It is no secret to those I love that the Dead mean the world to me: I've seen them often, followed them around one summer in the early 70's, and continue to savor their sublime and soul-stirring grooves even at this late stage of my "truckin'." That Bobby Weir sings this song makes it even better: some of the other rockers have gone on to the great concert, but Bobby is still shakin' it up with the help of John Mayer and a host of drop dead brothers and sisters in Dead & Company.
I post these two contrasting performances separated by nearly 40 years to kick off my sabbatical reflections on "embodied trust." Over the next three weeks I am going to share reflections on my studies into this aspect of Christian spirituality. The term, embodied trust, is a natural extension of my commitment to a nearly 10 exploration of a spirituality of tenderness and sacramental/incarnational prayer. I am discovering now some wise Jewish insights about trust as faith alongside the practice of Christian yoga. The late Jim Nelson's exploration of embodiment will be another part of my Canadian reading. There will be feminist poetry, centering prayer, and regular trips into silent wandering as well. Frances Croake Frank articulates what's at stake in this search for embodied trust in this stunning poem:
Did the woman say,
When she held him for the first time in the dark of a stale,
After the pain and the bleeding and the crying,
“This is my body, this is my blood”?
Did the woman say,
When she held him for the last time in the dark rain on a hilltop,
After the pain and the bleeding and the dying,
“This is my body, this is my blood”?
Well that she said it to him then,
For dry old men,
Brocaded robes belying barrenness,
Ordain that she not say it for him now.
I hope you'll stop by here - and at Be Still and Know on Facebook - as this sojourn ripens.
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