the unspoken communication which can sometimes tilt troublingly towards silence, and the sharing of both happiness and pain. I think of good love as something that roots, not rots, over time, and of the hyphae that are weaving through the ground below me, reaching out through the soil in search of mergings. Theirs, too, seems to me then a version of love’s work.

I spent sometime yesterday afternoon clearing bracken from the wetlands closest to our garden. I am heading out to do so again soon for the grapevine and bramble threaten to choke other more tender-hearted flora. When my aching back would summon me to quit, I would take a few minutes just to soak in the view behind me where the aspen, sugar maples, birch, and pine trees put on a show mixing yellows and reds with orange and green. For a variety of reasons, our social interaction will continue to be limited for at least another year. Neither of us is prepared to venture far from home until a vaccination is part of everyday life. These hills and trees are starting to tell me that now is the time to grow where I have been planted. As fall unfolds, I'm going to slowly learn more about the nature of the trees all around me - and listen carefully to what they want me to know.

sabbath grace...

As noted many times before, autumn is my favorite time of year. yes it often feels a bit melancholy, but that can be sweet, too. After this morning's live-streaming, I spent a while cutting back the bracken in the wetlands. There is much more to do but my old back could only take so much. And when I looked up from my labors, I saw my old friend had continued to ripen. After a long nap, Di and I sat out on the deck for a late tea with oat bannocks and soaked up the beauty. W.S. Merwin expressed his encounters with the light of September like this:

When you are already here
you appear to be only
a name that tells of you
whether you are present or not.

and for now it seems as though
you are still summer
still the high familiar
endless summer
yet with a glint
of bronze in the chill mornings
and the late yellow petals
of the mullien fluttering
on the stalks that lean
over their broken
shadows across the cracked ground

but they all know
that you have come
the seed heads of the sage
the whispering birds
with nowhere to hide you
to keep you for later

you
who fly with them

you who are neither
before nor after
you who arrive
with blue plums
that have fallen through the night
perfect in the dew

Two days ago, when I first noticed what may be a sugar maple, she was just starting to respond to the frost.

Today, her beauty looks like this.

And there is more grandeur to come. A poem by Mark Doty gets it right tonight.

Grateful for their tour
of the pharmacy,
the first-grade class
has drawn these pictures,
each self-portrait taped
to the window-glass,
faces wide to the street,
round and available,
with parallel lines for hair.

I like this one best: Brian,
whose attenuated name
fills a quarter of the frame,
stretched beside impossible
legs descending from the ball
of his torso, two long arms
springing from that same
central sphere. He breathes here,

on his page. It isn’t craft
that makes this figure come alive;
Brian draws just balls and lines,
in wobbly crayon strokes.
Why do some marks
seem to thrill with life,
possess a portion
of the nervous energy
in their maker’s hand?

That big curve of a smile
reaches nearly to the rim
of his face; he holds
a towering ice cream,
brown spheres teetering
on their cone,
a soda fountain gift
half the length of him
—as if it were the flag

of his own country held high
by the unadorned black line
of his arm. Such naked support
for so much delight! Artless boy,
he’s found a system of beauty:
he shows us pleasure
and what pleasure resists.
The ice cream is delicious.
He’s frail beside his relentless standard.

exhausted by the carping, self-righteousness of the left and the callous manipulation of the right 40 days before the election...

NOTE: Since retiring from public life I have tended not to offer political commentary. My work has been small: as a volunteer with L'Arche, as a spiritual director, as a grandfather and part-time musician. This reflection steps beyond my current restraints in the hope that, like Dan Rather, another perspective might be useful.

Since the death of Notorious RBG of blessed memory I have heard a great deal of genuine grief and sadness. For so many reasons, this encounter with loss resonates with me as Ginsberg not only advanced the cause of equal rights for women, she brought dignity, class, humor, intelligence together with a wise awareness of timing. She was a master of what the old Democratic Socialists used to call working from the left wing of the possible. For these gifts, I return thanks to God and mourn her departure from our fracture body politic.

There has also been a boatload of carping, whining, self-righteous posturing, and self-pity coming out of the Left alongside the calculated, muscle-flexing bravado of those on the Right. This blathering is disingenuous. Did people NOT know Justice Ginsberg was old and riddled with cancer? Have we become so mathematically challenged as to be unable to count Republican votes in the Senate? It all strikes me as an ugly caricature of how politics can pursue the common good but no longer does. Sadly, those on the Left appear addicted to doing the same old song and dance mime of liberal kabuki theater as they act the part of wounded and betrayed political innocents. Those on the Right publicly look shocked at being called out for stacking the Court with ideological lap dogs. They prevented President Obama's nominee from even the courtesy of a hearing 9 months before the 2016 election. And now claim only to be following the rule of law allowed by the Constitution. Privately, they're smirking in the shadows because once again they've outstrategized their opponents. 

All of this disgusts me, but what I find galling is the feigned shock of those who should know better. Back in 1944, Reinhold Niebuhr hit the nail on the head in his Children of Light, Children of Darkness saying out loud what many of us still refuse to acknowledge.

The consistent optimism of our liberal culture has prevented modern democratic societies both from gauging the perils of freedom accurately and from appreciating democracy fully as the only alternative to injustice and oppression. When this optimism is not qualified to accord with the real and complex facts of human nature and history, there is always a danger that sentimentality will give way to despair and that a too consistent optimism will alternate with a too consistent pessimism.

That is to say, the children of darkness know how to play for keeps: they are ruthless, cruel, and strategically smarter than the so-called children of light who consistently fail to accept the brokenness of human nature when it comes to politics. What Niebuhr knew all too well is that some engage in power only to win without any regard for the common good. Their self-interest is clear, well-defined and, to paraphrase what Chuck Colson once said about his loyalty to Richard Nixon, they will run over their grandmother if it will help them maintain their power. Liberals are besotted with sentimentality that causes progressives to choke when faced with naked power. They are uncomfortable with the ethical murkiness of such combat and try to play nice rather than advance the goals of their cause. And while I believe in the liberal democratic agenda, I also know it is more about the lesser of various evils than purity. The insights of Niebuhr continue to be necessary: "Man's (sic) capacity for justice makes democracy possible, but man's (sic) inclination to injustice makes democracy necessary." The art of politics - and war - is a balancing act requiring regular times of confession so that humility is always brought to the table. Without this, it is all too easy for us to forget our shadow side and believe our own public relations campaigns. 

In the fight to control the Supreme Court, it is absurd to think that the current Republican Party would act in a noble or fair manner. As one ex-Republican strategist, Stuart Smith, writes in his confession, It Was All a Lie: How the Republican Party Became Donald Trump, since 1968 Republicans have cultivated and courted America's (sometimes) closeted white nationalist vote for their own advantage. These technocratic financiers at the top did not share the values or goals of the wounded white working class, but were willing to manipulate them to win. Of course, they turned a blind eye to the vulgar and ugly racism of the masses. Beyond a doubt, they did not care if some people of color where hurt or even killed as collateral damage. Such are the sad consequences of war and playing to win. In time, however, this Faustian bargain with America's racist minority overwhelmed those at the top as the fringe became the core and the zealots devoured all moderation. 

Tragically, as this was happening, most of our mainstream liberals refused to see what was true for black and brown people, women of all ages and races as well as the LGBTQ community, and alienated white working people. They turned a blind eye to the cruel madness being cultivated by the Republican center. And when they awoke in November 2016 to the fact that American politics had become what we hated, it was too late. So let us not forget that one of the reasons it was too late is because progressive types confused their own questionable ethical purity when the challenge was winning part of the battle. They sacrificed the good for the perfect forgetting or not knowing that politics is ALWAYS about the good and NEVER about the perfect. Bernie Bros, Jill Stein-heads, Ralph Nader clones: who cares what you call them? They all opted out because HRC was tainted. The Left regularly does this: think of their halfhearted support of LBJ - remember their whimper "Part of the way with LBJ?" - or their absence when HHH needed them the most? Pete Townsend likes to scream: "Meet the new boss - same as the old boss"- but that is mostly self-righteous bullshit. 

How did St. Paul put it in his letter to the Romans? "None of us are righteous (meaning just and compassionate.) No, not one. We have ALL sinned and fallen short of the glory of God." That so many traditional Republicans are finally bailing in the hopes that the Trump regime goes down in flames in 40 days is one sign that humility matters in politics. So does striving towards the common good and listening to those who disagree with us. And bending over backwards to find common ground. Niebuhr grasped that honest politicians realize that the unintended consequences of our best plans are often ugly - and while we can't predict what they are - we can make contingency plans to clean up the messes we make. That is what distinguishes Joe Biden, in my opinion, from Donald Trump. Trump is a fascist riddled with pathological narcissism and limited intelligence. Biden is a time-tested, middle of the road liberal who has made tons of mistakes in the past - and tries to humbly own and redress them in the present. One is an historic swindler, the other a life-long politician looking for compromises and common ground. Given this moment in time, there is no contest that Biden is not only a better human being and wiser politician, he is the right man for the job when it comes to restoring a bit of integrity to the quest for power. Niebuhr put it like this:

Nothing that is worth doing can be achieved in our lifetime; therefore we must be saved by hope. Nothing which is true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore we must be saved by faith. Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore we must be saved by love. No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as it is from our standpoint. Therefore we must be saved by the final form of love which is forgiveness.

rambling thoughts on a stunning september morning...

"Being a monk in the world means for me to live slowly in a fast-paced culture, to treasure the gift of 'being' in a world that says my value comes from 'doing,' to linger over life's moments, and recognize that what I seek most deeply is already here waiting to be revealed."
(Dr. Christine Valters Paintner, Sacred Seasons: A Yearlong Journey through the Celtic Wheel of the Year - A Self-Study Online Retreat)

This quote resonates with my soul - and my world, too during this season of solitude and contagion - a monk in the world. In our semi-cloistered secular context, where interaction with the world is mostly virtual, I take comfort in communing with a tree in the wetlands behind our house. This morning I noticed she is starting to radiate colors beyond her regular vibrant green.

Over the course of this week, she will suddenly shine with a golden hue that seems to pulsate. This is a most remarkable tree and I cherish her annual journey of transformation. It is a small sign of stability amidst our current social, spiritual, political, and ecological chaos.

As I gazed upon the wetlands this morning, taking in its changes and watching the various birds coast among the trees, I realized that my eyes were praying in the spirit of gratitude. That happens sometimes: part of me beyond my conscious mind returns thanks to God spontaneously. Perhaps you've sensed this, too? At times it is my voice - and I discover I'm singing in thanksgiving. Other times it is my hands - especially while digging in the garden. Savoring a blueberry muffin or some excellent hot tea, it is my mouth and tongue singing praise. And certainly my ears regular celebrate the grandeur of creation as one song after another touches my heart. Currently, I am loving one that comes from the Community of Iona's rendering of a South African tune:  Come Bring Your Burdens to God:

I don't know about you, but at least right now, I find I am hungry for signs of God's loving presence in the world. Fr. Richard Rohr recently encouraged us to intentionally shut down any obsession/addiction with the 24/7 news cycles by prayerfully limiting our intake to no more than 60 minutes of so-called information total each day. That includes smart phone updates, radio/internet streaming as well as TV. As the US lurches toward the November election, what passes for news will become increasingly sensational and troubling. Call it self-care or contemplative discernment, but I feel the need to follow the good friar's advice. Jesus was not kidding when he told us in the Sermon on the Mount:

So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? Therefore do not worry, saying, ‘What will we eat?’ or ‘What will we drink?’ or ‘What will we wear?’ For it is the Gentiles who strive for all these things; and indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But strive first for the kingdom of God and God's

righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.

I spent a little time this morning singing through the tunes we'll use this afternoon

at the L'Arche Ottawa Friday Zoom prayer gathering. Currently our theme has to do with being on a spiritual journey. In addition to the South African song, we'll sing "Prends ma vie" (take my hands, Lord) and "Bless the Lord my soul" (a Taize favorite.) The community will celebrate various anniversaries, lift one another up in spontaneous prayer and I will offer this short homily.

TEXT: Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, his face shone like the sun, his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. Then Peter said to Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.” And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone. (Matthew 17: 1-8)

REFLECTION: Our whole lives are a journey of spirit and flesh. Knowing this helps me accept that I don’t have to have it all figured out right now. Or ever. In fact, I can’t grasp the fullness of God’s love in my life except by living it fully, pausing to listen for clues along the way, and trusting that when my race is run God will embrace me with love forever. God’s grace encourages me to learn from my failings and fears as well as my gifts and joys.

Peter, James, and John in today’s reading remind us of ourselves. Jesus invites them up the mountain with him for prayer. Whenever mountains show up in the Bible, it’s our clue to pay attention: they are symbols that important insights from God, like the Ten Commandments or the Sermon on the Mount, are coming. Jesus and his friends have a mystical mountain top experience where Jesus speaks with the fathers of Judaism about faith. Moses led Jewish slaves out of Egypt and received the Ten Commandments from God, and, Elijah was a holy prophet who welcomed the wounded of the world into God’s loving community. As this extraordinary prayer ends, Peter is so happy he shouts: “Let’s stay up on the mountain, Jesus. I’ll build us shelter so we can be with Moses and Elijah forever.” You may recall that Jesus liked to call his friend Petras – the Rock in Greek – because Peter’s feelings often carried him away like a stone rolling down a hill. “Slow down,” Jesus replied, “we have important work to do down in the valley, too.” To make sure Peter understands, the voice of the Lord proclaims: “Jesus is my Beloved. Listen to him.” This terrified the disciples who fell to the ground, hid their faces, and trembled. When the darkness and fear passed, they looked up and saw Jesus only.

Our spiritual journeys are much like Peter’s: we know excitement as well as fear and confusion – and sometimes we get carried away, too. To stay grounded, we’re asked to look to Jesus. He leads us up the mountains for refreshment and back down to the valleys for love and service. He never scolds when we’re afraid or confused, but quietly invites us to trust God’s love. By trust, we don’t have to “get” it all right now. St. Paul liked to say, “Now we see as through a glass darkly, later we shall see face to face.” By trust we know that God will go with us in love on the mountains of life as well as the valleys. And when our journey is over, God will shower us with grace forever.

Two recent quotes caught my attention after reviewing the homily. The first comes from St. Fred Rogers of the Neighborhood who said: "Our society is much more interested in information than wonder, in noise than silence... and we need much more wonder and silence in our lives." The other is from a Jungian therapist, Leya Aylin, who wrote:

When there is no cure yet to be found, no solution in sight, no help coming over the horizon, when there are no techniques, no teachings, no rulebooks to guide you, when the comforts of false hope and guarantees are gone, along with any promise that you’ll make it to the other side, when healing or transcendence or miracles have not come and the only way out is through the flames, the smoke, the rising water, the heartache, the despair, when there is nothing left to hold onto… hold on. 

Although no one may applaud you or call you heroic or see what heart, what soul, what bravery it takes, although there are no books to read on "The Power of Hanging In There" and really no advice on how to do it (just that still small voice within) although you won’t see it romanticized or spiritualized or as a goal on any vision board probably anywhere, although you may be filled with hopelessness and grief and fear, and only barely able to keep on, don’t be fooled, sometimes the soul’s most vital, most courageous, most sacred, and most difficult task is to just hold on.

And I was able to complete my Sunday, "Small is Holy" notes for the live stream reflection, too. It is a meditation on the wisdom, voice, presence, and power of our rivers. Using poetry and song, biblical interpretation and silence, my focus will be upon how I have learned to listen and respond to the insights of our river., the might Housatonic. This prayer/poem by Jan Richardson speaks to what I am trying to say - and while she uses the metaphor of a road - and I am looking to a river - the similarities are striking.

THE HARDEST BLESSING
If we cannot
lay aside the wound,
then let us say
it will not always
bind us.

Let us say
the damage
will not eternally
determine our path.

Let us say
the line of our life
will not always travel
along the places
we are torn.

Let us say
that forgiveness
can take some practice,
can take some patience,
can take a long
and struggling time.

Let us say
that to offer
the hardest blessing,
we will need
the deepest grace;
that to forgive
the sharpest pain,
we will need
the fiercest love;
that to release
the ancient ache,
we will need
new strength
for every day.

Let us say
the wound
will not be
our final home—

that through it
runs a road,
a way we would not
have chosen
but on which
we will finally see
forgiveness,
so long practiced,
coming toward us,
shining with the joy
so well deserved.

a frost arrives as our souls seek consolation...

It looks as if our short growing season has ended: there was a frost while we were

in Brooklyn and the basil is dead and the tomatoes look pretty withered, too. I'm going to try that old New England gardener's trick of bringing the tomato stalks inside, hanging them upside down, and waiting for the fruit to ripen. It worked like gang busters last year and is worth a shot today as well. Upon returning, I quickly retrieved the undamaged plants where they now surround us in the sun room to rest in its warmth for the next seven months.

In the wetlands, the grapevines are currently bringing a lush maroon. The drought is contributing to the rapid arrival of deep browns as well while the golden rod struggles to share her contrast of saffron. All that's missing from perfection is sister aster's violet wonders - a sight that fills my heart with joy - but that will have to wait until next year. Somehow we missed finding wild asters to plant this spring so we'll just have to enjoy the blessings that have been given. Which is, it seems to me, both the essence and point of embodied prayer, yes? 

Listening this moring to Pádraig Ó Tuama's reflection on Patrick Kavanagh's earthy poem, "The One," I couldn't help but gaze upon the wisdom on display just beyond our deck. In its own autumn splendor, the wetlands pulsates in sync with the words the Irishman wrote:

Green, blue, yellow and red-
God is down in the swamps and marshes
Sensational as April and almost incred-
ible the flowering of our catharsis.
A humble scene in a backward place
Where no one important ever looked
The raving flowers looked up in the face
Of the One and the Endless, the Mind that has baulked
The profoundest of mortals. A primrose, a violet,
A violent wild iris- but mostly anonymous performers
Yet an important occasion as the Muse at her toilet
Prepared to inform the local farmers
That beautiful, beautiful, beautiful God
Was breathing His love by a cut-away bog.

Yesterday, the wise Diana Butler Bass wrote about the arc of American messianic fervor in both our politics and our religion. It was part of her personal response to the death of Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg and the reactions her death is causing throughout the nation. Clearly, the Notorious RBG inspired hope for many. She was a righteous warrior for women's equality and a champion of integrity in her public and private life. Bass noted that Ginsberg's death has opened the door of dread for many: in a season saturated with anxiety and cruelty, a time where any hint of autonomy has been erased from our lives, many among us are heart sick. We counted on Ginsberg to hold back the tide of hatred, white supremacy, Christian triumphalism in our politics, and this regime's continued war on women. And now she is gone. What Bass then shared deserves an extended quote not only for its clarity, but also for its corrective insight:

In recent decades, American politics has turned increasingly messianic. Instead of politics being about compromise, the art of the possible, and enlarging freedom and equality, it has become about ideological purity, institutional takeovers, and charismatic saviors. Our nation is now less religious about religion, and more religious about politics. American politics has always had a religious tone - a substitute perhaps for having no state church. But its piety waxes and wanes. For most of the twentieth century, politics was largely secular, with vague references to being a “Judeo-Christian” nation. 

That changed around 1980, with the rise of the religious right and the election of Ronald Reagan. Fundamentalists invested messianic hope into the presidency, bringing evangelical fervor and their specific biblical hopes to the White House. Jesus might save us for heaven, but Reagan would save us from high taxes, feminism, and Communists - and he’d save millions and millions of unborn babies, too. The presidency took on a new mythology, including the power to control or destroy lives, with escalating pretensions to divinity, like an American king sitting at the right hand of God.

The influence of fundamentalist politics isn’t just about issues. It is also about leadership - and what we look for in leaders. Although Republicans and conservatives have long sought savior-politicians, liberals and progressives slowly embraced the messianic presidency as well - and now perhaps a messianic Senate and a messianic judiciary, too. In recent years, primaries and general elections resemble theological crusades or religious battles, almost a war between the gods, where losers are treated like captives or must be destroyed. (This is not a “both-sides-ism” thing, this is an observation.) We don’t just want decent leaders. We want leaders who will save us from an apocalypse and punish our enemies.

I share this in the context of Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s death because I fear we turned her into a savior. She was smart, bold, and heroic, and she was an increasingly frail woman whom we burdened with our fears. We needed her to live 45 more days. But death came for her - as it comes to all of us - at the most inopportune of times. Because, of course, none of us is a Messiah. She couldn’t be ours. 

Justice Ginsburg was a human being, an incredible woman of valor. And her passing can remind us that while there are no political saviors, we all can work to save the world. God alone saves. Yet, we, fragile humans that we are, do the work we are given to do - whether as lawyers or politicians or preachers or teachers or doctors or florists or writers or waiters or clerks. And we do our part for the common good. When we do what we are called to do well, wherever we are called to do it, with courage and grace, we contribute to the healing, the salvus (the word salvation comes from the Latin word “to heal”) of the world, what the Jewish tradition refers to as “repairing” the universe. God is the Savior, the Healer, the Great Physician, the Comforter. But we help save - as repairers of the breach, the bringers of peace and grace, the seekers of a more just world..

I am profoundly grateful for these words. They restore a measure of clarity to our

quest for mercy, justice, beauty and compassion in 21st century America. So much of our cultural/political anxiety is rooted in our misplaced messianism. Our desire for a more perfect union is not wrong, but our warped understanding of how it comes to pass is. In fact, it is debilitating for it deludes us with false promises that can never be reallized. A healthy spirituality celebrates that we are co-creators with the holy in repairing the breach. To which Bass writes in a manner like a recent reflections from Fr. Richard Rohr that now we must renew our commitment to nourishing gratitude within and among us.

Ruth Bader Ginsburg was one of us. An extraordinary example of work well done, of standing in the gap between injustice and justice, and of dedication to the whole human family. Not a savior but a co-worker, a sister standing in a long line of courage. The temptation is to look for a king - or queen - when what we really need is the beloved community, each one doing his or her or their part in turn. Doing good work. Sometimes we are on the winning side; often we find ourselves in the dissent. And so? After this sad and shocking weekend, and knowing that many sad and shocking days lie ahead, I find myself making room for gratitude and remembering that I can - and must - do my part. Each night ask yourself a question before sleep: Where did I find gratitude today? One thing, two, perhaps three. Scribble the answer in a notebook. No dissertation, just a few words. Or gather a of couple friends in a gratitude group text - and share your daily gratitudes with them.

Let me add part of what Rohr wrote, too as it amplifies and deepens the blessings and clarity that Bass commends. Rohr writes that Psalm 62 is one source that grounds him in grace during these challenging times:

In God alone is my soul at rest.
God is the source of my hope.
In God I find shelter, my rock, and my safety.
Men are but a puff of wind,
Men who think themselves important are a delusion.
Put them on a scale,
They are gone in a puff of wind. (Psalm 62:5–9)

What could it mean to find rest like this in a world such as ours? Every day more and more people are facing the catastrophe of extreme weather. The neurotic news cycle is increasingly driven by a single narcissistic leader whose words and deeds incite hatred, sow discord, and amplify the daily chaos. The pandemic that seems to be returning in waves continues to wreak suffering and disorder with no end in sight, and there is no guarantee of the future in an economy designed to protect the rich and powerful at the expense of the poor and those subsisting at the margins of society.

It’s no wonder the mental and emotional health among a large portion of the American population is in tangible decline! We have wholesale abandoned any sense of truth, objectivity, science or religion in civil conversation; we now recognize we are living with the catastrophic results of several centuries of what philosophers call nihilism or post-modernism (nothing means anything, there are no universal patterns).

He goes on to ask that we learn to become "sentries at the door of our senses" in the months to come. Quoting the poet Yeats in "The Second Coming," Rohr gets it right by confessing that ours is a time when it feels like:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Somehow our occupation and vocation as believers in this sad time must be to first restore the Divine Center by holding it and fully occupying it ourselves. If contemplation means anything, it means that we can “safeguard that little piece of You, God,” as Etty Hillesum describes it. What other power do we have now? All else is tearing us apart, inside and out, no matter who wins the election or who is on the Supreme Court. We cannot abide in such a place for any length of time or it will become our prison.

God cannot abide with us in a place of fear.
God cannot abide with us in a place of ill will or hatred.
God cannot abide with us inside a nonstop volley of claim and counterclaim.
God cannot abide with us in an endless flow of online punditry and analysis.
God cannot speak inside of so much angry noise and conscious deceit.
God cannot be found when all sides are so far from “the Falconer.”
God cannot be born except in a womb of Love.
So offer God that womb.

Stand as a sentry at the door of your senses for these coming months, so “the blood-dimmed tide” cannot make its way into your soul... If you will allow, I recommend for your spiritual practice for the next four months that you impose a moratorium on exactly how much news you are subject to—hopefully not more than an hour a day of television, social media, internet news, magazine and newspaper commentary, and/or political discussions. It will only tear you apart and pull you into the dualistic world of opinion and counter-opinion, not Divine Truth, which is always found in a bigger place. Instead, I suggest that you use this time for some form of public service, volunteerism, mystical reading from the masters, prayer—or, preferably, all of the above. 

I was struck by how both Bass and Rohr realized they were being called by reality into the role of public pastor. I have been wrestling with this as well since the start of the pandemic. That is why I persist in my weekly live streaming on Face Book each Sunday morning. (Check it out @ https://www.facebook.com/Be-Still-and-Know-913217865701531) This strange invitation to articulate both comfort and strategic engagement in our broken culture has been complicated by lives shaped by quarantine in the pandemic. And yet even this has created a chance to include others beyond a small circle of friends given the necessity of virtual interaction. So let us move forward with grounded hearts and stable souls. As the great mystics of every tradition insist: in this we have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

      

walking slowly through the contagion as autumn arrives...

Post-bubble observations on our short trip to Brooklyn: being away from the security of our garden home for the first time in 6+ months has been eye-opening. That RBG of blessed memory passed from this realm during our away time added another layer of gravitas to the whole experience. Like Parker Palmer I, too believe that we shall find the best political response in the days to come. Cold, cruel, and calculating strategies - while necessary - are not what the heart calls for right now. Indeed, they strip away even more of our wounded humanity. Just look at how Senator McConnell and 45 act: vulgar, ruthless, and cruel. And while I have little room for the whining of the Democrats who cry, "Not fair. Not fair!" (as if anything in the rough and tumble realm of politics is fair) I sense it is best to simply grieve one of the noble yet flawed souls of our generation and let that be enough for the time being. 

This is not the end of the world. It is a sign that our system is wounded: hope and integrity should never come down to the well-being of a single person. AOC was clear that RNG's death points out some of the flaws in our imperfect union as well as the emotional and strategic fragility of so many good-hearted people.I get tears right now. Disappointment and shock resonate with me, too. But not the exaggerated apocalyptic wailing I have witnessed since Friday night. So, let us do our own personal and collective grief work and listen for the wisdom of time-tested elders who have faced even greater woes. As I noted in last night's abbreviated "Small is Holy" live stream: there is much to be learned from our First Nations, black and brown neighbors, and allies in the LGBTQ community re: facing challenges with integrity, realism, compassion, as we trust that God's way is always greater than our limited perspective. Just take a listen to the way the Poor People's Campaign Choir renders "Hold On" for a clue concerning what is necessary at this moment in time.

While we were in Brooklyn last weekend enjoying the blessings of our children and grandchildren, a few truths about our new reality took on shape and form for me. While buying hummus and tahinni at our favorite Sahadi's - and a few spinach pies, too - the young clerk moved with slow and careful deliberation. This was partially due to his gloves and mask, but not entirely: he clearly wanted to get his work done in a safe, healthy, and clean manner. As I watched him move at what felt like a snail's pace, however, I became aware of just how riddled with impatience I am. I returned thanks to God for this feeling silently because it showed me yet again my profound addiction to speed. For decades I've preached the restoration of mindfulness - the necessity of slowing down as one counter-cultural way of sharing soul food with our hungry hearts and cultivating compassion - and there I was feeling as if my time was being wasted by a conscientious young man doing his best to keep us both safe. Yes, grasshopper, the Buddha DOES arrive when the student is ready! Taking another deep breath I felt a bit of gratitude as this retail Bodhisattva ministered the healing of humility to my inner restlessness. 

Our daughter said that "planning" is the biggest change she and her small family have felt in this new era of contagion: do we have the proper outside protective gear; am I ready for the demands of tomorrow; what is essential for teaching on-line; how can we keep the young ones engaged, happy, and safe in isolation; who is doing what shopping when; where is the car parked (given the family moratorium on mass transit); has our bubble been kept well enough for our folks to visit; and when was the bathroom thoroughly cleaned as a precaution for their arrival? None of us live in the realm of spontaneity any longer. No one can really just get up and go for where these old ways prevail, the virus is spiking and people are dying. The way of love now requires much more time, creative and insightful planning for all ages, and the necessity of doing more with less.

Taking a road trip after 6+ months of isolation felt like a genuine treat. Our

old safety valve of "getting out of Dodge" for brief adventures has been on hold like the rest of America. Watching the different terrains roll by was joy-filled. Noticing the use of masks throughout rural NY was encouraging. Same too with the PPE on the streets in Brooklyn. Slowly street life is returning for the young. It is not yet clear that this will be a blessing. For while most folk were well covered and protected, they were hardly practicing social distancing. Our son-in-law said there are a lot more street vendors lining the avenues than before the lock down. I was awed by the various face masks on sale - works of art as well as cut-rate paper masks as well - everything from the Virgin of Guadalupe to GO BIDEN. There is a peculiar genius in all of this as hard-working people find a way to make the best of the contagion. I saw this in Poland back in the days of Marshall Law under communism: the official state was cold, grey, and harsh while ordinary people sold wildly colored flowers on the street and turned postage stamp back yards into bold gardens filled with color and vegetables. The down-side of this in our realm is the outrageous prices being charged to the insurance companies for covid testing: for a quick test some fees are $1400 each. We never miss the opportunity to turn a disaster into a way to grab a quick buck.

Our outing to the beach as a delight. Besides baking in the sun, Riis Park was essentially empty. Our grandchildren could play freely in the sand while the adults soaked up the beauty and sounds of the sea. Our Brooklyn family has mastered the art of beach fun with appropriate chairs, well-planned picnics, and a willingness to chill in one spot for four hours at a time. It was restorative for me to play with Louie and Anna,. Same, too for feasting and gabbing with Jesse and Mike. and I learned a little more about our new reality while walking these old streets with new eyes. Riding home, the leaves in NY State and Western MA are starting to turn. Apparently we had a frost while away because our basil plants on the deck are now thoroughly wilted. We hustled the peppers and other vulnerable friends inside after picking Lucie up from the kennel. And now we are started to settle back in for another long haul of solitude as the fall ripens. My heart drifts towards Mary Oliver's insights in her "Song for Autumn."

Don’t you imagine the leaves dream now
how comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of the air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees, especially those with
mossy hollows, are beginning to look for

the fires that will come—six, a dozen—to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
stiffens and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its long blue shadows. The wind wags
its many tails. And in the evening
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

can we become outposts of hope and compassion?

 Today's "Small is Holy" live stream and Eucharist.

maybe leaving the bubble?

From the We Shall See Department: perhaps we will venture beyond our very safe bubble this week? For 6+ months we have not gone beyond our well defined safety zone. We have ONLY visited with family keep strict social distancing guidelines and masks and/or making certain our safety bubble was intact for at least two weeks (plus some covid testing!) Now, it may come to pass that we venture more outside of all of this and take a small Sunset Park flat for a few days to see the family before NYC school starts. I don't know if it will come to pass. There are SO many variables. We'll know by this time tomorrow whether or not we get to reconnect with these dear souls

If it all shakes out, I will post a message re: Sunday's live cast on Face Book. Rather than try to do the gig live from Brooklyn, I think I will simply delay the whole thing until later on Sunday when we return home. But that is up in the air, too. It will be the first time NOT doing "Small Is Holy" in 6+ months, too. should that come to pass. Stay tuned, dear ones, and know I will keep you up to date.

approaching the equinox...

Today is totally fall in New England: blustery but warm winds, sunshine,

plants ripening into reds and browns in the wetlands, end of the season wildflowers waving in the breeze, and my first pot of Pumpkin Chai from David's Teas! About 8 years ago, we discovered this brew while wandering about in Montréal. It is only sold during the autumn so I savor it. When mixed with a bit of maple syrup and milk as per the maker's instructions, it becomes pure ambrosia. I look forward to this moment every years as the season's true kick off. 

Christopher Hill, in his wise and delightful book Holidays and Holy Nights: Celebrating Twelve Seasonal Festivals of the Christian Year, reminds those who care that just as the monastic day "is about responding to the nature of the hour, not working to a schedule," so too the Christian Year. "The proper question is not, what time is it? Rather, we should ask, what is it time for - work or leisure, community or solitude, waking or rest, praying, eating, reading?" This is how our tradition redeems the culture's obsession with its clocks: time "becomes a servant of the holy human pattern."

Within the flow of seasons, we in the north are approaching the autumnal equinox - September 22 - one of two cross quarter points as the sun travels between the summer and winter solstices. Like her spring sister, this equinox evokes balance as both day and night are equal in length. As summer becomes autumn on its way into winter, however, we can't help but be aware of our limitations. In spring, we are awash in possibilities. Soil and air trumpet fecundity. Our souls seem to search for yet another May-pole to prance around as crocuses and daffodils proclaim the triumph of new life. The energy of the fall equinox is qualitatively different. We hear the heavens singing: "hello darkness my old friend..." The leaves are turning along with the light. The harmony of the equinox invites questions about our own inner balance and limitations. Are we heading in the right direction? Are we living as our best selves? If not, what might be changed?

The Christian Year is not divorced from this journey of the sun. Hill notes that the "life cycle of Christ in the liturgy is orchestrated to the sun in its rising, from its lowest point at the winter solstice almost to its highest (in years with a late Easter, the feast of Pentecost can fall within two weeks of the summer solstice.)" What follows for almost six months is called "ordinary time" from time that is measured or "ordinal." He adds:

This season is also called 'the green season' - the time of ripening. The color of the liturgical vestments is green. The great work has been accomplished. God and nature are joined, and redeemed creation is fruitful... and reaches a kind of peak at the August Feast of the Transfiguration, when the Pope crushes ripe grapes into the chalice at St. Peter's and Orthodox priests bless the orchards sill heavy with fruit. After that, the festivals of Michaelmas and All Hallows sanctify the harvest, the fall, and the rising dark in preparation for the new beginning. (p. 23)

As I cut the grass today, even amidst our current drought where outdoor water use is being rationed and our garden is hurting, the earth is still quietly inviting us to prepare for change. Paul Winter, wise soul and brilliant musician who has helped thousands unite the seasons of the sun with the wisdom of tradition, is hosting his first Autumn Equinox festival. For 40 years he and a cadre of artists, musicians, and dancers have graced the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in NYC with their Winter Solstice celebrations. They've done something similar for 25 years at the Summer Solstice, too. And who can forget the glory they have brought to this corner of creation with their St. Francis Day extravaganzas! It made my heart sing when I read the following note on FB:

On Saturday, September 19, we will celebrate the Autumn Equinox with a live stream concert from our barn here in the hills of Northwest Connecticut. The concert will be at 12 noon, EDT. The Autumn Equinox, marking the midpoint between the Summer and Winter Solstices, has traditionally served as a reminder to bring some balance into our lives.

Our theme will be "A Salute to the Multiculturalism of the Americas." The performers will include musicians from Brazil and the United States. This program will be the rhythmic complement to the more contemplative music of our early morning live streams this summer.

Having done now 40 annual celebrations of the Winter Solstice, at New York's Cathedral of St. John the Divine, and 25 of the Summer Solstice (the 25th having been presented in our barn this June), this will be our first-ever "musical party" marking the Autumn Equinox. The players will be announced soon.  The live stream will be free, but donations toward our production costs will be gratefully accepted. RSVP by clicking the link below, and get a link to the stream sent straight to your inbox.
RSVP: https://buff.ly/3i23ZZA
Facebook Event: https://bit.ly/2GPtiAz

With gratitude for living music,
Paul

Paul's wisdom, creativity and generosity moved me - especially after wrestling with the predictions of our nation's wisest scientists that we should be prepared to be in some form of lock down in the US for another 12 - 14 months. (go to:

https://www.msnbc.com/morning-joe/watch/doctor-says-at-least-12-to-18-months-for-coronavirus-vaccine-79896645596) 

This is reality. This is our new truth. And reality is the will of God even knowing it can be better. This is where we've been called to enter into the fullness of life on earth as it is... and to find our own ways of incarnating love and justice and beauty in the core of this chaos. Hill writes: "In summer we celebrate our at-homeness in the world. Michaelmass (September 29) balances that feeling. In autumn we feel our not-at-homeness, the sense of wanting something else, something we can't name. We feel like wayfaring strangers." Even while sheltering in place, these feelings invite us to ask God for greater courage to face and enter the approaching darkness. Maybe the music will help bring some balance to you. I know I need some help...